The New Field—Growth of Influence—Social Life—The Secret of Effective Preaching—Editorial Labors—Lectures to Young Men—Call to Brooklyn—Departure.

With a heart full of tender feelings he parted with his people and entered into the larger work in which he first became known outside of the limits of his Presbytery.

In the last week in July, 1839, he removed his family to Indianapolis, which, though it was the State capital, was hardly more than a village, having less than 4,000 inhabitants, its streets unpaved and noted for the depth and persistency of the mud. Like most of the then frontier towns, it was very malarial; chills and fever were expected as a matter of course, very rarely disappointing the expectation.

The Second Presbyterian Church was an offshoot from the “First” Church, a chip struck out by the axe of controversy, then being so fiercely waged between the Old and New Schools. The new church was of course New School. Its fifteen original members, having been released from the First Church after some little ecclesiastical difficulty, organized at once, and secured the second story of the old Marion County Seminary.

Their first call was to Rev. S. Holmes, of New Bedford, Mass.; he declined. They then invited Rev. John C. Young, of Danville, Ky., with like result. Their next call was to Henry Ward Beecher, who became their first pastor. He was then but twenty-six, looking still young, but fresh, rugged, and full of life.

To the few survivors of that little band who knew and loved him in those early days we are largely indebted for the impression produced by his preaching in this church and in the community, and for a brief account of his life among them.

“My first recollection of Mr. Beecher,” said one of his early parishioners, “was when I was a journeyman printer. A man named King came to me and, with much enthusiasm, declared he had heard the greatest preacher he had ever listened to in his life—a young fellow who was preaching at the Marion County Seminary.

“I went there and heard him for the first time in the spring of 1840, I suppose it was. I was, like everybody else, perfectly carried away with him. I soon formed his acquaintance, and, after he got to the new church on the Circle, became a member in the great revival of 1842. I was a printer when he delivered those lectures to young men, and in the course of printing them (I was at work in the shop where they were published) I was much in contact with him. They were published by the old jobbing house of E. Chamberlain, who was afterwards a bookseller here. The Indiana Farmer was printed in the office where I worked, published by a Quaker named Willis. Mr. Beecher was really the life and soul of it—wrote all the articles in it that were good for anything. I frequently assisted him in reading proofs. He had no practical experience as an agriculturist, except that he was thoroughly alive to every new thing. He took great pride in raising flowers, and his garden was full of plants that had never been seen here before. During his revival meetings—I think as much to test my sincerity and earnestness as anything else—he invited me to come to his house at five o’clock in the morning and breakfast with him. It was a winter morning and before daylight. Mrs. Beecher and the children were up, everything in perfect order, and breakfast ready. He called his wife and children together for family worship, and spoke and prayed in simple words. It seemed to me the most beautiful and touching thing I ever saw in my life. Mr. Beecher, I thought, was even then broad in his ideas and the most industrious man I ever knew. For a time he lived in one side of a little one-story house in the alley half a square north of Washington Street, between East and New Jersey Streets, in the rear of where the Jewish Synagogue now stands. I think there were three rooms. At another time he occupied a house that stood near the southeast corner of Pennsylvania and New York Streets. He has told me that during a malarial season he preached when he could hardly stand up, and, making his way home, would, on entering his door, fall from exhaustion.”

Another writing to us says:

“I remember well the occasion of his advent here (from Lawrenceburg). Almost immediately his ministry attracted a strong following—quite too numerous and influential for the limited seating capacity of one hundred and fifty the chapel could accommodate, and a church was erected for him on the corner of Market and Circle Streets. That was probably in 1840. The building was regarded as a colossal edifice, and, while what would now be considered primitive in the extreme, was in the main comfortable and inviting. It was the first departure from the orthodox style of high pulpits, and contained a low desk and platform. From the first his preaching and precept were of the beauty of holiness and praise, gladness and thanksgiving, and to this end he added the attraction of music to the service of lesson and prayer. In those days his choir was considered magnificent, and what the organ might lack in volume was more than made up in melody and soul-reaching timbre. He was especially happy in the selection of music that seemed to be an accompaniment to his discourse. He was also the first clergyman, out of the Episcopal Church, to introduce chants in the service.

“Upon the opposite side of The Circle from his church, facing west, was located the First Presbyterian Church, the Rev. Phineas D. Gurley, pastor. I have often heard them spoken of as the ‘two distinguished divines’ who were ‘the wheel-horses among theologians.’ They were both leaders. I think that if there was one impression more than another conveyed by Mr. Beecher’s appearance it was that of reserve force. The steam up, he was capable and eager for the work in hand. Indeed, he seemed the very personification of energy. I recall, however, that he was always neatly dressed, usually in black, and that he was the first clergyman in this part of the country to wear a soft hat. I am not sure if he did not wear the first straw hat in those days of clerical conventionality. He was certainly devoted to comfort, if in no manner given to taking his ease. I doubt if he knew what it was to be idle. When apparently indulging in recreation his active mind was storing food for thought and spiritual teaching. The lightest romance which caught his fancy (for he was an omnivorous reader) furnished material for practical application.

“In form he was compactly built, with just enough flesh to give grace to his lithe and active movements. His step was particularly elastic and yet firm. All vigor and animation, there was the rosy tint of health in his complexion, and his eyes were as clear and bright as a child’s. His disposition was sunny, and the kindly grasp of his hand confirmed the charm of his genial presence. It followed that he was fond of young people and frequently participated in their romps and sports. I remember in a game of copenhagen at a church picnic he was in no way disconcerted by being rolled over and over down the hill when entangled in the rope.

“When need be he could be determined enough. At one time a younger brother was an inmate of his family, and was a classmate of mine at the University. In the boy’s judgment ‘all work and no play made Jack a dull boy,’ and he went fishing and was gone two days. Instead of whetting his appetite for study the diversion had the opposite effect, and he openly declared he would go to school no more. Mr. Beecher did not waste words on the matter, but seized him and took him by main force. As they drew near the University the lad broke loose and took to his heels, Mr. Beecher after him. The mud in our streets at that day was something phenomenal, and there was a tussle in it, when the two closed, that sent the ‘soft impeachment’ in every direction. For a little while the air was filled with mud; arms and legs were scarcely distinguishable. The authority of elder brother prevailed, carrying its point—and the younger brother, too—and handed him over to the tender mercies of the principal, Mr. Kemper, who was a rigid disciplinarian, and proverbial for observing the Scriptural injunction of not sparing the rod. The youth was equal to the occasion, however. Equipped in extra thickness of clothing, he took his punishment with most astonishing fortitude, much to the admiration of the other boys, whose sympathies were naturally enlisted.

