Volume 7 — REMINISCENCE OF THE LATE THEODORE PARKER.

Remarks at the Annual Opening of the Fraternity Lectures of Boston, October 1, 1860.

Mr. Sumner delivered the opening address for the season in the “Fraternity” Lectures, established by the Society bearing that name, of which Theodore Parker was the much-loved pastor. Before proceeding with his address he made a brief allusion to the great preacher and reformer. This was in the Tremont Temple. According to a newspaper of the time, “the immense hall was crowded in every part; not only were all the seats occupied, but also all available standing-room.” “Mr. Sumner spoke two hours and five minutes, and commanded the entire attention of the audience to the close,” and “was frequently interrupted by the most enthusiastic applause.”

The address of the evening, on Lafayette, was again delivered a few weeks later in New York, and will be found in this collection at that date. The introductory words are given here.

Fellow-Citizens, Ladies, and Gentlemen:—

In opening this course of lectures, devoted to Human Improvement, I cannot forget that noble spirit, especially dear to many of you as pastor, whom we had hoped to welcome at this time in restored health, instead of mourning dead in a distant land. I knew him well, and never came within his influence without confessing his many-sided powers, his marvellous acquirements, his rare eloquence, his soul touched to so many generous sympathies, and his heart beating warm for his fellow-men. To the cause of Human Improvement, in every form, his life was given. For this he labored; for this he died.

It was my fortune to see him during several days in Paris, some time after he parted from you. He had recently arrived from the West Indies. I feel that I cannot err in offering a slight reminiscence of that meeting. I found him the same in purpose and aspiration as I had always known him,—earnest, thoughtful, and intent on all that helped the good of man, with the same completeness of intelligence, and the same large, loving heart. We visited together ancient by-ways and historic scenes of that wonderful metropolis, which no person was more forward to appreciate and to enjoy; but, turning from these fascinating objects, his conversation took the wings of the morning, and, traversing the Atlantic, rested on our own country, on friends at home, on his relations to his parishioners, on his unfinished labors, and on that great cause of Liberty, which contains all other causes, as the greater contains the less; for where Liberty is not, what is man, whether slave or master? Observing him carefully, with the fellow-feeling of a convalescent, I was glad and surprised to find in him so many signs of health. At that time he was stronger than I was; but he has been taken, and I am spared. Indeed, it was only in the husky whisper of his voice that he seemed weak. I envied him much his active step and his power to walk. But he had measured his forces, and calmly revealed to me his doubt whether he should live to see home again. If this were permitted, he did not expect to resume his old activities, but thought that in some quiet retreat, away from paved streets, surrounded by books, he might perhaps have strength to continue some of his labors, to bind up some of his sheaves, and occasionally to speak with his pen. But it was ordered otherwise. Not even this moderate anticipation was gratified. The fatal disease had fastened too surely upon him, and was slowly mastering all resistance. The devotion of friends, travel, change of scene, the charms of Switzerland, the classic breath of Italy, all were in vain. It was his wish that he should be buried where he fell, and this child of New England, the well-ripened product of her peculiar life, now sleeps in Tuscan earth, on the banks of the Arno, near the sepulchres of Michel Angelo and Galileo. But I know not if even this exalted association can make us content to renounce the pious privilege of laying him in one of our own tombs, among the people that he loved so well.

Pardon me for thus renewing your grief. But I felt that I could not address you on any other subject until I had mingled my feelings with yours, and our hearts had met in sympathy for our great bereavement.