The matter was little helped when our good rector preached upon

retribution for sin. He held the most extreme views regarding

future punishment; and the more he developed them, the more my

mind rejected the idea that so many good people about me,

especially the one whom I loved so much, could be subjected to

such tortures,--and the more my heart rebelled against the Moloch

who had established and was administering so horrible a system. I

must have been about twelve years old when it thus occurred to me

to question the whole sacred theory; and this questioning was

started into vigorous life after visiting, with some other

school-boys, the Presbyterian church when a "revival" was going

on. As I entered, a very unspiritual-looking preacher was laying

down the most severe doctrines of divine retribution. In front of

him were several of our neighbors' daughters, many of them my

schoolmates, whom I regarded as thoroughly sweet and good; and

they were in tears, apparently broken-hearted under the storm of

wrath which poured over them from the mouth of the revival

preacher. At this I revolted entirely, and from that moment I

disbelieved in the whole doctrine, utterly and totally. I felt

that these kindly girls, to whom I had looked with so much

admiration in the classes at school and in our various little

gatherings, were infinitely more worthy of the divine favor than

was the big, fleshly creature storming and raging and claiming to

announce a divine message.

Some influence on my youthful thinking had also been exercised by

sundry occurrences in our own parish. Our good rector was

especially fond of preaching upon "baptismal regeneration";

taking the extreme high-church view and thereby driving out some

of the best "evangelicals" from his congregation. One of these I

remember especially--a serene, dignified old man, Mr. John

Durnford. After he left our church he took his place among the

Presbyterians, and I remember, despite my broad-church

tendencies, thinking that he was incurring serious danger by such

apostasy; but as I noted him, year after year, devoting himself

to the newly founded orphan-asylum, giving all his spare time to

the care of the children gathered there, even going into the

market and thence bearing provisions to them in a basket, I began

to feel that perhaps his soul was safe, after all. I bethought

myself that, with all my reading of the Bible, I had never found

any text which required a man to believe in the doctrines of the

Protestant Episcopal Church; but that I had found, in the words

of Jesus himself, as well as in the text of St James regarding

"pure religion and undefiled," declarations which seemed to

commend, especially, labors for the poor, fatherless, and

afflicted, like those of Mr. Durnford.

But still more marked was the influence on my thinking of a

painful clash in the parish. It came on this wise. Our rector was

one day called to attend the funeral of a little child but a few

weeks old, the daughter of neighbors of ours. The father was a

big-bodied, big-hearted, big-voiced, successful man of business,

well liked for his bluff cordiality and generosity, who went to

church because his wife went. The mother was a sweet, kindly,

delicate woman, the daughter of a clergyman, and devoted to the

church.

It happened that, for various reasons, and more especially on

account of the absence of the father from home on business, the

baptism of the child had been delayed until its sudden death

prevented the rite forever.

The family and neighbors being assembled at the house, and the

service about to begin, an old maiden lady, who had deeply

absorbed the teachings of Dr. Gregory and wished to impress them

on those present, said to the father, audibly and with a groan,

"Oh, Mr.----, what a pity that the baby was not baptized!" to

which the rector responded, with a deep sigh and in a most

plaintive voice, "Yes!" Thereupon the mother of the child burst

into loud and passionate weeping, and at this the father, big and

impulsive as he was, lost all control of himself. Rising from his

chair, he strode to the side of the rector and said, "That is a

slander on the Almighty; none but a devil could, for my

negligence, punish this lovely little child by ages of torture.

Take it back--take it back, sir; or, by the God that made us, I

will take you by the neck and throw you into the street!" At this

the gentle rector faltered out that he did not presume to limit

the mercy of God, and after a time the service went on; but

sermons on baptismal regeneration from our pulpit were never

afterward frequent or cogent.

Startled as I was at this scene, I felt that the doctrine had not

stood the test. More and more there was developed in me that

feeling which Lord Bacon expressed so profoundly and pithily, in

his essay on "Superstition," when he said:

It were better to have no opinion of God at all, than such an

opinion as is unworthy of Him; for if the one is unbelief, the

other is contumely: and certainly superstition is the reproach of

the Deity. Plutarch saith well to that purpose: "Surely, I had

rather a great deal that men should say there was no such man at

all as Plutarch, than that they should say that Plutarch ate his

children as soon as they were born;"--as the poets speak of

Saturn: and as the contumely is greater towards God, so the

danger is greater towards men.

The "danger" of which Bacon speaks has been noted by me often,

both before and since I read his essays. Once, indeed, when a

very orthodox lady had declared to me her conviction that every

disbeliever in the divinity of the second person in the Trinity

must be lost, I warned her of this danger and said, "We lately

had President Grant here on the university grounds. Suppose your

little girl, having met the President, and having been told that

he was the great general of the war and President of the United

States, should assert her disbelief, basing it on the fact that

she had formed the idea of a much more showy and gorgeous person

than this quiet, modest little man; and suppose that General

Grant, on hearing of the child's mistake, should cruelly punish

her for it; what would you think of him? and what would he think

of you, were he to know that you asserted that he could be so

contemptibly unjust and cruel? The child's utterance would not in

the slightest offend him, but your imputation to him of such

vileness would most certainly anger him."

A contribution to my religious development came also from a very

different quarter. Our kitchen Bridget, one of the best of her

kind, lent me her book of devotion--the "Ursuline Manual." It

interested me much until I found in it the reasons very cogently

given why salvation was confined to the Roman Catholic Church.

This disgusted me. According to this, even our good rector had no

more chance of salvation than a Presbyterian or Baptist or

Methodist minister. But this serious view of the case was

disturbed by a humorous analogy. There were then fighting

vigorously through the advertisement columns of the newspapers

two rival doctors, each claiming to produce the only salutary

"sarsaparilla," and each named Townsend. At first one claimed to

be "THE Dr. Townsend," then the other claimed to be "THE Dr.

Townsend"; the first rejoined that HE was "Dr. JACOB Townsend,"

whereupon the other insisted that HE was "Dr. Jacob Townsend"; to

this the first answered that HE was "the ORIGINAL Dr. Jacob

Townsend," and the other then declared that HE was "the ORIGINAL

Dr. Jacob Townsend"; and so on, through issue after issue, each

supplying statements, certificates, arguments, rejoinders ad

nauseam. More and more, then, the various divines insisting on

the exclusive possession of the only remedy for sin reminded me

of these eminent sarsaparilla-makers,--each declaring his own

concoction genuine and all others spurious, each glorifying

himself as possessing the original recipe and denouncing his

rivals as pretenders.

Another contribution to my thought was made one day in the

Sunday-school. While reading in the New Testament I had noticed

the difficulties involved in the two genealogies of Jesus of

Nazareth--that in Matthew and that in Luke. On my asking the

Sunday-school teacher for an explanation, he gave the offhand

answer that one was the genealogy of Joseph and the other of

Mary. Of course it did not take me long to find this answer

inadequate; and, as a consequence, Sunday-school teaching lost

much of its effect upon me.

But there was still one powerful influence left in behalf of the

old creed. From time to time came the visitation by the bishop,

Dr. DeLancey. He was the most IMPRESSIVE man I have ever seen. I

have stood in the presence of many prelates in my day, from Pope

Pius IX down; but no one of them has ever so awed me as this

Bishop of Western New York. His entry into a church chancel was

an event; no music could be finer than his reading of the

service; his confirmation prayer still dwells in my memory as the

most perfect petition I have ever heard; and his simple, earnest

sermons took strong hold of me. His personal influence was also

great. Goldsmith's lines in the "Deserted Village,"

"Even children follow'd with endearing wile

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile,"

accurately pictured the feelings of many of us as we lingered

after service to see him greet our fathers and mothers.

As to my biblical studies, they were continued, though not

perhaps as systematically as they might well have been. The

Protestant Episcopal Church has for a youth at least one

advantage in this respect,--that the services including Introits,

Canticles, Psalter, Lessons, Epistles Gospels, and various

quotations, familiarize him with the noblest utterances in our

sacred books. My mother had received instruction in Bible class

and prized Scripture reading; therefore it was that, when I was

allowed to stay at home from church on Sunday afternoons, it was

always on condition that I should read a certain number of

chapters in the Bible and prove to her upon her return that I had

read them carefully,--and this was not without its uses.

Here I am reminded of a somewhat curious event. One afternoon,

when I had been permitted to remain at home, on the usual

conditions, my mother, returning from service, said to me that by

staying away from church I had missed something very interesting:

that there was a good sermon well given, that the preacher was of

fine appearance, dignified,--and an Indian; but that she would

never have suspected him to be an Indian were it not for his

words at the conclusion of his sermon, which were as follows:

"And now, my brethren, I leave you. We shall probably never meet

again in this world, and doubtless most of you will forget all

the counsels I have given you and remember nothing save that you

have to-day heard a sermon from an Indian." The point of interest

really was that this preacher, Eleazar Williams, though he gave

no hint of it on this occasion, believed himself, and was

believed by many, to be the lost Dauphin of France, Louis XVII,

and that decidedly skilful arguments in favor of his claims were

published by the Rev. Mr. Hanson and others. One of the most

intelligent women I have ever known believes to this hour that

Eleazar Williams, generally known as a half-breed Indian born in

Canada, was the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, and that

his portly form and Bourbon face were convincing additions to

other more cogent testimonies.

At various times I sought light from new sources, and, finding on

the family shelves a series of books called the "Evangelical

Family Library," I read sundry replies to Hume, Gibbon, and other

deists; but the arguments of Hume and Gibbon and those who

thought with them seemed to me, to say the least, quite as

forcible as those in answer to them. These replies simply

strengthened my tendency to doubt, and what I heard at church

rather increased the difficulty; for the favorite subjects of

sermons in the Episcopal Church of those days, after the

"Apostolical Succession" and "Baptismal Regeneration," were the

perfections of the church order, the beauty of its services, and

the almost divine character of the Prayer-book. These topics were

developed in all the moods and tenses; the beauties of our own

service were constantly contrasted with the crudities and

absurdities of the worship practised by others; and although,

since those days, left to my own observation, I have found much

truth in these comparisons, they produced upon me at that time

anything but a good effect. It was like a beautiful woman coming

into an assemblage; calling attention to the perfections of her

own face, form, and garments; claiming loudly to be the most

beautiful person in the room; and so, finally, becoming the least

attractive person present.

This state of mind was deepened by my first experiences at

college. I had, from my early boyhood, wished to go to Yale; but,

under pressure from the bishop, I was sent to the little church

college at Geneva in western New York There were excellent men

among its professors--men whom I came to love and admire; but its

faculty, its endowment, its equipment, were insufficient, and for

fear of driving away the sons of its wealthy and influential

patrons it could not afford to insist either on high scholarship

or good discipline, so that the work done was most

unsatisfactory. And here I may mention that the especial claim

put forth by this college, as by so many others like it

throughout the country, was that, with so small a body of

students directly under church control, both the intellectual and

religious interests of the students would be better guarded than

they could be in the larger and comparatively unsectarian

institutions. The very contrary was then true; and various

experiences have shown me that, as a rule, little sectarian

colleges, if too feeble to exercise strong discipline or insist

on thorough work, are the more dangerous. As it was, I felt that

in this particular case a wrong had been done me and charged that

wrong against the church system.

I have been glad to learn of late years that the college just

referred to has, since my student days, shared the upward

progress of its sister institutions and that with more means and

better appliances a succession of superior instructors have been

able to bring its students into steady good work and under

excellent discipline.

Much was made in those days of the "Christian evidences," and one

statement then put forth, regarding the miraculous, produced a

temporary effect upon me. This statement was that the claims of

the religions opposed to Christianity did not rest upon miracles;

that there was, at any rate, no real testimony to any except

Christian miracles; and that, as a rule, other religions did not

pretend to exhibit any. But when I, shortly afterward, read the

life of Mohammed, and saw what a great part was played by his

miracle at the battle of Beder, during which, on his throwing

dust into the air, there came to his rescue legions of angels,

who were seen and testified to by many on the field,--both by his

friends and by his enemies; and when I found that miraculous

testimonies play a leading part in all religions, even in favor

of doctrines the most cruel and absurd, I felt that the

"evidences" must be weak which brought forward an argument so ill

grounded. Moreover, in my varied reading I came across multitudes

of miracles attributed to saints of the Roman Catholic

Church,--miracles for which myriads of good men and women were

ready to lay down their lives in attestation of their

belief,--and if we must accept one class of miracles, I could not

see why we should not accept the other.

