{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_12549/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_12549","id":"gutenberg_12549","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12549","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: History - American","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Clergy -- United States -- Biography","Cuyler, Theodore L. (Theodore Ledyard), 1822-1909"],"text":"[Illustration: THEODORE LEDYARD CUYLER]\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF A LONG LIFE\n\nAN AUTOBIOGRAPHY\n\nBY THEODORE LEDYARD CUYLER, D.D., LL.D. _Author of \"God's Light on Dark\nClouds,\" \"Heart Life,\" Etc._\n\n1902.\n\n\n\n   CONTENTS\n\n   I\n\n   BOYHOOD AND COLLEGE LIFE\n\n   II\n\n   GREAT BRITAIN SIXTY YEARS AGO\n   _Wordsworth--Dickens--The Land of Burns, etc_.\n\n   III\n\n   GREAT BRITAIN SIXTY YEARS AGO (Continued)\n   _Carlyle--Mrs. Baillie--The Young Queen--Napoleon_\n\n   IV\n\n   HYMN-WRITERS I HAVE KNOWN\n   _Montgomery--Bonar--Bowring--Palmer and others_.\n\n   V\n\n   THE TEMPERANCE REFORM AND MY CO-WORKERS\n\n   VI\n\n   WORK IN THE PULPIT\n\n   VII\n\n   EXPERIENCE IN REVIVALS\n\n   VIII\n\n   AUTHORSHIP\n\n   IX\n\n   SOME FAMOUS PEOPLE ABROAD\n   _Gladstone--Dr. Brown--Dean Stanley--Shaftesbury, etc._\n\n   X\n\n   SOME FAMOUS PEOPLE AT HOME\n   _Irving--Whittier--Webster--Greeley, etc_.\n\n   XI\n\n   THE CIVIL WAR AND ABRAHAM LINCOLN\n\n   XII\n\n   PASTORAL WORK\n\n   XIII\n\n   SOME FAMOUS PREACHERS IN BRITAIN\n   _Binney--Hamilton--Guthrie--Hall--Spurgeon--Duff and others_.\n\n   XIV\n\n   SOME FAMOUS AMERICAN PREACHERS\n   _The Alexanders--Dr. Tyng--Dr. Cox--Dr. Adams\n   --Dr. Storrs--Mr. Beecher, Mr. Finney and Dr. B.M. Palmer_.\n\n   XV\n\n   SUMMERING AT SARATOGA AND MOHONK\n   _Bishop Haven--Dr. Schaff--President McCook._\n\n   XVI\n\n   A RETROSPECT\n\n   XVII\n\n   A RETROSPECT (Continued)\n\n   XVIII\n\n   HOME LIFE\n\n   XIX\n\n   LIFE AT HOME AND FRIENDS ABROAD\n\n   XX\n\n   THE JOYS OF THE CHRISTIAN MINISTRY\n   _A Valedictory Discourse Delivered to the\n   Lafayette Avenue Church, April_ 6, 1890.\n\n   ILLUSTRATIONS.\n\n   THEODORE LEDYARD CUYLER\n\n   DR. CUYLER WHEN PASTOR OF THE MARKET ST. CHURCH\n\n   DR CUYLER AT 50\n\n   LAFAYETTE AVENUE CHURCH\n\n   DR. CUYLER AT 80\n\n\nRECOLLECTIONS OF A LONG LIFE\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nMY BOYHOOD AND COLLEGE LIFE\n\n\nWashington Irving has somewhere said that it is a happy thing to have\nbeen born near some noble mountain or attractive river or lake, which\nshould be a landmark through all the journey of life, and to which we\ncould tether our memory. I have always been thankful that the place of\nmy nativity was the beautiful village of Aurora, on the shores of the\nCayuga Lake in Western New York. My great-grandfather, General Benjamin\nLedyard, was one of its first settlers, and came there in 1794. He was a\nnative of New London County, Ct., a nephew of Col. William Ledyard, the\nheroic martyr of Fort Griswold, and the cousin of John Ledyard, the\ncelebrated traveller, whose biography was written by Jared Sparks. When\nGeneral Ledyard came to Aurora some of the Cayuga tribe of Indians were\nstill lingering along the lakeside, and an Indian chief said to my\ngreat-grandfather, \"General Ledyard, I see that your daughters are very\npretty squaws.\" The eldest of these comely daughters, Mary Forman\nLedyard, was married to my grandfather, Glen Cuyler, who was the\nprincipal lawyer of the village, and their eldest son was my father,\nBenjamin Ledyard Cuyler. He became a student of Hamilton College,\nexcelled in elocution, and was a room-mate of the Hon. Gerrit Smith,\nafterward eminent as the champion of anti-slavery. On a certain Sabbath,\nthe student just home from college was called upon to read a sermon in\nthe village church of Aurora, in the absence of the pastor, and his\nhandsome visage and graceful delivery won the admiration of a young lady\nof sixteen, who was on a visit to Aurora. Three years afterward they\nwere married. My mother, Louisa Frances Morrell, was a native of\nMorristown, New Jersey; and her ancestors were among the founders of\nthat beautiful town. Her maternal great-grandfather was the Rev. Dr.\nTimothy Johnes, the pastor of the Presbyterian Church, who administered\nthe sacrament of the Lord's Supper to General Washington. Her paternal\ngreat-grandfather was the Rev. Azariah Horton, pastor of a church near\nMorristown, and an intimate friend of the great President Edwards. The\nearly settlers of Aurora were people of culture and refinement; and the\nvillage is now widely known as the site of Wells College, among whose\ngraduates is the popular wife of ex-President Cleveland.\n\nIn the days of my childhood the march of modern improvements had hardly\nbegun. There was a small steamboat plying on the Cayuga Lake. There was\nnot a single railway in the whole State. When I went away to school in\nNew Jersey, at the age of thirteen, the tedious journey by the\nstagecoach required three days and two nights; every letter from home\ncost eighteen cents for postage; and the youngsters pored over Webster's\nspelling-books and Morse's geography by tallow candles; for no gas lamps\nhad been dreamed of and the wood fires were covered, in most houses, by\nnine o'clock on a winter evening. There was plain living then, but not a\nlittle high thinking. If books were not so superabundant as in these\ndays, they were more thoroughly appreciated and digested.\n\nMy father, who was just winning a brilliant position at the Cayuga\nCounty Bar, died in June, 1826, at the early age of twenty-eight, when I\nwas but four and one-half years old. The only distinct recollections\nthat I have of him are his leading me to school in the morning, and that\nhe once punished me for using a profane word that I had heard from some\nrough boys. That wholesome bit of discipline kept me from ever breaking\nthe Third Commandment again. After his death, I passed entirely into\nthe care of one of the best mothers that God ever gave to an only son.\nShe was more to me than school, pastor or church, or all combined. God\nmade mothers before He made ministers; the progress of Christ's kingdom\ndepends more upon the influence of faithful, wise, and pious mothers\nthan upon any other human agency.\n\nAs I was an only child, my widowed mother gave up her house and took me\nto the pleasant home of her father, Mr. Charles Horton Morrell, on the\nbanks of the lake, a few miles south of Aurora. How thankful I have\nalways been that the next seven or eight years of my happy childhood\nwere spent on the beautiful farm of my grandfather! I had the free pure\nair of the country, and the simple pleasures of the farmhouse; my\ngrandfather was a cultured gentleman with a good library, and at his\nfireside was plenty of profitable conversation. Out of school hours I\ndid some work on the farm that suited a boy; I drove the cows to the\npasture, and rode the horses sometimes in the hay-field, and carried in\nthe stock of firewood on winter afternoons. My intimate friends were the\nhouse-dog, the chickens, the kittens and a few pet sheep in my\ngrandfather's flocks. That early work on the farm did much toward\nproviding a stock of physical health that has enabled me to preach for\nfifty-six years without ever having spent a single Sabbath on a\nsick-bed!\n\nMy Sabbaths in that rural home were like the good old Puritan Sabbaths,\nserene and sacred, with neither work nor play. Our church (Presbyterian)\nwas three miles away, and in the winter our family often fought our way\nthrough deep mud, or through snow-drifts piled as high as the fences. I\nwas the only child among grown-up uncles and aunts, and the first\nSunday-school that I ever attended had only one scholar, and my good\nmother was the superintendent. She gave me several verses of the Bible\nto commit thoroughly to memory and explained them to me; I also studied\nthe Westminster Catechism. I was expected to study God's Book for\nmyself, and not to sit and be crammed by a teacher, after the fashion of\ntoo many Sunday-schools in these days, where the scholars swallow down\nwhat the teacher brings to them, as young birds open their mouths and\nswallow what the old bird brings to the nest. There is a lamentable\nignorance of the language of Scripture among the rising generation of\nAmerica, and too often among the children of professedly Christian\nfamilies.\n\nThe books that I had to feast on in the long winter evenings were\n\"Robinson Crusoe,\" \"Sanford and Merton,\" \"The Pilgrim's Progress,\" and\nthe few volumes in my grandfather's library that were within the\ncomprehension of a child of eight or ten years old. I wept over \"Paul\nand Virginia,\" and laughed over \"John Gilpin,\" the scene of whose\nmemorable ride I have since visited at the \"Bell of Edmonton,\" During\nthe first quarter of the nineteenth century drunkenness was fearfully\nprevalent in America; and the drinking customs wrought their sad havoc\nin every circle of society. My grandfather was one of the first\nagriculturists to banish intoxicants from his farm, and I signed a\npledge of total abstinence when I was only ten or eleven years old.\nPreviously to that, I had got a taste of \"prohibition\" that made a\nprofound impression on me. One day I discovered some \"cherrybounce\" in a\nwine-glass on my grandfather's sideboard, and I ventured to swallow the\ntempting liquor. When my vigilant mother discovered what I had done, she\nadministered a dose of Solomon's regimen in a way that made me \"bounce\"\nmost merrily. That wholesome chastisement for an act of disobedience,\nand in the direction of tippling, made me a teetotaller for life; and,\nlet me add, that the first public address I ever delivered was at a\ngreat temperance gathering (with Father Theobald Mathew) in the City\nHall of Glasgow during the summer of 1842. My mother's discipline was\nloving but thorough; she never bribed me to good conduct with\nsugar-plums; she praised every commendable deed heartily, for she held\nthat an ounce of honest praise is often worth more than many pounds of\npunishment.\n\nDuring my infancy that godly mother had dedicated me to the Lord, as\ntruly as Hannah ever dedicated her son Samuel. When my paternal\ngrandfather, who was a lawyer, offered to bequeath his law-library to\nme, my mother declined the tempting offer, and said to him: \"I fully\nexpect that my little boy will yet be a minister.\" This was her constant\naim and perpetual prayer, and God graciously answered her prayer of\nfaith in His own good time and way. I cannot now name any time, day, or\nplace when I was converted. It was my faithful mother's steady and\nconstant influence that led me gradually along, and I grew into a\nreligious life under her potent training, and by the power of the Holy\nSpirit working through her agency. A few years ago I gratefully placed\nin that noble \"Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church\" of Brooklyn (of\nwhich I was the founder and pastor for thirty years) a beautiful\nmemorial window to my beloved mother representing Hannah and her child\nSamuel, and the fitting inscription: \"As long as he liveth I have lent\nhim to the Lord.\"\n\nFor several good reasons I did not make a public profession of my faith\nin Jesus Christ until I left school and entered the college at\nPrinceton, New Jersey. The religious impressions that began at home\ncontinued and deepened until I united, at the age of seventeen, with the\nChurch of the Lord Jesus Christ. As an effectual instruction in\nrighteousness, my faithful mother's letters to me when a schoolboy were\nmore than any sermons that I heard during all those years. I feel now\nthat the happy fifty-six years that I have spent in the glorious\nministry of the Gospel of Redemption is the direct outcome of that\nbeloved mother's prayers, teaching example, and holy influence.\n\nMy preparation for college was partly under the private tutorship of the\ngood old Dutch dominie, the Rev. Gerrit Mandeville, who smoked his pipe\ntranquilly while I recited to him my lessons in Caesar's Commentaries,\nand Virgil; and partly in the well-known Hill Top School, at Mendham,\nN.J. I entered Princeton college at the age of sixteen and graduated at\nnineteen, for in those days the curriculum in our schools and\nuniversities was more brief than at present. The Princeton college to\nwhich I came was rather a primitive institution in comparison with the\nsplendid structures that now crown the University heights. There were\nonly seven or eight plain buildings surrounding the campus, the two\nsociety-halls being the only ones that boasted architectural beauty. In\nendowments the college was as poor as a church mouse. There were no\ncollege clubs, no inter-collegiate games, thronged by thousands of\npeople from all over the land; but the period of my connection with the\ncollege was really a golden period in its history. Never were its chairs\nheld by more distinguished occupants. The president of the college was\nDr. Carnahan, who, although without a spark of genius, was yet a man of\nhuge common sense, kindness of heart and excellent executive ability. In\nthe chair of the vice-president sat dear old \"Uncle Johnny\" McLean, the\nbest-loved man that ever trod the streets of Princeton. He was the\npoliceman of the faculty, and his astuteness in detecting the pranks of\nthe students was only equalled by his anxiety to befriend them after\nthey were detected. The polished culture of Dr. James W. Alexander then\nadorned the Chair of the Latin Language and English Literature. Dr. John\nTorrey held the chemical professorship. He was engaged with Dr. Gray in\npreparing the history of American Flora. Stephen Alexander's modest eye\nhad watched Orion and the Seven Stars through the telescope of the\nastronomer; the flashing wit and silvery voice of Albert B. Dod, then in\nhis splendid prime, threw a magnetic charm over the higher mathematics.\nAnd in that old laboratory, with negro \"Sam\" as his assistant, reigned\nJoseph Henry, the acknowledged king of American scientists. When, soon\nafter, he gave me a note of Introduction to Sir Michael Faraday,\nFaraday said to me: \"By far the greatest man of science your country has\nproduced since Benjamin Franklin is Professor Henry.\" With Professor\nHenry I formed a very intimate friendship, and after he became the head\nof the Smithsonian Institution I found a home with him whenever I went\nto Washington.\n\nOur class, which graduated in 1841, contained several members who have\nsince made a deep mark in church and commonwealth. Professor Archibald\nAlexander Hodge was one of us. He inherited the name and much of the\npower of his distinguished father. Also General Francis P. Blair, who\nrendered heroic service on the battle-field. John T. Nixon brought to\nthe bench of the United States Court, and Edward W. Scudder brought to\nthe Supreme Court Bench of New Jersey, legal learning and Christian\nconsciences. Richard W. Walker became a distinguished man in the\nSouthern Confederacy. Our class sent four men to professor's chairs in\nPrinceton. My best beloved classmate was John T. Duffield, who, after a\nhalf century of service as professor of mathematics in the University,\nclosed his noble and beneficent career on the 10th of April, 1901. I\ndelivered the memorial tribute to him soon afterward in the Second\nPresbyterian Church in the presence of the authorities of the\nUniversity. Another intimate friend was the Hon. Amzi Dodd,\nex-chancellor of New Jersey and the ex-president of the New Jersey Life\nInsurance Company. He is still a resident of that State. During the past\nthree-score years it has been my privilege to deliver between sixty and\nseventy sermons or addresses in Princeton, either to the students of the\nUniversity or of the Theological Seminary, or to the residents of the\ntown. The place has become inexpressibly dear to me as a magnificent\nstronghold of Christian culture and orthodox faith, on the walls of\nwhose institutions the smile of God gleams like the light of the\nmorning. O Princeton, Princeton! in the name of the thousands of thy\nloyal sons, let me gratefully say, \"If we forget thee, may our right\nhands forget their cunning, and our tongues cleave to the roofs of our\nmouths!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nGREAT BRITAIN SIXTY YEARS AGO\n\n_Wordsworth--Dickens--The Land of Burns, etc_.\n\n\nThe year after leaving college I made a visit to Europe, which, in those\ndays, was a notable event. As the stormy Atlantic had not yet been\ncarpeted by six-day steamers, I crossed in a fine new packet-ship, the\n\"Patrick Henry,\" of the Grinnell & Minturn Line. Captain Joseph C.\nDelano was a gentleman of high intelligence and culture who, after he\nhad abandoned salt water, became an active member of the American\nAssociation of Science. After twenty-one days under canvas and the\ninstructions of the captain, I learned more of nautical affairs and of\nthe ocean and its ways than in a dozen subsequent passages in the\nsteamships.\n\nOn the second morning after our arrival in Liverpool I breakfasted with\nthat eminent clergyman, Dr. Raffles, who boasted the possession of one\nof the finest collections of autographs in England. He showed me the\nsignature of John Bunyan; the original manuscript of one of Sir Walter\nScott's novels; the original of Burns' poem addressed to the parasite\non a lady's bonnet, which contained the famous lines:\n\n   \"Oh wad some power the giftie gie us\n   To see our sel's as others see us,\"\n\nbesides several other manuscripts by the same poet, and also the\nautograph of a challenge sent by Byron to Lord Brougham for alleged\ninsult, a fact to which no reference has been made in Byron's biography.\nFrom Liverpool, with my friends Professor Renwick and Professor\nCuningham, I set out on a journey to the lakes of England. We reached\nBowness, on Lake Windermere, in the evening. The next morning we went up\nto Elleray, the country residence of Professor Wilson (\"Christopher\nNorth\"), who, unfortunately, was absent in Edinburgh. We hired a boatman\nto row us through exquisitely beautiful Windermere, and in the evening\nreached the Salutation Inn, at the foot of the lake. My great interest\nin visiting Ambleside was to see the venerable poet, Wordsworth, who\nlived about a mile from the village. I happened, just before supper, to\nlook out of the window of the traveller's room and espied an old man in\na blue cloak and Glengarry cap, with a bunch of heather stuck jauntily\nin the top, driving by in a little brown phaeton from Rydal Mount.\n\"Perhaps,\" thought I to myself, \"that may be the patriarch himself,\" and\nsure enough it was. For, when I inquired about Mr. Wordsworth, the\nlandlord said to me, \"A few minutes ago he went by here in his little\ncarriage.\" The next morning I called upon him. The walk to his cottage\nwas delightful, with the dew still lingering in the shady nooks by the\nroadside, and the morning songs of thanksgiving bursting forth from\nevery grove. At the summit of a deeply shaded hill I found \"Rydal Mount\"\ncottage. I was shown, at once, into the sitting-room, where I found him\nwith his wife, who sat sewing beside him. The old man rose and received\nme graciously. By his appearance I was somewhat startled. Instead of a\ngrave recluse in scholastic black, whom I expected to see, I found an\naffable and lovable old man dressed in the roughest coat of blue with\nmetal buttons, and checked trousers, more like a New York farmer than an\nEnglish poet. His nose was very large, his forehead a lofty dome of\nthought, and his long white locks hung over his stooping shoulders; his\neyes presented a singular, half closed appearance. We entered at once\ninto a delightful conversation. He made many inquiries about Irving,\nMrs. Sigourney and our other American authors, and spoke, with great\nvehemence, in favor of an international copyright law. He said that at\none time he had hoped to visit America, but the duties of a small office\nwhich he held (Distributer of Stamps), and upon which he was partly\ndependent, prevented the undertaking. He occasionally made a trip to\nLondon to see the few survivors of the friends of his early days, but he\ntold me that his last excursion had proved a wearisome effort. His\nlibrary was small but select. He took down an American edition of his\nworks, edited by Professor Reed, and told me that London had never\nproduced an edition equal to it. When I was about to leave, the good old\npoet got his broad slouched hat and put on his double purple glasses to\nprotect his eyes, and we went out to enjoy the neighboring views. We\nwalked about from one point to another and kept up a lively\nconversation. He displayed such a winning familiarity that, in the\nlanguage of his own poem, we seemed\n\n   \"A pair of friends, though I was young,\n      And he was seventy-four.\"\n\nFrom the rear of his court-yard he showed me Rydal Water, a little lake\nabout a mile long, the beautiful church, and beyond it, Grassmere, and\nstill further beyond, Helvelyn, the mountain-king with a retinue of a\nhundred hills. I might have spent the whole day in delightful\nintercourse with the old man, but my fellow-travellers were going, and I\ncould make no longer inroads upon their time. When we returned to the\ndoor of his cottage, he gave me a parting blessing; he picked a small\nyellow flower and handed it to me, and I still preserve it in my\nedition of his works, as a relic of the most profound and the most\nsublime poet that England has produced during the nineteenth century I\nknow of but one other living American who has ever visited Wordsworth at\nRydal Mount.\n\nAfter passing through Keswick, where the venerable poet Southey was\nstill lingering in sadly failing intelligence, we reached Carlisle the\nsame evening. From Carlisle we took the mail-coach for Edinburgh by the\nsame route over which Sir Walter Scott was accustomed to make his\njourneys up to London. The driver, who might have answered to Washington\nIrving's description, pointed out to me Netherby Hall, the mansion of\nthe Grahams, on \"Cannobie lea,\" over which the young Lochinvar bore away\nhis stolen bride. We passed also Branksome Tower, the scene of the \"Lay\nof the Last Minstrel,\" and reached Selkirk in the early evening. The\nnext day I spent at Abbotsford. The Great Magician had been dead only\nten years, and his family still occupied the house with some of his old\nemployees who figure in Lockhart's biography. I sat in the great\narm-chair where Sir Walter Scott wrote many of his novels, and looked\nout of the window of his bedchamber, through which came the rippling\nmurmurs of the Tweed, that consoled his dying hours. I heartily\nsubscribe to the opinion, expressed by Tennyson, that Sir Walter Scott\nwas the most extraordinary man in British literature since the days of\nShakespeare.\n\nAfter reaching Glasgow I made a brief trip into the Land of Burns. At\nthe town of Ayr I found an omnibus waiting to take me down to the\nbirthplace of the poet. At that time the number of visitors to these\nregions was comparatively few, and the birthplace of the poet had not\nbeen transformed, as now, into a crowded museum. On reaching a slight\nelevation, since consecrated by the muse of Burns, there broke upon the\nview his monument, his native cottage, Alloway Kirk, the scene of the\ninimitable Tam o' Shanter, and behind them all the \"Banks and Braes of\nBonnie Doon.\" I went first to the monument, within which on a centre\ntable are the two volumes of the Bible given by Burns to Highland Mary\nwhen they \"lived one day of parting love\" beneath the hawthorn of\nCoilsfield. One of the volumes contains, in Burns' handwriting, \"Thou\nshalt not forswear thyself, but shalt perform unto the Lord thy vows,\"\nand a lock of Mary's hair, of a light brown color, given at the time, is\npreserved in the treasured volumes. A few steps away is Alloway Kirk.\nThe old sexton was standing by the grave of Burns' father, and described\nto me the route of \"Tam o' Shanter.\" He showed me the chinks in the\nsides through which the kirk seemed \"all in a bleeze,\" and he pointed\nout the identical place on the wall where Old Nick was presiding over\nthe midnight revels of the beldames when--\n\n   \"Louder and louder the piper blew,\n   Swifter and swifter the dancers flew.\"\n\nAfter the old man had finished his recital, I asked him whether he had\never seen the poet. \"Only aince,\" he replied. \"That was one day when he\nwas ridin' on a road near here. I met a friend who told me to hurry up,\nfor Rabbie Burns was just ahead. I whippit up my horse, and came up to a\nroughly dressed man, ridin' slowly along, with his blue bonnet pulled\ndown over his forehead, and his eyes turned toward the groond.\" \"Didn't\nyou speak to him?\" I said. \"Nay, nay,\" replied the man, in a tone of\ndeep reverence, \"he was Rabbie Burns. _I dare na speak to him_. If he\nhad been any other mon I would have said 'good morrow to ye.'\" Beautiful\nand eloquent tribute, paid by an unlettered peasant, not to rank or to\nwealth, but to a soul--a mighty soul though clad in \"hodden grey\" like\nhimself!\n\nThe most interesting object was yet to be visited--the cottage of his\nbirth, I entered it with reverence; and a well dressed, but very old,\nwoman welcomed me in. \"This is the room,\" she said. I looked around on\nthe rough stone walls and could not believe that it ever contained such\na soul; for the cottage, with all its subsequent repairs, was hardly\nequal to the generality of our early log cabins. The old lady was very\naffable. In her early life she had been connected with an inn at\nMauchline, and had seen the poet often. \"Rabbie was a funny fellow,\" she\nsaid; \"I ken'd him weel; and he stoppit at our hoose on his way up to\nEdinburgh to see the lairds.\" I asked her if he was not always humorous.\n\"Nae, nae,\" she replied, \"he used to come in and sit doun wi' his hands\nin his lap like a bashful country lad; very glum, till he got a drap o'\nwhuskey, or heard a gude story, _and then he was aff!_ He was very\npoorly in his latter days.\" Those closing days in Dumfries, steeped in\npoverty to the lips, forms one of the most tragic chapters in literary\nhistory; and I know scarcely anything in our language more pathetic than\nthe letter which he wrote describing his wretched bondage to the\ndominion of strong drink. An old lady of Kilmarnock told my friend, the\nlate Dr. Taylor of New York, that when a young woman she had gone to\nBurns' house to assist in preparations for his funeral, and stated that\nthere was not enough decent linen in the house to lay out the most\nsplendid genius in all Scotland! When I was at Ayr, a sister of Burns,\nMrs. Begg, was still living, and I am always regretting that I did not\ncall upon her. His widow, Jean Armour, had died but a few years before;\nand when a certain pert American who called upon the old lady had the\naudacity to ask her: \"Can you show me any relics of the poet?\" answered\nwith majestic dignity: \"Sir, _I am the only relic of Robert Burns_.\"\n\nI went abroad on this first visit to Europe keen for lion hunting, and\nwith an eager desire to see some of the men who had been my literary\nbenefactors. On my arrival in London, having a letter of introduction to\nCharles Dickens, which a mutual friend had given to me, I resolved to\npresent it. Charles Dickens was an idol of my college days, and I had\nspent a few minutes with him in Philadelphia during his recent visit to\nthe United States. He had returned from his triumphal tour about a month\nbefore I landed in Liverpool. I called at his house, but he was not at\nhome. The next day he did me the honor to call on me at Morley's Hotel,\nand, not finding me in, invited me up to his house near York Gate,\nRegents Park. It was a dingy, brick house surrounded by a high wall, but\ncheerful and cozy within. I found him in his sanctum, a singularly\nshaped room, with statuettes of Sam Weller and others of his creations\non the mantelpiece. A portrait of his beautiful wife was upon the\nwall--that wife, the separation from whom threw a strange, sad shadow\nover his home. How handsome he was then! With his deep, dark, lustrous\neyes, that you saw yourself in, and the merry mouth wreathed with\nlaughter, and the luxuriant mass of dark hair that he wore in a sort of\nstack over his lofty forehead! He had a slight lisp in his pleasant\nvoice, and ran on in rapid talk for an hour, with a shy reluctance to\ntalk about his own works, but with the most superabounding vivacity I\nhave ever met with in any man. His two daughters, one of whom afterward\nmarried the younger Collins, a brother novelist, were then schoolgirls\nof eight and ten years, came in, with books in their hands, to give\ntheir father a good-morning kiss. After parting with him, when I had\nreached his gate, he called after me in a very loud voice, \"If you see\nMrs. Lucretia Mott, tell her that I have not forgotten the slave.\" His\n\"American Notes\" appeared the next week. There were some things in that\nhasty and faulty volume for which I sent him a cordial note of thanks,\nand I speedily received the following characteristic reply, which I\nstill prize as a precious relic of the man:\n\n   I DEVONSHIRE TERRACE,\n   REGENTS PARK, Oct. 26th, 1842.\n\n   MY DEAR SIR:--I am heartily obliged to you for your\n   frank and manly letter. I shall always remember it in connection\n   with my American book; and never--believe me--save\n   in the foremost rank of its pleasant and honorable\n   associations.\n   Let me subscribe myself, as I really am\n\n   Faithfully your Friend,\n\n   CHARLES DICKENS.\n\n   Mr. Theodore Ledyard Cuyler.\n\nI hold that Dickens was the most original genius in our fictitious\nliterature since the days of Walter Scott. As a social reformer his fame\nis quite as great as it is as a master of romance. His pen was mighty to\nthe pulling down of many a social abuse, and from the loving kindness of\nhis writings has been got many an inspiration to deeds of charity. But\nhow could a man who went so far as he did go no further? How could the\nreformer who struck at so many social wrongs spare that hideous\nfountain-head of misery in London, the dram-shop? And how could he\ndescend to scurrilously satirize all societies formed for the promotion\nof temperance? A still greater marvel is that so kind-hearted a man as\nMr. Dickens, who sought honestly the amelioration of the condition of\nhis fellow-men, could utterly ignore the transforming power of\nChristianity. He did not cast contempt on the Bible, and never soiled\nhis pages with infidelity, neither did he ever enlighten, and warm and\nvivify them with evangelical uplifting truth. Only a few feet of earth\nseparate the grave of Charles Dickens from the grave of William\nWilberforce. Both loved their fellow-men; but the great difference\nbetween them was that one of them invoked the spiritual power of the\nGospel of Christ, which the other lamentably ignored.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nGREAT BRITAIN SIXTY YEARS AGO (_Continued_)\n\n_Carlyle--Mrs. Baillie--The Young Queen--Napoleon_\n\n\nOne of the lions of whom I was in pursuit was Thomas Carlyle. Very few\nAmericans at that time had ever seen him, for he lived a very secluded\nand laborious life in a little brick house at Chelsea, in the southwest\nof London; and he rarely kept open doors. His life was the opposite to\nthat of Dickens and Macaulay, and he was never lionized, except when he\nwent to Edinburgh to deliver his address before the University, years\nafterwards. I sent him a note in which I informed him of the\nenthusiastic admiration which we college students felt for him, and that\nI desired to call and pay him my respects. To my note he responded\npromptly: \"You will be welcome to-morrow at three o'clock, the hour when\nI become accessible in my garret here.\" I found his \"garret\" to be a\ncomfortable front room on the second floor of his modest home. It was\nwell lined with books, and a portrait of Oliver Cromwell hung behind his\nstudy chair. He was seated at his table with a huge German volume open\nbefore him. His greeting was very hearty, but, with a comical look of\nsurprise, he said in broad Scotch: \"You are a verra young mon.\" I told\nhim of the appetite we college boys had for his books, and he assured me\nat once that while he had met some of our eminent literary men he had\nnever happened to meet a college boy before. \"Your Mr. Longfellow,\" said\nhe, \"called to see me yesterday. He is a man skilled in the tongues.\nYour own name I see is Dootch. The word 'Cuyler' means a delver, or one\nwho digs underground. You must be a Dutchman.\" I told him that my\nancestors had come over from Holland a couple of centuries ago, and I\nwas proud of my lineage; for my grandfather, Glen Cuyler, was a\ndescendant of Hendrick Cuyler, one of the early Dutch settlers of\nAlbany, who came there in 1667. \"Ah,\" said he, \"the Dootch are the\nbrawvest people of modern times. The world has been rinnin' after a red\nrag of a Frenchman; but he was nothing to William the Silent. When\nPheelip of Spain sent his Duke of Alva to squelch those Dutchmen they\njoost squelched him like a rotten egg--aye, _they did_.\"\n\nI asked him why he didn't visit America, and told him that I had\nobserved his name registered at Ambleside, on Lake Windermere. \"Nae,\nnae,\" said he, \"I never scrabble my name in public places.\" I explained\nthat it was on the hotel register that I had seen \"Thomas Carlyle.\" \"It\nwas not mine,\" he replied, \"I never travel only when I ride on a horse\nin the teeth of the wind to get out of this smoky London. I would like\nto see America. You may boast of your Dimocracy, or any other 'cracy, or\nany other kind of political roobish, but the reason why your laboring\nfolk are so happy is that you have a vast deal of land for a very few\npeople.\" In this racy, picturesque vein he ran on for an hour in the\nmost cordial, good humor. He was then in his prime, hale and athletic,\nwith a remarkably keen blue eye, a strong lower jaw and stiff iron gray\nhair, brushed up from a capacious forehead; and he had a look of a\nsturdy country deacon dressed up on a Sunday morning for church. He was\nvery carefully attired in a new suit that day for visiting, and, as I\nrose to leave, he said to me: \"I am going up into London and I will walk\nwi' ye.\" We sallied out and he strode the pavement with long strides\nlike a plowman. I told him I had just come from the land of Burns, and\nthat the old man at the native cottage of the poet had drunk himself to\ndeath by drinking to the memory of Burns.\n\nAt this Carlyle laughed loudly, and remarked: \"Was that the end of him?\nAh, a wee bit drap will send a mon a lang way.\" He then told me that\nwhen he was a lad he used to go into the Kirkyard at Dumfries and,\nhunting out the poet's tomb, he loved to stand and just read over the\nname--\"Rabbert Burns\"--\"Rabbert Burns.\" He pronounced the name with deep\nreverence. That picture of the country lad in his earliest act of\nhero-worship at the grave of Burns would have been a good subject for\nthe pencil of Millais or of Holman Hunt. At the corner of Hyde Park I\nparted from Mr. Carlyle, and watched him striding away, as if, like the\nDe'il in \"Tam O'Shanter,\" he had \"business on his hand.\"\n\nThirty years afterwards, in June, 1872, I felt an irrepressible desire\nto see the grand old man once more, and I accordingly addressed him a\nnote requesting the favor of a few minutes' interview. His reply was,\nperhaps, the briefest letter ever written. It was simply:\n\n   \"Three P.M.\n   T.C.\"\n\nHe told me afterwards that his hand had become so tremulous that he\nseldom touched a pen. My beloved friend, the Rev. Newman Hall, asked the\nprivilege of accompanying me, as, like most Londoners, he had never put\nhis eye on the recluse philosopher. We found the same old brick house,\nNo. 5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, without the slightest change outside or in.\nBut, during those thirty years the gifted wife had departed, and a sad\nchange had come over the once hale, stalwart man. After we had waited\nsome time, a feeble, stooping figure, attired in a long blue flannel\ngown, moved slowly into the room. His gray hair was unkempt, his blue\neyes were still keen and piercing, and a bright hectic spot of red\nappeared on each of his hollow cheeks. His hands were tremulous, and his\nvoice deep and husky. After a few personal inquiries the old man\nlaunched out into a most extraordinary and characteristic harangue on\nthe wretched degeneracy of these evil days. The prophet, Jeremiah, was\ncheerfulness itself in comparison with him. Many of the raciest things\nhe regaled us with were entirely too personal for publication. He amused\nus with a description of half a night's debate with John Bright on\npolitical economy, while he said, \"Bright theed and thoud with me for\nhours, while his Quaker wife sat up hearin' us baith. I tell ye, John\nBright _got_ as gude as he _gie_ that night\"; and I have no doubt that\nhe did.\n\nMost of his extraordinary harangue was like an eruption of Vesuvius, but\nthe laugh he occasionally gave showed that he was talking about as much\nfor his own amusement as for ours. He was terribly severe on Parliament,\nwhich he described as \"endless babblement and windy talk--the same\nhurdy-gurdies grinding out lies and inanities.\" The only man he had ever\nheard in Parliament that at all satisfied him was the Old Iron Duke. \"He\ngat up and stammered away for fifteen minutes; but I tell ye, he was the\nonly mon in Parliament who gie us any credible portraiture of the\nfacts.\" He looked up at the portrait of Oliver Cromwell behind him, and\nexclaimed with great vehemence: \"I ha' gone doon to the verra bottom of\nOliver's speeches, and naething in Demosthenes or in any other mon will\ncompare wi' Cromwell in penetrating into the veritable core of the fact.\nNoo, Parliament, as they ca' it, is joost everlasting babblement and\nlies.\" We led him to discuss the labor question and the condition of the\nworking classes. He said that the turmoil about labor is only \"a lazy\ntrick of master and man to do just as little honest work and to get just\nas much for it as they possibly can--that is the labor question.\" It did\nmy soul good, as a teetotaler, to hear his scathing denunciation of the\nliquor traffic. He was fierce in his wrath against \"the horrible and\ndetestable damnation of whuskie and every kind of strong drink.\" In this\nstrain the thin and weird looking old Iconoclast went on for an hour\nuntil he wound up with declaring, \"England has joost gane clear doon\ninto an abominable cesspool of lies, shoddies and shams--down to a\nbottomless _damnation_. Ye may gie whatever meaning to that word that ye\nlike.\" He could not refrain from laughing heartily himself at the\nconclusion of this eulogy on his countrymen. If we had not known that\nMr. Carlyle had a habit of exercising himself in this kind of talk, we\nshould have felt a sort of consternation. As it was we enjoyed it as a\npostscript to \"Sartor Resartus\" or the \"Latter Day\" pamphlets, and\nlistened and laughed accordingly. As we were about parting from him with\na cordial and tender farewell, my friend, Newman Hall, handed him a copy\nof his celebrated little book, \"Come to Jesus,\" Mr. Carlyle, leaning\nover his table, fixed his eye upon the inscription on the outside of the\nbooklet, and as we left the room, we heard him repeating to himself the\ntitle \"Coom to Jesus--Coom to Jesus.\"\n\nAbout Carlyle's voluminous works, his glorious eulogies of Luther, Knox\nand Cromwell, his vivid histories, his pessimistic utterances, his\nhatred of falsehood and his true, pure and laborious life, I have no\ntime or space to write. He was the last of the giants in one department\nof British literature. He will outlive many an author who slumbers in\nthe great Abbey. I owe him grateful thanks for many quickening,\nstimulating thoughts, and shall always be thankful that I grasped the\nstrong hand of Thomas Carlyle.\n\nOne of the literary celebrities to whom I had credentials was the\nvenerable Mrs. Joanna Baillie, not now much read, but then well known\nfrom her writings and her intimacy with Sir Walter Scott, and to whom\nLockhart devotes a considerable space in the biography. Her residence\nwas in Hampstead, and I was obliged, after leaving the omnibus, to walk\nnearly a mile across open fields which are now completely built over by\nmighty London. The walk proved a highly profitable one from the society\nof an intelligent stranger who, like every true English gentleman, when\nproperly approached, was led to give all the information in his power.\nWhen I reached the suburban village of Hampstead, after passing over\nstiles and through fields, I at last succeeded in finding her residence,\na quiet little cottage, with a little parlor which had been honored by\nsome of the first characters of our age. \"The female Shakespeare,\" as\nshe was sometimes called in those days, was at home and tripped into the\nroom with the elastic step of a girl, although she was considerably over\nthree score years and ten. She was very petite and fair, with a sweet\nbenignant countenance that inspired at once admiration and affection.\nAlmost her first words to me were: \"What a pity you did not come ten\nminutes sooner; for if you had you would have seen Mr. Thomas Campbell,\nwho has just gone away.\" I was exceedingly sorry to have missed a sight\nof the author of \"Hohenlinden\" and the incomparable \"Battle of the\nBaltic,\" but was quite surprised that he was still seeking much society;\nfor in those days he was lamentably addicted to intoxicants. On more\nthan one public occasion he was the worse for his cups; and when, after\nhis death, a subscription was started to place his statue in Westminster\nAbbey, Samuel Rogers, the poet, cynically said, \"Yes, I will gladly give\ntwenty pounds any day to see dear old Tom Campbell stand steady on his\nlegs.\" It is a matter of congratulation that the most eminent men of the\nVictorian era have not fallen into some of the unhappy habits of their\npredecessors at the beginning of the last century. Mrs. Baillie\nentertained me with lively descriptions of Sir Walter Scott, and of her\nold friend, Mr. Wordsworth, who was her guest whenever he came up to\nLondon. She expressed the warmest admiration for the moral and\npolitical, though not all of the religious, writings of our Dr.\nChanning, whom she pronounced the finest essayist of the time. She also\nfelt a curious interest (which I discovered in many other notable people\nin England) to learn what she could in regard to our American Indians,\nand expressed much admiration when I gave her some quotations from the\npicturesque eloquence of our sons of the forest.\n\nEvery American who visited London in those days felt a laudable\ncuriosity to see the young Queen, who had been crowned but four years\nbefore. I went up to Windsor Castle, and after inspecting it, joined a\nlittle group of people who were standing at the gateway which leads out\nto the Long Drive and Virginia Water. They were waiting to get a look at\nthe young Queen, who always drove out at four o'clock. Presently the\ngate opened and a low carriage, preceded by three horsemen, passed\nthrough. It contained a plump baby, nearly two years of age, wrapped in\na buff cloak and held up in the arms of its nurse. That baby became the\nEmpress Dowager of Germany, the mother of the present Kaiser and of\nPrince Henry, who has lately been our guest. In a few minutes afterwards\na pony phaeton, with two horses, passed through the gate and we all\ndoffed our hats. It was driven by handsome young Prince Albert, dressed\nin a gray overcoat and silk hat. To this day I think of him as about the\nmost captivating young husband that I have ever seen. By his side sat\nhis young wife, dressed in a small white bonnet with pink feather and\nwrapped in a white shawl. Her complexion was exceedingly fresh and fair.\nHer light brown hair was dressed in the \"Grecian\" style, and as she\nbowed gracefully I observed the peculiarity of her smile--that she\nshowed her teeth very distinctly. This resulted from the shortness of\nher upper lip. \"A pretty girl she is too\" was the remark I heard from\nthe visitors as the carriage went on down the drive. That was my first\nglimpse of royalty, and I little dreamed that she was to be the longest\nlived sovereign that ever sat on the British throne, and the most\npopular woman in all modern times.\n\nThirty years rolled away and I saw the good Queen again. The Albert\nMemorial, erected to the handsome Prince Consort, whom she idolized, had\njust been completed, and one morning the Queen came incognito to make\nher first private inspection of the memorial. Through the intimation of\na friend I hurried at once to the Park, and found a small company of\npeople gathered there. Her Majesty had just come, accompanied by Prince\nArthur, the Princess Louise and the young Princess Beatrice; and they\nwere examining the gorgeous new structure. The Queen wore a plain black\nsilk dress and her children were very plainly attired, so that they\nlooked like a group of good, honest republicans. The only evidence of\nroyalty was that the company of gentlemen who were pointing out to the\nQueen the various beauties of the monument just completed were careful\nnot to turn their backs upon Her Majesty. I observed that when her\nchildren bade her \"good morning\" they kneeled and kissed her hand. She\nremained sitting in her carriage for some time, chatting and laughing\nwith her daughter Beatrice. Her countenance had become very florid and\nher figure very stout. The last time that I saw her driving in the Park\nher full, rubicund face made her look not only like the venerable\ngrandmother of a host of descendants, but of the whole vast empire on\nwhich the sun never sets. Last year the most beloved sovereign that has\never occupied the British throne was laid in the gorgeous mausoleum at\nFrogmore beside the husband of her youth and the sharer of twenty-two\nyears of happy and holy wedlock. All Christendom was a mourner beside\nthat royal tomb.\n\nFrom London I went on a very brief visit to Paris, at the time when\nLouis Phillipe was at the height of his power and apparently securely\nseated on his throne. Within a half a dozen years from that time he was\na refugee in disguise, and the kingdom of France was followed by the\nRepublic of Lamartine. My brief visit to Paris was made more agreeable\nby the fact that my kinsman, the Hon. Henry Ledyard, was then in charge\nof the American Embassy, in the absence of his father-in-law, General\nLewis Cass, our Ambassador, who had returned to America for a visit. The\none memorable incident of that brief sojourn in Paris that I shall\nrecall was a visit to the tomb of Napoleon, whose remains had been\nbrought home the year before from the Island of St. Helena. Passing\nthrough the Place de la Concord and crossing the Seine, a ten minutes'\nwalk brought me to the Hospital des Invalides. I reached it in the\nmorning when the court in front was filled with about three hundred\nveterans on an early parade. Many of them were the shattered relics of\nNapoleon's Grand Army--glorious old fellows in cocked hats and long blue\ncoats, and weather-beaten as the walls around them. After a few moments\nI hurried into the Rotunda, which is nearly one hundred feet in height,\nsurrounded by six small recesses, or alcoves. \"Where is Napoleon?\" said\nI to one of the sentinels. \"There,\" said he, pointing to a recess, or\nsmall chapel, hung with dark purple velvet and lighted by one glimmering\nlamp. I approached the iron railing and, there before me, almost within\narm's length, in the marble coffin covered by his gray riding coat of\nMarengo, lay all that was mortal of the great Emperor. At his feet was a\nsmall urn containing his heart, and upon it lay his sword and the\nmilitary cap worn at the battle of Eylau. Beside the coffin was gathered\na group of tattered banners captured by him in many a victorious fight.\nThree gray-haired veterans, whose breasts were covered with medals, were\npacing slowly on guard in front of the alcove. I said to them in French:\n\"Were you at Austerlitz?\" \"Oui, oui,\" they said. \"Were you at Jena?\"\n\"Oui, oui.\" \"At Wagram?\" \"Oui, oui,\" they replied. I lingered long at\nthe spot, listening to the inspiring strains of the soldiery without,\nand recalling to my mind the stirring days when the lifeless clay beside\nme was dashing forward at the head of those very troops through the\npasses of the Alps and over the bridge at Lodi. It seemed to me as a\ndream, and I could scarcely realize that I stood within a few feet of\nthe actual body of that colossal wonder-worker whose extraordinary\ncombination of military and civil genius surpassed that of any other man\nin modern history. And yet, when all shall be summoned at last before\nthe Great Tribunal, a Wilberforce, a Shaftesbury, or an Abraham Lincoln\nwill never desire to change places with him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nHYMN-WRITERS I HAVE KNOWN\n\n_Montgomery--Bonar--Bowring--Palmer and Others_\n\n\nHymnology has always been a favorite study with me, and it has been my\nprivilege to be acquainted with several of the most eminent hymn-writers\nwithin the last sixty or seventy years. It is a remarkable fact that\namong the distinguished English-speaking poets, Cowper and Montgomery\nare the only ones who have been successful in producing many popular\nhymns; while the greatest hymns have been the compositions either of\nministers of the Gospel, like Watts, Wesley, Toplady, Doddridge, Newman,\nLyte, Bonar and Ray Palmer, or by godly women, like Charlotte Elliott,\nMrs. Sarah F. Adams, Miss Havergal and Mrs. Prentiss. During my visit to\nGreat Britain in the summer of 1842, I spent a few weeks at Sheffield as\nthe guest of Mr. Edward Vickers, the ex-Mayor of the city. His near\nneighbor was the venerable James Montgomery, whose pupil he had been\nduring the short time that the poet conducted a school. Mr. Vickers\ntook me to visit the poet at his residence at The Mount. A short,\nbrisk, cheery old man, then seventy-one, came into the room with a spry\nstep. He wore a suit of black, with old-fashioned dress ruffles, and a\nhigh cravat that looked as if it choked him. His complexion was fresh,\nand snowy hair crowned a noble forehead. He had never married, but\nresided with a relative. We chatted about America, and I told him that\nin all our churches his hymns were great favorites. I unfortunately\nhappened to mention that when lately in Glasgow I had gone to hear the\nRev. Robert Montgomery, the author of \"Satan,\" and other poems. It was\nthis \"Satan Montgomery\" whom Macaulay had scalped with merciless\ncriticism in the _Edinburgh Review_. The mention of his name aroused the\nold poet's ire. \"Would you believe it?\" he exclaimed, indignantly, \"they\nattribute some of that fellow's performances to me, and lately a lady\nwrote to me in reference to one of his most pompous poems, and said \"it\nwas the _best that I had ever written!_\" I do not wonder at my venerable\nfriend's vexation, for there was a world-wide contrast between his own\nchaste simplicity and the stilted pomposity of his Glasgow namesake.\nMontgomery, though born a Moravian and educated at a Moravian school,\nwas a constant worshipper at St. George's Episcopal Church, in\nSheffield. The people of the town were very proud of their celebrated\ntownsman, and after his death gave him a public funeral, and erected a\nbronze statue to his memory. While he was the author of several volumes\nof poetry, his enduring fame rests on his hymns, some of which will be\nsung in all lands through coming generations. Four hundred own his\nparentage and one hundred at least are in common use throughout\nChristendom. He produced a single verse that has hardly been surpassed\nin all hymnology:\n\n   \"Here in the body pent\n     Absent from Him I roam.\n   Yet nightly pitch my moving-tent,\n     A day's march nearer home.\"\n\nHymnology has known no denominational barriers. While Toplady was an\nEpiscopalian, Wesley a Methodist. Newman and Faber Roman Catholics,\nMontgomery a Moravian, and Bonar a Presbyterian, the magnificent hymn,\n\n   \"In the cross of Christ I glory,\"\n\nwas written by a Unitarian. I had the great satisfaction of meeting its\nauthor, Sir John Bowring, at a public dinner in London during the summer\nof 1872. A fresh, handsome veteran he was, too--tall and straight as a\nramrod, and exceedingly winsome in his manners. He had been famous as\nthe editor of the _Westminster Review_ and quite famous in civil life,\nfor he was a member of the British Parliament and once had been the\nGovernor of Hong Kong. He produced several volumes, but will owe his\nimmortality to half a dozen superb hymns. Of these the best is \"In the\ncross of Christ I glory\"; but we also owe to him that fine missionary\nhymn,\n\n   \"Watchman, tell us of the night\"\n\nHe told my Presbyterian friend, Dr. Harper, in China, that the first\ntime he ever heard it sung was at a prayer meeting of American\nmissionaries in Turkey. Sir John died about four months after I had met\nhim, at the ripe age of eighty, and on his monument is inscribed only\nthis single appropriate line, \"In the cross of Christ I glory.\"\n\nThe first time I ever saw Dr. Horatius Bonar was in May, 1872, when I\nwas attending the Free Church General Assembly of Scotland as a delegate\nfrom the Presbyterian Church in the United States. A warm discussion was\ngoing on in the Assembly anent proposals of union with the U.P. body,\nand the Anti-Unionists sat together on the left hand of the Moderator's\nchair. In the third row sat a short, broad-shouldered man with noble\nforehead and soft dark eyes. But behind that benign countenance was a\nspirit as pugnacious in ecclesiastical controversy as that of the Roman\nHoratius \"who kept the bridge in the brave days of old.\" I was glad to\nbe introduced to him, for I was an enthusiastic admirer of his hymns,\nand I had a personal affection for his brother, Andrew, the author of\nthe delightful \"Life of M'Cheyne.\" Although Horatius had won his\nworld-wide fame as a composer of hymns, he was, at that time, stoutly\nopposed to the use of anything but the old Scotch version of the Psalms\nin church worship. During my address to the Assembly I said: \"We\nPresbyterians in America sing the good old psalms of David.\" At this\npoint Dr. Bonar led in a round of applause, and then I continued: \"We\nalso sing the Gospel of Jesus Christ as versified by Watts, Wesley,\nCowper, Toplady and _your own Horatius Bonar!\"_ There was a burst of\nlaughter, and then I rather mischievously added: \"My own people have the\nprivilege, not accorded to my brother's congregation, of singing his\nmagnificent hymns.\" By this time the whole house came down in a perfect\nroar, and the confused blush on Bonar's face puzzled us--whether it was\non account of the compliment, or on account of his own inconsistency.\nHowever, before his death he consented to have his own congregation sing\nhis own hymns, although it is said that two pragmatical elders rose and\nstrode indignantly down the aisle of the church.\n\nIn August, 1889, when I was on a visit to Chillingham Castle, Lady\nTankerville said to me: \"Our dear Bonar is dead.\" I left the next day\nfor Edinburgh and reached there in time to bear an humble part in the\nfuneral services. On the day of his obsequies there was a tremendous\ndownpour, which reminded me of the story of the Scotchman, who, on\narriving in Australia, met one of his countrymen, who said to him: \"Hae\nye joost come fra Scotland and _is it rainin' yet_?\" But in spite of the\nstorm the Morningside Church, by the entrance to the Grange Cemetery,\nwas well filled by a representative assembly. The service was confined\nto the reading of the Scriptures, to two prayers and the singing of\nBonar's beautiful hymn, the last verse of which is\n\n   \"Broken Death's dread hands that bound us,\n   Life and victory around us;\n   Christ the King Himself hath crown'd us,\n   Ah, 'tis Heaven at last.\"\n\nAs I was the only American present I was requested to close the service\nwith a brief word of prayer; and I rode down to the Canongate Cemetery\nwith grand old Principal John Cairns (who Dr. McCosh told me \"had the\nbest head in Scotland\"), and Bonar's colleague, the Rev. Mr. Sloane. On\nour way to the place of burial Mr. Sloane told me that Bonar's two\nfinest hymns,\n\n   \"I heard the voice of Jesus say,\" etc..\n\nand\n\n   \"I lay my sins on Jesus,\" etc,\n\nwere originally composed for the children of his Sabbath school. And yet\nthey are the productions by which he has become most widely known\nthroughout Christendom. The storm-swept streets that day were lined with\nsilent mourners; and, under weeping skies, we laid down to his rest the\nmortal remains of the man who attuned more voices to the melodies of\npraise than any Scotchman of the century.\n\nOur own country has been very prolific in the production of hymns. The\nvenerable and devout blind songstress, Fanny Crosby (whom I often meet\nat the house of my beloved neighbor, Mr. Ira D. Sankey), has produced\nvery many hundreds of them--none of very high poetic merit, but many of\nthem of such rich spiritual savour, and set to such stirring airs, that\nthey are sung by millions around the globe. By common consent in all\nAmerican hymnology the hymn commencing\n\n   \"My faith looks up to Thee,\n   Thou Lamb of Calvary,\" etc,\n\nis the best. Its author, Dr. Ray Palmer, when a young man, teaching in a\nschool for girls in New York, one day sat down in his room and wrote in\nhis pocket memorandum book the four verses which he told me \"were born\nof my own soul,\" and put the memorandum book back into his vest pocket\nand for two years carried the verses there, little dreaming that he was\ncarrying his own passport to immortality. Dr. Lowell Mason, the\ncelebrated composer of Boston, asked him to furnish a new hymn for his\nnext volume of \"Spiritual Songs\" for social worship, and young Palmer\ndrew out the four verses from his pocket. Mason composed for them the\nnoble tune, \"Olivet,\" and to that air they were wedded for ever more. He\nmet Palmer afterwards, and said to him: \"Sir, you may live many years,\nand do many things, but you will be best known to posterity as the\nauthor of 'My faith looks up to Thee.'