To bring a shade of sadness to that venerated face, or a speechless reproach to that benignant eye, was a greater punishment to a temporarily wayward child than any corporal correction could have inflicted.
No one of the hundreds that were present at the sale and dispersion of the Babraham flock could have thought that the remaining days of the great and good man were to be so few on earth.

He was then about sixty-five years of age, of stately, unbending form and face radiant and genial with the florid flush of that Indian Summer which so many Englishmen wear late in those autumnal years that bend and pale American forms and faces to "the sere and yellow leaf" of life.
But the sequel proved that he did not abdicate his position too early.

In a little more than a year from this event, his spirit was raised to higher fellowships and folded with those of the pure and blest of bygone ages.

The incidents and coincidents of the last, great moments of his being here, were remarkable and affecting.
Neither he nor his wife died at the home they had made so happy with the beauty and savor of their virtues.

Under another and distant roof they both laid themselves down to die.