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 serial we're about to begin relates the story of one of American's most dynamic families, the Beechers. How a father and his eleven children wrote their destinies into our history in the years before the Civil War. A few of the younger ones even saw the turn of the Twentieth Century.
SLAVERY WAS DYING OUT IN THE NORTH WHEN ELI          Whitney, a New England mechanic staying in          Savannah, Georgia, built a machine that separated cotton seeds from cotton fibers. The cotton gin made cotton into a very profitable crop. The value of slaves to pick cotton suddenly increased, and the practice of slavery grew in the South.       In 1820, the question of slavery seemed to be answered in the Missouri Compromise, slavery was limited to territories south of latitude 36° 30'—the line that runs between Virginia and North Carolina, between Kentucky and Tennessee, and forms most of the southern border of Missouri.       Until 1833, there was hardly an issue to discuss—but in that year, the British freed all slaves in the British West Indies. The South suddenly felt isolated. William Lloyd Garrison had begun his unrelenting attack on slavery, and he was joined by others.       When California asked for admission in 1849, and there was no counterbalancing southern territory to be admitted, the South raised a hue and cry. Henry Clay’s compromise plan was to admit California as a free state, but also to pass stringent laws that would prohibit any Northerner from aiding runaway slaves in any way. Clay, from the border state of Kentucky, was an ideal compromiser. But for it to pass, Daniel Webster, champion of New England, had to lend his support.       Webster had already spoke out against the popular Northern view of slavery. Now he supported Clay’s Omnibus Bill, including the notorious Fugitive Slave Act. For the sake of the Union, he sacrificed his political future—he would never be President now. All New England saw him as betraying their interests.       Meanwhile, John C. Calhoun, the Southern leader in Congress, died, and Zachary Taylor, elected only a few months before, died in office. Millard Fillmore was President, and Webster was named his Secretary of State. Fillmore signed into law the Fugitive Slave Act. And John Greenleaf Whittier, the abolitionist poet, excoriated Webster. WHITTIER :                So fallen so lost the light withdrawn                      Which once he wore                The glory from his gray hairs gone                      For evermore                Oh, dumb be passion’s stormy rage,                      When he who might                Have lighted up and led his age                      Falls back in night NARRATOR : By the mid-1840s, Henry Ward had made himself into one of the leading revivalist preachers of the West, with techniques borrowed from the Apostles, and by taking advantage of his own talent for close observation and mimicry, in compensation for a poor memory.       Great outdoor revival meetings taught him most. There he foudn the liberty that his mind demanded—in the camp-meetings, where horns were blown, chants and hymns and shouts of ecstacy filled the air, and crowds rushed forward to be immersed in the river. It became his milieu, and the unbridled atmostphere unleashed his talents as nothing else had done before. He became a speaker of enormous power, learning here the wellsprings of those great religious emotions of hope and fear and despair and bliss. No seminary could have trained him for tghe work he was about to commence.       Yes when he tried to create a revival in town, in his own church, he failed. His freedom of thought met social pressures in Indianapolis, particularly on the subject of slavery. And he held back because he felt that he would be dismissed if he spoke out. HENRY : At the time the people of Indiana did not dare to say that their souls were their own, or that the Negro’s soul was his own. It seemed to me that if I spoke out, my church would be shut up, and that I should be deprived of the means on which I depended for the support of my family.       On a certain day, while reflecting upon the unhappy state of my affairs, I read this passage ‘‘Let your conversation be without covetousness’’—that is, Do not borrow trouble about where your salary is coming from—‘‘and be content with such things as ye have.’’ ‘‘Why yes,’’ I thought, ‘‘I have not many things, but I will be content with them.’’ NARRATOR : Henry Beecher’s anti-slavery stance began in the Amherst debating society—the proposition was whether or not recolonization of African-American slaves back to Africa was suitable. HENRY : Fortunately, I was assigned the negative side of the question. In preparing to speak I prepared my whole life. I contended against colonization as a condition of emancipation—enforced colonization was little better than enforced slavery—and advocated immediate emancipation on the broad ground of human rights. NARRATOR : But though Henry volunteered to protect Birney’s abolitionist paper—with arms if necessary—when mob action threatened Cincinnati, he is not on record as speaking on slavery during his Lawrenceburgh years. In Indianapolis, a hundred miles from the nearest legal slavery, Henry still did not open the subject directly. On one occasion, he illustrated a point with the story of a captive of the Algerians—a white slave with non-white masters. HENRY : They all thought I was going to apply it to slavery; but I did not. I applied it to my subject, and it passed off—and they all drew a long breath. It was not long before I had another illustration from that quarter. And so, before I had been there a year, I had gone all over the sore spots of slavery, in illustrating the subjects of Christian experience and doctrine. It broke the ice. SLAVERY HAD VOCIFEROUS APOLOGISTS IN CONGRESS        calling for extension of slavery as a right in the        territories. Of the vast Louisiana Purchase, only Louisiana and Missouri had been admitted to the Union—both as slave states. Some Southern visionaries saw slavery extended to Texas, the northern Mexican territories, and even to the Caribbean, Cuba and Central America. This Caribbean Basin slave empire idea motivated several filibuster, or freebooter, expeditions, including one to Cuba. East and West Florida had been wrested from the weak Spanish Empire before the politicians in Washington could say boo—why not statehood for Cuba?       Every Southern state was a different case—the border states of Virginia, Kentucky, Maryland, Delaware were pretty lukewarm about slavery, but the cotton belt states, led by South Carolina, were organized around slave labor for the cotton plantations. A lot of hand picking was needed to feed the efficient cotton gin and the textile mills of New England and Britain.       James Oglethorpe, the founder of Georgia, had been one of the first Americans to denounce slavery. The original settlement had been designed for freeholders, to form a buffer between South Carolina and the Spanish Floridas. At first, slavery was banned, but in 1749 it was made legal, and Virginia and Carolina planters moved down to settle the coast.       In the mid 1820s, Fanny Kemble, an English actress touring in America, met and married Pierce Mease Butler, a wealthy Philadelphia gentleman. FANNY : When I married Mr. Butler, I knew nothing of these dreadful possessions of his. The family into which I have married are large slaveholders; our present and future fortune depend greatly upon extensive plantations in Georgia.       I am prejudiced against slavery, for I am an Englishwoman, in whom the absence of such a prejudice would be disgraceful. NARRATOR : William Ellery Channing, the Unitarian leader, influenced her. Henry Carey was set to publish Fanny Kemble’s journal in 1835, including a long diatribe against slavery. Her husband, however, persuaded her to delete the anti-slavery portion. THAT SAME YEAR CHANNING PUBLISHED A LITTLE BOOK          called Slavery—it went through four editions          quickly. Channing said that slavery must be dis- cussed. The point, he said, was to plead the cause of the slave with his or her owner. The Christian way was to win the slaveowner to repentance. Although the slave was wronged, the slaveowner was not necessarily depraved —unless he or she persisted.       There is no good in slavery, said Channing. It crushes the human spirit. It denies the dignity of labor. it extinguishes reason. It breeds cruelty and irresponsibility.       Therefore, emancipation is the answer—but emancipation by the slaveowner. This means educating the slaves, and bringing them to a moral life, as well as freeing them.       Fanny spoke at length with the overseer for Mr. Butler’s estate. FANNY : The fact is—and I have it not only from observation of my own, but from the distinct statement of some of the most intelligent Southern men that I have conversed with—the only obstacle to immediate abolition throughout the South is the immense value of the human property. OVERSEER : I’ll tell you why abolition is impossible: because every healthy Negro can fetch a thousand dollers in the Chaleston market at this moment. FANNY : Can many of the slaves here read? OVERSEER : No; very few, I’m happy to say. Those few are just so many too many. FANNY : Why, have you observed any insubordination in those who do read? OVERSEER : No, I have no special complaint to bring against them. I speak by anticipation. Every step they take toward education makes them think too much of themselves. Their condition is not to be changed—so, they’d better not learn to read.       