“This incident illustrated Mr. Beecher’s indifference to appearances where a duty was involved. He also assisted in building, painting, and varnishing his house, and, if material fell short or heavy groceries were needed, did not hesitate to go after them with his wheelbarrow and take them home. In the single particular of giving dignity to labor, if there had been no other, his influence in the community was invaluable.

“As in a notice of his personnel his characteristics first attract attention, so in his ministerial labors his method of conversion came before the inculcation of doctrine.

“I have spoken of his fondness for young men. It was reciprocated to a degree amounting to championship. His influence was personal and direct. In his revival work he did not trust entirely to church service. He became personally acquainted with people. He had a habit of taking long strolls with men, and what his precept failed in his good companionship made up. One long walk generally captured the sinner.

“He did not confine himself to Bible preachments. I heard his lectures to young men in the basement of the church, and they were so practical that they reached every mind. He struck yeoman blows at the evils of intemperance, and engaged in a controversy with an influential distiller of Lawrenceburg that attracted much attention and was reported by the press of that date. Largely owing to the sentiment aroused by the debate, no doubt, the distiller abandoned his calling.

“He also engaged in the publication of an agricultural paper, the Indiana Farmer, and, as far as known, was the only professional man who ever put practical sense into a periodical of the sort. A keen lover of nature, he may be said to have put his heart in the work and made it a memorable success.

“I do not remember his making any political speeches, although it is well known that his church was the favorite resort of statesmen, who made a study of his oratory and diction for their own benefit. I know that he was deeply interested in all charitable enterprises, particularly the benevolent institutions that are now the pride of the State.

“Nor am I aware that he ever addressed the legislative bodies in particular, although the General Assembly men attended his church almost in a body. He was known as a Whig, but was not pronounced in that direction.

“The heart-felt interest he took in the slavery question was well known. About the year 1842 a roving commission of Abolitionists from the East visited Indianapolis. They held a meeting on the State House grounds, and I remember seeing Mr. Beecher a prominent figure on the platform.

“The unpopularity of the Abolition cause at that time cannot easily be imagined. To be identified with it was to be socially ostracized and boycotted generally. It required the courage of a martyr to be an Abolitionist. As notable examples may be cited two physicians who were members of Mr. Beecher’s church. Bold enough to avow their principles, they were exceedingly unpopular with the masses, and in their struggle to combat popular opinion found it extremely difficult to support themselves and families. They literally had no practice. The manner in which Mr. Beecher sustained himself on this question was prophetic of the personal hold he had upon men. It was exceptional.

“Meanwhile his popularity both as a preacher and man continued to increase. Indeed, his success was without precedent and has never been rivalled since. His church was crowded every Sabbath, both by his own congregation and visitors from other and distant churches. Although the pew system obtained, at least one-fourth of the seats (one entire section) was reserved for young men and strangers. Among them may be named the judges of the Supreme, Federal, and local courts; distinguished professional men; and if there was a Hugh Miller of a fellow, picking out truths of humanity from stone or devoting himself like the Owens to his fellow-man, he would be found in that imposing body of men. I suppose Indianapolis could not then boast of more than five thousand inhabitants, but there was an unusual aggregate of culture and refinement, and it was pretty sure to find delight in Mr. Beecher’s preaching and service.

“As a rule his morning sermons were more doctrinal and more confined to notes than his evening discourse. In the delivery of all of his sermons, however, he would at times become very much enthused and dramatic.

“One frequent gesture that I noticed in attending his last lecture here he retained through life. It was the habit of raising his right hand high in air, and after a pause, sometimes prolonged, bringing his arm down sharply to his side. An amusing incident once occurred in consequence. At the identical moment that his hand was raised a big, burly fellow, a member of his congregation, aroused from a nap (even his eloquence could not keep every man awake) and seeing the hand uplifted, the sleepy lout thought the benediction was being pronounced. He gathered himself up accordingly and marched toward the door, making a terrible racket with his squeaking boots, to the visible annoyance of the congregation. There was a charming twinkle of fun in the preacher’s eye as he gravely said: ‘If others of the congregation desire to leave I will wait.’ A laugh went round the audience.

“In his liberal interpretation of the divine calling of bringing sinners to repentance, some motley members, not to say black sheep, were gathered into the fold. Among these was a lame tailor who was a very hard case indeed, but was possessed of an appreciative soul and a wonderfully retentive memory. He was always to be found in his seat in church and was attentive enough to inspire a speaker. The following morning the tailor’s shop would be crowded to hear him repeat the sermon, or eloquent passages thereof. This he would do, word for word, and with a close imitation of voice and gesture that proved a first-class actor had been lost to the world in the realm of ‘the shears’ and ‘goose.’ A propensity for gambling that could not be checked was reported to the church and he was dropped from the roll.

“Take them all in all, Mr. Beecher’s sermons in Indianapolis were marvels of logic and learning, graced by rare beauty of expression and that feeling to nature kin which touched the heart. His usefulness could not be circumscribed by the then narrow limits. His fame spread abroad in the land, and one fine Sunday two or more strangers, with an unmistakable New York air, appeared in the church. It transpired that they were a visiting committee in search of a bright and shining pulpit light, and it all ended in his call to Brooklyn.

“Great were the regrets of his congregation and the community of which he was the great central figure of interest and influence. The impress he left has not been obliterated, with the growth of the city, by the lapse of time. In many respects the city is a monument to his earnest efforts to promote her moral and intellectual development.”

Mr. Beecher has often remarked in later years that his first real preaching was at Indianapolis. Although at Lawrenceburg he was noted for his brilliancy of diction and wonderful oratorical power, and by his good-fellowship and the strong personal interest which he took in all his people made many and lasting friends, yet he did not feel that he was doing real, effective work. “I can preach so as to make the people come to hear me,” said he to good old Bishop Little, “but somehow I can’t preach them clear into the kingdom.”

A year or two after his removal to Indianapolis he determined to find out what the difficulty was.

