ONE HUNDRED YEARS OLD—SPECIAL CENTENNIAL SERVICE.
On Tuesday, June 8, 1875, Father Boehm completed the one hundredth
year of his age. The event was publicly celebrated on that day in the
Trinity Methodist Episcopal Church, Jersey City, under the auspices of
a committee of the Newark Conference, to which the reverend centenarian
belongs. Of course the church was crowded, and, as was the case at the
preliminary service held in April, the building could not accommodate all
who sought admission. Among the ministers present were the venerable Dr.
John S. Porter, Rev. Bartholomew Weed, Rev. Father Reynolds; Presiding
Elders Vanhorne and Brice, of the Newark Conference; President John F.
Hurst, D.D., Prof. John Miley, Prof. H. A. Buttz, and Prof. Kidder, of
Drew Theological Seminary; Rev. Jacob Todd, Rev. Dr. Foss, Rev. Dr.
Dashiell, Rev. Geo. L. Taylor, Rev. Dr. De Puy, Rev. Dr. Bartine, Rev.
J. M. Freeman, Rev. John Atkinson, and other members of the Newark, New
Jersey, Philadelphia, New York, New York East, and other Conferences.
Among the audience was the mother of President Grant, who had come to
town expressly to attend the services. A large and finely executed
photographic portrait of Father Boehm hung in front of the pulpit.
The venerable patriarch himself entered the church, attended by his
physician, Dr. Walter Hadden, and took his place in the pulpit beside
several of his ministerial brethren. He was in excellent condition, and
remained throughout the service, which was three and a half hours in
duration, without showing any signs of fatigue. The Rev. R. Vanhorne
presided.
The proceedings were opened by the quartet choir singing the following
hymn, written for the occasion by the Rev. Thomas H. Smith:—
God of our patriarch friend,
We raise our hearts to thee
Whose love and mercy never end
To all eternity.
Thy kindly care appears;
It challenges our praise;
Extending through a hundred years—
A hundred years of grace.
We praise thee for a life
So useful, Christlike, pure:
A life of manly Christian strife
Thy glory to secure.
Now crown his hoary age
With blessings all divine;
And may his life through every page
Still bright and brighter shine.
And to his latest day
Be peace and honor given,
Until he gently glides away
To sing thy praise in heaven.
After a comprehensive and impressive prayer by Rev. Bartholomew Weed,
Rev. Father Reynolds read the Twenty-third Psalm. Then the choir sang the
following hymn, composed for the occasion by Fanny Crosby:—
Thou Rock on which our Church is built,
And shall forever stand,
On him, its oldest watchman, now
Thy blessing, Lord, command.
Behold this vet’ran of the cross,
Our aged pilgrim sire,
And let the ardor of the past
Once more his soul inspire.
Well has he fought, and long has trod
The strait and narrow way;
The circle of his life completes
A hundred years to-day.
Dear Saviour, bear him in thine arms
While he on earth shall stay;
And with his years may blessings come
A hundredfold to-day.
So may we live, that we at last
May sing thy praise with him,
Where hearts shall never fail with time,
Nor eyes with age grow dim.
Father Boehm then arose, and amid profound silence and in a clear voice,
which was heard distinctly throughout the church, spoke as follows:—
FATHER BOEHM’S REMARKS.
I rejoice to meet you here to-day, my brethren in the Lord. I
rejoice that I am privileged to see the wonderful progress of the
work of the Lord through our land. I rejoice that I am permitted
to see such an assemblage here to-day. The first time I passed
through this place there was no town here. That was in 1809,
with the venerable Bishop Asbury. There were sand-banks, and so
on, here then, but no houses—except the ferry-house, I think.
Blessed be God for his wonderful work throughout our land! Yes,
where we passed through wildernesses and solitary places, they
are now inhabited, and churches have arisen, where a numerous and
enlightened people worship and praise the Lord. Thanks be to his
name! I cannot speak very long. I will commit the subject of my
experience and travels to my “venerable” Brother Atkinson, who
will read you some facts appropriate to this occasion.
Rev. John Atkinson, on rising to read the autobiographical sketch,
referring to the mirth occasioned by the centenarian’s jocose allusion,
said: “Father Boehm understands that this is a festive occasion, and
these good people like a little good cheer.” He then read the following
SKETCH OF FATHER BOEHM’S LIFE.
I was born in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, on June 8, 1775,
one hundred years ago this day. I was one year a subject of
King George, as it was not until I had attained that age that
the American people renounced their allegiance to the British
Government by proclaiming the Declaration of Independence. The
noise of the battles of Concord and Lexington had scarcely died
away when I drew my first breath, so that my history includes
nearly the whole of the period of the Revolutionary War. I was
a contemporary of the fathers and founders of the Republic, and
have lived under the administration of all the Presidents of
the United States. I clearly remember the days of Washington’s
presidency, and I cast my first vote for his successor, John
Adams, in 1796. I lived through almost a quarter of the last
century, and have lived thus far through the present one, and I
have witnessed with my own eyes the rise, progress, and present
grand development of the United States of America.
The changes and progress of the country within my recollection
have been so vast and overwhelming I scarcely know how to speak
of them. When I became a man there was only thirteen States.
Early in this century Ohio became a member of the Federal Union,
and then the star of our empire moved westward until it shone
upon the waves of the Pacific Ocean. I witnessed the system
of slavery in the Southern States, and I have been permitted
to see it swept from the land, and the banner of impartial
freedom waving triumphantly over every State. Bless the Lord! I
well remember the days when the steamboat was unknown, and the
railroad unthought of. The winds of heaven wafted our commerce,
and horses furnished our swiftest means of travel by land. I,
myself, have traveled over a hundred thousand miles on horseback.
I have witnessed the progress of the nation in population and
wealth to a degree that seems incredible to have been attained
in one man’s life-time. I have seen the increase of the oldest
cities, and the founding and wonderful growth of newer ones. I
have observed the advancement of our people from a comparatively
rude and pioneer condition to their present high _status_ of
intelligence, wealth, and refinement. When, in 1809, I first
stood upon the site of the city in which we are this day
assembled, I think there were no buildings upon it except the
ferry-house and the barn-houses which here and there dotted it.
To-day its streets and buildings cover a territory many miles in
circumference, and its population exceeds one hundred thousand
souls. Then the city of New York only reached to Canal-street,
and Brooklyn was a very small town. Cincinnati had then only
commenced its history, and Chicago was yet to be.
I have seen wonderful progress in the religious world in my time.
I was born nine years after the introduction of Methodism in New
York by Barbara Heck and Philip Embury, and nine years before the
organization of the Methodist Episcopal Church, and the election
of its first bishops, Coke and Asbury. When my life began there
were, probably, scarcely a half score of Methodist houses of
worship on this continent, and there were only 3,148 members and
19 traveling preachers. When I commenced my public life Methodism
was small, both numerically and financially. There were very
few commodious churches except in the large cities, such as
St. George’s, in Philadelphia, Light-street, in Baltimore, and
John-street, in New York.
Our best churches of that day were very inferior compared with
those of the present. Our meetings were mostly held, at the time
I began to preach, in private houses, in barns, and wherever we
could obtain shelter. There was much opposition shown toward us,
and I have had stones hurled at me while preaching.
I joined the Methodist Episcopal Church in 1797, in Boehm’s
Chapel, being at that time twenty-two years of age. My father,
Martin Boehm, was many years a minister among the United
Brethren, and was a bishop in that Church. He was for a long
time a warm personal friend of Bishop Asbury, and toward the
close of his life he united with our Church. Boehm’s Chapel is
still standing in good condition, and is now the church of the
neighborhood where it stands. My father’s influence contributed
much toward its erection. Bishop Whatcoat furnished the plan of
the edifice. It was built in 1791, was the first Methodist church
in Lancaster County, and it was one of the early fortresses of
American Methodism.
I was licensed to preach January 6, 1800, by Rev. Thomas Ware,
who was then presiding elder on the Chesapeake District, and
who at the same time appointed me to travel Dorchester Circuit,
on the eastern shore of Maryland. Therefore I was never a local
preacher, though I have been a witness of the great usefulness
of that numerous and honored class of Gospel heralds, whose
unremunerated and zealous labors have done so much for the
evangelization of this nation. In the days of my effective
ministry the local ministry was an indispensable adjunct of our
itinerant system.
About four months after I was licensed to preach I attended
the General Conference of 1800, in Baltimore. I was present at
Richard Whatcoat’s ordination as bishop, in the presence of
that body, in Light-street Church, and heard Dr. Coke’s sermon
on that occasion. I also was a witness of, and participant in,
the wonderful revival which prevailed in Baltimore during that
General Conference. People fell under the mighty influence that
rested upon them as they walked the streets. After the General
Conference closed I attended the Philadelphia Conference at
Smyrna, (then Duck Creek,) where the revival work went forward
with great power. It extended, in fact, over the whole Peninsula.
When I traveled Annamessex Circuit, in 1801, with William
Colbert, we received eight hundred persons into the Church in
that Circuit alone.
Methodism was very prosperous on the Peninsula in that day,
and included among its members many of the first people of
that section. Dr. White, Harry Ennalls, Governor Bassett, of
Delaware, an eminent lawyer, a judge, and a member of Congress
in 1787, Dr. Sellers, and others, gave influence and strength to
the denomination in those early times. The social position of
our Church has hardly been relatively higher anywhere in this
country, at any time in its history, than it was in the Peninsula
in the beginning of this century. That region furnished many of
our best and most successful preachers in the days when there
were giants among us, for truly there were giants in those days.
Among the great men of that period was Dr. Chandler, a man of
commanding intellect, of large executive capacity, a powerful
preacher, a mighty evangelist, greatly successful in winning
souls. Jesse Lee, one of the Church’s noblest and brightest
names, was then in his ripe maturity, and lost the bishopric by
only one vote at the first General Conference I attended. I was
with him in his last hours, heard his rapturous and triumphant
utterances as he met his final foe, and, at his own request, I
closed his eyes after the great soul departed. William Colbert,
one of my early colleagues was a man of low stature, but of
high usefulness, indefatigable in labor, and among the first in
success.
That portion of my life in which I was the traveling companion
of bishop Asbury has probably the most public interest, because
I was in that capacity the representative of the denomination at
large, and was the most intimate and daily associate of a man,
the purity and greatness of whose character, and the vastness and
value of whose work, must forever place him among the foremost
servants of God and mankind.
Bishop Asbury chose me to be his traveling companion in the
spring of 1808—which choice the Philadelphia Conference
ratified—and I ceased traveling with him at the conference of
1813, when he appointed me presiding elder of the Schuylkill
District, which comprised the whole territory from Wilmington
to Stroudsburgh, between the Susquehanna and the Delaware. My
first tour with Bishop Asbury was from a point between Baltimore
and Fredericktown, Maryland—a spot historic in Methodism, where
Strawbridge built his log church; thence westward. We crossed
the Alleghany Mountains on our way, and the ascent occupied
thirty-nine hours. I have since crossed the Alleghanies several
times in express trains in a much shorter time. I had previously
accompanied Asbury to the Alleghanies in 1803, where I left him
to pursue his westward journey, while I returned to my work.
Having passed the mountains, we made our way to Wheeling; thence
through Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee; thence pursued a southerly
course, visiting the conferences in the Southern States. During
the western portion of this tour we visited the territory
of Indiana, which was a vast wilderness. We traveled in it
thirty-six miles, and saw in all that distance only six human
habitations. Among the noted and worthy laymen whose acquaintance
I formed, and by whom I was entertained on this my first
journey with Bishop Asbury, were Governor Tiffin and Governor
Worthington, both of Ohio, who were exemplary and devoted members
and representatives of our Church. During our progress through
Tennessee we were joined by Bishop M’Kendree, who had just been
elected a bishop at Baltimore, and who was on his first episcopal
tour. He accompanied us through the South, presiding with Asbury
over the Southern conferences.
