rses, based
on God's word, were a solid pile of concinnate argument, illuminated
with the divine light, and glowing with the divine love shed abroad in
his heart. In the spring of 1887, Mrs. Cuyler and myself visited New
Orleans, and I cared more to see Dr. Palmer than all the city besides.
He cordially welcomed me to the hospitalities of his house, and of that
pulpit which had so long been his throne. I do not wonder that the
people of New Orleans--of all classes and creeds--regarded him not only
with pride, but with an affection that greeted him at every step through
the city of which he was the foremost citizen.

As my readers may all know, Dr. Palmer, through the Civil War, was a
most ardent Secessionist, and as honestly so as I was a Unionist. He
spent much time in preaching to the Confederate soldiers, and he
narrated to me an amusing incident which illustrated his calm and
imperturbable temperament. On a certain fast-day (appointed by the
Confederate authorities) he was to preach in a rural church within the
Confederate lines. The Northern army was lying so close to them that a
battle was imminent at any moment. Dr. Palmer had begun his "long
prayer," when a Federal shell landed immediately under the windows of
the church and exploded with a terrific crash! The doctor was not to be
shelled out of his duty, and he went steadily on to the end of his
prayer. When he opened his eyes the house was deserted! His congregation
had slipped quietly out, and left him "alone in his glory."

Soon after my visit to New Orleans, my old friend was sorely bereaved by
the death of his wife. I wrote him a letter of condolence, and his reply
was, for sweetness and sublimity, worthy of Samuel Rutherford or Richard
Baxter. As both husband and wife are now reunited I venture to publish a
portion of this wonderful letter--both as a message of consolation to
others under a similar bereavement and as a tribute to the great loving
heart of Benjamin M. Palmer.

He says: "Truly my sorrow is a sorrow wholly by itself. What is to be
done with a love which belongs only to one, when that one is gone and
cannot take it up? It cannot perish, for it has become a part of our own
being. What shall we do with a lost love which wanders like a ghost
through all the chambers of the soul only to feel how empty they are? I
have about me--blessed be God! a dear daughter and grandchildren; but I
cannot divide this love among them, for it is incapable of di