land, a summer resort of the former residents, where
were some fifty vacant houses, were too much for him. His excessive
exertions brought on malarious fever. This produced an unnatural
excitement, and at mid-day, under a hot sun, he rode about to attend to
his people. He died,--men, women, and children, for whom he had toiled,
filling the house with their sobs during his departing hours. His
funeral was thronged by them, his coffin strewn with flowers which they
and his comrades had plucked, and then his remains were borne to his
native town, where burial-rites were again performed in the old church
of Dorchester. Read his published journal, and find how a noble youth
can live fourscore years in a little more than one score. One high
privilege was accorded to him. He lived to hear of the immortal edict of
the twenty-second of September, by which the freedom of his people was
to be secured for all time to come.

Samuel D. Phillips was a young man of much religions feeling, though he
never advertised himself as having it, and a devout communicant of the
Episcopal Church. He was a gentleman born and bred, inheriting the
quality as well as adding to it by self-discipline. He had good
business-capacity, never complained of inconveniences, was humane, yet
not misled by sentiment, and he gave more of his time, otherwise
unoccupied, to teaching than almost any other superintendent. I was
recently asking the most advanced pupils of a school on St. Helena who
first taught them their letters, and the frequent answer was, "Mr.
Phillips." He was at home in the autumn for a vacation, was at the
funeral of Barnard in Dorchester, and though at the time in imperfect
health, he hastened back to his charge, feeling that the death of
Barnard, whose district was the same as his own, rendered his immediate
return necessary to the comfort of his people. He went,--but his health
never came back to him. His quarters were in the same house where
Barnard had died, and in a few days, on the 5th of December, he followed
him. He was tended in his sickness by the negroes, and one day, having
asked that his pillow might be turned, he uttered the words, "Thank
God," and died. There was the same grief as at Barnard's death, the same
funeral-rites at the St. Helena Church, and his remains were borne North
to bereaved relatives.

Daniel Bowe was an alumnus of Yale College, and a student of the Andover
Theological Seminary, not yet graduated when he turn