I became acquainted with the Southern Methodist preachers at
that time. Lovick Pierce, but a few years my junior, was then
conspicuous for the purity and beauty of his character, and his
popular talents as a preacher, and he yet lingers, with me,
behind our beloved early colaborers who have gone on before.
William Capers, beautiful in person and eloquent in speech,
was at that time received on trial by the conference. He was
afterward one of the most distinguished men in our connection,
and became a bishop of the Church South after we were divided.
The Southern Methodists at that time were remarkable for their
spiritual fervor, and Christian friendliness and hospitality.
There were among them many noble examples of the great virtues
produced by our faith. I learned to love the South, and I have
now fond memories of my friends whom I once cherished there.
I knew the South when there was but one Methodism in America. I
wept when, in 1844, we were rent asunder, and now, as I stand
amid the thronging memories of a century, I plead and pray that
Methodism, North and South, may become one again. I am, in some
sense, at least, a representative of the fathers of the Church—of
the preachers and bishops who toiled and sacrificed to lay strong
the foundations of our beautiful Zion, and I am sure I do not
misrepresent them when, in their name, and as almost their sole
survivor, I plead for a united Methodism throughout this great
land. This desire and prayer leaps strong and warm out of my
heart, which, after beating for a hundred years, still beats as
true and strong as ever for the welfare of the Church to which
its best love and zeal have been given.
During this first tour with Bishop Asbury I saw the Virginia
Conference. It was composed of a fine body of men. There was one
striking fact connected with it. Of the eighty-four members of
the body, the two bishops, and the traveling companion of the
bishops, all were bachelors except three. Our early preachers
were compelled to deny themselves largely of the pleasures and
endearments of domestic life, in order that they might do the
work of evangelists and make full proof of their ministry. At
this time I made the acquaintance of, and was entertained by,
Edward Lee, at Petersburgh, Va. He was a brother of Jesse Lee,
and father of Rev. Dr. Leroy M. Lee, now, and for a long time, a
distinguished representative of Southern Methodism.
From the Virginia Conference we proceeded over the Blue Ridge to
Harrisonburgh, where we attended the Baltimore Conference; thence
to the Philadelphia Conference, in St. George’s, Philadelphia,
Bishops Asbury and M’Kendree alternately presiding. Though
attending all the conferences, I was a member of this conference,
and was home again with my brethren. When my name was called
in conference the brethren said: “None but the bishop can tell
whether there is any thing against Brother Boehm.” The bishop
rose and said, with much gravity: “Nothing against Brother
Boehm.” This conference has given many noble and illustrious
ministers and laymen to the Church.
After the Philadelphia Conference, we proceeded onward through
New Jersey, which Bishop Asbury had not visited for twenty-five
years, and we missed our way in the Pines, and reaching a church
where the bishop had an appointment to preach, we found that,
as a result of our delay, the services had been commenced by
the preacher in charge of the circuit. The house was crowded.
Bishop Asbury immediately entered the pulpit, and, after talking
a brief time, he stepped backward and said: “I cannot preach;
Henry, you must get up and preach.” I immediately arose, and the
passage came to my mind, “And all thy children shall be taught of
the Lord, and great shall be the peace of thy children.” If the
passage had not come to my mind I should have been dumb, but as
it was I preached from it, and had a good time. After I finished
the bishop arose and delivered a warm exhortation. This was in
the coast region of South Jersey in 1809.
Proceeding toward New York, we were joined by bishop M’Kendree
again at Elizabeth, and at Elizabethport we saw for the first
time a steamboat. It excited our curiosity. We passed on to
Paulus’ Hook, now Jersey City. Here for the first time I saw
the noble Hudson, and crossed it to New York, where we met the
conference in John-street Church. Bishop M’Kendree was then first
introduced to the New York Conference. I traveled many hundreds
of miles with M’Kendree during my five years’ sojournings with
Asbury, and heard him preach, probably, at least a hundred
times. He was a very powerful preacher. He often preached great
sermons, and seldom preached a poor one.
From the New York Conference we proceeded to New England,
attending the only conference in that section, after which we
proceeded again on our western and southern tour. But it is
impossible for me on this occasion to recount the many scenes and
events I witnessed during my long journeys with that great man,
whose memory is ever green in my heart.
It was my office to attend upon and minister to him for five
years. I frequently lifted him upon his horse, and helped him to
alight. I gave him medicine when he was sick, and watched with
him at night. It was my privilege to attend Bishop Whatcoat in
his last illness, at Governor Bassett’s, in Delaware, in 1806. I
have been personally acquainted with all our bishops, from Coke
to Peck, but to none have I been so endeared as to Bishop Asbury.
I guarded him in his journeys when it was unsafe for him to be
without a companion, and I shared with him the perils of the
wilderness.
In North Carolina, coming on from Wilmington toward Newbern,
Bishop Asbury’s horse became frightened and ran away. He was in
the sulky, and I was on horseback. I suffered great apprehension
of mind, not knowing what to do. I did not dare to pursue after
him lest I should increase the horse’s fright, and so add to the
bishop’s peril. I began to pray, and if ever I prayed I prayed
then, that God would deliver the bishop from the destruction with
which he was threatened. Suddenly the horse stopped, and became
quiet and docile, and I rode up to the bishop, and found him in
much trepidation, but safe and thankful.
“The Lord is good: a stronghold in the day of trouble, and he
knoweth them that trust in him.” As I attended and guarded and
nursed Asbury, so am I attended, nursed, and tenderly cared for
by my beloved daughter in my weakness and age. My hope is bright,
and I expect soon to meet my colaborers on high.
The last of my dear friends who have preceded me was Rev. Dr.
Wakeley, my intimate associate for many years. He was to me a
true and loving friend. He was with me on my last birthday, and
participated in the service when I preached my centennial sermon
at the last session of the Newark Conference. He then expected to
be here to-day; but he is not here—he has gone on before. I shall
see him soon, and Asbury, and others dear to me,
“Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,
Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet;
While anthems of rapture unceasingly roll,
And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul.”
Rev. J. M. Freeman then read the following letter from Bishop Asbury to
Rev. Joseph Totten, New Brunswick, N. J., written in 1811, to which were
added a few lines by Father Boehm:—
LETTER FROM BISHOP ASBURY.
MARTIN BOEHM’S, _Aug. 10, 1811_.
MY DEAR BROTHER: We have need of great grace to make and keep us
what we ought to be as Christian men and Gospel ministers. Alas
for poor.... They are well kept whom the Lord keepeth, and they
only. I have been looking many years for a general spread, not
only of Methodism, but religion, in Jersey. There, I fear, we
shall grow so like other societies that there will be but little
difference. I have this morning opened about a dozen letters from
the South—growing prospects still; living and dying witnesses;
camp-meetings moving on; thirty or forty souls coming out, boldly
declaring what the Lord hath done for them. It is of consequence
to have scaffolding—I mean houses—for the service of God. I have
many times felt with Eli for the ark of God in forty years when
I view our prosperity—200,000 members; two or three millions
of annual hearers; between 2,000 and 3,000 local and traveling
preachers; that we minute almost 700 in eight conferences.
Satan, the world, carnal Churches—more so than ourselves—envy
us, and wish our fall; but let us watch, and fast, and pray. The
Lord will direct. Children and great grandchildren may forget
old fathers. I shall keep close to children whether the ship
should be in storm, or calm, or fresh breeze; near the helm,
if permitted, or before the mast. I cannot leave them or cast
them off. Let my traveling so many thousand miles in pain, in
lameness, in hunger, in thirst, in all seasons, witness, that I
wish to stand clear of a party or policy. I must speak and write
as a plain, open man, as you have always found me. Your request
to know the names of the delegates is what any one in your
standing might reasonably wish, and the names are on the cover
of my Characteristic Book. Brother Boehm knoweth the delegates;
he may give them in this letter. I may be censured if I do it;
nothing is hid. I conclude. Let us be plain, peaceable, praying
men; the Lord will direct us all. I hope for the best. You will
recollect how restless two young men were in the last General
Conference. It was but a little while they had to feel the rod or
staff of the bishops. I am most affectionately, as ever, yours,
F. ASBURY.
Following is Father Boehm’s postscript to the above:—
AT MY FATHER’S, _Aug. 11_.
DEAR BROTHER: Through a kind and gracious Providence my life and
peace are perpetuated to the present moment. I desire to exercise
greater confidence in the Lord as regards myself and the Church
of God.
H. BOEHM.
Rev. Abraham J. Palmer read some letters which had been received by the
committee in charge of the centennial celebration, among which were the
following:—
LETTER FROM BISHOP JANES.
NEW YORK, _May 8, 1875_.
REV. A. J. PALMER, DEAR SIR: I thank the committee for inviting
me to be present at the one hundredth birthday of Rev. Henry
Boehm. I should regard it as a very high honor, and it would
be a very great pleasure, to participate in the services of
that very unusual occasion were it practicable for me to do so
consistently with engagements made previous to the reception of
your invitation. My engagements in the West will not allow me to
return in time to enjoy the occasion. Permit me, through you, to
extend to Father Boehm my warm congratulations and affectionate
greetings. I am sure one who has lived so long and intimately
with God on earth will live with him forever in heaven. May
all who unite in celebrating his centennial share with him his
immortality!
Yours in Christian love,
E. S. JANES.
LETTER FROM BISHOP BOWMAN.
CHICAGO, _June 1, 1875_.
DEAR FATHER BOEHM: As neither my colleagues nor myself can be
present at your centennial anniversary, we beg to assure you that
our absence does not in the least indicate any loss of respect or
affection for you. Your pure Christian character and holy life,
as well as your long and valuable services to the Church, have
given you a warm place in our hearts. We are glad and thankful
that a kind Providence has spared you to us so long, and that
you are permitted to enjoy so comfortable and happy an old age.
It would give us great pleasure to be present on the occasion
referred to, and participate in the interesting and memorable
services connected with it. But as other duties will not allow
this, we hereby send our hearty congratulations and Christian
greetings, and most devoutly pray that God’s blessings may abound
toward you, and that, when the end shall have come, the light
of your cheerful and beautiful life may, without a cloud or a
shadow, melt away into the glory of heaven.
Yours affectionately,
THOMAS BOWMAN,
_By order of the Board of Bishops_.
LETTER FROM BISHOP SIMPSON.
PHILADELPHIA, _June 7, 1875_.
DEAR BROTHER PALMER: I regret that I cannot be present at Father
Boehm’s anniversary. At our recent meeting I was appointed to
hold the German Conference and to visit our missions in Italy
and Scandinavia, and I expect to sail this week. Please present
to Father Boehm my sincere congratulations that God has spared
him so long to the Church and the world. Few men have seen their
hundredth anniversary. Very few ministers have ever approximated
such an age. His experience, too, has been so rich and joyous. He
has seen the Church of his youth rise from infancy to maturity.
He has witnessed the development of all its agencies, and the
enlargement of its borders. We rejoice still to have his presence
with us, and his blessing upon us. May his last days be unusually
full of gracious enjoyments, and may he finally be crowned
in holy triumph in our Father’s kingdom. With thanks to the
committee for their courtesy, and with regret at my unavoidable
absence,
I am yours, truly,
M. SIMPSON.
LETTER FROM SAMUEL PETTIT.
PIQUA, O., _June 5, 1875_.
Rev. HENRY BOEHM:
MY DEAR BROTHER: I see by the “Western Advocate” that you expect
to celebrate your hundredth anniversary, which will be next
Tuesday, and I should be glad were it in my power to meet you on
that occasion. But as this cannot be, I must praise the Lord, and
shake hands with you in my heart. In 1822 I stopped at your house
in Lancaster, Pa., on my way to Reading, where Methodism was soon
after planted in that wicked town, which was on your circuit, and
where you were likely to be drowned by swimming the Schuylkill to
get to your appointment there, and where your books and clothes
were well soaked in the water, and where I took you to my house
and had you dried and comforted as best I could. It was in 1822
that you gave me my first license, which I still have to look
at. It was also in 1822, at Churchtown camp-meeting, that you
took into Society Ellen Righter, who has been my wife over fifty
years, and who has never been too tired to rise up and make the
preachers comfortable at our house, and who is known to most of
the preachers of the Cincinnati Conference, and whose praise is
in all the Churches.
