to procure sufficient and competent workmen; at home it is almost
at ruinous cost and with nearly insuperable difficulty. I have two
workmen--as good, certainly, as the best in America--to the finest
of whom I pay only four dollars a day. He could make twice that
cutting weeping-willows on American tomb-stones. What could he not
justly demand in wages from a New York sculptor? I employ a dozen
workmen in my studios; the poorest, at work on pedestals and rough
work, earn about half a dollar a day; the moderately skilled, a
little over a dollar. The whole cost me about fifteen dollars per
day, which is wonderfully low. Then, my rent--which could not, for
my extensive accommodations, be less than two thousand five hundred
dollars a year in any eligible position which the public would
visit--reaches only about four hundred and fifty dollars, annually.

But, 4. The general expenses of maintaining a family are so much
less here than at home, that a man without capital, possessing a
profession so slow in reaching its pecuniary returns as an
artist's, finds an immense inducement to live abroad. It is true
that, music and accomplishment in languages apart, the
opportunities of a substantial education for one's children are not
as good here as at home. There are, however, less temptations to
vice, and less exposures to the American habit of hard drinking
among young men; but, no doubt, the general influences here, in
the way of developing a manly, energetic, and self-relying
character, are less favorable than at home. There is a softness, a
disposition to take life easy, and a want of moral earnestness in
Italy, which are not favorable to youthful ambition and
independence. On the other hand, the money-getting propensities and
social rivalries of America tend to harden human character, and to
bring out a severe selfishness which is offensive. On the whole,
the balance is on our side, and, other things apart, American youth
are better brought up in America. But the artist must make this
sacrifice to his art.


Mr. Powers is sixty-five years old, but is in full possession of his
mental and physical strength. He is a genuine American, notwithstanding
his long residence abroad, and has always a warm welcome for his
countrymen visiting his studio. He is a favorite with the younger
artists, who find in him a kind and judicious friend. Scorning servile
imitation, he still exhibits in his works the freshness of his youth and
the genuine originality which was the basis of his fame.




CHAPTER XXX.

EMMANUEL LEUTZE.


Emmanuel Leutze, by adoption an American, was born in the village of
Emingen, near the city of Reutlingen, in Wurtemberg, on the 24th of May,
1816. His father emigrated to America during the infancy of his son, and
the future artist spent his youth in the city of Philadelphia and the
town of Fredericksburg, Virginia. He received a good common school
education, and passed his time in comparative seclusion from society,
reading and studying, but showing no especial fondness for art. At
length, during his father's last illness, in which he nursed him with
great devotion, he took up drawing to beguile the weary hours of the
sick-room, and succeeded so well in his attempts that after his father's
death he continued his efforts under the instruction of a competent
drawing master. He improved rapidly, and was so well satisfied with his
success that he determined to adopt the profession of an artist as the
one best suited to his talents and inclination.

[Illustration: FILIAL DEVOTION SHAPES A GREAT CAREER]

Having acquired considerable skill in drawing, he attempted rude
portraits of men and beasts, and at length undertook to copy from memory
a colored print after Westall. He completed it, and resolved to show it
to some of his friends. In his impatience for the colors to dry, he
placed the painting before the fire and went to summon his friends,
but found, to his dismay, upon returning with them, that the heat had
blistered the canvas so that the picture was hardly recognizable. Yet,
in spite of this, his critics saw such evidences of genius in the
painting that they urged the young artist to continue his labors, and
predicted a great success for him.

Leutze, however, was not willing to venture upon another composition,
either partly or wholly original, but applied himself with zeal to learn
the rudiments of his art, and with such success that when his portraits
appeared at the Artist's Fund Exhibition, a year or two later, they
received high praise, both from critics and the public. An enterprising
publisher, attracted by these portraits, engaged him to go to Washington
and paint the portraits of the leading statesmen of the country, to be
engraved for a "national work." Leutze at once proceeded to the capital,
full of hope and enthusiasm, but soon found that the schemes of the
politicians whose faces he was to transmit to canvas engrossed them so
much that they would not give him the sittings he desired. After waiting
impatiently for a considerable time he threw up the engagement in
disgust, and went into the woods of Virginia to console himself by
communing with nature. For some time he wandered about, making desultory
sketches, and abandoning himself to a melancholy which was closely akin
to despair. When this feeling was at its height, a friend, before
unknown, came to his aid.

