the West we were at the Teft House, having arrived by an early train
from Kansas City. We ate breakfast, and Mr. Beecher retired to his
room, while I entertained old friends in the office, and there were many
(as the exciting part of my career had been in this blood-bought State),
from Mr. McMeakin, the proprietor, with his beard hanging down to the
skirts of his garments, to Tom Anderson, Major Adams, Chester Thomas,
George Peck, Gov. Tom Osborne, Benjamin Simpson, Rossington, and others.
Mr. McMeakin interrupted the conversation by saying that an old colored
man at the desk wanted to see Mr. Beecher, and would not accept the
explanation that he would see no one during the morning, as he was
resting.
The old darkey wore a long-tailed broadcloth coat and a plug hat about
the same age as himself. He was a typical Uncle Ephraim. I left the
crowd and spoke to him.
“Mr. Beecher is resting. He can see no one until he is up and rings his
bell.”
“That’s right, sir. I know all about that, sir. You just take me to him.
You’ll know if he wants to see me. He would be here just now if he knew
I was to see him.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“It makes no difference. Just take me to him. I lived with him six years
in Indiana. My wife nursed Miss Hattie and little Massa Harry. He knows
me well ’nough.”
It came in such sincere, enthusiastic darky earnestness that I fully
realized he was exactly the person Mr. Beecher would be glad to see at
any hour.
I escorted him to Mr. Beecher’s room, walking quietly in without
knocking, as was my custom. He was lying on his bed wide awake.
“Here is an old citizen of Kansas who not only claims that he knows you,
but insists that you want to see him.”
Mr. Beecher had no more than set eyes on him than he exclaimed:
“Well, I guess he’s about right. Jim, how are you? Come in and tell me
about yourself right away. I haven’t seen you for over thirty years.”
“Thirty-three years, Mr. Beecher,” said the darky “Well, well, why
haven’t you reported to me where you were all this time? What has become
of Letitia?”
“She’s right here, Mr. Beecher. She’s going to the lecture to-night just
to see you.”
“Where are you living? Have you got a family?”
“I live here in Topeka, Letitia and I. We’s got four sons. They all time
about here. All got good farms but Henry, our youngest boy. He ain’t no
good. Henry was named for you, Mr. Beecher. He’s at the race-track. He
trains fine horses for the biggest horseman in Kansas,” and he went on
giving his history for thirty-three years. He and his eldest sons had
been through the war, and they had been in all the struggles in Kansas,
and he knew all about it.
“Letitia is mighty anxious to see you, Mr. Beecher. Yes, she is, sir.”
“Pond, get a carriage, and we’ll ride out to see Letitia. You’ll see
what good housekeeping is.”
We all went down to the office together. The same crowd of old friends
were still loitering about, waiting for a chance to see and meet Mr.
Beecher, to whom I introduced them, and then ordered a hack.
Mr. Beecher told the gentlemen that he was very glad to see an old
servant who had once taken great care of him and Mrs. Beecher, when they
first lived in Indiana, and he was going out to see his wife, whom Mrs.
Beecher had partly brought up and trained in housekeeping. They told Mr.
Beecher that Jim was very well known and respected, and the richest
colored man in Kansas.
A few moments later Mr. Beecher and this colored man and I were riding
through the streets of the capital of Kansas in an open carriage. There
could be no more appropriate background for that picture than the
Capitol of Kansas. We soon drove up to a very fine-looking large frame
house in the quarter of negro aristocracy. There were flowers in the
yard and climbers over windows and doors. As we were dismounting, Mr.
Beecher said:
“I see Letitia has not forgotten her love for flowers.”
Just then a very large and motherly colored woman came to the door to
welcome him. I don’t believe that in all our travel we ever enjoyed a
visit more than that. They lived over their early life in Indiana, and
Mr. Beecher recollected just the incidents and circumstances they were
in touch with--the building of the house, the making of the gardens, the
flowers, the different horses, cows, and the long rides they had
together in his missionary work, prying their old mud wagon out of the
mire and pulling the horses out of swamps. Each and all had shared these
hardships alike, and were now enjoying alike the reminiscences.
After an hour we drove back to the hotel, Mr. Beecher sounding the
praise of his old servants until we arrived. Dinner was ready, and no
small portion of the town waiting to set eyes on my star.
About 6 that evening Jim came in with a large pitcher of hot coffee,
something that was hard to get in that country.
