HENRY WARD BEECHER.
Henry Ward Beecher was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, on the 24th of
June, 1813, and was the eighth child of Dr. Lyman Beecher, the famous
Presbyterian divine of New England. Dr. Beecher was regarded as one of
the most powerful champions of orthodox Christianity in the land of the
pilgrims, and had the good fortune to be the father of a family whose
members have become celebrated for their intellectual gifts.
The most of these gave early promise of their future distinction, but
the subject of this memoir was regarded as the dunce of the family. He
grew up as the children of most New England clergymen of that day
climbed the road to manhood. His father's family was large, and the
salary paid by the congregation never exceeded eight hundred dollars,
and was not always promptly paid at that. The good people of the land of
steady habits well knew how to drive hard bargains with the Lord's
messengers, and were adepts in the art of securing the "best talent" at
the lowest price. The stern, hard struggle for a livelihood in which
the father was engaged prevented him from giving much personal attention
to his children, and the mother of young Henry dying when he was but
three years old, the boy was left very much to himself. Like most
ministers' children, he was obliged to "set an example to the village,"
and this boy was dosed with Catechism and his father's stern and gloomy
theological tenets until he was sick of them.
"In those days," says Mrs. Stowe, "none of the attentions were paid to
children that are now usual. The community did not recognize them..
There was no child's literature; there were no children's books. The
Sunday-school was yet an experiment in a fluctuating, uncertain state of
trial. There were no children's days of presents and _fetes_, no
Christmas or New Year's festivals. The annual thanksgiving was only
associated with one day's unlimited range of pies of every sort--too
much for one day--and too soon things of the past. The childhood of
Henry Ward was unmarked by the possession of a single child's toy as a
gift from any older person, or a single _fete_. Very early, too, strict
duties devolved upon him. A daily portion of the work of the
establishment, the care of the domestic animals, the cutting and piling
of wood, or tasks in the garden, strengthened his muscles and gave vigor
and tone to his nerves. From his father and mother he inherited a
perfectly solid, healthy organization of brain, muscle, and nerves, and
the uncaressing, let-alone system under which he was brought up gave him
early habits of vigor and self-reliance."
When but three or four years old he was sent to the Widow Kilbourn's
school, where he said his letters twice a day, and passed the rest of
his time in hemming a brown towel or a checked apron. It was not
expected that he would learn very much from Marm Kilbourn, but the
school kept him out of the way of the "home folks" for the greater part
of the day.
He was a winning, sweet-faced child, with long golden curls, of which
he was very proud. Some of his female playfellows at school, thinking it
a shame that a boy should look so much like a girl, cut off one or two
of his curls with a pair of shears made of scraps of tin, and when the
little fellow complained of his loss at home it was decided that the
best way to protect him from such attacks in future was to cut his hair
close to his head, which was done at once. Little Henry was commonly
thought a dull child. His memory was lamentably deficient, and his
utterance was thick and indistinct, so much so that he could scarcely be
understood in reading or speaking. This was caused partly by an
enlargement of the tonsils of his throat, and partly by timidity. The
policy of repression worked badly in his case, and had there not been so
much real good at the basis of his character it might have led this
gentle, yearning boy far from the useful channel along which his life
has flown.
His stepmother was a lady of fine mental culture, of elegant breeding
and high character, but she was an invalid, and withal thoroughly imbued
with the gloomy sternness of her husband's faith. One day little Henry,
who was barely able to manage the steady-going old family horse, was
driving her in the chaise. They passed a church on their way, and the
bell was tolling for a death. "Henry," said Mrs. Beecher, solemnly,
"what do you think of when you hear a bell tolling like that?" The boy
colored and hung his head in silence, and the good lady went on. "_I_
think, was that soul prepared? It has gone into _eternity_." The little
fellow shuddered, in spite of himself, and thought, no doubt, what a
dreadful thing it was to be a Christian.
So it was with the religion that was crammed into him. There was no
effort made to draw him to religion by its beauty and tenderness. He
rarely heard of the Saviour as the loving one who took little children
in His arms and blessed them, but was taught to regard Him as a stern
and merciless judge, as one who, instead of being "touched with the
feeling of our infirmities," makes those infirmities the means of
wringing fresh sufferings from us. Sunday was a day of terror to him,
for on that day the Catechism was administered to him until he was more
than sick of it. "I think," said he to his congregation, not long since,
referring to this part of his life, "that to force childhood to
associate religion with such dry morsels is to violate the spirit, not
only of the New Testament, but of common sense as well. I know one
thing, that if I am 'lax and latitudinarian,' the Sunday Catechism is to
blame for a part of it. The dinners that I have lost because I could not
go through 'sanctification,' and 'justification,' and 'adoption,' and
all such questions, lie heavily on my memory! I do not know that they
have brought forth any blossoms. I have a kind of grudge against many of
those truths that I was taught in my childhood, and I am not conscious
that they have waked up a particle of faith in me. My good old aunt in
heaven--I wonder what she is doing. I take it that she now sits
beauteous, clothed in white, that round about her sit chanting cherub
children, and that she is opening to them from her larger range sweet
stories, every one fraught with thought, and taste, and feeling, and
lifting them up to a higher plane. One Sunday afternoon with my aunt
Esther did me more good than forty Sundays in church with my father. He
thundered over my head, and she sweetly instructed me down in my heart.
