Read Ebook: The Collected Works in Verse and Prose of William Butler Yeats Vol. 2 (of 8) The King's Threshold. On Baile's Strand. Deirdre. Shadowy Waters by Yeats W B William Butler

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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.

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.

There can hardly be a doubt that the origins of the town were religious; that a religious purpose, deep though undefined and undeclared, animated the emigrants before Winthrop. The very name, Salem, the Hebrew for peacefulness, instead of "Naumkeag" , adopted in 1628, to commemorate the reconciliation between the company of Roger Conant and that of John Endicott, was already suggestive of spiritual qualities. Eminent forms loom up in the distance: Francis Higginson, the first minister of Massachusetts Bay; Roger Williams, whose name is identified with "soul freedom"; Hugh Peters, his opponent. John Endicott was a most imposing figure; hasty, rash, choleric , imperious, but brave and bold. He was a stern Puritan, hating popery so much that he cut out the image of the king from the English banner, because it was an image, while at the same time he persecuted the Quakers, because they advocated obedience to the "inner light" and were disturbers of the established peace. But he had sweeter qualities--gentleness, generosity, and kindness. An old scripture says: "Judge none blessed before his death; for a man shall be known in his children." The descendants of John Endicott are graceful, elegant, refined people, lovely in manners, gentle in disposition. The root of these qualities must have been in the forefather two centuries and a half ago. The intellectual history of the city is very illustrious and began early. A strong intellectual bent characterized the early settlers, who were persons of inquisitive minds, addicted to experiments and enterprises, exceedingly ingenious. Near the middle of the last century there was in existence in Salem a social evening club, composed of eminent cultivated and accomplished citizens. On the evening of Monday, March 31, 1760, a meeting was held at the Tavern House of a Mrs. Pratt for the purpose of "founding in the town of Salem a handsome library of valuable books, apprehending the same may be of considerable use and benefit under proper regulations." The books imported, given, or bought, amounted to four hundred and fifteen volumes. This society, which may be regarded as the foundation of all the institutions and agencies established in this place to promote intellectual culture, was incorporated in 1797. In 1766, the famous Count Rumford was an apprentice here. In 1781, Richard Kirwan, LL.D., of Dublin, an eminent philosopher of the period, had a valuable library in a vessel which was captured by an American private armed ship and brought into Beverly as a prize. The books were given by Dr. Kirwan, who would accept no gratuity and was delighted that his volumes were put to so good a use. The books were sold to an association of gentlemen in Salem and its neighborhood, and formed the "Philosophical Library." This and the "Social Library" were afterwards consolidated into the "Salem Athenaeum," which was incorporated in March, 1810.

Among the distinguished men were William H. Prescott, Benjamin Peirce, Nathaniel Hawthorne, John Lewis Russell, Charles Grafton Page, and Jones Very. Here lived Edward Augustus Holyoke, president of the Massachusetts Medical Society and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences; Timothy Pickering, Rev. John Prince, Rev. William Bentley, Nathaniel Bowditch, author of the "Practical Navigator" and translator of the "Mecanique Celeste"; John Pickering, Joseph Story, of the Supreme Bench; Daniel Appleton White, Leverett Saltonstall, Benjamin Merrill, and many another man of accomplishments and learning. Even the uneducated, and those engaged in the common occupations of everyday life, gratified their love of knowledge, and followed up, for their private enjoyment, researches in intellectual and philosophical spheres; apothecaries and retail shopkeepers distinguished themselves as writers; one of them--Isaac Newhall by name--was reputed the author of the famous "Junius Letters," thus enjoying companionship with Burke, Gibbon, Grattan, Camden, Chatham, Chesterfield, and other distinguished writers.

Miss Putnam speaks of the gorgeous fans, the carved ivory, the blue Canton china, the generous tea-cups, the tureens, the heavy tankards, the Delft jars, the ancient candle-sticks, the heavy punch bowls, the strange beads, suggestive of the Hindoo rites, Nautch dances, and women with dusky throats. Then the very air was weighty with romantic adventures. We read with awe of cashmere shawls hanging on clothes lines, of jars full of silver coin, of the gilded fishes on the side of each stair, of the grand staircase in the front hall of Mr. Pickman's house on Essex Street, of logs of sandal-wood. The museum of the East India Marine Society contains sceptres from the Fiji Islands; a musical instrument from New South Wales, another from Borneo; a carved statue of a rich Persian merchant of Bombay; an alabaster figure of a Chinese Jos; a copper idol from Java; a mirror from Japan; fans from Maraba, the Marquesas Islands, Calcutta; cloth from Otaheite; an earthen patera from Herculaneum; two dresses of women from the Pelew Islands; sandal-wood from the Sandwich Islands; a parasol from Calcutta; nutmegs from Cayenne; thirty-six specimens of Italian marble; cement from the palace of the Caesars at Rome; white marble from Carthage; porphyry from Italy; beads worn by the Pundits and Fakirs in India; a glass cup from Owyhee; Verde Antico from Sicily; sandal-wood tapers from China; wood images of mummies from Thebes; a silver box from Soo-Soo; porphyry from Madagascar; a piece of mosaic from ancient Carthage; silk cocoons from India; marble from the temple of Minerva at Athens; piece of pavement from the site of ancient Troy; and polished jasper from Siberia.