"A gentleman, whose rich domain he chanced to approach in his wayward
rovings, perceived his abilities, understood his unhappiness, and
aroused him from inaction by a call upon his professional skill. The
artist obeyed, but he could not subdue the mood which possessed him. No
brilliant scene arose to his fancy, no humorous incident took form and
color from his pencil, and the fair landscape around appeared to mock
rather than cheer his destiny. He could not bring himself into relation
with subjects thus breathing of hope and gayety, but found inspiration
only in the records of human sorrow. As the royal mourner bade her
companions sit upon the ground and 'tell sad stories of the death of
kings,' the pensive artist found something analogous to his own fate in
the story of Hagar and Ishmael. He painted them as having followed up a
spent water-course, in hopes of finding wherewith to quench their
thirst, and sinking under the disappointment. He neither saw nor painted
the angel of God who showed the fountain in the wilderness, and yet the
angel was there, for now the sufferer acknowledges that early
vicissitudes nerved him for high endeavor, rendered his vision piercing,
his patience strong, and his confidence firm, and that this incidental
effort to triumph over difficulties was the first of a series which
inspired his subsequent career."

In 1840 he produced a painting which he called "An Indian Contemplating
the Setting Sun." It was exhibited in Philadelphia, and won general
praise for the artist. Better than this, it secured him the friendship
of the late Edward L. Carey, of that city, who, recognizing his genius,
determined to help him on in his labors. Mr. Carey was successful in
inducing his friends to give Leutze a number of commissions, and these
enabled him to carry out his wish to visit Europe and complete his
studies. Instead of going to Italy, as was then the almost universal
practice, he determined to study in Germany, and accordingly sailed for
that country. He went by way of Holland, and after a long and trying
voyage reached Amsterdam in January, 1841. Pausing here for awhile to
familiarize himself with the master-pieces of the Dutch school, he
repaired to Dusseldorf, where he became a pupil of the celebrated
painter Lessing, under whom he made marked progress. His reception by
the artists of Dusseldorf was at once hearty and encouraging, and won
for that school and its members his enthusiastic devotion. He became
Lessing's pupil at the personal request of the master, and these two
gifted men were soon bound to each other by the ties of an undying
friendship.

Leutze devoted himself to historical subjects from the first, and soon
after his arrival in Dusseldorf began his picture of "Columbus Before
the Council of Salamanca." When it was finished, it was visited by
Director V. Schadow, who praised it warmly, and requested the artist to
offer it to the Art Union of Dusseldorf, which at once purchased it.
This high compliment to a beginner and a stranger proved an additional
stimulus to Leutze, and he soon after produced a companion picture to
his first, "Columbus in Chains," which procured him the gold medal of
the Brussels Art Exhibition, and was subsequently purchased by the Art
Union of New York.

Remaining two years in Dusseldorf, Leutze went to Munich to study the
works of Cornelius and Kaulbach, and while there painted another scene
in the life of the Great Discoverer, "Columbus before the Queen." Upon
completing this picture he went to Venice, Rome, and the other Italian
cities, making careful studies of the masters of that school. He gave
two years to his travels, visiting the Tyrol, and reveling in the
magnificent scenery through which he journeyed. He went into
Switzerland, sketching the glorious beauties of its Alps, and reached
the Rhine at Strasbourg. Then, sailing down that beautiful river, he set
foot once more in Dusseldorf, glad, as he declared, to end his
wanderings in the midst of his friends. Here he determined to locate
himself permanently, and soon after his return he married.

He lived in Dusseldorf for fourteen years, devoting himself assiduously
to his art. His labors were incessant. Historic subjects make up the
vast bulk of his productions during this period, and in his treatment of
them he adhered closely to the style of the Dusseldorf school. The best
known of his works during this portion of his career are "The Landing of
the Norsemen in America;" "Cromwell and his Daughter;" "The Court of
Queen Elizabeth;" "Henry VIII. and Anne Boleyn;" "The Iconoclast," and
his famous and brilliant series of pictures illustrative of the events
of the American War of Independence. The most prominent of these were,
"Washington Crossing the Delaware;" "Washington at Monmouth;"
"Washington at the Battle of Monongahela;" "News from Lexington;"
"Sergeant Jasper," and "Washington at Princeton." These are fine
paintings, possessing striking characteristics, and are all more or less
popular. "Washington Crossing the Delaware" is perhaps the best known,
since it has been engraved, and sold in all parts of the country in that
form.