“We had delivered hundreds before, but until then the sermon was the end and not the means. We had a vague idea that truth was to be preached, and then it was to be left to do its work under God’s blessing as best it might. The result was not satisfying. Why should not preaching do now what it did in the Apostles’ days? Why should it be a random and unrequited effort? These thoughts grew, and the want of fruits was so painful that we determined to make a careful examination of the Apostles’ teaching, to see what made it so immediately efficient. We found that they laid a foundation first of historical truth common to them and their auditors; that this mass of familiar truth was then concentrated upon the hearers in the form of an intense personal application and appeal; that the language was not philosophical and scholastic, but the language of common life. We determined to try the same. We considered what moral truths were admitted by everybody and gathered many of them together. We considered how they could be so combined as to press men toward a religious state. We recalled to mind the character and condition of many, who, we knew, would be present, and then, after as earnest a prayer as we ever offered, and with trembling solicitude, we went to the academy and preached the new sermon. The Lord gave it power, and ten or twelve persons were aroused by it and led ultimately to a religious life.

“This was the most memorable day of our ministerial life. The idea was born. Preaching was a definite and practical thing. Our people needed certain moral changes. Preaching was only a method of enforcing truths, not for the sake of the truths themselves, but for the results to be sought in men. Man was the thing. Henceforth our business was to work upon man; to study him, to stimulate and educate him. A sermon was good that had power on the heart, and was good for nothing, no matter how good, that had no moral power on man. Others had learned this. It was the secret of success in every man who ever was eminent for usefulness in preaching. But no man can inherit experience. It must be born in each man for himself. After the light dawned I could then see how plainly Jonathan Edwards’s sermons were so made. Those gigantic applications of his were only the stretching out of the arms of the sermon upon the lives and hearts of his audience. I could see it now, and wondered that I had not seen it before.”

The application of this, to him, new idea soon began to be apparent in rich results.

A series of revivals sprang up, by which many were brought into the church. From one of his successors we learn that “these were great foundation days for the church. Strong religious impressions were made upon the young town, and very many were redeemed to a life of Christian service. These were fruitful years, starred over by three prolific revivals. In the spring of 1842 nearly one hundred were received; again, in 1843, was another spiritual blessing, and once more in 1845. Such fruits vindicate the character and fervor of the pastoral activity. Many of these converts are in the church to-day, old men, testifying as elders and devout believers to the genuineness of this work. Mr. Beecher preached seventy nights in succession during one spring, in labors abundant. He ceased special effort, he said, to permit many who did not wish to come out under an excitement, to calmly join the church.

“Revivals have been characteristic of this church from the beginning. They have brought it steady and growing and efficient workers.”

He wrote to his father May 1, 1842:

“Prosperity and peace dwell with us. Our church is filled; our young converts run well, and already there is gathered in material for another revival of persons hitherto not wont to attend church anywhere.

“I hope this fall and early winter to see the scenes of this spring renewed. The neighborhoods about town are also revived.”

He has told us of one occasion when he attended a meeting of the Presbytery with his father. Great efforts were made at these meetings to awaken a religious interest among the people especially in the church where the meetings were held. Several sermons had been delivered on this occasion, with no great effect, when he was called upon to preach. He selected for his subject “The Parable of the Prodigal Son.” “As I went on describing the going away of the sinner from God the people became interested; as I described the sinner’s coming to himself the interest increased; but when I came to the return of the sinner to God, and God’s readiness, even hastening, to receive him, the whole audience broke down, and father, who was on the platform with me, said, wiping his eyes and spectacles, ‘Thank the Lord! a revival is begun.’ Mr. C———, a good brother, grasped my hand after the sermon with great fervor. ‘You did well, Beecher, you did well; but you ought to have given ’em salt instead of sugar.’ But since the salt had been tried several days without effect, and the sugar, as he called my preaching, brought many to Christ, I did not agree with him.”

His zealous labors were by no means confined to Indianapolis.Indianapolis. He was constantly called to help in the towns and villages throughout the centre of the State. One, two, and even three weeks at a time he would be gone, laboring to help some brother striving to awaken his people.

Terre Haute, Madison, Greenwood, Greencastle, Lafayette, Logansport, Fort Wayne, Laporte, and Columbus are the names we find most frequently endorsed on the manuscript notes of his old revival sermons now before us. These were the days he loved to look back upon; though full of hardship, privations, and not a little suffering, they were also full of that great joy which comes to those who labor successfully in winning souls.

Revisiting Terre Haute in one of his lecture tours many years afterward, and for the first time after coming East, he writes back:

“And now my face is turned homeward! I am bound to Terre Haute—clear across the prairie that I once traversed in early days. Farm touches farm over these wide expanses which, forty years ago, I thought could never be inhabited! No coal, no timber—how, except along the streams, could men settle and thrive? Railroads, those dry and solid rivers, have solved the problem.

“Is this Terre Haute? How has thy prosperity increased and thy beauty diminished!

“I wandered up and down the streets to find my Terre Haute! It was gone, covered up, lost, utterly lost, in new streets, new buildings! Where is the former green? Where the quiet fields within bowshot of the town?

“At any rate, I shall know the church. There it was that I first wrought in revivals, and every board and nail in it was precious. I found it. I entered by the basement side-door and stood in the lecture-room where I preached my first sermon, the same day of my arrival in town, to aid Rev. Dr. Jewett. It was a solemn feeling that stole over me. I saw the audience again. The seats were filled with shadowy listeners! It only needed to see a few of the familiar faces—L. H. Scott, Dr. Ketcham, Ball, Gookin, and others—to make it real again! Just then came up the aisle Harry Ross himself! It was the touch needed to round out the reminiscence. Only one fact disturbed the sweet illusion. This was not the same church. The old one had been burned, and this one took its place! It was a gentle shock to my sensibilities. But it stood on the very ground, and was on the old foundations, and upon the same plan, and looked like the old one, and so I inwardly voted that it was the old one and took my comfort of it! The city is wonderfully improved in every way except to those sentimentalists who come hither to renew the past and live over again old experiences.

“After the lecture, in a special train, we sped, through darkness and storm, to Indianapolis—three hours’ blessed ride. How different this midnight ride from the first one, thirty-five years before! For three weeks I had labored side by side with Brother Jewett—the first revival in which I had ever taken part! How helpless and wretched did I feel when Jewett sent for me—then newly settled in Indianapolis—to come over and help him! I had no effective sermons. I did not know how to preach in a revival. Yet my elders said, Go. I rode two days the lonely road, through beech forests (now all gone), in a dazed and wondering state. Hardly was my saddle empty before Jewett was at my elbow. ‘You have done well to come. You must preach to-night.’ In a moment the cloud lifted. The reluctance was gone. It has been so all my life. At a distance I dread and brood and shrink from any weighty enterprise; but the moment the occasion arrives joy shines clear, and an eager appetite to dash into the battle comes.

