The man and his inspiration were constantly struggling for mastery. He would advance, on the tide of that inspiration, to the very brink of the precipice of heterodoxy; his large heart and enthusiasm carrying him and his hearers far beyond the limits of their narrow creeds, and then recovering himself he would recoil, restate, explain and hedge against the severity of the criticism provoked. But constantly he gained ground, and carried his hearers with him. He never retreated quite as far as he advanced, and in later years the inspiring power had educated the man to its level, and he bravely and boldly stood by his words. For an entire generation he stood in his pulpit, a divine oracle, every Sunday having an audience of the entire country, and as an elevating, educating power, was immeasurable. He broke the fetters from the slave; he broke the fetters of superstition from millions, more bondsmen than the negro slave. If you were to gather up all that he has written it would make a library of itself, and yet there is little of all that he has written or spoken that has permanent value, or will endure. Its value consisted not in its enduring qualities; rather in its _being tentative_; steps leading upward, and of no use after once being passed over. He did not, he could not, preach the ultimate truth. The laity, as a conservative force, restrained him. Like an eagle burdened with a great weight, he carried his church and the world forward, and with every new wave of inspiration the burden grew lighter, but he never was quite free. The limitation of the individual always stands in the path of perfect inspiration. He was forced to speak after the forms of the creeds and beliefs which he inherited, and believed by those he would instruct. Those beliefs were perishing, and his modifications did not quite grasp the whole truth, and hence must disappear. But through him a mighty influence was exerted; not such as may be likened to the avalanche which plunges down the mountain, but like the breath of spring, melting the snow and ice of winter, warming the indurated soil, and making possible the bursting forth of flowers, the prophecies of autumn fruitage. It is remarkable that few writers have given the world more than one master-piece, and often a single short poem, out of a mass of composition, is all that remains of permanent value. Gray’s “Elegy” and “Sweet Home” are examples. The genius which could write these wonderful poems ought to have been able to write others equally perfect; yet only once did the authors touch the pure fount of inspiration. Mrs. Julia Ward Howe in such a moment wrote the “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which, unlike anything ever before written, and unlike anything else she ever wrote, became the marching song of a nation along the pathway of justice.