For the first year in New York I lived with Dr. Bellows at his
parsonage. Mrs. Bellows and the children were at Eagleswood, New Jersey,
the children being at school with Mr. Weld. And this is the place to say
something about Henry Whitney Bellows. He was a very remarkable man,
most extraordinary in his way; an original man, a peculiar individual;
of mercurial temper, various, quick, sympathetic, brave, whole-hearted,
generous, but all in his own fashion. More Celtic than Saxon, more
French than English, prone to generalize, something of a _doctrinaire_,
indifferent to personalities, but of warm affections where he was
interested; loyal, as knights always are, where his honor was concerned,
but impatient of dictation, restless, nervous, impetuous, dashing from
side to side, always consistent with himself, yet rarely consistent with
ordinary rules of conventional society. Such a man is best described in
detail.
Dr. Bellows, as we called him, had a singular gift of _expression_.
This was the soul of him, his most prominent feature, the trait that
explains every other. His appearance indicated as much. He had a mobile
mouth, flexible features, a ringing voice, a cordial manner. He was fond
of talking, brilliant in conversation, attractive in social intercourse,
a charming companion, full of wit, rapid in repartee, ready with
anecdote, illustration, allusion. He was a great favorite at the
dinner-table, at friendly gatherings, at the club, where a circle always
collected round him and were delighted with the endless versatility of
his discourse. In fact, he was a man of society rather than a clergyman,
though he occupied a pulpit from the beginning, and was faithful to all
the duties of his profession. Still they were not altogether to his
taste, and he got away from them whenever he conscientiously could. His
best deliverances were half-secular addresses on some theme of immediate
popular interest, speeches, orations, ethical talks, ever on a high
plane of sentiment, but looking towards the urgent preoccupations of the
time. He was not a student in any direction; not a deep, patient,
exhaustive thinker; not a scholar in any school, but an immense reader
of current literature, of magazines, papers, memoirs, and an eloquent
reproducer of thoughts as he found them lying on the surface of the
intellectual world. His brain was exceedingly active, and reached forth
in all directions; his pen was fluent, facile, and busy; language exuded
from all his pores. As a preacher he was conventional, restrained, and,
it must be confessed, not engaging as a rule, but as a talker he was
delightful, copious, entertaining, kindling, attractive to old and
young, and crowds thronged the house when he spoke about what he had
seen or felt, while his pulpit discourses did not fill the pews. Like
many men of remarkable talents, he imagined his strong points to be
those in which he was most deficient, not being gifted with much power
of self-knowledge, and perhaps aspiring after accomplishments he did not
possess. He prided himself more than he should have done on his insight
as a theologian, his depth as a philosopher, his skill as an
administrator, his practical success as an organizer; whereas his
consummate ability consisted in exposition, not in original discovery.
He was not a theologian, not a philosopher, not a builder, but a most
persuasive advocate, perhaps the most adroit I ever met with. His range
was wide, his exuberance infinite, his sway over his listeners absolute.
It is no marvel that such a man was persuaded that he could achieve all
things.
He was the only speaker I ever knew who could talk himself into ideas.
Many, by dint of talking, can work themselves into an implicit faith in
doctrines they were indifferent about at starting; but this man had the
dangerous gift of being able, not merely to think on his feet, but to
set his faculties in motion by the action of his tongue. Again and again
he has gone to a public meeting, at which he was expected to speak, with
no preparation at all, or none but a very general one, depending upon
some impulse of the moment to set him a-going. A word dropped by a
previous speaker, the mere presence of the audience, a suggestion
awakened in his mind as he sat awaiting his turn, would excite him
sufficiently; and when he stood up one idea started another, an
illustration opened a new field of thought, till the torrent, growing
deeper and more tumultuous as it flowed, carried the hearers away in
ecstasy. One who did not know him found it hard to believe that he had
not meditated his address beforehand. He has gone into the pulpit with a
written sermon, and being struck by a sentence in the Scripture he was
reading, has laid his manuscript aside and delivered an extemporaneous
discourse on an entirely different theme.
