did. I trusted to the germs of good which I thought still lived in him,

to Mr. Moulton’s apparent power over him, and to the power of my persistent self-sacrifice.

“Mr. Moulton came to me at first as the schoolmate and friend of Mr. Tilton, determined to reinstate him, I at first suspected, without regard to my interests, but on further acquaintance with me he undertook and promised to serve his friend without doing wrong to me. He said he saw clearly how this was to be done, so as to restore peace and harmony to Mr. Tilton’s home, and bring a happy end to all misunderstandings. Many things which he counselled I absolutely refused, but I never doubted his professed friendship for me, after friendship had grown up between us; and whatever he wished me to do I did, unless it seemed to me wrong.

“My confidence in him was the only element that seemed secure in that confusion of tormenting perplexities. To him I wrote freely in that troublous time, when I felt that secret machinations were going on around me, and echoes of the vilest slander concerning me were heard of in unexpected quarters; when some of my near relatives were set against me, and the tattle of a crowd of malicious women, hostile to me on other grounds, was borne to my ears; when I had lost the last remnant of faith in Mr. Tilton or hope for him; when I heard with unspeakable remorse that everything I had done to stay his destruction had made matters worse and worse; that my attempt to keep him from a public trial (involving such a flood of scandal as has now been let loose) had been used by him to bring up new troubles; that his unhappy wife was, under his dictation, signing papers and recantations, and I knew not what; that, in short, everything was breaking up, and the destruction from which I had sought to save the family was likely to be emptied on other families, the church, the community, with infinite horrors of woe for me; that my own innocence was buried under heaps and heaps of rubbish, and nobody but my professed friend (if even he) could save us. To his assurances that he could still do so I gave at least so much faith as to maintain under these terrible trials the silence which he enjoined. Not until Mr. Tilton, having attempted, through Frank Carpenter, to raise money from my friends, openly assailed me in his letter to Dr. Bacon, did I break that silence, save my simple denial of the slanderous rumors against me a year before.

“On the appearance of the first open attack from Mr. Tilton I immediately, without consulting Mr. Moulton, called for a thorough investigation with a committee of my church. I am not responsible for the delay, the publicity, or the details of that investigation. All the harm which I have so long dreaded and have so earnestly striven to avoid has come to pass. I could not have further prevented it without a full surrender of honor and truth. The time has arrived when I can freely speak in vindication of myself. I labor under great disadvantages in making a statement. My memory of states of the mind is clear and tenacious, better than my memory of dates and details. During four troubled years, in all of which I have been singularly burdened with public labor, having established and conducted the _Christian Union_, delivered courses of lectures, preaching before the Theological Seminary of Yale College, written the first volume of the ‘Life of Christ,’ delivered each winter Lyceum lectures in all the North and West—all these duties, with the care of the great church and its outlying schools and chapels, and the miscellaneous business which falls upon a clergyman more than upon any other public man, I have kept in regard, and now, with the necessity of explaining actions and letters resulting from complex influences apparent at the time, I find myself in a position where I know my innocence without being able to prove it with detailed explanation. I am one upon whom trouble works inwardly, making me outwardly silent but reverberating in the chambers of my soul; and when at length I do speak it is a pent-up flood and pours without measure or moderation. I inherit a tendency to sadness, the remains in me of positive hypochondria in my father and grandfather, and in certain moods of reaction the world becomes black and I see very despairingly.

“If I were, in such moods, to speak as I feel, I should give false colors and exaggerated proportions of everything. This manifestation is in such contrast to the hopefulness and courage which I experience in ordinary times that none but those intimate with me would suspect one so full of overflowing spirit and eager gladsomeness to have within him a cave of gloom and despondency. Some of my letters to Mr. Moulton reflect this morbid feeling. He understood it, and at times reproved me for indulging in it. With this preliminary review I proceed to my narrative.

“Mr. Tilton was first known to me as a reporter of my sermons. He was then a youth just from school and working on the New York _Observer_. From this paper he passed to the _Independent_, and became a great favorite with Mr. Bowen. When, about 1861, Drs. Bacon, Storrs, and Thompson resigned their places, I became editor of the _Independent_, to which I had been from its start a contributor. One of the inducements held out to me was that Mr. Tilton should be my assistant and relieve me wholly from routine office work. In this relation I became very much attached to him. We used to stroll the galleries and print-shops and dine often together. His mind was opening freshly and with enthusiasm upon all questions. I used to pour out my ideas of civil affairs, public policy, religion, and philanthropy. Of this he often spoke with grateful appreciation, and mourned at a later day over its cessation.

“August was my vacation month, but my family repaired to my farm in June and July, and remained there during September and October. My labors confining me to the city, I took my meals in the families of friends, and from year to year I became so familiar with their children and homes that I went in and out daily almost as in my own house. Mr. Tilton often alluded to this habit, and urged me to do the same by his house. He used to often speak in extravagant terms of his wife’s esteem and affection for me. After I began to visit his house he sought to make it attractive. He urged me to bring my papers down there and use his study to do my writing in, as it was not pleasant to write in the office of the _Independent_. When I went to England in 1863 Mr. Tilton took temporary charge of the _Independent_. On my return I paved the way for him to take sole charge of it, my name remaining for a year, and then he becoming the responsible editor. Friendly relations continued until 1866, when the violent assaults made upon me by Mr. Tilton in the _Independent_, on account of my Cleveland letter, and the temporary discontinuation of the publication of my sermons in that paper, broke off my connection with it. Although Mr. Tilton and I remained personally on good terms, yet there was a coolness between us in all matters of politics. During this whole period I never received from Mr. Tilton or any member of his family the slightest hint that there was any dissatisfaction with my familiar relations to his household. As late, I think, as the winter of 1869, when going upon an extended lecturing tour, he said: ‘I wish you would look in after, and see that Libby is not lonesome or does not want anything,’ or words to that effect. Never by sign or word did Mr. Tilton complain of my visits to his family until he began to fear that the _Independent_ would be taken from him, nor did he break out into violence until on the eve of dispossession from both the papers—the _Independent_ and the _Brooklyn Union_—owned by Mr. Bowen.

