anecdotes. Much of his pulpit utterance was devoted to telling what
things were like. So the Sermon on the Mount was written, full of
similitudes. Like a man who built his house on a rock, like a candle in
a candle-stick, like a hen gathering her chickens under her wing, like a
net, like salt, like a city on a hill. And you hear the song birds, and
you smell the flowers. Mr. Beecher's grandest effects were wrought by
his illustrations, and he ransacked the universe for them. We need in
our pulpits just such irresistible illustrations, just such holy
vivacity. His was a victory of similitudes.

Towards the end of November, 1886, one of the most distinguished sons of
a Baptist preacher, Chester A. Arthur, died. He had arisen to the
highest point of national honour, and preserved the simplicities of true
character. When I was lecturing in Lexington, Kentucky, one summer, I
remember with what cordiality he accosted me in a crowd.

"Are you here?" he said; "why, it makes me feel very much at home."

Mr. Arthur aged fifteen years in the brief span of his administration.
He was very tired. Almost his last words were, "Life is not worth
living." Our public men need sympathy, not criticism. Macaulay, after
all his brilliant career in Parliament, after being world-renowned among
all who could admire fine writing, wrote this:

"Every friendship which a man may have becomes precarious as soon as he
engages in politics."

Political life is a graveyard of broken hearts. Daniel Webster died of a
broken heart at Marshfield. Under the highest monument in Kentucky lies
Henry Clay, dead of a broken heart. So died Henry Wilson, at Natick,