Oh, and the masters who take up with the preaching and the teaching and the moral instructions of the Yankees, they think they’re being kind. They’re being cowardly—they crumble up what they suppose may prove a little harmless religion and mix it with what the Bible says about masters and slaves, and then trust their slaves to swallow it all and not do them any harm. they want better Christians for slaves—and so, no doubt, they are. But it is a very dangerous experiment. FANNY : I’ll quite agree with you there. OVERSEER : You know, hiring free labor would be more profitable even on these plantations. The work of slaves gives you the worst quality and the smallest quantity. And then there’s having charge of them growing up and then growing old, and in the meantime you feed them and clothe them—which is a considerable cost. No, I myself am in favor of free labor all around. FANNY : I also listened with infinite interest to the opinions of Mr. King, a man of uncommon shrewdness and sagacity, who was born in the very bosom of slavery, and has passed his whole life among slaves. This was his verdict. KING : I hate slavery with all my heart; I consider it an absolute curse wherever it exists. It will keep those states where it does exist fifty years behind the others in improvement and prosperity.       As for its being an irremediable evil—a thing not to be helped or got rid of—that’s all nonsense; for, as soon as people become convinced that it is their interest to get rid of it, they will soon find the means to do so, depend on it. NARRATOR : The New Testament was Henry’s chief study, reading, re-reading, always to get at the living thought of the writer, to understand and put himself in possession of the writer’s experience. One analysis that he published is like a lawyer’s brief in its detail.       For his sermons, much preparation was done, suitable for his method. HENRY : I have half a dozen or more topics lying loose in my mind through the week; I think of one or another, as occasion may serve, anywhere—at home, in the street, in the horse-car. I rarely know what theme I shall use until Sunday morning. Then, after breakfast, I go into my study, as a man goes into his orchard; I feel among these themes as he feels among the apples, to find the ripest and the best; the theme which seems most ripe I pluck; then I select my text, analyze my subject, prepare my sermong, and go into the pulpit to preach it while it is fresh. NARRATOR : In fact, he would write out the first few pages, often still writing as he entered the church, adding notes as the choir was singing. Then, he would read from his notes, throw in an idea, come back to his notes, then drop them altogether as his theme developed from the weeks of rumination on this topic.       Lyman Abbott once wanted his opinion on a book on phrenology—he called at dinnertime. HENRY : I never read a book throuogh. A book is like a fish: you cut off the head, you cut off the tail, you cut off the fins, you take out the backbone, and there is a little piece of meat left. ABBOTT : At the end of the first course, he left the table and sat down by the window, took the pages, and ran over them rapidly. HENRY : Yes! No! that is not true. Ah! that is old. Yes, that is so. Well, I don’t know about that. ABBOTT : In 15 minutes he had gone through the volume and knew it better than I did after an hour or two of examination. NARRATOR : On a revival trip to Madison, Julia Merrill heard Henry preach again. Eunice had said that she envied Julia’s being there with him, and Henry replied. HENRY : You have no reason to envy. Give my love to Elizabeth Bates and a good warm kiss, as the kiss for Julia is on hand. BUT IN THAT SHORT INTERVAL BEFORE HIS RETURN TO          Indianapolis, Henry’s relationship with Julia Merrill          suddenly changed. Henry could no longer treat Julia fondly as a daughter; he did not encourage her. Julia, on her part, made no attempt to hide a deepening love for Henry.       