Call to Preach—License—Examination by Miami Presbytery—Refusal to
Subscribe to Old School—Ordination by Oxford Presbytery—Visit
East—Marriage—Housekeeping.
In the early spring of 1837 Mr. Beecher graduated from Lane Seminary. In
accordance with the practice of the Presbyterian Church, a clergyman
might be licensed to preach, even though not ordained; but such license
could only be obtained after the applicant had appeared before the
Presbytery for examination, and he was required also to read a “trial
lecture,” as it was called. Agreeably to this custom, upon graduating
from the Seminary Mr. Beecher went before the Cincinnati Presbytery, was
examined, and read his “trial lecture.” The examination and lecture seem
to have been satisfactory, for he was duly licensed to preach.
For a few weeks prior to his examination for license he preached in a
little hall at Covington, Kentucky, just across the river from
Cincinnati. He seriously contemplated settling there as soon as he
should be licensed.
“After preaching there [Covington] three or four Sundays I was called,
by Martha Sawyer, a Yankee woman, to go to Lawrenceburg and preach.
There was a church in that place, composed of about twenty members, of
which she was the factotum. She collected the money, she was the
treasurer, she was the manager, she was the trustee, she was the
everything of that church.”
At this time the pulpit of the little, struggling Presbyterian church at
Lawrenceburg, Indiana, was vacant, and one of the ladies of that church
came up to Cincinnati to see if Bishop Little could not secure for them
a pastor. The good bishop introduced her to young Henry Ward Beecher.
This led to his preaching one or two trial sermons at Lawrenceburg. The
result of the experiment seemed to be satisfactory on both sides,
although the first sermon was said to have been a lamentable failure
through the nervous apprehensions of the young preacher in facing the
unusually large audience of one hundred persons.
In May, 1837, he moved to Lawrenceburg and began preaching regularly as
a licentiate, not yet ordained.
It may not be uninteresting to read just here the brief memoranda from
the journal which he was keeping then:
“_May 4_ [1837].—Returned from Lawrenceburg. I think seriously of
settling there—a destitute place indeed....
“If I go to Lawrenceburg, remember you can gain men easily if you get
round their _prejudices_ and put truth in their minds; but _never_ if
you attack _prejudices_. Look well at this....
”_Mem._—My people must be alert to make the church agreeable, to give
_seats_ and wait on _strangers_, etc.“
”_June 15, Thursday._—To-day received call from Lawrenceburg, and a very
flattering call it was and did my heart good. Meeting called June 12,
1837; about 30 persons present. Mr. Hunt, moderator; D. S. Mayer, sec.
Vote for me unanimous. Blank filled for $250, with but one dissenting
voice (he voting for double that sum).“
”_Monday, July 10._—Sat. eve., 8th, arrived here permanently to
remain....
“I mean to write down little plans and devices for _pastoral labor_ as
they occur; I may else forget them.
“1. In different districts get men quietly to feel _themselves_
responsible for progress of temperance or Sunday-schools.
“2. Quietly to visit from house to house and secure congregations.
“3. Secure a _large congregation_. Let this be the _first_ thing. For
this—
“1. Preach well uniformly.
“2. Visit widely and produce a personal attachment; also wife do
same.
“3. Get the young to love me.
“4. See that the church have this presented as a _definite_
thing, and set them to this work just as _directly_ as I would
to raising a fund, building, etc.
“4. Little girls’ societies for benevolent purposes.”
The town was small, scarce fifteen hundred inhabitants, located at the
junction of the Ohio and Miami rivers—just across the Miami from Ohio on
the east, and the Ohio River from Kentucky on the south—subject to
devastating floods from both rivers impartially.
The church was small, with meagre accommodations, the people poor. We
quote his description of the place and church:
“You can form some conception of that field when I tell you that it was
a place where they had four gigantic distilleries, from which was
carried to market a steamboat-load of liquor every day. When I went
there and entered upon my vocation of preaching, I found a church,
occupying a little brick building, with nineteen or twenty members.
There was one man, and the rest were women. With the exception of two
persons, there was not one of them who was not obliged to gain a
livelihood by the labor of the hands. So you will understand how very
poor they were. I could not, of course, obtain my living in so small a
church, and in a community that was not overblessed with wealth. I was
taken up, therefore, as a pensioner by the Home Missionary Society, and
my first two years were spent in the field as a missionary, in part
supported by the funds of this society.
“I was sexton in the church. There were no lamps there, so I went and
bought some, and filled them and lit them. I swept the church and
lighted my own fires. I did not ring the bell, because there was none. I
opened the church before every meeting, and shut and locked it after
every meeting. I took care of everything in the church.”
Here in this little frontier village, then upon the very borders of
civilization, began his real work. For twenty-four years he had been
preparing for this step. Now it must be determined whether his life
should be a success or a failure.
The year passed uneventfully, and it was not until September, 1838, when
he applied for ordination, that he got his first taste of trouble.
At this time the division between the Old School and the New School
Presbyterian churches was about to take place, and two General
Assemblies, afterwards called the Old School General Assembly and the
New School General Assembly, were, a short time later, convened in
Philadelphia. A resolution was introduced into the Oxford Presbytery
that no man should be licensed or ordained by that body who did not
connect himself with the Old School Presbyterian Church, dropping from
their care those who declined to do so.
