Tennyson knew him, for he sang in the legend of Sir Galahad—

"His strength was as the strength of ten
Because his heart was pure."

Sir Walter knew him, for he tells us in "The Lady of the Lake" that

"A foot more light, a step more true,

Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew."

And Shakespeare knew him, for, in speaking of the noble Brutus, he tells us in the play of "Julius Caesar" that

"His life was gentle, and the elements

So mixed in him that nature might stand up
And say to all the world, 'this was a man!'”

Georgia, more than any other State, perhaps, is indebted to her doctors. There were only three men who signed for her the Declaration of Independence, but one of these was a physician-Dr. Lyman Hall, of the Parish of St. John; and his name is there forever on the scroll of freedom. Two of the counties of this State were named for medical practitioners-Terrell and Banks. "The morning star of liberty" was Dr. Noble Wimberley Jones. "The Demosthenes of the mountains" was Dr. Homer Virgil Milton Miller. In the nation's Hall of Fame, at Washington, each State is permitted to install two statues, to bespeak its noblest and its best. One of these, who will stand forever in that hallto quiet all rival claimants to an honor which is justly his -will be a Georgia doctor of the old school, to whom not only Georgia, but the world, is indebted for the discovery of anesthesia-Dr. Crawford W. Long.

This life is not the "be-all and the end-all". Death is not cold insensibility or dumb forgetfulness. On the night be

fore he took the fatal hemlock, Socrates discoursed to his weeping friends at Athens of an immortality beyond the tomb. Even the arrant Ingersoll could say: "In the night of death, Hope sees a star and listening Love can hear the rustle of a wing." In the presence of the grave's stupendous mystery there comes to us a voice from Bethany-“I am the Resurrection and the Life". It is no Pagan philosophy of annihilation to which our faith is fettered. Thank God that, with the shadows all around us, we can sing with Cardinal Newman:

"Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,

Lead thou me on,

Till, with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile."

In the company of the crowned immortals is the doctor whom we this night honor. The very air of this hall will be sweeter for all time to come-its fellowship rarer and its music richer-for it speaks of Calhoun. What is mortal of this prince of men lies out yonder in the clasp of Oakland, but his spirit will forever haunt these walls, breathing a benediction upon those who assemble here, sweeter than any dews which the night distils or any perfume which, born of Southern flowers in June, rises to meet the stars. Like Wordsworth's "Skylark", he loved his native airs -"true to the kindred points of heaven and home".

One of God's own knights-touched by the divine accolade-Chivalry was the law of his life; and to him the faintest cry of suffering was ever a bugle-call to battle. He was alike endeared to the rich and beloved of the poor. With the same "savoir faire", he prescribed for Dives and for Lazarus-he received from Naaman his tribute and from Mary her spikenard. If Science was his stern instructor, Charity was his guardian angel; and tonight, at countless firesides all over Georgia, from the mountains to the sea, his memory abides like an incense of Arabian

myrrh. It spans the old State, like a rainbow, from river to river. That subtle thing which men call Influence is the most powerful of panaceas. Its value is felt in the clinic. It was said of Peter that his very shadow healed the sick. So with Dr. Calhoun. Thousands marked his coming and grew brighter when he came, for to them he was his own best prescription-a pool of Bethesda and a Balm of Gilead. We loved him much; and, now that he is gone "to an undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns", we intend to keep his memory green-to hoard with a miser's care and to cherish all his virtues. There will be no Lost Pleiad in the constellation. His place is forever fixed in our affections; and he it is who looms before us in the lines of Leigh Hunt:

"Abou Ben Adhem-may his tribe increase—
Awoke one night, from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a Book of Gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
'What writest thou?' The vision raised its head
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so',
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low
But cheerly still, and said, 'I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.'

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And, lo, Ben Adhem's name led all the rest."

THE IDEAL TEACHER: MRS. ELLEN A. CRAWFORD.

Like a golden sunset in the month of October, rich to the very rim of the horizon with the mature splendors of the waning Autumn-every tree-top ennobled by the day's departure every cloud touched into beauty-all the air dense with perfume from a thousand unseen censers-Mrs. Ellen A. Crawford's death was a harvest-home, an apotheosis, and a coronation. It was a scene which no artist's brush could paint-which no poet's pen could depict; for it lent a new and a marvelous meaning to the precious words of divine comfort: "At eventide it shall be light". It was a scene suggestive of the going-home of God's prophet, in a radiant chariot of celestial fire; and it seemed to whisper: "There is no death here!"

For years Mrs. Crawford had been calmly waiting. Her house was in order. She clung to her dear ones with a deep affection, was tenacious of her friendships to the very last; but her mind was fixed on heavenly things, her spirit was poised, serene and tranquil. She lived in constant communion with the skies. There was no fear of the future, as she listened in the twilight for a loving call-no dread of that undiscovered country,

"from whose bourn

No traveler returns."

When the end came, it was only an unloosing of the tender clasp;-such an unloosing as comes to a leaf when, touched by the fingers of the frost, it drops from the old bough and falls gently to the ground, amid the waiting silences of the forest.

But, while she had thus come to the days of Autumn, the message-bearers which stole softly to her bedside and

whispered "Peace!" were those of Spring,-the resurrection time of the year. It was not an ungentle Providence which fixed the time of her going, which so ordered it that the pathway to Heaven of this dying saint should wind among the flowers of April. Memorial Day was almost in sight;— a day which to her was a Sabbath of the year because it was sacred to the Templar Knights of the Southern Cross -to the men of gray whom she had seen go forth to battle in the buoyant heyday of her youth, and whom she had not ceased to cherish when the snows were on her brow. Reconstructed?—yes; but forgetful-never! It was fitting, therefore, that the honeysuckles and the violets should unlock for her the gates of Paradise and that with the morn she might again see

"those angel faces smile

Which she had loved long since and lost awhile."

Mrs. Crawford's maiden name was Ellen Peebles. She was born in the old university town of Charlottesville, Va., near the home of the great Jefferson, on May 4, 1838, and was the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Allan S. Peebles, both of whom were of aristocratic stock and of high social connections. One of the oldest clans of Scotland, the family name is still borne by an ancient shire, around whose picturesque and rugged mountain scenery the renowned Sir Walter has woven the spell of his genius. Later the family removed to Richmond. Here, together with her sisters, she enjoyed fine educational and social opportunities and, in the old capital of the Confederacy, imbibed the inspirations of patriotism which kept her steadfastly true, throughout a long life, to the ideals of the Old South.

During the war period she met and married John Albinus Gerdine Crawford, a son of the illustrious William H. Crawford, of Georgia; and with her husband she removed to Athens shortly after the close of hostilities. Here she was soon left a widow, with three children; but, instead of