At the close of this first year, for reasons given elsewhere, I

broke away from this little college and went to Yale.

CHAPTER LIX

IN THE NEW ENGLAND ATMOSPHERE--1851-1853

At Yale I found myself in the midst of New England

Congregationalism; but I cannot say that it helped me much

religiously. It, indeed, broadened my view, since I was

associated with professors and students of various forms of

Christianity, and came to respect them, not for what they

professed, but for what they really were.

There also I read under an excellent professor--my dear friend

the late President Porter--Butler's "Analogy"; but, though it

impressed me, it left on my mind the effect of a strong piece of

special pleading,--of a series of arguments equally valuable for

any religion which had once "got itself established."

Here, too, a repellent influence was exercised upon me by a

"revival." What was called a "religious interest" began to be

shown in sundry student meetings, and soon it came in with a full

tide. I was induced to go into one or two of these assemblies,

and was somewhat impressed by the penitence shown and the pledges

given by some of my college friends. But within a year the whole

thing was dead. Several of the men who had been loudest in their

expressions of penitence and determination to accept Christianity

became worse than ever: they were like logs stranded high and dry

after a freshet.

But this religious revival in college was infinitely better than

one which ran its course in the immediate neighborhood. Just at

the corner of the college grounds was a Methodist Episcopal

church, the principal one in New Haven, and, a professional

revivalist having begun his work there, the church was soon

thronged. Blasphemy and ribaldry were the preacher's great

attractions. One of the prayers attributed to him ran as follows:

"Come down among us, O Lord! Come straight through the roof; I'll

pay for the shingles!" Night after night the galleries were

crowded with students laughing at this impious farce; and among

them, one evening, came "Charley" Chotard of Mississippi. Chotard

was a very handsome fellow: slender, well formed, six feet three

inches tall, and in any crowd a man of mark, like King Saul. In

the midst of the proceedings, at some grotesque utterance of the

revivalist, the students in the galleries burst into laughter.

The preacher, angrily turning his eyes upon the offenders, saw,

first of all, Chotard, and called out to him: "You lightning-rod

of hell, you flag-staff of damnation, come down from there!" Of

course no such grotesque scenes were ever allowed in the college

chapel: the services there, though simple, were always dignified;

yet even in these there sometimes appeared incongruous features.

According to tradition in my time, an aged divine, greatly and

justly beloved, from a neighboring city, had been asked to preach

before the students. It was at the time when the whole

English-speaking world had been thrilled by the story of the

relief of Lucknow, and the cry of the Scotch lassie who heard the

defiant slogan and heart-stirring pibroch of the Highlanders

coming to the relief of the besieged had echoed across all the

oceans. Toward the close of his sermon the dear old doctor became

very impressive. He recited the story of Lucknow, and then spoke

in substance as follows: "So to-day, my young friends, I sound in

your ears the slo-o-o-broch of salvation." The alliteration

evidently pleased him, and he repeated it with more and more

emphasis in his peroration. When he sat down another clergyman

who was with him at the sacred desk reminded him of his mistake,

whereupon the good old doctor rose and addressed the students as

follows: "My young friends, you doubtless noticed a mistake in my

final remarks. I said 'slo-o-o-o-broch'; of course I meant

'pi-i-g-a-a-an.'"

Then, too, it must be confessed that some of the weekday prayers

made by lay professors lent themselves rather too easily to

parody. One of my classmates--since known as a grave and

respected judge--was especially gifted in imitating these

petitions, with the very intonations of their authors, and these

parodies were in great demand on festive occasions. The pet

phrases, the choice rhetoric, and the impressive oratory of these

prayers were thus made so familiar to us in caricatures that the

originals were little conducive to devotion.

The influence at Yale of men like Goodrich, Taylor, Woolsey, and

Porter, whom I saw in their professors' chairs, was indeed strong

upon me. I respected and admired them; but their purely religious

teaching took but little hold on me; I can remember clearly but

two or three sermons which I heard preached in Yale chapel. One

was at the setting up of the chapel organ, when Horace Bushnell

of Hartford preached upon music; and another was when President

Woolsey preached a baccalaureate sermon upon "Righteous Anger."

The first of these sermons was very beautiful, but the second was

powerful. It has had an influence--and, I think, a good

influence--on my thoughts from that day to this; and it ought to

be preached in every pulpit in our country, at least once a year,

as an antidote to our sickly, mawkish lenity to crime and wrong.

In those days conformity to religious ideas was carried very far

at Yale. On week-days we had early prayers at about six in the

morning, and evening prayers at about the same hour in the

afternoon; but on Sundays we had not only morning and evening

prayers in the chapel, but morning and afternoon service at

church. I attended St. Paul's Episcopal church, sitting in one of

the gallery pews assigned to undergraduates; but cannot say that

anything that I heard during this period of my life elevated me

especially. I joined in the reading of the Psalter, in the

singing of the chants and hymns, and, occasionally, in reciting

part of the creeds, though more and more this last exercise

became peculiarly distasteful to me.

Time has but confirmed the opinion, which I then began to hold,

that, of all mistaken usages in a church service, the most

unfortunate is this demand which confronts a man who would gladly

unite with Christians in Christian work, and, in a spirit of

loyalty to the Blessed Founder of Christianity, would cheerfully

become a member of the church and receive the benefit of its

ministrations;--the demand that such a man stand and deliver a

creed made no one knows where or by whom, and of which no human

being can adjust the meanings to modern knowledge, or indeed to

human comprehension.

My sympathies, tastes, and aims led me to desire to enter fully

into the church in which I was born; there was no other part of

the service in which I could not do my part; but to stand up and

recite the creeds in all their clauses, honestly, I could not. I

had come to know on what slender foundations rested, for example,

the descent into hell; and, as to the virgin birth, my reading

showed me so weak a basis for it in the New Testament taken as a

whole, and so many similar claims made in behalf of divine

founders of religions, that when I reflected upon the reasons for

holding the doctrine to be an aftergrowth upon the original

legend, it was impossible for me to go on loudly proclaiming my

belief in it. Sometimes I have refrained from reciting any part

of the creed; but often, in my reverence for what I admire in the

service, in my love for those whom I have heard so devoutly take

part in it in days gone by, and in my sympathy with those about

me, I have been wont to do what I could,--have joined in

repeating parts of it, leaving out other parts which I, at least,

ought not to repeat.

Various things combined to increase my distrust for the

prevailing orthodoxy. I had a passion for historical

reading,--indeed, at that time had probably read more and thought

more upon my reading than had most men of my age in college,--and

the more I thus read and thought, the more evident it became to

me that, while the simple religion of the Blessed Founder of

Christianity has gone on through the ages producing the noblest

growths of faith, hope, and charity, many of the beliefs insisted

upon within the church as necessary to salvation were survivals

of primeval superstition, or evolved in obedience to pagan

environment or Jewish habits of thought or Greek metaphysics or

mediaeval interpolations in our sacred books; that most of the

frightful systems and events in modern history have arisen from

theological dogmatism; that the long reign of hideous cruelty in

the administration of the penal law, with its torture-chambers,

its burnings of heretics and witches, its cruelties of every

sort, its repression of so much of sane human instinct and noble

human thought, arose from this source, directly or indirectly;

and that even such ghastly scenes as those of the French

Revolution were provoked by a natural reaction in the minds of a

people whom the church, by its theory of divine retribution, had

educated for ages to be cruel.

But what impressed me most directly as regards the whole orthodox

part of the church was its virtual support of slavery in the

crisis then rapidly approaching. Excellent divines, like Bishop

Hopkins of Vermont, the Rev. Dr Parker of New Jersey, and others

holding high positions in various sects throughout the country,

having based elaborate defenses of slavery upon Scripture, the

church as a whole had acquiesced in this view. I had become

bitterly opposed, first to the encroachments of the slave power

in the new Territories of the United States, and finally to

slavery itself; and this alliance between it and orthodoxy

deepened my distrust of what was known about me as religion. As

the struggle between slavery and freedom deepened, this feeling

of mine increased. During my first year at college the

fugitive-slave law was passed, and this seemed to me the acme of

abominations. There were, it is true, a few religious men who

took high ground against slavery; but these were generally New

England Unitarians or members of other bodies rejected by the

orthodox, and this fact increased my distrust of the dominant

religion.

Some years before this, while yet a boy preparing for college, I

had met for the first time a clergyman of this sort--the Rev.

Samuel Joseph May, pastor of the Unitarian church in Syracuse;

and he had attracted me from the first moment that I saw him.

There was about him something very genial and kindly, which won a

way to all hearts. Though I knew him during many years, he never

made the slightest effort to proselyte me. To every good work in

the community, and especially to all who were down-trodden or

oppressed, he was steadfastly devoted; the Onondaga Indians of

central New York found in him a stanch ally against the

encroachments of their scheming white neighbors; fugitive slaves

knew him as their best friend, ready to risk his own safety in

their behalf.

Although he was the son of an honored Massachusetts family, a

graduate of Harvard, a disciple of Channing, a man of sincere

character and elegant manners, he was evidently dreaded by the

great majority of the orthodox Christians about him. I remember

speaking to him once of a clergyman who had recently arrived in

Syracuse, and who was an excellent scholar. Said Mr. May to me,

"I should like to know him, if that were possible." I asked, "Why

not call upon him?" He answered, "I would gladly do so, but do

you suppose he would return my call?" "Of course he would," I

replied; "he is a gentleman." "Yes," said Mr. May, "no doubt he

is, and so are the other clergymen; yet I have called on them as

they have come, and only two or three of them all have ever

entered my house since." Orthodox fanatics came to remonstrate

and pray with him, but these he generally overcame with his sweet

and kindly manner. To slavery he was an uncompromising foe, being

closely associated with Garrison, Phillips, and the leaders of

the antislavery movement; and so I came to see that there was a

side to Christianity not necessarily friendly to slavery: but I

also saw that it was a side not welcomed by the churches in

general, and especially distrusted in my own family. I remember

taking to him once an old friend of mine, a man of most severe

orthodoxy; and after we had left Mr. May's house I asked my

friend what he thought of the kindly heretic. He answered, "Those

of us who shall be so fortunate as to reach heaven are to be

greatly surprised at some of the people we are to meet there."

As a Yale student I found an additional advantage in the fact

that I could now frequently hear distinguished clergymen who were

more or less outside the orthodox pale. Of these were the liberal

Congregationalists of New York, Brooklyn, and Boston, and, above

all, Henry Ward Beecher, Edwin Chapin, and Theodore Parker. At

various times during my college course I visited Boston, and was

taken by my classmate and old friend George Washburn Smalley to

hear Parker. He drew immense crowds of thoughtful people. The

music-hall, where he spoke, contained about four thousand seats,

and at each visit of mine every seat, so far as I could see, was

filled. Both Parker's prayers and sermons were inspiring. He was

a deeply religious man; probably the most thorough American

scholar, orthodox or unorthodox, of his time; devoted to the

public good and an intense hater of slavery. His influence over

my thinking was, I believe, excellent; his books, and those of

Channing which I read at this time, did me great good by checking

all inclination to cynicism and scoffing; more than any other

person he strengthened my theistic ideas and stopped any tendency

to atheism; the intense conviction with which men like Channing,

Parker, and May spoke of a God in the universe gave a direction

to my thinking which has never been lost.

