An unsigned Memorial of the Right Reverend George Washington Doane published in the Church Review, October 1859, and based on these sources:

1. The Great Hearted Shepherd: The Sermon in Memory of the Right Reverend GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D.D., LL.D., late Bishop of the Diocese of New Jersey; preached by request of the Standing Committee, during the convention of the Diocese, in St. Mary's Church, Burlington, Wednesday Evening, May 25th, 1859, by the Reverend Milo Mahan, D.D., St. Mark's-in-the-Bowery Professor of Ecclesiastical History in the
General Theological Seminary.

2. The Sermon preached in St. Mary's Church, Burlington the first Sunday after Easter, 1859, on the Sunday morning after the death of Bishop Doane, by the Reverend Frederick Ogilby, D.D., Assistant Minister of Trinity Church, New York.

3. A Funeral Sermon on the occasion of the death of Bishop DOANE; preached in the Presbyterian Church, Burlington, N. J., on May 1st, 1859, by Cortlandt Van Rensselaer, a Minister of the Presbyterian Church in Burlington.

Transcribed by Cynthia McFarland
January AD 2004

It may be said of prominent bishops of the Church, as of generals or great statesmen, posterity alone can do them justice.

The motives by which they have been actuated, the principles for which they have contended, the difficulties with which they have been surrounded, the trials they have had to suffer, and the lasting foundations which they have laid, cannot be calmly estimated by those who have struggled with them side by side. Personal feelings and prejudices cannot easily be overcome. We view everything from our own stand-point and our approval or condemnation will be more or less colored as we happen to have been for Û or against Û the principles which we are called upon to judge.

Not that we have any doubt as to the judgment which posterity will pass upon the life and labors of the wonderfully endowed Bishop, whose name is placed at the head of this Article, for it is, in a measure, already written upon the Church; but as our plea for not attempting more now than a brief outline of the leading events of his life.

His biography has yet to be carefully written. And when posterity shall have calmly weighed his remarkably varied gifts and graces, his self-consuming zeal, his sympathizing love, his singular magnanimity, and faith, and patience and hope amidst the darkest clouds of adversity, his extraordinary power as a preacher, his skill as a teacher, his soundness as a theologian, his talents as a poet, his far-seeing wisdom as a counselor, and his fidelity and tenderness as a Pastor and Shepherd of souls, together with his manifold labors and sufferings for Christ's sake, we doubt not but that it will place him not only by the side of Seabury, and White, and Hobart, who laid the foundations of the Church in this Western world, but enroll his name high up among the greatest and best Bishops with which God has blessed His Church on earth.

GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE was born in Trenton, New Jersey, May 27th, A.D. 1799. Of humble parentage, his father a carpenter by trade, the bishop's position in life is to be attributed, under God, entirely to his own exertions and persevering will. While yet a boy his parents removed with him to New York, where he began his education, under the cure of that excellent scholar and accomplished linguist, the Reverend Dr. Edmund Barry, afterwards the Rector of St. Matthew's Church, Jersey City, New Jersey. Here he laid the foundation of his exact knowledge of the ancient languages Û an accomplishment which he cherished until the end of his life Û their choicest sayings, when among his clergy, bubbling forth from his lips with an ease and rapidity which astonished his hearers.

From New York [City] he removed to Geneva [New York], where he was prepared for college by Mr. Ransom Hubbell. 'Here he showed (says Dr. Mahan) his zeal for the principles instilled into him from childhood, by declining to learn any other Catechism than that of the Church. For this he was whipped and disgraced. But the firmness of the boy-martyr rallied many of his companions around him; and, in the end, those who preferred the Church Catechism were allowed to use it.' During this period many of his leisure hours were spent in a printing office, near his parents' residence, and the knowledge which he there acquired of type-setting and proof-reading, was of great service to him in after years.

In 1816, he entered Union College, Schenectady, the expense of his education there having been provided by a liberal churchwoman who has lately entered into her rest, after a life filled with good works. 'About this time he seems to have formed that habit of working late at night, which doubtless took something from the length, but added more to the intensity and efficiency of his after-life, he usually studied till twelve o'clock, four of the hours thus gained, being given to extra-collegiate reading.'

During his collegiate course he was noted for his attention to his studies, and his ability as a clear and beautiful writer Û his great diffidence and modesty, which always raised a blush upon his cheek every time that he recited and prevented from finishing a single declamation which was required of him, alone giving him the second, instead of the first, place in a class of more than ordinary ability. This bashfulness used to annoy him until several years after his consecration to the episcopate. Though in a college not under the influences of the Church, Mr. Doane was always most regular in his attendance at the services of the church, in the village; an aged Presbyter, who was at that time his classmate and most intimate friend, has stated to us, more than once, that was the purest-minded young man that he ever met.

In 1818, immediately after his graduation, he removed to New York, and began the study of the law; but this not according with his tastes, he turned his attention to theology, pursuing studies in a class under the care of Bishop Hobart, Dr. Brownell, and Dr. Jarvis, which was the nucleus of our present General Theological Seminary. His leisure hours were, at this period, devoted to teaching, for the support of his mother and sisters; and the love and filial affection of the son is still spoken of by those who were in the habit of visiting him in their simple home.

In 1821, Bishop Hobart ordained him Deacon, and Priest in 1823. He received the appointment of Assistant Minister in Trinity Church, and united with the Reverend Mr. Upfold (now the Bishop of Indiana) in organizing what is now St. Luke's Church [1], the first services being held in a watch-house.

'In 1824, he was elected Professor of Belles-Lettres in Washington (now Trinity) College, Hartford, and traveled, raising funds for the College, all through the South. In Hartford began his deep rooted intimacy, so tender and so enduring, with that noble Christian pastor and soldier of the Cross, the Reverend Dr. William Croswell,' a love which his loving nature cherished through life. Few of our readers will have forgotten the touching memorial of Dr. Croswell from his pen, which was printed in this Review; and after the Bishop's death there was found in a little pocketbook, which he always carried with him, a lock of Dr. Croswell's hair. While holding this Professorship, the two were associated in editing a staunch Church periodical, called the Episcopal Watchman. In this paper many of the earlier poetical productions of these kindred spirits appeared.

In 1828, he removed to Boston, being chosen Assistant to Dr. John Sylvester John Gardiner, Rector of Trinity Church. On the death of the rector, Mr. Doane was elected to fill his place, the Reverend Mr. Hopkins (now the Bishop of Vermont) having been chosen his assistant. [2] This was a post of great honor and usefulness. With a large congregation, comprising some of the first men in the country, in a community which appreciated his literary abilities, a salary ample for all his wants, and surrounded by devoted and admiring friends, it was a position which few men would not have coveted, and where he might have led a comparatively easy life, finishing his course with joy. But God had greater designs in view for him. Such a man was not to be left with any mere parochial charge.

The Diocese of New Jersey became vacant by the death of its first Bishop, the Reverend Dr. John Croes, in 1832. After several ballotings, Mr. Doane was elected and unanimously declared his successor on the third of October of the same year; and the readiness with which he so assumed the fearful responsibilities of the Episcopate, giving up a most excellent position in the Church for the charge of what was then a weak and feeble diocese, when convinced that it was the call of God, we regard as one of the remarkable ventures of faith in his life.

The Diocese of New Jersey numbered at that time less than a score of clergy within its limits, and its first bishop had been compelled to eke out his scanty salary by assuming the entire pastoral charge of Christ Church, New Brunswick. And so poor indeed was the prospect of its growth supposed to be, that when the election Dr. Doane was spoken of at a casual meeting of several leading clergymen in Hartford, one of them did not hesitate to express his surprise that the Rector of Trinity Church, Boston, should think of taking charge of a diocese which had been dead and buried for twenty years. Bishop Croes, in his last address to his Diocesan Convention, felt called upon to say that they had cause to thank God that they had not lost anything since they last assembled.

To decide the question whether he would resign a rectorship in every way to be desired and accept the Episcopate of such a diocese, less than a fortnight was allowed him. The first intimation that he had of his election was the appearance, October 6th, at his residence in Boston, of the Committee appointed by the Convention of New Jersey, to announce to him the fact; and the General Convention, at which it was desired that his Consecration should take place, was to assemble in New York in less than twelve days from that date.

'On the 19th day of October,' as he describes it in his first Episcopal Address 'convinced, on principles which have been, long since, deliberately adopted as the rules of my life, and by the concurring judgments of those who were best fitted to form an accurate decision in the premises, that such was my duty to His Church, Whose soldier and servant I am Û I communicated to the Committee my letter of acceptance, and on the 31st day of the same month, was consecrated to the Office of a Bishop in the Church of God, by the venerable and Right Rev. Dr. White, the Presiding Bishop, assisted by the Right Rev. Dr. Onderdonk, of New York, and the Right Rev. Dr. Ives, of North Carolina. That the solemnities of that day may be propitious to this our portion of the Vineyard of the Lord, and promotive, now and hereafter, of the Kingdom and glory of our Divine Redeemer, let me have, brethren, as I most truly need, your fervent and continual prayers.'

And then, after detailing his visitation of all the parishes, he makes the following remarks. The extract is somewhat long, but it exhibits so clearly the principles and spirit with which he assumed the mitre, and is so prophetic of what was, under God, fulfilled by his Episcopate, that it will be read with renewed interest.

