It is glorious to live in a land like this, in a city like this. When I preached my fiftieth anniversary sermon, which was several years ago, for I have got nicely started in the second fifty, I said I was thankful for three things: One that I lived when I lived, another that I lived where I lived, and the third that I had been a preacher. To live where I have lived has been a great privilege; to live in Cleveland and see its progress, see the mighty archways over the river for instance. The first time I crossed it was upon a float-bridge, and there was only one, at the foot of Detroit street hill; and as my horse stepped on the planks, up came the water and frightened him. Ah, how many are left of the ministers that were in the city half a century ago? None are left to my knowledge. I had a charge here fifty-three years ago. I knew old Dr. Aiken well, he was a warm friend of mine. They are all gone. And when I meet with the First Church here, of which I had the honor to be a member, and ask are there any of the charter members left, there are none to respond, and I am there alone, the last of the charter members of the First Church of our people organized in this city more than half a century ago. I walked these streets when there was not a lamp burning on the streets. I knew those old names—they are gone, all gone, yes, gone, and yet not gone. Their memory lives, and while their memory lives their influence goes on; they have passed away, but their influence goes on still.

I might mention many familiar names that are not here today, but I will not detain you, dear friends. The time will soon come when it will be said of us as we say of them, "Gone, gone, gone, gone forever! A thousand suns may rise, a thousand moons may quiver, but they will return no more, forever and forever!"

The hour for lunch not having yet arrived, the President called upon General Elwell, who addressed the meeting as follows:

ADDRESS BY GENERAL ELWELL.

I judge from the appearance of the last speaker upon the platform, who seems to go straighter and straighter every year, and stands not only plumb but a little over, who seems so young and bright and clear, that the Old Settlers' Association is not likely to die of old age very soon. I met the chaplain the other day upon Superior Street. He introduced to me a young and blooming bride. I said to her, "Oh, yes, he is an old acquaintance, I heard him preach a hundred years ago." So you see there is a good deal of vigor left yet in this old folks' association. It is true when we hear a long list of our friends read who have passed away during the last year, it throws a shadow over the meeting for a time. The names of our particular friends, some of them, who were with us last year here, who cheered us on, are in that list. We feel sad when we think of it; and yet there is another side to the question, which the chaplain has brought out, and other speakers here today, and that is that they live in our memory. We cherish them more even than we did before. It is a common thought and a common expression that we don't know how well we love our friends until they are dead. They live in our hearts today, more alive possibly than when they lived indeed, as the poet says. The idea of their life comes sweetly crowding upon our memory, and we see them as they were, and every lineament of their life becomes apparent in more beautiful tones, and they are more alive indeed than when they were with us. They are not dead, they are with us yet, and we cherish their memory more and more every day. There are some names there that warm every drop of blood in my body. There is the name of Richard C. Parsons, that elegant gentleman who has stood here so often and addressed us, my warm personal friend for forty years. We never met upon the streets, no matter how urgent our errand was, but what we passed a word of cheer, took each other by the hand, looked into each other's face, and I felt stronger and better prepared for the battle of life after having met Richard C. Parsons, than I did before. And so of others

that I might name; they are with us, they walk with us side. by side.

I rejoice today that there are so many of you who are able to be here. You come of a noble race, a grand race. I didn't get here quite in time to hear all of the President's address, but there were enough things in what I did hear, and enough facts in every speech made here today, for many other speeches. One don't need to come here prepared with a speech; there are texts enough in these speeches for a hundred speeches. It is a beautiful day, this is a beautiful meeting, and the few that remain here are all the more valuable-like the Sybilline leaves, the fewer they are the more valuable they are. There are a few of them, and we have enough others like them, of a later generation, to preserve the peace and order of our community. We have a Mayor at the head of affairs here who is level-headed. This is no time for hysterics, for foolish excitement, for loud talking, and I hope our mayor has got through being interviewed. This is no time for the executive of this city to talk. This is the time for action, so far as the executive is concerned, and I believe that he is moving in the right line. This street-car trouble that we have here has been brought on by a few noisy demagogues, who never did an honest day's work in their lives. The old employes of the railroad are generally honest-minded, hard-working men, trying to earn an honest living. They are led and fooled and ruined almost in this affair, will be if it continues, by these noisy. demagogues, traveling men they are called. These men are paying them three to five and ten thousand dollars a year, I am told, out of their weekly and monthly earnings, to support them, and these men are howling at their meetings and representing things in a false light to them. These railroad men in the main are honest men and mean well; but they are misled, and now the time has come when the executive power of this city must hold everything steady, with no excitement, no foolish talk, but action if necessary. Nobody will be hurt probably; soldiers are here and under arms, and that is right. Thirty thousand men can be

concentrated here within five days if necessary. But there must be a show of authority, and a level-headed cool man behind it, and that level-headed man, I believe, is John H. Farley.

There is trouble among a class of vagabonds, of burglars and thieves and swindlers who prowl in the night. That is where the trouble comes from and where the danger lies. I live five miles west of here, and my brother lives in Willoughby, twenty miles east. We see the freight trains go by every day crowded with tramps. They are coming to Cleveland, they seek excitement, and our danger is from these men from other cities. Our police force, if they are backed up by sufficient military force, will handle these men. Nobody need have any fear, but there must be a firm, steady push and ability in this matter, and we are all right.

The audience then sang the Doxology, led by the quartette, and Rev. Lathrop Cooley pronounced the following benediction:

BENEDICTION BY REV. LATHROP COOLEY.

Gracious Father, dismiss us with thy blessing, go with us through the journey of life, hand us down to our graves in peace, gather us home at last to enjoy the fullness of thy presence, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

SKETCHES OF DECEASED MEMBERS.

DR. MARTIN LUTHER BROOKS.

Dr. Martin Luther Brooks died at his home, No. 289 Prospect street, at 10 o'clock P. M., June 10, 1899, after an illness of three weeks.

Dr. Brooks was born in Berlin, Conn., on December 7, 1812, and was the oldest of thirteen children. At the age of six years his parents, with their family, then three in number, and several relatives started with teams through an almost unbroken wilderness to the Western Reserve, arriving there after nearly seven weeks of travel, and settling at Laporte. Other pioneers soon arrived, and a school was at once opened, which young Martin attended until he was sixteen years old, when an accident occurred which probably had much to do with his future life. He was drawing logs, and in some manner sustained a fracture of the leg. On partially recovering from this, and not being fit for manual labor, his father, not wishing his son to be idle, sent him to Brownhelm to an academy. His ambition being once aroused, there was no going back on the farm, and after spending two years there he went to Oberlin.

While attending the school at Oberlin, which could hardly be called a college at that time, it was his good fortune to hear William Lloyd Garrison lecture, and he early became imbued with the anti-slavery spirit of that great man, and on the fourth of July, 1833, he made the first speech ever delivered in Oberlin on abolition, coming out fairly and squarely against slavery, thereby causing much excitement and talk in the little town, which was destined afterwards to become one of the greatest abolitionist centers in the North.

It is popularly supposed that Oberlin College was founded