When I was in Salem, from 1847 to 1855, this splendor had departed. Derby Street was deserted, the great warehouses were tenements for laborers. Hawthorne has described the custom-house in his famous preface to the "Scarlet Letter." The sailors had disappeared; the commerce, owing mainly to the shallowness of the water in the harbor, had gone to Boston and New York. But traces of the old glory still lingered. Here and there a great merchant was seen on the streets. Some of the old houses remained: the Pickering House on Broad Street, built in 1651; the Turner House; Roger Williams' house, at the corner of Essex and North Streets, built before 1634; and Mr. Forrester's house.

As the chairman of the Salem Lyceum, it was my privilege to entertain such men as R. W. Emerson, George W. Curtis and others. Thomas Starr King, when he lectured in Danvers, drove over to my house, and spent the rest of the evening. Nathaniel Hawthorne I used to meet frequently on the street. I often saw Mrs. Hawthorne leading her children by the hand. Mr. Hawthorne, who was in Salem from 1846 to 1849, was remarkable for his shyness. His favorite companions were some Democratic politicians, who met weekly at the office of one of them, where he occupied himself in listening to their talk, but he avoided cultivated people. On one occasion a friend of mine asked us to meet him at dinner; twice he went to remind his guest of the engagement. The hour arrived, the dinner was kept waiting half an hour for Mr. Hawthorne to come. He said but little during the dinner, and immediately afterward got up and went away; his reluctance to meet people overcoming his sense of propriety.

My church, the "North Church," as it was called, was a handsome building on the main street, a stone structure with a tower, and a green before it. It was founded in 1772 by people who had left the First Parish by reason of great dissatisfaction. The first minister, called in 1773, was Thomas Barnard. He was a broad-minded, liberal man, and left the church substantially Unitarian. His successor was J. E. Abbot, called in 1815, whose ministry, from ill-health, was very short. My predecessor, John Brazer, a cultivated, scholarly, sensitive man, a good preacher, an excellent pastor, was settled in 1820. My ministry there was exceedingly pleasant and tranquil for several years. There were long hours for studying; the parish work was not hard; the people were honest, quiet, sober, some of them exceedingly refined and gentle; it was as if the old Puritan spirit, modified by time, still lingered about the old town. Family life was beautiful to see; the homes were charming; there was luxury enough; there was great intelligence, singular activity of mind; and I remember well the bright conversations, the entertainments, the teas, the dinners, the receptions, the social meetings. The women, especially, were distinguished for interest in literary matters. Many interesting people still lived in the town, Daniel Appleton White, for instance, Dr. Treadwell, Benjamin Merrill, Thomas Cole; some of these were my parishioners and all were my friends. But the life was almost too quiet for me, as circumstances presently proved.

At the same time, as if to render impossible my further ministration in this first place of service, the anti-slavery agitation was at its height, dividing churches, breaking up sects, setting the members of families against each other, detaching ministers from their congregations, and arraying society in hostile camps. The noise of the conflict filled the air. It was impossible to evade the issue. Those who had fixed positions in the community, were of a tranquil temperament, or of an easy conscience, might survey the battle calmly, or be vexed only by the confusion in the social world; but they who had the future still before them could not but feel the necessity of taking sides in the quarrel. When Garrison, the incarnate conscience, was enunciating the moral law and illustrating it by flaming texts from the Old Testament; when the intrepid Phillips was throwing the light of history on politics, and putting statesmanship in the face of humanity, judging all men by the maxims of ethical philosophy; when Parker was proclaiming the absolute justice, and Clarke was applying the truths of the eternal love; and many others, men and women, were thundering forth the divine vengeance on iniquity; when facts were set out for everybody's reading, and tongues were unloosed, and fiery messages proceeded from all mouths, and conviction was deep, and eloquence was stirring, it was impossible to be still.