As to Beecher, nothing could exceed his bold brilliancy. He was a

man of genius; even more a poet than an orator; in sympathy with

every noble cause; and utterly without fear of the pew-holders

inside his church or of the mob outside. Heresy-hunters did not

daunt him. Humor played over much of his sermonizing; wit

coruscated through it; but there was at times a pathos which

pervaded the deep places of the human heart. By virtue of his

poetic insight he sounded depths of thought and feeling which no

mere theological reasoning could ever reach. He was a

man,--indeed, a great man,--but to the end of his life he

retained the freshness of youth. General Grant, who greatly

admired him, once said to me, "Beecher is a boy--a glorious boy."

Beecher's love of nature was a passion. During one of his visits

to Cornell University, I was driving through the woods with him,

and he was in the full tide of brilliant discourse when,

suddenly, he grasped my hand which held the reins and said

peremptorily, "Stop!" I obeyed, and all was still save the note

of a bird in the neighboring thicket. Our stop and silence lasted

perhaps five minutes, when he said, "Did you hear that bird? That

is the----(giving a name I have forgotten). You are lucky to have

him here; I would give a hundred dollars to have him nest as near

me."

During this visit of his to my house, I remember finding, one

morning, that he had been out of doors since daylight; and on my

expressing surprise at his rising so early after sitting up so

late, he said, "I wanted to enjoy the squirrels in your trees."

Wonderful, too, was his facility, not merely in preaching, but in

thinking. When, on another visit, he stayed with me, he took no

thought regarding his sermon at the university chapel, so far as

one could see. Every waking moment was filled with things which

apparently made preparation for preaching impossible. I became

somewhat nervous over this neglect; for, so far as I could learn,

he had nothing written, he never spoke from memory, and not only

the students, but the people from the whole country round about,

were crowding toward the chapel.

Up to the last moment before leaving my house for the morning

service, he discussed the best shrubs for planting throughout our

groves and woods, and the best grasses to use in getting a good

turf upon the university grounds. But, on leaving the house, he

became silent and walked slowly, his eyes fixed steadily on the

ground; and as I took it for granted that he was collecting his

thoughts for his sermon, I was careful not to disturb him. As we

reached the chapel porch, a vast crowd in waiting and the organ

pealing, he suddenly stopped, turned round, lifted his eyes from

the ground, and said, "I have been studying your lawn all the way

down here; what you need is to sow Kentucky blue-grass." Then he

entered the chapel, and shortly was in the midst of a sermon

evidently suggested by the occasion, his whole manuscript being a

few pencilings on a sheet or two of note-paper, all the rest

being extemporized in his best vein, both as to matter and

manner.

Chapin, too, was brilliant and gifted, but very different in

every respect from Beecher. His way was to read from manuscript,

and then, from time to time, to rise out of it and soar above it,

speaking always forcibly and often eloquently. His gift of

presenting figures of speech so that they became vivid realities

to his audience was beyond that of any other preacher I ever

heard. Giving once a temperance address, and answering the

argument as to the loss of property involved in the confiscation

of intoxicants, he suddenly pictured a balance let down from the

hand of the Almighty, in one scale all the lucre lost, in the

other all the crimes, the wrecks, the miseries, the sorrows, the

griefs, the widows' groans and orphans' tears,--until we

absolutely seemed to have the whole vast, terrific mass swaying

in mid-air before us.

On another occasion, preaching from the text, "Now we see through

a glass darkly, but then face to face," he presented the picture

of a man in his last illness, seeing dimly, through a

half-transparent medium, the faint, dim outline of the Divinity

whom he was so rapidly nearing; and then, suddenly, death,--the

shattering of the glass,--and the man, on the instant, standing

before his Maker and seeing him "face to face." It all seems poor

when put upon paper; but, as he gave it, nothing could be more

vivid. We seemed to hear the sudden crash of the translucent

sheet, and to look full into the face of the Almighty looming up

before us.

Chapin was a Universalist, and his most interesting parishioner

was Horace Greeley, whose humanitarian ideas naturally inclined

him to a very mild creed. As young men, strangers to the

congregation, were usually shown to seats just in front of the

pulpit, I could easily see Mr. Greeley in his pew on a side

aisle, just behind the front row. He generally stalked in rather

early, the pockets of his long white coat filled with newspapers,

and, immediately on taking his seat, went to sleep. As soon as

service began he awoke, looked first to see how many vacant

places were in the pew, and then, without a word, put out his

long arm into the aisle and with one or two vigorous scoops

pulled in a sufficient number of strangers standing there to fill

all the vacancies; then--he slept again. Indeed, he slept through

most of the written parts of Dr. Chapin's sermons; but whenever

there came anything eloquent or especially thoughtful, Greeley's

eyes were wide open and fixed upon the preacher.

Greeley's humanitarianism was not always proof against the

irritations of life. In his not infrequent outbursts of wrath he

was very likely to consign people who vexed him to a region

which, according to his creed, had no existence.

A story told of him in those days seemed to show that his creed

did not entirely satisfy him; for one day, when he was trying, in

spite of numberless interruptions, to write a "Tribune" leader,

he became aware that some one was standing behind his chair.

Turning around suddenly, he saw a missionary well known in the

city slums,--the Rev. Mr. Pease,--and asked in his highest,

shrillest, most complaining falsetto, "Well, what do YOU want?"

Mr. Pease, a kindly, gentle, apologetic man, said deprecatingly,

"Well, Mr. Greeley, I have come for a little help. We are still

trying to save souls in the Five Points." "Oh," said Mr. Greeley,

"go along! go along! In my opinion, there ain't half so many men

damned as there ought to be."

But though Chapin's influence did not restrain Greeley at all

times, it undoubtedly did much for him, and it did much for us of

the younger generation; for it not only broadened our views, but

did something to better our hearts and raise our aims.

In this mention of the forces which acted upon my religious

feelings I ought to include one of a somewhat different sort.

There was one clergyman whose orthodoxy, though not of an extreme

type, was undoubted, and who exercised a good and powerful

influence upon me. This was the Rev. Dr. Leonard Bacon, pastor of

the First Congregational church in New Haven. He was a man of

great intellectual power, a lover of right and hater of wrong, a

born fighter on the side of every good cause, at times pungent,

witty, sarcastic, but always deeply in earnest. There was a

general feeling among his friends that, had he not gone into the

church, he would have been eminent in political life; and that is

my belief, for he was by far the most powerful debater of his

time in the councils of his church, and his way of looking at

great questions showed the characteristics of a really

broad-minded statesman. His sermons on special occasions, as at

Thanksgiving and on public anniversaries, were noted for their

directness and power in dealing with the greater moral questions

before the people. On the other hand, there was a saying then

current, "Dull as Dr. Bacon when he's nothing but the Gospel to

preach"; but this, like so many other smart sayings, was more

epigrammatic than true: even when I heard him preach religious

doctrines in which I did not at all believe, he seemed to me to

show his full power.

Toward the end of my college course I was subjected to the

influence of two very powerful men, outside of the university,

who presented entirely new trains of thought to me. The first of

these was Dr. Alonzo Potter, Bishop of Pennsylvania, who had been

the leading professor at Union College, Schenectady, before his

elevation to the bishopric, and who, both as professor and as

bishop, had exercised a very wide influence. He was physically,

intellectually, and morally of a very large pattern. There was

something very grand and impressive about him. He had happened to

come to Syracuse during one of my vacations; on a Saturday

evening he gave a lecture upon the tendencies to loose

supernaturalism as shown in what were known as "spiritualistic"

phenomena; and on the following day he preached a simple, plain,

straightforward sermon on Christian morals. Both these utterances

impressed me and strengthened my conviction that every thinking

young man and woman ought to maintain relations with some good

form of religious organization just as long as possible.

Toward the end of my Yale course came an influence of a very

different sort. It was at the consecration of a Roman Catholic

church at Saratoga. The mass was sung by an Italian prelate,

Bedini, who as governor and archbishop at Bologna had, a few

years before, made himself detested throughout the length and

breadth of Italy by the execution of the priest patriot Ugo

Bassi; and he was now, as papal nuncio to Brazil, environed by

all the pomp possible. The mass did not greatly impress me, but

the sermon, by Archbishop Hughes of New York, I shall always

remember. His subject was the doctrine of transubstantiation,

and, standing upon the altar steps, he developed an argument most

striking and persuasive. He spoke entirely without notes, in a

straightforward way, and at times with eloquence, though never

with any show of rhetoric: voice and bearing were perfect; and

how any one accepting his premises could avoid his conclusions I

could not see then and cannot see now. I was proof against his

argument, for the simple reason that I felt the story of the

temptation of Jesus by Satan, which he took for his text, to be

simply a legend such as appears in various religions; still, the

whole was wonderfully presented; and, on my return to the hotel,

my father was greatly encouraged as to my religious development

when I gave to him a synopsis of the whole sermon from end to

end.

Next day there resulted a curious episode. Notices were posted

throughout Saratoga that Father Gavazzi, the Italian patriot and

heretic, famous for his oratory, would hold a meeting in the

grove back of Congress Hall Hotel, at three in the afternoon, and

would answer the archbishop's argument. When the hour arrived an

immense crowd was assembled, and among them many Catholics, some

of whom I knew well,--one of them a young priest to whom I had

become strongly attached at school. Soon appeared the orator. He

was of most striking presence--tall, handsome, with piercing

black eyes and black hair, and clad in a long semi-monastic

cloak. His first line of argument was of little effect, though

given with impassioned gestures and a most sympathetic voice; but

soon he paused and spoke gently and simply as follows: "When I

was a priest in Italy I daily took part in the mass. On festivals

I often saw the fasting priest fill the chalice as full as he

dared with strong wine; I saw him pronounce the sacred words and

make the sacred sign over it; and I saw, as everybody standing

round him clearly saw, before the end of the service, that it

flushed his face, thickened his voice, and enlivened his manner.

My fellow-Christians" (and here his voice rang out like a

trumpet), "who is the infidel, who is the blasphemer,--I who say

that no change took place in the wine before the priest drank it,

and that no miracle was performed, or the man who says that his

fellow-man can be made drunk on the blood of the blessed Son of

God?"

The effect was startling, even on Protestants: but on the Roman

Catholics present it was most thrilling; and I remember that an

old Irishwoman, seated on the steps of the platform as these

words were uttered, clapped her hands to her ears and ran from

the place screaming. I must confess that my sympathies were with

her rather than with the iconoclast, despite his gifts and

graces.

CHAPTER LX

IN THE EUROPEAN ATMOSPHERE--1853-1856

Leaving Yale in 1853, I passed nearly three years in Europe; and

observation of the effects resulting from the various orthodoxies

in England, France, Germany, Russia, and Italy developed my

opinions in various ways. I was deeply susceptible to religious

architecture, music, and, indeed, to the nobler forms of

ceremonial. I doubt whether any man ever entered Westminster

Abbey and the various cathedrals of Great Britain--and I have

visited every one of them of any note--with a more reverent

feeling than that which animated me; but some features of the

Anglican service as practised at that time repelled me; above

all, I disliked the intoning of the prayers, as I then heard it

for the first time. A manly, straightforward petition made by a

man standing or kneeling before his Maker, in a natural, earnest

voice, has always greatly impressed me; but the sort of whining,

drawling, falsetto in which the Anglican prayers were then

usually intoned simply drove out all religious thoughts from my

mind. I had a feeling that the Almighty must turn with contempt

from a man who presumed thus to address him. Some prayers in the

church service had from a very early period taken a deep place in

my heart: the prayer of St. Chrysostom in the morning service,

the first prayer in the ante-communion service, the prayer "for

the whole state of Christ's church militant," and some of the

collects had become, as it were, part of me; so much the more

disappointed and disgusted was I, then, to hear prayer made in

what seemed to me a sickly, unmanly whine.