\" The prediction proved true. His\ndevoted heart flowed out in that one matchless lily that has filled so\nmany hearts and sanctuaries with its rich fragrance. Dr. Palmer preached\nseveral times in my Brooklyn pulpit. He was once with us on a\nsacramental Sabbath. While the deacons were passing the sacred elements\namong the congregation the dear old man broke out in a tremulous voice\nand sang his own heavenly lines:\n\n   \"My faith looks up to Thee\n   Thou Lamb of Calvary,\n   Saviour Divine.\"\n\nIt was like listening to a rehearsal for the celestial choir, and the\nwhole assembly was most deeply moved. Dr. Palmer was short in stature,\nbut his erect form and habit of brushing his hair high over his forehead\ngave him a commanding look. He was the impersonation of genuine\nenthusiasm. Some of his letters I shall always prize. They were the\noutpourings of his own warm heart on paper. He fell asleep just before\nhe reached a round four score, and of our many hymn-writers no one has\nyet \"taken away his crown.\"\n\nIt is quite fitting to follow this sketch of one noble veteran with a\nbrief reminiscence of an equally noble one, who bore the name of an\nEpiscopalian, although he was very undenominational in his broad\nsympathies. Dr. William Augustus Muhlenberg was one of the most\napostolic men I have ever known in appearance and spirit. His gray head\nall men knew in New York. He commanded attention everywhere by his\ngenial face and hearty manner of speech. I used to meet him at the\nanniversaries of the Five Points Home of Industry. Everybody loved him\nat first sight. All the world knows he was the founder of St. Luke's\nHospital in New York, and the extensive institutions of charity at St.\nJohnsland, on Long Island. Of his hymns the most popular is\n\n   \"I would not live alway,\" etc.\n\nIt was first written as an impromptu for a lady's album, and afterwards\namended into its present form.\n\nIn his later years he regarded the tone of that hymn as too lugubrious;\nand in a pleasant note to me he said: \"Paul's 'For me to live is Christ'\nis far better than Job's 'I would not live alway.'\" My favorite among\nhis productions is the one on Noah's Dove, commencing, \"O cease, my\nwandering soul\"; but the man was greater than any song he ever wrote. As\nhe was a bachelor he lived in his St. Luke's Hospital; and once, when he\nwas carrying a tray of dishes down to the kitchen and some one\nprotested, the patriarch replied: \"Why not; what am I but a waiter here\nin the Lord's hotel?\" When very near his end the Chaplain of the\nhospital prayed at his bedside for his recovery. \"Let us have an\nunderstanding about this,\" said Muhlenberg. \"You are asking God to\nrestore me, and I am asking God to take me home. There must not be any\ncontradiction in our prayers, for it is evident that He cannot answer\nthem both.\" This was characteristic of his bluff frankness, as well as\nof his heavenly-mindedness--he \"would not live alway.\"\n\nIn July, 1881, I was visiting Stockholm, and was invited to go on an\nexcursion to the University of Upsala with Dr. Samuel F. Smith. I had\nnever before met my celebrated countryman about whom his Harvard\nclassmate, Oliver Wendell Holmes, once wrote:\n\n   \"And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith--\n   Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;\n   But he shouted a song for the brave and the free--\n   Just read on his medal--'My Country--of Thee'\"\n\nThe song he thus shouted was written for the Fourth of July\ncelebration, in Park Street Church, Boston, in 1832, and has become our\nnational hymn. When I met the genial old man in Sweden, and travelled\nwith him for several days, he was on his way home from a missionary tour\nin India and Burmah. He told me that he had heard the Burmese and\nTelugus sing in their native tongue his grand missionary hymn, \"The\nMorning Light is Breaking.\" He was a native Bostonian, and was born a\nfew days before Ray Palmer. He was a Baptist pastor, editor, college\nprofessor, and spent the tranquil summer evening of his life at Newton,\nMass.; and at a railway station in Boston, by sudden heart failure, he\nwas translated to his heavenly home. He illustrated his own sweet\nevening hymn, \"Softly Fades the Twilight Ray.\"\n\nAmong the elect-ladies who have produced great uplifting hymns that\n\"were not born to die\" was Mrs. Elizabeth Payson Prentiss, the daughter\nof the saintly Dr. Edward Payson, of Portland, Maine. Her prose works\nwere very popular, and \"Stepping Heavenward\" had found its way into\nthousands of hearts. But one day she--in a few hours--won her\nimmortality by writing a hymn, beginning with the lines,\n\n   \"More love to Thee, O Christ,\n   More love to Thee\"\n\nIt was printed on a fly-sheet, for a few friends, then found its way\ninto a hymn-book, edited by my well-beloved friend, Dr. Edwin F.\nHatfield, and then it took wing and flew over the world into many\nforeign languages. I often met Mrs. Prentiss at the home of her husband,\nDr. George L. Prentiss, an eminent professor in the Union Theological\nSeminary. She was a very bright-eyed little woman, with a keen sense of\nhumor, who cared more to shine in her own happy household than in a wide\ncircle of society. Her absolutely perfect hymn--for such it truly\nis--was born of her own deep longings for a fuller inflow of that love\nthat casteth out all fear. This has been the genesis of all the\nsoul-songs that devout disciples of our Lord chant into the ears of\ntheir Master in their hours of sweetest and closest fellowship. Mrs.\nPrentiss has put a new song into the mouths of a multitude of those who\nare \"stepping heavenward.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nTHE TEMPERANCE REFORM AND MY CO-WORKERS\n\n\nAs stated in the first chapter of this book, I became a teetotaler when\nI was a child, and I also stated that the first public address I ever\ndelivered was in behalf of temperance. When I made my first visit to\nEdinburgh in 1842 I learned that a temperance society of that city was\nabout to go over to Glasgow to greet the celebrated Father Theobald\nMathew, who was making his first visit to Scotland. I joined my\nEdinburgh friends, and on arriving in Glasgow we found a multitude of\nover fifty thousand people assembled on the green. In an open barouche,\ndrawn by four horses, stood a short, stout Irishman, with a handsome,\nbenevolent countenance, and attired in a long black coat with a silver\nmedal hanging upon his breast. After the procession, headed by his\ncarriage, had forced its way through the densely thronged street, it\nhalted in a small open square. Father Mathew dismounted, and began to\nadminister the pledge of abstinence to those who were willing to receive\nit. They kneeled on the ground in platoons; the pledge was read aloud to\nthem; Father Mathew laid his hands upon them and pronounced a\nbenediction. From the necks of many a small medal attached to a cord was\nsuspended. In this rapid manner the pledge was administered to many\nhundreds of persons within an hour, and fresh crowds continually came\nforward.\n\nWhen I was introduced to the good man as an American, he spoke a few\nkind words and gave me an \"apostolic kiss\" upon my cheek. As I was about\nto make the first public speech of my life, I suppose that I may regard\nthat act of the great Irish apostle as a sort of ordination to the\nministry of preaching the Gospel of total abstinence. The administration\nof the pledge was followed by a grand meeting of welcome in the city\nhall. Father Mathew spoke with modest simplicity and deep emotion,\nattributing all his wonderful success to the direct blessings of God\nupon his efforts to persuade his fellow-men to throw off the despotism\nof the bottle. After delivering my maiden speech I hastened back to\nEdinburgh with the deputation from \"Auld Reekie,\" and I never saw Father\nMathew again. He was, unquestionably, the most remarkable temperance\nreformer who has yet appeared. While a Catholic priest in Cork, a Quaker\nfriend, Mr. Martin, who met him in an almshouse, said to him, \"Father\nTheobald, why not give thyself to the work of saving men from the\ndrink?\" Father Mathew immediately commenced his enterprise. It spread\nover Ireland like wildfire. It is computed that no less than five\nmillions of people took the pledge of total abstinence from intoxicating\npoisons by his influence. The revolution wrought in his day, in his own\ntime and country, was marvellous, and, to this day, his influence is\nperpetuated in the vast number of Father Mathew Benevolent Temperance\nSocieties.\n\n[Illustration: DR CUYLER AT 32 (When Pastor of the Market St Church, New\nYork)]\n\nSecond only to Father Mathew in the number of converts which he has made\nto total abstinence was that brilliant and dramatic platform orator,\nJohn B. Gough. When he was a reckless young sot in Worcester,\nMassachusetts, he had owed his conversion to a touch on his shoulder by\na shoemaker, named Joel Stratton, who had invited him to a Washingtonian\ntemperance meeting. Soon after that time he owed his conversion, under\nGod, to the influence of Miss Mary Whitcomb, the daughter of a Boylston\nfarmer in the neighborhood. He formed her acquaintance very soon after\nhe signed the temperance pledge in Worcester, and she consented to\nassume the risk of becoming his wife. In the summer of 1856 I visited my\nbeloved friend Gough at his beautiful Boylston home to aid him in\nrevival services, which he was conducting in his own church, then\nwithout a pastor. He was Sunday-school superintendent, pastor and leader\nof inquiry meetings--all in himself. One evening he took me to the\nhouse of his neighbor, Captain Flagg, and said to me: \"Here, in this\nhouse, Mary and I did our brief two or three weeks of courting. We\ndidn't talk of love, but only religion and about the welfare of my soul.\nWe prayed together every time we met; and it was such serious business\nthat I do not think I even kissed her until we were married. She took me\non trust, with three dollars in my pocket, and has been to me the best\nwife God ever made.\" When they went to Boston, Dr. Edward N. Kirk\nreceived Mr. Gough into the Mt. Vernon Street Church, just as many years\nafterwards he received Mr. Moody to the same communion table.\n\nOf Mr. Gough's extraordinary platform powers I need not speak while\nthere are so many now living that sat under the enchantment of his\neloquence. A man who could crowd an opera house in London to listen to\nso unpopular a theme as temperance while a score or more of coroneted\ncarriages were waiting about the door must have been no ordinary master\nof oratory. As an actor he might have been a second Garrick; as a\npreacher of the Gospel he would have been a second Whitefield. My house\nwas his home when visiting our city for many years, and he used to tell\nme that my letters to him were carried in his breast pocket until they\nwere worn to fragments. His last speech, delivered in Philadelphia,\ndisplayed much of his early power, and the last sentence, \"Young man,\nkeep a clean record,\" rung out as he fell stricken with apoplexy, and\nthe eloquent voice was silent forever. God's messenger met him where\nevery true warrior may well desire to be met--in the heat of the battle,\nand with the harness on.\n\nMy acquaintance with Neal Dow began in the early winter of 1852. He had\nbeen chosen Mayor of Portland in the spring of the year, and then he\nstruck the bold stroke which was \"heard round the world\" and made him\nfamous as the father of Prohibition. He had drafted a bill for the\nsuppression of tippling houses and placed in it a claim of the right of\nthe civil authorities to search all premises where it was suspected that\nintoxicating liquors were kept for sale, and to seize and confiscate\nthem on the spot. It was this sharp scimitar of search and seizure which\ngave the original Maine law its deadly power. He took his bill to the\nseat of government and it was promptly passed by the legislature. He\nbrought it home in triumph, and in less than three months there was not\nan open dram shop or distillery in Portland! He invited me to visit him,\nand drove me over the city, whose pure air was not polluted with the\nfaintest smell of alcohol. It seemed like the first whiff of a\ntemperance millennium. An invitation was extended to him to a\nmagnificent public meeting in Tripler Hall, New York. At that meeting a\nlarge array of distinguished speakers, including General Houston, of\nTexas; the Hon. Horace Mann, of Massachusetts; Henry Ward Beecher, Dr.\nChapin and several other celebrities, appeared. On that evening I\ndelivered my first public address in New York, and have been told that\nit was the occasion of my call to be a pastor in that city two years\nafterwards. A gold medal was presented to Neal Dow that evening. He went\nhome with me to Trenton, and from that time our intimacy was so great\nand our correspondence so constant that if I had preserved all his\nletters they would make a history of the prohibition movement from 1851\nto 1857, the years of its widest successes. With him I addressed the\nlegislature of New York, who passed a law of prohibition very soon\nafterwards. A forceful, magnetic man was General Dow, thoroughly honest\nand courageous, with a womanly tenderness in his sympathies. I have been\npermitted to know intimately many of the leaders in great moral reforms\non both sides of the ocean; but a braver, sounder heart was not to be\nfound than that which throbbed in the breast of Neal Dow.\n\nOn his ninetieth birthday the hale veteran sent my wife his photograph.\nShe placed his white locks alongside of the photograph which Gladstone\ngave her, and she calls them her duet of grand old men. The closing\nyears of General Dow's life, like the closing years of Martin Luther,\nwere clouded with anxiety. He saw the great movement which he had\nchampioned checked by many difficulties and suffering some disastrous\nreverses. Some States which had enacted total prohibition forty years\nbefore had repealed the law. In the five States which retained it on\ntheir statute books its salutary enforcement was dependent on the moral\nsentiments in the various localities. In his own, beloved Maine, his own\nbeloved law had been trampled down in some places; in others made the\nfootball of designing politicians. These reverses saddened the old\nhero's heart, and he sent to the public meeting in Portland which\ncelebrated his ninety-third birthday this message: \"That the purpose of\nmy life work will be fully accomplished at some time I do not doubt, and\nmy hope and expectation is that the obstacles which now obstruct us will\nnot long block the way.\" The name of Neal Dow will be always memorable\nas one of the truest, bravest and purest philanthropists of the\nnineteenth century.\n\nThe most important organization for the promotion of temperance in our\ncountry is the National Temperance Society and Publication House, which\nwas founded in 1865. I prepared its constitution, and the committee\nwhich organized it met in the counting room of that eminent Christian\nmerchant, the late Hon. William E. Dodge. I once introduced him to the\nEarl of Shaftesbury at a Lord Mayor's reception in London in these\nwords: \"My lord, let me introduce you to William E. Dodge, the\nShaftesbury of America.\" To this day he is remembered as an ideal\nChristian merchant and philanthropist. With him conscience ruled\neverything, and God ruled conscience. He was one of the founders of a\ngreat railway and cut the first sod for its construction. Long\nafterwards the Board of Directors of the road proposed to drive their\ntrains and traffic through the Lord's day. Mr. Dodge said to his fellow\ndirectors: \"Then, gentlemen, put a flag on every locomotive with these\nwords inscribed on it, 'We break God's law for a dividend.' As for me, I\ngo out.\" He did go out, and disposed of his stock. Within a few years\nthe road went into the hands of a receiver, and the stock sank to thirty\ncents on the dollar.\n\nDuring the Civil War, General Dix and his military staff gave Mr. Dodge\na complimentary dinner at Fortress Monroe. General Dix rapped on the\ntable and said to his brother officers: \"Gentlemen, you are aware that\nour honored guest is a water-drinker. I propose that to-day we join him\nin his favorite beverage.\" Forthwith every wine-glass was turned upside\ndown as a silent tribute to the Christian conscience of their guest.\nWhen the whole Christian community of America shall imitate the wise\nexample of that great philanthropist it will exert a tremendous\ninfluence for the banishment of all intoxicants from the public and\nprivate hospitalities of society. Mr. Dodge was elected the first\npresident of the National Temperance Society, and served it for eighteen\nyears and bestowed upon it his liberal donations. He closed his useful\nand beneficent life in February, 1883, and he was succeeded in the\npresidency of the Society by Dr. Mark Hopkins of Williams College, by\nthe writer of this book, by General O.O. Howard and by Joshua L. Bailey,\nwho is at present the head of the organization. The society has done a\nvast and benevolent work, receiving and expending a million and a half\ndollars, publishing many hundreds of valuable volumes, and widely\ncirculated tracts.\n\nThe limits of this chapter will not allow me to pay my tribute to the\nvenerable Dr. Charles Jewett, Dr. Cheever, Albert Barnes, Dr. Tyng and\nthe great Christian statesman, Theodore Frelinghuysen, Miss Frances\nWillard, Lady Henry Somerset, Joseph Cook and many others who have been\nprominent in the promotion of this great Christian reform. It has been\nmy privilege to labor for it through my whole public life. I have\nprepared thirty or forty tracts, written a great number of articles and\ndelivered hundreds of addresses in behalf of it, and preached many a\ndiscourse from my own pulpit. I have always held that every church is as\nmuch bound to have a temperance wheel in its machinery as to have a\nSabbath school or a missionary organization. It is of vital importance\nthat the young should be saved, and therefore I have urged temperance\nlessons in the Sunday school and the early adoption of a total\nabstinence pledge. The temperance reform movement made its greatest\nprogress when churches and Sunday schools laid hold of it and when the\ntotal abstinence pledge was widely and wisely used. The social drink\ncustoms are coming back again and a fresh education of the American\npeople as to the deadly drink evil is the necessity of the hour, and\nthat must be given in the home, in the schools and from the pulpit and\nfrom the public press. I have become convinced from long labor in this\nreform that the ordinary license system is only a poultice to the dram\nseller's conscience, and for restraining intemperance it is a ghastly\nfailure. Institutions and patent medicines to cure drinkers have only\nhad a partial success. The only sure cure for drunkenness is to stop\nbefore you begin. Entire legal suppression of the dram shop is\nsuccessful where a stiff, righteous, public sentiment thoroughly\nenforces it. Otherwise it may become a delusion and a farce.\n\nThe best method of prohibition is what is known as \"local option,\"\nwhere the question is submitted to each community, whether the liquor\ntraffic shall be legalized or suppressed by public authority. Of late\nyears friends of our cause have fallen into the sad mistake of directing\ntheir main assaults upon liquor selling instead of keeping up also their\nfire upon the _use_ of intoxicants. Legal enactments are right; but to\nattempt to dam up a torrent and neglect the fountain-head is surely\ninsanity. The fountain-head of drunkenness is the _drinking usages_\nwhich create and sustain the saloons, which are often the doorways to\nhell. In theory I always have been, and am to-day, a legal\nsuppressionist; but the most vital remedy of all is to break up the\ndemand for intoxicants, and to persuade people from wishing to buy and\ndrink them. That goes to the root of the evil. In endeavoring to remove\nthe saloon, it is the duty of all philanthropists to do their utmost to\nprovide safe places of resort--as the Holly-Tree Inns and other\ntemperance coffee houses--for the working people. And another beneficent\nplan is for corporations and employers to make abstinence from drink an\nessential to employment. My generous friend, Mr. Andrew Carnegie, when\nhe recently gave a liberal donation to our National Temperance Society,\nsaid to me: \"The best temperance lecture I have delivered was when I\nagreed to pay ten per cent premium to all the employees on my Scottish\nestates who would practice entire abstinence from intoxicants.\" The\nexperience of three-score years has taught me the inestimable value of\ntotal abstinence; the benefit of the righteous law when it is well\nenforced, and also that the church of Christ has no more right to ignore\nthe drink evil than it has to ignore theft, or Sabbath desecration, or\nmurder. Let me add also my grateful acknowledgment of the very effective\nand Heaven-blessed work wrought by that noble organization, the Woman's\nChristian Temperance Union. As woman has been the sorest sufferer from\nthe drink-curse, it is her province and her duty to do her utmost for\nits removal.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nMY WORK IN THE PULPIT\n\n\nDuring the first eighteen months after I graduated from Princeton\nCollege I was balancing between the law and the ministry. Many of my\nrelatives urged me to become a lawyer, as my father and grandfather had\nbeen, but my godly mother had dedicated me to the ministry from infancy,\nand her influence all went in the same line with her prayers. With the\nexception of my venerated and beloved kinsman, Dr. Cornelius C. Cuyler,\nPastor of the Second Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia, who died in\n1850, no other man of my name has stood in an American pulpit. During\nthe winter of my return from Europe to my home on the Cayuga Lake, one\nof my uncles invited me to go down and attend an afternoon prayer\nservice in the neighboring village of Ludlowville. There was a spiritual\nawakening in the church, and the meeting was held in the parlor of a\nprivate house. I arose and spoke for ten minutes. When the meeting was\nover, more than one came to me and said: \"Your talk did me good.\" On my\nway home, as I drove along in my sleigh, the thought flashed into my\nmind, \"If ten minutes' talk to-day helped a few souls, why not preach\nall the time?\" That one thought decided the vexed question on the spot.\nOur lives turn on small pivots, and if we let God lead us, the path will\nopen before our footsteps. I reached home that day, and informed my good\nmother of my decision. She had always expected it and quietly remarked,\n\"Then, I have already spoken to Mr. Ford for his room for you in the\nPrinceton Seminary.\" My three years in the Seminary were full of joy and\nprofit. I made it a rule to go out as often as possible and address\nlittle meetings in the neighboring school-houses, and found this a very\nbeneficial method of gaining practice. A young preacher must get\naccustomed to the sound of his own voice; if naturally timid, he must\nlearn to face an audience and must first learn to speak; afterwards he\nmay learn to speak well. It is a wise thing for a young man to begin his\nlabors in a small congregation; he has more time for study, a better\nchance to become intimately acquainted with individual characters, and\nalso a smaller audience to face. The first congregation that I was\ncalled to take charge of, in Burlington, N.J. contained about forty\nfamilies. Three or four of these were wealthy and cultivated, the rest\nwere plain mechanics, with a few gardeners and coachmen. I made my\nsermons to suit the comprehension of the gardeners and coachmen at the\nend of the house, leaving the cultivated portion to gain what they could\nfrom the sermon on its way. One of the wealthy attendants was Mr.\nCharles Chauncey, a distinguished Philadelphia lawyer, who spent the\nsummer months in Burlington. Once after I had delivered a very simple\nand earnest sermon on the \"Worth of the Soul,\" I went home and said to\nmyself, \"Lawyer Chauncey must have thought that was only a camp-meeting\nexhortation.\" He met me during the week and to my astonishment he said\nto me: \"My young friend, I thank you for that sermon last Sunday; it had\nthe two best qualities of preaching--simplicity and down-right\nearnestness. If I had a student in my law-office who was not more in\nearnest to win his first ten dollar suit before a Justice of the Peace\nthan some men seem to be in trying to save souls I would kick such a\nstudent out of my office.\" That eminent lawyer's remark did me more\nservice than any month's study in the Seminary. It taught me that\ncultivated audiences relished plain, simple scriptural truths as much as\ndid the illiterate, and that down-right earnestness to save souls hides\na multitude of sins in raw young preachers.\n\nAnother instance that occurred in my early ministry did me a world of\ngood. I was invited to preach in the Presbyterian Church at Saratoga\nSprings about two years after I was licensed. My topics were \"Trusting\nJesus Christ\" in the morning and \"The Day of Judgment\" at the evening\nservice. The next day, when I was buying my ticket at the railway\nstation to leave the town, a plain man (who was a baker in the village)\nsaid to me: \"Are you not the young man who spoke yesterday in our\nmeeting-house?\" I told him that I was. \"Well,\" said he, \"I never felt\nmore sorry for any one in my life.\" \"Why so?\" I asked. His answer was:\n\"I said to myself, there is a youth just out of the Seminary, and he\ndoes not know that a Saratoga audience is made up of highly educated\npeople from all parts of the land; but I have noticed that if a\nminister, during his first ten minutes, can convince the people that he\nis only trying to save their souls he _kills all the critics in the\nhouse_.\" I have never ceased to thank God for the remark of that shrewd\nSaratoga baker, who, I was told, had come there from New Haven,\nConnecticut, and was a man of remarkable sagacity. That was one of the\nprofoundest bits of sound philosophy on the art of preaching that I have\never encountered, and I have quoted it in every Theological Seminary\nthat I have ever addressed. If we ministers pour the living truths of\nthe Gospel red-hot into the ears and consciences of our audiences, they\nwill have enough to do to look out for themselves and will have no time\nto level criticisms at us or our mode of preaching. Cowards, also, are\nnever more pitiable than when in the pulpit.\n\nI will not enter here into the endless controversy about the comparative\nmerits of written or extemporized sermons. My own observation and\nexperience has been that no rule is the best rule. Every man must find\nout by practice which method he can use to the best advantage and then\npursue it. No man ever fails who understands his forte, and no man\nsucceeds who does not. Some men cannot extemporize effectively if they\ntry ever so hard; there are others who, like Gladstone, can think best\nwhen they are on their legs and are inspired by an audience. During the\nfirst few years of my ministry I wrote out nearly all of my sermons. The\nadvantage of doing that is that it enables a young beginner to form his\nown style at the outset by careful and systematic writing. Spurgeon,\noften when a youth, read some of his sermons, although afterwards he\nnever premeditated a single sentence for the pulpit. Dr. Richard S.\nStorrs was a most fluent extemporaneous speaker, but for twenty years he\ncarefully wrote all his discourses. My own habit, after a time, was to\nwrite a portion of the sermon and turn away from my notes to interject\nthoughts that came in the heat of the moment and then turn to my\nmanuscript. This was generally the habit of Henry Ward Beecher. After\nthirty years in the ministry I discarded writing sermons entirely and\nadopted the plan of preparing a few \"heads\" on a bit of note-paper, and\ntacking it into a Bagster's Bible. Dr. John Hall wrote carefully,\nleaving his manuscript at home; and so does Dr. Alexander McLaren, of\nManchester, who is to-day by far the most superb sermonizer in Great\nBritain. The eloquent Guthrie, of Scotland, committed his discourses to\nmemory, and delivered them in a torrent of Godly emotion.\n\nIn preparing my sermons my custom was, after taking some rest on Monday,\nto get into my study early on Tuesday morning. To every student the best\nhours of the day are those before the sun has reached the meridian. Then\nthe mind is the most clear and vigorous. I have never in my life\nprepared sermons a dozen times after my supper. Severe mental work in\nthe evening is apt to destroy sound sleep; thousands of brain workers\nare wrecked by insomnia. To secure freedom from needless interruption I\npinned on my study door \"_Very Busy_.\" This had the wholesome effect of\nshutting out all time-killers, and of shortening necessary calls of\nthose who had some important errand. Instead of leaving the selection of\nmy topic to the risk of any contingency, I usually chose my text on\nTuesday morning, and laid the keel of the sermon. I kept a large\nnote-book in which I could enter any passage of Scripture that would\nfurnish a good theme for pulpit consumption. I also found it a good\npractice to jot down thoughts that occurred to me on any important topic\nthat I could use when I came to prepare my sermons. By this method I had\na treasury of texts from which I could draw every week. Let my readers\nbe careful to notice that word \"Text.\" I have known men to prepare an\nelaborate essay, theological, ethical or sociological, and then to perch\na text from the Bible on top of it.\n\n\"Preach my word\" does not signify the clapping of a few syllables as a\nfigure-head on a long treatise spun out of a preacher's brain. The best\ndiscourses are not manufactured, they are a _growth_. God's inspired and\ninfallible Book must furnish the text. The connection between every good\nsermon and its text is just as vital as the connection between a\npeach-tree and its root. Sometimes an indolent minister tries to palm\noff an old sermon for a pretended new one by changing the text, but this\nshallow device ought to expose itself as if he should decapitate a dog\nand undertake to clap on the head of some other animal. Intelligent\naudiences see through such tricks and despise them. \"Be sure your sin\nwill find you out.\" When a passage from the Holy Scripture has been\nplanted as a root and well watered with prayer, the sermon should spring\nnaturally from it. The central thought of the text being the central\nthought of the sermon and all argument, all instruction and exhortation\nare only the boughs branching off from the central trunk, giving unity,\nvigor and spiritual beauty to the whole organic production. The unity\nand spiritual power of a discourse usually depend upon the adherence to\nthe great divine truth contained in the inspired Book. The Bible text is\nGod's part of our sermon; and the more thoroughly we get the text into\nour own souls, the more will we get it into the sermon, and into the\nconsciences of our hearers. To keep out of a rut I studied the infinite\nvariety of Sacred Scripture; its narratives and matchless biographies,\nits jubilant Psalms, its profound doctrines, its tender pathos, its\nrolling thunder of Sinai, and its sweet melodies of Calvary's redeeming\nlove. I laid hold of the great themes, and I found a half hour of\nearnest prayer was more helpful than two or three hours of study. It\nsometimes let a flash from the Throne flame over the page I was writing.\n\nTo me, when preparing my Sabbath messages, God's Holy Word was the sum\nof all knowledge, and a \"Thus saith the Lord\" was my invariable guide. I\nfound that in theology the true things were not new, and most of the new\nthings were not true. I remember how a visitor in New Haven was looking\nfor a certain house, and found himself in front of the residence of\nProfessor Olmstead, the eminent astronomer, whose stoves were then very\npopular. The visitor inquired of an Irishman, who was working in front\nof the house, \"Who lives here?\" The very Hibernian answer was, \"Shure,\nsur, 'tis Profissor Olmstead, a very great man; he _invents_ comets, and\nhas _discovered_ a new stove.\" In searching the Scriptures I used the\nvery best spiritual telescopes in my possession, and gladly availed\nmyself of all discoveries of divine truths made by profounder intellects\nand keener visions than my own; but I leave this self-styled \"advanced\nage\" to invent its own comets, and follow its own meteors.\n\nIn one respect I have not followed the practice of many of my brethren,\nfor I never have wasted a single moment in defending God's Word in my\npulpit. I have always held that the Bible is a self-evidencing book; God\nwill take care of His Word if we ministers only take care to preach it.\nWe are no more called upon to defend the Bible than we are to defend the\nlaw of gravitation. My beloved friend, Dr. McLaren, of Manchester, has\nwell said that if ministers, \"instead of trying to _prop_ the Cross of\nChrist, would simply _point_ men to that Cross, more souls would be\nsaved.\" The vast proportion of volumes of \"Apologetics\" are a waste of\nink and paper. If they could all be kindled into a huge bonfire, they\nwould shed more light than they ever did before. It is not our business\nto answer every sceptic who shies a stone at the solid fortress of truth\nin which God places His ambassadors. If Tobiah and Sanballat are\nchallenging us to come down into the plain, and meet them on their\nlevel, our answer must ever be: \"I am God's messenger, preaching God's\nword and doing God's work. I cannot stop to go down and prove that your\nswords are made of lath.\"\n\nTo my younger brethren I would say: \"Preach the Word, preach it with all\nyour soul, preach it in the strength of Jehovah's Spirit, and He will\ngive it the victory.\"\n\nI found the effectiveness of my sermons increased by the use of every\ngood illustration I could get hold of, but I tried to be careful that\nthey illustrated something. Where such are lugged into the sermon merely\nfor the sake of ornament, they are as much out of place as a bouquet\nwould be tied fast to a plough-handle. The Divine Teacher set us the\nexample of making vital truths intelligible by illustrations, when he\nspoke so often in parables, and sometimes recalled historical incidents.\nAll congregations relish incidents and stories, when they are \"pat\" to\nthe purpose, and serious enough for God's house, and help to drive the\ntruth into the hearts of the audience During my early ministry I\ndelivered a discourse to young men at Saratoga Springs, and closed it\nwith a solemn story of a man who died of remorse at the exposure of his\ncrime. The Hon. John McLean, a judge of the United States Supreme Court\nand a prominent man in the Methodist Church, was in the congregation,\nand the next day I called at the United States Hotel to pay my respects\nto him. He said to me, \"My young friend I was very much interested in\nthat story last evening; it clinched the sermon. Our ministers in\nCincinnati used to introduce illustrative anecdotes, but it seems to\nhave gone out of fashion and I am sorry for it.\" I replied to him, \"Well\nJudge, I am glad to have the decision of the Supreme Court of the United\nStates in favor of telling a story or a personal incident in the\npulpit.\" There is one principle that covers all cases. It is this:\nWhatever makes the Gospel or Jesus Christ more clear to the\nunderstanding, more effective in arousing sinners, in converting souls,\nin edifying believers and in promoting pure honest living is never out\nof place in the pulpit. When we are preaching for souls we may use any\nand every weapon of truth within our reach.\n\nThose who have sat before my pulpit will testify that I never spared my\nlungs or their ears in the delivery of my discourses. The preaching of\nthe Gospel is spiritual gunnery, and many a well-loaded cartridge has\nfailed to reach its mark from lack of powder to propel it. The prime\nduty of God's ambassador is to arouse the attention of souls before his\npulpit; to stir those who are indifferent; to awaken those who are\nimpenitent; to cheer the sorrow-stricken; to strengthen the weak, and\nedify believers An advocate in a criminal trial puts his grip on every\njuryman's ear So must every herald of Gospel-truth demand and command a\nhearing, cost what it may: but that hearing he never will secure while\nhe addresses an audience in a cold, formal, perfunctory manner.\nCertainly the great apostle at Ephesus aimed at the emotions and the\nconscience as well as the reason of his hearers when he \"ceased not to\nwarn them night and day with tears.\" I cannot impress it too strongly on\nevery young minister that the delivery of his sermon is half the battle.\nWhy load your gun at all if you cannot send your charge to the mark?\nMany a discourse containing much valuable thought has fallen dead on\ndrowsy ears when it might have produced great effect if the preacher had\nonly had _inspiration_ and _perspiration_. A sermon that is but ordinary\nas a production may have an extraordinary effect by direct and fervid\ndelivery. The minister who never warms himself will never warm up his\ncongregation. I once asked Albert Barnes, of Philadelphia, \"Who is the\ngreatest preacher you have ever heard?\" Mr. Barnes, who was a very\nclear-headed thinker, replied: \"I cannot answer your question exactly,\nbut the greatest specimen of preaching I ever heard was by the Rev.\nEdward N. Kirk before my congregation during a revival; it produced a\ntremendous effect.\" Those of us that knew Kirk knew that he was not a\nman of genius or profound scholarship; but he was a true orator with a\nsuperb voice and a sweet persuasiveness, and his whole soul was on fire\nwith the love of Jesus and the love of souls.\n\nIt is not easy to define what that subtle something is which we call\npulpit magnetism. As near as I can come to a definition I would say it\nis the quality or faculty in the speaker that arouses the attention and\nstrengthens the interest of his auditors and which, when aided by the\nHoly Spirit, produces conviction in their minds by the truth that is in\nJesus. The heart in the speaker's voice sends that voice into the hearts\nof his hearers. It is an undoubted fact that pulpit fervor has been a\ncharacteristic of almost all the preachers of a soul-winning Gospel. The\nfire was kindled in the pulpit that kindled the pews. The discourses of\nFrederick W. Robertson, of Brighton, were masterpieces of fresh thought,\nbut the crowds were drawn to his church because they were delivered\nwith a fiery glow. The king of living sermon-makers is Dr. McLaren, of\nManchester. His vigorous thought is put into vigorous language and then\nvigorously spoken. He commits his grand sermons to memory, and then\nlooks his audience in the eyes, and sends his strong voice to the\nfurthest gallery. Last year after I had thanked him for his powerful\n\"Address on Preaching\" to a thousand ministers in London, he wrote to\nme: \"It was an effort; for I could not trust myself to do without a\nmanuscript, and I am so unaccustomed to reading what I have to say that\nit was like dancing a hornpipe in fetters,\" Yet manuscripts are not\nalways fetters; for Dr. Chalmers read every line of his sermons with\nthrilling and tremendous effect. So did Dr. Charles Wadsworth in\nPhiladelphia, and so did Phillips Brooks in Boston. In my own experience\nI have as often found spiritual results from the discourses partly or\nmainly written out as from those spoken extemporaneously. While much may\ndepend upon the conditions in the congregation and much aid may be drawn\nfrom the intercessory prayers of our people, the main thing is to have a\nbaptism of fire in our own hearts. Sometimes a sermon may produce but\nlittle impression, yet the same sermon at another time and place may\ndeeply move an audience, and yield rich spiritual results. Physical\ncondition may have some influence on a minister's delivery; but the\nchief element in the eloquence that awakens and converts sinners and\nstrengthens Christians is the unction of the Holy Spirit. Our best power\nis the _power from on high_.\n\nI would say to young ministers--look at your auditors as bound to the\njudgment seat and see the light of eternity flash into their faces. Then\nthe more fervor of soul you put into your preaching the more souls you\nwill win to your Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.\n\nAs I look back over the last sixty years I think I discover some very\nmarked changes in the methods of the American pulpit since the days of\nmy youth. In the first place the average preacher in those days was more\ndoctrinal than at the present time. The masters in Israel evidently held\nwith Phillips Brooks that \"no exhortation to a good life that does not\nput behind it some great truth, as deep as eternity, can seize and hold\nthe conscience,\" Therefore they pushed to the front such deep and mighty\nthemes as the Attributes of God, the Divinity of Jesus Christ, the\nNature and Desert of Sin, the Atonement, Regeneration, Faith,\nResurrection, and Judgment to come, with Heaven and Hell as tremendous\nrealities. They emphasized the heinousness and the desert of sin as a\ngreat argument for repentance and acceptance of Jesus Christ. A lapse\nfrom that style of preaching is to be deplored; for as Gladstone truly\nremarked, the decline or decay of a sense of sin against God is one of\nthe most serious symptoms of these times.\n\nCharles G. Finney, who was at the zenith of his power sixty years ago,\nbombarded the consciences of sinners with a prodigious broadside of\npulpit doctrine; and many acute lawyers and eminent merchants were\nconverted under his discourses. No two finer examples of doctrinal\npreaching--once so prevalent--could be cited than Dr. Lyman Beecher and\nDr. Horace Bushnell. The celebrated sermon by the former of these two\ngiants on the \"Moral Government of God\" was characterized by Thomas H.\nSkinner as the mightiest discourse he had ever heard. Henry Ward Beecher\nhardly exaggerated when he once said to me, \"Put all of his children\ntogether and we do not equal my father at his best.\" Dr. Bushnell's\nmasterly discourses with all their exquisite poetry and insight into\nhuman hearts were largely bottomed and built on a theological basis. To\nthose two great doctrinal preachers I might add the names of my beloved\ninstructors, Dr. Archibald Alexander and Dr. Charles Hodge, of\nPrinceton, Albert Barnes and Professor Park, Dr. Thornwell, Dr. Bethune,\nDr. John Todd, Dr. G.T. Bedell, Bishop Simpson and President Stephen\nOlin.\n\nHas the American pulpit grown in spiritual power since those days? Have\nthe churches thriven whose pastors have become more invertebrate in\ntheir theology?\n\nAnother characteristic of the average preacher sixty years ago was that\nsermons were generally aimed at awakening the impenitent, and bringing\nthem to Jesus Christ. The evil of sin was emphasized; the way of\nsalvation explained; the claims of Christianity were presented; and\npeople were urged to immediate decision. Nowadays a large portion of\nsermons are addressed to professing Christians; many others are\naddressed to nobody in particular, but there is less of faithful,\nfervid, loving and persuasive discourses to the unconverted. This is one\nof the reasons for the lamentable decrease in the number of conversions.\nIf ministers are set to be watchmen of souls, how shall they escape if\nthey neglect the salvation of souls?\n\nI think, too, that we cannot be mistaken in saying that there has been a\ndecline in impassioned pulpit eloquence. There is a change in the\nfashions of preaching. Students are now taught to be calm and\ncolloquial; to aim at producing epigrammatical essays; to discuss\nsociological problems and address the intellects of their auditors\nrather in the style of the lecture platform or college class room. The\ngreat Dr. Chalmers \"making the rafters roar\" is as much a bygone\ntradition in many quarters as faith in the Mosaic authorship of the\nPentateuch. I have often wished that the young Edward N. Kirk, who\nmelted to tears the professors and students of Yale during the revival\nthere, could come back to us and teach candidates for the ministry how\nto preach. There was no stentorian shouting or rhetorical exhortation;\nbut there was an intense, solemn, white-heat earnestness that made his\nauditors feel not only that life was worth living, but that the soul was\nworth saving and Jesus Christ was worth serving, and Heaven was worth\nsecuring, and that for all these things \"God will bring us into\njudgment.\" If Lyman Beecher and Dr. Edward Dorr Griffin and Finney did\nnot possess all of Kirk's grace of delivery, they possessed his fire,\nand they made the Gospel doctrines glow with a living heat that burned\ninto the hearts and consciences of their auditors.\n\nMay God send into our churches not only a revival of pure and undefiled\nreligion, but also a revival of old-fashioned soul-inspiring pulpit\neloquence!\n\nIt is rather a delicate subject to touch upon, but I am happy to say\nthat in my early ministry the preachers of God's Word were not hamstrung\nby any doubt of the divine inspiration or infallibility of the Book that\nlay before them on their pulpits. The questions, \"Have we got any\nBible?\" and \"If any Bible, how much?\" had not been hatched. When I was\nin Princeton Seminary, our profoundly learned Hebrew Professor, Dr. J.\nAddison Alexander no more disturbed us with the much-vaunted conjectural\nBiblical criticisms than he disturbed us with Joe Smith's \"golden\nplates\" at Nauvoo. For this fact I feel deeply thankful; and I comfort\nmyself with the reflection that the great British preachers of the last\ndozen years--Dr. McLaren, Charles H. Spurgeon, Newman Hall, Canon Liddon,\nDr. Dale and Dr. Joseph Parker--have suffered no more from the virulent\nattacks of the radical and revolutionary higher criticism than I have,\nduring my long and happy ministry.\n\nMinisters had some advantages sixty or seventy years ago over their\nsuccessors of our day. They had a more uninterrupted opportunity for the\npreparation of their sermons and for thorough personal visitation of\ntheir flocks. They were not importuned so often to serve on committees\nand to be participants in all sorts of social schemes of charity. Every\npastor ought to keep abreast of reformatory movements as long as they do\nnot trench upon the vital and imperative duties of his high calling.\n\"This one thing I do,\" said single-hearted Paul; and if Paul were a\npastor now in New York or Boston or Chicago, he would make short work of\nmany an intrusive rap of a time-killer at his study door.\n\nI have noted frankly a few of the changes that I have observed in the\nmethods of our American pulpit during my long life, but not, I trust, in\na pessimistic or censorious spirit God forbid that I should disparage\nthe noble, conscientious, self-denying and Heaven-blessed labors of\nthousands of Christ's ministers in our broad land! They have greater\ndifficulties to encounter than I had when I began my work. They are\nsurrounded with an atmosphere of intense materialism. The ambition for\nthe \"seen things\" increasingly blinds men to the \"things that are unseen\nand eternal.\" Wealth and worldliness unspiritualize thousands of\nprofessed Christians. The present artificial arrangements of society\nantagonize devotional meetings and special efforts to promote revivals.\nOn Sabbath mornings many a minister has to shovel out scores of his\ncongregation from under the drifts (not very clean snow either) of the\nmammoth Sunday newspapers.\n\nThe zealous pastor of to-day has to contend with the lowered popular\nfaith in the authority of God's Word; with the lowered reverence for\nGod's day and a diminished habit of attending upon God's worship. Do\nthese increased difficulties demand a new Gospel? No; but rather a\nmightier faith in the one we have. Do they demand new doctrines? No;\nbut more power in preaching the truths that have outlived nineteen\ncenturies. Do we need a new revelation of Jesus Christ? Yes, yes, in the\nfuller manifestation of Him; in the more loving, courageous and\nconsecrated lives of His followers. Do we need a new Baptism of the Holy\nSpirit? Verily we do need it; and then our pulpits will be clothed with\npower, and our preachers will have tongues of fire, and every change\nwill be a change for the better advancement and enlargement of the\nKingdom of our adorable Lord.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nMY EXPERIENCE IN REVIVALS.\n\n\nI have always counted it a matter for thankfulness that I made my\npreparation for the ministry at Princeton Theological Seminary. The\nperiod that I spent there, from September, 1843, to May, 1846, was a\ngolden period in its history. The venerable Archibald Alexander,\nwonderfully endowed with sagacity and spiritual insight, instructed us\nin the duties of the preacher and the pastor. Dr. Charles Hodge, the\nking of Presbyterian theologians, was in the prime of his power. His\nteachings have since been embodied in his masterful volume on\n\"Systematic Theology.\" Dr. Joseph Addison Alexander, who, Dr. Hodge\nsaid, was, taking him all in all, \"the most gifted man with whom I was\never personally acquainted,\" was in the chair of Hebrew and Old\nTestament literature. Urbane, old Dr. Samuel Miller, was the Professor\nof Ecclesiastical History. Those wise men taught us not only to think,\nbut to believe. All education is atmospheric, and the atmosphere of\nPrinceton Seminary was deeply and sweetly Evangelical. At five o'clock\non the morning after I received my diploma, I was off for Wyoming\nValley in Pennsylvania, the Arcadian spot made famous in the volume of\nCampbell's \"Gertrude of Wyoming.\" I spent five months there supplying\nthe pulpit of the Rev. Mr. Mitchell, who was absent to recruit his\nhealth. In the Autumn I received an invitation to take charge of the\nPresbyterian Church of Burlington, N.J., founded by the princely and\nphilanthropic Dr. Cortland Van Rensellaer, son of the Patroon at Albany.\nIt was the very place for a young preacher to begin his work. The\ncongregation was small, and, therefore, I obtained an opportunity to\nstudy individual character. It was a very difficult field of labor, and\nit is good for a minister to bear the yoke in his youth. My work at\nfirst was attended with many discouragements. I preached as pungently as\nI was able, but no visible results seemed to follow. One day the wife of\none of my two church elders came to me in my study, and told me that her\nson had been awakened by the faithful talk of a young Christian girl,\nwho had brought some work to her husband's shoe store. I said to the\nelder's wife: \"The Holy Spirit is evidently working on one soul--let us\nhave a prayer meeting at your house to-night.\" We spent the afternoon in\ngathering our small congregation together, and when I got to her house\nit was packed to the door. I have attended thousands of prayer meetings\nsince then, but never one that had a more distinct resemblance to the\nPentecostal gathering in \"the upper room\" at Jerusalem. The atmosphere\nseemed to be charged with a divine electricity that affected almost\nevery one in the house. Three times over I closed the meeting with a\nbenediction, but it began again, and the people lingered until a very\nlate hour, melted together by \"a baptism of fire.\" That wonderful\nmeeting was followed by special services every night, and the Holy\nSpirit descended with great power. My little church was doubled in\nnumbers, and I learned more practical theology in a month than any\nseminary could teach me in a year.\n\nThat revival was an illustration of the truth that a good work of grace\noften begins with the personal effort of one or two individuals. The\nBurlington awakening began with the little girl and the elder's wife. We\nministers must never despise or neglect \"the day of small things.\"\n\nEvery pastor ought to be constantly on the watch, with open eye and ear,\nfor the first signs of an especial manifestation of the Spirit's\npresence. Elijah, on Carmel, did not only pray; he kept his eyes open to\nsee the rising cloud. The moment that there is a manifestation of the\nSpirit's presence, it must be followed up promptly. For example, during\nmy pastorate in the Market Street Church, New York, (from 1853 to\n1860), I was out one afternoon making calls, and I discovered that in\ntwo or three families there were anxious seekers for salvation. I\nimmediately called together the officers of the church, stated to them\nmy observations, instituted a series of meetings for almost every\nevening, followed them with conversation with enquirers, and a large\ningathering of souls rewarded our efforts and prayers. I have no doubt\nthat very often a spark of divine influence is allowed to die for want\nof being fanned by prayer and prompt labors, whereas, it is sometimes\ndashed out, as by a bucket of cold water thrown on by inconsistent or\nquarrelsome church members. It was to Christians that St. Paul sent the\nmessage, \"Quench not the Spirit.\"\n\nIn 1858 there began a marvelous work of grace, which extended not only\nthroughout the churches in New York, but throughout the whole country.\nThe flame was kindled at the beginning of the year in a noon-day prayer\nmeeting, instituted by that single-eyed servant of Christ, Jeremiah C.\nLamphier, who had once been a singer in the choir of my church. The\nflame thus kindled in that meeting soon extended to my church in Market\nStreet, and presently spread over the whole city. The special feature of\nthe revival of 1858 was the noon-day prayer meeting. It was my privilege\nto conduct the first noon meeting in Burton's old theatre in Chambers\nStreet, and in a few days after, a similar one in the Collegiate Church\nin Ninth Street, and also the first prayer meeting in a warehouse at the\nlower end of Broadway. It is not too much to say that often there were\nnot less than 8,000 to 10,000 of God's people, who came together at the\nnoon-tide hour with the spirit of supplication and prayer. The flame,\nhaving spread over the city, then leaped to Philadelphia, and Jayne's\nHall, on Chestnut Street, was thronged by an immense number of people,\nled by George H. Stuart. And so it went on from town to town, and from\ncity to city, over the length and breadth of our land. The revival\ncrossed the ocean and extended to Ireland. On a visit to Belfast I saw\nhandbills on the streets calling the people to noon-day gatherings.\n\nI began my ministry in Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church, Brooklyn,\nas its first pastor, in April, 1860. From the start I struck for souls;\nand when our new edifice was dedicated we were under a refreshing shower\nof the Divine Spirit. Six years after my installation as pastor, God\nblessed us with an extraordinary downpour. The first drops were followed\nby an abundance of rain. That revival began where revivals often\nbegin,--in the prayer meeting. It was on the evening of the 8th of\nJanuary, the first evening of the \"week of prayer,\" which is generally\nobserved over the land. The meeting was held under the direction of our\nYoung People's Association,--that same body of young Christian workers\nwhich gave the Rev Francis E. Clark both the inspiration and practical\nhints for the formation of his first society of Christian Endeavor. What\na fearful bitter night was that 8th of January! Through that stinging\nArctic atmosphere came a goodly number with hearts on fire with the love\nof Jesus. The prayers that night were well aimed; and a man, who\nafterwards became a useful officer of the church, was converted on the\nspot. On the Friday evening of that week our lecture-room was packed,\nand when the elder requested that any who desired special prayer should\nrise, two very prominent men in this community were on their feet in an\ninstant. The meeting was electrified; every one saw that God was with\nus. There was no extraordinary excitement; the feeling was too deep for\nthat. We felt as the ancient Hebrew prophet felt when he heard the\n\"still small voice from heaven,\" and went out ready for action. I felt\nat once that a great work for Christ had commenced. I called our\nofficers together at once, and, to use the naval phrase, we \"cleared the\ndecks for action.\" As the good work had begun in our own church, without\nany external assistance, we determined to carry on the work ourselves;\nand during the next five months, I never had any pulpit help except on\ntwo evenings during the week, when two fervid, discreet neighboring\npastors preached for me. Commonly, every church should do its own\nspiritual harvesting--just as much as every pair of young lovers should\ndo their own love-making, and wise parents their own family training.\nLooking outside is a temptation to shirk responsibility. If a preacher\ncan preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ faithfully, and the Lord God is\nwith him, why rob him of the joy of the harvest by sending away for any\nstranger?\n\nMy plan of action was this. Twice on each Sabbath, and on two evenings\nin the week, I preached as clearly and pungently as I could; sometimes\nto awakened souls, sometimes to backsliders, sometimes to the\nimpenitent, sometimes to souls who were seeking salvation. I spoke of\nthe great central truths:--personal guilt, Christ's atoning work, the\noffices of the Spirit, redemption, the claims of the Saviour, the\nnecessity of immediate repentance, immediate acceptance of Christ and\nthe joy and power of an useful Christian life. During a revival, sermons\nmake themselves; they grow spontaneously. On the Monday evening of each\nweek our young people had the field with their regular gatherings, and\nnew converts were encouraged to narrate their experiences. On three\nother evenings of the week the whole church had a service for prayer and\nexhortation, conducted by our laymen. The praying women met on one\nafternoon; the girls by themselves on another afternoon, and the boys on\nanother. During each week, from eleven to twelve, different meetings\nwere held, and in so large a congregation, these sub-divisions were\nnecessary. After every public service I held an inquiry meeting. I\ninvited people to converse with me in the study during the day, and I\nmade as much pastoral visitation from house to house as possible.\n\n\"So built we the walls ... for the people had a mind to work.