You will remember Brother Kimber, who was my fellow-laborer at
Reading in the Church, and helped greatly in the work of the
Lord. He still lives in Urbana, Ohio, and he and I are now both
in our seventy-ninth year, and, by the grace of God, walking by
the same rule, and minding the same thing. I thank my God for
my acquaintance with you, and for the long life with which my
heavenly Father has favored you, and pray that your sun may grow
brighter and broader at its setting, and bring a pleasing day in
glory.
SAMUEL PETTIT.
P. S.—If you ever feel like writing me a line I should be very
happy to receive it. You will remember that I met you about ten
years ago at your friend’s below Dayton, where we spent two or
three days together. I may write to you some day again, if I know
your post-office.
S. P.
LETTER FROM AARON WOOD.
WILLIAMSPORT, IND., _June 4, 1875_.
A. J. PALMER, JERSEY CITY, N. J.:—
DEAR SIR: Please read the following at your meeting on the 8th,
as my congratulating contribution for the occasion. In 1811
Asbury and Boehm came to my father’s, in the State of Ohio.
(See “Asbury’s Journal,” vol. iii, page 317.) I was then nine
years old, and received from the bishop a catechism. Boehm
will remember the visit. But there is a fact that I give of
importance, learned from my mother. Her maiden name was Mary Con,
of York, Pa., and when a child, under the preaching and teaching
of Martin Boehm gave her heart to her Saviour. I am the oldest of
five sons of that mother, and am now seventy-three, and in the
fifty-third year of my itinerancy. I have met H. Boehm in New
York, in Xenia, and Philadelphia, and he will remember
Yours, respectfully,
AARON WOOD.
_Reflections on the extent of personal influence_:—
1. Martin Boehm, the Mennonite from Germany.
2. Mary Con Wood, the Methodist mother of preachers.
3. A. Wood, a young preacher in Indiana, preaching in a cabin in
Knox County.
4. Isaac Owen, brought to Christ, and made missionary to
California.
And who knows but four more would reach around the world? If God
leaves me here in this sound body twenty-seven years more, I may
learn the names of persons who, from Owen in China, and so on
around to Bohemia or Bulgaria, carried the same Gospel which has
saved me. Glory be to God! Amen.
A. W.
A communication from Dwight Williams, of Cazenovia, N. Y., inclosed the
following letters from Father Boehm and Bishop Asbury to Rev. Robert
Birch, a member of the East Genesee Conference at the time of his death,
which occurred about twenty-two years ago. Both letters were originally
written upon the same sheet of paper.
FATHER BOEHM’S LETTER.
CAMDEN, S. C., _Dec. 23, 1811_.
MY VERY DEAR BROTHER: I received yours a few days ago, and was
made glad with its contents, particularly on finding that you
enjoyed good health of body, and, above all, are warring a good
warfare. It is so: great and good men may sometimes be at least
the accidental cause of leading us into inexpedient steps, and
if such a step or steps should be of such a nature and relation
that we cannot step backward for life, it behooves us to consider
well, especially as itinerant ministers of the ever blessed
Gospel of Jesus Christ. The rewards of grace and glory are
suspended on self-denial and taking up the cross. But, my dear
brother, how liable we are to lose sight of the spiritual prize!
for it must be received by faith. My mind is satisfied that
nothing can reconcile a young man to move on as though he cared
for nothing of a temporal or domestic nature but the power of
grace, and the perpetual exercise of the same.
No doubt you would be glad to hear some account of our tour.
We traveled extensively through the State of Ohio previous to
the Western Conference, at which we had a good time, both in
conference and in the congregations. Some conversions. Things
were very promising as to the perpetuation of peace, order, and
discipline among preachers and people. Upward of three thousand
increase. One hundred and one preachers stationed. From there
we traveled rapidly to the west of Georgia, over into the New
Purchase, down to Savannah, back to Augusta, Columbia, to this
town—upward of eleven hundred miles since we left Cincinnati.
There has been a gracious work of God, in many parts, within the
bounds of this conference. The increase, in all probability, will
be considerable. It would do you good to see the peace, order,
and love which appear to be prominent features of this conference.
My health is as usual, and I have reason to believe that my soul
is advancing in humility and love. O, why is not my whole soul
swallowed up in the goodness of God! May the great Head of the
Church be your wisdom, comfort, and strength! Father Asbury has
lately been considerably afflicted with a rheumatic touch in one
of his knees, but is at present nearly well.
I am, dear brother, yours, etc.,
H. BOEHM.
BISHOP ASBURY’S LETTER.
CAMDEN, S. C., _Dec. 23, 1811_.
MY DEAR SON: O what graces and grace we need to conduct ourselves
as sons of God, without rebuke! Great grace we need to guide men
of murmuring minds, and called, justified, sanctified, ministers
of Jesus. This year with us is begun in the West and Southern
conferences. The day of God, the day of glory, is begun. Near
seven thousand added this year, besides the numbers triumphantly
gone to join the Church above. Thus the wastage is more filled
up. These two conferences would be a great field for the poor
supernumerary superintendent, but we must wander through the new
world.
We have recommended the first Friday in May as a day of
humiliation and fasting, that if we must have some radical
changes, (as some say,) and the transfer of some of the
appointing power to the principal officers in our Church
government, the change may be of God, and not of men, who have
partially for years been their own bishops. Pray; watch; flee
youthful desires; follow after every grace.
Yours, etc.,
FRANCIS ASBURY.
TESTIMONIAL TO FATHER BOEHM.
Rev. John S. Porter, D.D., then came forward, and turning to the
patriarch, said:—
I have great pleasure, Father Boehm, to meet you again in the
presence of this large assembly. I suppose there is no person
present, perhaps, who has so continuous a recollection of you for
so long a term of years as myself. I do not recollect the time,
but I doubt not you do, when in my infancy, at the request of my
now departed and sainted parents, you baptized me in the name of
the Holy Trinity. When you came to the Delaware District, which,
I think, was in 1820—’19 or ’20—
FATHER BOEHM—Thereabouts.
DR. PORTER—I was then a member of the Church, a lad about or
nearly fifteen years of age, and I recollect it was you who gave
me the first book I ever felt sufficient interest in to read
from the beginning to the end. I suppose that book of religious
letters is now out of print, but I recollect my heart was warmed
in reading those letters directed to Bishop Asbury, I think
chiefly from laborers in different parts of the field. From that
time it has been my privilege to know your personal history as
to age and service in the ministry of the Methodist Episcopal
Church, and I think what Bishop Asbury said when he was called
upon to say whether there was any thing against Henry Boehm, may
well have been said from year to year from that time till now.
God be praised, by whose grace you have been thus preserved!
Your brethren, sir, desire to present to you some substantial
token of their respect for you, their interest in you, and their
affection for you in the evening of your life; and although it
was not so determined by the Newark Conference, yet the Newark
Conference was pleased to appoint a committee to take this matter
in charge—the celebration of your centennial—and they have been
pleased to issue circulars and to obtain from different quarters
something of what Kossuth, I believe, used to call “material
aid.” I have something from those who love you to present to you
on this occasion, and I am happy to say that one hundred and
fifty dollars of this subscription comes from the Philadelphia
brethren. I was present at their preachers’ meeting, and when
I told them we were going to celebrate your centennial, and
suggested that they take the matter in hand, (for I thought
they would consider it a privilege to participate in this
celebration,) they very cordially appointed a committee of three
to represent them here, and they also have collected that amount
of money, and those three brethren—Brothers Todd, Chaplain, and
Robinson, together with Brother Fernley, have come here to show
their interest in this matter.
It is not possible for us to say, Father Boehm, how much the
amount of this testimonial will yet be. I have just been told,
however, that a friend will make it up to the sum of five hundred
dollars, and I have no doubt there are other friends who desire
to add to it, and I hope it will not stop at that figure. I know
that other friends will be glad, when the subject is presented
to them, to participate in the movement. I hope, so far as the
“material aid” is concerned, that it may be of comfort to you—not
that the sum is so considerable, but that you cannot, I know
you cannot, but feel in your heart to rejoice that God raises
up these friends for you. With this substantial token of our
regard for you [handing Father Boehm a purse] I close my remarks,
rejoicing that it is my privilege to sit at your feet, and hoping
to join you in the heavenly land.
Father Boehm was asked if he desired to reply in person, and he said that
instead of speaking himself he had selected Professor Buttz to represent
him.
Rev. Henry A. Buttz, A. M., who then appeared in a double representative
capacity—being called upon to speak for Father Boehm and also for the
young men of the Newark Conference—spoke as follows:—
ADDRESS OF PROF. HENRY A. BUTTZ.
DR. PORTER: Little did Father Boehm suppose, when he took you
in his arms and baptized you in the name of the Father, Son,
and Holy Ghost, that you would greet him on the one hundredth
anniversary of his birth with this token of the appreciation of
his younger brethren.
I am requested by Father Boehm to return through you, to all who
have taken part in this occasion, whether from the Philadelphia,
New York, or other conferences, and particularly to the members
of the Newark Conference, with which he has been connected during
these later years of his life, his thanks for this renewed
testimonial of affection.
All these brethren have a warm place in his heart. He looks upon
them not as his brethren only, but with all the tenderness with
which a father looks upon his sons, and with a heart whose warmth
a hundred years have not chilled he returns you his gratitude. He
receives this gift for the evidence it gives of your confidence
and esteem.
Father Boehm gives thanks to God to-day that although he has been
preaching the Gospel since the year 1800 with an average salary
of less than two hundred dollars a year, and in many instances he
has given that to the Church of Christ, yet now, standing at the
end of a century, he can confirm by experience the truth of the
Divine promise to the righteous: “Trust in the Lord, and do good;
so shalt thou dwell in the land, and verily thou shalt be fed.”
For one hundred years he has not wanted any good thing. Loving
hearts have cared for him, and gentle hands have ministered to
him, through all these years until this hour. If it were proper,
it would be the wish of Father Boehm that I should express on
this occasion, to those of his own immediate circle who have
cared for him so long, his high appreciation of their love, or,
to use his own words, they have been to him “better than good.”
But this is a sacred precinct within which I dare not intrude.
Let it suffice to say, that although for many years he has had no
son of his own, Providence has so arranged that he has not felt
the lack, and he has not wanted for the loving attentions either
of son or daughter.
It is well known to those intimate with Father Boehm that he has
always had a deep interest in young men, especially in young
ministers. In the true spirit of the fathers he has hailed with
joy every institution which proposed their improvement. It is
his desire that when he can no longer preach the Gospel himself,
he may preach it through others, so that he may still speak for
Christ on earth when he has passed to heaven. I am commissioned
by Father Boehm to say, also, that he gratefully receives this
gift of his brethren; that he will deposit it where it may be at
hand in case of need; and hoping, as he does, that he may never
need it, having always had his wants supplied in the past, it is
his purpose in that event, and also that of those most intimately
connected with him, that this shall be employed as a fund to
aid young men in preparing for the ministry in Drew Theological
Seminary.
Again, in Father Boehm’s behalf, I thank you, and give to you,
in his name, his centennial blessing, in the language of the
patriarch Jacob to his son Joseph: “God, before whom my fathers
Abraham and Isaac did walk, the God which fed me all my life long
unto this day, the Angel which redeemed me from all evil, bless
the lads; and let my name be named on them, and the name of my
fathers Abraham and Isaac; and let them grow into a multitude in
the midst of the earth.”
