THE UNSPOTTED LIFE:

DISCOURSE

In :ffltmotJ! of

REV. THOMAS STARR KING,

PREACHED IN THE WEST CHURCH,

MARCH 6, 1864:.

BY C. A. B ART 0 L.

BOSTON:
WALKER, WISE, AND COMPANY,
245, WASHINGTON STREET.

1864.
 BOSTON:

PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON,

5, WATER STREET.
 S E R M 0 N.

"LET US ALSO GO, THAT WE MAY DIE WITH HIM."- John xi. 16.

IT is an inquiry that comes to us omi11ously often of

late, how we ought to feel about the death of those
dear to us. We ought to feel, I answer, as dying
"
with them ; for, in fact, so we are, in the only way
death has to us any meaning, or we aught to do with
it. What is the dying of a man 1 Only his depart­
ure to another sphere of being. What is the dying
of a beloved one 1 Only the entire translation at
once of his spirit. But is not our spirit in part
translated with him ? Does not something of our
thought, our heart, our imagination, and inmost mind,
share in his ascent? Yes : not suddenly, but gradu·
ally, our human ties are worn away, and our affections
weaned from their first nursing-places. Over long
years of sorrow and experience does the process· of
our demise extend. As friend after friend rises, more
and more of us, our real self, is gone, with each one
taken into the skies ; so that, when at last the herald
comes for our poor mortality, he may have to sever
but a slight cord, a single thread, of vital interest yet
 4

holding us to the earth. Thank God, we do not re­

move painfully at once, but, as it were, piece-meal
from one world to another !
You may well suppose this reflection is suggested
by the sad news flashed over the telegraph on the last
Friday so unlucky to our hopes. I find it in my
heart to speak to you of nothing this morning but the
decease of THoMAS STARR KING in San Francisco on
that day, the 4th of March, 1864. 0 thou magnetic
messenger, that seemest a spirit, so alert in thy motions
and rapid to communicate through spaces of thou­
sands of miles ! thou hast run on thy_ most grievous
errand since thy trans-continental wires were stretched.
But not so swift thy passage over the earth as his into
the heavens.
Far back I am carried by this event. In the sum­
mer of 1848, a young man was brought, by my friend
Dr. Bellows, for introduction at my house. He had
the golden hair and ruddy complexion, in a fair skin,
which_ are thought by some to betoken an uncommon­
ly spiritual nature. A singular modesty, gentle self­
denial, and beaming good-will, were in his countenance
and air. The sweetness of his voice, when he spoke,
added to the clear intelligence of every word ; while
attending the tones were looks so transparent, that they
served but for expression. The fleshly features were
only the channel by which the immaterial inmate con­
veyed its wishes and thoughts. So extreme, however,
in him was the impression of youth, that those who
saw him with me said, " Why, he is a mere boy !"
 5

But that boy was a man already, as his whole deport­

ment and discourse so signally showed. He was a
Universalist minister, then settled in Charlestown,­
a bright consummate flower of the Universalist faith.
No particular advantages of academic or theological
education had he enjoyed. But his were faculties so
ready and forward, that they appeared to educate
themselves�> 'fhey required painstaking nurture as
little as they did careful pruning or sharp restraint.
At the touch of the common light and air, they came
out in all their fulness. They blosson1ed into know­
ledge. They grew into piety. 1,hey spread abroad
into love. They gave no credit to the theo1·y, that
dulness or depravity is the necessary heritage of the
human race.
For myself, I was so drawn to the young stranger
who came to my door, that I asked of him the favor
to preach for me speedily, by 'vay of exchange ; and
accordingly, on the first day of October, 1848, he
occupied this pulpit, preaching from the text, " Who
is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? " - a theme
how akin to the unconscio11s innocence and humility
with 'vhich it was handled! Pardon me the delight with
which I look back to that first picture in n1y memory
of a relation with Mr. King, that has 11ever since
felt a moment's jar, but, with its chords ru11ning from
his heart to mine, has only made perpetual music for
me from tl1at time to this ; though I must quicken my
e a r to hear its finer sweetness no,v. I an1 debtor for
the grace of that early recognition. 1'he Christian fel-
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lo"rship thus expressed was indeed one of the steps -

