Part 7

Dr. Osgood was intensely self-conscious, self-regarding, self-referring. Not vain in the ordinary sense, though he seemed so from his countenance, attitude, manner, for all of which, I am persuaded, nature was more responsible than disposition, his physical formation producing a certain carriage that suggested superciliousness and conceit. If he were forth-putting, it was, in most instances at least, because he lacked self-reliance, and wished to be _seen_, knowing that he could not be _felt_. In reality he was a modest, timid, shrinking man, with an inordinate desire for distinction, which impelled him continually to make a demonstration in public. Mere vanity--the love of appearances--he was destitute of, for he was too tender-hearted and too conscientious to make victims. One must be self-centred to be vain, as he was not. I recollect his coming one day into the office of the _Christian Inquirer_, with his head up as usual, and calling out in a loud voice: "Where do you think I went on my way down town?" Of course none of us knew or could guess. "Well," he went on to say, with an air of complacency, "I stopped at Fowler & Wells' and had my head examined." "Ah!" exclaimed one of the impudent, "did they find anything, Sam?" "What they did _not_ find," he said, "will interest you more. They declared that I was deficient in self-respect, and it is true." And it _was_ true. Samuel Osgood assumed a brave air, for the reason that he could not trust himself in the open field. He needed the protection of a rampart. He wore a showy uniform, because he was not valiant. He had too much self-esteem to forget himself, and too little courage to assert himself; the consequence was that he said and did numerous things that looked vainglorious and were absurd, but which were intended to conceal his impuissance. It was an innocent kind of bravado, like poor Oliver Proudfute's, in Scott's romance, "The Fair Maid of Perth." Nobody was hurt by it, though to him the passion for notoriety was fatal. He liked to see his name in a newspaper, coveting the kind of reputation that came in that way, and comforting his heart with the thought of lying on the broad bosom of the community. His restless desire for public notice brought ridicule on him, for ordinary people ascribed it to his conceit, whereas it rather indicated an absence of self-confidence. It was a cloak to hide his depreciation at the same time that it made him look larger in the general eye. It was, therefore, more touching than despicable, and if it excited mirth there was nothing bitter in the smile which could not break into laughter. Selfish he could not be called, for he was always serving others, and disinterestedly too; but on a charge of complacency he could hardly be acquitted. This was the manner in which he took his reward, and, as I said, it cost nothing to anybody, while the public received a great deal of service very ungrudgingly bestowed.

The change from Unitarianism to Episcopacy is very easily explained. His craving for sympathy was boundless. He was necessarily isolated in New York, nor had he the solace of a great popular success. In fact his following was small; his church was dwindling; his reputation was certainly not increasing; and he became persuaded, I think without sufficient reason, that he was the victim of adverse influences. In London, he was charmed with the blended freedom and sanctity of the "Broad Church" represented by Stanley, Kingsley, Jowett, and a host of cultivated men; by its unity amid diversity; its sympathy and fellowship and large scholarship. Here was a church indeed; wide, holy, liberal, devout, with articles admitting of various interpretations, sacraments tender and elastic, forms that did not constrain, and usages that did not bind, an unlimited range of speculation, and a spirit of reverence that kept the most widely separated together. Here was something very different from the sectarianism he had, all his life, been accustomed to, and, all his life, had loathed. He joined this Communion not so much on account of its _creed_ as of its _creedlessness;_ not as another form of denominationalism, but as an escape from denominationalism; a real, living, comprehensive church, where there was room for all Christian souls, whatever their special mode of belief; a Protestant church with a truly catholic temper, cordial, humane, courteous; with a respect for literature, and a love for knowledge; with no jealousy or ill-will, or fear of thought. His heart was warmed, his fancy fired. Shortly after his return, as he sat in my study, I asked him if he had materially changed his theology. He replied that he had not, he had simply altered the _emphasis;_ as much as to say that in substance it remained what it was before, essentially Unitarian, as he understood that designation. In fact, his sermons were to all intents and purposes the same; they never abounded in doctrine, they did not now; they were always "sentimental," in the sense of dealing with sentiment, they were so still. He was not a prime favorite with Episcopalians in America. He was not narrow or strict enough for the orthodox; he was not "sensational" enough for the liberals; he was too ecclesiastical for the Low Churchmen; too rationalistic for the High Churchmen; and his failure to communicate warmth was not favorable to his attractiveness. There were not many Broad Church ministers in New York, so that his circle of fellowship was small; and on the whole the reception was a disappointment. He longed for recognition, which he found among many of his old associates, as he did not find it among his new friends. He was always a churchman when he was a Unitarian; he was no more of a churchman now, and the sympathy he sought he might have found in his former connection. Probably had he lived elsewhere than in New York, where the competition was sharp, and where individuality alone without distinguished power counted for nothing, he would have continued Unitarian, and been happy, but he was ambitious of eminence; he wanted to live in a great city, to be minister of a metropolitan parish, to be a Doctor of Divinity, and for all this he lacked the force. There was a perpetual conflict between his aspirations and his vigor. He joined the Episcopal fraternity, hoping for what none but those born into it attain without energy of an exalted kind. His ancient comrades fell away, as was natural; he could not win other comrades, and his later years became lonely. He cared more for Christian fellowship than for any other; and he had not the power to secure this. Thus his affectionateness was against him. He was a loyal man, true to his convictions, faithful to the bent of his mind. He could not be a deceiver or a renegade, and his heart was not strong enough or wide enough to push him forward.

