Great Fortunes, and How They Were Made Part 30

"His brother, who studied with him, had already become an unbeliever and thrown up the design of preaching, and he could not bear to think of adding to his father's trials by deserting the standard. Yet his distress and perplexity were so great that at times he seriously contemplated going into some other profession....

"In his last theological term he took a Bible cla.s.s in the city of Cincinnati, and began studying and teaching the Evangelists. With the course of this study and teaching came a period of spiritual clairvoyance. His mental perplexities were relieved, and the great question of 'what to preach' was solved. The shepherd boy laid aside his c.u.mbrous armor, and found in a clear brook a simple stone that smote down the giant; and so, from the clear waters of the Gospel narrative Mr. Beecher drew forth that 'white stone with a new name,' which was to be the talisman of his ministry. To present Jesus Christ personally as the Friend and Helper of humanity, Christ as G.o.d impersonate, eternally and by a necessity of His nature helpful, and remedial, and restorative; the Friend of each individual soul, and thus the Friend of all society,--this was the one thing which his soul rested on as a worthy object in entering the ministry. He afterward said, in speaking of his feelings at this time,'I was like the man in the story to whom a fairy gave a purse with a single piece of money in it, which he found always came again as soon as he had spent it. I thought I knew at least one thing to preach. I found it included every thing.'"

Upon being ordained, Mr. Beecher married, and accepted a call to Lawrenceburg, Indiana, a little town on the Ohio River, about twenty miles below Cincinnati. His salary was small and the work was hard. He was not only pastor, but s.e.xton as well, and in this capacity he swept out the church, made the fires, filled and trimmed the lamps, and rang the bell. Says he, "I did all but come to hear myself preach--that they had to do."

He did not remain here long, however, but soon accepted a call to Indianapolis, the capital of the State, where he lived for eight years.

He occupied a tasteful cottage on the outskirts of the town, and gathered about him his household treasures, which consisted of his family, his library, his horse, cow, pigs, and chickens. He was an enthusiast in matters of agriculture and horticulture, and besides importing from the East the best varieties of fruit-trees, roses, etc., he edited a horticultural paper, which had a fair circulation.

The eight years of his ministry in Indianapolis make up a period of hard and useful work. He held two services on Sunday, and five meetings during the week in various parts of the city, and with the consent of his people gave three months of each year to missionary work in other parts of the State. While engaged in this latter duty he traveled about the State on horseback and preached daily.

His experience in the ministry, as well as his study of the lives of the apostles, convinced him that success in his profession--by which I mean the successful winning of souls to G.o.d--was not to be won by preaching controversial or dry doctrinal sermons. He must seize upon some vital truth, admitted by all parties, and bring that home to men's minds. He must preach to them of their daily, hourly trials and temptations, joys and comforts, and he resolved that this should be the character of his preaching. Then came the question, how shall one man know that which is uppermost in the thoughts of the many? He went into the places of public resort, where men were accustomed to lounge and to gather to hear the news, and made it his practice to listen to their conversations. In this way he began to know the people to whom he preached as few pastors know their flocks, and he was enabled by this knowledge to apply his teachings to their daily lives, and to send them forth to their duties warned by his reproofs or cheered by his intelligent counsel and sympathy. This practice, modified at times as circ.u.mstances have required, he has steadfastly continued, and in it lies the secret of his success as a preacher. Said a gentleman, not long since, himself a member of a different denomination, "Beecher's sermons do me more good than any I hear elsewhere. They never fail to touch upon some topic of importance that has engaged my thoughts during the week. Dropping all doctrinal technicalities, and steering clear of the vexed questions of theology, he talks to me in such a way that I am able to carry Christ into the most trifling of my daily affairs, and to carry Him there as my Sympathizer and Helper, as well as my Judge." He soon became the most popular preacher in the city, and, thanks to the genuineness of his gifts and the earnestness of his zeal, he was enabled to add many to the kingdom of Christ who had been drawn to hear him merely by their curiosity. Among these was his brother Charles, whose skepticism has been spoken of elsewhere in this chapter. Becoming deeply impressed at a revival in Indianapolis, Charles Beecher, by his brother's advice, took a Bible cla.s.s, and began to teach the story of Christ. The plan worked most happily. Charles solved all the questions which had perplexed his mind, reentered upon his religious life with increased fervor, and soon afterward entered the ministry.