'It might seem to a hasty observer, whose eye should for a moment rest on the small space which the Diocese of New Jersey fills on the map of the United States, that it was a light work, and soon discharged. It does not seem so to me; nor can it to any thoughtful Christian. 'Jacob,' indeed, 'is small.'

The territorial limits of the Diocese are soon passed over. Our churches are few. Our parishes feeble. Our people poor. But how much larger was the land promised to the fathers of the old covenant, the scene of the wonders, and cradle of the glories of the new? How much more in number were the Churches of Christ, which even St. John lived to behold established in the earth? How much more rich or powerful, as the world accounts of power and riches, were primitive flocks, whose sheep, Û nay, whose inspired, and now glorified, pastor Û 'destitute, afflicted, tormented, wandering in deserts and in mountains, in dens and caves of the earth?'

My brethren, reverend and beloved, I need not remind you, that there is no restraint to the Lord, to save by many or by few. I need not remind you that small as Jacob then was, he has arisen and filled the earth. 'Jacob,' indeed, 'is small.' Temporal power and splendor do not and cannot, appertain to the Churches of this Diocese. What then? Are our efforts to be discouraged? Is our hope of influence or usefulness in the Church to be repressed? Are we hindered thus in the promoting of our great work, the care and the salvation of souls? Directly the reverse.

There is no circumstance, it seems to me Û and should the conviction be the result of that partiality which is natural to one's own, you will not greatly blame me Û there is no circumstance, it seems to me, peculiar to our condition which does not favor the growth of primitive piety, and, therefore, of primitive prosperity. There are many circumstances which encourage us peculiarly to zeal, to fidelity, to perseverance, in setting forth the Gospel in the Church; in the sure confidence, that 'in due season, we shall reap if we faint not.'

Is our Diocese small? It can, and ought to be better tended, watered, and cultivated. It is the less exposed to internal division and distraction. It is the more easily defended from external evil and injury. We are brought more nearly together. We feel, or ought to feel, more as brethren of one family. We can more easily 'stand fast in one spirit, with one mind striving together for the faith of the Gospel.' Are our parishes few and feeble? They sympathy of a good cause can the more easily pervade them. They offering nothing to tempt the ambitious or the worldly minded. Their equality with each other preserves them from envying and jealousy. Are our people poor? They have the less then to hinder their pursuit of 'true riches.' They are nearer to His condition, and the better prepared to receive His Gospel, 'who made Himself of no reputation, and took upon Him the form of a servant.' They have the easier approach to His favor, who has 'chosen the poor of this world, rich in faith, and heir of the kingdom which he has promised to them that love Him.'

Instead of repining then at our condition or excusing ourselves from effort, on the ground that we can do so little, let us rather thank God that He has put it in our power to do so very much.  If it be asked then, 'How shall Jacob arise, for he is small?' Û how shall we best improve the ability which God has given us, and bring forth richest fruit to His glory and the good of souls? I answer, by the diligent, faithful, constant exercise, with prayer to Him who alone can give the increase, of all the means which He has put in our hands. Small as our Diocese is, there are many fields 'white for the harvest,' that implore the sickle of the reaper . . . All that is needed is the love of Christ to move to the effort, faith to attempt, and to pursue it, and method, Christian method, to its prosecution.'

No wonder that with such a spirit at its head, the Diocese of New Jersey should have become the center of much that is primitive and apostolic in our branch of the Church. That an Episcopate, entered upon with such principles, could be an easy one, were not to be expected. He gave himself to his work. No one ever yet accused him of sparing himself. Everything that he had, his time, his talents, his thoughts, his personal ease, his peace of mind, his home, nay, even life itself, he freely lavished upon the flock which the Good Shepherd had committed to his care.

No other bishop, with a diocese ten times the size of his, ever worked harder. He set out with the highest view of his Office and responsibilities, and, blessed with an energy and strength of constitution that few men possess, he labored to fulfill it by day and by night, in sunshine and in storm. His visitations were made always two, and generally three, a day, each morning administering the Holy Communion, being assisted only in the distribution of the consecrated elements Û and at every service catechising the children, preaching, and confirming. And frequently have we known him, in the midst of such laborious visitations, to work nearly the whole night with committees on some matter for the good of the Church, and yet be the first up in the morning in the house at which he was entertained.

Ordinarily he would work twenty hours out of the twenty-four, and then take his rest in the remaining four wherever he might chance to be, on a sofa, or in the cars, or even a common country wagon, traveling from one point to another. Even in the earlier years of his Episcopate, when he had much less to do than later in life, he has been known to keep the printers in Burlington at work all night by paying double wages, and to correct the proofs himself as they were brought to his library, hour by hour.

An appointment once made was never broken, if it could by any possibility be fulfilled. He would travel in an open wagon, or drive, as we knew him to do on one occasion, nearly fourteen miles in an hour, through the most violent storm, to catch a train of cars that he might be where he was expected. No heat or cold ever detained him. Only let him see that some duty could be performed for the Church, and no privation or difficulty deterred him from the task. He has crossed the Delaware River, opposite his residence, in an open boat, when even the stout-hearted ferryman tried to dissuade him from the attempt.

When on a visitation in Monmouth County, intelligence was brought to him of the death of the Reverend Dr. Edmund Barry, his honored teacher, just previous to the Evening Service, with the request that he would preach the sermon at the funeral in Jersey City, the next day, at two o'clock. Though it involved his returning to Burlington for some papers which could furnish him with dates, he immediately promised to do it; and then, after the Evening Service, which had been appointed, he drove a number of miles to meet the night freight train on the Camden and Amboy Railroad, rode in an empty freight car to Burlington, where he arrived at 2 A.M., wrote the sermon, and left by the cars at 8 A.M., arriving in Jersey City in time to preach the sermon, at the hour appointed, in the presence of a large gathering of the clergy and laity. And on his last Autumnal Visitation, he left the Board of Missions in Baltimore at 5 P.M., arriving in Elizabeth at 3 A.M. Friday, took but two hours rest, then had three full services, catechising, confirming, and preaching at each, and was up the following night writing until after two o'clock, though he had three services, and twenty-five miles of driving arranged for each of the two succeeding days.

Thus did he toil day after day, and month after month, crowding into a short Episcopate of twenty-six years, the work of three lives rather than of one. And yet did he say of himself in all sincerity, in his last Triennial Charge, so little did he count all that he had done:

'When I read of Paul, the scholar of Gamaliel, the leader of the leader of Jews, and facile princeps among the master minds of every age, going down from Athens, where he had confounded their philosophy, by his revelation, to them, of 'The unknown God,' to work at Corinth, as a tentmaker, that he might preach the Gospel, without charge, to any man; . . . when I behold that wondrous photograph of his eventful life, which his indignant zeal flashed in, upon that old Corinthian page, 'in journeyings often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils by my own countrymen, in perils by the heathen, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils among false brethren, in weariness and painfulness, in watchings often, in hunger and thirst, in fastings often, in cold and nakedness;' 'of the Jews five times received I forty stripes save one; thrice was I beaten with rods; once was I stoned; thrice I suffered shipwreck; a night and a day have I been in the deep;' 'in labors more abundant, in stripes above measure, in prisons more frequent, in deaths oft;' 'besides those things which are without, that which cometh a me daily, the care of all the Churches'; Û when I contemplate these 'signs an Apostle Û and consider, how little I have suffered, for the same Cross, how little I have done, and am doing, for the same suffering Lord, I sigh myself into insignificance, and feel that I am not worthy to be called a Bishop: and, humbly pray, that He, the servant of Whose servants I desire to be, would enable me and dispose me to serve Him better, and make my service more promotive of the honor of His kingdom, and the glory of His Cross.'

To describe Dr. Doane as a bishop, we cannot do better than quote the remarkable words of Dr. Van Rensselaer, the noblest tribute which has been paid to his memory, and the more generous from the fact that the writer was the Bishop's theological opponent for many years, and that such a testimony was not demanded of him by his position. Of course we must make due allowance for the stand-point from which every Presbyterian must look upon the Episcopate, though we cannot but honor the heart that could thus bring his offering of May flowers to lay upon the new-made grave 'flowers plucked (in his own words) by a Puritan's hand, and placed in memoriam over the dust of a great Episcopal Bishop.'

'As a Bishop, the departed Prelate will undoubtedly be acknowledged by his Church to be one of her greatest sons. So he was. He magnified his Office. His work was done on a great scale. He was personally everywhere in his own Diocese, and his writings were circulated widely in every other Diocese.

He was the prominent man in the House of Bishops. He could outpreach, outvote, and outwork the whole of his brethren in the Episcopate. He was a sort of Napoleon among Bishops. It was after he crossed Alps of difficulties, that he entered upon the campaigns of his highest renown. The Bridge of Lodi, and the Field of Marengo, were to him the inspirations of heroism, and the rallying time of mightiest strategy. Bishop Doane was, perhaps, better adapted to the English Church than to the American. His prelatical notions suited a monarchy more than a republic. In the House of Lords, he would have stood among the foremost of Lord Bishops. He of Oxford, would not have ranked before him of New Jersey. Bishop Doane was a good deal of an Anglican in his modes of thought and his views of Ecclesiastical Authority [3]. Had he lived in the days of Charles, he would have been a Laudean in Prelatical and political super-Laudean in intellect, and sub-Laudean in general ecclesiastical temper.

