The earnest seeker and hopeful discoverer of this new world always haunts the outskirts of his or her time. Our history is written in the lives of such individuals.
The Cincinnati Journal of 1835 records a three-day Beecher family reunion at Walnut Hills, residence of Dr. Lyman Beecher, president of Lane Seminary and pastor of the Second Presbyterian Church of Cincinnati with his family of eleven children. Catharine, the oldest child, is 35, while James, the youngest, is seven. The occasion is Dr. Beecher’s 60th birthday. A friend of the family gives his account of it:

HASTINGS : Long before Edward came out here the doctor tried to have a family meeting, but did not succeed. The children were too scattered. But—now just think of it—there has been a family meeting in Ohio When Edward returned West, he brought on Mary from Hartford; William came down from Putnam, Ohio; George from Batavia, New York; Catharine and Harriet were here already; Henry and Charles at home too, besides Isabella, Thomas and James. These eleven The first time they all ever met together Mary had never seen James, and she had seen Thomas but once.
Such a time as they had The old doctor was almost transported with joy. The affair had been under negotiation for some time. He returned from Dayton late one Saturday evening. The next morning they, for the first time, assembled in the parlor. There were more tears than words. The doctor attempted to pray, but could scarcely speak. His full heart poured itslf out in a flood of weeping. He could not go on. Edward continued, and each one, in his or her turn, uttered some sentences of thanksgiving. Then they began at the head and related their fortunes. After special prayer, all joined hands, and sang Old Hundred in these words:

From all who dwell below the skies.

Edward preached in his father’s pulpit in the morning, William in the afternoon, and George in the evening. The family occupied the three front pews on the broad aisle. Monday morning they assembled, and, after reading and prayers, in which all joined, they formed a circle. The doctor stood in the middle, and gave them a thrilling speech. He then went round, and gave them each a kiss. They had a happy dinner.
Presents flowed in from all quarters. During the afternoon the house was filled with company, each bringing an offering. When left alone at evening they had a general examination of all their characters. The shafts of wit flew amain, the doctor being struck in several places; he was, however, expert enough to hit most of them in turn. From the uproar of the general battle, all must have been wounded.
Tuesday morning saw them together again, drawn up in a straight line for the inspection of the king of happy men. After receiving particular instructions, they formed into a circle. The doctor made a long and affecting speech. He felt that he stood for the last time in the midst of all his children, and each word fell with the weight of a patriarch’s. He embraced them once more in all the tenderness of his big heart. Each took of all a farewell kiss. With joined hands they joined in a hymn. A prayer was offered; and finally, the parting blessing was spoken. Thus ended a meeting which can only be rivaled in that blessed home where the ransomed of the Lord, after weary pilgrimage, shall join in the Praise of the Lamb. May they all be there
Truly the crown of old men is their children.

NARRATOR : Though the Beecher children have grown apart, often in disagreement, for these three days they set aside differences; the appearance is all of harmony.
Harriet Porter, Lyman Beecher’s second wife, had recently died. Her children, the three youngest Beechers, Isabella, Thomas and James, feel a special bond among themselves. Isabella, or Belle, as she was often called, had come back from Hartford to be with her mother in her last illness—at 13, Belle is noticeably beautiful, the first beauty in the Beecher family.
Another natural grouping of Beechers is formed by the group that came from the East—Edward, who organized the caravan, Mary, a social matron in Hartford, George and William are the oldest of the male Beechers, and Catharine the eldest, who is already part of the household.
Then, there is the middle group of Beechers, the group that would yield the most famous Beechers of all—Harriet Beecher Stowe and Henry Ward Beecher, and Charles. But there is no easy way of categorizing a Beecher—of these eleven, only one, Mary, did not pursue a career of ther own. Every male Beecher eventually became a minister, and the remaining female Beechers were carving out independent lives for themselves: in education, literature, and feminism.
Henry and Harriet are the oldest still at home, except for Catharine, who is often out and around, on school business. Lyman, of course, is always busy—as seminiary president and professor, as pastor, and at civic functions.
Now we listen as the Beechers catch up on the recent news.

