USA > Massachusetts > Essex County > Salem > The first centenary of the North church and society, in Salem, Massachusetts > Part 5
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In the period of its later history, a period of unex- ampled latitude of inquiry, I believe that the living minis- ters who have served in this place will bear their united testimony that, diverse as have been their own interpreta- tions of truth and duty, and their administration of the Teacher's office, and with whatever of individual objection their instruction upon any theme may have been received, that objection has seldom taken the form of an expressed
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MEMORIAL SERMON.
wish, or consent, even, that the minister should be guided by any conclusion but his own; and the general voice has been clearly, unmistakably, constantly encouraging to entire loyalty to every innermost and fixed conviction.
Conservative, if this church has been, after a sort, it has always had its pioneers searching forward with earnest ques- tionings into the new fields of religious truth. Samuel Curwen was a Unitarian in 1775-6, when the society gener- ally were not. Ichabod Tucker and Frederic Howes were free critics, in 1815, of the phraseology of the covenant of 1773, and of many points in the prevalent theology of the day, long before these had been generally abandoned. And I need not tell you what a kindly shelter this church has given to all serious and reverent questioning, however free, in these later years.
It is my joy, my pride-I hope not an unpardonable pride-that I can bear this testimony ; that this society seems to have had and to have that steadiness and patient self-possession, which comes from freedom only; from courage to prove all things ; which has come, I may say, from an experience more than commonly wide and instruc- tive ; from having a faith that has been made to know the strength of its own rooting ; and has found it too deep and fast to be torn away by the conflicts of opinion; a faith which sinks past and below all human opinions, including its own; sinks into the spirit of God and so beds itself in the life eternal, that it has no fear that it can ever be moved.
He was a true prophet, I like to think, who wrote of you once : "Animated by a spirit of conservatism which does not dread reform, and by a liberality which is also cautious
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and wise, you will help to guide the progress in whose advantages you will share."*
We say sometimes that the future is not within our con- trol. Spoken of the future event, in its detail of form and time and order, this is true. But of each future seen as revealing the persistency of forces that are never idle ; seen as a stream flowing unbroken from the fountain of past causes lying deep in the recesses of the human will and the human motive, each future thus stamped with a distinct char- acter of its own, and having a manifest unity with its own past ; seen as such, nothing is plainer than that each future, say our future, is largely within the directing will of the souls standing on their own ground and on their own feet to-day; for that Providence which we recognize in history makes use at every stage of the free human will, and works through it, on towards its own unchanging ends.
We can see that the beginning of these hundred years was charged largely with the very religious thought and life that constitute the life-blood of the best being and activity of this hour. We hope there is growth and believe there is ; but it is the same tree.
As surely is it in our power to pass down to the children of that generation which shall occupy our places a hundred years forward such a positive, strong, vital current of relig- ious energy, prophetic fire and courage, moral sturdiness and irrepressible seekings for the face of God and the well- being of mankind, as shall then be traceable back to this day.
We study history, in part to learn how to make it, and in
* Rev. James Freeman Clarke, in a letter declining an invitation to the pastorship of the society.
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part to learn how to be made use of by it; how to discover its lines of movement, that we may fall in with them and be wrought humbly into its sublime and endless building.
"The new is old, the old is new,-
*
*
The eternal step of progress beats To that great anthem, calm and slow, Which God repeats !
Take heart !- the Waster builds again, -- A charmed life old goodness hath : The tares may perish,- but the grain Is not for death."
EXERCISES
AT
NORMAL HALL,
INCLUDING ADDRESSES AND
CORRESPONDENCE.
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
After the exercises at the church, the members of the North society with their invited guests assembled at Normal Hall on Broad street, for a collation and social entertainment, the hall being opened to them for the occasion by the courtesy of Pro- fessor D. B. Hagar, Principal of the State Normal School, and with the consent of the Committee of the State Board of Educa- tion having charge of the building.
The tables were laid with elegance and abundance by Mr. E. P. Cassell, and were decorated with flowers in great profusion and variety.
