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would commit suicide-that I would not live in this miserable world any longer, because I could not bear to live in it any longer; and I determined that about such a time I would leap into the Chicago river, at a certain place, and drown myself. I happened one Sunday night last fall— by accident, as it seemed to me then ; but by a Good Providence, as it seems now into Library Hall, and heard a discourse there. I felt, when I heard it, as if somebody cared for me, as if there was sympathy in the world, which I had never heard much about before, and as if God in heaven cared for me, and God's good angels. I said, “I will hold on another week, and I will go to that meeting and hear what that man says another time. I went the next Sunday night, and felt better, and thought, as I went home, I would put off drowning, and see what would come; and every Sunday night I felt better; and now I feel as though there was no danger of drowning; and I declare to you, sir, that you have been the instrumentality to lift me out of darkness into marvellous light."
Now, wouldn't it do a fellow good to get a letter like that! I felt good beyond conception. Brother Clarke once said that he felt disheartened at preaching in his church to his people, because, as he looked down the aisles, and remembered them all, what they were and what they had done, he felt they were so good that he didn't see how he could do anything for them in the church. What was the use of hammering at them ? they were about as good as they could be. But when you get into an audience like that at Chicago, and can fling your whole heart at them, and feel that you are doing something, you see it takes right hold; then it is all right.
As we got toward the end of the meetings, I felt as if there were more or less people in the audience who were aching to give something towards supporting them, and I said I would appeal to them and see what they would do—these workingmen, these people in very ordinary circumstances--to help support and carry on this grand movement. So, at the end of the season, which was a week ago last Sunday night, we called a great meeting in the Opera House, and it was such a meeting! I never saw Brother Laird Collier do so we!l in his life, and he always does well. He seemed to be lifted out of himself, and he handled that meeting just exactly as it ought to be handled. Well, we made such speeches, you know, as would occur to us on such an occasion, and then brother Collier took the collection. If you ever want a banging collection, send for Brother Collier to come to Boston. We got, altogether, out of those people who came there and listened to those sermons and took part in those services, a collection of four thousand dollars!
Now, you have heard about the various other enterprises that are going on in Chicago; you have heard, very likely, about my big new church, that I am so proud of--the biggest Protestant church in the city. It is to be dedicated about Christmas, and I said, before I left home, that I would tell you, and you could do as you were a mind, that if Boston was disposed to give us an organ, we should be very much obliged, but if she wouldn't, we would provide one ourselve. I hope that means you will do it! But this is only an indica
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tion of the work that is going on, I think, all through the West. Certainly, never since I went there, I doubt whether ever in the existence of the western country, has there been such a keen, earnest longing to hear the Word of Life, as it is preached by liberal Christian preachers, as there is to-day. I can never go into the country in any direction,-and I go a great deal, sometimes preaching, sometimes lecturing, sometimes one thing, and sometimes another,
but I find somebody, who has come from somewhere, to tell me there is a place we never heard of, where they would be so glad if we could send them a preacher — “just about like yourself,” they say, or something like that. They want a good preacher, some man who will talk both out of his heart and out of this divine truth that they are hungering and thirsting to hear. And they are not very particular, if a man can do it, which wing of the church he belongs to. I think they wouid rather he would belong to the body than to either wing. I suppose it is something as it is when we have a turkey on our tables we don't care much about the wings. What they want is some man with a grand, glorious enthusiasm, a deep religious life. to the West who has radical tendencies, he goes to the right place. If he gives his whole soul to the work, that man is just as sure to succeed as the western farmer who ploughs the prairie and plants corn ; it comes up, and of course there is a grand success at last. I venture to say, with no sort of hesitation, that some of the finest and noblest successes in the West have been those which have been brought about by what are called radical men. places like Bloomington, Toledo and Kenosha, where congregations have grown up into grand, noble, and beautiful strength, and you will find that that has been the character of the men. But when men of conservative tendencies go there, if they are men of God, if they give their hearts to the work, if they go into it with their whole souls, they succeed too. What we want, friends, in the West, is men of deep devotion. Send such a man-one who can preach without fear and without favor, out of the deepest convictions of his soul, the clearest light from God's word, and the best movings of the Holy Spirit—and that man is sure to do good, wherever he goes. You cannot send too many such men, and every one you will send, we will try to find work for.