But, venerable father, I have another mission besides the one
with which you have so kindly honored me. The purse is but an
incident in the exercises of this occasion. We are here also to
greet you on this the one hundredth anniversary of your birth, to
assure you of our love and confidence, to pray unitedly for the
continuance of your health and strength, and to hear from your
lips such words as you may choose to speak, and to receive your
blessing. I am asked to extend to you, on this your centennial
anniversary, the cordial salutations of the younger members of
the Newark Conference. I despair of being able in any adequate
sense to represent them. Their voices are so many, and their
sympathies with this occasion are so deep, that I can scarcely
attempt, much less hope to accomplish, such a task. Whatever the
difference in the respective ages of those who are gathered here,
we are alike in this, that by the side of you, Father Boehm,
we are all young men to-day. I seem to myself like a sapling
addressing an oak that has withstood the storms of a century;
like a child, scarcely able to speak, addressing an ancestor
whose life began so long ago as to make his history bear, almost,
the aspect of mythology.
We congratulate you on having lived to be one hundred years
old; an age to which we young men can scarcely hope to attain.
I say hope to attain, for we do not depreciate the grandeur and
glory of old age, especially when, like yours, it is found in
the way of righteousness. I have been informed that there is a
statistician in England who denies that men live to be so old. If
he were here to-day we would point him to you, and show that in
America it does occur. You have lived one hundred years—twelve
hundred months—thirty-six thousand four hundred days—eight
hundred and seventy-six thousand hours, and minutes almost
innumerable. But time is rightly measured not so much by the
minutes on the dial, as by the work achieved and the events that
have transpired. It has been well said that many of the greatest
events of modern times have taken place during your life. Your
centennial comes in the midst of American centennials, and no
history of our country will be complete without your name.
It is not merely to the hundred years that you have lived that
we pay our tribute to-day, but to the fact that you have lived
them so well. We pay our homage to a century of character—to the
Christian virtues which have adorned your active life—a century
in which, neither by word or deed, have you brought a stain upon
the Church with which you have been identified, or upon the
Christ whose Gospel you have proclaimed.
On the 31st of August, 1799, Bishop Asbury wrote in his
journal: “I had a comfortable time at Boehm’s Church.... Martin
Boehm is upon wings and springs since the Lord has blessed
his grandchildren. His son Henry is greatly led out in public
exercises.” This was the bishop’s earliest public testimonial to
your Christian character.
In the year 1809, in the Philadelphia Conference, after you
had been Bishop Asbury’s traveling companion for one year, the
question was asked, “Is there any thing against Henry Boehm?”
and the bishop gravely answered, “Nothing against Brother
Boehm.” Again, in 1813, after five years’ traveling with him,
the bishop returned the same answer to the same question, and
added, referring to you, “For five years he has been my constant
companion. He served me as a son; he served me as a brother; he
served me as a servant; he served me as a slave.” At the last
session of the Newark Conference, in your hundredth year, the
same question was asked, and the answer was, “Nothing against
Father Boehm.”
I am sure, sir, if you should live a hundred years more the same
answer would be given. And when, at last, you shall be called
to enter the better world, the answer will still be, “Nothing
against Henry Boehm;” not because of any merit of your own,
but because you have been washed in the blood of the Lamb, and
because you have “fought the good fight, you have finished your
course, you have kept the faith.”
I have wondered that art has never paid that tribute to age to
which it is entitled. Art has embalmed the human frame in its
grandest physical vigor, and it fairly revels in the flowers
of youthful beauty. Even the muscles of Hercules have been
preserved by the sculptor’s chisel or the painter’s brush,
but so far as my own observation has gone, (and I confess it
has not been extensive,) I have seen but little of art in the
embalmment of the proportions of old men. But the men whom the
world would recall from the past in hours of conflict are not the
physically strong, but the ripe, intellectually noble old men.
It is not Hercules, but Nestor. You remember that the greatest
of epics written by the greatest of poets opens with a quarrel
between Agamemnon and Achilles, the rival Grecian chieftains,
in the midst of which an old man, Nestor by name, who had lived
through two generations, and was now ruling over the third, and
whose words are described as “sweeter than honey,” arose and
demanded a hearing by the rival chiefs by declaring his age and
contemporaries:—
“In times past
I lived with men—and they despised me not—
Abler in counsel, greater than yourselves;
Such men I never saw, and ne’er shall see....
The mightiest they among the sons of men:
The mightiest they, and of the forest beasts
Strove with the mightiest, and their rage subdued.
With them I played my part; with them, not one
Would dare to fight, of mortals now on earth.
Yet they my counsels heard, my voice obeyed;
And hear ye also—for my words are wise.”
And it is of the old man, and not of the warrior, that the poet
adds:—
“O would the gods, in love to Greece, decree
But ten such sages as they grant in thee!”
You, sir, are older than Nestor of Homeric fame. Three
generations have fully passed while you have lived, and you
are now dwelling among the fourth. You have seen the seventh
generation in your own family. How much more should your words be
heard, and your portrait preserved! We take your portrait to-day,
not in verse, not in marble, not on canvas, but on the tablets of
our hearts, and we will preserve it there while life and memory
last, as an inspiration and joy.
We congratulate you, also, because you have lived in the heroic
age of the Church to which we belong. You have been an actor in
the great religious movements which led to the firm establishment
of our Church. You were born nine years after its introduction
into America; you have seen all our great institutions rise and
flourish: you have helped to fight the great battles of Methodism.
You have had great contemporaries, who will be more fully named
by others. It is a great thing to live in a great age with
great men, and to bear your part among them. Your history has
been almost identical with American Methodism. I had almost
said your history _is_ American Methodism. You have seen our
bishops ordained. You yourself were ordained by Whatcoat, who was
ordained by Wesley, and are in the true apostolic succession. You
have helped them in their work, you have smoothed their passage
to the tomb; you helped to lay Whatcoat in the grave.
On the 4th of July, 1815, you went home to visit your mother.
Bishop Asbury, referring to that visit, wrote in his journal:
“Happy at Mother Boehm’s. A pleasing Providence, according to my
wishes, had brought Henry in a few moments before.” After a two
days’ visit with him there in the old home, where he had been
a visitor for thirty years, and when, after his last episcopal
tour, he had bid your aged mother good-bye, you accompanied him
to Lancaster, when he embraced you in his arms, pressed you
to his bosom, gave you his last kiss and benediction, and you
gazed on him till he was lost from your view. The parting is not
forever. You shall see him again in the land where there are no
separations.
You can now look upon a Church whose missions encircle the
globe, founded not only on great institutions of benevolence and
learning, but on the foundation of the apostles and prophets,
Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner-stone—a sure pledge
that her history and triumphs have but just begun.
I have no doubt it would be pleasing for you to know, on this
your centennial anniversary, how the younger members of our
Conference feel on vital matters pertaining to the Church of
your and their choice, and in which you have been a minister for
three quarters of a century. I think I may safely say that they
are loyal to the great doctrines of the Bible as maintained by
the Church during the hundred years you have lived. They maintain
the Bible as the only infallible standard of Christian faith and
practice. They believe and preach the doctrines of depravity,
atonement, regeneration, witness of the Spirit, adoption,
sanctification, eternal salvation for the finally holy, and
eternal punishment for the finally impenitent. While they hold
with tenacity to the doctrines of their own Church, they are not
narrow or bigoted, but with broad Christian hearts they repeat
the Apostle’s Creed with the whole Church of Christ, and gladly
co-operate with Christians of every name for the salvation of
men. They hold fast to the great working forces of the Church
as they have inherited them from you and your colaborers. They
believe in revivals of religion having their inspiration in
God’s Spirit, the class and prayer meeting, and the recognized
instrumentalities of the Church for carrying on her work. If they
criticise, it is not to destroy, but to maintain and upbuild
the Church of their choice. They believe that the great mission
of the Church is the one announced by our fathers, “To spread
scriptural holiness over these lands.” Whatever differences
may exist among them on definitions, I believe they are one in
carrying out the spirit of her early mission, which, I trust,
will continue to be her mission until the world shall be redeemed
to God. They do not fear, but welcome, the highest culture and
the deepest, broadest learning, but they would make it all
tributary to the spread of scriptural holiness.
They are loyal to the fathers of the Church; they reverence our
old men; they are proud of them; they would as soon be seen
striking a blow at their own earthly parents as at the fathers of
Methodism; they hold them highly in esteem for their characters’
sake, for the work’s sake, for the Church’s sake to which they
have given their best days and their noblest powers. Every gray
hair on your head, and every wrinkle on that time-scarred brow,
they love and reverence. They are marks of beauty which they
would not exchange for the brightest bloom of youth. In the
esteem they hold you, they desire to express that which they hold
toward all their fathers in the ministry. But in your presence,
and in view of the exercises that are to follow, I dare not
detain you. Your example forbids me to speak longer. To you may
fitly be applied the epigrammatic eulogy once applied to the
philosopher and patriot of America, Benjamin Franklin: “He never
spoke a word too soon, he never spoke a word too late; he never
spoke a word too much, he never failed to speak the right word at
the right season.”
And now, venerable father, accept again our heartiest
congratulations. We do not say to-day, “My father, my father,
the chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!” for our
Elijah is not yet going. We trust the time is yet distant ere
you depart for heaven. Though, like Paul, to depart and be with
Christ is better for you, yet for you to abide in the flesh is
more needful for us. When the time comes, you will die grandly
and serenely, as an old man and a Christian should die. Cicero,
the greatest of Roman orators, said: “Young men seem to me to
die just as when the violence of flame is extinguished by a
flood of water; whereas old men die as the exhausted fire goes
out—spontaneously—without the exertion of any force: and as
fruits, when they are green, are plucked by force from the trees,
but when ripe or mellow drop off, so violence takes away their
lives from youths—maturity from old men; a state which to me,
indeed, is so delightful, that the nearer I approach to death
the more I seem, as it were, to be getting sight of land, and
at length, after a long voyage, to be coming into harbor.” But
Cicero lived but sixty-three years, and old Cato, into whose
mouth he put these words, is represented as but eighty-four; but,
sir, they were boys by the side of you. You have lived _a hundred
years_! You are a Christian, too, and a bright vision is before
you. As the traveler in a region of mountains ascends a distant
summit, and when he has reached it finds another before him and
ascends that, and another, and another, and each time finds that
the topmost point is still distant, so you climbed to childhood,
then to youth, then to manhood, then to middle age, then to old
age, and since then you have been climbing through steps for
which our language has no single word, until now you have reached
an age when we can call you our centenarian, and soon you will
reach the summit, when you will greet, not the distant peaks of
earth, but the mountains of glory, where you shall go on forever,
and, with Paul, exclaim with rapture, “Henceforth there is laid
up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous
judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto
all them also that love his appearing.”
Rev. Jacob Todd, A. M., of the Philadelphia Conference, delivered the
following address:—
DR. TODD’S ADDRESS.
Our venerable Father Boehm belongs to the whole Methodist
Episcopal Church, and not to any particular locality. We think
of him as the friend and companion of Asbury, the apostle of
American Methodism, and, in consequence, feel that the whole
country can lay claim to him. We could not localize him if we
would, and would not if we could.
I do not know that any particular credit attaches to a locality
because a great and good man was born there, for the simple
reason that he could not help it. The Hibernian who was born in
the country said he could have been born in the city just as well
if he had desired, but that he preferred the country. Perhaps
if Father Boehm had been consulted he would have preferred the
city. But although the place of our birth is purely accidental,
there is a mystic cord which binds our hearts to our childhood
home through life, such as links us to no other spot on earth.
Representing the Philadelphia Conference, within whose bounds our
venerated father was born, I, with my fellow-committeemen, Drs.
Chaplain and Robinson, feel that our claim is not less, if it be
not more, than that of any others present. Usually upon festive
occasions the children come back from abroad to the paternal
home to do honor to the parents. That order is reversed to-day.
