To enter at once the Divinity School was to start on a predestined
career. From childhood I was marked out for a clergyman. This was taken
for granted in all places and conversations, and my own thoughts fell
habitually into that groove. There was nothing unattractive in the
professional career as illustrated by my father. I was the only one of a
large family of brothers who pursued the full course of studies at
Cambridge, or who showed a taste for the scholastic life. An appetite
for books rather than for affairs pointed first of all to a literary
calling, while a fondness for speculative questions, a leaning towards
ideal subjects, and a serious turn of mind naturally suggested at that
time the pulpit. An inward "experience of religion," which in some other
communions was regarded as essential to the character of a minister of
the gospel, was not demanded. Religion was rather moral and intellectual
than spiritual, a matter of mental conviction more than of emotional
feeling. The clerical profession stood very high, higher than any of the
three "learned professions," by reason of its requiring in larger
measure a tendency towards abstract thought, an interest in theological
discussions, and a steady belief in doctrines that concerned the soul.
Literature was not at that period a profession; there was no Art to
speak of except for genius of the first order like that of Allston or
Greenough. Men of the highest intellectual rank, whatever they may have
become afterwards, tried the ministry at the start. The traditions of
New England favored the ministerial calling. The great names, with here
and there an exception, were names of divines. The great books were on
subjects of religion; the popular interest centred in theological
controversy; the general enthusiasm was aroused by preachers; the
current talk was about sermons. The clergy was a privileged class,
aristocratic, exalted.
Divinity Hall had been dedicated in August, 1826. It was situated on an
avenue about a quarter of a mile from the college yard. It contained,
besides thirty-seven chambers for the accommodation of students, a
chapel, a library, a lecture-room, and a reading-room; it stood opposite
the Zooelogical Museum. Before it was a vacant space used for games.
Behind it was meadow land reaching all the way to Mr. Norton's. Just
beyond it was Dr. Palfrey's residence. George Rapall Noyes, D.D., was
elected in May, 1840, with the title of "Hancock Professor of Hebrew and
Oriental Languages, and Dexter Lecturer on Biblical Literature." He had
already translated the poetical books of the Old Testament, and it was
his eminence as a translator which had won him fame while a minister at
Petersham. It was his duty also to explain the New Testament, and in
addition to give lectures in systematic theology. Besides all this he
was to preach in the college chapel a fourth of the year. He steadily
grew in the respect and attachment of the young men; his authority in
the lecture-room was very great; his opinions were carefully formed and
precisely delivered; and his shrewd, practical wisdom was long
remembered by his pupils. Convers Francis, D.D., appointed to the
"Parkman Professorship," after the resignation of Henry Ware, Jr., was
his associate. The branches assigned to him were ecclesiastical history,
natural theology, ethics, the composition of sermons, and instruction in
the duties of a pastor; besides all this he was to preach half of the
time in the college chapel. Dr. Francis was an accomplished scholar and
a faithful teacher. The best man, too, for his position, at a time when
in an unsectarian school it was exceedingly desirable that the
professors should harmonize all tendencies; for with a strong sympathy
with "transcendentalism," as it was then called, he had been a most
successful parish minister, a very acceptable preacher, and a man in
whom all the churches had confidence.
At Cambridge, owing to the influence of Buckminster, Ware, and Norton,
Unitarian opinion prevailed, though the controversial period had passed
by when I was there. The clouds of warfare no longer discharged
lightning; there was no roll of thunder; only a faint muttering betrayed
the former excitement; and the memory of old conflicts hovered round the
spots where the fights had been hottest. Marks of strife were still
visible on texts, and chapters were scarred with wounds. Comment still
lingered near the passages where polemics had raged, and the blood
burned as we read the tracts or studied the essays of the champions we
admired.
It was impossible to forget the interpretations that had been given to
words or phrases. A strictly scientific study, either of the Bible or
the creed, was therefore out of the question. But the course of
exercises was broad, generous, inclusive, as far as this was feasible.
The bias was decidedly unorthodox, yet without the bitter temper of
opposition. The old system was rather set aside than attacked. It was
assumed to have been vanquished in the fair field. The professors were
liberal in their views. A small but serviceable library furnished the
students with a certain amount of needed material, the college library
was freely opened to them, and the collections of the professors were
gladly placed at their disposal. The days were fully occupied with
lectures, recitations, discussions, exercises in writing out and taking
of notes. Once a week there was a debate on some general theme not
connected with the topics of the class-room; and at the latter part of
the course there was special training in the composition and delivery of
sermons, accompanied by a brief experience of extemporaneous speaking.
The Unitarian ministry was alone contemplated; no wide divergence from
it was encouraged, and the conservative methods of interpretation were
the ones recommended. Some knowledge of Greek and Latin being
presupposed, the study of Hebrew was made the one study of language, and
this was pursued with the best available helps. Biblical criticism
naturally took a prominent place in the current curriculum, under the
guidance of the most distinguished authorities; books of every school
were recommended, whether old or new, Catholic or Protestant,
"conservative" or "liberal," Horne, Tholuck, De Wette being consulted in
turn. The New Testament and "Historical Christianity" were taken for
granted; and these meant belief in miracles, which were defended against
rising objections of the Strauss and Paulus schools, the former holding
by the "mythical" theory, the latter favoring the notion of a natural
explanation of some sort. The hostility towards rationalism was decided.
