to see you." When it is said, that he is the
"best beloved of all," is it not because he first loved us? The
generosity and friendliness of his soul captured our hearts. I
imagine that many thousands of dollars were poured into the treasury
of the A.M.A. evoked by the love kindled in hearts for our brother.
Men came to love the cause through him who loved them.

Mr. Powell was a man of enthusiasm; he worked at white heat. The
logic of his whole life seemed to be, "What I do I must do quickly."
He could not stop; he must hurry on. He could pass easily from one
thing to another. In all the years of my acquaintance with him I
never knew him to rest as other people rest. If his body was not
active his mind was. The river of his life had no sluggish intervals;
it was a torrent from first to last. His step was a bound; his
thought rushed in its movement. He could write a sermon in less time
than any other man in the seminary, so far as I know. Plans came to
him like an inspiration and were unfolded with a rapidity that seemed
to me wonderful. His scholarship was not technical. He always enjoyed
the larger sweep of things. He would have been the last man to devote
his life to the Greek preterite, and to question whether it would not
have been better to have confined himself to the dative case! Such
minutiae of erudition might be fascinating to others; it was not for
him. His large-heartedness, his sympathy, his wealthy and generous
spirit could not be condensed into a bookworm, or a recluse. They
rather equipped him to become a watchman, that he might declare what
he saw. He needed the whole Republic to range up and down in. His
ringing words might be heard on our Western frontier; but before
their echoes had scarcely died away, their wakening notes might be
taken up and reiterated on our New England coast. He was a voice
crying in the land. Like the Great Master, he was sent to "heal the
broken-hearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, to set at
liberty them that are bruised." It was the down-trodden races for
which he lived. Such a candle of the Lord would burn down to its
socket before the day was half spent. Such hot haste and burning zeal
must consume to ashes before the meridian is turned.

Oftentimes have I thought of our brother in connection with a remark
once made by Rufus Choate. Mr. Choate was an over-worked man, and in
his later years, the tension under which he was laboring was quite
apparent. He was met