“Mr. Beecher, Letitia was afeared you would have no good coffee here,
and she knowed how much you needed it, as you speak to-night. She never
forgot the coffee, you know.”
“Oh, Jim, tell Letitia that she knows just how to have a good lecture
to-night.”
It was a good lecture.
Mr. Beecher’s visit to his old servants before he had seen any callers
was much and favorably commented upon, and greatly enhanced the
popularity of the already best-known colored citizen in the town.
Mr. Beecher never ate before speaking. Not even at home on Sunday did he
take breakfast. He was a great coffee drinker, and always required one
or two cups of good coffee instead of his meal before a lecture or
sermon. He gave me to understand before we started out together that if
we were to have good lectures we must have good coffee. So I found it
very often necessary to impress upon the host at our hotel that Mr.
Beecher’s success depended upon the hotel-keeper as much as on the
lecturer. It was very seldom we failed to have good coffee, except when
in some frontier city in the far West and through the South.
On August 18, 1883, Mr. Beecher lectured in Butte City, Mont. We arrived
by an early train, went directly to the hotel, and Mr. Beecher retired
to his room to lie down. We had left Mrs. Beecher for a day’s rest at
Deer Lodge, about forty miles from Butte, a sort of mountain
watering-place, to join her on the following day on our way to Portland,
Ore.
While Mr. Beecher was sleeping in the forenoon the proprietor of the
hotel told me there was a lady in the parlor who wished to see him.
Answering the summons, I found a young woman with a child in her arms. I
asked her what she wanted with Mr. Beecher. She replied that she and her
husband were members of Plymouth Church; that she wanted him to baptize
her baby. I knew very well that under these circumstances Mr. Beecher
would be glad to be disturbed, so I called him, and he came to the
parlor, shook hands with the woman, patted the baby on the cheek, and
asked:
“What are you members of Plymouth Church doing here?”
“My husband is working in the mines.”
“How long have you been here?”
“About two years, sir.”
“Where is your husband? “ asked Mr. Beecher.
“He hasn’t any coat, and doesn’t care to come in. He’s down at the
door.”
Mr. Beecher turned to me and said: “Pond, bring that man up here.”
I found the hardy young miner and brought him up to the parlor. He was
in his shirt-sleeves. He shook hands, saying: “Ah, Mr. Beecher, don’t
you remember me? I am a member of Plymouth Church. I was very
unfortunate in Brooklyn. I am a better man now, thanks to you, sir.”
It appeared that this young man had been unfortunate in Brooklyn.
Through Mr. Beecher’s influence, and his wife’s, he had resolved to try
his fortune in the far West.
Mr. Beecher was deeply affected at their earnest desire to have him
baptize their only child, and I knew the baby’s baptism would be very
impressive. As I stepped downstairs for a pitcher of water I met an
editor of one of the papers, whom I had formerly known. I told him to
come upstairs, that Mr. Beecher was about to baptize the child of one of
his parishioners. It was indeed one of the most beautiful ceremonies I
ever witnessed. I know we all cried.
He questioned them considerably concerning their circumstances, and
asked me to see that they had tickets for the lecture that night.
The man had to hurry back to his work in the mine. Mr. Beecher asked the
mother to accompany him with her baby to a clothing store across the
street, where he purchased a suit of clothes for her husband, giving
instructions for them to be sent to his house at once. He then allowed
the mother to take her baby home, not without a recommendation to be
sure she brought her husband to the lecture that night. The woman
replied that she had no one with whom to leave the baby.
“Bring the baby,” said Mr. Beecher. “If there is no one else to take
care of it, I will, or I will have Pond tend it.”
She was very much overcome with all this unexpected kindness. Her eyes
were almost bursting with tears of gratitude as she walked away from the
store.
After her departure we went to a dry goods store, where Mr. Beecher told
the proprietor that he wanted several things. First, everything complete
for a child of ten months, such as dresses, flannels, and such pretty
things as a child wears, even to the little shoes and stockings, cloak,
and bonnet. Then he told him that he wanted some goods for a dress for a
woman who was in poor circumstances, but very worthy--something that she
could wear and look becoming. He bought two or three calico dresses
besides, and such other articles as he thought a poor family would most
need, and ordered them all sent to the house. I paid the bills, and have
them, receipted, now. They were altogether $83.