In August, 1847, Mr. Beecher received a call to Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, which had just been founded. He promptly accepted it. Breaking up his home in Indiana, he removed to Brooklyn, and was publicly installed pastor of Plymouth Church on the 11th of November, 1847. He at once "announced in Plymouth pulpit the same principles that he had in Indianapolis, namely, his determination to preach Christ among them not as an absolute system of doctrines, not as a bygone historical personage, but as the living Lord and G.o.d, and to bring all the ways and usages of society to the test of His standards. He announced to all whom it might concern, that he considered temperance and antislavery as a part of the Gospel of Christ, and should preach them to the people accordingly."

It is no part of my purpose to consider Mr. Beecher as a politician. I deal with him here not as the partisan of a political organization, but as a minister of the Gospel. In politics he has always been a Republican of the Radical type, but has generally inclined to a conservative construction of that creed. Many of his warmest friends take issue with him in his political views, and he has not always been able to lead his congregation with him in this respect.

Soon after a.s.suming the charge of Plymouth Church Mr. Beecher became a regular contributor to "The Independent," a paper which he had helped to establish. His articles were marked with an asterisk, and were widely read. They dealt with every topic of interest, princ.i.p.ally with slavery, and were vigorous and full of thought. A number of them were afterward collected and published in book form as the "Star Papers." Since then he has acted as editor of "The Independent," and is at present the editor of "The Christian Union." He has written a novel of New England life, called "Norwood," for "The New York Ledger," and still writes a weekly paper for that journal. He is at present engaged upon a "Life of Christ," which is to be the crowning labor of his life. Besides these labors, he has been until recently almost constantly in the lecture field, and has spoken frequently before popular a.s.semblies on the political questions of the day.

These labors have filled up the leisure time left him after discharging his duties as pastor of his church, which have never been neglected upon any occasion. In this field his work has been faithful and constant. He has labored in it for nearly twenty-three years, and his work has not been without its reward. Such sermons as his could not fail of doing good even if spoken to half a dozen people. How great, then, must be their effect when addressed to the vast audiences to which he speaks!

His congregation averages over twenty-five hundred at every service, being the largest regular congregation in existence. His sermons are reported by a stenographer, and are printed each week in pamphlet form, and in this manner find their way into thousands of hands. The "Plymouth Pulpit," in which they are published, has a regular weekly circulation of six thousand copies, and it is estimated that each copy is read by at least five persons, which gives the preacher, in addition to his own congregation, an audience of more than thirty thousand persons per week.

When Plymouth Church was organized, the wise heads predicted a failure for it; but it has grown and prospered, until it is now the most compact and the best organized congregation in America. It is dependent upon no synod or other religious body, but manages its affairs entirely as it pleases. The control is vested in a board of trustees, of which Mr.

Beecher is _ex-officio_ a member. He has no superiority in this board unless called by its members to preside over its meetings. His influence is of course all-powerful; but as the trustees are shrewd business men, they sometimes carry out their own views in preference to his. The church is supported by the sale of its pews. This yields it an annual income of between forty and fifty thousand dollars. The pastor receives a handsome salary--said to be the largest in the United States--and the rest goes into the treasury of the church. As the period of the annual sale of pews approaches, Mr. Beecher makes it his practice to preach a sermon in which he reviews the questions of the day, and as far as possible marks out his course with regard to them during the ensuing year. This he does in order that every one purchasing a seat in Plymouth Church may know just what is in store for him from the pulpit. The surplus revenue, after the pastor's salary and the current expenses are paid, has until recently been devoted to extinguishing the debt upon the church. That burden now being off the shoulders of the congregation, the money is applied to missionary work in Brooklyn. "Two missions have been largely supported by the funds derived from Plymouth Church, and the time and personal labor of its members. A mechanics' reading-room is connected with one of these. No church in the country furnishes a larger body of lay teachers, exhorters, and missionaries in every department of human and Christian labor."