We come from the old homestead to seek out our Father Boehm,
who has gone abroad, and offer him the congratulations of the
Philadelphia Conference upon the one hundredth anniversary of his
birthday.
There have been some changes at home since he left: there are
more farms in Lancaster County now, and less woods; there are
more villages, towns, and cities, and less country. Those who
were boys then are tottering upon staffs now. There are many,
many more mounds in the grave-yard. The little societies which
met in barns and school-houses then, and were called Methodists
in derision, have since built themselves houses of worship,
and are now a strong and respected Church in the community.
The old house, around which in boyhood he played, is gone; but
the springs sparkle just the same, and the brooks bubble and
flow on as of yore; the sky stretches its big arch overhead,
and the stars twinkle, and the sun’s huge disk of burnished
gold dazzles, just the same as they did a hundred years ago.
The old German Bibles are growing scarce, but English Bibles
in greater numbers have taken their places, and the precious
truths of God’s revelation remain the same through all languages.
The same doctrines are preached, the same hymns are sung, the
same experiences are related, and the same prayers are offered,
as when he in boyhood first attended a Methodist meeting. Men
and their works have all changed; but God, and nature, and the
religion of Jesus, are the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.
And Father Boehm has changed some, too, since he left home. He
is the youngest man for his years that ever I knew, but still I
notice that time has made some deep furrows in his cheeks, and
the frost has settled in his hair. That stalwart form which, in
other years, bore Bishop Asbury up many a hill and over many a
stream, is bent and feeble now; and his voice, which used to
ring out loud and clear as he delivered his Gospel message among
the mountains of Pennsylvania, now shows signs of faltering and
trembling. But these changes are only on the outside; time has
not been able to alter him at the core. His memory still is good;
his mind is clear; his heart is just as warm, and his faith as
strong, as they were in the days long past and gone. The “outward
man” may perish, “yet the inward man is renewed day by day.”
God’s own image, over which time has no control, is stamped
within him, and there are no wrinkles in his soul.
A hundred years have rolled away since he first opened his eyes
upon the light of a day in June. It does not seem so long a time
in this age of crowding events; yet it takes us back to when the
fever of the Revolution was in the blood of our ancestors. The
musketry of Concord and Lexington was still echoing in the air
when Father Boehm was born; and he was in his cradle when the
Declaration of Independence was signed. His childhood heard the
tramp of Continental soldiers, and the guns of Valley Forge and
Germantown sounded in his youthful ears. American Methodism was
only a child of nine years old, and was still unweaned from its
mother, when he was born. Why, nineteen such men, the one born
upon the day on which the other died, would take us back beyond
the birth of Christ! This one life spans a continent of history,
arches over the graves of three generations, and bridges a chasm
of forgetfulness a hundred years wide; so that over it the
memories of long ago can travel down to us.
But a man’s life cannot be measured by the number of seasons
that come and go. Some men live more in ten years than others
do in fifty. Our lives are measured not by clock-ticks, but
by heart-throbs. The excitements of the times, the rush of
events, and the activities of the mind, determine a man’s age
more than the roll of years. Father Boehm has lived longer than
Methuselah, if we reckon time in this way. Within his life-time
the application of steam to mechanical purposes has taken place.
Instead of the clink on the anvil, which he heard in boyhood, now
the heavy thud of the steam trip-hammer shakes the earth; and the
old Conestoga wagons of earlier days have almost disappeared from
the turnpike, and, instead, the iron horse now tosses his smoky
main, and snorts and rushes like the wind through mountains, over
valleys, and across the plain. It had taken Methuselah not less
than a week—possibly a whole month—to come from Philadelphia to
New York. Father Boehm has lived in an age when men breakfast
in Philadelphia, dine in New York, and sup again at home. Within
the last century the lightning has been harnessed and made to do
man’s bidding. By means of the telegraph men are talking across
continents and under oceans with each other, as though they stood
face to face. Messages are sent and answers received in an hour,
which would have required months or years a century ago. He has
lived in an age of books and newspapers. Printing was known and
practiced long before his time, but never in the world’s history
has the press groaned beneath its burden of publications as it
has during his life-time. The newspaper has been born in this
country—not in the sense of being created out of nothing, but
in the sense of being transformed and unfolded into new being.
It existed before, but it was only a grub then. It has taken on
wings since, and is a different thing altogether. Had the great
fire in Chicago occurred a hundred years ago, the city would
have been rebuilt before news of its destruction had reached the
more remote sections of the country. Now, men see in the morning
newspaper, before they get to business, the world’s photograph as
it looked at sunset last night. These wonderful facilities for
intercommunication have quickened thought, have aroused energy,
have stimulated activity. Every thing goes by express now;
haste! is the watchword of this age. In an old colonial paper
published in Connecticut there is a notice to this effect: “The
vessel which was to have sailed from New London for England on
next Wednesday will postpone her departure for two weeks longer
on account of one of the passengers not being able to get ready
before.” Now, if he is two minutes late the plank is drawn, and
he is left behind.
If we would measure Father Boehm’s life-time aright we must not
forget that he has lived for a century in an age when men talk
by lightning, travel by steam, write with a printing-press, and
move by the second. He has lived through the best hundred years
this world ever saw; he has lived more than the man who was
contemporary with both Adam and Noah; there is more of history
and religion crystallized in his memory than could have entered
into any one experience in any age before. The length of that
life is wonderful—but its breadth amazes and overwhelms me!
But it is not so much Father Boehm’s extreme age, nor yet his
wide and varied experience, which calls forth our homage to-day.
Old age is honorable, and I always take off my hat before gray
hairs. I am no advocate for relic worship; and yet there is
something in a moss-covered building, in an old mildewed book, or
in the ruins of an ancient city, which irresistibly calls forth
my veneration. I cannot help uncovering my head and walking with
muffled footsteps in the presence of hoary antiquity. By just
as much more as a man is greater and better than a book or a
building, do I venerate the face seamed and scarred, and the head
bleached white with many years. But I have seen older men than
Father Boehm. It was my privilege not long ago to see a man die,
and afterward to bury him, who was two years the senior of the
patriarch of this occasion. There are centenarians to-day living
in almost every State in the Union, the return of whose birthday
calls forth no such public expression of affection and honor.
Father Boehm’s age would command our respect if he had no other
claim upon our attention; but that alone had never called this
concourse of people together from so many and such distant places.
We cannot help paying deference to knowledge, no matter whether
it be acquired through books or experience, or both together.
Knowledge is power, and it is a power which makes itself
respected every-where. The man who stands before us as a kind of
mental reservoir, into which the experiences, observations, and
studies of a hundred years have poured their ceaseless streams,
is king by virtue of his knowledge; he wears a crown which none
will dispute, and holds a scepter before which all will bow. We
look upon Father Boehm as an incarnate, living volume of history;
his life is a cyclopedia of one nineteenth of the Christian era;
he is the embodiment of all the precious memories of Methodism.
We value, cherish, and honor him for his ripe experience and
well-stored mind. But not for his age and wisdom alone, nor
chiefly for these, do the Church and community value his life
and treasure his memory. Goodness is better than age—is better
than knowledge. It is the sunshine which gilds the mountain of
years, and which ripens into sweetness the fruits of experience
which grow on the sides of that mountain. The Church has sent
her representatives here to-day to emphasize the proverb that
“the hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of
righteousness.”
We forget every thing else while we remember vividly that Father
Boehm, though a hundred years old, has a moral character upon
which suspicion has never dared to breathe, and that beneath that
wrinkled face the religion of Jesus dwells in all the sweetness,
freshness, innocence, and simplicity of early childhood. We
have come together to-day to offer thanksgiving to God, and
congratulations to each other, for this life of a hundred years
without one spot or stain. His moral and religious life stands
out upon his Christian profession like a white lily upon a field
of snow. My hand shall not attempt to paint so pure a picture.
“To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, and throw perfume over
the violet, or seek with taper light the beauteous eye of heaven
to garnish, were wasteful and ridiculous excess.” Were this whole
world at Father Boehm’s disposal, with its wealth and its wisdom,
he could not from all its stores bestow a richer dowry upon the
Church of his love than the record of his own simple, humble,
true and untarnished life.
Rev. George Lansing Taylor read the following original hexameter ode,
composed by him for Father Boehm’s centennial. Before reading the poem he
said, in a good-humored way:—
“I ought to make a remark for the benefit of the least bookish
of my hearers, and I will do it in the form of a story. I have
heard the anecdote of a young lady fresh from boarding school,
who, in a conversation on the subject of poetry, sagely remarked
that Shakspeare was not poetry, because it did not rhyme. For
the benefit of some members of the same family as that young
lady who may yet be living I would insist that the world still
continues to call Shakspeare poetry in spite of the absence of
rhyme; and if my hearers will listen attentively to catch the
swing of the long hexameter line they may find rhythm in what I
have to read to them, if not rhyme.”
THE HEROIC AGE.
AN HEXAMETER ODE.
BY REV. GEORGE LANSING TAYLOR, M.A.
HENRY BOEHM, 1775-1875.
_Exegi monumentum ære perennius._—_Horace, Odes III, 80, 1._
Where are our hero fathers; the prophets, do they live forever?—
Where are the spirits and forms sublime in the ages departed,
Forms that loom now, gigantic, as men seen through mists on the
hill-tops,
Loom through the vista of years, majestic as gods in their stature,
Towering above us in labors that shame our puny endeavors,
Mighty in godlike virtues, in sufferings like to the martyrs,
Like them in poverty, hardship, loneliness, exile, and anguish;
Like them in fortitude, valiant as knights in the ages heroic;
Lofty and ardent of soul as Godfrey, or Bertrand, or Bayard:
Glorying in toils apostolic, in matchless intent and achievement;
Flaming with ardor seraphic, and scorning earth’s honors for heaven’s,
Such were our hero fathers and founders, the Methodist preachers.
Honor, all honor to-day to the men, and their labors and triumphs,
Labors that shaped a new world, and triumphs that echoed through heaven.
Rude was the wild they traversed, a continent virgin and pathless,
Peopled by bold, strong races, and States new-rising from darkness;
An unformed chaos of men from the ends of the earth flung together,
Cast on this shore untrodden like drift cast up by the sea-surf.
Men of all lands, all tongues, all ranks, all creeds and opinions,
Mingled as quartz and feldspar and hornblende are mingled in granite;
Mingled by fiery fusion to make the bed-rock of a nation.
Fierce were the forces that fought in the furnace where freedom was
molded.
Tyranny kindled the flame, but Liberty fann’d it and fed it;
Fed it with fire from the skies, and fuel of hearts self-devoted,
Till the rude mass, undigested, refractory, stubborn, chaotic,
Blended at last in a Union of hearts and of States in firm compact,
Welded in blood and fire, cemented for ages of ages.
Not alone valor heroic, or Liberty’s warm aspirations,
Not alone wisdom and state-craft, secured and cemented that union.
Lo! from the throne of Jehovah, and borne by the children of Wesley,
Came a new message divine to the dying faith of the people.
Not in the outworn phrases of long-dead creeds and confessions,
Not in the garb sacerdotal, with lifeless liturgical echoes,
Not in an unknown tongue, with a wafer Christ, or his image,
Came as an angel of light the new evangel of freedom.
Free grace alike upon all, and freedom in all to receive it,
Pardon of sin, and its witness inborn in the souls of God’s children,
Full salvation on earth, and fitness for death and for heaven:
Such was the glad new song the new evangel was singing;
Such was the message from God that wrought, while the forge-fires of
freedom
Glowed, and the hammers of war fell fast, as on iron at welding—
Wrought, like the flux on the iron, that purifies, softens, dissolves
it,
Melting the parts into one, as the stroke of the hammer unites them.
