Home Life—Love of Children—His Method of Training and
Education—Formation of Library and Art Collection—Personal Traits.
To the public Mr. Beecher was best known as the eloquent preacher and
speaker, the fearless advocate of right and foe to wrong, the champion
of the weak and oppressed, a friend to all mankind. But it was only to
those who knew him in his home-life that the softer and sweeter sides of
his nature were fully revealed. For his home and family he had the
deepest and most tender affection. Though brought up in New England,
where respectful reverence from child to parent was often carried to
such an extreme that the father was almost unapproachable to his
children, he retained none of the puritanical austerity that largely
filled the social atmosphere of Connecticut seventy years ago, partly
because in his own home there was more of the feeling of fellowship
between the father and children, but more especially because his intense
love for children swept away all barriers of cold formality. To his own
he was the companion and playfellow, the partner in every joy, the
comforter in every sorrow. Patient in unravelling those mysteries of
mind and matter that perplex the early life of every healthful child, he
never answered their childish wonderings with the impatient “don’t
bother me,” which too often checks that curiosity which is nature’s mode
of self-education, and which often makes childhood one long, continuous
“why.”
Every little prattler was his by love’s adoption. In more than a score
of households he was _the “Grandpa” par excellence_, often sadly
interfering, we fear, with the rules of government; for, by tacit
consent between parents, children, and “Grandpa,” he was superior to all
nursery regulations. His consent, and often co-operation, was a warrant
of pardon for any and all pranks and escapades committed thereunder.
He was always very careful to exercise this power along the line of
healthy sport, in little pranks that gave amusement to all, but at the
same time leading the boys to be more manly and the girls to be more
womanly. Many a young man and woman today looks back upon those bright
days of their childhood with deep and tender affection, and sees where,
in what seemed then mere sport and fun, they had caught the inspiration
for higher and nobler living.
In this childhood’s Utopia things were sometimes strangely transposed.
Nothing would at first more surprise a stranger, in whose memory still
lingered pungent recollections of early discipline, than to see a troop
of children pounce down upon Mr. Beecher, clamoring with shouts and
laughter for a whipping. He remembered that shouts and clamor were
constant concomitants in the execution of domestic penalties in his
early days, but nothing in his experience recalled laughter in that
connection.
The mystery would soon be explained, when, with mock frowns and assumed
violence, the children were seized, twirled and tumbled into a row along
the wall; and ordered to hold out each right hand; one after another
each hand was seized and several blows administered—with a stick of
candy. Of course the sticks did not get away. The rods were not spared,
and we don’t think that any of the children were spoiled.
And the stranger, as with quiet smile he looks upon them, wonders, after
all, if parents resorted to that kind of whipping more, whether the
increased feeling of good-fellowship would not render the need of the
other kind less frequent.
In the training of his own children he seldom resorted to actual
physical punishment, and then only when the little culprit had been
guilty of some especially aggravated offence. But when he did resort to
the laying on of hands, he entered into it with great earnestness.
Dishonesty, falsehood, cruelty, and meanness of every kind were capital
offences. The sinner did not lose his head in such cases, but some other
parts of his person were so actively stimulated, that standing became
the most comfortable position for a long time thereafter. These little
rencounters naturally produced profound impressions. We were not apt to
invite another by repeating that particular offence.
We well remember some experiments in natural philosophy, conducted by us
when about six or seven years old, in which a kitten and a tub of water
figured prominently, some features of which, bordering on the barbarous,
we will omit. Just then our father came along, and—well, things were
generally reversed, including the youthful experimenter. The kitten was
fished out, and we had it so thoroughly impressed upon our understanding
that kittens won’t swim under water, that we do not remember to have
experimented any further in that direction.
After these profoundly impressionable interviews he would talk earnestly
and lovingly to the culprit, declaring that it hurt him more to punish
than it did the sinner to be punished—which we can well believe now,
from our knowledge of his deep and tender loving-kindness, and from the
similar duties time has brought to us. _Then_ it used to seem strongly
paradoxical, measuring his pain by our still smarting skin we generously
thought that we would willingly have foregone any benefits derived from
the experience, and have spared him so much suffering.
Happily, these graver cases were infrequent. The minor misdemeanors from
childhood’s restless carelessness were generally met with quiet, gentle
talks, the mischief fully explained with all its whys and wherefores;
the little penitent being finally dismissed with a kiss, honestly and
heartily determined to keep out of mischief, and succeeding, by great
effort, for an hour or two, until he tumbled into something else. With
such cases the father’s patience was infinite.
As the children grew older he was untiring in his care that they should
form those habits of body, mind, and morals that should make them
strong, useful, and moral men and women. He stimulated their natural
curiosity, but at the same time taught them to be self-helpful. If a
question were asked that could be answered by any book that he had, the
questioner was sent for it, and told, “Now read that carefully, and tell
me what you learn; I want to know it, too;” adding: “Information which
you get when your attention is fully aroused, and for which you have to
stop and take some little trouble, you will be pretty sure to remember.”
“Never ask a question,” he used to say, “if you can find the answer
yourself, but never hesitate to ask if you can’t find it: remember
always you have a tongue in your head.”
His letters to the absentees at school and college were full of
well-considered advice, and well illustrate what we have referred to:
“I am more glad than I can express that you feel so much interest in
religious meetings, and I hope that God will lead you to embrace with
your whole soul a religious life. It is the only way to perfect honor
and to the highest truth and duty. Religion is only the highest _use and
regulation of every faculty_. To love God and live in true benevolence
toward men is the very way to make yourself wise, happy, and good.... In
all your own personal conduct act upon _conscience_, and do not try to
please yourself merely, _but to do what is right_, and because it is
right. Towards your companions, in all things, seek to be unselfish,
kind in little things, studying their good and not your own.... One word
as to reading your Bible. You must not regard the book with
superstition, and imagine that you will get good by merely _reading it_.
You must remember that it is a very large and widespread book; many
things will not be of service to you _yet_. It has something in it for
every age and all circumstances.... Every day try to put in _practice_
something that you read in the Bible. Remember that being a Christian
does not take away anything that is innocent and joyous, but only adds
to them higher and nobler joys.”