\" For five\nmonths that blessed work went forward, and as a result a very great\nnumber were added to the church, of whom about one hundred were heads of\nfamilies. Our sacramental Sabbaths were holy, joyous feasts, and the\nsheaves were brought in with singing. Some of the new converts banded\nthemselves in a new organization, and to perpetuate the memory of that\nglorious spiritual outpouring, they called it the \"Memorial Presbyterian\nChurch.\" It now worships in the beautiful edifice on Seventh Avenue, and\nis one of the most flourishing churches in Brooklyn. The effect of that\nwork of grace reached on into eternity. One of its first effects, on the\nwriter of these lines, was to confirm him in the opinion that the living\nGospel, sent by the Holy Spirit, is the one only way to save sinners;\nthat a church must back up a minister by its personal efforts, and when\npreacher and people work together only for God's glory, He is as sure to\nanswer prayer as the morrow's sun is to rise in the heavens.\n\nIt has not been my practice to invite the labors of an evangelist; but\nin January, 1872, Mr. Dwight L. Moody, with whom I had as yet but a\nslight acquaintance, but whom I since have honored and loved with my\nwhole heart, said to the superintendent of our Mission Chapel: \"What a\nnice place this is to hold some meetings in.\" He was cordially invited;\nand at the end of a week about twenty persons had been mustered together\non the sharp winter evenings. \"This seems slow work,\" I said to him.\n\"Very true,\" replied my sagacious brother. \"It is slow, but if you want\nto kindle a fire, you collect a handful of sticks, light them with a\nmatch, and keep on blowing till they blaze. Then you may heap on the\nwood. I am working here with a handful of Christians, endeavoring to\nwarm them up with love for Christ; and, if they keep well kindled, a\ngeneral revival will come, and outside sinners will be converted.\" He\nwas right; the revival did come. It spread into the parent church, and\nover one hundred converts made their public confession of Christ before\nour communion table. It was in those little chapel meetings that my\nbeloved brother, Moody, prepared his first \"Bible Readings,\" which\nafterward became so celebrated in this country and in Great Britain. A\nfew months afterward I met Mr. Moody in London. Coming one day into my\nroom, he said to me: \"They wish me to come over here and preach in\nEngland.\" I urged him at once to do so; \"for,\" I said, \"these English\npeople are the best people to preach to in the world.\" Moody then said,\n\"I will go home,--secure somebody to sing, and come over and make the\nexperiment.\" He did come home,--he secured my neighbor, Mr.\nSankey,--returned to England, and commenced the most extraordinary\nrevival campaign that had been known in Great Britain since the days of\nWhitefield. I cannot dismiss this heaven-honored name without a word of\nhonest, loving tribute to the man and his magnificent work. D.L. Moody\nwas by far the most extraordinary proclaimer of the Gospel that America\nhas produced during the last century, as Spurgeon was the most\nextraordinary in Great Britain. Those two heralds of salvation led the\ncolumn. They reached millions by their eloquent tongues, and their\nprinted words went out to the ends of the earth. The single aim of both\nwas to point to the cross of Christ, and to save souls; all their\neducational and benevolent enterprises were subordinate to this one\ngreat sovereign purpose. Neither one of them ever entered a college or\ntheological seminary; yet they commanded the ear of Christendom. The\nsimple reason was--they were both God-made preachers, and were both\nendowed with immense common sense, and executive ability.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nAUTHORSHIP\n\n\nPrinters' ink stained my fingers in my boyhood; for, at the age of\nfifteen, I ventured into a controversy on the slavery question, in the\ncolumns of our county newspaper; and, in the same paper, published a\nseries of letters from Europe, in 1842. During my course of study in the\nPrinceton Theological Seminary, I was a contributor to several papers,\nto _Godey's Magazine_ in Philadelphia, and to the \"New Englander,\" a\nliterary and theological review published at New Haven. I wrote the\nfirst article for the first number of the \"Nassau Monthly,\" a Princeton\nCollege publication, which still exists under another name. Up to the\nyear 1847 all my contributions had been to secular periodicals, but in\nthat year I ventured to send from Burlington, N.J., where I was then\npreaching, a short article to the \"New York Observer,\" signed by my\ninitials. This was followed by several others which, falling under the\neye of my beloved friend, the Rev. Dr. Cortland Van Rensellaer, led him\nto say to me: \"You are on the right track now; work on that as long as\nyou live,\" and I have obeyed his injunction. Within a year or two I\nbegan to write for the \"Presbyterian\" at Philadelphia. Its proprietor\nurged me to accept an editorial position, but I declined his proposal,\nas I have declined several other requests to assume editorial positions\nsince. I would always rather write when I _choose_ than write when I\n_must_, and I have never felt at liberty to hold any other position\nwhile I was a pastor of a church. My contributions to the press never\nhindered my work as a minister, for writing for the press promotes\nperspicuity in preparing for the pulpit.\n\nIn the summer of 1853 I was called from the Third Presbyterian Church of\nTrenton to the Market Street Reformed Church of New York City. As a\nloyal Dutchman, I began to write at once for the \"Christian\nIntelligencer,\" and have continued in its clean hospitable columns to\nthis day. At the urgent request of Mr. Henry C. Bowen I began to write\nfor his \"Independent,\" and sent to its columns over six hundred\narticles; but of all my associate contributors in those days, not a\nsolitary one survives. In May, 1860, My first article appeared in the\n_New York Evangelist_, and during these forty-two years I have tested\nthe patience of its readers by imposing on them more than eighteen\nhundred of my lubrications. As I was preparing one of my earliest\narticles, I happened to spy the blossoms of the catalpa tree before my\nwindow, and for want of a title I headed it \"_Under the Catalpa_.\" The\ntree flourishes still, and bids fair to blossom after the hand that pens\nthese lines has turned to dust. I need not recapitulate the names of all\nthe many journals to which I have sent contributions,--many of which\nhave been republished in Great Britain, Australia and other parts of the\ncivilized world. I once gave to my friend, Mr. Arthur B. Cook, the\neminent stenographer, some statistics of the number of my articles, and\nthe various journals in which they had appeared in this and other\ncountries. He made an estimate of the extent of their publication, and\nthen said to me: \"It would be within bounds to say that your four\nthousand articles have been printed in at least two hundred millions of\ncopies.\" The production of these articles involved no small labor, but\nhas brought its own reward. To enter a multitude of homes week after\nweek; to converse with the inmates about many of the most vital\nquestions in morals and religion; to speak words of guidance to the\nperplexed; of comfort to the troubled, and of exhortation to the saints\nand to the sinful--all these involved a solemn responsibility. That this\nlife-work with the pen has not been without fruit I gratefully\nacknowledge. When a group of railway employees, at a station in England,\ngathered around me to tender their thanks for spiritual help afforded\nthem by my articles, I felt repaid for hours of extra labor spent in\npreaching through the press.\n\nMy first attempt at book-making was during my ministry at Trenton, New\nJersey, when I published a small volume entitled \"Stray Arrows.\" This\nwas followed at different times by several volumes of an experimental\nand devotional character. In the spring of 1867 one of our beautiful\ntwin boys, at the age of four and a half years, was taken from us by a\nvery brief and violent attack of scarlet fever. We received a large\nnumber of tender letters of condolence, which gave us so much comfort\nthat my wife suggested that they should be printed with the hope that\nthey might be equally comforting to other people in affliction. I\naccordingly selected a number of them, added the simple story of our\nprecious child's short career, and handed the package to my beloved\nfriend and publisher, the late Mr. Peter Carter, with the request that\nthey be printed for private distribution. He urged, after reading them,\nthat I should allow him to publish them, which he did under the title of\n\"The Empty Crib, a Book of Consolation.\" That simple story of a sweet\nchild's life has travelled widely over the world and made our little\n\"Georgie\" known in many a home. Mrs. Gladstone told me that when she and\nher husband had read it, it recalled their own loss of a child under\nsimilar circumstances. Dean Stanley read it aloud to Lady Augusta\nStanley in the Deanery of Westminster; and when I took him to our own\nunrivalled Greenwood Cemetery he asked to be driven to the spot where\nthe dust of our dear boy is slumbering. Many thousands have visited that\ngrave and gazed with tender admiration on the exquisite marble medallion\nof the childface,--by the sculptor, Charles Calverley,--which adorns the\nmonument.\n\nFourteen years afterwards, in the autumn of 1881, \"the four corners of\nmy house were smitten\" again with a heart-breaking bereavement in the\ndeath, by typhoid fever, of our second daughter, Louise Ledyard Cuyler,\nat the age of twenty-two, who possessed a most inexpressible beauty of\nperson and character. Her playful humor, her fascinating charm of\nmanner, and her many noble qualities drew to her the admiration of a\nlarge circle of friends, as well as the pride of our parental hearts.\nAfter her departure I wrote, through many tears, a small volume entitled\n\"_God's Light on Dark Clouds,\"_ with the hope that it might bring some\nrays of comfort into those homes that were shadowed in grief. Judging\nfrom the numberless letters that have come to me I cannot but believe\nthat, of all the volumes which I have written, this one has been the\nmost honored of God as a message-bearer to that largest of all\nhouseholds--the household of the sorrowing. Let me add that I have\npublished a single volume of sermons, entitled \"The Eagle's Nest,\" and a\nvolume of foreign travel, \"From the Nile to Norway\"; but all the\nremainder of my score of volumes have been of a practical and devotional\ncharacter. Of the twenty-two volumes that I have written, six have been\ntranslated into Swedish, and two into the language of my Dutch\nancestors. Thanks be to God for the precious privilege of preaching His\nglorious Gospel with the types that out-reach ten thousand tongues! And\nthanks also to a number of friends, whose faces I never saw, but whose\nkind words have cheered me through more than a half century of happy\nlabors. I cannot conclude this brief chapter without expressing my deep\nobligations to that noble organization, the \"American Tract Society,\"\nwhich has given a wide circulation to many of my books--including\n\"Heart-Life,\" \"Newly Enlisted; or, Counsels to Young Converts\"--and\n\"Beulah-Land,\" a volume of good cheer to aged pilgrims on their journey\nheavenward.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nSOME FAMOUS PEOPLE ABROAD.\n\n_Gladstone.--Dr. Brown.--Dean Stanley.--Shaftesbury, etc._\n\n\nIn a former chapter of this volume I gave my reminiscences of some\ncelebrities in Great Britain sixty years ago. In the present chapter I\ngroup together several distinguished persons whom I met during\nsubsequent visits. The first time I ever saw Mr. Gladstone was in\nAugust, 1857, when Lord Kinnaird kindly took me into the House of\nCommons, and pointed out to me from a side gallery the most prominent\ncelebrities. A tall, finely formed man, in a clear resonant voice,\naddressed the House for a few moments. \"That is Gladstone,\" whispered\nLord Kinnaird. Mr. Gladstone had already won fame as a great financier\nin the role of Chancellor of the Exchequer; but was at this time out of\noffice, occupying an independent position. He was already beginning to\nbreak loose from Toryism, and ere long became the most brilliant and\npowerful leader that the British Liberal party has ever followed. As an\norator he is ranked next to Bright; as a party manager, he was always a\nmatch for Disraeli, and as a statesman he has won the foremost place in\nBritish annals during the last half century.\n\nIn June, 1872, I happened to be in London at the time of the great\nexcitement over the famous \"Alabama difficulty.\" The Court of\nArbitration was sitting at Geneva; things were not going smoothly, and\nthere was danger of a rupture with the United States. At an anniversary\nmeeting at Exeter Hall I had made a speech in which I spoke of the\ncordial feeling of my countrymen, and their desire to avoid a conflict\nwith the mother country. It was suggested to me that I should call on Mr.\nGladstone, who was then Premier; and my friend, Dr. Newman Hall,--who\nhad always had a warm personal attachment to Gladstone,--accompanied me.\nThe Premier then occupied a stately mansion in Carlton House Terrace,\nnext to the Duke of York's column. We found him in his private sitting\nroom with a cup of coffee before him and a morning newspaper in his\nhand. Fifteen years had made a great change in his appearance. He had\nbecome stouter and broader shouldered. His thin hair was turned gray,\nand his large eyes and magnificent brow reminded me of Daniel Webster.\nHe received me cordially, and we spent half an hour in conversation\nabout the difficulties that seemed to be obstructing an amicable\nsettlement of the Alabama controversy. Mr. Gladstone appeared to be\npuzzled about a recent belligerent speech delivered by Mr. Charles\nSumner in our Senate chamber, and I was glad to give him a hint or two\nin regard to some of our eloquent Senator's idiosyncrasies. What\nimpressed me most in Gladstone's free, earnest talk was its solemn and\nthoroughly Christian tone--he was longing for peace on principle. On my\ntelling him playfully that the time which belonged to the British Empire\nwas too precious for further talk, he said: \"Come and breakfast with me\nto-morrow morning, and we will finish our conversation.\" The next\nmorning Dr. Hall and myself presented ourselves at ten o'clock in Mr.\nGladstone's parlor. We had a very pleasant chat with Mrs. Gladstone (a\ntall, slender lady, whose only claim to beauty was her benevolent\ncountenance), about the schemes of charity in which she was deeply\ninterested. At the breakfast table opposite to us were the venerable\nDean Ramsey, of Edinburgh, and Professor Talbot, of Oxford University.\nThe Premier indulged in some jocose remarks which encouraged me to tell\nhim stories about our Southern negroes, in whom he seemed to be much\ninterested. He laughed over the story of the eloquent colored brother\nwho, when asked how he came to preach so well, said: \"Well, Boss, I\ntakes de text fust; I splains it; den I spounds it, and den _I puts in\nde rousements_.\" Gladstone was quite delighted with this, and said it\nwas about the best description of real parliamentary eloquence. He told\nus that one secret of his own marvelous health was his talent for sound,\nunbroken sleep. \"I lock all my public cares outside my chamber door,\"\nsaid he, \"and nothing ever disturbs my slumbers.\" While we were at\nbreakfast a package of dispatches was brought in and laid beside Mr.\nGladstone's plate. He left them quietly alone until the meal was over\nand then, taking them to a corner of the parlor, perused them intently.\nI saw that his face was lighted up with a pleasant smile. Beckoning me\nto come to him he said, with much enthusiasm: \"Doctor, here is good news\nfrom the arbitrators at Geneva. The worst is over. I do not pretend to\nknow the purposes of Providence, but I am sure that no earthly power can\nnow prevent an honorable peace between your country and mine.\" It has\nalways been a matter of thankfulness that I should have been with the\ngreatest of living Englishmen when his warm heart was relieved of the\napprehension of the danger of a conflict with America. After entering\nour names in the autograph book on the parlor table, we withdrew, and at\nthe door we met the Duke of Argyll, a member of the Premier's Cabinet,\nwho was calling on official business.\n\n[Illustration: DR CUYLER AT 50.]\n\nMy next meeting with Gladstone was a very brief one, in the summer of\n1885. He had lately resigned his third Premiership; his health was badly\nimpaired, his splendid voice was apparently ruined by an attack of\nbronchitis, and the world supposed that his public career was ended. I\ncalled at his house in Whitehall Terrace, and the servant informed me at\nthe door that the physicians had forbidden Mr. Gladstone to see any one.\nI handed in my card, and said to the servant: \"I leave for America\nto-morrow, and only called to say good-bye to Mr. Gladstone.\" He\noverheard my voice (not one of the feeblest), and, coming out into the\nhall, greeted me most warmly, but in a voice almost inaudible from\nhoarseness. I told him: \"Do not attempt to speak, Mr. Gladstone; the\nfuture of the British Empire depends upon your throat.\" He hoarsely\nwhispered, \"No, no, my friend, it does not,\" and with a very hearty\nhandshake we parted. My prediction came true. Within a year the\nmarvelous old man had recovered his voice, recovered his popularity,\nresumed the Liberal leadership, and for the fourth time was Prime\nMinister of Great Britain.\n\nI supposed that I should never see the veteran statesman again, but four\nyears afterward, in July, 1889, he kindly invited me to come and see\nhim, and to bring my wife. It was the week before the celebration of his\ngolden wedding. He was occupying, temporarily, a house near Buckingham\nPalace. Mrs. Gladstone, the good angel of his long life and happy home,\nreceived us warmly, and, bringing out a lot of photographs of her\nchildren and grandchildren, gave us a family talk. When her husband came\nin, I was startled to observe how much thinner he had become and how\nloosely his clothes hung upon him. But as soon as he began to talk, the\nold fire flamed up, and he discoursed eloquently about Irish Home-Rule,\nthe divorce question, (one of his hobbies), and the dangers that\nthreatened America from plutocracy and laxity of wedlock, and the\nfacilities of divorce that sap the sanctities of domestic life. It was\nduring that conversation that Gladstone tittered the sentence that I\nhave often had occasion to quote. He said: \"Amid all the pressure of\npublic cares and duties, I thank God for the Sabbath _with its rest for\nthe body and the soul_.\" One reason for his wonderful longevity was that\nhe had never robbed his brain of the benefits of God's appointed day of\nrest. After our delightful talk was ended, the Grand Old Man went off in\npursuit of an imperial photograph, which he kindly signed with his\nautograph, and gave to my wife, and it now graces the walls of the room\nin which I am writing.\n\nMany men have been great in some direction: William Ewart Gladstone was\ngreat in nearly all directions. Born in the same year with our Lincoln,\nhe was a great muscular man and horseman; a great orator, a great\npolitical strategist, a great scholar, a great writer, great statesman\nand a great Christian. The crowning glory of his character was a\nstalwart faith in God's Word, and in the cross of Jesus Christ. He\nhonored his Lord, and his Lord honored him. Wordsworth drew a truthful\npicture of Gladstone when he portrayed\n\n   \"The man who lifted high\n   Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,\n   Who, with a toward or untoward lot,\n   Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,\n   Plays in the many games of life, that one\n   Where what he most doth value must be won;\n   Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,\n   Nor thought of tender happiness betray;\n   And while the mortal mist is gathering, draws\n   His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause.\"\n\nWho has not wept over the brilliant and beloved Dr. John Brown's\nunrivalled story, \"Rab and His Friends,\" and been charmed with his\npicture of \"Pet Marjorie\"? What student of style will deny that his\n\"Monograph\" of his father is the finest specimen of condensed and vivid\nbiography in our language? When his \"Spare Hours\" appeared in America I\npublished an article in the \"Independent\" entitled, \"The Last of the\nJohn Browns,\" several copies of which had been forwarded to him by his\nfriends in this country. On my arrival in Edinburgh, July, 1862, he\ncalled on me at the Waverly Hotel and invited me to breakfast with him.\nHe had the fair Saxon features of Scotland, with a smile like a Summer\nmorning. Not tall in stature, his head was somewhat bald, and he bore a\nstriking resemblance to our ex-President, Van Buren. He showed me in his\nhouse some choice literary treasures; among them a little Greek\nTestament, given to his great-grandfather, the famous John Brown, of\nHaddington, the eminent commentator. Its history was curious: Brown of,\nHaddington, was a poor shepherd boy, and once he walked twenty miles\nthrough the night to St. Andrews to get a copy of the Greek Testament.\nThe book-seller at first laughed at him and said: \"Boy, if you can read\na verse in this book, you may have it.\" Forthwith the lad read the verse\noff glibly, and was permitted to carry off the Testament in triumph. You\nmay well suppose that the little volume is a sacred heirloom in the\nBrown family, which for four generations has been famous. Of course, the\nauthor of \"Rab and His Friends\" had several pictures of the illustrious\ndog that figured in his beautiful story, and I noticed a pet spaniel\nlying on the sofa in the drawing room. A day or two after, Dr. Brown\ncalled on me, and kindly took me on a drive with him through Edinburgh;\nand it was pleasant to see how the people on the sidewalk had cheery\nsalutes for the author of \"Rab\" as he rode by. We went up to Calton\nHill and made a call on Sir George Harvey, the famous artist, whom we\nfound in his studio, with brush in hand, and working on an Highland\nlandscape. Sir George was a hearty old fellow, and the two friends had a\nmerry \"crack\" together. When I asked Harvey if he had seen any of our\nbest American paintings, he replied \"No, I have not; the best American\nproductions I have ever seen have been some of your missionaries. I met\nsome of them; they were noble characters.\" On our return from the drive\nDr. Brown gave me an elegant edition of \"Rab,\" with Harvey's portrait of\nthe immortal dog, whose body was thickset like a little bull, and who\nhad \"fought his way to absolute supremacy,--like Julius Caesar or the\nDuke of Wellington.\"\n\nWhen in Edinburgh ten years afterwards, as a delegate to the General\nAssemblies, I was so constantly occupied that I was able to see but\nlittle of my genial friend, Dr. Brown. I sent him a copy of the little\nbook, \"The Empty Crib,\" which had been recently published, and received\nfrom him the following characteristic reply:\n\n     25 RUTLAND STREET, EDINBURGH, May 25, 1872.\n\n     _My Dear Dr. Cuyler_\n\n     Very many thanks for your kind note, and the little book. It will\n     be my own fault if I am not the better for reading it. I have seen\n     nothing lovelier or more touching than the pictures of those _twin\n     heads_ \"like unto the angels\"; even there Georgie looks nearer the\n     better world than his brother. There is something perilous about\n     his eyes with their wistful beauty. With him \"it is far better\"\n     now, and may it be meet for Theodore to be long with you here. I\n     hoped to leave with you a book of my father's on the same subject,\n     entitled, \"Comfortable Words,\" but it is out of print. If I can get\n     a copy, I will send it you. There are some letters of Bengel's\n     which, if you do not know, you will enjoy.\n\n     I send you a note of introduction to John Ruskin, and I hope to\n     hear you to-morrow in Mr. Candlish's church.\n\n     With much regret and best thanks, yours very truly,\n\n     JOHN BROWN\n\n     P.S. I was in Glen-Garry the other week, and quite felt that look\n     of nakedness, and as if it just came from the Maker's hand; it was\n     very impressive\n\nDuring the closing years of the Doctor's life he was often shadowed by\nfits of deep melancholy. One day he was walking with a lady, who was\nalso subject to depression of spirits, and he said to her: \"Tell me why\nI am like a Jew?\" She could not answer and he replied: \"Because I am\n_sad-you-see_\" Tears and mirth dwelt very closely together in his keen,\nfervid, sensitive spirit. It is remarkable that one who devoted himself\nso assiduously to his exacting profession should have been able to\nmaster such an immense amount of miscellaneous reading, and to have won\nsuch a splendid name in literature. It is the attribute of true genius\nthat it can do great things easily, and can accomplish its feats in an\nincredibly short time. He affirms that the immortal story of \"Rab\" was\nwritten in a few hours! The precious relics of my friend that I now\npossess are portraits of his father and of Dr. Chalmers, and of Hugh\nMiller, which he presented to me, and which now adorn my study walls.\n\nWhile I have always dissented from some of his theological views and\nutterances, I have always had an intense admiration for Dean Stanley, in\nwhose character was blended the gentleness of a sweet girl with\noccasional display of the courage of a lion. Froude once said to me: \"I\nwish that Stanley was a little better hater.\" My reply was: \"It is not\nin Stanley to hate anybody but the devil.\" My acquaintance with the Dean\nof Westminster dates from the summer of 1872. The Rev. Samuel Minton, a\nvery broad Church of England clergyman, was in the habit of inviting\nministers of the Established church and non-conformists to meet at lunch\nparties with a view of bringing them to a better understanding. One day\nI was invited by Mr. Minton to attend one of these lunch parties, and I\nfound that day at his table, Dr. Donald Frazer, Dr. Newman Hall, Dr.\nJoseph Parker, Dean Stanley and Dr. Howard Wilkinson, afterwards Bishop\nof Truro. Stanley felt perfectly at home among these \"dissenters\" and\nasked me to give the company some account of a remarkable discourse,\nwhich, he was told, Bishop McIlvaine, of Ohio, had recently delivered in\nmy Lafayette Presbyterian Church, Brooklyn, on \"Christian Unity.\" In the\ndiscourse, Bishop McIlvaine had said: \"The only difference between the\nPresbyterian denomination, and Episcopal denomination, is their\ndifference as to the orders of the ministry.\" The Dean was delighted\nwith my account, and said: \"Just imagine the Bishop of London preaching\nsuch a sermon in Newman Hall's or Spurgeon's pulpit; it would rock the\nold dome of St. Paul's.\" In all of his intercourse with his dissenting\nbrethren the Dean never put on any airs of patronage, for though a loyal\nEpiscopalian, he recognized their equally divine ordination as ministers\nof Jesus Christ.\n\nA few days afterwards I went up to get a look at Holly Lodge, the\nresidence of Lord Macaulay, in a side street just off Campden Hill. I\nmet the Dean just coming out of the gate. He had been attending a garden\nparty given by Lord Airlie, who then occupied the lodge. It was a\npleasant coincidence to meet the most brilliant ecclesiastical historian\nat the door of the most brilliant civil historian of England. The Dean\nstopped and chatted about Macaulay, of whom he was very fond, and then\nsaid: \"Just beyond is Holland House.\" We went a few paces and got a\nglimpse of the famous mansion in which Lord Holland had entertained the\ncelebrities of America and Europe. One of the best hours I ever spent\nwith Stanley was at his own table in the Deanery. He was the most\ndelightful of hosts. Lady Augusta Stanley, daughter of the Earl of\nElgin, had been a favorite Maid of Honor to the Queen, and the Dean had\naccompanied the Prince of Wales on his tour to the Orient. The Queen\nquite frequently slipped away from the palace for a quiet chat at the\nDeanery with this pair whom she so loved. A marble bust of Victoria, by\nher daughter, the Princess Louise, stood in the parlor, a gift of the\nQueen. If the Dean was very broad in his theology, his cultured wife was\nas decidedly evangelical in hers and her religious influence was very\ntonic in all respects. After lunch that day the Dean very kindly took me\ninto the famous Jerusalem chamber and showed me where the Westminster\nAssembly had sat for six years to give birth to our Presbyterian\nConfession of Faith and Catechism. I was surprised at the small size of\nthe room that had held seventy or eighty commissioners.\n\nAs I was very desirous of hearing the Dean preach in the Abbey, he sent\nme a very kind invitation to come on the next Sabbath to the Deanery\nbefore the service, and on account of my deafness Lady Augusta would\ntake me into a seat close to his pulpit. Accordingly she stowed me in a\nsmall box-pew, which was close against the pulpit, and within arms'\nlength of the Dean. His sermon was a beautiful essay on Solomon and\ngreat men, and in the course of it he said: \"Such was the greatness of\nour Lord Jesus Christ.\" I felt so pained by _what he did not say_ that I\nventured to write him a most frank and loving note, in which I expressed\nmy deep regret that when he referred to the \"greatness\" of our Saviour\nhe had so entirely ignored what was infinitely His most sublime\nwork,--that of our human redemption by His atoning death on Calvary. The\ndear Dean, instead of taking offense, accepted the frank letter in the\nsame spirit in which it was written. A day or two after he sent me a\ncharacteristic note, whose peculiar hieroglyphics, after much labor, I\nwas able to decipher; for it has been often said that the only reason\nwhy he was never made a bishop was that no clergyman in his diocese\nwould ever have been able to read his letters.\n\n   THE DEANERY OF WESTMINSTER,\n\n   July 22, 1872\n\n   Dear Doctor---Pray accept my sincere thanks for your\n   very kind note. I quite appreciate your candor in mentioning\n   what you thought a defect in my sermon. It arose\n   from a fixed conviction which I have long formed, that\n   the only chance there is of my sermons doing any good is\n   by taking one topic at a time. The effect and the nature\n   of the death of Jesus Christ, I quite agree with you in\n   thinking to be a most important part of the Christian doctrine,\n   and Christian history. But as my sermon was on a\n   different subject--that of the right use of greatness--I felt\n   that I could not speak, even by way of allusion, to the\n   other great doctrine on which I had often preached before.\n\n   I sincerely wish that I could come to America. Every\n   year that passes increases the number of my kind friends\n   in the New World, and my desire to see the United States.\n\n   Farewell; and may all the blessings of our State and\n   Church follow you westward\n\n   Yours faithfully,\n\n   A.P. STANLEY.\n\nWhen Dean Stanley visited America in the autumn of 1878, I met him\nseveral times, and he was especially cordial, and all the more so\nbecause of my out-spoken letter. The first time I met him was at the\nmeeting of ministers of New York to give him a reception, and hear him\ndeliver a discourse on Dr. Robinson, the Oriental geographer. He\nrecognized me in the audience, came forward to the front of the\nplatform, beckoned me up, and gave me a hearty grasp of the hand. I\narranged to take him to Greenwood Cemetery on the morning before he\nsailed for home, and after breakfasting with him at Cyrus W. Field's we\nstarted for the cemetery. Dr. Phillip Schaff and Dr. Henry M. Field met\nus at the ferry, and accompanied us. When we entered the elevated\nrailroad car, Stanley exclaimed: \"This is like the chariots on the walls\nof Babylon.\" With his keen interest in history he inquired when we\nreached the lower part of the Bowery, near the junction of Chatham\nSquare \"Was it not near here that Nathan Hale, the martyr, was\nexecuted?\" and he showed then a more accurate knowledge of our local\nhistory than one New Yorker in ten thousand can boast! That was probably\nthe exact locality, and Dean Stanley had never been there before. Before\nentering the Greenwood Cemetery he requested me to drive him to the spot\nwhere my little child was buried, whose photograph in \"The Empty Crib\" I\nhave referred to in a previous chapter. When we reached the burial lot\nhe got out of the carriage, and in the driving wind, of a raw November\nmorning, spent some time in examining the marble medallion of the child,\nand in talking with my wife most sweetly about him. I could have hugged\nthe man on the spot. It was so like Stanley. I do not wonder that\neverybody loved him. We then drove to the tomb of Dr. Edward Robinson\nand the Dean said to us: \"In all my travels in Palestine I carried Dr.\nRobinson's volume, 'Biblical Researches,' with me on horseback or on my\ncamel; it was my constant guide book.\"\n\nThree years afterward, on my arrival in London, from Palestine I learned\nthat Stanley was dangerously ill. On the door of the Deanery a bulletin\nwas posted: \"The Dean is sinking.\" That night the good, great man, died.\nOn the 25th of July the august funeral service took place in\nWestminster Abbey. Outside the Abbey thousands of people were assembled,\nfor the Dean was loved by all London. From a small gallery over the\n\"Poets' Corner\" I looked down on the group, which contained Gladstone,\nShaftesbury, Matthew Arnold, and scores of England's mightiest and best.\nAfter the \"Dead March,\" began a long procession headed by Stanley's\nlifelong friend, Archbishop Tait, of Canterbury, and the Prince of Wales\n(his pupil), and followed by Browning, Tyndall, and a long line of\nbishops, and poets and scholars moved slowly along under the lofty\narches to the tomb in Henry VII.'s Chapel. A fresh wreath of flowers\nfrom the Queen was laid on the coffin. Many a tear was shed on that sad\nday beside the tomb in which the Church of England laid her most\nfearless and yet her best beloved son. I never have visited the Abbey\nsince, without halting for a few moments beside the chapel in which the\nDean and his beloved wife are slumbering. Greater than all his books or\nliterary achievements was Arthur Penryn Stanley, the modest,\ntrue-hearted, unselfish, childlike, Christian man.\n\nSoon after I had begun my pastorate in New York, I became a member of\nthe Young Men's Christian Association, which was one of the first that\nwas organized in this country. Since that time I have delivered more\nthan one hundred addresses, in behalf of this institution, in my own\ncountry and abroad. In June, 1857, the New York organization honored me\nwith what was then a novelty in America--a public breakfast, and\ncommissioned me as a delegate to the original parent association in\nLondon. I there met that remarkable Christian merchant, Mr. George\nWilliams, who was the founder of the Association, and who had got much\nof his first spiritual inspiration from reading the writings of our\nAmerican, Charles G. Finney. He is now Sir George Williams, my much\nloved friend, and I do not hesitate to say that there is not another man\nliving who has accomplished such a world-wide work for the glory of God\nand the welfare of young men. The President of that first organized\nLondon Association was the celebrated philanthropist, the Earl of\nShaftesbury, a man whom I had long desired to meet. My acquaintance with\nhim began in Exeter Hall, at a Sabbath service held to reach the\nnon-church going classes. With one or two others we knelt together in a\nsmall side room to invoke a blessing on the service in the great hall,\nand he prayed most fervently. The Earl of Shaftesbury was not only the\nauthor of great reformatory legislation in Parliament, and the\nacknowledged leader of the Low Church Party in the Established Church.\nHe was also a leader of city missions, ragged schools, shoe-black\nbrigades, and other organizations to benefit the submerged classes in\nLondon. He once invited all the thieves in London to meet him privately\nin a certain hall, and there pleaded with them to abandon their wretched\noccupation, and promised to aid those who desired to reform. He was fond\nof telling the story of how, when his watch was stolen, the thieves\nthemselves compelled the rascal to come and return it, because he had\nbeen the benefactor of the \"long-fingered fraternity.\" The last time\nthat I saw the venerable philanthropist was just before his death (at\nthe age of eighty-four years). He was presiding at a convention of the\nYoung Men's Christian Association in Exeter Hall. In my speech I said:\n\"To-day I have seen Milton's Mulberry Tree at Cambridge University, and\nthe historic old tree is kept alive by being banked around with earth\nclear to its boughs; and so is all Christendom banking around our\nhonored President to-night to keep him warm and hale, and strong, amid\nthe frosts of advancing age,\" The grand old man rewarded me with a bow\nand a gracious smile, and the audience responded with a shout of\nappreciation.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nSOME FAMOUS PEOPLE AT HOME.\n\n_Irvin,--Whittier.--Webster.--Greeley, etc_.\n\n\nWashington Irving has fairly earned the title of the \"Father of our\nAmerican Literature.\" The profound philosophical and spiritual treatises\nof our great President Edwards had secured a reading by theologians and\ndeep thinkers abroad; but the American who first caught the popular ear\nwas the man who wrote \"The Sketch Book,\" and made the name of\n\"Knickerbocker\" almost as familiar as Sir Walter Scott made the name of\n\"Waverly.\" During the summer of 1856 I received a cordial invitation\nfrom the people of Tarry town to come up to join them in an annual\n\"outing,\" with their children, on board of a steamer on the Tappan-Zee.\nI accepted the invitation, and on arrival found the boat already filled\nwith the good people, and two or three hundreds of scholars from the\nSabbath schools.\n\nTo my surprise and delight I found Washington Irving on board the\nsteamer. The veteran author had laid aside the fourth volume of the\n\"Life of Washington,\" which he was just preparing, to come away for a\nbit of rest and recreation. I had never seen him before, but found him\nprecisely the type of man that I had expected. He was short, rather\nstout, and attired in an old fashioned black summer dress, with \"pumps\"\nand white stockings, and a broad Panama hat. As he was no novelty to his\nneighbors I was able to secure more of his time; and, like the apostle\nof old, I was exceedingly \"filled with his company.\" He took me to the\nupper deck of the steamer, and pointed out a glimpse of his own\nhome--\"Sunnyside\"--which he told me was the original of Baltus Van\nTassel's homestead in the \"Legend of Sleepy Hollow.\" He pointed out the\nroute of poor Ichabod Crane on his memorable night ride up the valley,\nand so on to the Kakout, where his horse should have gone to reach\n\"Sleepy Hollow.\" Instead of that, obstinate Gunpowder plunged down over\nthat bridge where poor Ichabod encountered his fatal and final\ncatastrophe. The good old man's face was full of fun as he told me the\nstory. Irving was so exceedingly shy that he never could face any public\novation, and yet he had a great deal of quiet enjoyment of his own\npopularity. For example, one day when he was going with a young relative\nup Broadway, which was thronged with omnibuses, he pointed out one of\nthe old \"Knickerbocker\" line of stages to the lad and said: \"Billy, you\nsee how many coaches I own in this city, and you may take as many rides\nin them as you like.\"\n\nAfter refreshments had been served to all the guests on board, we\ngathered on the deck for the inevitable American practice of speech\nmaking. In the course of my speech I gave an account of what was being\ndone for poor children in the slums of New York, and then introduced as\nmany Dutch stories as I could recollect for the special edification of\nold \"Geoffrey Crayon.\" As I watched his countenance, and heard his\nhearty laughter and saw sometimes the peculiar quizzical expression of\nhis mouth, I fancied that I knew precisely how he looked when he drew\nthe inimitable pictures of Ichabod Crane, and Rip Van Winkle. When the\nexcursion ended, and we drew up to the shore, I bade him a very grateful\nand affectionate farewell, and my readers, I hope, will pardon me if I\nsay to them that dear old Irving whispered quietly in my ear, \"I should\nlike to be one of your parishioners.\" Three years afterwards, Irving was\nborne by his neighbors at Tarrytown to his final resting place in the\nold Dutch churchyard at the entrance of Sleepy Hollow.\n\nTwenty years afterwards my dear friend, Mr. William E. Dodge, drove me\nup from his summer house at Tarrytown to see the simple tomb of the good\nold Geoffrey Crayon, whose genius has gladdened innumerable admirers,\nand whose writings are as pure as the rivulet which now flows by his\nresting place.\n\nThe pleasant little town of Burlington, N.J., in which I spent my\nearliest ministry, was the headquarters of orthodox Quakers. I was\nthrown much into the society of their most eminent people, and very\ndelightful society I found it. The venerable Stephen Grellet, their\napostle, who had held many interviews with the crowned heads of Europe,\nresided a little way from me up the street; and I saw the good old man\nwith broad brimmed hat and straight coat pass my window every day.\nRichard Mott lived but a little way from the town, and on the other side\nresided the widow of the celebrated Joseph John Gurney. The wittiest\nQuaker in the town was my neighbor, William J. Allinson, the editor of\nthe \"Friends Review,\" and an intimate friend of John G. Whittier. One\nafternoon he ran over to my room, and said: \"Friend Theodore, John G.\nWhittier is at my house, and wants to see thee; he leaves early in the\nmorning.\" I hastened across the street and, in the modest parlor of\nFriend Allinson, I saw, standing before the fire, a tall, slender man in\nQuaker dress, with a very lofty brow, and the finest eye I have ever\nseen in any American, unless it were the deep ox-like eye of Abraham\nLincoln. We had a pleasant chat about the anti-slavery, temperance and\nother moral reforms; and I went home with something of the feeling that\nWalter Scott says he had after seeing \"Rabbie Burns,\" Whittier was a\nretiring, home-keeping man. He never crossed the ocean and seldom went\neven outside of his native home in Massachusetts. During the summer of\n1870 he ventured down to Brooklyn on a visit to his friend, Colonel\nJulian Allen. On coming home one day, my servant said to me, \"There was\na tall Quaker gentleman called here, and left his name on this piece of\npaper.\" I was quite dumb-founded to read the name of \"John G. Whittier,\"\nand I lost no time in making my way up to the house where he was\nstaying. When I inquired how he had come to do me the honor of a call,\nhe said: \"Well, yesterday, when I arrived and my friend Allen drove me\nup here, we passed a meeting house with a tall steeple, and when I heard\nit was thine, I determined to run down to thy house and see thee.\" As I\nwas to have the \"Chi Alpha,\" the oldest and the most celebrated clerical\nassociation of New York at my house the next afternoon, I invited him to\ncome and sup with them. He cordially consented, and it may be supposed\nthat the \"Chi Alpha\" was very glad to put aside for that evening all\nother matters, and listen to the fresh, racy and humorous talk of the\ngreat poet. Underneath his grave and shy sobriety, flowed a most gentle\nhumor. He could tell a good story, and when he was describing the usages\nof the Quakers in regard to \"Speaking in Meetings,\" he told us that\nsometimes the voluntary remarks were not quite to the edification of the\nmeeting. It once happened that a certain George C---- grew rather\nwearisome in his exhortations, and his prudent brethren, after solemn\nconsultation, passed the following resolution: \"It is the sense of this\nmeeting that George C.---- be advised to remain silent, until such time\nas the Lord shall speak through him _more to our satisfaction and\nprofit_.\" A resolution of that kind would not be out of place in some\necclesiastical assemblies, nor in certain prayer gatherings that I wot\nof. After the circle broke up I told him that in addition to the kind\nand characteristic letters he had written to me I wanted a scrap of his\npoetry to add to those which Bryant and others had contributed to my\ncollection of autographs. \"What shall it be?\" he said. I told him that,\nwhile some of his hymns and devoutly spiritual pieces, like \"My soul and\nI,\" were very dear to me, and while \"Snow Bound\" was his acknowledged\nmasterpiece, yet none of his verses did I oftener quote than this one,\nin his poem on Massachusetts, He smiled at the selection, and\naccordingly sat down and wrote:\n\n   \"She heeds no skeptic's puny hands,\n   While near the school the church-spire stands,\n   Nor fears the bigot's blinded rule,\n   While near the church-spire stands the school.\"\n\nOur walk to his place of sojourn in the moonlight was very delightful.\nOn the way I told him that not long before, when I quoted a verse of\nBryant's to Horace Greeley, Mr. Greeley replied: \"Bryant is all very\nwell, but by far the greatest poet this country has produced is John\nGreenleaf Whittier.\" \"Did our friend Horace say that?\" meekly inquired\nWhittier, and a smile of satisfaction flowed over his Quaker\ncountenance. The man is not born yet who does not like an honest\ncompliment, especially if it comes from a high quarter. In the course of\nmy life I have received several very pleasant letters from my venerable\nfriend, the Quaker poet; but immediately after his eightieth birthday he\naddressed me the following letter, which, believing it to be his last, I\nframed and hung on the walls of my library:\n\n   OAK KNOLL,\n   12th month, 17th, 1887.\n   _My dear Dr. Cuyler_,\n\n\n\n   I thank thee for thy loving letter to me on my birthday,\n   which I would have answered immediately but for illness;\n   and, my friend, I wish I was more worthy of the kind and\n   good things said of me. But my prayer is, \"God be Merciful\n   to me.\" And I think my prayer will be answered, for\n   His Mercy and His Justice are one. May the Lord bless\n   thee.        Thy friend sincerely,\n\n   JOHN G. WHITTIER\n\nThis note, so redolent of humility, was written a few days after he had\nreceived a most superb birthday ovation from the public men of\nMassachusetts, and from the most eminent literary men in all parts of\nthe nation.\n\nIn the days of my boyhood the most colossal figure, physically and\nintellectually, in American politics, was Daniel Webster. I well\nremember when I first put eye upon him. It was when I was pursuing my\nstudies in the New York University Grammar School in preparation for\nPrinceton College. I was strolling one day on the Battery, and met a\nfriend who said to me: \"Yonder goes Daniel Webster; he has just landed\nfrom that man-of-war; go and get a good look at him.\" I hastened my\nsteps and, as I came near him, I was as much awe-stricken as if I had\nbeen gazing on Bunker Hill Monument, He was unquestionably the most\nmajestic specimen of manhood that ever trod this continent. Carlyle\ncalled him \"The Great Norseman,\" and said that his eyes were like great\nanthracite furnaces that needed blowing up. Coal heavers in London\nstopped to stare at him as he stalked by, and it is well authenticated\nthat Sydney Smith said of him, \"That man is a fraud; for it is\nimpossible for any one to be as great as he looks.\"\n\nMr. Webster, as I saw him that day, was in the vigor of his splendid\nprime. When he spoke in the Senate chamber it was his custom to wear the\nWhig uniform, a blue coat with metal buttons and a buff waistcoat; but\nthat day he was dressed in a claret colored coat and black trousers. His\ncomplexion was a swarthy brown. He used to say that while his handsome\nbrother Ezekiel was very fair, he \"had all the soot of the family in his\nface.\" Such a mountain of a brow I have never seen before or since. I\nfollowed behind him until he entered the carriage of Mr. Robert Minturn\nthat was waiting for him, and as he rode away he looked like Jupiter\nOlympus. Although I saw Mr. Webster several times afterwards, I never\nheard him speak until the closing year of his life. The Honorable Lewis\nCondit, of Morristown, N.J., was in Congress at the time when Webster\nhad his historic combat with Senator Hayne, of South Carolina, and was\npresent during the delivery of the most magnificent speech ever\ndelivered in our Senate. He described the historic scene to me minutely.\n\nBefore twelve o'clock on the 26th day of January, 1830, the Senate\nchamber was overflowing into the rotunda, and people were offering\nprices for a few inches of breathing room in the charmed enclosure.\nSenator Dixon H. Lewis, from Alabama, who weighed nearly four hundred,\nbecame wedged in behind the Vice President's chair, unable to move, and\nbecame imbedded in the crowd like a broad-bottomed schooner settled at\nlow tide into the mud. Being unable to see, he drew out his knife and\ncut a hole through the stained glass screens that flanked the presiding\nofficer's chair. That aperture long remained as a memorial of Lewis's\ncuriosity to witness the greatest of American orators deliver the\ngreatest of American orations. The place was worthy of the hour and of\nthe combatants. It was the old Senate chamber, now occupied by the\nUnited States Supreme Court, the same hall which had once resounded to\nthe eloquence of Rufus King, as it afterwards did to the eloquence of\nRufus Choate, and which had echoed the bursts of applause that once\ngreeted Henry Clay of Kentucky. On that memorable morning the\nVice-President's chair was occupied by that intellectual giant of the\nSouth, John C. Calhoun. Before him were Van Buren, Forsyth, Hayne,\nClayton, the omniverous Benton, the sturdy John Quincy Adams, and, in\nthe seething crowd, was the gaunt skeleton form of John Randolph of\nRoanoke. Mr. Condit told me that when Webster exclaimed: \"The world\nknows the history of Massachusetts by heart. There is Lexington, and\nthere is Bunker Hill and there they will remain forever,\"--the group of\nBostonians seated in the gallery before him, broke down, and wept like\nlittle children. Quite as effective as his eulogy of the \"Old Bay\nState,\" was his sudden and awful assault upon Senator Levi Woodbury, of\nNew Hampshire. This representative of Webster's native State had\nsupplied Colonel Hayne with a quantity of party pamphlets and documents\nto be used as ammunition. Webster knew this fact and determined to\npunish him. Turning suddenly towards Woodbury, he thundered out in a\ntone of indignant scorn, as he shook his fist over his head: \"I employ\nno scavengers;\" and the poor New Hampshire Senator ducked his bald head\nas if struck by a bombshell. The closing passage of that memorable\nspeech could not have been extemporized. No mortal man could have thrown\noff that magnificent piece of Miltonic prose at the heat, without some\ndeep premeditation. It is well known now that Mr. Webster afterwards\npruned, amended and decorated it until it is recognized as one of the\ngrandest passages in the English language. I take down my Webster and\nread it occasionally, and it has in it the majestic \"sound of many\nwaters.\" That great passage is the prelude of the mighty conflict which\nthirty years afterwards was to be waged on the soil of Gettysburg and\nChickamauga. It became the condensed creed, and the battle-cry of the\nlong warfare for the nation's life. Well have there been placed in\ngolden letters on the pedestal of Webster's monument in Central Park the\nlast sublime line of that sentence: \"Liberty and Union, now and forever:\none and inseparable.\" Mr. Webster's power in sarcastic invective was\nterrific. After he had made his angry and ferocious rejoinder to the\ncharges of Mr. Charles J. Ingersoll, of Pennsylvania, the witty Dr.\nElder was asked, when he came out of the Senate chamber: \"What did you\nthink of that speech?\" Elder's reply was: \"Thunder and lightning are\npeaches and cream to such a speech as that.\" Mighty as Webster was in\nintellectual power he had some lamentable weaknesses. He was indeed a\nwonderful mixture of clay and iron. The iron was extraordinarily\nmassive, but the clay was loose and brittle. He had the temptations of\nvery strong animal passions, and sometimes to his intimate friends he\nattempted to excuse some of his excesses of that kind. There has been\nmuch controversy about Mr. Webster's habits in regard to intoxicants.\nThe simple truth is that during his visit to England in 1840 he was so\nlionized and feted at public dinners that he brought home some convivial\nhabits which rather grew upon him in advancing years. On several public\noccasions he gave evidence that he was somewhat under the influence of\ndeep potations. I once saw him when his imperial brain was raked with\nthe chain-shot of alcohol. The sight moved me to tears, and made me hate\nmore than ever the accursed drink that, like death, is no \"respecter of\npersons.\"\n\nI heard the last speech that Mr. Webster ever made. It was a few months\nbefore his death in 1852. The speech was delivered at Trenton, N.J., in\nthe celebrated India rubber case, Goodyear _vs. _ Day, in which Webster\nwas the leading counsel for Goodyear, and Rufus Choate headed the list\nof eloquent advocates in defense of Mr. Day. In that speech Webster was\nphysically feeble, so that after speaking an hour, he was obliged to sit\ndown for a time, while Mr. James T. Brady made a new statement with\nregard to a portion of the evidence. At that time Webster was broken in\nhealth. The most beautiful passage in his speech was his tribute to\nwoman, and at another point he indulged in a very ludicrous description\nof the character of the first India rubber, which was offered as a\nmarketable article. He said: \"When India rubber was first brought to\nthis country we had only the raw material, and they made overshoes and\nhats of it. A present was sent to me of a complete suit of clothes made\nof this India rubber, and on a cold winter day I found my rubber\novercoat was frozen as rigid as ice. I took it out on my lawn, set it\nupright, put a broad brim hat on top of it, and there the figure stood\nerect, and my neighbors, as they passed by thought they saw the old\nfarmer of Marshfield standing out under his trees.\" Some of his\nsarcastic attacks upon Mr. Day were very bitter, and when he showed his\ngreat, white teeth he looked like an enraged lion.\n\nA few months after that Trenton speech in October, 1852, he went to his\nMarshfield home to die. His spirits were broken and he was sore from\npolitical disappointments. His last few days were spent in a fight by\nhis powerful constitution against the inevitable. The last time he\nwalked feebly from his bed to his window he called out to his servant\nman: \"I want you to moor my yacht down there where I can see it from my\nwindow; then I want you to hoist the flag at the mast head, and every\nnight to hang the lamp up in the rigging; when I go down I want to go\ndown with my colors flying and my lamp burning.\" He told them to put on\nhis monument, \"Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief.\" In the final\nmoment he started up from his pillow long enough to say: \"I still live.\"\nHe does live, and will ever live in the grateful memories of his\ncountrymen.\n\nWhile no one can deplore more than the writer the weaknesses and\nmistakes of Daniel Webster, yet when I remember his intellectual\nprowess and his magnificent services in defense of the Constitution, and\nthe integrity of our national union, I am ready to say: \"Let us to all\nhis failings and faults be charitably kind and only remember the\nglorious services he wrought to the country he loved.\"\n\nDuring the summer of 1840, when I was a college student at Princeton, I\nwent with a friend to the office of the _Log Cabin_, a Whig campaign\nnewspaper then published in Nassau Street, New York. It was during the\nfamous Tippecanoe campaign, which resulted in the election of General\nHarrison. I was introduced to a singular looking man in rustic dress. He\nwas writing an editorial. His face had a peculiar infantile smoothness,\nand his long flaxen hair fell down over his shoulders. I little dreamed\nthen that that uncouth man in tow trousers was yet to be the foremost\neditor in America, and a candidate, unwisely, for President of the\nUnited States. Horace Greeley, for it was he, who sat before me, has\nbeen often described as a man with the \"face of an angel, and the walk\nof a clod-hopper.\" Ten years later I became well acquainted with him,\nand from that time a most cordial friendship existed until his dying\nday. He visited me as a speaker at our State convention in Trenton, N.Y.\nI had him at my house at supper when my mother asked him if he would\ntake coffee. His droll reply was: \"I hope to drink coffee, madame, in\nheaven, but I cannot stand it in this world.\" After supper I informed my\nguest that it was customary for my good mother and myself (for I was not\nyet married), to have family worship immediately at the close of that\nmeal and asked him whether he would not join us. He cordially replied\nthat he would be most happy to do so, and it is quite probable that I\nmay be one of the few,--perhaps the only--clergyman in this land who\never had Horace Greeley kneeling beside him in prayer. He attired\nhimself in the famous old white coat, and shambled along with my mother\nto the place of meeting. He quite captivated her with a most pathetic\naccount of his idolized boy \"Pickie,\" who had died a short time before.\nMr. Greeley was one of the most simple-hearted, great men whom I have\never met; without a spark of ordinary vanity he was intensely\naffectionate in his sympathies and loved a genuine kind word that came\nfrom the heart. He relished more a quiet talk with an old friend in his\nhome at Chappaqua than all the glare of public notoriety. \"Come up,\" he\noften said to me, \"and spend a Saturday at the farm. The good boys do\ncome and see me up there sometimes.