he went to Charleston to
deliver the address at Fort Sumter upon the occasion of the rehoisting
of the flag of the United States over that work. The news of the
assassination of Mr. Lincoln met him upon his return to Brooklyn, and
drew from him one of his most memorable sermons. At the close of
hostilities, he preached a sermon to his congregation, urging
forgiveness and conciliation toward the South as the policy of the hour,
saying truly that that crisis was a rare opportunity which would never
come again, if spurned. The sermon was unpopular, and caused him some
trouble even in his own congregation.

Mr. Beecher is now fifty-seven years old, but is still in the flush of
his intellectual vigor. His eye is as bright, his step as firm and
elastic, and his voice as clear and ringing as when he preached his
first sermon. His powers have grown with his work, and every year he
seems to rise higher in his intellectual supremacy. As a pulpit orator,
he has no superior, and certainly there is no man in all this round
earth whose eloquence has been productive of greater good to the cause
he serves. He is a stout, stocky man in appearance, with a large square
face and heavy features. It is the face of a great orator and a genial,
warm-hearted man. He is careful and temperate in all his habits--except
that he will work too hard--and enjoys robust health. He lives plainly
and dresses simply. He impresses one at once with his immense energy,
and you would recognize him immediately as a man of unusual power in his
community. Said a friend not long since, "I was standing by Beecher in a
book-store to-day. He was perfectly still, as he was waiting for a
parcel to be done up, but he reminded me of a big locomotive full of
steam and fire, and ready to display its immense force at any moment."

Mr. Beecher is not only a preacher, but a capital farmer. He has a model
farm at Peekskill, on the Hudson, and is brimful of agricultural and
horticultural theories, which he carries into practice successfully. His
love for flowers is a perfect passion, and dates from his boyhood. He is
an excellent mechanic, and makes the repairs on his own premises, as far
as he can, with a keen relish, which he has doubtless inherited from his
father. He is thoroughly read in history, and as an art critic has no
superior. His house is filled with art gems, which are his pride. He has
not lost the love of reverie which marked his boyhood, but he is
eminently a