Although the feelings thus aroused by religious observances in

England and other parts of Europe were frequently unedifying,

there was one happy exception to the rule. Both in the Church of

England and in the Roman Catholic churches of the Continent I

always greatly enjoyed the antiphonal chanting of the Psalter. To

me this has always been--the imprecatory psalms excepted--by far

the noblest feature in Christian worship as worship; for, coming

down as it does from the Jewish Church through the whole history

of the Christian Church, and being practised by all the great

bodies of Jews and Christians, it had, and still has, to me a

great significance, both religious and historic. In the

cathedrals of the continent of Europe--and I have visited every

one of note except those of Spain--I cared little for what

Browning's bishop calls "the blessed mutter of the mass," but the

chanting of the Psalter always attracted me. Many were the hours

during which I sat at vespers in abbeys and cathedrals, listening

to the Latin psalms until they became almost as familiar to me as

the English Psalter. On the other hand, I was at times greatly

repelled by perfunctory performances of the service, both

Protestant and Catholic. The "Te Deum" which I once heard recited

by an Anglican clergyman in the chapel at the castle of Homburg

dwells in my memory as one of the worst things of its kind I ever

heard, and especially there remains a vivid remembrance of the

invocation, which ran as follows:

"Ha-a-ow-ly, Ha-a-a-ow-ly, Ha-a-ow-ly: La-a-rd Gawd of Sabbith!"

But this was not the only thing of the kind, for I have heard

utterances nearly, if not quite, as bad in various English

cathedrals,--as bad, indeed, as the famous reading, "He that hath

yeahs to yeah, let him yeah."

As to more important religious influences, I had, during my first

visit to Oxford in 1853, a chance to understand something of the

two currents of thought then showing themselves in the English

Church. On a Sunday morning I went to Christ Church Cathedral to

hear the regius professor of Hebrew, Dr. Jacobson, whom, years

afterward, I saw enthroned as bishop in the cathedral at Chester.

It is a church beautiful in itself, and consecrated not only by

the relics of mediaeval saints, but by the devotions of many

generations of scholars, statesmen, and poets; and in front of

the pulpit were a body of young men, the most promising in Great

Britain; yet a more dull, mechanical discourse could not be

imagined. The preacher maundered on like a Tartar praying-mill;

every hearer clearly regarding his discourse as an Arab regards a

sand-storm.

In the afternoon I went to St. Mary's, and heard the regular

university sermon, before a similar audience, by Fraser, a fellow

of Oriel College. It was not oratorical, but straightforward,

earnest, and in a line of thought which enlisted my sympathies.

The young preacher especially warned his audience that if the

Church of England was to remain the Church of England, she must

put forth greater efforts than any she had made for many years;

and he went on to point out some of the lines on which these

exertions should be made,--lines which, I am happy to say, have

since been taken by great numbers of excellent men of the

Anglican communion.

During the evening, in the dining-room of the Mitre Inn, I

happened to be seated at table with an old country clergyman who

had just entered his son at Oxford and was evidently a rural

parson of the good old high-and-dry sort; but as I happened to

speak of the sermons of the day, he burst out in a voice gruff

with theological contempt and hot toddy: "Did you hear that young

upstart this afternoon? Did you ever hear such nonsense? Why

couldn't he mind his own business, as Dr. Jacobson did?"

Nor did sermons from Anglican bishops which I heard at that

period greatly move me. The primate of that day, Dr. Sumner,

impressed me by his wig, but not otherwise. He was, I think, the

last archbishop of Canterbury who used this means of enhancing

his dignity. Wilberforce, Bishop of Oxford, was far better; but,

after all, though his preaching showed decided ability, it was

not of the sort to impress one deeply, from either the religious

or the intellectual point of view.

Then, and at various times since, I have obtained more from

simpler forms of worship and less pretentious expositions of the

Gospel.

As to religious influence in France, there was little. I lived in

the family of a French professor, a devout Catholic, but Gallican

in his ideas,--so much so that he often said that if he could

wake up some morning and hear that the Pope had been dispossessed

of his temporal power, it would be the happiest day of his life,

since he was persuaded that nothing had so hampered the

church--and, indeed, debased it--as the limits imposed upon the

papacy by its sovereignty over the Roman states.

A happy impression was made upon me by the simple, philanthropic

character of the Archbishop of Paris at that period--Sibour.

Visiting a technical school which he had established for artisans

in the Faubourg St. Antoine, I derived thence a great respect for

him as a man who was really something more than a "solemnly

constituted impostor"; but, like the archbishops of Paris who

preceded and followed him, he met a violent death, and I have

more than once visited and reflected over the simple tablet which

marks the spot in the Church of St. Etienne du Mont where a

wretched, unfrocked priest assassinated this gentle, kindly,

affectionate prelate, who, judging from his appearance and life,

never cherished an unkind feeling toward any human being.

The touching monuments at Notre Dame to his predecessor, Affre,

shot on the barricades in 1848 when imploring a cessation of

bloodshed, and to his successor Darboy, shot by the Communards in

the act of blessing his murderers, also became, at a later

period, places of pilgrimage for me, and did much to keep alive

my faith that, despite all efforts to erect barriers of hatred

between Christians, there is, already, "one fold and one

shepherd."

As to my life on the Continent in general, German Protestantism

seemed to me simple and dignified; but its main influence upon me

was exercised through its music, the "Gloria in Excelsis" of the

morning service at the Berlin Cathedral being the most beautiful

music by a choir I had ever heard,--far superior, indeed, to the

finest choirs of the Sistine or Pauline chapel at Rome; and a

still deeper impression was made upon me by the congregational

singing. Often, after the first notes given by the organ, I have

heard a vast congregation, without book of any kind, joining in

the choral, King Frederick William IV and his court standing and

singing earnestly with the rest. It was a vast uprolling storm of

sound. Standing in the midst of it, one understands the Lutheran

Reformation.

The most impressive Roman Catholic ceremonies which I saw in

Europe were in Germany, and they were impressive because simple

and reverential; those most so being at Wurzburg and Fulda,

where, in the great churches, large bodies of the peasantry

joined simply and naturally in the singing at the mass and at

vespers.

In Russia I had the opportunity to study a religion of a very

different sort--the Russo-Greek Church. While this church no

doubt contains many devoted Christian men and women, it is, on

the whole, a fossilized system; the vast body of the people being

brought up to rely mainly on fetishes of various sorts. The

services were, many of them, magnificent, and the music most

beautiful; but it was discouraging to reflect that the condition

of the Russian peasantry, ignorant, besotted, and debased, was

the outcome of so many centuries of complete control by this

great branch of the Christian Church. It had for ages possessed

the fullest power for developing the intellect, the morals, and

the religion of the people, and here was the result. Experience

of Russian life is hardly calculated to increase, in any thinking

man, confidence in its divine origin or guidance. One bears in

mind at such times the words of the blessed Founder of

Christianity himself, "By their fruits ye shall know them."

But the most unfavorable impression was made upon me in Italy. It

was the palmy period of reactionary despotism. Hapsburgs in the

north, Neapolitan Bourbons in the south, petty tyrants scattered

through the country, all practically doing their worst; and, in

their midst, Pius IX, maintained in the temporal power by French

bayonets. It was the time when the little Jewish child Mortara

was taken from his parents, in spite of their agonizing appeals

to all Europe; when the Madiai family were imprisoned for reading

the Bible with their friends in their own house; when monks

swarmed everywhere, gross and dirty; when, at the centers of

power, the Jesuits had it all their own way,--as they generally

do when the final exasperating impulse is needed to bring on a

revolution. All old abuses of the church were at their highest

flavor. So far as ceremonial was concerned, nothing could be more

gorgeous than the services at St. Peter's as conducted by Pope

Pius IX. For such duties no one could be better fitted; for he

was handsome, kindly, and dignified, with a beautiful, ringing

voice.

During Holy Week of 1856 I was present at various services in

which he took the main part, in the Sistine Chapel and elsewhere;

but most striking of all were his celebration of pontifical high

mass beneath the dome of St. Peter's on Easter morning, and his

appearance on the balcony in front of the cathedral afterward.

The effect of the first ceremony was somewhat injured by the

easy-going manners of some of the attendant cardinals. It was

difficult to imagine that they believed really in the tremendous

doctrine involved in the mass when one saw them taking snuff in

the midst of the most solemn prayers, and going through the whole

in the most perfunctory fashion. At the close of the service, the

Pope, being borne on his throne by Roman nobles, surrounded by

cardinals and princes, and wearing the triple crown, gave his

blessing to the city and to the world. There must have been over

ten thousand of us in the piazza to receive it, and no one could

have performed his part more perfectly. Arising from his throne,

and stretching forth his hands with a striking gesture, he

chanted a benediction heard by every one present, even to the

remotest corners of the square. Many years afterward, Lord Odo

Russell, British ambassador at Berlin, on my mentioning the

splendor of this ceremony to him, said to me, "Yes, you are

right; but it was on one of those occasions that I discovered

that the Pope was mortal." On my asking him how it was, he said,

"I had occasion, as the British diplomatic representative, to

call on Pope Pius IX on Easter Monday, and, after finishing my

business with him, told him that I had been present at the

benediction in front of St. Peter's on the day before, and had

been much impressed by the beauty of his voice; and I added,

'Your Holiness must have been trained as a singer.' At this the

Pope was evidently greatly pleased, and answered, 'You are right,

I WAS trained as a singer; BUT YOU OUGHT TO HAVE HEARD ME TWO OR

THREE YEARS AGO.'"

But while these great services at St. Peter's in those halcyon

days were perfect in their kind, the same could not be said of

many others. The worst that I ever saw--one which especially

dwells in my memory--was at Pisa. I had previously visited the

place and knew it well, so that when, one Sunday morning, a

Canadian clergyman at the hotel wished to go to the cathedral, I

offered to guide him. He was evidently a man of deep sincerity,

and, as was soon revealed by his conversation, of high-church and

even ritualistic tendencies; but, to my great surprise, he

remarked that he had never attended service in a Roman Catholic

church. Arriving at the cathedral too late for the high

celebration, we walked down the nave until we came to a side

altar where a priest was going through a low mass, with a small

congregation of delayed worshipers, and we took our place back of

these. The priest raced through the service at the highest

possible speed. His motions were like those of an automaton: he

kept turning quickly to and fro as if on a pivot; clasping his

hands before his breast as if by machinery; bowing his head as if

it moved by a spring in his neck; mumbling and rattling like wind

in a chimney; the choir-boy who served the mass with him jingling

his bell as irreverently as if he were conducting a

green-grocer's cart. My Anglican companion immediately began to

be unhappy, and was soon deeply distressed. He groaned again and

again. He whispered, "Good heavens, is it like this? Is this the

way they do it? This is fearful!" As we came from the church he

was very sorrowful, and I administered to him such comfort as I

could, but nothing could remedy this most painful disenchantment.

And here I may say that I have never been able to understand how

any Anglican churchman can feel any insufficiency in the Lord's

Supper as administered in his own branch of the church. I have

never taken part in it, but more than once I have lingered to see

it, and even in its simplest form it has always greatly impressed

me. It is a service which all can understand; its words have come

down through the ages; its ceremonial is calm, comprehensible,

touching; and the whole idea of communion in memory of the last

scene in the Saviour's life, which brings the worshiper into

loving relation not only with him, but with all the church,

militant and triumphant, is, to my mind, infinitely nobler and

more religious than all paraphernalia, genuflexions, and

man-millinery. How any Protestant, however "high" in his

tendencies, can feel otherwise is incomprehensible to me.

At that first of my many visits to Rome, there had come one

experience which had greatly softened any of my inherited

Protestant prejudices. Our party had been lumbering along all day

on the road from Civita Vecchia, when suddenly there dashed by us

a fine traveling-coach drawn by four horses ridden by postilions.

Hardly had it passed when there came a scream, and our carriage

stopped. We at first took it for granted that it was an attack by

bandits, but, on getting out and approaching the other coach,

found that one of the postilions, a beautiful Italian boy of

sixteen, in jaunty costume, had been thrown from his horse, had

been run over by the wheels of the coach, and now lay at the

roadside gasping his last. We stood about him, trying to ease his

pain, when a young priest came running from a neighboring church.

He showed no deference to the gorgeously dressed personages who

had descended from the coach; he was regardless of all

conventionalities, oblivious of all surroundings, his one thought

being evidently of his duty to the poor sufferer stretched out

before him. He knelt, tenderly kissed the boy, administered

extreme unction, and repeated softly and earnestly the prayers

for the dying, to which fervent responses came from the peasants

kneeling about him. The whole scene did much to tone down the

feelings which had been aroused the previous day by the filth and

beggary at the papal port where we had landed, and to prepare me

for a more charitable judgment of what I was to see in the papal

city.