\" Probably no man lived a purer life\nthan Horace Greeley. He was the most devoted of husbands to one of the\nmost eccentric of wives. His defenses of the spiritual sanctity of\nmarriage in reply to Dale Owen are among the most powerful productions\nof his ever powerful pen. It were well that they should be reproduced\nnow at a time when the laxity of wedlock and the wicked facilities for\ndivorce are working such peril to our domestic life.\n\nJohn Bright once said: \"Horace Greeley is the greatest of living\neditors.\" He once told me that he had written editorials for a dozen\npapers at one time. He also told me that while he was preparing his\nhistory of the \"American Conflict\" he was in the habit of writing three\ncolumns of editorials every day. His articles were freighted with great\npower, for he was one of the strongest writers of the English language\non this continent. They were always brimful of thought, for Mr. Greeley\nseldom wrote on any subject which he had not thoroughly mastered.\nSpeaking of a certain popular orator, who afterwards went as our\nminister to China, he said to me: \"Mr. B.---- is a pretty man, a very\npretty man, but he does not _study_, and no man ever can have permanent\npower in this country unless he _studies_\"\n\nMr. Greeley prided himself upon his accuracy as an editor, but one day,\nwhen writing an editorial, in which he denounced some political\nmisdemeanor in the County of Chatauqua, by a slip of his pen he wrote\nthe name of the adjoining county Cattaraugus. The next morning when he\nsaw it in the paper he went up into the composing room in a perfect rage\nand called out, \"Who put that Cattaraugus?\" The printers all gathered\naround him amused at his anger until one of them pulling down from the\nhook the original editorial showed him the word \"Cattaraugus\" \"Uncle\nHorace,\" when he saw the word, with a most inexpressible meekness,\ndrawled out: \"Will some one please to kick me down those stairs?\"\n\nHe abominated mendicancy and, although his native goodness of heart\noften led him to give to the hundreds who came to him for pecuniary aid,\nhe one day said to me: \"Since I have lived in New York I have given away\nmoney enough to set up a merchant in business, and I sometimes doubt\nwhether I have done more good or harm by the operation. I am continually\nbeset by various clubs and societies all over the land to donate to them\nthe _Tribune_. I always tell them if it is worth reading it is worth\npaying for. The curse of this country is the deadhead. I pay for my own\n_Tribune_ every morning.\"\n\nFrom my old friend's theology I strongly dissented, but in practical\nphilanthropy he gave me many a lesson and still better stimulant of his\nown unselfish example. He was always ready to work in the cause of\nreform without pay and without applause. When temperance meetings were\nheld in my church he very gladly lent his effective services, refusing\nany compensation, and there was no man in the city whose evening hours\nwere worth more in solid gold than his. It is said that he was once\ncalled upon, in the absence of his minister, in a Universalist Church,\nto go into the pulpit. He did so, and delivered a very pungent sermon on\nthe text, \"The fool hath said in his heart there is no God.\" The\nstrongest points made by Mr. Greeley in the best of his printed essays\nare those which emphasize the authority of God. A letter in his\ncharacteristic hieroglyphics, the last one he ever wrote to me, and\nwhich now lies before me, was in reply to one of mine, criticising the\n_Tribune_ for speaking of Dr. Tyng's as a \"church\" and of Dr. Adams's\nhouse of worship as a \"meeting house.\" I told him if one was a church,\nthen the other was equally so. He replied: \"I am of Puritan stock, on\none side, in America since 1640, and on the other since 1720. My people\nworshiped God in a meeting house; they gave it the name, not I, and they\ncalled the body of believers who met therein 'a church.' Episcopalians\nspeak otherwise. It is a bad sign that we do not seem disposed to hold\nfast the form of sound words.\"\n\nI am not aware of any Scriptural authority for calling a steepled house\n\"a church.\"\n\nThe last evening I ever spent with him was at a temperance meeting of\nplain working people, to which he came several miles through a snow\nstorm. He spoke with great power, and when I told him afterwards it was\none of the finest addresses I had ever heard from him he said to me: \"I\nwould rather tell some truths to help such plain people as we had\nto-night than address thousands of the cultured in the Academy of\nMusic.\" As he bade me good-night at yonder corner of Fulton Street, I\nsaid to him: \"Uncle Horace, will you not come and spend the night with\nme?\" He said, \"No, I have much work to do before morning. I am coming\nover soon to spend a week in Brooklyn with my brother-in-law, and I will\ncome and have a night with you.\" Alas, it was not long before he came to\nspend a night in Brooklyn,--that night that knows no morning. On a\nchilly November day, towards twilight, I was one of the crowd that\nfollowed him to his resting place in Greenwood, and I always, when on my\nway to my own plot, stop to gaze on the monument that bears the\ninscription, _\"Founder of the New York Tribune.\"_\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTHE CIVIL WAR AND ABRAHAM LINCOLN.\n\n\nAn enormous quantity of books, historic and reminiscent, have been\nwritten about our Civil War, which, both in regard to the number of\ncombatants engaged, and the magnitude of the interests involved, and its\nfar-reaching consequences, was the most colossal conflict of modern\ntimes. Before presenting a few of my own personal recollections of the\nstruggle, let me say that when the struggle was over, no one was more\neager than myself to bury the tomahawk, and to offer the calumet of\npeace to our Southern fellow countrymen and fellow Christians. Whenever\nI have visited them their cordial greeting has warmed the cockles of my\nheart. I thank God that the great gash has been so thoroughly healed,\nand that I have lived to see the day when the people of the North feel a\nnational pride in the splendid prowess of Lee, and the heroic Christian\ncharacter of Stonewall Jackson, and when some of the noblest tributes to\nAbraham Lincoln have been spoken by such representative Southerners as\nMr. Grady, of Georgia, and Mr. Watterson, of Kentucky. I had hoped ere\nthis to see the Northern and Southern wings of our venerable\nPresbyterian Church reunited; but I am confident that there are plenty\nof people now living who will yet witness their happy ecclesiastical\nnuptials. Terrible as was that war in the sacrifice of precious life,\nand in the destruction of property, it was unquestionably inevitable.\nMr. Seward was right when he called the conflict \"irrepressible.\"\nAbraham Lincoln was a true prophet when he declared, at Springfield,\nIll., in June, 1858, that \"A house divided against itself cannot stand;\nI believe this government cannot endure permanently half slave and half\nfree.\" When in my early life I spoke to my good mother about some\nanti-slavery addresses that had been delivered, she said to me, with\nwonderful foresight, \"These speeches will avail but little; _slavery\nwill go down in blood.\"_ That it has gone down even at the cost of so\nmuch blood and treasure is to-day as much a matter for congratulation in\nthe South as it is in the North.\n\nMy first glimpse of the long predicted conflict was the sight of the\nSeventh Regiment,--composed of the flower of New York,--swinging down\nBroadway in April, 1861, on its way to the protection of\nWashington,--amid the thundering cheers of the bystanders. Before long I\noffered my services to the \"Christian commission\" which had been\norganized by that noble and godly minded patriot, George H. Stuart, of\nPhiladelphia, and I went on to Washington to preach to our soldiers. I\nfound Washington a huge military encampment; the hills around were white\nwith tents, and Pennsylvania Avenue was filled almost every day with\ntroops of horsemen, or with trains of artillery. While I was in\nWashington I lodged with my beloved college professor, that eminent\nChristian philosopher, Joseph Henry,--in the Smithsonian Institution, of\nwhich he was the head. One night, after I had been out addressing our\nboys in blue at one of the camps, and had retired for the night,\nProfessor Henry came into my room and, sitting down by my bed, discussed\nthe aspects of the struggle. His mental eye was as sharp in reading the\nsigns of the times as it had been when at Albany, thirty years before,\nhe made his splendid discovery in electro-magnetism. He said to me:\n\"This war may last several years, but it can have only one result, for\nit is simply a question of dynamics. The stronger force must pulverize\nthe weaker one, and the North will win the day. When the war is over,\nthe country will not be what it was before; the triumph of the union\nwill leave us a prodigiously centralized government, and the old Calhoun\ntheory of 'State rights' will be dead. We shall have an inflated\ncurrency--an enormous debt with a host of tax-gatherers, and huge\npension rolls. What is most needed now is wise statesmanship, and the\nfirst quality of a statesman is _prescience_. In my position here, as\nhead of the Smithsonian, I cannot be a partisan! I did not vote the\nRepublican ticket, but I am confident that by a long way the most\nfar-seeing head in this land is on the shoulders of that awkward\nrail-splitter from Illinois.\" Every syllable of Professor Henry's\nprognostication proved true, and nothing more true than his estimate of\nLincoln at a time when there was too much disposition to distrust him.\n\nAs I have had for many years what my friends have playfully called\n\"Lincoln on the brain,\" let me say a few words in regard to the most\nmarvellous man that this country has produced in the nineteenth century.\nHis name is to-day a household word in every civilized land. Dr. Newman\nHall, of London, has told me that when he had addressed a listless\naudience, he found that nothing was so certain to arouse them as to\nintroduce the name of Abraham Lincoln. Certainly no other name has such\nelectric power over every true heart from Maine to Mexico. The first\ntime I ever saw the man whom we used to call, familiarly and\naffectionately, \"Uncle Abe,\" was at the Tremont House in Chicago, a few\ndays after his election to the presidency. His room was very near my\nown. I sent in my card, and he greeted me with a characteristic grasp of\nthe hand, and his first sentence rather touched my soft spot when he\nsaid: \"I have kept up with you nearly every week in the _New York\nIndependent_.\" His voice had a clear, magnetic ring, and his heart\nseemed to be in his voice. Three months afterwards I saw him again,\nriding down Broadway, New York (thronged with a gazing multitude), on\nhis way to assume the presidency at Washington. He stood up in a\nbarouche holding on with his hand to the seat of the driver. His\ntowering figure was filled out by a long blue cloak, and a heavy cape\nwhich he wore. On his bare head rose a thick mass of black hair--the\ncrown which nature gave to her king. His large, melancholy eyes had a\nsolemn, far-away look as if he discerned the toils and trials that\nawaited him. The great patriot-President, moving slowly on toward the\nconflict, the glory and the martyrdom, that were reserved for him, still\nremains in my memory, as the most august and majestic figure that my\neyes have ever beheld. He never passed through New York again until he\nwas borne through tears and broken hearts on his last journey to his\nWestern tomb.\n\nI did not see Lincoln again until two years afterwards, when I was in\nWashington on duty for the Christian Commission. It was one of his\npublic levee nights, and as soon as I came up to him, his first words\nwere: \"Doctor, I have not seen you since we met in the Tremont House in\nChicago.\" I mention this as an illustration of his marvelous memory; he\nnever forgot a face or a name or the slightest incident. My mother was\nwith me at the Smithsonian, and as she was extremely desirous to see the\nPresident I took her over to the White House late on the following\nafternoon. In those war times, when Washington was a camp, the White\nHouse looked more like an army barracks than the Presidential mansion.\nIn the entrance hall that day were piles of express boxes, among which\nwas a little lad playing and tumbling them about. \"Will you go and find\nsomebody to take our cards?\" said my mother to the child. He ran off and\nbrought the Irishman, whose duty it was to receive callers at the door.\nThat was the same Irishman who, when the poor soldier's wife was going\nin to plead for her husband's pardon of a capital offense he had\ncommitted, said to her: \"Be sure to take your baby in with you.\" When\nshe came out smiling and happy, Patrick said to her: \"Ah, ma'am, _'twas\nthe baby that did it_.\"\n\nThe shockingly careless appearance of the White House proved that\nwhatever may have been Mrs. Lincoln's other good qualities, she hadn't\nearned the compliment which the Yankee farmer paid to his wife when he\nsaid: \"Ef my wife haint got an ear fer music, she's got an eye fer\ndirt.\" When we reached the room of the President's Private Secretary,\nmy old friend, the Rev. Mr. Neill, of St. Paul's, told me that it was\nmilitary court day, when the President had to decide upon cases of army\ndiscipline that came before him and when he received no calls. I told\nNeill that my mother could never die happy if she had not seen Lincoln.\nHe took in our names to the President, who told him to bring us in. We\nentered the room in which the Cabinet usually met--and there, before the\nfire, stood the tall, gaunt form attired in a seedy frock-coat, with his\nlong hair unkempt, and his thin face the very picture of distress. \"How\nis Mrs. Lincoln?\" inquired my mother. \"Oh,\" said the President, \"I have\nnot seen her since seven o'clock this morning; Tad, how is your mother?\"\n\"She is pretty well,\" replied the little fellow, who was coiled up then\nin an arm chair, the same lad we had seen playing down in the entrance\nhall. We spent but a few moments with Mr. Lincoln, and when we came out\nmy mother exclaimed: \"Oh, what a cruelty to keep that man here! Did you\never see such a sad face in your life?\" I never had, and I have given\nthis account of my call on him in order that my readers may not only\nunderstand what democratic customs then prevailed in the White House,\nbut may get some faint idea of the terribly trying life that Mr. Lincoln\nled.\n\nDr. Bellows, the President of the Sanitary Commission, once said to him:\n\"Mr. President, I am here at almost every hour of the day or night, and\nI never saw you at the table, do you ever eat?\" \"I try to,\" replied the\nPresident; \"I manage to browse about pretty much as I can get it.\" After\nthe long wearing, nerve-taxing days were over in which he was glad to\nrelieve himself occasionally with a good story or a merry laugh, came\nthe nights of anxiety when sleep was often banished from his pillow. He\nfrequently wrapped himself in his Scotch shawl, and at midnight stole\nacross to the War Office, and listened to the click of the telegraph\ninstruments, which brought sometimes good news, and sometimes terrible\ntales of defeat. On the day after he heard of the awful slaughter at\nFredericksburg, he remarked at the War Office: \"If any of the lost in\nhell suffered worse than I did last night, I pity them.\" Nothing but\niron nerves and a dependence on the divine arm bore him through. He once\nsaid: \"I have been driven many times to my knees by the overwhelming\nconviction that I had nowhere else to go; my own wisdom and that of all\naround me seemed insufficient for the day.\" We call him \"Our Martyr\nPresident,\" but the martyrdom lasted for four whole years!\n\nThe darkest crisis of the whole war was in the summer of 1862. I slipped\naway for a few weeks of relaxation to Europe, sailing on the Cunarder\n_China_, the first screw steamer ever built by that company. She was\nunder the command of Captain James Anderson, who was afterwards knighted\nby Queen Victoria for his services in laying the Atlantic cable, and is\nbetter known as Sir James Anderson. There was no Atlantic cable in those\ndays, and our steamer carried out the news of the seven days' battles\nbefore Richmond, which terminated in the retreat of General McClellan.\nWe had a Fourth of July dinner on board, but between seasickness and\nheart sickness it was the toughest experience of making a spread-eagle\nspeech I ever had. After landing at Queenstown I went to Belfast and\nthence to Edinburgh. I found the people of Edinburgh intensely excited\nover our war and the current of popular sentiment running against us\nlike a mill-race. For instance, I was recognized by my soft hat on the\nstreet; a shoemaker put his head out of the door and shouted as I\npassed: \"I say, when are you going to be done with your butchering over\nthere?\" The _Scotsman_ was hostile to the Union cause, and the old\n_Caledonian Mercury_ was the only paper that stood by us; but it did so\nmanfully. On the day of my arrival a bulletin was posted in the\nnewspaper offices and on Change that McClellan and the Union army had\nsurrendered. The baleful report was received with no little exultation\nby all who were engaged in the cotton trade. I sat up until midnight\nwith the editor of the _Mercury_, helping him to squelch the rumor and\nthe next morning expose the falsity of the news in his columns.\n\nDr. John Brown, the immortal author of \"Rab and His Friends,\" had called\non me at the Waverly Hotel, and that morning I breakfasted with him. At\nthe breakfast table I made a statement of our side of the conflict and\nDr. Brown said: \"If you will write up that statement, I will get my\nfriend, Mr. Russell, the editor of the _Scotsman_, to publish it in his\npaper.\" I did so and sent it to the care of Dr. Brown. On the following\nSabbath afternoon I attended the great prayer meeting in the Free Church\nAssembly Hall, and Sir James Simpson was to preside. There was a crowd\nof over a thousand people present. Simpson did not come, and so some\nother elder occupied the chair. During the meeting I arose and modestly\nasked that prayer might be offered for my country in this hour of her\nperil and distress. There was an awful silence! In a few moments the\nchairman meekly said: \"Perhaps our American friend will offer the prayer\nhimself.\" I did so, for it was evident that all the Scotchmen present\nconsidered our cause past praying for.\n\nOn the morning of our departure my letter appeared in the _Scotsman_\naccompanied by a long and bitter reply by the editor. Within a week\nseveral of the Scotch newspapers were in full cry, denouncing that\n\"bloody Presbyterian minister from America.\"\n\nAfter a hurried run to Switzerland I reached Paris in time to witness\nthe celebration of the imperial birthday and to see Louis Napoleon\nreview the splendid army of Italy with great pomp, on the Champs des\nMars. It was a magnificent spectacle. That day Mr. Slidell, the\nrepresentative of the Southern Confederacy, hung on the front of his\nhouse an immense white canvas on which was inscribed: \"Jefferson Davis,\nthe First President of the Confederate States of America.\" Our\nambassador, Hon. William L. Dayton, was a relative of mine, and I had\nseveral conversations with him about the perilous situation of affairs\nat home. Dayton said: \"Our prospects are dark enough. All the monarchs\nand aristocracies are against us; all the cotton and commercial\ninterests are against us. Emperor Louis Napoleon is a sphinx, but he\nwould like to help to acknowledge the Southern Confederacy. If he does\nso Belgium and other powers will join him; they will break the blockade;\nthey will supply the Confederates with arms and then we must fight\nEurope as well as the Southern States. Our only real friends are men\nlike John Bright, and those who believe that we are fighting for freedom\nas well as for our National Union. Mr. Lincoln must declare for\nemancipation and unless he does it within thirty days, I have written\nto Mr. Seward that our cause is lost.\"\n\nI returned to London with a heavy heart; all of our friends there with\nwhom I conversed echoed the sentiments of Mr. Dayton. One of them said\nto me: \"Earl Russell has no especial love for your Union, but he\nabominates negro slavery, and is very reluctant to acknowledge a new\nslave-owning government. Prince Albert and the Queen are friendly to\nyou, but you must emancipate the slaves.\"\n\nMy return passage from Liverpool was on board the _Asia_, and Captain\nAnderson commanded her for that voyage. When we reached Boston, we heard\nthe distressing news of the second Battle of Bull Run, and our prospects\nwere black as midnight. Captain Anderson remarked to me, in a\ncompassionate tone: \"Well, Mr. Cuyler, you Yankees had better give it up\nnow.\" \"Never, never,\" I replied to him. \"You will live to see the Union\nrestored and slavery extinguished.\" He laughed at me and bid me\n\"good-bye.\" A few years afterwards, I laughed back again when I met him\nin New York.\n\nOn Sunday evening, September 7, I addressed a vast crowd in my own\nLafayette Avenue Church, and told them frankly, that our only hope was\nin a proclamation for freedom by President Lincoln. Henry Ward Beecher\ninvited me to repeat my address on the next Sunday evening in Plymouth\nChurch. I did so and the house was packed clear out to the sidewalk. At\nthe end of my address Mr. Beecher leaned over and said: \"The Lord helped\nyou to-night.\" When the meeting closed Mr. Henry C. Bowen said, \"Will\nyou and Mr. Beecher not start for Washington to-morrow morning to urge\nMr. Lincoln to proclaim emancipation?\" We both agreed to go before the\nweek was over, but could not before. On the Wednesday of that very week\nthe Battle of Antietam was fought, and on the Friday morning we opened\nour papers and read President Lincoln's first Proclamation of\nEmancipation. The great deed was done; the night was over; the morning\nhad dawned. From that day onward our cause, under God, was saved; but\nthat proclamation saved the Union. No foreign power dared to oppose us\nafter that, and Gettysburg sealed the righteous act of Lincoln, the\nLiberator, and decided the victory.\n\nAt the beginning of this chapter I described the thrilling scenes at the\nopening of the conflict; let me now narrate a still more thrilling one\nat its termination. The war began by the surrender of Fort Sumter by\nMajor Anderson, April 13, 1861; the war virtually ended by the\nrestoration of the national flag by the same hand in the same Fort, on\nApril 14, 1865.\n\nI joined an excursion party from New York, on the steamer _Oceanus_,\nand we went down to witness the impressive ceremonies in Sumter. We\nfound Charleston a scene of wretched desolation, and General Sherman,\nwho had once resided there, said he had never realized the horrors of\nwar until he had seen the terrible ruins of that once beautiful city. At\nthe time of my writing, now, Charleston is crowded every day with\nvisitors to its industrial Exposition, and the President is received\nwith ovations by its people.\n\nOur party went over to Fort Sumter in a steamer commanded by a negro,\nwho was an emancipated slave, but very soon became a member of Congress.\nThe broken walls of Sumter, brown, battered and lonely in the quiet\nwaves were hopelessly scarred, and all around it on the narrow beach lay\na stratum of bullets and broken iron several inches deep.\n\nThe Fort that day was crowded with an immense assemblage. Among them\nwere the Hon. Henry Wilson, afterwards Vice-President, and\nAttorney-General Holt, Judge Hoxie, of New York, William Lloyd Garrison\nand George Thompson, the famous member of the English Parliament, who\nhad once been mobbed for his anti-slavery speech in this country.\nGeneral S.L. Woodford was in command for the day. Dr. Richard S. Storrs\noffered an impressive prayer, and the oration was delivered by\ndirection of the Government, by Henry Ward Beecher. When the speech was\ncompleted, Major Anderson drew out from a mail bag the identical bunting\nthat he had lowered four years before, and attached the flag to the\nhalyards, and when it began to ascend, General Gilmore grasped the rope\nbehind him, and, as it came along to our part of the platform several of\nus grasped it also. Mr. Thompson shouted, \"Give John Bull a hold of that\nrope.\" When the dear old flag reached the summit of the staff, and its\nstarry eyes looked out over the broad harbor, such a volley of cannon\nfrom ship and shore burst forth that one might imagine the old battle of\nthe Monitors was being fought over again.\n\nThe frantic scene inside the Fort beggars description. We grasped hands\nand shouted and my irrepressible old friend, Hoxie, of New York, with\ntears in his eyes, embraced one after another, exclaiming: \"This is the\ngreatest day of my life!\" In the rainbow of those stars and stripes we\nread that day the covenant that the deluge of blood was ended, and that\nthe ark of freedom had rested at length upon its Ararat.\n\nOn the next day I addressed a thousand negro children, and when I\nenquired, \"May I send an invitation to the good Abraham Lincoln to come\ndown and visit you?\" one thousand little black hands went up with a\nshout. Alas, we knew not that at that very hour their beloved\nbenefactor was lying cold and silent in the East room at Washington! At\nFortress Monroe, on our homeward voyage, the terrible tidings of the\nPresident's assassination pierced us like a dagger, on the wharf. Near\nthe Fortress poor negro women had hung pieces of coarse black muslin\naround every little huckster's tables. \"Yes, sah, Fathah Lincum's dead.\nDey killed our bes' fren, but God be libben; dey can't kill Him, I's sho\nob dat.\" Her simple childlike faith seemed to reach up and grasp the\neverlasting arm which had led Lincoln while leading her race \"out of the\nhouse of bondage.\"\n\nUpon our arrival in New York, we found the city draped in black, and\n\"the mourners going about the streets.\" When the remains of the murdered\nPresident reached New York they were laid in state in the City Hall for\none day and night, and during that whole night the procession passed the\ncoffin--never ceasing for a moment. Between three and four o'clock in\nthe morning I took my family there, that they might see the face of our\nbeloved martyr, and we had to take our place in a line as far away as\nPark Row. It is impossible to give any adequate description of the\nfuneral--whose like was never seen before or since--when eminent\nauthors, clergymen, judges and distinguished civilians walked on foot\nthrough streets, shrouded in black to the house tops. The whole journey\nto Springfield, Ill., was one constant manifestation of poignant grief.\nThe people rose in the night, simply to see the funeral train pass by. I\ndo not wonder that when Emperor Alexander, of Russia (who was himself\nafterwards assassinated) heard the tidings of our President's death from\nan American Ambassador, he leaped from his chair, and exclaimed, \"Good\nGod, can it be so? He was the noblest man alive.\"\n\nThirty-seven years have passed away, and to-day while our nation reveres\nthe name of Washington, as the Father of his Country; Abraham Lincoln is\nthe best loved man that ever trod this continent. The Almighty educated\nhim in His own Providence for his high mission. The \"plain people,\" as\nhe called them, were his University; the Bible and John Bunyan were his\nearliest text-books. Sometimes his familiarity with the Scriptures came\nout very amusingly as when a deputation of bankers called on him, to\nnegotiate for a loan to the Government, and one of them said to him:\n\"You know, Mr. President, where the treasure is, there will the heart be\nalso.\" \"I should not wonder,\" replied Lincoln, \"if another text would\nnot fit the case better, 'Where the carcass is, there will the eagles be\ngathered together,'\" His innumerable jests contained more wisdom than\nmany a philosopher's maxims, and underneath his plebeian simplicity,\ndress and manners, this great child of nature possessed the most\ndelicate instincts of the perfect gentleman. The only just scale by\nwhich to measure any man is the scale of actual achievement; and in\nLincoln's case some of the most essential instruments had to be\nfabricated by himself.\n\nThe first account in the measurement of the man is that with a sublime\nreliance on God, he conducted an immense nation through the most\ntremendous civil war ever waged, and never committed a single serious\nmistake. The Illinois backwoodsman did not possess Hamilton's brilliant\ngenius, yet Hamilton never read the future more sagaciously. He made no\npretension to Webster's magnificent oratory; yet Webster never put more\ntruth in portable form for popular guidance. He possessed Benjamin\nFranklin's immense common sense, and gift of terse proverbial speech,\nbut none of his lusts and sceptical infirmities. The immortal\ntwenty-line address at Gettysburg is the high water mark of sententious\neloquence. With that speech should be placed the pathetic and equally\nperfect letter of condolence to Mrs. Bixby of Boston after her five sons\nhad fallen in battle. With that speech also should be read that\nwonderful second Inaugural address which even the hostile _London Times_\npronounced to be the most sublime state paper of the century. This\nsecond address--his last great production--contained some of the best\nillustrations of his fondness for balanced antithesis and rhythmical\nmeasurement. There is one sentence which may be rendered into rhyme:\n\n   \"Fondly do we hope,\n   Fervently do we pray\n   That this mighty scourge of war\n   May soon pass away\"\n\nTerrible as was the tragedy of that April night, thirty-seven years ago,\nit may be still true that Lincoln died at the right time for his own\nimperishable fame. It was fitting that his own precious blood should be\nthe last to be shed in the stupendous struggle He had called over two\nhundred thousand heroes to lay down their lives and then his own was\nlaid down beside the humblest private soldier, or drummer boy, that\nfilled the sacred mould of Gettysburg and Chickamauga. In an instant, as\nit were, his career crystalized into that pure white fame which belongs\nonly to the martyr for justice, law and liberty. For more than a\ngeneration his ashes have slumbered in his beloved home at Springfield,\nand as the hearts of millions of the liberated turn toward that tomb,\nthey may well say to their liberator: \"We were hungry and thou gavest us\nthe bread of sympathy; we were thirsty for liberty and thou gavest us to\ndrink; we were strangers, and thou didst take us in; we were sick with\ntwo centuries of sorrow, and thou didst visit us; we were in the\noppressive house of bondage, and thou earnest unto us;\" and the response\nof Christendom is: \"Well done, good and faithful servant, enter into the\njoy of the Lord.\"\n\nIn closing this chapter of my reminiscences, I may be allowed to express\nmy strong conviction that our Congress, impelled by generous feeling,\nand what they regarded as a democratic principle of government,\ncommitted a serious error in bestowing the right of suffrage\nindiscriminately upon the male negro population of the South. A man who\nhad been all his life an ignorant \"chattel personal\" was suddenly\ntransformed into a sovereign elector. Instead of this precipitate\nlegislation, it would have been wiser to restrict the suffrage to those\nwho acquire a proper education, and perhaps also a certain amount of\ntaxable property. This policy would have avoided unhappy friction\nbetween the races, and, what is more important, it would have offered a\npowerful inducement to every colored man to fit himself for the honor\nand grave responsibility of full citizenship. At this time one of the\nnoblest efforts made by wise philanthropy is that of educating,\nelevating and evangelizing our colored fellow countrymen of the South.\nTo help the negro to help himself, is the key-note of these efforts. The\ntime is coming--yea, it has come already--when to the name of Abraham\nLincoln, the grateful negro will add the names of their best benefactor,\nGeneral Samuel C. Armstrong (the founder of Hampton Institute) and\nBooker T. Washington.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\nPASTORAL WORK.\n\n\nThe work of the faithful minister covers all the round week. On the one\nday he teaches his people in the house of God, on the remaining days he\nteaches and guides them in their own houses and wherever he may happen\nto meet them. His labors, therefore, are twofold; the work of the\npreacher and the work of the pastor. The two ought to be inseparable;\nwhat the Providence of God and good common sense have joined together\nlet no man venture to put asunder. The great business of every true\nminister is the winning of souls to Jesus Christ, and to bring them up\nin godly living. In other words, to make bad men good, and good men\nbetter. All this cannot be accomplished by two sermons a week, even if\nthey were the best that Paul himself could deliver; in fact, the best\npart of Paul's recorded work was quite other than public preaching. As\nfor our blessed Master, He has left one extended discourse and a few\nshorter ones, but oh, how many narratives we have of His personal\nvisits, personal conversation and labors of love with the sick, the\nsinning, and the suffering! He was the shepherd who knew every sheep in\nthe flock. The importance of all that portion of a minister's work that\nlies outside of his pulpit can hardly be overestimated. The great\nelement of power with every faithful ambassador of Christ should be\nheart-power and the secret of popularity is to take an interest in\neverybody. A majority of all congregations, rich or poor, is reached,\nnot so much through the intellect as through the affections. This is an\nencouraging fact, that while only one man in ten may have been born to\nbecome a very great preacher, the other nine, if they love their Master\nand love human souls, can become great pastors. Nothing gives a minister\nsuch heart-power as personal acquaintance and personal attention to\nthose whom he aims to influence; especially his personal attention will\nbe welcome in seasons of trial. Let the pastor make himself at home in\neverybody's home. Let him go often to visit their sick rooms and kneel\nbeside their empty cribs, and comfort their broken hearts, and pray with\nthem. Let him go to the business men of his congregation when they have\nsuffered reverses, and give them a word of cheer; let him be quick to\nrecognize the poor and the children, and he will weave a cord around the\nhearts of his people that will stand a prodigious pressure. His inferior\nsermons (for every minister is guilty of such occasionally) will be\nkindly condoned, and he can launch the most pungent truths at his\nauditors, and they will not take offense. He will have won their hearts\nto himself, and that is a great step toward drawing them to the house of\nGod and winning their souls to the Saviour. \"A house-going minister,\"\nsaid Chalmers, \"makes a church-going people.\" There is still one other\npotent argument for close intercourse with his congregation that many\nministers are in danger of ignoring or underestimating. James Russell\nLowell has somewhere said that books are, at best, but dry fodder, and\nthat we need to be vitalized by contact with living people. The best\npractical discourses often are those which a congregation help their\nminister to prepare. By constant and loving intercourse with the\nindividuals of his church he becomes acquainted with their\npeculiarities, and this enlarges his knowledge of human nature. It is\nsecond only to a knowledge of God's Word. If a minister is a wise man\n(and neither God nor man has any use for fools) he will be made wiser by\nthe lessons and suggestions which he can gain from constant and close\nintercourse with the immortal beings to whom he preaches.\n\nIn Dundee, Scotland, I conversed with a gray-headed member of St.\nPeter's Presbyterian Church who, in his youth, listened to the sainted\nRobert Murray McCheyne. He spoke of him with the deepest reverence and\nlove; but the one thing that he remembered after forty-six years was\nthat Mr. McCheyne, a few days before his death, met him on the street\nand, laying hand upon his shoulder, said to him kindly: \"Jamie, I hope\nit is well with your soul. How is your sick sister? I am going to see\nher again shortly.\" That sentence or two had stuck to the old Christian\nfor over forty years. It had grappled his pastor to him, and this little\nnarrative gave me a fresh insight into McCheyne's wonderful power. His\nministry was most richly successful, and largely because he kept in\ntouch with his people, and was a great pastor as well as a great\npreacher.\n\nI determined from the very start in my ministry that I would be a\nthorough pastor. A very celebrated preacher once said to me: \"I envy you\nyour love for pastoral work, I would not do it if I could, I could not\ndo it if I would; for a single hour with a family in trouble uses up\nmore of my vitality than to prepare a sermon.\" My reply to him was:\n\"That may be true, but, after all, the business of a minister is to\nendure these strains upon his nervous system if he would be a comforter,\nas well as the teacher of his people.\"\n\nMy practice was this: I devoted the forenoon of every day, except\nMonday, to the preparation of my discourses. My motto was: \"Study God's\nWord in the morning, and door-plates in the afternoon.\" I found the\nphysical exercise in itself a benefit, and the spiritual benefits were\nten-fold more. I secured and kept a complete record of the whereabouts\nof all my congregation and requested from the pulpit that prompt\ninformation be given me of any change of residence, and also of any case\nof sickness or trouble of any kind. I encouraged my people to send me\nword when there was any case of religious interest in their families or\nany matter of importance to discuss with me. In short, I endeavored to\ntreat my flock exactly as though they were my own family, and to be\nperfectly at home in their homes. I managed to visit every family at\nleast once in each year and as much oftener as circumstances required.\nAs I had no \"loafing\" places, I easily got through my congregation,\nwhich, in Brooklyn, numbered several hundreds of families.\n\nSpurgeon had an assistant pastor for his immense flock, but he made it a\nrule to visit the sick or dying on as many occasions as possible. He\nonce said from his pulpit: \"I have been this week to visit two of my\nchurch members who were near Eternity, and both of them were as happy as\nif they were going to a wedding. Oh, it makes me preach like a lion when\nI see how my people can die.\"\n\nIt was always my custom to take a particular neighborhood, and to call\nupon every parishioner in that street, or district, but I seldom found\nit wise to send word in advance to any family, that I would visit them\non a certain day or hour, for I might be prevented from going, and thus\nsubject them to disappointment; consequently, I had to run the risk of\nfinding them at home. If they were out I left my card, and tried again\nat another time. In calling on my people unawares, I found it depended\nupon myself to secure a cordial welcome, for I went in with a hearty\nsalutation and asked them to allow me to sit down with them wherever\nthey were, regardless of dress or ceremony, and soon I found myself\nperfectly at home with them. No one should be so welcome as a faithful\npastor. I encouraged them to talk about the affairs of our church, about\nthe Sabbath services, and the truths preached, and the influences that\nSabbath messages were having upon them. In this way I have discovered\nwhether or not the shots were striking; for the gunnery that hits no one\nis not worth the powder.\n\nFishing for compliments is beneath any man of common sense, but it does\ncheer the pastor's heart to be told, \"Your sermon last Sunday brought me\na great blessing; it helped me all the week.\" Or better still, \"Your\nsermon brought me to decide for Christ.\" In a careful and delicate way,\nI drew out our people in regard to their spiritual condition, and if I\nfound that any member of the family was anxious about his or her soul, I\nmanaged to have a private and unreserved conversation with that person.\nIt is well for every minister to be careful how he guards the confidence\nreposed in him. The family physician and the family pastor often have to\nknow some things they do not like to know, but they never should allow\nany one else to know them.\n\nThis intimate, personal intercourse with my flock enabled me more than\nonce to bring the undecided to a decision for Christ. In dealing with\nsuch cases, whether in the home or in the inquiry-room, I aimed to\ndiscover just what hindrance was in the path of each awakened soul. It\nis a great point also for such a one to discover what it is that keeps\nhim or her from surrendering to Christ. If it be some habit or some evil\npractice, that must be given up; if some heart sin, that we must yield,\neven if it be like plucking out an eye or lopping off a right hand. It\nwas my aim, and ever has been, to convince every awakened person that\nunless he or she was willing to give the heart to Jesus and to do His\nwill there was no hope for them. We must shut every soul up to Christ.\n\nI requested my people to inform me promptly of every case of serious\nsickness, and I could never be too prompt in responding to such a call.\nHowever busy I might be in preparing sermons or any commendable\noccupation everything else was laid aside. For a pastor should be as\nquick to respond to a call of sickness as an ambulance is to reach the\nscene of disaster. I sometimes found that a parishioner had been\nsuddenly attacked with dangerous illness and even my entrance in the\nsick room might agitate the patient. At such times I found it necessary\nto use all the tact and delicacy and discretion at my command. I would\nnever needlessly endanger a sick person by efforts to guide or console\nan immortal spirit. I aimed to make my words few, calm and tender, and\nmake every syllable to point toward Jesus Christ. Whoever the sufferer\nmay be, saint or sinner, his failing vision should be directed to \"no\nman save Jesus only\" It is not commonly the office of the pastor to tell\nthe patient that his or her disease is assuredly fatal, but if we know\nthat death is near, in the name of the Master, let us be faithful as\nwell as tender.\n\nThere are many cases of extreme and critical illness when the presence\nof even the most loving pastor may be an unwise intrusion. An excellent\nChristian lady who had been twice apparently on the brink of death said\nto me: \"Never enter the room of a person who is extremely low, unless\nthe person urgently requests you to, or unless spiritual necessity\nabsolutely compels it. You have no idea how the sight of a new face\nagitates the sufferer, and how you may unconsciously and unintentionally\nrob that sufferer of the little life that is fluttering in the feeble\nframe,\" I felt grateful to the good woman for her advice, and have often\nacted upon it, when the family have unwisely importuned me to do what\nwould have been more harmful than beneficial. On some occasions, when I\nhave found a sick room crowded by well-meaning but needless intruders, I\nhave taken the liberty to \"put them all forth,\" as our Master did in\nthat chamber in which the daughter of Jairus was in the death slumber.\n\nA great portion of the time and attention which I bestowed upon the sick\nwas spent on chronic sufferers, who had been confined to their beds of\nweariness for months or years. I visited them as often as possible. Some\nof those bedridden sufferers were prisoners of Jesus Christ, who did me\nquite as much good as I could possibly do them. What eloquent sermons\nthey preached to me on the beauty of submissive patience and on the\nsupporting power of the \"Everlasting arms!\" Such interviews strengthened\nmy faith, softened my heart, and infused into it something of the spirit\nof Him who \"Took our infirmities and bore our sicknesses.\" McCheyne, of\nDundee, said that before preaching on the Sabbath he sometimes visited\nsome parishioner, who might be lying extremely low, for he found it good\n\"to take a look over the verge.\"\n\nIn my pastoral rounds I sometimes had an opportunity to do more\nexecution in a single talk than in a score of sermons. I once spent an\nevening in a vain endeavor to bring a man to a decision for Christ.\nBefore I left, he took me up-stairs to the nursery, and showed me his\nbeautiful children in their cribs. I said to him tenderly: \"Do you mean\nthat these sweet children shall never have any help from their father to\nget to Heaven?\" He was deeply moved, and in a month that man became an\nactive member of my church. He was glued to me in affection for all the\nremainder of his useful life. On a cold winter evening I made a call on\na wealthy merchant in New York. As I left his door, and the piercing\ngale swept in I said, \"What an awful night for the poor!\" He went back,\nand bringing to me a roll of bank bills, he said: \"Please hand these,\nfor me, to the poorest people you know of.\" After a few days I wrote to\nhim, sending him the grateful thanks of the poor whom his bounty had\nrelieved, and added: \"How is it that a man who is so kind to his fellow\ncreatures has always been so unkind to his Saviour as to refuse Him his\nheart?\" That sentence touched him in the core. He sent for me\nimmediately to come and converse with him. He speedily gave his heart to\nChrist, united with, and became a most useful member of our church. But\nhe told me I was the first person who had ever spoken to him about his\nspiritual welfare in nearly twenty years. In the case of this eminently\neffective and influential Christian, one hour of pastoral work did more\nthan the pulpit efforts of almost a lifetime.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\nSOME FAMOUS PREACHERS IN BRITAIN.\n\n_Binney.--Hamilton--Guthrie.--Hall.--Spurgeon.--Duff and others_\n\n\nIn attempting to recall my recollections of the eminent preachers whom I\nhave known, I hardly know where to begin, or where to call a halt. I\nshall confine myself entirely to those who are no longer living, except\nas they may live in the memory of the service they wrought for their\nDivine Master and their fellow men. When I first visited London, in\nearly September, 1842, the two ministers most widely known to Americans\nwere Henry Melvill and Thomas Binney. Melvill was the most popular\npreacher in the Established Church. His place of worship was out at\nCamberwell, and I found it so packed that I had to get a seat on one of\nthe steps in the gallery. He was a man of elegant bearing, and rolled\nout his ornate sentences in a somewhat theatrical tone, but the hushed\naudience drank in every syllable greedily. The splendid and thoroughly\nevangelical sermons which he orated most carefully were exceedingly\npopular in those days, and even yet they are well worth reading as\nsuperb specimens of lofty, devout and resonant oratory. On a very warm\nSabbath evening I went into the business end of London to the \"Weigh\nHouse Chapel\" and heard Dr. Thomas Binney. He was the leader of\nCongregationalism, as Melvill was of the Church of England. On that warm\nevening the audience was small, but the discourse was prodigiously\nlarge. Binney had a kingly countenance, and a most unique delivery. His\ntopic was Psalm 147th, 3d and 4th verses. \"God is the Creator of the\nuniverse, and the comforter of the sorrowing.\" He thrust one hand into\nhis breeches pocket, and then ran his other hand through his hair, and\nbegan his sermon with the stirring words: \"The Jew has conquered the\nworld!\" This was the prelude to a grand eulogy of the Psalms of David.\nHe then unfolded the first part of his text in a most original style,\nmade a long pause, scratched his head again, and said: \"Now then, let us\ntake some new thoughts, and then we are done.\" The closing portion of\nthe rich discourse was on the tender consolations of our Heavenly\nFather.\n\nThirty years afterwards Dr. Binney was invited to meet me at breakfast\nat the house of Dr. Hall, with \"Tom Hughes,\" Dr. Henry Allon and other\nnotabilities. The noble veteran chatted very serenely, and offered a\nmost majestic prayer while he remained sitting in his arm-chair. His\nphysical disabilities made it difficult for him to stand; and very soon\nafterwards the grand old man went up to his crown. When I was spending\ntwo delightful days with Dr. McLaren, of Manchester, I described to him\nBinney's remarkable sermon. \"Were you there that night?\" inquired\nMcLaren. \"So was I, and though only a boy of sixteen, I remember the\nwhole of that discourse to this hour.\" It was certainly a rare pulpit\npower that could fasten a discourse in two different memories for a\nwhole half century.\n\nDo many of the Londoners of this day remember Dr. James Hamilton, the\npastor of the Presbyterian Church in Regent's Square? They should do so,\nfor in his time he was the most popular devotional writer of both sides\nof the Atlantic; and during my visit to London, in 1857, I was very\nhappy to form his acquaintance. He was a most cordial and charming man,\nslender, tall, with dark eyes and hair, and a beaming countenance. When\none entered Hamilton's study he would hurry forward, seize his hands,\nand taking both in his, reply to your \"How do you do, sir,\" with \"Come\nin, come in; I am nicely, I assure ye.\" Would that all ministers were as\ncordial and approachable. When I attended his church in Regent Square\nthey were singing, when I came in, a Psalm from the old Scotch Version.\nThe choristers sat in a desk below the pulpit. The singing was general\nthrough the church, and excellent in style. Dr. Hamilton preached in a\ngown, and, as the heat grew oppressive in the middle of his sermon,\nthrew it off. The discourse was delivered with extremely awkward\ngestures, but in a voice of great sweetness. The text was: \"My soul\nthirsteth for the Living God.\" He described an arid wilderness, hot and\nparched, and down beneath it a mighty vein of water into which an\nartesian well was bored, and forthwith the waters gushed up through it\nand swept over all the dry desert, making it one emerald meadow. \"So,\"\nsaid he, \"it is the incarnate Jesus flowing up through our own dusty,\nbarren desert humanity, and overflowing us with Heavenly life and grace,\nuntil what was once dreary and dead becomes a fruitful garden of the\nLord.\" The discourse was like a chapter from one of Hamilton's savory\nvolumes. Five years afterwards, I dined with Hamilton, and the Rev.\nWilliam Arnot (who afterwards was his biographer), and I went to his\nchurch to deliver the preparatory discourse to the sacrament on the next\nSabbath.\n\nOn my way up to London, I halted one night at Birmingham, and while out\non a stroll, came upon the City Hall, which was crowded with a great\nmeeting in aid of foreign missions. The heroic Robert Moffat, the\nApostle of South Africa, was addressing the multitude, who cheered him\nin the old English fashion. Two years before that, Robert Moffat had met\na young man in a boarding house in Aldersgate Street, London, and\ninduced him to become a missionary in Africa. The young man was the\nsublimest of all modern missionaries, David Livingstone. Two years after\nthat evening, Livingstone married Miss Mary Moffat (daughter of the man\nto whom I was listening), in South Africa, and she became the sharer of\nhis trials and explorations. After Moffat had concluded his speech, a\nbroad-shouldered, merry-faced man, with thick grey hair rose on the\nplatform. \"Who is that?\" I inquired of my next neighbor. With a look of\nsurprise that I should ask such a question in Birmingham, he said: \"It\nis John Angell James.\" He was the man whom Dr. Cox wittily described as\n\"An angel vinculated between two Apostles.\" He spoke very forcibly, in a\nhearty, humorous vein, and I could hardly understand how such a jovial\nold gentleman could be the author of such a serious work as \"The Anxious\nInquirer.\" But I have since discovered that many of the most solemn and\nimpressive preachers were men of most cheery temperament who could laugh\nheartily themselves when they were not making other people weep. Mr.\nJames looked like an old sea captain; but he was an admirable pilot of\nawakened souls, whom thousands will bless through all eternity.\n\nDr. Thomas Guthrie, of Edinburgh, was once pronounced by the _London\nTimes_ to be \"The most eloquent man in Europe.\" Ruskin, Thackeray,\nMacaulay, and other men of renown joined in the crowd that thronged St.\nJohn's Church when they were in Edinburgh; and a highland drover was\nonce so excited that in the middle of a powerful sermon he called out:\n\"Naw, sirs, heard ye ever the like o' that?\" My good wife made a run to\nEdinburgh while I was stopping behind in England, and on her return to\nme almost her first word was, \"I have heard Guthrie; I am spoiled for\nevery one else as long as I live.\" Guthrie, \"Lang Tam\" (as the toughs on\nthe \"Cowgate\" in Edinburgh used to call him), was built for a great\norator. He was more than six feet high, and would be picked out in any\ncrowd as one of God's royal family. I once said to him: \"You remind us\nAmericans of our famous statesman, Henry Clay,\" There was a striking\nresemblance in the long-armed figure, the broad mouth and lofty brow,\nand still more in the rich melody of voice, and magnetic rush of\nelectric eloquence, \"There must certainly be a personal likeness,\"\nreplied the Doctor, \"for not long ago I went into the house of Mr.\nNorris, who came here from America, and said to myself, 'There is my\nportrait on the wall,' but when I came nearer I espied under it the\nname of 'Henry Clay.'\" He used to say that in preaching he aimed at the\nthree P's: Prove, Paint and Persuade. His painting with the tongue was\nas vivid as Rembrandt's painting with the brush. When I went to\nEdinburgh, in 1872, as a delegate to the two Presbyterian General\nAssemblies, Dr. Guthrie invited me to dine with him, and the gifted Dr.\nJohn Ker, of Glasgow, was in the company. After dinner, Guthrie\nliterally took the floor, and poured out a flow of charming talk,\ninterspersed with racy Scotch anecdotes. Among others told was one about\nthe old Highland woman who said to him: \"Doctor, nane of your modern\nimprovements for me. I want naething but good old Dauvid's Psalms, and I\nwant'em all sung to Dauvid's tunes, too.\" On the evening when I\naddressed the Free Church Assembly, I was obliged to pass, on my way to\nthe platform, the front bench, on which sat the veteran missionary,\nAlexander Duff, Principal Rainy, William Arnot, Dr. Guthrie and two or\nthree other celebrities. I have not run such a gauntlet on a single\nbench in my life. When I had finished my address, Guthrie, clad in his\ngray overcoat, leaped up, and kindly grasped my hand, and I went back to\nmy seat feeling an indescribable relief. Dr. Guthrie a short time after\nattempted to visit our country, but was arrested at Queenstown by a\ndifficulty of the heart, and returned to Scotland, and lived but a\nshort time afterwards.\n\nSly personal acquaintance with Newman Hall began during the darkest\nperiod of our Civil War, in August, 1862 Up to that time I had only\nknown him as the author of that pithy and pellucid little booklet, \"Come\nto Jesus,\" which has belted the globe in forty languages, and been\npublished to the number of nearly 4,000,000 of copies. When our Civil\nWar broke out, Dr. Hall (with John Bright and Foster and Goldwin Smith)\nthrew himself earnestly on the side of our Union He made public speeches\nfor our cause over all England, and opened his house for parlor meetings\naddressed by loyal Americans who happened to be in London. He invited me\nto address one of these gatherings, but the necessity of my return home\nprevented my acceptance. Two years after the close of the war he made\nhis first visit to the United States. He was received with enthusiastic\novations. Union Leagues gave him public welcomes, Congress invited him\nto preach in the House of Representatives; he delivered an address to\nthe Bostonians on Bunker Hill; and every denomination, including the\nEpiscopalians and Quakers, opened their pulpits to him everywhere. But\nthe crowning act of his unique Americanism was the erection of the\n\"Lincoln Tower\" on his Church in London, as a tribute to Negro\nEmancipation, and a memorial to International amity. The love that\nexisted between my brother, Dr. Hall, and myself was like the love of\nDavid and Jonathan. The letters that passed between us would number up\ninto the hundreds, and his epistles had the sweet savor of \"Holy\nRutherford,\" When he was in America, my house was his home, when I was\nin London, I spent no small part of my time in his delightful \"Vine\nHouse,\" up on Hampstead Hill. The house remains in the possession of his\nwife, a lady of high culture, intellectual gifts and of most devout\npiety. One reason for the close intimacy between my British brother and\nmyself was that we were perfectly agreed on every social, civil and\nreligious question, and we never had a chance to sharpen our wits on the\nhone of controversy. Our theology was all from the same Book, and our\nmain purposes in life were similar. Many of my American readers heard\nDr. Hall preach during some one of his three visits to the United\nStates. What marrowy, soul-quickening sermons he poured forth in a\nclear, musical voice, and with a most earnest persuasiveness. Preaching\nwas as easy to him as breathing. Including the Sabbath, he delivered\nseven or eight sermons in a week. Undoubtedly he delivered more\ndiscourses than any ordained minister during the nineteenth century.\nPeers and peasants, scholars and dwellers in the slums alike enjoyed\nhis preaching of God's message to immortal souls. His favorite theme was\nthe sin-atoning work of Christ Jesus; and the numbers converted under\nhis faithful preaching were exceedingly great. One of his discourses in\nthis country on \"Jehovah Jireh,\" was especially helpful, and one on\n\"Touching the Hem of Christ's Garment,\" was a gem of spiritual beauty.