During his absence in Germany, Leutze did not forget the country of his
choice, as his devotion to American subjects amply testifies. When he
had won a proud name in his art by his labors in Dusseldorf, and had
laid by money enough to justify him in returning to a land where art was
in its infancy, and not over-remunerative, he came back to the United
States, after an absence of eighteen years, and opened a studio in New
York. He found a vast improvement in the public taste and in the demand
for works of art since his departure for the Old World, and, better
still, found that his peculiar field, the historic, was the one most
suited to the tastes of the American public.

It was his intention, in coming back to this country, to devote the time
during which he supposed he would be compelled to wait for orders, to
looking around him and familiarizing himself with the changes that had
taken place in the Union during his absence; but he was never able to
carry out this design, as he had no leisure time. His European
reputation had preceded him hither, and he had scarcely opened his doors
in New York before he was obliged to refuse orders, for lack of time to
execute them. His hands were full from the first, and he at once took
rank as the most thoroughly popular and accomplished artist in the
country.

Early in 1860 he received from the Government of the United States a
commission to decorate one of the marble stairways in the Capitol at
Washington with a mural painting. The painting was to be executed in
fresco, and he chose as his subject, "Westward the Star of Empire Takes
its Way." He entered upon the undertaking with the keenest delight, and
in order to make himself thoroughly acquainted with the true character
of frontier scenery and life, performed what was then the long and
difficult journey to the Rocky Mountains, where he made numerous
sketches. Returning to the States, he sailed for Europe, and went to
Munich to learn from Kaulbach the new stereochromatic process which has
now superseded the fresco-painting of the middle ages. Returning to
Washington, he applied himself to his task, and in a couple of years
completed it.

The picture is the largest and finest mural painting in America, and
adorns the magnificent stairway at the north end of the west corridor of
the House of Representatives. It is lighted from a sky-light in the
roof, and is seen to the best advantage from the upper corridor. The
coloring is softer and more life-like than is often seen in such
paintings. The surface of the wall is rough, but the work has been done
by such a master hand that one seems to be gazing upon real life. It is
a wonderful picture--one that will repay weeks of study.

The scene represents a train of emigrants crossing the Rocky Mountains.
They have reached the summit of the range, from which a glorious view
stretches out before them to the westward. The adventurers consist of
the usual class of emigrants, men, women, and children. There are
several wagons and a number of horses in the train. The faces of the
emigrants express the various emotions which fill their hearts as they
gaze upon the glorious scene before them. Some are full of life and
vigor, and hope beams in every feature, while others are struggling with
sickness and despair. The advance of the train has been momentarily
checked by a huge tree which has fallen across the trail, and two stout
men, under the direction of the leader of the party, who is sitting on
his horse, are engaged in hewing it away with axes. Two others have
climbed to the summit of the neighboring rocky crag, on which they have
planted the banner of the Republic, which is seen flapping proudly from
its lofty perch. In the foreground stands a manly youth, clasping his
father's long rifle firmly, and gazing toward the promised land with a
countenance glowing with hope and energy. His sister, as hopeful as
himself, is seated by her mother's side, on a buffalo-robe which has
been thrown over a rock. The mother's face is sad, but patient. She
knows well the privations, toils, and hardships which await them in the
new home-land, but she tries to share the enthusiasm and hope of her
children. She clasps her nursing infant to her breast, and listens to
her husband, who stands by and points her to the new country where they
will have a home of their own. Her face is inexpressibly beautiful. The
rich, warm light of the rising sun streams brightly over the whole
scene, and gives to it a magical glow. The legend, "Westward the Star of
Empire Takes its Way," is inscribed over the painting, in letters of
gold.

An elaborate illuminated border, illustrative of the advance of
civilization in the West, surrounds the painting, and is in itself one
of the most perfect works of art in the Capitol.

Leutze received the sum of $20,000 for this painting. After completing
it, some matters connected with his family required him to make a visit
to Dusseldorf, and upon reaching that place he was warmly welcomed by
the artists, on the 10th of June, 1863, at their club. "About one
hundred and fifty lords of art," says a letter from Dusseldorf,
"assembled at the 'Mahlkasten,' just outside of the Hof-Garten. This is
the club-house of the painters, and, with its gardens, is their
property. Leutze was received with music, and when he came within reach
of the assembled company, there was a general rush to shake his hands,
kiss his cheeks, and hug him. The old fellows were much affected at the
scene, and were heartily glad to see their old companion once more. The
guest made a short and feeling address, whereupon all went in to supper.
Here two of the artists had arrayed themselves, one as a negro, the
other as an Indian; and these brought in the first dishes and handed
them to Leutze. Andreas Achenbach sat at Leutze's right, and his old
friend Tryst at his left. After dinner, the calumet cf peace was passed
around; there was speaking and drinking of healths, with songs afterward
in the illuminated garden. The occasion appears to have been a very
pleasant and right merry one, and is said to have been the happiest
festival ever given by the Society of Artists."

