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                    A


      DISCOURSE

           PREACHED AT THE FUNERAL OF


DOCT.  ELIJAH  W. CARPENTER,

                  IN THE


     Unitarian Church, in Bernardston,

               November 30, 1855.
        BY THOMAS WESTON,
Pastor of the First Church and Society in New Salem, Mass.
      WITH AN APPENDIX,

CONTAINING OBITUARY NOTICES, Etc.
      GREENFIELD:
PRINTED BY CHARLES A. MIRICK.
          1856. 
.100
4oS£n* 
SERMON.
HE,  BEING DEAD, YET SPEAKETH.—HEBREWS XI: 4.
  How,  sometimes,  words of scripture,  hitherto un-
meaning, become the first, the  deepest  expression of
our thought.   How our hearts respond to them, as pass-
ing events reveal  their hidden  import.   So is it in
regard to the text before us.  Often have we read the
words—we have perused again and again the Apostle's
long catalogue of the Faithful, yet, it  may be, not one
of  those  bright examples  has moved  us—not one
instance of virtue incited us to imitation.  We vaguely
remember the record,—perhaps we  sometimes rejoice
that " we are compassed about  by so great a cloud of
witnesses," but speaking in so indirect a manner, they
can have no positive influence upon our hearts.  But,
change the circumstances—let the words  before us refer
to some  one we have  known—whose loss we  feel—
whose presence we miss—and what a  vitality they then
possess.   We  all revere virtue,  as  such.   We  would
not lose its memory or suffer its  record to be destroyed.
But unless it be near us, moving our feelings and touch-
ing our hearts, we  do not deem that it directly concerns 
us.   Yet, when in God's Providence, such instances do
occur—when the hand  of affliction lies heavily upon
our hearts—when we miss the revered  and  cherished
one from our midst—then more than ever, and perhaps
then first of all, we realize the force of words like these
before us.
  And to-day, as we come, mourners,  bearing to his
last rest, one so dear to many hearts, is not this thought
specially true,  and wonderfully impressive ?   Now, the
word comes not through the lapse of centuries—now it
is not speaking of one of whom we know but little, save
that he lived and died.  It comes from a life just closed
in our  midst—from a  career of honor and usefulness,
just ended  in man's common destiny.  I need not ask,
if he who was the cherished friend of all, has no teach-
ing for us, as we mourn his loss.  Does he not speak ?
Even now, we  almost  catch the  tones of his  well
remembered voice.  "Being dead,  he yet speaketh."
  The life is  the  true  utterance—it is  that, which in
many an  instance is  more eloquent than all  beside.
Mere words are little,  though  for the moment  ever so
impressive; deeds may be prominent, and yet  fail to
move our hearts.  But give us the life—let it record its
own history—let it set its own seal—that will be more
to us than all beside.  And just before us we find  the
application of the  truth we state.   Wre gather here, a
whole  community, drawn  by  a common impulse, yet
bearing no witness to worldly  greatness of word or
deed—claiming little  prominence for  the  unobtrusive
virtues of our departed  friend.   But, notwithstanding
this, we come, believing he has a power to  move our
hearts—deeming we may learn  a lesson from  his life. 
5
Thus believing, we would  ask what  the  message he
leaves us is, and how it shall affect us as we go back to
life's duties, waiting until our change shall come.
  I have said it is the life which speaks.   And may it
not have a more  impressive lesson, than the mere fact
of life's ending ?   Think of any you have known, and
your  memory of  them is pleasant  or  the  reverse, as
they have left behind  them the record of virtue or  the
stain  of vice.  If ever the words of Jesus are to be
applied to men's lives, it is when their  last acts are reg-
istered above, and, in our estimate of  their characters,
we are  assured, that  " by  their  fruits we must know
them."  Then they speak—then we weigh them in the
balance—then we judge righteous judgment.
   And in  this sad moment, the memory of the  past
brings a mournful pleasure, assuaging the  bitterness of
our  grief.   He, whose  dust we commit  to the  earth
as it was, whose spirit has  returned to God who gave
it,—he, was a good man.  This, simple as it is, is the
greatest praise which can be bestowed on a fellow mor-
tal.   You, my friends, who gather here " weeping with
those who weep," bear me witness that I  speak  only
plain, unvarnished truth.  He was a good man.  A few
years' knowledge of his upright course has taught me,
what a  life among you  of nearly half a  century  has
graven upon your hearts.  True to every call of duty
—ever ready to render aid when that was sought—and
more than  that, ever bestowing sympathy and kindness
unsought—just in all  his dealings—conscientious in all
things—he was a pattern alike of public virtue and of
private  worth.   Was  it  not so?  You have seen his
long and useful life.   You know the worth of that char- 
G
 acter he has borne for so many years—you have appre-
 ciated his professional services—and there is hardly one
 of us to whom he has not come, the messenger of mer-
 cy.   He is no  more.   " He, who  by his skill  saved
 others, has  at last become the victim of disease and
 death."  And while  I  mark  your sympathizing looks,
 as I know you are now treasuring up  the  memory of