“Three memorable weeks at a time when events stamp the memory and the heart as the die stamps the coin! When the time came to return home did ever heart swell with stronger and more unutterable feeling? To go back to the ordinary round of church life from this glowing centre seemed so intolerable that my whole nature and all my soul rose up in uncontrollable prayer. Through the beech woods, sometimes crying, sometimes singing, and always praying, I rode in one long controversy with God. ‘Slay me if Thou wilt, but do not send me home to barrenness. Thou shalt go with me. I will not be refused. I am not afraid of Thee! I will prevail or die!’—these and even wilder strains went through the soul.

“At length the clouds rolled away. The heavens had never seemed so beautiful and radiant. An unspeakable peace and confidence filled my soul. The assurance of victory was perfect, and tranquillity blossomed into joy at every step. The first day was one long struggle of prayer. The second day was one long ecstasy of joy and thanksgiving! I need not say to the wise that the fire of my heart kindled in the church, and for months the genial warmth brought forth a spiritual summer, so that flowers and fruit abounded in the garden of the Lord.

“And now in this three-hour midnight ride, amid outward storms but inward joy and thanksgiving, I recalled the old days, and mingled their light with the gladness of the passing hour.”

Referring to a revival at Terre Haute—perhaps the one just mentioned—Dr. Lyman Beecher wrote:

“The revival here under Henry’s administration and preaching was, in the adaptation of means and happy results, one of the most perfectly conducted and delightful that I have ever known.”

We can get some slight idea of the hard physical labor he endured in his ordinary home preaching by quoting a single page of his “Sermon Record Book”—a not unusual record:

At this time he undertook a minute and careful analysis of the Gospels:

“I took the New Testament, I read it diligently, I made myself familiar with the life and teachings of Christ, I became saturated with the spirit of the four Gospels, I obtained all the helps I could get for their interpretation, and I have now in my drawer a heap of manuscripts in which I have condensed and compiled these Gospels, everything in them being conveniently arranged for use. It was an immense work. These four Gospels had, as it were, been eaten and digested by me and gone into my blood and bones.

“It was while I was engaged in this work that Christ was brought to my soul for the first time in my life with a sweetness and beauty, with a vividness and glory, that for the time transformed the heavens and the earth to my eyes. I had a conception of the depths of the nature of the Divine Being that made metaphysical doctrines and philosophical formulas more repugnant to me than they had ever been before, and I entered into a vow and covenant that if I were permitted to preach I would know nothing but Christ and Him crucified among His people. I took my horse and saddle-bags and traversed the wilderness of Indiana, keeping that view in my mind. For eight or ten years I labored for the poor and needy, in cabins, in camp-meetings, through woods, up and down, sometimes riding two days to meet my appointments. I had no books but my Bible, and I went from one to the other—from the Bible to men, and from men to the Bible. When a case came up I said to myself: ‘What will reach that case?’ and I looked through the Acts of the Apostles to see how they reached such cases. I hunted the Bible through in order to get at the right way. So I worked on, and at last the habit was formed in my mind of studying men, their dispositions, their wants, their peculiarities; and then I worked with reference to curing them, not constructing a system, but striving to produce righteousness in the individual and in communities.”

It is said that in his preaching he often went double-loaded. He would go to church with a sermon specially prepared for some person whom he greatly desired to reach. If, however, he was not present, he would preach a more general sermon. But when, on some other occasion, he found, on entering church, that the object of his solicitude was present, he would lay aside the sermon prepared for that day and preach the special one.

It often occasioned no little surprise in the mind of the subject that Mr. Beecher should have happened that day to preach a sermon so exactly fitted to his case.

Although he had the strongest feelings of love and kindliness toward mankind, both in the abstract and the concrete, yet he never hesitated to lash with stinging words any who took advantage of their strength to abuse another’s weakness. And in such a case nothing could induce him to back down or withdraw from the attack, unless he could be satisfied that he had been mistaken in his facts.

One noticeable incident of the kind occurred during his ministry in Indianapolis, as narrated by Mrs. Beecher:

A man in the city hotel, and not a little feared because of his brutality, had done something more brutal than usual, and, the facts coming to Mr. Beecher’s knowledge, in his sermon on the following Sunday he expressed in no gentle terms his abhorrence of the act, and in very strong language rebuked the man.

Many of his listeners were alarmed lest the man would, when he heard of the sermon, do Mr. Beecher some injury.

Of course before the day was over the substance in the sermon had been reported throughout the town, and did not fail to reach the man’s ears.

Monday morning Mr. Beecher went to the post-office immediately after breakfast, and must go right by the hotel around which this man would most likely be hanging. He got his mail and turned to come home. As he passed the hotel there were several standing by, evidently watching for some development. At that moment the man came down the steps with a pistol in his hand.

“Did you say thus and so in your sermon yesterday?”

“I did.”

“Did you intend those remarks for me, or were you meaning me?”

“I most certainly did.”

“Then take it back right here, or by ——— I’ll shoot you on the spot.”

“Shoot away,” was the reply, as, looking the ruffian sternly in the face, Mr. Beecher calmly, with deliberate step, walked past the man. With pointed pistol and fierce oaths the man followed for a few paces, when, baffled by the imperturbable coolness of his opponent, he slunk away down a side-street, ashamed to return to the hotel.

Mr. Beecher himself has given us an account of another similar event:

“I remember that in Indianapolis there was a meeting called for the enforcement of the laws against gamblers and against grog-selling, at which I was requested to address mechanics and laborers; and some of these violators of the law were there. A man named Bishop, and others of that stamp, were in the meeting to hear what was going to be said. They were the very men that we were aiming at. I was much excited. There were gambling-dens and liquor-saloons where young men were induced to drink and form bad habits, and were in danger of being dragged down to destruction; and I expressed myself plainly, and pointed to Bishop, who sat on a back seat, and denounced him to his face. There was a lively time, if I recollect right; and he gave out the next day that when he and I met one or the other of us was going to be whipped. I went down the street soon after, and I had forgotten all about it until I was right in front of his shop. He was a bully. He watched me as I came down, and I confess that my first thought was a wish that I was not there; but then it would never do for me to flinch, and I walked as though I did not see him till I came close to him, when I turned and looked at him. He thought I was going to attack him, and waited a moment; I bowed and said, ‘Good-morning, Mr. Bishop,’ and passed on. He would not run after me and hit me, and so the affair blew over.