This resolution, it was thought, was probably aimed at Mr. Beecher[3]—an
attempt to strike the father over the shoulders of his son. For the
actual division and separation of the Presbyterian Church into Old and
New School was in no small measure the result of the controversy carried
on for several years previously against Dr. Lyman Beecher. The doctor in
1832 had, as we have seen, accepted the presidency and professorship of
doctrinal theology in Lane Seminary. He had been brought up in, and had
been connected with, the Congregational Church until this time. While he
entertained no revolutionary spirit, he had some expectation that the
free spirit of New England thought, and that loving spirit of voluntary
co-operation which he had enjoyed so in his New England pastorate, might
be infused into the forms of Presbyterianism. The idea of an intimate
friendship and co-operation between the Congregational and Presbyterian
churches in the United States had always been dear to him.
-----
Footnote 3:
“It is no inconsiderable matter in these days that Dr. Beecher has at
least one son who, after a full and free examination before the Oxford
Presbytery, has been pronounced to be orthodox and sound in the faith;
and that, in order to exclude the son of the arch-heretic, a new term
of ministerial communion had to be introduced” (Extract from letter of
Dr. Bishop, President of Oxford College, to Mr. Beecher in 1838).
-----
But when he went to Cincinnati there had already commenced in different
quarters a movement aiming at greater stringency and the expulsion from
the Presbyterian Church of what was called the New England element, of
which Dr. Beecher was an eminent representative. His settlement at Lane
Seminary was followed by a more active demonstration of hostility.
Formal charges of heresy, slander, and hypocrisy were preferred against
him, to which reference has already been made.
These proceedings produced a very markedly unfavorable impression in the
public mind against Presbyterianism. They had only ended at about the
time his son, Henry Ward, came to Lawrenceburg.
There was a good deal of feeling in the two branches of the Presbyterian
Church, and when Mr. Beecher applied to the Oxford Presbytery, within
whose jurisdiction Lawrenceburg was located, a good deal of interest was
aroused. A son of Dr. Lyman Beecher was to be examined by a presbytery
known to be in marked hostility to him. It would be a good chance to
demonstrate the laxity and heterodoxy of Dr. Beecher. For, of course,
the young man would only reflect the father’s views.
The presbytery duly met in session in September, 1838, and Henry Ward
appeared before them. Writing to his brother George, he refers to his
examination. After telling of his family affairs he says:
“So much for family news—a quiet lake; now for public affairs—a troubled
ocean casting up mud and dirt.
“I went some sixty miles up into Preble County, near Eaton, before
Oxford Presbytery. Presented my papers. Father Craigh was appointed to
_squeak_ the questions. They examined me to their hearts’ content. I was
a model to behold, and so were they! Elders opened their mouths, gave
their noses a fresh blowing, fixed their spectacles, and hitched forward
on their seats. The ministers clinched their confessions of faith with
desperate fervor and looked unutterably orthodox, while Graham and a few
friendly ones looked a little nervous, not knowing how the youth would
stand fire. There he sat, the young candidate begotten of a heretic,
nursed at Lane; but, with such a name and parentage and education, what
remarkable modesty, extraordinary meekness, and how deferential to the
_eminently acute_ questioners who sat gazing upon the prodigy! Certainly
this was a bad beginning. Having predetermined that I should be hot and
forward and full of confidence, it was somewhat awkward, truly, to find
such gentleness and teachableness!
“Then came the examination: ‘Will the mon tell us in what relation Adam
stood to his posterity?’ ‘In the relation of a _federal head_.’ ‘What do
you mean by a federal head?’ ‘A head with whom God made a covenant for
all his posterity.’ Then questions on all the knotty points. ‘Still the
wonder grew,’ for the more the lad was examined the more incorrigibly
orthodox did he grow, until they began to fear he was a _leetle_ too
orthodox upon some points. What was to be done? The vote on receiving me
was _unanimous_! Well, they slept upon it. Next day, while settling the
_time_ of my ordination, Prof. McArthur, of Oxford, moved to postpone
the business to take up some resolutions. In the first they ‘sincerely
adhered to the Old School Pby. Assembly’; second, required that all
_licentiates_ and candidates under their care should do the same or be
no longer such. I declined acknowledging it to be the true one. Father
Craigh (whom my orthodoxy had softened) said they would give me _six
months_ to think and decide, and I might continue to preach in their
bounds. I refused, and they turned me out and gave me my papers back
again. I asked them what the duty of my church was. They replied that it
was _vacant_—just what they _had to_ say, and just what I wanted them to
say, and, moreover, just what I determined they should say. I drove home
forthwith; got back on Saturday. On Sunday recounted from the pulpit the
doings of Pby., and declared them vacant if they continued under Oxford;
appointed a meeting for Wednesday P.M. for their action. By a unanimous
vote they withdrew from Oxford and declared themselves an _Independent_
Pbyn. ch. Now for Synod. The Old School called a convention to meet two
days before Synod met; cut out a series of resolutions going for O. S.
Assembly, cutting off those who had officially joined the Constitutional
Assembly, etc., etc. After sermon by Jno. Rankin, Stowe and Coe
nominated for moderator—Stowe 47, Coe 70. The New School then determined
simply to urge on to voting. All speaking was on one side. When they had
passed the resolutions to the one cutting off all who had joined N. S.
Assembly they inserted a new one, by which _majority of Cincinnati
Presbytery_ were _ejected_! Jno. Rankin then rose and declared the body
_dissolved,_ and as moderator of last Synod would give them time to
leave the house, and would then form the true Synod. They prayed and
adjourned to Wilson’s. It was queer. ‘Synod of Cincinnati will adjourn
to meet at 7 in 1st Pby. ch.’; ‘Synod Cin. will now come to order,’ etc.