But an early experience in Rome showed a less beautiful

manifestation of Christian zeal. We were a band of students, six

in number, who had just closed a year of study at the University

of Berlin; and the youngest, whom I will call Jack Smith, was a

bright young fellow, son of a wealthy New England manufacturer.

The evening after arriving in Rome, Jack, calling on an American

aunt, was introduced to a priest who happened to be making her a

visit. It was instantly evident that the priest, Father Cataldi,

knew what Jack's worldly prospects were; for from the first he

was excessively polite to the youth, and when the latter remarked

that during his stay in Rome he would like to take Italian

lessons, the priest volunteered to send him a teacher. Next day,

at the appointed hour, the teacher appeared, and in the person of

the priest himself. Thenceforward he stuck to the young American

like a brother, kept him away from the rest of us as much as

possible, and served not only as his teacher, but as his

cicerone.

Among various dignitaries to whom he presented the young American

was his Eminence Cardinal Tosti; and when the cardinal extended

his hand to be kissed, Jack grasped and cordially shook it. The

two clerical gentlemen were evidently disconcerted; but the

priest said to the cardinal, in an undertone, "e un principe

Americano," whereupon the cardinal seemed relieved and shook

hands heartily.

One day, when the priest was not with our companion, we all

visited one of the basilicas, where some great function was going

on, and, though we found a crowd at the doors, obtained a sight

of the high altar,--and there, in magnificent attire, in the

midst of the great prelates, was a person who bore a most

striking resemblance to Jack's clerical guide. We were all struck

by this curious coincidence, but concluded that in the distance

and through the clouds of incense we had simply seen a chance

resemblance, and in the multitude of matters we soon forgot it. A

month afterward, as we were leaving Rome, Jack asked his new

friend for his bill, whereupon the priest drew himself up with a

superb gesture and, presenting his card, said: "You evidently do

not know who I am." The card bore the inscription, "Monsignor

Cataldi, Master of the Papal Ceremonies." The young American was

quite confounded, but listened submissively while this dignitary

expressed the hope that they might yet meet within the pale of

that church which alone could give a claim to salvation.

The condition of Rome at that period was not such as to induce

much respect for priestly government. Anything more dirty,

slipshod, and wretched could hardly be imagined. No railways had

yet been allowed; the Vatican monsignori feeling by instinct the

truth stated by Buckle, that railways promote the coming in of

new ideas. Nor did the moral condition of the people seem to be

any better.

Any one who visits Rome to-day, with the army of monks swept out

of the place, with streets well cleaned, with the excavations

scientifically conducted, with a government which, whatever its

faults, is at any rate patriotic, finds it difficult to imagine

the vileness of the city under the old regime.

But, bad as was Rome, Naples was worse. The wretched Bourbon then

on the throne, "King Bomba," was the worst of his kind. Our

minister of that period, Mr. Robert Dale Owen, gave me some

accounts of the condition of things. He told me, as a matter of

fact, that any young man showing earnest purpose of any sort was

immediately suspected and discouraged, while worthless young

debauchees were regarded as harmless, and therefore favored.

The most cherished counselor of the King was Apuzzo, Archbishop

of Sorrento. In addition to what I have already said of

Leopardi's political catechism, which the archbishop forced upon

the people, I may note that this work took great pains to show

that no education was needed save just enough to enable each man

to accomplish his duties within the little sphere in which he was

born, and that for the great body of the people education was a

curse rather than a blessing. The result of this policy was

evident: the number of persons unable to read or write, which was

from forty to fifty per cent. in Piedmont, was from sixty to

sixty-five per cent. in Rome, from eighty to eighty-five per

cent. in the Papal States, and above eighty-five per cent. in

Naples and Sicily.[38]

[38] See maps in Vol. II, of "L'Italis Economica nel 1873" (Roma,

Tipografia Barbera, 1873). This work was the result of official

surveys and most careful studies made by leading economists and

statisticians. For a copy of it I am indebted to Mr. H. N. Gay,

Fellow of Harvard University.

I also had the advantage of being present at the great religious

function of Naples--the liquefaction of the blood of St.

Januarius, patron of the city. It was in the gorgeous chapel of

the saint which forms part of the Cathedral of Naples, and the

place was filled with devout worshipers of every class, from the

officials in court dress, representing the Bourbon king, down to

the lowest lazzaroni. The reliquary of silver gilt, shaped like a

large human head, and supposed to contain the skull of the saint,

was first placed upon the altar; next, two vials, containing a

dark substance said to be his blood, were also placed upon the

altar, near the head. As the priests said prayers, they turned

the vials from time to time; and, the liquefaction being somewhat

delayed, the great crowd of people burst out into more and more

impassioned expostulations and petitions to the saint. Just in

front of the altar were the lazzaroni who claimed to be

descendants of the saint's family, and these were especially

importunate: at such times they beg, they scold, they even

threaten; they have been known to abuse the saint roundly, and to

tell him that, if he does not care to show his favor to the city

by liquefying his blood, St. Cosmo and St. Damian are just as

good saints as he, and will, no doubt, be very glad to have the

city devote itself to them. At last, as we were beginning to be

impatient, the priest, turning the vials suddenly, announced that

the saint had performed the miracle, and instantly priests,

people, choir, and organ burst forth into a great "Te Deum";

bells rang and cannon roared; a procession was formed, and the

shrine containing the saint's relics was carried through the

streets, the people prostrating themselves on both sides of the

way and showering rose-leaves upon the shrine and upon the path

before it. The contents of these precious vials are an

interesting relic indeed, for they represent to us vividly that

period when men who were willing to go to the stake for their

religious opinions thought it not wrong to "save souls" by pious

mendacity and consecrated fraud. To the scientific eye this

miracle is very simple: the vials contain, no doubt, one of those

waxy mixtures fusing at low temperature, which, while kept in its

place within the cold stone walls of the church, remains solid,

but which, upon being brought out into the hot, crowded chapel

and fondled by the warm hands of the priests, gradually softens

and becomes liquid. It was curious to note, at the time above

mentioned, that even the high functionaries representing the King

looked at the miracle with awe: they evidently found "joy in

believing," and one of them assured me that the only thing which

COULD cause it was the direct exercise of miraculous power.

So, too, I had here an opportunity to study one of the

fundamental ideas of the prevalent theology--namely, the doctrine

of "intercession," which has played such a part not only in

Catholic but in Protestant countries,--the idea that, just as in

an earthly court back-stairs influence is necessary to secure

favor, so it must be in the heavenly courts. I was much edified

by the way in which this doctrine was presented in certain great

pictures representing the intervention of the Almighty to save

Naples from the plague. One of them, as I remember it,

represented, on an enormous canvas, the whole transaction as

follows: In the immediate foreground the people of Naples were

represented on their knees before their magistrates, begging them

to rescue the city from the pestilence; farther back the

magistrates were represented as on their knees before the monks,

begging for their prayers; the monks were on their knees before

St. Januarius, begging him to intervene; St. Januarius was then

represented as on his knees before the Blessed Virgin; the

Blessed Virgin was then pictured as beseeching her divine Son;

and he at last was represented as presenting the petition to a

triangle in the heavens behind which appeared the lineaments of a

venerable face.

One can understand, after seeing pictures of this kind, what

Erasmus was thinking of, five hundred years ago, when he wrote

his colloquy of "The Shipwreck," the most exquisite satire on

mediaeval doctrine ever made. After a most comical account of the

petitions and promises made by the shipwrecked to various saints,

Adolphus says: "To which of the saints did you pray?" Antony

answers, "To not one of them all, I assure you. I don't like your

way of bargaining with the saints: 'Do this and I 'll do that.

Here is so much for so much. Save me and I will give you a taper

or go on a pilgrimage.' Just think of it! I should certainly have

prayed to St. Peter, if to any saint; for he stands at the door

of heaven, and so would be likeliest to hear. But before he could

go to the Almighty and tell him my condition, I might be fifty

fathoms under water." Adolphus: "What did you do then?" Antony:

"I went straight to God himself, and said my prayer to him; the

saints neither hear so readily nor give so willingly."

In the city itself were filth, blasphemy, and obscenity

unspeakable. No stranger could take his seat at a cafe without

having proposals openly made to him which would have disgraced

Pompeii. Cheatery and lying prevailed on all sides. Outside the

city was brigandage,--so much so that various parties going to

Paestum took pains to combine their forces and to bear arms.

This, then, was the outcome of fifteen hundred years of Christian

civilization in a land which had been entirely in the hands of

the church authorities ever since the downfall of the Roman

Empire; a country in which education, intellectual, moral, and

religious, had been from the first in the hands of a body,

claiming infallibility in its teaching of faith and morals, which

had molded rulers and people at its own will during all these

centuries. This was the result! It seemed to me then, as it seems

to me now, a reductio ad absurdum of the claims of any church to

superintend the education of a people; and if it be insisted that

there is anything exceptional in Italy, one may point for

examples of the same results to Spain, the Spanish republics,

Poland, and sundry other countries.

Before going to Italy, I had taken pains to read as much as

possible of the history of the country, and, among other works,

had waded through the ten octavo volumes of Sismondi's "History

of the Italian Republics," as well as Gibbon's "Decline and Fall

of the Roman Empire"; and this history had served to show me what

any body of ecclesiastics, not responsible to sound lay opinion,

may become. In looking over the past history and present

condition of Italy, there constantly rang in my ears that great

warning by Christ himself, "By their fruits ye shall know them."

CHAPTER LXI

IN LATER YEARS--1856-1905

On my return to America I remained for a short time as a resident

graduate at New Haven, and there gained a friend who influenced

me most happily. This was Professor George Park Fisher, at that

time in charge of the university pulpit, an admirable scholar and

historian. His religious nature, rooted in New England orthodoxy,

had come to a broad and noble bloom and fruitage. Witty and

humorous, while deeply thoughtful, his discussions were of great

value to me, and our long walks together remain among the most

pleasing recollections of my life. He had a genius for

conversation; in fact, he was one of the two or three best

conversationists I have ever known, and his influence on my

thinking, both as regards religious and secular questions, was

thoroughly good. While we did not by any means fully agree, I

came to see more clearly than ever what a really enlightened

Christianity can do for a man.

I had returned to America in the hope of influencing opinion from

a professor's chair, and my dear old friend Professor--afterward

President--Porter urged me to remain in New Haven, assuring me

that the professorship of history for which I had been preparing

myself abroad would be open to me there. A few years later a

professorship at Yale was offered me, and in a way for which I

shall always be grateful; but it was not the professorship of

history: from that I was debarred by my religious views, and

therefore it was that, having been elected to a professorship in

that department at the State University of Michigan, I

immediately and gladly entered upon its duties.

Installed in this new position at Ann Arbor, I not only threw

myself very heartily into my work, but became interested in

church and other good work as it went on about me. From the force

of old associations, and because my family had also been brought

up in the Episcopal Church, I attended its services regularly;

and, while it represented much that I could not accept, there

were noble men in it who became my very dear friends, with whom I

was glad to work.

It has always seemed to me rather an amusing episode in my life

during this period that, in spite of grave doubts regarding my

orthodoxy, my friends elected me vestryman of St. Andrew's Church

at Ann Arbor, and gave me full power to select and call a rector

for the parish at my next vacation excursion in the East. This in

due time I proceeded to do. Attending the convention of the

Episcopal Church in the diocese of Western New York, I consulted

with various clerical friends, visited one or two places in order

to hear sundry clergymen who were recommended to me, and at last

called to our rectorate a man who proved to be not only a

blessing to that parish, but to the State at large. In the annals

of American charitable work his name is writ large, though

probably there never lived a man more averse to publicity. He has

since been made a bishop, and in that capacity has shown the same

self-sacrifice and devotion to works of mercy which marked his

career as pastor.

