beautifully situated on the Merrimack, which from Haverhill to the sea
is one of the finest American rivers. His _fiancee_ had numerous
relatives in the place, and it was owing to her influence that he
received a call there. At first all the signs were favorable; the young
minister was well liked, and his parishioners were only afraid that a
man of such rare ability would soon gravitate to a larger congregation.
So he might have done, if his ardent, aspiring soul would have permitted
him to temporize with his conscience, and to be content with mere
popularity and doing good on a small scale. But the thought that was
matured within him could no longer be restrained. The dangerous seed
sown by reading "Sartor Resartus" had now become a strong young tree and
must have air and light or it would perish. In October 1852 he preached
a sermon that fairly astounded his amiable parishioners. He argued that
regeneration and salvation were not to be obtained by blind faith in
Jesus, but by intelligent moral culture and spiritual development. This
view was, as far as I know, original with Wasson, and should be
distinguished from the anti-miraculous standpoint of Parker and the
natural supernaturalism of Emerson. Almost at the same hour an English
naturalist was applying the same principle to the origin of species, and
the evolution of the human race from the lower animals. The Englishman's
clear, inductive insight was matched by the philosophical penetration of
an American. The Darwinian theory now stands uncontested among
scientific men, and whether admitted or not there is quite as surely an
evolution apparent in the history of religion, not very unlike it. This
is the lesson of the nineteenth century.
The following day one of the deacons of the church called upon Wasson to
inform him that his sermon had given offence and that he must retract
from his position. "But," replied the minister, "I cannot! I am not
going to retract it." Thirty years after this Wasson laughed as
heartily, as a suffering person very well could, while he recollected
the expression of astonishment on the worthy deacon's face. That a man
should do wrong for the sake of money or some material advantage was
conceivable to him--he had known instances of that; but that any man
should so stand in his own light both for this world and the next, was a
moral incongruity which he could not understand. Wasson would not
withdraw from his position, but followed it up the next Sunday by a
still more energetic statement. There was nothing left now but
deposition. A conference was called and Wasson regularly expelled from
the Congregational brotherhood. Even some Unitarians also shared in the
horror. About a third part of his congregation, however, were converted
by him and established an independent church; so that after all he
achieved a kind of victory.
Wasson had now escaped in a two-fold sense from the fog-banks and
shallow waters of his native coast and henceforward was to sail forth
bravely upon the high seas. The conflict he had passed through attracted
no little attention from thoughtful and cultivated people, and even
those who did not wholly agree with him admired the honest manliness
with which he defended his views. Polite society opened its doors to
him. Wherever he went now he was received as a distinguished guest. He
soon made the acquaintance of eminent scholars and men of letters,--of
Sumner, Parker and Emerson. He made friends everywhere. He began to
publish essays and poems; at first in the "Christian Examiner," and
afterwards in the "Atlantic Monthly." In those days of plain living and
high thinking it was not customary for magazine writers to sign their
names, (so modest were they,) to their contributions; and in this way
Wasson just missed the general celebrity which they might have brought
him, but their merit was recognized by those of whose good opinion he
was chiefly desirous.
The effort, however, had been too much for him. The only chance of
recovery from a nervous disorder lies in freedom from mental agitation.
An injured nerve requires a longer time to heal than a broken bone and
quite as much care and self-denial. Any serious disturbance to the
circulation produces a pressure in the blood vessels of the nervous
centres, and tears away the improvement that has commenced there. Then
nature has to begin her work over again; and if this happens repeatedly
nature becomes tired of working in vain and refuses to give further
assistance. This was Wasson's misfortune. He was sensitive and excitable
by temperament, the injury to his spine had made him still more so, and
the mental agitation he experienced during 1852 and 1853 was enough to
prevent him from ever being restored to perfect health. During these two
years he must have endured nothing less than the tortures of the
inquisition; and no doubt some of his Calvinistic neighbors considered
it a judgment on him for his heresy. A mutilated life is not so very bad
after one is used to it, but the beginning is terrible. It is like being
surrounded with invisible barbed fences, which we inevitably run against
and lacerate ourselves with, until we learn to bear in mind their exact
position. Accidents too happen to nervous invalids which other people
seem generally to escape from. Wasson was at one time making fair
progress in his condition when suddenly one day, as he was walking
through Boston, the door of a house opened and a lady slipping on some
ice and tripping over the steps fell right into his arms. This was a
highly diverting adventure for a young clergyman, but it cost him weeks
of suffering. A somewhat similar strain came upon him when his first
child was born. He does not seem to have ever met with a physician who
understood his case. One worthy doctor in Worcester invited him to his
house and drove with him in his sulky for more than half a year, without
accomplishing anything for him. He went on a voyage to London and
another to Smyrna, without any better result than suffering from bad
food and stormy weather. After the first voyage his condition was so bad
that, as he said of it once, he scarcely knew whether it was day or
night: but the climate of Asia Minor agreed with him and he returned
from Smyrna at least better for so much experience. I think his first
real improvement came during his stay at my father's house. There he had
plentiful repose, both of mind and body, and if good medical treatment
had been added he might have made a substantial gain.