But I feel as if I wanted to make you understand that you have not done what you ought to do in sending us men. I am going to tell you something now that you won't believe, but it is just as true as you are sitting there. You have a great school over in Cambridge, (Brother Clarke is a Professor there, or has something to do with fixing it, in some way), what you call a Divinity School; a place where you prepare men for the noble and wonderful ministry of the Word. Now, we have in the West, altogether, I think, thirty-three or thirty-four ministers; but with the exception of Brother Bingham, who is occupying an exceptional position as a missionary from this association at Ann Arbor, in Michigan, there is not, from the Alleghany mountains to the hither bank of the Mississippi, a solitary Cambridge man, that I know of, preaching to any congregation of our faith — not one! Eliot is on the other bank; Haywood is in Kentucky. Brother Bingham is a burning and shining light, Alinging its rays over the Rocky Mountains, and away off to the Pacific coast ; and by-and-by, it will shine to China, when we get the Pacific Railroad, and Chicago is the great centre for the China trade. But I tell you it is true, that in our whole western country, you have not a single Cambridge man between the Aileghanies and this bank of the Mississippi, except Brother Bingham and Brother Howard ; and Brother Howard, I believe, is not settled at present, but he is going right to Sheboygan — and a real, grand, good fellow he is. This is not as it should be, and we want to tell you, we Western men, that you will have to help us ; that you have got to inspire Cambridge to send us her grand men, to do what they can to cope with this great need throughout the West for these living ministers and living men. And Meadville will have to do better. I am a modest man, and therefore I won't say anything about myself, but I want to say this of the Meadville men; that men like Brother Staples and Brother Camp are doing a good work ; but of the thirty-two ministers who are settled throughout our Western country, in the valley of the Mississippi and on the slopes of the Alleghanies, sixteen or seventeen, if not eighteen are men who have come from other parts, and have taken those different churches that they have found needed ministers, and are doing the work of Him that sent them.
Now, can't you give us good men out of New England, and by-and-by we will raise them up in the West. You know we can't raise them all up at once ; they have got to grow from infancy to boyhood, and from boyhood to manhood. When I began at Unity Church, I was very much troubled about the Sunday-school, and I said, “ You must send your children to the Sunday-school. We must have a larger school. Ten or a dozen won't do at all.” But they came to me and said, “ Don't be uneasy about the Sunday-school. You will get a Sunday-school no doubt about that. We send all the children there are in the parish, and just as fast as any inore grow up we will send them.” It is so, I suppose, through the West. We shall get our Western men after a while, and I feel encouraged and heartened by the information that comes to us of Western men who are coming up to the work. We have been able to send down to Brother Hepworth's school, which I consider to be most hopeful for us in the way of raising up ministers for the work in the West,we have sent down three good men, who will grow, under that influence, into what is wanted, and we hope to send a good many more, to be fitted to take the places that are opening, and carry on the work.
Now, friends, we want your sympathy. We want you to feel, all the time, that there is something to be seen to, something that ought to be done, and shall be done. We have put the whole business of money into the hands of the Association, and if you want to go to heaven, and feel good when you get there, just put your hands deep into your pockets and help this great missionary work at the West. I tell
you, the result will be just as it was in Yorkshire. A missionary who was pleading hard for money to send missionaries to the heathen, told the people that whatever they gave the Lord in this way, he would give back twice over. Two boys were in the meeting and heard the story, and one said to the other, “ suppose we try him.” Said the other,-“ I don't know how it will do, but if thee thinks so I will.” They agreed they would try a sixpence, and they put their sixpence into the contribution box. Sometime during the week, - they were feeling very much disturbed about their sixpence — they thought the missionary had taken them in, - but, sometime during the week, a gentleman called to see them from the town from which they had come, and told them he had lately seen their father, who had done him some little courtesy, for which he would not take anything, and he wanted to give the boys a trifle. So he left five shillings, and went away. As soon as he had gone, one of the boys exclaimed, “ Just what he said, only more so! More than we expected.” “Oh!” said the other, “I wish we had put in a shilling.”
