The Washington Post
The Most Famous Man in America: The Biography of Henry Ward Beecherby Debby Applegate
No one predicted success for Henry Ward Beecher at his birth in 1813. The boisterous son of the last great Puritan minister, he seemed destined to be overshadowed by his brilliant siblings-especially his sister Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of the classic Uncle Tom's Cabin. But pushed into the ministry, the charismatic Beecher found international fame by shedding his father's fire and brimstone and preaching a revolutionary "Gospel of Love," becoming a founding father of modern Christianity. Charming, mercurial, and irreverent, Beecher thrust himself into nearly all the great battles of the era, including antislavery, women's suffrage, and Darwinism. Then in 1872 Beecher was accused of seducing one of his most pious parishioners. The salacious scandal and sensational civil trial created more newspaper headlines than the entire Civil War. Beecher survived, but his reputation and his causes suffered devastating setbacks that echo to this day. In our own time, when religion and politics are again colliding and adultery in high places still commands headlines, Beecher's spellbinding story sheds new light on the culture and conflicts of contemporary America.
The Washington Post
The New York Times
“A wonderful portrait of a charismatic preacher with a deeply flawed private life, this biography vividly conveys the color and contradictions of nineteenth-century America. With a sure grasp of history, penetrating insights into religion, and many marvelous turns of phrase, Applegate brings to life a time that uncannily prefigures our own.”
—William Taubman, author of Khrushchev
“At last, Henry Beecher receives the comprehensive treatment he is due, in this perceptive, engaging, and balanced study.”
—James MacGregor Burns
“Debby Applegate brings to life nineteenth-century America’s most influential preacher, who emerges in this full-blooded portrait as a fascinating tangle of all-too-human traits. Drawing off an impressive body of research, the author expertly weaves together biography and history in a riveting narrative that reads like a page-turning novel.”
—David S. Reynolds, author of John Brown, Abolitionist and Walt Whitman’s America.
“Thoroughly researched, passionately written, and richly detailed, this book is the biography of America’s greatest nineteenth-century preacher . . . must reading for serious nonfiction readers of American religion, politics and culture in Victorian America.”
—Harry S. Stout, Jonathan Edwards Professor of American Religious History, Yale University
“A lively narrative of nineteenth-century religion, power, passion, and politics, as well as a perceptive study of the elusive preacher who rode them to the top.”
—Joan D. Hedrick, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of Harriet Beecher Stowe
“Henry Ward Beecher was a phenomenon: the scion of an amazing family, the most renowned American preacher of his day, an anti-slavery stalwart—and the main protagonist in one of the most sensational sex scandals of the Victorian era. If you thought that the personalities and machinations surrounding the Clinton impeachment scandal were interesting, you will find the Beecher exposé riveting. More important, Debby Applegate has vividly brought Beecher and his entire era to life, in all of their piety, idealism, pomposity, and pride.”
—Sean Wilentz, author of The Rise of American Democracy
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The Most Famous Man in America
By Debby Applegate
Random HouseDebby Applegate
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"Damned If You Do, and Damned If You Don't"
One evening in late December, sometime around 1820, Henry Ward Beecher trudged through the snow, returning home from running an errand for his parents. Exactly how old he was he couldn't say, but he was still a chubby little boy, with wide gray eyes set above apple red cheeks. As he passed up the long town common in the center of the village, he was surprised to see Litchfield's little brown Episcopalian church lit up like a beacon in the early darkness.
Henry was far too young to follow the fine theological distinctions his father used to separate the good Protestants from the bad Protestants, but of this he was sure: The Episcopalians were on the bad side. He needed no other proof than the fact that they didn't attend the white-steepled church where his father, the Reverend Lyman Beecher, preached every Sunday. In truth, God and Lyman Beecher were so intertwined in the little boy's mind that he did not quite grasp that Episcopalianism was a rival religion, he later recalled, "for I supposed there was no other religion except that which my father looked after."
Henry was irresistibly drawn to the open door of the church, and as he peered in he was shocked to find candles blazing at every window; boughs of spruce, pine, and arborvitaetwined around the pews; and a choir singing blissfully about the birth of Christ. He had never seen such a spectacle, certainly not in his father's austere meetinghouse, and he could not imagine what it meant.