In the spring of 1864 Bradford, the marine artist, being ambitious to
paint icebergs in their native wilds, organized a sailing party for
Labrador and invited Wasson to go with them. This was the first
enterprise of the kind that gave him permanent benefit. Fortunately they
encountered no severe storms. The cool, bracing air of the polar regions
was better than galvanism and stimulated his nerves to work in the
proper way. Sailing along the coast they were able to anchor almost
every night in smooth water. The fish they caught, the strange birds
they saw and stranger human creatures, were a cheerful entertainment to
him. He became quite a sportsman, and even joined one day in the pursuit
of a polar bear. He returned in the autumn practically cured of his
trouble, but to regain his strength was out of the question: he suffered
besides very badly from dyspepsia. However he was able to preach
regularly, to make speeches in public, to work in his garden and write
perhaps three hours a day. Such a person is not greatly to be pitied,
and if he had fortunately possessed a small competency we might now look
upon him as a prosperous man: but his only property consisted of a good
working library and five hundred dollars which a friend had given him.
The next eight years were the best and most productive of his life; and
he might have continued in the same course but for another most
unfortunate accident. The supply of coal in his government office gave
out, and the requisition for a fresh quantity was not promptly filled.
Wasson sat writing in a cold room. There was a sudden change of weather,
a severe snow squall, and the result was--pleurisy. This changed to
bronchitis which worried and weakened him for the following ten years,
and finally carried him off in his sixty-fifth year. That he went
through a severe fever at the house of his friend Henry A. Page of
Medford is hardly worth considering, for he was so tenderly and
beautifully cared for there as almost to make it an enviable experience;
but in 1879 cataracts formed on both eyes, one of which had been injured
long before, and when they were operated on, two years later, the sight
was restored to his injured eye (such as it was previously) but not to
the other, so that he was left very nearly blind. He attributed this
catastrophe to the quantity of belladonna which had been prescribed for
him.
Such was his pathological history and a truly terrible one it is. Who
can remember the like of it? Certainly Job's trials were not heavier nor
were they borne with more fortitude and patience. In the midst of his
severest troubles he wrote "All is well:" a noble religious poem equal
to the hymn of Cleanthes or the twelfth ode of Horace; and in one of his
earlier essays he speaks of tragedy as possessing such beauty and
grandeur that he is almost ready to believe it is the proper goal and
destination of earthly life. In "Epic Philosophy" he says: "Strife is
around man, and strife is within him; the lightning thrusts its blazing
scymitar through his roof, the thief creeps in at his door, and remorse
at his heart. Who, looking on these things, does not acknowledge that
man is indeed fearfully as well as wonderfully made? Who would not
sometimes cry, 'O that my eyes were a fountain of tears, that I might
weep, not the desolations of Israel alone, but the hate of Israel to
Edom and of Edom to Israel, the jar, the horror, the ensanguined passion
and ferocity of Nature'? But when we would despair, behold we cannot.
Out of the conscious heart of humanity issues forever, more or less
clearly, a voice of infinite, pure content. 'Through the valley of the
shadow of death I will fear no evil, for THOU art with me.' Sometimes,
when our trial is sorest, that voice is clearest, singing as from the
jaws of death and the gates of hell. And now, though the tears fall,
they become jewels as they fall; and the sorrow that begot them wears
them in the diadem of its more than regal felicity."
This is the echo of his own experience; the spiritual diagnosis of his
case. With what fortitude he endured his maladies those who knew him
best can bear witness. He was no ideal Stoic nor self-conscious martyr;
but more like an Homeric hero fighting his troubles, bearing them
bravely, talking of them sensibly, always glad to receive sympathy but
never seeking it, and complaining when he could endure no longer. He
never tried to comfort himself by sophistical reflections, but elevated
thoughts were always his chief consolation. Conversation about great
writers and thinkers always seemed to strengthen him.
Mr. Frothingham in his excellent memoir speaks of Wasson as a
self-consuming nature. Such a statement may apply to men like Schiller
and John Sterling but it can hardly be said of one who lived to be
sixty-four years old. If he had not been a remarkably patient, prudent,
temperate and altogether practical man his disorder would have consumed
him long before that time. It gave him no margin for wilfulness. Except
when he spoke in public, his life was regulated with mathematical
accuracy. There was something almost death-like in his self-control, and
yet at times that also had to give way. If he had lived otherwise his
case would have grown continually worse. The only recreation he had was
working in his garden, and an occasional game of billiards. Four or five
times a year he would go to a symphony concert, to hear Matthew Arnold
lecture, or to see a distinguished actor. People who blamed him for not
recovering his health knew not what they did. A Philadelphia doctor has
made himself quite famous by curing women who have become nervous and
debilitated from an unhealthy mode of life and drinking strong tea, but
that is a very different thing from curing a true nervous disorder.