I left after this and both bodies were still in session. I stepped in a
moment Saturday morning just before leaving, and they were then passing
in _our_ Synod a resolution not to allow any _slave-holder_ in our
connection. Mills agreed to it. I did not wait to hear votes, but
presume it was nearly unanimous. Synod declared the whole ground
formerly held by Oxford Pby. to be held by the Cin. Pby. Stowe has just
written me that Graham, Thomas, Chidlow, Merril, Crothers, Dickey, and
others have formally withdrawn from the Old School Synod, but not yet
united with ours. This is a brief sketch of matters ecclesiastical. Pby.
of Cin. will begin their new authority over former territory of Oxford
Pby., by coming here to ordain me on Thurs., Nov. 8 [1838].”
The New School Presbytery met in Cincinnati, and before this body Mr.
Beecher applied for ordination, the minutes of which record that it
ordained and installed him November 9, 1838, over the independent church
at Lawrenceburg, Dr. Lyman Beecher presiding, Dr. Blanchard charging the
pastor, and Dr. Calvin E. Stowe, his brother-in-law, charging the
people.
Mr. Beecher felt that the division in the Church was wholly uncalled
for, but naturally was unwilling to desert the school to which he was
attached by its more liberal and democratic policy, by the associations
of his education, and the ties of filial love and admiration. The
bitterness of this controversy in the body of the Church, and the utter
folly of a great Church, organized for the work of saving men’s souls,
wasting its strength in harsh recriminations and angry feuds over
matters which seemed to him of minor importance, and finally splitting
the Church into two hostile bodies, produced a profound impression upon
Mr. Beecher’s mind, and developed rapidly that trait, doubtless then
latent, which has so markedly characterized his preaching since then—a
disregard of mere forms, provided he could secure the substance. And so
he grew to look upon all denominations as his brethren, wholly
disregarding the formal differences that existed, rejoicing heartily in
all their successes, and wishing them God-speed, seeing only the objects
for which all labored—the enlightenment of the world, the saving of
mankind. He was always willing to co-operate. He never withheld his hand
or voice, when there was a chance to help a struggling church, because
it was of a different denomination from his own.
He gave another account of these experiences and their effect upon his
mind, in some remarks at one of his Friday-night meetings, suggested by
the meeting, in the spring of 1869, of the Assemblies of the Old and New
Schools, and their reunion as one body at that time:
“My whole life has more or less taken its color from the controversy
which led to the division of the Old School and the New School
Presbyterians. I was brought up in New England, a minister’s son, the
son of a minister who was doctrinally inclined and whose warmest friends
were great doctrinarians. My father’s household was substantially a
debating society. As early as I can remember I knew enough to discuss
foreordination, and I could do it as well as my betters. I could go just
as far as they could, could run against snags at the same spots that
they did, and could not get off any better than they could. All those
great doctrines which tend powerfully to enlarge the imagination and to
sharpen the reason without feeding them were, I had almost said, matters
of daily conversation in my father’s family. When I went to college I
fell under the influence of a young minister who became an Old School
Presbyterian. He was a man of large brain and marked ability. He had a
naturally philosophic mind. He was noble-hearted and genial. I remember
that my poetic temperament, alongside of his rigorous, logical
temperament, used to seem to me mean and contemptible. I thought he was
like a big oak-tree, while I was more like a willow, half-grown and
pliant, yielding to every force that was exerted upon it. At any rate,
he had a powerful influence upon my development. But as I came to the
possession of myself more and more I took on the logical methods in the
exercise of the reasoning faculty which God had implanted in me, and
they came near wrecking me; for I became sceptical, not malignantly but
honestly, and it was to me a matter of great distress and anguish. It
continued for years, and no logic ever relieved me. My brother Charles
went through the same process, and he came back in the same way that I
did, through the instrumentality of a living Saviour. An abstract,
philosophical statement of the truth never met my wants, but when there
arose over the horizon a vision of the Lord Jesus Christ as a living
Friend, who had the profoundest personal interest in me, I embraced that
view and was lifted up. My heart did for me then what my head had failed
to do. This was an experience which has constituted one of the greatest
affirmative forces that have acted on my mind in preaching. All my life
long I have had a strong disposition to so preach the truth as to meet
the wants of men who stand not only outside of the churches but outside
of belief. I suppose that as long as I live I shall think of the truth,
not as it looks to those that are within the Church, but as it looks to
those that are outside of the Church and outside of belief itself.
“This has given to my preaching an element of naturalism. It has led me
to seek for a ground on which I could stand and bring men to a knowledge
of the love of Christ. I have gone far from the usual narrow
ecclesiastical and theological rules to broader social methods by which
men that are doubters can be reached.
“My first settlement as a pastor was at Lawrenceburg, Indiana, where I
was two years in the Presbyterian Church. When I left Lane Seminary I
went down there to preach, and I thought nothing about Church
connection. My business, as I supposed, was to preach what little I knew
and to lead men to the Saviour; but I soon felt, for the first time, the
authority of the Church. I had not been ground; I was nothing but corn,
and I had to be run through a mill. This Lawrenceburg church was in the
territory of the Miami Presbytery. The Presbytery was not only a body of
Presbyterians, but was composed of _Old School_ Presbyterians; not only
were they Old School Presbyterians, but they were _Scotch-Irish_
Presbyterians; and not only were they straight, but they bent like a
hoop the other way. I had received an ordination license at the
Cincinnati Presbytery—where my father belonged at that time—in about
1837; but it was necessary that I should undergo another examination.