“In the latter part of July, 1870, Mrs. Tilton was sick, and at her request I visited her. She seemed much depressed, but gave me no hint of any trouble having reference to me. I cheered her as best I could, and prayed with her just before leaving. This was our last interview before trouble broke out in the family. I describe it because it was the last, and its character has a bearing upon a later part of my story. Concerning all my visits it is sufficient to say that _at no interview which ever took place between Mrs. Tilton and myself did anything occur which might not have occurred with perfect propriety between a brother and sister, between a father and child, or between a man of honor and the wife of his dearest friend_; nor did anything ever happen which she or I sought to conceal from her husband.

“Some years before any open trouble between Mr. Tilton and myself, his doctrines, as set forth in the leaders of the _Independent_, aroused a storm of indignation among the representative Congregationalists in the West; and as the paper was still very largely supposed to be my organ, I was written to on the subject. In reply I indignantly disclaimed all responsibility for the views expressed by Mr. Tilton. It was understood that Mr. Bowen agreed, in consequence of proceedings arising out of this remonstrance, to remove Mr. Tilton or suppress his peculiar views, but instead of that he seemed firmer in the saddle than before, and his loose notions of marriage and divorce began to be shadowed editorially. This led to the starting of the _Advance_ in Chicago, to supersede the _Independent_ in the Northwest, and Mr. Bowen was made to feel that Mr. Tilton’s management was seriously injuring the business, and Mr. Tilton may have felt that his position was being undermined by opponents of his views with whom he subsequently pretended to believe I was in league. Vague intimations of his ‘feeling hard’ toward me I ascribed to this misconception. I had in reality taken no step to harm him.

“After Mr. Tilton’s return from the West in December, 1870, a young girl whom Mrs. Tilton had taken into the family, educated, and treated like an own child was sent to me with an urgent request that I would visit Mrs. Tilton at her mother’s. She said that Mrs. Tilton had left her home and gone to her mother’s in consequence of ill-treatment of her husband. She then gave an account of what she had seen of cruelty and abuse on the part of the husband that shocked me; I immediately visited Mrs. Tilton at her mother’s, and received an account of her home life, and of the despotism of her husband, and of the management of a woman whom he had made housekeeper, which seemed like a nightmare dream. The question was whether she should go back or separate for ever from her husband. I asked permission to bring my wife to see them, whose judgment in all domestic relations I thought better than my own; and accordingly a second visit was made. The result of the interview was that my wife was extremely indignant toward Mr. Tilton, and declared that no consideration on earth would induce her to remain an hour with a man who had treated her with a hundredth part of such insult and cruelty. I felt as strongly as she did, but hesitated, as I always do, at giving advice in favor of a separation. It was agreed that my wife should give her final advice at another visit. The next day, when ready to go, she wished a final word; but there was company, and the children were present, and so I wrote on a scrap of paper, ‘I incline to think that your view is right, and that a separation and a _settlement of support_ will be wisest, and that in his present desperate state her presence near him is far more likely to produce hatred than her absence.’

“Mrs. Tilton did not tell me that my presence had anything to do with this trouble, nor did she let me know that on the July previous he had extorted from her a confession of excessive affection for me.

“On the evening of December 27, 1870, Mr. Bowen, on his way home, called at my house and handed me a letter from Mr. Tilton. It was, as nearly as I can remember, in the following terms:

“‘HENRY WARD BEECHER: For reasons which you explicitly know, and which I forbear to state, I demand that you withdraw from the pulpit and quit Brooklyn as a residence.

“‘THEODORE TILTON.’

“I read it over twice, and turned to Bowen and said: ‘This man is crazy; this is sheer insanity,’ and other like words. Mr. Bowen professed to be ignorant of the contents, and I handed him the letter to read. We at once fell into a conversation about Mr. Tilton. He gave me some account of the reasons why he had reduced him from the editorship of the _Independent_ to the subordinate position of contributor—namely, that Mr. Tilton’s religious and social views were ruining the paper. But he said as soon as it was known that he had so far broken with Mr. Tilton, there came pouring in upon him so many stories of Mr. Tilton’s private life and habits that he was overwhelmed, and that he was now considering whether he could consistently retain him on the Brooklyn _Union_ or as chief contributor to the _Independent_. We conversed for some time, Mr. Bowen wishing my opinion. It was frankly given. I did not see how he could maintain his relations with Mr. Tilton. The substance of the conversation was that Tilton’s inordinate vanity, his fatal facility for blundering (for which he had a genius), and ostentatious independence in his own opinions, and general impracticableness, would keep the _Union_ at disagreement with the political party for whose service it was published; and now, added to all this, these revelations of these promiscuous immoralities would make his connection with either paper fatal to its interests. I spoke strongly and emphatically under the great provocation of his threatening letter to me and the revelation I had just had concerning his domestic affairs.

“Mr. Bowen derided this letter of Tilton’s which he had brought to me, and said earnestly that if trouble came out of it I might rely upon his friendship. I learned afterwards that in the further quarrel, ending in Tilton’s peremptory expulsion from Bowen’s service, this conversation was repeated to Mr. Tilton. Although I have no doubt that Mr. Tilton would have lost his place at any rate, I have also no doubt that my influence was decisive and precipitated his final overthrow. When I came to think it all over, I felt very unhappy at the contemplation of Mr. Tilton’s impending disaster. I had loved him much, and at one time he had seemed like a son to me.

“But now all looked dark; he was to be cast forth from his eminent position, and his affairs at home did not promise that sympathy and strength which make one’s house, as mine has been, in times of adversity, a refuge from the storm and a tower of defence.

“It now appears that on the 29th of December, 1870, Mr. Tilton, having learned that I had replied to his threatening letter, by expressing such an opinion of him as to set Mr. Bowen finally against him, and bring him face to face with immediate ruin, extorted from his wife, then suffering under a severe illness, a document incriminating me, and prepared an elaborate attack upon me.