“A year or two after that I left Indianapolis and went up the river, and he chanced to be on the boat with me; and there never was a man that paid me more kind attention than he did. He looked after my children here and there, guarded me at night, and wanted me to drink with him—some soda-water. He opened his whole heart to me, and told me how he felt at the time of my remarks, how he felt the next day, and how he had come to feel since. He said he knew he was carrying on a wicked trade, that he was mad with himself, and that he was mad with me, and told me what it was that induced him to stop. I found that under his love of gain, which had led him to sell liquor, there was a conscience, a heart, and a good deal of kindness.”

During the latter part of his ministry in Indianapolis the Presbyterian clergymen had been requested by the presbytery to preach at least one sermon during the year on slavery. Agreeably to this suggestion Mr. Beecher prepared three sermons on this subject. He waited until the United States Federal Court came there, with Judge McLean as the presiding judge; and when all of the State courts, Supreme Court and Circuit, were in session and the Legislature was convened—so that all lawyers and public officers, men of every kind, thronged the city—he announced that he should preach on slavery.

From the original manuscript before us we learn that he presented his subject in three sermons. In the first he discussed ancient slavery, especially among the Hebrews, its origin, methods, and final abandonment. In his second he presented “the doctrine and practice of the New Testament in respect to slavery.”

In his last he discussed the moral aspects of slavery and its effect upon the community. These sermons made a profound impression on the public mind. Indiana was just over the border of slaveland, and many of its people sympathized heartily with the slave-holders. The prevailing sentiment was very bitter against the Abolitionists. There was very little patience with such “cranks” and “fanatics.” So when Mr. Beecher attacked slavery with the same unsparing earnestness which characterized his utterances on this subject in latter days—for he did not hesitate to denounce it as a crime against God and man—he stirred up a very large and very energetic hornet’s nest. The city was all excitement. Men talked of nothing else. The friends of slavery were bitter and threatening; the few friends of freedom, overawed by the threatening demonstrations, held their peace and waited to see the outcome. Mr. Beecher stood almost alone. Many of the church-brethren were shocked and grieved beyond all expression; some even felt so outraged as to send for letters of dismissal. Many prophesied that he had destroyed himself and ended his influence for usefulness for ever, mourning over his speedy downfall—a mournful prophecy so often repeated in after-years by timid brothers whenever he took any advanced position, and with the same results as in this instance.

Holding the United States Circuit, then in session, was Judge McLean, of the United States Supreme Court, whose views upon all public questions were naturally held in high esteem. The hotel where he was stopping was full of lawyers and members of the Legislature. On the Monday morning after these sermons, in angry and excited groups, they stood in the public rooms of the hotel, talking about the three sermons which had thrown the town into such a ferment. The judge, happening to join one of these groups, was asked his opinion. Instead of denouncing Mr. Beecher’s bold stand as madness, he calmly but with decisive emphasis replied: “Well, I think if every minister in the United States would be as faithful it would be a great advance in settling this question.” The judge’s words spread as rapidly as had the sermons. They checked the flow of bitter criticism. Men stopped talking and began to think; before the day was out a revulsion of feeling set in. Many of the most hostile found their anger changing into admiration—not convinced by Mr. Beecher’s logic, but deeply impressed by his pluck. Those who shared his views felt emboldened to speak out; and that middle class, the social weather-vanes who like to go with the majority, soon felt the changing breeze and began veering around to his side. The timid church-members took heart, the applications for letters of dismissal were recalled. The tide that threatened to overwhelm the plucky preacher only lifted him up and carried him the higher in public estimation. This was the first demonstration of his ability to face and overcome an adverse public sentiment while championing a just but unpopular cause—an experience many times repeated in the forty years that followed. Sometimes it seemed as if he could not stand against the flood poured out upon him. Then the consciousness of right made him strong and gave him that great peace that no whirlwind of adversity could destroy, and roused up in him a determination to only work the harder.

It was while in Indianapolis that he began his first real literary work. It is true that he did some editorial work while at Lane Seminary, but that was too short-lived and occasional to be regarded as regular literary occupation.

Here at Indianapolis he accepted the editorial chair of the Indiana Farmer and Gardener, and, as we are assured by those who were readers of that journal, threw around the subjects therein discussed a brightness of humor and fancy that made the otherwise dry topics of fodder, fertilizers, and plantings seem new and interesting subjects.

“It may be of some service to the young, as showing how valuable the fragments of time may become, if mention is made of the way in which we became prepared to edit this journal.

“The continued taxation of daily preaching, extending through months, and once through eighteen consecutive months without the exception of a single day, began to wear upon the nerves, and made it necessary for us to seek some relaxation. Accordingly we used, after each week-night’s preaching, to drive the sermon out of our heads by some alterative reading.

“In the State Library were Loudon’s works—his encyclopÆdias of Horticulture, of Agriculture, and of Architecture. We fell upon them, and for years almost monopolized them.

“In our little one-story cottage, after the day’s work was done, we pored over these monuments of an almost incredible industry, and read, we suppose, not only every line but much of it many times over; until at length we had a topographical knowledge of many of the fine English estates quite as intimate, we dare say, as was possessed by many of their truant owners. There was something exceedingly pleasant, and is yet, in the studying over mere catalogues of flowers, trees, fruits, etc.

“A seedsman’s list, a nurseryman’s catalogue, are more fascinating to us than any story. In this way, through several years, we gradually accumulated materials and became familiar with facts and principles, which paved the way for our editorial labors. Lindley’s ‘Horticulture’ and Gray’s ‘Structural Botany’ came in as constant companions. And when, at length, through a friend’s liberality, we became the recipients of the London Gardener’s Chronicle, edited by Prof. Lindley, our treasures were inestimable. Many hundred times have we lain awake for hours unable to throw off the excitement of preaching, and beguiling the time with imaginary visits to the Chiswick Garden, to the more than oriental magnificence of the Duke of Devonshire’s grounds at Chatsworth. We have had long discussions in that little bed-room at Indianapolis, with Van Mons about pears, with Vibert about roses, with Thompson and Knight of fruits and theories of vegetable life, and with Loudon about everything under the heavens in the horticultural world.

“This employment of waste hours not only answered a purpose of soothing excited nerves then, but brought us into such relations to the material world that we speak with entire moderation when we say that all the estates of the richest duke in England could not have given us half the pleasure which we have derived from pastures, waysides, and unoccupied prairies.”

He was an earnest advocate of manual labor. He had no patience with those whose squeamish effeminacy made them look upon labor as degrading.