So did the glad outpouring of grace blend the hearts of the people,
Crying, “What God hath joined let not man’s strifes put asunder!”
So wrought the mighty revival, and mighty men wrought in its labors,
Giants on earth in those days, and men of renown in the old-time,
Deathless their memory still, and deathless their toils and their
triumphs.
Where is that conquering host, that thundering legion of heroes,
Men girt with lightnings celestial, and each one a match for a thousand;—
Turning the world upside down, and storming the gates of perdition—
Where are they now, with their preaching, their praying, and singing
seraphic?
Gone! all gone from the earth, swept on like an angel procession,
Bursting awhile on men’s eyes, entrancing the earth with their splendor,
Then, through the white-cloud screen, melting into the glory eternal.
So passeth one generation away, pursued by another,
Fading like leaves with the years, while the earth abideth forever.
Gone! but not all; for lo! one lingers yet living among us,
One of that dauntless host that of old shook the earth with their
thunder.
Hail to the snow-crowned veteran, comrade and partner with heroes!
Hail to the patriarch hoary, survivor of thousands and millions!
Hail to the oak that has stood while the forest was crashing around it,
Stood, and still stands, on the mountain whereerst as a sapling it
flourished,
Grappling the rocks with its roots and with gnarled arms baffling the
tempests,
Gray with a century’s mosses that stream like the beard of a druid,
Ghostly and bare at the top, green below, and sound to the heart-core!
Hail to the hero revered, whose long years stretch on, and still onward,
Passing the threescore and ten, the limit appointed to mortals,
Passing the frosty fourscore, in vigor erect and unbroken,
Shod as with iron and brass, and marching with tramp adamantine
On through the deserts of life, where the bones of youth’s caravans
whiten,
On to the century’s end, to the year that begins a new hundred!
Battled-scarred, time-scarred, and sere, like a storm-beaten crag,
thunder-rifted,
Still in our midst stands the hero, like Nestor of old, sung by Homer;
Nestor, the Pylian sage, who had ruled over three generations:
So stands Boehm, the revered, to-day ’mid the children of Wesley,
Children and children’s children of dead generations who loved him,
Heard from his lips the glad tidings, believed, and passed shouting to
glory!
Heard him who stands here to-day, last link of the ages departed!
Backward, roll backward, ye years that have drifted like autumn leaves
o’er him,
Bear him in mem’ry once more to the home and the scenes of his childhood.
Bear him once more to the farm of his sires in dear old Conestoga,
Nigh where the broad Susquehanna rolls on to the bay and the ocean,
Bid Pennsylvania’s mountains lift up their blue ridges around him,
Laurel Hill, Blue Ridge, Blue Mountains, stern warders of virtue and
freedom,
Bid the far-known and far-honored old homestead fling wide its broad
portal,
Once more to welcome the feet that have journeyed so oft to that
threshold.
Rise from the dust where ye slumber, ye forms that of yore thronged that
mansion,
Join the bright circle, long broken, and move once more, living, before
us!
Hail, Martin Boehm, sire and sage evangelist, bishop, and farmer,
Honored in each and by all, a prince among men stamped by nature.
Born of the strong, patient race of the Alps and the old Palatinate;—
Calvinist, Pietist, Mennonite, Methodist last and completest;—
Friend and copartner with Otterbein, Asbury’s helper and brother,
Such was the patriarch sire of that home by the broad Susquehanna.
Oft there illustrious Asbury rested from toils superhuman,
Worn with the long, long march that yearly encircled a continent,
Worn yet flaming with zeal apostolic, with love archangelic,
Faith that grasped a new world, and the ardor celestial that won it.
There was his heart’s best home. There oft great Otterbein halted,
Scholar, apostle, and saint, by Asbury loved as a brother;
Sage in counsel, and mighty in prayer as Elijah on Carmel;
Founder and head of a people, a godly, fraternal communion.
Hail, Boehm’s Chapel! the temple of limestone, strong and enduring.
Sprung from the preaching of Strawbridge, the thundergust sermons of
Abbott;
Planned by the hallowing hand of Whatcoat, the humble and holy;
Still stands the relic of years and heroes departed forever!
Where are the trumpet-like voices that pealed there the sound of
salvation;
Asbury, Otterbein, Boehm, and Goeting, Ware, Colbert, and Chandler,
Garrettson, Lee, and M’Kendree, and he who still living, there heard
them;
Heard in his youth and believed, and joined the great host of the
preachers.
There, too, rose Jewell and Miller, with Sneath, and the Mitchells and
Hunters.
There rose the Burches, and Best and Aiken, names honored and cherished.
There sleep the forms of the fallen, whose spirits soared thence to
their crowning.
Lo! youthful Henry, called forth by the Church and the Lord of the
harvest—
Called to proclaim the great message, sublimest announcement to mortals—
Speeds on his life-long way, as a herald of mercy to thousands,
Speeds with his mother’s sweet kiss, and his patriarch sire’s
benediction.
Down on the old Eastern shore ’twixt the broad Chesapeake and the ocean,
Where the Peninsula’s sands and the dark cypress swamps spread around
him;
Where the strange tongue of the red man still haunts all the lands and
the waters;
Where blind bigotry’s rage in its rudeness had buffeted angels;
There, in the year eighteen hundred, in Dorchester County and Circuit,
Rang forth a voice like John’s in the wilderness preaching repentance.
Not as one beating the air, in an empty pulpit-gymnastic,
Cried the young herald his message ’mid struggles and sorrows of spirit.
Hundreds, awaked at the story, repented in anguish and mourning.
Hundreds in new-found mercy exulted, and shouted salvation.
Bloomed then the desert, a garden, the dark cypress swamps, like
cathedrals,
Rang with the praise of the Lord till ocean in thunder responded,
Hail the Peninsula! cradle and birthplace of prophets and heroes!
Bostwick, and Bayer, and Beauchamp, M’Combs, and Cooper, and Phœbus,
Martindale, silver-tongued Hull, sage Lawrenson, Emory gifted,
Leaders of Israel’s hosts, and wise master-builders in Zion.
Up, thence, to old Annamessex, to Kent, and Northampton, and Bristol,
Up from the sands to the mountains, from youth to the glory of manhood,
Pressed the evangelist onward, proclaiming free grace and salvation.
Mighty the word in those days, and mighty the Spirit’s outpourings,
Falling on camp-meeting, conference, prophets and people together;
Falling like pentecost whirlwinds on awe-struck thousands assembled;
Sweeping from circuit to circuit till States were ablaze with its glory!
So o’er the prairie in autumn the fire-ocean dashes its surges;
So over pine-clad mountains roars onward the vast conflagration!
Lo, through the length of the land, from Maine to the Gulf, in his
circuits,
Asbury moves like a flame, with Boehm his companion and helper.
Not as a servant but friend, a counselor, brother, he journeyed,
True as Achates renowned, who of old voyaged with pious Æneas,
Loyal as valiant Patroclus, beloved by the godlike Achilles.
Onward from circuit to circuit, from city to city, unresting,
Toiled the great founder and builder, the care of the Churches upon him.
On through the rich cultured East, the bright sunny South, and the
center,
O’er Alleghanian wilds, Tennessee, rough Kentucky, Ohio;
Rivers unbridged, and mountains untraversed, the home of the panther;
Plunging through forest and flood, nor halting for frost or for freshet;
Heeding nor terror nor tempest, all climates and seasons defying,
On, as by heaven’s inspiration, the tramp of their marching resounded.
What was the strong lure that drew them with force unresisted, undying,
Stronger than sorrow or pain? Did golden dreams glitter before them?
Empire? or honors? or fame, whose trump thrills the world with its
echoes?
Nay! None, nor all, of all these; but a mightier spell, and diviner,
Bore them on wing and aflame, as it bore the rapt seraphs from glory,
Warbling o’er Bethlehem’s slumbers the gush of a rapture immortal!
Souls, souls of men, of the poor, the friendless, the erring, the
outcast.
These were their hire and their treasure, as erst of the Master who
taught them.
These, won from death, their reward, and the joy of all heaven beholding;
These were their sheaves, which the Lord of the harvest with blessing
accepted.
Still grows the toil of that harvest, and still swells the joy of its
reaping,
Reaped and resown evermore in endless perennial springing;
Sown like a handful of corn, but waving like Lebanon’s glory:—
Sown with weeping, but reaped ’mid anthems of rapture angelic,
While this hoar harvester leans on his staff, and beholds, and rejoices.
Lo! from the rock-bound shores of the East to the vast Mississippi,
On over river, and prairie, and mountain, and desert, and snow range,
Rolls in grandeur the march of a mighty and marvelous empire.
Hark! In its van, and before it, through solitudes ancient and boundless,
Blown by a thousand heralds, the trump of the new-born evangel
Wakens the wilds where nations extinct have pined for the dawning;
Dawning of morn everlasting, the sunburst for oncoming millions!
On over earth, as it rolls, in the golden sheen of the sunlight,
Swells now the glad new song, the harmonious anthem celestial.
Where the winged caravan, harnessed with fire and thunder, is flying;
Where, at the magic of commerce, old ocean shrinks to a ferry;
Where thought whispers with lightning, and belts the globe in a
heart-beat;
Where strange tongues babble on through continents old, or untraversed;
Where, round the sea-girdled islands, the waves dash music eternal;
Where o’er all earth man wanders, sorrowing, sinning, immortal—
There shines Columbia’s glory, and their lies the parish of Wesley;
There the great harvests of freedom and God wait the sower and reaper.
Lo, now, the harvester, bowed with the fierce, long heat of the noonday,
Weary with wielding the sickle, and bent with the sheaves he has
gathered,
Walks through the low slant beams of the sunset, and toils tow’rd the
garner.
Four times the distance that circles this planet those footsteps have
measured,
Through a long century’s day, but the twilight at last is descending.
Shadows of sunset have faded. Through vistas of opal and amber,
Gates beyond gates open upward, of hyacinth, sardine, and jasper,
Softly unbarred, to the inmost, the gate of one pearl, like a rose-bud
Cleft through the core, and turned outward on hinges of gold! Lo,
unfolding,
Noiseless it swings, like a curtain, and rosy wings poise and sail
earthward,
Rosy hands reach toward the harvester, tenderly lifting his burden,
Tenderly lifting his feet till they thrill on threshold of glory,
Till the bent form blooms and glows, and the white head dazzles like
Hermon’s,
Crowned with his sun-smitten snows,—as this with the throne-flash
eternal!
Harvester, Farewell! from earth—and Hail! from the elders of heaven!
Rev. Cyrus D. Foss, D.D., then responded to the request for some remarks.
ADDRESS BY REV. DR. FOSS.
One of the most distinguished advocates in this country is said
to have remarked concerning the almost interminable speech of
the counsel on the other side: “My learned friend seems to have
feared that it would be impossible for him to make his speech
immortal without making it eternal.” Now I am very sure that
this meeting is in no such peril as that. Each particular part
of these proceedings has been quite too short for its abundant
merit, and the meeting itself will be all too short to enable us
to utter the feeling of all our hearts. But we may be sure that
the memory of this meeting will last, and that three quarters of
a century hence—and it may be even farther off than that—when
there shall be fifteen millions of Methodist communicants on
this continent by the blessing of God, this meeting may be
remembered by some of the youth here to-day, and it will go down
in permanent form in the Methodist records. I will not extend
the time of the meeting long, lest I should impose upon your
patience; I will not occupy half the number of minutes that the
chairman of the committee has requested me to speak.