“In my then morbid condition of mind I thought that this charge, although entirely untrue, might result in great disaster, if not absolute ruin. The great interests which were entirely dependent on me, the church which I had built up, the book which I was writing, my own immediate family, my brother’s name, now engaged in the ministry, my sisters, the name which I had hoped might live after me and be in some slight degree a source of strength and encouragement to those who should succeed me, and, above all, the cause for which I had devoted my life, seemed imperilled. It seemed to me that my life-work was to end abruptly and in disaster. My earnest desire to avoid a public accusation, and the evils which must necessarily flow from it, and which now have resulted from it, has been one of the leading motives that must explain my action during these four years with reference to this matter.

“It was in such a sore and distressing condition that Mr. Moulton found me. His manner was kind and conciliatory; he seemed, however, to be convinced that I had been seeking Tilton’s downfall, that I had leagued with Mr. Bowen against him, and that I had by my advice come near destroying his family. I did not need any argument or persuasion to induce me to do, and say, anything which would remedy the injury, of which I then believed, I had certainly been the occasion if not the active cause. But Mr. Moulton urged that, having wronged so, the wrong meant his means of support taken away, his reputation gone, his family destroyed, and that I had done it. He assured me of his own knowledge that the stories which I had heard against Mr. Tilton, and which I had believed and repeated to Mr. Bowen, were all false. I was persuaded into the belief of what he had said, and felt convicted of slander in its meanest form. He drew the picture of Mr. Tilton wronged in reputation, in position, wronged in purse, shattered in his family where he would otherwise have found a refuge, and at the same time looking upon me out of his deep distress, while I was abounding in friends, most popular, and with ample means; he drew that picture—my prosperity overflowing and abounding, and Tilton’s utter degradation. I was most intensely excited. Indeed, I felt that my mind was in danger of giving way. I walked up and down the room, pouring forth my heart in the most unrestrained grief and bitterness of self-accusation, telling what my ideas were of the obligation of friendship and of the sacredness of the household; denying, however, an intentional wrong, saying that if I had been the cause, however remotely, of that which I then beheld, I never could forgive myself, and heaping all the blame on my own head. The case, as it then appeared to my eyes, was strongly against me. My old fellow-worker had been dispossessed of his eminent place and influence, and I had counselled it. His family had well-nigh been broken up, and I had advised it; his wife had been long sick and broken in health and body, and I, as I fully believed it, had been the cause of all this wreck by continuing that blind heedlessness and friendship which had beguiled her heart and had roused her husband into a fury of jealousy, although not caused by any intentional act of mine. And should I coldly defend myself? Should I pour indignation upon this lady? Should I hold her up to contempt as having thrust her affections upon me unsought? Should I tread upon the man and his household in their great adversity? I gave vent to my feelings without measure. I disclaimed with the greatest earnestness all intent to harm Theodore in his home or his business, and with inexplicable sorrow I both blamed and defended Mrs. Tilton in one breath.

“I had not then the light that I now have. There was much then that weighed heavily upon my heart and conscience which now weighs only on my heart. I had not the light which analyzes and discriminates things. By one blow there opened before me a revelation full of anguish: an agonized family, whose inmates had been my friends, greatly beloved; the husband ruined in worldly prospects, the household crumbling to pieces, the woman, by long sickness and suffering, either corrupted to deceit, as her husband alleged, or so broken in mind as to be irresponsible; and either way it was her enthusiasm for her pastor, as I was made to believe, that was the germ and beginning of the trouble. It was for me to have forestalled and prevented that mischief. My age and experience in the world should have put me more on my guard. I could not at that time tell what was true, and what was not true, of all the considerations urged upon me by Mr. Tilton and Moulton. There was a gulf before me in which lay those who had been warm friends, and they alleged that I had helped to plunge them therein. That seemed enough to fill my soul with sorrow and anguish. No mother who has lost a child but will understand the wild self-accusation that grief produced, against all reason, blaming herself for what things she did do, and for what she neglected to do, and charging upon herself, her neglect or heedlessness, the death of her child, while ordinarily every one knows that she had worn herself out with her assiduities.

“Mr. Moulton and Mr. Tilton both strove to obliterate from my mind all belief in the rumors that had been circulated about Mr. Tilton. There was much going on in silencing, explaining, arranging, etc., that I did not understand as well then as now. But of one thing I was then convinced, viz., that Mr. Tilton had never strayed from the path of virtue. I was glad to believe it true, and felt how hard it was that he should be made to suffer by evil and slanderous foes. I could not explain some testimony which had been laid before me; but, I said, there is undoubtedly some misunderstanding, and if I knew the whole I should find Theodore, though with obvious faults, at heart sound and good. These views I often expressed to intimate friends in spite of their manifest incredulity, and what, in the light of the facts, I must now call their well-deserved ridicule. Mr. Moulton lost no occasion of presenting to me the kindest view of Mr. Tilton’s character and conduct. On the other hand, he complained that Mrs. Tilton did not trust her husband or him, and did not assist him in his effort to help Theodore. I knew that she distrusted Mr. Moulton, and felt bitterly hurt by the treatment of her husband. I was urged to use my influence with her to inspire confidence in Moulton and to lead her to take a kinder view of Theodore. Accordingly, at the instance of Mr. Moulton, on February 7, 1871, I wrote a letter to her of that date, designed for the purpose of giving her confidence in Mr. Moulton.

