Beecher. Then: "How's your father, Miss Ingersoll? I hope he's well.
Many a time he and I have stood together on the platform, and wasn't
it lucky for me we were on the same side!"

Beecher was, indeed, a great, broad, generous man, who absorbed what
was good wherever found. Spencer's philosophy, Arnold's insight
tempered with sound sense, Ingersoll's staunch support of high
political ends were powers for good in the Republic. Mr. Beecher was
great enough to appreciate and hail as helpful friends all of these
men.

Arnold visited us in Scotland in 1887, and talking one day of sport he
said he did not shoot, he could not kill anything that had wings and
could soar in the clear blue sky; but, he added, he could not give up
fishing--"the accessories are so delightful." He told of his happiness
when a certain duke gave him a day's fishing twice or three times a
year. I forget who the kind duke was, but there was something unsavory
about him and mention was made of this. He was asked how he came to be
upon intimate terms with such a man.

"Ah!" he said, "a duke is always a personage with us, always a
personage, independent of brains or conduct. We are all snobs.
Hundreds of years have made us so, all snobs. We can't help it. It is
in the blood."

This was smilingly said, and I take it he made some mental
reservations. He was no snob himself, but one who naturally "smiled at
the claims of long descent," for generally the "descent" cannot be
questioned.

He was interested, however, in men of rank and wealth, and I remember
when in New York he wished particularly to meet Mr. Vanderbilt. I
ventured to say he would not find him different from other men.

"No, but it is something to know the richest man in the world," he
replied. "Certainly the man who makes his own wealth eclipses those
who inherit rank from others."

I asked him one day why he had never written critically upon
Shakespeare and assigned him his place upon the throne among the
poets. He said that thoughts of doing so had arisen, but reflection
always satisfied him that he was incompetent to write upon, much less
to criticize, Shakespeare. He believed it could not be successfully
done. Shakespeare was above all, could be measured by no rules of
criticism; and much as he should have liked to dwell upon his
transcendent genius, he had always recoiled from touching the subject.
I said that I was prepared for this, after his tribute which stands
to-day unequal