Plymouth Church is located in Orange Street, between Hicks and Henry Streets, in Brooklyn, and not far from the Fulton Ferry. Many strangers, whose expectations are based upon the fame of the pastor, are disappointed in the plain and simple exterior of red brick, as they come prepared to see a magnificent Gothic temple. The interior, however, rarely fails to please all comers. It is plain and simple, but elegant and comfortable. It is a vast hall, around the four sides of which sweeps an immense gallery. The interior is painted white, with a tinge of pink, and the carpets and cushions of the seats are of a rich, warm red. The rows of seats in the body of the church are semicircular, and those in the gallery rise as in an amphitheater, from the front to the wall. At the far end of the church is a raised platform containing merely a chair and a table. The table is a pretty ornament, and is the "Plymouth Pulpit." It is made of wood brought from the Garden of Gethsemane. In the gallery behind the pulpit is the great organ--one of the largest and finest in the Union. The church will seat over twenty-five hundred people, but in order to do this, chairs are placed in the aisles. These chairs are sold as well as the pews.

Every Sunday morning the streets are filled with persons on their way to attend the services at Plymouth Church. They come not only from Brooklyn, but from New York, and even from Jersey City and Hoboken. The yard and street in front of the church are quickly filled with the throng, but the doors are guarded by policemen, and none but pew-holders are permitted to enter the church until ten minutes before the hour for service. Without this precaution the regular congregation would be crowded out of their seats every Sunday by strangers.

At ten minutes before the hour for service the doors are thrown open, and very soon there is not even standing room in the vast interior, and generally the vestibules are full.

Near the pulpit is placed a basket of exquisite flowers, and sometimes the entire platform is decorated in the same way. Most commonly some little child perches itself up among the flowers, and this pretty sight never fails to bring a smile of pleasure to the pastor's face as he enters the church. He comes in through a little door under the gallery, behind the pulpit. He is dressed in a plain suit of black, with a Byron collar and a black stock. His movements are quiet and graceful, although quick and energetic. His manner in opening the services is quiet and earnest, and at once impresses his hearers with the solemnity of the occasion. He reads the Bible in an easy, unconstrained manner, as if he enjoyed the task, and in his prayers, which are extempore, he carries the hearts of all his hearers with him to the Throne of Grace. He joins heartily in the singing, which is congregational. It was feared that the organ would prove a great temptation to do away with this style of singing, but this has not been the case. The magnificent instrument is used only to accompany the congregation, and there swells up such a volume of harmony from this vast throng as is never listened to outside of Plymouth Church. The singing is wonderful.

The gem of the whole service, however, is the sermon; and these sermons are characteristic of the man. They come warm and fresh from his heart, and they go home to the hearer, giving him food for thought for days afterward. To attempt to describe his manner would be to paint the sunbeam. Eloquence can be felt, but it can not be described. He enchains the attention of his auditors from the first, and they hang upon his utterances with rapt eagerness until the close of the sermon.

He knows human nature thoroughly, and he talks to his people of what they have been thinking of during the week, of trials that have perplexed them, and of joys which have blessed them. He takes the clerk and the merchant to task for their conduct in the walks of business, and warns them of the snares and pitfalls which lie along their paths. He strips the thin guise of honesty from the questionable transactions of Wall Street, and holds them up to public scorn. He startles many a one by his sudden penetration and denunciation of what that one supposes to be the secrets of his heart. His dramatic power is extraordinary. He can hardly be responsible for it, since it breaks forth almost without his will. It is simply unavoidable with him. He moves his audience to tears, or brings a mirthful smile to their lips, with a power that is irresistible. His ill.u.s.trations and figures are drawn chiefly from nature, and are fresh and striking. They please the subtlest philosopher who hears him, and illuminate the mind of the average listener with a flood of light. He can startle his people with the terrors of the law, but he prefers to preach the Gospel of Love. "G.o.d's love for those who are scattered and lost," he says, "is intenser and deeper than the love even of a mother.... G.o.d longs to bring you home more than you long to get there. He has been calling, calling, calling, and listening for your answer. And when you are found, and you lay your head on the bosom of Jesus, and you are at rest, you will not be so glad as He will be who declared that, like a shepherd, he had joy over one sinner that repented more than over ninety and nine just persons that needed no repentance."

Religion is to him an abiding joy; it is perfect love, and casteth out fear. It has no gloom, no terror in it, and he says to his people: "If G.o.d gave you gayety and cheer of spirits, lift up the careworn by it.

Wherever you go, shine and sing. In every household there is drudgery; in every household there is sorrow; in every household there is low-thoughted evil. If you come as a prince, with a cheerful, buoyant nature, in the name of G.o.d, do not lay aside those royal robes of yours.

Let humor bedew duty; let it flash across care. Let gayety take charge of dullness. So employ these qualities that they shall be to life what carbonic acid is to wine, making it foam and sparkle."

