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

VII.
NEW YORK

For the first year in New York I lived with Dr. Bellows at his parsonage. Mrs. Bellows and the children were at Eagleswood, New Jersey, the children being at school with Mr. Weld. And this is the place to say something about Henry Whitney Bellows. He was a very remarkable man, most extraordinary in his way; an original man, a peculiar individual; of mercurial temper, various, quick, sympathetic, brave, whole-hearted, generous, but all in his own fashion. More Celtic than Saxon, more French than English, prone to generalize, something of a doctrinaire, indifferent to personalities, but of warm affections where he was interested; loyal, as knights always are, where his honor was concerned, but impatient of dictation, restless, nervous, impetuous, dashing from side to side, always consistent with himself, yet rarely consistent with ordinary rules of conventional society. Such a man is best described in detail.

Dr. Bellows, as we called him, had a singular gift of expression. This was the soul of him, his most prominent feature, the trait that explains every other. His appearance indicated as much. He had a mobile mouth, flexible features, a ringing voice, a cordial manner. He was fond of talking, brilliant in conversation, attractive in social intercourse, a charming companion, full of wit, rapid in repartee, ready with anecdote, illustration, allusion. He was a great favorite at the dinner-table, at friendly gatherings, at the club, where a circle always collected round him and were delighted with the endless versatility of his discourse. In fact, he was a man of society rather than a clergyman, though he occupied a pulpit from the beginning, and was faithful to all the duties of his profession. Still they were not altogether to his taste, and he got away from them whenever he conscientiously could. His best deliverances were half-secular addresses on some theme of immediate popular interest, speeches, orations, ethical talks, ever on a high plane of sentiment, but looking towards the urgent preoccupations of the time. He was not a student in any direction; not a deep, patient, exhaustive thinker; not a scholar in any school, but an immense reader of current literature, of magazines, papers, memoirs, and an eloquent reproducer of thoughts as he found them lying on the surface of the intellectual world. His brain was exceedingly active, and reached forth in all directions; his pen was fluent, facile, and busy; language exuded from all his pores. As a preacher he was conventional, restrained, and, it must be confessed, not engaging as a rule, but as a talker he was delightful, copious, entertaining, kindling, attractive to old and young, and crowds thronged the house when he spoke about what he had seen or felt, while his pulpit discourses did not fill the pews. Like many men of remarkable talents, he imagined his strong points to be those in which he was most deficient, not being gifted with much power of self-knowledge, and perhaps aspiring after accomplishments he did not possess. He prided himself more than he should have done on his insight as a theologian, his depth as a philosopher, his skill as an administrator, his practical success as an organizer; whereas his consummate ability consisted in exposition, not in original discovery. He was not a theologian, not a philosopher, not a builder, but a most persuasive advocate, perhaps the most adroit I ever met with. His range was wide, his exuberance infinite, his sway over his listeners absolute. It is no marvel that such a man was persuaded that he could achieve all things.

He was the only speaker I ever knew who could talk himself into ideas. Many, by dint of talking, can work themselves into an implicit faith in doctrines they were indifferent about at starting; but this man had the dangerous gift of being able, not merely to think on his feet, but to set his faculties in motion by the action of his tongue. Again and again he has gone to a public meeting, at which he was expected to speak, with no preparation at all, or none but a very general one, depending upon some impulse of the moment to set him a-going. A word dropped by a previous speaker, the mere presence of the audience, a suggestion awakened in his mind as he sat awaiting his turn, would excite him sufficiently; and when he stood up one idea started another, an illustration opened a new field of thought, till the torrent, growing deeper and more tumultuous as it flowed, carried the hearers away in ecstasy. One who did not know him found it hard to believe that he had not meditated his address beforehand. He has gone into the pulpit with a written sermon, and being struck by a sentence in the Scripture he was reading, has laid his manuscript aside and delivered an extemporaneous discourse on an entirely different theme.

The reason why he did not preach habitually without notes was that this fatal facility of speech excited him too much, carried him too far, rendered him discursive, led him on to inordinate length, and wearied his congregation. He needed the restraint of the paper, the calm dignity of the closet meditation; he needed also to spread his thoughts over a larger expanse of time, and thus to secure quiet for his brain. At the risk, therefore, of being dull, he spared himself, as well as his parishioners, the stimulating fervor of the extemporaneous address. He may have felt, too, that his was not the quality of mind for this method. It required a less fluent talent, a less ready loquacity, a less mercurial temperament, a more reserved habit. There are those whose constitutional reticence preserves them from aberration; who can see the end from the beginning; can cling closely to the matter in hand; can walk a thin plank; and have too few ready ideas to be in any peril of going astray. Such are the most successful extemporaneous preachers. Dr. Bellows' genius was better adapted to an address, therefore, than to a sermon.

