gence, and
her bad luck.

When Harry Scoville was eighteen he wanted to go on the stage. At twenty
he entered the ministry. It was the natural outlet for his suppressed
talents. In his day and family and environment young men did not go on
the stage. The Scovilles were Illinois pioneers and lived in Evanston,
and Mrs. Scoville (Harrietta's grandmother, you understand, though
Harrietta had not yet appeared) had a good deal to say as to whether
coleslaw or cucumber pickles should be served at the Presbyterian church
suppers, along with the veal loaf and the scalloped oysters. And when
she decided on coleslaw, coleslaw it was. A firm tread had Mother
Scoville, a light hand with pastry, and a will that was adamant. She it
was who misdirected Harry's gifts toward the pulpit instead of the
stage. He never forgave her for it, though he made a great success of
his calling and she died unsuspecting his rancour. The women of his
congregation shivered deliciously when the Rev. H. John Scoville stood
on his tiptoes at the apex of some fiery period and hurled the force of
his eloquence at them. He, the minister, was unconsciously dramatizing
himself as a minister.

The dramatic method had not then come into use in the pulpit. His method
of delivery was more restrained than that of the old-time revivalist;
less analytical and detached than that of the present-day religious
lecturer.

Presbyterian Evanston wending its way home to Sunday roast and ice cream
would say: "Wasn't Reverend Scoville powerful to-day! My!" They never
guessed how Reverend Scoville had had to restrain himself from
delivering Mark Antony's address to the Romans. He often did it in his
study when his gentle wife thought he was rehearsing next Sunday's
sermon.

As he grew older he overcame these boyish weaknesses, but he never got
over his feeling for the stage. There were certain ill-natured gossips
who claimed to have recognized the fine, upright figure and the mobile
face with hair greying at the temples as having occupied a seat in the
third row of the balcony in the old Grand Opera House during the run of
Erminie. The elders put it down as spite talk and declared that,
personally, they didn't believe a word of it. The Rev. H. John did
rather startle them when he discarded the ministerial black broadcloth
for a natty Oxford suit of almost business cut. He was a pioneer in this
among the clergy. The congregation soon became accustomed to it; in
time, boast