Although he did not know it then, this dazzling vision would be Henry's only taste of Christmas as a child. Christmas "was not known in the house of my father, for he was a Puritan of the Puritans," Henry said years later. "I never heard of Santa Claus when I was a boy. I never hung up a stocking. I feel bad about it to this day."(1)
When Henry was a boy, his faith in his father was so deeply ingrained that it never occurred to him to ask why they did not celebrate Christmas. If he had, Lyman's answer would have been unequivocal. As an orthodox Calvinist, Lyman Beecher interpreted the Bible literally, as solid fact, and there was nothing in the Scriptures to suggest that Christ was born on December 25. And even if there were, the day would be an occasion for solemn prayer, not sensual frivolity. Why, the Beechers didn't even celebrate their own birthdays.
If the Episcopalians chose to delude themselves about Christ's birth that was one thing, as far as Lyman was concerned, but this business of filling the church with decadent appeals to the senses--with music, gaudy decorations, and gifts--was a sneaky attempt to lure the good Christians of Connecticut from the true faith of the Puritan fathers. Lyman had no patience for newfangled notions of religious tolerance or the separation of church and state. Episcopalians, Unitarians, Catho-lics--Lyman lumped them together with atheists, drunkards, thieves, and Jeffersonian Democrats, declaring each one a force of deviltry to be fought tooth and nail.
Despite his harsh dogma, Henry's father was not a cruel man. Those who knew the famous Reverend Beecher only by rumor or from reading his sensational fire-and-brimstone sermons were often surprised to fi nd that in person he was warm and witty, fiercely intelligent, and deeply compassionate. When he invoked the terrors of the devil and the terrible judgment of God's law, it was not out of perversity but because he was truly heartbroken that, as he saw it, so many "immortal souls are sleeping on the brink of hell."(2)
Lyman's devotion to God was rivaled only by his devotion to his children, and like any good parent, he wanted them to be happy. But in this age before modern medicine, when many families in New England lost at least one child to the grave, he was tortured by the fear that his children would be suddenly swept away by death before he could bring them to God. If they felt deprived by missing such pleasures as Christmas, Lyman was more than willing to trade their happiness on earth to secure their eternal happiness in heaven.
That cold Christmas Eve, Henry's small heart swelled with conflicting emotions as he "stood wistful, and with a vague curiosity, looking in, and wondering what sort of folks these Episcopal Church people were." He would have liked nothing better than to be in the middle of such gaiety and excitement. Yet even at this young age, he found it impossible to shake his father's teachings. He turned away from the church and headed home, with a "feeling of mixed wonder and pity" for those people who dwelled so far outside his father's sphere.(3)
This complex constellation of feelings colored every corner of Henry's childhood. He idolized his father and yearned desperately for Lyman's love and approval, yet every natural impulse in him craved forbidden pleasures. He longed to be like his older brothers and sisters, who seemed so easily to meet the high standards of Lyman and his fearsome God. But no matter how afraid he was of hell and how hard he tried to get into heaven, his desire for earthly happiness kept getting in the way.
Twenty-five years would pass before Henry would begin to question seriously his father's opinion on this or any other matter. When he did, however, he quickly made up for lost time, tossing out his father's beliefs by the bushel. By then Henry was becoming a wealthy, worldly man who shamelessly indulged his newly acquired tastes for European travel, velvet jackets, sumptuous rugs, and expensive art, spending enormous sums of money on gifts for his family and friends. Before long he would even give up his belief in hell itself.
But even when he succumbed to the Victorian craze for Christmas, celebrating it at home and in his church with all the merry trimmings, the holiday never really took hold in him. What he had yearned for all those years ago was not toys or Santa Claus, he recalled in old age--"A little love was what I wanted[.]"4
Lyman Beecher had good reason to fear for his son's soul. Henry Ward Beecher was born in the summer of 1813, in the midst of one of the most terrifying, tumultuous periods in American history. From the distance of two centuries, we have mythologized the decades after the War for Independence as an Arcadian idyll of happy farmers and wise founding fathers. But the American Revolution was a genuine, bloody revolution, and, like all revolutions, it left a long wake of social, economic, and political upheaval. The future of the young Republic was still very much up in the air in 1813, creating an atmosphere of tremendous exhilaration and profound anxiety--a potent combination that would shape the emotional core of Henry Ward Beecher and his generation.