Sumner's case was almost exceptional. He was cured in three years by Dr.
Brown-Sequard and made perfectly well; but he had temperament, climate,
and everything that money might give, in his favor. A good many invalids
have been helped by Brown-Sequard after other doctors had failed to help
them. A sturdy New Hampshire farmer wounded his foot with an axe and was
supposed to have split a nerve in it. The wound healed perfectly but he
never was able to do a whole day's work afterward. An oarsman in the
international regatta of 1869 who was a man of enormous physical
strength, deranged his nerves in some way and shot himself rather than
endure the kind of life that was forced upon him.
The Wasson family was of Ulster-Irish descent, or as it is often
improperly called Scotch-Irish. There is little Scotch blood in Ulster
however, and the Wassons claimed to be descended from the Lollard
heretics who were driven out of England in Henry the Fifth's time. John
C. Calhoun belonged also to this class of men, who are noted for their
industry, sobriety, mental vigor and inflexible tenacity. The county of
Ulster contains only about one-eighth of the population of Ireland and
yet it pays forty-six per cent of the Irish taxes. David Wasson, Senior,
was trial justice for Brooksville, and was greatly dreaded by disorderly
persons. He presided with dignity, and maintained better order than is
often found in a country court-room. Wasson himself was more than Saxon;
he was a German in mind, body and character, though he never went to
Germany till after he was fifty. He had a German figure, much like his
father's but broader; high square shoulders, a straight forehead and
wide mouth. His features were strong and refined without being specially
handsome. His brow was very fine and the eyes beneath it of so clear a
blue as to be noticeable even at some distance.
There are men whom it is a delight to be with, whose "actions are as
pleasant as roses," whose absence we regret as soon as they leave the
room; but Wasson was not one of these. He had no personal charm like
Longfellow or Wendell Phillips. He was more of a gentleman than many who
pride themselves on that distinction, and he had very good manners, but
not a very good style. A noted snob of those days and parasite of
distinguished people said that he could have no faith in the genius of a
man who dressed like Mr. Wasson. He would probably have dressed much
better if he had possessed more abundant means, but I never saw him
dressed in a way that anyone could rightfully complain of. His voice was
pleasant but there was neither grace nor elegance in his speech. Usually
it was direct, forcible, monotonous, with a very distinct enunciation;
but sometimes it became drawling and wearisome with a peculiar accent on
certain words which struck the ear too pointedly. This however was only
among his friends; it did not happen in public. But all thought of human
imperfections vanished as soon as he began to talk on one of his
favorite topics; and there was a long list of them. You recognized that
you were in the presence of a master mind, an analytical genius, who
could take the world to pieces and put it together before your very
eyes.
His conversation was better than his writing; in form, in freedom, and
in warmth of feeling. He must have been the finest talker of his time.
Carlyle could match him perhaps in quite a different manner; but I have
never heard of any others. Lowell was what would have been called in
Shakespeare's time a "witty and conceited gentleman" and John Weiss
still more so; but neither of them could give the flow of original
thought which came from Wasson like a pure mountain stream. Neither were
they such complete masters of their subject. Like Carlyle he required
suitable auditors to bring him forth at his best: but while Carlyle was
mightiest when, his hearers were opposed to him Wasson always needed a
somewhat sympathetic audience. If he saw unfriendly faces around him his
ideas became congealed and his discourse controversial. At other times
it was like following the course of a great unknown river, full of grand
views and surprising discoveries. Nothing interests like imagination, or
is more wholesome than good criticism. Yet he had no desire to be an
autocrat of the drawing-room. He welcomed the opinions of others and
encouraged free discussion. No man could be more ready to accept
amendments to his propositions. Pride of opinion was nowhere to be found
in him: he was only too modest and unassuming. If his friends did not
agree with him he would reply with a mildly interrogative "Yes?" and
then proceed as before. The finest rhetoric and even splendid oratory
seemed poor compared with the plain statement of this unswerving seeker
of the truth.