The reason why he did not preach habitually without notes was that this
fatal facility of speech excited him too much, carried him too far,
rendered him discursive, led him on to inordinate length, and wearied
his congregation. He needed the restraint of the paper, the calm dignity
of the closet meditation; he needed also to spread his thoughts over a
larger expanse of time, and thus to secure quiet for his brain. At the
risk, therefore, of being dull, he spared himself, as well as his
parishioners, the stimulating fervor of the extemporaneous address. He
may have felt, too, that his was not the quality of mind for this
method. It required a less fluent talent, a less ready loquacity, a less
mercurial temperament, a more reserved habit. There are those whose
constitutional reticence preserves them from aberration; who can see the
end from the beginning; can cling closely to the matter in hand; can
walk a thin plank; and have too few ready ideas to be in any peril of
going astray. Such are the most successful extemporaneous preachers. Dr.
Bellows' genius was better adapted to an address, therefore, than to a
sermon.
The secular view of things was more attractive to him than the
spiritual. His defence of the drama in 1857 (an oration delivered in the
Academy of Music, and which was very bold for that time); his vigorous
conduct of the _Christian Inquirer_, a Unitarian paper, which he managed
and for which he wrote constantly for four years, advocating an unwonted
liberality of sympathy, maintaining, for example, the substantial
identity of the Unitarian and the Universalist confessions; his interest
in questions of social and philanthropic concern; his lectures before
the Lowell Institute in 1857,--all attest his desire to effect a
reconciliation between science and religion, between this world and the
next. His oration before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, in 1853,
is an admirable specimen of his treatment of similar themes. The subject
of the oration was "The Ledger and the Lexicon, or Business and
Literature in Account with American Education"; and its purpose was to
assert the claims of popular life against those of scholarship,--to
state the case of natural instincts and practical intelligence as the
controlling force of our destiny. He says, most truly, at the outset,
"Speaking purely as a scholar, I should unaffectedly feel that I had
nothing to offer worthy this audience or occasion," and then he goes on
with a full, earnest, eloquent plea for the intellectual character of
our political and commercial activity. Here is an extract:
What History asks from us is not Literature and Art. The world is
full of what can never grow old in either. _American_ Literature,
_American_ Art! Heaven save us from them! Let us freely use what is
so much better than anything one nation can make, the Literature
and Art of the whole past and the whole world. History implores us,
first of all, to be true to humanity. She begs to see the
education, the taste, the sensibility of this great people turned
to the serious, vital, universal interest of thoroughly vindicating
_Man_ from the scorn of _men;_ of establishing man on his throne as
man,--free because man, happy because man, noble and religious
because man! Literature and Art will take care of themselves; high
education and scholarship will come in their own time; and so,
thank God, will everything humanity needs. But for ourselves and
the immediate generation, there is no work so worthy as confirming
the faith of our people in their own principles; encouraging
devotion to Liberty as the supreme interest of Man;--of man sacred
in his own eyes, with duties, rights, aims, that are bounded
neither by color, nationality, nor law. The love of the race, the
liberation of humanity from complexional, material, political, and
moral disfranchisements; the elevation of the individual and of
every individual; the prostration of all partition-walls that
separate our kind; the tumbling of the artificial pedestals that
elevate the few, into the unnatural pits that bury the rest; the
affiliation of the foreigner, and the emancipation of the slave;
the subjugation of rebellious matter and reluctant wealth to the
wants and desires of man; the establishment of beautiful and
independent homes, of high and free and noble lives;--this is
American scholarship, this American art. A country that sacrifices
even its nationality, that proudest of all prejudices, to its
humanity, will be the first to pay that tribute to man, which
Christ waits to welcome as the final triumph of his kingdom. And,
finally, here in America, where for the first time universal
comfort and general abundance reign, the race looks to us to
pronounce the banns between the spiritual and material interests
and pursuits of man,--his worldly well-being, and his heavenly
prosperity,--a union that shall not be a miserable compromise of
which both shall be ashamed and which neither shall keep, but an
honorable, hearty, and intelligible alliance, on the highest
grounds.
This is very fine and brave, and similar in tone was all he said
about American life and destiny. He tried to exalt common things, and in
this way he more than made amends for his lack of scholastic equipment.
His mission was to encourage and fortify and console actual men and
women, not to solve deep problems of fate. A good but commonplace man
spoke to me with tears in his eyes of his endless gratitude to Dr.
