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And what was it, that made Mr. Haven's death such a loss not to his friends only, but to an extensive community? For his personal appearance and address were neither uncommonly striking, nor uncommonly prepossessing. His talents could hardly be called brilliant, and certainly were not showy. He had less than almost any man, of that love of popularity and distinction, which so often obtains, because it solicits, general favor and regard. And he died young, at the early age of thirty-six, when most men have but just begun to render those services to society, which secure public confidence and gratitude. How was it, then, under these circumstances, that Mr. Haven had gathered around him so many friends, made himself the centre of so many differing interests, and come to fill so large a space in whatever concerns the general welfare, that his death brought with it a sense of bereavement, which was felt through all classes of society? It was, because he possessed originally fine powers of mind, which, under a strong and prevalent sense of religious responsibility and by constant and faithful exercise, had been so unfolded and enlarged, that, as he was more widely known, the hopes and confidence of men resorted to him more and more, until they had come to feel, that he was already important to the best interests of the society, with which he was connected; while, at the same time, they looked forward to his growing influence and resources, as to a possession, which would certainly be used for their own benefit and that of their children. For it was deeply felt, that Mr. Haven had devoted his life to the best and highest interests of society, and had shown, even in youth, that he could contribute much to their advancement. To this end, it was obvious, all his relations in life had gradually tended, and all his efforts had become directed. At home, in the quiet and confiding circle of his domestic happiness, the principle of duty and the desire of improvement, though neither
ostentatious nor burthensome, had still been perceptible above all others. In his intercourse with numerous family connexions, and still more numerous personal friends, the same influence had always surrounded him, and his religious character especially had wrought with the silent force of example, most effectually when least obtrusive; while, in the management of professional business, in the discussion of public interests, and in the use of means for promoting the progress of society, his motives had always been open and respected, and the power of the community had been freely lent to him; because all with whom he had been associated, felt, that he would use it only for the general welfare. Every year, therefore, as it passed by, had been adding to his influence and consideration, until, at last, his talents, not one of which had been suffered to rust in him unused, had, by their wise and benevolent employment, become so balanced, and the different powers of his character had become so harmoniously adjusted to each other, that men felt a sober and settled confidence in him, which they do not often feel even for the genius they most admire, or the enthusiasm by which they are most willingly persuaded. His death, therefore, was, indeed, a great loss, and was deeply and widely felt. He was mourned for, by the community, as men mourn over their personal losses and sorrows; and the crowd of those whose best interests he had so devotedly served, felt, as they turned back from his grave, that they should long look anxiously round, before they could find one to fill the place he had left vacant; and still longer, before they could find one, who would accomplish the yet greater hopes they had trusted to him for the future, with a fond and undoubting confidence.
AT PORTSMOUTH, MAY 21, 1823, Two HUN
DRED YEARS FROM THE LANDING OF THE FIRST SETTLERS.
Two hundred years ago, the place on which we stand was an uncultivated forest. The rough and vigorous soil was still covered with the stately trees, which had been, for ages, intermingling their branches and deepening the shade. The river, which now bears on its bright and pure waters the treasures of distant climates, and whose rapid current is stemmed and vexed by the arts and enterprise of man, then only rippled against the rocks, and reflected back the wild and grotesque thickets which overhung its banks. The mountain, which now swells on our left and raises its verdant side "shade above shade," was then almost concealed by the lofty growth which covered the intervening plains. Behind us, a deep morass, extending across to the northern creek, almost enclosed the little "Bank," which is now the seat of so much life and industry. It was then a wild and tangled thicket, interspersed with venerable trees and mossgrown rocks, and presenting, here and there, a sunny space covered with the blossoms and early fruit of the little plant,