\nHe generally maintained an even flow of evangelical thought, but\nsometimes he rose into a burst of thrilling eloquence, as he did in Mr.\nBeecher's church, when he made his noble appeal for Union between\nEngland and America. From his youth he was fond of street preaching. I\nhave seen him gather a crowd, and hold them attentively while he sowed a\nfew seeds of truth in their hearts.\n\nI wish I had the space to describe some of the foregatherings that I\nhave had with my twin brother in the Gospel. We visited Italy together,\npreached to \"the Saints that are in Rome,\" and went down into that room\nin the sub-basement of St. Clement's where Paul is believed to have held\nmeetings with them that were of Caesar's household. We roamed out on the\nAppian Road, over which the great Apostle entered the Eternal City. So\nconscientious was my brother Hall in his teetotalism that though tired\nand thirsty, he never would touch the weak, common wine of the country,\nlest his example might be plead in favor of the drinking usages. We\nonce went up to Olney and sat in Cowper's summer house, and entered John\nNewton's church, and the old sexton told Dr. Hall that he had been\nconverted by \"Come to Jesus.\" We went together to Stonehenge, and as we\npassed over Salisbury Plain we recalled Hannah Moore's famous shepherd\nwho said: \"The weather to-morrow will be what suits me, for what suits\nGod, suits me always.\" We spent a very delightful couple of days in\nrowing down the romantic river Wye, stopping for lunch at Wordsworth's\nTintern Abbey. In his home he was a hospitable Gaius, with open doors\nand hearts to friends from all lands. He had the merry sportiveness of a\nschoolboy, and when our long talks in his study were over, he would\nseize his hat and the chain of his pet dog, and cry out: \"Come, brother,\ncome, and let us have a tramp over the Heath.\" He was a prodigious\npedestrian, and at three score and ten he held his own over a Swiss\nglacier, with the members of the Alpine Club. He had hoped to equal his\nfamous predecessor, Rowland Hill, and preach till he was ninety; but\nwhen he was near his eighty-sixth birthday he was stricken with\nparalysis, and never left his bed again. Those last two weeks were spent\nin the \"Land of Beulah,\" and in full view of \"The Celestial City.\" When\nasked if he suffered pain, he replied: \"I have no pain, and nothing to\ndisturb the solemnity of dying.\" On the morning of February fourteenth\nhe passed peacefully over the river, and, as Bunyan said of old\nValiant-for-the-Truth, \"The trumpets sounded for him on the other side.\"\nNo monarch on his throne is so to be envied as he who now wears that\ncelestial crown.\n\nCan anything new be said about Charles H. Spurgeon? Perhaps not, and yet\nI should be guilty of injustice to myself and to my readers if I failed\nto pay my love tribute to the most extraordinary preacher of the pure\nGospel to all Christendom whom England produced in the last century.\n\nI heard him when he was a youth of twenty-two years, in his Park Street\nChapel; I heard him several times when he was at the zenith of his\nvigor; I spent many a happy hour with him in his charming home. On my\nlast visit there I had a \"good cry\" when I saw his empty chair in its\nold place in the study. I did not form any personal acquaintance with\nhim until the summer of 1872, and it soon ripened into a most warm and\ncordial friendship. On each of my visits to London since that time I\nhave enjoyed an afternoon with him at his home. His first residence was\nHelensburg House in Nightingale Road, Clapham, a Southwest District of\nLondon. That beautiful home was his only, luxury; but he spent none of\nhis ample income on any sort of social enjoyment, and what did not go\nfor household expenses went for the support of his many religious\nenterprises. On my first visit to him he greeted me in his free and\neasy, open-handed way. I noticed that he was growing stouter than ever.\n\"In me,\" he jocularly said, \"that is in my flesh, dwelleth no good\nthing,\" We spent a joyous hour in his well filled library; he showed me\nfifteen stately volumes of his printed sermons which have since been\nmore than doubled, besides several of his works translated into French,\nGerman, Swedish, Dutch and other languages. The most interesting object\nin the library was a small file of his sermon notes, each one on a half\nsheet of note paper, or on the back of an ordinary letter envelope. When\nI asked him if he \"wrote his sermons out,\" his answer was: \"I would\nrather be hung.\" His usual method was to select the text of his Sunday\nmorning sermon on Saturday about six or seven o'clock, and spend half an\nhour in arranging a skeleton and put it on paper; he left all the\nphraseology until he reached the pulpit. During Sunday afternoon he\nrepeated the same process in preparing his evening discourse. \"If I had\na month assigned me for preparing a sermon,\" said he to me, \"I would\nspend thirty days and twenty-three hours on something else and in the\nlast hour I would make the sermon, and if I could not do it then I\ncould not do it in a month.\"\n\nThis sounds like a risky process, but it must be remembered that if\nSpurgeon occupied but a few minutes in arranging a discourse he spent\nfive days of every week in thoroughly studying God's Word--in thorough\nthinking--and in the perusal of the richest old writers on theology and\nexperimental religion.\n\nHe was all the time, and everywhere filling up his cask, so that he had\nonly to turn the spigot and out flowed the pure Gospel in the most\ntransparent language. A stenographer took down the sermon, and it was\nrevised by Mr. Spurgeon on Monday morning. He told me that for many\nyears he went to his pulpit under such nervous agitation that it often\nbrought on violent attacks of vomiting and produced outbreaks of\nperspiration, and he slowly outgrew that remarkable sort of physical\nsuffering.\n\nTwenty years ago Mr. Spurgeon exchanged Helensburgh House for the still\nmore elegant mansion called \"Westwood\" on Beulah Hill, near Crystal\nPalace, Sydenham. It is a rural paradise. At each of the visits I paid\nhim there, he used to come out with his banged-up soft hat, which he\nwore indoors half of the time, and with a merry jest on his lips. On my\nlast visit, accompanied by my brother Hall, I found him suffering\nseverely from his neuralgic malady, but it did not affect his buoyant\nhumor. When I told him that my catarrhal deafness was worse than ever,\nhe replied: \"Well, brother, console yourself with the thought that in\nthese days there is very little worth hearing.\" He took my brother Hall,\nand myself out into his garden and conservatory and down to a rustic\narbor, where we sat down and told stories. There were twelve acres of\nland attached to \"Westwood,\" and he had us into the meadow, where we\nlaid down in the freshly mowed hay and inhaled its fragrance. Mrs.\nSpurgeon, a most gifted and charming lady, had a dozen cows and the\nprofits of her dairy then supported a missionary in London; and the milk\nwas sent around the neighborhood in a wagon labeled, \"Charles H.\nSpurgeon, Milk Dealer.\" After our return, the great preacher showed us a\nportfolio of caricatures of himself from _Punch_ and other publications.\nAt six o'clock we took supper and then came family worship--all the\nservants being present Mr. Spurgeon followed my prayer with the most\nwonderful prayer that perhaps I have ever heard from human lips, and I\nsaid afterwards to my friend Hall, \"To-night we got into 'the hidings of\nhis power,' for a man who can pray like that can outpreach the world.\"\nIn the soft hour of the gloaming we took our leave, and he went off to\nprepare his sermon for the morrow.\n\nSpurgeon's power lay in a combination of half a dozen great qualities.\nHe was the master of a vigorous Saxon English style, the style of\nCobbett and Bunyan and the old English Bible. He possessed a most\nmarvelous memory--it held the whole Bible in solution; it retained all\nthe valuable truth he had acquired during his immensely wide readings\nand it enabled him to recognize any person whom he ever met before.\nOnce, however, he met for the second time a Mr. Partridge and called him\n\"Partridge.\" Quick as a flash he said: \"Pardon me, sir, I did not intend\nto make _game_ of you,\" He was a man of one Book, and had the most\nimplicit faith in every jot and tittle of God's Word. He preached it\nwithout defalcation or discount, and this prodigious faith made his\npreaching immensely tonic. His sympathies with all mankind were\nunbounded, and the juices of his nature were enough to float an ark full\nof living creatures. Joined to these gifts was a marvelous voice of\ngreat sweetness, and a homely mother-wit that bubbled out in all his\ntalk and often in his sermons. Mightiest of all was his power of prayer,\nand his inner life was hid with Christ in God. As an organizer he had\ngreat executive abilities. His Orphanage, dozen missionary schools and\ntheological training school will be among his enduring monuments. The\nlast sermon I ever heard him deliver was in Dr. Newman Hall's church on\na week evening. He came hobbling into the study, his face the picture of\nsuffering. He said to me, \"Brother Cuyler, if I break down, won't you\ntake up the service and go on with it?\" I told him that he would forget\nhis pains the moment he got under way, and so it was, for he delivered a\nmost nutritious discourse to us. When the service was over, he limped\noff to his carriage, wrapped himself in the huge cushions, and drove\naway seven miles to his home at Upper Norwood. That was the last time I\never saw my beloved friend.\n\nIt seems strange that I shall never behold that homely, honest\ncountenance again; and since that time, London has hardly seemed to be\nLondon without him. It is a cause for congratulation that his son, the\nReverend Thomas Spurgeon, is so successfully carrying forward the great\nwork of his sainted father. If my readers would like a sample taste of\nthe pure Spurgeonic it is to be found in this passage which he delivered\nto his theological students: \"Some modern divines whittle away the\nGospel to the small end of nothing; they make our Divine Lord to be a\nsort of blessed nobody; they bring down salvation to mere possibility;\nthey make certainties into probabilities and treat verities as mere\nopinions. When you see a preacher making the Gospel smaller by degrees,\nand miserably less, till there is not enough of it left to make soup\nfor a sick grasshopper, _get you gone with him_! As for me, I believe in\nan infinite God, an infinite atonement, infinite love and mercy, an\neverlasting covenant, ordered in all things, and sure, and of which the\nsubstance and reality is an Infinite Christ.\"\n\nI once asked Dr. James McCosh, who was the greatest preacher he ever\nheard. He replied, \"Of course, it was my Edinboro Professor, Dr.\nChalmers, but the grandest display of eloquence I ever listened to was\nDr. Alexander Duff's famous Plea for Foreign Missions, delivered before\nthe Scottish General Assembly at a date previous to the disruption,\" I\ncan say _Amen_ to Dr. McCosh, for the most overpowering oratory that I\never heard was Duff's great missionary speech in the Broadway Tabernacle\nduring his visit to America. In the immense crowd were two hundred\nministers and the foremost laymen of the city. When the great missionary\narose (he was then in the prime of his power), his first appearance was\nnot impressive, for his countenance had no beauty and his gestures were\ngrotesquely awkward. With one arm he huddled his coat up to his\nshoulder, with the other he sawed the air incontinently, and when\nintensely excited, he leapt several inches from the floor as if about to\nprecipitate himself over the desk. All these eccentricities were\nforgotten when once the great heart began to open its treasures to us,\nand the subject of his resistless oratory began to enchain our souls. In\nhis vivid description of \"Magnificent India\" its dusky crowds and its\nancient temples, with its northern mountains towering to the skies; its\ndreary jungles haunted by the tiger; its crystalline salt fields\nflashing in the sun; and its Malabar hills redolent with the richest\nspices, were all spread out before us like a panorama.\n\nWhen the Doctor had completed the survey of India, he opened his\nbatteries on the sloth and selfishness of too many of Christ's professed\nfollowers; he poured contempt upon the men who said: \"They are not so\n_green_ as to waste their money on the farce of Foreign Missions.\" \"No,\nno, indeed,\" he continued, \"they are not _green_, for greenness implies\nverdure, and beauty, and there is not a single atom of verdure in their\nparched and withered up souls.\" Under the burning satire and mellowing\npathos of his tremendous appeal for heathendom, tears welled out from\nevery eye in the house. I leaned over toward the reporter's table; many\nof the reporters had flung down their pens--they might as well have\nattempted to report a thunder storm. As the orator drew near his close,\nhe seemed like one inspired; his face shone as if it were, the face of\nan angel. Never before did I so fully realize the overwhelming power of\na man who has become the embodiment of one great idea--who makes his\nlips the mere outlet for the mighty truth bursting from his heart. After\nnearly two hours of this inundation of eloquence, he concluded with the\nquotation of Cowper's magnificent verse,\n\n   \"One song employs all nations,\" etc\n\nWith the utmost vehemence he rung out the last line:\n\n   \"Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round.\"\n\nHe could not check his headway, and repeated the line a second time,\nlouder than before, and then with a tremendous voice that made the walls\nreverberate, he shouted once more:\n\n   \"_Earth rolls the rapturous Hosanna round!_\"\n\nand sunk back breathless and exhausted into his chair. \"Shut up now this\nTabernacle,\" exclaimed Dr. James W. Alexander. \"Let no man dare speak\nhere after that.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\nSOME FAMOUS AMERICAN PREACHERS.\n\n_The Alexanders.--Dr. Tyng.--Dr. Cox.--Dr. Adams.--Dr. Storrs.--Mr.\nBeecher.--Mr. Finney and Dr. B.M. Palmer_.\n\n\nThe necessary limitations of this chapter forbid any reference to many\ndistinguished American preachers whom I have seen or heard, but with\nwhom I had not sufficient personal acquaintance to furnish any material\nfor personal reminiscences. In common with multitudes of others on both\nsides of the ocean, I had a hearty admiration for the brilliant genius\nand masterful sermons of Phillips Brooks, but I only heard two of his\nrapid and resonant addresses on anniversary occasions, and my\nacquaintance with him was very slight. I heard only one discourse by\nthat remarkable combination of preacher, poet, patriot and philosopher,\nDr. Horace Bushnell, of Hartford,--his discourse on \"Barbarism the Chief\nDanger,\" delivered before the \"Home Missionary Society.\" His sermon on\n\"Unconscious Influence,\" was enough to confer immortality on any\nminister of Jesus Christ. I never was acquainted with him, but after his\ndeath, I suggested to the residents of New Preston, that they should\nname the mountain that rises immediately behind the home of his\nchildhood and youth, _Mount Bushnell_. The villagers assented to my\nproposal, and the State Legislature ratified their act by ordering that\nname to be placed on the maps of Connecticut. In this chapter, as in the\nprevious one, I shall give my recollections only of those who have ended\ntheir career of service, and entered into their reward.\n\nDuring the six years that I spent in Princeton College and in the\nSeminary (between 1838 and 1846) I came into close acquaintance with,\nand I heard very often, the two great orators of the Alexander family.\nDr. Archibald Alexander, the father of a famous group of sons, was a\nnative of Virginia--had listened to Patrick Henry in his youth; had\nmarried the daughter of the eloquent \"Blind Preacher,\" Rev. James\nWaddell, and even when as a young minister he had preached in Hanover,\nNew Hampshire. Daniel Webster, then a student in Dartmouth College,\npredicted his future eminence. The students in the Seminary were wont to\ncall him playfully, \"The Pope,\" for we had unbounded confidence in his\nsanctified common-sense. I always went to him for counsel. His insight\ninto the human heart was marvelous; and in the line of close\nexperimental preaching, he has not had his equal since the days of\nPresident Edwards. He put the impress of his powerful personality on a\nthousand ministers who graduated from Princeton Seminary.\n\nIn his lecture-desk and in the pulpit he was simplicity itself. His\nsermons were like the waters of Lake George, so pellucid that you could\nsee every bright pebble far down in the depths; a child could comprehend\nhim, yet a sage be instructed by him. His best discourses were\nextemporaneous, and he had very little gesture, except with his\nforefinger, which he used to place under his chin, and sometimes against\nhis nose in a very peculiar manner. With a clear piping voice and\ncolloquial style he held his audience in rapt attention, disdaining all\nthe tricks of sensational oratory. Twice I heard him deliver his\nsomewhat celebrated discourse on \"The Day of Judgment;\" it was a\nmasterpiece of solemn eloquence, in which sublimity and simplicity were\ncombined in a way that I have never seen equaled He used to say that the\nright course for an old man to keep his mind from senility was to\nproduce some piece of composition every day; and he continued to write\nhis practical articles for the religious press until he was almost\nfour-score. What an impressive funeral was his on that bright October\nafternoon, in 1851, when two hundred ministers gathered in that\nWestminster Abbey of Presbyterianism, the Princeton Cemetery! His ashes\nslumber beside those of Witherspoon, Davies, Hodge, McCosh and Jonathan\nEdwards.\n\nAmong the six sons who stood that day beside that grave, the most\nbrilliant by far was the third son, Joseph Addison Alexander. Dr.\nCharles Hodge said of him: \"Taking him all in all, he was the most\ngifted man with whom I have ever been personally acquainted,\" In\nchildhood, such was his precocity that he knew the Hebrew alphabet at\nsix years of age (I am afraid that some ministers do not know it at\nsixty); and he could read Latin fluently when he was only eight! Of his\nwonderful feats of memory I could give many illustrations; one was that\non the day that I was matriculated in the Seminary with fifty other\nstudents, Professor Alexander went over to Dr. Hodge's study, and\nrepeated to him every one of our names! When using manuscript in the\npulpit, he frequently turned the leaves backward instead of forward, for\nhe knew all the sermon by heart! His commentaries--quite too few--remain\nas monuments of his profound scholarship, and some of his articles in\nthe _Princeton Review_ sparkled with the keenest wit.\n\nOh, how his grandest sermons linger still in my memory after\nthree-score years--like the far-off music of an Alpine horn floating\nfrom the mountain tops! His physique was remarkable, he had the ruddy\ncheeks of a boy, and his square intellectual head we students used to\nsay \"looked like Napoleon's.\" His voice was peculiarly melodious,\nespecially in the pathetic passages; his imagination was vivid in fine\nimagery, and he had an unique habit of ending a long sentence in the\nwords of his text, which chained the text fast to our memories. The\nannouncement of his name always crowded the church in Princeton, and he\nwas flooded with invitations to preach in the most prominent churches of\nNew York, Philadelphia, and other cities. One of his most powerful and\npopular sermons was on the text, \"Remember Lot's Wife;\" and he received\nso many requests to repeat that sermon that he said to his brother James\nin a wearied tone, \"I am afraid that woman will be the death of me.\"\n\nThere may still be old Philadelphians who can recall the magnificent\nseries of discourses which Professor Alexander delivered during the\nwinter of 1847 in the pulpit of Dr. Henry A. Boardman, while Dr.\nBoardman was in Europe. The church was packed every Sabbath evening,\nclear to the outer door, and many were unable to find room even in the\naisles. Dr. Alexander was then in his splendid prime. His musical voice\noften swelled into a volume that rolled out through the doorway and\nreached the passerby on the sidewalk! During that winter he pronounced\nall his most famous sermons--on \"The Faithful Saying,\" on \"The City with\nFoundations,\" on \"Awake, Thou that Sleepest!\" and on \"The Broken and\nContrite Heart.\" It was after hearing this latter most original and\npathetic discourse that an eminent man exclaimed, \"No such preaching as\nthat has been heard in this land since the days of Dr. John M. Mason.\" I\nenjoy the perusal of the rich, unique, and spiritual sermons of my\nbeloved professor and friend; but no one who reads them can realize what\nit was to listen to Joseph Addison Alexander in his highest and holiest\ninspirations.\n\nWas Albert Barnes a great preacher? Yes; if it is a great thing for a\nman to hold a large audience of thoughtful and intelligent people in\nsolemn attention while he proclaims to them the weightiest and vitalest\nof truths--then was Mr. Barnes a great ambassador of the Lord Jesus\nChrist. He combined modesty and majesty to a remarkable degree. He had a\ncommanding figure, keen eye, handsome features, and a clear distinct\nvoice; but so diffident was he that he seldom looked about over his\ncongregation and rarely made a single gesture. His simple rule of\nhomiletics was, have something to say, and then say it. He stood up in\nhis pulpit and delivered his calm, clear, strong, spiritual utterances\nwith scarcely a trace of emotion, and the hushed assembly listened as if\nthey were listening to one of the oracles of God. His best sermons were\nlike a great red anthracite coal bed, with no flash, but kindled through\nand through with the fire of the Holy Spirit Bashful, too, as he was, he\ndenounced popular sins with an intrepidity displayed by but few\nministers in our land. In the temperance reform he was an early pioneer.\nFor Albert Barnes I felt an intense personal attachment; he was my ideal\nof a fearless, godly-minded herald of evangelical truth; and he had\nbegun his public ministry in Morristown, N.J., the home of my maternal\nancestry, and in the church in which my beloved mother had made her\nconfession of faith. When our Lafayette Avenue Church was\ndedicated--just forty years ago--I urged him to deliver the discourse;\nbut he hesitated to preach extemporaneously, and his sight was so\nimpaired that he could not use a manuscript. At the age of seventy-two\nhe was suddenly and sweetly translated to heaven. Over the whole\nEnglish-speaking world his name was familiar as a plain teacher of God's\nWord in very spiritual commentaries.\n\nA half century ago Dr. William B. Sprague, of Albany, was in the front\nrank of Presbyterian preachers. His fine presence, his richly melodious\nvoice, his graceful style and fresh, practical evangelical thought made\nhim so popular that he was in demand everywhere for special occasions\nand services. He was a marvel of industry. While preparing his\nvoluminous \"Annals of the American Pulpit,\" and conducting an enormous\ncorrespondence, he never omitted the preparation of new sermons for his\nown flock. With that flock he lived and labored for forty years, and\nwhen he resigned his charge (in 1869) he told me that when removing from\nAlbany, he buried his face and streaming eyes with his hands, for he\ncould not endure the farewell look at the city of his love. When I first\nheard him in my student days I thought him an almost faultless pulpit\norator, and when he and the young and ardent Edward N. Kirk stood side\nby side in Albany, no town in the land contained two nobler specimens of\nthe earnest, persuasive and eloquent Presbyterian preachers.\n\nWhen I came to New York as pastor of the Market Street Church, in 1853,\nthe most conspicuous minister in the city was the rector of St. George's\nEpiscopal Church on Stuyvesant Square. Every Sabbath the superb and\nspacious edifice was thronged. It was quite \"the thing\" for strangers\nwho came to New York to go and hear Dr. Tyng. Even on Sunday afternoons\nthe house was filled; for at that service he preached what he called\n\"sermons to the children\"--but they were not only sprightly, simple and\nvivacious enough to attract the young, they also contained an abundance\nof strong meat for persons of older growth. He was an enthusiast in\nSunday school work--had 2,500 scholars in his mission schools, and\npossessed an unsurpassed power in nailing the ears of the young to his\npulpit.\n\nDr. Tyng was the acknowledged leader of the \"Low Church\" wing of\nEpiscopacy in this country, both during his ministry in the Epiphany at\nPhiladelphia, and in St. George's at New York. He edited their weekly\npaper, and championed their cause on all occasions. He was their\ncandidate for the office of Bishop of Pennsylvania in 1845, and the\ncontest was protracted through a long series of ballotings. It was\nurged, and not without some reason, that his impetuous temper and strong\npartisanship might make him a rather domineering overseer of the\ndiocese. He possessed an indomitable will and pushed his way through\nlife with the irresistible rush of a Cunarder under a full head of\nsteam. His temper was naturally very violent. One Sabbath evening he was\naddressing my Sunday school in Market Street, and describing the various\nkinds of human nature by resemblances to various animals, the lion, the\nfox, the sloth, etc.: \"Children,\" he exclaimed, \"do you want to know\nwhat I am? I am by nature a royal Bengal tiger, and if it had not been\nfor the grace of God to tame me, I fear that nobody could ever have\nlived with me.\" There was about as much truth as there was wit in the\ncomparison. His congregation in St. George's knew his irrepressible\ntemperament so well that they generally let him have his own way. If he\nwanted money for a church object or a cause of charity, he did not beg\nfor it; he demanded it in the name of the Lord. \"When I see Dr. Tyng\ncoming up the steps of my bank,\" said a rich bank president to me, \"I\nalways begin to draw my cheque; I know he will get it, and it saves my\ntime.\"\n\nHis leading position among Low Churchmen was won not only by his\nintellectual force and moral courage, but by his uncompromising devotion\nto evangelical doctrine. He belonged to the same school with Baxter,\nJohn Newton, Bickersteth, Simeon and Bedell. In England his intimate\nfriends were the Earl of Shaftesbury, Dr. McNeill and others of the most\npronounced evangelical type. The good old doctrines of redemption by the\nblood of Christ, and of regeneration by the Holy Spirit were his\nconstant theme, and on these and kindred topics he was a delightful\npreacher.\n\nStrong as he was in the pulpit, Dr. Tyng was the prince of platform\norators. He had every quality necessary for the sway of a popular\naudience--fine elocution, marvelous fluency, piquancy, the courage of\nhis convictions and a magnetism that swept all before him. His voice was\nvery clear and penetrating, and he hurled forth his clean-cut sentences\nlike javelins. A more fluent speaker I never heard; not Spurgeon or\nHenry Ward Beecher could surpass him in readiness of utterance. On one\noccasion the Broadway Tabernacle was crowded with a great audience that\ngathered to hear some celebrity; and the expected hero did not arrive.\nThe impatient crowd called for \"Tyng, Tyng;\" and the rector of St.\nGeorge's came forward, and on the spur of the moment delivered such a\ncharming speech that the audience would not let him stop. For many years\nI spoke with him at meetings for city missions, total abstinence, Sunday\nschools and other benevolent enterprises. He used playfully to call me\n\"one of his boys.\" At a complimentary reception given to J.B. Gough in\nNiblo's Hall, Mr. Beecher and myself delivered our talks, and then\nretired to the opposite end of the hall. Dr. Tyng took the rostrum with\none of his swift magnetic speeches. I leaned over to Beecher and\nwhispered, \"That is splendid platforming, isn't it?\" Beecher replied:\n\"Yes, indeed it is. He is the one man that I am afraid of. When he\nspeaks first I do not care to follow him, and if I speak first, then\nwhen he gets up I wish I had not spoken at all.\" Some of Dr. Tyng's\nmost powerful addresses were in behalf of the temperance reform; he was\na most uncompromising foe of both of the dram shop and of the drinking\nusages in polite society. He also denounced the theatre and the\nball-room with the most Puritanic vehemence.\n\nDr. Stephen H. Tyng's chief power, like many other great preachers, was\nwhen he was on his feet. He should be heard and not read. Some of the\ndiscourses and addresses which enchained and thrilled his auditors\nseemed tame enough when reported for the press. In that respect he\nresembled Whitfield and Gough and many of our most effective stump\nspeakers. The result was that Dr. Tyng's fame, to a great degree,\nperished with him. He published several books, of a most excellent and\nevangelical character, but they lacked the thunder and the lightning\nwhich make his uttered words so powerful, and probably none of his many\nbooks are much read to-day. The influence of his splendid and heroic\npersonality was very great during a ministry of over fifty years, and\nthe glorious work which he wrought for his Master will endure to all\neternity.\n\nTo have heard Dr. William Adams of New York at his best was better than\nany lecture on \"Homiletics\"; to have met him at the fireside or in the\nsick room of one of his parishioners was a prelection in pastoral\ntheology.\n\nThe first time that I ever saw him was fully fifty years ago; he was\nstanding in the gallery of the old Broadway Tabernacle at an anniversary\nof the American Bible Society, and Dr. James W. Alexander pointed him\nout to me saying--\"Yonder stands Dr. William Adams, he is the _hardest\nstudent_ of us all.\" It was this honest incessant brain work that\nenabled him to sustain himself for forty years in one of the conspicuous\npulpits of the largest city in the land. He always drew out of a full\ncask. Let young ministers lay this fact to heart. It was not by trick or\nhappy luck, or by pyrotechnics of rhetoric that Dr. Adams won and kept\nhis position in the forefront of metropolitan preachers. The \"dead line\nof fifty\" was not to be found on his intellectual atlas. One of the last\ntalks with him that I now recall was on an early morning in Congress\nPark, Saratoga. He had a pocket Testament in his hand, and he said to\nme, \"I find myself reading more and more the old books of my youth; I am\nenjoying just now Virgil's Eclogues, but nothing is so dear to me as my\nGreek Testament.\"\n\nAll of Dr. Adams' finest efforts were thoroughly prepared and committed\nto memory. He never risked a failure by attempting to shake a sermon or\na speech \"out of his sleeve.\" His memory was one of his greatest gifts.\nSometimes when his soul was on fire, and his voice trembled with\nemotion, he rose into the region of lofty impassioned eloquence. His\nmaster effort on the platform was his address of welcome to the\nmembers of the \"Evangelical Alliance\" in 1873. How the foreign\ndelegates--Doctors Stoughton, Christlieb, Dorner and the rest of\nthem--did open their eyes that evening to the fact that a Yankee-born\nparson was, in elegant culture and polished oratory, a match for them\nall. Dr. Adams' speech \"struck twelve\" for the Alliance at the start;\nnothing during the whole subsequent sessions surpassed that opening\naddress, although Beecher and Dr. Joseph Parker were both among the\nspeakers. He closed the meeting of the Alliance in the Academy of Music\nwith a prayer of wonderful fervor, pathos and beauty.\n\nOne of his grandest speeches was delivered before the Free Church\nGeneral Assembly in Edinburgh--in May, 1871. Dr. Guthrie told me that he\nswept the assembly away by his stately bearing, sonorous voice and\nclassic oratory. The men whom he moved so mightily were such men as\nArnot and Guthrie and Rainy and Bonar,--the men who had listened to the\ngrandest efforts of Duff and of Chalmers. I well remember that when I\nhad to address the same assembly (as the American delegate) the next\nyear I was more disturbed by the apparition of my predecessor, Dr.\nAdams, than by all the brilliant audience before me.\n\nDr. Adams was gifted with what is of more practical value than genius,\nand that was marvelous _tact_. That was with him an instinct and an\ninspiration. It led him to always speak the right word, and do the right\nthing at the right time. Personal politeness helped him also; for he was\none of the most perfect gentlemen in America. That practical sagacity\nmade him the leader of the \"new school\" branch of our church, during the\ndelicate negotiations for reunion in 1867, and on to 1870. He knew human\nnature well, and never lost either his temper or his faith in the sure\nresult. To-day when that old lamentable rupture of our beloved church is\nas much a matter of past history as the rupture of the Union during the\ncivil war, let us gratefully remember George W. Musgrave, the pilot of\nthe \"old school\" and William Adams, the pilot of the \"new.\"\n\nThe last sermon that I ever heard Dr. Adams deliver was in my Lafayette\nAvenue Church pulpit a few years before his death. His text was the\nclosing passage of the fourth chapter of Second Corinthians. The whole\nsermon was delivered with great majesty and tenderness. One illustration\nin it was sublime. He was comparing the \"things which are seen and\ntemporal\" with the \"things which are not seen and eternal.\" He described\nMont Blanc enveloped in a morning cloud of mist. The vapor was the\n_seen_ thing which was soon to pass away;--behind it was the _unseen_\nmountain, glorious as the \"great white throne\" which should stand\nunmoved when fifty centuries of mist had flown away into nothingness.\nThis passage moved the audience prodigiously. Many sat gazing at the\ntall pale orator before them through their tears. The portrait of Dr.\nAdams hangs on my study wall--alongside of the portrait of Chalmers--and\nas I look at his majestic countenance now, I still seem to see him as on\nthat Sabbath morning he stood before us, with the light of eternity\nbeaming on his brow!\n\nIn the summer of 1845 I was strolling with my friend Littell (the\nfounder of the _Living Age_), through the leafy lanes of Brookline, and\nwe came to a tasteful church. \"That,\" said Mr. Littell, \"is the Harvard\nCongregational meeting house. They have lately called a brilliant young\nMr. Storrs, who was once a law student with Rufus Choate; he is a man of\nbright promise.\" Two years afterward I saw and heard that brilliant\nyoung minister in the pulpit of the newly organized Church of the\nPilgrims in Brooklyn. He had already found his place, and his throne. He\nmade that pulpit visible over the continent. That church will be \"Dr.\nStorrs' church\" for many a year to come.\n\nHad that superbly gifted law student of Choate gone to the bar he would\ninevitably have won a great distinction, and might have charmed the\nUnited States Senate by his splendid eloquence. Perhaps he learned from\nChoate some lessons in rhetoric and how to construct those long\nmelodious sentences that rolled like a \"Hallelujah chorus\" over his\ndelighted audiences. But young Storrs chose the better part, and no\ntemptation of fame or pelf allured him from the higher work of preaching\nJesus Christ to his fellow men. He was--like Chalmers and Bushnell and\nSpurgeon--a _born preacher_. Great as he was on the platform, or on\nvarious ceremonial occasions, he was never so thoroughly \"at home\" as in\nhis own pulpit; his great heart never so kindled as when unfolding the\nglorious gospel of redeeming love. The consecration of his splendid\npowers to the work of the ministry helped to ennoble the ministry in the\npopular eye, and led young men of brains to feel that they could covet\nno higher calling.\n\nOne of the remarkable things in the career of Dr. Storrs was that by far\nthe grandest portion of that career was after he had passed the age of\nfifty! Instead of that age being, as to many others, a \"dead line,\" it\nwas to him an intellectual _birth line_. He returned from Europe--after\na year of entire rest--and then, like \"a giant refreshed by sleep,\"\nbegan to produce his most masterly discourses and orations. His first\nstriking performance was that wonderful address at the twenty-fifth\nanniversary of Henry Ward Beecher's pastorate in Plymouth Church, at the\nclose of which Mr. Beecher gave him a grateful kiss before the\napplauding audience. Not long after that Dr. Storrs delivered those two\nwonderful lectures on the \"Muscovite and the Ottoman.\" The Academy of\nMusic was packed to listen to them; and for two hours the great orator\npoured out a flood of history and gorgeous description without a scrap\nof manuscript before him! He recalled names and dates without a moment's\nhesitation! Like Lord Macaulay, Dr. Storrs had a marvelous memory; and\nat the close of those two orations I said to myself, \"How Macaulay would\nhave enjoyed all this!\" His extraordinary memory was an immense source\nof power to Dr. Storrs; and, although he had a rare gift of fluency, yet\nI have no doubt that some of his fine efforts, which were supposed to be\nextemporaneous, were really prepared beforehand and lodged in his\ntenacious memory.\n\nDean Stanley, on the day before he returned to England, said to me: \"The\nman who has impressed me most is your Dr. Storrs.\" When I urged the\npastor of the \"Pilgrims\" to go over to the great International Council\nof Congregationalists in London and show the English people a specimen\nof American preaching, his characteristic reply was, \"Oh, I am tired of\nthese _show occasions_,\" But he never grew tired of preaching Jesus\nChrist and Him crucified. The Bible his old father loved was the book of\nbooks that he loved, and no blasts of revolutionary biblical criticism\never ruffled a feather on the strong wing with which he soared\nheavenward. A more orthodox minister has not maintained the faith once\ndelivered to the saints in our time than he for whom Brooklyn's flags\nwere all hung at half-mast on the day of his death.\n\nAll the world knew that Richard S. Storrs possessed wonderful brain\npower, culture and scholarship; but only those who were closest to him\nknew what a big loving heart he had. Some of the sweetest and tenderest\nprivate letters that I ever received came from his ready pen. I was\nlooking over some of them lately; they are still as fragrant as if\npreserved in lavender. His heart was a very pure fountain of noble\nthought, and of sweet, unselfish affection.\n\nHe died at the right time; his great work was complete; he did not\nlinger on to outlive himself. The beloved wife of his home on earth had\ngone on before; he felt lonesome without her, and grew homesick for\nheaven. His loving flock had crowned him with their grateful\nbenedictions; he waited only for the good-night kiss of the Master he\nserved, and he awoke from a transient slumber to behold the ineffable\nglory. On the previous day his illustrious Andover instructor, Professor\nEdwards A. Park, had departed; it was fitting that Andover's most\nillustrious graduate should follow him; now they are both in the\npresence of the infinite light, and they both behold the King in His\nbeauty!\n\nFifty years ago one of the most famous celebrities in the Presbyterian\nChurch was Dr. Samuel Hanson Cox, famous for his linguistic attainments,\nfor his wit and occasional eccentricities, and very famous for his\nbursts of eloquence on great occasions. He was at that time the pastor\nof the First Presbyterian Church of Brooklyn, and resided in the street\nwhere I am now writing (Oxford Street); and the street at the end of the\nblock was named \"Hanson Place\" in honor of him. His large wooden mansion\nwas then quite out of town, and was accordingly called \"Rus Urban,\" In\nthat house he wrote--for the _New York Observer_--the unique series of\narticles on New School Theology entitled \"The Hexagon,\" and there he\nentertained, with his elegant courtesy and endless flow of wit and\nlearning, many of the most eminent people who visited Brooklyn. The boys\nused to climb into his garden to steal fruit; and, as a menace, he\naffixed to his fence a large picture of a watch-dog, and underneath it a\ndental sign, \"Teeth inserted here!\" The old mansion was removed years\nago.\n\nIn 1846 he was the moderator of the \"new school\" Presbyterian General\nAssembly. It was during the sessions of that assembly that the famous\ndebate was waged for several days on the exciting question of negro\nslavery, and when some compromise resolutions were passed (for those\nwere the days of compromise salves and plasters)--Dr. Cox rose and\nexclaimed, \"Well, brethren, we have _capped Vesuvius_ for another year,\"\nBut \"Vesuvius\" would not stay capped, and in a few years one of its\nviolent eruptions sundered the \"new school\" church in twain.\n\nDr. Cox was a vehement opponent of slavery, and his church in Laight\nStreet was assailed by a mob, and he was roughly handled. In 1833 he was\nsent to England as the delegate to the British and Foreign Bible\nSociety, and at their anniversary meeting he delivered one of the most\nbrilliant speeches of his life. He came into the meeting a perfect\nstranger, while Dr. Hamilton, of Leeds, was uttering a fierce invective\nagainst American slavery. This aroused Dr. Cox's indignation, and when\nhe was called on to speak he commenced with exquisite urbanity as\nfollows: \"My Lord Bexley, ladies and gentlemen! I have just landed from\nAmerica. Thirty days ago I came down the bay of New York in the steam\ntug _Hercules_ and was put on board of the good packet ship\n_Samson_--thus going on from strength to strength--from mythology to\nScripture!\" This bold and novel introduction brought down the house with\na thunder of applause. After paying some graceful tributes to England\nand thus winning the hearts of his auditors, he suddenly turned towards\nDr. Hamilton, and with the most captivating grace, he said: \"I do not\nyield to my British brother in righteous abhorrence of the institution\nof negro slavery. I abhor it all the more because it was our disastrous\ninheritance from our English forefathers, and came down to us from the\ntime when we were colonies of Great Britain! And now if my brother\nHamilton will enact the part of _Shem_, I will take the place of\n_Japhet_, and we will walk backward and will cover with the mantle of\ncharity _the shame of our common ancestry_,\" This sudden burst of wit,\nargument and eloquence carried the audience by storm, and they were\nobliged to applaud the \"Yankee orator\" in spite of themselves. I count\nthis retort by Dr. Cox one of the finest in the annals of oratory.\nSeveral years afterwards he visited England as a delegate to the first\nEvangelical Alliance. It was attended by the foremost divines, scholars\nand religious leaders of both Britain and the continent; and a brief\nfive-minutes' speech made by Dr. Cox was unanimously pronounced to have\nbeen the most splendid display of eloquence heard during the whole\nconvocation.\n\nHe owed a great deal to his commanding figure, fine voice, and graceful\nelocution. His memory also was as marvelous as that of Dr. Storrs or\nProfessor Addison Alexander. One night, for the entertainment of his\nfellow-passengers in a stagecoach, he repeated two cantos of Scott's\npoem of \"Marmion\"! I have heard him quote, in a public address before\nthe New York University, a whole page of Cicero without the slip of a\nsingle word! His passion for polysyllables was very amusing, and he\nloved to astonish his hearers by his \"sesquipedalian\" phraseology. A\ncertain visionary crank once intruded into his study and bored him with\na long dissertation. Dr. Cox's patience was exhausted, and pointing to\nthe door, he said: \"My friend, do you observe that aperture in this\napartment? If you do, I wish that you would describe rectilineals, very\nspeedily.\"\n\nI could fill several pages with racy anecdotes of the keen wit and the\nvaried erudition of my venerable friend. But let none of my readers\nthink of Dr. Cox as a clerical jester, or a pedant. He was a powerful\nand intensely spiritual preacher of the living Gospel. In his New York\ncongregation were many of the best brains and fervent hearts to be found\nin that city, and some of the leading laymen revered him as their\nspiritual father. Sometimes he was betrayed into eccentricities, and his\nvivid imagination often carried him away into discursive flights; yet\nhe never soared out of sight of Calvary's cross, and never betrayed the\nprecious Gospel committed to his trust.\n\nThe first time that I ever saw Henry Ward Beecher was in 1848. He was\nthen mustering his new congregation in the building once occupied by Dr.\nSamuel H. Cox. It was a weekly lecture service that I attended, by\ninvitation of a lady who invited me to \"go and hear our new-come genius\nfrom the West.\" The room was full, and at the desk stood a brown-cheeked\nyoung man with smooth-shaved face, big lustrous eyes, and luxuriant\nbrown hair--with a broad shirt collar tied with a black ribbon. His text\nwas \"Grow in Grace,\" and he gave us a discourse that Matthew Henry could\nnot have surpassed in practical pith, or Spurgeon in evangelical fervor.\nI used to tell Mr. Beecher that even after making full allowance for the\nnovelty of a first hearing, I never heard him surpass that Wednesday\nevening lecture. He was plucking the first ripe grapes of his affluent\nvintage; his \"pomegranates were in full flower, and the spikenard sent\nforth its fragrance.\" The very language of that savory sermon lingers in\nmy memory yet.\n\nDuring my ministry in New York--from 1853 to 1860--I became intimate\nwith Mr. Beecher and spoke beside him on many a platform and heard him\nin some of his most splendid efforts. He was a fascinating companion,\nwith the rollicking freedom of a schoolboy. I never shall forget an\nimmense meeting--in behalf of a liquor prohibition movement--held in\nTriplet Hall. Mr. Beecher was at his best. In the midst of his speech,\nhe suddenly discharged a bombshell against negro slavery which dynamited\nthe audience and provoked a thunder of applause. For pure eloquence it\nwas the finest outburst I ever heard from his lips. Like Patrick Henry,\nClay, Guthrie, Spurgeon and other great masters of assemblies, he was\ngifted with a richly melodious voice--which was especially effective on\nthe low and tender keys. This gave him great power in the pathetic\nportions of his discourses. Of his superabounding humor I need not\nspeak. It bubbled out so naturally and spontaneously that he found it\ndifficult to restrain it even on the most grave occasions. Sometimes he\nsinned against good taste, and I once heard his sister Catherine say\nthat \"Henry rarely delivered a speech or a sermon which did not contain\nsomething that grated on her ear.\" His most frequent offenses were in\nthe direction of flippant handling of sacred themes and Scripture\nlanguage. This he inherited from his illustrious father.\n\nMr. Beecher is generally regarded as an extemporaneous preacher. This is\na mistake. He prepared most of his discourses carefully, and full\none-half of many of them were written out. Among these written passages\nhe interjected bursts of impromptu thoughts; and these were generally\nthe most effective passages in the sermon. While he repeated himself\noften--especially on his favorite topic of God's love--yet it was always\nin fresh language and with new illustrations. Abraham Lincoln said to\nme, \"The most marvelous thing about Mr. Beecher is his inexhaustible\nfertility.\"\n\nDuring the Civil War he was at the acme of his power. He was then the\npeerless orator of Christendom. It was his intention (as he once told\nme) to resign his pastorate at the age of sixty and to devote the\nremainder of his life to a ministry at large. But the tempest of\ntroubles which struck him about that time forbade his cherished design,\nand he continued at his post until the touch of death silenced the magic\ntongue. Nearly thirty years have elapsed since I sat by him on the\ncrowning evening of his career, at his \"silver anniversary,\" in 1873. As\nto his later utterances in theology, and on some questions of ethics, I\ndissented from my old friend conscientiously, and I expressed to him my\ndissent very candidly,--as becometh brethren. I am convinced that if\nthere were more fraternal frankness between the living, there would be\nless hypocrisy over the departed.\n\nCharles G. Finney was the acknowledged king of American evangelists\nuntil Dwight L. Moody came on the stage of action. They resembled each\nother in untiring industry, unflinching courage, unswerving devotion to\nthe marrow of the Gospel, and unreserved consecration to the service of\nChrist. The secret of Finney's power was the fearless manner with which\nhe drove God's word into the consciences of sinners--high or humble--and\nhis perpetual reliance on the immediate presence of the Holy Spirit in\nhis own soul. Emptied of self, he was filled with the Holy Spirit. His\nsermons were chain lightning, flashing conviction into the hearts of the\nstoutest sceptics, and the links of his logic were so compact that they\ndefied resistance. Probably no minister in America ever numbered among\nhis converts so many lawyers and men of intellectual culture.\n\nSoon after commencing his law practice he was brought under the most\nintense conviction of sin; and the narrative of his conversion--as given\nin his autobiography--equals any chapter in John Bunyan's \"Grace\nAbounding.\" After light and peace broke into his agonized soul, he burst\ninto tears of joy, and exclaimed: \"I am so happy that I cannot live,\" He\nbegan at once to converse with his neighbors about their souls. When a\ncertain Deacon B. came into his office and reminded him that his cause\nwas to be tried at ten o'clock that morning, Mr. Finney replied,\n\"Deacon B., I have a retainer from the Lord Jesus Christ to plead His\ncause, and cannot plead yours.\" The deacon was thunderstruck, and went\noff and settled his suit with his antagonist immediately.\n\nFrom that time a law office was no place for the fervid spirit of\nCharles G. Finney, and he resolved at once to prepare for the ministry.\n\nRevivals followed his red-hot discourses wherever he went. At Auburn he\ndeclares that he had--during prayer in his own room--a wonderful vision\nin which God drew so near to him that his flesh trembled on his bones,\nand he shook from head to foot as if amid the thunderings of Sinai! He\nfelt an assurance that God would sustain him against all his enemies;\nand then there came a \"great lifting up,\" and a sweet calm followed\nafter the agitation. Such extraordinary spiritual experiences occurred\nquite often during his career as a revivalist, and they remind one\nstrikingly of similar experiences of John Bunyan--to whom Finney bore a\ncertain degree of resemblance. At Rochester many of the leading lawyers\nwere attracted by his bold and logical style of speech; and among his\nconverts there was the distinguished jurist, Addison Gardner. It was\nduring his ministry in New York that he delivered his celebrated\n\"Lectures on Revivals,\" which were reprinted abroad and translated into\nseveral foreign languages. Of all Mr. Finney's published productions,\nthese lectures are the most characteristic. Often extravagant in their\nrhetoric, and sometimes rather reckless in theological statements, they\ncontain a mine of pungent truth which every young minister ought to\npossess and to peruse very often. I shall never cease to thank God for\nthe inspiration they have imparted to my own humble ministry; and they\nhave had a place in my library close beside the \"Pilgrim's Progress,\"\nand the biographies of Payson and McCheyne, and the soul-quickening\nsermons of Bushnell, Addison Alexander and Dr. McLaren.\n\nAfter his extended evangelistic labors in various cities, Mr. Finney was\nappointed to a theological chair in the newly organized college at\nOberlin, Ohio. From this post, his irrepressible desire to kindle\nrevivals and to save souls often called him away, and he conducted two\nfamous evangelistic campaigns in Great Britain. He was the first man to\nintroduce American revivalistic methods into England and Scotland; but\nhis labors were never as wide, as influential, and generally acceptable\nthere as the subsequent labors of Messrs. Moody and Sankey. Forty years\nof his busy and heaven-blessed life were spent at Oberlin, where he\nimpressed his powerful personality on a multitude of students of both\nsexes; few religious teachers in America have ever moulded so many\nlives, or had their opinions echoed from so many pulpits.\n\nWith all my admiration of President Finney's character, I could not--as\na loyal Princetonian--subscribe to some of his peculiar opinions. It\nwas, therefore, with great surprise that I received from him a letter in\n1873 (two years before his death) which contained the startling proposal\nthat I should be his successor in the college pulpit at Oberlin! He\nwrote to me: \"I think that there is no more important field of\nministerial labor in the world. I know that you have a great\ncongregation in Brooklyn, and are mightily prospered in your labors, but\nyour flock does not contain a _thousand students_ pursuing the higher\nbranches of education from year to year. Surely your field in Brooklyn\nis not more important than mine was at the Broadway Tabernacle in New\nYork, nor can your people be more attached to you than mine were to me.\"\nThis letter--although its kind overture was promptly declined--was a\ngratifying proof that the once bitter controversies between \"old school\"\nand \"new school\" had become quite obsolete. When I mentioned this letter\nto my beloved Princeton instructor, Dr. Charles Hodge, a few weeks\nbefore his death, he simply remarked that \"his Brother Finney had become\nvery sweet and mellow in his later years.\" And long before this time\nthe two great antagonistic theologians may have clasped hands in heaven.\n\nThe closing years of President Finney's useful life were indeed mellow\nand most lovable. In the days of his prime he had a commanding form, a\nstriking face and a clear, incisive style of speech. Simple as a child\nin his utterances, he sometimes startled his hearers by his unique\nprayers. For example, he was one day driven from his study at Oberlin by\na refractory stovepipe which persisted in tumbling down. At family\nworship in the evening he said \"Oh, Lord! thou knowest how the temper of\nThy servant has been tried to-day by that stovepipe!\" Several other\nexpressions, quite as quaint and as piquant, might be quoted, if the\nlimits of this brief sketch would permit. What would be deemed\nirreverent if spoken by some lips never sounded irreverent when uttered\nby such a natural, fearless and yet devout a spirit as Charles G.\nFinney. He retained his erect, manly form, his fresh enthusiasm and\nintellectual vigor, to the ripe old age of eighty-three. On a calm\nSabbath evening--in August, 1875--he walked in his garden and listened\nto the music from a neighboring church. Retiring to his chamber, the\nmessenger from his Master met him in the midnight hours, and before the\nmorning dawned his glorified spirit was before the throne! His is the\ncrown of one who turned many to righteousness.\n\nWhile I am writing this chapter of ministerial reminiscences, I receive\nthe sorrowful tidings that my dear old friend, Dr. Benjamin M. Palmer,\nof New Orleans--the prince of Southern preachers--has closed his\nillustrious career. To the last his splendid powers were unabated,--and\nlast year (although past eighty-three) he delivered one of his greatest\nsermons before the University of Georgia! His massive discourses, based\non God's word, were a solid pile of concinnate argument, illuminated\nwith the divine light, and glowing with the divine love shed abroad in\nhis heart. In the spring of 1887, Mrs. Cuyler and myself visited New\nOrleans, and I cared more to see Dr. Palmer than all the city besides.\nHe cordially welcomed me to the hospitalities of his house, and of that\npulpit which had so long been his throne. I do not wonder that the\npeople of New Orleans--of all classes and creeds--regarded him not only\nwith pride, but with an affection that greeted him at every step through\nthe city of which he was the foremost citizen.\n\nAs my readers may all know, Dr. Palmer, through the Civil War, was a\nmost ardent Secessionist, and as honestly so as I was a Unionist. He\nspent much time in preaching to the Confederate soldiers, and he\nnarrated to me an amusing incident which illustrated his calm and\nimperturbable temperament. On a certain fast-day (appointed by the\nConfederate authorities) he was to preach in a rural church within the\nConfederate lines. The Northern army was lying so close to them that a\nbattle was imminent at any moment. Dr. Palmer had begun his \"long\nprayer,\" when a Federal shell landed immediately under the windows of\nthe church and exploded with a terrific crash! The doctor was not to be\nshelled out of his duty, and he went steadily on to the end of his\nprayer. When he opened his eyes the house was deserted! His congregation\nhad slipped quietly out, and left him \"alone in his glory.\"\n\nSoon after my visit to New Orleans, my old friend was sorely bereaved by\nthe death of his wife. I wrote him a letter of condolence, and his reply\nwas, for sweetness and sublimity, worthy of Samuel Rutherford or Richard\nBaxter. As both husband and wife are now reunited I venture to publish a\nportion of this wonderful letter--both as a message of consolation to\nothers under a similar bereavement and as a tribute to the great loving\nheart of Benjamin M. Palmer.\n\nHe says: \"Truly my sorrow is a sorrow wholly by itself. What is to be\ndone with a love which belongs only to one, when that one is gone and\ncannot take it up? It cannot perish, for it has become a part of our own\nbeing. What shall we do with a lost love which wanders like a ghost\nthrough all the chambers of the soul only to feel how empty they are? I\nhave about me--blessed be God! a dear daughter and grandchildren; but I\ncannot divide this love among them, for it is incapable of distribution.