The secular view of things was more attractive to him than the spiritual. His defence of the drama in 1857 (an oration delivered in the Academy of Music, and which was very bold for that time); his vigorous conduct of the Christian Inquirer, a Unitarian paper, which he managed and for which he wrote constantly for four years, advocating an unwonted liberality of sympathy, maintaining, for example, the substantial identity of the Unitarian and the Universalist confessions; his interest in questions of social and philanthropic concern; his lectures before the Lowell Institute in 1857, – all attest his desire to effect a reconciliation between science and religion, between this world and the next. His oration before the Phi Beta Kappa Society of Harvard, in 1853, is an admirable specimen of his treatment of similar themes. The subject of the oration was "The Ledger and the Lexicon, or Business and Literature in Account with American Education"; and its purpose was to assert the claims of popular life against those of scholarship, – to state the case of natural instincts and practical intelligence as the controlling force of our destiny. He says, most truly, at the outset, "Speaking purely as a scholar, I should unaffectedly feel that I had nothing to offer worthy this audience or occasion," and then he goes on with a full, earnest, eloquent plea for the intellectual character of our political and commercial activity. Here is an extract:

What History asks from us is not Literature and Art. The world is full of what can never grow old in either. American Literature, American Art! Heaven save us from them! Let us freely use what is so much better than anything one nation can make, the Literature and Art of the whole past and the whole world. History implores us, first of all, to be true to humanity. She begs to see the education, the taste, the sensibility of this great people turned to the serious, vital, universal interest of thoroughly vindicating Man from the scorn of men; of establishing man on his throne as man, – free because man, happy because man, noble and religious because man! Literature and Art will take care of themselves; high education and scholarship will come in their own time; and so, thank God, will everything humanity needs. But for ourselves and the immediate generation, there is no work so worthy as confirming the faith of our people in their own principles; encouraging devotion to Liberty as the supreme interest of Man; – of man sacred in his own eyes, with duties, rights, aims, that are bounded neither by color, nationality, nor law. The love of the race, the liberation of humanity from complexional, material, political, and moral disfranchisements; the elevation of the individual and of every individual; the prostration of all partition-walls that separate our kind; the tumbling of the artificial pedestals that elevate the few, into the unnatural pits that bury the rest; the affiliation of the foreigner, and the emancipation of the slave; the subjugation of rebellious matter and reluctant wealth to the wants and desires of man; the establishment of beautiful and independent homes, of high and free and noble lives; – this is American scholarship, this American art. A country that sacrifices even its nationality, that proudest of all prejudices, to its humanity, will be the first to pay that tribute to man, which Christ waits to welcome as the final triumph of his kingdom. And, finally, here in America, where for the first time universal comfort and general abundance reign, the race looks to us to pronounce the banns between the spiritual and material interests and pursuits of man, – his worldly well-being, and his heavenly prosperity, – a union that shall not be a miserable compromise of which both shall be ashamed and which neither shall keep, but an honorable, hearty, and intelligible alliance, on the highest grounds.