“In my letter to Mrs. Tilton I alluded to the fact that I did not expect, when I saw her last, to be alive many days. That statement stands connected with a series of symptoms which I first experienced in 1856. I went through the Fremont campaign, speaking in the open air three hours at a time, three days in the week. On renewing my literary labors I felt I must have given way; I very seriously thought that I was going to have apoplexy or paralysis, or something of the kind. On two or three occasions, while preaching, I should have fallen in the pulpit if I had not held on to the table. Very often I came near falling in the streets. During the last fifteen years I have gone into the pulpit, I suppose a hundred times, with a very strong impression that I should never come out of it alive. I have preached more sermons than any human being would believe, when I felt all the while, that whatever I had got to say to my people I must say then, or I never would have another chance to say it. If I had consulted a physician, his first advice would have been, ‘You must stop work.’ But I was in such a situation that I could not stop work. I read the best medical books on symptoms of nervous prostration, and overwork, and paralysis, and formed my own judgment of my case. The three points I marked were: I must have good digestion, good sleep, and I must go on working. These three things were to be reconciled; and in regard to my diet, stimulants, and medicines I made the most thorough and searching trial, and, as the result, managed my body so that I could get the most work out of it without essentially impairing it. If I had said a word about this to my family, it would have brought such distress and anxiety on the part of my wife, as I could not have borne. I have for many years so steadily taxed my mind to the utmost that there have been periods when I could not afford to have people express even sympathy with me. To have my wife or friends anxious about my health, and showing it to me, would be just the drop too much.

“In 1863 I came again into the same condition just before going to England, and that was one of the reasons why I wished to go. The war was at its height. I carried my country in my heart. I had the _Independent_ in charge, and was working, preaching, and lecturing continually. I knew I was likely to be prostrated again.

“In December, 1870, the sudden shock of these troubles brought on again these symptoms in a more violent form. I was very much depressed in mind, and all the more, because it was one of those things that I could not say anything about; I was silent with everybody. During the last four years these symptoms had been repeatedly brought on by my intense work, carried forward on the underlying basis of so much sorrow and trouble.

“My friends will bear witness, that in the pulpit, I have very frequently alluded to my expectation of sudden death. I feel that I have more than once, already, been near a stroke that would have killed or paralyzed me, and I carry with me now, as I have so often carried, in years before this trouble began, the daily thought of death, as a door which might open for me, at any moment, out of all cares and labors into most welcome rest.[10]

Footnote 10:

These impressions of impending death he carried with him constantly during the year or two just preceding the final outbreak of this plot.

In the spring of 1873 he wrote to his wife:

“MY DEAR WIFE: Thanks for your letter from Jacksonville. It cheered me. God knows that I do not need any more loads; and a comforting letter never could come to a better market.

“My life is almost over. I am like one waiting for the stage, his things all packed. The world is bright enough and good enough, and I enjoy a hundred things in it, and am neither moody nor morbid. Yet I have an abiding sense that my work is almost done. Every new thing done, lecture, sermon, or course of lectures, I count as clear gain—so much more than I expected, What the other life is I do not know, and none know so little as those who pretend to know best. That it will be bright and gladdening I am sure; that is all. That I have had success and achieved something gives me pleasure, chiefly because my life has been used for those who were weak and helpless. My lot has been cast in a time when the rights of the under-classes were to be considered. That I have been identified with that great movement of humanity is reward enough, and is the chief satisfaction which I take in the retrospect. But enough, enough.”

In another letter:

“I wish I were with you. When you are gone I feel how much you are to me. May God keep you for me for many years to come, if many years are in store for me.

“Your loving but heavy-hearted husband,

“H. W. B.”

In his private diary he wrote:

“I have not lived for myself; all my force has been devoted to the promotion of men’s happiness—happiness through justice, truth, goodness. Whatever prosperity I have had came to me almost unconsciously, certainly not by any wit or wisdom of my own. I am grateful for having lived. I shall go without murmur or discontent.

“I hope that there will be those who will be sorry when I leave, and those beyond who will be glad when I arrive.”

This same feeling remained with him, more or less, though not in so pronounced a form, through the remainder of his life.

“During the whole of the year 1871 I was kept in a state of suspense and doubt, not only as to the future of the family, for the reunion and happiness of which I had striven so earnestly, but as to the degree to which I might be personally subject to attack and misconstruction, and the trouble be brought into the church and magnified by publicity. The officers of the church sought to investigate Mr. Tilton’s religious views and moral conduct. On the latter point I had been deceived into the belief that he was not in fault. As to the religious views, I still hoped for a change for the better. It was proposed to drop him from the list of members for non-attendance; and as he asserted to me his withdrawal, this might have been done, but his wife still attended the church and hoped for his restoration. I recollect having with him a conversation in which he dimly hinted to me that he thought it not unlikely that he might go back into his old position. He seemed to be in a mood to regret the past. And so, when I was urged by the Examining Committee to take some steps, I said I was not without hopes that by patience and kindness Tilton might come back again into his old church works and be one of us once more. I therefore delayed a decision upon this point for a long time. Many of our members were anxious and impatient, and there were many tokens of trouble from this quarter. Meanwhile one wing of the female-suffrage party, had got hold of his story in a distorted and exaggerated form, such as had never been intimated to me by Mr. Tilton or his friends. I did not then suspect what I now know, that these atrociously false rumors originated with Mr. Tilton himself. I only saw the evil growing instead of diminishing, and perceived that while I was pledged to silence, and therefore could not speak in my own defence, some one was for ever persevering in falsehood, growing continually in dimensions, and these difficulties were immensely increased by the affiliation of Mr. Tilton with the extremists in the female-suffrage party.

“The winter following (1871-72) Mr. Tilton returned from the lecture-field in despair. Engagements had been cancelled, invitations withdrawn, and he spoke of the prejudice and repugnance with which he was everywhere met as indescribable. I urged him to make a prompt repudiation of these women and their doctrines. I told him that no man could rise against the public sentiment with such a load. Mr. Tilton’s vanity seldom allowed him to regard himself as in the wrong or his actions faulty. He could never be made to believe that his failure to rise again was caused by his partnership with these women, and by his want of sensible work, which work should make the public feel that he had in him power for good. Instead of this he preferred, or professed, to think that I was using my influence against him, that I was allowing him to be traduced without coming generously to the front to defend him, and that my friends were working against him; to which I replied that, unless the laws of mind were changed, not Almighty God Himself could lift him into favor if these women must be lifted with him. Nevertheless I sought in every way to restore peace and concord to the family which I was made to feel had been injured by me and was dependent on my influence for recovery.

