It is pleasant
to contemplate such an example, to shed tears of gratitude over such a
tomb. The name we pronounce deserves to be recorded in a more conspicuous
place in the book of fame than any name which has gathered gory laurels on
the wet field of carnage; she deserves a higher monument than rises over
the resting-place of earth's proudest conqueror--a monument not of marble,
nor of brass, nor of gold, but one which shall lift its summit until a halo
of eternal light shall gather about it and gild it with the beams of
glory. And such a monument she has. When the clouds and mists of earth are
dissipated we shall see it, sinking its base deep as the darkness of a
world of heathenism, and lifting its summit high as the throne of God.
Harriet Newell was the great proto-martyr of American missions. She fell
wounded by death in the very vestibule of the sacred cause. Her memory
belongs not to the body of men who sent her forth, not to the denomination
to whose creed she had subscribed, but to the church--to the cause of
missions. With the torch of Truth in her hand she led the way down into a
valley of darkness, through which many have followed.
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