From: The Life and Letters of Christopher Pearse Cranch (1917)
Author: Leonora Cranch Scott
Published: Houghton Mifflin Company 1917 Boston
WESTERN EXPERIENCES.
IN September, 1886, Mr. Cranch returned to Washington for a visit to the old home. He was urged to come to the West by his cousin, William Greenleaf Eliot, who was preaching in St. Louis, Missouri. The invitation was accepted and Mr. Cranch preached several sermons in St. Louis, staying with kind Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Rhodes, while Mr. Eliot preached in New Orleans and Mobile. In St. Louis Mr. Cranch wrote poems and did other literary work for the papers. His flute was his constant companion, and Mrs. Rhodes being musical, they sang and played together.
In those days travelling was slow and tedious. It took nearly two weeks, by steamboat on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers, with stage across the mountains, to go from Washington to St. Louis.
Mr. Eliot afterwards settled in St. Louis, where he not only built up a strong society, but founded the Washington University and the Training School for Nurses, among other good works. His zeal and public spirit were unbounded, and he became one of the leading men of the West in educational and philanthropic work. His life was a consecration to the highest ideals of duty, and it did not fail of great results. In June, 1837, he married my father’s sister, Abigail Adams Cranch, who, by her devotion and unselfishness, was of great service to him in building up his church.
Mr. Cranch went to Cincinnati tentatively as regards the ministry at large, to be appointed to work among the poor; but he thought himself unfitted for the position. He was trying all the time to prepare himself for his duties. His early diaries are quite pathetic from his struggles. It was endeavoring to fit a square peg into a round hole; his poetic effusions, his love of painting and of music all calling him away from sermonizing, which he was strongly urged to follow and to crush the rest. When James Handasyde Perkins appeared in Cincinnati, my father knelt to him, metaphorically, in homage and in gratitude. Mr. Perkins had the consecration necessary for a minister’s life.
In March, 1837, Mr. Cranch left St. Louis and went to preach in Peoria, Illinois. There he stayed with Judge Bigelow and made some very warm friends.
To Miss Catherine Myers
But hark—it rains, and seems as if it set in for a storm. It will quench the prairie fires which have been lighting up to-night. These fires are seen almost every night in various directions. I have not yet seen a real prairie, much less one on fire,—I mean except at a distance. How the rain and the darkness and the silence and the solitude turn one’s thoughts from outward things to the objects of the heart’s affections. I believe it was intended that the eye within should see clearest when it is most dark to the eye without—that the soul’s ear should listen and hear best when the storm speaks to the outward ear. . . .
To the Reverend James Freeman Clarke
I intended to have sent you something for the “Messenger” rather more solid than those scraps I gave you, but my time has been so taken up here that I have had too little to dispose of in this way. Poetry, such as it is, I can almost always spare. I have been thinking of sending you an article on Wordsworth, from a lecture I wrote on the same, and will, if you like, and time admits. Having preached all my old sermons in Washington, I am put to it to write new ones, though Eliot preaches about half the time. This writing and the pleasurin’ I have had to do of late have taken up many hours which I should much like to have given to other things. . . .
To Miss Julia Myers
I shall write my cousin again soon, and tell her all about my Richmond visit. And is this long-thought-of visit indeed over, and am I in Washington again? Am I no longer within walk of your hospitable bower, and the magic ring that held me there in bonds of enchantment? Enchantment, Verbena, Richmond,—these three words shall ever be associated. And am I, indeed,—how long I know not,—beyond the sound of your sweet voice, and the beautiful Beethovenish “four flats,” and its cousin, the gentle guitar that inhabiteth that box in the comer? No, I am not beyond them. I hear them still. My memories of all these joys, and many, many more are vivid, indeed, and shall not soon fade. My heart is garlanded around with the flowers of Memory. I have been dipping these flowers in the fountain of present enjoyment, and “the picture of the mind revives again”—the flowers lift up their bright, many-tinted leaves and petals, and I shall long live in the odour of the past. . . .
His next stay of any considerable extent was in Louisville, Kentucky, where he took James Freeman Clarke’s place, preaching and editing the “Western Messenger,” a monthly paper “conducted in the interests of the liberal faith and of literature.”
A letter to his sister Margaret, afterwards Mrs. Erastus Brooks, gives an account of the society in Louisville, and of what he did for the “Messenger.” It shows how his genial nature made him a favorite, and his various talents were brought into use. Of the spiritual qualities of his sermons we must judge later. The following letter is dated October 14, 1837.