“But one thing was constant and apparent—when Tilton, by lecturing or otherwise, was prosperous, he was very genial and affectionate to me. Whenever he met rebuffs and was in _pecuniary trouble_, he scowled threateningly upon me as the author of his troubles, and Moulton himself seemed at times to accuse me of indifference to Tilton’s misfortunes.

“I now come in my narrative to give an account of the origin of the somewhat famous tripartite agreement. Early in February, 1872, Mr. Tilton returned to the city thoroughly discouraged with the result of his lecturing tour. The _Golden Age_ (a paper organized for Tilton by his friends), which had then been established for about twelve months, had not succeeded, and was understood to be losing money. His pecuniary obligations were pressing, and although his claim against Bowen for the violation of his two contracts had a year previously been put under the exclusive control of Moulton with a view of settlement, it had not as yet been effected. About this time Mr. Moulton, who was sick, sent for me and showed me a galley-proof of an article, prepared by Mr. Tilton for the _Golden Age_, in which he embodied a copy of a letter written by him to Mr. Bowen, dated January 1, 1871, in which he charged Mr. Bowen with making scandalous accusations against my character. This was the first time that I had ever seen these charges, and I had never heard of them except by mere rumor, Mr. Bowen never having, at any time, said a word to me on the subject. I was amazed at the proposed publication. I did not then understand the real object of giving circulation to such slanders. My first impression was that Mr. Tilton designed, under cover of an attack upon me in the name of another, to open the way for the publication of his own pretended personal grievances. I protested against the publication in the strongest terms, but was informed that it was not intended as an hostile act to myself, but to Mr. Bowen. I did not any the less insist upon my protest against this publication. On its being shown to Mr. Bowen he was thoroughly alarmed, and speedily consented to the appointment of arbitrators to bring about an amicable settlement. The result of this proceeding was that Mr. Bowen paid Mr. Tilton over $7,000, and that a written agreement was entered into by Bowen, Tilton, and myself of amnesty, concord, and future peace.[11] It was agreed that the offensive article, the publication of which had produced such an effect upon Mr. Bowen and secured a settlement, should be destroyed without seeing the light. It was an act of treachery peculiarly base that this article was permitted to get into hands which would insure its publication, and that it was published. I was assured that every vestige of it had been destroyed, nor until a comparatively recent period did I understand how Mr. Tilton secured its publication without seeming to be himself responsible for the deed.

Footnote 11:

“We three men, earnestly desiring to remove all causes of offence existing between us, real or fancied, and to make Christian reparation for injuries done, or supposed to have been done, and to efface the disturbed past, and to provide concord, good-will, and love for the future, do declare and covenant each to the others as follows:

“I. I, Henry C. Bowen, having given credit, perhaps without due consideration, to tales and innuendoes affecting Henry Ward Beecher, and being influenced by them, as was natural to a man who receives impressions suddenly, to the extent of repeating them (guardedly, however, and within limitations, and not for the purpose of injuring him, but strictly in the confidence of consultation), now feel therein that I did him wrong.

“Therefore I disavow all the charges and imputations that have been attributed to me, as having been by me made against Henry Ward Beecher, and I declare fully and without reserve that I know nothing which should prevent me from extending to him my most cordial friendship, confidence, and Christian fellowship; and I expressly withdraw all the charges, imputations, and innuendoes imputed as having been made and uttered by me, and set forth in a letter written to me by Theodore Tilton on the 1st day of January, 1871; and I sincerely regret having made any imputations, charges, or innuendoes unfavorable to the Christian character of Mr. Beecher, and I covenant and promise that for all future time I will never by word or deed recur to, repeat, or allude to any or either of said charges, imputations, and innuendoes.

“II. And I, Theodore Tilton, do, of my own free will and friendly spirit toward Henry C. Bowen and Henry Ward Beecher, hereby covenant and agree that I will never again repeat, by word of mouth or otherwise, any of the allegations, or imputations, or innuendoes contained in my letter hereunto annexed, or any other injurious imputations or allegations suggested by or growing out of these; and that I will never again bring up or hint at any cause of difference or ground of complaint heretofore existing between the said Henry C. Bowen and myself or the said Henry Ward Beecher.

“III. And I, Henry Ward Beecher, put the past for ever out of sight and out of memory. I deeply regret the causes of suspicion, jealousy, and estrangement which have come between us. It is a joy to me to have my old regard for Henry C. Bowen and Theodore Tilton restored, and a happiness to me to resume the old relations of love, respect, and reliance to each and both of them. If I have said anything injurious to the reputation of either, or have detracted from their standing and fame as Christian gentlemen and members of my church, I revoke it all, and heartily covenant to repair and reinstate them to the extent of my power.

“HENRY WARD BEECHER. “THEODORE TILTON. “HENRY C. BOWEN.”

“After vainly attempting to obtain money both from myself and my wife as the price of its suppression, the Woodhull women published their version of the Tilton scandal in the November of 1872. The details given by them were so minute, though so distorted, that suspicion was universally directed toward Mr. Tilton as the real author of this, which he so justly calls ‘a wicked and horrible scandal,’ though it is not a whit more horrible than that which he has now fathered, and not half so wicked, because they did not have personal knowledge of the falsity of their story, as Mr. Tilton has of his.