Now the situation is changed; the evil is removed; the wound has healed; the surgeon's knife has been put up in its case. A new philosophy is disposed to blame the action of the anti-slavery champions. Some critics have doubted whether the conduct of the abolitionists was wise; whether their primary assumption of the political equality of all men was correct; whether a race that had never founded a government or contributed to the advance of civilization could add any weight to the cause of liberty. But then such misgivings could not be raised. The abolitionists seemed to have on their side the precepts of the New Testament, the teachings of the Sermon on the Mount, the character and example of Jesus, the burning language of prophecy, the inspiring traditions of primitive Christianity, the humane instincts of the heart, the moral sentiments of equity, pity, compassion, all reinforced by the growing democratic opinion of the age, and by the tenets of the intuitive philosophy then coming to the front. The glowing passages from Isaiah and from Matthew: "Let the oppressed go free; break every yoke"; "Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of the least of these, ye did it unto me," shone in our eyes. To the anti-slavery people belonged the heroic virtues, courage, faithfulness, and sacrifice. Theirs was the martyr spirit; the readiness to surrender ease, position, and success for an idea. It would have been strange if, at such a time, a young man, a clergyman, too, had been a champion of vested interests. The doctrine of a higher law than that of the State commended itself to his idealism, and pledged him to oppose what he regarded as legalized wrong. The doctrine of legal rights for all men made him a firm enemy of organized inhumanity. It was a period of passionate war. In every department of the Church and State the irrepressible conflict went on. It was no time for the calm voice of the loving spirit of wisdom to be heard. It was no time to propose that the local laws respecting slavery should be remodelled, and the relation between whites and blacks readjusted on more equitable principles. The science of anthropology had no weight in America or anywhere else. No exhaustive study of race peculiarities could be entered on. The combatants had the whole field, and between the combatants there seemed to be no room for choice by a minister of the Gospel, an enthusiastic friend of humanity, a democrat, and a transcendentalist.

On one occasion, after a brutal scene in Boston attending the return of a slave to his master, feeling that the larger part of his congregation were in sympathy with the government, and approved of the act of surrender, the excited minister declined to give the ordinance of communion, thinking it would be a mockery. This action brought the growing disaffection to a head. The feeling of the parish was divided. Bitter words were exchanged. The situation on both sides became uncomfortable, and he accepted an invitation to another city, where he could exercise his independence without check or limit.

The position in regard to slavery which was taken thirty years ago there is no room to regret. It was taken with perfect sincerity, and under an uncontrollable pressure of conviction. The part performed by the abolitionists was predestined. The conduct of their opponents looks now as irrational as it did then. American slavery was so atrocious a system, so hideous a blot, that no terms were to be kept with it. Probably nothing but the surgeon's knife would have availed in dealing with such a cancerous mass. The cord had become so fatally twisted that the knot, too closely drawn to be untied, must be cut with the sword. The abolition of slavery was inevitable; it came about through a great elemental upheaval. The situation had become intolerable and was past reforming. Long before the war, it had become impossible to get along with the slaveholders, except on the most ignoble principles of trade or fashion. All manly acquiescence was out of the question. The Unitarians, as such, were indifferent or lukewarm; the leading classes were opposed to the agitation. Dr. Channing stood almost alone in lending countenance to the reform, though his hesitation between the dictates of natural feeling and Christian charity towards the masters hampered his action, and rendered him obnoxious to both parties,--the radicals finding fault with him for not going further, the conservatives blaming him because he went so far. The transcendentalists were quite universally abolitionists, for their philosophy pointed directly towards the exaltation of every natural power. Wherever they touched the earth--as they did not always, some of them soaring away beyond terrestrial things--flowers of hope sprang up in their path. In France, Germany, and England, they were friends of intellectual and social progress, of the ideal democracy. The spiritual philosophy was in the air; its ideas were unconsciously absorbed by the enthusiastic spirits. They constituted the life of the period; they were a light to such as dwelt in darkness or sat under the shadow of death.

In this country Mr. Emerson led the dance of the hours. He was our poet, our philosopher, our sage, our priest. He was the eternal man. If we could not go where he went, it was because we were weak and unworthy to follow the steps of such an emancipator. His singular genius, his wonderful serenity of disposition inherited from an exceptional ancestry and seldom ruffled by the ordinary passions of men, his curious felicity of speech, his wit, his practical wisdom, raised him above all his contemporaries. His infrequent contact with the world of affairs, his seclusion in the country, his apparitions from time to time on lecture platforms or in convention halls, gave a far-off sound to his voice as if it fell from the clouds. Some among his friends found fault with him for being bloodless and ethereal, but this added to the effect of his presence and his word. The mixture of Theism and Pantheism in his thoughts, of the personal and the impersonal, of the mystical and the practical, fascinated the sentiment of the generation, while the lofty moral strain of his teaching awakened to increased energy the wills of men. His speech and example stimulated every desire for reform, turning all eyes that were opened to the land of promise that seemed fully in sight. How much the anti-slavery conviction of the time, along with every other movement for the purification of society, owed to him we have always been fond of saying with that indefiniteness of specification which communicates so much more than it tells. This must be said, that, in the exhilaration of the period, they that worked hardest felt no exhaustion, and they that sacrificed most were conscious of no self-abnegation, and they that threw their lives into this cause had no sentiment but one of overflowing gratitude and joy. The anti-slavery agitation was felt to be something more than an attempt to apply the Beatitudes and the Parables to a flagrant case of inhumanity--it was regarded as a new interpreter of religion, a fresh declaration of the meaning of the Gospel, a living sign of the purely human character of a divine faith, an education in brotherly love and sacrifice; it was a common saying that now, for the first time in many generations, the essence of belief was made visible and palpable to all men; that Providence was teaching us in a most convincing way, and none but deaf ears could fail to understand the message.

