“crowned heads, statesmen, scholars, and the people alike, have read, wept over, and applauded the simple story.” He also referred to Mrs. Stowe’s service to American literature in writing the tales of New England life. Although these alone, he said, were sufficient to make the reputation of any author, they were, in his opinion, eclipsed by the glory of “Uncle Tom.” He thought that her friends through all the world ranked her with the Deborahs and Miriams and Judiths of old, and when she sang the refrain, “Sing ye to the Lord, for He hath triumphed gloriously,” they would respond, “The Almighty Lord hath disappointed them by the hand of a woman!” With a heartfelt blessing and benediction, the address closed. After this an address was made by that beloved and devoted brother of Mrs. Stowe’s, to whom she had been so loyal a sister and friend ever since the days when she took him by the hand and led him to Ma’am Kilbourne’s school. Henry Ward Beecher was introduced and made a speech full of witticisms and good feeling. He said that people accused him at first of being the real author of “Uncle Tom’s Cabin”; that he then wrote his novel “Norwood,” and that killed this rumor dead! He told how he first read the book and with what tears. Then he gave a most wonderful tribute to his father and his mother, saying of him that, while his father thought he was great by his theology, everybody else knew that he was great by his religion; and of his mother, that the daughter Harriet was most like her in graces and excellences, though perhaps not in bodily presence. Following this came some beautiful poems written for the occasion. Mr. Whittier’s was the most beautiful of these: there was one also by Dr. Holmes which was full of his exquisite humor, and there were others by Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney and Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, Mrs. Fields, and one by Mrs. Stowe’s daughter, Mrs. Allen. This one at least must be copied here. A child came down to earth Just seventy years ago, And round its form the angels trod, Whispering low, “’Tis an instrument To be played by the hand of God.” Time sped its steadfast way; The child grew rosy and strong; Unconscious she sweetly played, With music right And discord wrong The song that God had made. The notes of the instrument rose Sweeter and better each day, Till it sung in clearest trumpet-tones “Cast off the bond, Release the slave; ’Tis thy brother who bleeds and groans! “Oh, hear the cry of the wronged, The hapless children of God! With folded hands and tearful eyes, Hopeless they stand; Patient and meek, They bow and kiss the rod.” O’er sea and mountain and shore, The music thundered and roared, Till the angels in heaven reëchoed its strain, And the love of man, With the mercy of God, Revived in our hearts again.