Returning to the United States a few months later, Leutze repaired to
Washington, where he had permanently settled. He was given several
commissions by the Government, and at once began to design his subjects.
They were only in the cartoon, however, at the time of his death. One of
these, "Civilization," was to have been placed in the Senate Chamber,
and was partly finished. It is said to have given promise of being his
finest production. He also left a sketch of an immense picture, "The
Emancipation." He was always a hard worker, and this doubtless
contributed to bring about his death, which took place on the 18th of
July, 1868. The immediate cause was apoplexy, superinduced by the
intense heat.

"Mr. Leutze," says a writer in the Annual Cyclopedia, "was altogether
the best educated artist in America, possessed of vast technical
learning, of great genius, and fine powers of conception. His weakest
point was in his coloring, but even here he was superior to most
others."

"Leutze," says Mr. Tuckerman, "delights in representing adventure. He
ardently sympathizes with chivalric action and spirit-stirring events:
not the abstractly beautiful or the simply true, but the heroic, the
progressive, the individual, and earnest phases of life, warm his fancy
and attract his pencil. His forte is the dramatic.... If Leutze were not
a painter, he would certainly join some expedition to the Rocky
Mountains, thrust himself into a fiery political controversy, or seek to
wrest a new truth from the arcana of science.... We remember hearing a
brother artist describe him in his studio at Home, engaged for hours
upon a picture, deftly shifting palette, cigar, and maul-stick from hand
to hand, as occasion required; absorbed, rapid, intent, and then
suddenly breaking from his quiet task to vent his constrained spirits in
a jovial song, or a romp with his great dog, whose vociferous barking he
thoroughly enjoyed; and often abandoning his quiet studies for some
wild, elaborate frolic, as if a row was essential to his happiness. His
very jokes partook of this bold heartiness of disposition. He scorned
all ultra refinement, and found his impulse to art not so much in
delicate perception as in vivid sensation. There was ever a reaction
from the meditative. His temperament is Teutonic--hardy, cordial, and
brave. Such men hold the conventional in little reverence, and their
natures gush like mountain streams, with wild freedom and unchastened
enthusiasm."




VIII.

DIVINES.




CHAPTER XXXI.

HENRY WARD BEECHER.


Henry Ward Beecher was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, on the 24th of
June, 1813, and was the eighth child of Dr. Lyman Beecher, the famous
Presbyterian divine of New England. Dr. Beecher was regarded as one of
the most powerful champions of orthodox Christianity in the land of the
pilgrims, and had the good fortune to be the father of a family whose
members have become celebrated for their intellectual gifts.

The most of these gave early promise of their future distinction, but
the subject of this memoir was regarded as the dunce of the family. He
grew up as the children of most New England clergymen of that day
climbed the road to manhood. His father's family was large, and the
salary paid by the congregation never exceeded eight hundred dollars,
and was not always promptly paid at that. The good people of the land of
steady habits well knew how to drive hard bargains with the Lord's
messengers, and were adepts in the art of securing the "best talent" at
the lowest price. The stern, hard struggle for a livelihood in which
the father was engaged prevented him from giving much personal attention
to his children, and the mother of young Henry dying when he was but
three years old, the boy was left very much to himself. Like most
ministers' children, he was obliged to "set an example to the village,"
and this boy was dosed with Catechism and his father's stern and gloomy
theological tenets until he was sick of them.

"In those days," says Mrs. Stowe, "none of the attentions were paid to
children that are now usual. The community did not recognize them..
There was no child's literature; there were no children's books. The
Sunday-school was yet an experiment in a fluctuating, uncertain state of
trial. There were no children's days of presents and _fetes_, no
Christmas or New Year's festivals. The annual thanksgiving was only
associated with one day's unlimited range of pies of every sort--too
much for one day--and too soon things of the past. The childhood of
Henry Ward was unmarked by the possession of a single child's toy as a
gift from any older person, or a single _fete_. Very early, too, strict
duties devolved upon him. A daily portion of the work of the
establishment, the care of the domestic animals, the cutting and piling
of wood, or tasks in the garden, strengthened his muscles and gave vigor
and tone to his nerves. From his father and mother he inherited a
perfectly solid, healthy organization of brain, muscle, and nerves, and
the uncaressing, let-alone system under which he was brought up gave him
early habits of vigor and self-reliance."