Bellows because on one New Year's Day he preached a doctrine of promise,
and said that men did their best, and that the world was as good as
could be expected; not an extraordinary doctrine certainly, but one that
is seldom announced with so much cordial, human sympathy. This same
ardor he threw into his ordinary lectures, carrying audiences away with
a flood of conviction. When our Civil War broke out and it became
evident, as it soon did, that the conflict would be a long one,
necessitating large armies in a region of country unused to military
needs and ignorant of military exigencies, Dr. Bellows' attention was
drawn to the questions involved in the maintenance of a vast number of
men in the field, their protection, discipline, and comfort; the proper
supply of food, clothing, medicine; the best kind of tent, the best kind
of hospital, the duty of keeping up the home associations by means of
correspondence and missives. He talked over the situation with a few
friends; societies were formed, organizations instituted, the means of
relief set in motion. Out of this grew the Sanitary Commission, of which
he was the mouthpiece and the inspiring soul. The work was immense, but
the task of awakening the country to the necessity of endeavor was,
beyond all ordinary power of conception, arduous. Such was the blind
faith in the government,--a government inexperienced in similar
matters,--such was the indifference of multitudes who were far removed
from actual danger, such the unconsciousness of the magnitude of the
peril, such the insensibility to the demands of the hour, the serene
confidence that all was going well, the jaunty sense of complacency in
having raised the regiments, that nothing less than a trumpet call was
required to rouse the country to a feeling of obligation. Afterwards
when the magnitude of the strife was self-evident, when the dangers of
camp-life were understood, and the temptations to infidelity of many
kinds were painfully apparent, other forces came in to carry forward the
work; but at first prescience was needed, and zeal, and faith in
principles, and a sense of the gravity of the situation. It is hardly
too much to say that but for the energy shown by the Sanitary Commission
in the early part of the war, the issue might have been indefinitely
postponed. That the Commission itself flourished to the end was due in
the main to Henry Bellows. Of course he did not do everything, but he
did his part. The labor of organization was discharged by other orders
of genius. The duties of treasurer devolved upon men differently
constituted still; there were many hands employed, many heads busy with
planning. But his was the potent voice. He sounded the clarion; East,
West, North, and as far South as he could go, he argued, remonstrated,
pleaded, exhorted, interpreted, inspired, and wherever he was heard he
filled veins with patriotic fire. He was never daunted, never
disheartened, never depressed. His tones always rang out clear, strong,
decisive. The bugle never gave an uncertain sound. In Washington he
addressed the highest authorities and was so urgent, not to say so
imperious, that President Lincoln asked him which of the two ran the
machine of government. He possessed in a singular degree the power of
making people work, and work gladly,--all sorts of people, men and
women, the sensible and the enthusiastic, the practical and the
sentimental, the low-toned and the high-strung; and they toiled day
after day at scraping lint, packing garments, raising money, organizing
fairs. In the meantime he travelled to and fro, lecturing, addressing
crowds in the meeting-houses, halls, theatres; writing letters to
committees, visiting men of influence, inspecting hospitals and camps,
making himself acquainted with the newest methods of dealing with
sanitary problems, and imparting ideas as fast as they came to him. His
activity was prodigious. He was one of the most conspicuous figures in
the country. He brought the Commission into universal repute. Under his
spell it lost its local character and became a national concern. He was
a Unitarian preacher; his immediate co-operators were Unitarians; yet so
broad and mundane was he that no savor of sectarianism mingled with his
zeal, nor could it be suspected, except for his aims, that he was a
clergyman. As long as the war lasted this energy continued, the
enthusiasm did not abate, the outpouring did not slacken. It was not
till the struggle was over that the over-tasked brain craved repose.
Then the reaction was purely nervous, not in the least moral or
intellectual. He sprang up again and threw himself into new enterprises
with the old fervor and the old brilliancy of speech, striving to awaken
a desire for religious unity, as he had promoted national concord. The
establishment of the National Conference of Liberal Churches, which was
to supplement the more local Unitarian Associations, was his suggestion.
The scheme did not entirely meet his expectations, but this shows how
large his expectations were, and how comprehensive were his purposes of
good. As has been intimated already, his desires were in advance of his
practical ability. He was a man of wishes rather than of expedients. His
plans often failed, but his aspirations were always pure and lofty, and
it was characteristic of him to impute the failure of the special plan
to some stubbornness in the materials he attempted to manipulate, rather
than to any deficiency in his own faculty. Thus his confidence in
himself was sustained, and he went on trying experiments and believing
in his talent to set anything, even communities and States, on their
feet.