“MY DEAR ———:
“I am glad that you have found a pleasant friend in the _minister_. It
seems fit that the son of a minister, whose father’s father was a
minister, should have a liking for ministers. I am glad, too, that you
are fortunate in having a man who is sensible enough to understand that
a Christian is not less _than a man_. Whatever it is right for anybody
to do, it is right for a Christian to do; and what a Christian gentleman
may not do, nobody has a right to do. Religion regulates our pursuits
and pleasures, but does not destroy them....
“You are fifteen years old; that is close upon manhood. I have no doubt
that you begin to look at times quite seriously toward the future. _But
fidelity to the present is the best preparation for the future._ Do
everything _thoroughly_. Do not be a superficial scholar. Go to the
roots of everything you study.
“As to profanity out of doors, I should not, in ordinary cases, meddle
much, especially in a way that should seem as though you _owned_ the
boy, or were responsible for his conduct. Nothing is more provoking to a
young person than to have people assume authority over them in moral
things. But in your own room it is different; profanity there is an
intrusion on _your_ rights, and is not to be tolerated. If kind measures
will not check it, then peremptory ones should. I would say to such a
one: ‘You must take your choice, to find some other room or to observe
the decencies of life here!’ ... Now as to your studies. It is not
mainly _the time_ employed, but the _concentration of mind_, that
induces rapid progress. Mere scholars study without great grasp and
sharp and quick application of thought. They take two hours to do what
could better be done in one. In part this capacity of rapid
comprehension and accurate perception depends upon one’s native
endowments, but it depends even more on _habit_ and _training_. While
you seek primarily _accuracy_, you should steadily aim with it to
accelerate your process, to see quicker, think quicker, decide quicker.
But if you study intensely you must take much air. Don’t be tempted to
give up a wholesome air-bath, a good walk, or skate, or ride every day.
It will pay you back over your books, by freshness, elasticity, and
clearness of mind. I have noticed that lessons which require acuteness
and _memory_ both, are best gotten by studying them the last thing
before going to bed, and then taking hold again early in the morning.
That which we study just before sleeping seems to come out in strong
relief the next day, if we renew the impression by going over the work
again. For difficult tasks, then, take this hint: go over just before
sleeping, and review in the morning. But, again, take care of health;
learning in a broken body is like a sword without a handle, like a load
in a broken-wheeled cart, like artillery with no gun-carriage.”
“But, my dear fellow, there is one thing that will be hard, but that is
to be the root of all success and enjoyment—viz., the habit of _boning
down to things which you don’t like_. In all your after-life, your
success will depend upon your ability to do things which you do not
particularly _like_ to do. In other words, _duty_ must become your
watchword, and not _pleasure_ or _liking_.”
“I wish, at the beginning of your college course, to say a few words
which, if you will read over once in a while, may help you. You are not
in college for the sake of its pleasures, or for form’s sake, but to
have your whole intellectual nature roused up and brought into efficient
drill. No matter what powers one has by nature, he requires thorough
drill to know how to use them. It is not wise for you to choose a
profession, long before you have any knowledge of yourself, with such
thoroughness as is needful. You are not grown yet inwardly. You do not
know your own powers and adaptations. The business of life is too
serious to be settled upon before one knows anything about his fitness
for one or another’s course.... Bear in mind that life is given you not
to be trifled with. God will hold you to strict account for the use you
make of your endowments.
“You were sent into life to work and be useful, not to frolic and enjoy
yourself. You are drawing near the time when you must begin life _for
yourself_. My dear boy, your own soul, your honor, and your father’s
name are committed to your keeping. Guard them from dishonor. May God
have you in his holy keeping!”
“I want to say a word to you about your _style_. In every energetic
nature, the style, in its essential spirit, will follow a man’s
disposition. So it is somewhere said that ‘style is the man.’ But while
this is true of its _spirit_, yet its external form may be much modified
and improved by attention and care. Now, you have never apparently made
this a matter of thought, and still less of study.
“I am not going to recommend, in addition to your other studies, that
you should read on style, but only this: that in _conversation_ and in
your _letters_ you should begin to consider ease, fulness, grace, and
scrupulous _accuracy_. I wish you would get from the library a copy of
Cowper’s letters and read them, and some of them many times. See what
interest he throws around trivial things by an elegant way of narrating
them. He draws pictures, he puts daily trifles in an artistic light. He
is as thorough and complete in each instance as if it were a great
historical event, instead of being a rabbit’s play, a bird’s freak, or a
tea-table affair. The simplicity of his style, its purity and clearness,
its _accuracy_, as clear cut as is the finest cut-glass goblet, are
worthy of notice and imitation. Now, the first step towards improvement
is a consciousness of _its necessity_, then an instant attempt at it.
Suppose you make your letters a means of practice; see that nothing is
stated in an awkward or slovenly way; leave nothing merely hinted and
left for the reader to make out as best he can; and, generally, make it
a rule never in _letters_, nor even in the mere sketchy memoranda for
the purpose of study, nor in your note-book, to do things _carelessly_.
Form the habit of stating things clearly, and in scrupulously accurate
and grammatical language; you have formed the habit of not letting your
lips tell falsehoods; now do not let your pen do so either, nor let it
tell half-truths, nor grotesque truths, but pure and simple truths, as
they are. _That_ is good style.”
To a young friend who had much artistic ability, but who was discouraged
because it was not of the highest grade, he wrote:
“Your note pained me for your sake, as it indicated a bad state of
ideality. The sense of the beautiful and of the _perfect_ was designed
to stimulate and not to discourage effort. We are not to aim at the
highest, but the highest _attainable by us_. Here, however, comes in
that pride of which you speak, and which is unwise, inartistic,
unchristian.
“Now, the province of art may be said to be to make homely things
handsome, and good things beautiful.
“The power or the gift of the artist is not to glorify himself, but to
make the way of human life smoother to tender feet. While, then, high
art has an important function, so has _decorative_ art. It is the
democratic form of art—_i.e._, the form which allies it to Christianity.
“Washing the feet is not an agreeable but a most necessary act. ‘_If I,
your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye also ought to wash one
another’s_,’ etc. It is the keynote of Christianity that one should be
willing to _serve_, not rule. Christ ‘emptied Himself of reputation,’
‘took upon Him the form of a servant.’