When but three or four years old he was sent to the Widow Kilbourn's
school, where he said his letters twice a day, and passed the rest of
his time in hemming a brown towel or a checked apron. It was not
expected that he would learn very much from Marm Kilbourn, but the
school kept him out of the way of the "home folks" for the greater part
of the day.

He was a winning, sweet-faced child, with long golden curls, of which
he was very proud. Some of his female playfellows at school, thinking it
a shame that a boy should look so much like a girl, cut off one or two
of his curls with a pair of shears made of scraps of tin, and when the
little fellow complained of his loss at home it was decided that the
best way to protect him from such attacks in future was to cut his hair
close to his head, which was done at once. Little Henry was commonly
thought a dull child. His memory was lamentably deficient, and his
utterance was thick and indistinct, so much so that he could scarcely be
understood in reading or speaking. This was caused partly by an
enlargement of the tonsils of his throat, and partly by timidity. The
policy of repression worked badly in his case, and had there not been so
much real good at the basis of his character it might have led this
gentle, yearning boy far from the useful channel along which his life
has flown.

His stepmother was a lady of fine mental culture, of elegant breeding
and high character, but she was an invalid, and withal thoroughly imbued
with the gloomy sternness of her husband's faith. One day little Henry,
who was barely able to manage the steady-going old family horse, was
driving her in the chaise. They passed a church on their way, and the
bell was tolling for a death. "Henry," said Mrs. Beecher, solemnly,
"what do you think of when you hear a bell tolling like that?" The boy
colored and hung his head in silence, and the good lady went on. "_I_
think, was that soul prepared? It has gone into _eternity_." The little
fellow shuddered, in spite of himself, and thought, no doubt, what a
dreadful thing it was to be a Christian.

So it was with the religion that was crammed into him. There was no
effort made to draw him to religion by its beauty and tenderness. He
rarely heard of the Saviour as the loving one who took little children
in His arms and blessed them, but was taught to regard Him as a stern
and merciless judge, as one who, instead of being "touched with the
feeling of our infirmities," makes those infirmities the means of
wringing fresh sufferings from us. Sunday was a day of terror to him,
for on that day the Catechism was administered to him until he was more
than sick of it. "I think," said he to his congregation, not long since,
referring to this part of his life, "that to force childhood to
associate religion with such dry morsels is to violate the spirit, not
only of the New Testament, but of common sense as well. I know one
thing, that if I am 'lax and latitudinarian,' the Sunday Catechism is to
blame for a part of it. The dinners that I have lost because I could not
go through 'sanctification,' and 'justification,' and 'adoption,' and
all such questions, lie heavily on my memory! I do not know that they
have brought forth any blossoms. I have a kind of grudge against many of
those truths that I was taught in my childhood, and I am not conscious
that they have waked up a particle of faith in me. My good old aunt in
heaven--I wonder what she is doing. I take it that she now sits
beauteous, clothed in white, that round about her sit chanting cherub
children, and that she is opening to them from her larger range sweet
stories, every one fraught with thought, and taste, and feeling, and
lifting them up to a higher plane. One Sunday afternoon with my aunt
Esther did me more good than forty Sundays in church with my father. He
thundered over my head, and she sweetly instructed me down in my heart.
The promise that she would read Joseph's history to me on Sunday was
enough to draw a silver thread of obedience through the entire week; and
if I was tempted to break my promise, I said, 'No; Aunt Esther is going
to read on Sunday;' and I would do, or I would not do, all through the
week, for the sake of getting that sweet instruction on Sunday.

"And to parents I say, Truth is graded. Some parts of God's truth are
for childhood, some parts are for the nascent intellectual period, and
some parts are for later spiritual developments. Do not take the last
things first. Do not take the latest processes of philosophy and bring
them prematurely to the understanding. In teaching truth to your
children, you are to avoid tiring them."