a necessary one, perhaps - to lead him into the pulpit
of the Hollis-street Church, at his installation over
which I was chosen to give him the charge. But,
before entering on his more conspicuous career, he
was compelled, by reason of slender health, to seek a
balmier clime, which, like some other disabled clergy­
men, he found, mingled \Yith hospitality from a family
- including, I will not refuse myself the pleasure to
say, some members of this West Church of ours­
whose breath, on that Island of Fayal, among the
sunny cluster, alighted like a flock in the ocean, of
the Azores, was as ki11d to him as the atmosphere
itself.
On his return, the influence he was born for swelled
almost immediately through Ne\v England and New
York. He was sought especially as a lecturer ; and,
in city halls or country lyceums, there was no more
acceptable voice, till the fine oratory, so native to him,
was summoned from the Atlantic to the Pacific Coast.
You know how the selection of him for that far south­
western border has, beyond the expectation of his
warmest admirers, been justified by the result. Never
was adaptation more perfect of a man to a work.
Never to any shore of the globe was a more effective
missionary sent out. You may be humbly proud of
the one you chose. He has been alike religious
apostle, philanthropic agent, and political converter.
He has stood·there like that Mount Shasta, which has
lately been discovered to be loftier than Mont Blanc.
 7

More than any other man, he has bound California to

the United States, or strengthened her cable in the
stormy gulf of Secession, so that it could not part
when the great fleet of American commonwealths was
so disastrously scattered. His country thanks him for
the service. She will not forget it when her bands
are whole again. Multitudes have gone into those
regions after gold ; but there has been no such pro­
specting of the auriferous fields as his. No miner has
sunk shafts so deep. No engineer has crushed trea­
sure from the rock, and cradled the glittering dust
from n1ud and sand, with such skill as he has quarried
and sifted, melted and refined, the heart of the people,
which, under his masterly direction and gracious sway,
brings its gifts of loyalty, devotion, and beneficence,
by hundreds of thousands, to the common altar of
coUntry and God.
'' Well, what shall he do for 11s, or get for us, where
he goes 1 I asked, in his presence, of a mutual friend,
"

just before he went. " Let him fetch back himself,"

was the reply. Ah! he has not done that in the
body ; though, verily, it was what most we wanted,
and however some of us had been pleasantly exciting
our fancy at the idea of the greater stature he would
appear with, and the still richer accents we should be
thrilled by, on his re-appeara11ce in our midst. How
fondly I, for one, like others of you, sketched him,
with his face of blessing, again in my house, and once
more, with his voice so soft and strong, here in the
desk at which so early he stood ! But what has he
 8

done or gotten for us there 1 lie has done the errand

of a liberal theology. He has gotten the State for
freedom. His has been the unparalleled convincing
and commanding power� He xaised that community
as by the force of a hydrostatic column. He has
done it, not by that burning· and combining imagina­
tion which men call genius ; for the impassioned
originality \vhich belongs to only one man among
millions fell not to him. He has done it more merito­
riously by holy and benignant purpose of his own
will, and by that obedie11ce to God which is the one
thing better than inspiration. By many-handed ability
of superior talents absolutely consecrated, by industry,
simplicity, single-eyed zeal, never surpassed, has he
done his work. He has done it at last by self-sacrifice
to his own excessive requisitions on a delicate frame ;
'
for, in private letters, he pathetically describes himself
as doing picket-duty on the outermost rim of civiliza­
tion, longing for a sight of the eamp.. He has done
it with a keen intellect, quick fancy, classic taste,
and rounded style, suggesting something of the Greek
in his composition, but employed to urge principles
wide as the Christian revelation, and deep as the
human heart. He has done it, moreover, by a
temper, in all his toil, which I cannot help calling
divine.
But why need I so praise him 1 There will be
none to detr�ct, in .all the world, from his eulogy.
. True, I saw him intimately under the roof, abiding
with him by the month, and never saw a fault in him.
 9

I am profoundly ignorant, if he were a sinner, of his

s1ns. But anybody could have lived with that mag­
nanimous nature. Nobody could help loving it, though
it did not solicit love. Did ever patience and forbear­
ance go further than his 1 So just was he in trifles,
that if he was staying anywhere, and wanted you to
stay with him, he would tell the advantages of the
other situation in the mountain-pass. Was greater
generosity or self-forgetfulness ever seen 1 Was fair­
ness in argutnent ever more impartial 1 Was finer
geniality or truer friendship ever exhibited 1 Was a
brilliant fame ever more unenvied 1 Did ever any one
make smaller claims for himself 1 Did human elo­
quence ever reach, with strai11s more melodious, more
open ears 1 Was ever critic, in his office, more equi­
table or kind 1 I have known mild, affectionate,
tender-hearted, and accommodating persons, a great
many, in my day; but I have never been acquainted
with one who would go farther for you on his feet,
toil harder or more disinterestedly for you with his
hands, or sing the hymn of goodness he embodied in
his life more harmoniously to you with his lips�
Cheerfulness, like a bird's carol on the bough, he
united with a prophet's gravity in every sober
cause.
But no burdens of malice did he bear. If there are
those who think it right to traduce, and to stab fair
reputations for supposed truth and liberty's sake, he,
Thomas Starr King, was not of their number: and he
has proved, in the midst of temptation and opposition,
2
 10