“To rid himself of this incubus Mr. Tilton drew up a voluminous paper called ‘A true statement,’ but which was familiarly called ‘Tilton’s case.’ Tilton’s furor for compiling statements was one of my familiar annoyances. Moulton used to tell me that the only way to manage him was to let him work off his periodical passion on some such document, and then to pounce on the document and suppress it. This particular ‘true statement’ was a special plea in abatement of the prejudices excited by his Woodhull partnership. It was a muddle of garbled statements, manufactured documents, and downright falsehoods. This paper I knew he read to many, and I am told that he read it to not less than fifty persons, in which he did not pretend to charge immorality upon his wife; on the contrary, he explicitly denied it and asserted her purity, but charged me with improper overtures to her. It was this paper which he read to Dr. Storrs, and poisoned therewith his mind, thus leading to the attempt to prosecute Tilton in Plymouth Church, the interference of neighboring churches, and the calling of the Congregational Council. After the Woodhull story was published, and while Mr. Tilton seemed really desirous for a short time of protecting his wife, I sent through him the following letter to her:

“‘MY DEAR MRS. TILTON: I hoped that you would be shielded from the knowledge of the great wrong that has been done to you, and through you to universal womanhood. I can hardly bear to speak of it or allude to a matter than which nothing can be imagined more painful to a pure and womanly nature. I pray daily for you “that your faith fail not.” You yourself know the way and the power of prayer. God has been your refuge in many sorrows before. He will now hide you in His pavilion until the storm be overpast. The rain that beats down the flower to the earth shall pass at length, and the stem bent but not broken will rise again and blossom as before. Every pure woman on earth will feel that this wanton and unprovoked assault is aimed at you, but reaches to universal womanhood. Meantime your dear children will love you with double tenderness, and Theodore, at whom the shafts are hurled, will hide you in his heart of hearts. I am glad that revelation from the pit has given him a sight of the danger that was before hidden by spurious appearances and promises of usefulness. May God keep him in courage in this arduous struggle which he wages against adversity, and bring him out through much trial, like gold seven times fined! I have not spoken of myself. No words could express the sharpness and depth of my sorrow in your behalf, my dear and honored friend. God walks in the fire by the side of those He loves, and in heaven neither you nor Theodore nor I shall regret the discipline, how hard soever it may seem now. May He restrain and turn those poor creatures who have been given over to do all this sorrowful harm to those who have deserved no such treatment at their hands! I commend you to my mother’s God, my dear friend! May His smile bring light in darkness, and His love be a perpetual summer to you!

“Very truly yours, “HENRY WARD BEECHER.”

“The whole series of events, beginning with the outbreak of the Woodhull story, brought upon me a terrible accumulation of anxieties. Everything that had threatened before now started up again with new violence. Tilton’s behavior was at once inexplicable and uncontrollable. His card ‘to a complaining friend’ did not produce the effect he pretended to expect from it, of convincing the public of his great magnanimity. Then his infamous article and letter to Mr. Bowen made its appearance in the _Eagle_. It had been suggested that the publication of the ‘tripartite covenant’ would have a good effect in counteracting the slanderous stories about Mrs. Tilton and myself, which Tilton professed to regard, but which his foolish card and the publication of that article had done so much to revive and render mischievous. Mr. Moulton urged me to get from the gentleman who held the ‘tripartite covenant’ a copy of it for us, when suddenly Mr. Wilkeson came out with it on his own responsibility. Its publication in this manner I made strenuous but unavailing efforts to prevent. He had originally kept a copy of it. (Everybody in this business seems to have copies of everything except myself.) On the appearance of that paper Tilton went into a rage. It put him, he said, in a ‘false position’ before the public, and he said he would publish another card giving a statement something like what he afterward wrote to Dr. Bacon—that is, as I recollect the matter, declaring that I had committed an offence, and that he had been the magnanimous party in the business. It was necessary to decide what to do with him. Moulton strongly urged a card from me exonerating Tilton (as I could honestly do) from the authorship of the particular scandals detailed in his article to Mr. Bowen and alluded to in the covenant.

“I said I would think it over, and perhaps write something. This was Friday or Saturday. The covenant appeared on Friday morning, and the alarm was sounded on me immediately that Tilton would do something dreadful if not restrained. On Sunday I had made up my mind to write to Mr. Moulton the following letter, garbled extracts of which are given in Mr. Tilton’s statement:

“‘SUNDAY MORNING, June 1, 1873.

“‘MY DEAR FRANK: The whole earth is tranquil and the heaven is serener, as befits one who has about finished this world-life.

“‘I could do nothing on Saturday. My head was confused.

“‘But a good sleep has made it like crystal. I have determined to make no more resistance. Theodore’s temperament is such that the future, even if temporarily earned, would be absolutely worthless, filled with abrupt changes, and rendering me liable at any hour or day to be obliged to stultify all the devices by which we saved ourselves.

“‘It is only fair that he should know that the publication of the card which he proposes would leave him far worse off than before. _The agreement_ was made after my letter through you was written. He had had it a year. He had condoned his wife’s fault. He had enjoined upon me with the utmost earnestness and solemnity not to betray his wife nor leave his children to a blight. I had honestly and earnestly joined in the purpose.

“‘Then this settlement was made and signed by him [Tripartite]. It was not my making. He revised his part so that it should wholly suit him, and signed it. It stood unquestioned and unblamed for more than a year. _Then it was published._ Nothing but that. That which he did in private, when made public excited him to fury, and he charges me with _making him appear_ as one _graciously pardoned by me_! It was his own deliberate act, with which he was perfectly content till others saw it, and then he charges a grievous wrong home on me!

“‘My mind is clear; I am not in haste. I shall write for the public a statement that will bear the light of the judgment day. God will take care of me and mine. When I look on earth it is deep night. When I look to the heavens above I see the morning breaking. But, oh! that I could put in golden letters my deep sense of your faithful, earnest, undying fidelity, your disinterested friendship! Your noble wife, too, has been one of God’s comforters. It is such as she that renews a waning faith in womanhood.