The sum and substance, the burden of all his preaching is Christ: "'Behold the Lamb of G.o.d, that taketh away the sin of the world!' I present Jesus to you as the atoning Saviour; as G.o.d's sacrifice for sin; as that new and living way by which alone a sinful creature can ascend and meet a pure and just G.o.d. I bring this question home to you as a sinner. O man! full of transgressions, habitual in iniquities, tainted and tarnished, utterly undone before G.o.d, what will you do with this Jesus that comes as G.o.d's appointed sacrifice for sin, your only hope and your only Saviour? Will you accept him? Will you, by personal and living faith, accept him as your Saviour from sin? I ask not that you should go with me into a discourse upon the relations of Christ's life, of his sufferings, of his death; to the law of G.o.d, or to the government of G.o.d. Whatever may be the philosophy of those relations, the matter in hand is one of faith rather than of philosophy; and the question is, Will you take Christ to be your soul's Saviour?"

Having selected his theme, and formed a general plan of treatment, Mr.

Beecher trusts a great deal to the inspiration of the moment for his language and ill.u.s.trations. Some time ago, in reply to a friend who asked how he prepared his sermons, he said he generally has an idea during the week as to what he will preach about on Sunday, but does not attempt any thing like systematic preparation until an hour or two before going into the pulpit. Sometimes it is easy to block out a sermon; but again it is hard work, and he does not fairly get into it until the first bell rings. He writes out the headings of his subject, and marks the proper places for ill.u.s.tration. He does not confine himself to this written outline, however, but, once in the pulpit, changes it according to the impulse of the moment. He never preaches the same sermon twice, though he may use the same text several times, treating it in a different way each time. He endeavors to preach his best sermons on stormy days, in order that the desire to hear his best efforts may keep his congregation from degenerating into "fair-weather Christians." "Once," he said, laughing, "it snowed or rained every Sabbath in a certain winter, and the effort I had to make to remain faithful to this rule came near killing me." When asked if he studied his prayers, he answered promptly: "Never. I carry a feeling with me such as a mother would have for her children were they lost in a great forest. I feel that on every side my people are in danger, and that many of them are like babes, weak and helpless. My heart goes out in sorrow and in anxiety toward them, and at times I seem to carry all their burdens. I find that when one's heart is wrapped and twined around the hearts of others, it is not difficult to pray."

The church is provided with a large lecture-room, a study for the pastor, and an elegant parlor. Mr. Beecher does not pay pastoral visits to his people, unless he is sent for to visit the sick and dying, or persons seeking help in their religious struggles. His parishioners are scattered over so wide a territory that a systematic course of visiting would consume all his time. In place of these visits, he meets his congregation at stated times in social gatherings in the church parlor, and these evenings are looked forward to with eagerness by both pastor and people.

The most characteristic meeting of this congregation, however, even more so than the Sunday services, is the Friday evening meeting, which is held in the lecture-room. This room is plain and simple. It is provided with comfortable seats and a grand piano. There is no pulpit in it, but a small table and a chair are placed for the pastor on a low platform covered with green baize. The object is to banish every thing like formalism, and to make the meeting as free and unconstrained as a social gathering. As at the Sunday services, the house is full, but now the persons present are almost entirely members of the church. Strangers rarely come to these meetings, and in staying away from them miss the chance of seeing the true inner life of Plymouth Church. A gentleman who was present at one of them, a few years ago, wrote the following account of it for the "Atlantic Monthly:"

Mr. Beecher took his seat on the platform, and, after a short pause, began the exercises by saying, in a low tone, these words: "Six twenty-two."

A rustling of the leaves of hymn-books interpreted the meaning of this mystical utterance, which otherwise might have been taken as announcing a discourse upon the prophetic numbers. The piano confirmed the interpretation; and then the company burst into one of those joyous and unanimous singings which are so enchanting a feature of the services of this church. Loud rose the beautiful harmony of voices, constraining every one to join in the song, even those most unused to sing. When it was ended, the pastor, in the same low tone, p.r.o.nounced a name, upon which one of the brethren rose to his feet, and the rest slightly inclined v their heads....

The prayers were all brief, perfectly quiet and simple, and free from the routine or regulation expressions. There were but two or three of them, alternating with singing; and when that part of the exercises was concluded, Mr. Beecher had scarcely spoken. The meeting ran alone, in the most spontaneous and pleasant manner....