"The greatest trial of those days," says Mrs. Stowe, "was the Catechism.
Sunday lessons were considered by the mother-in-law as inflexible duty,
and the Catechism as the _sine qua non_. The other children memorized
readily, and were brilliant reciters, but Henry, blushing, stammering,
confused, and hopelessly miserable, stuck fast on some sand-bank of what
is required or forbidden by this or that commandment, his mouth choking
up with the long words which he hopelessly miscalled, was sure to be
accused of idleness or inattention, and to be solemnly talked to, which
made him look more stolid and miserable than ever, but appeared to have
no effect in quickening his dormant faculties."

At the age of ten he was a well-grown, stout, stocky boy, strong and
hearty, trained to hard work, and to patient obedience of his elders. He
was tolerably well drilled in Calvinism, and had his head pretty well
filled with snatches of doctrine which he caught from his father's
constant discussions; but he was very backward in his education. He was
placed at the school of the Rev. Mr. Langdon, at Bethlehem, Connecticut,
and it was hoped that the labors of this excellent tutor would result in
making something of him. He spent a winter at this school, and boarded
at a neighboring farm-house, whose kind-hearted mistress soon became so
much attached to him that she indulged him to an extent which he had
never known at home. With his gun on his shoulder, he passed the greater
part of his hours out of school in tramping over the pretty Connecticut
hills, in search of game, or, lying down on the soft grass, would pass
hours in gazing on the beautiful landscape, listening to the dull whirr
of the partridges in the stubble-field or the dropping of the ripe
apples in the orchard. The love of nature was strong in the boy, and his
wonderful mistress taught him many of the profoundest lessons of his
life. He made poor progress at the school, however, and his father was
almost in despair. The whole family shook their heads in solemn
forebodings over the failure of this child of ten to become a mental
prodigy.

Miss Catharine Beecher, his eldest sister, was then teaching a young
ladies' school in Hartford, and she proposed to take the boy and see
what could be done with him. There were thirty or forty girls in the
school, and but this one boy, and the reader may imagine the amount of
studying he did. The girls were full of spirits, and in their society
the fun-loving feature of his disposition burst out and grew with
amazing rapidity. He was always in mischief of some kind, to the great
delight of the girls, with whom he was extremely popular, and to the
despair of his sister, who began to fear that he was hopelessly stupid.

The school was divided into two divisions in grammar recitations, each
of which had its leader. The leaders chose their "sides" with great
care, as these contests in grammar were esteemed the most important part
of the daily exercises. Henry's name was generally called last, for no
one chose him except as a matter of necessity. He was sure to be a dead
weight to his leader.

"The fair leader of one of these divisions took the boy aside to a
private apartment, to put into him with female tact and insinuation
those definitions and distinctions on which the honor of the class
depended.

"'Now, Henry, A is the indefinite article, you see, and must be used
only with the singular noun. You can say _a man_, but you can't say _a
men_, can you?' 'Yes, I can say _Amen_, too,' was the ready rejoinder.
'Father says it always at the end of his prayers.'

"'Come, Henry, now don't be joking. Now, decline He.' 'Nominative he,
possessive his, objective him.' 'You see, his is possessive. Now, you
can say his book, but you can't say him book.' 'Yes, I do say hymn book,
too,' said the impracticable scholar, with a quizzical twinkle. Each one
of these sallies made his young teacher laugh, which was the victory he
wanted.

"'But now, Henry, seriously, just attend to the active and passive
voice. Now, _I strike_, is active, you see, because if you strike you do
something. But, _I am struck_, is passive, because if you are struck you
don't do any thing, do you?'

"'Yes, I do; I strike back again.'

"Sometimes his views of philosophical subjects were offered
gratuitously. Being held rather of a frisky nature, his sister appointed
his seat at her elbow when she heard her classes. A class in natural
philosophy, not very well prepared, was stumbling through the theory of
the tides. 'I can explain that,' said Henry. 'Well, you see, the sun, he
catches hold of the moon and pulls her, and she catches hold of the sea
and pulls that, and this makes the spring tides.'

"'But what makes the neap tides?'

"'Oh, that's when the sun stops to spit on his hands.'"

It will hardly surprise the reader to be told that Master Henry
remained with his sister only six months, and was returned at the end of
that time to his father as an indifferent scholar and a most inveterate
joker.