On the fly-leaves of his “Editorial Agricultural Book,” begun January 10, 1845, he wrote:

“It is my deliberate conviction that physical labor is indispensable to intellectual and moral health, that the industrial and producing interests of society are powerfully conservative of morals. Especially do I regard the tillage of the soil as conducive to life, health, morals, and manhood. I sympathize with the advance of society through practical physical labors more than I do through metaphysical speculations. I obtain clearer views of religious truth through my sympathies with men and their life than I do through books and their thoughts. Nor do I think any theology will be sound which is made in the closet. It should be made in the street, shop, ship, office, and on the farm. I have followed both inclination and conviction in allying myself to the laboring classes.”

His knowledge on the subject of farming was not altogether theoretic. One of his old parishioners writes us:

“He loved to work and toil, especially in his own garden. He always had the earliest vegetables in the market, and his garden was better than any other in the city. He loved to work among his flowers, and could call every flower by its name readily. I think that he loved his flowers and took more pleasure with them than anything else, excepting his family. He certainly was more devoted to his family than any man I ever saw.”

It was no uncommon thing for him to take his vegetables to the market before daylight, sometimes, as an especial favor, taking his little five-year-old girl with him.

From the report of the fall exhibition of the Indiana Horticultural Society we learn that Mr. Beecher took the three first prizes for the best exhibition of squashes, beets, and oyster-plants. His beets, it is stated, weighed from eight to fourteen pounds.

The literary production which first attracted any general attention was his “Lectures to Young Men.” The State capital seemed to be the headquarters for all those forms of temptation and vice which are particularly liable to undermine the morals of the young. Many a young man, whose future seemed bright with the promise of an honorable and useful life, had Mr. Beecher seen swept from his feet and whirled away to a dishonorable end—young men who might have been saved had some one been able to show them the dangers of the paths they were treading, whose beginnings seemed so pleasant and fair. Greatly distressed at what he saw, he finally determined to deliver a series of lectures intended primarily for young men, and for the purpose of opening their eyes. These were subsequently revised and published, under the title of “Lectures to Young Men.” The purpose of these lectures he aptly indicated in his preface:

“When a son is sent abroad to begin life for himself, what gift would any parent consider excessive to him who should sit down by his side and open the several dangers of his career, so that the young man should, upon meeting the innumerable covert forms of vice, be able to penetrate their disguises, and to experience, even for the most brilliant seductions, a hearty and intelligent disgust?

“Having watched the courses of those who seduce the young—their arts, their blandishments, their pretences—having witnessed the beginning and consummation of ruin, almost in the same year, of many young men, naturally well disposed, whose downfall began with the appearances of innocence, I felt an earnest desire, if I could, to raise the suspicion of the young and to direct their reason to the arts by which they are with such facility destroyed.

“I ask every YOUNG MAN who may read this book not to submit his judgment to mine, not to hate because I denounce, nor blindly to follow me, but to weigh my reason, that he may form his own judgment. I only claim the place of a companion; and, that I may gain his ear, I have sought to present truth in those forms which best please the young; and though I am not without hope of satisfying the aged and the wise, my whole thought has been to carry with me the intelligent sympathy of young men.”

He dedicated the book to his father—

To you I owe more than to any other living being. In childhood you were my Parent, in later life my Teacher, in manhood my Companion. To your affectionate vigilance I owe my principles, my knowledge, and that I am a minister of the Gospel of Christ. For whatever profit they derive from this Book the young will be indebted to you.”

Our space forbids any attempt at reproducing or analyzing these lectures.

The evils that he attacked were real, and he did not mince matters in the assault. In the course of his lectures some of his good people, including one or two of the elders, thought that he was too plain and outspoken in his description of the temptations and dangers that beset the young, and undertook to advise him, suggesting that he should be more prudent in the forms of his expressions. He expressed regret that he should differ with them, but he proposed, he said, to treat the subject as he thought he ought, without regard to any instructions given. He did not propose to fight a mad dog with a handful of straw. Notwithstanding the timidity of his advisers, it appears, from the universal testimony of those who heard them, that they did great good, awakening the community to the dangers he exposed.

He was earnestly urged to revise and print them, “that their usefulness may be extended beyond the place of their delivery.”

His first attempts at their revision were not at all satisfactory to him, for he said afterwards:

“I remember, when I was reading over my lectures to young men, with the intention of printing them, that I took down a volume of Dr. Barrow’s sermons and read two on the subject of ‘Industry and Idleness.’ I had two lectures on similar subjects that I thought of publishing, but they seemed to me so mean in the comparison that I took up the manuscript and fired it across the room and under the book-case, where it lay I do not know how long, and said: ‘I am not going to put those lectures into print and make an ass of myself.’ I thought that I would be a fool to think there was anything in them worth publishing. Afterwards, however, a volume of lectures to young men was lent to me, and when I read them they seemed so thin and weak that I said: ‘If these are acceptable to the public and will do good I think I can print mine.’”

The many editions published in this country and England justified his final conclusion.

Although his salary had been doubled on coming to Indianapolis, had he received it all it would hardly have kept pace with his necessities. Many little necessities incident to their new surroundings called for expense. In the State capital two rooms over a stable would hardly meet the requirements of his social surroundings. It became necessary to hire an entire house, the spare rooms of which were devoted to boarders whose rent helped out the slender family purse. The house needed painting; why hire a painter? He could do it himself. Was he not born and brought up in sturdy old New England, where every lad was expected, almost from the day he was weaned, to take care of himself and add his labor to increase the common good; where a man was thought wanting in ordinary “cuteness” who could not turn his hand to any job and do anything he had seen another do?

Off he starts to the paint-store with his old horse and wagon, entering so enthusiastically upon the work in hand that he wholly forgot an engagement, made for that morning, to marry a couple. As the paints were being put up, he suddenly recalls his engagement, abruptly turns on his heel, rushes from the store, jumps into his wagon, and goes clattering down the street, leaving the astounded storekeeper in anxious solicitude for his sanity. Returning shortly, with a merry laugh he explained the cause of his precipitate outgoing. He found the couple waiting, married them, and then returned for his paint. Getting his supplies, he goes to work. He said:

“I wanted to economize in every way I could, and meant to paint the house myself; and I did. I got along well enough until I came to the gable end, which was two and a half stories high. When I began to paint there I was so afraid that I should fall off from the platform that I nearly rubbed out with my vest what I put on with the brush, but in the course of a week I got so used to climbing that I was as nimble as any painter in town.”

Here three more little ones came to swell the family circle, adding new joys to the heart of one who loved almost with a mother’s devotion every little child he saw. But these joys brought three more mouths to feed, three more little bodies to clothe.