By 1846, Henry’s salary was getting even more difficult to collect, and when he resigned as Clerk of the Presbytery, it was clear that he was thinking of leaving Indianapolis. With his usual cautious boldness, Henry resolved to speak out on slavery. A church directive had instructed ministers to speak out, though few had done so. Then the Mexican War started in May; some feared that the new territories—Texas, the whole Southwest, and the coveted California—would simply extend slavery to the Pacific. He remembered Lyman Beecher’s advice on controversy. LYMAN : True wisdom consists in advocating a cause only so far as the community will sustain the reformer. NARRATOR : Nevertheless, at the very end of his pastorate in Indianapolis, Henry Ward Beecher preached two sermons denouncing slavery. The first sermon dealt with Moses and the Hebrews in bondage to Pharaoh. With no untoward reaction to that, he scheduled a second sermon for a day that the U.S. District Court would be sitting in Indianapolis, with Judge John McLean in attendance, and changes of violence would be less. This time, he spoke directly and bluntly against slavery in America, and about the duty of Christians. One newspaper reprinted the sermons. Justice McLean was asked what he thought of the sermon. : McLEAN : I think if every minister in the United States would be as faithful it would be a great advance in settling this question. NARRATOR : On returning from a trip, Henry found a letter from the New York group that was planning to build a new church in Brooklyn, and wanted Henry Ward Beecher to be its first pastor. Their offer was attractive. CUTLER : You can probably do as much or more for the West by living here, you could publish much to benefit the world. Your influence would be felt beyond the Atlantic as well as West of the Alleghenys. You would have a world of people here to listen to your preaching, you would have much to stimulate to study and action—other minds here to vie with, to see who should best sow Christ and build up his Kingdom. Suppose you were to come and stay five years, then return to the West you would be eminently better fitted to be a General in the Army opposed to Satan AT FIRST, HENRY DECLINED. THEY PERSISTED. LYMAN           advised him against it, fearing that New York would           be the downfall of his unsteady son. So, Henry Beecher went to New York during Anniversary Week to give sermons—in the evening 800 people crowded into the building to hear him speak. He spoke nervously, but the New York Tribune printed the whole sermon on its front page, and Beecher received another invitation to preach at Cranberry Street.       He also spoke in Boston to the Home Missionary Society, the Temperance Union, the Commissioners for Foreign Missions, plus sermons in Boston’s churches. Suddenly the New Yorkers, fearful that Boston might snatch the prize, beseiged him with letters and requests to accept their offer.       Another factor was Eunice’s health—friends in the East who had not seen her in years were shocked by her weakness.       Henry C. Bowen, one of the New Yorkers, wrote to Lyman Beecher to overcome his opposition; he also urged Lyman’s old friend Dr. Taylor to write the older Beecher. To no avail. LYMAN : Henry is settled in Indianapolis at a point of great influence, where he could do great good, and it would be folly to remove him. In the vicinity of New York he would simply sink out of sight among the greater men, and have no especial influence, except in a very limited sphere. NARRATOR : The prestigious Park Street Church in Boston, where Edward had been pastor, and Lyman and Henry had both given sermons, did extend Henry an invitation to become associate pastor.       Though Henry didn’t write back to Indiana for the first few weeks, he did acknowledge a bank draft from Julia Merrill and Elizabeth Bates. HENRY : Although out of means, and either obliged to borrow, or to receive payment for preaching each Sabbath, still the bank draft was not half so welcome as was the feeling that you thought of me and mine, and thought so much as to enter into our probable wants, and to make provision for them, when such provision was, as I very well know, not easy for you.       And now dear Julia, you may well imagine how much more I think and feel than I can write. So you must call upon your imagination to interpret an ampler meaning than these hasty lines can give. NARRATOR : Then, 15-month-old Georgia died, and Eunice and Henry both mourned, Eunice especially. EUNICE : My heart is almost broken by this year’s trials. I miss his small step by my chair. I miss him at the morning prayer. I miss him all day everywhere and I have the wildest longings to look into his grave and see if he is indeed there—or if this be not a horrible dream. I think you would have some trouble to recognize your sister in the thin-faced, grey-headed, toothless old woman you would find here. IN JUNE 1847, THE PLYMOUTH CHURCH WAS FORMALLY       organized, and Henry was unanimously called to be       pastor. Henry again postponed his answer as he journeyed back West to make his decision.       