Marmion"! I have heard him quote, in a public address before
the New York University, a whole page of Cicero without the slip of a
single word! His passion for polysyllables was very amusing, and he
loved to astonish his hearers by his "sesquipedalian" phraseology. A
certain visionary crank once intruded into his study and bored him with
a long dissertation. Dr. Cox's patience was exhausted, and pointing to
the door, he said: "My friend, do you observe that aperture in this
apartment? If you do, I wish that you would describe rectilineals, very
speedily."

I could fill several pages with racy anecdotes of the keen wit and the
varied erudition of my venerable friend. But let none of my readers
think of Dr. Cox as a clerical jester, or a pedant. He was a powerful
and intensely spiritual preacher of the living Gospel. In his New York
congregation were many of the best brains and fervent hearts to be found
in that city, and some of the leading laymen revered him as their
spiritual father. Sometimes he was betrayed into eccentricities, and his
vivid imagination often carried him away into discursive flights; yet
he never soared out of sight of Calvary's cross, and never betrayed the
precious Gospel committed to his trust.

The first time that I ever saw Henry Ward Beecher was in 1848. He was
then mustering his new congregation in the building once occupied by Dr.
Samuel H. Cox. It was a weekly lecture service that I attended, by
invitation of a lady who invited me to "go and hear our new-come genius
from the West." The room was full, and at the desk stood a brown-cheeked
young man with smooth-shaved face, big lustrous eyes, and luxuriant
brown hair--with a broad shirt collar tied with a black ribbon. His text
was "Grow in Grace," and he gave us a discourse that Matthew Henry could
not have surpassed in practical pith, or Spurgeon in evangelical fervor.
I used to tell Mr. Beecher that even after making full allowance for the
novelty of a first hearing, I never heard him surpass that Wednesday
evening lecture. He was plucking the first ripe grapes of his affluent
vintage; his "pomegranates were in full flower, and the spikenard sent
forth its fragrance." The very language of that savory sermon lingers in
my memory yet.

During my ministry in New York--from 1853 to 1860--I became intimate
with Mr. Beecher and spoke beside him on many a platform and heard him
in some of his most splendid efforts. He was a fascinating companion