 his virtues, need I ask if he  is not still  speaking.   I
 need not dwell upon this point, for you will not fail  to
 do justice to a character which has  been  for years an
 example in your midst.
   But, if one word of private  feeling maybe pardoned,
 suffer me to say  in passing,—I too, have lost a dear and
 valued friend.   In the few years of our acquaintance 1
 had learned to trust in him, and now as I come to these
 last sad offices, it is not alone  in obedience to the com-
 mand of Jesus that I mingle my tears with those of the
 mourning ones.  Not as a duty do I stand here to-day.
 1 would comfort the sorrowing—I would  speak cheer-
 ing words to those who remain as I remember  the vir-
 tues of the departed—but in common  with those dear-
 est to him, must  I feel that " our friend sleepeth."
   '; He, being dead yet speaketh."
   How, I ask again, shall the dead speak to the living?
 I repeat what I have already said.   They are heard
 through the  memory of the past.   What remains to us
 of those  who have gone before us, but the  record  of
 their virtues ?  Without this we should  be miserable, for
we can have nothing  else.   Would you my friends,—
you who  have of late, been called again  and  again  to
the brink of the grave—would you be deprived of the
voices which come to cheer your solitary moments— 
7
would you be content that the memory of virtue should
slumber with the dust—that cherished thoughts should
vanish, as cherished forms decay?  O no!—you would
not—I am sure you could not—you deem that memory
a  legacy, dearer than any other  could be—and its
value increases more and more as time bears you on
towards the  mansion they have reached.
   In these sad  moments we remember  how dear the
departed was to us, and we seek to strengthen the cord
which binds him to our hearts.  And in no other way
can we better accomplish this than by applying to that
life, the words of the Apostle—" If there be any virtue,
and if there be any praise, think of these things."  We
must do this.   The soul  ever clings  to what is dear to
it—the  heart  never resigns the  love natural  affection
kindles within it.  Time cannot change it, and  eterni-
ty so far from  destroying it, purifies and deepens  it.
So that the  dear ones who have  left  our outward pres-
ence, through  thought and memory  still speak to our
inward life.
   This view is plainer as we have clearer conceptions
of death itself.   What is it ?  If voices come back from
its shades—if it exerts a  power  upon us,—let  us ask
what the utterance of these voices may be, and what
that power is.  What is  death ?   We see its  outward
change.  Those we  love  and cherish—to whom we
turn for sympathy,  or to whom we cling  for support, are
removed from earth.   " The silver cord is loosed, the
golden  bowl  is broken."  The eye  of affection is
dimmed—the  tone of sympathy  is  hushed.   " Their
faces are changed and they are sent  away."  But this,
were it all,  would strike terror to our hearts.   Were it 
8
all, we might well deem death  the  grim monster so
many have  thought  him.  But  thanks be given, we
have  a  brighter  hope.   The  truth  as it is  in  Jesus
reveals more than this.   Gethsemane, with its fearful
agony was  bright with dawning  hope.  The  Cross of
Calvary, dreadful as it was, made doubly sure the prom-
ise of eternal life  beyond.   And the joy which burst
upon  the world in the  Resurrection  morning, as  the
wondering disciples stood beside the vacant tomb of the
Redeemer,  came  in  the conviction  that  he  was  not
there—that  he had risen.   Christ was the resurrection
and the life, and this transition  from body to spirit,
from death to life, was needful to establish his claim,
to show the world  that it  had been even as he promised.
It was the certainty of the change from death to life,
which caused the despondency of the disciples to give
place  to the  fulness of joy.
  And so is  it now.  The memory of the past hallows
the present, but our  hope is  brighter still, when we
believe our friend shall live again ;—and as we remem-
ber that only through the grave can he enter the world
of spirits.   Only  as  a  man dies, can he live again.
Death loses its terrors,  as we  regard  it  thus.  It is a
change—a transition  from the present to a nobler state
of being—as much a part of God's design in regard to
his children, as is their birth.  What though the separa-
tions consequent upon the change rend the heart and
crush the spirit ?   Remember, " your  heart shall  live
forever"—that it is to be fitted  for a nobler  sphere—
that it has capacities  which cannot be developed here.
Think of this, and you  will no  longer mourn, as the
mortal puts on immortality.  It is beyond our feeble 
comprehension—it is strange and  mysterious  to  us.
Sadly,  sometimes, we ask, why, at  periods  when  we
deem  their presence most essential  to our happiness,
these dear ones are snatched away—why the golden
chain  which unites parents and children  and friends
must be  broken.   But not in despondency—not with
repining hearts.  Let us remember what death is—the
passage way to the life beyond.   Let us trust in God,
that he will, in his own good  time change our sorrow
into joy.
   Death  is a transition from an inferior to a higher
state.   And  more  than this,  it opens to the waking
spirit,  a sphere of action for hitherto latent or undevel-