. Shortly after two o'clock the President, the Hon. GEORGE B. LORING, called the company to order, and asked their attention while the Rev. J. T. HEWES, of the First Church, invoked the divine blessing, as follows :-
Our Heavenly Father, we thank Thee for all Thy gifts. We thank Thee that we are permitted to gather here upon this memo- rable occasion and unite our hearts, our sympathies and our memories in one common feast of thought. We pray Thee, bless this occasion unto us all, bless all connected with our churches, and all the families who are represented here to-day. Bless also the memories of those who have gone from our sight, but whose memory and character we cherish in our hearts at this time, and may we feel it is good for us to have come here, and may its influence go with us throughout our lives. We ask all this as disciples of Jesus Christ, Thy Son. Amen.
After an hour spent in festivity, the President, Dr. LORING commenced the intellectual exercises of the occasion with the following address :-
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
ADDRESS OF THE HON. GEO. B. LORING.
I assume the duties which have been assigned me on this occa- sion, my friends, with mingled emotions, with a crowd of various memories and with renewed respect for all the associations, old and new, by which, in my mind, the North Church in Salem is surrounded. Although my connection with this society is of com- paratively short duration, I cannot remember the time, when its name did not convey to me the thought of a warm religious faith, great integrity and ardent devotion to the best purposes of life. Born among the theological incidents of Essex County, in one of its most theological towns, and in the midst of some of its warmest theological endeavors, taught at my father's fireside to know the sacrifices of the New England clergy, and called upon to listen to the traditions of Liberal Christianity here, I can never forget the imposing attitude in which this church stood before my youthful mind, with its scholarly pastor and his cultivated flock. To my ancestors, of all the generations that I ever knew, the name of the North Church was sacred. And I now hold and prize, as a pre- cious family inheritance, the well-read Bible and devotional volumes, which consoled and comforted the founders of this church and their fathers before them. This occasion, therefore, is to myself full of interest.
But to you also who sit here, indeed to all the thoughtful and devoted Christians of this christian community, this event is interesting and suggestive. A century of the deepest thought, the boldest speculation, the most vigorous action, the most rapid change, the most thorough and permanent progress, we trust, con- stitutes the lifetime of this church. In the great efforts and events of that period of time just now closing, the worshippers here have, in various ways, performed an important part. The severity of the first collision between the patriots of the Revolution and their
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oppressors was modified by the soothing and conservative words of your first pastor ; it was a child baptized at this altar, who, in manhood, sustained the honor of Massachusetts in her early polit- ical struggles ; it was the bold and stalwart and sagacious pillars of this church, who established the early commercial renown and prosperity of this city ; and to the statesmanship and jurisprudence of our land, have its pious sons made liberal and valuable contri- butions. Not always revolutionary perhaps, it has always been faithful and prudent and wise. Open-minded at least, when not restless nor audacious, it presents an admirable illustration of the power of a charitable religious faith to remove all obstacles to man's advancement, from the repose of conservatism to the vigor- ous and somewhat uneasy ways of even healthy reform. And while it has held that intimate relation to the highest mental and material effort of its century of life to which I have referred, it enjoys the remarkable distinction of having furnished, in its infancy, Armenianism and pacification to the councils of the first war for American freedom and, in the strength of its manhood, Unitarianism and a chaplain to the service of the last ; illustrating, in this way if in no other, its capacity for progress, and its growth in vigorous thought and valuable endeavor. That it has discharged its duty well, therefore, who can doubt? That it has performed its part in the great work of liberalizing the christian faith, and warming the christian heart, and enlarging the christian mind, and making wide the entrance to the christian church, as it has passed on from the formalities and fears of its first pastor to the mild courage, and solicitous liberality and abiding faith and practical philanthropy, which characterize him who now fills the place once occupied by Barnard and Abbot and Brazer and Froth- ingham and Lowe, in its progress "from strength to strength," let us all believe, and remember with pride and inspiration.
Prepared for each advancing occasion, by that liberal christian faith, which recognizes the mercy as well as the justice of the
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
Almighty Father, and true to that broad charity which, founded on divine love, looks with a forgiving eye on human infirmity, what a parochial paradise the North Church has been, from the begin- ning of its century until now ! From its sacred walls no pastor has yet been driven. Fortunate, I know, in its selections, it has, I am sure, exercised all the kindness and consideration which a pastor could desire and, as a natural and consequent reward, its people have received the best its pastors could bestow. While I cannot for one moment believe that this record will either em- bolden the pastors or embarrass the people who come after us, I trust it will serve to teach a lesson of mutual responsibility, and of that gentleness towards each other's faults, and regard for each other's virtues, which can alone make a really high-toned christian society, and secure and develop a really useful parish minister.
