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St. Paul (Minnesota, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
leth; it is, like Channing, looking into the face of a national sin and, with lips touched like Isaiah's, finding it impossible not to launch at it the thunderbolt of God's rebuke. Old Lyman Beecher said, If you want to find the successor of Saint Paul, seek him where you find the same objections made to a preacher that were made to Saint Paul. Who won the hatred of the merchant-princes of Boston? Whom did State Street call a madman? The fanatic of Federal Street in 1837. Whom, with unerrSaint Paul. Who won the hatred of the merchant-princes of Boston? Whom did State Street call a madman? The fanatic of Federal Street in 1837. Whom, with unerring instinct, did that same herd of merchant-princes hate, with instinctive certainty that, in order that their craft should be safe, they ought to hate him? The Apostle of Music Hall. That is enough. When some Americans die — when most Americans die — their friends tire the public with excuses. They confess this spot, they explain that stain, they plead circumstances as the half justification of that mistake, and they beg of us to remember that nothing but good is to be spoken of the dead
Harper's Ferry (West Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
s even of bigot and priestly hate, yet: on whose garments bitter and watchful malice found no stain; laying on the altar the fruits of the most unresting toil, yet ever ready — as the idlest to man any post of daily and humble duty at any moment. In him we lose that strong sense, deep feeling, and love of right for whose eloquent voice millions waited in every hour of darkness and peril ; whose last word came, fitly, across the water a salutation and a blessing to the kindred martyrs of Harper's Ferry; a storehouse of the lore of every language and age; the armory of a score of weapons sacred to right; the leader whose voice was the bonds of a mighty host; the friend ever sincere, loyal, and vigilant; a man, whose fidelity was attested equally by the trust of those who loved him, and the hate of everything selfish, heartless, and base in the land. In time to come the slave will miss keenly that voice always heard in his behalf, and which a nation was learning to heed; and whoever an
West Roxbury, Mass. (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
d, when I see that if one comes from them to our Orthodox ranks, and believes a great deal more than they do, he is treated with reverend respect; but let him go out on the other side, and believe a very little less, and the whole startled body join in begging the world not to think them naturally the parents of such horrible and dangerous heresy. But there is one thing every man may say of this pulpit,--it was a live reality and no sham. Whether tearing theological idols to pieces at West Roxbury, or here battling with the every-day evils of the streets, it was ever a live voice, and no mechanical or parrot-tune; ever fresh from the heart of God, as these flowers, these lilies, the last flower over which, when eyesight failed him, with his old gesture he passed his loving hand, and said, How sweet! As in that story he loved so much to tell of Michael Angelo, when in the Roman palace Raphael was drawing his figures too small, Angelo sketched a colossal head of fit proportions, and
Massachusetts (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
independently passing on the empty and rotten pretensions of churches and churchmen, which I learned earliest and more than from any other from Theodore Parker. He has my love, my respect, my admiration. Yes, his diocese is broader than Massachusetts; his influence extends very far outside these walls. Every pulpit in Boston is freer and more real to-day because of the existence of this. The fan of his example scattered the chaff of a hundred sapless years. Our whole city is fresher tolves with words. But no poor and greedy mechanic, no farm tenant on shares, ever distanced this unresting brain. He brought into his study that conscientious, loving industry which six generations had handed down to him on tile hard soil of Massachusetts. He loved work, and I doubt if any workman in our empire equalled him in thoroughness of preparation. Before he wrote his review of Prescott, he went conscientiously through all the printed histories of that period in three or four tongues.