My own sympathies are altogether with the Evangelical, or Low-Church as are those of the vast majority of this audience. I do not believe in the doctrines of lofty Church order, and transmitted grace, so favorably received in some quarters. But this is a free country; and the soul by nature is free, and has a right to its opinions, subject to the authority of the great Head of the Church. Bishop Doane had a right to his, and he believed himself to be, in a peculiar sense, a successor of the Apostles. He delighted in his Office. Peter was to him the example of right adherence to the forms of the concision, whilst Paul was his example in enduring suffering for the extension of the Church. With an exalted view of his Office, he lived, and labored, and died. In this spirit, he encountered all his hardships and perils; and when, as in the case of danger in crossing the Delaware, he jumped into the frail skiff, inviting the ferryman to follow, it was in the spirit of 'Apostolum vehis'.

Bishop Doane was, in short, as complete a specimen of a High-Church Bishop as the world has seen, and, in some respects, he was a model for any class of Bishops, at home or in mother England.'

To this it is perhaps scarcely necessary to add that, in his own Diocese, he gave a helping hand to every effort, and quickened all with whom he came in contact, with his own energy and life. This was one secret of his magic influence over men. He had the power, to an extraordinary degree, of instilling into others the energy which he possessed himself. It was shown in his Diocese, in his Parish, in his College, in his Schools. 'He came to a poor and feeble Diocese, and how soon he infused into it the energy of his own vitality. He went into a humble country parish, with just life enough to save it from dissolution, and soon the church became the center of life to the place, and the sickly plant grew into the vigorous tree. He took an old, worn-out school which had expired in the hands of Friends, and he gave to it that wonderful life which has animated St. Mary's Hall.'

He could be a Bishop and do the work of two Bishops, the Rector of a large parish, the President and working head of two Institutions familiar with all the details of their discipline, assuming the entire charge of their instruction in Declamation and English Composition, and yet be foremost in the General Councils of the Church, active in every scheme for her advancement, on every committee of importance, and withal constantly preparing material for the press. And yet, we venture to say that no bishop ever knew personally more laymen of his diocese, or was more attentive to all their joys and sorrows than Bishop Doane. If but a friend were sick, or a child died, none were sooner to note it by letter or by his presence, than the Bishop. And incredible as it even yet is, it was his regular custom, at his visitations, to enquire, by name, for families and individuals belonging to the parish, whom he had not observed present at the service.

His visitations had a character peculiar to himself. Though every church received at least an annual visit, the visitation was looked forward to, as a high day in the parish. Old and young flocked to hear him preach, and none could be other than gratified to see how all classes of the congregations stopped to speak with him after the services, and receive his friendly greeting or his blessing. On such occasions, he loved to have his clergy about him; he would give all he could a part of the services to perform, and never rest until a host was found to entertain them as long as they could stay. And seldom did a visitation service fail to gather not only the clergy, but the leading laity of all the neighboring parishes, so that they were, without the name, Convocations, at which many a pastor's hands were strengthened and many a plan devised for the welfare of the Church.

At every visitation, if he could gather but a dozen children, he would catechise them 'openly in the Church,' in the presence of the congregation. In this, he was always very happy, and many lessons of faith and duty did he imprint, not only on the younger but on the older hearts of the flock. His confirmations were most impressively administered. He never 'addressed the candidates,' as he thought that it detracted from the deep solemnity of the service; and we must say, that we have never been more deeply impressed with the service than in the Diocese of New Jersey.

His Episcopal Addresses also had a character peculiar to himself. Instead of a mere detail of so many services performed, and so many confirmations administered, they were freely interspersed with the incidents of his visitation, acts of kindness which he had received, deeds of charity done for the Gospel's sake, and constant hints as to how and where the cause he had at heart might be advanced. Nothing escaped his notice. If a congregation had struggled out of debt, or any improvement had been made in its church edifice, it was certain to secure his attention. And he never seemed happier than when he could speak a word of commendation for any of his clergy or their parishes.

As a Rector, he was most indefatigable. Even with 'care of all the Churches' on his shoulders, few flocks were better tended than his parish in Burlington. 'He was (says one who knew him well) earnest, active, fertile in expedience, a faithful visitor of his people, and a friend of the poor. He seemed always to be in the right place at the right time. He went about doing good, and was known in Burlington as Rector, more than Bishop.' His chief delight was labor among the poor, and he left no greater mourners outside of his immediate family than among the poor of his parish. His heart was in the pastoral work, and he continued to perform the duties of a rector until his death. A sweet little piece of poetry, written by him in Northfield Vicarage, England, in 1841, [4] reveals this desire of his heart, and we cannot refrain from quoting it here:


This was in all my prayers since first I prayed,
A Parsonage, in a sweet garden's shade;
The Church adjoining, with its ivied tower;
A peal of hells, a clock to tell the hour;
A rustic flock, to feed from day to day,
And kneel with them, at morn, and eve, and pray.

He, who 'doth all things well,' denied my prayer,
And bade me take the Apostle's staff and bear,
The scattered sheep o'er hill and dale pursue,
Feed the old flocks, and gather in the new;
Count ease, and health, and life, and all things loss,
So I make known the blessed, bleeding Cross.

These quiet scenes that never can be mine,
This homebred happiness, dear friend, be thine
Each choicest gift, and influence from above,
Descend on thee, and all that share thy love;
Peace, which the world gives not, nor can destroy,
The prelibation of eternal joy.

As a preacher, he possessed great power. He made it a rule to write one sermon every week, and but one; and he has published more sermons than any other three men in the country. Upon the greatest variety of topics, of every form which a sermon can take, they will perpetuate his great intellectual power, consecrated to the Gospel in the Church, and be a heritage of which the American Church will have reason to be proud. The felicity and clearness with which he divided his subject, the conciseness with which his thoughts were expressed, his perfect command of language, his powerful word-painting, the variety and appropriateness of his illustrations, added to his powerful voice and energetic delivery, constituted him one of the first of pulpit speakers. Though many of them were written during the night preceding their delivery, or on Sunday morning before service, they are as highly finished as though he had spent days and weeks of labor upon them; and there is often more thought in one of his sentences than in pages of ordinary composition.

Said a clergyman to after hearing one of his sermons, 'Bishop, it always does me good to hear you preach; I can preach better, for it, for six months to come.' His sermon before the General Convention in Philadelphia in 1856 was one of the triumphs of his life. The tone, the manner, the matter, made an indelible impression on all who heard it. At a time when the political horizon was darkened with the clouds of sectional strife, which threatened the dismemberment of the Union; when many did not hesitate to say that there never would be another General Convention, when fears were excited for the preservation of the Prayer Book in its integrity, his words lifted men above themselves, as he dwelt upon 'The Glorious Church, the purchase and the purpose of Christ's death,' and roused them up to their responsibility for its faith, its order, and its worship.

The vast church was crowded with a congregation of more than three thousand persons, many of whom were compelled to stand; yet a pin might almost have been heard to drop during part of the delivery of the sermon; and when he closed with that noble peroration, which we are willing to place side by side with that of any pulpit orator in any age, so deep was the silence that you could hear yourself breathe. We venture to quote it, though, without his delivery and the occasion when it was spoken, it cannot be fully appreciated:

'A GLORIOUS CHURCH! Men, brethren, and fathers, shall we not feel it, in the action, and show it in the issues, of this sacred Council? Shall we not lay aside every prejudice? Shall we not lose sight of every personal, of every local, consideration? And, with a single eye to our great trust, in the promotion of His Kingdom, Who bought us with His blood, seek nothing but His glory, to the salvation of the souls, for which he died? Oh, what a virtue will go out from us, if this shall be so! Oh, what an answer, to that blessed Eucharistic prayer: 'That they all may be one, as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee; that they also may be one in us, that the world may believe, that Thou hast sent Me.' Oh, what a hastening of the time, when those fond yearnings of his heart shall be realized: 'Father, I will that they also, whom Thou hast given Me, be with Me where I am, that they may behold My glory, which Thou hast given Me.' Blessed, glorious hope! To see His glory! To see Himself! To see Him, as He is! To be like Him, because we see Him as He is!'

The issues of the Judgment Day are passed. The blast of the Archangel's trumpet, which waked all the dead, has died away, upon the air. The wailings of the lost are buried, with them, in the pit, which they digged for themselves. The harpings of the angels, all, are still. There is 'silence, in Heaven.' One stands before us, in form, like unto the Son of Man; and, yet, His glory fills the Heavens. His hands are pierced; and, yet, they wield the sceptre of creation. His brow, still, shows the traces of the thorns; and yet it wears the crown of Heaven. His side drops blood; and, yet, it beats, with blessings, for the world, that pierced it. He stands, beside the Throne. He extends the arms, which once embraced the Cross. He takes, to his bursting breast, the spotless Spouse whom its own blood has washed. The Mediatorial work is done. The Marriage of the Lamb has come. He has presented, unto Himself, a 'glorious Church!' The conquest of the Cross is over. The coronation of the Crucified is consummated. 'Death is swallowed up in Victory!' And, 'God is all, in all.'