That evening Mr. Beecher lectured to an immense audience, all the seats
having been sold in advance. We succeeded in placing two chairs at one
side near the platform, which this little Plymouth family occupied. They
were very attentive, and enjoyed the lecture immensely. The baby was
quiet and playful during the early part of the evening, then fell
quietly asleep in its mother’s arms. No one was in the least disturbed.
I believe the orator got his inspiration for that occasion from this
little party.
At the close of the lecture there was the usual rush to congratulate and
shake hands with Mr. Beecher, including the Mayor, who presided, and the
best people of Butte. I think he hardly noticed them, but made a break
through the crowd and went directly to his former parishioners and
congratulated them on the good behavior of the baby, told them many
things of Plymouth Church and Brooklyn, enjoying it much more than all
the congratulations the people had to offer afterward.
As Mr. Beecher and I returned to the hotel that evening, I said: “Mr.
Beecher, it seems to me there are few men who would devote themselves
for a day to a kindness like that.”
He replied: “Next to my own children are the members of my church.”
Mr. Beecher spoke in Bloomington, Ill., being introduced by an old
gentleman, a former friend of Abraham Lincoln. He was a very old man,
and I could see that he was very much respected. As he approached the
audience to make the introductory speech, he hesitated for a word, and
after a moment felt in his pockets for his manuscript, and discovered
that he had forgotten them. Poor old gentleman! He was dreadfully
embarrassed, and so was the audience for him. Mr. Beecher helped him
out, and explained to the audience that it was a common mistake among
speakers, of which he himself had often been guilty.
He was to speak in Decatur that night, and I was obliged to secure a
special train, as the regular train was four hours late. I secured a
caboose and engine on the Illinois Central Railroad. We reached a small
station about half-way to Decatur. We had to take a side track and wait
for an upcoming train to pass. I saw a great crowd at the station, but
our side track took us to one side of the town. We had no more than
stopped when, looking back, I saw the crowd rushing toward our car. It
was during the period when Mr. Beecher was most liable to insult, and I
instinctively felt that that crowd were not coming to do him honor. We
had a large coal stove in the caboose. It was red hot. A heavy iron
poker lay on the floor. I ran the poker into the stove and let it heat.
The mob came on and insisted on getting into the car. As I was watching
the front door Mr. Beecher called, “Pond!” I looked around and saw that
they had forced open the back door. I at once asked them to leave, as it
was a private car and a special train. They kept crowding in, and I saw
trouble ahead if they persisted. I caught the poker (which had become
red hot) out of the stove and went for them. I jabbed it straight into
them, and they began to get out.
I know that one of those roughs, if he is living, bears a scar, as I
sawed the poker square across his arm and heard the meat fry.
We reached Decatur in time for the lecture, and went to Springfield the
next day.
Once in 1884 Mr. Beecher requested me to postpone a lecture engagement
on account of an important wedding which he said he had on hand. He
declined to tell me who was to be married.
In fact, he said, he knew little about it himself. He invited me to his
house that evening, and I was sitting with Mrs. Beecher in the library
when the door bell rang and the parties were escorted to the parlor. He
called Mrs. Beecher to join the party, but I was not invited. They must
have remained an hour chatting after the ceremony, and then Mr. Beecher,
in his cheerful, delightful manner, escorted them to the door, and they
drove off. Mr. and Mrs. Beecher then returned to the library, expressing
great wonder, and, I think, satisfaction, at the event.
Then he told me that he had just married C. P. Huntington to Mrs. A. D.
Warsham, who was quite a prominent woman in New York and the subject of
considerable comment as being very ambitious. He believed she would
make Mr. Huntington an excellent wife. She was just the woman for him.
Several weeks after this incident Mr. Beecher and I were together on the
cars and he was having what he called a “general house-cleaning” of his
pockets--not an uncommon occurrence. His pockets would often get loaded
up with letters and papers, and if he happened to be sitting by an open
car window, he would clear out his pockets, tear up old letters and
throw them away.
On this occasion he happened to put his hand in the watch pocket of his
pantaloons and found there a little envelope, which he opened. When he
saw its contents, he called me to sit beside him, and remarked:
“You remember the evening I married C. P. Huntington. I was so much
interested in the subject that I forgot he handed me a little envelope
as he went out of the door. I put it in the watch pocket of my
pantaloons, and never thought of it again until just now, and here it
is--four one thousand dollar bills.
“Now,” he said, “don’t tell any one about it and we will have a good
time and make some happiness with this money. We will just consider that
we found it.”