Gibralter (North Carolina, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
of his sympathy. In sick chambers, and by the side of suffering humanity, he kept his heart soft and young. No man lifted a hand anywhere for truth and right who did not look on Theodore Parker as his fellow-laborer. When men hoped for the future, this desk was one stone on which they planted their feet. Where more frequent than around his board would you find men familiar with Europe's dungeons and the mobs of our own streets? Wherever the fugitive slave might worship, here was his Gibraltar. Over his mantel, however scantily furnished, in this city or elsewhere, you were sure to find a picture of Parker. But he is gone!. So certain was he of his death that, in the still watches of the Italian night, he comforted the sickening hopes of those about him by whispering,--I hear a voice you cannot hear, Which says I must not stay; I see a hand you cannot see, Which beckons me away. But where shall we stop? This empty desk You may fill it, but where is he who called it into
Waterloo, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
ortunate, if he loved fame and future influence, that the leaves which bear his thoughts to posterity are not freighted with words penned by sickly ambition or wrung from hunger, but with earnest thoughts on dangers that make the ground tremble under our feet, and the heavens black over our head,--the only literature sure to live. Ambition says, I will write, and be famous. It is only a dainty tournament, a sham fight, forgotten when the smoke clears away. Real books are like Yorktown or Waterloo, whose cannon shook continents at the moment, and echo down the centuries. Through such channels Parker poured his thoughts. And true hearts leaped to his side. No man's brain ever made him warmer friends; no man's heart ever held them firmer. He loved to speak of how many hands he had, in every city, in every land, ready to work for him. With royal serenity he levied on all. Vassal hearts multiplied the great chief's powers. And at home the gentlest and deepest love, saintly, unequa
Scotland (United Kingdom) (search for this): chapter 30
s gone. Not gone! No, with us, only standing one step higher than he did. To such spirits, there is no death. In the old times, when men fought with spears, the warrior hurled his weapon into the thickest of the opposite host, and struggled bravely on, until he stood over it and reclaimed it. In the bloom of his youth, Theodore Parker flung his heart forward at the feet of the Eternal; he has only struggled onward and reached it to-day. Only one step higher! Wail ye may full well for Scotland, Let none dare to mourn for him. How shall we group his qualities? The first that occurs to me is the tireless industry of that unresting brain which never seemed to need leisure. When some engagement brought me home in the small hours of the morning, many and many a time have I looked out (my own window commands those of his study), and seen that unquenched light burning,--that unflagging student ever at work. Half curious, half ashamed, I lay down, saying with the Athenian, The tro
Paris, Ky. (Kentucky, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
thed through those manly lips! But if he deserved any single word, it was generous. Vir generosus is the description that leaps to the lips of every scholar. He was generous of money. Born on a New England farm, in those days when small incomings made every dollar a matter of importance, he no sooner had command of wealth than he lived with open hands. Not even the darling ambition of a great library ever tempted him to close his ear to need. Go to Venice or Vienna, to Frankfort or to Paris, and ask the refugees who have gone back,--when here friendless exiles but for him,--under whose roof they felt most at home! One of our oldest and best teachers writes me that, telling him once in the cars of a young lad of rare mathematical genius who could read Laplace, but whom narrow means debarred from the university, Let him enter, said Theodore Parker; I will pay his bills. No sect, no special study, no one idea bounded his sympathy; but he was generous in judgment where a common
Florence, S. C. (South Carolina, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
inctive certainty that, in order that their craft should be safe, they ought to hate him? The Apostle of Music Hall. That is enough. When some Americans die — when most Americans die — their friends tire the public with excuses. They confess this spot, they explain that stain, they plead circumstances as the half justification of that mistake, and they beg of us to remember that nothing but good is to be spoken of the dead. .We need no such mantle for that green grave under the sky of Florence,--no excuses, no explanations, no spot. Priestly malice has scanned every inch of his garment,--it was seamless; it could find no stain. History, as in the case of every other of her beloved children, gathers into her bosom the arrows which malice had shot at him, and says to posterity, Behold the title-deeds of your gratitude! We ask no moment to excuse, there is nothing to explain. What the snarling journal thought bold, what the selfish politician feared as his ruin,--it was God's s
Yorktown (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 30
b! Thrice fortunate, if he loved fame and future influence, that the leaves which bear his thoughts to posterity are not freighted with words penned by sickly ambition or wrung from hunger, but with earnest thoughts on dangers that make the ground tremble under our feet, and the heavens black over our head,--the only literature sure to live. Ambition says, I will write, and be famous. It is only a dainty tournament, a sham fight, forgotten when the smoke clears away. Real books are like Yorktown or Waterloo, whose cannon shook continents at the moment, and echo down the centuries. Through such channels Parker poured his thoughts. And true hearts leaped to his side. No man's brain ever made him warmer friends; no man's heart ever held them firmer. He loved to speak of how many hands he had, in every city, in every land, ready to work for him. With royal serenity he levied on all. Vassal hearts multiplied the great chief's powers. And at home the gentlest and deepest love, sai
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