This is very fine and brave, and similar in tone was all he said about American life and destiny. He tried to exalt common things, and in this way he more than made amends for his lack of scholastic equipment. His mission was to encourage and fortify and console actual men and women, not to solve deep problems of fate. A good but commonplace man spoke to me with tears in his eyes of his endless gratitude to Dr. Bellows because on one New Year's Day he preached a doctrine of promise, and said that men did their best, and that the world was as good as could be expected; not an extraordinary doctrine certainly, but one that is seldom announced with so much cordial, human sympathy. This same ardor he threw into his ordinary lectures, carrying audiences away with a flood of conviction. When our Civil War broke out and it became evident, as it soon did, that the conflict would be a long one, necessitating large armies in a region of country unused to military needs and ignorant of military exigencies, Dr. Bellows' attention was drawn to the questions involved in the maintenance of a vast number of men in the field, their protection, discipline, and comfort; the proper supply of food, clothing, medicine; the best kind of tent, the best kind of hospital, the duty of keeping up the home associations by means of correspondence and missives. He talked over the situation with a few friends; societies were formed, organizations instituted, the means of relief set in motion. Out of this grew the Sanitary Commission, of which he was the mouthpiece and the inspiring soul. The work was immense, but the task of awakening the country to the necessity of endeavor was, beyond all ordinary power of conception, arduous. Such was the blind faith in the government, – a government inexperienced in similar matters, – such was the indifference of multitudes who were far removed from actual danger, such the unconsciousness of the magnitude of the peril, such the insensibility to the demands of the hour, the serene confidence that all was going well, the jaunty sense of complacency in having raised the regiments, that nothing less than a trumpet call was required to rouse the country to a feeling of obligation. Afterwards when the magnitude of the strife was self-evident, when the dangers of camp-life were understood, and the temptations to infidelity of many kinds were painfully apparent, other forces came in to carry forward the work; but at first prescience was needed, and zeal, and faith in principles, and a sense of the gravity of the situation. It is hardly too much to say that but for the energy shown by the Sanitary Commission in the early part of the war, the issue might have been indefinitely postponed. That the Commission itself flourished to the end was due in the main to Henry Bellows. Of course he did not do everything, but he did his part. The labor of organization was discharged by other orders of genius. The duties of treasurer devolved upon men differently constituted still; there were many hands employed, many heads busy with planning. But his was the potent voice. He sounded the clarion; East, West, North, and as far South as he could go, he argued, remonstrated, pleaded, exhorted, interpreted, inspired, and wherever he was heard he filled veins with patriotic fire. He was never daunted, never disheartened, never depressed. His tones always rang out clear, strong, decisive. The bugle never gave an uncertain sound. In Washington he addressed the highest authorities and was so urgent, not to say so imperious, that President Lincoln asked him which of the two ran the machine of government. He possessed in a singular degree the power of making people work, and work gladly, – all sorts of people, men and women, the sensible and the enthusiastic, the practical and the sentimental, the low-toned and the high-strung; and they toiled day after day at scraping lint, packing garments, raising money, organizing fairs. In the meantime he travelled to and fro, lecturing, addressing crowds in the meeting-houses, halls, theatres; writing letters to committees, visiting men of influence, inspecting hospitals and camps, making himself acquainted with the newest methods of dealing with sanitary problems, and imparting ideas as fast as they came to him. His activity was prodigious. He was one of the most conspicuous figures in the country. He brought the Commission into universal repute. Under his spell it lost its local character and became a national concern. He was a Unitarian preacher; his immediate co-operators were Unitarians; yet so broad and mundane was he that no savor of sectarianism mingled with his zeal, nor could it be suspected, except for his aims, that he was a clergyman. As long as the war lasted this energy continued, the enthusiasm did not abate, the outpouring did not slacken. It was not till the struggle was over that the over-tasked brain craved repose. Then the reaction was purely nervous, not in the least moral or intellectual. He sprang up again and threw himself into new enterprises with the old fervor and the old brilliancy of speech, striving to awaken a desire for religious unity, as he had promoted national concord. The establishment of the National Conference of Liberal Churches, which was to supplement the more local Unitarian Associations, was his suggestion. The scheme did not entirely meet his expectations, but this shows how large his expectations were, and how comprehensive were his purposes of good. As has been intimated already, his desires were in advance of his practical ability. He was a man of wishes rather than of expedients. His plans often failed, but his aspirations were always pure and lofty, and it was characteristic of him to impute the failure of the special plan to some stubbornness in the materials he attempted to manipulate, rather than to any deficiency in his own faculty. Thus his confidence in himself was sustained, and he went on trying experiments and believing in his talent to set anything, even communities and States, on their feet.

People used to say that his advocacy was very uncertain; that it was impossible to tell in advance whether he would take a liberal or a conservative view of a party or dogma; in short, he had the reputation of being somewhat of a chameleon, of catching his line from the last person he talked with. One of his parishioners remarked, jestingly, that the hearers of Dr. Bellows were taught in perfection one lesson, – that of self-reliance. This was probably true, as it was a general impression; and it illustrates the warmth of his sympathy, the impressionableness of his temperament, the readiness of his adaptation, the facility of his discourse, as well as the want of depth in his speculative intellect and his lack of hold on fundamental principles. He was an advocate by nature, not a theologian, a philosopher, or a critic; an adept in speech, not a subtle or profound thinker. He saw the effective points in either doctrine, and chose the one that was most captivating at the time. His eclecticism was simply ease of transference, not a keen perception of the grounds of identity. His logic was the skilful accommodation to circumstances, not absolute fidelity to the laws of reason. His affluence of diction and his profusion of thoughts covered up his essential poverty of insight, and persuaded some that he looked farther than he did; but still it remains true that he was not a sure guide in matters of opinion. He was a most adroit, subtle, engaging talker, and as such was of incalculable value; a fountain of entertainment, and a source of influence. A decided vein of Bohemianism ran through his character. He was light-hearted, gay, versatile, fond of fun, restless, addicted to society, abhorrent of solitude, darkness, confinement; a friend of artists, musicians, wits; a club-man; could smoke a cigar, and drink a glass of wine, and tell a merry story; a man of quick emotions, volatile some would call him, though of unquestioned and unquestionable loyalty when any principle was at stake, or any person he loved and trusted was in trouble. Otherwise he forgot unpleasant things and went to something else, dropping the individual, but holding fast to the elements of charity. This faculty of changing rapidly from one interest to another saved him from a vast deal of fatigue, and enabled him to pursue his almost incredible labors with less wear and tear than would have been possible under other circumstances. The formation of roots, and the necessity of pulling them up frequently with a feeling of loss and pain, is sadly weakening and disabling. This fosters a disposition to stay at home, to form few ties, to remain quietly where one is placed by destiny, to expose one's self to no more disruptions than are appointed, to hide one's self in a corner of existence, to avoid the wind. The scholar hugs his library, reads books, meditates, cultivates his mind, appears in public only when he is prepared. The man of society dashes out and deems the time wasted that is passed in the house. Dr. Bellows once expressed his wonder that a friend should have no desire to go abroad, but should be content in his study.

