"I am sorry you should have taken so long a journey to hear Christ
preached, and then heard what you are polite enough to call a 'political
harangue.' I am sorry, too, that you think I made an ass of myself. In
this connection I have but one consolation: that you didn't make an ass
of yourself. The Lord did that."
"Henry Ward Beecher.
When the Reverend T. De Witt Talmage began to come into public notice in
Brooklyn, some of Mr. Beecher's overzealous followers unwisely gave the
impression that the Plymouth preacher resented sharing with another the
pulpit fame which he alone had so long unquestioningly held. Nothing, of
course, was further from Mr. Beecher's mind. As a matter of fact, the
two men were exceedingly good friends. Mr. Beecher once met Doctor
Talmage in a crowded business thoroughfare, where they got so deeply
interested in each other's talk that they sat down in some chairs
standing in front of a furniture store. A gathering throng of intensely
amused people soon brought the two men to the realization that they had
better move. Then Mr. Beecher happened to see that back of their heads
had been, respectively, two signs: one reading, "This style $3.45," the
other, "This style $4.25."
"Well," said Mr. Beecher, as he and Doctor Talmage walked away laughing,
"I was ticketed higher than you, Talmage, anyhow."
"You're worth more," rejoined Doctor Talmage.
On another occasion, as the two men met they began to bandy each other.
"Now, Talmage," said Mr. Beecher, his eyes twinkling, "let's have it
out. My people say that Plymouth holds more people than the Tabernacle,
and your folks stand up for the Tabernacle. Now which is it? What is
your estimate?"
"Well, I should say that the Tabernacle holds about fifteen thousand
people," said Doctor Talmage with a smile.
"Good," said Mr. Beecher, at once catching the spirit. "And I say that
Plymouth accommodates, comfortably, twenty thousand people. Now, let's
tell our respective trustees that it's settled, once for all."
Mr. Beecher could never be induced to take note of what others said of
him. His friends, with more heart than head, often tried to persuade him
to answer some attack, but he invariably waved them off. He always saw
the ridiculous side of those attacks; never their serious import.
At one time a fellow Brooklyn minister, a staunch Prohibitionist,
publicly reproved Mr. Beecher for being inconsistent in his temperance
views, to the extent that he preached temperance but drank beer at his
own dinner-table. This attack angered the friends of Mr. Beecher, who
tried to persuade him to answer the charge. But the Plymouth pastor
refused. "Friend -- is a good fellow," was the only comment they could
elicit.
"But he ought to be broadened," persisted the friends.
"Well now," said Mr. Beecher, "that isn't always possible. For
instance," he continued, as that inimitable merry twinkle came into his
eyes, "sometime ago Friend -- criticised me for something I had said. I
thought he ought not to have done so, and the next time we met I told
him so. He persisted, and I felt the only way to treat him was as I
would an unruly child. So I just took hold of him, laid him face down
over my knee, and proceeded to impress him as our fathers used to do of
old. And, do you know, I found that the Lord had not made a place on him
for me to lay my hand upon."
And in the laughter which met this sally Mr. Beecher ended with "You
see, it isn't always possible to broaden a man."
Mr. Beecher was rarely angry. Once, however, he came near it; yet he was
more displeased than angry. Some of his family and Edward had gone to a
notable public affair at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, where a box had
been placed at Mr. Beecher's disposal. One member of the family was a
very beautiful girl who had brought a girl-friend. Both were attired in
full evening decollete costume. Mr. Beecher came in late from another
engagement. A chair had been kept vacant for him in the immediate front
of the box, since his presence had been widely advertised, and the
audience was expecting to see him. When he came in, he doffed his coat
and was about to go to the chair reserved for him, when he stopped,
stepped back, and sat down in a chair in the rear of the box. It was
evident from his face that something had displeased him. Mrs. Beecher
leaned over and asked him, but he offered no explanation. Nothing was
said.
Edward went back to the house with Mr. Beecher; after talking awhile in
the study, the preacher, wishing to show him something, was going
up-stairs with his guest and had nearly reached the second landing when
there was the sound of a rush, the gas was quickly turned low, and two
white figures sped into one of the rooms.