\nWhat remains but to send it upward until it finds her to whom it belongs\nby right of concentration through more than forty years.\"\n\n\"I will not speak, my brother, of my pain--let that be; it is the\ndiscipline of love, having its fruit in what is to be. But I will tell\nyou how a gracious Father fills this cloud with Himself--and covering me\nin it, takes me into His pavilion. It is not what I would have chosen;\nbut in this dark cloud I know better what it is to be alone with Him;\nand how it is best sometimes to put out the earthly lights, that even\nthe sweetest earthly love may not come between Him and me. It is the old\nexperience of love breaking through the darkness as it did long ago\nthrough the terrors of Sinai and the more appalling gloom of Calvary. I\nhave this to thank Him for, the greatest of all His mercies, and then\nfor this, that He gave her to me so long. The memories of almost half a\ncentury encircle me as a rainbow. I can feed upon them through the\nremainder of a short, sad life, and after that can carry them up to\nHeaven with me and pour them into song forever. If the strings of the\nharp are being stretched to a greater tension, it is that the praise may\nhereafter rise to higher and sweeter notes before His throne--_as we bow\ntogether there._\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nSUMMERING AT SARATOGA AND MOHONK.\n\n_Bishop Haven.--Dr. Schaff.--President McCosh_.\n\n\nTo the laborious pastor of a large congregation some period of\nrecuperation during the summer is absolutely indispensable. The cavalry\nofficer who, when hotly pursued by the enemy, discovered that his\nsaddle-girths had become loose, and dismounted long enough to tighten\nthem, was a wise man, and affords a good example to us ministers.\n\nIt was my custom to call a halt, lock my study door (stowing away my\npastoral cares in a drawer) and go away for five or six weeks, and\nsometimes a little longer. A sea voyage was undertaken during half a\ndozen vacations, but during a portion of forty-two summers I \"pitched my\nmoving tent\" in salubrious Saratoga, and a part of twenty-one summers\nwas spent on the heights of Mohonk.\n\nAs this volume is issued in London as well as in New York, I will\nmention some things in this chapter for my British readers with which\nmany of my own fellow-countrymen may be already familiar. There were\nseveral reasons that induced me to select Saratoga early in my ministry\nas the best place to spend a part of the summer vacation. It is the most\nwidely known the world over of any of our American watering places and\nis an exceedingly beautiful town. Its spacious Broadway, lined with\nstately elms, is one of the most sightly avenues in our land; and some\nof the superb hotels that front upon it fulfill the American demand for\n\"bigness.\" The most attractive spot to me has always been the beautiful\npark that surrounds the famous Congress Spring, and to which every\nmorning I made my very early pilgrimage for my draught of its sparkling\nwater.\n\nThe park covers but a few acres, but it is a continuous loveliness. When\nits rich, soft greensward--worthy of Yorkshire or Devonshire--was\nsparkling with the dew, and the fountains were in full play, and the\ngoodly breeze was singing through the trees, it was a place in which to\nchant Dr. Arnold's favorite hymn:--\n\n   \"Come, my soul, thou must be waking;\n   Now is breaking\n   O'er the earth another day;\n   Come to Him who made this splendor,\n   See thou render\n   All thy feeble strength can pay.\"\n\nThe second reason for my choice of Saratoga was the variety of the\nwonderful medicinal waters, and their renovating effects. \"I can winter\nbetter,\" said Governor Buckingham, \"for even a short summer at\nSaratoga,\" and my experience was quite similar. I honestly believe that\nthose waters have prolonged my life. In addition to the many health\nfountains which have been veritable Bethesdas to multitudes, the dry,\nbracing atmosphere is perfumed and tempered by the breezes from the pine\nforests of the Adirondack Mountains. While some are attracted to\nSaratoga by the waters and others by the air, I found both of them\nequally beneficial. As far as its social life is concerned, there are,\nas in all summer resorts, two very different descriptions of guests. One\nclass are devotees of fashion, who go there to gratify the \"lust of the\neye, and the pride of life.\" They drive by day and dance by night; but\nsome devotees of pleasure have yielded too much to the ensnarements of\nthe gaming table and the race course. There is another and a more\nnumerous class made up of quiet business men and their families,\nclergymen, college professors and persons in impaired health, who go for\nrecreation or recuperation. From this latter class, and in some measure\nindeed from the former also, the churches of the town attract very large\ncongregations. It has been my privilege to deliver a little more than\ntwo hundred sermons in Saratoga, and there is no place in which I have\nfound that a faithful and practical presentation of the \"word of life\"\nis more eagerly welcomed. It is no place to exhibit a show sermon on\ndress parade, but it is the very one in which to press home the word on\nhearts and consciences, to arouse the impenitent, to give tonic truth to\nthe weak and the weary, to afford the word of comfort to the sorrowing\nand soul-food to the many who hunger for the heavenly manna. I have\nalready narrated some of my pleasant experiences in preaching at\nSaratoga, and I could add to them several other interesting incidents.\n\nFor about thirty summers, and occasionally in the winter, I found a\nhappy home at Dr. Strong's \"Remedial Institute\" on Circular Street. This\nis a family hotel during the summer, and a sanitarium during the\nremainder of the year. Every morning the guests assemble for worship,\nand the intolerable trio of fashion, frivolity and fiddles, has never\ninvaded the refined and congenial atmosphere of the house. My host, Dr.\nStrong, is an active member of the Methodist Church in that town, and\nnaturally a large number of ministers of that denomination are his\nsummer guests. This was very pleasant for me, for, although I am loyally\nattached to my own \"clan,\" yet I have a peculiarly warm side for the\necclesiastical followers of the Wesleys, and am some times introduced in\ntheir conferences as a \"Methodistical Presbyterian.\" At Dr. Strong's I\nmet many of the leading Methodist ministers, and was exceedingly\n\"filled with their company.\" I met, among others, the sweet-spirited\nBishop Jaynes, who always seemed to be a legitimate successor of the\nbeloved disciple John. If Bishop Jaynes recalled the apostle John, let\nme say that the venerated father of my kind host and the founder of the\nSanitarium, the late Dr. Sylvester S. Strong, was such an impersonation\nof charming courtesy and fervid spirituality that he might be a\ncounterpart of \"Luke the beloved physician.\" He was an admirable\npreacher before he entered the medical profession. Bishop Peck was a\nvery entertaining companion and most fraternal in his warmheartedness.\nHe was a man of colossal proportions, and it was quite proper that he\nwas appointed to the charge of the churches in the wide regions of\nCalifornia and Oregon. When he came thence to the General Conference, he\npresented his protuberant figure to the assembly, and began with the\nhumorous announcement, \"The Pacific slope salutes you!\" On that same\n\"slope\" I discovered last year that Methodism has outgrown even the\nformidable proportions of my old friend Dr. Peck.\n\nAt Saratoga I first met the eloquent Apollos of American Methodism,\nBishop Matthew Simpson. Those who ever heard Henry Clay in our Senate\nchamber, or Dr. Thomas Guthrie in Scotland, have a very distinct idea\nof what Simpson was at his flood-tide of irresistible oratory. He\nresembled both of those great orators in stature and melodious voice, in\ngraceful gesture, and in the magnificent enthusiasm that swept\neverything before him. Like all that type of fascinating speakers--to\nwhich even Gladstone belonged--he was rather to be heard than to be\nread. It is enough that a Gospel preacher should produce great immediate\nimpressions on his auditors; it is not necessary that he should produce\na finished and permanent piece of literature. Bishop Simpson was the\nbosom friend of Abraham Lincoln, and on more than one occasion he knelt\nbeside our much harassed President and prayed for the strength equal to\nthe day of trial.\n\nAmong all the guests there was none to whom I was more closely and\nlovingly drawn than to Bishop Gilbert Haven. None shed off such splendid\nscintillations in our evening colloquies on the piazzas. Haven was not\ncomparable with his associate, Bishop Simpson, in pulpit oratory, for he\nwas rarely an effective public speaker on any occasion, but in\nbrilliancy of thought, which made him in conversation like the charge of\nan electric battery, and in brilliancy of pen, that kindled everything\nit touched, he was without a rival in the Methodist Church--or almost in\nany other church in the land. Consistently and conscientiously a\nradical, he always took extreme ground on such questions as negro\nrights, female suffrage, and liquor prohibition, and he never retreated.\nUnderneath all this impulsive and impetuous radicalism he was thoroughly\nold-fashioned and orthodox in his theology--as far from Calvinism as any\nWesleyan usually is. He did delight in the doctrines of grace with his\nwhole heart, and it is all the more grateful to me, as a Presbyterian,\nto pay this honest tribute to his deeply devout and Christ-like\ncharacter. I knew him when he was a student in the Wesleyan University\nat Middletown--somewhat rustic in his ways, but a bold, bright youth\nhungry for knowledge. In 1862 he published a series of foreign letters\nin the _New York Independent_, which Horace Greeley told me he regarded\nas most remarkable productions. During the summer of that year I was\nwatching the sun rise from the summit of the Righi in Switzerland, and\nwas accosted by a sandy-haired man in an old oilcloth overcoat who asked\nfor some explanation about the mountain within our view. At the foot of\nthe Righi I fell in with him again, and was struck with his original and\nvigorous thought. The same evening he marched into my room at the\n\"Schweitzer-Hoff,\" dripping with the rain, and introduced himself as\n\"Gilbert Haven.\" We ministered to the few Americans whom we could find\nin Lucerne, and held a prayer meeting on the Sabbath evening in Haven's\nroom for our far-away country in her dark hour of distress. On that\nevening began a friendship which waxed warmer and warmer until death\nsundered the tie for a little while; the same hand that sundered can\nreunite us.\n\nI am under a strong temptation to give my reminiscences of many notable\npersons whom I was wont to meet at Saratoga, such as the urbane\nex-President Martin Van Buren, and that noble Christian statesman,\nVice-President Henry Wilson, and the cheery old poet John Pierpont, and\nthe erudite Horatio B. Hackett, of Newton Theological Seminary and the\nlevel-headed Miss Catherine E. Beecher, and the gifted Queen of the\ngreat temperance sisterhood, Miss Frances E. Willard, and General\nBatcheler, the able American Judge, at Cairo, and that extraordinary\ncombination of courage, orthodox faith, and brilliant platform eloquence\nthe late Joseph Cook, of Ticonderoga. I would like also to attempt a\ndescription of the gorgeous \"Floral Festivals,\" which are celebrated in\nevery September, when the streets of the town blaze with processions of\nvehicles decorated with flowers, and the sidewalks and house-fronts are\npacked with thousands of delighted spectators; but if \"of making many\nbooks there is no end,\" there ought to be a proper end in the making of\na book. In the course of my life I may have done some very foolish\nthings, and quite too many sinful things, but I have always endeavored\nto avoid doing too long a thing, if it were possible.\n\nDuring the last twenty-three years I have spent a portion of almost\nevery summer at Mohonk Lake Mountain House, a hostlery equally\ncelebrated for the culture of its guests and charms of its scenery. It\nis situated on a spur of the Shawangunk Mountains, about six miles from\nNew Paltz, on the Wallkill Valley Railway. Its discoverer and proprietor\nis Albert K. Smiley, who was for many years president of a Quaker Ladies\nAcademy in Providence, R.I., and is a gentleman of fine scholarship and\nvaried attainments. He is quite equal to discussing geology with\nProfessor Guyot (from whom one of the highest hilltops near his house is\nnamed), or art with Huntington, or botany or landscape gardening with\nFrederick L. Olmstead, or theology with Dr. Schaff, or questions of\nphilanthropy with General Armstrong or Booker T. Washington.\n\nThe distinctive character of the house is that there is a notable\nabsence of what is regarded as the chief attractions of some fashionable\nsummer resorts. Neither bar nor bottles nor ball-room nor bands are to\nbe found in this Christian home;--for a home it is--in its restful and\nrefining influences. The young people find no lack of innocent enjoyment\nin the bowling alley or on the golf links, in the tennis tournaments or\nin rowing upon the lake, with frequent regattas. Instead of the midnight\ndance the evening hours are made enjoyable by social conversation, by\nmusical entertainments, by parlor lectures and other interesting\npastimes. The Sabbath at Mohonk realizes old George Herbert's\ndescription of the\n\n   \"Sweet day so cool, so calm, so bright,\n   The bridal of the earth and sky;\"\n\nNot a boat is loosened from its wharf on the lake; not a carriage is\ngeared up for a pleasure drive, and many a guest has learned how a\nSabbath spent without the introduction of either business cares or\nfrivolities may be a joyous refreshment to both body and soul. The\nspacious parlor is always crowded for the service of worship on every\nmorning during the week and also on the Sabbath. I can testify that on\nthe three-score Sabbaths when I have been called upon to conduct the\nservices, I have never found a more inspiring auditory.\n\nIt is no easy thing to put the external beauties of Mohonk upon paper.\nThe estate covers four thousand acres, and is intersected with about\nfifty miles of fine carriage drives. The garden, which contains a dozen\nacres, is ablaze during the most of the season with millions of\nflowers--many of them of rare variety. As the glory of Saratoga is its\nsprings, of Lake George its islands, of Trenton Falls the amber hue of\nits waters, so the glory of Mohonk is its rocks. The little lake is a\ncrystal cup cut out of the solid conglomerated quartz. Its shores are\nsteep quartz rocks rising fifty feet perpendicularly from the water. The\nface of \"Sky Top\" is heaped around with enormous boulders some thirty\nfeet in diameter. In among them extend rocky labyrinths which can be\nexplored with torches. On every hand are immense masses of Shawangunk\ngrit hurled together over the cliff as if with the convulsions of an\nearthquake. Upon these acres of rock around the lake grow the most\nluxuriant lichens and the forests in June are efflorescent with laurels\nand azalias. The finest point of vantage is on Eagle Cliff; I have\nclimbed there often to see the sun go down in a blaze of glory\nbehind the Catskill Mountains. The three highest peaks of the\nCatskills--Hunter, Slide, and Peekamoose--were in full view, in purple\nand gold. Beneath me on one side was the verdant valley of Rondout; on\nthe other side the equally beautiful valley of the Wallkill. In the dim\ndistance we could discover the summits of the mountains in Pennsylvania,\nNew Jersey, Connecticut and Massachusetts.\n\nWhen I took Newman Hall, toward sunset, to a crag or cliff overlooking\nthe lake, he said to me: \"Next to Niagara I have seen nothing in America\nequal to this.\"\n\nMohonk has been a favorite summer resort of many of the most\ndistinguished people in our land. The Honorable Rutherford B. Hayes,\nafter his retirement from the presidential chair, loved to find\nrecreation in rowing his boat on the lake, and in making the ascent of\nSky Top. President Arthur came there during his term of office; and the\nwidow of General Grant, after spending a fortnight there, pronounced it\nthe most fascinating spot she had ever seen on this continent Among all\nthe guests who made their summer home there, none contributed more to\nthe intellectual enrichment of the company than my revered Christian\nfriend, Dr. Philip Schaff. No American of our day had such a vast\npersonal acquaintance with celebrated people. Dr. Schaff was the\nintimate friend of Tholuck, Neander, Godet, Hengstenberg, and Dorner; he\nwas one day in familiar conversation with Dean Stanley in the Abbey and\nanother day with Gladstone; another day with Dollinger in Vienna, and\nanother day with Dr. Pusey at Oxford. The promise, \"He shall stand\nbefore kings,\" was often fulfilled to him. The veteran Kaiser William\nhad him at the royal table, and gave him intimate interview. The King\nand Queen of Denmark came on the platform to congratulate him after one\nof his eloquent speeches, and the Queen of Greece was one of his\ncorrespondents. He shook hands with more ministers of all\ndenominations, and of all nationalities than any man of this age. He\nwas as cordially treated by Archbishop Canterbury as he was by Bismarck\nat Berlin or the old Russian Archpriest Brashenski. Dr. Schaff was a\nprodigy of industry. During half a century he was the foremost church\nhistorian of this country; he led the work of the Sabbath Committee, and\nwas the master spirit of the Evangelical Alliance. He edited a volume of\nhymnology, and wrote catechisms for children; he filled professors'\nchairs in two seminaries and lectured on ecclesiastical history to\nothers. He published thirty-one volumes and edited two immense\ncommentaries; he was the president of the Committee on Biblical\nRevision, and he crossed the ocean fourteen times as a fraternal\ninternuncio between the churches of Europe and America. His prodigious\ncapacity for work made Dr. Samuel Johnson seem an idler, and his varied\nattainments and activities were fairly a match for Gladstone.\n\nTo those of us who knew Dr. Schaff intimately, one of his most\nattractive traits was his jovial humor and inexhaustible fund of\nanecdotes. When I made a visit to California--journeying with him to the\nYosemite--his endless stories whiled away the tedium of the trip. How\noften when he sat down to my own, or any other table, would he tell how\nhis old friend, Neander, when asked to say grace at a dinner, and roast\npig was the chief dish, very quaintly said: \"O, Lord, if Thou canst\nbless under the new dispensation what Thou didst curse under the old\ndispensation, then graciously bless this leetle pig. Amen!\"\n\nAnother eminent scholar who was wont to seek recreation at Mohonk was\nthe venerable President McCosh, of Princeton University. Since Scotland\nsent to Princeton Dr. John Witherspoon to preside over it, and to be one\nof the signers of the Declaration of Independence, she has sent no\nricher gift than Dr. James McCosh. For several years before he came to\nAmerica he was a professor in the Queen's College at Belfast. Passing\nthrough Belfast in 1862, I looked in for a few moments at the Irish\nPresbyterian General Assembly, which was convened in Dr. Cook's church,\nand said to a man: \"Whom can you show me here?\" Pointing to a tall,\nsomewhat stooping figure, standing near the pulpit, he said: \"There is\nMcCosh.\" I replied: \"It is worth coming here to see the brightest man in\nIreland.\" What a great, all-round, fully equipped, many-sided mass of\nsplendid manhood he was! What a complete combination of philosopher,\ntheologian, preacher, scholar, and college president all rolled into\none! During the twenty years of his brilliant career at Princeton he\ndisplayed much of Jonathan Edwards' metaphysical acumen, of John\nWitherspoon's wisdom, Samuel Davies' fervor and Dr. \"Johnny\" McLean's\nkindness of heart; the best qualities of his predecessors were combined\nin him. He came here a Scotchman at the age of fifty-seven, and in a\nyear he became, as Paddy said, \"a native American.\"\n\nTo my mind the chief glory of Dr. McCosh's presidency at Princeton was\nthe fervid interest he felt in the religious welfare of his students. He\noften invited me to come over and deliver sermons to them, and\noccasionally a temperance address; for he was a zealous teetotaler and\nprohibitionist, and I always lodged with him at his house. As I turn\nover my book of correspondence I find many brief letters from him. In\nthe following one he refers to the remarkable revival in the college in\nthe winter and early spring of 1870:\n\n\n     COLLEGE OF NEW JERSEY, PRINCETON, Jan. 9, 1873.\n\n     _My dear Dr. Cuyler:_\n\n     In the name of the Philadelphian Society, and in my own name, I\n     request you to conduct our service on the day of prayer for\n     colleges, being Thursday the 30th of January. It is three years, if\n     I calculate rightly, since you performed that duty for us. That\n     visit was followed by the blessed work in which you took an active\n     part. May it be the same this year! The college is in an\n     interesting state: we have a great deal of the spirit of study;\n     there is a meeting for prayer every night except Friday; the class\n     prayer meetings are all well attended, in some of the classes as\n     many as sixty present; but we need a quickening. I do hope you will\n     come. Our habit is an address of half an hour or so at three PM in\n     the college chapel, and a sermon in one of the churches, especially\n     addressed to students, but open to all in the evening. Of course,\n     you will come to my house, and live with me. Yours as ever,\n\n     James McCosh.\n\n\nTo hundreds of the alumni of Princeton this letter will stir the\nfountain of old memories. They will hear in it the ring of the old\ncollege bell; they will see the lines of students marching across the\ncampus to evening prayer and into the chapel. Upon the platform mounts\nthe stooping form of grand old \"Uncle Jimmie,\" and in his broad and not\nunmelodious Scotch accents he pours out his big, warm heart in prayer.\nWith honest pride in their Alma Mater, they will thank God that they\nwere trained for the battle of life by James McCosh.\n\nThe limits of this narrative do not allow me to tell of all my\ndelightful \"foregatherings\" with that venerated Nestor of American art,\nDaniel Huntington; and with General James Grant Wilson with his\n_repertoire_ of racy Scotch stories; and with my true yoke-fellows in\nthe Gospel, Dr. Herrick Johnson, Dr. Marvin R. Vincent, and Dr. Samuel\nJ. Fisher--and with a group of infinitely witty women who regaled many\nan evening hour with their merry quips and conundrums. The unwritten law\nwhich prevails in that social realm is: \"Each for all, and all for each\nother.\"\n\nMr. Smiley had been for some years a member of the United States Indian\nCommission, and his experience in that capacity had awakened a deep\ninterest in the welfare of the remaining Aborigines, who had too often\nbeen the prey of unscrupulous white men who came in contact with them.\nAbout sixteen years ago he conceived the happy idea of calling a\nconference at Mohonk of those who were conversant with Indian affairs\nand most desirous to promote their well being. His invitation brought\ntogether such distinguished philanthropists as the veteran ex-Senator\nHenry L. Dawes, General Clinton B. Fisk, General Armstrong, the founder\nof Hampton Institute; Merrill E. Gates, Philip C. Garrett, Herbert Welsh,\nand that picturesque and powerful friend of the red man, the late Bishop\nWhipple of Minnesota. The discussions and decisions of this annual\nMohonk Conference have had immense influence in shaping the legislation\nand controlling the conduct of our national government in all Indian\naffairs. It has helped to make history.\n\nThe great success of this conference, which meets in October of each\nyear, led my Quaker friend, Smiley, eight years ago, to inaugurate an\n\"Arbitration conference\" for the promotion of international peace. It\nwas a happy thought and has yielded a rich fruitage. About the first of\nevery June this conference brings together such men and women of \"light\nand leading\" from all parts of our country as ex-Senator George F.\nEdmunds of Vermont, the Rev. Edward Everett Hale of Boston, the Hon.\nWilliam J. Coombs, the Hon. Robert Treat Paine, Dr. B.F. Trueblood, John\nB. Garrett and Joshua L. Bailey, Colonel George E. Waring, Hon. John W.\nFoster, Chief Justice Nott, Warner Van Norden, and a great number of\nwell known clergymen and editors have read able papers or delivered\ninstructive addresses on that ever burning problem of how to turn swords\ninto plowshares, and spears into pruning hooks.\n\nI especially sympathize with the spirit of this Arbitration conference,\nnot only because I abominate war _per se_, but because I firmly believe\nthat among the grievous perils that confront our nation is the mania for\nenormous and costly military and naval armament--and also the policy of\nextending our territory by foreign conquests. The high mission of our\nRepublic is to maintain the fundamental principles initiated in our\nDeclaration of Independence--that all true government rests on the\nconsent of the governed. It is an impious profanation of our flag of\nfreedom to make it the symbol of absolutism on any soil. In the conflict\nnow waging for true American principles, I heartily concur in the views\nof the late Benjamin Harrison, who was one of the most clear-sighted\nand patriotic of our Presidents. Just before his death I addressed to\nthat noble Christian statesman a letter of heartfelt thanks for the\nposition he was taking. With the following gratifying reply which I\nreceived, I conclude my chapter on peace-loving \"Smiley-land\":\n\n     INDIANAPOLIS, Dec 26, 1900\n\n     _My dear Dr. Cuyler_.\n\n     I can hardly tell you how grateful your letter was to me, or how\n     highly I value your approval. My soul has been in revolt against\n     the doctrine of Congressional Absolutism. I want to save my\n     veneration for the men who made us a nation, and organized the\n     nation under the Constitution. This will be impossible if I am to\n     believe that they organized a government to exercise from their\n     place that absolutism which they rejected for themselves. The\n     newspaper reports of my Ann Arbor address were most horribly\n     mangled, but the address will appear in the January number of the\n     _North American Review_. Allow me, my dear friend, to extend to you\n     the heartiest thanks, not only for your kind words, but for the\n     noble life which gives them value.\n\n     With all good wishes of the Christmastide,\n\n     Most sincerely your friend,\n\n     BENJAMIN HARRISON.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nA RETROSPECT.\n\n\nWhen I entered upon the Christian ministry fifty-six years ago, there\nwas no probability that I would live to see four-score. My father had\ndied at the early age of twenty-eight, and several of his brothers and\nsisters had succumbed to pulmonary maladies. My mother was dangerously\nill several times, but had a wiry constitution and lived to eighty-five.\nThat my own busy life has held out so long is owing, under a kind\nProvidence, to the careful observation of the primal laws of health. I\nhave eschewed all indigestible food, stimulants, and intoxicants;--have\ntaken a fair amount of exercise; have avoided too hard study or sermon\nmaking in the evenings--and thus secured sound and sufficient sleep. In\nkeeping God's commandments written upon the body I have found great\nreward. From the standpoint of four-score I propose in this chapter to\ntake a retrospect of some of the moral and religious movements that have\noccurred within my memory--in several of which I have taken part--and I\nshall note also the changes for better or worse that I have observed.\nIf as an optimist I may sometimes exaggerate the good, and minimize the\nevil things, it is the curse of a pessimist that he can travel from Dan\nto Beersheba and find nothing but barrenness.\n\nThe first change for the better that I shall speak of is the progress I\nhave seen in church fellowship. The division of the Christian church\ninto denominations is a fixed fact and likely to remain so for a long\ntime to come. Nor is it the serious evil that many imagine. The\nefficiency of an army is not impaired by division into corps, brigades\nand regiments, as long as they are united against the common enemy;\nneither does the Church of Christ lose its efficiency by being organized\non denominational lines, as long as it is loyal to its Divine head, and\nunited in its efforts to overcome evil, and establish the Kingdom of\nHeaven. Some Christians work all the better in harness that suits their\npeculiar tastes and preferences. Denominationalism becomes an evil the\nmoment it degenerates into bitter and bigoted sectarianism. Conflicts\nbetween a dozen regiments is suicide to an army. When a dozen\ndenominations strive to maintain their own feeble churches in a\ncommunity that requires only three or four churches, then sectarianism\nbecomes an unspeakable nuisance.\n\nI could cite many instances to prove the great progress that has been\nmade in church fellowship. For example, my early ministry was in a town\nin which the Society of Friends had a large meeting house, well filled\nby a most intelligent, orthodox and devout congregation. But its members\nnever entered any other house of worship. I had the warmest personal\nintimacy with some of its leading men, but they would say: \"We would\nlike to hear thee preach on First Day, but the rules of our society\nforbid it.\" I have lived to see the day when I am invited to speak in\nFriends' meetings, and I have rejoiced to invite Quaker brothers, and\nsisters also, to speak in my pulpit. When I visit London, the most\neminent living Quaker, J. Bevan Braithwaite, welcomes me to his\nhospitable house, and we join in prayer together. I wish that the\nexemplary and useful Society of Friends were more multiplied on both\nsides of the sea.\n\nDuring the early half of the last century sectarian controversies ran\nhigh, especially in the newly settled West. It was a common custom to\nhold public discussions in school houses and frontier meeting houses,\nwhere controverted topics between denominations were presented by chosen\nchampions before applauding audiences. Ministers fired hot shot at one\nanother's pulpits; churches were often as militant as mendicant, and all\nthose polemics were excused as contending most earnestly for the faith.\nBoth sides found their ammunition in the same Bible. When I was a\nstudent in the Princeton Seminary, a classmate from Kentucky gave me a\nlittle hymn-book used at the camp meetings in the frontier settlements\nof his native region. In that book was a hymn, one verse of which\ncontains these sweet and irenic lines:\n\n   \"When I was blind, and could not see,\n   The Calvinists deceiv\u251c\u0118d me.\"\n\nJust imagine the incense of devout praise ascending heavenward in such a\nthick smoke of sectarian contentions! All the denominations were more or\nless afflicted with this controversial malady; and I will venture to say\nthat in Kentucky and Ohio and other new regions, the Presbyterians were\noften a fair match for their Methodist neighbors in these theological\npugilistics. I might multiply illustrations of these unhappy clashings\nand controversies that have often disfigured even the most evangelical\nbranches of Christendom. What a blessed change for the better have I\nwitnessed in my old days! Among the foremost efforts of denominational\nfellowship was the organization of the American Bible Society, the\nAmerican Tract Society, and the American Sunday School Union. Later on\nin the same century came those two splendid spiritual inventions--The\nYoung Men's Christian Association, and the Society of Christian\nEndeavor. Sir George Williams, the founder of the one, and Dr. Francis\nE. Clark, the father of the other, should be commemorated in a pair of\ntwin statues of purest marble, standing with locked arms and upholding a\nstandard bearing the sacred motto: \"One is our Master, even Christ\nJesus, and all ye are brethren.\" To no man are we indebted more deeply\nthan to the now glorified Mr. Moody who made Christian fellowship the\nindispensable feature of all his evangelistic endeavors--with Brother\nSankey leading the grand chorus of united praise. Union meetings for the\nconversion of souls and seeking the descent of the Holy Spirit are now\nas common as the observance of Christmas or of Easter Day. Personally I\nrejoice to say that I have been permitted to preach the Gospel in the\npulpits of all the leading denominations, not excepting the\nEpiscopalian; and I once welcomed the noble and beloved Bishop Charles\nP. McIlvaine of Ohio to my Lafayette Avenue Church pulpit, where he\npronounced a grand discourse on \"The Unity of All Christians in the Lord\nJesus Christ.\" If I lived in England I should be heart and soul a\nnonconformist. But I can gratefully acknowledge the many kind courtesies\nwhich I have received from the clergy of the Established Church. Once,\nwhen in London, I was invited to the annual dinner given by the Lord\nMayor to the archbishops and bishops, and I found myself the only\nAmerican clergyman present. The Archbishop of Canterbury, when Bishop\nof London, did me the honor of presiding at a reception given me at\nExeter Hall, and whenever I have met the venerable Dr. Temple I have\nbeen cheered by his warm-hearted and \"democratic\" cordiality of manner.\nIn return for the kindness shown me by my brilliant and scholarly\nfriend, Archdeacon Farrar, I was happy to preside at a reception given\nhim in Chickering Hall. He had a wide welcome in our land, but it was as\nthe untiring champion of temperance reform that he was especially\nhonored on that evening. He and Archdeacon Basil Wilberforce are among\nthe leaders in the crusade against the curse of strong drink. Amid some\nevil portents and perils to the cause of evangelical religion,\none of the richest tokens for good is this steady increase of\ninterdenominational fellowship. For organic unity we need not yet\nstrive; it is enough that all the regiments and brigades in Christ's\ncovenant hosts march to the same music, fight together under the same\nstandard of Calvary's Cross, and press on, side by side, and shoulder to\nshoulder, to the final victory of righteousness and truth and human\nredemption.\n\nAnother change for the better has been the enlargement of woman's sphere\nof activity in the promotion of Christianity and of moral reform. As an\nillustration of this fact, I may cite a rather unique incident in my\nown experience. During the winter of 1872 I invited Miss Sarah F.\nSmiley, an eminent and most evangelical minister in the Society of\nFriends (and a sister of the Messrs. Albert and Daniel Smiley, the\nproprietors of the Lake Mohonk House) to deliver a religious address in\nmy pulpit. The discourse she delivered was strong in intellect, orthodox\nin doctrine and fervently spiritual in character; the large audience was\nboth delighted and edified. A neighboring minister presented a complaint\nbefore the Presbytery of Brooklyn, alleging that my proceeding had been\nboth un-Presbyterian and un-Scriptural. The complainant was not able to\nproduce a syllable of law from our form of government forbidding what I\nhad done. Long years before, a General Assembly had recommended that\n\"women should not be permitted to address a promiscuous assemblage\" in\nany of our churches; but a mere \"deliverance\" of a General Assembly has\nno binding legal authority.\n\nIn my defense I was careful not to advocate the ordination of women to\nthe ministry in the Presbyterian Church, or their installation in the\npastorate. I contended that as our confession of faith was silent on the\nsubject, and that as godly women in the early church were active in the\npromotion of Christianity (one of them named Anna having publicly\nproclaimed the coming Messiah), and that as the ministry of my\nexcellent friend, the Quakeress, had for many years been attended by the\nabundant blessings of the Holy Spirit, my act was rather to be commended\nthan condemned. The discussion before the Presbytery lasted for two days\nand produced a wide and rather sensational interest over the country.\nThe final vote of the Presbytery, while withholding any censure of my\ncourse under the circumstances, was adverse to the practice of\npermitting women to address \"promiscuous audiences\" in our churches. Two\nor three years afterwards, a case similar to mine was appealed to the\nGeneral Assembly and that body wisely decided that such questions should\nbe left to the judgment and conscience of the pastors and church\nsessions. When the news of this action of the assembly reached us, the\nold sexton of the Lafayette Avenue Church hoisted (to the great\namusement of our people) the stars and stripes on the church tower as a\ntoken of victory. It has now become quite customary to invite female\nmissionaries, and other godly women, to address audiences composed of\nboth sexes in our churches; the padlock has been taken off the tongue of\nany consecrated Christian woman who has a message from the Master. I\ninvited Miss Willard and Lady Henry Somerset to advocate the Christian\ngrace of temperance from my pulpit; and if I were still a pastor I\nshould rejoice to invite that good angel of beneficence, Miss Helen M.\nGould, to deliver there such an address as she lately made in the\nsplendid building she has erected for the \"Naval Christian Association.\"\n\nForeign missions were in their early and vigorous growth eighty years\nago. I rode in our family carriage to church with Sheldon Dibble and\nReuben Tinker, who were just leaving Auburn Theological Seminary to go\nout as our pioneer missionaries to the Sandwich Islands. The _Missionary\nHerald_ was taken in a great number of families and read with great\navidity. Many of the readers were people who not only devoutly prayed\n\"Thy Kingdom come,\" but who were willing to stick to a rag carpet, and\ndeny themselves a \"Brussels,\" in order to contribute more to the spread\nof that Kingdom. Wealth has increased to a prodigious and perilous\nextent; but the percentage of money given to foreign missions is very\nfar from what it was in the day of my childhood. It is a growing custom\nfor ministers to utter a prayer over the contribution boxes when they\nare brought back to the platform before the pulpit; I suspect that it in\ntoo many cases should be one of penitential confession.\n\nWhile I was a student in the Princeton Seminary we had a visit from the\nveteran missionary, Levi Spalding, who sailed from Boston to Southern\nIndia in the very first band which invaded the darkness of Hindooism He\nwas as nearly like my conception of the Apostle Paul as anyone I ever\nbeheld. He told us that when he was a youth and his heart was first\ndrawn to the cause of missions, he told his good mother that he had\ndecided upon a missionary life (which was then thought equivalent to a\nmartyrdom), and she was perfectly overcome. He said to her: \"Mother,\nwhen you gave me as an infant to God in baptism, did you withhold me\nfrom any service to which I might be called?\" She assented in a\nmoment--went to the old chest--from it she took a half-dollar (all the\nmoney she possessed in the world), and, handing it to him, said: \"Levi,\nyou may go, and this starts you on your education.\" On his way over to\nIndia his preaching converted all the sailors, including the ship's\ncarpenter, \"whose heart was as hard as his broadaxe.\" That was the stuff\nour first missionaries were made of. The tears flowed down our cheeks as\nwe listened to Spalding's recital, and the result of his visit was that\nmore than one of our students volunteered for the work of foreign\nmissions.\n\nIt was also my great privilege during that Princeton course to put eye\nupon a man who, by common consent, is regarded as the king of American\nmissionaries. On my way from Princeton to Philadelphia in the Christmas\nweek of '45 I found among my fellow passengers a gentleman with a very\nbenign countenance, and to my great delight I learned that he was\nAdoniram Judson, who was on his final and memorable visit to his native\nland, and was received everywhere with the most unbounded and reverent\nenthusiasm. He had begun his work in Burmah in 1813, but under great\ndifficulties. During the first six years he made no converts; he defied\nthe demon of discouragement and labored on with increased faith and\nzeal, and then came an abundant harvest. The colossal work of his life\nin Burmah was the translation of the Holy Scriptures into the Burmese\nlanguage. To this work, which is likely to endure, he added a\nBurmese-English dictionary. At length the toils and exposures broke down\nhis health and he was obliged to take several voyages in adjoining\nwaters. Soon after I saw him he married Miss Chubbuck and returned to\nBurmah in the following year. The old conflict between the holy and\nheroic heart and failing body was soon renewed. He resorted once more to\nthe sea for relief, but died during the passage, on April 12, 1850. When\ncrossing the Atlantic in the summer of 1885 I spent much of the time\nwith that noble minister, Rev. Edward Judson, of New York. A funeral at\nsea occurred, and as the remains were disappearing in the water Mr.\nJudson said to me, with solemn tenderness: \"Just so my beloved father\nwas committed to the deep: his sepulchre is this great, wide ocean,\"\nThat ocean is a type of his world-wide influence. Not only in the\npriority of time as a fearless pioneer into unknown dangers, but in\nprofound and patient scholarship, and in the beauty of a holy and\nlovable personality, Adoniram Judson still hold the primacy among our\nAmerican missionary heroes.\n\nThe progress which has been made in Christianizing heathendom during the\nlast century (which may well be called the century of foreign missions)\nis familiar to every person of intelligence. The number of converts to\nChristianity is at least two millions, and several millions more have\nfelt the influence of Christian civilization. The great mass have not\nbeen suddenly revolutionized, as in Luther's time, but one by one\nindividual hearts yield to the gospel in nearly every land. As a serious\noffset to these glorious results the commerce of nominally Christian\nnations is often poisonous. Britain carries opium into China and India;\nAmerica and other civilized nations carry rum into Africa. The word of\nlife goes in the cabin, and the worm of death goes in the hold of the\nsame vessel! The sailors that have gone from nominally Christian\ncountries to various ports have often been very far from acting as\ngospel missionaries. It is not only for their own welfare, but that they\nmay become representatives of Christianity that the noble \"American\nSeamen's Friend Society\" has been organized. The work which that society\nhas wrought under the vigorous leadership of Dr. Stitt entitles it to\nthe generous support of all our churches. If toiling \"Jack\" braves the\ntempest to bring us wealth from all climes, we owe it to him to provide\nhim the anchor of the gospel, and to save him from spiritual shipwreck.\n\nTo no other benevolent society have I more cheerfully given service of\ntongue and pen than to this one. An honest view of the foreign mission\nenterprises to-day reveals the laying of broad foundations, and the\nbuilding of solid walls, rather than any completed achievements already\nwrought. Blood tells, and God has entrusted his gospel to the\nAnglo-Saxons and the other most powerful races on the globe. The\nreligion of the Bible is the only religion adapted to universal\nhumanity, and in the Bible is a definite pledge that to all humanity\nthat religion shall yet be preached.\n\nAmong the great spiritual agencies born within my memory, none deserves\na higher place than The Young Men's Christian Association. When my\nbeloved brother, Sir George Williams (now an octogenarian) started the\nfirst association in London on the 6th of June, 1844, he \"builded better\nthan he knew,\" The modest room in his store overlooking Paternoster Row\nin which he gathered the little praying band on that day is already an\nhistoric spot. My own connection with the Young Men's Christian\nAssociation began in New York when I joined the association there in the\nsecond year of its existence, 1854. We met in a room in Stuyvesant\nInstitute and the heroic Howard Crosby was our president. We had no\nlibrary, or reading room, or gymnasium, or any of the appliances that\nbelong to the institutions of these days. After several migrations, our\nassociation found its permanent home in the spacious building on\nTwenty-third Street, to which Morris K. Jesup and William E. Dodge were\namong the foremost contributors. The master spirit in the operations of\nthe New York Association for thirty years was Mr. Robert McBurney, who,\nwhen he landed from Ireland, was only seventeen years of age. He was\namong my evening congregation in the old Market Street Church. During my\nseven years' pastorate in that church I delivered a great many\ndiscourses and platform addresses on behalf of the association, and\nthrough all of the subsequent years it has been a favorite object on\nwhich to bestow my humble efforts. Here in Brooklyn a host of young-men\nhave found a moral shelter, and many of them a spiritual birthplace, in\nthe fine structure, reared largely from the munificent bequests of that\nprincely Christian philanthropist, the late Mr. Frederick Marquand. It\nis not permitted to every good man or woman before they die to see the\nglorious fruits of the trees they planted, but to the eyes of the\nveteran George Williams the following facts must seem like a rehearsal\nof heaven. The Young Men's Christian Association now belts the globe\nwith half a million of members, and ten times that number in some direct\nconnection with the organization. It is housed in hundreds of solid\nstructures which have cost between thirty and forty million\ndollars--each one a cheerful home--_a_ place for physical development,\nmanly instruction and training for Christ's service.\n\nIt has brought thousands of young men from impenitence to Christ Jesus,\nand made thousands of young Christians more like Jesus in their daily\nlife. The most effective lay preacher of the century, D.L. Moody,\nconfessed that in his training for spiritual work he owed more to the\nYoung Men's Christian Association than to any other human agency. It has\nmoulded the students of colleges and universities; it has been the\nsalvation of many a soldier and sailor; it has led many into the gospel\nministry; it has taught the whole world the beauty and power of a living\nunity in Jesus Christ. The Holy Spirit has set the Divine seal of His\nblessing on its world-wide work, and to the triune God be all the praise\nand all the glory.\n\nAs I witnessed the birth of the Young Men's Christian Association, I\nalso saw the birth of a kindred organization, the \"Society of Christian\nEndeavor.\" Many years ago an absurd and extravagant statement was widely\nafloat, claiming that I was the \"grandsire\" of this society. The simple\ntruth was that Dr. Francis E. Clark, its heaven-directed founder, had\nseen in some religious journals my account of the good work wrought by\nthe Young People's Association of the Lafayette Avenue Church, and he\nrecognized the fact that its chief purpose was not mere sociality or\nliterary advancement, but the spiritual profit of its members. He\nexamined its constitution and reports, and when he constructed his first\nChristian Endeavor Society in the Williston Church of Portland, Maine,\nhe adopted many of its features; and my beloved brother Clark, in his\npublic addresses, has generously acknowledged such obligation as he was\nunder to our Young People's Association (now in its thirty-fifth year of\nprosperous activity). It has always been a source of grateful pride that\nit should have furnished any aid to the origination of one of the\nforemost spiritual instrumentalities of the century. As any attempt to\ndescribe the sublime grandeur of Niagara would be a waste of time, so it\nwould be equally futile for me to describe the magnificent extent of the\nChristian Endeavor Society's operations and the immense spiritual\nresults that have flowed from them. There is no civilized speech or\nlanguage where its voice is not heard; its line has gone out to all the\nearth, and its words to the ends of the world. It has done more than any\nother single agency to develop the life and to train for service the\nenergies of the youthful members of the churches It has yet still wider\npossibilities before it, and when the hand that planted this mighty tree\nhas turned to dust its boughs will be shedding down the fruits of the\nSpirit on the dwellers in every clime.\n\nOne of the most striking improvements that I have witnessed has been in\nthe sanitary condition, both physical and moral, of our great cities.\nThe conditions in New York, when I came to the pastorate of the Market\nStreet Church almost fifty years ago, would seem incredible to the New\nYorkers of to-day. The disgusting depravities of the Fourth Ward,\nafterwards made familiar by the reformatory efforts of Jerry McCauley,\nwere then in full blast, defying all police authority and outraging\ncommon decency. The most hideous sink of iniquity and loathsome\ndegradation was in the once famous \"Five Points,\" in the heart of the\nSixth Ward and within a pistol shot of Broadway. At the time of my\ncoming to New York public attention had been drawn to that quarter with\nthe opening of the \"Old Brewery Mission,\" and by the first planting of\na kindred enterprise which grew into the now well-known \"Five Points\nHouse of Industry.\" The brave projector of this enterprise was the Rev.\nL.M. Pease, a hero whose name ought not to be forgotten. As my church\nwas just off East Broadway, and within a short walk of the Five Points,\nI took a deep interest in Mr. Pease's Christian undertaking, and aided\nhim by every means in my power. His wife became a member of my church.\nThe \"Wild Maggie,\" whose escapades described in the _Tribune_ gained\nsuch public notoriety, became also, after her reformation, one of our\nchurch members and afterwards held the position of a school teacher.\nAfter the resignation of Mr. Pease and his removal to North Carolina,\nhis place was taken by one of our Market Street elders, the devout and\ngodly minded Benjamin R. Barlow. In order to keep awake public interest\nin the mission work at the Five Points, and to get ammunition, in its\nbehalf, I used to make nocturnal explorations of some of those satanic\nquarters. I recall now one of those midnight forays of which, at the\nrisk of my reader's olfactories, I will give a brief glimpse. In company\nwith the superintendent of the mission and a policeman and a lad with a\nlantern I struck for the \"Cow Bay,\" the classic spot of which Charles\nDickens had given such a piquant description in his \"American Notes\" a\nfew years before. Climbing a stairway, from which the banisters had\nlong been broken away for firewood, we entered a dark room. There was\nonly a tallow candle burning in the corner, and in the room were huddled\ntwenty-five human beings. Along the walls were ranged the bunks--one\nabove the other--covered with rotting quilts and unwashed coverings.\nEach of these rented for sixpence a night to any thief or beggar who\nchose to apply for lodging--no distinction being made for sex or color.\nAs the lad swings the lantern about we spy the rows of heads projecting\nfrom under the stacks of rags. In one bed a gray-haired, disheveled head\ncuddled close to the yellow locks of a slumbering child. While we are\nreconnoitering, something like a huge dog runs past and dives under the\nbed. \"What is this, good friend?\" we ask. \"Oh, only the goat,\" replied a\nmerry Milesian. \"Do the goats live with you all in this room?\" \"To be\nsure they do, sir; we feeds 'em tater skins, and milks 'em for the\nbabies,\" Country born as we were, we have often longed to keep a dairy\nin this city, but it never occurred to us that a bedroom was sufficient\nfor the purpose. Truly, necessity is the shrewd-witted mother of\ninvention! Opposite \"Cow Bay\" was \"Cut-Throat Alley.\" Two murders a year\nwere about the average product of the civilization of this dark defile.\nThe keeper of the famous grog shop there, who died about that time, left\na fortune of nearly one hundred thousand dollars. In city politics the\nkeeper of such a den is one of the leaders of public opinion. We climbed\na stairway, dark and dangerous, till at length we reached the wretched\ngarret through whose open chinks the snow drifted in upon the floor.\nBeside the single broken stove, the only article of furniture in the\napartments, sat a wretched woman wrapped in a tattered shawl moaning\nover a terrible burn that covered her arms; she had fallen when\nintoxicated upon the stove and no one had cared enough to carry her to\nthe hospital. She exclaimed, \"For God's sake, gentlemen, can't you give\nme a glass of gin?\" A half eaten crust lay by her and a cold potato or\ntwo, but the irresistible thirst clamored for relief before either pain\nor hunger. \"Good woman,\" said my friend, \"where's Mose?\" \"Here he is.\" A\nheap of rags beside her was uncovered, and there lay the sleeping face\nof an old negro, apparently of fifty. In nearly every garret we entered\npractical amalgamation was in fashion. The superintendent told me that\nthe negroes were fifty per cent. in advance of the Irish as to sobriety\nand decency. Descending from the garret we entered a crowded cellar. The\nboy's lantern shone on the police officer's cap and buttons. A crash was\nheard, and the window at the opposite end of the cellar was shattered\nand a mass of riddled glass fell on the floor. \"Poor fool!\" exclaimed\nthe policeman, \"he thinks we are after him, but I will have him before\nmorning.\" From these sickening scenes of squalor, misery and crime what\na relief it was for us to return to the House of Industry, with its neat\nschool room and its capacious chapel and its row of little children\nmarching up to their little beds. It was like going into the light-house\nafter the storm.\n\nI have drawn this pen picture of but a part of the shocking revelations\nof that night, not only that my readers may know what kind of work I\noften engaged in during my New York pastorate, but that they may also\nknow what kind of city I labored in. New York is not to-day in sight of\nthe millennium; it still has a fearful amount of vice and heathenism;\nand the self-denying men who are conducting the \"University Settlement,\"\nand the Christ-serving \"King's Daughters,\" who are giving their lives to\nthe salvation of the poor in the Seventh Ward are doing as apostolic a\nwork as any missionary on the Congo. Nevertheless it is true that a \"Cow\nBay,\" or an \"Old Brewery,\" or a \"Cut-Throat Alley\" is no more possible\nto-day in New York than the building of a powder factory in the middle\nof Central Park. The progress in sanitary purification has been most\nremarkable.\n\nThis narrative of the sanitary and moral reform wrought in the Five\nPoints reminds me of another good man whom the people of this city and\nour whole country cannot revere too highly as a public benefactor. I\nallude to Mr. Anthony Comstock, the indefatigable Secretary of the\n\"Society for the Prevention of Vice.\" I knew him well when he was a\nclerk in a dry goods store on Broadway, and when he undertook his first\npurifying efforts, I little supposed that he was to achieve such\nreforms. It was an Augean stable indeed that he set about cleansing.\nFifty years ago our city was flooded by obscene literature which sought\nno concealment. The vilest books and pictures were openly sold in the\nstreets, and an enormous traffic was waged in what may be called the\nliterature of hell. Such a courageous crusade against those abominations\nand against the gambling dens, by Mr. Comstock--even at the risk of\npersonal violence and in defiance of the most malignant\nopposition--entitles him to a place among our veritable heroes. At a\ntime when deeds of military prowess receive such adulation, and when the\n\"man on horseback\" outstrips the man on foot in the race for popular\nfavor, it is well to teach our young men that he who takes up arms\nagainst the principalities and powers of darkness, and makes his own\nlife the savior of other lives, wins a knightly crown of heavenly honor\nthat outshines the stars, and \"fadeth not away.\"\n\nThe most unique organization that has been formed in our time for the\nevangelizing of the lost masses is the \"Salvation Army.\" When I was in\nLondon, in the summer of 1885, I attended one of their monster meetings\nin Exeter Hall. There was an enormous military band on the platform\nbehind the rostrum. Their Commander-in-Chief, General Booth, presided--a\ntall, thin, nervous man, who looked more like an old-fashioned Kentucky\nrevivalist than an Englishman. His bright-eyed and comely wife, Mrs.\nCatharine Booth, was with him. She was a woman of remarkable\nintellectual force and spiritual character, as all must acknowledge who\nhave read her biography. Her speech (on the Protection of Young Girls)\nwas finely composed and finely delivered, and quite threw into the shade\na couple of members of Parliament who spoke from the same platform on\nthe same evening. When she made any telling point that awakened\napplause, her husband leaped up, and gave the signal: \"Fire a volley!\"\nWhereupon his troops gave a tremendous cheer, followed by a roll of\ndrums and a blast of trumpets. The chief agency which the army employs\nto gather its audiences is music--whether it be the rattling of the\ntambourine, or the martial sound of a brass band. Some of their hymns\nare little better than pious doggerel, and they do not hesitate to add\nto Perronet's grand hymn, \"All hail the power of Jesus name,\" such a\nstanza as the following:\n\n   \"Let our soldiers never tire,\n     In streets, in lane, in hall,\n   The red-hot Gospel's shot to fire\n     And crown Him Lord of All.