His knowledge was prodigious. He was a good linguist, a fine
mathematician and versed in all the different schools of philosophy. He
knew English literature as well as Macaulay; French and German as well
as Carlyle. There seemed to be no period of history with which he was
unacquainted. He remembered everything. If he had not read a book he had
heard of it and had a pretty clear notion of what it contained. The only
picture-gallery he ever visited was the small National Gallery in
London, but from the few master-pieces he saw there he formed a quite
correct judgment of the art of painting and could talk about any picture
in an interesting way. He had also a good ear for music and divided with
Lowell the honor among American literati of being able to appreciate
music of the best quality. Besides this, his knowledge of practical
affairs such as farming, gardening, housebuilding, fishing, sailing and
other industrial arts was well-nigh endless also. How his head, which
was not one of the largest, could contain it all I do not know. He could
not recite the odes of Horace from memory; but he was able to repeat
lengthy quotations from both English and foreign authors, and that
without ever having committed them. In religious writings and
controversies he was as much at home as a good lawyer in the statutes.
In his wanderings he had become acquainted with many curious, strange
and original people, and had gained their confidence by his friendly,
open-hearted manner. Perhaps he had learned as much from the great book
of human nature as from all other books; so that his fund of information
was fairly inexhaustible. He may almost be said to have contained the
material for another Shakespeare.
In 1877 just after the Turco-Russian war had begun we found him one
evening in a smoking-car on the railway, surrounded by a crowd of young
men who were listening eagerly to his account of the various wars which
had already taken place between Russia and Turkey, and the political
significance of the present one. "A man who possesses such a fund within
has need of little from without." He cannot be called poor so long as he
has a roof to shelter him and a single suit of clothes. Yet the
acquisition of knowledge was never with Wasson for its own sake, though
a good deal of adventitious knowledge came to him incidentally, but
always for the attainment of wisdom. He did not believe in the
Emersonian doctrine of obtaining inspiration through nature. "That was
not the way," he would say, "in which the great minds of history became
what they were. If we are to do lasting work we must know what the world
is made of. Emerson himself does not work in that way." He quoted
Schiller as saying, "He who would do benefit to the age in which he
lives must bathe deep in the spirit of classical antiquity and then
return to his own time to be in it, but not of it." That is, if we are
to move the world with Archimedes' lever, we must have an historical
basis to rest on. If a man ever had this it was Wasson. He went back to
the Vedas in his study of religion; to the German forests and the
pyramids in his investigation of politics and history. It was this which
gave his arguments such cogency and made his discourse so fresh,
vigorous and original. Arguments, however, will only serve for
reasonable people. The ram that butted the locomotive had to learn from
experience.
His sincerity was absolute. A devoted friend says of him: "During twelve
years of familiar intercourse and eight more of less frequent
communication, I never knew him once to take on the slightest color of
insincerity. For it is not only in the use of words but in the tone of
voice, the expression of the face and the movement of the body that
duplicity can be detected." Like Sumner, he would rather lose a case
than make use of an unfair argument. This may seem to many a
super-sensitive morality, but it was not so for the work which these men
had to do. Wasson believed in telling lies; to save life, to protect
innocence, or even to prevent people from obtaining information which
they had no right to. He considered it justifiable not only to deceive
insane people, but also those demented creatures who do more mischief
than lunatics because they cannot be shut up.
The more honor to him therefore for his truthfulness. In the case of a
strong temperance woman who refused to allow a gentleman to marry her
daughter unless he took the pledge, which he did with the deliberate
intention of breaking it afterwards, he said, "I do not like to approve
of his action, but she might just as well have held a pistol to his
head." Neither did his own virtue make him uncharitable towards others.
He recognized how impossible it is for servants and many other people to
be always veracious, and claimed that the impostures practised by
Frederick in the Seven Years' War might be justified by the strait he
was in and the importance of the matter in hand. The main thing was to
do honest work. For careless, sleazy, or fraudulent work he had no
patience. He was greatly amused at the story of Dr. Francia ordering an
army contractor who had cheated the government of Paraguay to be
promenaded for an hour under the gallows, and he wished that more of
them might be treated in that manner. He thought the torrent of
mendacity which accompanies our presidential elections must have a bad
influence on the morals of the American people.
The question of veracity was once discussed at the Chestnut Street Club,
and Emerson said that Desdemona's lie seemed to him the best thing in
the play of Othello. But there is, as Plato remarks, a more insidious
evil than the deception of others and that is deceiving oneself. To
detect an intentional falsehood is not very difficult, but when people
tell lies with perfect assurance of their own sincerity the confusion
that results is endless. The wisest of men are some times misled in this
way. When we try to deceive others we have before us the danger of
public exposure, while in self-deception we have only our own
consciences to deal with. Neither do the two always go hand in hand.
There are persons who are formally careful in regard to the truth, and
yet live in perpetual delusion. Wasson recognized this danger and
protected himself against it by a constant and severe self-examination.
He knew himself at least better than most, and if he erred anywhere it
was in too moderate an opinion of his own value. He had visually a clear
consciousness of what he was about, in spite of his lively imagination.