And now, my friends, what a dear and sacred procession passes before us ! Oh ! that we could recall for one moment that sainted assembly, to whose entrance to the heaven of peace and rest, this church was the shining portal ! As we gather around their altar and our own, what a pure and radiant company surrounds us, the old and the young, the strong and the gentle, dearer than ever now that they are free from the tarnish of earth, and now that they beckon us on to their blissful abode. Time and the centuries may make more illustrious records, but none so tender, none so exalt- ing as the chapter of joys and sorrows, of conflicts and victories, written by a christian church in the life and labor of a hundred years. There may be more stirring annals, but there are none more purifying and ennobling than those which tell of a pastor's devotion and a people's love ; of the heroism of the suffering and bereaved ; of the power of great faith and trust in God; of the sweet associations which surround the altar; of that sublime aspiration which, rising above the conflicts of opinion, builds a broad and universal church on earth and rejoices that there is but
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one congregation in heaven ; of that spiritual and triumphant church, whose corner-stone is the " charity " which " never faileth." To the future of the North Church we submit this as the lesson of the past, while we pray for the prosperity of that Zion of charity and love, which shall be "the joy of the whole earth."
And now, my friends, I know of no occasion in which a people like ourselves are not happy to greet the muse. We have a church poet among us, and I call upon the Rev. CHARLES T. BROOKS, who will now read to you a poem. Mr. Brooks then read the following
RHYMED REMINISCENCES.
Is there a place, in these impetuous times,
For sentimental, retrospective rhymes ? Will the express train of this rushing age Accommodate a floral pilgrimage ?
Can Poetry or Piety beguile The iron car of Fate to stay awhile,
And let its favored prisoners pause an hour To rock in Fancy's barge, or rest in Memory's bower?
There are, who say, In this new morning's blaze, Why rake amidst the dust of buried days ? Not in that heap shall truth, the diamond, lie, . The future shows it sparkling in the sky ! On ! is the word; - your antiquarian lore Is idle, childish pastime -nothing more ! Heed not the tale, O friends ! a larger thought To musing souls by earth and sky is tauglit.
The modern traveller in his dizzying car Sees calmly that alone which lies afar : To scan the nearer things he vainly tries - They speed too fast for his bewildered eyes. Relieved, his vision rests where, far and fair, The landscape stretches in serener air. How oft my heart leaped up with mute delight,
.
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
When, as a boy, I journeyed home at night, To see, while trees and lights behind us fled, The moon and stars ride with us overhead. So with the things of time -like dreams they glide - The eternal things are ever at our side. The present moments sparkle, fade and flee- The past is part of God's eternity.
Once, in a tropic clime, I sailed away From a steep coast across a tranquil bay, When lo! behind the fast receding shore, Up rose the inland hills, and more and more Lifted their greeting summits, green and clear, And made the friendly land seem following near So, as we voyage o'er the sea of time, The past looms up, mysterious and sublime, Lifts its fair peaks into the tranquil sky, And with its greeting, follows as we fly.
When summer-nightfall veils the landscape o'er, From upland meadow to the murmuring shore, How sweet, to men who sail the darkling seas, Low voices borne from land on evening's breeze ! So from afar, o'er Memory's mystic deep, Like sounds from home, melodious whispers creep, Of souls that wait on some far inland shore To welcome back long absent friends once more. Oft on the sea of life these tones we hear, That make that distant shore seem strangely near. A spirit's breath is in the quivering breeze That sweeps the invisible wind-harp of the seas ; A spirit's voice breathes out a plaintive strain, With sweetest cadence in each sad refrain ; A song of songs, where all the heart has known Of grief or gladness blends in every tone.
" Dame Memory," (so majestic Milton sings, In speech that like a silver trumpet rings)- " Dame Memory and her siren daughters" - nay -
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
No flattering, false, deceptive sirens they ! Though oft across life's waves their mournful smile The pilgrim's fond, reverted glance beguile, Though, by the magic of their soothing strain, Springs tender pleasure from remembered pain, Though, over days that faded long ago, Their tender music flings a moonlight glow, That moon with no delusive glory gleams : Forth from a hidden sun that lustre streams, And every joy that has been, prophesies Of bliss that shall be in unfading skies.