The Assemblies had not then divided; there was only the one Church; but
there were two parties—the Old School and the New School. There was the
one great body, but there were these two sections. There were
presbyteries and synods of the New School, and there were presbyteries
and synods of the Old School; but they were under the same authority.
“I went on horseback from Lawrenceburg to Oxford, where the Presbytery
was in session. And, by the way, I came near losing my life in crossing
the river. The water was high, and I was thrown into it; but I got out
and dried off, and started again, and reached my destination without any
further mishap, and went through my examination.
“At that time, under the instruction which I had had in my father’s
family, under the college drill that I had gone through, and under the
training to which I was subjected in Lane Seminary, I had become so
familiar with the doctrines of theology that it was difficult for any
one to put me down in a discussion of them. I could state them very
glibly. I was ready with an explanation of every single point connected
with them. I knew all their proofs, all their dodging cuts, all their
ins and outs. Therefore I had no trouble in standing my ground with the
men who examined me. They knew they had Dr. Beecher’s son before them;
the questions came like hail, and I was very willing. Somehow I have
always had a certain sympathy with human nature which has led me
invariably, in my better moods, to see instinctively, or to perceive by
intuition, how to touch the right chord in people, how to reach the
living principle in them; and that faculty was fully awakened in me on
this occasion. I recollect that the presiding clergyman at that
Presbytery was a man that I had seen at my father’s house and that I had
taken a sort of fancy to. He was probably fifty or sixty years of age.
He was tall, and was thin in the face, and he had a shrill, ringing
voice. I felt that he was like a file; but still I liked him. Well, he
put questions to me. Some of them I answered directly, some ingeniously,
some intelligently, and others somewhat obscurely. The examination
extended over two or three hours; and I thought I perceived a warming
and melting influence among those men. I was quite indifferent as to
whether or not I came out with their endorsement, and I have a
recollection of feeling very fine. They questioned, and questioned, and
questioned; and it happened that the points on which they were very
particular were man’s sinfulness, the influence of the Holy Ghost, its
necessity, its work, the thoroughness of it, and so on.
“Now, I was always immensely orthodox—thunderingly so; and when they
thought they were going to get heresy they got a perfect avalanche of
orthodoxy. This man whom I had seen at father’s was quite carried away
with me; he shielded me and helped me over some rough places; and the
Presbytery, without a dissenting voice, voted that I was orthodox—to
their amazement and mine!
“I thought then that the bitterness of death was past, when lo! a
professor from Oxford University, Miami, introduced a resolution, which
was passed, that that Presbytery would not license nor ordain any
candidate who would not give in his adhesion to the Old School
Presbyterian General Assembly. It was on that point that the Old and New
Schools divided, and I, being my father’s son, spurned the idea of going
over to the Old School; I felt as big as forty men; and when that
resolution passed I simply said: ‘Well, brethren, I have nothing to do
but to go back to my father’s house.’ They were kind to me; they seemed
to have conceived an affection for the young man; they took the greatest
pains to conciliate me; they endeavored to smooth the way for me, and
tried to persuade me to comply with their wish; but I was determined,
and said, ‘I won’t.’ I always had the knack of saying that and sticking
to it!
“So I turned my back on the Oxford Presbytery, and rode to Lawrenceburg
again; and the next Sunday morning I announced to my congregation the
result of my week’s pilgrimage, told them of the vote which declared
their church vacant, and said to them: ‘Now, brethren, one of two things
is necessary: you must get somebody else to preach for you, or you must
declare yourselves independent of the Presbyterian Church.’ It was no
sooner said than done. Before sundown on that day they declared
themselves an independent church, and I decided to stay with them. I was
then ordained by the New School Presbytery in Cincinnati, after which I
went on with my work regularly.
“Preceding all this, you should recollect that during the three years
that I was in the Seminary the controversy between the Old and New
School Presbyterians ran very high on questions of theology and on
questions of Church authority. I had been stuffed with these things. I
had eaten and drank them. I had chopped and hewed them. I had built up
from them every sort of argument. I had had them _ad nauseam_.
“When I went out into the field I found all the little churches ready to
divide, such was the state of feeling throughout the whole West. Going
into my work in the midst of that state of affairs, I made up my mind
distinctly that, with the help of God, I would never engage in any
religious contention. I remember riding through the woods for long,
dreary days, and I recollect at one time coming out into an open place
where the sun shone down through to the bank of the river, and where I
had such a sense of the love of Christ, of the nature of His work on
earth, of its beauty and its grandeur, and such a sense of the
miserableness of Christian men quarrelling and seeking to build up
antagonistic churches—in other words, the kingdom of Christ rose up
before my mind with such supreme loveliness and majesty—that I sat in my
saddle, I do not know how long (many, many minutes; perhaps half an
hour), and there, all alone, in a great forest of Indiana, probably
twenty miles from any house, prayed for that kingdom, saying audibly, ‘I
will never be a sectary.’ I remember promising Christ that if He would
strengthen me and teach me how to work I would all my life long preach
for His kingdom and endeavor to love everybody who was doing that work.
Not that I would accept others’ belief, not that I would embrace their
theology, not that I would endorse their ecclesiastical organizations;
but whatever their instruments might be, if they were sincerely working
for the kingdom of Christ I would never put a straw in their way and
never strike a blow to their harm. By the grace of God I have kept that
resolution to this day. There was _so_ much good that came from the
discussions and quarrels of the Old and New Schools by which at that
period of my ministry I was surrounded. So much for the influence on my
mind of those early scenes and experiences, which were more, in some
respects, a theological school to me than Lane Seminary itself was.”