\"\n\nGrotesque as are some of the methods of this novel organization, I\ncannot but admire their zeal and courage in dredging among the submerged\nmasses with such spiritual apparatus as they can devise. They are doing\na work that God has honored, and that has reached and rescued a vast\nnumber of outcasts. Their chief weakness is that they appeal mainly to\nthe emotions, and give too little solid instruction to their ignorant\nhearers. Their chief danger is that when the strong arm of their founder\nis taken away he may not leave successors who can hold the army\ntogether. Let us hope and pray that the period of their usefulness may\nyet be protracted.\n\nWhile an abnormal agency, like the Salvation Army, may do some useful\nservice among the occupants of the slums, the greater work of reaching\nand evangelizing the immense mass of plain, humble working people must\nbe done by the churches themselves. What do the dwellers in the\nby-streets and the tenement houses need? They need precisely what the\ndwellers in the brown stone houses on fine avenues need--a sanctuary to\nworship in, a Sunday school for their children, a preacher to give them\nthe Gospel, and a pastor to visit them and watch over them--in short, a\nspiritual home. As for bringing the poorer class of the back streets\ninto the elegant churches on the fashionable avenues it is an absurdity,\nboth geography and human nature are against it. The plainly dressed\nlaborers of the back districts could not come to the fine churches on\nFifth Avenue, or similar streets, because these edifices are already\noccupied by their regular pew holders; they would not come, for they\nwould not feel at home there. Since the humbler toiling classes will not\ncome to the sanctuaries occupied by the rich, the only true Christian\npolicy is for the rich churches to build and maintain plenty of\nattractive auxiliary chapels in the regions occupied by those humbler\nclasses. Not mean and unattractive soup-house style of chapels should\nthey be, either--they ought to be handsome, cheerful, well-appointed\nsanctuaries, manned by godly pastors who are not above the business of\nsaving souls that are clad in dirty shirts. And that is not all: the\nmembers of the wealthy churches which rear the auxiliary chapels should\npersonally go and attend the services and Sunday schools and weekly\nmeetings in the chapel--not go in costly raiment that touches the pride\nof God's poor, but in plain clothes and with a hearty democratic\nsympathy in their whole bearing. To reach the masses we must go after\nthem--and then stay with them when we get there. If broadcloth religion\nwaits for poverty and ignorance to cross the chasm to it, then may they\nat last come to be a menace to the safety of society--with imprecations\non it for criminal neglect. Christianity must build the bridge across\nthe chasm, and then keep its steady procession crossing over it with\nbright lamps for dark homes, and Bibles for darker souls, and bread for\nhungry mouths, and, what is best of all, _personal intercourse and\npersonal sympathy_. The music of a Christmas carol would be very sweet\nin poverty's garret; the advent of the living Jesus in the persons of\nHis true-hearted followers would be a \"Merry Christmas\" all the year\nround.\n\nBrooklyn is not a city of slums, nor does it abound with the\nsky-scraping tenement houses, like those in which the myriads of New\nYork live, but we have a large population of wage-earners of the humbler\nclass. These mainly occupy streets by themselves. In order to do our\npart in giving the bread of life to these worthy people, Lafayette\nAvenue Church has always maintained two, and sometimes three, auxiliary\nchapels. Of these, the \"Cuyler Chapel,\" built and supported entirely by\nour Young People's Association, is a fair representative. It has an\nexcellent preacher, who visits the plain people in their homes; it has a\nwell-equipped Sunday school--prayer meetings, kindergarten--its own\nSociety of Christian Endeavor, and King's Daughters, its penny savings\nbank and its temperance society--in short, every appliance essential to\na Christian church. Many others of our strong Brooklyn churches are\nworking precisely on the same practical, common-sense lines. If all the\nwealthy churches in New York would illuminate the darker quarters of\nthat city with a hundred well-manned light-houses, well provided with\nthe soul-saving apparatus of the poor man's Gospel they would do more to\nsilence the cavils against Christianity, and more to bridge the chasm\nbetween the rich and the poor than by any of the superficial methods of\nthe \"Humanitarians.\" What a poor man wants is not only a clean shirt, a\nclean home, and a clean account on Saturday night; he wants a clean\ncharacter and a clean soul for this world and the next. Christianity\nmakes a sad mistake if it is satisfied to give him a full stomach, and\nleave him with a starving soul.\n\nIn recent years we have heard much about the \"Institutional Church\" as\nthe long sought panacea. It is claimed by some persons that the churches\ncannot succeed unless they add to ordinary spiritual instrumentalities,\nvarious useful annexes, such as reading rooms, kindergartens,\ndispensaries, and certain social entertainments. But it is a noteworthy\nfact that the chief pioneer in \"Institutional\" methods was the late\nCharles Haddon Spurgeon, and he was the prince of old-fashioned gospel\npreachers. He never thought of his orphanage, and other benevolent\nadjuncts of the Metropolitan Tabernacle as substitutes for the sovereign\npurpose of his holy work, which was to convert the people to Jesus\nChrist. He subordinated the physical, the mental, and the social to the\nspiritual; and rightly judged that making clean hearts was the best way\nto secure clean homes and clean lives. I have no doubt that a very\nstrong, well-manned and thoroughly spiritually managed church may wisely\nmaintain as many adjuncts, such as reading-rooms, libraries,\ndispensaries, kindergartens and other humanitarian annexes as it has the\nmeans to support. An illustration of this is seen in the successful and\nHeaven-blessed Bethany Presbyterian Church of Philadelphia, founded and\nmaintained and guided by that hundred-handed Briareus in the service of\nChrist--my beloved friend, the Hon. John Wanamaker. The aim of that\ngreat church and its well-known Sunday School, is to make people happy\nby making them better, and to save them for this world after saving them\nfor another world. When a church has the spiritual purposes and\nspiritual power of the London Tabernacle and the Bethany Church, and is\nguided by a Spurgeon or a Wanamaker, it may safely become\n\"institutional.\" But some experiments that have been made to establish\nchurches of that name in this country have not always been conspicuously\nsuccessful.\n\nIn taking this, my retrospective view at four-score, I have noted many\nheart-cheering tokens of social and religious progress, and many\nsplendid mechanical and material inventions to make the world better and\nhappier. Yet I have also seen some painful symptoms of decline and\ndeterioration. All the changes have not been for the better; some have\nbeen decidedly for the worse. For example, while there is an increase in\nthe number of the Christian churches, there is a lamentably steady\ndiminution of attendance at places of religious worship. Careful\ninvestigation shows a constant falling off in church attendance--both in\nthe large towns, and in the rural districts. In spite of the blessed\ninfluence of the Sunday School, the Young Men's Christian Association\nand Christian Endeavor, there is an increasing swing of young people\naway from the House of God, and therefore from soul-saving influences.\nThe Sabbath is not as generally kept sacred as formerly. One of the\nindications of this sad fact is a decrease in church attendance, and\nanother is the enormous increase in the secular and godless Sunday\nnewspapers. Materialism and Mammonism work against spiritual religion,\nand the social customs which wealth brings are adverse to a spiritual\nlife. As one illustration of this a distinguished pastor said to me:\n\"Forty years ago my people lived plainly, were ready for earnest\nChristian work, and attended our devotional meetings; now they have\ngrown rich, our work flags, and our weekly services are almost\ndeserted.\" Half-day religion is on the increase almost everywhere.\nSporting and gambling are more rife than formerly. What is still worse,\nthe gambling element enters more largely into transactions of trade and\ntraffic. Divorces have become more easy and abundant, and, as Mr.\nGladstone once said to me: \"This tends to sap one of the very\nfoundations of society,\" All these are deplorable evils to which none\nbut a fool will shut his eyes and by which none but a coward will be\nfrightened. _God reigns,_ even if the devil is trying to. The practical\nquestions for every one of us are: how can I become better? How can I\nhelp to make this old sinning and sobbing world the better also?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\nA RETROSPECT, CONTINUED.\n\n\nAs I look over the changes that half a century has wrought in the social\nlife of my beloved country, I see some which awaken satisfaction--others\nwhich are not so exhilarating. The enormous and rapid increase of wealth\nis unparalleled in human history. In my boyhood, millionaires were rare;\nthere were hardly a score of them in any one of our cities. The two\ntypical rich men were Stephen Girard in Philadelphia and John Jacob\nAstor in New York; and their whole fortunes were not equal to the annual\nincome of several of the rich men of to-day. Some of our present\nmillionaires are reservoirs of munificence, and the outflow builds\nchurches, hospitals, asylums, and endows libraries--and sends broad\nstreams of charity through places parched by destitution and suffering.\nOthers are like pools at the base of a hill--they receive the inflow of\nevery descending streamlet or shower, and stagnate into selfishness.\nWealth is a tremendous trust; it becomes a dangerous one when it owns\nits owner. Our Brooklyn philanthropist, the late Mr. Charles Pratt, once\nsaid to me: \"There is no greater humbug than the idea that the mere\npossession of wealth makes any man happy. I never got any happiness out\nof mine until I began to do good with it.\"\n\nTo the faithful steward there is a perpetual reward of good stewardship.\nNo investments yield a more covetable dividend than those made in gifts\nof public beneficence. When Mr. Morris K. Jesup drives through New York\nhis eyes are gladdened in one street by the \"Dewitt Memorial Chapel\"\nthat he erected; in another by the Five Points House of Industry, of\nwhich he is the president, and in still others by the Young Men's\nChristian Association and kindred institutions, of which he is a liberal\nsupporter.\n\nMr. John D. Rockefeller is reputed to have an annual income equal to\nthat of three or four foreign sovereigns; but his inalienable assets are\nin the universities he has endowed, the churches he has helped to build,\nthe useful societies he has aided, and in the gold mines of public\ngratitude which he has opened up.\n\nMany of our most munificent millionaires have been the architects of\ntheir own fortunes. It is most commonly (with some happy exceptions) the\nearned wealth, and not the inherited wealth that is bestowed most\nfreely for the public benefit. The Hon. William E. Dodge once stated in\na popular lecture that he began his career as a boy on a salary of fifty\ndollars a year, and his board--part of his duty being to sweep out the\nstore in which he was employed. He lived to distribute a thousand\ndollars a day to Christian missions, and otherwise objects of\nbenevolence.\n\nThere are old men in Pittsburg (or were, not long ago), who remember the\nbright Scotch lad, Andrew Carnegie, to whom they used to give a dime for\nbringing telegraph messages from the office in which he was employed.\nThe benefits which he then derived from the use of a free library in\nthat city, have added to his good impulse, to create such a vast number\nof libraries in many lands that his honored name throws into the shade\nthe names of Bodley and Radcliffe in England, and that of Astor in\nAmerica. The mention of this latter name tempts me to narrate an amusing\nstory of old John Jacob Astor, the founder of the fortune of that\nfamily, and a man who was more noted for acquiring money than for giving\nit away for any purpose. Mr. Astor came to New York a poor young man.\nHis wealth consisted mainly in real estate, which he purchased at an\nearly day. When the New York and Erie Railroad was projected (it was the\nfirst one ever coming directly into New York), my friend, Judge Joseph\nHoxie, called on Mr. Astor to subscribe to the stock, telling him that\nit would add to the value of his real estate. \"What do I care for that?\"\nsaid the shrewd old German, \"I never sells, I only buys.\" \"Well,\" said\nJudge Hoxie, \"your son, William, has subscribed for several shares.\" \"He\ncan do that,\" was the chuckling reply, \"he has got a rich father.\" It is\na fair problem how many such possessors of real estate it would take to\nbuild up the prosperity of a great city.\n\nThere is one temptation to which great wealth has sometimes subjected\nits possessors, which demands from me a word of patriotic protest. It is\nthe temptation to use it for political advancement. No fact is more\npatent than the painful one that some ambitious men have secured public\noffices, and even bought their way into legislative bodies, by the\nabundancies of their purses united to skill in manipulating partisan\nmachines. This is a most serious menace to honest popular government. It\nis one of the very worst forms of a plutocracy. I often think that if\nWebster and Clay and Calhoun and John Quincy Adams and Sumner and some\nother giants of a former era could enter the Congressional halls of our\nday, they might paraphrase the words of Holy Writ and exclaim: \"Take the\nmoney-changers hence, and make not the temple of a nation's legislation\na house of merchandise.\"\n\nForeign travel is no longer the novelty that it was once, and many\nwealthy folk spend much of their time abroad since the Atlantic Ocean\nhas been reduced to a ferry. This growth of European travel has brought\nits increment of information and culture; but, with new ideas from\nabroad, have come also some new notions and usages that were better left\nbehind. A prohibitory tariff in that direction would \"protect\" some of\nthe unostentatiousness of social life that befits a republican people.\nNo young man or woman, who desires to attain proficience in any\ndepartment of scholarship, classical or scientific, need to betake\nthemselves to the universities of Europe. Those universities have come\nto us in the shape of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Cornell and our other\nmost richly endowed institutions of learning for both sexes.\n\nQuite too much of the social life of our country is more artificial than\nformerly, and one result is the growing passion for publicity. Plenty of\nambitious people \"make their beds in the face of the sun.\" Many things\nare now chronicled in the press that were formerly kept behind the\nclosed doors of the home. The details of a dinner or a social company at\nthe fireside become the topics for the gossip of strangers. I sometimes\nthink that the young people of the present day lose much of the romance\nthat used to belong to the halcyon period of courtship. In the somewhat\nprimitive days of my youth, young lovers kept their own secrets, and\nwere startled if their heart affairs were on other people's tongues; but\nnow-a-days marriage engagements are matters of public announcement--not\ninfrequently in the columns of a newspaper! It seems to be forgotten\nthat an engagement to marry may not always end in a marriage. The usage\nof crowned heads abroad is no warrant for the new fashion, for royalty\nhas no privacies, and queens and empresses choose their own husbands--a\nprerogative that the stoutest champion of woman's rights has not yet had\nthe hardihood to advocate.\n\nIt has always required--but never more than now--no small amount of\nmoral courage on the part of newly married couples, whose incomes are\nmoderate, to resist the temptations of extravagant living. As the heads\nof young men are often turned by the reports of great fortunes suddenly\nacquired, so the ambition seizes upon many a young wife to cut a figure\nin \"society.\" Instead of \"the household--motions light and free\" that\nWordsworth describes, the handmaid of fashion leads the hollow life of\n\"keeping up appearances.\" If nothing worse than the slavery of debt is\nincurred, home life becomes a counterfeit of happiness; but any one who\nwatches the daily papers will sometimes see obituaries there more\nsaddening than those which appear under the head of \"Deaths,\" it is the\nlist of detected defaulters or peculators or swindlers of some\ndescription--often belonging to the most respectable families. While the\nruin of those evil-doers is sometimes caused by club life or dissipated\nhabits, yet, in a large number of cases, the temptation to fraud has\nbeen the snare of extravagant living.\n\nIn my long experience as a city pastor I have watched the careers of\nthousands of married pairs. One class have begun modestly in an\nunfashionable locality with plain dress and frugal expenditure They have\neaten the wholesome bread of independence. I wish that every young woman\nwould display the good sense of a friend of mine, who received an offer\nof marriage from a very intelligent and very industrious, but poor young\nman who said to her: \"I hear that you have offers of marriage from young\nmen of wealth; all that I can offer you is a good name, sincere love and\nplain lodgings at first in a boarding house.\" She was wise enough to\ndiscover the \"jewel in the leaden casket\" and accept his hand. He became\na prosperous business man and an officer of my church. As for the other\nclass, who begin their domestic career by a pitiable craze to \"get into\nsociety\" and to keep up with their \"set\" in the vain show, is their fate\nnot written in the chronicles of haggard and jaded wives, and of\nhusbands drowned in debt or driven perhaps to stock-gambling or some\nother refuge of desperation?\n\nIn another portion of this autobiography I have uttered a prayer for the\nrevival of soul-kindling eloquence in the pulpit. In this age of dizzy\nballooning in finance and social extravagance, my prayer is: \"Oh, for\nthe revival of old fashioned, sturdy, courageous frugality that 'hath\nclean hands and a clean heart, and hath not lifted up its soul to\nvanity!'\"\n\n\"Do you not discover a great advance in educational facilities and in\nthe enlargement of means to popular knowledge?\" To this question I am\nhappy to give an affirmative reply. Schools and universities are more\nrichly endowed and our public schools have been greatly improved in many\ndirections. Among the educated classes, reading clubs and societies for\ndiscussing sociological questions are more numerous, and so are free\nlectures among the humbler classes. Books have been multiplied--and at\ncheaper prices--to an enormous extent. In my childhood, books adapted to\nthe reach of children numbered not more than a score or two; now they\nare multiplied to a degree that is almost bewildering to the youthful\nmind. Newspapers printed for them, such as the _Youth's Companion_ and\nthe National Society's _Temperance Banner_, were then utterly unknown.\nThe sacred writer of the ecclesiastics needs not to tell the people of\nthis generation: \"That of making many books there is no end.\"\n\nIt is not, however, a matter for congratulation that so large a portion\nof the volumes that are most read are works of fiction. In most of our\npublic libraries the novels called for are far in excess of all the\nother books. Let any one scrutinize the advertising columns of literary\njournals, and he will see that the only startling figures are those\nwhich announce the enormous sale of popular works of fiction. I am not\nuttering a tirade against any book simply because it is fictitious. Our\nDivine Master spoke often in parables; Bunyan's matchless allegories\nhave guided multitudes of pilgrims towards the Celestial City. Fiction\nin the clean hands of that king of romancers, Sir Walter Scott, threw\nnew light on the history and scenes of the past. Such characters as\n\"Jennie Deans\" and her godly father might have been taken from John\nBanyan's portrait gallery; Lady Di Vernon is the ideal of young\nwomanhood. Fiction has often been a wholesome relief to a good man's\noverworked and weary brain. Many of the recent popular novels are\nwholesome in their tone and the historical type often instructive. The\nchief objection to the best of them is that they excite a distaste in\nthe minds of thousands for any other reading. Exclusive reading of\nfiction is to any one's mind just what highly spiced food and alcoholic\nstimulants are to the body. The increasing rage for novel reading\nbetokens both a famine in the intellect, and a serious peril to the\nmental and spiritual life. The honest truth is that quite too large a\nnumber of fictitious works are subtle poison. The plots of some of the\nmost popular novels turn on the sexual relation and the violation in\nsome form of the seventh commandment. They kindle evil passions; they\nvarnish and veneer vice; they deride connubial purity; they uncover what\nought to be hid, and paint in attractive hues what never ought to be\nseen by any pure eye or named by any modest tongue. Another objection to\nmany of the most advertised works of fiction is that they deal with the\nsacred themes of religion in a very mischievous and misleading manner. A\nfew popular writers of fiction present evangelical religion in its\nwinning features; they preach with the pen the same truths that they\npreach from the pulpit. Two of the perils that threaten American youths\nare a licentious stage and a poisonous literature. A highly intelligent\nlady, who has examined many of the novels printed during the last\ndecade, said to me: \"The main purpose of many of these books is to knock\naway the underpinning of the marriage relation or of the Bible.\" If\nparents give house room to trashy or corrupt books, they cannot be\nsurprised if their children give heart-room to \"the world, the flesh,\nand the evil one.\" When interesting and profitable books are so abundant\nand so cheap, this increasing rage for novels is to me one of the\nsinister signs of the times.\n\nWithin the last two or three decades there has been a most marked change\nas to the directions in which the human intellect has exerted its\nhighest activities. This change is especially marked in the literature\nof the two great English-speaking nations. For example, there are now in\nGreat Britain no poets who are the peers of Wordsworth, Tennyson and\nBrowning;--no brilliant essayists who are the peers of Carlyle and\nMacaulay, and no novelists who are the peers of Scott, Dickens and\nThackeray. In the United States we have no poets who are a match for\nBryant, Longfellow, Whittier and Holmes; and no essayists who are a\nmatch for Emerson and James Russell Lowell--no jurists who are the\nrivals of Marshall, Kent and Story; and no living historians equal\nBancroft, Prescott and Motley. These facts do not necessarily indicate\n(as some assert) a widespread intellectual famine. The most probable\nexplanation of the fact is that the mental forces in our day exert\nthemselves in other directions. This is an age of scientific research\nand scientific achievement. It is an age of material advancement, and in\nthose lines in which the human mind can \"seek out many inventions.\" The\nwhole trend of human thought is under transformation. In ancient days\n\"a man was famous according as he had lifted up axes upon thick trees.\"\nThe man is famous now who makes some useful mechanical invention, or\nexplores some unknown territory, or bridges the oceans with swift\nsteamers, or belts the earth with new railways, or organizes powerful\nfinancial combinations. If the law of demand and supply is as applicable\nto mental products as it is to the imports of commerce, then we may\nreadily understand that the realm of the ideal, which was ruled by the\nWordsworths, Carlyles and Longfellows, should be supplanted by a realm\nin which the master minds should be political economists, or explorers,\nor railway kings, or financial magnates, or empire-builders of some\ndescription. The philosophical and poetical yield to the practical, when\n\"_cui bono?_\" is the lest question which challenges all comers. This\nchange, if it be an actual one, may bring its losses as well as its\ngains. We are thankful for all the precious boons which inventive genius\nhas brought to us--for telegraphs, and telephones, and photographic\narts, for steam engines and electric motors, for power presses and\nsewing machines, for pain-killing chloroform, and the splendid\nachievements of skillful surgery. But the mind has its necessities as\nwell as the body; and we hope and pray that the human intellect may\nnever be so busy in materialistic inventions that it cannot give us an\n\"Ode to Duty,\" and a \"Happy Warrior,\" a \"Snow Bound,\" and a\n\"Thanatopsis,\" an \"Evangeline\" and a \"Chambered Nautilus,\" a \"Pippa\nPasses\" or a \"Biglow Papers,\" an \"In Memoriam\" or a \"Locksley Hall.\"\n\nOne characteristic of the present time is the radical and revolutionary\nspirit which condemns everything that is \"old,\" especially in the realm\nof religion. It arrogantly claims that the \"advanced thought\" of this\nhighly cultured age has broken with the traditional beliefs of our\nbenighted ancestors, and that modern congregations are too highly\nenlighted to accept those antiquated theologies. No pretentions could be\nmore preposterous. Methinks that those stalwart farmers of New England,\nwho on a wintry Sabbath, sat and eagerly devoured for an hour the strong\nmeat of such theological giants as Jonathan Edwards, and Emmons and\nBellamy and Dwight, would laugh to scorn the ridiculous assumption of\nthe present day congregations, many of whom have fed on little else\nduring the week but novels and newspapers. This revolutionary spirit is\nexpert in pulling down; it is a sorry bungler at rebuilding. Nothing is\ntoo sacred for its assaults. The iconoclasts who belong to the most\nextreme and destructive school of \"higher criticism\" have reduced a\nlarge portion of God's revealed word utterly to tatters. King David has\nbeen exiled from the Psalter; but no \"sweet singers\" have yet turned up\nwho could have composed those matchless minstrelsies. Paul is denied the\nauthorship of the Epistle to the Romans; but the mighty mind has not\nbeen discovered which produced what Coleridge called the \"profoundest\nbook in existence.\" The Scripture miracles are discarded, but\nChristianity, which is the greatest miracle of all, is not accounted\nfor. The \"new theology\" which has well nigh banished the supernatural\nfrom the Bible pays an homage to the principle of \"evolution,\" which is\ndue only to the Almighty Creator of the universe. Spurgeon has wittily\nsaid that if we are not the product of God's creating hand, but are only\nthe advanced descendants of the ape, then we ought to conduct our\ndevotions accordingly, and address our daily petitions \"not to our\nFather which is in Heaven, but to our father which is up a tree.\"\n\nI do not belong to that class which is irreverently styled \"old fogies,\"\nfor I hold that genuine conservatism consists in healthful and regular\nprogress; and it has been my privilege to take an active part in a great\nmany reformatory movements; yet I am more warmly hospitable to a truth\nwhich has stood the test of time and of trial. There are many things in\nthis world that are improved by age. Friendship is one of them, and I\nhave found that it takes a great many new friends to make an old one.\nMy Bible is all the dearer to me, not only because it has pillowed the\ndying heads of my father and my mother, but because it has been the sure\nguide of a hundred generations of Christians before them. When the\nboastful innovators offer me a new system of belief (which is really a\ncongeries of unbeliefs) I say to them: \"the old is better.\" Twenty\ncenturies of experience shared by such intellects as Augustine, Luther,\nPascal, Calvin, Newton, Chalmers, Edwards, Wesley and Spurgeon are not\nto be shaken by the assaults of men, who often contradict each other\nwhile contradicting God's truth. We have tested a supernaturally\ninspired Bible for ourselves. As my eloquent and much loved friend, Dr.\nMcLaren, of Manchester has finely said: \"We decline to dig up the piles\nof the bridge that carries us over the abyss because some voices tell us\nthat it is rotten. It is perfectly reasonable to answer, 'We have tried\nthe bridge and it bears.' Which, being translated into less simple\nlanguage, is just the assertion of certitude, built on facts and\nexperience, which leaves no place for doubt. All the opposition will be\nbroken into spray against this rock-bulwark: 'Thy words were found, and\nI did eat them, and they are the joy and rejoicing of my heart.'\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\nMY HOME LIFE.\n\n\nOne of the richest of the many blessings that has crowned my long life\nhas been a happy home. It has always seemed to me as a wonderful triumph\nof divine grace in the Apostle Paul that he should have been so \"content\nin whatsoever state he was\" when he was a homeless, and, I fear, also a\nwifeless man. During my own early ministry in Burlington, N.J., my\nwidowed mother and myself lodged with worthy Quakers, and realized\nCharles Lamb's truthful description of that quiet, \"naught-caballing\ncommunity.\" On our removal to Trenton, when I took charge of the newly\norganized Third Presbyterian Church, we commenced housekeeping in what\nhad once been the residence of a Governor, a chief-justice, and a mayor\nof the city; but was a very plain and modest domicile after all. My new\nchurch building was completed in November, 1850, and opened with a full\ncongregation, and I was soon in the full swing of my pastoral duties. As\nI have already stated in the opening chapter of this volume, my father\nand mother first saw each other on a Sabbath day, and in a church. It\nwas my happy lot to follow their example. On a certain Sabbath in\nJanuary, 1851, a group of young ladies, who were the guests of a\nprominent family in my congregation, were seated in a pew immediately\nbefore the pulpit. As a civility to that family we called on the\nfollowing evening, upon their guests. One of the number happened to be a\nyoung lady from Ohio who had just graduated from the Granville College,\nin that State, and had come East to visit her relatives in Philadelphia.\nThe young lady just mentioned was Miss Annie E. Mathiot, a daughter of\nthe Hon. Joshua Mathiot, an eminent lawyer, who had represented his\ndistrict in Congress. That evening has been marked with a very white\nstone in my calendar ever since. It was but a brief visit of a fortnight\nthat the fair maiden from the West made in Trenton; but when she, soon\nafterwards returned to Ohio, she took with her what has been her\ninalienable possession ever since and will be, \"Till death us do part.\"\nMy courtship was rather \"at long range;\" for Newark, Ohio, was several\nhundred miles away, and I have always found that a man who would build\nup a strong church must be constantly at it, trowel in hand. On the 17th\nof March, 1853, the venerable Dr. Wylie conducted for us a very simple\nand solemn service of holy wedlock, closing with his fatherly\nbenediction, one of the best acts of his long and useful life. The\ninvalid mother of my bride (for Colonel Mathiot had died four years\npreviously) was present at our nuptials, and for the last time was in\nher own drawing-room. Mrs. Mathiot was a daughter of Mr. Samuel\nCulbertson, a leading lawyer of Zanesville, and was a lady of rare\nrefinement and loveliness. She had been a patient sufferer from a\npainful illness of several months' duration, and peacefully passed away\nto her rest in September of that year.\n\nOf the qualifications and duties of a minister's wife, enough has been\nwritten to stock a small library. My own very positive conviction has\nalways been that her vows were made primarily, not to a parish, but to\nher own husband; and if she makes his home and heart happy; if she\nrelieves him of needless worldly cares; if she is a constant inspiration\nto him in his holy work, she will do ten-fold more for the church than\nif she were the manager and mainspring of a dozen benevolent societies.\nThere is another obligation antecedent to all acts of Presbytery or\ninstalling councils--the sweet obligation of motherhood. The woman who\nneglects her nursery or her housekeeping duties, and her own heart-life\nfor any outside work in the parish does both them and herself serious\ninjury. If a minister's wife has the grace of a kind and tactful\ncourtesy toward all classes, she may contribute mightily to the popular\ninfluence of her husband; and if she is a woman of culture and literary\ntaste, she can be of immense service to him in the preparation of his\nsermons. The best critic that ministers can have is one who has a right\nto criticize and to \"truth it in love.\" Who has a better right to\nreprove, exhort and correct with all long suffering than the woman who\nhas given us her heart and herself? There are a hundred matters in the\ncourse of a year in which a sensible woman's instincts are wiser than\nthose of the average man. There is many a minister who would have been\nspared the worst blunders of his life, if he had only consulted and\nobeyed the instinctive judgment of a loving and sensible wife. If we\nhusbands hold the reins, it is the province of a wise and devoted wife\nto tell us where to drive.\n\nIt is very probable that my readers have suspected that this portraiture\nof a model wife for a minister was drawn from actual life; and they are\nright in their conjectures. In the discourse delivered to my flock on\nthe twenty-fifth anniversary of my pastorate was the following passage,\nto whose truth the added years have only added confirmation, \"There is\nstill another sweet mercy which has been vouchsafed to me in the true\nheart that has never faltered and the gentle footstep that has never\nwearied in the pathway of life for two and thirty years. From how many\nmistakes and hasty indiscretions her quick sagacity has kept me, you can\nnever know. If you have any tribute of thanks for any good which I have\ndone you, do not offer it to me; go carry it down to yonder home, of\nwhich she has been the light and the joy, and _lay it at her unselfish\nfeet.\"_ On that occasion (for the _only_ time) I heard a murmur of\napplause run through my congregation.\n\nAbout the time of our marriage, I received a call from the Shawmut\nCongregational Church of Boston, and soon afterwards overtures from a\nPresbyterian Church in Philadelphia, and from the First Presbyterian\nChurch of Chicago. All these attractive offers I declined, but within a\nfew months I accepted a call from the Market Street Dutch Reformed\nChurch of New York--a far more difficult field of labor. My ministry in\nTrenton was one of unbroken happiness, and the Church were profusely\nkind; but at the end of nearly four years I felt that my work there was\ndone. The young church had built a beautiful house of worship without a\ndime of debt, and it was filled by a prosperous congregation. I was\nready for a wider field of labor.\n\nThe Market Street Dutch Reformed Church, to which I was called, was down\ntown, within ten minutes' walk of the City Hall, and was beginning to\nfeel the inroads of the up-town migration, when my excellent\npredecessor, Dr. Isaac Ferris, left it to become the Chancellor of the\nNew York University. Although most of the well-to-do families were\nmoving away, yet East Broadway was full of boarding houses packed with\nyoung men and these in turn packed our church on Sabbath evenings. Of\nthe happy spiritual harvest-seasons in that old church, especially\nduring the great awakening in 1858, I have written in the chapter on\nRevivals. I was as eager for work as Simon Peter was for a good haul in\nfishing, and every week there, I met on the platform the representatives\nof temperance societies: The Five Points House of Industry, Young Men's\nChristian Associations, Sunday schools or some other religious or\nreformatory enterprise. These outside activities were no hindrances to\neither pulpit or pastoral work; and, like that famous English preacher\nwho felt that he could not have too many irons in the fire, I thrust in\ntongs, shovel, poker and all. The contact with busy life and benevolent\nlabors among the poor supplied material for sermons; for the pastor of a\ncity church must touch life at a great many points. Our domestic\nexperiences in early housekeeping were very agreeable. The social\nconditions of New York were less artificial than now. Pastoral calls in\nthe evening usually found the people in their homes, and I do not\nbelieve there were a dozen theatre-goers in my congregation. After a\nvery busy and heaven-blest ministry of half a dozen years, I discovered\nthat the rapid migration up town would soon leave our congregation too\nfeeble for self-support. I accordingly started a movement to erect a new\nedifice up on Murray Hill, and to retain the old building in Market\nStreet as an auxiliary mission chapel. A handsome subscription for the\nerection of the up-town edifice was secured, and the \"Consistory\" (which\nis the good Dutch designation of a board of church officers), convened\nto vote the first payment for the land. The new site was not wisely\nchosen, and many of my people were still opposed to any change; but the\ncasting vote of one good old man (whom I shall thank if I ever encounter\nhim in the Celestial World) negatived the whole enterprise, and it was\nimmediately abandoned.\n\nA few weeks before that decision, I had received a call to take charge\nof a brave little struggling Presbyterian Church in the newer part of\nBrooklyn. I sent for the officers, and informed them that if they would\npurchase the ground on the corner of Lafayette Avenue and Oxford Street,\nand pay for it in a fortnight, and promise to build for me a church with\ngood acoustics and capable of seating from eighteen hundred to two\nthousand auditors, I would be their pastor. Instead of turning purple in\nthe lips at such a bold proposal, they \"staggered not at the promise\nthrough unbelief\" and in ten days they brought me the deed of the land\npaid for to the uttermost dollar! I resigned Market Street Church\nimmediately, and on the next Sabbath morning, while the Easter bells\nwere ringing under a dark stormy sky, I came over and faced, for the\nfirst time, the courageous founders of the Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian\nChurch. The dear old Market Street Church lingered on for a few years\nmore, bleeding at every pore, from the fatal up-town migration, and then\npeacefully disbanded. The solid stone edifice was purchased by some\ngenerous Presbyterians in the upper part of the city, who organized\nthere the \"Church of the Sea and Land,\" which is standing to-day, as a\nwell-manned light-house amid a dense tenement-house foreign population.\nThe successful work that is now prosecuted there is another confirmation\nof my favorite theory that the only way to reach a neighborhood crowded\nwith the poorer classes, is for the wealthy churches to spend money for\njust such an auxiliary mission church as is now thriving in the\nstructure in which I spent seven happy years of my ministry.\n\nThis portion of Brooklyn to which we removed in 1860, was very sparsely\nsettled, and Rev. Henry Ward Beecher said to me: \"I do not see how you\ncan find a congregation there.\" He lived to say to me: \"You are now in\nthe center, and I am out on the circumference,\" Brooklyn was then\npre-eminently a \"city of churches,\" and, though we had not a dozen\nmillionaires, it was not infested with any slums. In a population of\nover three hundred thousand there was then only a single theatre, and\nwhen one of our people was asked: \"What do you do for recreation over\nthere?\" he replied, \"We go to church.\"\n\nCertainly no one was ever attracted to our own modest little temporary\nsanctuary by its beauty; for it was unsightly without, though very\ncheerful within. Soon after we commenced the building of our present\nstately edifice the startling report of cannon shook the land from sea\nto sea.\n\n   \"And then we saw from Sumter's wall\n   The star-flag of the Union fall,\n   And armed hosts were pressing on\n   The broken lines of Washington.\"\n\nEvery other public edifice in this city then in process of erection was\nbrought to a standstill; but we pushed forward the work, like Nehemiah's\nbuilders, with a trowel in one hand and a weapon in the other. To raise\nfunds for the structure, required faith and self-denial, and in this\nlabor of love, woman's five fingers were busy and helpful. One brave\norphan girl in New York gave, from her hard earnings as a public school\nteacher, a sum so large that the announcement of it from my pulpit\naroused great enthusiasm, and turned the scale at the critical moment,\nand insured the completion of the structure. Justly may our pulpit\nvindicate woman's place, and woman's province in the cause of Christ and\nhumanity, for without woman's help that pulpit might never have been\nerected.\n\nOn the 16th of March, 1862, our church edifice was dedicated to the\nworship of Almighty God, Dr. Asa D. Smith, of Dartmouth College,\ndelivering the dedication sermon, and in the evening, my brilliant and\nbeloved brother, Professor Roswell D. Hitchcock, gave us one of his\nincisive and inspiring discourses. The building accommodates eighteen\nhundred worshippers, and in emergencies, twenty-five hundred. It is a\nmodel of cheerfulness and convenience, and is so felicitous in its\nacoustics that an ordinary conversational tone can be heard at the\nopposite end of the auditorium. The picture of the Church in this volume\ngives no adequate idea of the size of the edifice; for the Sunday School\nHall and lecture-room and social parlors are situated in the rear, and\ncould not be presented in the photographic view. I fear that too many\ncostly church edifices are erected that are quite unfit for our\nProtestant modes of religious service. It is said that when Bishop\nPotter was called upon to consecrate one of the \"dim religious\"\nspecimens of mediaeval architecture, and was asked his opinion of the\nnew structure, he replied: \"It is a beautiful building, with only three\nfaults: you cannot see in it--you cannot hear in it--you cannot breathe\nin it.\"\n\nI need not detail the story of my happy Brooklyn pastorate; for that is\nsuccinctly given in the closing chapter of this volume. Our home-life\nhere for the past forty-two years has been a record of perpetual\nprovidential mercies and unfailing kindness on the part of my\nparishioners and fellow townsmen. Brooklyn, although removed from New\nYork (for I cannot yet twist my tongue into calling it \"Manhattan\") by a\nfive minutes' journey on the East River Bridge, is a very different town\nin its political and social aspects. New York is penned in on a narrow\nisland, and ground is worth more than gold. It is therefore piled up\nwith very fine apartment houses for the rich, or tenement houses for the\npoor to more stories than the ancient buildings on the Canongate of\nEdinburgh. Here in Brooklyn we have all Long Island to spread over, and\nland is within the reach of even a parson's purse. A man never feels so\nrich as when he owns a bit of real estate, and I take some satisfaction\nin the bit of land in the front of my domicile, and in the rear, capable\nof holding several fruit trees and rose-beds. Oxford Street has the deep\nshade of a New England village. We come to know our neighbors here,\nwhich is a degree of knowledge not often attained in New York or London.\nThe social life here is also less artificial than at the other end of\nthe bridge. There is less of the foreign element, and of either great\nwealth or poverty; we have neither the splendor of Paris, nor the\nsqualor of the by-streets of Naples. The name of \"Breucklen\" was given\nto our town by its original Dutch settlers, but the aggressive New\nEnglanders pushed in and it is a more thoroughly Yankee city to-day than\nany city in the land outside of New England. My old friend, Mayor Low,\nurged the consolidation of Brooklyn with New York on the ground that its\nmoral and civic influence would be a wholesome counteraction of Tammany\nand the tenement-house politics. For self-protection, I joined with my\nlamented brother, the late Dr. Storrs, in an effort to maintain our\nindependence. Ours is pre-eminently a city of homes where the bulk of\nthe people live in an undivided dwelling, and I do not believe that\nthere is another city either in America, or elsewhere, that contains\nover a million inhabitants, so large a proportion of whom are in a\nschool house during the week, and in God's house on the Sabbath.\n\n[Illustration: THE LAFAYETTE AVENUE CHURCH.]\n\nOne of the glories of Brooklyn is its vast and picturesque \"Prospect\nPark,\" with natural forests, hills and dales and its superb outlook over\nthe bay and ocean.\n\nI hope that it may not be a violation of propriety to say that the Park\nCommissioners in this city of my adoption bestowed my own name on a\npretty plot of ground not far from my residence; and its bright show of\nflowers makes it a constant delight to my neighbors. Last year some of\nmy fellow-townspeople made an exceedingly generous proposition to place\nthere a memorial statue; and I felt compelled to publish the following\nreply to an offer which quite transcended any claim that I could have to\nsuch an honor:\n\n     176 SOUTH OXFORD STREET, JUNE 12, 1901.\n\n     MESS JOHN N. BEACH, D.W. MCWILLIAMS, AND THOMAS T. BARR.\n\n     _My Dear Sirs_,\n\n     I have just received your kind letter in which you express the\n     desire of yourselves and of several of our prominent citizens that\n     I would consent to the erection of a \"Memorial in Cuyler Park\" to\n     be placed there by voluntary contributions of generous friends here\n     and elsewhere. Do not, I entreat you, regard me as indifferent to a\n     proposition whose motive affords the most profound and heartfelt\n     gratitude; but a work of art in bronze or marble, such as has been\n     suggested, that would be creditable to our city, would require an\n     outlay of money that I cannot conscientiously consent to have\n     expended for the purpose of personal honor rather than of public\n     utility. Several years ago the city authorities honored me by\n     giving my name to the attractive plot of ground at the junction of\n     Fulton and Greene Avenues. If my most esteemed friend, Park\n     Commissioner Brower, will kindly have my name visibly and\n     permanently affixed to that little park, and will direct that it be\n     always kept as bright and beautiful with flowers as it now is, I\n     shall be abundantly satisfied. I have been permitted to spend\n     forty-one supremely happy years in this city which I heartily love,\n     and for whose people I have joyfully labored; and while the\n     permanent fruits of these labors remain, I trust I shall not pass\n     out of all affectionate remembrance. A monument reared by human\n     hands may fade away; but if God has enabled me to engrave my humble\n     name on any living hearts, they will be the best monument; for\n     hearts live on forever. While declining the proffered honor, may I\n     ask you to convey my most sincere and cordial thanks to the kind\n     friends who have joined with you in this generous proposal, and,\n     with warm personal regard, I remain,\n\n     Yours faithfully,\n\n     THEODORE L. CUYLER.\n\nI cannot refrain here from thanking my old friend, Dr. St. Clair\nMcKelway, the brilliant editor of the _Brooklyn Eagle_, for his generous\ntribute which accompanied the publication of the above letter. His\ngrandfather, Dr. John McKelway, a typical Scotchman, was my family\nphysician and church deacon in the city of Trenton. Among the editorial\nfraternity let me also mention here the name of my near neighbor, Mr.\nEdward Gary, of the _New York Times_, who was with me in Fort Sumter,\nat the restoration of the flag, and with whom I have foregathered in\nmany a fertilizing conversation. Away off on the slope above beautiful\nStockbridge, and surrounded by his Berkshire Hills, Dr. Henry M. Field\nis spending the bright \"Indian summer\" of his long and honored career.\nFor forty years we held sweet fellowship in the columns of the _New York\nEvangelist_.\n\nThe experience of the great Apostle at Rome, who dwelt for nearly two\nyears in his \"hired house,\" has been followed by numberless examples of\nthe ministers of the Gospel who have had a migratory home life. My\nexperience under rented roofs led me to build, in 1865, this dwelling,\nwhich has housed our domestic life for seven and thirty years. A true\nhomestead is not a Jonah's gourd for temporary shelter from sun and\nstorm, it is a treasure house of accumulations. Many of its contents are\nprecious heirlooms; its apartments are thronged with memories of friends\nand kinsfolk living or departed. Every room has its scores of occupants,\nevery wall is gladdened with the visions of loved faces. I look into\nyonder guest chamber, and find my old friends, Governor Buckingham, and\nVice-President Wilson, who were ready to discuss the conditions of the\ntemperance reform which they had come to advocate. Down in the\ndining-room the \"Chi-Alpha\" Society of distinguished ministers are\nholding their Saturday evening symposium; in the parlor my Irish guest,\nthe Earl of Meath, is describing to me his philanthropies in London, and\nhis Countess is describing her organization of \"Ministering Children.\"\nIn the library, Whittier is writing at the table; or Mr. Fulton is\nnarrating his missionary work in China; out on the piazza my veteran\nneighbor, General Silas Casey, is telling the thrilling story of how he\nled our troops at the storming of the Heights of Chapultepec; up the\nsteps comes dear old John G. Paton, with his patriarchal white beard, to\nsay \"good-bye,\" before he goes back to his mission work in the New\nHebrides.\n\nNo room in our dwelling is more sacred than the one in which I now\nwrite. On its walls hang the portraits of my Princeton Professors, and\nthose of majestic Chalmers and the gnarled brow of Hugh Miller, the\nScotch geologist, the precious gifts of the author of \"Rab and His\nFriend.\" Near them is the bright face of dear Henry Drummond, looking\njust as he did on that stormy evening when he came into my library a few\nhours after his arrival from Scotland. I still recall his reply to me in\nEdinburgh, when I cautioned him against permitting his scientific\nstudies to unspiritualize his activities. \"Never you fear,\" said he, \"I\nam too busy in trying to save young men; and the only way to do that is\nto lead them to the Lord Jesus Christ,\" In former years this room was\nmy beloved mother's \"Chamber of Peace\" that opens to the sun-rising. Her\npictured face looks down upon me now from the wall, and her Bible lies\nbeside me. In this room we gathered on the afternoon of September 14,\n1887, around her dying bed. Her last words were: \"Now kiss me good\nnight,\" and in an hour or two she fell into that sweet slumber which\nChrist gives His beloved, at the ripe age of eighty-five. Her mental\npowers and memory were unimpaired. On the monument which covers her\nsleeping dust in Greenwood is engraved these words: \"Return unto thy\nrest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.\"\n\nThis room is also hallowed by another tenderly sacred association. Here\nour beloved daughter, Louise Ledyard Cuyler, closed her beautiful life\non the last day of September, 1881. On her return from Narragansett\nPier, she was stricken with a mysterious typhoid fever, which often lays\nits fatal touch on the most youthful and vigorous frame. She had\napparently passed the point of danger, and one Sabbath when I read to\nher that one hundred and twenty-first Psalm, which records the watchful\nlove of Him who \"never sleeps,\" our hearts were gladdened with the\nprospect of a speedy recovery. Then came on a fatal relapse; and in the\nearly hour of dawn, while our breaking hearts were gathered around her\ndying bed, she had \"another morn than ours.\" Why that noble and gifted\ndaughter, who was the inseparable companion of her fond mother, and who\nwas developing into the sweet graces of young womanhood, was taken from\nour clinging arms at the early age of twenty-two, God only knows. Many\nanother aching parental heart has doubtless knocked at the sealed door\nof such a mystery, and heard the only response, \"What I do thou knowest\nnot now, but thou shalt know hereafter.\" Upon the monument that bears\nher name, graven on a cross, amid a cluster of white lilies, is\ninscribed: \"I thank my God upon every remembrance of thee.\" The lovely\ntwin brother, \"Georgie\" (whose sweet life story is told in \"The Empty\nCrib\"), reposes in our same family plot, and beside him lies a baby\nbrother, Mathiot Cuyler, who lived but twelve days. As this infant was\nborn on the twenty-fifth of December, 1873, his tiny tomb-stone bears\nthe simple inscription: \"Our Christmas Gift.\"\n\nDuring all our seasons of domestic sorrow the cordial sympathies of our\nnoble-hearted congregation were very cheering; for we had always kept\nopen doors to them all, and regarded them as only an enlargement of our\nown family. In our household joys, they too, participated. When the\ntwenty-fifth anniversary of our marriage occurred, they decorated our\nchurch with flags and flowers and suspended a huge marriage-bell on an\narch before the pulpit. After the President of our Board of Trustees,\nthe Hon. William W. Goodrich, had completed his congratulatory address,\ntwo of the officers of the church in imitation of the returning spies\nfrom Eshcol marched in, \"bearing between them on a staff\" a capacious\nbag of silver dollars. A curiously constructed silver clock is also\namong the treasured souvenirs of that happy anniversary.\n\nIn April, 1885, the close of the first quarter-century of my ministry\nwas celebrated by our church with very delightful festivities. Addresses\nwere delivered by his Honor Mayor Low, Dr. McCosh, of Princeton, Dr.\nRichard S. Storrs, and the Hon. John Wanamaker, Post-Master General. A\nduodecimo volume giving the history of our church and all its activities\nwas published by order of our people.\n\nFrom such a loyal flock in the full tide of its prosperity, to cut\nasunder, required no small exercise of conscience and of courage. When\nthe patriarchal Dr. Emmons, of Franklin, Massachusetts, resigned his\nchurch at the age of eighty, he gave the good reason: \"I mean to stop\nwhen I have sense enough to know that I have not begun, to fail.\" In\nexercising the same grace, on a Sabbath morning in February, 1890, I\nmade before a full congregation the following announcement: \"Nearly\nthirty years have elapsed since I assumed the pastoral charge of the\nLafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church; and through the continual\nblessings of Heaven upon us it has grown into one of the largest and\nmost useful and powerful churches in the Presbyterian denomination. It\nhas two thousand three hundred and thirty members; and is third in point\nof numbers in the United States. This church has always been to me like\na beloved child: I have given to it thirty years of hard and happy\nlabor. It is now my foremost desire that its harmony may remain\nundisturbed, and that its prosperity may remain unbroken. For a long\ntime I have intended that my thirtieth anniversary should be the\nterminal point of my present pastorate I shall then have served this\nbeloved flock for an ordinary human generation, and the time has now\ncome to transfer this most sacred trust to some other, who, in God's\ngood Providence, may have thirty years of vigorous work before him, and\nnot behind him. If God spares my life to the first Sabbath in April, it\nis my purpose to surrender this pulpit back into your hands, and I shall\nendeavor to co-operate with you in the search and selection of the right\nman to stand in it. I will not trust myself to-day to speak of the pang\nit will cost me to sever a connection that has been to me one of\nunalloyed harmony and happiness. It only remains for me to say that\nafter forty-four years of uninterrupted mental labor it is but\nreasonable to ask for some relief from the strain that may soon become\ntoo heavy for me to bear.\"\n\nThe congregation was quite astounded by this unexpected announcement,\nbut they recognized the motive that prompted the step, and acted\nprecisely as I desired. They agreed at once to appoint a committee to\nlook for a successor. In order that I might not hamper him in any\nrespect, I declined the generous offer of our church to make me their\n\"Pastor Emeritus.\"\n\nAs my pastorate began on an Easter Sabbath, in 1860, so it terminated at\nthe Easter in 1890. Before an immense assemblage I delivered, on that\nbright Sabbath, the Valedictory discourse which closes the present\nvolume, and which gives in condensed form the history of the Lafayette\nAvenue Church.\n\nOur noble people never do anything by halves; and a few evenings after\nthe delivery of my valedictory discourse they gave to their pastor and\nhis wife a public reception, for which the church, lecture-room and the\nchurch parlors were profusely adorned; and were crowded with guests.\nCongratulatory addresses were delivered by Dr. John Hall of the Fifth\nAvenue Presbyterian Church, New York, by Professor William M. Paxton, of\nPrinceton Theological Seminary; and congratulatory letters were read\nfrom the venerable poet, Whittier, the Hon. William Walter Phelps, Mr.