The promise that she would read Joseph's history to me on Sunday was
enough to draw a silver thread of obedience through the entire week; and
if I was tempted to break my promise, I said, 'No; Aunt Esther is going
to read on Sunday;' and I would do, or I would not do, all through the
week, for the sake of getting that sweet instruction on Sunday.
"And to parents I say, Truth is graded. Some parts of God's truth are
for childhood, some parts are for the nascent intellectual period, and
some parts are for later spiritual developments. Do not take the last
things first. Do not take the latest processes of philosophy and bring
them prematurely to the understanding. In teaching truth to your
children, you are to avoid tiring them."
"The greatest trial of those days," says Mrs. Stowe, "was the Catechism.
Sunday lessons were considered by the mother-in-law as inflexible duty,
and the Catechism as the _sine qua non_. The other children memorized
readily, and were brilliant reciters, but Henry, blushing, stammering,
confused, and hopelessly miserable, stuck fast on some sand-bank of what
is required or forbidden by this or that commandment, his mouth choking
up with the long words which he hopelessly miscalled, was sure to be
accused of idleness or inattention, and to be solemnly talked to, which
made him look more stolid and miserable than ever, but appeared to have
no effect in quickening his dormant faculties."
At the age of ten he was a well-grown, stout, stocky boy, strong and
hearty, trained to hard work, and to patient obedience of his elders. He
was tolerably well drilled in Calvinism, and had his head pretty well
filled with snatches of doctrine which he caught from his father's
constant discussions; but he was very backward in his education. He was
placed at the school of the Rev. Mr. Langdon, at Bethlehem, Connecticut,
and it was hoped that the labors of this excellent tutor would result in
making something of him. He spent a winter at this school, and boarded
at a neighboring farm-house, whose kind-hearted mistress soon became so
much attached to him that she indulged him to an extent which he had
never known at home. With his gun on his shoulder, he passed the greater
part of his hours out of school in tramping over the pretty Connecticut
hills, in search of game, or, lying down on the soft grass, would pass
hours in gazing on the beautiful landscape, listening to the dull whirr
of the partridges in the stubble-field or the dropping of the ripe
apples in the orchard. The love of nature was strong in the boy, and his
wonderful mistress taught him many of the profoundest lessons of his
life. He made poor progress at the school, however, and his father was
almost in despair. The whole family shook their heads in solemn
forebodings over the failure of this child of ten to become a mental
prodigy.
Miss Catharine Beecher, his eldest sister, was then teaching a young
ladies' school in Hartford, and she proposed to take the boy and see
what could be done with him. There were thirty or forty girls in the
school, and but this one boy, and the reader may imagine the amount of
studying he did. The girls were full of spirits, and in their society
the fun-loving feature of his disposition burst out and grew with
amazing rapidity. He was always in mischief of some kind, to the great
delight of the girls, with whom he was extremely popular, and to the
despair of his sister, who began to fear that he was hopelessly stupid.
The school was divided into two divisions in grammar recitations, each
of which had its leader. The leaders chose their "sides" with great
care, as these contests in grammar were esteemed the most important part
of the daily exercises. Henry's name was generally called last, for no
one chose him except as a matter of necessity. He was sure to be a dead
weight to his leader.
"The fair leader of one of these divisions took the boy aside to a
private apartment, to put into him with female tact and insinuation
those definitions and distinctions on which the honor of the class
depended.
"'Now, Henry, A is the indefinite article, you see, and must be used
only with the singular noun. You can say _a man_, but you can't say _a
men_, can you?' 'Yes, I can say _Amen_, too,' was the ready rejoinder.
'Father says it always at the end of his prayers.'
"'Come, Henry, now don't be joking. Now, decline He.' 'Nominative he,
possessive his, objective him.' 'You see, his is possessive. Now, you
can say his book, but you can't say him book.' 'Yes, I do say hymn book,
too,' said the impracticable scholar, with a quizzical twinkle. Each one
of these sallies made his young teacher laugh, which was the victory he
wanted.
"'But now, Henry, seriously, just attend to the active and passive
voice. Now, _I strike_, is active, you see, because if you strike you do
something. But, _I am struck_, is passive, because if you are struck you
don't do any thing, do you?'
"'Yes, I do; I strike back again.'
"Sometimes his views of philosophical subjects were offered
gratuitously. Being held rather of a frisky nature, his sister appointed
his seat at her elbow when she heard her classes. A class in natural
philosophy, not very well prepared, was stumbling through the theory of
the tides. 'I can explain that,' said Henry. 'Well, you see, the sun, he
catches hold of the moon and pulls her, and she catches hold of the sea
and pulls that, and this makes the spring tides.'
"'But what makes the neap tides?'
"'Oh, that's when the sun stops to spit on his hands.'"
It will hardly surprise the reader to be told that Master Henry
remained with his sister only six months, and was returned at the end of
that time to his father as an indifferent scholar and a most inveterate
joker.