”_You_ are not willing to do things which give pleasure to common
people. _You_ are not willing to make plain people happy, to make common
homes more cheerful and beautiful. You do not join ideality to
_benevolence_, but to self-adoring _pride_. If you could perform great
works, you would be willing to toil, and even suffer. Being unable to do
that, you are not willing to perform the gentler offices of art, the
sweetest and most womanly, and give hues and colors to those homely
implements that every-day life needs.
“If I had your gifts and your calling, I think that every day I should
send thanks to God that, though I could not do great things, I could do
that which would cheer daily human life, that would cast a ray of beauty
along the homely path where the poor must walk.
“It seems to me that your eyes are holden, and that you do not see God’s
angel sent to you, saying, ‘Will you not be a worker together with God,
for all, and for the lowly first?’ You push him away and say, with
bitterness, ‘Let me help the strong, the high, the rich, or let me die.’
“It is a wicked _pride_, and you must be born again, and repeatedly,
until you can say to your Lord, ‘I will follow Thee in Thy poverty, in
Thy humiliation, and if need be I will die to the highest ambition, that
I may with my whole soul work for the lowly and in a lowly way!’
“Idealized pride.
“Idealized conscience.
“These are your enemies. They stand between you and your life’s
work—between you and Him who died for you.
“I would never have taken the trouble to write this, if I did not love
you so much, and did not hope to see you yet one day, ‘clothed and in
your right mind, sitting at the feet of Jesus.’”
It was his idea that home should be a training-school for his children,
by precept, example, and by object-teaching. Partly in gratification of
his own love of learning and of the beautiful, but more for the training
of the family and development of correct tastes in all departments of
literature and art, he covered his walls with paintings, etchings, and
engravings; when wall-space gave out, portfolios, drawers, and cabinets
were filled with the choicest specimens of art that he could find—not
with the zeal of a collector, who seeks the rare merely for its rarity,
but because the thing itself was beautiful, or illustrated some type or
period of art. As a result his collection of prints furnished a good
illustration of etching and engraving, from the earliest rude woodcuts
of the fifteenth century, through the various growths of improvement,
down to the parchment proofs of the modern etcher. Dürer, Rembrandt,
Ostade, Wille, Schöngauer, and many others, exemplified the old school,
while through a multitude of the French, German, Italian, and English
artists were traced the growths of modern art. All the wall-space that
could be spared from the paintings and framed engravings was devoted to
book-cases well filled. The ancient and the English classics were
well-nigh complete, and every modern writer of note, in any department
of learning, could find upon Mr. Beecher’s shelves the best of his
brain’s offspring. As in art, so in literature, he bought nothing
because it was rare, but only because it would gratify the higher tastes
or could teach something. The student in any department of art, science,
manufacture, agriculture, medicine, or theology would find in Mr.
Beecher’s library the best authorities in his special branch of study,
and generally with the marks of careful reading apparent upon their
pages; while the professional man, whose life had been devoted to the
study and practice of his particular profession, has often wondered how
Mr. Beecher could have found it possible, with his many duties, to
acquire a theoretic knowledge, in that branch of learning, so accurate
and comprehensive. The solution of the mystery lay in the fact that he
never had to learn a thing twice. The knowledge he acquired he retained.
He was remarkably watchful and observant was deeply interested in
everything that was going on about him; and when he became interested in
a subject, would buy all the books he could find that would enlighten
him, and study them carefully. He delighted in visiting workshops,
factories, laboratories, studios, and all other places where men worked,
there watching attentively the worker, and in a few probing questions
reaching such facts as he had failed to find in his books—applying the
precept he gave his children: learning what he could by his own
observation, then filling the gaps by questioning.
While his memory of words, dates, and the like was very bad, rendering
it almost impossible for him to quote accurately, or recall figures or
dates, yet his memory of facts was wonderfully accurate. The language by
which he learned a fact he could seldom repeat, but the information he
never forgot. The former was only the shell; it was the meat of the nut
alone that he cared for.
Of course in making up his library he bought many books which in fact he
never used, for he said: “A library is like a bountiful table, on which
each guest can find everything that he wants; yet it don’t follow that
each guest must eat from every dish. My library is the table for my
mind, from which I take what I want to-day, and from which I can get
what I may want at any time hereafter.” His library was eminently a
_working library_. Most of his books were bought when he was still a
young minister, when economy and love of books waged constant warfare,
of which contest we give his humorous description:
“Alas! where is human nature so weak as in a book-store? Speak of the
appetite for drink, or a _bon-vivant’s_ relish for dinner! What are
these mere animal throes and ragings to be compared with those fantasies
of taste, of imagination, of intellect, which bewilder a student in a
great bookseller’s temptation-hall?...
“Then, too, the subtle process by which the man satisfies himself that
he can afford to buy. Talk of Wall Street and financiering! No subtle
manager or broker ever saw through a maze of financial embarrassments
half so quick as a poor book-buyer sees his way clear to pay for what he
_must_ have. Why, he will economize; he will dispense with this and
that; he will retrench here and there; he will save by various
expedients hitherto untried; he will put spurs on both heels of his
industry; and then, besides all this, he will _somehow_ get along when
the time for payment comes! Ah! this SOMEHOW! That word is as big as a
whole world, and is stuffed with all the vagaries and fantasies that
Fancy ever bred on Hope....
“Moreover, buying books before you can pay for them promotes caution.
You don’t feel quite at liberty to take them home. You are married. Your
wife keeps an account-book. She knows to a penny what you can and what
you cannot afford. She has no ‘speculation’ in _her_ eyes. Plain figures
make desperate work with airy ‘_somehows_.’ It is a matter of no small
skill and experience to get your books home, and in their places,
undiscovered. Perhaps the blundering express brings them to the door
just at evening. ‘What is it, my dear?’ she says to you. ‘Oh! nothing—a
few books that I cannot do without.’ That smile! A true housewife, that
loves her husband, can smile a whole arithmetic at him in one look! Of
course she insists, in the kindest way, in sympathizing with you in your
literary acquisition. She cuts the strings of the bundle (and of your
heart), and out comes the whole story. You have bought a whole set of
costly English books, full bound in calf, extra gilt! You are caught,
and feel very much as if bound in calf yourself, extra gilt, and
admirably lettered.