Then, on the stillness at which angels wondered, and which thrilled all Heaven with awe, like the voice of mighty thunderings, the song shall burst, which is to fill the echoes of eternity, forever and forever: 'Alleluia, for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth!' 'Blessed are they which are called to the Supper of the Lamb!' Holy and merciful Jesus, as Thou hast called us to Thyself, so, we beseech Thee, keep us ever Thine and unto Thee, with the Eternal Father, and the ever blessed Spirit, three sacred persons, and one only God, shall be ascribed all glory, and all praise, now and forever more, Amen.'

As a teacher, he also stood pre-eminent. From first to last, part of each week was spent in a School. He had a natural turn for children. Everywhere they ran to meet him as 'their own dear Bishop' and his tact in teaching them was universally acknowledged. He had but little faith in modern systems of education. The soul was, to him, a trust, divinely committed, and he held the teacher's accountability to God only second to that of the pastor. Hence he would not give his support to any system which proposed to teach the hand and the head, without the heart. What he longed for, and labored for, was the old-fashioned Parochial School, in and of the Church. To this he recurs year after year, in his Episcopal Addresses, urging them upon his Diocese, with every argument in his power. And it was with him no mere theory. St. Mary's Hall and Burlington College are standing monuments of his faith in Christian Education and everywhere have their fruits been scattered over the land. 'There are instances,' says the Bishop of Missouri, 'where a woman, from St. Mary's Hall, has, under God, been the nucleus of a Church congregation in the wilderness.'

'Had Bishop Doane,' says Dr. Mahan, 'no other title to a fair fame among men, the work that has been done within a few yards of Riverside would be amply sufficient. Were there no other proof that he was a wise and good man, it would be amply enough to say, that he lived and labored twenty years under the scrutiny of those keen young eyes; that the more he was scrutinized by them, the more he was admired; that to the last day of his life, St. Mary's and Burlington College believed in him, and loved him, with a confidence never shaken for a moment.

Put an unreal man into a situation such as that; in less than a year, he would tire of it; in less than a year, it would be thoroughly tired of him. I regard it, therefore, as Bishop Doane's peculiar glory, his most solid title to the name of a true Shepherd, that all his life long he fed the lambs of Christ; that all his life long the lambs heard his voice, and followed him without fear. And his noblest service to the Diocese of New Jersey is, that he has imbued it with the same spirit.'

The Bishop's Address to the Graduating Class in St. Mary's Hall, in March last, the last thing he wrote, shows so clearly his perfect appreciation of the position of young Christian women in the world, contains so much timely counsel, and is so favorable a specimen of his peculiar style, that we reproduce a portion of it here.

'Again the old hive swarms. There is a flush of life, upon the grass. There is scent of Spring, upon the air. The birds are twittering, back, to their old nests. The maple flings its crimson banner to the sky. The willow blushes, into green. The life-pulse can be stilled, no longer. The life-glow can, no longer, be repressed.

There is a restless heaving of the mass. There is a hum. There is a flutter. There is a start. The old hive swarms, again. And they are off. Off, to the Northern hills. Off, to the Western prairies. Off, to the sweet savannahs of the South. Off, to sip sweetness from the flowers. Off, to hoard sweetness for their homes. Off, to return, no more!

It is the two and twentieth annual swarm. And I stand, here, to follow them, while eye can reach, to fold their precious memories, in my heart of love, to pursue them, with my blessing; and to shield them, with my prayers. Wherever, they may wing their wandering way, God guide them, keep them, comfort them! Poor things! They need it, all!'

Then, after alluding to 'the pathways of that inner life ... whose issues are unchanging and eternal,' he proceeds:

'My children, upon this devious and eventful pilgrimage, you are to enter, now unshielded by the sacred home, which has, so long, been your shelter. From its privacy, its peacefulness, its purity, its piety, the sound of its continual Scriptures, music of its continual songs, the fervor of its continual supplications, the fragrance of its continual Sacraments, you are to go out into a world, which cares, little, for these things.

I thank God, for the inestimable confidence, that their roots have taken in your hearts. I look, to Him, to water with His grace these plantings of His Word. I beseech Him, mercifully, to grant, that they may live and grow in you, nurturing your souls, with spiritual and immortal food; sheltering your young heads, with their broad, cool, shadow, against the hot blasts of temptation; and cheering you on, with their refreshing fragrance, through whatever He may order, for your chastening, as His children, until they bring you, where, the palms of Paradise palms of Paradise spring up, forever green, by the pure river of the water of life.

Remember, my beloved, you have not these inestimable blessings for yourselves alone. You hold them, as a sacred trust, for your homes, for the Church, for your country, and for your kind. 'The times are out of joint.' Corruption stalks in our high places. Licentiousness has, well nigh, lost its shame. Infidelity is bold and brazen-faced. The wave of barbarism is rolling back, upon us. For these things, your own sex is greatly answerable. Women are not true, to themselves. They wink at vice. They make a compromise with worldliness. They tolerate irreligionist. And they are the victims of their own unfaithfulness. The stronger sex look up, in best things, to the weaker. They have, all, had mothers. They have, all, had sisters. They own them, in the sex, to which, they owe them.

And if women were but true, to God, true, to their position, true, to themselves, they would have strength, from Him, to hold the world, in check. No woman ever fell, but by her own consent. There is no man, that has not passed into a brute, to do as tigers do, that can resist the matchless majesty of a resolved woman. And, stronger than all law, stronger than anything but God, when it is strong in His strength, would be the power of woman, to put down rudeness, and to lay the bridle upon license. But the age is self-indulgent. And self-indulgence grows by what it feeds on. Women are occupied by fashion. Women are slaves, to dress. Women are willing to be flattered. Women are careless of their companionship. Women are unscrupulous in their amusements. Young women set up for themselves. They look upon their parents, as old-fashioned. They are impatient of domestic restraints. They are averse to domestic occupations. They vote their home, a bore. They congregate away from its control. They indulge in unseasonable hours. They meet the other sex, more than half way. They make themselves debtors, for their escort, to places of resort. They permit the approaches of familiarity. They tempt the hidden devil of their nature. They forget their Bibles. They neglect their Prayer Books. They are women of fashion. They are women of the world. What else they are, is rather shaped by opportunity than themselves. In this way, home is stripped of its sanctity. In this way, the female atmosphere loses its freshness and its fragrance. The woman is, no longer, what she was made to be: 'a helpmeet' for the man. And man ceases to be, what God designed him for: her partner, her prop, and her protector.

I am well persuaded by the report, which comes to me from every corner of the land, that the women who have gone out, from before this altar Û counted now, by thousands Û are, for the most part, women of another sort. I hear of them, as faithful wives. I hear of them, as devoted mothers. I hear of them, as loving sisters. I hear of them, as obedient daughters. They are centers of good influence in society. They are stays and ornaments of the Church. It may be said, of them 'Many daughters have done virtuously; but, these excel them all.'

To join this hopeful company, beloved ones, you are to go out, now. To go, with the instructions, by which their minds were moulded. You go, with the influences, which God has sanctified, in the transformation of their hearts. To go, with the prayers, which have won down, from heaven, for them, the consolations of the Comforter. You go, with the blessing, which has commended them to the care and keeping of the Holy One. 'Be strong, in the Lord,' dear children, 'and in the power of His might.' Keep your Bibles, ever, in your hearts. Have your Prayer Books, ever, in your hands. Be true, to your selves. Be true, to your Church. Be true, to your God. Follow after her, who sat down, at Jesus' feet, and heard His word. Follow after them, who left His Cross, the last; and found His grave, the first. Follow after her, whose sacred legend gleams upon you, now; it may be, for the last time: 'Behold the handmaid of the Lord. [5]

Remember, always, that you are women. Remember, always, to be 'holy women.' Keep your hands, ever, on the Cross. Fix your eyes, ever, on the crown. Lambs of the Lamb, in meekness, and gentleness, and lovingness; dovelings of the Dove, in peace, and purity, and piety.

Dear daughters of my heart, God bless you.

As a writer, his ability was of the highest order. He was the Chrysostom or Jeremy Taylor, of our times. With a style peculiarly his own, and a punctuation as unique as his style [6] he could express more thoughts, in fewer words, and never be misunderstood, than any man we have ever met. He held emphatically the pen of a ready writer, and he would prepare more matter, ready for the press, in six hours, than most persons in as many days. At home in the best English literature, with a mind clear and vivid, ever ready with its stores of varied learning, and always equaling the occasion which called him forth, he would have shone conspicuous in any department of literature and science to which his time had been given.