A change now occurred in his life. When he was twelve years old his
father removed to Boston to assume the charge of the Hanover-Street
Church. Here the boy had a chance to see something more than nature, and
to employ his powers of observation in receiving impressions from the
daily life and aspect of a large and crowded city. His father entered
him at the Boston Latin School, and appealed to him not to disgrace his
name any longer by his stupidity. The appeal roused the little fellow's
pride, and he set to work to show to his family that he was not the
dunce they had thought him. He went at his studies manfully, mastering
the tedious puzzle of the Latin verbs and nouns, and acquiring a
respectable acquaintance with the grammar of that language. It was a
terrible task to him, for he had no liking for the language, and did his
work merely to please his father and escape disgrace. His success cost
him a share of his health, and his vigorous constitution began to show
the effects of such intense application. His father noticed this, and as
a diversion to his mind advised him to enter upon a course of
biographical reading. He read the lives of Captain Cook, Nelson, and the
great naval commanders of the world, and at once became possessed of the
desire to go to sea. This feeling made him restless and discontented,
and he resolved to leave home and ship on board some vessel sailing from
the harbor. He hovered about the wharves, conversing with the sailors
and captains, and sometimes carrying his little bundle with him. But the
thoughts of home were too strong for him, and he could never quite
summon up resolution enough to run away. In a fit of desperation he
wrote a letter to his brother, telling him of his wish to go to sea, and
informing him that he should first ask his father's permission, and if
that were not granted he should go without it. This letter he dropped
where his father would be sure to find it. The old gentleman soon
discovered it, and, reading it, put it into his pocket without comment.
The next day he asked the boy if he had ever thought of any definite
avocation for his future life.
"Yes," said Henry, "I want to go to sea. I want to enter the navy, be a
midshipman, and rise to be a commander."
"Oh, I see," said the Doctor, cheerfully; "but in order to prepare for
that you must study mathematics and navigation."
"I am ready, sir."
"Very well. I'll send you up to Amherst next week, to Mount Pleasant,
and then you'll begin your preparatory studies at once. As soon as you
are well prepared, I presume I can make interest to get you an
appointment."
The boy was delighted, and the next week started for Amherst. The Doctor
felt sure that the sailor scheme would never come to any thing, and
exclaimed, exultantly, as he bade his son good-by, "I shall have that
boy in the ministry yet."
At the Mount Pleasant Institute he roomed with his teacher in
mathematics, a young man named Fitzgerald, and a warm friendship sprung
up between them. Fitzgerald saw that his pupil had no natural talent or
taste for mathematics; but instead of despairing in consequence of this
discovery, he redoubled his efforts. Appealing to his pupil's pride and
ambition, he kept him well to his task, and succeeded in implanting in
him a fair knowledge of the science. Young Beecher also took lessons in
elocution from Professor John E. Lovell. Under the instructions of this
able teacher, he learned to manage his voice, and to overcome the
thickness and indistinctness of utterance which previous to this had
troubled him so much. He continued at this school for three years,
devoting himself to study with determination and success, and taking
rank as one of the most promising pupils of the school.
During his first year at Mount Pleasant, he became deeply impressed with
a sense of his religious responsibility at a famous revival which was
held in the place, and from that time resolved to devote himself
entirely to preparing for his entrance into the ministry when he should
attain the proper age. Henceforth he applied himself with characteristic
energy to his studies and to his religious duties, and rose steadily in
the esteem of his teachers and friends. He entered Amherst College upon
the completion of his preparatory course, and graduated from that
institution in 1834.
In 1832, Dr. Beecher removed from Boston to Cincinnati, to enter upon
the Presidency of Lane Seminary, to which he had been elected. Henry
followed him to the West after his graduation at Amherst, and completed
his theological studies at the seminary, under the tuition of his father
and Professor Stowe, the latter of whom married Henry's sister Harriet,
in 1836. Having finished his course, he was ordained.
"As the time drew near in which Mr. Beecher was to assume the work of
the ministry," says Mrs. Stowe, "he was oppressed by a deep melancholy.
He had the most exalted ideas of what ought to be done by a Christian
minister. He had transferred to that profession all those ideals of
courage, enterprise, zeal, and knightly daring which were the dreams of
his boyhood, and which he first hoped to realize in the naval
profession. He felt that the holy calling stood high above all others;
that to enter it from any unholy motive, or to enter and not do a worthy
work in it, was a treason to all honor.
"His view of the great object of the ministry was sincerely and heartily
the same with that of his father, to secure the regeneration of the
individual heart by the Divine Spirit, and thereby to effect the
regeneration of human society. The problem that oppressed him was, how
to do this. His father had used certain moral and intellectual weapons,
and used them strongly and effectively, because employing them with
undoubting faith. So many other considerations had come into his mind to
qualify and limit that faith, so many new modes of thought and inquiry,
that were partially inconsistent with the received statements of his
party, that he felt he could never grasp and wield them with the force
which could make them efficient. It was no comfort to him that he could
wield the weapons of his theological party so as to dazzle and confound
objectors, while all the time conscious in his own soul of objections
more profound and perplexities more bewildering. Like the shepherd boy
of old, he saw the giant of sin stalking through the world, defying the
armies of the living God, and longed to attack him, but the armor in
which he had been equipped for the battle was no help, but only an
incumbrance!
"His brother, who studied with him, had already become an unbeliever and
thrown up the design of preaching, and he could not bear to think of
adding to his father's trials by deserting the standard. Yet his
distress and perplexity were so great that at times he seriously
contemplated going into some other profession....
