Invitation to come East—Call to Plymouth Church—Friendly
Misgivings—Plainly Outlining his Views—Early Success—Plymouth
Burned—Preaching in the Tabernacle.
Mr. Beecher had confidently expected to have remained permanently in the
West, and to have grown up with the new but rising country; but it was
destined to be otherwise.
His fame had spread Eastward, and in the early winter of 1846 a
tentative effort was made to call him thither. Mr. W. T. Cutler,
returning from a visit at the West, wrote in December, 1846, to Mr.
Beecher that Dr. Storrs had been called to the Church of the Pilgrims;
that one of Dr. Cheever’s principal men, J. Hunt, had “observed to me
that Dr. Cheever named _you_ as the man for the Pilgrims, and he thinks
that there will be new churches formed on the Congregational plan here
and in Brooklyn, and that you are the man to build up _one_ of them.”
While in Cincinnati Mr. Cutler called on Dr. Lyman Beecher relative to
his son’s going East, but “_he_ set his face like flint against it.” He
then had a long and urgent talk with the son again, in answer to which
he received the following letter:
“INDIANAPOLIS, December 15, 1846.
”DEAR SIR: Your letter has just come to hand, and thanks for it. I am
glad you saw father, for your sake, for his, and for mine. Touching the
question of our former conversations, this is my position: My pride
tells me that if the only question in life were personal advantage, he
is on the right road who is _developing truth within himself_, and the
road to truth lies in _one’s own self_, and not in the place where he
lives. But my conscience tells me, and, I thank God, my whole heart goes
with my conscience, that the grand question in human life is the work of
benevolence—the doing good on _our_ scale, just as God does on _His_. I
am sure that the shortest road to one’s own happiness is by making
others happy. Now, in this work, the labor of _usefulness_, if there be
one thing which, above all others, I especially abhor, it is this _cant_
talk about ‘_taking care of one’s influence_’; going where one can ‘_use
his influence to best advantage_’; refraining from this or that for fear
‘_of ignoring influence_,’ and all suchlike trash. A man’s _influence_
is simply the shadow which _usefulness_ casts. Let him look out that he
is _doing enough_, and doing the right things, and then he may spare all
time usually employed in looking after his shadow lest it should give
him the slip.
“As to _where_ a man shall live and labor I have no plan, no theory
except this: That God has a very sufficient ability to make Himself
understood when He wants a man. A man should work _just where he is_
until he is clearly _called_ somewhere else. This keeping one’s ear open
to hear if God is not calling, this looking out every little while to
see if one is not wished for somewhere else, is rather of the nature of
_self-seeking_. A minister, like a maiden, ought not to make the first
overtures, nor to be over-eager to have them made to him.
“Now, I set forth this long preamble because it has occurred to me that
my situation and my conversations with you were a little _queer_, and
that it was worth while to state explicitly where I stand.
“Whenever it clearly seems to me that God has work for me to perform, I
shall, I hope, perform it, wherever it lies and whatever the work may
be. Moreover, when God has work for me in another sphere, I do not doubt
that He will make it so plainly His voice that calls me that I shall be
in no more doubt about it than Abraham was when called to leave his
native land or when called to offer up his son. I have no plan for
staying here, or for going to the West, or for going to the East. I
leave it entirely with Him who called me to the ministry where I shall
live, where and when I shall die; and in all fields, actual or
contemplated, I do desire above every other thing to have a heart
prepared to receive that welcome _call_, joyous to every one who has
tasted of the powers of the world to come, _to go up and labor in a
higher field_, with ennobled faculties and results, every one of which
shall be both perfect and illustrious.
“I believe that Christ will surely lead you wisely, if you will _be_
led; and that He will point out to you what enterprises it will be wise
for you to undertake, and to what one of all His multitudinous servants
you should apply for help. And should I never labor in such service with
you or near you, in New York, what then? I feel, in that respect, as if
we were like the two portions of our army before Monterey. What matters
it on which side of the city we are, since on either side we are bravely
pushing our arms toward a common centre, and when we meet it will
assuredly be in the hour of _victory_?