oped powers.
   Let us  see  the bearing of this thought upon him
whose life  is just closed.   We, his neighbors and friends
—we,  bound to him by closest ties—we who bear wit-
ness to his long  career of usefulness—as we  watched
the  slow  waning  of his  strength—as with  saddened
hearts we learned  that his course was finished—where
would be our consolation, were there no assurance of
the world beyond.   While passing years matured and
developed  his mental  powers—while to  the  very mo-
ment when the hand of death was upon him, the light
within was unobscured—what can we believe, except
that an all  merciful parent  has removed the loved one
—that he  has  taken the immortal from  the perishing,
giving it a higher life midst brighter scenes.   He is not
dead, he has passed on.  As well might we  think to
annihilate eternity itself, as to destroy that which was
created for eternity.   We look thus upon any life—but
the thought is more impressive as we think of that just
                    2 
10
closed.  Here were powers long exerted, but still fresh
and vigorous-here were hopes and desires, ever new.
They must have  fruition  somewhere.  Where, it  not
beyond?   Thus is it death now speaks.   Not of an
ended  beiiiff, but  of a change  to a higher and holier
state.  Thus the voice of friendship comes back to us,
bidding us go up thither.
   Once more the tones are heard.   "He being dead
yet speakcth."  " Uttered  not  yet comprehended," is
the monition they bring.  Can  we ask what that moni-
tion is?  One by one,  those we love  are taken,—ever
and anon we stand by closing graves.  Do we need
more frequent warnings of our own  frailty?  " In the
midst of life we  are  in death."  One  falls upon  our
right hand,  and  another upon our  left.   Clearly   out
from life's mutations, come tones of  warning  for each
one of us.  Pleasant memories of ended lives, may be
ours.  Cheering  thoughts of death may divest it of its
gloom.  But above all comes  the command—"Be ye
also ready."  Earth is  not our  abiding place—we have
here no lasting treasures—friendship's  bonds  must be
severed and its objects  pass away.  All  are changing—
 we too must change.   But that transition of  itself has
 no terrors for us.  The great need is that  life be made
 a scene of preparation for this last  event.  How  then
 shall we answer the solemn question—" What is  your
 life?"  How nearly prepared  are we?   What of the
 night in which no man can work ?  Have we  consider-
 ed  this?  Are we ready for  the change?  We  may
 speculate as we  will—we may regard life, death and
 futurity  as we choose—one  great  fact is  before us—
 ever before us—until we  change worlds.   We may go 
11
on in the world and of the world—but are we ready to
enter at length "into the joy of our Lord."  Not too
strongly can this thought be urged.  Heedless we may
live, until we almost forget there is a future beyond, but
the teachings of hours like this must be heard.  Friend-
ship's strongest claim—affection's  closest  ties—human
endearments—mortal joys—none  of these things  can
bind us to this life, when the summons reaches us bid-
ding  us go onward.   Through all time  the warning
comes—the sadness of this hour only repeats it,  "be ye
also ready."
   " He, being dead, yet speaketh."
   A sad duty still  remains.   Sad to  us  all, is it, but
specially so to the mourning  heart.   We have dwelt
upon the virtues of  the departed, and in recounting
them we have been comforted concerning our friend—
we have found a blessing answering to our tears.   But
now we are to take our  farewell  look at  that  counte-
nance, which was wont to glow with the smile  of wel-
come—now  fixed in death.   We are to  bid adieu to
one whose  usefulness we appreciate, and whose loss we
feel.  With saddened hearts and  streaming  eyes may
we do this, but we will not sorrow  as those  without
hope.
   My mourning  friends—" Let   not  your  hearts  be
troubled."   Sadly vacant is your home now he is taken.
Desolate indeed has it been in this season,* which, in
other years has gathered you all about a father's board,
to  receive  a  father's  blessing.   But, be  comforted.
Trust in  God.  Rely  upon the  promises  of Jesus.
* Dr. Carpenter's funeral was on the day after the State Thanksgiving. 
12
Only believe, and heaven shall open  to your  thought,
even now.   Only live as  believers, and when the toils
of this life give place to the joys of another, there shall
be a blessed re-union in that brighter home.
  The dead yet speak.  Voices are coming ever.   Let
us listen until earth shall have no blessedness compared
to that of heaven.  Let us be true  believers, looking
on from darkness below to glory above.  Let us so live
here—and all shall  be ours—promises, hopes, anticipa-
tions—things present and  things to come—all shall be
ours, as " we are  Christ's  and Christ is God's." 
APPENDIX.
   It has been thought proper to add to the foregoing Discourse, "containing
 suggestions drawn from a good life, some record of that life itself," that
 some memorial of the deceased may be preserved, more enduring than
 newspaper announcements, or the recollections of a generation so rapidly
 passing away.
   The following Obituary notice was  published in the Greenfield "Gazette
 and Courier," for Dec. 3, 1855, for whose columns it was furnished, as the
 signature denotes, by Hon. Henry W. Cushman, of Bernardston.