O pale and pensive Memory ! thou, no less Than Hope, thy sister, art a prophetess ! Men picture thee alone amidst thy dead, In fruitless wailing o'er the days long fled, With tearful eyes that passionately yearn To wake a life that slumbers in the urn; While bright-eyed Hope with sun-tipped pinion flies To hail the life new-streaming from the skies. Young Hope -- Old Memory : so the poets feign; .
But is it so ? Are not these daughters twain Of God, like those two sons of light, twin-born - The Star of evening and the Star of morn? And what though Hesper in the sunset skies Looks a mute solace for the day that dies, Doth not that gracious herald point the way To ever-dawning, never-dying day ? Aye, Memory hopes -- she hopes and prophesies ; Of life eternal she too testifies ; She is the evening star whose tender light Heralds the day of God, that knows no night ; The farewell smile of day in western skies Greets the far East, where soon the sun shall rise.
Hope -- Memory -- blessed pair! how sweetly gleams O'er life the lustre of their mingling beams ! There comes, e'en here on earth, full many an hour, When, by the stress of thought's transfiguring power,
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
Some joy or sorrow, with absorbing sway, Swells to an age the limits of a day : And lo ! the sun stands still o'er Gibeon, While softly, from the veil of Ajalon, The lingering moon looks forth - and moon and sun Like rose and lily, weave their lights in one ; Moonrise and sunset - Hope and Memory - blend To make the Heavenly day that knows no end.
The past is not all passed, not wholly dead ! Our life still echoes to its voice and tread. The soul awakes -- and lo ! like phantoms glide The living shapes that bustle at our side ; The while our dead dwell on an inner mount, Made green forever by the living fount, Where this imposing world's tumultuous roar Dies in faint murmurs on an inland shore.
What is your boasted Present Hour, and where ? Ye seek to clutch it, and it is not there ! The Past, the Future - these, in friendly strife, Make the perpetual present of our life. On that vast sea, the rushing flood of Time, Where ages, years and moments sink and climb, 'Twixt the last ridge and the next moment's brow Comes the brief instant dreamy souls call now, And deem a foothold firm to stand upon ;
Yet, ere the mind can grasp it, it is gone ! The only true and real now abides On the soul's rock above the rushing tides : That Mount of Vision, where from Memory's mien The veil falls off, and Hope's own eyes are seen.
The Past is nothing, sayst thou ? Rather say, The Past is everything; naught else shall stay. For hear this truth, O soul, by reason taught, And heed this truth, O man, with wisdom fraught : The Past, one day, all Time shall gather in; What has been, is; what will be, will have been.
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
O friends, who gather here this festal day, On Memory's altar pious gifts to lay, Say, do your hearts confess, the Past is dead? That aught once precious to the soul has fled ? Oh no ! the good old times, the good old men, If once they seemed to perish, live again. The men of reverent soul and thoughtful mind, They have not passed away and left behind Their name and memory only here below ; Their presence fills our hearts with kindling glow. The white haired sires who rose on childhood's eyes, Like hoary mountain peaks in purer skies, That seemed in august majesty to stand And catch the vision of the promised land -- Those old white heads -- like lamps of lambent light,* Pillars of fire to guide through this world's night, The eyes of love that on our childhood smiled, The lips of wisdom, faithful, firm and mild, The careful hands that led our wayward feet, Morning and evening greetings, soft and sweet, These are not lost, these have not vanished; no ! They were no cunning juggler's mimic show ! Parents, preceptors, pastors, were a line Of Prophets pointing to the Love Divine : A group of shining ones - no shadowy band, Still beckoning onward to the sunny land, Where still they walk, arrayed in robes of white, And bid us with them walk the fields of light.
To-day how real and how fresh appears The faded history of a hundred years ! A hundred years !- though few the living men, Whose memory runs through threescore years and ten, Yet we, who haply in our boyhood saw The old centennial men, with wondering awe,
* I think this comparison is a reminiscence from one of Theodore Parker's printed prayers .- C. T. B.
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
Saw in their eyes, and seem e'en now to see, The lifetime of a former century.
