new. One lecture treads so quickly on the heels of another, that
none are remembered; and the course of this month may be safely
repeated next, with its charm of novelty unbroken, and its interest
unabated.
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Dickens, Charles – American Notes for General Circulation
The fruits of the earth have their growth in corruption. Out of
the rottenness of these things, there has sprung up in Boston a
sect of philosophers known as Transcendentalists. On inquiring
what this appellation might be supposed to signify, I was given to
understand that whatever was unintelligible would be certainly
transcendental. Not deriving much comfort from this elucidation, I
pursued the inquiry still further, and found that the
Transcendentalists are followers of my friend Mr. Carlyle, or I
should rather say, of a follower of his, Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson.
This gentleman has written a volume of Essays, in which, among much
that is dreamy and fanciful (if he will pardon me for saying so),
there is much more that is true and manly, honest and bold.
Transcendentalism has its occasional vagaries (what school has
not?), but it has good healthful qualities in spite of them; not
least among the number a hearty disgust of Cant, and an aptitude to
detect her in all the million varieties of her everlasting
wardrobe. And therefore if I were a Bostonian, I think I would be
a Transcendentalist.
The only preacher I heard in Boston was Mr. Taylor, who addresses
himself peculiarly to seamen, and who was once a mariner himself.
I found his chapel down among the shipping, in one of the narrow,
old, water-side streets, with a gay blue flag waving freely from
its roof. In the gallery opposite to the pulpit were a little
choir of male and female singers, a violoncello, and a violin. The
preacher already sat in the pulpit, which was raised on pillars,
and ornamented behind him with painted drapery of a lively and
somewhat theatrical appearance. He looked a weather-beaten hardfeatured
man, of about six or eight and fifty; with deep lines
graven as it were into his face, dark hair, and a stern, keen eye.
Yet the general character of his countenance was pleasant and
agreeable. The service commenced with a hymn, to which succeeded
an extemporary prayer. It had the fault of frequent repetition,
incidental to all such prayers; but it was plain and comprehensive
in its doctrines, and breathed a tone of general sympathy and
charity, which is not so commonly a characteristic of this form of
address to the Deity as it might be. That done he opened his
discourse, taking for his text a passage from the Song of Solomon,
laid upon the desk before the commencement of the service by some
unknown member of the congregation: ‘Who is this coming up from
the wilderness, leaning on the arm of her beloved!’
He handled his text in all kinds of ways, and twisted it into all
manner of shapes; but always ingeniously, and with a rude
eloquence, well adapted to the comprehension of his hearers.
Indeed if I be not mistaken, he studied their sympathies and
understandings much more than the display of his own powers. His
imagery was all drawn from the sea, and from the incidents of a
seaman’s life; and was often remarkably good. He spoke to them of
‘that glorious man, Lord Nelson,’ and of Collingwood; and drew
nothing in, as the saying is, by the head and shoulders, but
brought it to bear upon his purpose, naturally, and with a sharp
mind to its effect. Sometimes, when much excited with his subject,
he had an odd way – compounded of John Bunyan, and Balfour of
Burley – of taking his great quarto Bible under his arm and pacing
up and down the pulpit with it; looking steadily down, meantime,
into the midst of the congregation. Thus, when he applied his text
to the first assemblage of his hearers, and pictured the wonder of
the church at their presumption in forming a congregation among
themselves, he stopped short with his Bible under his arm in the
manner I have described, and pursued his discourse after this
manner:
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