It was, indeed, a most suggestive and inspiring time. Never shall I forget, never shall I cease to be grateful for, the communion with noble minds that was brought about, the moral earnestness that was engendered, the moral insight that was quickened. Then, if ever, we ascended the Mount of Vision. I was brought into close communion with living men, the most living of the time, the most under the influence of stimulating thoughts; and if they were intemperate in their speech, extravagant in their opinions, absolute in their moral judgments, that must be taken as proof of the depth of their conviction. They loved much, and therefore could be forgiven, if forgiveness was necessary. They sacrificed a good deal, too, some of them everything in the shape of worldly honor, and this brought them apparently into line with the confessors and saints. They made real the precepts of the New Testament. Their clients were the poor, the lowly, the disfranchised, the unprivileged, against whom the grandeurs of the world lifted a heavy hand. They were champions of those who sorrowed and prayed, and this was enough to win sympathy and disarm criticism. It was a great experience; not only was religion brought face to face with ethics, but it was identified with ethics. It became a religion of the heart: pity, sympathy, humanity, and brotherhood were its essential principles. At the anti-slavery fairs all sorts and conditions of men met together, without distinction of color or race or sex. There was really an education in the broadest faith, in which dogma, creed, form, and rite were secondary to love; and love was not only universal, but was warm.

Salem was the home of story and legend. There Puritanism showed its best and worst sides, for there Roger Williams preached, and there the witches were persecuted. The house where they were tried and the hill where they were executed were objects of curiosity. There were the wild pastures and the romantic shores, and broad streets shaded by elm trees, and gardens and greenhouses. There were spacious mansions and beautiful country-seats and pleasant walks. There was beauty and grace and accomplishment and wit. There were quaint old buildings, and ways once trodden by pious and heroic feet. On the whole, this was the most idyllic period in my ministry. Thither came Emanuel Vitalis Scherb, the native of Basel, an exile for opinion's sake, a man full of genius, learning, enthusiasm. Young, handsome, hopeful, his lectures on German literature and poetry attracted notice in Boston, whence he came to Salem to talk and be entertained. The best houses were open to him; the best people went to hear him. Alas, poor Scherb! His day of popularity was short. He sank from one stage of poverty to another; he was indebted to friends for aid, among the rest to H. W. Longfellow, who clung to him till the last, and finally died from disease in a military hospital early in our Civil War.

I was in Salem when this came. It happened in the following way: A woman in my choir, a melancholy, tearful, forlorn woman, asked me one day if I knew Theodore Parker. I said I did not, but then, seeing her disappointment, I asked her why she put that question. She replied that her husband had abandoned her some months before and with another woman had gone to Maine. There he had left the woman and was living in Boston, and was a member of Mr. Parker's Society; and she thought that if I knew Mr. Parker I might find out something about him, and perhaps induce him to come back to Salem. I told her I was going to Boston in a day or two, and would see Mr. Parker.

"Vortr?ge und Abhandlungen," von E. Zeller, 2 vols., Leipzig.

The adoption of these opinions, so opposed to the views current in the community, compelled the adoption of a new basis for religious conviction. Christianity, in so far as it depended on the New Testament or the doctrines of the early Church, was discarded. The cardinal tenets of the Creed--the Deity of the Christ, the atonement, everlasting perdition--had been dismissed already, and I was virtually beyond the limits of the Confession. But Theism remained, and the spiritual nature of man with its craving for religious truth. Without going so far as Theodore Parker did, who maintained that the three primary beliefs of religion--the existence of God, the assurance of individual immortality, the reality of a moral law--were permanent, universal, and definite facts of human nature, found wherever man was found; without going so far as this, I contended that man had a spiritual nature; that this nature, on coming to consciousness of its powers and needs, gave expression to exalted beliefs, clothing them with authority, building them into temples, ordaining them in the form of ceremonies and priesthoods. In support of this opinion, appeal was made to the great religions of the world, to the substantial agreement of all sacred books, to the spontaneous homage paid, in all ages, to saints and prophets; to the essential accord of moral precepts all over the globe, to the example of Jesus, to the Beatitudes and Parables, to the respect given by rude people to the noblest persons, to the credences that inspire multitudes, to the teachings of Schleiermacher, Fichte, Constant, Cousin, Carlyle, Goethe, Emerson, in fact, to every leading writer of the last generation. All this was so beautiful, so consistent and convincing, so full of promise, so broad, plain, and inspiring that, with a fresh but miscalculated enthusiasm, over-sanguine, thoughtless, the young minister undertook to carry his congregation with him, but without success; so he went elsewhere. This action proceeded from the faith that Parker instilled. Parker was pre-eminently, to those who comprehended him, a believer.

In the words of D. A. Wasson, his successor in Music Hall:

Theodore Parker was one of the most energetic and religious believers these later centuries have known. This was the prime characteristic of the man. He did not agree in the details of his unbelieving with the majority of those around him, because it was part of his religion to think freely, part of their religion to forbear thinking freely on the highest matters. But he was not only a powerful believer in his own soul, but was the believing Hercules who went forth in the name of divine law to cleanse the Augean stables of the world.... This, I repeat, and can not repeat with too much emphasis, was the characteristic of the man--sinewy, stalwart, prophetic, fervid, aggressive, believing.... The Hercules rather than the Apollo of belief, it was not his to charm rocks and trees with immortal music, but to smite the hydra of publicity, iniquity, and consecrated falsehood with the club or mace of belief; if this might not suffice, then to burn out its foul life with the fire of his sarcasms.