If a preacher failed to meet his appointment for the Board of Missions or any other prominent occasion, who but he could be relied upon to prepare a new sermon with less than twelve hours' notice? What other man would, or could, have stood up in Trinity Church, New York, before the leading men of the city, at the Atlantic Telegraph celebration, and held that immense assemblage enchained with an address Û which was telegraphed to every city in the Union Û when by some accident, the first intelligence he received of his being expected to deliver this address, was a newspaper reporter asking the loan of his manuscript, as he entered the church just before the service? [7]

And who but he could sit, as he often did, in the House of Bishops, continually writing letters, paying apparently no attention to what was before the House, and all of a sudden rise up in the midst of an exciting debate, and with a speech which showed that he had heard every word that had been uttered, probe the subject to the very bottom, whether it were a question on the practical working of the Church or of abstruse canonical law? With some persons this constant readiness was supposed to argue a superficial character to his mind. As if that were a superficial mind, to which the first lawyers in the land were sometimes compelled to yield in debate, could hold at bay the ablest men in the Church. One who knew him well, and had a right to speak, does not hesitate to bear this testimony:

'His learning was extensive, accurate, and thorough. His intellect penetrated to the bottom, every subject which he handled; and with such rapidity that slower minds may, hastily, have thought him superficial. But he was not so. He had, and could always bring to bear, the practical results of learning, while others no more learned than he are weighed down with the mere acquirements of the knowledge which they cannot use. Mere bookish men Û not practical Û useful, and not great Û but whom the unthinking call profound, because they are heavy! He packed his knowledge well. It was well sorted, well distributed; and he walked so easily along with all his load of varied learning, that lesser minds Û (whose bundles of loose faggots make the bearers stagger, and it may be, sometimes scratch the crowd) Û may have supposed his burden was not equal to their own.'

As a poet, if his time had not been given so entirely to the pursuits of his sacred office, he would have undoubtedly ranked very high. In 1824 he published a little volume, titled Songs by the Way, chiefly of a devotional character. Perhaps one of the best pieces in it is the following:


The Device — Two hearts united
The Motto — 'Dear love of mine, my heart is thine.'

I like that ring Û that ancient ring,
Of massive form, and virgin gold.
As firm, as free from base alloy,
As were the sterling hearts of old,

I like it Û for it wafts me back,
Far, far along the stream of time,
To other men, amid other days,
The men and days of deeds sublime.

But most I like it, as it tells
The tale of well-requited love
How youthful fondness persevered,
And youthful faith disdain'd to rove, Û

How warmly he his suit preferr'd,
Though she, unpitying, long denied,
Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,
He won his 'fair and blooming bride.'

How, till the appointed day arrived,
They blamed the lazy-footed hours, Û
How there the white-robed maiden train
Strewed their glad way with freshest flowers Û

And how, before the holy man,
They stood in all their youthful pride,
And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows,
Which bind the husband to his bride.

All this it tells; the plighted troth Û
The gift of every earthly thing Û
The hand in hand Û the heart in heart Û
For this I like that ancient ring.

I like its old and quaint device Û
'Two blended hearts' Û though time may wear them,
No mortal change, no mortal chance,
'Till death,' shall e'er in sunder tear them.

Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,
Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God,
In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,
These two the world's rough pathway trod.

Age might impair their youthful fires,
Their strength might fail, mid life's bleak weather,
Still, hand in hand they traveled on Û
Kind souls, they slumber now together.

I like its simple poesy too;
'Mine own dear love, this heart is thine!'
Thine, when the dark storm howls along,
As when the cloudless sunbeams shine,

'This heart is thine, mine own dear love!'
Thine, and thine only, and forever;
Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,
Thine, till the cords of life shall sever.

Remnant of days departed long,
Emblem of plighted troth unbroken,
Pledge of devoted faithfulness,
Of heartfelt, holy love the token:

What varied feelings round it cling!
For these I like that ancient ring.

The lines on 'What is that, Mother?' are too well-known to be quoted here. We add another piece, also from Songs by the Way, which strikes us as of the highest merit:           


Twas an hour of fearful issues,
When the bold three hundred stood,
For their love of holy freedom,
By that old Thessalian flood;

When, lifting high each sword of flame,
They call'd on every sacred name,
And swore, beside those dashing waves,
They never, never would be slaves.

And, O, that oath was nobly kept;
From morn to setting sun
Did desperation urge the fight,
Which valor had begun;

Till, torrent-like, the stream of blood
Ran down and mingled with the flood,
And all, from mountain cliff to wave,
Was Freedom's, Valor's, Glory's grave.

O, yes, that oath was nobly kept,
Which nobly had been sworn,
And proudly did each gallant heart
The foeman's fetters spurn;

And firmly was the fight maintain'd,
And amply was the triumph gain'd
They fought, fair Liberty, for thee;
They fell — TO DIE IS TO BE FREE.

A few years since he edited the first American edition of Keble's Christian Year, with valuable notes of his own; but he has published no second volume of poetry. His poems have all been literally Songs by the Way, thrown off in the midst of his toils and trials. Our space allows us to quote but two more:


I have somewhere met with an old legend, that a robin, hovering about the cross,
bore off a thorn from our dear Saviour's crown, and dyed his bosom with the blood,
and that, from that time, robins have been the friends of man.

Sweet Robin, I have heard them say,
That thou wert there, upon the day,
That Christ was crown'd in cruel scorn,
And bore away one bleeding thorn,

That, so, the blush upon thy breast
In shameful sorrow, was impressed;
And thence thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.

Sweet Robin, would that I might be,
Bathed in my Saviour's blood like thee;
Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss,
The bleeding blazon of the Cross;

Live, ever, with thy loving mind,
In fellowship with human kind;
And take my pattern still from thee,
In gentleness and constancy.


'Stand like an anvil, when it is beaten upon;' St. Ignatius to Polycarp, both martyrs.

'Stand like an anvil!' when the strokes
Of stalwart strength fall fierce and fast
Storms but more deeply root the oaks,
Whose brawny arms embrace the blast.

'Stand like an anvil!' when the sparks
Fly far and wide, a fiery shower;
Virtue and truth must still be marks,
Where malice proves its want of power

'Stand like an anvil!' when the bar
Lies red and glowing on its breast;
Duty shall be life's leading star,
And conscious innocence, its rest.

'Stand like an anvil!' when the sound
Of ponderous hammers pains the ear;
Thine be the still and stern rebound
Of the great heart that cannot fear.

'Stand like an anvil!' noise and heat
Are born of earth, and die with time.
The soul, like God, its Source and Seat,
Is solemn, still, serene, sublime.

In private life he was the most disinterested, the most unselfish of men. All that he had, and all that he was, were at the service of his friends. He would give away the last flower that he had, if he thought any one wanted it. No man ever had greater temptations to live a life of ease and social enjoyment. With every worldly surrounding that could make life happy, he loved his home more than any man we ever knew; yet nothing pleased him more than to have others partake of its hospitality. Who, that ever entered Riverside, went away other than delighted? There was a simple, generous reality about him, which won the heart. You saw him just as he was. There was no deception in his character, and as little malice. Whatever others might say of him, however hard they might treat him, no one ever heard him speak of them vindictively, and no one can say with justice that he ever cherished any ill feeling toward those who were lacerating his heart. Though no woman's heart ever felt harshness more keenly, yet, when stung to the quick in the house of his friends, the only sign which he gave to those who knew him best, was the relief which they found him seeking by some little gem of verse, with the well-known signature, G.W.D.

When, in the midst of his trials not a family could be found, in Burlington, to entertain during the sitting of the Diocesan Convention, a clergyman who had most violently opposed him, he invited him to his own house. When, arraigned before his peers he was pleading for that which was dearer to him than peers and harsher words were uttered than most men would have endured, no expression escaped from his lips (is the testimony of a bishop who was entirely impartial) of which he would have reason to be ashamed before the Judgment Bar. Charity, magnanimity, and good will, were written on all that he said and on all that he did.

But his chief delight, his greatest comfort, his never-failing source of strength and consolation, was in continual prayer. 'He gave himself,' reverently be it said, 'unto prayer.' He was always 'glad to go into the House of the Lord.' When his family were scattered, and only a little grandchild could be found to pray beside him, still he never failed, the first thing in the morning, to kneel down with her and ask God's blessing on his household. Of such an occasion, he once remarked, in his simple way, 'I never felt so near the angels.' And no matter how pressing his cares, how innumerable his duties, he always found time to be twice, and frequently three or four times, daily, at the Services of the Lord's House. It was no uncommon thing for him, when the other clergy were away, to read the Daily Morning and Evening Prayer, both at the Parish Church and in the Chapel of St. Mary's Hall, in addition to the usual Noonday Service at the latter, at which he was always present when at home. Here was the great secret of his strength. He realized the comfort and consolation of prayer. At these living wells he refreshed his drooping spirit in the days of his darkest sorrow. Often have we heard him lament that so few of those who profess and call themselves Churchmen could be made to feel the privilege of the public Daily Prayer. And, in the hour of his conflict with the last enemy, he again bore his most impressive witness in its behalf, 'vindicating it by argument and eloquent appeals, as a fountain of health, an unfailing source of wide-spread spiritual blessing.'