People used to say that his advocacy was very uncertain; that it was
impossible to tell in advance whether he would take a liberal or a
conservative view of a party or dogma; in short, he had the reputation
of being somewhat of a chameleon, of catching his line from the last
person he talked with. One of his parishioners remarked, jestingly, that
the hearers of Dr. Bellows were taught in perfection one lesson,--that
of self-reliance. This was probably true, as it was a general
impression; and it illustrates the warmth of his sympathy, the
impressionableness of his temperament, the readiness of his adaptation,
the facility of his discourse, as well as the want of depth in his
speculative intellect and his lack of hold on fundamental principles. He
was an advocate by nature, not a theologian, a philosopher, or a critic;
an adept in speech, not a subtle or profound thinker. He saw the
effective points in either doctrine, and chose the one that was most
captivating at the time. His eclecticism was simply ease of
transference, not a keen perception of the grounds of identity. His
logic was the skilful accommodation to circumstances, not absolute
fidelity to the laws of reason. His affluence of diction and his
profusion of thoughts covered up his essential poverty of insight, and
persuaded some that he looked farther than he did; but still it remains
true that he was not a sure guide in matters of opinion. He was a most
adroit, subtle, engaging talker, and as such was of incalculable value;
a fountain of entertainment, and a source of influence. A decided vein
of Bohemianism ran through his character. He was light-hearted, gay,
versatile, fond of fun, restless, addicted to society, abhorrent of
solitude, darkness, confinement; a friend of artists, musicians, wits; a
club-man; could smoke a cigar, and drink a glass of wine, and tell a
merry story; a man of quick emotions, volatile some would call him,
though of unquestioned and unquestionable loyalty when any principle was
at stake, or any person he loved and trusted was in trouble. Otherwise
he forgot unpleasant things and went to something else, dropping the
individual, but holding fast to the elements of charity. This faculty of
changing rapidly from one interest to another saved him from a vast deal
of fatigue, and enabled him to pursue his almost incredible labors with
less wear and tear than would have been possible under other
circumstances. The formation of roots, and the necessity of pulling them
up frequently with a feeling of loss and pain, is sadly weakening and
disabling. This fosters a disposition to stay at home, to form few ties,
to remain quietly where one is placed by destiny, to expose one's self
to no more disruptions than are appointed, to hide one's self in a
corner of existence, to avoid the wind. The scholar hugs his library,
reads books, meditates, cultivates his mind, appears in public only when
he is prepared. The man of society dashes out and deems the time wasted
that is passed in the house. Dr. Bellows once expressed his wonder that
a friend should have no desire to go abroad, but should be content in
his study.
He was a knight-errant, a Norman gentleman, ever ready to succor the
oppressed, but satisfied when he had unhorsed the oppressor, though the
victim lay helpless on the ground. He derived his name from "Belles
Eaux." He was not a democrat as implying one that had affinities with
the people. On the contrary, he was at bottom an aristocrat, looking
down on the people; but he was humane in idea, holding it to be the part
of a gentleman to relieve the unfortunate. The motto, "_Noblesse
oblige_" applied to him exactly, with the understanding that he belonged
to the _Noblesse_, and was privileged to patronize. This tendency was
prominent in him. He would not allow a companion to pay his car fare,
because he would not borrow so small a sum, but he confronted the man to
whom he had lent fifty dollars, and who had forgotten the payment, as
people often do. Meeting the defaulter in the street, he reminded him of
the transaction, taxed him with infidelity to his engagements, and had
the satisfaction of receiving his money and relieving his mind at the
same time. Magnanimous he was by nature. I will give a single instance
of it, out of several I could detail if personalities did not forbid.
When I first came to New York to found a parish, there was a woman in my
congregation,--an angular, brusque woman, not sunny or agreeable,--whose
husband, being unfortunate, had, to repair his fortune, gone to San
Francisco; she stayed in New York and kept school, for the purpose of
educating her children, and of eking out the family expenses. One day,
complaining to me of her lot and labor, she spoke of certain prejudices
against her as interfering with her success, and accused Dr. Bellows of
being one of her enemies. Having satisfied myself of the injustice of
the impression about her, and of her worthy deserving, I took occasion
at once to speak to Dr. Bellows on the subject. Reminding him of the
circumstances in which the woman was placed, I asked him if he did not
think she ought to be helped instead of being hindered. He acknowledged
that he knew her, that he did not like her, that he had spoken harshly
of her under the impression that she was not deserving of moral support.