[Illustration: Mr. Beecher at the Time of his Marriage.]
Such was the beginning of his ministry.
We may now retrace our steps a little to take a look at the beginning of
his domestic life.
For seven years, like Jacob of old, he had labored, waiting for the time
when he could claim his wife. Of course, until he was settled somewhere
with some definite income, it was folly to think of marrying. But when
he began preaching on trial at Lawrenceburg, and it seemed probable that
he might be called there, his mind ran forward to when, having a
definite home, he might go East for his bride. In his journal we find
one of his written reveries:
[Illustration: Mrs. Beecher at the Time of her Marriage.]
“SPRING, _March 1, 1837_.—The winter has gone. Spring has come—the time
of the singing of birds. How vividly does that little expression call up
the whole scene—the bright sun, the mild air, the heaven full of sweet
influences, and the green sprouting grass among patches of snow, and the
swelling buds! Every voice echoes in the air, and all sounds are mellow.
The falling of a plank, the pound of a hammer or beetle, the rumble of a
wagon, all, this morning, sound like joyful music. But I have one
thought sweeter than any of these, which _makes_ these sweet: it is that
now only spring and summer are to fly before I meet my dear wife, not
again to be parted, except by death!”
In July, 1837, having been formally called, though before his
ordination—it then being apparent that he was to be definitely settled
at Lawrenceburg—he wrote to Miss Bullard, suggesting that their marriage
be celebrated shortly after his ordination, which was then expected to
be in the following September. He had no sooner written and mailed the
letter when he said to himself, as he explained to his wife later: “Why
should I wait for my ordination? Why not have _my wife_ present at it?
And I started that very afternoon.”
His letter reached Miss Bullard in the morning of Saturday, July 29, and
he himself appeared in the evening of the same day, to the great
surprise of all. His plan was explained, and after a hasty discussion
August 3 was fixed on for the wedding, and three o’clock in the
afternoon the hour.
“I was expected to be ready to leave in the afternoon of August 3,”
writes Mrs. Beecher. “The wedding-dress and wedding-cake were to be
made—for what New England damsel could be married without wedding-cake?
At _one_ o’clock Monday morning I began my work, sewing until the family
were up. After the breakfast was over the materials for the wedding-cake
were brought from the village store, and _Henry and I_ began the work
for _the cake_. He picked over and stoned the raisins—taking abundant
_toll_ while doing it—beating the eggs, and in every way made himself
useful, and kept the whole family in good spirits and cheerful, when,
but for him, in such hurried preparations we might have felt the great
exertion severely. But the work was done, and the 3d of August dawned
bright and rosy.
“Very few guests were invited outside of the brothers and sisters, with
their families, who were near enough to the old home to reach us. Both
my sisters were married in a storm, and I had always said _I would not
be_. Three o’clock was the hour appointed for the wedding. About two a
heavy thunder-shower came on, and it began to rain, thunder, and
lighten. At three o’clock we were summoned, but I said: ‘Wait until the
storm passes,’ and, in spite of their remonstrance, they did wait. At
four o’clock the clouds broke away and the sun appeared, and we were
ushered into the parlor, Henry and I together. Just as we were entering
the door (it was very warm, and door and windows all open) a _rainbow_,
the most brilliant I ever saw, and so remarked by all in the room,
seemed through the open window to span the parlor, and the spectators
said we walked under its arch to our places. In his prayer the clergyman
spoke of the ‘bow of peace and promise,’ which he hoped was the
beautiful symbol of what our lives were to be.
“We rode to Worcester after the long farewells were said, not expecting
to meet the home friends again for years.”
A few days later Mr. Beecher wrote from New York to his sister, Mrs.
Stowe:
“MY VERY DEAR SISTER:
“Before this gets to you, you will have begun to look for us and wonder
that we do not write or come. This is to certify that we are alive,
safely and thoroughly married. Coming, and _came_ as far as New York.
Now, this damsel, my most comely wife, longing for the leeks and
cucumbers of Boston, did freely eat thereof, and these, as in duty
bound, did most freely hurt her. Three days she bore it, but on arriving
at New York they had come well-nigh to the cholera morbus; and thus we
are detained for a few days. The doctor’s prescriptions have acted like
a charm. She is relieved, and rapidly grows better. Nevertheless, it
being now Thursday, we shall tarry until Monday for her to gain
strength, and then, God willing, we shall set our faces westward and
travel like the wind. We were married on Thursday afternoon, at four
o’clock, August the third. We went immediately to Worcester, to Mr.
Barton’s. Nothing could surpass his delicate kindness to us.
“I preached a preparatory lecture to the three churches on Friday P.M.,
and preached twice for Mr. Peabody on Sunday. Monday left for Boston.
Stayed until Tuesday of the week ensuing. Preached in Bowdoin church in
the morning of Sunday, and at Park Street in the P.M. Was invited to
preach _all_ day at Bowdoin, and also all day at Odeon, but preferred my
course. Left for New York on Tuesday noon; arrived next morning. Am at
Rev. Mr. Jones’s (Mrs. Beecher’s brother-in-law), and very pleasantly
situated. Lucy Ann is a dear, sweet sister, and Mr. Jones a most amiable
and well-read, gentlemanly man. Probably I shall preach here on the
Sabbath, but nothing has yet been definitely said.
“Shall return by Pittsburgh, leaving this place on Monday next, if God
wills. At that rate you may calculate upon seeing us somewhere about the
middle of the week ensuing.