To quote my own words, written in 1873 :

With him the religious sentiment was supreme. It had no roots in his being wholly distinct from its mental or sensible forms of expression. Never evaporating in mystical dreams nor entangled in the meshes of cunning speculation, it preserved its freshness and bloom and fragance in every passage of his life. His sense of the reality of divine things was as strong as was ever felt by a man of such clear intelligence. His feeling never lost its glow, never was damped by misgiving, dimmed by doubt, or clouded by sorrow. Far from dreading to submit his faith to test, he courted tests; was as eager to hear the arguments against his belief as for it; was as fair in weighing evidence on the opponent's side as on his own. "Oh, that mine enemy had written a book!" he was ready to cry, not that he might demolish it, but that he might read it. He knew the writings of Moleschott, and talked with him personally; the books of Carl Vogt were not strange to him. The philosophy of Ludwig B?chner, if philosophy it can be called, was as familiar to him as to any of B?chner's disciples. He was intimate with the thoughts of Feuerbach. He drew into discussion every atheist and materialist he met, talked with them closely and confidentially, and rose from the interview more confident in the strength of his own positions than ever. Science he counted his best friend; relied on it for confirmation of his faith, and was only impatient because it moved no faster. All the materialists in and out of Christendom had no power to shake his conviction of the Infinite God and the immortal existence, nor would have had had he lived till he was a century old, for, in his view, the convictions were planted deep in human nature, and were demanded by the exigencies of human life. Moleschott respected Parker; Dessor was his confidential friend; Feuerbach would have taken him by the hand as a brother.

It is useless to conjecture what Parker might have been had he lived. That he would have held to his primary convictions is almost certain; it is quite certain that he would have loved mental liberty. He would have been a great power in our Civil War; he would probably have been a leader in the free religious movement. Parker, when I first knew him, was in full life and vigor. He had gone to Boston a short time before my ordination in 1847, and had before him a long future of usefulness. All the exigencies in which he might have been conspicuous were distant. That the effect of such a man on me and my connections was exceedingly great is not strange. It would have been strange had it been otherwise. In sermon, prayer, private conversations my convictions came out. That the people were disappointed may be assumed, but they were kind, generous, and patient. The congregations did not fall off; there was little violence or even vehement expostulation. But the position was not comfortable, and when an invitation came from Jersey City to found a new Society, I accepted it at once. It had been a dream of Dr. Bellows to establish a Society at that place, and, learning that I was in search of another sphere of activity, he asked me to undertake the work. This was seconded by a cordial representation from Jersey City itself, on the part of some who were Dr. Bellows' own parishioners. The uprooting was not easy, for Salem had become endeared to me as the first scene of my ministry, a place where I could be useful in many ways, and which contained a delightful society; an established, well-furnished town, with historic associations; a country centre, an agreeable situation. But the waters were getting still there, and the sentiment of the past was getting to over-weigh the promises of the future.

Jersey City, to which I went directly from Salem, was a very different place from what it is now; smaller and perhaps pleasanter. Where now is a large city, a few years ago was but a village. Now it is a manufacturing place, with great establishments, foundries, machine-shops, banks, insurance companies, newspapers, more than forty schools, and more than sixty churches. Then it was a large town, though it was nominally a city , with a population of about twenty thousand, the increase being chiefly due to the annexation of suburbs, not to its own vital growth. It was substantially rural in character, with extensive meadows, broad avenues; a place of residence largely, the gentlemen living there and doing business in New York. There were a few Unitarians, a few Universalists, but there was no organized Unitarian society before I went there. A great many cultivated people resided in this place. There was wealth, culture, and interest in social matters. A meeting-house was built for me and dedicated to a large, rational faith.

The chief peculiarity of my ministry there was the disuse of the communion service. This rite I had thought a great deal about in Salem. There had been, then, a well-meant proposal on the part of the pastor to make an alteration in the form of administering the communion service. The custom had been to thrust the rite in once a month, between the morning worship and dinner time, and to offer it then to none but the church-members, who composed but a small part of the congregation. As a consequence of this arrangement, the observance became formal, dry, short, and tiresome. To the majority of the Society it seemed a mystical ceremony with which they had no concern, while those who stayed to take part in it, wearied already by the preceding exercises, and hungry for their mid-day meal, gave to it but half-hearted attention. The observance was thus worse than thrown away; for, in addition to the loss of an opportunity for spiritual impression, a dangerous kind of self-righteousness was encouraged in the few church-members, who regarded themselves as in some way set apart from their fellow-sinners, either as having made confession of faith or as being subjects of a peculiar experience. To impart freshness to the rite, and at the same time to extend its usefulness as a "means of grace," the minister proposed to celebrate it less frequently , to substitute it in place of the usual afternoon meeting, to make special preparation for it by the co-operation of the choir, and to throw it open to as many as might choose to come, be they church members or not. The suggestion met with feeble response, and that chiefly from young people who had hitherto stayed away out of a laudable feeling of modesty, not wishing to remain when their elders and betters went out, and not thinking themselves good enough to partake of a special privilege. The "communicants," as a rule, set their faces against the innovation, perhaps because they were secretly persuaded that the change portended the secularizing of Christianity by a removal of the barrier that divided the church from the world, possibly because they wished to retain an exclusive prerogative which had always marked the "elect."