“Now, this must not happen frequently. The books must be smuggled home.
Let them be sent to some near place. Then, when your wife has a
headache, or is out making a call, or has lain down, run the books
across the frontier and threshold, hastily undo them, stop only for one
loving glance as you put them away in the closet, or behind other books
on the shelf, or on the topmost shelf. Clear away the twine and
wrapping-paper, and every suspicious circumstance. Be very careful not
to be too kind. That often brings on detection. Only the other day we
heard it said somewhere: ‘Why, how good you have been lately! I am
really afraid that you have been carrying on mischief secretly.’ Our
heart smote us. It was a fact. That very day we had bought a few books
which ‘we could not do without.’ After a while you can bring out one
volume, accidentally, and leave it on the table. ‘Why, my dear, _what_ a
beautiful book! Where _did_ you borrow it?’ You glance over the
newspaper, with the quietest tone you can command: ‘_That?_ Oh! that is
_mine_. Have you not seen it before? It has been in the house this two
months.’ And you rush on with anecdote and incident, and point out the
binding, and that peculiar trick of gilding, and everything else you can
think of; but it all will not do—you cannot rub out that roguish,
arithmetical smile. People may talk about the equality of the sexes!
They are not equal. The silent smile of a sensible, loving woman will
vanquish ten men. Of course you repent, and in time form a habit of
repenting.”
When we consider how strongly developed was his love of the beautiful,
we are not surprised at his fondness for music and precious stones. At
first the two seem widely dissimilar, but to his mind they were only
different forms of the same thing, and to both he was profoundly
impressionable. Gems and precious stones were only valued for their
color. They were color crystallized, and to color he was peculiarly and
strangely susceptible. Music was color expressed in terms of sound. The
one was color to his eye, the other to his ear. The mere enjoyment of
sweet sounds and beautiful colors we can readily understand; it is
common to all who can see or hear, in greater or less degree. But the
marked peculiarity in Mr. Beecher’s case was what we might describe as
their drug effect. This is not, perhaps, unusual with others in the case
of music, for, with many, soft and gentle music will quiet the excited
mind, soothe the soul, and bring peace where the tempest raged. This was
so with him, but in a greater and more marked degree. Colors would
produce the same effect. When disturbed or nerve-tired, or when, after
some marked effort in the pulpit or upon the platform, he found his
brain aflame and every nerve keyed to the highest tension, he would sit
down in his study, take out from his pocket or table-drawer an opal,
garnet, hyacinth, or flashing diamond, hold it lovingly in his open
hand, drinking in through his eyes the soft, rich rays of color. Almost
as if by magic, the turgid veins on brow and temple grew less prominent,
the deep flush upon his face softened gradually into its natural color,
the muscular tension abated, the nerve-strain relaxed, and a soft and
gentle peacefulness settled down upon him, like the comforting shadow of
an angel’s wing. Casting himself upon his bed, he would sleep as
peacefully as a child upon its mother’s bosom.
A notable illustration of this occurred while in England in 1863. When
he returned to his hotel, after a three hours’ struggle with the mob in
the Philharmonic Hall at Liverpool, he found himself still under the
excitement of the fierce strife, every nerve still vibrating under the
strain. The waves of thought and imagination rolled through his brain,
like the billows of the ocean still tossing after the gale has passed.
He had been roused to the very centre of his being, and it promised to
be a night of restless, sleepless tossings. He had with him an opal of
wonderful fire and color. Sitting down in his room, he placed the stone
in his hand, and for half an hour sat watching the play of its changing
colors. As he watched, the stormy brain grew quiet, a gentle sense of
physical fatigue and sleepiness stole over him, yielding to which he
went to bed, dropping at once into a quiet, unconscious sleep, unbroken
till, late in the morning, he awoke, rested and refreshed.
These color-opiates he always carried with him; a dozen of the finest
stones were set in rings and strung upon a key-ring carried in his
pocket; while in the recesses of some inner vest-pocket were hidden a
number of unset stones, carefully wrapped in paper. His love in that
direction was well known to all the prominent jewellers, who laid aside
for his inspection the finest specimens of those stones for which he
especially cared. One of these gentlemen writes:
“Mr. Beecher’s love for fine gems was neither on account of their value
nor their rarity. He loved them because they spoke to him of nature and
the God who rules nature, and this voice appealed to him most strongly
in the specimens which possessed the richest colors. He might admire a
perfectly clear diamond if it was unusually brilliant, but this
admiration sank to insignificance by the side of that awakened by one
possessing color. ‘How grand,’ he would say, ‘is that nature which can
catch the hues of the rainbow and fasten them in imperishable stone! The
rainbow passes away, the beautiful flowers fade, but in the loveliness
of these gems are held permanently the colors of both.’ In one of my
visits to Europe I secured a magnificent diamond, which I am confident
has never been excelled. Its color is hard to describe, but I likened it
to molten gold. I had no commission from Mr. Beecher to purchase
anything of this kind, but nevertheless it was for him I bought it,
knowing his taste in these matters, and consequently I resisted all
temptations to sell it abroad, and brought it home with me. Mr. Beecher
was delighted, as I thought he would be, and compared its hue to the
deep reddish gold of a setting sun. This gem was set in a black
enamelled ring, and was often worn by him—the only jewel I ever knew him
to wear. He was as loyal to the gems of his cabinet as he was to his
animate friends, and indeed the stones were also his friends. Rubies,
sapphires, amethysts, topaz, hyacinths, aqua-marines, all were objects
of his deep love, not alone because they gratified his keen enjoyment of
color, but also because he seemed to read in them a page of the great
book of nature. Neither was there any superstition connected with or
tainting this love. The ill-omened opal was a part of his collection
when the prejudice against it was strongest, and, in fact, Mrs. Beecher
wore these stones frequently. I have said that richly-colored gems were
his friends, and so they were, and more. From them he gathered
inspiration, rest, peace, and even truth itself. He saw them, but he
also saw beyond them. Their colors seemed to him to be one of those
mysteries through which God speaks to man—a mystery in which his spirit
delighted to bathe, and from which he seemed to inhale strength and much
of that inspiration which all nature appeared to yield up to him
ungrudgingly. His gems gratified his sense of sight, his sense of
poetry, his sense of a beautiful nature, and, more than all these, his
sense of an omnipotent divinity. None of them, that I know of, had any
special history. He loved them for themselves alone and for what they
might teach him.”