"My dears," called Mr. Beecher.
"Yes, Mr. Beecher," came a voice from behind the door of the room in
question.
"Come here one minute," said Mr. Beecher.
"But we cannot," said the voice. "We are ready for bed. Wait until--"
"No; come as you are," returned Mr. Beecher.
"Let me go down-stairs," Edward interrupted.
"No; you stay right here," said Mr. Beecher.
"Why, Mr. Beecher! How can we? Isn't Edward with you?"
"You are keeping me waiting for you," was the quiet and firm answer.
There was a moment's hesitation. Then the door opened and the figures of
the two girls appeared.
"Now, turn up the gas, please, as it was," said Mr. Beecher.
"But, Mr. Beecher--"
"You heard me?"
Up went the light, and the two beautiful girls of the box stood in their
night-dresses.
"Now, why did you run away?" asked Mr. Beecher.
"Why, Mr. Beecher! How can you ask such a question?" pouted one of the
girls, looking at her dress and then at Edward.
"Exactly," said Mr. Beecher. "Your modesty leads you to run away from
this young man because he might possibly see you under a single light in
dresses that cover your entire bodies, while that same modesty did not
prevent you all this evening from sitting beside him, under a myriad of
lights, in dresses that exposed nearly half of your bodies. That's what
I call a distinction with a difference--with the difference to the
credit neither of your intelligence nor of your modesty. There is some
modesty in the dresses you have on: there was precious little in what
you girls wore this evening. Good night."
"You do not believe, Mr. Beecher," Edward asked later, "in decollete
dressing for girls?"
"No, and even less for women. A girl has some excuse of youth on her
side; a woman none at all."
A few moments later he added:
"A proper dress for any girl or woman is one that reveals the lady, but
not her person."
Edward asked Mrs. Beecher one day whether Mr. Beecher had ever expressed
an opinion of his sister's famous book, Uncle Tom's Cabin, and she told
this interesting story of how the famous preacher read the story:
"When the story was first published in The National Era, in chapters,
all our family, excepting Mr. Beecher, looked impatiently for its
appearance each week. But, try as we might, we could not persuade Mr.
Beecher to read it, or let us tell him anything about it.
"'It's folly for you to be kept in constant excitement week after week,'
he would say. 'I shall wait till the work is completed, and take it all
at one dose.'
"After the serial ended, the book came to Mr. Beecher on the morning of
a day when he had a meeting on hand for the afternoon and a speech to
make in the evening. The book was quietly laid one side, for he always
scrupulously avoided everything that could interfere with work he was
expected to do. But the next day was a free day. Mr. Beecher rose even
earlier than usual, and as soon as he was dressed he began to read Uncle
Tom's Cabin. When breakfast was ready he took his book with him to the
table, where reading and eating went on together; but he spoke never a
word. After morning prayers, he threw himself on the sofa, forgot
everything but his book, and read uninterruptedly till dinner-time.
Though evidently intensely interested, for a long time he controlled any
marked indication of it. Before noon I knew the storm was gathering that
would conquer his self-control, as it had done with us all. He
frequently 'gave way to his pocket-handkerchief,' to use one of his old
humorous remarks, in a most vigorous manner. In return for his teasing
me for reading the work weekly, I could not refrain from saying
demurely, as I passed him once: 'You seem to have a severe cold, Henry.
How could you have taken it?' But what did I gain? Not even a
half-annoyed shake of the head, or the semblance of a smile. I might as
well have spoken to the Sphinx.
"When reminded that the dinner-bell had rung, he rose and went to the
table, still with his book in his hand. He asked the blessing with a
tremor in his voice, which showed the intense excitement under which he
was laboring. We were alone at the table, and there was nothing to
distract his thoughts. He drank his coffee, ate but little, and returned
to his reading, with no thought of indulging in his usual nap. His
almost uncontrollable excitement revealed itself in frequent
half-suppressed sobs.
"Mr. Beecher was a very slow reader. I was getting uneasy over the marks
of strong feeling and excitement, and longed to have him finish the
book. I could see that he entered into the whole story, every scene, as
if it were being acted right before him, and he himself were the
sufferer. He had always been a pronounced Abolitionist, and the story he
was reading roused intensely all he had felt on that subject.