\nA.A. Low (the Mayor's father), General William H. Seward, Bishop Potter\nand Dr. Herrick Johnson, besides a vast number of others renowned in\nChurch and State. On behalf of the Brooklyn pastors an address was\npronounced by the Rev. Dr. L.T. Chamberlain, which was a rare gem of\nsparkling oratory. In his concluding passage he said: \"Nor in all these\nhave I for an instant forgotten the dual nature of that ministry, which\nhas been so richly blessed. I recall that in the prophet's symbolic act,\nhe took to himself two staves, the one was 'Beauty,' while the other was\n'Bands.' In the kingdom of grace and in the kingdom of nature,\nloveliness is ever the fit complement of strength. Accordingly, to her,\nwho has been the enthroned one in the heart, the light-giver in the\nhome, the beloved of the church, we tender our most fervent good wishes\nFor her also we lift on high our faithful, tender intercession. To each,\nto both, we give the renewed assurance of our abiding affection. God\ngrant that life's shadows may lengthen gently and slowly! Late, may you\nboth ascend to Heaven: long and happily may you abide with us here!\" The\nreport of the proceedings of that evening says that at this reference to\nthe \"dual\" character of his ministry, \"the veteran pastor sprang to his\nfeet and, seizing Dr. Chamberlain's hand, exclaimed; 'I thank you for\nthat, and the whole assembly's applause revealed its heartfelt\nsympathy.\" I had declined more than once, for good reasons, the kind\noffer of my generous flock to increase my salary, but, when on that\nevening that crowned my thirty years of labor, my dear neighbor and\nchurch elder, Mr. John N. Beach (on behalf of the congregation), put\ninto my hands a cheque for thirty thousand dollars, \"not as a charity\nbut as a token of our warm hearted grateful love,\" I could only say with\nthe Apostle Paul: \"I rejoice in the Lord that your care has _blossomed\nout afresh_\" (for this is the literal reading of the great apostle's\ngratitude).\n\nThe proceedings of that memorable evening were closed by a benediction\nby the Rev. Dr. Charles L. Thompson, then Moderator of our General\nAssembly and now the super-royal Secretary of our Board of Home\nMissions. The proceedings were afterwards compiled in a beautiful volume\nentitled \"A Thirty Years' Pastorate,\" by the good taste and literary\nskill of my beloved friend, the late Jacob L. Gossler.\n\nIn justice to myself, let me say that I have given this narrative of the\nclosing scenes of my pastoral labors, not, I trust, as a matter of\npersonal vain glory; but that good Christian people in our own land and\nin other lands may learn from the example of the Lafayette Avenue\nPresbyterian Church how to treat a pastor, whose simple aim has been,\nwith God's help, to do his duty.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\nLIFE AT HOME--AND FRIENDS ABROAD.\n\n\nA few months after my resignation, the Lafayette Avenue Church extended\nan unanimous call to the Rev. Dr. David Gregg, who had become\ndistinguished as a powerful preacher, and the successful pastor of the\nold, historic Park Street Church, of Boston. He is also widely known by\nhis published works, which display great vigor and beauty of style, and\na fervid spirituality. When Dr. Gregg came on to assume his office, I\nwas glad, not only to give him a hearty welcome, but to assure him that,\n\"as no one had ever come up into the pilot house to interfere with the\nhelmsman, so I would never lay my hand on the wheel that should steer\nthat superb vessel in all its future voyagings.\" From that day to this,\nmy relations with my beloved successor have been unspeakably fraternal\nand delightful. While I have left the entire official charge of the\nchurch in his hands, there have been many occasions on which we have\nco-operated in various pastoral duties among a flock that was equally\ndear to us both. Recently the Rev. George R. Lunn, a young minister of\nexceedingly attractive qualities both in the pulpit and in personal\nintercourse, has been installed as an assistant pastor. The divine\nblessing has constantly rested upon the noble old church, which has gone\nsteadily on, like a powerful ocean steamer, well-manned, well-equipped,\nwell-freighted, and well guided by the compass of God's infallible word.\nLast year the church rendered a signal service to the cause of Foreign\nMissions by erecting a \"David Gregg Hospital\" and a \"Theodore L. Cuyler\nChurch\" in Canton, China. They are both under the supervision of the\nRev. Albert A. Fulton, who went out to China from our Lafayette Avenue\nflock, and has been a most energetic and successful missionary for more\nthan twenty years.\n\nMy ministry at large has brought a needed rest, not by idleness, but by\na change in the character of my employment. Instead of a weekly\npreparation of sermons, has come the preparation of more frequent\ncontributions to the religious press. Instead of pastoral visitations\nhave been the journeyings to different churches, or colleges, and\nuniversities and Young Men's Christian Associations for preaching\nservices. I doubt whether any other dozen years of my life have been\nmore crowded with various activities. To my dear wife and myself have\ncome increased opportunities for travel, which have been, during the\nalmost half century of our happy wedded life, a constant source of\nenjoyment. We have journeyed together from Bar Harbor, in Maine, to\nCoronado Beach, in Southern California. We have traversed together the\nAdirondacks, the White Mountains and the Catskills, the prairies of\nDakota and the orange groves of Florida, the peerless parks of Del Monte\non the shores of the Pacific, and the \"Royal Gorge\" in the heart of the\nRocky Mountain Range. Our various trips to Europe have photographed on\nour hearts the memories of many dear friends and faces, some of whom,\nalas! have vanished into the unseen world. In the summer of 1889, when\nwe were at Ayr, the late Mr. Alexander Allan, came down for us in his\nfine steam yacht, the _Tigh-na-Mara_, and took us up to his hospitable\n\"Hafton House\" on the Holy Loch, a few miles below Glasgow. For several\ndays he gave us yachting excursions through Loch Goil, and the Kyles of\nBute, and Loch Long, with glimpses of Ben-Lomond and other monarchs of\nthe Highlands. When we saw the gorgeous purple garniture of heather in\nfull bloom, we no longer wondered that Sir Walter Scott was quite\nsatisfied to have his beloved hills devoid of forests.\n\nAnother memorable visit of that summer was to Chillitigham Castle in\nNorthumberland, from whose towers we got views of Flodden Field and the\nscenes of \"Marmion.\" The venerable Earl of Tankerville (who was a\ncontemporary and supporter of Sir Robert Peel in Parliament), and his\nwarm-hearted Countess, who has long been a leader in various Christian\nphilanthropies, entertained us delightfully within walls that had stood\nfor six centuries. In a forest near the Castle were the famous herd of\nwild cattle which are the only survivors of the original herd that\nroamed that region in the days of William the Conqueror. They are\nbeautiful white creatures, still too wild to be approached very nearly;\nand Sir Edwin Landseer, an old friend of the Earl, has preserved\nlife-sized portraits of two of them on the walls of the lofty dining\nhall of the castle. When the servants, gardeners and other retainers\nassembled for morning worship in the chapel, the handsome old Earl\npresided at the melodeon, and the singing was from our American Sankey's\nhymn-book, a style of music that would have startled the belted knights\nand barons bold who worshipped in that chapel five centuries ago.\n\nWhile at Dundee, as the guests of Mr. Alexander H. Moncur, the\nEx-provost of the city, I had the satisfaction of preaching in St.\nPeters Presbyterian Church, whose pastor, sixty years ago, was that\nideal minister, Robert Murray McCheyne. The Bible from which he\ndelivered his seraphic sermons was still lying on the pulpit. When I\nasked a plain woman, the wife of a weaver, what she could tell me about\nhis discourses, her remarkable reply was: \"It did me more good just to\nsee Mr. McCheyne walk from the door to his pulpit than to hear any other\nman in Dundee.\" A fine tribute, that, to the power of a Christly\npersonality. A sermon in shoes is often more eloquent and\nsoul-convincing than a sermon on paper. I spent a very pleasant hour\nwith sturdy John Bright, and he told me that he had more relatives\nliving in America than in England. His reason for declining the\ninvitation of our government to visit the United States was that he knew\ntoo well what our enthusiastic countrymen had in store for him. The\nseparation of Bright and Gladstone on the question of Irish Home Rule\nhad a certain tragic element of sadness. When I spoke of this to Mr.\nGladstone, the old statesman of Hawarden tenderly replied: \"Whenever I\nthink now of my dear old friend, I always think only of those days when\nwe were in our warmest fellowship\" Among the many other recollections of\nforeign incidents I must mention a very delightful luncheon at Athens\nwith Dr. Schlieman in his superb house which was filled with the\ntrophies of his exploration of the Troad and Mycenae. I found him a most\ngenial man; and he told me that he had never surrendered his American\ncitizenship, acquired in 1850. It was very amusing to hear him and his\nGrecian wife address their children as \"Agamemnon\" and \"Andromache\" and\nI half expected to see Plato drop in for a chat, or Euripides call with\nan invitation to witness a rehearsal of the \"Medea.\" Athens is to me the\nmost satisfactory of all the restored cities of antiquity, every relic\nthere is so indisputably genuine. My sunrise view from the Parthenon was\na fair match for a midnight view I once had of Olivet and Gethsemane.\n\nI cannot close these recollections of foreign friends without making\nmention of the late Mr. William Tweedie and his successor the late Mr.\nRobert Rae, the efficient Secretaries of the National Temperance League\n(of which Archbishop Temple has long been the President). They rendered\nme endless acts of kindness, and at their anniversary meetings I met\nmany of the most prominent advocates of the temperance reform in Great\nBritain. It gives me a sharp pang to recall the fact that of all the\nleaders whom I met at those meetings, the gallant Sir Wilfred Lawson and\nMr. Caine are almost the only survivors.\n\nReturning now to the scenes of our happy home life I should be\ncriminally neglectful if I failed to give even a brief account of the\ngratifying incidents connected with the recent commemoration of my\neightieth birthday. Reluctant as I was to quit the _good Society of the\nSeventies_, the transition into four-score was lubricated by so many\nloving kindnesses that I scarcely felt a jolt or a jar. During the whole\nmonth of January a steady shower of congratulatory letters poured in\nfrom all parts of the land and from beyond sea, so that I was made to\nrealize the poet Wordsworth's modest confession:\n\n   \"I've heard of hearts unkind kind deeds\n     With coldness still returning,\n   Alas, the gratitude of men\n     Has oftener left me mourning.\"\n\nIn anticipation of the event Mrs. Houghton, the editor of the _New York\nEvangelist_, to which I have been so long a contributor, issued a\n\"Birthday Number\" containing the most kindly expressions from\nrepresentatives of different Christian denominations, and officers of\nvarious benevolent societies, and from representative men in secular\naffairs, like Mr. Andrew Carnegie, Mr. Jesup, General Woodford, the Hon.\nMr. Coombs, Dr. St. Clair McKelway, and others. On the afternoon of\nJanuary 9th, the National Temperance Society honored me with a reception\nat their Publication House in New York, which was attended by many\neminent citizens and clergymen, and \"honorable women not a few.\" Letters\nand telegrams from many quarters were read and an eloquent address was\npronounced by Mr. Joshua L. Bailey, the President of the Society. The\nevening of my birthday, the 10th of January, was spent in our own\nhome, which was in full bloom with an immense profusion of flowers, and\nenriched with beautiful gifts from many generous hearts. For three hours\nit was the \"joy unfeigned\" of my family and myself to grasp again the\nwarm hands of our faithful Lafayette Avenue flock, and of my Brooklyn\nneighbors who had for two-score years gladdened our lives, as the Great\nApostle was gladdened by his loyal friends at Thessalonica.\n\n[Illustration: DR CUYLER AT 80]\n\n[From a photograph, January, 1902]\n\nOn Saturday evening the 11th, the \"Chi Alpha\" Society of New York, the\noldest and most widely known of clerical brotherhoods, gave me their\nfraternal greetings at the residence of the venerable Mrs. William E.\nDodge, now blessed with unimpaired vigor, in the golden autumn of a life\nprotracted beyond four-score and ten. The walls of that hospitable\nmansion on Murray Hill have probably welcomed more persons eminent in\nthe religious activities of our own and other lands than any other\nprivate residence in America. Brief speeches were made; a beautiful\n\"address\" was presented, which now, embossed and framed, adorns the\nwalls of my library. After this the Rev. Charles Lemuel Thompson, an\nEx-moderator of our General Assembly, and now the Secretary of the Board\nof Home Missions, read the following ringing lines which he had composed\non behalf of my fellow voyagers on many a cruise and in many a conflict\nfor our adorable Lord and King. My only apology for introducing them\nhere is their rare poetic merit which entitles them to a more permanent\nplace than in the many journals in which they were reprinted. I ought to\nadd that \"Croton\" is the name of the river and the reservoir that supply\nNew York with its wholesome water:\n\n   _OUR CAPTAIN_.\n\n   Fill--fill up your glasses--with Croton!\n     Fill full to the brim I say,\n   For the dearest old boy among us,\n     Who is ten times eight to-day.\n\n   It is three times three and a tiger--\n     It is hand to your caps, O men!\n   For our Captain of captains rejoices,\n     In his counting of eight times ten.\n\n   Foot square on the bridge and gripping\n     As steady as fate the wheel,\n   He has taken the storms to his forehead,\n     And cheered in the tempest's reel.\n\n   He has seen the green sea monsters\n     Go writhing down the gale,\n   But never a hand to slacken,\n     And never a heart to fail.\n\n   So It's--Ho'--to our Captain dauntless,\n     Trumpet-tongued and eagle-eyed,\n   With the spray of the voyage behind him,\n     And the Pilot by his side.\n\n   Together they sail into sunset--\n     Slow down for the harbor bell,\n   For the flash of the port, and the message\n     \"Well done\"---It is well--It is well.\n\n   So it's three times three and a tiger!\n     Breathe deep for the man we love,\n   His heart is the heart of a lion,\n     His soul is the soul of a dove.\n\n   It is--Ho!--to the Captain we honor,\n     Salute we the man and the day,\n   On his brow are the snows of December,\n     In his heart are the bird songs of May.\n\nThe Scripture passage from which I discoursed on the next Sabbath\nmorning, January 12th, in our Lafayette Avenue Church pulpit--\"At\nevening time it shall be light\"--seems especially appropriate to an\nautobiography penned at a time when the life-day is already far spent.\nThere are some people who have a pitiful dread of old age. For myself,\ninstead of it being a matter of sorrow or of pain, it is rather an\noccasion of profound joy that God has enabled me to write in my family\nrecord \"Four score years.\" The October of life may be one of the most\nfruitful months in all its calendar; and the \"Indian summer\" its\nbrightest period when God's sunshine kindles every leaf on the tree\nwith crimson and golden glories. Faith grows in its tenacity of fibre by\nthe long continued exercise of testing God, and trusting His promises.\nThe veteran Christian can turn over the leaves of his well-worn Bible\nand say: \"This Book has been my daily companion; I know all about this\npromise and that one and that other one; for I have tried them for\nmyself, I have a great pile of cheques which my Heavenly Father has\ncashed with gracious blessings.\" Bunyan brings his Pilgrim, not into a\nsecond infant school where they may sit down in imbecility, or loiter in\nidleness; he brings them into Beulah Land, where the birds fill the air\nwith music; and where they catch glimpses of the Celestial City. They\nare drawing nearer to the end of their long journey and beyond that\nriver, that has no bridge, looms up the New Jerusalem in all its\nflashing splendors.\n\nIn a previous chapter I have told the story of our bereavement when God\ntook three of our precious children to Himself; but to-day we can chant\nthe twenty-third Psalm, for the overflowing cup of mercies that sweeten\nour home, and for the two loving children that are spared to us. Our\neldest daughter, Mary, is the wife of Dr. William S. Cheeseman, an\neminent physician in the beautiful city of Auburn, the County-seat of my\nnative County of Cayuga. It is the site of one of our principal\nTheological Seminaries, from which have graduated many of the foremost\nministers in our Presbyterian denomination. One of the earliest\nprofessors of that institution was the revered Dr. Henry Mills, who\nbaptized me in my infancy. Auburn is also well known as the residence of\nour celebrated statesman William H. Seward, who was Secretary of State\nunder President Lincoln. From the window of my daughter's home I look\nover at the summer house in which that illustrious patriot meditated\nsome of his state papers; and just beyond is the bronze statue reared to\nhis memory. Our only living son, Theodore Ledyard Cuyler, Jr., the\nsurviving twin brother of \"little Georgie,\" fills an honorable position\nas an officer of the Postal Telegraph and Cable Company in New York.\nSince the death of his lovely young wife, several years ago, he has\nresided with us, and his only son, \"Ledyard,\" is the joy of his\ngrandparents' hearts. The sister and niece of my wife complete our\nhousehold--and our happiness.\n\nMy journey hence to the sun-setting must be brief at the farthest. I\nonly ask to live just as long as God has any work for me to do--and not\none moment longer. I do not seek to measure with this hand how high the\nsun of life may yet be above the horizon; but when it does go down, may\nmy closing eyes behold the bright effulgence of Heaven's blessings upon\nyonder glorious sanctuary, and its faithful flock. After my long day's\nwork for the Master is over, and this mortal body has been put to sleep\nin yonder beautiful dormitory of \"Greenwood\" by the sea, I desire that\nthe inscription that shall be written over my slumbering dust may be,\n\"The Founder of Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\nTHE JOYS OF THE CHRISTIAN MINISTRY.\n\n_A Valedictory Discourse Delivered to the Lafayette Avenue Church,\nApril_ 6, 1890.\n\n\nI invite your attention this morning to the nineteenth and twentieth\nverses of the second chapter of Paul's Epistle to the Thessalonians:\n\n   \"For what is our hope, or joy, or crown of rejoicing?\n   Are not even ye in the presence of our Lord Jesus Christ\n   at His coming? For ye are our glory and joy.\"\n\nThese words were written by the most remarkable man in the annals of the\nChristian Church. Great interest is attached to them from the fact that\nthey are part of the first inspired epistle that Paul ever wrote. Nay,\nmore. The letter to the Church of Thessalonica is probably the earliest\nas to date of all the books of the New Testament. Paul was then at\nCorinth, about fifty-two years old, in the full vigor of his splendid\nprime. His spiritual son, Timothy, brings him tidings from the infant\nchurch in Thessalonica, that awakens his solicitude. He yearns to go\nand see them, but he cannot; so he determines to write to them; and one\nday he lays aside his tent needle, seizes his pen, and, when that pen\ntouches the papyrus sheet the New Testament begins. The Apostle's great,\nwarm heart kindles and blazes as he goes on, and at length bursts out in\nthis impassioned utterance: \"Ye are my glory and joy!\"\n\nPaul, I thank thee for a thousand things, but for nothing do I thank\nthee more than for that golden sentence. In these thrilling words, the\ngreatest of Christian pastors, rising above the poverty, homelessness,\nand scorn that surrounded him, reaches forth his hand and grasps his\nroyal diadem. No man shall rob the aged hero of his crown. No chaplet\nworn by a Roman conqueror in the hour of his brightest triumph, rivals\nthe coronal that Pastor Paul sees flashing before his eyes. It is a\ncrown blazing with stars; every star an immortal soul plucked from the\ndarkness of sin into the light and liberty of a child of God. Poor, is\nhe? He is making many rich. Despised is he? He wouldn't change places\nwith Caesar. Homeless is he? His citizenship is in heaven, where he will\nfind myriads whom he can meet and say to them: \"Ye, ye are my glory and\njoy.\" Sixteen centuries after Paul uttered these words, John Bunyan\nre-echoed them when he said:\n\n\"I have counted as if I had goodly buildings in the places where my\nspiritual children were born. My heart has been so wrapt up in this\nexcellent work that I accounted myself more honored of God than if He\nhad made me emperor of all the world, or the lord of all the glory of\nthe earth without it. He that converteth a sinner from the error of his\nways doth save a soul from death, and they that be wise shall shine as\nthe brightness of the firmament.\"\n\nNow, the great Apostle expressed what every ambassador of Christ\nconstantly experiences when in the thick of the Master's work. His are\nthe joys of acquisition. His purse may be scanty, his teaching may be\nhumble, and the field of his labor may be so obscure that no bulletins\nof his achievements are ever proclaimed to an admiring world.\nDifficulties may sadden and discouragement bring him to his knees; but I\ntell you that obscure, toiling man of God has a joy vouchsafed to him\nthat a Frederick or a Marlborough never knew on the field of bloody\ntriumph, or that a Rothschild never dreams of in his mansions of\nsplendor, nor an Astor with his stores of gold. Every nugget of fresh\ntruth discovered makes him happier than one who has found golden spoil.\nEvery attentive auditor is a delight; every look of interest on a human\ncountenance flashes back to illuminate his own. Above all, when the\ntears of penitence course down a cheek and a returning soul is led by\nhim to the Saviour, there is great joy in heaven over a repentant\nwanderer, and a joy in that minister's heart too exquisite to utter.\nThen he is repaid in full measure, pressed down, running over into his\nbosom.\n\nConverted souls are jewels in the caskets of faithful parents, teachers\nand pastors. They shall flash in the diadem which the Righteous Judge\nshall give them in that great day. Ah! it is when an ambassador of\nChrist sees an army of young converts and listens to the first\nutterances of their new-born love, and when he presides at a communion\ntable and sees his spiritual off-spring gathered around him, more true\njoy that faithful pastor feels than \"Caesar with a Senate at his heels.\"\nRutherford, of Scotland, only voiced the yearnings of every true\npastor's heart when he exclaimed: \"Oh, how rich were I if I could obtain\nof my Lord the salvation of you all! What a prey had I gotten to have\nyou all caught in Christ's net. My witness is above, that your heaven\nwould be the two heavens to me, and the salvation of you all would be\ntwo salvations to me.\"\n\nYet, my beloved people, when I recall the joy of my forty-four years of\npublic ministry I often shudder at the fact of how near I came to losing\nit. For very many months my mind was balancing between the pulpit and\nthe attractions of a legal and political career. A single hour in a\nvillage prayer-meeting turned the scale. But perhaps behind it all a\nbeloved mother's prayers were moving the mysterious hand that touched\nthe poised balance, and made souls outweigh silver, and eternity\noutweigh time.\n\nWould that I could lift up my voice this morning in every academy,\ncollege and university on this broad continent. I would say to every\ngifted Christian youth, \"God and humanity have need of you.\" He who\nredeemed you by His precious blood has a sovereign right to the best\nbrains and the most persuasive tongues and the highest culture. Why\ncrowd into the already over-crowded professions? The only occupation in\nAmerica that is not overdone is the occupation of serving Jesus Christ\nand saving souls. I do not affirm that a Christian cannot serve his\nMaster in any other sphere or calling than the Gospel ministry, but I do\naffirm that the ambition for worldly gains and worldly honors is\nsluicing the very heart of God's Church, and drawing out to-day much of\nthe Church's best blood in their greedy outlets. And I fearlessly\ndeclare that when the most splendid talent has reached the loftiest\nround on the ladder of promotion, that round is many rungs lower than a\npulpit in which a consecrated tongue proclaims a living Christianity to\na dying world. What Lord Eldon from the bar, what Webster from the\nSenate-chamber, what Sir Walter Scott from the realms of romance, what\nDarwin from the field of science, what monarch from Wall Street or\nLombard Street can carry his laurels or his gold up to the judgment seat\nand say, \"These are my joy and crown?\" The laurels and the gold will be\ndust--ashes. But if so humble a servant of Jesus Christ as your pastor\ncan ever point to the gathered flock arrayed in white before the\ncelestial throne, then he may say, \"What is my hope, or joy, or crown of\nrejoicing. Are not even ye in the presence of Christ at His coming?\"\n\nGood friends, I have told you what aspirations led me to the pulpit as a\nplace in which to serve my Master; and I thank Christ, the Lord, for\nputting me into the ministry. The forty-four years I have spent in that\noffice have been unspeakably happy. Many a far better man has not been\nas happy from causes beyond control. He may have had to contend with\nfeeble health as I never have; or a despondent temperament, as I never\nhave; or have struggled to maintain a large household on a slender\npurse; he may have been placed in a stubborn field, where the Gospel was\nshattered to pieces on flinty hearts. From all such trials a kind\nProvidence has delivered your pastor.\n\nMy ministry began in a very small church. For that I am thankful. Let no\nyoung minister covet a large parish at the outset. The clock that is not\ncontent to strike one will never strike twelve. In that little parish\nat Burlington, N.J., I had opportunity for the two most valuable studies\nfor any minister--God's Book and individual hearts. My next call was to\norganize and serve an infant church in Trenton, N.J., and for that I am\nthankful. Laying the foundation of a new church affords capital tuition\nin spiritual masonry, and the walls of that church have stood firm and\nsolid for forty years. The crowning mercy of my Trenton ministry was\nthis, that one Sunday while I was watering the flock, a goodlier vision\nthan that of Rebecca appeared at the well's mouth, and the sweet\nsunshine of that presence has never departed from the pathway of my\nlife. To this hour the prosaic old capital of New Jersey has a halo of\npoetry floating over it, and I never go through it without waving a\nbenediction from the passing train.\n\nThe next stage of my life's work was a seven years' pastorate of Market\nStreet Church in the city of New York. To those seven years of hard and\nhappy labor I look back with joy. The congregation swarmed with young\nmen, many of whom have risen to prominence in the commercial and\nreligious life of the great metropolis. The name of Market Street is\ngraven indelibly on my heart. I rejoice that the quaint old edifice\nstill stands and welcomes every Sabbath a congregation of landsmen and\nof sailors. During the year 1858 occurred the great revival, when a\nmighty wind from Heaven filled every house where the people of God were\nsitting, and the glorious work of that revival kept many of us busy for\nsix months, night and day.\n\nEarly in the year 1860 a signal was made to me from this side of the\nEast River. It came from a brave little band then known as the Park\nPresbyterian Church, who had never had any installed pastor. The signal\nat first was unheeded; but a higher than human hand seemed to be behind\nit, and I had only to obey. That little flock stood like the man of\nMacedonia, saying, \"Come over and help us,\" and after I had seen the\nvision immediately I decided to come, assuredly concluding that God had\ncalled me to preach the Gospel unto them.\n\nThis morning my memory goes back to that chilly, stormy April Sunday\nwhen my labors began as your first pastor. About two hundred and fifty\npeople, full of grace and grit, gathered on that Easter morning to see\nhow God could roll away stones that for two years had blocked their path\nwith discouragement. My first message many of you remember. It was, \"I\ndetermined not to know anything among you save Jesus Christ and Him\ncrucified.\" Of that little company the large majority has departed. Many\nof them are among the white-robed that now behold their risen Lord in\nglory. Of the seventeen church officers--elders, deacons and\ntrustees--then in office, who greeted me that day, only four are living,\nand of that number only one, Mr. Albion P. Higgins, is now a member of\nthis congregation. I wonder how many there are here this morning that\ngathered before my pulpit on that Easter Sunday thirty years ago? As\nmany of you as there are present that were at that service thirty years\nago will do me a favor if you will rise in your pews.\n\n(Thirteen people here stood up.)\n\nGod bless you! If it hadn't been for you this ark would never have been\nbuilt.\n\nAh! we had happy days in that modest chapel. The tempest of civil war\nwas raging, with Lincoln's steady hand at the helm. We got our share of\nthe gale; but we set our storm-sails, and every one that could handle\nropes stood at his or her place. Just think of the money contributions\nthat small church made during the first year of my pastorate--$20,000,\nnot in paper, but in gold. The little band in that chapel was not only\ngenerous in donations but valiant in spirit, and it was under the\ngracious shower of a revival that we removed into this edifice on the\n16th of March, 1862.\n\nThe subsequent history of the church was published so fully at the\nnotable anniversary five years ago that I need only repeat the chief\nhead-lines in a very few sentences. In 1863 Mr. William Wickes started a\nmission school, which afterward grew into the present Cumberland Street\nChurch. In 1866 occurred that wonderful work of grace that resulted in\nthe addition of 320 souls to our membership, one hundred of them heads\nof families. As a thank-offering to God for that rich blessing the\nMemorial Mission School was established, which was soon organized into\nthe Memorial Presbyterian Church, now on Seventh Avenue, under the\nexcellent pastorate of my Brother Nelson. During the winter of 1867 a\nconference of gentlemen was held in yonder study which set on foot the\npresent Classon Avenue Church, where my Brother Chamberlain administers\nequally satisfactorily. Olivet Mission was organized in 1874. It will\nalways be fragrant with the memory of Horace B. Griffing, its first\nsuperintendent. The Cuyler Chapel was opened on Atlantic Avenue in\nMarch, 1886, by our Young People's Association, who are maintaining it\nmost vigorously. The little Corwin Mission on Myrtle Avenue was\nestablished by a member of the church to perpetuate his name, and is\nlargely sustained by members of this church.\n\nOf all the efficient, successful labors of the Lafayette Avenue\nTemperance Society, the Women's Home and Foreign Missionary Society,\ntheir Benevolent Society, the Cuyler Mission Band, the Daughters of the\nTemple, and other kindred organizations. I have no time or place to\nspeak this morning. But I must repeat now what I have said in years\npast, that the two strong arms of this church are its Sunday School and\nits Young People's Association. The former has been kept well up to the\nideal of such an institution. It is that of a training school of young\nhearts for this life and for the life to come. God's blessing has\ndescended upon it like the morning dew. Of the large number of children\nthat have been enrolled in its classes 730 have been received into\nmembership with this church alone, and to the profession of faith in\nChrist--to say nothing of those who have joined elsewhere. Warmly do I\nthank and heartily do I congratulate our beloved brother, Daniel W.\nMcWilliams, and his faithful group of teachers, and the Superintendent\nof the primary department and her group of assistants, on the seal which\nGod has set upon their loving work. They contemplate the long array of\nchildren whom they have guided to Jesus; and they, too, can exclaim,\n\"What is our joy or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye in the Lord?\"\n\nIf the Sunday School has rendered good service, so has the well-drilled\nand well-watered Young People's Association. The fires of devotion have\nnever gone out on the altar of their Monday evening gatherings. For\nlength of days and number of membership combined, probably it surpasses\nall similar young people's associations in our country. About three\nthousand names have been on its membership roll, and of this number\ntwelve have set their faces toward the Gospel ministry. Oh, what a\nsource of joy to me that I leave that association in such a high\ncondition of vigor and prosperity! No church can languish, no church can\ndie, while it has plenty of young blood in its veins.\n\nWhat has been the outcome of these thirty years of happy pastorate? As\nfar as the results can be tabulated the following is a brief\nsummary:--During my pastorate here I have preached about 2,750\ndiscourses, have delivered a very large number of public addresses in\nbehalf of Sunday Schools, Young Men's Associations, the temperance\nreform, and kindred enterprises for advancing human welfare. I have\nofficiated at 682 marriages. I have baptized 962 children. The total\nnumber received into the membership of this church during this time has\nbeen 4,223. Of this number 1,920 have united by a confession of their\nfaith in Jesus Christ. An army, you see, an army of nearly two thousand\nsouls, have enlisted under the banner of King Jesus, and taken their\n\"sacramentum,\" or vow of loyalty, before this pulpit. What is our crown\nof rejoicing? Are not even they in the presence of Christ at His\ncoming?\n\nIt is due to you that I should commend your liberality in gifts to God's\ntreasury. During these thirty years over $640,000 have been contributed\nfor ecclesiastical and benevolent purposes, and about $700,000 for the\nmaintenance of the sanctuary, its worship, and its work. Over a million\nand a quarter of dollars have passed through these two channels. The\nsuccessive boards of trustees have managed our financial affairs\ncarefully and efficiently. The architecture of this noble edifice is not\ndisfigured by any mortgage. I hope it never will be.\n\nThere is one department of ministerial labor that has had a peculiar\nattraction to me and afforded me peculiar joy. Pastoral work has always\nbeen my passion. It has been my rule to know everybody in this\ncongregation, if possible, and seldom have I allowed a day to pass\nwithout a visit to some of your homes. I fancied that you cared more to\nhave a warm-hearted pastor than a cold-blooded preacher, however\nintellectual. To carry out thoroughly a system of personal oversight, to\nvisit every family, to stand by the sick and dying beds, to put one's\nself into sympathy with aching hearts and bereaved households, is a\nprocess that has swallowed up time, and I tell you it has strained the\nnerves prodigiously. Costly as the process has been, it has paid. If I\nhave given sermons to you, I have got sermons from you. The closest tie\nthat binds us together is that sacred tie that has been wound around the\ncribs in your nurseries, the couches in your sick chambers, the chairs\nat your fireside, and even the coffins that have borne away your\nprecious dead. My fondest hope is that however much you may honor and\nlove my successor in this pulpit, you will evermore keep a warm place in\nthe chimney-corner of your hearts for the man that gave the best thirty\nyears of his life to your service.\n\nHere let me bespeak for my successor the most kind and reasonable\nallowance as to pastoral labors. Do not expect too much from him. Very\nfew ministers have the peculiar passion for pastoral service that I have\nhad; and if Christ's ambassador who shall occupy this pulpit proclaims\nfaithfully the whole Gospel of God and brings a sympathetic heart to\nyour houses, do not criticize him unjustly because he may not attempt to\nmake twenty-five thousand pastoral visits in thirty years. House to\nhouse visitation has only been one hemisphere of the pastor's work. I\nhave accordingly endeavored to guard the door of yonder study so that I\nmight give undivided energy to preparation for this pulpit.\n\nYou know, my dear people, how I have preached and what I have preached.\nIn spite of many interruptions, I have honestly handled each topic as\nbest I could. The minister that foolishly runs races with himself is\ndoomed to an early suicide. All that I claim for my sermons is that they\nhave been true to God's Book and the cross of Jesus Christ--have been\nsimple enough for a child to understand, and have been preached in full\nview of the judgment seat. I have aimed to keep this pulpit abreast of\nall great moral reforms and human progress, and the majestic marchings\nof the kingdom of King Jesus. The preparation of my sermons has been an\nunspeakable delight. The manna fell fresh every morning, and it had to\nme the sweetness of angels' food. Ah, there are many sharp pangs before\nme. None will be sharper than the hour that bids farewell to yonder\nblessed and beloved study. For twenty-eight years it has been my daily\nhome--one of the dearest spots this side of Heaven. From its walls have\nlooked down upon me the inspiring faces of Chalmers, Charles Wesley,\nSpurgeon, Lincoln and Gladstone; Adams, Storrs, Guthrie, Newman Hall,\nand my beloved teachers, Charles Hodge and the Alexanders of Princeton.\nThither your infant children have been brought on Sabbath mornings,\nawaiting their baptism. Thither your older children have come by\nhundreds to converse with me about the welfare of their souls. Thither\nhave come all the candidates for admission to the fellowship of this\nchurch, and have made there their confession of faith and their\nallegiance to Christ. Oh, what blessed interviews with inquirers have\nbeen held there! What sweet and happy fellowship with my successive\nbands of helpers, some of whom have joined the general assembly of the\nredeemed in glory. That hallowed study has been to me sometimes a Bochim\nof tears, and sometimes a Hermon, when the vision was of no man save\nJesus only. And the work there has been a wider one for a far wider\nmultitude than these walls contain this morning. I have written there\nnearly all the hundreds of articles which have gone out through the\nreligious press, over this country, over Great Britain, over Europe,\nover Australia, Canada, India, and New Zealand. During my ministry I\nhave published about 3,200 of these articles. Many of them have been\ngathered into books, many of them translated into Swedish, Spanish,\nDutch, and other foreign tongues. They have made the scratch of a very\nhumble pen audible to Christendom. The consecrated pen may be more\npowerful than the consecrated tongue. I devoutly thank God for having\ncondescended to use my humble pen to the spread of his Gospel; and I\npurpose with His help to spend much of the brief remainder of my life in\npreaching His glorious Gospel through the press.\n\nI am sincerely sorry that the necessities of this hour seem to require\nso personal a discourse this morning; but I must hide behind the\nexample of the great Apostle who gave me my text. Because He reviewed\nHis ministry among His spiritual children of Thessalonica, I may be\nallowed to review my own, too--standing here this morning under such\npeculiar circumstances. These thirty years have been to me years of\nunbounded joy. Sorrow I have had, when death paid four visits to my\nhouse; but the sorrow taught sympathy with the grief of others. Sins I\nhave committed--too many of them; your patient love has never cast a\nstone. The faults of my ministry have been my own. The successes of my\nministry have been largely due under God, to your co-operation, and,\nabove all, to the amazing goodness of our Heavenly Father. Looking my\nlong pastorate squarely in the face, I think I can honestly say that I\nhave been no man's man; I have never courted the rich, nor wilfully\nneglected the poor; I have never blunted the sword of the Spirit lest it\nshould cut your consciences, or concealed a truth that might save a\nsoul. In no large church is there a perfect unanimity of tastes as to\npreaching. I do not doubt that there are some of you that are quite\nready for the experiment of a new face in this pulpit, and perhaps there\nmay be some who are lusting after the fat quail of elaborate or\nphilosophic discourse. For thirty years I have tried to feed you on\n\"nothing but manna.\" Whatever the difference of taste, you have always\nstood by me, true as steel. This has been your spiritual home; and you\nhave loved your home, and you have drunk every Sunday from your own\nwell, and though the water of life has not always been passed up to you\nin a richly embossed silver cup, it has drawn up the undiluted Gospel\nfrom the inspired fountain-head. To hear the truth, to heed the truth,\nto \"back\" the truth with prayer and toil, has been the delight of the\nstanchest members of this church. Oh, the children of this church are\ninexpressibly dear to me! There are hundreds here to-day that never had\nany other home, nor ever knew any other pastor. I think I can say that\n\"every baptism has baptized us into closer fellowship, every marriage\nhas married us into closer union, every funeral that bore away your\nbeloved dead, only bound us more strongly to the living.\" Every\ninvitation from another church--and I have had some very attractive ones\nthat I never told you about--every invitation from another church has\nalways been promptly declined; for I long ago determined never to be\npastor of any other than Lafayette Avenue Church.\n\nWhat is my joy or crown of rejoicing? Are not even ye--ye--in the\npresence of Christ at His coming? Why, then, sunder a tie that is bound\nto every fibre of my inmost heart? I will answer you frankly. There must\nbe no concealment or false pretexts between us. In the first place, as\nI told you two months ago, I had determined to make my thirtieth\nanniversary the terminal point of my present pastorate. I determined not\nto outstay my fullest capacity for the enormous work demanded here. The\nextent of that demanded work increases every twelve months. The\nrequirements of preaching twice every Sunday, to visit the vast number\nof families directly connected with this church, attending funeral\nservices, conferring with committees about Christian work of various\nkinds, and numberless other duties--all these requirements are\nprodigious. Thus far, by the Divine help, I have carried that load. My\nhealth to-day is as firm as usual; and I thank God that such forces of\nheart and brain as He has given me are unabated. The chronic catarrh\nthat long ago muffled my ears to many a strain of sweet music, has never\nmade me too deaf to hear the sweet accents of your love. But I\nunderstand my constitution well enough to know that I could not carry\nthe undivided load of this great church a great while longer without the\nrisk of breaking down; and there must be no risk run with you or with\nmyself. I also desire to assist you in transferring this magnificent\nvessel to the next pilot whom God shall appoint; and I wish to transfer\nit while it is well-manned, well-equipped, and on the clear sea of an\nunbroken financial and spiritual prosperity. No man shall ever say that\nI so far presumed on the generous kindness of this dear church as to\nlinger here until I had outlived my usefulness.\n\nFor these reasons I present to-day my resignation of this sacred,\nprecious charge. It is my honest desire and purpose that this day must\nterminate my present pastorate. For presenting this resignation I alone\nam responsible before God, before this church and before the world. When\nyou shall have accepted my resignation, the whole responsibility for the\nwelfare of this beloved church will rest on your shoulders--not on mine.\nMy earnest prayer is that you may soon be directed to the right man to\nbe your minister, to one who shall unite all hearts and all hands, and\ncarry forward the high and holy mission to which God has called you. He\nwill find in me not a jealous critic, but a hearty ally in everything\nthat he may regard for the welfare of this church.\n\nAs for myself I do not propose to sit down on the veranda and watch the\nsun of life wheel downward in the west. The labors of a pen and of a\nministry at large will afford me no lack of employment. The welfare of\nthis church is inexpressibly dear to me--nothing is dearer to me this\nside of heaven. If, therefore, while this flock remains shepherdless,\nand in search of my successor, I can be of actual service to you in\nsupplying at any time this pulpit or performing pastoral labor, that\nservice, beloved, shall be performed cheerfully.\n\nThe first thought, the only thought with all of us, is this church,\n_this church_, THIS CHURCH. I call no man my friend, you must call no\nman your friend that does not stand by the interests of Lafayette Avenue\nChurch. It is now called to meet a great emergency. For the first time\nin twenty-eight years this church is subjected to a severe strain.\nDuring all these years you had very smooth sailing. You have never been\ncrippled by debt; you have never been distracted with quarrels, and you\nhave never been without a pastor in your pulpit or your homes when you\nneeded him. And I suppose no church in Brooklyn has ever been subjected\nto less strain than this one. Now you are called upon to face a new\ncondition of things, perhaps a new danger--certainly a new duty. The\nduty overrides the danger. To meet that duty you are strong in numbers.\nThere are 2,350 names on your church register. Of these many are young\nchildren, many are non-residents who have never asked a dismission to\nother churches; but a great army of church members three Sabbaths ago\nrose up before that sacramental table. You are strong in a holy harmony.\nLet no man, no woman, break the ranks! You are strong in the protection\nof that great Shepherd who never resigns and who never grows old. \"Lo! I\nam with you always! Lo! I am with you always! Lo! I am with you\nalways!\" seems to greet me this morning from every wall of this\nsanctuary. I confidently expect to see Lafayette Avenue Church move\nsteadily forward with unbroken column led by the Captain of our\nsalvation. All eyes are upon you. The eye that never slumbers or sleeps\nis watching over you. If you are all true to conscience, true to your\ncovenants, true to Christ, the future of this dear church may be as\nglorious as its past. And when another thirty years have rolled away, it\nmay still be a strong tower of the truth on which the smile of God shall\nrest like the light of the morning. By as much as you love me, I entreat\nyou not to sadden my life or break my heart by ever deserting these\nwalls, or letting the fire of devotion burn down on these sacred altars.\n\nThe hands of the clock warn me to close. This is one of the most trying\nhours of my whole life. It is an hour when tears are only endurable by\nbeing rainbowed with the memory of tender mercies and holy joys. When my\nfeet descend those steps to-day, this will no longer be my pulpit. I\nsurrender it back before God into your hands. One of my chiefest sorrows\nis that I leave some of my beloved hearers out of Christ. Oh, you have\nbeen faithfully warned here, and you have been lovingly invited here;\nand once more, as though God did beseech you by me, I implore you in\nChrist's name to be reconciled to God. This dear pulpit, whose teachings\nare based on the Rock of Ages, will stand long after the lips that now\naddress you have turned to dust. It will be visible from the judgment\nseat; and its witness will be that I determined to know not anything\namong you save Jesus Christ and Him crucified. To-day I write the last\npage in the record of thirty bright, happy, Heaven-blessed years among\nyou. What is written is written. I shall fold up the book and lay it\naway with all its many faults; and it will not lose its fragrance while\nbetween its leaves are the pressed flowers of your love. When my closing\neyes shall look on that record for the last time, I hope to discover\nthere only one name--the name that is above every name, the name of Him\nwhose glory crowns this Eastern morn with radiant splendor, the name of\nJesus Christ, King of kings, and Lord of lords. And the last words I\nutter in this sacred spot are unto Him that loves us and delivers us\nfrom sin with His precious blood; and unto God be all the praise and\nthanks and dominion and glory for ever and ever. Amen.\n\n\n\n\nINDEX.\n\nA\n\n\nAdams, Dr. William, 201-205.\nAlbert, Prince, 32.\nAlexander, Archibald, 82, 191-3.\nAlexander, Dr. James W, 9.\nAlexander, Dr. Joseph Addison, 82, 193-5.\nAlexander, Stephen, 9.\nAllen, Mr. Alexander, 314.\nAllison, William J, 121.\nAmerican Seamen's Friend Society, 255.\nAnderson, Captain James, 146, 149.\nArmstrong, Samuel C, 158.\nAstor, John Jacob, 273, 275-6.\nAurora, birthplace, I.\n\nB\n\n\nBailey, Joshua, 57.\nBaillie, Mrs. Joanna, 30-1.\nBarnes, Albert, 195.\nBatcheler, General, 231.\nBeecher, Henry Ward, 150, 152, 213-15, 295.\nBeecher, Miss Catherine, 231.\nBinney, Thomas, 170-172.\nBlair, General Francis P., 10.\nBonar, Dr. Horatius, 40, 42.\nBooth, Mrs. Catherine, 265.\nBooth, General, 265.\nBowring, Sir John, 39-40.\nBright, John, 27, 134, 316.\nBrown, Dr. John, 105, 109, 147.\nBrooks, Phillips, 195.\nBurns, Robert, 12, 17-19, 26.\nBushnell, Horace, 190-1.\nByron, Lord, 13.\n\nC\n\n\nCampbell, Thomas, 31.\nCarlyle, Thomas, 23-9.\nCarnaham, Dr., President of Princeton, 9.\nCarnegie, Andrew, 59-60, 275.\nCary, Edward, 301.\nCass, General Lewis, 34.\nChanning, Dr. Ellery, 31.\nChauncey, Charles, 63.\nCheeseman, Dr. William, 322.\nChi Alpha Society, 319.\nChristian Endeavor (See Young People's Society of, etc.).\nClark, Rev. Francis E., 87, 247, 258.\nComstock, Anthony, 264.\nCook, Joseph, 231.\nCox, Dr. Samuel Hanson, 209-13.\nCrosby, Fanny, 43.\nCunningham, Professor, 13.\nCuyler, Benjamin Ledyard, Dr. Cuyler's father, 2; died, 3.\nCuyler, General, 2.\nCuyler, Dr., ancestry, 1, 2; childhood, 3; farm life, 4; early\n  religious training and reading, 5; preparation for college,\n  8; college memories, 9-11; visits England and\n  France, Wordsworth, Dickens, Carlyle, Mrs. Baillie,\n  the Young Queen, Napoleon, 12-36; first public address,\n  1842, 49, 50; visits Stockholm, 46; delivers his first\n  address in New York, 54; President National Temperance\n  Society, 57; views on temperance, 58-59;\n  chooses the ministry, 61; at Princeton Seminary, 62;\n  first pastorate, 62, 83; preaches at Saratoga, 64; methods\n  of preaching, 64-73; changes in pulpit methods, 75-81;\n  preaches five months at Wyoming Valley, 83, 84; work\n  in New York, 85, 86; Lafayette Avenue, 1860, 86;\n  methods of church work, 87-90; first literary contributions,\n  93; origin of \"Under the Catalpa,\" 95; extent\n  of literary labors, 95; first book, 96; inspiration of\n  \"The Empty Crib,\" 96; inspiration of \"God's Light on\n  Dark Clouds,\" 97; visits to famous people abroad,\n  Gladstone, 99-104, Dr. John Brown, 105-109; Dean\n  Stanley, 109-115; Earl Shaftesbury, 116, 117, interviews\n  with famous people at home--Irving, 118-121; Whittier,\n  121-125; Webster, 125-132; Greeley, 132-137; Civil War,\n  138, services to \"The Christian Commission,\" 130; at\n  Washington, 131; first meeting with Lincoln, 142; to\n  Europe in 1862, 145-149; at Edinburgh, 146-147; at\n  Paris, 148; address on Emancipation, 149-150; trip to\n  Charleston, Fort Sumter, 151; views on pastoral work,\n  159-169; British pastors--Binney, 170-72; Hamilton,\n  172-3, Guthrie, 175-76; Hall, 177-181; Spurgeon,\n  181-86; Duff, 187-89; reminiscences of Princeton Seminary\n  preachers, 191, reminiscences of famous American\n  preachers--Phillips Brooks, 190; Horace Bushnell,\n  191-2, Archibald Alexander, 191-3; Joseph Addison\n  Alexander, 193-5; Albert Barnes, 195, Dr. William\n  B. Sprague, 196-197; Dr. Stephen H. Tyng, 197-200,\n  Dr. William Adams, 201-5; Samuel Hanson\n  Cox, 209-13; Henry Ward Beecher, 213-15; Rev.\n  Charles G. Finney, 216-220; Dr. Benjamin M.\n  Palmer, 221-223; summering at Saratoga, 224-232;\n  meets leading Methodists--Bishop Jaynes, Bishop\n  Simpson, Bishop Peck, etc, 227-8, Bishop Haven,\n  229-31; summering at Mohonk, 232; Dr. Schaff, 235;\n  Dr. McCosh, 237-9; Mr. Smiley, 240; Indian Conferences\n  at Mohonk, 240; \"Arbitration Conference,\" 240;\n  letter from President Harrison, 242, preservation of\n  health, 243, growth of church fellowship and diminution\n  of sectarianism, 244-9; exchanging pulpits, 246-9,\n  women in the pulpit--Miss Smiley, 249-50; foreign\n  missions, 251-254; Young Men's Christian Association,\n  255-57; Christian Endeavor Society, 258; missionary\n  work in New York, 260-268; missionary work in\n  Brooklyn, 268-272; views on the modern novel, 281-82;\n  views on the new theology, 285-87; ministry in\n  Burlington and Trenton, N J, 288, marriage, 289;\n  his wife, 289-292; Market Street Dutch Reformed\n  Church of New York, 292-294; calls to various\n  churches, 292; Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church,\n  294; Brooklyn, 298; house, 302-303; death of his mother,\n  304, death of his daughter, 304-5; celebration of quarter\n  century of ministry at Lafayette Church, 306;\n  resignation from the church, 307-09; travels, 314-317;\n  commemoration of 80th birthday, 317-20, valedictory\n  sermon, delivered at Lafayette Avenue Church, 325-46.\nCuyler, Theodore Ledyard, Jr., 323.\n\nD\n\n\nDayton, Hon. William L, 148.\nDelano, Captain Joseph C, 12.\nDickens, Charles, 20-22.\nDix, General, 57.\nDod, Albert B, 9.\nDod, Hon. Amzi, 11.\nDodge, Hon William E, 56, 57, 275.\nDow, Neal, 53-55.\nDrummond, Henry, 303.\nDuff, Dr. Alexander, 187-89.\nDuffield, John T., 10.\n\nF\n\n\nFaraday, Sir Michael, 10.\nFarrar, Archdeacon, 248.\nFinney, Rev. Charles G., 76, 216-220.\n\nG\n\n\nGirard, Stephen, 273.\nGladstone, William E., 99, 104, 272.\nGough, Hon. John B, 51-53.\nGould, Miss Helen M., 251.\nGreeley, Horace, 132-137.\nGregg, Rev. Dr. David, 312.\nGrellet, Stephen, 121.\nGurney, Mrs. Joseph John, 121.\nGuthrie, Dr. Thomas, 175-176.\n\nH\n\n\nHackett, Horatio B., 231.\nHall, Rev Newman, 26, 177-181.\nHamilton College, 2\nHamilton, Dr. James, 172-3\nHarrison, President Benjamin, letter to Dr. Cuyler, 242.\nHarvey, Sir George, 107\nHatfield, Dr. Edward F., 47.\nHaven, Bishop, 229-31.\nHayes, President R.B., 235.\nHenry, Joseph, 9, 10, 140.\nHodge, Archibald Alexander, 10.\nHodge, Dr. Charles, 82.\nHopkins, Dr. Mark, 57\nHoward, General O.O., 57.\nHoxie, Judge, 151, 152.\nHuntington, Daniel, 259\n\nI\n\n\nIrving, Washington, 118-121.\n\nJ\n\n\nJames, John Angell, 174\nJaynes, Bishop, 227-8\nJesup, Morris K., 274\nJudson, Adoniram, 253.\n\nK\n\n\nKirk, Rev. Edward N, 73.\n\nL\n\n\nLedyard, General Benjamin, Dr. Cuyler's grandfather, 1.\nLedyard, Hon Henry, 34.\nLedyard, Mary Forman, Dr. Cuyler's grandmother, 2.\nLewis, Senator Dixon H., 127.\nLincoln, Abraham, 141-146, 152-157, 229.\nLittle, Mr., founder of the \"Living Age,\" 205.\nLivingstone, David, 174.\nLongfellow, Henry Wordsworth, 24.\n\nM\n\n\nMandeville, Rev. Gerrit, 8.\nMarquand, Frederick, 256.\nMason, Dr. Lowell, 43, 44.\nMathew, Father Theobald, 49-51.\nMathiot, Annie E., Dr. Cuyler's wife, 289.\nMelvill, Henry, 170.\nMiller, Dr. Samuel, 82.\nMoffat, Robert, 174.\nMohonk, 224, 232-42.\nMohonk Lake Mountain House, 232-242.\nMontgomery, James, 37-8.\nMontgomery, Satan, 38.\nMoody, Dwight L., 90-91, 216, 247.\nMorrell, Charles Horton, 4.\nMorrell, Louise Frances, Dr. Cuyler's mother, 2.\nMott, Richard, 121.\nMuhlenberg, Dr. William Augustus, 45-6.\nMcBurney, Robert, 256.\nMcChyne, Robert Murray, 315.\nMcCosh, President of Princeton, 237-9.\nMcSloane, Bishop Charles P., 247.\nMcKelway, Dr. St. Clair, 301.\nMcLaren, Dr. Alexander, 66, 73, 172.\nMcLean, \"Uncle Johnny,\" 9.\n\nN\n\n\nNapoleon, Grand Army of, 35.\nNapoleon's Tomb, 35-6.\nNational Temperance Society and Publication House, 55, 57.\nNixon, John T., 10.\n\nP\n\n\nPalmer, Dr. Benjamin M., 221-223.\nPalmer, Dr. Ray, 43-5.\nPark, Edwards A., Professor, 209.\nPease, Rev. L.M., 260.\nPeck, Bishop, 228\nPhillipe, Louis, 34\nPierpont, John, 231.\nPratt, Charles, 274\nPrentiss, Mrs. Elizabeth Payson, 47.\n\nR\n\n\nRaffles, Dr., 12.\nRenwick, Professor, 13.\nRobertson, Frederick W., 73.\nRockefeller, John D., 274.\nRoe, Robert, 317\n\nS\n\n\nSalvation Army, 265-7\nSankey, Ira D., 91\nSaratoga, 224-26\nSchaff, Dr. Philip, 235-7.\nSchlieman, Dr., 316\nScott, Sir Walter, 16, 17, 30.\nScudder, Edward W., 10.\nSeward, William H., 323.\nShaftesbury, Earl, 116-117.\nSloane, Rev. M., 42\nSimpson, Bishop Matthew, 228-9\nSmiley, Mr., Indian and Arbitration Conferences, 240-1.\nSmiley, Miss Sara F., 249.\nSmith, Dr. Samuel F., 46-47\nSociety for the Prevention of Vice, 264,\nSouthey, Robert, 16.\nSpalding, Levi, 251.\nSpurgeon, Charles H., 181-86.\nSpurgeon, Rev. Thomas, 186\nSprague, Dr. William B., 196-197.\nStanley, Dean, 109-115\nStitt, Dr., 255.\nStorrs, Dr. Richard S., 205-209\nStrong's, Dr., Remedial Institute at Saratoga, 227.\n\nT\n\n\nTemple, Dr., 248\nThompson, Rev. Charles Lemuel, 319.\nTorrey, Dr. John, 9\nTweedie, William, 317\nTyng, Dr. Stephen H., 197-200\n\nV\n\n\nValedictory Sermon, 325-46\nVan Buren, President Martin, 231.\nVan Rensellaer, 93\nVickers, Mr., 37-8\nVictoria, Queen, 32-4.\n\nW\n\n\nWalker, Richard W., 10\nWashington, Booker T., 158\nWebster, Daniel, 125-132\nWells College, 3\nWhitcomb, Miss Mary, 51.\nWhittier, John G., 121-125.\nWilberforce, William, 22\nWillard, Frances E., 231.\nWilliams, Sir George, 116, 246-7, 255.\nWilson, Professor, \"Christopher North,\" 13.\nWilson, Vice-President Henry, 231.\nWoman's Christian Temperance Union, 60.\nWordsworth, William, 13-16.\n\nY\n\n\nYoung Men's Christian Association, 246-7, 255.\nYoung People's Society of Christian Endeavor, 246-7","title":"Recollections of a Long Life: An Autobiography","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":80900}