A change now occurred in his life. When he was twelve years old his
father removed to Boston to assume the charge of the Hanover-Street
Church. Here the boy had a chance to see something more than nature, and
to employ his powers of observation in receiving impressions from the
daily life and aspect of a large and crowded city. His father entered
him at the Boston Latin School, and appealed to him not to disgrace his
name any longer by his stupidity. The appeal roused the little fellow's
pride, and he set to work to show to his family that he was not the
dunce they had thought him. He went at his studies manfully, mastering
the tedious puzzle of the Latin verbs and nouns, and acquiring a
respectable acquaintance with the grammar of that language. It was a
terrible task to him, for he had no liking for the language, and did his
work merely to please his father and escape disgrace. His success cost
him a share of his health, and his vigorous constitution began to show
the effects of such intense application. His father noticed this, and as
a diversion to his mind advised him to enter upon a course of
biographical reading. He read the lives of Captain Cook, Nelson, and the
great naval commanders of the world, and at once became possessed of the
desire to go to sea. This feeling made him restless and discontented,
and he resolved to leave home and ship on board some vessel sailing from
the harbor. He hovered about the wharves, conversing with the sailors
and captains, and sometimes carrying his little bundle with him. But the
thoughts of home were too strong for him, and he could never quite
summon up resolution enough to run away. In a fit of desperation he
wrote a letter to his brother, telling him of his wish to go to sea, and
informing him that he should first ask his father's permission, and if
that were not granted he should go without it. This letter he dropped
where his father would be sure to find it. The old gentleman soon
discovered it, and, reading it, put it into his pocket without comment.
The next day he asked the boy if he had ever thought of any definite
avocation for his future life.

"Yes," said Henry, "I want to go to sea. I want to enter the navy, be a
midshipman, and rise to be a commander."

"Oh, I see," said the Doctor, cheerfully; "but in order to prepare for
that you must study mathematics and navigation."

"I am ready, sir."

"Very well. I'll send you up to Amherst next week, to Mount Pleasant,
and then you'll begin your preparatory studies at once. As soon as you
are well prepared, I presume I can make interest to get you an
appointment."

The boy was delighted, and the next week started for Amherst. The Doctor
felt sure that the sailor scheme would never come to any thing, and
exclaimed, exultantly, as he bade his son good-by, "I shall have that
boy in the ministry yet."

At the Mount Pleasant Institute he roomed with his teacher in
mathematics, a young man named Fitzgerald, and a warm friendship sprung
up between them. Fitzgerald saw that his pupil had no natural talent or
taste for mathematics; but instead of despairing in consequence of this
discovery, he redoubled his efforts. Appealing to his pupil's pride and
ambition, he kept him well to his task, and succeeded in implanting in
him a fair knowledge of the science. Young Beecher also took lessons in
elocution from Professor John E. Lovell. Under the instructions of this
able teacher, he learned to manage his voice, and to overcome the
thickness and indistinctness of utterance which previous to this had
troubled him so much. He continued at this school for three years,
devoting himself to study with determination and success, and taking
rank as one of the most promising pupils of the school.

During his first year at Mount Pleasant, he became deeply impressed with
a sense of his religious responsibility at a famous revival which was
held in the place, and from that time resolved to devote himself
entirely to preparing for his entrance into the ministry when he should
attain the proper age. Henceforth he applied himself with characteristic
energy to his studies and to his religious duties, and rose steadily in
the esteem of his teachers and friends. He entered Amherst College upon
the completion of his preparatory course, and graduated from that
institution in 1834.

In 1832, Dr. Beecher removed from Boston to Cincinnati, to enter upon
the Presidency of Lane Seminary, to which he had been elected. Henry
followed him to the West after his graduation at Amherst, and completed
his theological studies at the seminary, under the tuition of his father
and Professor Stowe, the latter of whom married Henry's sister Harriet,
in 1836. Having finished his course, he was ordained.

"As the time drew near in which Mr. Beecher was to assume the work of
the ministry," says Mrs. Stowe, "he was oppressed by a deep melancholy.
He had the most exalted ideas of what ought to be done by a Christian
minister. He had transferred to that profession all those ideals of
courage, enterprise, zeal, and knightly daring which were the dreams of
his boyhood, and which he first hoped to realize in the naval
profession. He felt that the holy calling stood high above all others;
that to enter it from any unholy motive, or to enter and not do a worthy
work in it, was a treason to all honor.