Some thought him deficient in common-sense, and this is, in a sense, true. He had not the force to carry projects through, nor had he the hearty accord with the people of his generation that would give him an instinctive insight into their wishes and enable him to strike into the current of their designs. His self-reference always stood in the way of his sympathy with other men; yet he often took practical views of speculative questions, and curbed a propensity to moral enthusiasm on the part of some of his associates. This, however, was due to his timidity, to his absence of vigor, to his want of vital conviction, rather than to any clearness of perception. He had no humor, no sense of the incongruous, the incompatible, or the absurd. He named rocks, groves, arbors, on his summer estate, after the famous poets, and used to sit in turn on the seats he had thus immortalized. He said things that no man of taste would have uttered, and did things that no man of judgment would have been guilty of. But all this was owing to the absence of sensible qualities rather than to the presence of visionary ones. He was not perverse, stubborn, or wrong-headed, did not outrage common opinion, or fly in the face of established prejudice. His want of good sense was negative, not positive; innocent, not harmful.

Such men have their uses and their place, and neither is small or low. His love of learning, his devotion to duty, his friendliness, his fidelity, his kindliness, were rare gifts, particularly rare in communities like ours. His child-like conceit, very different from the aggressive vanity that offends the sensitive soul, was not offensive or noxious, and was a source of harmless amusement. His guilelessness was more than touching; it was admirable as an example and as a lesson, in an age that honors knowledge of the world beyond its deserts; and his simplicity of nature, his trustingness, his ingenuousness, rendered him a confiding friend, dear to those whose hearts were sore. Few men living have so small a number of enemies. He did not provoke the hostility he received. It was possible to be sorry for him; it was impossible to bear him malice.

As I think of him, the vision arises of a complacent man, with a loud greeting, a metallic voice, an outstretched hand, a consequential manner. All this is dust and ashes, but his singleness of intention is not dead. When everything else is forgotten, his faithfulness will be remembered.

Both these men gave me a warm welcome; in fact, my relations were most friendly among the other Unitarian ministers in the neighborhood. It was anticipated, no doubt, that I would establish a third Unitarian Society "up town," of a liberal type; but a wide departure from the existing order was not suspected. The expectation was that the usual doctrines were to be proclaimed; that the sacraments were to be administered; that the regular order was to be observed. Perhaps my willingness to undertake such an enterprise was regarded as a sign of concession on my part; perhaps it was supposed that the conservative tone of the city, together with the attitude of the other churches, would repress the radical tendencies of the young clergyman; perhaps the trials incident to a new society and the confusions of the time concealed somewhat the real bearing of the undertaking. However this may be, there was no opposition, no criticism, no dictation, no proscription of radical leanings. My congregations were composed of all sorts of people. There were Unitarians, Universalists, "come-outers," spiritualists, unbelievers of all kinds, anti-slavery people, reformers generally. But this, as being incidental to the formation of every liberal society, was not objected to. It need not have been; for if there had been no interruption, no check, everything might have gone smoothly, as in similar societies since.