He used to say half-jokingly, but with a great deal of underlying
earnestness, that it was the duty of every one to be healthy and strong;
that weakness was the penalty which men had to pay for disobeying the
laws of nature, sins committed either by themselves or their parents.
Preservation of health was a prime duty, its waste a cardinal sin.
As he preached, so he practised; he handled his body as an intelligent
engineer does his engine. He made it a matter of careful study. He knew
just what he could do with impunity, and just what he must avoid. If he
found that eating a certain thing harmed him, that thing he left alone.
For the stomach was the furnace and must be kept free and clear; if that
broke down, the whole engine came to a standstill.
He studied the effect upon himself of the various kinds of food and
drink, and used them at the times and in the manner which experience and
study taught him would give the best results.
Some things affected him very peculiarly, and of this he took advantage
in their use. This was markedly so with tea and coffee. He found that
coffee produced a mild kind of mental stimulus that made all things look
brighter and more joyous; that its use before preaching stimulated the
brighter and happier side of his nature, adding a slightly roseate tinge
to all he saw. It was optimistic. While with tea the effect was the
reverse. Objects appeared in their more sober, sombre colors. The rosy
faded into the blue, and while it could not be said that he felt
depressed exactly, yet the tendency was downward. Life seemed somewhat
sterner, its responsibilities became more prominent, its joys less
conspicuous. Tea was slightly pessimistic.
But, strangely, when he drank both, as he usually did, they held each
other in check; he then saw both the lights and the shadows of life in
their true relation to one another. His mind pursued the even tenor of
its way.
Wines, beer, and their like he never used for pleasure or as beverages;
as medicines, in certain conditions of stomach disorders, he found them
useful. But then, as his library attests, he first carefully studied and
investigated the peculiar properties of each that he used, and confined
their use to the condition in which he found them most useful. For
instance, Burgundy wine was used only to counteract certain tendencies
toward hepatic trouble. Beer was used only as a substitute for the
bromides to relieve insomnia.
Writing to a friend, who had inquired anxiously as to the truth of
certain rumors respecting his use of stimulants, he replied:
“BROOKLYN, February 21, 1870.
”MY DEAR SIR:
“In reply to your letter of February 14th, I would say that I do keep
intoxicating liquors of various kinds in my house, and probably shall do
so as long as I keep house. But I am _not_ ‘in the habit of offering
them to my friends when they call.’ Nothing can be more false or
injurious than the impression conveyed by such language. I keep them and
use them strictly and always as I would medicine, and I should as soon
think of offering a well man a dose of rhubarb as a dose of brandy.
“I am a _total abstainer, both in belief and in practice_. I hold that
no man in health _needs_ or is the better for alcoholic stimulants; that
great good will follow to the whole community from the total disuse of
them as articles of diet or luxury; and that so soon as the moral sense
of society will sustain such laws, it will be wise and right to enact
prohibitory liquor laws. My practice strictly conforms to my precepts.
When I was depressed in health, at times, I have made use of various
kinds of stimulants, precisely as I would have used drugs—indeed, as a
substitute for them. This has been occasional, exceptional, and wholly
medicinal....”
Careful as he was himself, he disliked exceedingly to have others
looking after or inquiring about his health. If unwell, he would lie
down, and in careful dieting and sleep soon find relief. On such
occasions he preferred to be left to himself, undisturbed by questioning
or fussing. If well, he repelled solicitude by jokes or humorous
bantering.
Exposed so constantly in his lecture-tours (in one season travelling
twenty-seven thousand miles) to the danger of accidents, and to sickness
through unavoidable exposures, it was not strange that Mrs. Beecher felt
no little anxiety for his welfare, and when rumors came back, with the
usual newspaper distortions and exaggerations, her solicitude would
naturally be greatly increased. On one occasion, when her anxiety, in
consequence of some rumor, became too great to be restrained, she wrote
an anxious letter to him, inquiring about his health and expressing her
fears. She received the following characteristic letter in reply:
“MY DEAR WIFE:
“I see that you are incorrigible. O cruel woman! will not forty years of
incessant assault suffice?
“How many heads have you crushed! Not a bone in my body that you have
not broken; not a method of mutilation that you have not tried. You have
plunged me down ravines, pitched me over precipices, drowned me, burned
me, torn me asunder. I have lost innumerable arms, legs, and feet. I go
limping, handless, toward I know not what dire future. You have
conspired with every element of earth, air, and water, by day and by
night, and wrung out every terrible fate that ever poet sang or Dante
dreamed of. I do not think that there is—well! well! Just think of this
latest. I had some disturbance in my stomach—you turn me end for end and
call it apoplexy. I was faint—you changed it to paralysis. I am getting
to crouch and creep through life in fear that you have set some terrible
disaster upon me. I think I see leaves winking mischief at me. Every
stone seems ready to fly at me. Cars and engines are traps, and seem to
say, ‘Will you walk into my parlor, Mister Fly?’ ... I am _fighting
fine_—my knees better, head clear; and if I only had a wife” (Mrs.
Beecher was then in Florida) “I should be perfect.”
What a careful observance of the rules of health did toward keeping his
body in thorough working order, sleep did for his brain. Every hour of
sleep that he could get he counted clear gain; but even that was
regulated according to the drafts made upon his brain. During vacation
time, or when he had but little work on hand—rare occasions—he found the
night’s rest sufficient. But on Sundays, while lecturing, or when
pressed by mental work of any kind, he would supplement the night with a
long nap in the afternoon. So long as he kept his health and had sleep
enough, no amount of work tired him. Under such circumstances it might
almost be said that his brain worked spontaneously; thinking came as
easily and naturally to him as breathing.