"The night came on. It was growing late, and I felt impelled to urge him
to retire. Without raising his eyes from the book, he replied:
"'Soon; soon; you go; I'll come soon.'
"Closing the house, I went to our room; but not to sleep. The clock
struck twelve, one, two, three; and then, to my great relief, I heard
Mr. Beecher coming up-stairs. As he entered, he threw Uncle Tom's Cabin
on the table, exclaiming: 'There; I've done it! But if Hattie Stowe ever
writes anything more like that I'll--well! She has nearly killed me.'
"And he never picked up the book from that day."
Any one who knew Henry Ward Beecher at all knew of his love of books. He
was, however, most prodigal in lending his books and he always forgot
the borrowers. Then when he wanted a certain volume from his library he
could not find it. He would, of course, have forgotten the borrower, but
he had a unique method of tracing the book.
One evening the great preacher suddenly appeared at a friend's house
and, quietly entering the drawing-room without removing his overcoat, he
walked up to his friend and said:
"Rossiter, why don't you bring back that Ruskin of mine that I lent
you?"
The man colored to the roots of his hair. "Why, Mr. Beecher," he said,
"I'll go up-stairs and get it for you right away. I would not have kept
it so long, only you told me I might."
At this Beecher burst into a fit of merry laughter. "Found! Found!" he
shouted, as he took off his overcoat and threw himself into a chair.
When he could stop laughing, he said: "You know, Rossiter, that I am
always ready to lend my books to any one who will make good use of them
and bring them back, but I always forget to whom I lend them. It
happened, in this case, that I wanted that volume of Ruskin about a week
ago; but when I went to the shelf for it, it was gone. I knew I must
have lent it, but to whom I could not remember. During the past week, I
began to demand the book of every friend I met to whom I might have lent
it. Of course, every one of them protested innocence; but at last I've
struck the guilty man. I shall know, in future, how to find my missing
books. The plan works beautifully."
One evening, after supper, Mr. Beecher said to his wife:
"Mother, what material have we among our papers about our early Indiana
days?"
Mr. Beecher had long been importuned to write his autobiography, and he
had decided to do it after he had finished his Life of Christ.
Mrs. Beecher had two boxes brought into the room.
"Suppose you look into that box, if you will," said Mr. Beecher to
Edward, "and I'll take this one, and we'll see what we can find about
that time. Mother, you supervise and see how we look on the floor."
And Mr. Beecher sat down on the floor in front of one box,
shoemaker-fashion, while Edward, likewise on the floor, started on the
other box.
It was a dusty job, and the little room began to be filled with
particles of dust which set Mrs. Beecher coughing. At last she said:
"I'll leave you two to finish. I have some things to do up-stairs, and
then I'll retire. Don't be too late, Henry," she said.
It was one of those rare evenings for Mr. Beecher--absolutely free from
interruption; and, with his memory constantly taken back to his early
days, he continued in a reminiscent mood that was charmingly intimate to
the boy.
"Found something?" he asked at one intermission when quiet had reigned
longer than usual, and he saw Edward studying a huge pile of papers.
"No, sir," said the boy. "Only a lot of papers about a suit."
"What suit?" asked Mr. Beecher mechanically, with his head buried in his
box.
"I don't know, sir," Edward replied naively, little knowing what he was
reopening to the preacher. "'Tilton versus Beecher' they are marked."
Mr. Beecher said nothing, and after the boy had fingered the papers he
chanced to look in the preacher's direction and found him watching him
intently with a curiously serious look in his face.
"Must have been a big suit," commented the boy. "Here's another pile of
papers about it."
Edward could not make out Mr. Beecher's steady look at him as he sat
there on the floor mechanically playing with a paper in his hand.
"Yes," he finally said, "it was a big suit. What does it mean to you?"
he asked suddenly.
"To me?" Edward asked. "Nothing, sir. Why?"
Mr. Beecher said nothing for a few moments, and turned to his box to
examine some more papers.