at the house of his daughter, Mrs. Sheridan, in Dorsetshire, England, and an impressive tribute to his memory was paid, in Westminster Abbey, on the following Sunday, by our Honorary Member, Dean Stanley.  Such a tribute, from such lips, and with such surroundings, leaves nothing to be desired in the way of eulogy.  He was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery, by the side of his beloved wife.

“One might well say of Motley precisely what he said of Prescott, in a letter from Rome to our associate, Mr. William Amory, immediately on hearing of Prescott’s death:  ’I feel inexpressibly disappointed—­ speaking now for an instant purely from a literary point of view—­ that the noble and crowning monument of his life, for which he had laid such massive foundations, and the structure of which had been carried forward in such a grand and masterly manner, must remain uncompleted, like the unfinished peristyle of some stately and beautiful temple on which the night of time has suddenly descended.  But, still, the works which his great and untiring hand had already thoroughly finished will remain to attest his learning and genius,—­ a precious and perpetual possession for his country.”

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The President now called on Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, who said:—­

“The thoughts which suggest themselves upon this occasion are such as belong to the personal memories of the dear friends whom we have lost, rather than to their literary labors, the just tribute to which must wait for a calmer hour than the present, following so closely as it does on our bereavement.”

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“His first literary venture of any note was the story called ‘Morton’s Hope; or, The Memoirs of a Provincial.’  This first effort failed to satisfy the critics, the public, or himself.  His personality pervaded the characters and times which he portrayed, so that there was a discord between the actor and his costume.  Brilliant passages could not save it; and it was plain enough that he must ripen into something better before the world would give him the reception which surely awaited him if he should find his true destination.

“The early failures of a great writer are like the first sketches of a great artist, and well reward patient study.  More than this, the first efforts of poets and story-tellers are very commonly palimpsests:  beneath the rhymes or the fiction one can almost always spell out the characters which betray the writer’s self.  Take these passages from the story just referred to: 

“’Ah! flattery is a sweet and intoxicating potion, whether we drink it from an earthen ewer or a golden chalice. . . .  Flattery from man to woman is expected:  it is a part of the courtesy of society; but when the divinity descends from the altar to burn incense to the priest, what wonder if the idolater should feel himself transformed into a god!’

     “He had run the risk of being spoiled, but he had a safeguard in his
     aspirations.