“Ah! Harriet, how I long to see you and Calvin. I shall soon show you my
dear, dear wife. I grow more and more proud of her every day....
“Love to _all_—for I love you all, even to the little homely kitten—and
love to all _our_ folks, Margaret Hastings and all.
“Yours most affectionately, dear Harriet,
“H. W. B.”
Leaving New York, they started westward, partly by rail, partly by
steamer, and not a little by the slow method of the canal; travelled day
and night, until they finally reached Cincinnati the last of August.
From Mrs. Beecher’s memory we obtain her impressions of their first
pastorate:
“We remained a few days at Walnut Hills, and then took the little
steamer with a free pass to Lawrenceburg. We were to board for the
present, as we did not think that eighteen cents in pocket and three
hundred dollars a year prospective salary would enable us to begin
housekeeping. Lawrenceburg was a small place on the Miami.
“Mr. Beecher was obliged to take charge of that part of the building in
which he was to preach. Together we went every Saturday afternoon, swept
and dusted the room, filled the lard-oil lamps, and laid the wood and
kindlings ready for him to start the fire the next morning before
service, when needed; for the members of the church were all, except a
few families, poor laboring people, with all they could attend to at
home.
“But curiosity to hear the young preacher filled the room the first
Sabbath, and from that time it continued to be filled—crowded. The
Methodist church had always been the fashionable church, where the
wealthy and more refined part of the population worshipped. This little
Presbyterian church had almost died out, and, when first requested to
preach there, neither Mr. Beecher nor the people had any thought of his
coming for more than that one Sabbath. But his manner of preaching was
so very different from what they had been accustomed to—so original—that
they wanted to hear him again, and after that they gave him a call to
settle there. The Home Missionary Society were to give $150, and the
little band who composed the church thought they could manage to raise
$150—in all $300—and the call was accepted, notwithstanding the
remonstrance of friends in Cincinnati. They were more ambitious for him
than he was for himself, knowing that he could doubtless, in a short
time, get a better settlement. They knew, also, he intended to marry as
soon as his theological course was finished, and thought him wild to
think of bringing a wife out West and expect to be able to live on three
hundred dollars a year. But from the first he acted up to the advice he
always gave in after-years to young graduates from theological
seminaries: ‘_Don’t hang_ round idle, waiting for a _good offer_. Enter
the first field God opens for you. If He needs you in a larger one He
will open the gate for you to enter.’ _And so_ he _did_.
“From his first sermon[4] in Lawrenceburg that little room was crowded.
He did not extemporize so entirely, at first, as in later years—at least
he wrote more copious notes—but those who knew him can well imagine that
when warmed up by his subject his notes did not hold him very closely.
-----
Footnote 4:
“See Appendix A.”
-----
“How vividly I recall that first Sabbath! How young, how boyish he did
look! And how indignant I felt, when some of the ‘_higher classes_’ came
in out of simple curiosity, to see the surprised, almost scornful looks
that were interchanged!
“He read the first hymn, and read it well—as they had never heard their
own ministers (often illiterate, uneducated men) read hymns. I watched
the expression change on their faces. Then the first prayer! It was a
revelation to them, and when he began the sermon the critical expression
had vanished, and they evidently settled themselves to _hear_ in
earnest.
“The next Sunday the interest was still more strongly marked. His
preaching was to them something unusual. It was evident the hearers were
not quite at ease. He _woke_ them up, and they were not quite prepared
to decide whether they were anxious to be so thoroughly aroused. They
were not exactly comfortable, and some went away, after the services
were over, a little irritated and half-decided never to hear him again.
“The next Sabbath they concluded it would not hurt them to go just this
one time more, and from that time were constant attendants. The
satisfaction with this young preacher increased, and many from all sects
came regularly.”
On his return from the East with his young wife, not feeling that they
could afford to undertake housekeeping, he accepted the hospitality of
one of his elders, who had offered him a room in his house. There they
lived for some little time, when the sudden death of a member of the
family and the necessity of a change in the good elder’s domestic
arrangements required the use of this room.
At this time Mr. Beecher was attending a synodical meeting at
Cincinnati. Mrs. Beecher set to work at once to get board elsewhere.
Failing in this, she sought to hire rooms. After hunting until nearly
exhausted she secured the refusal of two rooms over a stable down by the
banks of the Miami, which had been occupied by the hostler, rental forty
dollars per annum.
She immediately took the boat to Cincinnati, and then, being too poor to
hire a wagon, she walked to Walnut Hills, four miles from
Cincinnati—which was then the home of the Beecher family—to report on
the state of affairs to her husband. A hasty examination of his finances
showed just sixty-eight cents. As they had no household furniture of any
kind, the prospect was not alluring. But an ability to get along somehow
was a characteristic of those days. Friends, though not over-rich
themselves, were able each to furnish something. One supplied half of an
old carpet, another some knives and forks, a third a few sheets and
pillow-cases, then a bedstead, a stove; and little by little, before
they returned home that night, there was gathered together enough to
meet the absolute requirements of living. Later the sale of Mrs.
Beecher’s cloak realized thirty dollars. The salary, though nominally
$500 per annum, was in fact but $300, of which one-half was paid by the
Home Missionary Society, and neither half paid with great regularity.
Any industrious day-laborer of modern times would have been ill-content
with either income or home possessions.