LYMAN : I have felt and thought, and labored a great deal about each of you, you who are present in my house, and you who have established your own families elsewhere. I have pondered, argued with some of you, how your souls may be ready, even though you be far from me then, since at any moment eternity may stretch before you. Sadly, it has done so for our dear mother Harriet these past months. I know and love you all and each, more especially now that you have but one parent, and he an old man.

HARRIET : Father, you are not old.

LYMAN : I’m certainly not done with this life, not when there’s so much to do But hear me, children all. It is but a happy chance to be together again these few days—we may not see a day like this again, not a family day.

GEORGE : D’you know what they say of you in New York, Father? D’you know they say you’re the father of more brains than anyone in America. Ha, ha

LYMAN : Well, well, but it’s not me they’re talking about, George, it’s you, all of you. I can’t say how proud I am to see how well you’ve all turned out—George and William preaching, Catharine and Edward teaching, Henry and Charles studying—you should hear this lad Henry orate to the trees out back—do you remember, he used to be so thick of speech that Aunt Esther thought he was speaking Choctaw. Do you remember?

CATHARINE : Enlarged palate or no, the lad couldn’t be stopped. His constant prattle was a great amusement to us.

HARRIET : Oh, yes, and the catechism? The rest of us memorized readily and were brilliant reciters. But Henry was blushing, stammering, confused and hopelessly miserable. He would get stuck fast on some sand-bank of what is required or forbidden by this or that commandment, and then his mouth would choke up with the long words. He 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.

HENRY : I was bashful—well, I still am. You know, I have no verbal memory at all. But even just to walk into a room where company was assembled and to do it erectly and naturally, was as impossible as it would have been to fly. My backbone grew soft, my knees lost their stiffness, and blood rushed to the head and the sight almost left my eyes.

CATHARINE : That’s why you sent him to my school, wasn’t it? I will confess here publicly that my teaching did him as much good as yours, Lyman Beecher.

LYMAN : Well said, dear Catharine. But listen to him now, you would not recognize him. Our Henry Ward may yet become a preacher—at least Professor Stowe is of that opinion.

HARRIET : That dear man—if any of you have a chance to meet him and his dear wife Eliza, do. He is a veritable encyclopedia of lore, knows Arabic and Hebrew, but not a bit of carpentry.

LYMAN : Charles is our student, too, aren’t you, Charles?

CHARLES : Yes—after Bowdoin, Lane Seminary is quite an interesting place, even though Weld is long gone. I still have doubts, though, I . . .

EDWARD : Weld, isn’t that Theodore Weld, the one who led the students off to Oberlin?

LYMAN : Let’s get together later, Charles.
Weld? He certainly did, almost ruined the school. Weld was a genius. No doubt about that. A man about thirty, he’d followed Charles Grandison Finney—remember Finney? That’s the revivalist who was grandstanding all over upstate New York, until I challenged him—told him not to cross into my territory in Connecticut or else. And he didn’t. He’s calmed down since those days, I hear, and is a bit more careful not to undermine the good work already done.

HENRY : I’ve heard him speak; he’s quite powerful. Graniloquent. Bit of a ham, I’d say.

LYMAN : Oh, your anti-slavery societies are on the whole a good idea—but Cincinnati, as we have found out, haven’t we, Catharine, is on the edge, on the very edge about this whole issue. It’s not New England, this Western territory. No, you just look out the window there, the southern exposure, right across the Ohio River there, that’s a different proposition, Kentucky. A different proposition.

GEORGE : That’s why we have to do everything we can to bring about abolition. Slavery is wrong. There’s no two ways about it.

EDWARD : Let’s examine this a little more closely, George. I will agree with you that slavery is wrong—and I think Father will too—am I right?

LYMAN : Right. Very right.

EDWARD : Then our duty lies in determining how best to deal with the situation.

CATHARINE : Or how best to bring about changes.

THOMAS : Colonization or Abolition.

EDWARD : Gradual or immediate emancipation.

HARRIET : Still, it does shock one to realize that it isn’t like having Zillah and Rachel as ‘‘bound girls’’ as we did in Litchfield. Father and I’ve gone on little trips into Kentucky, and it’s not normal.

CATHARINE : Even in Litchfield, dear Harriet, some of our Connecticut neighbors were still slave owners, though the practice was dying out. Don’t forget that I remember ten years earlier than you.