I have found several good pleasant folk here, and a few musical ones. Last night I was at a meeting of the Ladies’ Sewing Society, at Mrs. C’s. On entering there, I encountered a whole table full of bright faces, ranged around a large astral lamp and busily engaged in chatting over their work. Some gentlemen were there, and some more came shortly after. At half-past nine the ladies put up their sewing and dispersed about the room. Soon I was called upon to sing with Mrs. E. C. So we sang—“Home, Fare Thee Well,” “I Know a Bank,” and “As It Fell Upon a Day”; also, “I’ve Wandered in Dreams,” though I never tried it before.
I went the other night to see Mr. Keats, an English gentleman residing here, and brother to Keats, the poet. He seemed to be a very intelligent and gentlemanly man, and has some daughters, only one of whom I saw, a young lady about fourteen apparently, with face and features strongly resembling Keats, the poet, or that little portrait of him which you see in the volume containing his poems in conjunction with Coleridge and Shelley. I could scarcely keep my eyes from her countenance, so striking was the likeness. They say she plays beautifully on the piano. . . .
I have been preparing, this forenoon, a review of Mr. Emerson’s Phi Beta Kappa Oration, which is now in the printer’s hands for the “Messenger.” This child, being left by its father, the Reverend James Freeman Clarke, crieth continually for food. Not more than half the requisite matter is furnished,—and most of that is spun from the brains of your humble servant, C. P. C. Clarke just lets his off spring go to the dickens. If it had not been that C. P. C. happened to adhere to the south bank of the Ohio on his way downstream, and take roost awhile in these diggings, where had been the flowers and fruits that must spring therefrom to fill the “Messenger’s” demands? I look about now like a hungry lion seeking for prey, yea, like some voracious, responsible spider, that sitteth solitary in a comer of a deserted house, spreading its web and looking on emptiness after straggling flies of contributors, which come not- of which the fewest are to be found. Nevertheless, I give myself no uneasiness. The young ravens are fed, and so will the “Messenger” be, in time.
An old gentleman named Judge S. called on me the other day, and wants to take me into the country to his house, about five miles from Louisville, to stay some days. I should like to go, but doubt whether the “cares of editorial life” will permit. I find everybody here hospitable. I can’t make visits fast enough. By the time I get acquainted here, as it has always been elsewhere, I am obliged to go. But I shall not have been long enough in Louisville, quite, to become strongly attached to the society.
To Miss Margaret Cranch
I shall set off in a day or two for St. Louis. . . . I begin to grow a little impatient to be back among my little scattered flock at Peoria. Perhaps I may be able to unite Fremont with Peoria in one parish. . . . I have enjoyed my stay here very much. My impressions of Louisville are very different from what they were. Mr. Clarke has a noble society and a desirable station, both for comfort and usefulness. He has a most enviable independence of character, which peculiarly fits him for such a place as this. It does me good to be with him. He possesses in a marked degree that which I am perpetually conscious that I am most deficient in—that is, boldness—an habitual independence and disregard for the opinion of men. I think I am acquiring of it slowly. The West is a grand school for me in this respect. Still, the lack of it palsies me continually. I cannot forget myself. My eyes are turned so habitually on myself, that almost every action of my life is divested of freedom. Nothing goes from me that has not passed under the eyes of self, and is not referred to the opinion of those around me. I am not free enough; I am not bold enough for a minister of the Word of Life. Over and over again do I chide my timidity, my reserve, my sensitiveness. I want what might be called spontaneousness. And I think the West is the school where this want is to be supplied. I must mingle among men and women more. I must converse freely and about everything. I must interest myself in their conditions and wants. I must think more of my fellow men and less of myself. I must not feel myself detached from society, but as forming a stone in the arch, helping to support the building. In the West it is especially necessary that no member of society should forget his relations and isolate himself. He must step out from the charmed circle of his own peculiar tastes, habits, feelings, and sympathize with, and help, all around him. This is the minister’s office by preeminence. The minister should not be a standing, placid, lake, embosomed by mountains and gazing on the stars; but a quick, deep, active, strong-moving stream, winding about among men, purifying and gladdening and fertilizing the world.
The Autobiography here says of James Freeman Clarke:—
On his return I had some very pleasant days with him. He was full of the new poet, Tennyson. He had borrowed a volume of his poems, not yet published in America, and transcribed copiously from them. And from his copies, I made several, in my own Commonplace Book. We were both fascinated with these poems.