There was a pause after the last hymn died away, and then Mr.

Beecher, still seated, began, in the tone of conversation, to speak somewhat after this manner:

"When," said he, "I first began to walk as a Christian, in my youthful zeal I made many resolutions that were well meant, but indiscreet. Among others, I remember I resolved to pray, at least once, in some way, every hour that I was awake. I tried faithfully to keep this resolution, but never having succeeded a single day, I suffered the pangs of self-reproach, until reflection satisfied me that the only wisdom possible, with regard to such a resolve, was to break it. I remember, too, that I made a resolution to speak upon religion to every person with whom I conversed,--on steamboats, in the streets, anywhere. In this, also, I failed, as I ought; and I soon learned that, in the sowing of such seed, as in other sowings, times, and seasons, and methods must be considered and selected, or a man may defeat his own object, and make religion loathsome."

In language like this he introduced the topic of the evening's conversation, which was, How far, and on what occasions, and in what manner, one person may invade, so to speak, the personality of another, and speak to him upon his moral condition. The pastor expressed his own opinion, always in the conversational tone, in a talk of ten minutes' duration, in the course of which he applauded, not censured, the delicacy which causes most people to shrink from doing it. He said that a man's personality was not a macadamized road for every vehicle to drive upon at will, but rather a sacred inclosure, to be entered, if at all, with the consent of the owner, and with deference to his feelings and tastes. He maintained, however, that there _were_ times and modes in which this might properly be done, and that every one _had_ a duty to perform of this nature. When he had finished his observations, he said the subject was open to the remarks of others; whereupon a brother instantly rose and made a very honest confession.

He said that he had never attempted to perform the duty in question without having a palpitation of the heart, and a complete turning over of his inner man. He had often reflected upon this curious fact, but was not able to account for it. He had not allowed this repugnance to prevent his doing the duty; but he always had to rush at it and perform it by a sort of _coup de main_, for if he allowed himself to think about the matter, he could not do it at all. He concluded by saying that he should be very much obliged to any one if he could explain this mystery.

The pastor said: "May it not be the natural delicacy we feel, and ought to feel, in approaching the interior consciousness of another person?"

Another brother rose. There was no hanging back at this meeting; there were no awkward pauses; every one seemed full of matter. The new speaker was not inclined to admit the explanation suggested by the pastor. "Suppose," said he, "we were to see a man in imminent danger of immediate destruction, and there was one way of escape, and but one, which _we_ saw, and he did not, should we feel any delicacy in running up to him and urging him to fly for his life?

Is it not a want of faith on our part that causes the reluctance and hesitation we all feel in urging others to avoid a peril so much more momentous?"

Mr. Beecher said the cases were not parallel. Irreligious persons, he remarked, were not in imminent danger of immediate death; they might die to-morrow; but in all probability they would not, and an ill-timed or injudicious admonition might forever repel them. We must accept the doctrine of probabilities, and act in accordance with it in this particular, as in all others.

Another brother had a puzzle to present for solution. He said that he too had experienced the repugnance to which allusion had been made; but what surprised him most was, that the more he loved a person, and the nearer he was related to him, the more difficult he found it to converse with him upon his spiritual state. Why is this? "I should like to have this question answered," said he, "if there _is_ an answer to it."

Mr. Beecher observed that this was the universal experience, and he was conscious himself of a peculiar reluctance and embarra.s.sment in approaching one of his own household on the subject in question. He thought it was due to the fact that we respect more the personal rights of those near to us than we do those of others, and it was more difficult to break in upon the routine of our ordinary familiarity with them. We are accustomed to a certain tone which it is highly embarra.s.sing to jar upon.

Captain Duncan related two amusing anecdotes to ill.u.s.trate the right way and the wrong way of introducing religious conversation.

In his office there was sitting one day a sort of lay preacher, who was noted for lugging in his favorite topic in the most forbidding and abrupt manner. A sea captain came in, who was introduced to this individual.

"Captain Porter," said he, with awful solemnity, "are you a captain in Israel?"

The honest sailor was so abashed and confounded at this novel salutation, that he could only stammer out an incoherent reply; and he was evidently disposed to give the tactless zealot a piece of his mind, expressed in the language of the quarter-deck. When the solemn man took his leave, the disgusted captain said, "If ever I should be coming to your office again, and that man should be here, I wish you would send me word, and I'll stay away."

