hauled out on the street and loaded, threatening death to the mob if
they did not disperse. Glad am I to say that it was only a farce, and no
tragedy. My mode of first meeting this queer man was a case in which it
is best to fight fire with fire. I remember also the first funeral. It
nearly killed me. A splendid young man skating on the Passaic River in
front of my house had broken through the ice, and his body after many
hours had been grappled from the water and taken home to his distracted
parents. To be the chief consoler in such a calamity was something for
which I felt completely incompetent. When in the old but beautiful
church the silent form of the young man whom we all loved rested beneath
the pulpit, it was a pull upon my emotions I shall never forget. On the
way to the grave, in the same carriage with the eminent Reverend Dr.
Fish, who helped in the services, I said, "This is awful. One more
funeral like this will be the end of us." He replied, "You will learn
after awhile to be calm under such circumstances. You cannot console
others unless you preserve your own equipoise."

Those years at Belleville were to me memorable. No vacation, but three
times a day I took a row on the river. Those old families in my
congregation I can never forget--the Van Rensselaers, the Stevenses,
the Wards. These families took us under their wing. At Mr. Van
Rensselaer's we dined every Monday. It had been the habit of my
predecessors in the pulpit. Grand old family! Their name not more a
synonym for wealth than for piety. Mrs. Van Rensselaer was one of the
saints clear up in the heaven of one's appreciation.

Wm. Stevens was an embodiment of generosity. He could not pray in
public, or make a speech; but he could give money, and when he had
plenty of it he gave in large sums, and when monetary disaster came, his
grief was that he had nothing to give. I saw him go right through all