He was spared the mental drudgery that oppresses so many men. His own
illustration was that “some men are like live springs, that bubble up
and flow perpetually; while others are like pumps—one must work the
handle for all the water he gets.”
His methods of preparation for the pulpit were peculiar. In one sense
his whole life was a constant preparation, for he was always observing
and studying, laying up stores for future use, seldom knowing just when
he would utilize the material, yet sooner or later employing it all. His
memory was a great magazine, filled with ammunition, on which he drew as
the occasion required. This might be called his _general preparation_.
Just before preaching or speaking he would enter into his _special
preparation_, unlock the magazine, and lay out the material he wished to
use. This he would do just in advance of speaking (his ammunition was
highly volatile, and, if left exposed too long, was apt to evaporate and
be lost).
His Sunday-morning sermons were prepared after breakfast, and the
evening sermons after tea. He would retire to his study and think out
the result which he wished to reach, making outline notes of the steps
by which he proposed to reach it. He could never preach a sermon on a
given topic unless it was _in his mind_. It sometimes happened that
after wrestling with his subject in his study for an hour or two, and
finally preparing a very unsatisfactory outline of what he wanted to
preach, he would go to his church, and, while the choir were singing the
opening hymn, the whole subject would come up before his mind in the
form he wanted. Hastily tearing a fly-leaf from his hymn-book, or taking
the back of his notes, he would sketch out in a few lines the new-born
sermon, which would perhaps occupy an hour in its delivery. These were
very apt to be among his best sermons.
Speaking on this subject, he once said: “My whole life is a general
preparation. Everything I read, everything I think, all the time,
whether it is secular, philosophic, metaphysic, or scientific—it all of
it goes into the atmosphere with me; and then, when the time comes for
me to do anything—I do not know why it should be so, except that I am of
that temperament—it crystallizes, and very suddenly too, and so much of
it as I am going to use for that distinct time comes right up before my
mind in full form, and I sketch it down and rely upon my facility,
through long experience, to give utterance and full development to it
after I come before an audience. There is nothing in this world that is
such a stimulus to me as an audience. It wakes up the power of thinking
and wakes up the power of imagination in me.”
After a speech or sermon had once been formed in his mind, if not soon
delivered, it would evaporate and be lost. While he might recall it, it
would be in different form.
When in the delivery, and the thoughts were surging at full tide through
his brain, he became like one inspired, but half-conscious of his
external surroundings.
The sermon once preached, and his mind quieted down to its normal
condition, it would be impossible for him to recall or repeat the words
and expressions that had but just left his lips. The general outline,
the result, he could of course recall, but the language was a part of
the inspiration, and left him with it.
His reply to one asking for a copy of a prayer illustrates this:
“You request me to send you the prayer made on Decoration Day evening.
If you will send me the notes of the oriole that whistled from the top
of my trees last June, or the iridescent globes that came in by millions
on the last waves that rolled in on the beach yesterday, or a segment of
the rainbow of last week, or the perfume of the first violet that
blossomed last May, I will also send you the prayer that rose to my lips
with the occasion, and left me for ever. I hope it went heavenward and
was registered there, in which case the only record of it will be found
in heaven.”
The thought and labor necessary to keep up with his duties as pastor,
editor, and lecturer would seem to have been enough to tax to the
uttermost his time and strength. But, by a kind of selfish blindness,
the general public seemed wholly unconscious of the value of his time.
By post or in person, an unending stream poured in upon him, seeking
everything that human ingenuity or perversity could suggest.
Begging for help in every conceivable form. One wanted three thousand
dollars to lift the mortgage from his farm. A clergyman in distress
asked for a thousand, saying that the Lord would repay it. A young
theologian asked that Mr. Beecher would write him a lecture that he
might deliver, and from its proceeds pay his education for the ministry.
A school-girl requested that he write for her a composition, suggesting
the topic and briefly outlining the way she wished it treated. Another
came in person from a distant State, requesting that he adopt and
educate her; as she had exhausted her means coming on, he had to pay her
fare back. One man, who had discovered the locality of Captain Kidd’s
treasures, wanted him to bear the expense of their exhumation, the
profits to be divided. These are a few actual incidents in the line of
begging letters.
He has described the callers:
“It is six o’clock in the morning. The day is begun. The family are
emerging. Breakfast will be ready in half an hour. You look for the
_Tribune_. The bell rings. A man has called thus early for fear you
might be out. You despatch his business. Sitting down to breakfast, the
bell rings, and the servant says the man will wait. But what pleasure
can one have at a meal with a man upstairs waiting for him, and the
consciousness of it hastening the coffee and the toast on their way? You
run up. Can you marry a couple at so-and-so? That is settled. Prayers
are had with the family. The bell rings once, twice, three times. When
you rise there are five persons waiting for you in the front parlor. A
young man from the country wishes your name on his circular for a
school. A young woman, in failing health by confinement to sewing, does
not know what to do; behind in rent; cannot get away to the country;
does not wish charity, only wishes some one to enable her to break away
from a state of things that will in six months kill her. Another calls
to inquire after a friend of whom he has lost sight. While you are
attending to these the bell is active, and other persons take the place
of those who go. A poor slave-mother wants to buy her son’s wife out of
slavery. A kind woman calls in behalf of a boarder who is out of place,
desponding, will throw himself away if he cannot get some means of
livelihood. Another calls to know if I will not visit a poor family in
great distress in ——— Street. A good and honest-looking man comes next;
is out of work, has ‘heard that your “riverince” is a kind man,’ etc.
Another man wants to get his family out from Ireland; can pay _half_, if
some one will intercede with ship-owners to trust him the balance. A
stranger has died, and a sexton desires a clergyman’s services. Several
persons desire religious conversation. It is after ten o’clock. A
moment’s lull. You catch your hat and run out. Perhaps you have
forgotten some appointment. You betake yourself to your study, not a
little flurried by the contrariety of things which you have been
considering. You return to dine. There are five or six persons waiting
for you. At tea you find others also, with their divers necessities.
“This is not overdrawn, and for months of the year it is far underdrawn.
There is no taxation compared to incessant various conversation with
people for whom you must think, devise, and for whose help you feel
yourself often utterly incompetent.”