that no bitterness or hate is the necessary condition

of unrivalled success; for I judge there has been no
accomplishment in the same way, on these 'Vestern
shores, equal to his. He writes me, in a letter only a
few days since received, that the pecuniary receipts i11
his church, recently dedicated, for the current year,
would be twenty-five thot1sand dollars in gold,- a
larger amount, by far, than in any other similar eccle­
siastical establishment, without funded capital, in the
land; though, two years ago, the site of the building
was a dreary sand-hill. Meantime, his instrumentality
was pouring sums far greater n1to the purse of the
Sanitary Commission. Truly of all good he was a
medium. With the untroubled ease of a crystal lens
he transmitted spiritual light and heat. We very
often mention with commendation the dead. I thank
God for such a subject of panegyric; and I trust him
to God, with all my grief, in the unfathomable mys­
tery, shut so tight against our senses, to which he has
gone.
The vanishing of a man like this seems a dreadful,
an irreparable loss. Why was not some older or less
useful person taken, and he left 1 How many of us
could have been better spared, and our stations with
more facility filled ! Who indeed shall take his place 1
Nobody, I answer. He has not left his place! His
own spirit, sanctified in glory to return mightier than
ever to continue his work, - as spirits mightier than
mortals doubtless do, - shall keep and enlarge the
place God gave him only, whoever may succeed him
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in office. Yet he did not leave his work imperfect.

To what a beautiful top-stone he built it up ! No ;
he did not die prematurely: no one does who· is ripe
for heaven. Dare we ask to be old before we are
us�ful, since the expiring in greater youth, on the
cross, of him who could yet say, " It is finished" 1
Providence leaves nothing lacking. God knows where
he wants his servants, a11d at what posts to assign
their highest labor a11d joy. This at least is true of
Ollr friend, that, dying at thirty-nine, no man of his
age could be a greater loss to this country, as no man,
at any period of life, could by a larger band of .the
bereft be personally deplored. I pray you to observe,
that, in all these sentences, I speak from conviction,
with calm and unexaggerating mind.
" He was conscious to the last," says the electric
report. Yes : he lived too thoroughly not to manifest
life so long as his spirit staid. But did his conscious­
ness cease when his frame turned to clay 1 No : it
only flamed beyond these dusty bounds into unob­
structed commu11ion with God ; though I see not how
l1e can love us better even in heaven than he has done
on earth. A telegram from Dr. Bellows, sent to me
since this spontaneous preparation, announces that
his death was after a few days' illness, at eight o'clock,
Friday morning ; and that he was " happy to go,"
though " the grief of his friends is inexpressible."
What shall we say of him 1 Many will mourn the
patriot, the public benefactor, the moral teacher; but
hardly more than those, also, that will lament the
 12

valued asssociate, whose life, as much as any in this

generation, was fit to be friendship's crown. As I
speak of him, something whispers to me, Is he not
nearer to us now than he was at that remote position 1
This darling of our hearts, so loyal in his own, though
loving the distant spot of his adoption, longed, like a
home-sick child, for New-England things and faces.
Is not angelic sight of New-England things and New­
England faces part of his reward 1 With face as be­
l1ignant, a listening as attentive, and a manner as
lo,vly, as ever, may he not be witness, and consoler
too, of. our grief 1 0 precious companion in past
days with us in the dwellu1g and by the way! no more
wilt thou take part in the delightful conversatio11s to
'vhich thy o'vn racy narrative, sympathetic art, and
representative wit, lent the charm. No more wilt
thou visibly attend us among the scenes of Nature, to
whose most exquisite as well as sublime varieties of
form and color, light and shade, thy perception was so
large, so sensitive also, and acute. We shall not again
see that soft bro,vn eye of thine measure, more nicely
than a Sllrveyor's glass, the outline of the hills. No
more 'viii it dance in ecstasy at the curve of the
waves, the shape and diverse hue of the sunset clotlds,
the slanting afternoon rays that shoot through the
green alleys of the summer-woods, where we passed
together, or the cathedral-arches reared for worship
- " God's first temples " - among the branches of
the pines. So deeply I at least must feel. When I
walk henceforth among the mountains, through the
 13

