If Christ were really coming, as many believed, the
moment of earthly paradise was at hand.
1886-1887
The balance of power in Brooklyn and New York during
my lifetime had always been with the pulpit.
I was in my fifty-fourth year, and had shared honours
with the most devout and fearless ministers of the
Gospel so long that when two monster receptions were
proposed, in celebration of the services of Rev. Henry
Ward Beecher and Rev. R.S. Storrs, D.D., I became
almost wickedly proud of the privileges of my associations.
These two eminent men were in the seventies.
Dr. Storrs had been installed pastor of the Church
of Pilgrims in 1846; Mr. Beecher pastor of Plymouth
Church in 1847. They were both stalwart in body
then, both New Englanders, both Congregationalists,
mighty men, genial as a morning in June. Both
world-renowned, but different. Different in stature,
in temperament, in theology. They had reached
the fortieth year of pastoral service. No movement
for the welfare of Brooklyn in all these years was
without the benediction of their names.
The pulpit had accomplished wonders. In Brooklyn
alone look at the pulpit-builders. There were
Rev. George W. Bethune of the Dutch Reformed Church,
Rev. Dr. Samuel H. Cox, Rev. W. Ichabod Spencer, Rev.
Dr. Samuel Thayer Speer of the Presbyterian Church,
Dr. John Summerfield and Dr. Kennedy of the Methodist
Church, Rev. Dr. Stone and Rev. Dr. Vinton of the
Episcopal Church—all denominations pouring
their elements of divine splendour upon the community.
Who can estimate the power which emanated from the
pulpits of Dr. McElroy, or Dr. DeWitt, or Dr. Spring,
or Dr. Krebs? Their work will go on in New York
though their churches be demolished. Large-hearted
men were these pulpit apostles, apart from the clerical
obligations of their denominations. No proverb
in the world is so abused as the one which declares
that the children of ministers never turn out well.
They hold the highest places in the nation. Grover
Cleveland was the son of a Presbyterian clergyman,
Governor Pattison of Pennsylvania, Governor Taylor
of Tennessee, were sons of Methodist preachers.
In congressional and legislative halls they are scattered
everywhere.
Of all the metaphysical discourses that Mr. Beecher
delivered, none are so well remembered as those giving
his illustrations of life, his anecdotes. Much
of his pulpit utterance was devoted to telling what
things were like. So the Sermon on the Mount was
written, full of similitudes. Like a man who
built his house on a rock, like a candle in a candle-stick,
like a hen gathering her chickens under her wing, like
a net, like salt, like a city on a hill. And
you hear the song birds, and you smell the flowers.
Mr. Beecher’s grandest effects were wrought by
his illustrations, and he ransacked the universe for
them. We need in our pulpits just such irresistible
illustrations, just such holy vivacity. His was
a victory of similitudes.