“‘Now, Frank, I would not have you waste any more energy on a hopeless task. With such a man as T. T. there is no possible salvation for any that depend on him. With a strong nature, he does not know how to govern it. With generous impulses, the undercurrent that rules him is self. With ardent affections, he cannot love long that which does not repay but with admiration and praise. With a strong theatric nature, he is constantly imposed upon with the idea that a position, a great stroke—a _coup d’état_—is the way to success. Besides these he has a hundred good things about him, but these named traits make him _absolutely unreliable_. Therefore there is no use in further trying. I have a strong feeling upon me, and it brings great peace with it, that I am spending my _last Sunday_ and preaching my last sermon. Dear, good God, I thank Thee! I am indeed beginning to see rest and triumph. The pain of life is but a moment; the glory of the everlasting emancipation is wordless, inconceivable, full of breaking glory. O my beloved Frank! I shall know you then, and for ever hold fellowship with you, and look back and smile at the past. Your loving

H. W. B.’

“There are intimations at the beginning and end of this letter that I felt the approach of death. With regard to that I merely refer to my previous statement concerning my bodily symptoms, and add that on this day I felt symptoms upon me. The main point is that I was worried out with the whole business, and would have been glad to escape by death, of which I long had little dread. I could see no end but death to the accumulation of torture, but I resolved to stop short and waste no more time in making matters worse. I felt that Mr. Moulton had better stop, too, and let the whole thing come out. I determined, then, to make a full and true statement, which I now make, and to leave the result with God. Mr. Tilton had repeatedly urged me, as stated in my letter, not to betray his wife, and I felt bound by every sense of honor, in case I should be pressed by inquiries from my church or family as to the foundations of rumors which might reach them, to keep this promise. By this promise I meant only that I would not betray the excessive affection which his wife, as I had been told, had conceived for me and had confessed to him. In reply to this note, which was calm and reserved rather than gloomy, Mr. Moulton wrote that same day a letter of three and a half sheets of copy-paper. He began as follows:

“‘MY DEAR FRIEND: You know I have never been in sympathy with the mood out of which you have often spoken as you have written this morning. If the truth must be spoken let it be. I know you can stand if the whole case was published to-morrow, and in my opinion it shows a selfish faith in God.’

“Having proceeded thus far, Mr. Moulton seems to have perceived that the tone of this letter was rather likely to encourage me in my determination to publish the whole case than otherwise; and as this was opposed to the whole line of his policy, he crossed out with one dash of the pencil the whole of this and commenced anew, writing the following letter:

“‘SUNDAY, June 1, 1873.

“‘MY DEAR FRIEND: Your letter makes this first Sabbath of summer dark and cold like a vault. You have never inspired me with courage or hope, and if I had listened to you alone my hands would have dropped helpless long ago. You don’t begin to be in the danger to-day that has faced you many times before. If you now look at it square in the eyes it will cower and slink away again. You know that I have never been in sympathy with, but that I absolutely abhor, the unmanly mood out of which your letter of this morning came. This mood is a reservoir of mildew. _You_ can stand it if the _whole case_ were published to-morrow. In my opinion it shows only a selfish faith in God to go whining into heaven, if you could, with a truth that you are not courageous enough, with God’s help and faith in God, to try to live on earth. You know that I love you, and because I do I shall try and try and try as in the past. You are mistaken when you say that ‘Theodore charges you with making him appear as one graciously pardoned by you.’ He said the form in which it was published in some of the papers made it so appear, and it was from this that he asked relief. I do not think it impossible to frame a letter which will cover the case. May God bless you! I know He will protect you.

FRANK.’

“In the haste of writing Mr. Moulton apparently failed to perceive what he had already written. In the first instance, he wrote on one side of a half-sheet of paper, then, turning it over, inadvertently used the clean side of that half-sheet for the purpose of the letter, which he sent in the final shape above given. But it will be seen that he deliberately, and twice in succession, reaffirmed his main statement that there was nothing in the whole case on which I could not safely stand. He treats my resolution as born of such morbid despair, as he had often reproached me for, and urged me strongly to maintain my faith in him. Tilton yielded to his persuasion, and graciously allowed himself to be soothed by the publication of a card exonerating him from the authorship of the base lies to which the tripartite covenant referred. So once more, and this time against my calmer judgment, I patched up a hollow peace with him.

“That I have grievously erred in judgment with this perplexed case no one is more conscious than I am. I chose the wrong path, and accepted a disastrous guidance in the beginning, and have indeed travelled on a ‘rough and ragged edge’ in my prolonged efforts to suppress this scandal, which has at last spread so much desolation through the land. But I cannot admit that I erred in desiring to keep these matters out of sight. In this respect I appeal to all Christian men, to judge whether almost any personal sacrifice ought not to have been made, rather than to suffer the morals of an entire community, and especially of the young, to be corrupted by the filthy details of scandalous falsehoods, daily iterated and amplified, for the gratification of impure curiosity, and the demoralization of every child that is old enough to read.

“The full truth of this history requires that one more fact should be told, especially as Mr. Tilton has invited it. Money has been obtained from me in the course of these affairs, in considerable sums; but I did not, at first, look upon the suggestions that I should contribute to Mr. Tilton’s pecuniary wants, as savoring of blackmail. Afterward I contributed at one time $5,000, which I came to do in this way: There was a discussion about the _Golden Age_. Moulton was constantly advancing money, as he said to me, to help Tilton. The paper was needy. One evening I was at his house. We were alone together in the back parlor, and Moulton took out of his pocket a letter from ———. It was read to me, in which the writer mentioned contributions which he had made to Theodore. I understood from him, that the writer of this letter had given him some thousands of dollars down in cash, and then taking out two time-checks or drafts, which, as I recollected, were on bluish paper—although I am not sure of that. There were two checks, each of them amounting to one or two thousand dollars more, and I should think it amounted in all to about six thousand dollars, although my memory about quantities and figures is to be taken with great allowance; but it produced the impression in me, that the writer had given him one or two thousand dollars in cash down, and, as the writer explained in the letter, it was not convenient to give the balance in money at that time, but had drawn time-drafts, which would be just as useful as money; and Moulton slapped the table and said, ‘_That_ is what I call friendship,’ and I was stupid, and said, ‘Yes, it was.’ Afterward, when I got home, I got to thinking about it. ‘Why,’ said I, ‘what a fool! I never dreamed what he meant.’ Then I went to him and said to him, ‘I am willing to make a contribution and put the thing beyond a controversy.’ Well, he said something like this: ‘That he thought it would be the best investment that ever I made in my life.’ I then went to the savings-bank and put a mortgage of five thousand dollars on my house. I took a check which was given me by the bank’s lawyer, and put it into the bank, and, on Moulton’s suggestion that it would be better than to have a check drawn to his order, I drew the money in five-hundred-dollar or one-thousand-dollar bills—I have forgotten which, but I know that they were large, for I carried the roll in my hand—and these I gave into his hands. After the money had been given to Mr. Moulton, I felt very much dissatisfied. Finally a square demand and a threat was made to one of my confidential friends, that if $5,000 more were not paid, Tilton’s charges would be laid before the public. This I saw at once was blackmail in its boldest form, and I never paid a cent of it, but challenged and requested the fullest exposure.”