My friends, there is a serious edge to that story ; we may not see it yet a while, but the time will come when we shall every one wish we had done more and better, had contributed more generously of the means God has put at our disposal, when we see the mighty harvest that shall come from even our scant sowing. I think I told you once a very touching story that I learned from one of our best and noblest Western men. He says that a long time
ago the setilers about Pittsburg observed that every year a man came down into the valley, from away off in the Western wilderness, and went to the various farms and gathered the pomace from the cider mills until he got a stock of it, when he would plunge into the wilderness and be lost for a year. Nobody knew what he was doing, and people thought perhaps the man might be crazy. The Indians called him “ big medicine man.” That man went up between Pittsburg and Fort Wayne, and wherever he saw a fine, sunny spot, he would be sure to plant some of his pomace, and when the emigrant went there, he found seedling orchards that this crazy man, as he was thought to be, had planted, waiting for him, and bringing forth their fruit year after
year. That is what we are trying to do in the West. Help us to plant these orchards, and your children, and those near and dear to you, will go there and find churches planted, and this living grace of God abounding, and the blessing which you give now will come back to you tenfold, besides filling your hearts with joy unspeakable and full of glory.
APPEALS AMONG THE QUAKERS.
“ And be these juggling fiends no more believ'd,
And break it to our hope.”—Macbeth, Act V., Scene 7. “BONCUR,” in his Essay on the Shyster,” in the June number of
The Friend, furnishes, by way of illustration, what he regards as being a rare, though fair specimen, from the Hicksite Quakers of this City, of the monster he is delineating.
The specimen he exhibits was formed in connection with the exercise of the right of appeal in the church government of the Society of friends. But more familiarity with its practice in such connection, would have prevented « Bonceur” from falling into the error of referring to this, as being an exceptional case, rather than as conforming to their general practice.
The Society of Friends claims to be exceedingly guarded and love-inspiring in its disownments, not intending to punish but to reclaim; and declares among other things, it is the end of discipline in testifying disunity with any, that the subjects of it “may be made sensible that they themselves are the sole cause of their separation from our religious fellowship and communion.” Professedly, to guard against any mistakes, when a record of such disunity is made by a Monthly Meeting, the discipline provides that it shall not be final; but that the individual concerned shall be notified thereof, and if dissatisfied, shall thereafter, within a specified time, have the right to appeal to superior Meetings.
Appeals, however, among us, are exceedingly infrequent, (which is more than can be said of resignations of membership,) as there is now evidently more willingness manifested to get out of the society, than there is to enter or to stay in it.
There have, perhaps, been eight or ten appeals which have reached the Yearly Meeting, within the last fifty years ; and the results of these would indicate that the privilege of appealing, as it has been conducted, is but a shyster one ; and as it was with the negro, in Judge Taney's opinion, with reference to the white man, so it is with appeilants, in regard to the superior meeting, the former having no rights which the Yearly Meeting is bound to respect. Appeal proceedings, so far as we now remember, or have been able on inquiry to learn, having always resulted, when brought before the Yearly Meeting, adversely to the appellant.
It will hardly be claimed, at this day, that all these cases ought so to have resulted.
Subsequent events have shown, that in the case of Hannah Barnard, for instance, the judgment was an unrighteons and iniquitous one. But to come nearer to our own time, and to scenes in which some of the principal actors are still living, we will point to the case of Isaac. T. Hopper.