"In his last theological term he took a Bible class in the city of
Cincinnati, and began studying and teaching the Evangelists. With the
course of this study and teaching came a period of spiritual
clairvoyance. His mental perplexities were relieved, and the great
question of 'what to preach' was solved. The shepherd boy laid aside his
cumbrous armor, and found in a clear brook a simple stone that smote
down the giant; and so, from the clear waters of the Gospel narrative
Mr. Beecher drew forth that 'white stone with a new name,' which was to
be the talisman of his ministry. To present Jesus Christ personally as
the Friend and Helper of humanity, Christ as God impersonate, eternally
and by a necessity of His nature helpful, and remedial, and restorative;
the Friend of each individual soul, and thus the Friend of all
society,--this was the one thing which his soul rested on as a worthy
object in entering the ministry. He afterward said, in speaking of his
feelings at this time,'I was like the man in the story to whom a fairy
gave a purse with a single piece of money in it, which he found always
came again as soon as he had spent it. I thought I knew at least one
thing to preach. I found it included every thing.'"
Upon being ordained, Mr. Beecher married, and accepted a call to
Lawrenceburg, Indiana, a little town on the Ohio River, about twenty
miles below Cincinnati. His salary was small and the work was hard. He
was not only pastor, but sexton as well, and in this capacity he swept
out the church, made the fires, filled and trimmed the lamps, and rang
the bell. Says he, "I did all but come to hear myself preach--that they
had to do."
He did not remain here long, however, but soon accepted a call to
Indianapolis, the capital of the State, where he lived for eight years.
He occupied a tasteful cottage on the outskirts of the town, and
gathered about him his household treasures, which consisted of his
family, his library, his horse, cow, pigs, and chickens. He was an
enthusiast in matters of agriculture and horticulture, and besides
importing from the East the best varieties of fruit-trees, roses, etc.,
he edited a horticultural paper, which had a fair circulation.
The eight years of his ministry in Indianapolis make up a period of hard
and useful work. He held two services on Sunday, and five meetings
during the week in various parts of the city, and with the consent of
his people gave three months of each year to missionary work in other
parts of the State. While engaged in this latter duty he traveled about
the State on horseback and preached daily.
His experience in the ministry, as well as his study of the lives of the
apostles, convinced him that success in his profession--by which I mean
the successful winning of souls to God--was not to be won by preaching
controversial or dry doctrinal sermons. He must seize upon some vital
truth, admitted by all parties, and bring that home to men's minds. He
must preach to them of their daily, hourly trials and temptations, joys
and comforts, and he resolved that this should be the character of his
preaching. Then came the question, how shall one man know that which is
uppermost in the thoughts of the many? He went into the places of public
resort, where men were accustomed to lounge and to gather to hear the
news, and made it his practice to listen to their conversations. In this
way he began to know the people to whom he preached as few pastors know
their flocks, and he was enabled by this knowledge to apply his
teachings to their daily lives, and to send them forth to their duties
warned by his reproofs or cheered by his intelligent counsel and
sympathy. This practice, modified at times as circumstances have
required, he has steadfastly continued, and in it lies the secret of his
success as a preacher. Said a gentleman, not long since, himself a
member of a different denomination, "Beecher's sermons do me more good
than any I hear elsewhere. They never fail to touch upon some topic of
importance that has engaged my thoughts during the week. Dropping all
doctrinal technicalities, and steering clear of the vexed questions of
theology, he talks to me in such a way that I am able to carry Christ
into the most trifling of my daily affairs, and to carry Him there as my
Sympathizer and Helper, as well as my Judge." He soon became the most
popular preacher in the city, and, thanks to the genuineness of his
gifts and the earnestness of his zeal, he was enabled to add many to the
kingdom of Christ who had been drawn to hear him merely by their
curiosity. Among these was his brother Charles, whose skepticism has
been spoken of elsewhere in this chapter. Becoming deeply impressed at a
revival in Indianapolis, Charles Beecher, by his brother's advice, took
a Bible class, and began to teach the story of Christ. The plan worked
most happily. Charles solved all the questions which had perplexed his
mind, reentered upon his religious life with increased fervor, and soon
afterward entered the ministry.
In August, 1847, Mr. Beecher received a call to Plymouth Church,
Brooklyn, which had just been founded. He promptly accepted it. Breaking
up his home in Indiana, he removed to Brooklyn, and was publicly
installed pastor of Plymouth Church on the 11th of November, 1847. He at
once "announced in Plymouth pulpit the same principles that he had in
Indianapolis, namely, his determination to preach Christ among them not
as an absolute system of doctrines, not as a bygone historical
personage, but as the living Lord and God, and to bring all the ways and
usages of society to the test of His standards. He announced to all whom
it might concern, that he considered temperance and antislavery as a
part of the Gospel of Christ, and should preach them to the people
accordingly."
It is no part of my purpose to consider Mr. Beecher as a politician. I
deal with him here not as the partisan of a political organization, but
as a minister of the Gospel. In politics he has always been a Republican
of the Radical type, but has generally inclined to a conservative
construction of that creed. Many of his warmest friends take issue with
him in his political views, and he has not always been able to lead his
congregation with him in this respect.
