To that mysterious realm where each must take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

"Yes," he said, "I will come back to Cummington." So he went to Europe
but came not back to occupy that home. He loved the old home. We were
driving by his place one day when we saw him planting apple trees in
July. We all know that apple trees won't grow when planted in July, so
my father, knowing him well, called to him and said, "Mr. Bryant, what
are you doing there? They won't grow." Mr. Bryant paused a moment and
looked at us, and then said half playfully: "Conwell, drive on, you
have no part nor lot in this matter. I do not expect these trees to
grow; I am setting them out because I want to live over again the days
when my father used to set trees when they would grow. I want to renew
that memory." He was wise, for in his work on "The Transmigration of
Races" he used that experience wonderfully.

In 1860, when we were teaching school, my elder brother and myself, in
Blanchford, Massachusetts, were asked to go to Brooklyn with the body
of a lady who died near our schools. We went to Brooklyn on Saturday
and after the funeral, our friends asked us to stay over Sunday,
saying that they would take us to hear Henry Ward Beecher! That was a
great inducement, because my father read the "Tribune" every Sunday
morning after his Bible (and sometimes before it) and what Henry Ward
Beecher said, my father thought, "was law and Gospel." Sunday night,
we went to Plymouth Church, and there was a crowd an hour before the
service, and when the doors were opened we were crowded up the stairs.
We boys were thrust back into a dirty corner where we could not
see. Oh, yes, that is the way they treat the boys, put them any
place--they're only boys! I remember the disappointment of that night,
when we went there more to see than hear. But finally Mr. Beecher came
out and gave out his text. I remember that I did not pay very much
attention to it. In the middle of the sermon Mr. Beecher began in the
strangest way to auction off a woman: "How much am I offered for the
woman?" he yelled, and while in his biographies, they have said that
this woman was sold in the Broadway Tabernacle, but I afterwards asked
Mr