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Rh that the violin he made would ring true, not in the present alone, but in the centuries to come. He built his violins to sing down through the ages, true and fine and sweet. He began right.

So did Isaiah Williamson begin right and, therefore, he was half done when he began. He never forgot to complete the details before he laid down any work he took up.

His life was not a drab monotony of money-grabbing, as some people supposed. Without going too much into detail, it will doubtless be of interest to quote a few paragraphs from the Philadelphia daily newspapers, called forth by Isaiah Williamson's brief sickness, sudden death, the failure to sign the codicil, and the publication of his will.

The Evening Telegraph said in its editorial columns: "When a Rothschild, a Girard, or a Williamson dies, it is a public rather than a private event. No one would here wish in the least to intrude upon privacy; but we all know the noble thoughts which have filled Mr. Williamson's heart, and what he fully meant to do;—that being the simple fact, the desire to know how completely his wishes are