Like some clear large star, which pilgrims,
At their back leave, and see not always;
Yet wheresoever they list, may turn,
And with its glories gild their faces still!

For himself, he has ascended to the mountains of myrrh and the hill
of frankincense, and has seen the day break and the shadows flee
away. But, brothers, let us cherish no such idle notion as though
James Powell had now forgotten, or has ceased to be interested in the
Chinaman, the Indian and the Negro, in America.


EULOGY BY REV. DR. IDE.

If there is any special fitness in inviting me to speak on this
occasion, it lies in the fact that Dr. Powell was an intimate friend
of mine. Outside of the circle of my own home, there was no one with
whom I ever held such close and familiar relationship as with him.
Our acquaintance began in the early days of college life, when our
nation was in the throes of a civil war. We were not members of the
same class, but were brought together quite frequently through the
literary society to which we both belonged. During this period our
relations were simply cordial. Unconsciously the advice of that witty
old divine, Thomas Fuller, was being followed: "Let friendship creep
gently to a height; if it rush to it, it may soon run itself out of
breath."

Dr. Powell graduated from Dartmouth College in the class of 1866,
while my graduation took place the previous year, in the class of
1865. My first year out of college was spent in teaching in my native