He did not blame his comrades.
They were weak, exhausted, and ready to die of starvation. With food
nearly gone, strength failing, hope lost, and nothing left but the last,
blind, clinging instinct of life, it was impossible that the perishing
company should have aided the perishing Stanton. He was a hero of the
highest, noblest, grandest stamp. No words can ever express a fitting
tribute to his memory. He gave his life for strangers who had not the
slightest claim to the sacrifice. He left the valleys where friends,
happiness, and abundance prevailed, to perish amidst chilling
snow-drifts - famished and abandoned. The act of returning to save the
starving emigrants is as full of heroic grandeur as his death is replete
with mournful desolation.
In May, 1847, W. C. Graves, in company with a relief party, found the
remains of C. T. Stanton near the spot where he had been left by his
companions. The wild animals had partially devoured his body, but the
remains were easily identified by means of his clothing and pistols.
The following sketch of this hero is kindly furnished by his brother,
Sidney Stanton, of Cazenovia, New York:
"Charles Tyler Stanton was born at Pompey, Onondaga County, New York,
March 11, 1811. He was five feet five inches in height. He had brown
eyes and brown hair.
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