We see thy new-cut frame, "Old North," arise ; We hear thy new-hung bell salute the skies, We see the manly Barnard's placid form Amid the Revolution's gathering storm. Hark to the roll of Sabbath breaking drums ! Up Lynde street now the bristling column comes I see the startled congregation pour, Curious and anxious, from each swarming door. Men, women, children, parson in his gown, All to the river-side are hurrying down, And there is seen a sight I wonder much Has tempted no historic painter's touch. This way and that the fiery colonel flies, With flashing sword and fury flashing eyes ; Our placid, kindly pastor stands the while, Aplomb, with quiet words and quiet smile, Helping right well the logic of events Across the river with his calm good sense. For lo ! that side the stream is played the game McFingal's muse has handed down to fame. For neither blood-red coats nor bloody threats, Nor brandished swords, nor gleaming bayonets On foemen's guns can strike with proper awe Those daring boys astride the bridge's draw, Who, mindful of the ancient saw, before The horse was stolen, shut the stable door, And when the iron prey he sought is gone, Will let the seizer cross his Rubicon.
Old North ! thy tender years were then but three ; War rocked the cradle of thy infancy. Who is there living now that saw that day, Heard that first muttering of the coming fray ? That congregation God has gathered in, Where shall be heard no more earth's battle din. Gone is the house of God that felt the jar,
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That Sabbath noon, of War's approaching car. Gone? nay, its place shall know it never more, Haply one day shall men in vain explore To find the place itself where once it stood,- Still more, a vestige of its ancient wood; Yet through all transmigration safe to-day Its form abides and shall abide for aye. Where - in what realm - do still these eyes behold, As once, with childish gaze, in years of old, They looked upon that holy, homely place, The old square pews and each familiar face ? Say, in what world that reverend pile still stands, Alike defying time and human hands ? Unchanged by sudden whim or slow decay, Lives that old house in memory's light to-day. Oh for some Goldsmith now, in vivid hues To paint the scenes that mock my feeble muse ! Once more, old sounding-board ! reverberate And ring and roar while thee I celebrate ! Stupendous wonder lifted up on high ! Ponderous paradox to childhood's eye ! Enormous bulk suspended in mid-air, A sword of Damocles, by a wooden hair ! Each urchin watched with mingling hope and dread, To see it fall plump on the parson's head ! And that dark hole beneath the pulpit stairs, That still almost, at times, my memory scares ! What if the "tidy-man,"* bad boy ! should hale Thy trembling body to that gloomy jail ! -But soft ! half lost through memory's gallery-door, My thoughts one flying phantom half restore : 'Tis thou, old Father Boyce ! risen from the dead, The well-known old bandanna round thy head, And the knob-headed pole -the magic wand- The dreaded ensign of thy stern command :
* Corruption of tithing-man, the same person having, probably, once been sexton and tax-collector.
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EXERCISES AT NORMAL HALL.
Full many an urchin of the gallery crew Feared that long sceptre-aye, and felt it too. Like rifle's crack I've heard the blow come down With a sharp ring upon some culprit's crown. -The vision fades -old Boyce slips through the door- Another, brisker step is on the floor ; But, quick-eyed, nimble-tongued and slight of limb, Old William Gavett was a boy to him. Little old man, thy image leads a train Of funny recollections through the brain. It marks the time, when doubts began to grow, If bodily shivers fanned the spirit's glow, I see thee stand beside thy oven-door With hospitable hands to feed once more The foot-stove borne along the icy street With its red comfort for maternal feet; Where filial feet that could not touch the floor, Dangled and kicked till the long hour was o'er, The last prayer closed and seats slammed down again With what queer Hood might call a wooden Amen .* -Again across the field my magic glass I slide, to let another figure pass. What grave, gaunt form now stalks before my eye - O prince of organ-blowers, Philip Frye ! That suit of black, that sober Sunday face, Threw o'er thee such a sanctimonious grace, That strangers sometimes have been known to err, And take the blower for the minister. -But what a change when Monday morning came ! Can this - I often wondered - be the same, The very self-same Philip, that I meet Mincing and simpering down through Essex street ? The long-tailed Sunday coat of black displaced By a blue jacket of the shortest waist ; The Sunday visage too is laid aside,
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