Half of his life-work would have been left undone had he attempted to
have given the letters and callers his personal attention. All that
related to his pastoral duties, and much besides, he attended to
personally. The rest he turned over to his wife. If his life has been a
benefit to mankind, then the world owes a heavy debt of gratitude to her
for the self-sacrificing protection she afforded him. She was his
helpmeet indeed; nine-tenths of his correspondence she carried on. Few
save his church-members and personal friends had access to him until she
had first learned their errand, and determined whether the case was one
that should be brought to his attention. Yet, with all this care, he
seldom saw less than ten or a dozen callers each day while he was at
home.
The drain upon his purse was constant, for he could hardly withstand a
tale of suffering and want. Of course he was not infrequently imposed
upon, as every generous man is apt to be. He used to say that the
satisfaction of relieving one really deserving sufferer was compensation
enough to make up for being swindled ten times.
Nor was his generosity, or its abuse, confined to those who sought
material aid. Among those who engaged his affection and confidence, some
there were who, Judas-like, turned against him when it seemed for their
interest to do so. Toward these he never felt resentment, save
momentarily under the smart of some sudden, treacherous blow. The love
which he once gave to a friend he never forgot. He would be very slow to
believe any one, once trusted, to be unworthy, and never lost a deep and
tender feeling for such, even after he felt that they were unworthy of
confidence. It was this feeling that led to no little criticism at the
hands of those whose cynicism made trusting hard and hating easy. By
these his tender, sympathetic trustfulness was called “gush” and
“slopping over.” To their criticisms he replied:
“I suppose I do _slop over_ sometimes. Well, I never saw a pan just full
of milk that did not slop over. If you do not want any slopping-over,
take a pint of milk and put it in a big bucket. There will be no
slopping-over then. And a man who has only a pint of feeling, in an
enormous bucket, never slops over. But if a man is full of feeling, up
to the very brim, how is he going to carry himself without spilling
over? He cannot help it. There will be dripping over the edges all the
time. And as every flower or blade of grass rejoices when the rain falls
upon it, so every recipient along the way in which a man with
overflowing generous feeling walks, is thankful for his bounty.
“How to carry a nature full of feeling, and administer it without making
mistakes, I do not know, you do not, nobody does, nobody ever did, and
nobody ever will; so we must take it and get along as best we can. Life
is a kind of zigzag, anyhow; and we are obliged to resort to expedients,
and make experiments, and learn from our blunders, which are inevitable.
We find out a great deal more from men’s mistakes than from their
successes.
“But, after all, I am not sorry that I have been imposed upon, and that
I have trusted men that were not worthy to be trusted. I am not sorry
that I have been duped. It falls out from an abundance of generous
feeling. It is the mistake of a disposition that I think it is a great
deal better to have, with all the impositions which it suffers, than
that kind of cold caution which prevents your venturing anything on the
side of kindness, because you always want to be safe.
“I was much impressed with what I once heard my father say. His chance
sayings have been like rudders to me all my lifelong. A man whom he had
befriended, and done a great deal for, turned against him and acted very
meanly. One day father came home very much exercised about it, and I
expected he was going to _blow out_—for he shook his head in a peculiar
way that he had when his feelings were very much wrought up. He said
(raising his hand, and bringing it down slowly, but with great
emphasis), ‘Well, when I have acted honorably toward a man, and he goes
away and acts meanly toward me, I am never sorry that _I_ acted
honorably toward _him_!’
“Now, I think that was a sign of nobility.”
Plymouth Church, although the principal field of his ministerial work,
was not by any means his only pastorate; he had a number of other
subsidiary pulpits. Most prominent among them was the White Mountains.
Such was his thirst for work in the fields of his Master, he made even
his infirmities an instrumentality for good. For nearly thirty years he
had been afflicted with that but little understood American malady, “hay
fever,” which attacked him every year about the 16th of August, almost
to the day. For nearly six weeks he suffered the torments of that
distressing malady; during which reading, writing, and almost all forms
of mental work were impossible.
Finally his attention was called to the exemption which the clear,
bracing air of the White Mountains afforded, and, trying the experiment,
happily found complete relief. The first year or two he merely rested,
but after that he began holding, at first, informal services Sundays;
then the large hotel parlor became the church, and every Sunday morning
he preached. Soon the demand for more room crowded them out, and then
one of the great tents used in the State fairs was secured, filled with
benches. Here, during the last two or three years that he visited the
Twin Mountain House, he preached regularly every Sunday during his six
weeks’ _vacation_.
From the neighboring hotels and all the adjacent towns the people came
by hundreds, filling the great tent. Each morning, after breakfast,
fifty to a hundred of the guests would gather in one of the smaller
rooms and join with Mr. Beecher in family prayers. To these he read a
chapter from the Bible, briefly expounding its meaning, and then made a
short prayer.
Another field in which he worked, widely different from any other, was
the State militia. In January, 1878, he was invited to take the
chaplaincy of the “Brooklyn Thirteenth,” as it was called, and accepted
the invitation. His reasons for this step we give in his own words:
“It was not because I had nothing to do, and wanted to fill up vacant
time. It was not, certainly, because I have any eminent military gifts,
or what might be called a military spirit, by which I am led to delight
in such things. I was as much surprised as any one could be when the
invitation came through Colonel Austen, bearing the request of all the
officers and all the privates in this regiment that I should act as
their chaplain.
“After the surprise had a little subsided, of course my first impulse
was to say, ‘No, I cannot.’ My second thought was, ‘Is it a matter
simply of your own convenience, or is there a moral duty here?’ The
question came, not exactly ‘Should you?’ but, ‘Why should you not?’ Is
it not an eminently wise and proper thing for a body of citizen-soldiery
to have a chaplain, and ought we not to be grateful that they desire it?
Made up, as our regiments are, of young men in the prime of life, in
this and in all associations of men, unrestrained and uncivilized, one
might almost say, in the absence of woman, great mischiefs have often
ensued from a relaxation of moral principle, a sort of vortex being
formed, down which young men might slide to their destruction; and
therefore it is a matter of importance that they should have a moral
influence thrown about them. And when the request came from the
Thirteenth that I would act as their chaplain, it seemed to me that
somebody ought to answer their request; and there were some reasons why
I thought I should answer it. I was forward in all those movements which
brought on the war, and during the whole period of the conflict I did as
much as I possibly could to bear my part of the responsibility; and with
the end of the war, to drop the whole matter of our citizen-soldiery and
show no more interest in them, to throw them aside as an instrument
employed and worn out and no longer of use, did not appear to me wise or
proper.