“But if ever I come to you or go to any other place, although I have no
plan as to situations, I have, I hope, an immovable plan in respect to
the objects which I shall pursue. So help me God, I do not mean to be a
_party man_, nor to head or follow any partisan effort. I desire to aid
in a _development of truth_ and in the production of _goodness_ by it. I
do not care in _whose hands_ truth may be found, or in what communion; I
will thankfully take it of _any_. Nor do I feel bound in any sort to
look upon untruth or mistake with favor because it lies within the
sphere of any church to which I may be attached.
“I do not have that mawkish charity which seems to arise from regarding
all tenets as pretty much alike—the charity, in fact, of
_indifference_—but another sort: a hunger for what is true, an
exultation in the sight of it, and such an estimate and glory in the
truth as it is in Christ that no distinction of sect or form shall be
for one moment worthy to be compared with it. I will overleap anything
that stands between me and truth. Whoever loves the Lord Jesus Christ in
_sincerity and in truth_ is my _brother_. He that doeth God’s will was,
in Christ’s judgment, His mother, His sister, His brother, His friend,
His disciple.
“Your visit has certainly been of collateral advantage to me. Some who
did not seem to care whether I had anything to live on or not have been
stirred up, at least to attempt to discharge the pledges to me for a
support: $800 does not seem to me to be an extravagant salary, but I
would gladly take $600 in lieu of it, if I could have it paid regularly.
“Give my love to Mr. Day and family, if you know them; if not, just take
this letter in your hand, go to his store, show him this paragraph: ‘Mr.
Day, allow me to present to you my friend, Mr. Cutler. Mr. Cutler, I am
happy in introducing you to an old and valued friend, Mr. Day.’
“And now, as you are at the fountain of news, why will you not drop me a
line from time to time, and keep me apprised of things in the great
world? You hold the pen of a ready writer as well as the tongue of a
ready speaker. And though I may have little news to send in return, such
as I have will I give unto thee.
Truly yours,
“H. W. BEECHER.“
[Illustration: Mr. Beecher and his Father at the time of Call to
Brooklyn.]
Again in February Mr. Cutler wrote, this time asking pointedly if Mr.
Beecher would accept a call to Brooklyn, stating that the property
formerly owned by the First Presbyterian Church—Rev. Dr. Cox—had been
purchased by Henry C. Bowen, Seth B. Hunt, and David Hale; that it would
be vacant in May, and that they proposed to organize in it a new church
on the Congregational plan; that if he would come they would give him a
salary of $1,500 per annum, and, if necessary, make it $2,000. Mr.
Cutler held out many alluring inducements, but without apparent effect.
Mr. Beecher would not even entertain the proposition. In the meantime
Mr. Cutler shrewdly reasoned that if he would come East, even for a
short time, it might be possible to make him change his mind. It was so
arranged that Mr. Beecher received an invitation from the American Home
Missionary Society to deliver an address, under its auspices, at what
was then called the “May Anniversaries” held in New York. He accepted
this invitation, intending, as he said since, “to urge young men to go
West, to show what a good field the West was, and to cast some fiery
arrows at men that had worked there and got tired, and slunk away, and
come back. I remember that I was particularly glowing on this subject;
but I came East not knowing what I did. It was a trap. Brother Cutler
(who has gone to heaven), it seems, had a little plan at that very time,
and I was running into a noose, though I did not suspect it. The result
of that visit was the formation of this church [Plymouth]. Mr. David
Hale, of the _Journal of Commerce_—whose son Richard is still one of our
members, though he is not with us—with two or three others, desired at
once to extend me an invitation to become the pastor of this church. But
the church did not exist. It was like asking a young man to become the
husband of an unborn girl. There was no church to be my bride. I refused
to receive a call to an empty house. They therefore made haste to form a
church; and I think it was early in June of the same year that some
twenty-five persons covenanted together over this very ground for the
church as it then stood. The main building fronted on one street, and
the lecture-room on the other. Here they agreed to become a church of
Christ; and then they extended to me a call to be its pastor. The call
was not publicly known until the October following; but still the
mischief was done.”