HARRIET : But in Kentucky, you can be having a perfectly fine day, and then hear the most horrid dreadful, oh—they’re property, people talk about them as if they were pieces of furniture or sheepdogs.

GEORGE : It’s not right. It’s just not right.

LYMAN : Let not your anger carry you beyond your goal, George. Year by year I see Synod become every more divisive over this issue.

HENRY : Colonization merely moves the problem. There’s no solution to slavery except freedom. We debated this my sophomore year, and I’ve settled my mind on it.

MARY : Endless, this discussion is endless We came together to honor our father on his sixtieth birthday, not to wrangle among ourselves. We would do well to use the precious little time we have together more usefully.

LYMAN : Mary’s right. Let us renew our ties face to face—since lately several of you have been struck by that disease of the right hand called the no-letters-home palsy. We will go round by precedence—eldest first, and ending with the one with least news—isn’t that right, James? James Where is that lad?

HARRIET : James Jamey, dear Come in, you’re wanted. He’ll be along.

CATHARINE : Before we begin, Father, let me make a proposal. Now that we are so widespread across the whole country up to Louisiana Territory, and since postage is charged by the mile, let us make up a packet, each adding as it goes along the line.

EDWARD : They also charge by the sheet, sister Catharine. We may begin with a large blank folio sheet, each adding to it.

THOMAS : And when it’s filled, write sideways and fill it again And your address may be to ‘‘Rev. Mr. Beecher.’’ By next year or so, even Henry and Charles—that’ll make six—will answer to that form of address.

LYMAN : Isn’t he a quick study, Edward? Better watch out—you’ve only got 20 years on this lad. He may catch up with you, as on some days—at eleven years old—he’s way ahead of me.
No, I say welcome another bright Beecher. I tell you lad, if you don’t know it already, there’s never enough brains wherever you turn, never enough thinking men in this country.

ISABELLA : Or thinking women, brother dear.

CATHARINE : Bravo, sister Belle. Intelligence does not grow only on one side of the family.

MARY : Nor beauty. Have any of you taken a good look at our Belle since you arrived. Belle, you were just a Hartford schoolgirl, was it only a year or two ago? How old are you, Isabella?

ISABELLA : Thirteen.

MARY : Well now, just look at you. Belle, if you came to live with me, Mr. Perkins and I could bring you out into the best Hartford society. No, I mean it.

HARRIET : I’m afraid you tried with me and failed, Mary.

MARY : Harriet, you were never interested in men, or society, not in that way. My dear Hattie, your gift is too precious to be buried in a family life. You might be another Lydia Sigourney, or Mrs. Southworth.

HARRIET : Another of the scribbling tribe of women writers, as Mr. Hawthorne puts it.

CATHARINE : It’s true. She’s published regularly in James Hall’s Western Monthly Magazine. And her pieces at the Semi-Colon Club are hits.

LYMAN : Hits? My Hattie writes violence?

CATHARINE : No, they are enthusiastically received, Father. Theatrical hits; they hit the mark.

GEORGE : Say, we were going to give our news, starting with the oldest. Catharine?

THOMAS : No, there’s yet one older than Catharine here, who should speak first.

LYMAN : Well, Thomas, and who is that?

THOMAS : You, Father. Tell them about your heresy trial.

EDWARD : Yes, we are anxious to hear whether or no we are sired by a heretic.

THOMAS : Are you New School or Old School heretic, Father?

GEORGE : Or is it none other than Beecherism—that one, I’ve heard, is pretty hard to disprove.

LYMAN : Yes, that’s a devlishly difficult predicament to get out of. Fortunately for all of you, it’s not been shown to be heretical—though it is incurable.

CHARLES : Then, I for one say hurrah for Beecherism But do, Father, tell them.

LYMAN : Well, it’s not a short story, such as Harriet might write. I’ll tell you what—I’ll go in pieces, alternating with you, until the last one of you drops of incapacity to hear. Then we’ll continue on the morrow. Agreed?

ALL : Agreed.