On my presentation of her case, and conviction that he was wrong, he,
being persuaded of his heedlessness, offered to do everything in his
power to repair any mischief he might have caused. In my excitement, I
became audacious and suggested the drawing up and signing of a
paper,--about the most disagreeable thing that could be proposed. But he
assented, prepared the paper, affixed his signature, and from that hour
did his utmost to befriend the woman whom he took no pleasure in
thinking of. This was noble, even great. He could put his personal
tastes aside when a principle was involved.
It used to be urged against him that he dropped people when he had done
with them, and felt no scruple in sacrificing them to his views of
policy. But it cannot be proved that he was false to anybody, and his
notion of the absolute unfitness of the individual for his place, or of
the man's unreliability, was probably the real cause of his opposition.
Probably, in each instance of his withdrawal of confidence, there were
excellent reasons for his conduct, though it was natural that those who
were suddenly neglected or displaced should feel indignant and
aggrieved. Dr. Bellows was not one to act on a private prejudice or a
personal pique. His affections were strong and would have led him to
make any concession that was consistent with what he regarded as his
public duty. No doubt he was somewhat imperious in judging what his duty
was; he lacked the useful faculty of remaining in the background; he was
impetuous and forward; but he never was or could be insincere, and he
always had a sufficient explanation of the course he pursued,--an
explanation perfectly satisfactory to one who bore his temperament in
mind and considered what he could do and what he could not.
A most lovable, cordial, faithful man I always found him,--a man to be
depended on in difficult and trying times, high-minded, courageous,
daring, ready to enter the breach, happiest when leading a forlorn hope,
straight-forward, inspiring, easily lifted beyond himself, and imparting
nervous vigor to his followers. Followers he must have, for he was not
content to obey any behest; but then his leadership was so hearty and
wholesome, so free from superciliousness, so abundant in expressions of
loyalty, that it was a joy to go with him. He was more than willing to
do his share of hard work, and to indulge his servants. If one could
forbear to cross him, he was friendliness itself; a warm advocate of
liberty, only insisting that liberty and progress should march hand in
hand; that private idiosyncrasies should not stand in the way of
practical advance. He was a very different man from Dr. Dewey, yet he
loved Dr. Dewey devotedly while life lasted. He was an entirely
different man from me in temperament and in gifts,--quite opposite in
fact,--yet he was one of the best of my friends as long as he lived,
seldom resenting my radicalism, never impatient of my slowness, but
warm, sunny, helpful to the end, the man to whom I instinctively
resorted for sympathy in the most painful passages of my career.
In a word, the foundation of his character was impulse. He was a man of
fiery zeal, of moral passion, of vast enthusiasm, and when a storm of
spiritual power came sweeping down from some unseen height, he was
easily carried away. This impulsive character explains his chivalry of
disposition, his magnanimity, his self-abnegation; for though he was
self-asserting, he could at once forget himself, and sink his own
individuality entirely when some cause he had at heart strongly appealed
to him. This impulsiveness explains, too, his theological inconsistency,
for when the popular feeling struck him, he was carried away in a
different direction from what he had first proposed. For instance,
once--I think it was at Buffalo--he gave a most eloquent plea for
individualism, having determined to speak in favor of institutions; and
in Boston when he had been expected to uphold a creed, he was so borne
away by the opposite sentiment that, when he ended, a creed seemed
absolutely impossible.
A very different person from the foregoing was Dr. Samuel Osgood, the
successor of Dr. Dewey in the Church of the Messiah on Broadway, and the
close associate of the pastor of "All Souls," which name he suggested
when the new edifice on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twentieth Street
was christened. He was a lover of ecclesiasticism, of forms, usages,
ceremonials, though he was not unmindful of the ideas that lay beneath
them, and too good a New Englander, too good a Unitarian, too staunch a
friend of free thought to be anything but a liberal Protestant; a man of
names and dates, and instituted observances, not "electric," "magnetic,"
or a leader either of thought or action; not a man of deep emotions, or
moving eloquence in or out of the pulpit; not a man of long reach or
wide influence, but conspicuous in his way, unique, worth studying as a
figure in his generation.