Soon after assuming the charge of Plymouth Church Mr. Beecher became a
regular contributor to "The Independent," a paper which he had helped to
establish. His articles were marked with an asterisk, and were widely
read. They dealt with every topic of interest, principally with slavery,
and were vigorous and full of thought. A number of them were afterward
collected and published in book form as the "Star Papers." Since then he
has acted as editor of "The Independent," and is at present the editor
of "The Christian Union." He has written a novel of New England life,
called "Norwood," for "The New York Ledger," and still writes a weekly
paper for that journal. He is at present engaged upon a "Life of
Christ," which is to be the crowning labor of his life. Besides these
labors, he has been until recently almost constantly in the lecture
field, and has spoken frequently before popular assemblies on the
political questions of the day.
These labors have filled up the leisure time left him after discharging
his duties as pastor of his church, which have never been neglected upon
any occasion. In this field his work has been faithful and constant. He
has labored in it for nearly twenty-three years, and his work has not
been without its reward. Such sermons as his could not fail of doing
good even if spoken to half a dozen people. How great, then, must be
their effect when addressed to the vast audiences to which he speaks!
His congregation averages over twenty-five hundred at every service,
being the largest regular congregation in existence. His sermons are
reported by a stenographer, and are printed each week in pamphlet form,
and in this manner find their way into thousands of hands. The "Plymouth
Pulpit," in which they are published, has a regular weekly circulation
of six thousand copies, and it is estimated that each copy is read by
at least five persons, which gives the preacher, in addition to his own
congregation, an audience of more than thirty thousand persons per week.
When Plymouth Church was organized, the wise heads predicted a failure
for it; but it has grown and prospered, until it is now the most compact
and the best organized congregation in America. It is dependent upon no
synod or other religious body, but manages its affairs entirely as
it pleases. The control is vested in a board of trustees, of which Mr.
Beecher is _ex-officio_ a member. He has no superiority in this board
unless called by its members to preside over its meetings. His influence
is of course all-powerful; but as the trustees are shrewd business men,
they sometimes carry out their own views in preference to his. The
church is supported by the sale of its pews. This yields it an annual
income of between forty and fifty thousand dollars. The pastor receives
a handsome salary--said to be the largest in the United States--and the
rest goes into the treasury of the church. As the period of the annual
sale of pews approaches, Mr. Beecher makes it his practice to preach a
sermon in which he reviews the questions of the day, and as far as
possible marks out his course with regard to them during the ensuing
year. This he does in order that every one purchasing a seat in Plymouth
Church may know just what is in store for him from the pulpit. The
surplus revenue, after the pastor's salary and the current expenses are
paid, has until recently been devoted to extinguishing the debt upon the
church. That burden now being off the shoulders of the congregation, the
money is applied to missionary work in Brooklyn. "Two missions have been
largely supported by the funds derived from Plymouth Church, and the
time and personal labor of its members. A mechanics' reading-room is
connected with one of these. No church in the country furnishes a
larger body of lay teachers, exhorters, and missionaries in every
department of human and Christian labor."
Plymouth Church is located in Orange Street, between Hicks and Henry
Streets, in Brooklyn, and not far from the Fulton Ferry. Many strangers,
whose expectations are based upon the fame of the pastor, are
disappointed in the plain and simple exterior of red brick, as they come
prepared to see a magnificent Gothic temple. The interior, however,
rarely fails to please all comers. It is plain and simple, but elegant
and comfortable. It is a vast hall, around the four sides of which
sweeps an immense gallery. The interior is painted white, with a tinge
of pink, and the carpets and cushions of the seats are of a rich, warm
red. The rows of seats in the body of the church are semicircular, and
those in the gallery rise as in an amphitheater, from the front to the
wall. At the far end of the church is a raised platform containing
merely a chair and a table. The table is a pretty ornament, and is the
"Plymouth Pulpit." It is made of wood brought from the Garden of
Gethsemane. In the gallery behind the pulpit is the great organ--one of
the largest and finest in the Union. The church will seat over
twenty-five hundred people, but in order to do this, chairs are placed
in the aisles. These chairs are sold as well as the pews.
Every Sunday morning the streets are filled with persons on their way to
attend the services at Plymouth Church. They come not only from
Brooklyn, but from New York, and even from Jersey City and Hoboken. The
yard and street in front of the church are quickly filled with the
throng, but the doors are guarded by policemen, and none but pew-holders
are permitted to enter the church until ten minutes before the hour for
service. Without this precaution the regular congregation would be
crowded out of their seats every Sunday by strangers.
At ten minutes before the hour for service the doors are thrown open,
and very soon there is not even standing room in the vast interior, and
generally the vestibules are full.
Near the pulpit is placed a basket of exquisite flowers, and sometimes
the entire platform is decorated in the same way. Most commonly some
little child perches itself up among the flowers, and this pretty sight
never fails to bring a smile of pleasure to the pastor's face as he
enters the church. He comes in through a little door under the gallery,
behind the pulpit. He is dressed in a plain suit of black, with a Byron
collar and a black stock. His movements are quiet and graceful, although
quick and energetic. His manner in opening the services is quiet and
earnest, and at once impresses his hearers with the solemnity of the
occasion. He reads the Bible in an easy, unconstrained manner, as if he
enjoyed the task, and in his prayers, which are extempore, he carries
the hearts of all his hearers with him to the Throne of Grace. He joins
heartily in the singing, which is congregational. It was feared that the
organ would prove a great temptation to do away with this style of
singing, but this has not been the case. The magnificent instrument is
used only to accompany the congregation, and there swells up such a
volume of harmony from this vast throng as is never listened to outside
of Plymouth Church. The singing is wonderful.