A few days later he called and asked me to go with him down town to look
at a cargo of rugs which had just arrived. I think we went to a place
somewhere on Pearl street, below Fulton, and we had to go up two or
three flights of stairs. The place was packed with rugs, and men were
overhauling and marking them. Many were brought out and shown to Mr.
Beecher, who seemed to be quite an expert in rugs, as well as in all
other lines of art. He picked out quite a number--some of them very
valuable ones--and left instructions to have them sent to various
friends of his in accordance with a list which he had made out. There
was one beautiful prayer rug which he sent to a friend in Peekskill, a
member of his church, and I think he sent one to each of his children,
and to his sons’ wives. He also purchased quite a number for his own
house. For one small prayer rug he paid $40. I asked him to let me pay
for that one and keep it for myself. He said: “No; that’s the finest rug
here. I propose to keep that one for myself.” I saw it sold for $95 at
the Beecher collection sale, but I would not bid against the young
Plymouth Church lady, a near friend of Mr. Beecher, and she got it. All
of those rugs would bring higher prices than Mr. Beecher paid for them.
Later we were at Bailey, Banks & Biddle’s, in Philadelphia, where he
purchased a beautiful coin silver lamp, and paid $100 for it, remarking:
“Pond, this is some of the money that we found.” He sent the lamp to his
own home, and I afterwards saw it sold in his collection at the American
Art Galleries for $18 to Mrs. Blair. I tried to get to the auctioneer to
tell him that it was a coin silver lamp and what Mr. Beecher had paid
for it, but it was too late.
He bought a pair of andirons in Cincinnati and sent them to his little
friend, Violet Beach, in Peekskill. Her mother had lately built a
beautiful house adjoining Mr. Beecher’s farm. In his letter to Violet’s
mother he said:
“I send a present to Violet, and if she doesn’t like it, let her put it
in the fireplace.”
He purchased a great many unmounted gems, some of which he subsequently
had mounted and gave them to friends. Many were mounted in very pretty
rings.
I think he really did absorb the entire $4.000 in making happiness among
those whom he loved. This was one of Mr. Beecher’s eccentricities.
After Mr. Beecher’s death, Mr. C. P. Huntington was very kind to Mrs.
Beecher. He always furnished her transportation for transcontinental
tours to visit her son on Puget Sound, and it was my privilege to call
upon him with Mrs. Beecher’s messages, as Mr. Beecher dead was Mr.
Beecher living to me, so I took pleasure in going on these errands.
One day I related to Mr. Huntington the incident of Mr. Beecher’s
discovery of the four thousand-dollar bills, and he replied:
“I should never have given them to him. It was all wrong. I made a
mistake. Money never did him any good.”
Since that time I have visited many of Mr. Beecher’s old friends, and
have seen in their houses some of the rugs and other presents purchased
with that money--souvenirs that call up fond memories of the dearest
friendship one could possibly possess. I often wonder whether happiness
made in that way is not more effective than when money is invested in
some public library or other charitable institution, where it never
arouses any feeling of personal gratitude on the part of the
beneficiaries, who, if they are any better off for the legacy, hardly
seem to know it.
In many a group of ministers in nearly every large city in this country
have I seen Mr. Beecher standing as a father, giving and receiving
blessings. When he left churches and halls where he had been preaching
and lecturing, crowds always surged around him, accosting him in
grateful words, asking to shake hands with him, and cheering him loudly
as he drove away.
Episcopalians, Congregationalists, Methodists, Presbyterians, Baptists,
Unitarians, Universalists, Jews, and Catholics, all mixed in the crowd
and seemed equally anxious to do him honor.
In his private conversation his speech was as perfect in quality of
thought, in richness of illustration, and in precision of statement as
were his public utterances. This is true of only one other man that I
have ever known, and that man, Wendell Phillips, was the least like him
of all the orators of his day. One could spend a day in converse with
either of these men, then listen to the lecture or sermon, and feel that
the conversation was fully equal, if not superior, to the speech. I am
bound to say from our long and intimate acquaintance that I believe Mr.
Beecher’s best things have been said in private.
Perhaps nothing more significant of his sympathy with society at large
can be shown than the promptness with which he accepted an offer of
chaplaincy by the Thirteenth Regiment of the National Guard, through its
commander, Colonel Austen. In January, 1878, the tender was made and
accepted.