Returning from Walnut Hills, the next thing was to cleanse the rooms and
settle down. Mrs. Beecher gives a graphic account of their first
housekeeping: “When we reached our former boarding-house we found our
good friends with whom we had boarded very blue because their pastor and
wife could find no better rooms; but the lady was a true New England
woman and knew how soon a little hard labor would change the looks of
the rooms. Old Toby, their colored man, brought round, the next morning,
two pails and scrub-brushes and plenty of soap, and Henry and I went to
work with great energy. Think of father with sleeves rolled up, a big
apron on, scrubbing the floors! But I confess I never had known anything
so hard to clean. Tobacco-stains and all manner of dirt that might have
been looked for from the former occupants was so soaked into the floor
that it seemed impossible to remove the stains. I asked the landlord if
we might get some paint and paint the floors. ‘_Oh! no. That would
injure the wood!_’
“In a day or two the rooms were as clean as faithful, hard work could
make them, and after our last breakfast with our kind friends we bade
them good-morning, with thanks and a blessing, and went to get our
furniture, which the good captain of the steamboat had stored until we
were ready. With it came some groceries, wash-tubs, and a nice painted
dining-table, and a _husk_ mattress, and _husk_ pillows.
“‘Where did these last things come from?’ said your father.
“‘Part of my cloak,’ I replied, ‘but not all of it.’
“The kitchen-window looked out on a large back-yard that could be made a
fine one with a little care, but among the rubbish I espied an old
three-legged table and something that looked like the remains of small
hanging shelves. I ran down stairs and asked the landlady if they had
been thrown aside as worthless. ‘Oh! yes. They are good for nothing.’
‘Then may I have them?’ ‘Certainly. But on examination you will find
them of no use.’
“I washed and cleaned them well, and called to Henry to take them
up-stairs to our rooms. By the table I found the broken leg. With very
little trouble the table was repaired, the hanging shelves put up, and
both varnished. They proved to be mahogany, and when the varnish was dry
they looked quite nice. Among your father’s very scanty wardrobe was an
old coat past any mending. I took the skirt, cleaned it, and put it on
the top of the table, and fastened the sides and ends with some strips
of kid that I had brought from home. It did look quite fine, and you can
hardly imagine how much pride and pleasure your father had with his
writing-table.
“The long boxes made in Amherst expressly to pack his books in when he
came West were well made of planed boards. These we set one atop of the
other, open side out, and filled with books bought by his own labors
while in college, teaching school, and making speeches. These made quite
a fine addition to the room which was to be the parlor, study, and our
bed-room all in one.
“In the back room was a cook-stove given by brother George, and the old
three-quarter bedstead that your father used at Lane Seminary, now all
nice and clean, curtained with some four-cent calico Mrs. Judge Burnet
gave us. Henry made the upright posts and ran a large wire round it on
which the curtain was hung, with a wide tape all round the top on which
our clothes were pinned. Crosswise from the door to the chimney a piece
of four-cent calico curtained the corner where wash-benches and tubs,
flour-barrel and sugar-barrel (the two last sent in by good friends)
were placed, and over the door leading to the loft in the adjoining
store your father had nailed some large pieces to hold saddle, bridle,
and buffalo-robe. On the other side of the range was a good dish-closet,
and in front a sink.
“So these two small rooms, at first so repulsive, were becoming quite a
pleasant home. The house was situated very near the boat-landing on the
wharf of the Miami River—too near for comfort when freshets swept down
in _that direction_, but a pleasant outlook across on to the Kentucky
hills; the river sometimes so low that your father has walked across and
gathered flowers in Kentucky, then again rising so as to sweep
everything before it as it did two years ago, utterly obliterating all
that portion of Lawrenceburg where we lived.”
We are indebted to the Rev. John H. Thomas, the present pastor of Mr.
Beecher’s old church in Lawrenceburg, for the impressions of his
ministry there, as gathered from the reminiscences of his surviving
parishioners:
“Mr. Beecher made his mark immediately. His youthful appearance—he was
but twenty-three—and his careless dress may have raised doubts as to his
ability when his hearers first saw him, but they disappeared as soon as
he began to speak. The characteristics of his later oratory were all
present from the first—fluency, glowing rhetoric, abundance of
illustrations, witty points, brilliant ideas. From the first he filled
the church. Merchants told their customers of the talented young
preacher, and they would come miles to hear him. He was annoyed at
interruptions, and when late-comers appeared he would stop speaking till
they were seated.
“His personal habits were as original and effective as his pulpit
efforts. He was not what would be called a good pastor. An old pastor of
the Methodist Episcopal church in Lawrenceburg said to me: ‘Mr. Beecher
could outpreach me, but I could out-visit him, and visiting builds up a
church more than preaching.’ The records of the church during his
pastorate are yet in our hands, though in one of the great floods here
the volume floated out of the submerged study of the pastor, and was
found, by chance, embedded in the yellow deposit of the Ohio. It is
accurately and neatly kept, in the beautiful hand of Mr. Beecher, each
entry signed with his well-known autograph. The additions to the church
were about on the average of other pastors.
“But outside of strictly pastoral work Mr. Beecher’s influence was felt
widely and beneficially. He was universally popular. He was kindly,
genial, and free with all classes. He would hunt and fish with men not
used to the society of clergymen, and spent much time on the river,
especially in catching drift-wood brought down in every rise. Once he
called to a poor German emigrant woman that if she would bring him her
clothes-line he would show her how to get her winter’s supply of fuel.
She brought it, and he tied a stone to one end, and, flinging it out
from the shore over logs, would draw them in. In a little while their
combined efforts had brought in a dray-load.
“He was fond of talking with all sorts and conditions of men. There was
an old shoemaker in the town of pronounced infidel views. Mr. Beecher
would spend hours in the room where he worked, discussing with him.
