is too severe remarks. Miss
Willard met him more than half-way, with generous cordiality, and they
became good friends. And when with the women of the circle again she
said: "Now wasn't that just grand in that dear old man? I like him the
more for his outspoken honesty and his unwillingness to pain me."

How they laboured with "Walt" to induce him to leave out certain of
his poems from the next edition! The wife went to her room to pray
that he might yield, and the husband argued. But no use, it was all
"art" every word, and not one line would he ever give up. The old poet
was supposed to be poor and needy, and an enthusiastic daughter of
Mrs. Smith had secured quite a sum at college to provide bed linen and
blankets for him in the simple cottage at Camden. Whitman was a great,
breezy, florid-faced out-of-doors genius, but we all wished he had
been a little less _au naturel_.

To speak once more of Miss Willard, no one enjoyed a really laughable
thing more than she did, but I never felt like being a foolish trifler
in her presence. Her outlook was so far above mine that I always felt
not rebuked, but ashamed of my superficial lightness of manner.

Just one illustration of the unconscious influence of her noble soul
and her convincing words:

Many years ago, at an anniversary of Sorosis in New York, I had half
promised the persuasive president (Jennie June) that I would say
something. The possibility of being called up for an after-dinner
speech! Something brief, terse, sparkling, complimentary,
satisfactory, and something to raise a laugh! O, you know this agony!
I had nothing in particular to say; I wanted to be quiet and enjoy the
treat. But between each course I tried hard, while apparently
listening to my neighbour, to think up something "neat and
appropriate."

This coming martyrdom, which increases in horror as you advance with
deceptive gayety, from roast to game, and game to ices, is really one
of the severest trials of club life.

Miss Willard was one of the honoured guests of the day, and was
called on first. When she arose and began to speak, I felt instantly
that she had something to say; something that she felt was important
we should hear, and how beautifully, how simply it was said! Not a
thought of self, not one instant's hesitation for a thought or a word,
yet it was evidently unwritten and not committed to memory. Every eye
was drawn to her earnest face; every heart was touched. As she sat
down