And it was here, too, that Clarke and I started the idea of making comic illustrations of some of Emerson’s quaint sentences, such as the “Walking Eyeball,” and the man “expanding like melons in the warm sun.” I was quite busy while at Louisville. One number of the “Messenger” was made up almost entirely of my own writings.
To Miss Catherine Myers
On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.”
To the Reverend James Freeman Clarke
As for myself, I have been a regular loafer here. Living in a dusty, noisy law-office, and sleeping in the same on a most extemporaneous couch-bed, without a pillow,—very unsettled and inactive. Am about starting for Washington, probably on Tuesday next. Think I shall candidate at the North, and settle there. Heartily tired am I of wandering. I want a home; quiet steady work, and a wife. I shall not find them this side of the mountains.
I sent you two poems, and a short article. Did you get them? . . .
I heard of your letter to Mr. Furness with the Emersons in it.1 My sister Margaret is staying with Mrs. James Furness, and wrote me about it. She says Mr. Furness came in one day with your letter in his hand and showed her the illustrations. She says she could not laugh much because I was not with her, and we were not at home together. She is delighted with William Furness; says he is the most delightful man in conversation, and laughs with her over “Pickwick,” and recites old ballads to her at twilight. . . .
I hope to send you some drawings some time. Continue yours to me. Tell me from time to time what you preach about, and add some poetry occasionally to fill up chinks. A letter from you will reach me in Washington. Write us, friend James; much will it refresh our souls!
Heaven send you peace and joy and all success in your ministry! . . .
From Philadelphia, May 27, 1839, Mr. Cranch, in a letter to the Misses Myers, speaks of his cousin William Furness:—
Of Mrs. Butler (Fanny Kemble) he writes:
This lady, who resides near Philadelphia, I met in the country a few evenings since. I was much pleased with her, though I had no opportunity of conversing with her, but only of hearing her converse. I, however, found her out to be a hot Abolitionist, as nearly all the English are, before the raw material of their brains is worked up in the loom of practical observation. I had no opportunity of hearing her read, as I wished.
To Miss Julia Myers
New England is the place of places for all sorts of views. Things new and old are brought to light, and have their advocates and believers, and denyers. We have one Miller here, an ignorant preacher, who teaches that the world is coming to an end in the year 1843. We have another man who is zealous as a flaming fire in lectures upon English grammar!—defying his antagonists like a second David. We have had lectures on the Turks by a Turk; on Switzerland by a German, the lamented Dr. Follen; on Geology, on carbonic acid gas, on Eastern customs, on storms, on Shakespeare, and on the Smithsonian Legacy—and a thousand other subjects. In fact this Boston is a very Athens. Moreover, we have grand orations. I have attended several. Books we have ad infinitum. Have you read Professor Longfellow’s “Hyperion”? It is full of beautiful things. A work of Jouffroy’s, a French philosopher, is just published, on Ethics, translated by William Channing. By the way, I see the Doctor occasionally, and his daughter Mary,—do you know her? Every Thursday evening we have a little meeting of the Pierians, a musical society, where we have flute music and singing. So you see something of my manner of life. It is a sort of dissipation. To-night I am going to a little party to meet Roelker, a German, who sings and plays, and is a grand fellow. . . . I shall have Mrs. Lamb’s guitar to-morrow in my room to solace my loneliness withal. I play scarcely at all on the flute now. I have taken to singing instead. I am preaching for the winter at a small parish in South Boston, at the foot of Dorchester Heights. I have had no invitations from the muse for a long time: I seem to be in a wintry state rather. I have done nothing lately. I am most miserably unproductive: O for a mental Spring! O for a new budding of the soul! I am an unprofitable wretch!
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1 Dr. Clarke did also some funny drawings at that time, along the line of Mr. Cranch’s caricatures of the “moral influence of the Dial.”
All Sub-Works of The Life and Letters of Christopher Pearse Cranch (1917):
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- Preface.
- Chapter I. Ancestry.
- Chapter II. Student and Preacher.
- Chapter III. Western Experiences.
- Chapter IV. Transcendentalism.
- Chapter V. Painting — Marriage.
- Chapter VI. First Visit to Europe — The Voyage — Rome.
- Chapter VII. Palestrina — Olevano — Second Roman Winter.
- Chapter VIII. Naples — Sorrento.
- Chapter IX. Florence and the Brownings.