But perhaps the most remarkable trait in his character was the boldness with which he proclaimed what he felt to be the truth. There was no compromise of principle nor yielding to mere expediency in his life. Though fond of praise, exceedingly sensitive to blame, and always anxious for the approval of his friends, yet let him once make up his mind on any subject as to his path of duty, and no friend or foe could swerve him a hair's-breadth from his purpose. He set out, as we have said, with the highest view of the duties and responsibilities of his Office, and he maintained it unto the end. We had intended to have illustrated this by the manner in which he battled with, cost him what it might, many of the popular opinions of the day. For example, he did not believe in 'Brotherhoods' in the Church, and did all he could to oppose the ordination of unlearned deacons. But we must confine ourselves to one subject, his opposition to the present popular system of the Sunday School. Ex uno disce omnia.As long ago as 1843, he thus stated his objections to them in an Address to his Convention, objections which, we venture to say, have been painfully realized in the experience of every pastor who has carefully observed the results of the system. [8]

'I should be sorry to think of the Sunday School, as such, as a permanent idea in the Church. I do not care to see it stereotyped in brick and mortar. It is the offspring of a superficial, labor-saving, self-sparing age. It has done some good, but hindered more, and brought with it much mischief. It has taken off from parents and sponsors, the sense of their responsibility in the religious care of children. It has cheated pastors with the notion of an easier way of doing, what Jesus laid on Simon, as the highest test of love, the feeding of His Iambs. It has puffed up multitudes with the conceit of knowledge, and almost of a new order in the Church. And it has substituted in the minds of children, the most superficial smatttering for that sound, patient, thorough instruction in the faith and practice of the Gospel, which Christ entrusted to His Church for which He holds her accountable and for which she makes the fullest and most adequate provision.

Now could it be otherwise? What office more responsible and difficult than that of teacher? For the Christian teacher, what long probation, what various acquirements, what careful preparation, what thorough scrutiny; and, when all these are done, the solemn laying on of an Apostle's hands, with invocation of the Holy Sprit? But, for the teachers of the Sunday School Û teachers, Christian teachers, the first Christian teachers, after their mothers, of the rising generation; whose privilege and opportunity it is to forestall the ministry, and give the first shape to their work Û whoever thinks of asking for any other qualification than willingness to undertake the office!

In a parish, which, with difficulty, finds one man to be the teacher of the men and women, twenty, thirty, fifty, in spontaneous growth, spring up to be the teachers of the children. Can they be qualified? Is it just to expect it of them? Is it safe to entrust it to them? And then, their opportunity! One, two, or at most, three hours, in any week Û I had almost said, thinking what day it is, the more, the worse Û crowded in upon the proper duties, and maiming the precious privileges of the day of sacred rest: making a working day of it, a very treadmill of tasks, and teachers and school books, and school rooms; a dismal day of drudgery, instead of the sweet, calm sabbath of the soul! Who could expect from nine days in a year Û and more cannot be made of it Û distributed at much disadvantage, any valuable result of knowledge or of discipline? Who will be answerable for the effects, in after life, of such associations, on the observance of the sacred day? Who could expect, from means so questionable, a valuable result? Who must not fear from grounds so neglected, the rankest overgrowth of irreverence and insubordination, of error and false doctrine, of heresy and schism?

Does any ask, what is the substitute proposed? The natural, the reasonable, the divine provision. Children are born of parents. They are new born, with sponsors. To these, the first responsibility belongs. It cannot he delegated, it cannot be escaped from, it cannot be neglected, without fearful consequences, in time, and through eternity. But, though the first and chief, these are not the whole reliance. There comes in, as their delegated auxiliary, the Christian schoolmaster or mistress; the parish school, as the joint nursery, to train the minds and hearts of children of one neighborhood. A Christian school; as it is sanctified by daily prayer. A Christian school; as Christian doctrines, and Christian duties, are among its daily themes. A Christian school; as it is taught by those who, in word, and deed, and good example, are tried Christians. A Christian school; as its design is to train Christians for whatever state of life it may please God to call them to. A Christian school; as it is under the entire control, and enjoys the constant supervision of the Christian Pastor. And, finally, the Christian Pastor's chiefest work, the catechising 'openly in the Church,' of the children, who, in the parish school, are thoroughly instructed in the Catechism; and his preparation of them, in full and strict compliance with the requirements of the Rubrics, to be 'brought to the Bishop, to be confirmed by him.'

This is the Church's plan. An old plan. A tried plan. A sure plan. It is wise in its provisions, it is responsible in its agencies. It is safe in its results. It is the plan of the Book of Common Prayer, and of the Holy Scriptures, it is God's plan, and it has the promise of His blessing. But it is old fashioned; it is troublesome; it is expensive; and so the Sunday School comes in, and crowds it out. Why stay in that old, dull, dry, beaten road, when the new short-cut, is so much more attractive? Why trouble the parents, and the sponsors, and the pastor, with the care of children, when there are others to come in, and take it off their hands? Why provide a school house, and maintain a parochial teacher, and multiply ministers to be supported, when it can all be done for nothing? And this is an age which calls itself utilitarian! A new name for what our forefathers, in their plain way, described as 'penny-wise, pound-foolish.'

The Christian care of children, to be faithfully discharged, calls for the establishment of thorough Christian schools, accessible to every child in every parish; and also calls for the increase of clergy, so every parish minister, who has the care of fifty to a hundred families, shall have at least one deacon, to assist him in his duties. Men may refuse to do this, for a while; and will, most probably: although the morning of a better day is spread upon the mountains. And, while this is so, a Sunday School, carefully superintended by the minister himself, taught by none whom he does not himself select, admitting no text-books but the Bible and the Prayer Book, and constantly subordinate to his stated catechising, 'openly in the Church,' may be of use, as a monitorial assistant in his labors.' [9]

That Bishop Doane had his faults, no man will deny, and no one could have been more ready to admit it than himself. He was, as has been justly said, 'strongly, manifoldly, perilously human.' Like St. Peter, he was impulsive to the last degree. Like him, his faults were all upon the surface, known and seen of all men. With the most intense reality of character, he knew nothing of acting for the sake of appearance. He never could be made to understand the necessity of guarding against misrepresentation and misconstruction. That he had his enemies, was but the natural result of such a character. That many of them acted from the purest (though mistaken) motives, we have no disposition to deny. That he was often harshly judged, and frequently calumniated, most persons are now willing to admit. Though convinced, by intimate intercourse with him for several years, of the entire purity of his motives, it is not our purpose to enter into the particulars of his various accusations. History will put them in their proper light. We simply desire to place on record the just conclusion of Dr. Van Rensselaer, certainly an impartial judge, and one who had known and studied him, as a near neighbor, for twenty-three years. He says:

'There are three remarkable facts, which serve to commend, and to enforce charity, over his grave.

In the first place, Bishop Doane's most intimate friends believed him innocent. Judges, lawyers, physicians, divines, intimate acquaintances, male and female, by scores and thousands, have placed the most implicit confidence in his motives and integrity.

In the second place, his Church, in its Diocesan and General Convention, was never against him. Indeed, the House of Bishops formally declared his innocence; and this is presumptive proof that his religious character could not be impugned in the Church to which he belonged.

In the third place, it cannot be denied that God showed no little favor to the Bishop in life and in death. He enabled him to accomplish a large amount of good; protected him in Providence from a varied and powerful opposition; and permitted him, after a long life of labor and trial, to die in peace.

These three facts just mentioned, do not amount to absolute demonstration; but they must pass for all they are fully worth. To a person, like myself, outside of his Church, and an unexcited observer of passing events in the community, they afford evidence of no slight character. I am thankful, this day, that I have never felt it in my power to pass a severe judgment, in view of the whole aspect of the case, so far as it has been presented to my mind. I have seen enough, however, and have heard enough, to make me say with David, 'Let us fall into the hand of the Lord, for his mercies are great; but let me not fall into the hand of man.''

That these trials prematurely whitened his locks and shortened his life, every one must feel. But that he never quailed before them [10] or ceased, the moment the storm had passed, to devote himself with still intenser energy to the manifold labors of his Episcopate, is one of the most remarkable features of his remarkable life. That noble saying of St. Augustine, 'Vincit qui patitur,' was a great favorite with him; and he acted out the exhortation of St. Ignatius to his brother martyr, Polycarp, 'Stand like an anvil when it is beaten upon.' Whatever fell upon him, he never swerved for an instant from what he felt to be the path of duty and of right. 'Right Onward ' was the chosen motto of his public and private life. The principle which he so fearlessly and inflexibly pursued, amid so much misrepresentation and abuse, is one that was but little understood. But the day is not far distant when men will yet thank God for the stand he then maintained. It is ably described in the sermon of Dr. Mahan:

'A man who lives for the public, whether in Church or State, who is in the public eye, whose heart and brain are continually overtasked in its public service, labors, so far as his own good fame is concerned, under a double disadvantage. He is more exposed than other men to the shafts of calumny. He is less able than other men to guard and defend himself. Every hour that he gives to self-vindication, is so much taken from the cause to which all his time is devoted.

For this reason, the true public man is bound in conscience to endure in magnanimous silence what to other men would seem simply unendurable. A sentinel cannot leave his post to chastise the insolence of the mob. A shepherd cannot leave his flock to answer the challenge of the wolf. In the same way, a public man, when he is assailed by accusations, true or false, is at liberty to meet them only one way, and on one spot, he cannot go forth to meet them. They come and meet him. They must come before him in a legally binding, responsible, and authoritative shape. Thus our Lord, before Caiaphas, answered never a word until solemnly adjured by the living God; and when questioned by Pilate, declined answering till fully assured whether Pilate spake of himself; that is, magisterially; or merely uttered the idle questions of others. On the same principle, St. Polycarp declined to plead his cause before the crowd, because, as he alleged, they had no lawful commission to judge him. The public man, in fact, has a public cause to sustain. To that he is wholly pledged. His own cause, therefore, except so far as the vindication of it is forced upon him by due process of legal adjuration, he leaves to God, to time, to the sure, though slow, instinct of justice in the human heart.

