A Biography of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher. Scoville Samuel

your father’s life, but I sit and dream of the past and write just as it rises before me, as fresh as if but yesterday, hoping by doing so something may come to me that will be of service to you.”

      We shall give her notes just as she has written them, leaving it for our readers to judge whether or not they are of any service:

      “LOOKING BACK.

      “Fifty-seven years ago last May, 1831, my brother Ebenezer, then in his Freshman year in Amherst College, wrote: ‘The term closes this week. I shall walk home (fifty miles), and would like to bring two of my classmates with me. We shall start before the sun and hope to be with you by supper-time. Don’t be at any more trouble than if there were three Ebenezers coming home.’

      “No; of course not! Sickness in the village made it impossible to get help that summer, and mother and I were doing the work alone for a very large family, so large that a half-dozen more or less made little difference.

      “In good time for supper, weary and travel-soiled, my brother and his two friends made their appearance: one a tall, very dark-complexioned gentleman, the other a very verdant-looking youth, a Freshman of not quite eighteen—an age when one is prepared to find a young man awkward and painfully embarrassed, and to look with dismay on the prospect of trying to entertain and make him comfortable.

      “But even then the roguish mouth, the laughing, merry eyes, the quaint humor and quick repartee, very soon put all such anxiety to flight. This was Henry Ward Beecher as I first saw him. Truth to tell, an exceedingly homely young man. But, in youth or old age, who ever thought of that, or, thinking, believed it after being with him an hour? Before that first evening was ended none of the family thought of him as a stranger; he was thoroughly at home with all. There were truly ‘only three Ebenezers there,’ each equally ready for quiet conversation, music, fun, repartee, or teasing; but the youngest of the three was the most expert in the latter accomplishment.

      “After our outside work was done mother and I took knitting and sewing and sat down with them. I was going to wind a skein of sewing-silk (that was before spools were common), and, as was my custom, put it over the back of a chair. More gallant and thoughtful, apparently, than his older companions, this young gentleman insisted upon holding it for me to wind. For some reason—perfectly unaccountable if one judged only by his quiet, innocent face, without watching the eyes and mouth—that skein became as intricately tangled as if tied by Macbeth’s witches. ‘A badly tangled skein, is it not?’ said he, when I had lost half my evening in getting it wound. ‘Rather more troublesome, I imagine, than if I had kept it on the chair,’ I replied. ‘It was a good trial of patience, anyhow,’ was his response to the laugh that followed.

      “Even my quiet mother was not exempt from some of his mirthful sallies, but he carried, in all his fun, such an inexhaustible store of gentleness and good-humor that I think she really enjoyed it. Often in after-years she used to say that Henry always made her feel young again.

      “My father had been called out some distance to see a patient and had not yet met the ‘three Ebenezers,’ but came in just as we were all laughing heartily at some story Henry had told. He stood in the doorway, tall, dignified, and somewhat stern. When at last we became conscious of his presence brother at once came forward and introduced his classmates. Father received them courteously, but a little of the sternness still lingered on his face as he took the chair which, without the least appearance of boldness, somehow young Mr. Beecher was the first to bring him, yet in no way seeming to put himself forward. Little by little the same subtle influence that had pervaded the whole evening’s enjoyment began to steal over father. The little cloud seen at first vanished, and long before it was time to retire my father was telling stories and Henry following with another as freely as if they had been boys together.

      “The others joined, but it was to young Beecher that father was most drawn. When the ‘good-nights’ were said, and while I went to the dairy to make some preparations for breakfast, father and mother took counsel together about the work for the morrow and various matters; but just as I returned father was saying: ‘He’s smart. If he lives he’ll make his mark in the world.’ ‘Who, father?’ I asked. ‘Why, young Beecher.’ (But father didn’t quite like the ‘mark’ he made a few months later—‘Nothing but a boy!’)

      “The visit was prolonged some days, and there was no end to the fun and frolic. Your father was constantly investigating, and by no means lacked assistance from my brother and his other more demure classmate, who, however, stayed only part of the time.

      “Mother and I were necessarily much of the time busy in the kitchen, milk-cellar, dairy, etc., but these young collegians found those places most attractive. The gentle way mother smiled at all the younger one’s mischievous pranks was a source of perpetual delight to him. He always said he fell in love with my mother, and, not being able to get her, took up with me.

      “One day, in taking out the bread, pies, etc., from the old-fashioned brick oven with the long-handled shovel, she dropped some ashes on one of the pies, and called me from the dairy to get it off while she removed other articles. Your father sprang forward. ‘No, no; I will get it off for you,’ and, respectfully taking it from her hands, the three, without her seeing the mischief, marched off with it into the garden, and, seating themselves under a big apple-tree, ate it all up. This labor of love accomplished, the others rather held back from proclaiming it, but your father demurely walked in and handed mother the empty plate, saying: ‘There! see, we have cleaned the plate nicely!’

      “One evening your uncle told him one of their classmates was engaged to Miss———. ‘I don’t believe it,’ said young Beecher. ‘She knows nothing about singing, and I am sure F———would never marry one who did not. I know I never would marry a woman who could not sing.’ Short-sighted mortal! In the evening brother asked him to get his flute and have some music. He did so, and after a short time asked me to sing. I replied: ‘I can’t; I never sang a note in my life.’

      “In the summer and fall after first meeting your father I taught school in Clappville, South Leicester, Mass., and at the commencement of his fall vacation at Amherst Henry found it necessary to go from Amherst to Boston (thinking it shorter, perhaps!) via Clappville, and entered my school-room just as I was dismissing the school for the day. He spent the evening at Brother Jones’s, where I was boarding, and, incidentally of course, remarked that he understood I was intending to visit my aunt in Whitingsville during the winter. I replied that after my school closed I was thinking of having a play-spell before taking another, and might be there at least through December.

      “After my school closed, while spending some time at home before my visit to my aunt, he called at father’s, and incidentally (again) remarked that he had been requested to teach the town school in Northbridge, and was to board at a Mr. Fletcher’s (Whitingsville was only a part of Northbridge, and he knew it all the time).

      “ ‘Why,’ said my father, ‘that’s where Eunice will be. Now, child, you have been teasing to go to some academy this winter and go on with your Latin, but,’ turning to the demure, quiet-looking young man, who had not seemed to pay any attention to what was going on—‘but she has overworked the past few months, and I won’t let her go to school. Perhaps, as you are to board at her aunt’s and she will be there a short time, you might give her some help if she is in trouble with her Latin!’ Strange as it may seem, he didn’t appear to feel it an intrusion, but professed himself as very ready to render me any service. Even my clear-sighted mother saw nothing out of the way in father’s suggestion. ‘He was such a boy!’ as she said afterward. Neither did I, as I might have done had he been older; only, even though he was now a Sophomore, I didn’t believe he could help me much—I who had been a school-ma’am for three terms! And how young and boyish he did look! But (an after-thought) he might, after all, know much more than his looks led us to give him credit for.

      “He came to uncle’s a week after I did, one Saturday, so as to be ready to begin school Monday. That evening (January 2, 1832) the young teacher, my cousin, a young lad who was to be under his care, and myself were all in the parlor writing. Uncle and aunt were out calling. He interrupted my writing by asking