On Sunday evening, June 13, 1847, Plymouth Church was formally organized
with a membership of twenty-one, Rev. R. S. Storrs, of the Church of the
Pilgrims, preaching the sermon.
On the Monday evening following business meetings were held by both the
church and society, in each of which it was unanimously voted to invite
Mr. Beecher to be their pastor, with a salary of fifteen hundred dollars
the first year, seventeen hundred and fifty the second year, and two
thousand the third year and thereafter.
A formal call was at once sent.
For the first time the question was taken into serious consideration,
and for the next two months every argument was presented that might lead
to an acceptance of the call, great stress being laid on the fact that
in the larger field could be accomplished a more important work and an
influence might be exerted that would be felt throughout the entire
country; that the West could easily be reached from New York, when it
might be difficult to reach New York from the West.
Long and most urgent letters were sent to Dr. Lyman Beecher, begging him
to withhold any adverse influence. It is very doubtful if any of the
inducements or the flattering representations so strongly presented had
succeeded in winning him from the field where he was then working, were
it not that another influence was silently and powerfully at work. The
health of his wife, who literally was giving her very life to aid and
sustain him in his work, was rapidly failing under the malarial
influences of the West. It became very evident that she must have rest
and a change of climate. A few years in the East might restore her
health, then he could return and resume his work. In August he came to a
decision, and on the 12th wrote his letter of resignation, in which he
set out his reasons and plans:
“INDIANAPOLIS, August 12, 1847.
”_To the Elders of the Second Presbyterian Church, Indianapolis_:
“DEAR BRETHREN: I have the very painful necessity laid upon me of
relinquishing the pastoral charge of the church over which for eight
years I have presided. I need not assure you that I do it with extreme
grief. If I could have had the control of my own affairs I should
certainly have supposed it wisest and best that, for the present at
least, I should remain in the West and with you. It is only the firm
belief that in removing temporarily to the sea-coast I should save the
life and restore the health of my wife that has induced me to sever the
connection which has so long and so pleasantly existed between us. I am
peremptorily warned, not only by those in whose medical skill I place
implicit reliance, but by a continual confirmation of their judgment in
actual experience, to leave this climate if I would save her life. You
will perceive in this state of facts that against which neither I nor
any one can form any argument or persuasion. I cannot express the
feelings which have warred in my breast in the anticipation of this
necessity, nor can I without the deepest regret recall the deficiencies
of my ministry among you. But I shall never forget the kindness with
which my failings have been borne, the sympathy which I have experienced
from you in the vicissitudes of the past eight years, and that
co-operation without which I am sure I could but in a small part have
accomplished the work which has been done. There are some details of
arrangements which I desire to make, but which can be better treated in
conversation.
“I am, with Christian and personal affection, very truly yours,
H. W. BEECHER.”
Having decided, he wrote at once to the committee of Plymouth Church
from whom he had received the call:
“INDIANAPOLIS, August 19, 1847.
”DEAR BROTHERS: I desire to convey through you to the Plymouth Church
and congregation my acceptance of the call to the pastoral office
tendered by them to me.
“I cannot regard the responsibilities of this important field without
the most serious diffidence, and I wholly put my trust in that Saviour
whom I am to preach in your midst. I can heartily adopt the language of
Paul: ‘_Brethren, pray for us, that the word of the Lord may have free
course and be glorified._’ It will be necessary for me to remain yet for
some time in this place, but I hope to arrive in Brooklyn in the middle
of October, or at farthest by the first of November.
“I am, in Christian love, most truly yours,
“H. W. BEECHER.
“JOS. T. HOWARD,
“H. C. BOWEN,
“CHAS. ROWLAND,
and others.”
While in the East, after having received the call from Plymouth Church
and while the question of acceptance was still in doubt, Mr. Beecher
also received a call from the Park Street Church of Boston—the same
church where he had preached nine years before, when on his way back to
Lawrenceburg with his young wife.