We have been very eloquently told how grandly full of history
this last century has been, and how much more this honored
life, which in its earthly form shall soon pass away, contains
than the life of any man who has lived in any century before
this. I recall the sentiment of Bishop Kingsley, who was asked
early in the history of our civil war how old he was, and he
promptly answered, “One hundred and forty-six.” “Why,” said his
questioner, “how do you make that out?” “Well,” he replied, “I
was forty-six years old when the war began, and I have lived a
hundred years since.” Now reckoning upon that principle, which is
the just one, our venerable Father Boehm might well claim to be
a thousand years of age to-day. You have heard in the eloquent
address of our brother from Philadelphia some account of the
wonderful progress we have made within the last century. He did
not tell you what I will add, namely, that since this godly man
began to preach the Gospel there have been ten times as many
copies of the word of God put into circulation as were circulated
before in all the centuries since Moses wrote the Pentateuch; and
that within the same space of time there has been a great deal
more done in extending the Gospel into the regions beyond, in
obedience to that inspiring “Go!” which the Lord Jesus put at the
back of his apostles before he ascended into heaven, than in all
the other ages before. What a century that makes of the one in
which we live! Of this work, by the blessing of God, our honored
guest is no small part: and more, that sublime temple, in which
he stands so tall and strong a column, the temple of Methodism,
is no small part.
My dear friends, I stand here not to attempt what now would
be impossible—any thing further in the line of the touching,
delicate, and eloquent personalities which have been so fitly
spoken here to-day, and which have thrilled our hearts with
delight. I cannot pluck another flower from anywhere to adorn
the wreath that these brethren have woven for this godly man. I
will say a few words concerning that grand system of religious
revival and propagandism which he helped to build when it was
weak, and which gathers us here to-day. And what is it—this great
religious system, so mighty for the world’s evangelization, by
God’s blessing? If I had an hour to speak here on this occasion,
I would say that the secret of the wonderful success of Methodism
is to be sought, in part, in its doctrinal system, in part in
its ecclesiastical peculiarities, and still more largely in its
religious experience.
Concerning the first of these points, I could not summarize
our doctrinal teachings, speaking in this impromptu way, half
so well as they have just been stated in the poem. Of course
our fathers adhered to all the great truths which the Church
had held through all time, but they lopped away some of the
errors, and were commissioned by God not to add any new truth,
(for the truth was perfect when the canon of Scripture was
closed,) but to re-emphasize some of the old and forgotten
verities; and so when they went forth into regions in England
and America where the dry rot of religious thinking, which men
call theology, had misled the minds of the people and had dulled
their sensibilities—when they went forth preaching to all men
that they were really in peril of eternal death, and that there
was offered to them in the Gospel, by their lips, _salvation_—a
present salvation, a conscious salvation, a full salvation—no
wonder they found a hearing. That was the proclamation that these
men every-where made; and these important truths, hidden in the
creeds before, or at least not brought out, held up as flaming
torches before the faces of men, needed only to be so presented
to light up the dull eye and warm the frozen heart of the world.
Not only in the emphasis which they laid on these truths did our
fathers do a grand work for the world. We had also important
ecclesiastical peculiarities. The first of these that arrested
the attention of men seventy-five years ago in America, and one
hundred and twenty-five years ago in England, was our itinerant
ministry. The preacher did not stand still in one place and wait
for the people to come to him, but went to them with the offer
of the Gospel of the Son of God, because he felt within him the
pressure of that almighty “Go!” of the Lord Jesus Christ, which
impelled him on to preach the word with power. After a man’s
attention had been arrested by Methodism, the next thing was to
invite him to the class-meeting. The preacher, seeing the tears
streaming down his face, and going to him after the sermon, would
ask him—not “Do you believe the Thirty-nine Articles?” nor “Are
you willing to be damned for the glory of God?”—but he would
simply say, “Do you desire to flee from the wrath to come, and to
be saved from your sins?” and if he said “Yes,” he would be told,
“Here is Brother Jones, a class leader, go to his class next
Thursday night.” The people also found that a man who wielded
the hammer on the anvil from Monday to Saturday went forth on
Sunday and preached the Gospel. So there was a lay ministry, and
that was another peculiarity of the ecclesiastical polity of our
Church. Concerning these and all the rest I will simply say, that
the grand peculiarity of all was, that it was not a man-made
system, devised in the brain of John Wesley or any body else,
but simply a leading forth, under the providence of God, and by
the hand of God, of godly men to bless and save the world. There
is not a single peculiarity of Methodism that was not a child of
Providence. John Wesley never intended one of them. So we are
followers of Wesley when we follow God. To him who would follow
the path in which John Wesley trod, if Wesley were alive to-day
he would say, “God is our leader, follow him.” And yet in doing
this I am persuaded that we should wisely heed the sentiments of
that eloquent utterance of Bishop Asbury in the letter that has
just now been read to us. Let us hope, and pray, and beseech,
clinging to the very horns of the altar, that every change made
in the policy of this grandly successful Church may be manifestly
“made by God and not by men, who have long been trying to be
their own bishops.”
After all, as it seems to me, the greatest thing in Methodism,
from the beginning until now, has been its religious experience.
Why, my dear sir, God’s way of making any great truth effective
is not by writing it in the Bible, but on the fleshly tables of
men’s hearts. There is not a single one of those old verities
which are vital to our faith but has been in the world, but has
been in the Book, for almost nineteen centuries; and yet the Dark
Ages passed over the world for all that. Pardon of sin, salvation
through faith alone, was already within the Book of God; but the
people did not heed it until God put it in the heart of Martin
Luther, and when he told it the world believed him, and hence the
Reformation.
And so in the time of the Wesleys, and in the time of their
followers in England and America, the power of God was made
manifest through their experience. It was not simply the
ecclesiastical peculiarities that they held to, it was not simply
the doctrines they taught; it was those doctrines set on fire in
their hearts that made people learn the lesson, and that alone.
My dear friends, there is not a single truth of Christianity
which has not been in some age of the world buried, and buried
out of sight; and every such truth, when exhumed, has been
exhumed in this way: God has taken it and put it into the living
soul of a living man, and it has possessed him, and then he has
gone forth and declared it, and men have believed him. Look at
the old truth of the universality of the offer of the Gospel. The
great commission should have taught this to the Apostle Peter.
But long after that you find him hiding away from the Gentiles,
not holding to their company, until God set him right at last
by a vision from heaven, and he came forth and said what one
would have thought his personal experience with Jesus should
have taught him long before:—Peter came forth and declared, as
though he had found something new, “I perceive that God is no
respecter of persons.” And away down the ages, until a century
ago, the Church was possessed by the same Jewish bigotry. It is
within the life-time not only of our venerable patriarch, but of
others here to-day, that at a meeting of ministers the question,
“Will any young minister suggest to us a subject for discussion?”
was asked, and up rose William Carey and said: “Mr. Chairman, I
suggest for discussion this theme, ‘The duty of the Christian
Church to evangelize the heathen world,’” and the old gray-haired
moderator, Dr. Ryland, said: “Sit down, young man, sit down; when
God gets ready to convert the heathen he will do it without your
help or mine.” But the great truth was hidden in the hearts of
William Carey, Adoniram Judson, and Thomas Coke, and they went
forth and proclaimed it, and the world is beginning to believe it.
So with the knowledge of sins forgiven; by the witness of the
Spirit Methodism has done much to make this precious experience
the common heritage of the Evangelical Church of to-day. A
century and a half ago I doubt if there were ten men in all
England who dared to say they believed that doctrine. When
Benjamin Abbott was past thirty years of age, he had never heard
a man say he knew his sins forgiven; and when he proclaimed it
as his experience a deacon told him it was a dangerous heresy,
and every man who held it ought to be put to death. And that
within this century! But, my dear friends, after fifteen years of
such service of God as few men have ever rendered—after fifteen
years of such apostolic zeal for the relief of the poor, and
the religious instruction of prisoners, and the bringing to
morality and decency of the lowest of the sinful, as few men have
ever passed through—a young man of Lincoln College, Oxford, at
the age of thirty-three or thirty-four, hearing a Moravian read
from one of Luther’s Commentaries about justification by faith
alone, says that in that meeting, about half past eight o’clock
in the evening, his heart was “strangely warmed;” and then
Methodism was born. If it had not been for that strange warming
of John Wesley’s heart we would not be here to-day. It was the
vitalization, in the experience of the Methodists, of the old,
forgotten doctrine that made them mighty, and sent forth this
“great religious movement,” as Stevens so well calls it, “of the
eighteenth century.”
I must not multiply words, sir. It is my prayer that in all the
changes of our Church polity we may “make haste slowly;” that in
all matters of Christian doctrine we may follow the word of God,
and may have the truth interpreted to us as it was to Wesley, by
the illuminating light of the Spirit, and that the great power
of Methodism may ever be the power of its scriptural, personal,
joyous experience.
Rev. David W. Bartine, D.D., delivered the closing address.
DR. BARTINE’S ADDRESS.
I feel weary at this moment with the journeyings of a hundred
years—with the reasonings, the preaching, and the toil of a
hundred years. And I presume that this congregation is weary
too—weary for once with perfect delight in the enjoyment of
an entertainment that we shall never forget, with a pleasure
that will thrill our hearts till our feet touch the cold waters
of Jordan. I am one of Father Boehm’s boys, and I delight in
the privilege afforded me to-day, at the closing moments of
these profoundly interesting services, to say so. When I was a
little babe, (of course I don’t remember the circumstance, but
my friends remember it,) Father Boehm, in company with Bishop
Asbury, came to my father’s house. (My father, you know, was one
of the old pioneers, a plain, grand old man, a hero through and
through, who met the heresies to which my brother referred awhile
ago and helped to conquer them.) Well, they came to my father’s
house, and the bishop baptized me, as Father Boehm remembers
and has often told me; and that put me in the succession, and I
am as perfectly in the apostolic succession to-day as any man
in America or in the world—not simply because the old bishop
baptized me, but, my friends, afterward God converted me in the
old-fashioned Methodist style. I learned the great principles of
this wondrous Church in the company of such learned men as these,
(pointing to Father Boehm,) sitting at their feet, listening to
their words, and being taught in the schools of which they were
the prophets. And I glory to-day that I feel like clinging to the
good old-fashioned Methodist style.
In the year 1832, when I was a boy—and I suppose as we sometimes
say, in cant phrase, somewhat “green”—I received a message from
this venerable father inviting me to attend a camp-meeting; and
those meetings were real camp-meetings; the people went there
to pray all the time, and to look for the baptism of the Holy
Ghost. I went, trembling, fearing, feeling utterly disqualified
for the work I had entered on, and which I believe God called me
to undertake; and I shall never forget the kindly greeting this
precious father gave me as I entered those grounds. He took all
the fear from my heart, and greeted me with a cordiality I have
never forgotten; he said a few kindly, loving, simple words, that
strengthened my heart through and through, and from that day to
this I have been blessed and honored with the friendship of this
venerable man of God.
If I had time to-day I should like to give a number of
reminiscences which I could present, but the time has passed
so rapidly that the close of these interesting services is
necessarily near at hand. And before we separate this afternoon
let us congratulate ourselves that we still have preserved among
us such a grand specimen of the Methodism of the olden time. Dr.
Foss presented us with some very interesting thoughts upon this
subject, and that is one of the points I intended to present. But
every one who has spoken to-day has stolen some of my thunders,
so that I am compelled to manufacture thunder as I go along; and
I find that its manufacture is not so easy a matter when others
have used your material so freely as have these brethren who
preceded me to-day.
But let me say to you, my friends, that we are not to treat
lightly an example such as we find in this venerable man.
Concentrated in him is Methodism in its simplest form, in its
purest characteristics—Methodism as I pray God it may go down to
the ages of the future. And I want it to be distinctly understood
that I am not a believer in this modern idea that we are going
easily to improve the system of Methodism which this venerable
man helped to found. It may be tampered with, its success might
be interfered with; but it is not a very easy thing to mend it. I
am willing to be led, as my fathers were, where God shall lead;
but I want to see the footprints of God where I put my feet,
I want to see divine providence indicating the way in all the
wondrous march of this form of Christianity.