“There is no evidence that he lowered in any degree his character as a
Gospel minister, but plenty that his influence was felt by the neglected
classes, and even by the rough elements. And in this did he not follow
the example of his divine Master, of whom it was said: ‘This man
receiveth sinners and eateth with them’?
“He was not unscholarly, but is remembered as a reader rather than as a
student. He studied men even more than books. A Baptist minister with
whom he had a discussion one Sunday is yet living here, and has told me
that at the close of the discussion, in which the Baptist minister
thought he had the best of it, Mr. Beecher waved his hand and said to
the audience: ‘Well, I don’t care if you all go down to the river and
get immersed.’
“His going away was esteemed a great loss. ‘Cords of people,’ says an
old lady graphically, ‘were about to come into the Church.’ But
Indianapolis, then with only 2,500 people, was the State capital, and
was rapidly outstripping the little town on the river. It was a louder
call.
“Mr. Beecher’s relations with the other ministers were happy, although
he outshone them completely. He established a popular union
Sunday-school, notwithstanding there was one in each church, and he
often spoke in other churches.”
Mr. Beecher described his preaching there as follows:
“I preached some theology. I had just come out of the Seminary, and
retained some portions of systematic theology, which I used when I had
nothing else; and as a man chops straw and mixes it with Indian meal in
order to distend the stomach of the ox that eats it, so I chopped a
little of the regular orthodox theology, that I might sprinkle it with
the meal of the Lord Jesus Christ. But my horizon grew larger and larger
in that one idea of Christ. It seems to me that first I saw Christ as
the Star of Bethlehem, but afterward He seemed to expand, and I saw
about a quarter of the horizon filled with His light, and through years
it came around so that I saw about one-half in that light; and it was
not until after I had gone through two or three revivals of religion
that, when I looked around, He was _all_ and in all. And my whole
ministry sprang out of that.”
At another time he said:
“I had no idea that I could preach. I never expected that I could
accomplish much. I merely went to work with the feeling: ‘I will do as
well as I can, and I will stick to it, if the Lord pleases, and fight
His battle the best way I know how.’ And I was thankful as I could be.
Nobody ever sent me a spare-rib that I did not thank God for the
kindness which was shown me. I recollect when Judge ——— gave me his
cast-off clothing I felt that I was sumptuously clothed. I wore old
coats and second-hand shirts for two or three years, and I was not above
it either, although sometimes, as I was physically a somewhat
well-developed man, and the judge was thin and his legs were slim, they
were rather a tight fit.
“There was a humorous side to this, but I could easily have put a
dolorous side to it. I could have said: ‘Humph! pretty business! Son of
Lyman Beecher, president of a theological seminary, in this miserable
hole, where there is no church, and where there are no elders and no men
to make them out of! This is not according to my deserts. I could do
better. I ought not to waste my talents in such a place.’ But I was
delivered from any such feeling. I felt that it was an unspeakable
privilege to be anywhere and speak of Christ. I had very little
theology—that is to say, it slipped away from me. I knew it, but it did
not do me any good. It was like an armor which had lost its buckles and
would not stick on. But I had one vivid point—the realization of the
love of God in Christ Jesus. And I tried to work that up in every
possible shape for my people. And it was the secret of all the little
success which I had in the early part of my ministry. I remember that I
used to ride out in the neighborhood and preach to the destitute, and
that my predominant feeling was thanksgiving that God had permitted me
to preach the unsearchable riches of His grace. I think I can say that
during the first ten years of my ministerial life I was in that spirit.”
Here he began a habit which he followed during the first ten years of
his ministry—that of keeping a record of every sermon preached, stating
the date, text, an outline of the sermon, and then the reasons why he
preached that particular sermon, “as giving a kind of guide to my course
by a perusal of what I have done, also to avoid repetition and to show
_why_ I made given sermons”; thus forming the habit of preparing his
sermons with a view to reaching some specific object. This record, with
his daily journal in which he jotted down such thoughts on religious
subjects as came to his mind day by day, are now before us, and show an
immense amount of painstaking care. His habit of careful analysis was of
incalculable value to him later, giving a logical method to his
reasoning. It was not until after he came to Brooklyn that, under the
increased pressure of this larger field of work, he abandoned this
habit.
The last recorded sermons we find were those preached on the morning and
evening of January 5, 1848.
During the second year of his Lawrenceburg pastorate he received a call
to the Second Presbyterian Church in Indianapolis, at a salary of $600
per year. Though this opened up a much larger and more effective field
of labor, with the means of living much more comfortably, yet, feeling
that he was doing effective work where he was, he refused the call. He
was always opposed to short pastorates and frequent changes: he had no
faith in rolling stones.
After a short time the call was repeated and again declined. He was then
urged to reconsider his refusal, and strong representations were made to
him that it was his duty to accept the larger and more important field.
At last, perplexed, he agreed to lay the matter before the Synod and
abide by their recommendation The Synod advised that he accept the call.
Aside from the strong aversion which he felt for restless changes, and
the feeling that, no matter how humble the field might be, he ought to
labor there so long as there was work for the Master to engage him, he
also felt a great unwillingness to leave the people to whom he was
becoming strongly attached. The life there, though rude and simple, had
been very happy. There his first child had been born. There for the
first time he really had begun to live and work in the field he had
chosen. But as he felt constrained to be guided by the advice which he
had sought, on the Synod’s recommendation he accepted the call.
On the afternoon of July 28, 1839, he preached his farewell sermon at
Lawrenceburg from the text: “These are the words which I spake unto you
while I was yet with you.”