As we have seen, the “Woodhull scandal,” at the secret instigation of Tilton, was published late in October, 1872.

On the 2d of November Dr. Storrs wrote to Mr. Beecher:

“MY DEAR BEECHER: I hear from different quarters that scandalous and annoying publications have been made about you.

“If they are such as to trouble you, and if I can at any time be of any service to you, you know, of course, that you have only to intimate the wish to get all the help that I can give, on any occasion or in any way. Ever affectionately yours,

“R. S. STORRS, JR.”

At this time Mr. Beecher felt that he was bound in honor to be silent. It was not until the spring of 1873, when realizing that Tilton was industriously, in person, and through his friends, whispering tales against his character, and stimulating the publication of the scandal, that he felt himself relieved from this obligation. Then he published a card in the Brooklyn _Eagle_, emphatically branding the stories as false and challenging the production of any evidence against him.

But, at the time of Dr. Storrs’s letter, to say a little and not say all, would be worse than silence, while to confide the whole matter to Dr. Storrs would necessitate repeating the statements against Tilton and Bowen, which would be a breach of the tripartite agreement (a pledge which he alone had observed). He did not call on the doctor or answer the letter. He kept silent. A short time later (December 16) Tilton called upon Dr. Storrs with a friend, and read to him his so-called “true statement,” which, as we have seen, he had drawn up to counteract, as he pretended, the Woodhull scandal. In this he asserted most positively his wife’s innocence, and charged Mr. Beecher with “improper proposals.”

The effect of this interview played an important part in the subsequent events. We are not aware that Dr. Storrs ever went directly to his old friend and laid what he had heard before him, or indignantly denied the charges as a slander; but, on the contrary, almost in the face of his letter of November 2d proffering aid, he lent his ear to tales, carried by such a man as he knew Tilton to be; and we very soon find him acting, in conjunction with Dr. Budington, as the recognized champion and adviser of Mr. Beecher’s enemies; his hostility, later on, ripening into the most intense personal bitterness, the fierce heat of which seemed to grow stronger rather than weaker as years rolled by, and did not seem to abate even when the cold hand of death fell upon his former friend. We have searched in vain for any reasonable justification for this sudden change, from the most glowing friendship, to the most scorching enmity. We feel unwilling to believe the commonly accepted theory of jealousy, while the doctor’s own suggestion that his feelings were hurt by Mr. Beecher’s neglect of his friendly overtures, seems belittling to a man so gifted and refined, and one cast in so large an intellectual mould.

We say that injured feelings were the reason suggested; for when, about a year later, he appeared in open hostility to Mr. Beecher, and wondering friends inquired the reason, he stated in effect that he felt hurt by Mr. Beecher’s neglect to even answer his friendly letter (of November 2, 1872), though admitting that it did not necessarily call for an answer. Later, after the publication of the scandal, Mr. Beecher explained to both Drs. Storrs and Budington the reason for his silence, which explanation they then professed to accept as satisfactory.[12] On November 7, 1873, a friend of both Dr. Storrs and Mr. Beecher called on the doctor, to whom he stated that while Mr. Beecher’s enemies had come to him, and he had not felt it right to refuse to hear what any one had to say, Mr. Beecher’s friends had not come near him; that _he himself_ (Dr. S.) _had never once commenced a conversation with any one on this subject_, and that he was sorry that he could not see this affair as Mr. Beecher’s friends did, and wished he could believe that he was suffering for the sins of others.

Footnote 12:

This occurred early in 1874, when Drs. Storrs and Budington were in conference with Mr. Beecher, seeking for some way of avoiding the complications between the three churches, which ultimately led to the Advisory Council of 1874. During this period they addressed Mr. Beecher in their letters as “My dear Brother,” joined with him in prayer asking for divine guidance out of the existing complications. Neither of them intimated any belief in the scandalous stories then afloat, but put the whole burden of their complaint on the ground of discourtesy, and, when Mr. Beecher explained his reasons for silence and the pledge he felt himself to be under, expressed themselves as fully satisfied, and as late as 1876 their clerical friends understood that their hostility grew out of feelings hurt by fancied neglect, and not from a belief in any guilt on the part of Mr. Beecher. See Dr. Bacon’s letter of February 27, 1876, page 559.

From his own statement, then, it would seem that he gave his ear to the tale-bearer, listening to all that was brought to him by Mr. Beecher’s enemies, but _he himself never once sought_ for information from Mr. Beecher’s friends.

About the first of June, 1873, Mr. Beecher had become satisfied that there was no longer any use of trying to help Mr. Tilton, his eyes being at last opened to the fact, that Tilton had been deceiving him right along, and little by little had been dealing scandalous stories out to the public. He declared that he would stand it no longer, and when it was stated that Mrs. Woodhull had implicating letters from him he published the following card in the Brooklyn _Eagle_:

“I have just returned to the city to learn that application has been made to Mrs. Victoria Woodhull for letters of mine supposed to contain information respecting certain infamous stories against me. I have no objection to have the _Eagle_ state, in any way it deems fit, that Mrs. Woodhull, or any other person or persons who may have letters of mine in their possession, have my cordial consent to publish them. In this connection, and at this time, I will only add that the stories and rumors which for some time past have been circulated about me are grossly untrue, and I stamp them, in general and in particular, as utterly false.

“Respectfully, HENRY WARD BEECHER.

“BROOKLYN, N. Y., June 30, 1873.”

At this time the stories afloat were vague and general.