d yet to hear the first suggestion of what his
faults and errors were."

In no spirit of fulsome adulation did a prominent San Franciscan write,
on the Sunday following King's departure to "what lies beyond," these
tender words, "Bells sadly ringing this Sabbath morning remind me that
one pulpit stands empty; and that it must stand empty, to all intents
and purposes, until the church walls crumble, and pulpit, pillars, and
all are resolved into dust."

Another prominent resident of the State, writing a half century
later,--seeing all after the sobering lapse of years, writing as though
the cloud of sorrow for his friend had never been lifted, thus pays his
sincere tribute of respect:

"And so, in the prime of life, at the zenith of his achievement, before
its noon, this sweet, great soul passed away, leaving to those who loved
him, dust and anguish. Well do we remember that almost at his death a
minor earthquake shook the city, and men said, 'Even the earth shudders
at the thought that Starr King is dead.'"

Of the many poetical tributes, two at least, are of permanent
significance. One by his friend Bret Harte, dear companion of those
great years in San Francisco, on "A Pen of Thomas Starr King," is at
once so penetrating and so just that it well deserves here a place:

"This is the reed the dead musician dropped,
With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;
The prompt allegro of its music stopped,
Its melodies unbidden.

But who shall finish the unfinished strain,
Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,
And bid the slender barrel breathe again,
An organ-pipe of thunder!

His pen! what humbler memories cling about
Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces
Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out
In smiles and courtly phrases.

The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung;
The word of cheer, with recognition in it;
The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung
The golden gift within it.

But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave:
No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision:
The incantation that its power gave
Sleeps with the dead magician."

Could Starr King have been given the privilege of selecting his
poet-laureate we may be sure he would have named Whittier. For they were
both lovers of nature and of man. Both earnest abolitionists, intensely
patriotic, loving liberty and