Relations between the United States and England had remained strained and murky since the end of the war, growing even more complex as the French Revolution of 1789 and then the invasion of Europe by Napoleon Bonaparte's armies tore up old diplomatic alliances. Tensions peaked when England attempted to cut off sea trade between the United States and the Continent by attacking American ships and impressing almost a thousand American sailors, in essence kidnapping them and forcing them to work on British ships. Finally, in the summer of 1812, President James Madison declared war on the United Kingdom--the War of 1812 or the Second American Revolution, as it came to be known.
Eager to retake their former colony, the British invaded from all sides, from the Great Lakes in the north to the Gulf of New Orleans in the South. In the spring of 1813 eight British warships sailed into the waters of the Connecticut Sound, blockading the ports, burning wharves and trading ships, and forcing the city of New London to evacuate when the fleet tried to sail up the Connecticut River. By the summer of Henry's first birthday, the Redcoats were marching into Washington, D.C., where they burned the Capitol to the ground and pushed the Republic to the edge of bankruptcy.
If any state should have stood firm in the midst of this chaos, it ought to have been Connecticut, the Land of Steady Habits, where clocks, granite, and schoolteachers were its chief exports, and the specter of Puritanism still stalked every crevice of its rocky hills. Long after the new federal constitution of 1788 guaranteed the separation of church and state at the national level, Connecticut proudly remained a theocracy, in which every household was taxed for support of the state-sanctioned Congregationalist Church. For more than two hundred years the same aristocratic network of merchants and ministers--"the Standing Order," as it was known--controlled both politics and society. Federalist in their politics and Calvinist in their religion, the Standing Order considered themselves the last bulwark against the "forces of innovation and democracy," which had led the country once again to bloodshed. So great was their animosity toward "Mr. Madison's war" that Connecticut seriously considered seceding from the Union--an idea that the citizens of the South would revive forty years later.
But with the state's stony, overfarmed soil, burgeoning birthrate, and dependence on European trade, no place was hit harder than Connecticut by the anxiety and turmoil of the post- Revolutionary period. So many young people were fleeing the state for the rich bottomland of the Ohio frontier that the region was designated the "Western Reserve of Connecticut." A dangerous discontent was rising among those who remained at home. Out-of-wedlock births were skyrocketing, and drunkenness was a genuine epidemic, with the average citizen now drinking up to five gallons of cheap hard liquor a year. To top it off, a coalition of Jeffersonian Democrats, attorneys, atheists, workingmen, and "unofficial" religious sects was starting to agitate for an end to the old Standing Order. To many folks it seemed as if Lucifer was loose upon the land.
But Connecticut Yankees were a wily, peculiar breed, according to early American folklore, with a slippery shrewdness that could confound even Satan himself. They were filled with contradictions--in turn slyly funny and profoundly grave, aggressively innovative and doggedly conservative, "a rare combination of philosopher and fi ghter," as Frederick Law Olmsted once remarked.(5) At the same time, they were absolutely, infuriatingly, convinced of their own superiority, and obsessed with converting the world to their way of thinking. In a contest of wit and will, the devil and the Connecticut Yankee were considered nearly an even match. If there was any truth in this stereotype, it was sure to be found in Litchfield, Connecticut, and in the Beecher clan.
Perched high up in the Berkshire hills, the village of Litchfield gloried in its paradoxical reputation as a bastion of both progressive intellectual culture and staunch religious orthodoxy--"half Hebrew theocracy, half ultra- democratic republic," as Lyman's daughter Harriet described it.(6) It possessed two claims to national fame: its outspoken minister, the Reverend Lyman Beecher, and its pioneering schools, Miss Sarah Pierce's Litchfi eld Female Academy, one of the nation's fi rst serious schools for girls, and Judge Tapping Reeve's Litchfield Law School, the country's first school devoted solely to the study of the law. Together the two institutions attracted students from as far away as Ohio, South Carolina, Canada, and the West Indies, graduating scores of future congressmen, ambassadors, cabinet secretaries, and political wives, who extended the town's reputation to London and Paris.