Fortunately food was abundant and very cheap. In the fall and early winter game abounded, so that pigeon, quail, and ducks were bought for almost nothing, and at times were literally given away.

We remember the story oft told by him of the man bringing six dozen pigeons to town. He tried to sell them, and was laughed at. He then offered to give them away; no one wanted them. “Well,” he said, “I won’t take them home; perhaps if I leave them in my wagon in the street some one will steal them.” Returning a half-hour later, he found that some other hunter equally anxious to get rid of his game had dumped eight dozen more into his wagon.

His people would sometimes donate food or clothing. The best suit of clothes he owned was made over from a discarded suit donated by one of his parishioners.

Yet these were among the happiest years of his life.

For he found joy in his work. He loved his people and was beloved. Above all, his teaching was bearing rich harvest, and many, many souls found rest and peace through his words. His success was very gratifying, and urged him on to greater effort.

Among the young his influence was especially marked. A genial playfellow and companion, entering with hearty zest into all their sports, helping them out of their little difficulties, he gained their confidence and love. He guided the feet of many into the paths of a higher and nobler life.

One of these friends writes:

“He had a class of young girls, and I do not think that any one that recited to him could ever forget his original way of teaching. There were eight in the class, and we enjoyed the hour spent with him. He developed our originality. He first attracted us toward Milton. We studied, for he inspired in us the desire to know. In after-years, in his visits to Indianapolis, the surviving scholars were looked up and called upon, and the children of those who were gone were asked after. With some of these scholars he was thrown more intimately than with others, for all were not in his church. In these he naturally took much interest and directed them in their reading. I remember his telling me to ‘let Bulwer alone and the French novels,’ which were then first being translated. At a company, a church social, or the singing-school he had a merry word to say to one and another. All felt at home with him.

“My brother tells this story: When he was nine years old he had with great labor made a kite, at least what he thought would serve as one. In those days there were no toy-shops here, and, indeed, it was with difficulty material could be found out of which to manufacture a kite. But, as I said, he and his little sister had succeeded in shaping a thing which they called a kite. So, on a spring day, they set forth to fly it. My brother held the string and the little sister kept the kite off the ground. He ran, and she after him; but run as they would, coax as they might, their efforts availed nothing. Finally, disappointed, footsore, and covered with dust, they stopped to take breath. While thus brooding over their failure they saw Mr. Beecher standing near, looking down upon them with an amused but sympathetic expression on his face. ‘What do you call that?’ ‘A kite,’ was the melancholy response. ‘Well! well!’ the kind heart fully taking in the situation. ‘Come to my house to-morrow afternoon.’ There was hope in the tone, and the boy’s heart bounded. The next day he went to Mr. Beecher’s. He was shown a kite bigger than himself. He could scarcely believe his senses. Why, the tail even was long enough to set him wild. ‘Where’s your string?’ asked Mr. Beecher. Out of his well-worn pocket, where all a boy’s treasures are hidden, he drew forth a cotton string neither long nor strong. ‘This will not do; have you any money?’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘Come, let’s go and get a string.’ To the nearest grocery-store, where in early times everything was kept, from pins up to ploughs, they went. A ball of twine was bought for a ‘bit’; one was not enough—two for a quarter. Out into the street they went, and the kite was a success. Away it flew over their heads, the heart of the happy boy flying with the kite far into the heavens, and won to his pastor for all time by this simple, kindly act.”

Like all mankind, he had to taste the bitter with the sweet and pass under the shadow of the dark cloud of sorrow.

First his brother George, who had been a kind of guardian brother to him, and deeply loved, was killed. The news came with the shock of a lightning-bolt.

“I was called to go to Jacksonville to deliver an address,” he said, speaking of his brother’s death. “The journey was a long one, across two States (or one and a half). I took my wife and child with me, and we were gone some two weeks. When, on returning, we had got within two miles of Indianapolis, and were as elated and songful and merry as one can imagine anybody to be, we met one of the elders of my church riding out from the city, and he said, after stopping to greet us: ‘Have you heard the news?’ ‘No,’ said I; ‘what is it?’ ‘Your brother George has killed himself.’ I did not say a word, my wife did not say a word, and he did not say one word more. We rode on, and as we rode I could not help thinking, ‘Killed himself! killed himself! killed himself!’ It was nearly an hour before we got home, and then I learned that my brother’s death was caused by an accident with a double-barrelled gun while he was shooting birds in the garden; and it was a great relief to me to know that ‘killed himself’ did not mean suicide.”

Later came the death of his little boy George, the first loss in his own immediate family. He wrote, a few years later, to his sister, Mrs. Stowe:

“I was in a missionary field, enduring hardships, and thinking in myself always how to stand up under any blow, even if it were a thunder-stroke, with Paul’s heroism at once firing me and putting me to shame. Our noble boy suddenly sickened. Our people did not know how to sympathize. Few came while he lived; fewer yet when, on a bleak March day, we bore him through the storm, and, standing in the snow, we laid his beautiful form in his cold, white grave. Eunice was heart-broken. My home was a fountain of anguish. It was not for me to quail or show shrinking. So I choked my grief and turned outwardly from myself to seek occupation.”

In later years this sorrow had hardly lost its acuteness:

“I remember, to-night, as well as I did at the time, the night that my eldest-born son died. That was my first great sorrow. I remember the battle of hope and of fear, and I remember the victory of submission. The child revived in the night. I went to Indianapolis (I lived on the edge of that city), and I shall never forget the amazing uplift of soul that I had, nor that one unspoken, universal thought of prayer, which seemed to me to fill the whole hemisphere, for the life of my child. I think that if one ever came near throwing his soul out of his body, I did. And yet before the morning dawned the child had found a brighter world. This was a double sorrow because I had given him up and then taken him back again. Then came the sudden wrench.

“It was in March, and there had just come up a great storm, and all the ground was covered with snow.

“We went down to the graveyard with little Georgie, and waded through it in the snow. I got out of the carriage, and took the little coffin in my arms, and walked knee-deep to the side of the grave, and looking in I saw the winter down at the very bottom of it. The coffin was lowered to its place, and I saw the snowflakes follow it and cover it, and then the earth hid it from the winter.

“If I should live a thousand years I could not help shivering every time I thought of it. It seemed to me then as though I had not only lost my child, but buried him in eternal snows. It was very hard for faith or imagination to break through the physical aspect of things and find a brighter feeling.”

The attachment which his people felt for him was more than reciprocated. He always loved to recall these early years and in memory live over again their joys and sorrows, their struggles and triumphs.