The matter was not pressed; the routine went on as before; the minister did his best to render the service impressive and interesting. But his studies and meditations led him to the conclusion that the observance had no place in the Unitarian system; that it was a mere formality, without an excuse for being; that it contained no idea or sentiment that was not expressed in the ordinary worship; that it was a remnant of an otherwise discarded form of Christianity, where it had a peculiar significance; that it was the last attenuation of the Roman sacrament of transubstantiation; that it ought to be dropped from every scheme of liberal faith as an illogical adjunct, a harmful excrescence, a hindrance, in short. No whisper of these doubts was breathed at the time, but the pastor's silence allowed the scepticism to strike the deeper root in his mind. Mr. Emerson's departure from his parish, on the ground that he could no longer administer the communion rite according to the usage of the sect, had occurred many years before this, but was still remembered in discussion and talk. Theodore Parker had no communion; but he was an established leader of heresy, and did not furnish an example. Many, agreeing with Emerson's reasoning, disapproved of his course in resigning his pulpit rather than continue to administer the bread and wine. He himself advised others to hold on to the observance, if they could, hoping for the time when it might be universally vivified by faith. Some might do it as it was. The congregations would, it is likely, without exception, have decided as his did, to lose their minister sooner than their "Supper." Some years later, on passing through Boston on my way to another scene of labor, I called on a distinguished clergyman who had taken a part in my ordination, and was asked by him what I intended to do in my new parish with regard to the communion. I replied that it was not my purpose to have it, "You cannot give it up," he said; "it is stronger than any of us. I should drop it if I dared, for there is nothing real in it that is not in the general service, but I am afraid to try. I shall watch your experiment with interest, but without expectation of its success." "Very well," I replied, "we shall see." The experiment was tried and succeeded. For four years I had no communion, and not a word was said about it. On leaving for New York, several of my friends, who had been accustomed to the ceremony all their lives, were asked if they did not think it would be wise to reinstate the rite. To my surprise, they with one voice said that there was no need of it, that the Society got along perfectly well without it. It is needless to say that in New York the observance was never celebrated.

The ceremony was justified among Unitarians by various reasons which, in the end, seemed apologies. With the old-fashioned, semi-orthodox members of the congregations it was a precious heirloom, prized for its antiquity; a link that still held them in the bond of fellowship with the universal church; a last relic of the supernaturalism to which they clung without knowing why; the pledge of a mystical union with their Christ. Any change in the administration of it was regarded as a desecration; the suggestion of its complete discontinuance could, they thought, arise in no mind that was not fatally poisoned by infidelity. It was not, in their opinion, a symbol of doctrine, but a channel of divine influence, which no intellectual doubts could touch, which spiritual deadness alone could dispense with. Tenets might be abandoned, forms of belief might be discredited, but this citadel of faith must not be assailed or approached by irreverent feet. Mr. Emerson's example was not followed by his contemporaries. His fellows did not so soon reach his point of conviction. Even radicals, like George Ripley, did not. In my own case it was the growth of time. At the moment there was no disposition to abandon the observance, simply a desire to reanimate it. It was not perceived till much later that the changes proposed implied a virtual abandonment of the rite itself; that the communion is regarded as a sacrament, that as a sacrament it might be presumed to be supernaturally instituted for the communication of the divine life; that, when faith in the supernatural declines, the sacrament no longer has a function as a medium, and must be omitted; that no attempts to revive it as a sentimental practice could be justified to reason; that all endeavors to awaken interest in it by assuming some occult efficacy must be futile because groundless. The "memorial service" can in no proper sense be called a sacrament. It may be a pleasing expression of sentiment, somewhat over-strained and fanciful, but capable of being made attractive. The task of reproducing the emotions of the early disciples as they sat at supper with their Master, nearly two thousand years ago, is too severe for the ordinary imagination, and when persisted in from a sense of duty may become a dull, creaking performance, against which the sensitive rebel and the witty are tempted to launch the shafts of their sarcasm. The only way of saving it from gibes is to ascribe to it some mystical efficacy for which there is no logical excuse. The Roman Catholic doctrine of Transubstantiation had a foundation in the philosophy of the Church. The Lutheran doctrine of Consubstantiation, which recognized the presence of Christ on the occasion, but not the literal change of the substance of his flesh, was legitimate. But the Sabellian theory, which the Unitarians inherited, was in no respect justified, save as a tradition.