There is one thing most assuredly a fact, and that is, that our
system of itinerancy cannot well be improved. I do not know what
Bishop Asbury would say to-day upon this interesting subject:
whether it is the true philosophy to so change our ministerial
arrangements as to continue a man in one or two appointments
during a life-time, and still call it an itinerancy. I want to
say, that though I would not be an “old fogy,” you will find it
a hard thing to improve in this direction that system which has
shaken the world. And the question with me is, whether, with
all the improvement that is claimed for it, it is shaking the
world to-day as it shook it when this venerable father, with
heroic purpose and earnest voice, led on his combined forces
on his grand old districts? The world did shake then; hell did
shake then; the powers of unbelief and heresy did shake then,
as the hosts of God marched on from battle to battle, and from
victory to victory. A great many well-polished shafts were then
hurled by these men of bluntest speech, with both force and
effect, at the heart of the foe; and it is a question worthy of
consideration whether, after all our advancement in learning and
literature, and every thing of that sort—after all our boasted
improvement—there is that real, old, divine unction that shook
the dead Churches, and awakened the sleeping multitudes to a
realization of their need of the saving grace of our Lord Jesus
Christ?
I am reminded of all that, and of the simple effort and simple
prayer that took hold of the citadel of death and Satan, and
through the high and hidden things of the Gospel saved men by
leading them to Christ. In Father Boehm’s early and later days,
when persons would come to the altar to seek the Lord Jesus
Christ, and it was fashionable to kneel and to throw themselves
prostrate upon their faces, they would cry mightily to God and
struggle hard for his mercy, and earnest people gathered around
them with tears, and finally with songs of joy; and it was not
the fashion then to pass around the altar and say, “Sister, do
you feel any better?” “Brother, do you think you have found
peace?” No; that was not the way. The common way was to pray on
until the baptism of the Holy Ghost fell upon them, and without
prompting they declared what God had done for their souls. Now
there are some little points like that which I don’t think we can
improve upon—some points which, if we could retain them in all
our efforts to do good, would be better for the Church and the
world. The very kind of testimony that this venerable patriarch
and his compeers were in the habit of bearing to the world is
what still needs to be borne. We should never speak hesitatingly
upon the one great subject, “That God for Christ’s sake has
pardoned all my sins.” They called it heresy then, they call
it heresy now; but it was and it is a blessed truth that Jesus
Christ had then, as he has now, power on earth to forgive sins,
to change the heart, and make a man to know it.
And then that other doctrine which has not been referred to: it
was a doctrine of Methodism—I have heard this venerable servant
of God preach it, (for I have heard him preach many a time, heard
sweet and precious words from his lips,) the fire of the Holy
Ghost within him, the divine unction resting upon him, while he
would tell us of the power of Jesus Christ to cleanse from all
unrighteousness—it was a doctrine of Methodism that the blood
of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin. And that precious truth
still lives, one of the most beautiful trees of God’s garden. The
religion of Jesus Christ found man dead, polluted, corrupted, and
that tree has so grown that to-day multitudes are plucking from
it the ripe and rich and luscious fruits of living Christianity.
All hail to that patriarch who, sitting in his tent door, watches
to see how the battle is going! All hail to his heart as it fills
to-day with the ancient fire, and flames with the ancient divine
patriotism!
I think there was something said about my closing these services.
I am very sorry Bishop Simpson is not here. We had hoped to
reach the climax of these services in the closing speech of the
excellent bishop. But following all the splendid oratory that
has thundered in your ears to-day, it is a difficult matter
for a small piece of artillery like me to do much on such an
occasion as the present. I do honestly feel, my brethren, that
I am in a very embarrassing position. Just look at it. Here is
a man (Dr. Foss) whom they almost made a bishop at the last
General Conference; here is a man (Dr. Todd) whom I found in the
mountains of Pennsylvania, and sent him on his way as worthy to
be one of the successors of this grand old patriarch; and here
is a distinguished Professor, (Prof. Buttz,) just fresh from
college, with his laurels thick upon him, a man beloved by every
one who knows him. That these brethren have spoken, and spoken so
well, only adds to my embarrassment.
As one of the brethren said, we are not here to cry, “My father,
my father, the chariot of Israel, and the horsemen thereof!” O
no; we are not even where Joash was when he heard of Elisha’s
illness, and came down to weep over him and cry, “My father, my
father,” etc. But I will tell you where we are. You know it is
Christianity that sanctifies the soul, the baptism of love which
photographs the image of the Eternal upon the human affections,
and extracts the sting from death. Now it seems to me when Father
Boehm shall pass away there will not be any death in it. He has
been under the experience and power of this saving faith so long,
that every thing in that line comes as a matter of course, and
after a little while, when his days are numbered, it won’t be
dying, but going up in a chariot of fire into heaven. It has
seemed to me all the morning as though we were taking the last
three miles’ walk that Elijah and Elisha took after they got
over Jordan. You remember that last three miles’ walk, perhaps
the most delightful incident in the history of the prophet
Elijah. Perhaps we are taking that walk this morning—that last
three miles’ walk. You know Elijah had said—and perhaps we may
imagine Father Boehm saying the same this morning—“Tarry here,
I pray thee: while I go over Jordan,” and the answer was, “As
the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, I will not leave thee.”
No, Father Boehm, these hearts cling to you to-day with all the
ardor of youth, and they mean to cling to you until your spirit
shall ascend to be forever at rest with God the Saviour. These
last three miles—have they not been very pleasant to-day, my
brethren, as we talked over the old patriarch’s history, as we
talked over the glory that looms up in the future? Have we not
rejoiced in it? It has been glorious—this last three miles’ walk!
And it may be (though some of us may pass away before him, as the
sainted Wakeley went from this pulpit and from the company of his
brethren, so unexpectedly and so gloriously to his eternal rest)
that many here may receive what Elisha did, a double portion of
his spirit at the translation of our Elijah. “Ask,” said the
prophet, “what I shall do for thee before I be taken away from
thee.” I know Father Boehm’s heart would ask that question if he
knew the day of his departure was near at hand; and I know the
response of each heart here would be like that of Elisha, “Let a
double portion of thy spirit be upon me.” O God, give us a double
portion of the spirit of the fathers—their spirit of sacrifice,
their spirit of love, their spirit of simplicity, their spirit of
holy earnestness in the pursuit of knowledge, their spirit of
consecration to their blessed work; and that divine unction that
shall make every minister in our Church a power, and every member
of our Church a power, thus presenting the banded forces of our
Methodism moving on in one solid column against the hosts of this
wicked world! That is what we want. May God grant the speedy
dawning of that day!
Meanwhile, brothers and friends, the old bark is approaching
the haven; the hoary head crowned with glory proclaims the
beaming forth of the light of heaven; that venerable countenance
is illuminated to-day with a supernatural light; as the bark
approaches the haven he is striking his topmast and furling his
sails, and after a little while he will drop his anchor in the
waters that are never troubled, amid scenes and under skies that
are never overcast with clouds. The old pilgrim rests to-day
on the top of his staff. O, I am so thankful that a beautiful,
calm twilight is shining softly upon his soul as he approaches
“that bourne whence no traveler returns”—to that river which, as
Payson says, has become a rivulet to him, over which he shall
step at any moment when God shall permit! God grant that there
may be no shadow on Father Boehm’s life in this world, and if it
please God, that he may be permitted to remain among us longer
yet as a living example. For we have a century of history, of
ecclesiastical policy, and of preaching Christ with saving power,
all concentrated in this venerable old man, a monument that
stands firm amid passing years, and throws its light upon the
traveler to the world of spirits, and the home of the good and
the pure.
The quartet choir then sang the closing centennial hymn, written by Fanny
Crosby:—
Eternal, ever-present Lord,
We lift our grateful hearts to thee,
In praise for what our ears have heard,
And what our eyes this moment see.
’Tis by thy providential care
That he, whose name we all revere,
Is with us in thy house of prayer,
And celebrates his hundredth year.
As thou on Israel’s tents of old
Didst bid the cloudy pillar shine,
To us, thy chosen, now unfold
Its light and majesty divine.
And as we leave this hallowed place
Thy benediction we implore
To him, our sire; O grant thy grace,
And keep us all for evermore.
We may not meet again as now;
But when a few more days have passed,
In thine own kingdom may we bow,
And each receive a crown at last.
It was announced that, by advice of his physician, Father Boehm would
have to dispense with all congratulatory hand-shaking, a single
exception, however, being made in favor of the mother of President Grant.
The services were closed with the benediction, pronounced by Father Boehm.
EVENING RECEPTION.
From eight o’clock till ten, on the evening of the same day, the parlors
of Father Boehm’s son-in-law and daughter, Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Emley, at
59 Wayne-street, Jersey City, were thronged with a goodly company of
friends, who came to spend the last hours of the day with the venerable
centenarian.
Among others, there were present Rev. Dr. J. S. Porter of Burlington,
N. J.; Rev. Dr. D. W. Bartine and wife of Morristown; Rev. R. Vanhorne,
Presiding Elder of the Jersey City District, and wife; Rev. John
Atkinson, of the Trinity Church, and wife; Rev. J. L. G. M’Kown, of the
Hedding Church, and wife and daughter; Rev. A. J. Palmer, of the Waverly
Church, and wife; Mr. and Mrs. Dusenbury, Mr. and Mrs. J. O. Rouse, Mr.
and Mrs. Hopping, Prof. Martin, David Taylor, Esq., H. N. Ege, Esq., S.
Sterling, Esq., and Dr. Walter Haddon, Father Boehm’s physician.
They were most delightful hours, those two, and they will live long in
the memory of the happy people present.
The “hero” of the hour was happy as his guests, and received their
congratulations with thankfulness to God. His strength seemed remarkable,
for he had participated in the prolonged services of the morning, yet
seemed in no way weary till a late hour at night. After an hour’s
conversation presentations were the order, and many beautiful mementos
of the love of his friends were given to Father Boehm. The gift of his
son-in-law was a magnificent marble clock. Several superb bouquets and
baskets of flowers were presented to him by other friends. Dr. Porter,
in behalf of his daughter, handed him a huge cake, elegantly frosted,
and lettered “One Century,” saying that he (Dr. Porter) remembered that
Father Boehm used to be fond of cake and cream when he was a visitor
at his house many years ago. Then Dr. M’Kown, in a neat little speech,
presented him with a picture, the “Rock of Ages,” from loving friends.
Perhaps the most unique souvenir of all was a chest of tea, containing
four choice kinds of that commodity, and bearing in printed letters the
inscription, “Father Boehm’s Centennial Tea,” which had been sent all
the way from China as a present by Rev. S. L. Baldwin. Rev. A. J. Palmer
read a letter from Brother Baldwin, which accompanied the tea, in which
the writer expressed his pleasure in having been united for years with
Father Boehm in conference relations, (both are members of the Newark
Conference,) his congratulations, and his gratitude to God for the long
and pure life with which the venerable Father had been blessed. This
token of love from the other side of the world was highly appreciated,
and a “drawing” of the tea was presented to each of the guests of the
hour.
One year before that evening Dr. J. B. Wakeley had presented Father
Boehm with a picture of Bishop Asbury, since which time the giver, who
was a dear friend of the recipient, has “fallen asleep in Jesus.” So,
with great fitness, Rev. J. Atkinson presented Father Boehm with an
elegant portrait of Dr. Wakeley, which was received in silence, but with
appreciation.
Thus with presents and congratulations the evening passed. When it was
ten o’clock Father Boehm rose, and in a clear, full voice, sang a little
German song which he had learned ninety-five years before from his German
teacher, a Hessian soldier, whom Washington captured at Trenton. Then,
last of all, when the hour of parting came, the venerable man of God
pronounced the benediction upon the company ere they separated.
Thus ended the exercises, public and private, on the one hundredth
anniversary of the birthday of the Rev. Henry Boehm.
The words oftenest upon his lips throughout the day were echoed by all,
“The Lord be praised!”