He was devoted to books, of which he read and produced many, and might
have been called learned, yet he was not a closet man, not a recluse; on
the contrary, he knew about public affairs, talked about what was going
on in the world, attended political, social, and literary meetings, was
a member of the prominent clubs, like the "Century" and the "Union
League," was for years the Corresponding Secretary of the "Historical
Society," rather prided himself, in fact, on the number and intimacy of
his outside relations. With all this, he was a diligent pastor, an
excellent denominationalist, a dependence on all church occasions within
his sect, a speaker at conventions, a worker of the ecclesiastical
machinery, a man much relied on for denominational work.
His writings were numerous. In fact he always seemed to have the pen
in his hand. Besides the books which are known,--"Studies in Christian
Biography," "The Hearthstone," "God with Men," "Milestones in Our Life
Journey," "Student Life,"--all popular once,--he contributed frequently
to the _Christian Examiner_, the _North American Review_, the
_Bibliotheca Sacra_, and other important magazines; delivered orations,
printed theological discourses, especially a famous one before the
theological school at Meadville, Pennsylvania, on "The Coming Church and
its Clergy," and for several months, during Mr. Curtis' illness,
prepared the essays in the "Easy Chair" for _Harper's Monthly Magazine_.
His interest in matters of education and literature was incessant,
active, and useful. He made speeches, served on committees, prepared
reports, in every way tried to serve the cause of rational knowledge.
Yet with all his industry and all his ability--for he possessed ability
of no mean order,--he had a mind singularly destitute of vitality. His
ingenuity, his pleasantry, his sententiousness, his versatility, could
not conceal this lack of organic power. His vivacity did not exhilarate,
his happy expressions did not create the sense of life in the mind, but
were like artificial flowers that had no perfume, and reminded one more
of the perfection of art than of the involuntary sweetness of nature. He
was destitute of genius to inspire. It is the more wonderful that he
could persevere, as he did, without the popular recognition that his
talents merited, or the applause his endeavors deserved. He had praise,
to be sure, but it was not hearty or effusive, and they who rendered it
probably wondered why they could not put more soul into their laudation.
The address was brilliant, but not warming. One must come within arm's
length of him to feel the beating of his heart, to be sensible of his
force. He was unable to project himself far, and relied upon incidental
advantages of occasion for effects which he could not produce by genius.
He was a most affectionate man, dependent, clinging, always ready to
serve, obliging, docile, patient, without hardness and without guile. He
was devoted to his family, faithful to his friends, never allowing
differences of opinion to interfere with his duty towards those who
might expect support from him, but fulfilling disagreeable offices when
he felt that loyalty made perfect truthfulness incumbent. There was
something touching in his fidelity towards men who gave him nothing but
outside recognition, and who were willing to abandon him when he could
no longer be useful. There was something plaintive in his readiness to
work for men who accepted his labor as a matter of course, and allowed
him to throw away his love. He, for his part, asked no reward, but was
quite satisfied if his service was accepted kindly by those to whom he
rendered it. Not that he did not like recognition; he did, and the more
public it was the better he liked it. For he was fond of notoriety, had
a craving for publicity, and was happiest when a multitude applauded.
This may have grown out of his affectionateness, for he reached forth
his arms as widely as possible, and wanted to hear the sound of many
approving voices, needing sympathy and the assurance that he was
conferring pleasure, the noise of plaudits reassuring his heart. Still
he could do without this, if he was certain of the attachment of a
single warm friend. Recognition of some sort was essential to his peace,
for he did not possess independence enough to stand alone, and he cared
too much for individuals to be easy if they were displeased. He gave
himself a great deal of pain, worried, took infinite trouble about
imaginary sorrows, not being able to feel or to affect indifference, and
being destitute of the robustness of character necessary to throw off
unpleasant things; for his ambition, not springing from vitality of
mind, was no guard against griefs of the spirit. He that cannot lose
himself in his studies fails to derive from them their best
satisfaction,--that of consolation and refuge. He stands naked to the
wind, and, if his skin is tender, suffers acutely.