Like plants in mines which never saw the sun, But dream of him, and guess where he may be, And do their best to climb and get to him.

The idea of spiritual communion is a grand one. It is universal too; it is human in the best sense. The symbols were ancient when Jesus used them, the Bread signifying Truth, the Wine signifying Life. Originally the symbols referred to the wealth of nature, as is evident from an ancient prayer. It was the custom for the master of the Jewish feast to repeat this form of words: "Blessed be Thou, O Lord, our God, who givest us the fruits of the vine," and then he gave the cup to all.

Leaving out the personal application which is purely incidental, and discarding the sacramental idea which is a corruption, throwing the service open to the whole congregation as an opportunity, a great deal may be accomplished in the way of spiritual advancement. True, the ceremony contains no thought or sentiment that is not expressed in the sermon or the prayer, but it puts these in poetic form, it addresses them directly to the imagination, it associates them with the holier souls in their holiest hours, and brings people face to face with their better selves in the tenderest and most touching manner, teaching charity, love, endeavor after the religious life. The rite is full of beauty when confined within the bounds of Christianity, but when extended to the principles of other faiths, it is rich in meaning, and may be used with effect by those who wish to educate the people in the highest form of idealism, who desire comprehensiveness. A symbol often goes further than an argument, and a symbol so ancient and so consecrated ought to be preserved. A friend of mine included all religious teachers in his commemoration. This was a step in the right direction, but if the people are not ready for this yet, they may welcome an extension of the reign of spiritual love among the disciples whom theological hatred has kept apart. But this was not suspected then.

It will be remarked that my reasons were not those of Emerson. His argument was solid and sound, but his real reason was personal. He said in his sermon: "If I believed it was enjoined by Jesus and his disciples that he even contemplated making permanent this mode of commemoration, every way agreeable to an Eastern mind, and yet on trial it was disagreeable to my own feelings, I should not adopt it.... It is my desire in the office of a Christian minister to do nothing which I cannot do with my whole heart. Having said this I have said all.... That is the end of my opposition, that I am not interested in it." My ground was different; I had no objection to the symbol, none to an Oriental symbol, and the mere fact that I was not interested in it seemed to me not pertinent to the case. My objection was that it divided those who ought to be united; that it encouraged a form of self-righteousness; that it implied a "grace" that did not exist. For the rest, my form of religion was of sentiment. It was scarcely Unitarian, not even Christian in a technical sense or in any other but a broad moral signification. It was Theism founded on the Transcendental philosophy, a substitute for the authority of Romanism and of Protestantism. This was an admirable counterfeit of Inspiration, having the fire, the glow, the beauty of it. It most successfully tided over the gulf between Protestantism and Rationalism. Parker used it with great effect. It was the life of Emerson's teaching. It animated Thomas Carlyle. It was the fundamental assumption of the Abolitionists, and of all social reformers.

I had perfect freedom of speech in Jersey City; there was no opposition to the doctrine announced. The Society there was large and flourishing, and its influence in the town was on the increase. But Jersey City was, after all, a suburb only of New York. Some of my most devoted hearers came from New York, and urged me to go there. Dr. Bellows was anxious to found a third Society in the great city, and added his word to their solicitations, so that in the spring of 1859 I went thither. My church in Jersey City was continued for a short time, but I had no settled successor; the congregation did not grow; some of my most earnest supporters had either died or left the town. The war broke out and was fatal to institutions that had not a deep root. The building was sold soon after, for business purposes I think, and the society was never renewed. This may appear singular considering that there are Unitarian churches elsewhere in New Jersey, at Camden, Orange, Plainfield, Vineland, and Woodbury. The changed condition of the town may have had something to do with the failure to revive, after the war, the Unitarian Society. The Catholic, Presbyterian, Orthodox Congregationalist communions were more suited to the new population than the Unitarian was. Possibly, too, the "radical" complexion of the parish had something to do with the disrepute that fell upon it. However this may have been, the cause did not seem to prosper. Mr. Job Male, who died recently at Plainfield, was one of my most zealous supporters and exerted himself to keep the enterprise alive, but in vain. It is understood that the flourishing Unitarian church in Plainfield was largely due to his efforts.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Hardly had I got warm in my place when the mutterings of war were in the air. During the autumn of 1859, on the 16th of October, John Brown planned his attack on Harper's Ferry. His was a portentous figure. His position in history--greater than his achievements would warrant--was due partly to his position as herald of the coming strife, but mainly to his personal qualities. These were colossal; however much one may criticise his particular deeds, or the details of his motive, these qualities can not be exalted too highly. His courage, heroism, patience, fortitude, were most extraordinary. Even Governor Wise, the man whose duty it was to see him tried and executed as a felon, said of him; "They are mistaken who take Brown to be a madman. He is a bundle of the best nerves I ever saw; cut and thrust and bleeding and in bonds. He is a man of clear head, of courage, fortitude, and simple ingenuousness. He is cool, collected, indomitable; and it is but just to him to say that he was humane to his prisoners, and he inspired me with great trust in his integrity as a man of truth." Colonel Washington, another Virginia witness, testified to the extraordinary coolness with which Brown felt the pulse of his dying son, while he held his own rifle in the other hand, and cheered on his men. His character made his prison cell a shrine. On the day of his execution, December 2, 1859, he stood under the gallows with the noose round his neck for full ten minutes while military evolutions were performed; he never wavered a moment, and died with nerves still subject to his iron will. He was a Calvinistic believer in predestination; a real Covenanter, more like the Scotch Covenanters of two centuries ago than anything we know of to-day. He was an Old-Testament man, and like all fanatics was indifferent to death, either that of other men or his own. His anti-slavery zeal began in his youth. He early took an oath to make war against slavery, and, it is said, called his older sons together on one occasion and made them pledge themselves, kneeling in prayer, to the anti-slavery crusade. This purpose he always bore in mind, whatever else he was doing; he even chose the spot for his attempt--the mountains which Washington had selected as a final retreat should he be defeated by the English. Nearly nine years before his own death, he exhorted the members of the "League of Gileadites" to stand by one another and by their friends as long as a drop of blood remained and be hanged, if they must, but to tell no tales out of school.