This, my brethren, is the principle on which I believe Bishop Doane to have acted from the beginning to the end of that storm of accusation which has of late years raged against him. For one, I thank God that he saw the importance of this principle, so clearly; that he acted on it so firmly. At a time when irresponsible accusation is becoming more and more a power in the land, the man who refuses to bow to it, who at his own peril holds up against it the standard of time-honored law, is doing good service both to the Church and country.

Bishop Doane saw this. And when, in the face of a wide-spread clamor, and even against the wishes of many of his friends, he declared that he would do what he could to make the trial of a Bishop hard, he may, indeed, have injured his own cause for a while, in public opinion, but he at the same time, delivered his own soul; he expressed honestly and boldly a settled and sound conviction.'

But we must pass on from this imperfect sketch, leaving much that invites our pen, to his last illness and death. Like his life, it was so ordered, in God's good Providence, that it should be before the world. It can only be compared to one of those glorious sunsets, when the sun, having come forth from the clouds which had obscured it for a while, goes down in its full splendor, burnishing its pathway with every golden hue. So did his death scene surround his hoary head with a crown of glory, which shall never fade, so long as his name mentioned among men.

He left home on Friday, April 8th, 1859, to make his visitation in Monmouth County. He had been suffering from a severe cold, and for the first time in his life it was remarked by his family that he expressed an unwillingness to go. Still he fulfilled his appointments, preaching three times each day, though compelled, on part of the visitation, to travel in a country wagon, through a heavy rain. Those who heard him, speak of the energy with which he delivered his sermons, though suffering so much from rheumatism that he rose from his knees only with difficulty. On Tuesday, he returned home to attend the funeral of the Reverend Mr. Morehouse, the senior Presbyter of the Diocese, at Mount Holly, on the following day.

After partaking of a slight repast, he lay down on his bed, with no expectation of recovery, and, as he believed from the first, a dying man. His disease assumed a typhoid form, accompanied, during its earlier stages, by incessant nausea, which gave him great distress; yet no word of complaint was heard from his lips. He acquiesced in everything prescribed by his faithful attendants, though, through all, insisting that they would be of no avail. On one occasion when his devoted physician, who scarcely left him night or day, begged him to exercise his wonted energy and will, to aid the efforts of nature; his only reply was, that he had neither energy nor will, and could not create


During the Holy Week, the fever reached its height and delirium ensued; a delirium which can only be described as sublime. His mind, retaining all its usual energy and power, was simply 'unveiled.' Not an undignified word or improper expression was spoken. The great heart which had so long struggled on the Lord's side, was merely running on in its accustomed channels; the Christian warrior Û the ruling passion strong in death Û was fighting his battles over again; the work of his life still the theme of all his thoughts. In those three days sermons were preached with all his former eloquence, addresses of touching tenderness made to his theological class or the young ladies of St. Mary's Hall, earnest appeals to the Convention on topics of interest to the Diocese, his character vindicated from the charges which had been made against it, and the most logical arguments and remonstrances uttered against the corruptions of' the schismatical Church of Rome. Those present who had revered and loved him for years, were never more deeply impressed with his greatness and goodness than during those hours which opened his inmost heart to the world.

As Eastertide came in, his mind assumed its usual balance. Calm, submissive, quiet, and almost playful as of old, hopes of his recovery were aroused in all but himself. Though very feeble, he sent for some of his friends and gave them directions and requests in reference to his public and personal affairs. On Easter Tuesday, unfavorable symptoms awakened the alarm of the family. In accordance with a promise which he had exacted from his physician in the early part of the attack, he was now informed that they believed him to be sinking. And then, the only calm person in that bereaved house, the few remaining hours of his life were occupied in devout meditations, in receiving the Holy Communion, which was administered to him and the other members of the family by his son, the Reverend William Croswell Doane, in expressing his charity for all, and sending messages of kindness and blessing to the absent. When everything else was done, there flowed from his lips that noble Confession of his Faith, true to such a life, and worthy of an Apostle the Lamb:


And then, when faith had triumphed, love came in to complete the work.

With his last strength he raised his trembling hands and pronounced over his afflicted family the beautiful Levitical Benediction, from the Office for the Visitation of the Sick: 'Unto God's gracious mercy and protection, we commit thee. The Lord bless thee, and keep thee. The Lord make His face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee. The Lord lift up us countenance upon thee, and give thee peace, both now and evermore.'

And so he fell asleep in Jesus, and rested from his labors, at one o'clock in the afternoon of Wednesday, in Easter Week, 27th of April, A.D. 1850, within one month of sixty years of age.

Few men, not martyrs, have given or suffered more for the Church, than he did. A purer minded, a greater and a more misrepresented man, we have never met, and posterity will acknowledge it. 'Few Fathers of the Church, when they pass away, (said the Bishop of Georgia) will leave as many hearts to mourn over their graves, or as many eyes that will water them with their tears.' And yet he died, says Dr. Van Rensselaer, in the right time. God had spared his life until he had outlived all that had been said against him; there was no man openly to accuse him; his honors had returned; men began to gather again about him; primitive piety, for which he had so earnestly longed in his first Episcopal Address, had grown in his Diocese beyond his most ardent expectations; the number of his Clergy had increased from eighteen to one hundred; his work was done; and God took him to Himself.

The funeral solemnities must not remain unnoticed. The Standing Committee of the Diocese had assumed their whole charge, and everything was arranged with as much simplicity as possible. There was none of the pomp and show of grief; and yet it was the triumph of his life. No one who saw it can ever forget it. The sun shone forth in all its vernal beauty, and the day was one of those sudden outbursts of Spring, which seem to quicken all nature to a renewed life.

The body was laid out in the Episcopal robes, in a coffin of the ancient shape, covered with purple cloth, and having on its lid a plain Cross. A small Cross was also laid upon his breast, and the flowers, which he so loved to have around him, were strewn about the body. From early morning, vast numbers of the citizens, and strangers from a distance, came to take their last look on all that remained to them of their beloved Bishop.

At one o'clock, the coffin was covered with an appropriate purple pall, with a white Cross dividing it into four equal parts, and on it was laid the Bishop's crozier, which had been sent to him as a gift by English friends, and on that a wreath of violets. The body, preceded by the officiating Bishops, was borne on a bier all the way to the Church, and as the pall fluttered in the breeze, its white Cross seemed to be hovering just over the coffin. Sixteen pall-bearers, (the Standing Committee of the Diocese, and Delegates to the General Convention,) with scarfs tied with purple ribbon, walked on either side, and the body was followed, after the mourning family, first, by nearly one hundred Clergy of the Diocese and other Dioceses, in their surplices, with heads uncovered; then, by the students of Burlington College, and the young ladies of St. Mary's Hall, all dressed in the deepest mourning; and then, by a long line of citizens and friends, including the Governor, and other dignitaries of the State, and delegations from the Vestries, not only of many Churches in the Diocese, but also of New York and Pennsylvania, many of whom had gathered, without any special invitation, to do honor to the lamented dead.

The windows of nearly every house past which the body was borne, had the shutters barred and hung with a piece of crape, and, as the procession slowly moved along the green hank of the Delaware, every bell in the city tolling the scene was one of sublime solemnity. 'Everything was as impressive as life and death could make it.'

As the procession entered the Church Yard, and moved through the dense crowd to the Church, the sentences of the Burial Service were said by the venerable Dr. Berrian. The bier was placed in the center of the Chancel, the Clerical pall-bearers remaining standing on either side. The large Church, which was draped throughout with purple and black, was was soon filled in every part, though not one-third of the procession was able to enter. After the Psalm, which was chanted, and the Lesson, which was read by Bishop Southgate, the Priestly pall-bearers took up the corpse and bore it to the grave. The service for the grave was then said by the Bishop of Vermont and the Provisional Bishop of New York, the anthem being sung by three of the Clergy. It was estimated that then were more than three thousand persons about the grave. 

Such grief we have never witnessed. The prayers could scarcely be heard for the sobs of the mourners. Old and young, the surpliced Priests, the leading Laity of the Diocese who had stood by the Bishop in all the labors and trials of his Episcopate, the chief men of the State, the graduates of St. Mary's Hall and Burlington College, the citizens of Burlington, the poor and needy whom he had so long befriended, and even the colored population, who came with their little ones, all seemed to mingle in a common grief, as one after another they passed slowly by the grave to take a last look at that coffin which contained the mortal remains of him whom they had loved so well.

