first in the array of talent and worth. Also the lamented George Peabody, his personal friend and admirer, admitted that in Mr. Corcoran he had found a strong competitor in acts of benevolence. Our country has every right to be proud of two such benefactors, embodying the noblest sentiments and virtues, and who scattered whilst living the fruits of their labors―waiting not for the "convenient season," nor for the time when earth, vanishing from the mortal gaze, makes the riches of a lifetime as dross or chaff, useless and valueless, at least to the possessor. Colton says:―"Posthumous charities are the very essence of selfishness, when bequeathed by those who, when alive, would part with nothing." The true charity is that which waiting not to be weighed, falls like the dew in famishing places, and is not inflated with pride and vanity. There was no truer and fonder tribute paid to Peabody's bier, than when England's poor wept with bitterness. It was far above the honors paid by sovereigns and the nobility, and the requiem of the Atlantic waves, as the convoy bore him sadly back to his native soil!
There is one little sentence of vast meaning contained in the Book of Common Prayer, which strikes upon millions of ears every Sabbath, and yet we venture to assert is but little heeded―"Behold, Lord! the half of my goods I give to the poor." How easily counted are the followers after this, because of the rarity, and how much then does the world owe to the men who have not overlooked it. Apart from the philanthropy that vaunteth itself, craving worldly applause, and independent of the costly edifices, the piled up gold and bonds, are the small charities which have no record, save in the hearts of humble, recipients and in the notice of God. The great ocean, as it sweeps on in its proud defiant course, is so overwhelming a
