"Cross the Fulton Ferry and follow the crowd" was the direction which
was said to have been given humorously by Mr. Beecher himself to a
pilgrim who asked how to find his church in Brooklyn. The Easy Chair
remembered it on the Sunday morning after the return of the Fort Sumter
party; and crossing at an early hour in the beautiful spring day, he
stepped ashore and followed the crowd up the street. That at so early an
hour the current would set strongly towards the church he did not
believe. But he was mistaken. At the corner of Hicks Street the throng
turned and pushed along with hurrying eagerness as if they were already
too late, although it was but a little past nine o'clock. The street
was disagreeable like a street upon the outskirts of a city, but the
current turned from it again in two streams, one flowing to the rear and
the other to the front of Plymouth Church. The Easy Chair drifted along
with the first, and as he went around the corner observed just before
him a low brick tower, below which was an iron gate.
The gate was open, and we all passed rapidly in, going through a low
passage smoothly paved and echoing, with a fountain of water midway and
a chained mug--a kind thought for the wayfarer--and that little cheap
charity seemed already an indication of the humane spirit which
irradiates the image of Plymouth Church. The low passage brought us all
to the narrow walk by the side of the church, and to the back door of
the building. The crowd was already tossing about all the doors. The
street in front of the building was full, and occasionally squads of
enterprising devotees darted out and hurried up to the back door to
compare the chances of getting in.
The Easy Chair pushed forward, and was shown by a courteous usher to a
convenient seat. The church is a large white building, with a gallery on
both sides, two galleries in front, and an organ-loft and choir just
behind the pulpit. It is spacious and very light, with four long windows
on each side. The seats upon the floor converge towards the pulpit,
which is a platform with a mahogany desk, and there are no columns. The
view of the speaker is unobstructed from every part. The plain white
walls and entire absence of architectural ornamentation inevitably
suggest the bare cold barns of meeting-houses in early New England. But
this house is of a very cheerful, comfortable, and substantial aspect.
There were already dense crowds wedged about all the doors upon the
inside. The seats of the pew-holders were protected by the ushers, the
habit being, as the Easy Chair understood, for the holders who do not
mean to attend any service to notify the ushers that they may fill the
seats. Upon the outside of the pews along the aisles there are chairs
which can be turned down, enabling two persons to be seated side by
side, yet with a space for passage between, so that the aisle is not
wholly choked. On this Sunday the duties of the ushers were very
difficult and delicate, for the pressure was extraordinary. There was
still more than an hour before the beginning of the service, but the
building was rapidly filling; and everybody who sank into a seat from
which he was sure that he could not be removed wore an edifying
expression of beaming contentment which must have been rather
exasperating to those who were standing and struggling and dreadfully
squeezed around the doors.
Presently the seats were all full. The multitude seemed to be solid
above and below, but still the new-comers tried to press in. The
platform was fringed by the legs of those who had been so lucky as to
find seats there. There was loud talking and scuffling, and even
occasionally a little cry at the doors. One boy struggled desperately in
the crowd for his life, or breath. The ushers, courteous to the last,
smiled pitifully upon their own efforts to put ten gallons into a pint
pot. As the hour of service approached a small door under the choir and
immediately behind the mahogany desk upon the platform opened quietly,
and Mr. Beecher entered. He stood looking at the crowd for a little
time, without taking off his outer coat, then advanced to the edge of
the platform and gave some directions about seats. He indicated with his
hands that the people should pack more closely. The ushers evidently
pleaded for the pew-holders who had not arrived; but the preacher
replied that they could not get in, and the seats should be filled that
the service might proceed in silence. Then he removed his coat, sat
down, and opened the Hymn-Book, while the organ played. The impatient
people meantime had climbed up to the window-sills from the outside, and
the great white church was like a hive, with the swarming bees hanging
in clusters upon the outside.
The service began with an invocation. It was followed by a hymn, by the
reading of a chapter in the Bible, and a prayer. The congregation joined
in singing; and the organ, skilfully and firmly played, prevented the
lagging which usually spoils congregational singing. The effect was
imposing. The vast volume filled the building with solid sound. It
poured out at the open windows and filled the still morning air of the
city with solemn melody. Far upon every side those who sat at home in
solitary chambers heard the great voice of praise. Then amid the hush of
the vast multitude the preacher, overpowered by emotion, prayed
fervently for the stricken family and the bereaved nation. There was
more singing, before which Mr. Beecher appealed to those who were
sitting to sit closer, and for once to be incommoded that some more of
the crowd might get in; and as the wind blew freshly from the open
windows, he reminded the audience that a handkerchief laid upon the head
would prevent the sensitive from taking cold. Then opening the Bible he
read the story of Moses going up to Pisgah, and took the verses for his
text.
The sermon was written, and he read calmly from the manuscript. Yet at
times, rising upon the flood of feeling, he shot out a solemn adjuration
or asserted an opinion with a fiery emphasis that electrified the
audience into applause. His action was intense but not dramatic; and the
demeanor of the preacher was subdued and sorrowful. He did not attempt
to speak in detail of the President's character or career. He drew the
bold outline in a few words, and leaving that task to a calmer and
fitter moment, spoke of the lessons of the hour. The way of his death
was not to be deplored; the crime itself revealed to the dullest the
ghastly nature of slavery; it was a blow not at a man, but at the people
and their government; it had utterly failed; and, finally, though dead
the good man yet speaketh. The discourse was brief, fitting, forcible,
and tender with emotion. It was a manly sorrow and sympathy that cast
its spell upon the great audience, and it was good to be there. When
words have a man behind them, says a wise man, they are eloquent. There
was another hymn before the benediction, a peal of pious triumph, which
poured out of the heart of the congregation, and seemed to lift us all
up, up into the sparkling, serene, inscrutable heaven.