In June 1813 Litchfield looked much as it does today, laid out along four broad tree- lined streets that crossed to form a long, grassy town common. In its habits, however, it was more akin to an English colony than to contemporary America. Indeed, Litchfield clung more tightly to the old ways than most New England towns. Villagers still rose with the sun and shut their houses up tight with the tolling of the nine o'clock bell. Many of the clothes were still homespun and homemade, and children went barefoot all days but Sunday. The older "respectable" men of the town still strolled the streets in outdated colonial garb, clad in short breeches buckled at the knee, tricornered hats, cutaway coats, and the occasional powdered wig. Only Democrats and infidels, it was said, wore pantaloons, or trousers as they came to be called. With deliberate symbolism the Congregational meetinghouse stood in the dead center of the common at the very summit of a hill, and from its old- fashioned swallow's-nest pulpit the Reverend Beecher ruled over the manners and morals of the town.
Most folks here took religion seriously. From hardscrabble farmers to the town gentry, they lingered at Buell's general store or on the steps of the courthouse, debating Parson Beecher's Sunday sermon, or whether it was God's will to install a woodstove to warm the meetinghouse in winter. Surely, some argued (out of piety or stinginess it was hard to say), such an indulgence would send them down a slippery slope to decadence. After years of fruitless debate seven progressive young men finally purchased a stove on their own and, after more wrangling, were allowed to install it on a trial basis. It made its debut on an unusually warm November day. As they entered the meetinghouse, the townspeople stared suspiciously at the contraption, sitting smack dab in the broad middle aisle.
Old Deacon Trowbridge, a firm opponent of the stove, scornfully gathered up the tails of his long coat as he passed it, as if the devil himself would send out a spark to singe it. Uncle Noah Stone, a wealthy farmer, scowled and muttered about the uncomfortable heat. Mr. Bounce, editor of the village paper and a stove advocate, warmed his hands over the stove with a satisfied air, tucking the skirts of his coat safely between his knees.
The climax of the conflict came during the sermon, when the Reverend Beecher began warning of hell's "heaping coals of fire." Pious Mrs. Peck, wife of an antistove deacon, felt so overcome by the unfamiliar heat that she fainted dead away. Mrs. Peck quickly recovered her wits, if not her dignity, when the young men, barely containing their laughter, informed the congregation that because the day was so warm they had not lit a fi re. The stove stayed, a small victory for progress.
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Meet the Author
DEBBY APPLEGATE is a graduate summa cum laude of Amherst College and was a Sterling Fellow at Yale University, where she received her Ph.D. in American Studies. She has written for publications ranging from the Journal of American History to The New York Times, and has taught at Yale and Wesleyan Universities.
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The end of Calvinism, scandel, anti slavery and how a man became the most famous man in America in his day.