“Moreover, many of these young men belong to my congregation and to my
parish; they were therefore in some sense my own sheep, after whom I
ought to look; and I reasoned that if it was desirable to have a
citizen-soldiery as a kind of background on which civil authority could
retreat in times of great peril, it was eminently desirable that that
soldiery should be moral, manly, expert, and in every way fitted for the
high task to which they were assigned.
“Under those circumstances, because I am an old citizen here, because I
have a right in some sense to be a father to the young men in this
neighborhood, and because I very heartily believe in the formation of
these centres of citizen-soldiery, I did not feel at liberty to shrink
from the duty that was laid upon me; and I went with the hope and
purpose, not simply as a mere recipient of courtesy, but with the
feeling that I might be able to do them good—to do them good in the
first instance as soldiers, and in the second instance as men.”
As their chaplain he preached to his “boys”—as he was fond of calling
them—at stated intervals, and, as far as his other engagements
permitted, attended at their reviews and public parades.
Of course his inexperience in military matters led to many amusing
incidents.
Being a capital horseman, he found no trouble in maintaining himself in
his saddle; but when it came to manipulating his sword, his troubles
began. Then the path to martial glory did not seem easy. His first
trouble was to get his sword drawn; once drawn, he was puzzled to know
what on earth to do with it. He almost invariably neglected to salute
his reviewing officer, to the great amusement of his fellow-members on
the staff, who enjoyed bantering him. As one of his colonels remarked:
“His temporal sword was a source of some anxiety to him, and he always
drew it with reluctance, preferring, as he said, to wield the more
familiar ‘sword of the spirit.’”
Next to his sword the receipt of military orders bothered him most,
leading often to humorous comments to those about him or to his
commanding officer. To one of these orders he replied:
“DECEMBER 19, 1884.
”MY DEAR COLONEL:
“I enclose a circular with a humble request for its interpretation. It
is, without doubt, clear as crystal to the military mind, but to my
peaceful mind it is as dark as theology, or a pocket, or midnight, or a
wolf’s mouth.
“It orders, first and beginning, that we are to come in fatigue uniform,
without side-arms.
“It ends by ordering us to bring our best coat, knots, and swords. I
humbly inquire whether one end of this letter does not seem to eat up
the other.
“Shall I wear my resplendent chapeau or my ridiculous cap, in which I
look like a pumpkin with a ribbon around it? Shall I wear my coat and
golden straps, or my other military coat, which I have not got, and
never had?
“Lastly, may I go directly to Historical Hall, and not to the armory?
“I am, your ignorant chaplain and captain,
”HENRY WARD BEECHER.
“Are overcoats forbidden? Thermometer nearly down to zero!”
On another occasion receiving a circular printed by one of the
reduplicating processes then in vogue, but which was nearly illegible
from the paleness of the ink, he wrote the colonel:
“FEBRUARY 12, 1885.
”MY DEAR COLONEL:
“I do admire black ink and legible writing. I return you a model. Do
help me.
“(1) Is this a spiritual communication—from some feeble spirit to some
pale-ink medium? How shall I reply? Do you keep a heavenly mail?
“(2) Or is it from Wolseley, asking me to come to the Soudan? I cannot
go, of course, without your permission.
“(3) Or is it merely an advertisement of a writing-master, showing how
to increase piety by teaching men to live (and read) by faith, and not
by sight?
“(4) In that case have you got any more clerks—who can write invisible
messages? I might want them for my Sunday-schools.
“(5) You ought to send out a reader (if this is a military document) to
inform all who read it what it says.
“(6) On the theory that it is a regimental order, I shall soon commence
studying the tactics, and be ready for a parade—which, if it resembles
the writing, ought to take place at midnight, after the moon is gone, by
the light of oil street-lamps.
“H. W. B.”
As chaplain he enjoyed the “rank and pay” of captain, and on all
military occasions was addressed as “Captain Beecher.” A few years after
his appointment, being at the New England dinner with General Grant, the
latter referred to him several times as “major.” Supposing it to be a
slip of the tongue, “Captain” Beecher said nothing about it. A few
nights later they met again at some other public dinner, when the
general persisted in calling him “colonel”; then the captain protested,
but Grant assured him laughingly that the next time he should promote
him to be general, “and if you don’t keep on going higher it will be
because the titles give out.” We believe he never got above “general.”
All of those who were familiar with Mr. Beecher, either in the pulpit,
on the platform, or in social life, are familiar with that moral courage
which led him to face unhesitatingly an adverse public sentiment in
defence of what he believed to be right. The preceding pages are filled
with many illustrations of this.
His physical courage, though perhaps not so well known to the public,
was quite as pronounced as his moral courage. Athletic, self-reliant,
and in his younger days wonderfully agile, he faced the most threatening
danger without a tremor of his nerve.
In his advocacy of the slave he daily carried his life in his hands. At
Liverpool he faced undaunted an imminent danger, no doubt largely
averted by the utter fearlessness of his bearing. But in more marked
degree was his courage shown in an incident, never made public, that
occurred soon after he settled in Brooklyn.
A rabid dog, with lolling tongue and dripping jaws, threatening death in
its most frightful form, appeared suddenly in the street near his house,
and fortunately ran for a moment into the area under the front-door
steps of a neighbor’s house, where he lay crouching in the corner, with
his glaring eyes turned to the doorway. In the street children were
playing; at any moment, the impulse to spring out might seize the beast.
Seeing the danger, Mr. Beecher sprang instantly to the area-door, within
less than four feet of the crouching brute, and closed the gate.
Stepping back to his house, he got his axe. When he returned the dog was
rushing furiously around in the confined space, striving to get out.
Raising the axe with one hand, with the other Mr. Beecher opened the
area-door, and as the dog sprang at him struck him dead with one blow.