The gem of the whole service, however, is the sermon; and these sermons
are characteristic of the man. They come warm and fresh from his heart,
and they go home to the hearer, giving him food for thought for days
afterward. To attempt to describe his manner would be to paint the
sunbeam. Eloquence can be felt, but it can not be described. He enchains
the attention of his auditors from the first, and they hang upon his
utterances with rapt eagerness until the close of the sermon.
He knows human nature thoroughly, and he talks to his people of what
they have been thinking of during the week, of trials that have
perplexed them, and of joys which have blessed them. He takes the clerk
and the merchant to task for their conduct in the walks of business, and
warns them of the snares and pitfalls which lie along their paths. He
strips the thin guise of honesty from the questionable transactions of
Wall Street, and holds them up to public scorn. He startles many a one
by his sudden penetration and denunciation of what that one supposes to
be the secrets of his heart. His dramatic power is extraordinary. He can
hardly be responsible for it, since it breaks forth almost without his
will. It is simply unavoidable with him. He moves his audience to tears,
or brings a mirthful smile to their lips, with a power that is
irresistible. His illustrations and figures are drawn chiefly from
nature, and are fresh and striking. They please the subtlest philosopher
who hears him, and illuminate the mind of the average listener with a
flood of light. He can startle his people with the terrors of the law,
but he prefers to preach the Gospel of Love. "God's love for those who
are scattered and lost," he says, "is intenser and deeper than the love
even of a mother.... God longs to bring you home more than you long to
get there. He has been calling, calling, calling, and listening for your
answer. And when you are found, and you lay your head on the bosom of
Jesus, and you are at rest, you will not be so glad as He will be who
declared that, like a shepherd, he had joy over one sinner that repented
more than over ninety and nine just persons that needed no repentance."
Religion is to him an abiding joy; it is perfect love, and casteth out
fear. It has no gloom, no terror in it, and he says to his people: "If
God gave you gayety and cheer of spirits, lift up the careworn by it.
Wherever you go, shine and sing. In every household there is drudgery;
in every household there is sorrow; in every household there is
low-thoughted evil. If you come as a prince, with a cheerful, buoyant
nature, in the name of God, do not lay aside those royal robes of yours.
Let humor bedew duty; let it flash across care. Let gayety take charge
of dullness. So employ these qualities that they shall be to life what
carbonic acid is to wine, making it foam and sparkle."
The sum and substance, the burden of all his preaching is Christ:
"'Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world!' I
present Jesus to you as the atoning Saviour; as God's sacrifice for sin;
as that new and living way by which alone a sinful creature can ascend
and meet a pure and just God. I bring this question home to you as a
sinner. O man! full of transgressions, habitual in iniquities, tainted
and tarnished, utterly undone before God, what will you do with this
Jesus that comes as God's appointed sacrifice for sin, your only hope
and your only Saviour? Will you accept him? Will you, by personal and
living faith, accept him as your Saviour from sin? I ask not that you
should go with me into a discourse upon the relations of Christ's life,
of his sufferings, of his death; to the law of God, or to the government
of God. Whatever may be the philosophy of those relations, the matter in
hand is one of faith rather than of philosophy; and the question is,
Will you take Christ to be your soul's Saviour?"
Having selected his theme, and formed a general plan of treatment, Mr.
Beecher trusts a great deal to the inspiration of the moment for his
language and illustrations. Some time ago, in reply to a friend who
asked how he prepared his sermons, he said he generally has an idea
during the week as to what he will preach about on Sunday, but does not
attempt any thing like systematic preparation until an hour or two
before going into the pulpit. Sometimes it is easy to block out a
sermon; but again it is hard work, and he does not fairly get into it
until the first bell rings. He writes out the headings of his subject,
and marks the proper places for illustration. He does not confine
himself to this written outline, however, but, once in the pulpit,
changes it according to the impulse of the moment. He never preaches the
same sermon twice, though he may use the same text several times,
treating it in a different way each time. He endeavors to preach his
best sermons on stormy days, in order that the desire to hear his best
efforts may keep his congregation from degenerating into "fair-weather
Christians." "Once," he said, laughing, "it snowed or rained every
Sabbath in a certain winter, and the effort I had to make to remain
faithful to this rule came near killing me." When asked if he studied
his prayers, he answered promptly: "Never. I carry a feeling with me
such as a mother would have for her children were they lost in a great
forest. I feel that on every side my people are in danger, and that many
of them are like babes, weak and helpless. My heart goes out in sorrow
and in anxiety toward them, and at times I seem to carry all their
burdens. I find that when one's heart is wrapped and twined around the
hearts of others, it is not difficult to pray."
The church is provided with a large lecture-room, a study for the
pastor, and an elegant parlor. Mr. Beecher does not pay pastoral visits
to his people, unless he is sent for to visit the sick and dying, or
persons seeking help in their religious struggles. His parishioners are
scattered over so wide a territory that a systematic course of visiting
would consume all his time. In place of these visits, he meets his
congregation at stated times in social gatherings in the church parlor,
and these evenings are looked forward to with eagerness by both pastor
and people.
