CHARACTER NOT PURCHASABLE
In an address, made not long before his death, Bishop Potter, of New York, said:
About a year ago there came into my study in New York some one whom I had never seen, a stranger whose name sent in upon his card I did not recognize, and whose errand I could not divine. “Sir,” he said, “I am from such and such a part of the country. In that part of the country a very fierce political campaign is now in progress. One of your clergy is attacking from the pulpit the moral character and moral standards of a gentleman, a candidate there for a very high office, whom I represent.”
I said: “I have not got any clergymen out in that part of the world. I have no more jurisdiction there than you have.” He said: “Perhaps not in the sense you mean, but it is one of your men.” “Thank God for that,” said I. “As he came from here he believes in you, and he thinks that sort of talk is his duty.” “What do you want me to do?” I asked. “I want you to stop it,” said he, “and I am authorized by the distinguished gentleman whom I represent to say that if you will stop it he will make it worth your while.”
I felt like saying, “I will come high.” I got up and walked to the door. I opened it and stood there. He looked there a moment in some perplexity. I said: “Does it not occur to you, sir, that this interview is at an end.” He went out.
I mention that incident as a proof of the statement I have made here. Here was a person in a distant part of the country, a candidate for a very high position, who had not the smallest hesitation in sending an emissary to me with an intimation that if I were prepared to silence a speaker who was saying disagreeable things that money would be put to make it worth my while. I am saying that with that symptomatic you can not ignore the appalling significance of such a condition of things. (Text.)
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CHARACTER POTS
I had sometimes caught a glimpse of the small scullery-maid at my boarding-house; but one day, slipping to the kitchen for a cup of hot water, I had a queer bit of a chat with her. She was scouring granite pots with a vim and vigor which were bound to bring results, and all the while her face was as shining as her finished work.
“Do you like them, Alice?” I asked.