                             OBITUARY.
                  " How happy they, who, with the tears they shed,
                  Can mingle hope and blesMngs for the dead;
                  View in their life, the Christian's duties done,
                 And in their death, the Saviour's blessings won!"

   Died in Bernardston, Nov. 28, 1855, Dr. Elijah  Woodward Carpen-
 ter, aged 67 years.
   Dr. Carpenter was born in  Brattleboro, Vt., Sept. 7th,  1788, and  was
 the son of a Patriot of the Revolutionary War.  His early life was spent
An laboring  on his father's farm, and in teaching Common Schools, in which
 occupation  he was remarkably  successful.   Having  obtained  the  best
 education that could be secured by a faithful attendance at the Common
 School, and at the Academy in his native town, during the winter seasons—
 always accompanied by a diligent, earnest self-discipline at home—he deter-
 mined at the age of about 25 years to  become a Physician.   After attend-
 ing  courses  of Medical Lectures at  Yale College and at the Berkshire
 Medical  Institution, and  completing  his  Medical  Studies with Dr. Cyrus
 Washburn of Vernon, Vt., he commenced the practice  of Medicine in
 Bernardston about the year 1814; and in  December of that year  he  was
 married  to  Sophia  Field  of Northfield, who died  May 18, 1822.   Dec. 5,
 1822,  he married Vallonia Slate, who now  survives him.  A family of 
li
seven children have been  reared by his care, who daily  "rise up and call
him blessed."
  For upwards  of fortv years past, Dr. C. has continued  uninterruptedly,
night and dav, in storm and in sunshine, the practice of the profession to
which he has given his whole attention and devoted all  his energies.   Suc-
cess has, therefore, crowned his efforts.   But few men have stood better
with the community in which they have lived  for so long a period, or with
the brethren of their profession.  For  many years he  has  been a member
of the Massachusetts Medical  Society and  recently a  Councillor of that
Society ; and he was  President at the organization of the Franklin County
Medical Society, being the senior member present.
  As a Physician, Dr. C.  was neither a radical reformer nor an unyielding
conservative ;  but he early applied to his profession the injunction of scrip-
ture,  " prove all things and hold fast that which is good."   Hence he was
all his days a  close student of  Nature as well as of Art.   In his practice
he was cautious  and careful,—believing that good nursing and  the opera-
tion of nature were the great restorative remedies.  He, therefore, had the
entire confidence and love  of his patients.
  If it is true, as the  poet asserts, that