The most characteristic meeting of this congregation, however, even more
so than the Sunday services, is the Friday evening meeting, which is
held in the lecture-room. This room is plain and simple. It is provided
with comfortable seats and a grand piano. There is no pulpit in it, but
a small table and a chair are placed for the pastor on a low platform
covered with green baize. The object is to banish every thing like
formalism, and to make the meeting as free and unconstrained as a social
gathering. As at the Sunday services, the house is full, but now the
persons present are almost entirely members of the church. Strangers
rarely come to these meetings, and in staying away from them miss the
chance of seeing the true inner life of Plymouth Church. A gentleman who
was present at one of them, a few years ago, wrote the following account
of it for the "Atlantic Monthly:"
Mr. Beecher took his seat on the platform, and, after a short
pause, began the exercises by saying, in a low tone, these words:
"Six twenty-two."
A rustling of the leaves of hymn-books interpreted the meaning of
this mystical utterance, which otherwise might have been taken as
announcing a discourse upon the prophetic numbers. The piano
confirmed the interpretation; and then the company burst into one
of those joyous and unanimous singings which are so enchanting a
feature of the services of this church. Loud rose the beautiful
harmony of voices, constraining every one to join in the song, even
those most unused to sing. When it was ended, the pastor, in the
same low tone, pronounced a name, upon which one of the brethren
rose to his feet, and the rest slightly inclined v their heads....
The prayers were all brief, perfectly quiet and simple, and free
from the routine or regulation expressions. There were but two or
three of them, alternating with singing; and when that part of the
exercises was concluded, Mr. Beecher had scarcely spoken. The
meeting ran alone, in the most spontaneous and pleasant manner....
There was a pause after the last hymn died away, and then Mr.
Beecher, still seated, began, in the tone of conversation, to speak
somewhat after this manner:
"When," said he, "I first began to walk as a Christian, in my
youthful zeal I made many resolutions that were well meant, but
indiscreet. Among others, I remember I resolved to pray, at least
once, in some way, every hour that I was awake. I tried faithfully
to keep this resolution, but never having succeeded a single day, I
suffered the pangs of self-reproach, until reflection satisfied me
that the only wisdom possible, with regard to such a resolve, was
to break it. I remember, too, that I made a resolution to speak
upon religion to every person with whom I conversed,--on
steamboats, in the streets, anywhere. In this, also, I failed, as I
ought; and I soon learned that, in the sowing of such seed, as in
other sowings, times, and seasons, and methods must be considered
and selected, or a man may defeat his own object, and make religion
loathsome."
In language like this he introduced the topic of the evening's
conversation, which was, How far, and on what occasions, and in
what manner, one person may invade, so to speak, the personality of
another, and speak to him upon his moral condition. The pastor
expressed his own opinion, always in the conversational tone, in a
talk of ten minutes' duration, in the course of which he applauded,
not censured, the delicacy which causes most people to shrink from
doing it. He said that a man's personality was not a macadamized
road for every vehicle to drive upon at will, but rather a sacred
inclosure, to be entered, if at all, with the consent of the owner,
and with deference to his feelings and tastes. He maintained,
however, that there _were_ times and modes in which this might
properly be done, and that every one _had_ a duty to perform of
this nature. When he had finished his observations, he said the
subject was open to the remarks of others; whereupon a brother
instantly rose and made a very honest confession.
He said that he had never attempted to perform the duty in question
without having a palpitation of the heart, and a complete turning
over of his inner man. He had often reflected upon this curious
fact, but was not able to account for it. He had not allowed this
repugnance to prevent his doing the duty; but he always had to rush
at it and perform it by a sort of _coup de main_, for if he allowed
himself to think about the matter, he could not do it at all. He
concluded by saying that he should be very much obliged to any one
if he could explain this mystery.
The pastor said: "May it not be the natural delicacy we feel, and
ought to feel, in approaching the interior consciousness of another
person?"
Another brother rose. There was no hanging back at this meeting;
there were no awkward pauses; every one seemed full of matter. The
new speaker was not inclined to admit the explanation suggested by
the pastor. "Suppose," said he, "we were to see a man in imminent
danger of immediate destruction, and there was one way of escape,
and but one, which _we_ saw, and he did not, should we feel any
delicacy in running up to him and urging him to fly for his life?
Is it not a want of faith on our part that causes the reluctance
and hesitation we all feel in urging others to avoid a peril so
much more momentous?"
Mr. Beecher said the cases were not parallel. Irreligious persons,
he remarked, were not in imminent danger of immediate death; they
might die to-morrow; but in all probability they would not, and an
ill-timed or injudicious admonition might forever repel them. We
must accept the doctrine of probabilities, and act in accordance
with it in this particular, as in all others.
Another brother had a puzzle to present for solution. He said that
he too had experienced the repugnance to which allusion had been
made; but what surprised him most was, that the more he loved a
person, and the nearer he was related to him, the more difficult he
found it to converse with him upon his spiritual state. Why is
this? "I should like to have this question answered," said he, "if
there _is_ an answer to it."
Mr. Beecher observed that this was the universal experience, and he
was conscious himself of a peculiar reluctance and embarrassment in
approaching one of his own household on the subject in question. He
thought it was due to the fact that we respect more the personal
rights of those near to us than we do those of others, and it was
more difficult to break in upon the routine of our ordinary
familiarity with them. We are accustomed to a certain tone which it
is highly embarrassing to jar upon.
