He always had a sad face, as one who knew and grieved over the faults and frailties of humanity, but at this time he was recovering from a severe fall, and walked with a slow and feeble step.

When he noticed me sitting on the broad piazza, he came, and taking a chair beside me, began to joke in his old way, telling comical happenings, and inquired if I knew where Noah kept his bees.
His answer: "In the Ark-hives, of course." Once when I asked his opinion of a pompous, loud-voiced minister, he only said, "Self, self, self!" I wonder how many in his audiences or his congregation could understand more than half of what he was saying.

I once went to an Authors' Reading in Boston where he recited a poem, doubtless very impressive, but although in a box just over the stage, I could not get one word.

He placed his voice at the roof of his mouth, a fine sounding board, but the words went no farther than the inside of his lips.

I believe his grand books influence more persons for better lives than even his personal presence and Christ-like magnetism.
Mr.Thomas Wentworth Higginson never failed me.