As to my religious ideas in general, they were at that time

influenced in various ways. I read much ecclesiastical history as

given by leading authorities, Protestant and Catholic, and in

various original treatises by thinkers eminent in the history of

the church. A marked influence was exercised upon me by reading

sundry lives of the mediaeval saints: even the quaintest of these

showed me how, in spite of childlike credulity, most noble lives

had been led, well worthy to be pondered over in these later

centuries.

The general effect of this reading was to arouse in me admiration

for the men who have taken leading parts in developing the great

religions of the world, and especially Christianity, whether

Catholic or Protestant; but it also caused me to distrust, more

and more, every sort of theological dogmatism. More and more

clear it became that ecclesiastical dogmas are but steps in the

evolution of various religions, and that, in view of the fact

that the main underlying ideas are common to all, a beneficent

evolution is to continue.

This latter idea was strengthened by my careful reading of Sale's

translation of the Koran, which showed me that even Mohammedanism

is not wholly the tissue of folly and imposture which in those

days it was generally represented to be.

Influence was also exerted upon me by various other books, and

especially by Fra Paolo Sarpi's "History of the Council of

Trent," probably the most racy and pungent piece of

ecclesiastical history ever written; and though I also read as

antidotes the history of the Council by Pallavicini, and copious

extracts from Bossuet, Archbishop Spalding, and Balmez, Father

Paul taught me, as an Italian historian phrases it, "how the Holy

Spirit conducts church councils." At a later period Dean Stanley

made a similar revelation in his account of the Council of

Nicaea.

The works of Buckle, Lecky, and Draper, which were then

appearing, laid open much to me. All these authors showed me how

temporary, in the sum of things, is any popular theology; and,

finally, the dawn of the Darwinian hypothesis came to reveal a

whole new orb of thought absolutely fatal to the claims of

various churches, sects, and sacred books to contain the only or

the final word of God to man. The old dogma of "the fall of man"

had soon fully disappeared, and in its place there rose more and

more into view the idea of the rise of man.

But while my view was thus broadened, no hostility to religion

found lodgment in my mind: of all the books which I read at that

time, Stanley's life of Arnold exercised the greatest influence

upon me. It showed that a man might cast aside much which

churches regard as essential, and might strive for breadth and

comprehension in Christianity, while yet remaining in healthful

relations with the church. I also read with profit and pleasure

the Rev. Thomas Beecher's book, "Our Seven Churches," which

showed that each Christian sect in America has a certain work to

do, and does it well; also, the sermons of Robertson, Phillips

Brooks, and Theodore Munger, which revealed a beauty in

Christianity before unknown to me.

Another influence was of a very different sort. From time to time

I went on hunting excursions with the pastor of the Methodist

Episcopal church at Ann Arbor; and though he made no parade of

religion, there was in him a genial, manly piety which bettered

me.

But I cannot say that this good influence was always exercised

upon me by his coreligionists. There was especially one, who rose

to be a "presiding elder," very narrow, very shrewd, and very

bitter against the State University, yet constantly placing

himself in comical dilemmas. On one occasion, when I asked him

regarding his relations with clergymen of other religious bodies,

he spoke of the Roman Catholics and said that he had made a

determined effort to convert the Bishop of Detroit. On my asking

for particulars, he answered that, calling upon the bishop, he

had spoken very solemnly to him and told him that he was

endangering his own salvation as well as that of his flock; that

at first the bishop was evidently inclined to be harsh; but that,

on finding that he--the Methodist brother--disliked the

Presbyterian Dr. Duffield, who had recently attacked Catholic

doctrine, as much as the bishop did, the relations between them

grew better, so that they talked together very amicably.

At this point in our conversation a puzzled expression overspread

the elder's face and he said, "The most singular experience I

ever had was with a French Catholic priest in Monroe. Being in

that town and having a day or two of vacation, I felt it my duty

to go and remonstrate with him. I found him very polite,

especially after I had told him that his bishop had received me

and discussed religious questions with me. Presently, wishing to

make an impression on the priest, I fixed my eyes on him very

earnestly and said as solemnly as I could, 'Do you know that you

are leading your flock straight down to hell?' To this the priest

made a very singular answer,--very singular, indeed. He said,

'Did you talk like that to the bishop?' I answered, 'Yes, I did.'

'Didn't he kick you out of his house?' 'No, he didn't.' 'Then,'

said the priest, '_I_ won't.'" And the good elder, during the

whole of this story, evidently thought that the point of it was,

somehow, against the PRIEST!

As a professor at the University of Michigan lecturing upon

modern history, I, of course, showed my feelings in opposition to

slavery, which was then completely dominant in the nation, and,

to all appearance, intrenched in our institutions forever. From

time to time I also said some things which made the more

sensitive orthodox brethren uneasy; though, as I look back upon

them now, they seem to me very mild indeed. In these days they

could be said, and would be said, by great numbers of devoted

members of all Christian churches. These expressions of mine

favored toleration and dwelt upon the absurdity of distinctions

between Christians on account of beliefs which individuals or

communities have happened to inherit. Nothing like an attack upon

Christianity itself, or upon anything vital to it, did I ever

make; indeed, my inclinations were not in that direction: my

greatest desire was to set men and women at thinking, for I felt

sure that if they would really think, in the light of human

history, they would more and more dwell on what is permanent in

Christianity and less and less on what is transient; more and

more on its universal truths, less and less upon the creeds,

forms, and observances in which these gems are set; more and more

on what draws men together, less and less on that which keeps

them apart.

I became convinced that what the world needed was more religion

rather than less; more devotion to humanity and less preaching of

dogmas. Whenever I spoke of religion, it was not to say a word

against any existing form; but I especially referred, as my

ideals of religious conduct, to the declaration of Micah,

beginning with the words, "What doth the Lord require of thee?";

to the Sermon on the Mount; to the definition of "pure religion

and undefiled" given by St. James; and to some of the wonderful

utterances of St. Paul. But even this alarmed two or three very

good men; they were much exercised over what they called my

"indifferentism"; and when I was chosen, somewhat later, to the

presidency of Cornell University, I found that they had thought

it their duty to write letters urging various trustees to prevent

the election of so dangerous a heretic.

Scattered through the Michigan university town were a number of

people who had broken from the old faith and were groping about

to find a new one, but, as a rule, with such insufficient

knowledge of the real basis of belief or skepticism that the

religion they found seemed less valuable to them than the one

they had left. Thiers, Voltairian though he was, has well said,

"The only altars which are not ridiculous are the old altars."

Some of the best of these people, having lost very dear children,

had taken refuge in what was called "spiritualism"; and I was

invited to witness some of the "manifestations from the

spirit-land," and assured that they would leave no doubt in my

mind as to their tremendous reality. Among those who thus invited

me were a county judge of high standing, and his wife, one of the

most lovely and accomplished of women. They had lost their only

daughter, a beautiful creature just budding into womanhood, and

they thought that "spiritualism" had given her back to them. As

they told me wonderful things regarding the revelations made by

sundry eminent mediums, I accepted their invitation to witness

some of these, and went to the seances with a perfectly open and

impartial mind. I saw nothing antecedently improbable in

phenomena of that sort; indeed, it seemed to me that it might be

a blessed thing if there were really something in it all; but

examination showed me in this, as in all other cases where I have

investigated so-called "spirit revelations," nothing save the

worthlessness of human testimony to the miraculous. These

miracles were the cheapest and poorest of jugglery, and the

mediums were, without exception, of a type below contempt. There

was, indeed, a revelation to me, not of a spirit-world beyond the

grave, but of a spirit-world about me, peopled with the spirits

of good and loving men and women who find "joy in believing" what

they wish to believe. Compared with this new worship, I felt that

the old was infinitely more honest, substantial, and healthful;

and never since have I desired to promote revolutionary changes

in religion. Such changes, to be good, must be evolutionary,

gradual, and in obedience to slowly increasing knowledge: such a

change is now evidently going on, irresistibly, and quite as

rapidly as is desirable.

There were other singular experiences. One day a student said to

me that an old man living not far from the university grounds was

very ill and wished to see me. I called at once, and found him

stretched out on his bed and greatly emaciated with consumption.

He was a Hicksite Quaker. As I entered the room he said, "Friend,

I hear good things of thee: thou art telling the truth; let me

bear my testimony before thee. I believe in God and in a future

life, but in little else which the churches teach. I am dying.

Within two or three days, at furthest, I shall be in my coffin.

Yet I look on the future with no anxiety; I am in the hands of my

loving Father, and have no more fear of passing through the gate

of death into the future life than of passing through yonder door

into the next room." After kindly talk I left him, and next day

learned that he had quietly passed away.

After about five years of duty in the University of Michigan, I

was brought into the main charge of the newly established Cornell

University; and in this new position, while no real change took

place in my fundamental religious ideas, there were conflicting

influences, sometimes unfortunate, but in the main happy. In

other chapters of these reminiscences I have shown to what unjust

attacks the new institution and all connected with it were

subjected by the agents and votaries of various denominational

colleges. At times this embittered me, but the ultimate result

always was that it stirred me to new efforts. Whatever ill

feelings arose from these onslaughts were more than made up after

the establishment of the Sage Chapel pulpit. I have shown

elsewhere how, at my instance, provision was made by a

public-spirited man for calling the most distinguished preachers

of all denominations, and how, the selection of these having been

left to me, I chose them from the most eminent men in the various

Christian bodies. My intercourse with these, as well as my

hearing their discourses, broadened and deepened my religious

feeling, and I regard this as among the especially happy things

of my life.

Another feature of the university was not so helpful to me. I

have spoken in another chapter regarding the establishment of

Barnes Hall at Cornell as a center of work for the Christian

Association and other religious organizations of the university,

and of my pleasure in aiding the work there done and in noting

its good results. At various times I attended the services of the

Young Men's Christian Association; and while they often touched

me, I cannot say that they always edified me. I am especially

fond of the psalms attributed to David, which are, for me, the

highest of poetry; and I am also very fond of the great and noble

hymns of the church, Catholic and Protestant, and especially

susceptible to the best church music, from Bach and Handel to

Mason and Neale: but the sort of revival hymns which are

generally sung in Christian Associations, and which date mainly

from the Moody and Sankey period, do not appeal to my best

feelings in any respect. They seem to me very thin and gushy.

This feeling of mine is not essentially unorthodox, for I once

heard it expressed by an eminent orthodox clergyman in terms much

stronger than any which I have ever used. Said he, "When I was

young, congregations used to sing such psalms as this:

"The Lord descended from above,

And bowed the heavens most high;

And underneath His feet He cast

The darkness of the sky.

"On cherubim and seraphim

Right royally He rode,

And on the wings of mighty winds

Came flying all abroad.

"His seat is on the mighty floods,

Their fury to restrain;

And He, our everlasting Lord,

Forevermore shall reign.

"But now," he continued, "the congregation gets together and a

lot of boys and girls sing:

"Lawd, how oft I long to know--

Oft it gives me anxious thought--

Do I love Thee, Lawd, or no;

Am I Thine, or am I nawt!

"There," said he, "is the difference between a religion which

believes in a righteous sovereign Ruler of the universe, and a

maudlin sentiment incapable of any real, continued, determined

effort."

I must confess that this view of my orthodox friend strikes me as

just. It seems to me that one of the first needs of large

branches of the Christian Church is to weed out a great mass of

sickly, sentimental worship of no one knows what, and to replace

it with psalms and hymns which show a firm reliance upon the Lord

God Almighty.

It is with this view that I promoted in the university chapel the

simple antiphonal reading of the psalms by the whole

congregation. Best of all would it be to chant the Psalter; the

clergyman, with a portion of the choir, leading on one side, and

the other section of the choir and the congregation at large

chanting the responses. But this is, as regards most Protestant

churches, a counsel of perfection.

Staying in London after the close of my university presidency, I

was subject to another influence which has wrought with power

upon some strong men. It was my wont to attend service in some

one of the churches interesting from a historical point of view

or holding out the prospect of a good sermon; but, probably, a

combination which I occasionally made would not be approved by my

more orthodox fellow-churchmen. For at times I found pleasure and

profit in attending the service before sermon on Sunday afternoon

at St. Paul's, and then going to the neighboring Positivist

Conventicle in Fetter Lane to hear Frederic Harrison and others.