LYMAN : Well, as you know from reading the papers, Dr. Joshua Wilson, of the First Presbyterian Church here in Cincinnati, brought against me charges of heresy. This wasn’t the first time he’d crossed my path.
When the trial came on, I took all my books and sat down on the second stair of the pulpit. It was in my church. I looked so quiet and meek my students were almost afraid I shouldn’t come up to the mark. I had everything just then to weigh me down. My wife was lying at home on her death bed. She did not live a fortnight after that. Then there was all the wear and tear of the seminary and of my congregation. But when I had all my references and had nothing to do but extemporize, I felt easy. I had as much lawyer about me as Wilson and more. I never got into a corner and he never got out, though the fact is he made as good a case as could be made on the wrong side.
We had a good working majority, and the atmosphere was congenial and cordial, everything safe and smiling. We had to count noses every time there was a meeting of Presbytery or Synod, and keep a sharp lookout about absentees.
Wilson attacked me for abandoning the standards. I said no, and gave what I deemed the right exposition, subject to the revision of the General Assembly, which must be the final interpreter. Soon after, in his speech, he said I claimed a right to adopt the Creeds, and put my own construction on them. I corrected him, putting in the statement respecting General Assembly. Five minutes after he repeated it again, and I corrected him again. A third time the same thing over, and I corrected him as before. At this he scolded, and said he did not wish to be interrupted so, as it hindered him.
‘‘Dr. Wilson,’’ said I, ‘‘this is the third time you have misrepresented me, and I shall correct you until you put it right. You shall not go ahead from this point till you do it’’; and he quailed, notwithstanding his hardihood.
He did not know what he undertook. I knew to a hair’s breadth every point between Old School and New School, and knew all their difficulties, and how to puzzle with them. In Presbytery he had only inferior men on his side. He knew they were fools. There was not another man equal to Wilson on his side, nor anywhere near it. On our side the trial was as strong as possible, and everybody exulted with great exultation. So they laughed at him, even some Old Schoolish folks, and called him a dead man. Presbytery acquitted me and he appealed to Synod.
Well, so. Catharine?

CATHARINE : You all know of my schools—in Hartford, and here in Cincinnati—so watch out, you young Beechers, or you’ll be sent to sister Catharine’s.

ISABELLA : It’s a good school; you learn things that matter there

CATHARINE : I should hope so. Schools for women are extremely important—especially here in the West. Yet in the course of affairs, I have been led to spend most of my energies fund-raising. In order to build character, a school need be a boarding establishment; moral training is essential, and cannot be achieved in any other way. But the additional buildings and facilities for feeding and housing a student body simply costs a great deal of money.

GEORGE : Oh, yes, I remember the argument in your book on Mental and Moral Philosophy.

HARRIET : Catharine taught it as a course first.

CATHARINE : With some mighty tutoring by dear brother Edward, for which I thank him.

EDWARD : You’re welcome.

GEORGE : You put forth some rather interesting propositions, Catharine. Morality, you say, exists independently of God, and therefore it may—indeed must—be taught. That idea, applied to women’s education, yields surprising conclusions, for instance, your opposition to a refined education, such as the kind that Lydia Sigourney used in her school. CATHARINE : A woman should study, not to shine but to act. To come out in conduct, education must shape a young woman’s principles and the formation of her habits. Public sentiment has advanced so much on the subject of female culture that a course of study very similar to that pursued by young men in our public institutions is demanded for young ladies of the higher circles. But facilities and teaching techniques are vastly inferior in girls’ schools.
Writing has also absorbed much of my time, at the Semi-Colon Club, and on literary evenings at Daniel Drake’s. I sold my story Fanny Moreland to one of the Christmas annuals—but Harriet takes the Palm. Do you know that Harriet has earned $300 to my $30 this past year.

HARRIET : I do it for the pay.

CATHARINE : And that’s the professional difference. I can see that I shall have to stick to education.

EDWARD : You might mention your theological debates via letter with myself and Charles. I don’t know if you realize how seriously Charles takes these positions you take.

CATHARINE : I should hope he does.

LYMAN : By the way, Edward, did you happen to see that article on Cause and Effect in Connection with the Doctrines of Fatalism and Free Agency?

EDWARD : Yes, Catharine, that hit the very point you wrote to us about a few months ago. I don’t know the author, but the reviewer remarked on his ‘‘sincere love of the truth, intelligence, humility, candor . . .’’

LYMAN : Her love of truth.