On June 10, 1847, he received a letter from the Rev. Silas Aikens, the
pastor of Park Street Church, stating that they very much desired Mr.
Beecher to accept a call to the position of associate pastor.
Early in July a formal call was sent by the church and society to the
same effect, but was shortly afterwards declined.
The call to Brooklyn having been definitely accepted, Mr. Beecher began
at once to arrange for the removal of his family. His salary was in
arrears. To meet the necessities of his family he had been obliged to
borrow five hundred dollars. This, with other and smaller debts, must be
paid, and money must be raised wherewith to transport his family East.
But how? Fortunately this difficulty had been foreseen, and as soon as
it seemed probable that the call would be accepted the friends at
Plymouth Church, in prophecy of that generosity which characterized them
in all after-years, promptly raised by subscription one thousand
dollars, and notified Mr. Beecher to draw thereupon as he might need.
About the first of October, 1847, he started Eastward, leaving
Indianapolis on the first passenger-train run on the new road just
built. Modern luxuries had not then been introduced, if we may rely upon
his account of the ride:
“The car was no car at all, a mere extempore wood-box, used sometimes
without seats for hogs, but with seats for men, of which class I (ah me
miserable!) happened to be one. And so at eleven at night I arrived in
Madison, not overproud in the glory of riding on the first train that
ever went from Indianapolis to Madison.”
October, 1847, marked a new era in Mr. Beecher’s experience. By
successive steps he had advanced from field to field with steadily
increasing responsibility, from the collegian tramping twenty miles to
deliver an occasional address in some adjoining town on topics affecting
public morals, to the young theologian still in the seminary, trying his
powers in some little hamlet—a knight-errant breaking a lance with the
adversary; to the young, unknown missionary entering the lists for his
first real, earnest battle against “the world, the flesh, and the
devil”; to the acknowledged preacher called to the State capital,
dealing stalwart blows at those evils which sap the public conscience
and allure the youth into evil ways, a recognized leader not only within
the limits of his Presbytery but even throughout his State.
And at last, called to the metropolitan centre, he enters a field whose
limits of influence were to be bounded only by the limits of the
civilized globe. With each increase of influence came corresponding
responsibilities. So far he had developed resources sufficient for each
increase in his burdens; but would he be sufficient for this new
experience? He had fully sustained himself as a missionary and a
preacher in a pioneer State, in a comparatively rude and uncultured
society. He had earned a reputation that had preceded him East; could he
maintain it? Could he meet the requirements of the refined, critical,
and highly-cultured metropolis (for New York and Brooklyn were, to all
intents, one great centre)? Many feared, and kindly volunteered the
information that neither the new church nor its new pastor would last
many months.
He was altogether too outspoken for his own good, said they. It was all
very well for a minister to combat evil, but he must do it in the good
old-fashioned, orthodox way: he should confine himself to generalities
and not be too specific. There were some things he ought not to meddle
with: the pulpit was no place for politics, and slavery was purely a
political question. He would find that in New York the public would not
tolerate those things which had been permitted to him in Indiana.
If he persisted he would soon have empty pews to preach to, even if he
did not have a personal demonstration of the folly of attacking those
popular sins—sins which most of his clerical brothers had had the good
sense to leave alone. Endless were the similes and metaphors indulged
in, of which the well-worn rocket was perhaps the most suggestive.
Some amiable critics even went so far as to intimate that his success in
the West was due more to the surreptitious use of the father’s old
sermons than any inherent ability in the son, and he was generously
given just one year to run through the barrelful of such sermons
supposed to have been brought on with him. The barrel, like the widow’s
oil-cruse, seems to have had a miraculous power of refilling.
Many friends advised him against the change: the risk was too great, his
experience too little. He said of this time:
“In coming to Brooklyn I had but one single thought—that of zeal for
Christ. I came under all manner of warnings and cautions. Many good
brethren told me how men got puffed up in the city, what temptations I
would encounter, and how I would very likely be conservative, and forget
my zeal, and so on; and I was obliged at last to say even to my father:
‘Father, do you understand, then, that God’s grace only extends to the
country, and that He cannot protect anybody in the city?’”