Captain Duncan related two amusing anecdotes to illustrate the
right way and the wrong way of introducing religious conversation.
In his office there was sitting one day a sort of lay preacher, who
was noted for lugging in his favorite topic in the most forbidding
and abrupt manner. A sea captain came in, who was introduced to
this individual.
"Captain Porter," said he, with awful solemnity, "are you a captain
in Israel?"
The honest sailor was so abashed and confounded at this novel
salutation, that he could only stammer out an incoherent reply; and
he was evidently disposed to give the tactless zealot a piece of
his mind, expressed in the language of the quarter-deck. When the
solemn man took his leave, the disgusted captain said, "If ever I
should be coming to your office again, and that man should be here,
I wish you would send me word, and I'll stay away."
A few days after another clergyman chanced to be in the office, no
other than Mr. Beecher himself, and another captain came in, a
roistering, swearing, good-hearted fellow. The conversation fell
upon sea-sickness, a malady to which Mr. Beecher is peculiarly
liable. The captain also was one of the few sailors who are always
sea-sick in going to sea, and gave a moving account of his
sufferings from that cause. Mr. Beecher, after listening
attentively to his tale, said, "Captain Duncan, if I was a preacher
to such sailors as your friend here, I should represent hell as an
eternal voyage, with every man on board in the agonies of
sea-sickness, the crisis always imminent, but never coming."
This ludicrous and most unprofessional picture amused the old salt
exceedingly, and won his entire good will toward the author of it;
so that after Mr. Beecher left, he said, "That's a good fellow,
Captain Duncan. I like _him_, and I'd like to hear him talk more."
Captain Duncan contended that this free and easy way of address was
just the thing for such characters. Mr. Beecher had shown him, to
his great surprise, that a man could be a decent and comfortable
human being although he was a minister, and had so gained his
confidence and good will that he could say _any thing_ to him at
their next interview. Captain Duncan finished his remarks by a
decided expression of his disapproval of the canting regulation
phrases so frequently employed by religious people, which are
perfectly nauseous to men of the world.
This interesting conversation lasted about three-quarters of an
hour, and ended, not because the theme seemed exhausted, but
because the time was up. We have only given enough of it to convey
some little idea of its spirit. The company again broke into one
of their cheerful hymns, and the meeting was dismissed in the usual
manner.
During the late war, Mr. Beecher took an active and energetic part in
support of the cause of the Union. His labors were so severe that his
health was considerably impaired, and his voice began to fail him. His
physicians ordered him to seek rest and recreation in a tour through
Europe, and he reluctantly obeyed them. He was much benefited by his
visit to the Continent, but on his return to England, on his way home,
being solicited to speak in that country in behalf of the Union, he
delivered a series of powerful appeals, which exhausted the greater part
of the strength he had gained on the Continent, and caused him to return
home almost as ill as when he went abroad.
Soon after his return the war closed, and he went to Charleston to
deliver the address at Fort Sumter upon the occasion of the rehoisting
of the flag of the United States over that work. The news of the
assassination of Mr. Lincoln met him upon his return to Brooklyn, and
drew from him one of his most memorable sermons. At the close of
hostilities, he preached a sermon to his congregation, urging
forgiveness and conciliation toward the South as the policy of the hour,
saying truly that that crisis was a rare opportunity which would never
come again, if spurned. The sermon was unpopular, and caused him some
trouble even in his own congregation.
Mr. Beecher is now fifty-seven years old, but is still in the flush of
his intellectual vigor. His eye is as bright, his step as firm and
elastic, and his voice as clear and ringing as when he preached his
first sermon. His powers have grown with his work, and every year he
seems to rise higher in his intellectual supremacy. As a pulpit orator,
he has no superior, and certainly there is no man in all this round
earth whose eloquence has been productive of greater good to the cause
he serves. He is a stout, stocky man in appearance, with a large square
face and heavy features. It is the face of a great orator and a genial,
warm-hearted man. He is careful and temperate in all his habits--except
that he will work too hard--and enjoys robust health. He lives plainly
and dresses simply. He impresses one at once with his immense energy,
and you would recognize him immediately as a man of unusual power in his
community. Said a friend not long since, "I was standing by Beecher in a
book-store to-day. He was perfectly still, as he was waiting for a
parcel to be done up, but he reminded me of a big locomotive full of
steam and fire, and ready to display its immense force at any moment."
Mr. Beecher is not only a preacher, but a capital farmer. He has a model
farm at Peekskill, on the Hudson, and is brimful of agricultural and
horticultural theories, which he carries into practice successfully. His
love for flowers is a perfect passion, and dates from his boyhood. He is
an excellent mechanic, and makes the repairs on his own premises, as far
as he can, with a keen relish, which he has doubtless inherited from his
father. He is thoroughly read in history, and as an art critic has no
superior. His house is filled with art gems, which are his pride. He has
not lost the love of reverie which marked his boyhood, but he is
eminently a practical man, and prefers the practical questions of
theology to those merely theoretical. He is as little like the typical
parson as one can imagine, and yet he is one whose place will be hard to
fill when he is gone, and whose works will live in the grateful memory
of those whom his counsel has saved from sin, and his sympathy
encouraged to continue in the path of duty.