And those who had a right to speak, say that there has not been such a funeral in this country since that of Washington. Certainly, no Bishop has ever died in our branch of the Church whose death has called forth so many tokens of sorrow from every Diocese in the land. One who was present at the Holy Communion in St. Mary's Church the next day, the octave of Easter, says: 'He who has ever participated in this most comfortable Sacrament by the death-bed of some dear friend, the idol of a stricken family, has witnessed on a small scale what was on this memorable Lord's day exhibited at large among the Church people of Burlington. [12]

To this day, his grave is covered with a mound of flowers, kept fresh by the continual offerings of loving hearts; and they who have often been in Burlington since the funeral, say they have never passed the grave, that they have not seen at least one silent mourner, uncovered, standing there to weep. And almost every mail brings us, from Bishops, and Conventions, and Convocations of the Clergy in all quarters, fresh tokens of sorrow for his death, and testimony to the estimation in which he was held.

We close our article with the testimony of the Bishop of Indiana [the Right Reverend George Upfold], which came to hand after the preceding had been written. Addressing his last Convention he said:

He was nearly my contemporary in the ministry, and my beloved and valued friend of forty years. Our intercourse for a time was almost daily. I knew him well and intimately. He had his faults Û and who has not? Û great faults, as some even of his friends thought and lamented; but they were faults of natural ardent temperament, faults of manner, faults growing out of the depth and strength of his convictions, combined with an iron will and resolute determination in following out those convictions, and the exalted sense he entertained of official position, duty, and responsibility. They were, however, thrown into the shade, and more than compensated by his generous impulses, affectionate disposition, his brilliant domestic, social, and Christian virtues.

I take a melancholy pleasure in bearing this public testimony to his noble, unselfish, self-sacrificing spirit, his warm and loving heart, his burning zeal and untiring labors in the cause of God and His Church, and in every enterprise promising in any, even in the smallest way, to promote her weal and extend her influence. His superior talents, his richly cultivated mind, his brilliant genius, his profound and diversified learning, commanded my admiration. His moral worth, his deep and ardent piety, and his genial social virtues, won my high esteem and strong affection. His work for God's Church, particularly in the cause of Christian education, was wise in conception, extensive in character, and eminent in success. No man of his day has done so much for the religious training of the children of the Church, and done it so well.

His Episcopate of twenty-seven years was equally distinguished for its signal efficiency and its glorious results. Amid much misapprehension of the purity of his motives, the honesty of his purposes, and the wisdom of his plans, by some even who were apparently personally friendly, and constant and cruel misrepresentation, malicious opposition and unmerited reproach from others, who, taking counsel of their passions and prejudices, were pertinacious in their machinations, denunciations, he, strong in the mens conscia recti, and in the faith and fear of God his Saviour, fearlessly pursued the great work conceived by his great heart, and planned by his sagacious wisdom, unmoved by pragmatical opposition, undaunted by reproach and calumny. What his zealous and far-seeing spirit prompted, his judgment approved, and his conscience commended as duty, he did, and persisted in doing, regardless of personal consequences. 'Right onward,' was his principle and practice He lived an honest man, with no deceit in his tongue, no reservation of his convictions, no double-dealing, and no mean subterfuges in his conduct. He lived a true man, true to his noble instincts, true to the high and holy principles which prompted his acts and concentrated his energies, true to his official responsibilities, true to the Church which he loved, true to his God.

He lived a devoted Christian man, affectionate, sympathizing, faithful Shepherd of the flock committed, in the Providence of God, to his chief pastoral supervision, and which, under his laborious, acceptable, and efficient ministrations, had grown from comparative feebleness to extraordinary strength, 'the little one' he found, having under his assiduous nurture 'become a thousand.'

He died as he had lived. The summons to depart was sudden, but it found him with his armor on, the Christian soldier, clothed in the panoply of God, and ready for the final conflict, as he had ever been for the many and grievous conflicts which seemed to cluster about his course from earliest manhood until the day of his death.

His last words were a truthful and impressive epitome of the faith in which he had lived; they embodied the principles which had ever actuated his proceedings, and sustained him amid his many trials and accumulated sorrows. * * * Thus he 'fell asleep in Jesus;' for 'so He giveth His beloved sleep.'


[1] The still extant and flourishing parish of St Luke-in-the-Fields in New York City. [Note by Cynthia McFarland]

[2] At his institution as Rector of Trinity Church, Bishop Griswold preached, taking for his text, St. John iii, 30: "He must increase, but I must decrease;" and what was very remarkable in a Preacher of Bishop Griswold's impersonal character, he closed the sermon by applying the text to the newly instituted Rector and himself.

[3] Some seem to have supposed that he was more of an Englishman than an American, in his feelings. His persistent celebration of Washington's Birthday, and the Fourth of July, in his two Institutions for Christian Education, ought to have corrected this. In his Oration at Burlington College, on the Fourth of July, 1851, 'Patriotism a Christian Duty,' he thus speaks for himself: 'I believe that Patriotism is a religious duty. I believe that it is to be taught from earliest childhood. I believe, that only second to their Saviour and the Church, our offspring should be trained to love and serve the land, which is their Providential heritage. And I would take these children now, and lay their hands upon the Altar which commemorates and certifies to their redemption, and demand their pledge, before the God who sees their heart, that they would never be the friend of him who would disturb this Union. I care not where he comes from, I care not what his plea be. As an American I know no North, I know no South. One country is enough for me. 'Omnes omnium caritates patria uno complexa est. 'The country of the Union, the country of the Constitution, the Country of the Stars and Stripes, that is my country. I go for it, all. I go for it, as one. I go for it, as indivisible. And I would sooner tear my quivering heart-strings from their core, than see one Pleiad lost from all that glorious constellation.'

[4] His visit to England was made in consequence of an invitation to preach at the Consecration of the Parish Church at Leeds, one of the finest ecclesiastical structures of modern times. He was the first American Clergyman allowed to preach in an English pulpit, and during his visit did very much towards promoting that intimate intercourse which has since grown up between the mother and daughter Church.

[5] The legend in the chancel window of the Chapel of the Holy Innocents, attached to St. Mary's Hall.

[6] It is but justice to him to say that his punctuation was the result of carefully considered rules which he laid down for himself, and it may not have been noticed that some portions of the Holy Scriptures, particularly the New Testament, (for there is, in the different books, great variety) are punctuated in a manner very similar to the Bishop's writings.

[7] He went to the Church, expecting to be called upon, with other speakers, to make a few remarks appropriate to the occasion, but had no idea that there devolve upon him the duty of making the only address.

[8] The bishop's views on this subject will be found more fully developed in an article he read before the Commission of Bishops, on the late Memorial of Dr. Muhlenberg published in the volume of Memorial Papers, in 1856.

[9] There are large Sunday Schools, bearing the name of the Church, in which the Church Catechism never is taught. When a conscientious teacher, in one of our City Schools, introduced it, it was ordered out by the Superintendent, a Layman, as 'unsound in doctrine.'

[10] The only exception, which can by any possibility be made to this, was that one 'heart-wound,' which went 'with him,' alas, 'to the grave, and brought him sooner there.' We allude to the submission of his first-born son, as he expressed it, 'to the schismatical Roman intrusion.' It was the sorrow of his life, which 'brought [him] to know what that means, of which we read in Holy Scriptures, about cutting off the right hand, and plucking out the right eye.' The statement which he made of the case, in his Episcopal Address of 1856, which brought tears to many eyes, we should have been glad to have found room for here; but we must content ourselves with quoting two sentences from it, and ask, with him, 'the prayers of the faithful in Christ Jesus, that his erring child may be brought back to the way of Truth and Peace.' He forcibly said for himself, 'I challenge contradiction, when I assert that there is not a house on earth, that can be less imbued with sympathy with Rome, than that in which he lived for five and twenty years. And for myself, of all the falsehoods which have ever been imagined and alleged, a tendency towards Rome, is the one, which my deepest impressions, and clearest conclusions, not only, but the very instincts of my nature, make impossible.'

[11] This has, by some who did not know the Bishop, been represented though he gave up all thoughts of the Church when he came to die Û in one professed a different faith from that he had preached. Perhaps the best answer to this is his Sixth Triennial Charge, 1848, 'Christ crucified, the hope, the theme, the model of the Christian minister,' in which these words occur: 'My only rescue is the refuge of the Cross. The fountain opened to our souls, 'sin and for uncleanness,' flows from the pierced heart of Him Who suffered there. And to be gathered at his bleeding feet; and look, with smitten so upon the agony that wrings His yearning frame; and take into our hearts, through with penitential shame, the unction of His blood; this is our cleansing, our only health.' Those who knew him well, see in this last Confession of his Faith, an epitome of his preaching and his life.

[12] 'Burlington, where so much of his life of action and suffering was passed, (says Dr. Ogilby) pronounced its judgment over the grave of Bishop Dome. The Church and the world will accept this verdict, founded on the best of testimony, that of neighbors and friends, those by whose hearthstones he has lived and died. That dear lady, Mrs. Bradford, who loved the Bishop as her true nature loved every worthy object, said to one of the Bishops once assembled in Burlington, 'Please, Sir, tell me, for I am but a plain woman, and have little understanding of such questions, how is it that you Bishops and Clergy from a distance can know more of our Bishop than we know, who see him every day, at whose doors he has lived so long?' This is the question of common sense, of simple honesty. And eternal truth and right can give to this question but one answer. On that answer, we would rest the Bishop's earthly fame. The judgment pronounced by Burlington over her loved and honored Bishop's grave, might stand against the verdict of the world.'