This was forty years ago, before the "historical method," as it was
called, instituted by Baur, Schwegler, Zeller, Sneckenburger, and the
_Theologische Jahrbuecher_, had any expositor in this country, long
before the Dutch school, the later French school--Kuenen, Reville,
Reuss, Nicolas, Renan,--came out. The great issue was the credibility of
the miracles of the Old and New Testaments. The half-monastic life we
led at Divinity Hall cut us off a good deal from social amenities,
reform agitations, attempts to change institutions, and even from the
deeper currents of religious sentiment. None but the very observant took
note of Brook Farm, or heeded the movements in behalf of Association
that were going on in other communities. Whatever was outside of the
"Christian" ministry concerned us but little. The professors did not
direct our eyes to the mountain tops or call attention to the bringers
of good tidings from other quarters than the Christian Revelation, as
explained by its scholars and writers. Even such a phenomenon as Emerson
did not make a profound impression on the average mind.
A tone of old-fashioned piety pervaded the establishment. A weekly
prayer-meeting, always attended by one of the professors, though
officially rather than as a stimulator, was much in the manner and
spirit of similar exercises at Andover. The students were cautioned
against excessive intellectualism. Several of them spent their Sundays
in teaching classes of the young in the neighboring towns, in
ministering to the sick in hospitals, or in carrying the monitions of
conscience to the criminals in the prison at Charlestown. The aims of a
practical ministry were thus kept in view as well as the circumstances
of the time permitted. Of course the school could not be a philanthropic
institution any more than it could be independent or scientific. It was
committed to a special purpose, which was the supply of Christian
pulpits with instructed, earnest, devoted men. That they should be
Unitarians was expected; that they should be Christians in belief was
demanded. There were two ever-present spectres, "orthodoxy" and
"rationalism," the one represented by Andover, the other by Germany.
Audacity of speculation when unaccompanied by practical piety was
discountenanced, and in flagrant instances rebuked.
The literal form of the orthodox creed, it need hardly be said, was made
more prominent than its imaginative aspect. This was inevitable, for the
object was to assail it rather than to understand it. To be perfectly
fair to all sides was, under the circumstances, not to be expected at a
period so near the era of controversy. An earnest, ingenuous youth could
find at Cambridge all the courage and impulse he needed, for the
atmosphere of the place was neither chilling nor depressing. The less
emotional, more intellectual scholar was left to pursue his studies
undisturbed, the wind of spiritual feeling not being strong enough to
carry him away.
In a word, the institution was all that could have been looked for in a
time when ecclesiastical and doctrinal traditions were fatally though
not confessedly broken, and naked individualism was not avowedly
adopted. The task of the professors, conscientious, hard working,
utterly faithful men, was laborious, difficult, and thankless. The
Unitarian public, fearing a tendency to unbelief, gave them a grudging
confidence; the students, I am afraid, were not considerate of
them,--the zealous finding them lukewarm, the cold-blooded blaming them
for stopping short of the last consequences of their own theory. It is
wonderful that the school went on at all. The single-minded devotion of
the teachers alone preserved it. Looking thoughtfully back across a wide
gulf of years, the writer of these pages feels that he owes this tribute
to Convers Francis and George R. Noyes. How often he has wished he could
take them by the hand and ask their forgiveness for his frequent
misjudgment of them, misjudgment the remembrance of which makes his
heart bleed the more as he can only think of their generous forbearance.
Their influence was emancipating and stimulating. They were friendly to
thought. Under their ministration the mind took a leap forward towards
the confines of the Christian system of faith. What the divinity school
of the future may be able to accomplish it would be hazardous to
conjecture. It could hardly then have done more than it did.
The study of comparative religions, so zealously prosecuted within a
few years, together with a desire to do perfect justice to orthodox
doctrines, may render practical a scientific review of theological
systems, but in this event a predilection in favor of a separate
"Christian" ministry can be no longer characteristic of a divinity
school which proposes to prepare young men for the clerical calling.
The three years of secluded life passed quickly away. The trial sermon
in the village church was delivered and criticised. The President of the
college then was Edward Everett, my uncle. The next morning I went to
his office; he spoke warmly of my sermon, but advised me henceforth to
commit sermons to memory as he did. This I tried two or three times, but
the effort to write the sermons so fatigued me that the task of
committing them to memory was too great, and for years I wrote my
discourses, until for convenience' sake I learned to preach without
notes. The diploma was bestowed, the actual ministry was begun. The term
of preaching as a candidate did not last long. By the advice of friends
an invitation was accepted to an old established conservative parish in
Salem, Mass. Ordination and marriage soon followed, and public life was
inaugurated under the most promising conditions. I had the best wishes
of the conservative portion of the community to which I was, properly,
supposed to belong, and the hopes of the radical portion who anticipated
a change of view as time went on, and I was brought into sharper
collision with prevailing habits of thought than was possible at
Cambridge, where the student was in a great measure cut off from
intercourse with the world.
At the "Divinity School" I was known as a young man with conservative
ideas. I remember now discussions, essays, criticisms, in which the
opinions in vogue among old-fashioned Unitarians were defended somewhat
passionately against the more daring convictions of my companions. In
especial my faith was in direct opposition to the spiritual philosophy;
Strauss was a horror; Parker was a bugbear; Furness seemed an innovator;
Emerson was a "Transcendentalist," a term of immeasurable reproach. All
this was soon to pass away, and I was to go a great deal beyond even
Parker. The word "Transcendentalist" ceased to be a synonym for
"enthusiast." The philosophy of intuition was first literally adopted,
then dismissed, and I came out where I least expected. But I well
remember, one evening as I was walking out from Boston, presenting to
myself distinctly the alternative between the adoption of the old and
the new. I am afraid that the old commended itself by its venerableness,
the solidity of its traditions, and the authority of its great names,
while the new was still vague and formless. I then and there decided to
follow in the footsteps of my fathers, a course more in sympathy with
the prevailing temper of the age and with the current of thought at
Divinity Hall, though Emerson had delivered his address some years
before, and the New Jerusalem was even then coming down from heaven.