In the early winter of 1877, in the course of a Western lecture trip, revisiting Indianapolis, he wrote back:

“I went to Indianapolis in the fall of 1849 with a sick babe in my arms, who showed the first symptoms of recovery after eating blackberries which I gathered by the way. The city had then a population of four thousand. At no time during my residence did it outreach five thousand. Behold it to-day with one hundred and ten thousand inhabitants! The Great National Road, which at that time was of great importance, since sunk into forgetfulness, ran through the city and constituted the main street. With the exception of two or three streets there were no ways along which could not be seen the original stumps of the forest. I bumped against them in a buggy too often not to be assured of the fact.

“Here I preached my first real sermon; here, for the first time, I strove against death in behalf of a child, and was defeated; here I built a house and painted it with my own hands; here I had my first garden and became the bishop of flowers for this diocese; here I first joined the editorial fraternity and edited the Farmer and Gardener; here I had my first full taste of chills and fever; here for the first and last time I waded to church ankle-deep in mud and preached with pantaloons tucked into my boot-tops. All is changed now.

“In searching for my obscure little ten-foot cottage I got lost. So changed was everything that I groped over familiar territory like a blind man in a strange city. It is no longer my Indianapolis, with the aboriginal forest fringing the town, with pasture-fields lying right across from my house; without coal, without railroads, without a stone big enough to throw at a cat. It was a joyful day and a precious gift when Calvin Fletcher allowed me to take from the fragments of stone used to make foundations for the State Bank a piece large enough to put in my pork-barrel. I left Indianapolis for Brooklyn on the very day upon which the cars on the Madison Railroad for the first time entered the town; and I departed on the first train that ever left the place. On a wood-car, rigged up with boards across from side to side, went I forth.

“It is now a mighty city, full of foundries, manufactories, wholesale stores, a magnificent court-house, beautiful dwellings, noble churches, wide and fine streets, and railroads more than I can name radiating to every point of the compass.

“The old academy where I preached for a few months is gone, but the church into which the congregation soon entered still is standing on the Governor’s Circle. No one can look upon that building as I do. A father goes back to his first house, though it be but a cabin, where his children were born, with feelings which can never be transferred to any other place. As I looked long and yearningly upon that homely building the old time came back again. I stood in the crowded lecture-room as on the night when the current of religious feeling first was beginning to flow! Talk of a young mother’s feelings over her first babe—what is that compared with the solemnity, the enthusiasm, the impetuosity of gratitude, of humility, of singing gladness, with which a young pastor greets the incoming of his first revival? He stands upon the shore to see the tide come in! It is the movement of the infinite, ethereal tide! It is from the other world! There is no color like heart color. The homeliest things dipped in that for ever after glow with celestial hues. The hymns that we sang in sorrow or in joy and triumph in that humble basement have never lost a feather, but fly back and forth between the soul and heaven, plumed as never was any bird-of-paradise.

“I stood and looked at the homely old building, and saw a procession of forms going in and out that the outward eye will never see again—Judge Morris, Samuel Merril, Oliver H. Smith, D. V. Cully, John L. Ketcham, Coburn, Fletcher, Bates, Bullard, Munsel, Ackley, O’Neil, and many, many more! There have been hours when there was not a hand-breadth between us and the saintly host in the invisible church! In the heat and pressure of later years the memories of those early days have been laid aside, but not effaced. They rise as I stand, and move in a gentle procession before me. No outward history is comparable to the soul’s inward life; of the soul’s inward life no part is so sublime as its eminent religious developments. And the pastor, who walks with men, delivering them from thrall, aspersing their sorrow with tears, kindling his own heart as a torch to light the way for those who would see the invisible, has, of all men, the most transcendent heart-histories. I have seen much of life since I trod that threshold for the last time; but nothing has dimmed my love, nor has any later or riper experience taken away the bloom and sanctity of my early love. And I can truly say of hundreds: ‘For though ye have ten thousand instructors in Christ, yet have ye not many fathers; for in Christ Jesus I have begotten you through the Gospel.’

“But other incidents arise—the days of sickness, chills and fever, the gardening days, my first editorial experience, my luck in horses and pigs, my house-building; and not a few scrapes—being stalled in mud, half-drowned in crossing rivers, long, lonely forest rides, camp-meetings, preachings in cabins, sleepings in the open air.

“I was reminded of one comical experience as I was seeking on Market Street to find the old swale or shallow ravine which ran between my cottage and Mr. Bates’s dwelling. It had formerly been a kind of bayou in spring when the stream above town overflowed, but dried off in summer. To redeem it from unhealth a dike had been built to restrain the river and turn the superfluous freshets another way. But one year the levee gave way in the night; and when the morning rose, behold a flood between me and my neighbor! There was sport on hand! It was too deep for wading, but I could extemporize a boat. I brought down to the edge my wife’s large washing-tub, and intended with a bit of board to paddle about. No sooner was I in than I was out. The tub refused to stand on its own bottom. Well, well, said I, two tubs are better than one. So I got its mate, and, nailing two strips across to hold them fast together, I was sure that they were too long now to upset. So they were, in the long line; but sideways they went over, carrying me with them with incredible celerity. Tubs were one thing, boats another—that I saw plainly.

“I would not be baffled. I proposed a raft. Getting rails from the fence, I soon had tacked boards across—enough of them to carry my weight. Then, with a long pole, I began my voyage. Alas! it came to a ludicrous end.

“A rail fence ran across this ravine in the field, just above the street. One end of the fence had loosened, and the water had floated it round enough to break its connection with its hither side. A large but young dog belonging to a friend had walked along the fence, hoping to cross dry-footed, till he came to the abrupt termination, and, his courage failing him, he had crouched down and lay trembling and whining, afraid to go back or to venture the water. I poled my raft up to the rescue; and, getting alongside, coaxed him to jump aboard, but his courage was all gone. He looked up wistfully, but stirred not. ‘Well, you coward, you shall come aboard.’ Seizing him by the skin of the neck, I hauled him on to the raft, which instantly began to sink. It was buoyant enough for a man, but not for a man and a lubberly dog. There was nothing for it—as the stupid thing would not stir, I had to; and with a spring I reached the fence just abdicated by the dog, while he, the raft now coming to the surface again, went sailing down the pond and was safely landed below, while I was left in the crotch of the fence. One such experiment ought to serve for a life-time, but alas!

“There is no end of things gone by. They rise at every point; and one walks encompassed with memories which accompany him through the living streets like invisible spirits.”