“My earthly life,” he says, “was given me by two of the best folks that ever lived on earth.” His father, Lyman Beecher, was one of the leading preachers, reformers, and controversialists of his day. Sturdy in body and mind, full of sensibility, aflame with enthusiasm, devoted to the highest aims and utterly unselfish in life, a Christian in whom deep spirituality and strong common sense were happily blended, he was just the man to transmit excellent qualities to his children; a father to be enjoyed while living, and to be remembered with love and reverence after his death. Of him his son says: “While he was eloquent and among the foremost speakers of his day, I remember particularly that I never heard from him a word of uncharitableness, nor saw a symptom of envy or jealousy, or aught else but the most enthusiastic love of men, and of young men and young ministers; and knowing him in the household, I have yet to know another person that was so devoid of the inferior feelings and so eminent in the topmost feelings of human nature.” Lyman’s father’s name was David, a well-read, clear-headed man, with decided opinions upon the questions of the day; one with whom Roger Sherman delighted, upon his return from Congress, to talk over the business of the session and discuss public affairs. He kept college students as boarders, that he might enjoy their conversation, and made himself proficient in many of their studies. Of him his son said: “If he had received a regular education he would have been equal to anybody.” He was both blacksmith and farmer, and had the reputation of “raising the nicest rye and making the best hoes in New England.” [Illustration: The Anvil and Oak Stump.] Lyman Beecher’s mother was a Lyman, a woman “of a joyous, sparkling, hopeful temperament.” Her grandfather was a Scotchman, thus giving a little Gaelic blood to the veins of her descendants. In his autobiography Lyman Beecher says: “She died of consumption two days after I was born. I was a seven-months child, and when the woman that attended on her saw what a puny thing I was, and that the mother could not live, she thought it useless to attempt to keep me alive. I was actually wrapped up and laid aside. But after a while one of the women thought she would look and see if I were living, and, finding I was, concluded to wash and dress me, saying: ‘It’s a pity he hadn’t died with his mother.’ So you see it was but by a hair’s-breadth I got a foothold in this world.” He was taken in charge by “Aunt Benton” and brought up on his uncle Lot Benton’s farm in North Guilford, where farm-work and farm-fare made him strong.