landscape, or by the sea, an image will come between

to veil and hide them a little from my sight ; but
mountain, landscape, and sea will be veiled and hid­
den by something more beautiful by far, and dearer
to my heart, than they. Alas that we shall not see it
with our eyes ! But, 0 friend vanished for a little
while away! we will not be downcast. Thou adorest
in a loftier shrine. Thou beholdest beauty in the
growths of a richer and more majestic paradise. The
landscape is broader, the sky more grandly lifted, with
thee ; and thou must have contradicted thy own na­
ture if thou art not busy making the upper home
more happy also for us to participate its felicities
with thee by and by.
Brethren and sisters, how shall we who survive
bewail our friend 1 Not only in our words, not only
in our tears. Not as we would be,vail absent ones.
He is not gone: he has come! We 'viii not sob over,
but celebrate him. Providence does not permit 11s to
pray beside his clay. That is not his body any longer,
b11t foreign to him as any other dust of the globe.
He is all spirit to us now, as he was nearly all such
before ; a11d our obsequies shall be the seeking and
assimilating of his quality to our souls, enthusiastic
appreciator as he was of others' merits, and lowly,
self-abnegating disparager of his own. The singular
spell his peculiar nature laid upon us shall be a charm
still to bring kindness from his aspect into our faces,
richness from his voice into our tones, the matchless
modesty of his behavior into our bearing, the breadth
 14

of his contemplation into our views, and the charity of

his ·disposition into our life. As his hold on us was
indescribable, so be it inexhaustible! How we want
to see him again, that healthy man who had nothing
the matter with him ! See him again we shall. But
his action is not dependent on our sight. Surely his
own people by the farther and wider sea will not let
that stream of mercy stop which flowed at the touch
of his magic and almost Mosaic rod. Did any of us
ever feel like pouring out our hearts for him so freely
as nowl
May He who gave him , and to whom we give him
back, sanctify to his wife and children, to his kindred
and friends at home, to his relations of blood or spirit,
to his brethren in the ministry, to the far-off State and
Church of his adoption, and to either shore of this
widely extended nation, the death of this pure and
earnest servant of his own, whose name is on all our
lips, whose worth is in all our hearts! So, in his
going as in his coming, shall the world be blessed.
Such expression only for the departed have I, on
the instant, been able to make. But I feel that any
utterance respecting him is not fron1 me the most
proper token of regard. I prefer to take my place
among the mourners, who at funeral services, in enco­
miums however cordial poured· out on vanished ex­
cellence by others, are not expected to join. The
unspeakable, though we must try in language to
hint it, who can speak 1 With our brother, of no
sect, sainted before he 'vas dead, and now in perfec-
 15

tion alive, let us rather communicate In silence 1

If
one denominatio11 ever gave him to another, which
may be doubted, that other "\vill fi11d it hard to
return
an equal gift. His "\vas a soul which llOllght less than
all humanity can claim. Let us, "\vhile 've muse in
our affliction, wait on God for the privilege, throu
gh
those bodies which are spiritual, of anotl1er meeti11g,
face to face, and voice to voice. Young as he was, in
due tirr1e has he been translated among the elders ;
for of him, as much as of any one, "\vas it written so
lo11g ago, that " 'visdom is the gray hair to man, and
an unspotted life is old age."

·THOMAS STAlt£ KING.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

The great work la-id upon his two-score years

Is d o n e and well done. If we drop our tears
'Vho lo�ed him as few n1en were ever loved,
We mourn no blighted hope nor broken plan
With him whose life stnnds 1·ounded and approved
In the full growth and stature of a man.
�lingle 0 be l l s , along the we s te rn _ slope,
\Vith y�nr deep ·toll a s o u nd of faith and hop e !
Wave cheerily still, 0 banner, half-way down,
From thousand-masted bay and steepled town!
Let the s tron g organ with its loftiest swell
Lift the proud sorrow of t he land, and tell
That the brave sower saw his ripened grai.n.
0 East and \rest, 0 morn and sunset twmn
No more fore v e r !-bas he lived in vain -
Who, priest of F;- e e �om , n�ad� ye one, an d told
Your bridal service trom Ius hps of gold?
Fr01n the Independent.
}.irs. JESSIE FREMONT sent the following telegram to
a crentleman
� in San Francisco, on bearing of the death
of Rev. STARR KING:-'' Put violets for me ou the coffiu
of our dear friend who sleeps."