Then came the war. Though its physical aspect,--the loss of treasure and of blood--was most affecting, I cannot but think that its mental and moral aspect has been underrated. Its whole justification lay in its moral character, and I must believe that full justice has never been done to those who were obliged to stay at home and uphold this feature. The preacher of the Gospel of Peace had as much as he could do to overcome the horrors of war; and the preacher of Righteousness was engaged all the time in promoting the cause of justice. They who went to the front had the excitement of battle, the pleasures of camp-life, the assistance of comradeship, the comfort of sympathy. The preacher had none of these. Every day rumors were reaching his ears; "extras" were flying about in the silence; he had to comfort people under defeat, to humble them in hours of victory; to interpret the conflict in accordance with the principles of equity; to keep alive the moral issues of the struggle. This was an incessant weariness and anxiety; to fight foes one could not see, and to uphold a cause that was discredited, fell to his portion; it is no wonder that when the war was over he was spent and aged.

An illustration of a part of what he had to contend with is found in the riot of the summer of 1863. This was an anti-abolitionist riot, a fierce protest against the conscription, and at the same time an uprising against the government, which was supposed to maintain a war of the blacks against the whites. The riot was directed against the negroes and the abolitionists, and was pitiless and ferocious in the extreme. It was my lot to be in New York in that dreadful week in July. I was visiting friends in the upper part of the town when the uproar began. As I walked home down Madison Avenue a group of rough men met me; one of them snatched at my watch chain, and I should have been maltreated had not more attractive game in the shape of people in a buggy drawn away the attention of my assailants. I reached my home in safety. The next morning, as I walked about the city, there were groups of men standing idle, or armed with missiles, in almost every street. Had the mob been organized then it might have done more mischief than it did, for the inhabitants of the city were unprepared and unprotected. As I stood at night on my roof, I could see the fires in different parts of the town, and hear the shots. An arsenal stood on Seventh Avenue, near my house, full of arms and ammunition which the insurgents wanted. When the United States troops arrived, they defended this arsenal. Cannons were pointed up and down the street, guards were posted, officers with their clanking swords marched up and down before my door. The riot lasted three days,--from the 13th to the 16th. On the following Sunday a sermon was preached which gives expression to the better thoughts of the wisest people, and from which accordingly extracts are made:

Indulge me in one more personality. I said that the dwelling of a friend was pillaged by the mob, under the impression that Mr. Greeley lived there. What was this dwelling? Who was this friend? The dwelling was one the like of which is rare in any city, a dwelling of happiness and peace, a home of the tenderest domestic affections, a house of large friendliness and hospitality, a refuge and abiding-place for the unfortunate and the outcast. There was no display of wealth there--there was no wealth to display; yet the house was full of things which no wealth could buy. It was crowded with mementos. The pieces of furniture in the rooms had family histories connected with them; chairs and tables were precious from association with noble and rare people who had gone. Pictures on the walls, busts in the parlor, engravings, photographs, books, spoke of the gratitude or love of some dear giver. One room was sacred to the memory of a noble boy, an only son, who had died some years before. There was his bust in marble, there were his books, there were the prints he liked, the little bits of art he was fond of, and all the dear things that seemed to bring him back. The whole house was a shrine and a sanctuary.

In Boston, on the occasion of the rendition of Anthony Burns, all the thieves, burglars, cut-throats, swarmed from their dens and volunteered with alacrity to enforce the fugitive-slave law. And now the leaders of the Southern Confederacy count, and count securely, on the Northern populace. The fiercest allies of the only absolutely despotic class in the country are the outlaws of society. The men who are fighting for the privileges of the extremest tyranny, the privileges not of ruling merely, but literally of owning the laboring class, these men have the implicit, unquestioning, fanatical loyalty of the people who are at the opposite end of the social scale--the people who own nothing either of fortune, position, influence, or character, and whose sole relation towards the despots they worship is that of mad, savage slaves.

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