I hardly knew my own name at the Packer Institute.  The students called me “Canary,” I suppose on account of my yellow hair and rather high treble voice; Mr. Crittenden always spoke to me as Miss “Sunburn,” and when my laundry was returned, it was addressed to “Miss Lampoon.”

Beecher was to me the clerical miracle of his age—­a man of extraordinary personal magnetism, with power to rouse laughter and right away compel tears, I used to listen often to his marvellous sermons.  I can see him now as he went up the middle aisle in winter wearing a clumsy overcoat, his face giving the impression of heavy, coarse features, thick lips, a commonplace nose, eyes that lacked expression, nothing to give any idea of the man as he would look after the long prayer.  When the audience reverently bowed their heads my own eyes were irresistibly drawn toward the preacher.  For he prayed as if he felt that he was addressing an all-powerful, omnipresent, tender, loving Heavenly Father who was listening to his appeal.  And as he went on and on with increasing fervour and power a marvellous change transfigured that heavy face, it shone with a white light and spiritual feeling, as if he fully realized his communion with God Himself.  I used to think of that phrase in Matthew: 

“And was transfigured before them,
And his face did shine as the sun.”

I never heard anyone mention this marvellous transformation.  But I remember that Beecher once acknowledged to a reporter that he never knew what he had said in his sermon until he looked at the resume in Monday’s paper.

During the hard days of Beecher’s trial a lady who was a guest at the house told me she was waked one morning by the merry laughter of Beecher’s little grandchildren and peeping into their room found Mr. Beecher having a jolly frolic with them.  He was trying to get them dressed; his efforts were most comical, putting on their garments wrong side out or buttoning in front when they were intended to fasten in the back, and “funny Grandpa” enjoying it all quite as sincerely as these little ones.  A pretty picture.

Saxe (John Godfrey) called during one recess hour.  The crowds of girls passing back and forth interested him, as they seemed to care less for eating than for wreathing their arms round each other, with a good deal of kissing, and “deary,” “perfectly lovely,” etc.  He described his impressions in two words:  “Unconscious rehearsing.”

Once he handed me a poem he had just dashed off written with pencil, “To my Saxon Blonde.”  I was surprised and somewhat flattered, regarding it as a complimentary impromptu.  But, on looking up his poetry in the library, I found the same verses printed years before: 

“If bards of old the truth have told,
The sirens had raven hair;
But ever since the earth had birth,
They paint the angels fair.”

Probably that was a habit with him.

When a friend joked him about his very-much-at-home manner at the United States Hotel at Saratoga, where he went every year, saying as they sat together on the upper piazza, “Why, Saxe, I should fancy you owned this hotel,” he rose, and lounging against one of the pillars answered, “Well, I have a ‘lien’ on this piazza.”