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may study it ten hours—just to suit yourself. I want the lesson. Underwood, go to the blackboard!’

      “ ‘Oh! yes, but Underwood got somebody to show him his lesson.’

      “ ‘What do I care how you get it? That’s your business. But you must have it.’

      “It was tough for a green boy, but it seasoned him. In less than a month I had the most intense sense of intellectual independence and courage to defend my recitations.

      “In the midst of a lesson his cold and calm voice would fall upon me in the midst of a demonstration—‘No!’ I hesitated, stopped, and then went back to the beginning; and, on reaching the same spot again, ‘No!’ uttered with the tone of perfect conviction, barred my progress. ‘The next!’ and I sat down in red confusion. He too was stopped with ‘No!’ but went right on, finished, and, as he sat down, was rewarded with, ‘Very well.’

      “ ‘Why,’ whimpered I, ‘I recited it just as he did, and you said No!’

      “ ‘Why didn’t you say Yes, and stick to it? It is not enough to know your lesson. You must know that you know it. You have learned nothing till you are sure. If all the world says No, your business is to say Yes and to prove it!’ ”

      The other helper of this period was John E. Lovell.

      In a column of the Christian Union of July 14, 1880, devoted to “Inquiring Friends,” appeared this question with the accompanying answer:

      “We heard Mr. Beecher lecture recently in Boston and found the lecture a grand lesson in elocution. If Mr. Beecher would give through the column of ‘Inquiring Friends’ the methods of instruction and practice pursued by him, it would be very thankfully received by a subscriber and student. / / / / / / E. D. M.

      “I had from childhood a thickness of speech arising from a large palate, so that when a boy I used to be laughed at for talking as if I had pudding in my mouth. When I went to Amherst I was fortunate in passing into the hands of John Lovell, a teacher of elocution, and a better teacher for my purpose I cannot conceive. His system consisted in drill, or the thorough practice of inflexions by the voice, of gesture, posture, and articulation. Sometimes I was a whole hour practising my voice on a word—like ‘justice.’ I would have to take a posture, frequently at a mark chalked on the floor. Then we would go through all the gestures, exercising each movement of the arm and the throwing open the hand. All gestures except those of precision go in curves, the arm rising from the side, coming to the front, turning to the left or right. I was drilled as to how far the arm should come forward, where it should start from, how far go back, and under what circumstances these movements should be made. It was drill, drill, drill, until the motions almost became a second nature. Now I never know what movements I shall make. My gestures are natural, because this drill made them natural to me. The only method of acquiring an effective education is by practice, of not less than an hour a day, until the student has his voice and himself thoroughly subdued and trained to right expression.

      H. W. B.”

      Mr. Montague says: “Mr. Beecher submitted to Mr. Lovell’s drilling and training with a patience which proved his interest in the study to be great. The piece which was to be spoken was committed to memory from Mr. Lovell’s mouth, the pupil standing on the stage before him, and every sentence and word, accent and pronunciation, position and movement of the body, glance of the eye and tone of voice, all were subjects of study and criticism. And day after day, often for several weeks in continuance, Mr. Beecher submitted to this drilling upon the same piece, until his teacher pronounced him perfect.”

      His dramatic power was displayed and noted at this early period. Dr. Thomas Field, a classmate in the school, says: “One incident occurred during our residence in Mount Pleasant which left an abiding impression on my mind. At the exhibition at the close of the year, either 1828 or 1829, the drama of ‘William Tell’ was performed by some of the students, and your father took the part of the tyrant Gessler. Although sixty years have passed, I think now, as I thought then, that it was the most impressive performance I ever witnessed.”

      His love of flowers was so marked as to attract the attention of a gardener in the village, who gave him the use of a plot of ground where he might sow and plant what he chose; and here the boy spent many a play-hour in digging, sowing, and weeding, that he might enjoy the beauty which his own hand had been instrumental in producing. “In this garden-corner the chaplain of Mount Pleasant Institute found him one day lost in admiration for the opening buds and beautiful blossoms that were unfolding under his culture, and could not forbear to improve the opportunityopportunity and administer a gentle rebuke to the enthusiastic youth. ‘Ah! Henry,’ he said, ‘these things are pretty, very pretty, but, my boy, do you think that such things are worthy to occupy the attention of a man who has an immortal soul?’ ” The boy was abashed before so much dignity, and, we may add, stupidity, and assuming the stolid look that his bashfulness had made natural, at this time, under such circumstances, went on with his work among the flowers; but he said afterwards that he wanted to tell him that “since Almighty God had taken time to make these trifles, it did not seem amiss for him to take time to look at them.” So, now a youth, he is walking as when a child among flowers, and the leader of the boys in their most venturesome sports is kneeling in adoring silence over beds of pansies and asters, and feeding the hunger of his soul with the beauty of their forms and colors.

      In a letter dated December 24, 1828, addressed to his sister Harriet—the first that has come to our hands from Mount Pleasant—he gives some account of his manner of life at school, and various experiences:

      “Dear Sister:

      ” … I have to rise in the morning at half-past five o’clock, and after various little duties, such as fixing of room, washing, etc., which occupies about an hour, we proceed to breakfast, from thence to chapel, after which we have about ten minutes to prepare for school. Then we attend school from eight to twelve. An hour at noon is allowed for diversions of various sorts. Then dinner. After that school from half-past one to half-past four. At night we have about an hour and a half; then tea. After tea we have about ten minutes; then we are called to our rooms till nine.

      “Now I will tell you how I occupy my spare time—in reading, writing, and playing the flute. We are forming a band here. I shall play either the flute or hautboy. I enjoy myself pretty well. In Latin I am studying Sallust. As to ease, all I have to do is to study straight ahead. It comes pretty easy. My Greek is rather hard. I am as yet studying the grammar and Jacob’s Greek Reader. In elocution we read and speak alternately every other day.

      ” … I find it hard to keep as a Christian ought to. To be sure, I find delight in prayer, but I cannot find time to be alone sufficiently. We have in our room only two, one besides myself, but he is most of my play-hours practising on some instrument or other. I have some time, to be sure, but it is very irregular, and I never know when I shall have an opportunity for private devotions until the time comes. I do not like to read the Bible as well as to pray, but I suppose it is the same as it is with a lover, who loves to talk with his mistress in person better than to write when she is afar off. …

      “Your affectionate brother,

      “Henry.”

      His religious experience, of which we have heard nothing since he left Litchfield, the life in Boston apparently not being very favorable to it, again attracts our attention at this point. He says:

      “When I was fourteen years of age I left Boston and went to Mount Pleasant. There broke out while I was there one of those infectious religious revivals which have no basis of judicious instruction, but spring from inexperienced zeal. It resulted in many mushroom hopes, and I had one of them; but I do not know how or why I was converted. I only know I was in a sort of day-dream, in which I hoped I had given myself to Christ.

      “I wrote to father expressing this hope; he was overjoyed, and sent me a long, kind letter on the subject. But in the course of three or four weeks I was nearly over it; and I never shall forget how I felt, not long afterward, when a letter from father was handed me in which he said I must anticipate

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