The monument itself, as may be inferred from the mention of John Quincy Adams Ward as its designer, is one that shows intelligent and conscientious work besides much technical skill. It is animated by a definite conception of its subject, and partakes of the character of an ideal group as well as that of an actual likeness. The subsidiary portion is of course wholly ideal; while the central figure itself is something more than a reproduction of the form and features of its original. Those who remember Mr. Beecher only in the last few years of his life may be inclined to think that the lines of the statue’s face are too deep and emphatic, that its expression has too much positiveness and strength, and too little gentleness and benignity. There is truth in this criticism, if criticism it can be called. The sculptor prepared for his task by taking a death mask of Mr. Beecher’s face; but from the more rounded outlines of the preacher’s later years he deliberately went back to show him as he was in the prime of life, in those stirring times when he led the vanguard of freedom’s forces. The statue is Beecher as he will live in the grateful memory of posterity, rather than as he lives in the affectionate recollection of surviving friends. It is the Beecher of history. [Illustration: HENRY WARD BEECHER.] Indeed, the designer has struck the very keynote of Beecher’s immortality. He has given us the man who voiced the cause of emancipation in the days when it was the protest of the minority against a great wrong firmly intrenched in the possession of power; the man who faced anti-abolition mobs in New York and the prejudice of a nation in England; the man who all through his life seemed to delight in facing unjust opposition and in fighting the battle of the weak against the strong. He was born during the war of 1812, a perilous crisis in our national history. To quote from the memoir compiled by members of his family, “he carried war in him as a birthmark, but with him it was war against wickedness and wrong.” He was an abolitionist in his undergraduate days at Amherst, where his first attacks upon human slavery were made in the college debating society. Then, as a young minister in an Ohio River town, he was brought into close contact with the institution, and saw its actual horrors. He returned east to Brooklyn to lift up in that city a voice that presently made itself heard from the Atlantic to the Pacific. He would accept no compromise, and fought with all his powers against that offered in 1850 by Henry Clay. “For every free State,” he cried, “it demands one State for slavery. One dark orb must be swung into its orbit, to groan and travail in pain, for every new orb of liberty over which the morning stars shall sing for joy.”