life. There were bores in the pulpit who made their congregations dread
Sundays; made them wish that Sunday would come only once a month. At one
time an original Frenchman actually tried having a Sunday only once
every ten days. A minister should have a conference with his people
before he preaches, otherwise how can he tell what medicine to give
them? He must feel the spiritual pulse. Every man is a walking eternity
in himself, but he will never qualify if he insists on being a bore,
even if he have to face sensational newspaper stories about himself.

I never replied to any such tales except once, and that once came about
in the spring of 1888. I regarded it as a joke. Some one reported that
one evening, at a little gathering in my house, there were four kinds of
wine served. I was much interviewed on the subject. I announced in my
church that the report was false, that we had no wine. I did not take
the matter as one of offence. If I had been as great a master of
invective and satire as Roscoe Conkling I might have said more. In the
spring of this year he died. The whole country watched anxiously the
news bulletins of his death. He died a lawyer. About Conkling as a
politician I have nothing to say. There is no need to enter that field
of enraged controversy. As a lawyer he was brilliant, severely logical,
if he chose to be, uproarious with mirth if he thought it appropriate.
He was an optimist. He was on board the "Bothnia" when she broke her
shaft at sea, and much anxiety was felt for him. I sailed a week later
on the "Umbria," and overtaking the "Bothnia," the two ships went into
harbour together. Meeting Mr. Conkling the next morning, in the
North-Western Hotel, at Liverpool, I asked him if he had not been
worried.

"Oh, no," he said; "I was sure that good fortune would bring us through
all right."