Harrison's discourses were admirable, and one upon Roman

civilization was most suggestive of fruitful thought. My tendency

has always been strongly toward hero-worship, and this feature of

the Positivist creed and practice especially attracted me; while

the superb and ennobling music of St. Paul's kept me in a

religious atmosphere during any discourse which succeeded it.

My favorite reading at this period was the "Bible for Learners,"

a book most thoughtfully edited by three of the foremost scholars

of modern Europe--Hooykaas, Oort, and Kuenen. Simple as the book

is, it made a deep impression upon me, rehabilitating the Bible

in my mind, showing it to be a collection of literature and moral

truths unspeakably precious to all Christian nations and to every

Christian man. At a later period, readings in the works of Renan,

Pfleiderer, Cheyne, Harnack, Sayce, and others strengthened me in

my liberal tendencies, without diminishing in the slightest my

reverence for all that is noble in Christianity, past or present.

Another experience, while it did not perhaps set me in any new

trains of thought, strengthened me in some of my earlier views.

This was the revelation to me of Mohammedanism during my journey

in the East. While Mohammedan fanaticism seems to me one of the

great misfortunes of the world, Mohammedan worship, as I first

saw it, made a deep impression on me. Our train was slowly moving

into Cairo, and stopped for a time just outside the city; the

Pyramids were visible in the distance, but my thoughts were

turned from them by a picture in the foreground. Under a

spreading palm-tree, a tall Egyptian suddenly arose to his full

height, took off an outer covering from his shoulders, laid it

upon the ground, and then solemnly prostrated himself and went

through his prayers, addressing them in the direction of Mecca.

He was utterly oblivious of the crowd about him, and the

simplicity, directness, and reverence in his whole movement

appealed to me strongly. At various other times, on the desert,

in the bazaars, in the mosques, and on the Nile boats, I

witnessed similar scenes, and my broad-churchmanship was thereby

made broader. Nor was this general effect diminished by my visit

to the howling and whirling dervishes. The manifestations of

their zeal ranged themselves clearly in the same category with

those evident in American camp-meetings, and I now understood

better than ever what the Rev. Dr. Bacon of New Haven meant when,

after returning from the East, he alluded to certain Christian

"revivalists" as "howling dervishes."

I must say, too, that while I loved and admired many Christian

missionaries whom I saw in the East, and rejoiced in the work of

their schools, the utter narrowness of some of them was

discouraging. Anything more cold, forbidding, and certain of

extinction than the worship of the "United Presbyterians" at the

mission church at Cairo I have never seen, save possibly that of

sundry Calvinists at Paris. Nor have I ever heard anything more

defiant of sane thought and right reason than the utterances of

some of these excellent men.

But the general effect of all these experiences, as I now think,

was to aid in a healthful evolution of my religious ideas.

It may now be asked what is the summing up of my relation to

religion, as looked upon in the last years of a long life, during

which I have had many suggestions to thought upon it, many

opportunities to hear eminent religionists of almost every creed

discuss it, and many chances to observe its workings in the

multitude of systems prevalent in various countries.

As a beginning, I would answer that, having for many years

supplemented my earlier observations and studies by special

researches into the relations between science and religion, my

conviction has been strengthened that religion in its true

sense--namely, the bringing of humanity into normal relations

with that Power, not ourselves, in the universe, which makes for

righteousness--is now, as it always has been, a need absolute,

pressing, and increasing.

As to the character of such normal relations, I feel that they

involve a sense of need for worship: for praise and prayer,

public and private. If fine-spun theories are presented as to the

necessary superfluity of praise to a perfect Being, and the

necessary inutility of prayer in a world governed by laws, my

answer is that law is as likely to obtain in the spiritual as in

the natural world: that while it may not be in accordance with

physical laws to pray for the annihilation of a cloud and the

cessation of a rain-storm, it may well be in accordance with

spiritual laws that communication take place between the Infinite

and finite minds; that helpful inspiration may be thus

obtained,--greater power, clearer vision, higher aims.

As to the question between worship by man as an individual being,

face to face with the Divine Power, and worship by human beings

in common, as brethren moved to express common ideas, needs,

hopes, efforts, aspirations, I attribute vast value to both.

As to the first. Each individual of us has perhaps an even more

inadequate conception of "the God and father of us all" than a

plant has of a man; and yet the universal consciousness of our

race obliges a human being under normal conditions to feel the

need of betterment, of help, of thankfulness. It would seem best

for every man to cultivate the thoughts, relations, and practices

which he finds most accordant with such feelings and most

satisfying to such needs.

As to the second. The universal normal consciousness of humanity

seems to demand some form of worship in common with one's

fellow-men. All forms adopted by men under normal conditions,

whether in cathedrals, temples, mosques, or conventicles, clearly

have uses and beauties of their own.

If it be said that all forms of belief or ceremonial obscure that

worship, "in spirit and in truth," which aids high aspiration, my

answer is that the incorporation, in beliefs and forms of

worship, of what man needs for his spiritual sustenance seems to

me analogous to the incorporation in his daily material food of

what he needs for his physical sustenance. As a rule, the truths

necessary for the sustenance and development of his higher nature

would seem better assimilated when incorporated in forms of

belief and worship, public or private, even though these beliefs

and forms have imperfections or inadequacies. We do not support

material life by consuming pure carbon, or nitrogen, or hydrogen:

we take these in such admixtures as our experience shows to be

best for us. We do not live by breathing pure oxygen: we take it

diluted with other gases, and mainly with one which, if taken by

itself, is deadly.

This is but a poor and rough analogy, but it seems a legitimate

illustration of a fact which we must take account of in the whole

history of the human race, past, present, and future.

It will, in my opinion, be a sad day for this or for any people

when there shall have come in them an atrophy of the religious

nature; when they shall have suppressed the need of

communication, no matter how vague, with a supreme power in the

universe; when the ties which bind men of similar modes of

thought in the various religious organizations shall be

dissolved; when men, instead of meeting their fellow-men in

assemblages for public worship which give them a sense of

brotherhood, shall lounge at home or in clubs; when men and

women, instead of bringing themselves at stated periods into an

atmosphere of prayer, praise, and aspiration, to hear the

discussion of higher spiritual themes, to be stirred by appeals

to their nobler nature in behalf of faith, hope, and charity, and

to be moved by a closer realization of the fatherhood of God and

the brotherhood of man, shall stay at home and give their

thoughts to the Sunday papers or to the conduct of their business

or to the languid search for some refuge from boredom.

But thus recognizing the normal need of religious ideas,

feelings, and observances, I see in the history of these an

evolution which has slowly brought our race out of lower forms of

religion into higher, and which still continues. Nowhere is this

more clearly mirrored than in our own sacred books; nowhere more

distinctly seen than in what is going on about us; and one finds

in this evolution, just as in the development of our race in

other fields, survivals of outworn beliefs and observances which

remain as mile-stones to mark human progress.

Belief in a God who is physically, intellectually, and morally

but an enlarged "average man"--unjust, whimsical, revengeful,

cruel, and so far from omnipotent that he has to make all sorts

of interferences to rectify faults in his original scheme--is

more and more fading away among the races controlling the world.

More and more the thinking and controlling races are developing

the power of right reason; and more and more they are leaving to

inferior and disappearing races the methods of theological

dogmatism.

More and more, in all parts of the civilized world, is developing

liberty of thought; and more and more is left behind the tyranny

of formulas.

More and more is developing, in the leading nations, the

conception of the world's sacred books as a literature in which,

as in a mass of earthy material, the gems and gold of its

religious thought are embedded; and more and more is left behind

the belief in the literal, prosaic conformity to fact of all

utterances in this literature.

To one who closely studies the history of humanity, evolution in

religion is a certainty. Eddies there are,--counter-currents of

passion, fanaticism, greed, hate, pride, folly, the unreason of

mobs, the strife of parties, the dreams of mystics, the logic of

dogmatists, and the lust for power of ecclesiastics,--but the

great main tide is unmistakable.

What should be the attitude of thinking men, in view of all this?

History, I think, teaches us that, just so far as is possible,

the rule of our conduct should be to assist Evolution rather than

Revolution. Religious revolution is at times inevitable, and at

such times the rule of conduct should be to unite our efforts to

the forces working for a new and better era; but religious

revolutions are generally futile and always dangerous. As a rule,

they have failed. Even when successful and beneficial, they have

brought new evils. The Lutheran Church, resulting from the great

religious revolution of the sixteenth century, became immediately

after the death of Luther, and remained during generations, more

inexcusably cruel and intolerant than Catholicism had ever been;

the revolution which enthroned Calvinism in large parts of the

British Empire and elsewhere brought new forms of unreason,

oppression, and unhappiness; the revolution in France substituted

for the crudities and absurdities of the old religion a "purified

worship of the Supreme Being" under which came human sacrifices

by thousands, followed by a reaction to an unreason more extreme

than anything previously known. Goldwin Smith was right when he

said, "Let us never glorify revolution."

Christianity, though far short of what it ought to be and will

be, is to-day purer and better, in all its branches, than it has

ever before been; and the same may be said of Judaism. Any man

born into either of these forms of religion should, it seems to

me, before breaking away from it, try as long as possible to

promote its better evolution; aiding to increase breadth of view,

toleration, indifference to unessentials, cooperation with good

men and true of every faith. Melanchthon, St. Francis Xavier,

Grotius, Thomasius, George Fox, Fenelon, the Wesleys, Moses

Mendelssohn, Schleiermacher, Dr. Arnold, Channing, Phillips

Brooks, and their like may well be our exemplars, despite all

their limitations and imperfections.

I grant that there are circumstances which may oblige a

self-respecting man to withdraw from religious organizations and

assemblages. There may be reactionary zeal of rabbis, priests,

deacons, destructive to all healthful advance of thought; there

may be a degeneration of worship into fetishism; there may be

control by young Levites whose minds are only adequate to decide

the colors of altar-cloths and the cut of man-millinery; there

may be control by men of middle age who preach a gospel of

"hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness"; there may be tyranny

by old men who will allow no statements of belief save those

which they learned as children.

From such evils, there are, in America at least, many places of

refuge; and, in case these fail, there are the treasures of

religious thought accumulated from the days of Marcus Aurelius,

St. Augustine, and Thomas a Kempis to such among us as Brooks,

Gibbons, Munger, Henry Simmons, Rabbis Weinstock and Jacobs, and

very many others. It may be allowed to a hard-worked man who has

passed beyond the allotted threescore years and ten to say that

he has found in general religious biography, Jewish, Catholic,

and Protestant, and in the writings of men nobly inspired in all

these fields, a help without which his life would have been poor

indeed.

True, there will be at times need of strong resistance, and

especially of resistance to all efforts by any clerical

combination, whether of rabbis, priests, or ministers, no matter

how excellent, to hamper scientific thought, to control public

education, or to erect barriers and arouse hates between men.

Both Religion and Science have suffered fearfully from unlimited

clerical sway; but of the two, Religion has suffered most.

When one considers the outcome of national education entirely

under the control of the church during over fifteen hundred

years,--in France at the outbreak of the revolution of 1789, in

Italy at the outbreak of the revolution of 1848, in the

Spanish-American republics down to a very recent period, and in

Spain, Poland, and elsewhere at this very hour,--one sees how

delusive is the hope that a return to the ideas and methods of

the "ages of faith" is likely to cure the evils that still linger

among us.

The best way of aiding in a healthful evolution would seem to

consist in firmly but decisively resisting all ecclesiastical

efforts to control or thwart the legitimate work of science and

education; in letting the light of modern research and thought

into the religious atmosphere; and in cultivating, each for

himself, obedience to "the first and great commandment, and the

second which is like unto it," as given by the Blessed Founder of

Christianity.

LIST OF PUBLICATIONS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS ESPECIALLY HISTORICAL

BY ANDREW D. WHITE

The Greater Distinctions in Statesmanship. Yale Literary Prize

Essay, in the "Yale Literary Magazine," 1852.

