Recollections and Impressions, 1822-1890

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.

VIII.

WAR

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: