Recollections and Impressions, 1822-1890

And then, at that time there was little scientific philanthropy. The word charity was more or less associated with patronage and pity, the very things that we wanted to avoid; they who were bent on wiping out distinctions could not countenance these, and it was safer not to let our hearts get the better of our reason. But even if there had been a scientific treatment of humane questions, we were afraid of the danger of becoming too much absorbed in this kind of work, and so of losing sight of our chief end.

At present the idea of our Association is pretty well domesticated in Christendom. It was not, after all, entirely new. In 1845 and 1846 Frederick Denison Maurice, lecturing on the Boyle Foundation in London on "The Religions of the World and their Relations to Christianity," attempted to do justice to the ancient faiths of India, Persia, Egypt, Greece, and Rome. In 1882, in Edinburgh, eminent men discussed the same problems under the title of "The Faiths of the World." In 1871 James Freeman Clarke published his "Ten Great Religions." The study of comparative religion has been going on for many years. When Mozoomdar came to this country a few years ago, there was such a rush for him among American orthodox Christians that the Free Religious Association could not get at him at all, though it had tried in vain to get a real Brahmin on its platform. True, there were differences of opinion among the orthodox students of the old-world systems. Some regarded the ancient religions as effete; some denied that Christianity touched them at more than one or two points; some treated them simply as preparations for the crowning faith of Christ. Still, whatever their differences, all agreed that the religious instinct was universal; that there was a ground for revelation in the human heart; since Carlyle's famous lecture in "Heroes," delivered in 1840, it was impossible to regard Mahomet as an impostor, or to look upon religion as a fabrication of the priests, as an attempt to practise upon human ignorance and fear.

Among the Unitarians our conception is familiar. At the convention that was held in Philadelphia, in October, 1889, both parties, the most conservative and the most radical, sat side by side. A manager of the Free Religious Association delivered one of the addresses, and said: "I never believed one tithe as much as I believe to-night. Never did I have such faith in God; never did I so believe in man; never did I see such a glorious outlook for the Church; never did I hold such a glad theory of human hope for the future." The secretary of the American Unitarian Association was full of joy. The secretary of the Western Unitarian Conference quoted the opinion of the Western churches, assembled at Chicago in May, 1887, and declared "our fellowship to be conditioned on no doctrinal tests, and welcomes all who wish to join us to help establish truth and righteousness and love in the world." A prominent leader of Unitarianism in Illinois uttered himself thus: "Whatever its traditions, whatever its present positions, or its prospects, this spiritual commonwealth is extra-Unitarian, extra-American, extra-Christian; it is human, and on that account it is universal, and it is divine." Another speaker at this convention declared that "the hand that shall hold this master key is Christ, as the modern mind conceives him, – Christ healing the sick, raising the dead, cleansing the leper, casting out devils from society and business, from politics and religion; Christ, the friend of Lazarus and of Mary Magdalen; Christ robed in absolute justice and also in transcendant love, and embracing the whole world."

It is not claimed that this extraordinary change in ecclesiastical fellowship and sympathy is due to the Free Religious Association. That was one of the signs of the times, and is an effect rather than a cause; but it is a sign of the grander unity. When the portrait of Theodore Parker is hanging on the walls of Channing Hall; when a cordial welcome is extended to all seekers for the light; when the East and West are ready to embrace in a fellowship of aspiration; when the young men are all alight with fresh hope and fresh endeavor, we may with confidence anticipate the time when there shall be but one fold, and the aim of the Free Religious Association be met.

The emancipation from denominational trammels was of great service to the young minister. It is true that he was still in a "church" which kept him within ecclesiastical associations; but these fetters were not heavy, and they were soon to be thrown off. For in the spring of 1869, the church was sold to another congregation. This was done partly because the acoustic properties of the building were not favorable, and partly because the place was not suited to the genius of the new society. "There was no room in the inn," was the subject of the last sermon preached in that building. Lyric Hall, to which we removed, is situated on Sixth Avenue, between 40th and 41st streets. It is a large room fifty by one hundred feet. During the week it was used as a dancing hall, but on Sundays it was arranged for a religious service. A small organ was placed there, a platform was built, and seats were brought up from the cellar below. The first sermon preached there was on "Secular Religion," and it indicated the whole character of the services. The most remarkable thing, as regards myself, that happened in Lyric Hall, was the adoption of the habit of speaking without notes. The light from the avenue was too far off for reading, and the speaker was therefore obliged to dispense with a manuscript altogether. A theme was first chosen that admitted of subdivisions, so that as fast as the speaker exhausted one he could fall back on another. The habit soon became so familiar that no difficulty was experienced in handling the most complicated subject. Here we remained until the spring of 1875, when we removed to Masonic Temple, on Sixth Avenue and 23d Street.

This building, which was very large and handsome, had just been erected by the Masons, who designed it for their own accommodation. The structure having cost, however, more than was anticipated, the owners were obliged, reluctantly, to let the large hall, which they did for literary and religious purposes only. We were the first to occupy it. The hall was spacious and stately, with fixed seats for about a thousand people. A fine organ stood at one end of the platform; at the other end there was a large reception room. The first sermon there was on "Reasonable Religion." The audience was never large – never more than eight or nine hundred, usually six or seven hundred. The form of service much resembled the form common in Unitarian churches, with the exception that Mr. Conway's "Sacred Anthology" was substituted for the Bible, and the other exercises were more universal in their character. It had long ceased to be a Unitarian congregation. There were people of Catholic training, many of Protestant training, some of no religious training whatever, materialists, atheists, secularists, positivists – always thinking people, with their minds uppermost. It was a church of the unchurched. George Ripley, the journalist, was always there; E. C. Stedman, the man of letters; Calvert Vaux, the architect; Sanford R. Gifford, the painter; Henry Peters Gray, the artist, was there until he died; C. P. Cranch, the poet, was a member of the Society as long as he was in the city. In the Lyric-Hall days, Judge Geo. C. Barrett had a seat in the audience. The secular character was always prominent. When we had a church on 40th Street, the large basement was used for music, dramatic performances, readings, festivities, social gatherings. In Lyric Hall, these were continued as far as they could be.

The "Fraternity Club" was organized in 1869 by a devoted member of the Society for the entertainment and improvement of its members; and drew together very brilliant minds both within and without the immediate fellowship. The meetings were held once in two weeks, when an essay was read, a debate carried on, and a paper presented; all the performers being nominated in advance by the President. The work was mainly done by a few young men, who have since become eminent in various fields – as teachers, lawyers, literary critics, publishers, – and by witty women not a few. There were about seventy members, each one standing for some peculiar accomplishment. The subjects of the essays were such as these, illustrating the breadth of the intellectual interest: On "Taste"; on "Expressions"; on "The Coming Man"; on "Wordsworth"; on "The Tree of Life"; on "Spencer's Britomart as the Type of Woman"; on "Light and Laughter"; on "Successful People"; on "Culture"; on "The Cultivation of the Masses." The subjects for debate were equally varied: "Ought the sexes to be educated apart?"; "Does a house burn up or burn down?"; "Is the highest musical culture compatible with the highest intellectual development?"; "Is there a distinctly American literature as contrasted with that of England?"; "Should matrimonial union be contracted early or late?"; "Ought we to cultivate most those faculties in which we naturally excel, or those in which we are naturally deficient?"; "Does increase of culture involve decrease of amusement?"; "Is the existence of a 'Mute inglorious Milton' possible?"; "Will giving the franchise to women exert a beneficial influence on society?"; "Had you rather be more stupid than you seem, or seem more stupid than you are?"

The "papers," of which there are some nine volumes existing, were receptacles for the fancy, imagination, sentiment, and humor of the editors or their co-editors; there were verses, stories, criticisms, jokes, illustrations, in them; each had its name: "The Bubble," "The Venture," "Bric-a-Brac," "Stuff," "The Rag-Bag." The club ceased soon after the Society disbanded, in 1880.

The root idea of the Society, apart from its independence, was the mingling of the spiritual and the natural; the domestication of faith. With a view of making the idea more prevailing and complete, a children's service in the afternoon was substituted for the regular Sunday-school. A book was prepared, "The Child's Book of Religion," by the pastor, for this express purpose. There were responsive readings, recitations in unison, songs, and an address, simple and anecdotical, by the minister.

The Society was never fashionable, or even popular. At one period – that of the Richardson-McFarland matter – there was a vast deal of misrepresentation, criticism, and abuse, but all this had no effect on the constituency of the parish. There was the same loyalty, the same interest, the same determination to sustain a thoroughly liberal ministry, by which every form of conviction was made conducive to a purely spiritual faith.

It was never pretended that the Society was anything more than a beginning. A small and feeble beginning, but of something that was to grow and spread; the beginning of a faith that is as rational as it is wide. Its influence was more diffusive than concrete as an instituted thing. It is the pride and consolation of those who began it that they removed some of the barriers that divided the great brotherhood of believing men.

My ministry in New York ended in the spring of 1879. Its close was due entirely to my ill-health. A year before the doctors had warned me not to continue longer than was necessary my rate of speed. They urged me to go slower, to "take in sail," and to withdraw as far as I could from all public demonstrations. Measures were taken against every emergency, and I sailed away in the French steamer, with the hope that in six months I might regain my nervous power, and return. There was first the exhilarating sea voyage; then the beautiful city hall of Rouen, the churches and famous buildings, the square where Joan of Arc suffered; then came Paris with its enchantments; after that Basel showed its great Holbeins, and its lovely promenade overlooking the river; this led to the celebrated baths at Ragatz in Switzerland, the placid waters of Pfeffers', the gorge, the hotel gardens, and the lovely walks; after this came the pass of the Splügen, the Via Mala, the hotel at the summit of the pass among the snows, the pastures, the wild goats; then came Lake Como in Italy, Bellagio, the charming Villa Serbeloni, looking down upon the two lakes, Como and Lecco, the vineyards ripening in the sun, the terraces, looking across upon the mountains; then Milan opened its great cathedral, the gallery of the Brera, the ancient church of Saint Ambrose. Afterwards came Florence and its heavenly environs, its pictures and statues and public buildings, its groves and stately drives and lovely villas; Florence was followed by Siena, and there I saw the great cathedral, walked on the esplanade, enjoyed the public square, the palaces, the pictures of Sodoma. From there I went to Rome, in December.

It was all in vain; I became satisfied that the complaint was not of a temporary nature, not owing to overwork or over-excitement, not easily cured – if curable at all, – but nervous and hereditary. Thereupon, I wrote a letter to my trustees absolutely resigning my office and declining to be a clergyman any longer, as I could not attempt to renew the same kind of labor. An attempt was made to secure a successor; several names were mentioned, and among men greatly my superiors in learning and eloquence, but none, it was thought, represented the precise form of speculation, the exact view of religion which my friends desired. The Society therefore was disbanded, and no attempt has been made since to reorganize it. The members were scattered, some among other churches, some among other cities, while some never joined any religious society whatever. Thus a thriving and growing organization is now simply a memory.

X.

THE PROGRESS OF RELIGIOUS THOUGHT IN AMERICA

An article in the North American Review for April, 1885, on "Free Thought in America," is chiefly significant as showing how gradual and tentative the progress of thought in religion was. The comments on individuals are often wide of the mark, but the general drift is quite correct. The course was shadowy, but the main point was unmistakable. At this day, the wholesale abuse of religion is harmless, and can exert no wide influence. The friends of liberal thought are against it; and those who seek the old grim conclusion do so in another way, striving to substitute a new faith in nature for the old faith in divine inspiration, and to prove the latter to have been a growth rather than an imposition. The study of comparative religions has put a new face on the question, and the concern is now to discover the source of faith in the supernatural and not to make it appear a creation of priestcraft. No sooner had serious investigations into antiquity become known, than the method pursued by Voltaire and Dupuis was abandoned, and each generation since has confirmed the facts of historic development.

That my own immediate predecessors were Emerson and Parker is most true. With the writings of the former I was familiar; the latter was my intimate friend. Perhaps my theological views are due to him more than to any other man, though the circumstances of his generation were peculiar, and determined, in a much greater degree than in my own case was possible, the cast of his thought. The Unitarian controversy, in which he played so prominent a part, and by stress whereof he was driven into some of his positions, is over. The anti-slavery struggle, into which he threw himself and as a result of which his religious antagonisms were sharpened, was ended many years ago.

Poe said in the preface to "Eureka," that perfect beauty was a guaranty of perfect truth; so I felt – felt rather than reasoned – that a great character was sufficient proof of the truth of doctrine, and I accepted the teaching on the strength of the nobleness which was before my eyes. Later researches confirmed my opinions, but while I was under Parker's influence, his theological views were accepted without much consideration; his unique style of personality laying my heart as it were under a spell.

Emerson was a man of colder temperament, thinner of blood, more spare in frame; of finer intellectual fibre, of more commanding intellectual supremacy; not a combatant on any field; a sweet, gracious, shadowy personality; calm, lucid, imperturbable; pursuing knowledge along the spiritual path of pure thought, although he was also a student of books; a regenerator of mind rather than a reformer of customs; a prophet, distinguished for penetration rather than for will. His ideas were substantially the same as Parker's, but he did not arrive at them in the same way, or hold them in the same spirit, or apply them with the same directness. He carried them out further, not being hindered, as his contemporary was, by the immediate necessities of the hour. In short, he was another sort of man entirely. Both were transcendentalists, but Parker shaped his philosophy to the working exigencies of his generation, while Emerson let his stream freely in the air. The writer of the article in question accuses Emerson of want of pathos, and declares that this was the lack of the transcendentalists, as a school. But he could hardly charge this on Parker, who was an ardent transcendentalist, but whose very language was vascular, who affected multitudes of men and women, and who held audiences by the heartstrings. Did Hopkins or Bellamy or Edwards melt people? Were the preachers of Calvinism priests of sorrow? This is a matter of temperament and not of creed. Extreme rationalists leave their congregations in tears, and extreme churchmen dismiss theirs unmoved, the humors of the men deciding the issues of their ministrations. The closer to the ground, the more abundant the sympathy. The question is whether one is more mundane or more ethereal by native gift and endowment.

That transcendentalism was mainly speculative may be doubted, but if it was so this may be accounted an incidental circumstance to be explained by the prevailing theological temper of the age, and the duty imposed on it of transferring the body of doctrine to an ideal realm; a task which demands an intellectual effort of no common magnitude. And when with this task was joined the endeavor to sift out the purely spiritual ideas from the mass of dogmatical and ecclesiastical error, it is no wonder that it should have been speculative in its tendency. Certainly, Brook Farm was concrete enough, and the transcendentalists were, as a rule, interested in social reconstruction, though not in a way to touch popular emotion. One cannot, even at this distance, think of the quickening radiance shed by the transcendentalists over the whole region of religious belief and duty, without gratitude. The hymns, the sermons, the music, the Sunday-schools, the prayers, the charities, the social ministrations, breathed forth a fresh spirit. If there were fewer tears of woe, there was more weeping for joy. There was too much gladness for crying. Life was made sunny. Human nature was interpreted cheerfully. There was an unlimited future for misery, ignorance, turpitude. Sin was remanded to the position of crudity, and was banished from the heavenly courts. Violence was protested against in laws, customs, manners, speech. Harsh doctrines were criticised. Austere views were discarded. Intellectual barriers were removed. Spiritual channels were deepened and widened. Light was let into dark places. The brightest aspects of divinity were presented. Immortality was rendered native to the soul. The life below was regarded as the portal to the life above.

In my own case, whatever of enthusiasm I may have had, whatever transports of feeling, whatever glow of hope for mankind, whatever ardor of anticipation for the future, whatever exhilaration of mind towards God, whatever elation in the presence of disbelief in the popular theology, may be fairly ascribed to this form of the ideal philosophy. It was like a revelation of glory. Every good thought was encouraged. Every noble impulse was heightened. It was balm and elixir to me. If transcendentalism did not appear as a sun illuminating the entire mental universe it was the fault of my exposition alone. Absolute faith in that form of philosophy grew weak and passed away many years since, and the assurance it gave was shaken; but the sunset flush continued a long time after the orb of day had disappeared and lighted up the earth. Gradually the splendor faded, to be succeeded by a softer and more tranquil gleam, less stimulating but not less beautiful or glorious. The world looks larger under the light of stars. I always loved Blanco White's magnificent sonnet to Night, but never appreciated its full significance until the scientific view had succeeded to the transcendental, and I began to walk by knowledge, steadily and surely, but not buoyantly any more. It would be a mistake to suppose that anything like pain, sadness, or sterility accompanies the departure of an old faith, when a new one takes its place and soon opens fresh prospects of good. The universe but grows larger: other methods are adopted, other hopes are entertained, other consolations are presented, and soon the mind adjusts itself to the altered conditions. The downcast mood of George Eliot, of the author of "Physicus," and of many another less distinguished unbeliever, may be due in part to temperament, in part to the first feeling of chill that ensues upon a transitional period, which brings in a different climate; but the allegation of lasting coldness, gloom, discontent, is wholly groundless. The old fable says that quails drop from the clouds, that even rocks quench the traveller's thirst. There is, in short, no wilderness.

That the creed was "filmy," the foothold "unsteady," is altogether likely, for the ancient supports were removed, the pillars that replaced them were shaking, and tradition alone remained to hold by. But religion was still the Poetry of Life, and kept its place among the interests singly represented by art, music, literature, philosophy, those fine intimations of a higher state, those splendid foreshadowings of the future, those noble efforts to solve problems that must be forever insoluble. My creed did not pretend to be final or even definite. It was simply a study, a preliminary sketch, an essay towards truth. A claim to completeness, to logical consistency, would have been fatal. Still less, if possible, did it pretend to meet popular wants. It resolutely turned in the opposite direction, and took up positions which, it was understood, the general public could not occupy without abandoning all its works and retiring to other ground. No effort was made to commend it to common opinion; on the contrary, everything like concession was shunned, and the slightest signal of agreement with current beliefs was regarded as a warning against a compromise of principle. Nothing was assumed except the validity of the human faculties, including, of course, the higher reason, the insight of genius, and such feelings as were parts of the rational constitution, together with perfect liberty in their exercise. Every theological system was repudiated; even the doctrines of a conscious Deity and the individual immortality of the soul were left open to discussion, the atheist and the materialist being listened to with as much deference as any. These doctrines were accepted, yet not on the ground of authority or tradition, but simply considered as faiths, hopes, sentiments of the spiritual being; the existence of living mind, coupled with the demand for unity, seeming to guarantee the first, the fact of individual persistency appearing to demonstrate the second. But all definition was carefully avoided, conviction being confined to the main idea, and being purely spiritual in its character, not in the least dogmatical, or exclusive of knowledge. Of doctrine in the usual sense there was none. There was merely thought. The very teaching was more of the nature of suggestion than of final conclusion. For this reason no account of the "credo" can be given, all fixed expressions of views being discountenanced as premature, and therefore irrational. This should be distinctly understood by those interested in coming at the truth on this subject. The object was to disintegrate, to pulverize, to enable mind to float freely in the air of intellect, to the end that it might crystallize about natural centres. All dogmatism, that of the infidel as well as that of the believer, of the man of science as well as of the theologian, of the sensualist as well as of the spiritualist, was obnoxious. There was no sympathy with those who regarded the case as closed, either as the anti-Christian assailant or as the apologist did; either with the school of Paine or with the school of Calvin. Hereafter there may be articles of belief, at present there can be none. This, it may be said, was a temporary, incidental position, quite indeterminate and unsatisfactory. No doubt it was. That was all it pretended to be. The sooner it disappeared and was succeeded by a more stable one, so it was reasonable, the better, for that would indicate an advance in rational judgment.