On the other hand, some counselled self-interest: “It is not necessary
that you should settle in Brooklyn; with your talent you will make more
show in New York.” “I didn’t come to make a show,” he replied. “I came
to preach what I understand to be the Gospel of Jesus Christ to men, and
this is the first opening, and I take it.”
He did not propose to have any misunderstanding on the part of his new
church as to the course he should pursue. He intended to make that very
plain and at the outset. If they wanted him they would have to take him
with their eyes open—_wide_ open.
October 10, the first Sunday after his arrival, he preached in the new
church, both morning and evening.
“My first sermon, I think, was directed to the Source of all true
religion—the Lord Jesus Christ and His power. In my second sermon—on the
evening of the first Sunday—I recollect that I lifted up the banner and
blew the trumpet in the application of Christianity to intemperance, to
slavery, and to all other great national sins. I said to those who were
present: ‘If you come into this church and congregation I want you to
understand distinctly that I will wear no fetters; that I will be bound
by no precedent; that I will preach the Gospel as I apprehend it,
whether men will hear or whether they will forbear, and that I will
apply it without stint, and sharply and strongly, to the overthrow of
every evil and to the upbuilding of all that is good.’”
Well-meaning but timid friends took alarm at this bold declaration. It
was not customary; it was not what they were used to; they came to him
to “counsel him for his own good,” they said. “Save yourself, anyway;
don’t ally yourself to unpopular men nor unpopular causes. There is no
need of it. You can have your own notions about abolition; what is the
use of preaching anti-slavery sermons?” To their great distress their
counsels had just the opposite effect intended: “I despised them all,
and preached like thunder on those subjects, especially before
pew-renting. For a period of more than ten years I never let a month
elapse before pew-renting that I did not come out with the whole
strength of my nature on the abominations of American slavery. I
remember saying, with some discourtesy and with language that I should
not use now: ‘If you don’t want to hear such doctrines, don’t take a pew
here next time.’ It had something of youthful eagerness in it, but I am
proud that it pleased God to ally me to causes that were weak but right.
It has ever been a cause of great gratification to me that I have not
lost that spirit, and that I ally myself to that which I think to be
right; and I do not care what man says to me, provided only I can
believe that God likes it, and that I have the testimony of His approval
in myself.”
To have remained silent in the presence of such great evils was to have
shared the responsibility of their existence.
We quote here his views on this subject, uttered from his pulpit many
years later:
“In every reform from intemperance, from vice, from crime, each
individual citizen is responsible to the degree of influence which he
has, and if he does not exert it he is responsible for a neglect of
duty—a binding duty. He is bound to create a public sentiment that shall
work for virtue. He is bound to drain the community of all those evils
that run together and form a channel for vice and crime. It is not a
matter of election, it is a matter of obligation; and because there are
the most respectable classes in the community that don’t do it, you are
not set free. Because the men of riches and the men of power and the men
of standing in society don’t do it, the poorest laboring man in the
community, if he does not, under the direction of his reason and
conscience, labor for the purification of the commonwealth, is
responsible to God. He is bound to do it. If his individuality on the
one side has shielded him against aggression, it brings with it also
certain obligations, and he is bound to meet them. All parties hold
their members only subject to the corrected judgment and moral sense of
the individual. If they go with their party on the general ground that
it is going right and is doing right, as far as the limitations of human
ignorance and human power are concerned, travelling in the right
direction also with many imperfect steps and many imperfect elements, he
may justly go on with it; but if he is committed, as were the parties of
slavery, to so atrocious a wrong as that which violated the fundamental
rights of the whole human family, a man is bound to fight the party, in
and out of it: in it by correction, out of it by protest and opposition.
And merely because he can say, ‘The party did it, I did not,’ he is not
relieved of responsibility. Inasmuch as you knew what was right and did
not do it, so much you are involved in the guilt; and there was a great
deal of guilt. The Church itself was involved in the same—dumb pulpits,
uncirculated Bibles, a corrupt and vicious public sentiment.
“When I came into Plymouth Church as its pastor there was probably
hardly a single church in the bounds of New York or Brooklyn of any note
that dared to say a word for the liberty of the abject slave. Was I
wrong in protesting against it, with the knowledge that I had? With the
conscience that I had, had I been silent I should have been doomed
justly to the stroke of God’s righteous judgment; and the want of moral
courage under such circumstances is a very great sin everywhere. You are
not right to stand still in any great party, moving in any direction,
doing wrong, without deliberately taking account with yourself. Am I
striving to correct the evil by all the influence I can wield? On
finding that to be impossible, do I free myself from all imputation of
partnership in any such guilt, one way or the other?”
_Now_ it is easy enough to express such sentiments: it is popular; it is
in the line of public sentiment. _Then_ it was a very different matter,
and the living up to them still more difficult.
Recalling the early history of Plymouth Church, he said:
“It was formed in the midst of the development of the greatest work of
the modern century—the emancipation of the slaves in America, by which
the industry of the Continent was also emancipated, and by which the
Church and religion itself were saved from a worse than Babylonian
captivity.
“When I came here you could get no great Missionary Society, Bible
Society, or Tract Society to say one solitary word for the slave. Such
were the interests of the mercantile classes of the South that it was
extremely difficult to exert there any anti-slavery influence. As the
merchants largely held the funds, as the great societies needed support,
and as churches were built by respectable men whose prosperity depended
mainly upon the peace and order of the South, the position that this
church took was a bold and unpopular one. Those who did not live then
can have no conception of what it was to form a church that should stand
right out in the intense light of the time, and declare for universal
liberty and for the right of the slave to the Bible, and to full
religious freedom. This church grew up right against a flinty way of
bitterness and opposition.”
Such was the beginning, and such the times!
Although he began preaching in Plymouth Church, October 10, 1847, Mr.
Beecher was not formally installed until the 11th of November following.
On that day an ecclesiastical council was convened “by letters from the
Plymouth Church in Brooklyn, in the State of New York, at their
lecture-room, ... for the purpose of installing (if the way should be
found clear) the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher as their pastor,” etc.
“After an extended and thorough examination of the pastor-elect
respecting his views of the doctrine of natural and revealed religion,
his experience of renewing and sanctifying grace, and his object in
entering on the work of the Christian ministry, the council unanimously
pronounced the examination sustained and voted to proceed to
installation.”
The invocation and reading of the Scriptures was by the Rev. Dr.
Humphrey, of Pittsfield, Mass.; the sermon by Rev. Dr. Edward Beecher,
of the Salem Church of Boston, an older brother of the new pastor; the
installing prayer by Rev. Dr. Hewitt, of the Second Congregational
Church of Bridgeport; the charge to the pastor by Rev. Dr. Lansing, of
the Second Congregational Church of New York; the fellowship of the
churches by Rev. R. S. Storrs, Jr., of the Church of the Pilgrims,
Brooklyn; address to the people by Rev. J. P. Thompson, of the Broadway
Tabernacle, New York, and the concluding prayer by Rev. Dr. Bushnell, of
the North Church of Hartford.
As soon as he was fairly installed the pastor set himself vigorously to
work to build up the young church, and to fill it with new converts.
The audience-room of the church began to fill rapidly, in the morning
being generally three-fourths full, and in the evening entirely full.
Early in 1848 difficulty was found in accommodating those who wished to
attend, the building being crowded from that time on, both night and
morning.
In the spring, daily morning prayer-meetings were held, under the
conduct of the pastor. Soon revivals broke out in the church, which,
though singularly free from undue excitement, produced a deep and
wide-spread influence. More than seventy persons were converted, most of
them joining Plymouth Church, the rest uniting with other evangelical
churches.
