interest we had been compelled to take for money had been a good thing.
It had enlivened investments in building factories and starting great
enterprises. The 2 per cent. per month interest was dead. The fact that
a few small fish dared to swim through Wall Street, only to be gobbled
up, did not stop the rising tide of national welfare. We were going
ahead, gaining, profiting even by the lives of those who were leaving us
behind.

The loss of the Rev. J. Hyatt Smith restored the symbol and triumph of
self-sacrifice. In the most exact sense of the word he was a genius. He
wasted no time in his study that he could devote to others, he was
always busy raising money to pay house rent for some poor woman,
exhausting his energies in trying to keep people out of trouble,
answering the call of every school, of every reformatory, every
philanthropic institution. Had he given more time to study, he would
hardly have had an equal in the American pulpit. He depended always upon
the inspiration of the moment. Sometimes he failed on this account. I
have heard him when he had the pathos of a Summerfield, the wit of a
Sidney Smith, and the wondrous thundering phraseology of a Thomas
Carlyle. He had been everywhere, seen everything, experienced great
variety of gladness, grief, and betrayal. If you had lost a child, he
was the first man at your side to console you. If you had a great joy,
his was the first telegram to congratulate you. For two years he was in
Congress. His Sundays in Washington were spent preaching in pulpits of
all denominations. The first time I ever saw him was when he came to my
house in Philadelphia, ringing the door bell, that he might assuage a
great sorrow that had come to me. He was always in the shadowed home.
How much the world owes to such a nature is beyond the world's gift to
return. His wit was of the kind that, like the dew, refreshes. He never
laughed at anything but that which ought to be laughed at. He never