"His view of the great object of the ministry was sincerely and heartily
the same with that of his father, to secure the regeneration of the
individual heart by the Divine Spirit, and thereby to effect the
regeneration of human society. The problem that oppressed him was, how
to do this. His father had used certain moral and intellectual weapons,
and used them strongly and effectively, because employing them with
undoubting faith. So many other considerations had come into his mind to
qualify and limit that faith, so many new modes of thought and inquiry,
that were partially inconsistent with the received statements of his
party, that he felt he could never grasp and wield them with the force
which could make them efficient. It was no comfort to him that he could
wield the weapons of his theological party so as to dazzle and confound
objectors, while all the time conscious in his own soul of objections
more profound and perplexities more bewildering. Like the shepherd boy
of old, he saw the giant of sin stalking through the world, defying the
armies of the living God, and longed to attack him, but the armor in
which he had been equipped for the battle was no help, but only an
incumbrance!

"His brother, who studied with him, had already become an unbeliever and
thrown up the design of preaching, and he could not bear to think of
adding to his father's trials by deserting the standard. Yet his
distress and perplexity were so great that at times he seriously
contemplated going into some other profession....

"In his last theological term he took a Bible class in the city of
Cincinnati, and began studying and teaching the Evangelists. With the
course of this study and teaching came a period of spiritual
clairvoyance. His mental perplexities were relieved, and the great
question of 'what to preach' was solved. The shepherd boy laid aside his
cumbrous armor, and found in a clear brook a simple stone that smote
down the giant; and so, from the clear waters of the Gospel narrative
Mr. Beecher drew forth that 'white stone with a new name,' which was to
be the talisman of his ministry. To present Jesus Christ personally as
the Friend and Helper of humanity, Christ as God impersonate, eternally
and by a necessity of His nature helpful, and remedial, and restorative;
the Friend of each individual soul, and thus the Friend of all
society,--this was the one thing which his soul rested on as a worthy
object in entering the ministry. He afterward said, in speaking of his
feelings at this time,'I was like the man in the story to whom a fairy
gave a purse with a single piece of money in it, which he found always
came again as soon as he had spent it. I thought I knew at least one
thing to preach. I found it included every thing.'"

Upon being ordained, Mr. Beecher married, and accepted a call to
Lawrenceburg, Indiana, a little town on the Ohio River, about twenty
miles below Cincinnati. His salary was small and the work was hard. He
was not only pastor, but sexton as well, and in this capacity he swept
out the church, made the fires, filled and trimmed the lamps, and rang
the bell. Says he, "I did all but come to hear myself preach--that they
had to do."

He did not remain here long, however, but soon accepted a call to
Indianapolis, the capital of the State, where he lived for eight years.
He occupied a tasteful cottage on the outskirts of the town, and
gathered about him his household treasures, which consisted of his
family, his library, his horse, cow, pigs, and chickens. He was an
enthusiast in matters of agriculture and horticulture, and besides
importing from the East the best varieties of fruit-trees, roses, etc.,
he edited a horticultural paper, which had a fair circulation.

The eight years of his ministry in Indianapolis make up a period of hard
and useful work. He held two services on Sunday, and five meetings
during the week in various parts of the city, and with the consent of
his people gave three months of each year to missionary work in other
parts of the State. While engaged in this latter duty he traveled about
the State on horseback and preached daily.

His experience in the ministry, as well as his study of the lives of the
apostles, convinced him that success in his profession--by which I mean
the successful winning of souls to God--was not to be won by preaching
controversial or dry doctrinal sermons. He must seize upon some vital
truth, admitted by all parties, and bring that home to men's minds. He
must preach to them of their daily, hourly trials and temptations, joys
and comforts, and he resolved that this should be the character of his
preaching. Then came the question, how shall one man know that which is
uppermost in the thoughts of the many? He went into the places of public
resort, where men were accustomed to lounge and to gather to hear the
news, and made it his practice to listen to their conversations. In this
way he began to know the people to whom he preached as few pastors know
their flocks, and he was enabled by this knowledge to apply his
teachings to their daily lives, and to send them forth to their duties
warned by his reproofs or cheered by his intelligent counsel and
sympathy. This practice, modified at times as circumstances have
required, he has steadfastly continued, and in it lies the secret of his
success as a preacher. Said a gentleman, not long since, himself a
member of a different denomination, "Beecher's sermons do me more good
than any I hear elsewhere. They never fail to touch upon some topic of
importance that has engaged my thoughts during the week. Dropping all
doctrinal technicalities, and steering clear of the vexed questions of
theology, he talks to me in such a way that I am able to carry Christ
into the most trifling of my daily affairs, and to carry Him there as my