                   "A wise Physician, skilled our ills to heal,
                   Is more than armies to the public weal;—

then Dr. C. may be put down as an eminent public benefactor.  There are
several families in  Bernardston  who have had no other family physician for
nearly 10 years ; a conclusive evidence of the soundness  of his judgment
as well as the goodness of his heart.
  But his character as a man and a christian is remembered with the most
veneration and  respect.  In all the relations  of life he was, emphatically,
a true man.   No one ever even suspected his integrity;  for  honesty and
reliability were his most marked characteristics.   Hence he had the entire
confidence of his fellow citizens.  He was for many years an  active and
valuable  member of the School Committee of Bernaidston, and held other
offices of honor and respectability.
  Although Dr. C. was never  a member of any church, yet the  religious
element  in his character  was  marked and decided.   He was a constant
attendant (when his professional duties  would permit) on the services of
the Unitarian society, and   was  for many years a  teacher or  superintendent
of the Sunday school of that  society.  While his judgment inclined him
to the religious views of the Unitarian denomination, he was, nevertheless
far  from being  dogmatical ; he believed  that " pure  religion  and  unde-
nted before God " was not confined  to  the narrow bounds of a society or a
sect;   Hence his love to man was as universal as his love to God was per-
petual.  His whole  life of three score and  seven years, was,  therefore,  a
perfect commentary of what a good man and  a Christian  physician should
be. 
15
   But in the  nearer relation of husband and  father, Dr. C.  was most
respected and beloved.  There,  at his own home and fireside, no one was
ever truer or better.   There, where a man will ever show his true charac-
ter, he was a pattern of goodness and parental love, mingled with prudence
and discretion.  And it is there,  that his loss will be most deeply felt.
   But with so  much of the respect  and  love of the world and of his  pro-
fessional  brethren, our deceased friend,  with whom we have walked in the
journey of life these forty years, has gone to return no more  forever ; for,
" the silken cord is loosed ;  the  golden bowl is broken:  the wheel broken
at the cistern and his spirit has  gone to God who gave it."  While the
community has lost a good physician, a true,  whole-souled,  conscientious
man and a valuable citizen, and  his  family and associates  an affectionate
friend, yet we  have every reason to believe that " our loss is his gain."  If
a laborious life, devoted to the best interests of humanity—if the unostenta-
tious love of God and  man as shown in forty years of toil, can give us an
assurance of " rest in heaven," then we have all confidence that ere now,
the joys of the Saviour whom he loved and on whom, in his last hours, as
well as in life, he confidently relied, are his.

                  " His earthly toil is crowned with heavenly rest,
                  He lived to bless—he died but to be blest."

   His funeral  was attended  at  the  Unitarian  church in Bernardston, on
Friday P. M.,  Nov. 30th, by a large  concourse of mourning friends and a
number of his Masonic  brethren from  the neighboring  towns, of which
institution he was a true and  worthy member and  officer.  An interesting
discourse  was preached by Rev. Thomas Weston, of New  Salem (former-
ly pastor of the Unitarian society of Bernardston), and the other services
of the solemn occasion were performed by Rev. Messrs. Brigham, Crowley
and Butler, the pastors of the other religious societies in that town.

                " Let us pause; let the moral come home to the heart;
                Behold how of earth all the glories depart!
                Our visions are fading, our hopes but a gleam,
                Our staff but a reed, and our life but a  dream.
                Then, 0, let us look ; let our prospects allure,
                To sceues that can fade not, to realms that endure;
                To glories, to blessings that triumph sublime,
                O'er the blightings of Change and the ruins of Time."
Bernardston, Nov. 30, 1855.
H.  W. C. 
16
  The following lines appeared in the Gazette, for the  same  date as the
foregoing, and were from the pen of Dr. John Brooks, of Bernardston, for
many years a professional brother of the deceased.


      On the Death of E. W. Carpenter, M. D., Bernardston.

                   My friend, my well tried is gone;
                     His labors, arduous, at last are o'er;
                   By pure attraction heavenward drawn,
                     He's passed beyond this mortal shore.

                   Some forty years in this rude clime,
                     " In perils oft," by day and night,
                   He had the virtue, pure, sublime,
                     For human good to spend his might.

                   Or poor or rich, or high or low,
                     None sought his aid and sought in vain ;
                   Nor howling winds, nor drifting snow,
                     E'er kept him from the bed of pain.

                   Darkness and storm that body frail
                     Did oft heroicly defy,
                   For his was not the soul to quail
                     In duty, for a stormy sky.