Notwithstanding the many doleful prophecies that greeted its early
beginnings, and the “dangerous stand” taken by its pastor which alarmed
so many conservative minds, the church was just perverse enough to
prosper and grow rapidly—a perversity which characterized it for the
next forty years. In a little over two years from its birth it had an
enrolled membership of four hundred and four, of whom fifty-six joined
in 1847; one hundred and fifty-two in 1848; one hundred and thirty-six
in 1849 (the year of the fire), and sixty in the first part of 1850.
On the 13th of January, 1849, occurred one of those fortunate mishaps
which proved to be a blessing in disguise. For some time previous, the
congregation had been greatly disproportioned to the capacity of the
church; the necessity of rebuilding began to be seriously discussed,
when occurred a fire that abruptly terminated the discussion. The
building was so badly damaged that it was unanimously determined to
rebuild rather than repair.
The kindly sympathy of neighboring churches, in volunteering the use of
their buildings for the houseless congregation, was gratefully accepted
for a short time.
It soon became apparent that this unsettled and migratory condition was
harmful to the church. It was therefore determined to erect a temporary
structure upon ground in Pierrepont Street, kindly offered by Mr. Lewis
Tappan. In thirty days a building, one hundred by eighty feet, was put
up, and in this the church made its home until the first Sunday in
January, 1850.
The whole expense of this “Tabernacle,” as it was called, was
twenty-eight hundred dollars. The subsequent sale of the building,
together with the weekly collections, more than repaid this outlay,
while the pew-rents were amply sufficient to meet the current expenses.
As soon as possible after the fire, steps were taken to put up the new
building, which was to be constructed on a much larger scale than the
old one.
On May 29, 1849, the corner-stone was laid, and on the first Sunday in
January, 1850, the congregation worshipped in their new church.
The new structure was built on Orange Street, and ran through to
Pineapple. It was really two buildings under one roof, the church proper
being one hundred and five feet long by eighty broad. Adjoining and
opening into this, from the rear, was a lecture-room of two stories,
eighty by fifty feet, the second story being the Sunday-school.
The entire cost of the new church was about $36,000, of which $31,127
was raised upon scrip, bearing interest, payable in pew-rents. To
provide for the balance, and a mortgage of $10,500 on the old property,
the new building was mortgaged for $16,000. The entire indebtedness and
all encumbrances were paid off by 1867, at which time the church was
entirely free from debt.
The cost of the lecture-room and Sabbath-school was about $13,000, of
which $10,800 were donated, the rest being paid partly by festivals and
fairs held for the purpose, and partly from the general fund of the
church.
The Sabbath-school at this time consisted of two hundred and fifty
scholars and thirty teachers.
The seating capacity of the pews and choir-gallery of the church was
about twenty-one hundred persons. This was thought at first, by some, to
be a very extravagant allowance. But in 1857 the seating capacity could
not supply the demand, and folding-seats were placed in the aisles,
fixed to the end of each pew, and so constructed as to fold up against
the pew-side when not in use; while benches were set along the walls all
around the galleries, and in the vacant space in front of the pulpit.
These accommodated about eight hundred more, while the standing space,
almost always occupied during the last twenty-five years, permitted
about three hundred more to be present.
As his last year at Indianapolis had been consecrated by the loss of his
little boy, so in like manner were the first in his new pastorate.
Scarce had a month passed when the death of his little girl “Caty”
became the means of closer communion between pastor and people through
the bonds of sympathy and kind service. He wrote to his sister:
“When Caty sickened and began her quiet march toward the once opened
gate, to rejoin the brother (cherub pair), we found our house full of
friends. Many of the truest, deepest hearts asked no bidding, but, with
instinctive heart taught right, _lived_ with us almost literally; and
when her form was to go forth from us, they embowered her in flowers,
winter though it seemed, and every thought and remembrance of her is
sweet in itself and sweet in its suggestions.
“What had I to bear up against? I was held up by increasing love and
sympathy on every side. Of _this world_ I had more than heart could
wish; of friends, never so many or so worth having; and the effect, as
might be supposed, has answered to the cause. I find now that it is with
me as with mountains in spring-time—every fissure is growing to a rill,
every patch of soil is starting its flowers, every shrub has its insect
and every tree its bird.”