first great blow to the
material prosperity of Shawmut Church. Later came the filling up, the
reclamation, and building of the Back Bay district. About 1878, the
tide of movement set to the westward, progressing so rapidly and
steadily as to almost entirely change, within a decade, the character
of the South End, from a region of homes to one largely of business
and boarding houses. Still later, about 1890, with the marvellous
development of the electric motor and trolley cars, making horse
traction by rail obsolete, the suburbs of Boston became one great
garden and a semicircle of homes. Then Brookline, Newton, and
Dorchester churches flourished at the expense of the city
congregations. Shawmut Church, having graduated hundreds of families,
had, in 1893, to be reorganized.

Of this church Charles Carleton Coffin, though not one of the
founders, was certainly one of the makers. As a member, a hearer, a
worshipper, a teacher, an officer, a counsellor, a giver of money,
power, and influence, his name is inseparably associated with the life
of Shawmut Church.

When Carleton's seat was vacant, the chief servant of the church knew
that his faithful ally was serving his Master elsewhere. After one of
his trips to Europe, out West, or down South over the old
battle-fields, to refresh his memory, or to make notes and photographs
for his books, the welcome given to him, on his return, was always
warm and lively.

First of all, Mr. Coffin was a good listener. This man, so fluent in
speech, so ready with his pen, so richly furnished by long and wide
reading, and by habitual meditation and deep thinking, by unique
experience of times that tried men's souls, knew also the moments when
silence, that is golden, was better than speech, even though silvern.
These were not as the "brilliant flashes of silence," such as Sidney
Smith noted as delightful improvements in his friend "Tom" Macaulay;
for Carleton was never a monopolist in conversation. Rather, with the
prompting of a generous nature, and as studied courtesy made into fine
art, he could listen even to a child. If Carleton was present, the
preacher had an audience. His face, while beaming with encouragement,
was one of singular responsiveness. His patience, the patience of one
to whom concealment of feeling was as difficult as for a crystal to
shut out light, rarely failed.

In Japan there are temples, built _in memoriam_ to heroes fallen in
war. These are named Shrines fo