CHARLES : That anonymous piece—yours? Catharine, no one doubts your capacity for thought, least of all myself. Yet there are limits.

CATHARINE : Talk to me of limits Why is it that I must take a man along to give my speeches, or why I must write serious articles anonymously       My schools will overcome those limits. And you can too—you, Edward, are president of Illinois College. When will you two hardheaded brothers recognize that the future will be no more than deterioration if we do nothing to change it?

EDWARD : Persistence, dear sister. You know that lesson already. How you manage to create such enterprises as you propose, is a mystery to me.

CATHARINE : Persistence, and a firm understanding of the true foundations of power. I’ll tell you the secret of my fund-raising in Hartford: I go to the parents of the girls in my school, and to the wives of prominent men attending Joel Hawes’ church, the oldest and most conservative in Hartford. It was my first experience of the moral power and good judgment of American women, and they have been my chief reliance ever since.
But I will say frankly that Cincinnati is a harder nut to crack than Hartford. The Western Literary Institute and College of Professional Teacherw will let me sit but not speak, when fully half of them—all men—have nothing to say at all.

ISABELLA : Not speak? But what of your books, your New York speech, the call for female teachers?

CATHARINE : Cincinnati likes to think of itself as the ‘‘London of the West,’’ not lacking in anything that us Yankees might have to offer.

LYMAN : Oh, how you twist my own words back on me. Did I say ‘‘London of the West,’’ truly?

CATHARINE : Truly you did, Father.

GEORGE : What New York speech? What call? What have you been up to, Catharine?

ISABELLA : Yes, it was published in one of the papers: Miss Catharine Beecher Speaking at the American Lyceum, an Essay on the Education of Female Teachers. A third of the children without schools, 90,000 teachers needed. Women teachers.

EDWARD : Are you sure of your figures? 90,000 seems extreme.

CATHARINE : Edward, I do not exaggerate. Don’t you recall Father’s famous—‘‘If we gain the West, all is safe; if we lose it, all is lost.’’ This Ohio and Mississippi Valley is filling every day with immigrants.
Oh, you’re no better than the nabobs of Cincinnati, who pin the blame for anti-slavery ideas on Dr. Lyman Beecher because some of his seminary students mingled with black folk.

LYMAN : And don’t forget the unexpurgated version of ‘‘Plea for the West.’’ What I said in Boston about Westerners’ backwardness ws simply to raise money; it was one of my most telling points. No, the Western Monthly found me out fair and square, and reprinted all the deletions. That they take it amiss here is quite understandable, if uncomfortable for me.

HARRIET : You should all know, if no one has told you before, that you’re in a hotbed of social dissension and anti-slavery propaganda, according to the current gossip. Catharine has placed herself at center-stage, as usual. As soon as Daniel Drake sided with James Hall, Catharine started her own campaign to ostracize them. It went quite the other way round.

CATHARINE : How can I not side with Father? What is it worth to be a Beecher?

LYMAN : Worthy of notice, that you can warrant. But tell them of old Edward King’s letter, Cate. Priceless. That old Federalist aristocrat was unbent as stone in Catharine’s storm.

CATHARINE : Belle, be a good girl and fetch the letter from the post in the kitchen, will you? Yes, you can all have a chuckle over it now, but mind you, this letter and others like it have made my job of raising enough money for the school well-nigh impossible.

HARRIET : I can vouch for that; we’re dangerously low now, Cate.

CATHARINE : You’ll manage. Give it a little time.

ISABELLA : Here it is, Catharine.

THOMAS : Let me read it, please, please, please.

LYMAN : All right. Now bear in mind that this man is writing to his wife—to his wife, whom he sees every day.

THOMAS : Tell Catharine Beecher that she is a guest and not a director in our home. Tell all the Beechers that if they choose to visit and partake when invited, it is well, but not as our advisors as to when and who and with whom they are to mingle at our fireside. Now our policy is to be above such matters, not even to seem to know them.

CATHARINE : All right, that’s enough of me . . .

EDWARD : Amen.

LYMAN : And it’s Amen for me, too. These old bones must lay in a heap till morn. Welcome, all, to Cincinnati. Does everyone have a place and blankets? Yes? Charles, we must put off our talk till morning. All you younger Beechers chatter till you burst. Goodnight all.