My father was a man of keen, quick sympathies. Suffering and sorrow, in every form, found a ready response in his breast. The little griefs of his children were never too small or too trifling to receive his notice. How quickly they often disappeared, when we had poured them into his ear, and received his pitying caresses! The trials and afflictions of his pupils weighed upon him, and brought a cloud over his usually serene face.

In some cases, his quick sympathies led him to bestow aid upon those who were unworthy; but even when he found he had been imposed upon, he could not learn a lesson from the fact. There was a freshness and simplicity in his feelings, in this respect, truly wonderful. He was a very child in some things; his filling eye and trembling lip, when listening to a tale of suffering, oh, how well I can recall them! Ever after I knew my father, until within a few years of his decease, he never read fiction. When he was preparing his theological works, my mother, for the relaxation of his mind, used occasionally to read aloud a work of this character. At one time she read "Oliver Twist." The trials and struggles of the poor child made a deep impression on his mind. Poor

Oliver needed a friend. He longed to be that friend; to encourage him to be honest, and faithful to his own convictions of right.

One evening when there seemed great danger that the friendless boy would be led into sin, my father, to whom the scenes were all as real as those passing before his eye, actually carried the little orphan to the throne of grace, and pleaded, by God's promises to the fatherless, that he would befriend the desolate child, and keep him from all evil.

At the annual exhibition of Phillips Academy it used to be customary to have two or more dialogues; the speakers acting their parts as well as they were able. I remember being present on one occasion, when the exercises were of an uncommonly thrilling nature. My father, with some of his colleagues, occupied prominent seats on the platform opposite the stage, they being quite as conspicuous as the actors. A scene commenced, in which a father, for some political offence, was banished from his home and country, separated from his wife and only son, and confined in a dungeon, in some foreign land. Years passed; the son grew up without being aware, I think, of the existence of his father, when circumstances drove him also from home to the very country where that father lay a hopeless prisoner. At last, for some fancied crime, he too was thrown into prison. Parent and child met face to face, but, alas, as strangers! Companions in misery, the sound

of the young man's voice at last recalled loved scenes. The poor prisoner started wildly to his feet, his arms thrown over his head.

I was not the only one whose attention was divided between the well-acted play and the evident restraint my father was placing on his feelings. He had entered into the sorrows of the poor father with his whole soul. His foot moved up and down in his own peculiar manner. His lip quivered. When the two rushed into each other's arms, the excitement was more than he could endure. With a sob, which he could not repress, he rose hastily and left the room, followed by the gaze of sundry among the trustees who had been watching his emotion with an amused smile.

Hon. B. W. Harris, member of Congress, informed me that he once sat in the chapel, in Andover, where he could watch my father during one of Gough's famous lectures. He said that father's interest and emotion during the relation of Gough's stories were so intense and childlike, it was worth more to watch him than to listen to the lecturer.

Shortly after the burning of the Charlestown nunnery, my father was one evening sitting in his study, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and a young girl arrayed in the garb of a nun, shrouded from head to feet, rushed to his side, and threw herself on her knees before him.

"Save me, oh, kind sir! save me!" she cried. "I have

escaped from the convent. My pursuers are close after me. Save me! Save me!"

My father, throwing down his pen, rose suddenly, every feature blanched, and only saying, "My poor child, I will befriend you. Come with me to my wife"; led her out to the sitting-room.

Crouching upon the floor, with her face hidden in her hands, the nun remained, while father hurriedly requested my mother to conceal the poor wanderer in her chamber, and attend to her personal comfort.

I shall never forget the sympathizing tenderness in my father's pale face; the anxious care that she should be in safety before the threatened pursuers came in view; nor the indignation which quickly succeeded these emotions when he found the appeal had been false, his sympathies had been imposed upon.

From the first moment of the nun's entrance into the sitting room, I thought, notwithstanding her disguise, there was something strangely familiar in her appearance, and while she covered her face, took the liberty to draw aside the veil. As I half suspected, the ci-devant runaway was my most intimate companion, Elizabeth Stuart.