VIII. WAR.

Hardly had I got warm in my place when the mutterings of war were in the air. During the autumn of 1859, on the 16th of October, John Brown planned his attack on Harper's Ferry. His was a portentous figure. His position in history--greater than his achievements would warrant--was due partly to his position as herald of the coming strife, but mainly to his personal qualities. These were colossal; however much one may criticise his particular deeds, or the details of his motive, these qualities can not be exalted too highly. His courage, heroism, patience, fortitude, were most extraordinary. Even Governor Wise, the man whose duty it was to see him tried and executed as a felon, said of him; "They are mistaken who take Brown to be a madman. He is a bundle of the best nerves I ever saw; cut and thrust and bleeding and in bonds. He is a man of clear head, of courage, fortitude, and simple ingenuousness. He is cool, collected, indomitable; and it is but just to him to say that he was humane to his prisoners, and he inspired me with great trust in his integrity as a man of truth." Colonel Washington, another Virginia witness, testified to the extraordinary coolness with which Brown felt the pulse of his dying son, while he held his own rifle in the other hand, and cheered on his men. His character made his prison cell a shrine. On the day of his execution, December 2, 1859, he stood under the gallows with the noose round his neck for full ten minutes while military evolutions were performed; he never wavered a moment, and died with nerves still subject to his iron will. He was a Calvinistic believer in predestination; a real Covenanter, more like the Scotch Covenanters of two centuries ago than anything we know of to-day. He was an Old-Testament man, and like all fanatics was indifferent to death, either that of other men or his own. His anti-slavery zeal began in his youth. He early took an oath to make war against slavery, and, it is said, called his older sons together on one occasion and made them pledge themselves, kneeling in prayer, to the anti-slavery crusade. This purpose he always bore in mind, whatever else he was doing; he even chose the spot for his attempt--the mountains which Washington had selected as a final retreat should he be defeated by the English. Nearly nine years before his own death, he exhorted the members of the "League of Gileadites" to stand by one another and by their friends as long as a drop of blood remained and be hanged, if they must, but to tell no tales out of school.

Then came the war. Though its physical aspect,--the loss of treasure and of blood--was most affecting, I cannot but think that its mental and moral aspect has been underrated. Its whole justification lay in its moral character, and I must believe that full justice has never been done to those who were obliged to stay at home and uphold this feature. The preacher of the Gospel of Peace had as much as he could do to overcome the horrors of war; and the preacher of Righteousness was engaged all the time in promoting the cause of justice. They who went to the front had the excitement of battle, the pleasures of camp-life, the assistance of comradeship, the comfort of sympathy. The preacher had none of these. Every day rumors were reaching his ears; "extras" were flying about in the silence; he had to comfort people under defeat, to humble them in hours of victory; to interpret the conflict in accordance with the principles of equity; to keep alive the moral issues of the struggle. This was an incessant weariness and anxiety; to fight foes one could not see, and to uphold a cause that was discredited, fell to his portion; it is no wonder that when the war was over he was spent and aged.

An illustration of a part of what he had to contend with is found in the riot of the summer of 1863. This was an anti-abolitionist riot, a fierce protest against the conscription, and at the same time an uprising against the government, which was supposed to maintain a war of the blacks against the whites. The riot was directed against the negroes and the abolitionists, and was pitiless and ferocious in the extreme. It was my lot to be in New York in that dreadful week in July. I was visiting friends in the upper part of the town when the uproar began. As I walked home down Madison Avenue a group of rough men met me; one of them snatched at my watch chain, and I should have been maltreated had not more attractive game in the shape of people in a buggy drawn away the attention of my assailants. I reached my home in safety. The next morning, as I walked about the city, there were groups of men standing idle, or armed with missiles, in almost every street. Had the mob been organized then it might have done more mischief than it did, for the inhabitants of the city were unprepared and unprotected. As I stood at night on my roof, I could see the fires in different parts of the town, and hear the shots. An arsenal stood on Seventh Avenue, near my house, full of arms and ammunition which the insurgents wanted. When the United States troops arrived, they defended this arsenal. Cannons were pointed up and down the street, guards were posted, officers with their clanking swords marched up and down before my door. The riot lasted three days,--from the 13th to the 16th. On the following Sunday a sermon was preached which gives expression to the better thoughts of the wisest people, and from which accordingly extracts are made:

Of all the dreadful and melancholy passages in the history of human progress, none, to a thoughtful man, are more dreadful or melancholy than those which tell how men have resisted, pushed away, reviled, cursed, beaten, mobbed, crucified their benefactors. It does seem, as we read them, as if the most dreaded thing on earth had been the personal, the domestic, the social welfare; as if the deepest anxiety on the part of men of all sorts was an anxiety to escape from their health and salvation; as if the profoundest dread was a dread of mending their estates, and their utmost horror was a horror of heaven! It does seem, as we read, as if happiness, prosperity, success, were the pet aversion of mankind; as if the signs that were looked for with the most agonized apprehension were the signs that the kingdom of heaven was at hand.... We saw this conspicuously and dismally exemplified in the events of the past week. The one man who, before and above all others, was a mark for the rage of the populace, the one man whose name was loud in the rabble's mouth, and always coupled with a malediction, the one man who was hunted for his blood as by wolves, who would have been torn in pieces had the opportunity been afforded, and on whose account the dwelling of a friend was literally torn in pieces, was a man who had been the steadfast friend of these very people who hungered for his blood; their most constant, uncompromising, and public friend; thinking for them, speaking for them, writing for them; pleading their cause through the press, in the legislature, from the platform; excusing their mistakes and follies, asserting and reasserting their substantial worth and honesty and rectitude, advocating their claims as working people, vindicating their rights as men; proposing schemes for the safety of their persons, the healthfulness of their houses, the saving and increase of their earnings, the education of their children, the exemption of their homesteads from seizure in cases of debt, the enlargement of their sphere of labor, the transferring of their families from the crowded city, where they could do little more than keep themselves alive by arduous toil, to the fruitful lands of the West, where they could become noble and self-respecting men and women. This was the man whose blood was hungered for. I need not speak his name,--you know whom I mean, Horace Greeley,--a man whom some call visionary, but whose visions are all of the redemption of the people; whom some call "fool," but who, if he seem a fool, is foolish that the people may be wise; whom some call "radical," but whose radicalism is simply a determination that the popular existence shall have a sound, sure, and deep root in natural law and moral principle; at all events, a man who has lived for the people and suffered for the people, and been laughed at when he suffered and because he suffered. _This_ was the man whose blood was hungered for. And yet the most moderate, kind, considerate of all the papers, the last week, was his paper. And I believe he, even had he fallen into the hands of his enemies, would have said, "Forgive them, they know not what they do."

Indulge me in one more personality. I said that the dwelling of a friend was pillaged by the mob, under the impression that Mr. Greeley lived there. What was this dwelling? Who was this friend? The dwelling was one the like of which is rare in any city, a dwelling of happiness and peace, a home of the tenderest domestic affections, a house of large friendliness and hospitality, a refuge and abiding-place for the unfortunate and the outcast. There was no display of wealth there--there was no wealth to display; yet the house was full of things which no wealth could buy. It was crowded with mementos. The pieces of furniture in the rooms had family histories connected with them; chairs and tables were precious from association with noble and rare people who had gone. Pictures on the walls, busts in the parlor, engravings, photographs, books, spoke of the gratitude or love of some dear giver. One room was sacred to the memory of a noble boy, an only son, who had died some years before. There was his bust in marble, there were his books, there were the prints he liked, the little bits of art he was fond of, and all the dear things that seemed to bring him back. The whole house was a shrine and a sanctuary.