As usual Mr. Beecher’s action was canvassed and criticised in Plymouth
Church, whereupon at a Friday evening prayer-meeting he said: “I did not
accept, as you may readily suppose, because I had nothing to do, and
because I wanted to fill up vacant time. It was not because I had any
special military gifts, or that any special military proclivities led me
to delight in such position. I was as much surprised as any one could be
when the request was made by Colonel Austen, and I was informed that it
was the unanimous wish of the officers of the regiment that I should
accept the place. The first impulse I felt on receiving the invitation
was to say No, but the second impulse was in the nature of a query,
whether there was not some duty there. The question was not exactly
‘Should you accept the place?’ but rather, ‘Why should you not accept
it? Is it not eminently wise that a body of young men, organized as a
force of citizen soldiers, should have a chaplain? Is not a body of this
kind, resembling in some respects a social club, unrestrained by the
presence of women, fraught with great danger? Is it not liable to become
a veritable maelstrom in which young men may be sucked down to
destruction?’ It seems to me there is no question that they should be
surrounded by some kind of moral influence, and it appeared to be a
pertinent question whether, if some one should respond, I was not the
one to do it. In my case, there seemed to be special reasons why I
should respond. I had been always among the foremost in the matters that
led to the war, and was forward in upholding the various measures of the
war, and it hardly seemed wise or proper for me to turn away from the
citizen soldiery after they had done their duty in that war, thus
tacitly saying that they were of no further consequence to the nation or
to the community. And even more than all this was the consideration that
many of the young men of the regiment are members of my own flock here.
And if it is wise and prudent to have a citizen soldiery, properly
equipped and ready at all times to serve as a background of support for
the civil authorities, it is certainly well to have them fortified and
strengthened by all the good influences it is possible to throw around
them. I go not for pleasure, but hoping to do them good. I want to help
them as soldiers, as well as individuals, for I don’t like to have
anything to do with a thing that doesn’t go. The regiment has entered
upon a new life, and it will be rendered more prosperous than ever. At
any rate, I hope you will have its well-being at heart, if for no other
sake, at least for my sake, for I should not like to do anything in
which I would not have the prayers of my people.”
In a formal record, printed in the _North American Review_, Colonel
Austen pays high compliment to his chaplain, who, it appears, made his
first parade on the occasion of the dedication of the Martyrs’ Tomb at
Fort Greene, Brooklyn, on the 30th of May, 1878. “He had been invited,”
says Colonel Austen, “and an order forwarded, to which this jovial reply
was received:
* * * * *
“‘BROOKLYN, No. 124 Columbia Heights.
“‘MY DEAR COLONEL:
“‘I will be present, fully armed and equipped, as becomes a chaplain of
the Old Thirteenth. Yours ever,
“‘HENRY WARD BEECHER,
“‘Captain Secular and Chaplain Spiritual of the Old Thirteenth--God
bless her.’
* * * * *
“Mr. Beecher had secured a spirited horse, which I had been advised was
a Kentucky thoroughbred, and which he proposed to ride. In reply to a
suggestion made by me that he might have trouble in the control of so
spirited a steed, Mr. Beecher said: ‘I can stand any demonstration as
long as the horse enjoys himself.’
“The order to march was given, the drums rolled out their first notes,
and the horse, unused to such martial sounds, reared and plunged so that
I made an effort to have the music stopped. But Mr. Beecher immediately
discountenanced it. The Plymouth pastor firmly held his seat, his
horsemanship exciting general admiration. He soon brought the steed
under complete control, and, in passing me, on his way to his place in
the staff line, he said quietly, ‘I guess this horse was not aware of
the fact that I had my training in Indiana. Out there, when I went to
visit my parishioners, in my younger days, I didn’t follow the roads,
and the rail fences didn’t stand in my way. The horse knows all that
now, and will march in line in proper order.’
“Our chaplain was right. His bold Kentucky thoroughbred had been
instantly and utterly subdued. Not once again did the animal leave the
line; but the fire of his eye showed that it was the master hand alone
that held him under control.
“On the march the rain began to fall, and, apprehensive of Mr. Beecher’s
health, I urged him to leave the line and return home. ‘Are you going to
leave?’ and when I replied in the negative, he said: ‘A soldier desert
on his first parade? Oh, no; I never do anything by halves. I have
enlisted for the war, and my maiden battle must be fought out, even if
the big drum has bursted.’”