The Diplomatic History of Modern Times. De Forest Prize Oration,

in the "Yale Literary Magazine," 1853.

Qualifications for American Citizenship. Clarke Senior Prize

Essay, in the "Yale Literary Magazine," 1853.

Editorial and other articles in the "Yale Literary Magazine,"

1852-1853.

Glimpses of Universal History. The "New Englander," Vol. XV, p.

398.

Care of the Poor in New Haven. A Report to the Authorities of

Syracuse, New York. The "Tribune," New York, 1857.

Cathedral Builders and Mediaeval Sculptors. An address before the

faculty and students of Yale College, 1857. With various

additions and revisions between that period and 1885. (Published

only by delivery before various university and general

audiences.)

Jefferson and Slavery. The "Atlantic Monthly," Vol. IX, p. 29.

The Statesmanship of Richelieu. The "Atlantic Monthly," Vol. IX,

p. 611.

The Development and Overthrow of Serfdom in Russia. The "Atlantic

Monthly," Vol. X, p. 538.

Outlines of Courses of Lectures on History, Mediaeval and Modern,

given at the University of Michigan. Various editions, Ann Arbor

and Detroit, 1858-1863; another edition, Ithaca, 1872.

A Word from the North West; being historical and political

statements in response to strictures in the "American Diary" of

Dr. W. H. Russell. London, 1862. The same, Syracuse, New York,

1863.

A Review of the Governor's Message. Speech in the State Senate,

1864, embracing sundry historical details. Albany, 1864.

The Cornell University. Speech in the State Senate. Albany, 1865.

Plea for a Health Department in the City of New York. A speech in

the New York State Senate. Albany, 1866.

The Most Bitter Foe of Nations, and the Way to Its Permanent

Overthrow. An address before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Yale

College, 1866. New Haven, 1866.

Report on the Organization of a University, with historical

details based upon the history of advanced education, presented

to the trustees of Cornell University, October, 1866. Albany,

1867.

Address at the Inauguration of the first President of Cornell

University, with historical details regarding university

education. Ithaca, 1869.

The Historical and part of the Political Details in the Report of

the Commission to Santo Domingo in 1871. Washington, 1871.

Report to the Trustees of Cornell University on the Establishment

of the Sage College for Women, with historical details regarding

the education of women in the United States and elsewhere. First

edition, Ithaca, 1872.

Address to the Students of Cornell University and to the Citizens

of Ithaca Oil the Recent Attack upon Mr. Cornell in the

legislature. Albany and New York, 1873.

The Greater States of Continental Europe (including Italy, six

lectures; Spain, three lectures; Austria, four lectures; The

Netherlands, sis lectures; Prussia, five lectures; Russia, five

lectures; Poland, two lectures; The Turkish Power, three

lectures; France, from the Establishment of French Unity in the

Fifteenth Century to Richelieu, four lectures). Syllabus prepared

for the graduating classes of Cornell University. Ithaca, the

University Press, 1874.

An Address before the State Agricultural Society, at the Capitol

in Albany, on "Scientific and Industrial Education in the United

States," giving historical details regarding the development of

education in pure and applied science. New York, 1874. Reprint of

the same in the "Popular Science Monthly," June, 1874.

The Relations of the National and State Governments to Advanced

Education. Paper read before the National Educational Association

at Detroit, August 5, 1874. Published in "Old and New," Boston,

1874.

An Abridged Bibliography of the French Revolution, published as

an appendix to O 'Connor Morris's "History of the French

Revolution." New York, 1875.

The Battle-fields of Science. An address delivered at the Cooper

Institute, New York, and published in the "New York Tribune,"

1875.

Paper Money Inflation in France: How it Came; What it Brought;

and How it Ended. First edition, New York, 1876; abridged edition

published by the New York Society for Political Education, 1882;

revised edition with additions, New York, 1896.

The Warfare of Science. First American edition, New York, 1876;

first English edition, with Prefatory Note by Professor John

Tyndall, London, 1876; Swedish translation, with Preface by H. M.

Melin, Lund, 1877.

Syllabus of Lectures on the General Development of Penal Law;

Development and Disuse of Torture in Procedure and in Penalty;

Progress of International Law; Origin and Decline of Slavery;

etc. Given before the senior class of Cornell University, 1878.

(Published only by delivery.)

The Provision for Higher Instruction in Subjects bearing directly

upon Public Affairs, being one of the Reports of the United

States Commissioners to the Paris Universal Exposition of 1878.

Washington, 1878. New edition of the same work, with additions

and extensions by Professor Herbert B. Adams, Baltimore, 1887.

James A. Garfield. Memorial Address. Ithaca, 1881.

Do the Spoils belong to the Victor?--embracing historical facts

regarding the origin and progress of the "Spoils System." The

"North American Review," February, 1882.

Prefatory Note to the American translation of Muller, "Political

History of Recent Times." New York, 1882.

The New Germany, being a paper read before the American

Geographical Society at New York. New York, 1882. German

translation, Frankfort-on-the-Main, 1882.

Two addresses at Cleveland, Ohio, October, 1882. First, On a Plan

for the Western Reserve University. Second, On the Education of

the Freedmen. Ithaca, 1882.

Outlines of Lectures on History. Addressed to the students of

Cornell University. Part I, "The first Century of Modern

History," Ithaca, the University Press, 1883. Part II, "Germany

(from the Reformation to the new German Empire)," same place and

date. Part III, "France" (including: 1. "France before the

Revolution"; 2. "The French Revolution"; 3. "Modern France,

including the Third Republic"), same place and date.

Speech at the Unveiling of the Portrait of the Honorable Justin

S. Morrill. Ithaca, June, 1883.

The Message of the Nineteenth Century to the Twentieth. An

address delivered before the class of 1853, in the chapel of Yale

College, June 26, 1883. New Haven, 1883; second and third

editions, New York, 1884.

Address at the First Annual Banquet of the Cornell Alumni of

Western New York, at Buffalo, April, 1884.

What Profession shall I Choose, and how shall I Fit Myself for

It? Ithaca, 1884.

Address at the Funeral of Edward Lasker. New York, 1884.

Address delivered at the Unveiling of the Statue of Benjamin

Silliman at Yale College, June 24, 1884. New Haven, 1884; second

edition, Ithaca, 1884.

Some Practical Influences of German Thought upon the United

States. An address delivered at the Centennial Celebration of the

German Society of New York, October 4, 1884. Ithaca, 1884.

Letter defending the Cornell University from Sundry Sectarian

Attacks. Elmira, December 17, 1884.

Sundry Important Questions in Higher Education: Elective Studies,

University Degrees, University Fellowships and Scholarships; with

historical details and illustrations. A paper read at the

Conference of the Presidents of the Colleges of the State of New

York, at the Twenty-second University Convocation, Albany, 1884.

Ithaca, 1885.

Studies in General History and the History of Civilization, being

a paper read before the American Historical Association at its

first public meeting, Saratoga, September 9, 1884. New York and

London, 1885.

Instruction in the Course of History and Political Science at

Cornell University. New York, 1885.

Yale College in 1853. "Yale Literary Magazine," February, 1886.

The Constitution and American Education, being a speech delivered

at the Centennial Banquet, in the Academy of Music, Philadelphia,

September 17, 1887. Ithaca, 1887.

A History of the Doctrine of Comets. A paper read before the

American Historical Association at its second annual meeting,

Saratoga, October, 1885. Published by the American Historical

Association. New York and London, 1887. (This forms one of the

"New Chapters in the Warfare of Science.")

New Chapters in the Warfare of Science: Meteorology. Reprinted

from the "Popular Science Monthly," July and August, 1887. New

York, 1887.

College Fraternities. An address given at the Metropolitan Opera

House, New York, with some historical details. The "Forum," May,

1887.

New Chapters in the Warfare of Science: Geology. Reprinted from

the "Popular Science Monthly," February and March, 1888. New

York, 1888.

The Next American University. The "Forum," June, 1888.

The French Revolution. Syllabus of lectures, various editions,

more or less extended and revised, for students at the University

of Michigan; Cornell University; University of Pennsylvania;

Johns Hopkins University; Columbian University; Tulane

University; and Stanford University. Various places, and dates

from 1859 to 1889.

The Need of Another University. The "Forum," January, 1889.

A University at Washington. The "Forum," February, 1889.

New Chapters in the Warfare of Science: Demoniacal Possession and

Insanity. Reprinted from the "Popular Science Monthly," February

and March, 1889.

New Chapters in the Warfare of Science: Diabolism and Hysteria.

"Popular Science Monthly," May and June, 1889.

The Political Catechism of Archbishop Apuzzo. A paper read

before, and published by, the American Historical Association,

Washington. December, 1889.

My Reminiscences of Ezra Cornell. An address delivered before the

Cornell University on Founder's Day, January 11, 1890. Ithaca,

1890.

Remarks on Indian Education. Proceedings of the Lake Mohonk

Conference, 1890.

Evolution and Revolution. A commencement address before the

University of Michigan, Ann Arbor, 1890.

The Teaching of History in our Public Schools. Remarks before the

Fortnightly Club, Buffalo, 1890.

Democracy and Education. An address given before the State

Teachers' Association at Saratoga, 1891. Published by the

Department of Public Instruction, Albany, 1891.

The Problem of High Crime in the United States. Published only by

delivery--before Stanford University in 1892, and, with various

additions and revisions, before various other university and

general audiences down to 1897.

The Future of the American Colleges and Universities. Published

in "School and College Magazine," February, 1892.

A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom.

New York, 1896. French translation, Paris, 1899. Italian

translation, Turin, 1902.

An Address at the Celebration of the Fiftieth Anniversary of the

Onondaga Orphan Asylum. Syracuse, 1896.

Erasmus, in "The Library of the World's Best Literature." New

York, 1896.

An Open letter to Sundry Democrats (Bryan Candidacy). New York,

1896.

Evolution vs. Revolution, in Politics. Biennial address before

the State Historical Society and the State University of

Wisconsin, February 9, 1897. Madison, Wisconsin, 1897.

Speech at a Farewell Banquet given by the German-Americans of New

York. New York, 1897.

Sundry addresses at Berlin and Leipsic. Berlin, 1897-1902.

A Statesman of Russia--Pobedonostzeff. The "Century Magazine,"

1898.

The President of the United States. Speech at Leipsic, Germany,

July 4, 1898. Berlin, 1898.

Address before the Peace Conference of The Hague at the Laying of

a Silver and Gold Wreath on the Tomb of Grotius at Delft, in

Behalf of the Government of the United States, July 4, 1899. The

Hague, 1899.

Walks and Talks with Tolstoy. "McClure's Magazine," April, 1901.

The Cardiff Giant. The "Century Magazine" for October, 1902.

Farewell Address at Berlin, November 11, 1902. The "Columbia"

magazine, Berlin, December, 1902; reprinted "Yale Alumni Weekly,"

January 14, 1903.

Speech at the Bodleian Tercentenary, Oxford. "Yale Alumni

Weekly," March 11, 1903.

A Patriotic Investment. An address at the fiftieth anniversary of

the Yale class of 1853, New Haven, 1903.

Reminiscences of My Diplomatic Life. Various articles in the

"Century Magazine," 1903-5.

The Warfare of Humanity with Unreason, including biographical

essays on Fra Paolo Sarpi, Hugo Grotius, Christian Thomasius, and

others. "Atlantic Monthly," 1903-5.

Speech at the Laying of the Corner-stone of Goldwin Smith Hall.

Ithaca, N. Y., October 13, 1904. Published by the Cornell

University, 1905.

The Situation and Prospect in Russia. "Collier's Weekly,"

February 11, 1905.

The Past, Present, and Future of Cornell University. An address

delivered before the New York City Association of Cornell Alumni,

February 25, 1905. Ithaca, 1905.

The American Diplomatic Service, with Hints for its Reform. An

address delivered before the Smithsonian Association, Washington,

D. C., March 9, 1905. Washington, 1905.

Autobiography of Andrew Dickson White. New York, 1905.