Dr. Osgood was intensely self-conscious, self-regarding,
self-referring. Not vain in the ordinary sense, though he seemed so from
his countenance, attitude, manner, for all of which, I am persuaded,
nature was more responsible than disposition, his physical formation
producing a certain carriage that suggested superciliousness and
conceit. If he were forth-putting, it was, in most instances at least,
because he lacked self-reliance, and wished to be _seen_, knowing that
he could not be _felt_. In reality he was a modest, timid, shrinking
man, with an inordinate desire for distinction, which impelled him
continually to make a demonstration in public. Mere vanity--the love of
appearances--he was destitute of, for he was too tender-hearted and too
conscientious to make victims. One must be self-centred to be vain, as
he was not. I recollect his coming one day into the office of the
_Christian Inquirer_, with his head up as usual, and calling out in a
loud voice: "Where do you think I went on my way down town?" Of course
none of us knew or could guess. "Well," he went on to say, with an air
of complacency, "I stopped at Fowler & Wells' and had my head examined."
"Ah!" exclaimed one of the impudent, "did they find anything, Sam?"
"What they did _not_ find," he said, "will interest you more. They
declared that I was deficient in self-respect, and it is true." And it
_was_ true. Samuel Osgood assumed a brave air, for the reason that he
could not trust himself in the open field. He needed the protection of a
rampart. He wore a showy uniform, because he was not valiant. He had too
much self-esteem to forget himself, and too little courage to assert
himself; the consequence was that he said and did numerous things that
looked vainglorious and were absurd, but which were intended to conceal
his impuissance. It was an innocent kind of bravado, like poor Oliver
Proudfute's, in Scott's romance, "The Fair Maid of Perth." Nobody was
hurt by it, though to him the passion for notoriety was fatal. He liked
to see his name in a newspaper, coveting the kind of reputation that
came in that way, and comforting his heart with the thought of lying on
the broad bosom of the community. His restless desire for public notice
brought ridicule on him, for ordinary people ascribed it to his conceit,
whereas it rather indicated an absence of self-confidence. It was a
cloak to hide his depreciation at the same time that it made him look
larger in the general eye. It was, therefore, more touching than
despicable, and if it excited mirth there was nothing bitter in the
smile which could not break into laughter. Selfish he could not be
called, for he was always serving others, and disinterestedly too; but
on a charge of complacency he could hardly be acquitted. This was the
manner in which he took his reward, and, as I said, it cost nothing to
anybody, while the public received a great deal of service very
ungrudgingly bestowed.
The change from Unitarianism to Episcopacy is very easily explained.
His craving for sympathy was boundless. He was necessarily isolated in
New York, nor had he the solace of a great popular success. In fact his
following was small; his church was dwindling; his reputation was
certainly not increasing; and he became persuaded, I think without
sufficient reason, that he was the victim of adverse influences. In
London, he was charmed with the blended freedom and sanctity of the
"Broad Church" represented by Stanley, Kingsley, Jowett, and a host of
cultivated men; by its unity amid diversity; its sympathy and fellowship
and large scholarship. Here was a church indeed; wide, holy, liberal,
devout, with articles admitting of various interpretations, sacraments
tender and elastic, forms that did not constrain, and usages that did
not bind, an unlimited range of speculation, and a spirit of reverence
that kept the most widely separated together. Here was something very
different from the sectarianism he had, all his life, been accustomed
to, and, all his life, had loathed. He joined this Communion not so much
on account of its _creed_ as of its _creedlessness;_ not as another form
of denominationalism, but as an escape from denominationalism; a real,
living, comprehensive church, where there was room for all Christian
souls, whatever their special mode of belief; a Protestant church with a
truly catholic temper, cordial, humane, courteous; with a respect for
literature, and a love for knowledge; with no jealousy or ill-will, or
fear of thought. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired. Shortly after
his return, as he sat in my study, I asked him if he had materially
changed his theology. He replied that he had not, he had simply altered
the _emphasis;_ as much as to say that in substance it remained what it
was before, essentially Unitarian, as he understood that designation. In
fact, his sermons were to all intents and purposes the same; they never
abounded in doctrine, they did not now; they were always "sentimental,"
in the sense of dealing with sentiment, they were so still. He was not a
prime favorite with Episcopalians in America. He was not narrow or
strict enough for the orthodox; he was not "sensational" enough for the
liberals; he was too ecclesiastical for the Low Churchmen; too
rationalistic for the High Churchmen; and his failure to communicate
warmth was not favorable to his attractiveness. There were not many
Broad Church ministers in New York, so that his circle of fellowship was
small; and on the whole the reception was a disappointment. He longed
for recognition, which he found among many of his old associates, as he
did not find it among his new friends. He was always a churchman when he
was a Unitarian; he was no more of a churchman now, and the sympathy he
sought he might have found in his former connection. Probably had he
lived elsewhere than in New York, where the competition was sharp, and
where individuality alone without distinguished power counted for
nothing, he would have continued Unitarian, and been happy, but he was
ambitious of eminence; he wanted to live in a great city, to be minister
of a metropolitan parish, to be a Doctor of Divinity, and for all this
he lacked the force. There was a perpetual conflict between his
aspirations and his vigor. He joined the Episcopal fraternity, hoping
for what none but those born into it attain without energy of an exalted
kind. His ancient comrades fell away, as was natural; he could not win
other comrades, and his later years became lonely. He cared more for
Christian fellowship than for any other; and he had not the power to
secure this. Thus his affectionateness was against him. He was a loyal
man, true to his convictions, faithful to the bent of his mind. He could
not be a deceiver or a renegade, and his heart was not strong enough or
wide enough to push him forward.
