e
exemplified the spirit of resignation which is breathed throughout so
many of his poems.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told.

"My husband and I made our last visit to him two years ago, at Oak
Knoll. He gave us his customary warm greeting and, although in
extremely feeble health, was as sweet and genial in spirit and as
entertaining in conversation as ever. He took us into his cosey little
library, and talked about his books and pictures and old friends, and
promised to send us his latest photograph,--which he afterwards did.
Fearing to weary him, we stayed but a short time. So frail he looked,
that in parting from him our hearts were saddened by the thought that
we might not look upon that dear face again. And so it proved. I shall
ever remember him as I saw him then, in his beautiful country home,
surrounded by devoted friends, awaiting calmly the summons to enter
into rest--in that serene and lovely old age which comes only to those
gifted ones whose lives are the embodiment of all that is noblest and
best and sweetest in their poetry.

"Farewell, beloved, revered friend! Thou art gone to join the loved
ones who beckoned to thee from those blessed shores of Peace. To thee,
how great the gain! To us, how infinite the loss! But thy influence
shall remain with us. Still shalt thou

... be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty--
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.

LXIII

HENRY WARD BEECHER

It would be no compliment to call Henry Ward Beecher the American
Spurgeon. He may be that, but he is more. If we can imagine Mr.
Spurgeon and Mr. John Bright with a cautious touch of Professor
Maurice and a strong tincture of the late F.W. Robertson--if, I say,
it is possible to imagine such a compound being brought up in New
England and at last securely fixed in a New York pulpit, we shall get
a product not unlike Henry Ward Beecher....

Mr. Beecher was brought up in the country. His novel, _Norwood_--not
very readable, by the way, although full of charming passages--abounds
in woods and streams, hills and dales, and flowers. "The willows," he
tells us somewhere, "had thrown off their silky catkins, and were in
leaf; th