He was a knight-errant, a Norman gentleman, ever ready to succor the oppressed, but satisfied when he had unhorsed the oppressor, though the victim lay helpless on the ground. He derived his name from "Belles Eaux." He was not a democrat as implying one that had affinities with the people. On the contrary, he was at bottom an aristocrat, looking down on the people; but he was humane in idea, holding it to be the part of a gentleman to relieve the unfortunate. The motto, "Noblesse oblige" applied to him exactly, with the understanding that he belonged to the Noblesse, and was privileged to patronize. This tendency was prominent in him. He would not allow a companion to pay his car fare, because he would not borrow so small a sum, but he confronted the man to whom he had lent fifty dollars, and who had forgotten the payment, as people often do. Meeting the defaulter in the street, he reminded him of the transaction, taxed him with infidelity to his engagements, and had the satisfaction of receiving his money and relieving his mind at the same time. Magnanimous he was by nature. I will give a single instance of it, out of several I could detail if personalities did not forbid. When I first came to New York to found a parish, there was a woman in my congregation, – an angular, brusque woman, not sunny or agreeable, – whose husband, being unfortunate, had, to repair his fortune, gone to San Francisco; she stayed in New York and kept school, for the purpose of educating her children, and of eking out the family expenses. One day, complaining to me of her lot and labor, she spoke of certain prejudices against her as interfering with her success, and accused Dr. Bellows of being one of her enemies. Having satisfied myself of the injustice of the impression about her, and of her worthy deserving, I took occasion at once to speak to Dr. Bellows on the subject. Reminding him of the circumstances in which the woman was placed, I asked him if he did not think she ought to be helped instead of being hindered. He acknowledged that he knew her, that he did not like her, that he had spoken harshly of her under the impression that she was not deserving of moral support. On my presentation of her case, and conviction that he was wrong, he, being persuaded of his heedlessness, offered to do everything in his power to repair any mischief he might have caused. In my excitement, I became audacious and suggested the drawing up and signing of a paper, – about the most disagreeable thing that could be proposed. But he assented, prepared the paper, affixed his signature, and from that hour did his utmost to befriend the woman whom he took no pleasure in thinking of. This was noble, even great. He could put his personal tastes aside when a principle was involved.

It used to be urged against him that he dropped people when he had done with them, and felt no scruple in sacrificing them to his views of policy. But it cannot be proved that he was false to anybody, and his notion of the absolute unfitness of the individual for his place, or of the man's unreliability, was probably the real cause of his opposition. Probably, in each instance of his withdrawal of confidence, there were excellent reasons for his conduct, though it was natural that those who were suddenly neglected or displaced should feel indignant and aggrieved. Dr. Bellows was not one to act on a private prejudice or a personal pique. His affections were strong and would have led him to make any concession that was consistent with what he regarded as his public duty. No doubt he was somewhat imperious in judging what his duty was; he lacked the useful faculty of remaining in the background; he was impetuous and forward; but he never was or could be insincere, and he always had a sufficient explanation of the course he pursued, – an explanation perfectly satisfactory to one who bore his temperament in mind and considered what he could do and what he could not.