                   You who have shared his faithful care,
                     Don't still, the recompense forget;
                   Think of the widow; let her share
                     At least what justice renders meet.                   Ajjiccb.
  The " American Republic " (published at Greenfield), for Dec. 17, 1855,
contained the following article, written by Dea. Daniel Slate, of Bernard-
ston.

  Mr. Editor—Sir .—You will please insert a few lines in your paper, in
reference to the  late departed, Dr. E. W. Carpenter, of Bernardston.  I
do not propose to eulogize the departed, but merely to refer to a few facts
peculiar to myself and the deceased, trusting that  those fads recalled,
might serve to lighten the sorrows of the respected widow and children.
  More than forty years since, under the direction of Dr. Cyrus Washburn
of Vernon, Vt., the departed commenced his acquaintance with myself and
family as a physician.  This acquaintance has continued unbroken  to the
day of his death.   A loved companion and four children  have I resigned to
the grave under  his care,  without the least suspicion  that  he had  erred,
intentionally.   Yes, more  than this, I have watched days and weeks with
his patients, have closed the eyes of many, and seen many restored, with
the same good faith that he was ever true to his calling.  Never was I at a 
17
loss to administer  medicine under his direction, for each paper and  phial
contained those plain, intelligible initials of his, that ever put the eye and
mind at rest.  He might have erred in what he gave, but never in quantity
and kind as he intended.  Through our forty  years of attendance  together
upon the sick and  afflicted, I have ever found him faithful to the call of the
poor and needy.   Often, yes very  often, have I  thought and  said  to him,
this is too much for your slender frame, to meet this storm or cold night.
His answer, always decided, was the motto  and ruling principle of his
professional life.  " We must not let people suffer  and die when  we can
assist them."   Thus I  learned to meet him at the bedside of the  sick and
afflicted, equally attentive to those who had  nothing to recompense him, as
those who might flatter his attendance with  rewards.  I do not say that'he
never erred on this point, but that  he was an  extraordinary  attendant  upon
the poor and destitute.   Let this console his companion and children, that
what he thus spent for the destitute is a harvest laid up above, of which they
are sure to receive their appropriate shares.
  The closing up of his life was without a wish  to change his prospects of
life,  or to continue a single day.  Perfectly  sensible  of his  departure was
he, till quite the last hours, and not a wish  or a fear did he  manifest,  even
to his nearest friend, that death was anything  more to him, than laying
down to rest.  His peaceful  and quiet  life  is  now speaking to this whole
community  to correct that hasty,  oppressive  spirit, which  ever  so much
annoyed our departed friend.
" How still and peaceful is the grave,
There the weary pilgrim rests
From all the toils he bore."
Fr
0M A 1' RIEND.
   The following resolutions were published in the " Gazette and Courier,"
 for Dec. 24,  1855.

   At a meeting of the Bernardston Cemetery Association, held Dec. 10th,
 1855, the following  resolutions, relative to the decease of Dr.  E. W. Car-
 penter, the former Secretary of the corporation, were passed :
   Resolved, That  we  deeply regret the  decease of our associate and
 friend, Dr. E. W. Carpenter, late Secretary and Treasurer of this Society ;
 that in his death this association has lost a valuable, efficient,  and  faithful
officer ; the community an intelligent, true-hearted and honest man, and his
 family a dutiful  and  affectionate parent and friend.
   Resolved, That  this  association tender to the  family of our deceased
 friend  the sympathy which their bereavement so much demands, and that 
18
our thanks are due to them for the important service rendered to this ceme-
tery corporation by our late Secretary and Treasurer.
  Resolved, That our cemetery is re-consecrated in our  hearts by the
recent death of so many who have  by their labors and their services con-
tributed so much to improve and  ornament the ground they were the first
to occupy, and it will  be a melancholy pleasure to continue  the work thev
so well  began.
  Resolved, That these resolutions be entered on the records of this cor-
poration, and a copy, signed by the President and Secretary, be transmitted
to the family of Dr.  Carpenter.
                              HENRY  W. CUSHMAN, President.
  S. N. Brooks, Secretary.
  The accompanying engraved Portrait of Dr. Carpenter was executed by
L. Grozelier, of Boston, and is regarded as a very correct likeness.  The
Photograph, from which it was  copied, was taken  by B. F. Popkins, of
Greenfield, Mass., in January, 1855, when Dr. C. was 66 years old. 
     I   Manufactured by
    V GAYLORD BROS. I
"* \'\    Syrtcuw, N. Y.
,., • ^ *    Stockton, Cilif.
 
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