Finally, Henry gave in to the persistent group of gentlemen from Brooklyn who had no church building, no name, and only a handful of members—but who insisted on having Henry Ward Beecher as their pastor.       Eunice had suffered enough West to last her the rest of her life; her health required the move. She left Indianapolis ahead of him; he rode on the newly-opened train line to the East, seated on boards in a boxcar. When Eunice published her novel, it was an indictment in detail of the American West, a bitter attack on the mud and pigs, callous neighbors, do-nothings and misfits, and unflattering to her husband. Even friends of his—Samuel Merril and John Ketcham—were not sorry to see him leave the Second Presbyterian Church in Indianapolis. MERRILL : We have liked him as a preacher but many of the Church as I now learn complain much of him as a pastor. KETCHAM : Henry Beecher was a great man in the pulpit—but woefully deficient in every other respect. Often he has failed to attend prayer meeting without any excuse. Never has been in Sabbath School more than thrice in his residence here of seven years. Visits almost none among his people. Makes appointments for meetings of Session, and half the time forgets them. Always funny and often frivolous.       Well, he always made a noise wherever he went and we were flattered by it and held on. The truth is, we, as a town, feel that we are losing a valuable citizen; but he has never endeared himself as a pastor to his church—he has not been a pastor at all—only a brilliant preacher—and brilliant he is. NARRATOR : Julia Merrill was very upset when Henry resigned. She planned to go with him on a buggy ride from Greenwood to Indianapolis, but Julia’s mother was very ill and insisted that she accompany her to Cincinnati immediately. JULIA : Oh, Elizabeth, I had so hoped to see Mr. Beecher again—but—I could not. I rode silently along for miles, and thought over for the thousandth time all those happy days which are gone. NARRATOR : She wrote to her sister Catherine to come take care of their mother. JULIA : Oh Kate, what am I to do? You know how badly I want to get home to see Mr. Beecher before he goes—I must stay, as long as there is any necessity on Ma’s part. I could stay very willingly, but if I am to be detained here for no earthly reason, why, I shall almost rebel. You know if I should miss seeing him altogether how many long years may elapse before I see him again. NARRATOR : But Mrs. Merrill grew worse, and insisted on going back home to die. Catherine Merrill met Julia and their mother near Columbus, and together they journeyed slowly to the capital. HENRY : Mrs. Merrill is very low and sinking fast. It would be miraculous if she lived many weeks. NARRATOR : Two weeks later, she was dead. Meanwhile, Henry was winding up his affairs, taking advantage of the New Yorkers’ offer to help him clear up all outstanding debts. Henry Bowen warned, however: BOWEN : I owe you nothing. If you get into debt when you get here you must look out for yourself as I am afraid my agency or the agency of your friends will not be quite so promptly responded to a second time for the same thing. EUNICE AND THE FAMILY WENT ON AHEAD, AND HENRY          stayed alone to pack up all his books and sell the          furniture. In September he gave his farewell sermon; he could leave knowing his church was united, and had grown to 270 members. Three days later, the first run of the new Madison and Indianapolis Railroad came steaming into town at 12 miles per hour. Beecher boarded it as it left an hour and a half late. Only Julia Merrill went along to say goodbye.       His first letter back was to her. HENRY : Julia, from me you have probably received more ideas, more influences going to form opinion and character than from all others.       As I sat upon the wharf-boat and looked upon the water I thought of the passage of life. Who knows the fate of that half wilted flower that is flowing past? At what point will it sink? Who that sees these passing objects can have one idea of their destiny, except that they will be wafted down, no one can tell when. And who can look down that darker strand on which WE lie, or tell its events—or presume our history. Those who best know themselves—how longingly do they desire shadows to depart, andd the reality to come. The number is few; few sit waiting for hope of glory; yet there are some: some who awaken to sing at the approaching dawn as birds do in the twilight of morning. And when such find each other out, it seems hard that they should be parted. But of this too God knows best. NARRATOR : Henry’s new church in Brooklyn took the name Plymouth Church, and it would become the largest church in America.