A few days after another clergyman chanced to be in the office, no other than Mr. Beecher himself, and another captain came in, a roistering, swearing, good-hearted fellow. The conversation fell upon sea-sickness, a malady to which Mr. Beecher is peculiarly liable. The captain also was one of the few sailors who are always sea-sick in going to sea, and gave a moving account of his sufferings from that cause. Mr. Beecher, after listening attentively to his tale, said, "Captain Duncan, if I was a preacher to such sailors as your friend here, I should represent h.e.l.l as an eternal voyage, with every man on board in the agonies of sea-sickness, the crisis always imminent, but never coming."

This ludicrous and most unprofessional picture amused the old salt exceedingly, and won his entire good will toward the author of it; so that after Mr. Beecher left, he said, "That's a good fellow, Captain Duncan. I like _him_, and I'd like to hear him talk more."

Captain Duncan contended that this free and easy way of address was just the thing for such characters. Mr. Beecher had shown him, to his great surprise, that a man could be a decent and comfortable human being although he was a minister, and had so gained his confidence and good will that he could say _any thing_ to him at their next interview. Captain Duncan finished his remarks by a decided expression of his disapproval of the canting regulation phrases so frequently employed by religious people, which are perfectly nauseous to men of the world.

This interesting conversation lasted about three-quarters of an hour, and ended, not because the theme seemed exhausted, but because the time was up. We have only given enough of it to convey some little idea of its spirit. The company again broke into one of their cheerful hymns, and the meeting was dismissed in the usual manner.

During the late war, Mr. Beecher took an active and energetic part in support of the cause of the Union. His labors were so severe that his health was considerably impaired, and his voice began to fail him. His physicians ordered him to seek rest and recreation in a tour through Europe, and he reluctantly obeyed them. He was much benefited by his visit to the Continent, but on his return to England, on his way home, being solicited to speak in that country in behalf of the Union, he delivered a series of powerful appeals, which exhausted the greater part of the strength he had gained on the Continent, and caused him to return home almost as ill as when he went abroad.

Soon after his return the war closed, and he went to Charleston to deliver the address at Fort Sumter upon the occasion of the rehoisting of the flag of the United States over that work. The news of the a.s.sa.s.sination of Mr. Lincoln met him upon his return to Brooklyn, and drew from him one of his most memorable sermons. At the close of hostilities, he preached a sermon to his congregation, urging forgiveness and conciliation toward the South as the policy of the hour, saying truly that that crisis was a rare opportunity which would never come again, if spurned. The sermon was unpopular, and caused him some trouble even in his own congregation.

Mr. Beecher is now fifty-seven years old, but is still in the flush of his intellectual vigor. His eye is as bright, his step as firm and elastic, and his voice as clear and ringing as when he preached his first sermon. His powers have grown with his work, and every year he seems to rise higher in his intellectual supremacy. As a pulpit orator, he has no superior, and certainly there is no man in all this round earth whose eloquence has been productive of greater good to the cause he serves. He is a stout, stocky man in appearance, with a large square face and heavy features. It is the face of a great orator and a genial, warm-hearted man. He is careful and temperate in all his habits--except that he will work too hard--and enjoys robust health. He lives plainly and dresses simply. He impresses one at once with his immense energy, and you would recognize him immediately as a man of unusual power in his community. Said a friend not long since, "I was standing by Beecher in a book-store to-day. He was perfectly still, as he was waiting for a parcel to be done up, but he reminded me of a big locomotive full of steam and fire, and ready to display its immense force at any moment."

Mr. Beecher is not only a preacher, but a capital farmer. He has a model farm at Peekskill, on the Hudson, and is brimful of agricultural and horticultural theories, which he carries into practice successfully. His love for flowers is a perfect pa.s.sion, and dates from his boyhood. He is an excellent mechanic, and makes the repairs on his own premises, as far as he can, with a keen relish, which he has doubtless inherited from his father. He is thoroughly read in history, and as an art critic has no superior. His house is filled with art gems, which are his pride. He has not lost the love of reverie which marked his boyhood, but he is eminently a practical man, and prefers the practical questions of theology to those merely theoretical. He is as little like the typical parson as one can imagine, and yet he is one whose place will be hard to fill when he is gone, and whose works will live in the grateful memory of those whom his counsel has saved from sin, and his sympathy encouraged to continue in the path of duty.