Some thought him deficient in common-sense, and this is, in a sense,
true. He had not the force to carry projects through, nor had he the
hearty accord with the people of his generation that would give him an
instinctive insight into their wishes and enable him to strike into the
current of their designs. His self-reference always stood in the way of
his sympathy with other men; yet he often took practical views of
speculative questions, and curbed a propensity to moral enthusiasm on
the part of some of his associates. This, however, was due to his
timidity, to his absence of vigor, to his want of vital conviction,
rather than to any clearness of perception. He had no humor, no sense of
the incongruous, the incompatible, or the absurd. He named rocks,
groves, arbors, on his summer estate, after the famous poets, and used
to sit in turn on the seats he had thus immortalized. He said things
that no man of taste would have uttered, and did things that no man of
judgment would have been guilty of. But all this was owing to the
absence of sensible qualities rather than to the presence of visionary
ones. He was not perverse, stubborn, or wrong-headed, did not outrage
common opinion, or fly in the face of established prejudice. His want of
good sense was negative, not positive; innocent, not harmful.
Such men have their uses and their place, and neither is small or low.
His love of learning, his devotion to duty, his friendliness, his
fidelity, his kindliness, were rare gifts, particularly rare in
communities like ours. His child-like conceit, very different from the
aggressive vanity that offends the sensitive soul, was not offensive or
noxious, and was a source of harmless amusement. His guilelessness was
more than touching; it was admirable as an example and as a lesson, in
an age that honors knowledge of the world beyond its deserts; and his
simplicity of nature, his trustingness, his ingenuousness, rendered him
a confiding friend, dear to those whose hearts were sore. Few men living
have so small a number of enemies. He did not provoke the hostility he
received. It was possible to be sorry for him; it was impossible to bear
him malice.
As I think of him, the vision arises of a complacent man, with a loud
greeting, a metallic voice, an outstretched hand, a consequential
manner. All this is dust and ashes, but his singleness of intention is
not dead. When everything else is forgotten, his faithfulness will be
remembered.
Both these men gave me a warm welcome; in fact, my relations were most
friendly among the other Unitarian ministers in the neighborhood. It was
anticipated, no doubt, that I would establish a third Unitarian Society
"up town," of a liberal type; but a wide departure from the existing
order was not suspected. The expectation was that the usual doctrines
were to be proclaimed; that the sacraments were to be administered; that
the regular order was to be observed. Perhaps my willingness to
undertake such an enterprise was regarded as a sign of concession on my
part; perhaps it was supposed that the conservative tone of the city,
together with the attitude of the other churches, would repress the
radical tendencies of the young clergyman; perhaps the trials incident
to a new society and the confusions of the time concealed somewhat the
real bearing of the undertaking. However this may be, there was no
opposition, no criticism, no dictation, no proscription of radical
leanings. My congregations were composed of all sorts of people. There
were Unitarians, Universalists, "come-outers," spiritualists,
unbelievers of all kinds, anti-slavery people, reformers generally. But
this, as being incidental to the formation of every liberal society, was
not objected to. It need not have been; for if there had been no
interruption, no check, everything might have gone smoothly, as in
similar societies since.