There was a time perhaps, a short period of some twenty years, when the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher was indeed the most famous man in America. But fame, like fortune, is fleeting. And at the time of his death in 1887, Henry Beecher wasn¿t so famous at all. Debby Applegate¿s biography of the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, ¿The Most Famous Man in America¿, has received nearly unanimous acclaim and an abundance of praise from reviewers. Much of it is well deserved. The book captivates, and the readers succumb to its thrall not because of the sheer writing ability of the author, but because of the charming, compassionate, extraordinary and powerful personality of the preacher. We could perhaps rightfully consider Henry Beecher (1813 ¿ 1887) one of the earliest proponents of liberalism, if not the father of the modern Liberal Philosophy. He was an abolitionist who preached the gospel of love and the novel but much reviled concept of equality among men, and among men he regarded as friends were four staunch abolitionists¿ Lincoln, Emerson, Grant, and Mark Twain. His sister, Harriet Beecher Stowe, who wrote the memorable ¿Uncle Tom¿s Cabin¿, was an abolitionist also. He preached that God was compassionate and loving, who readily forgave all our sins, and that life is meant to be a pleasurable, joyful experience. And he truly believed that seeking earthly pleasures was no bar to heaven, and that experiencing sensual pleasures was most certainly not sinful. Famous for his oratory and flashy clothes, he loved jewelry so much that he always carried a few unset gems with him. And like Imelda Marcos, he loved to shop. People from Manhattan flocked to his Plymouth Church in Brooklyn Heights to listen to his mesmerizing sermons. He had an eye for female beauties, a weakness for feminine charms, and a need for female companionship so great that he sought solace in the embrace of his female congregants, even though the congregants were married. The author has written about three such affairs, and as a result of one affair with a woman named Chloe, he might even have produced a daughter named Violet who bore a strong resemblance to him. The author implies that his wife, Eunice, nagged him at home, and as a result he sought solace away from his wife and home, in the company of married women. In 1874, at the age of 61, he was indicted and tried for having a ¿criminal conversation¿ (adulterous affair) with one of his congregants, Mrs. Elizabeth Tilton, wife of his best friend, Theodore Tilton. The jury was not persuaded, and so he was acquitted. After the trial, in his twilight years, Henry lost his prestige and much of his luster. Although he continued to preach and write articles for newspapers, he never regained his stature, and in 1887 he died of a broken heart at age 73. The author states that Henry Beecher¿s marriage was loveless. That raises an interesting question: If he could indeed produce twelve children in a loveless marriage, how many more would he have produced, had he truly loved his wife? Finally, I wish to say a few words about the author¿s prose. I am aware that I might sound like the lone voice in a choir that sings slightly off-pitch but I must be truthful to myself and, like the Dixie Chicks I must say what I mean, and mean what I say. This book is written in a prose so relentlessly bland that it has the eerie aura of an ancient Tibetan painting rendered in sepia tones only. The book, nevertheless, is fascinating because of the colorful and likable personality of Henry Beecher. Here is a paragraph I picked at random to illustrate my point: ¿When Henry was a boy, his faith in his father was so deeply ingrained that it never occurred to him to ask why they did not celebrate Christmas. If he had, Lyman's answer would have been unequivocal. As an orthodox Calvinist, Lyman Beecher interpreted the Bible literally, as solid fact, and there was nothing in the Scriptures to suggest that Christ was born on December 25.
Applegate has not only written the definitive biography of Beecher, but has woven a taut and exciting narrative. She brings the history of this period alive in a compelling manner, rendering not only Beecher himself fascinating - though an extraordinary and understandably 'famous' figure he certainly was - but also the entire period, including the birth of the Republican Party, the transformation of American Christianity from its Puritan roots into its modern love-centric form, the role of the Abolitionists (of whom Beecher was a leading light) in the run-up to the Civil War and its aftermath, and the first mass-mediated scandal - Beecher's adultery trial - which prefigured and, indeed, made possible, the intersection of media, sex, and the law which still haunts us today. In short, a must-read for anyone who wishes to understand how modern America came to be what it is.
I attended Debby's book launch in Brooklyn on Wednesday of this week and have barely put the book down since then. Reminds me of Seabiscuit, a book that you can't believe how much you enjoyed. We purchased six books as presents on Wednesday - and we already need more!
I just got this book and couldn't put it down. It is a historical biography that reads like a fast paced novel. I read the 500 plus pages in less than three days! There is a reason why three pulitzer prize winning authors appear here recommending it. It's really thorough and scholarly. But it reads like a page turner. It reads like Sea Biscuit. Fantastic. I don't usually do reviews, but I had to review this one. There is something really strange about the review dated May 4 here because I just got the book a couple of days ago after trying and trying to get an early copy. I couldn't get my hands on the book until June 25. That does make you wonder about the May 4 review. It seems like that reviewer didn't even read the book. Sour grapes?
I can not believe how dry this reading was. It was painfully slow to get through. There is a reason not many of us know much about this man and know his sister's work which is far more famous. One can only hope that this is the first and last from this author.