A most lovable, cordial, faithful man I always found him, – a man to be depended on in difficult and trying times, high-minded, courageous, daring, ready to enter the breach, happiest when leading a forlorn hope, straight-forward, inspiring, easily lifted beyond himself, and imparting nervous vigor to his followers. Followers he must have, for he was not content to obey any behest; but then his leadership was so hearty and wholesome, so free from superciliousness, so abundant in expressions of loyalty, that it was a joy to go with him. He was more than willing to do his share of hard work, and to indulge his servants. If one could forbear to cross him, he was friendliness itself; a warm advocate of liberty, only insisting that liberty and progress should march hand in hand; that private idiosyncrasies should not stand in the way of practical advance. He was a very different man from Dr. Dewey, yet he loved Dr. Dewey devotedly while life lasted. He was an entirely different man from me in temperament and in gifts, – quite opposite in fact, – yet he was one of the best of my friends as long as he lived, seldom resenting my radicalism, never impatient of my slowness, but warm, sunny, helpful to the end, the man to whom I instinctively resorted for sympathy in the most painful passages of my career.

In a word, the foundation of his character was impulse. He was a man of fiery zeal, of moral passion, of vast enthusiasm, and when a storm of spiritual power came sweeping down from some unseen height, he was easily carried away. This impulsive character explains his chivalry of disposition, his magnanimity, his self-abnegation; for though he was self-asserting, he could at once forget himself, and sink his own individuality entirely when some cause he had at heart strongly appealed to him. This impulsiveness explains, too, his theological inconsistency, for when the popular feeling struck him, he was carried away in a different direction from what he had first proposed. For instance, once – I think it was at Buffalo – he gave a most eloquent plea for individualism, having determined to speak in favor of institutions; and in Boston when he had been expected to uphold a creed, he was so borne away by the opposite sentiment that, when he ended, a creed seemed absolutely impossible.

A very different person from the foregoing was Dr. Samuel Osgood, the successor of Dr. Dewey in the Church of the Messiah on Broadway, and the close associate of the pastor of "All Souls," which name he suggested when the new edifice on the corner of Fourth Avenue and Twentieth Street was christened. He was a lover of ecclesiasticism, of forms, usages, ceremonials, though he was not unmindful of the ideas that lay beneath them, and too good a New Englander, too good a Unitarian, too staunch a friend of free thought to be anything but a liberal Protestant; a man of names and dates, and instituted observances, not "electric," "magnetic," or a leader either of thought or action; not a man of deep emotions, or moving eloquence in or out of the pulpit; not a man of long reach or wide influence, but conspicuous in his way, unique, worth studying as a figure in his generation.

He was devoted to books, of which he read and produced many, and might have been called learned, yet he was not a closet man, not a recluse; on the contrary, he knew about public affairs, talked about what was going on in the world, attended political, social, and literary meetings, was a member of the prominent clubs, like the "Century" and the "Union League," was for years the Corresponding Secretary of the "Historical Society," rather prided himself, in fact, on the number and intimacy of his outside relations. With all this, he was a diligent pastor, an excellent denominationalist, a dependence on all church occasions within his sect, a speaker at conventions, a worker of the ecclesiastical machinery, a man much relied on for denominational work.

His writings were numerous. In fact he always seemed to have the pen in his hand. Besides the books which are known, – "Studies in Christian Biography," "The Hearthstone," "God with Men," "Milestones in Our Life Journey," "Student Life," – all popular once, – he contributed frequently to the Christian Examiner, the North American Review, the Bibliotheca Sacra, and other important magazines; delivered orations, printed theological discourses, especially a famous one before the theological school at Meadville, Pennsylvania, on "The Coming Church and its Clergy," and for several months, during Mr. Curtis' illness, prepared the essays in the "Easy Chair" for Harper's Monthly Magazine. His interest in matters of education and literature was incessant, active, and useful. He made speeches, served on committees, prepared reports, in every way tried to serve the cause of rational knowledge. Yet with all his industry and all his ability – for he possessed ability of no mean order, – he had a mind singularly destitute of vitality. His ingenuity, his pleasantry, his sententiousness, his versatility, could not conceal this lack of organic power. His vivacity did not exhilarate, his happy expressions did not create the sense of life in the mind, but were like artificial flowers that had no perfume, and reminded one more of the perfection of art than of the involuntary sweetness of nature. He was destitute of genius to inspire. It is the more wonderful that he could persevere, as he did, without the popular recognition that his talents merited, or the applause his endeavors deserved. He had praise, to be sure, but it was not hearty or effusive, and they who rendered it probably wondered why they could not put more soul into their laudation. The address was brilliant, but not warming. One must come within arm's length of him to feel the beating of his heart, to be sensible of his force. He was unable to project himself far, and relied upon incidental advantages of occasion for effects which he could not produce by genius.