plaint and his doctor's orders he insisted upon writing, whenever he could, till the pen dropped from his hands. So serious became his state that the doctor ordered his removal to Brugg so that he might be near him. On the 15th of February, 1827, when deep snow covered the ground the poor old man was taken, well wrapped up and in a closed sledge, to a room in Brugg. The next day he had a violent attack of pain, became delirious, and was unconscious for some time. He was unable to speak after noon. Very early the next morning he regained consciousness, and seemed easy and composed. He helped to arrange his bed and talked to those about him for nearly an hour. Amongst his last words were these: "My children, you cannot carry out my work, but you can do good to those about you; you can give land to the poor to cultivate. As for me I am soon to read the book of truth. I forgive my enemies; may they find peace, even as I am now about to find the peace which is eternal. I should have been glad to live six weeks longer to finish my writing, and yet I thank God for taking me away from this earthly life. You, my children, remain quietly at Neuhof, and look for your happiness in your home." About seven o'clock in the morning he quietly passed away with a smile on his lips. When asked what sort of a monument he would like he had said "a rough unhewn stone, such as I myself have always been ". Nearly twenty years after his death, in a niche in the church wall above his grave, was placed a bust of him, and this epitaph : Here rests HENRY PESTALOZZI; Born at Zurich on the 12th of January, 1746, Died at Brugg on the 17th of February, 1827. Saviour of the poor at Neuhof, Preacher to the people in Leonard and Gertrude, Founder of the new folkschool Everything for others, nothing for himself! TO OUR FATHER PESTALOZZI. CHAPTER VIII. PESTALOZZI THE MAN. CARLYLE has finely said: "The history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the history of the Great Men who have worked here. They were the leaders of men, these great ones; the modellers, patterns, and in a wide sense creators, of whatsoever the general mass of men contrived to do or to attain; all things that we see standing accomplished in the world are properly the outer material result, the practical realisation and embodiment, of thoughts that dwelt in the Great Men sent into the world. . . . We cannot look, however imperfectly, upon a great man, without gaining something by him. He is the living lightfountain, which it is good and pleasant to be near. The light which enlightens, which has enlightened the darkness of the world; and this not as a kindled lamp only, but rather as a natural luminary shining by the gift of Heaven; a flowing light-fountain, as I say, of original insight, of manhood and heroic nobleness. I should say sincerity, a deep, great, genuine sincerity, is the first characteristic of all men in any way heroic. A breaker of idols. . . . It is the property of every Hero, in every time, in every place and situation, that he come back to reality; that he stand upon things, and not shows of things" (On Heroes and Hero-worship). We have already seen enough of his life to judge whether Pestalozzi has any claims to be accounted a hero of this sort. Let us never cease to remember that it is the elements of greatness in a man which most matter, and not the weaknesses which accompany them, or the mistakes made in giving expression to them; so long as the greatness prevails. "Twere better to have been one-thousandth part as good as Pestalozzi, than a thousand times better than the critic who thinks Pestalozzi could not have been a great man, because he made many and great mistakes. There is not one of the conditions of greatness which Carlyle lays down which Pestalozzi does not more or less fulfil. We, therefore, acclaim him a Great Man, a Hero. Let those who knew him bear witness to the manner of man he was, as to his virtues. Buss, one of his earliest and faithful helpers, says: "there was in his expression something so great, that I viewed him with astonishment and veneration. This, then, was Pestalozzi? His benevolence, the cordial reception he gave to me, a perfect stranger, his unpretending simplicity, and the dilapidated condition in which he stood before me; the whole man, taken together, impressed me most powerfully. I was his in one instant. No man had ever so sought my heart; but none, likewise, has ever so fully won my confidence." Karl Ritter (the famous geographer), one of Pestalozzi's teacher-pupils, says: "I have seen more than the Paradise of Switzerland, for I have seen Pestalozzi, and recognised how great his heart is, and how great his genius; never have I been so filled with a sense of the sacredness of my vocation and the dignity of human nature as in the days I spent with this noble man". Another pupil, Professor Vulliemin, writes: "We all loved him, for he loved us all; we loved him so warmly that when some time passed without our seeing him, we were quite troubled about it, and when he again appeared we could not take our eyes off him . . . him whom we used to call our Father Pestalozzi". Yet another writes: "I seem still to see this kind old man . . . with such a quick, tender glance in his eyes, and such a kind smile upon his lips, that everybody felt attracted to him, men, women and children gladly accepting his affectionate embraces ". He was a man full of the most devoted affection and kindness. Ramsauer tells us that when he was ill "Pestalozzi reproached himself with being the cause; he knew he had worked me too much, and was anxious to nurse me himself, as a father would nurse his child". Dr. Mayo describes how, when he was ill, Pestalozzi was terribly uneasy; he could not rest till the symptoms declared themselves more favourable. He said: 'J'ai en crainte, comme un pauvre diable'. He comes early in the morning to my bedside; kisses my hand when I place it in his; and when I tell him. I am better, he is quite delighted and exclaims 'Grâces à Dieu, Grâces à Dieu!'" Two or three incidents of his life throw interesting side-lights on his character. One day some of Fellenberg's workmen brought to him a disreputable-looking, raggedly clothed man, whom they had found lying in a field, half dead with hunger and fatigue. The man turned out to be Pestalozzi, who, in his enthusiasm for collecting minerals, had wandered so far from home, and so loaded his pockets and handkerchief with his captures, that he had become exhausted, had lost his |