first in the human love of Jesus,
their names have occupied a place of special fondness in the hearts of
all men ever since. Like the fly held in the amber, the memory of
great and sterling qualities is encased and perpetuated in the very
names we bear.

I like to dwell on that memorable scene that took place at the burial
of Longfellow. A notable company gathered at the poet's funeral; and,
among them, Emerson came up from Concord. His brilliant and majestic
powers were in ruins. He stood for a long, long time looking down into
the quiet, dead face of Longfellow, but said nothing. At last he
turned sadly away, and, as he did so, he remarked to those who stood
reverently by, 'The gentleman we are burying to-day was a sweet and
beautiful soul, _but I forget his name!_' Yes, that is the beauty of
it all. The name perpetuates and celebrates the memory of the
goodness; but the memory of the goodness lingers after the memory of
the name is lost. I shall enjoy the fragrance of the roses over my
lattice when I can no longer recall the names by which they are
distinguished.

Mrs. Booth used to love to tell a beautiful story of a man whose
saintly life left its permanent and gracious impress upon her own. He
seemed to grow in grace and charm and in all nobleness with every day
he lived. At the last he could speak of nothing but the glories of his
Saviour, and his face was radiant with awe and affection whenever he
mentioned that holy name. It chanced that, as he was dying, a document
was discovered that imperatively required his signature. He held the
pen for one brief moment, wrote, and fell back upon the pillows, dead.
And on the paper he had written, not his own name, but the Name that is
above every name. Within sight of the things within the veil, that
seemed to be the only name that mattered.

VI

THE MISTRESS OF THE MARGIN

I love a margin. There is something delicious, luxurious, glorious in
the spacious field of creamy paper bounded by the black letterpress on
the one side and the gilt edges on the other. Could anything be more
abominable than a book that is printed to the uttermost extremities of
every page? It is an outrage, I aver, on human nature. Indeed, it is
an outrage upon Nature herself, for Nature loves her margins even more
than I do. She goes in for margins on a truly stupendous scale. She
wants a bird, so a dozen are hatched. She knows perfectly well that
eleven out of the t