Robert Collyer, Our First President

The Year Book of The Chicago Literary Club used to state, and may do so now, although the high cost of printing has caused the directors of the Club to approve the deletion of a number of traditional features of this annual publication, which lists the names of the members alphabetically, and provides their mailing address and sundry other information useful to the members, that the Club occupies suitable and quiet rooms on the second floor of the Lake View Building, in Chicago. The quarters are rented. Are they “suitable and quiet” as the writer of the item in the old Year Books has stated? From personal observation, I can say that they are, most of the time – in fact, I am sure that they never have witnessed the members of the Club at their collations, following the reading of a paper, engaged in what could be mistaken for a meeting of the Chicago City Council or Board of Aldermen or whatever the city fathers are called officially. However, I get my political information by reading Mike Royko’s column in the Daily News, and there might be other reporters who would have another story. Of one thing I am sure. Adjectives are treacherous words, powerful and hard to handle, and therefore best avoided. So when I see words like “suitable and quiet” used to describe what anybody can see for himself is “suitable” – good enough, surely – and “quiet” I get to wondering, “Did the Club ever occupy unsuitable and noisy quarters?”

So I turn to my copies of the two volumes which provide the history of this famous Club, the first by Frederick William Gookin which is sub-titled “A History of Its First Fifty Years,” and the second, by Payson Sibley Wild, similarly sub-titled, but saying “Its History From the Season of 1924-1925 to the Season of 1945-1946.” Sure enough, I find that there was a time when the Club did rent rooms that looked in broad daylight to be eminently suitable, but which at nights, on Monday nights certainly, were so filled with noises from the surrounding area that speakers could not always be heard above the sound of metal trash containers being dragged along a pavement just outside. They say that one famous jurist, who happened to be a member and who was reading a paper, was interrupted during a dramatic pause which he had carefully prepared and rehearsed at home, in a room from which even his wife was excluded, by some laborer yelling to another, “Hey, how did the Cubs make out?” But I cannot find any verification of that story, and dismiss it as fiction. Well authenticated, however, is the story of how, one night when a fire broke out in a dumb-waiter somewhere in the building, while a member whose name you can get from one of the Histories was reading a paper on some finer points of English literary criticism, members Morton Hull and Irving Pond, as a precautionary measure, carried portraits of ex-presidents Collyer and Larned across Dearborn Street to a saloon where they were bestowed for the night.

That was on April 25, 1904. Nothing as exciting has happened in the Club rooms since. Today it would be somewhat simpler to remove the Club’s belongings to safety. Within the vision of ordinary members or invited guests to the sanctum sanctorum of this Club, founded in 1874 and, in the year 1973-1974 celebrating its one hundredth anniversary, the Club has but two possessions. One of these is the portrait of Robert Collyer, first President of the Club, a painting which spent a night in a Chicago saloon, as duly recorded in one of the Histories. The other is the fine, oaken lectern from which speakers at Club meetings present their papers. Tradition had it that this lectern came from Robert Collyer’s church, for he was a minister of the Unitarian church, but that story I am convinced is incorrect. All the facts are against it. But it is the portrait that I wish to talk about, or rather the man it portrays, Robert Collyer, our first President.

What a truly remarkable man he was! Here is how he seemed to Gookin, and I quote only part of what he said:

“Mr. Collyer was a man of unforgettable personality. He was big of frame and big of mind. Instead of hardening him, the hardships of his early years . . . only broadened and deepened the sympathy for his fellows which, throughout his life, was one of his most salient characteristics. His bluff, hearty manner, simple directness of speech, and transparent sincerity, were most engaging and not only brought him many friends but were important factors in the helpful influence which he exerted upon the members of his congregations . . .”

It was impossible not to respect, admire and love this man who, thoroughly familiar with all human frailties yet saw only the good in his fellow men and women, and who nurtured that which was good and helped it develop into something beautiful. Robert Collyer, more than anyone, is responsible for this Club’s getting under way. Above all other early members, I believe, he is the man who set this Club upon a course which it has followed without foundering for 100 years. These statements I cannot prove. I can only narrate the facts, tell you briefly what Collyer did, and ask that you consider our history since he was President in 1874-1875 and, in the light of present-day conditions plan well the future operations of this organization of friendly men, a Club which is life itself for many of its members.

An encapsulated account of Collyer’s life might go as follows: He was born in the small town of Keighley, Yorkshire, England on December 8, 1823, the first-born child of his parents. He could not trace his ancestry further back than his grandparents. Both his grandfathers had been sailors, one of them in Nelson’s fleet, and both had been lost at sea, leaving wives with four or five small children. Both his grandmothers died, leaving four or five – Collyer himself was not more definite – children each as orphans. They were placed in asylums, in London and in Norwich. In due course, agents for linen mills in Yorkshire went to the asylums and obtained acceptance of their offers to provide apprenticeships to the children. Collyer’s father and mother worked in the same factory. In time his father became a master blacksmith, and married the girl whose history had been so similar to his own. The family lived in a cottage of two rooms and an attic in the town of Fewston. As a small boy Collyer had two years of schooling in which he did not distinguish himself but did learn the three R’s. At the age of 8 years, he was apprenticed to the owners of the linen factory, where he tended a loom for thirteen hours a day, ten on Saturdays. The regular hours were from 6 A.M. until 8 P.M., with an hour off at midday for dinner and rest. Collyer once described how the children in the factory had developed a system of warning signals to let others know that an “overlooker” with a strap to lay over the shoulders of boys and girls he found to be shirking was operating in their vicinity. He also mentioned his pleasure when the Factory Act, reducing the hours that younger children could be worked, gave him its benefits for a couple of years. At the age of fourteen, Collyer began an apprenticeship to a blacksmith, the same man who had been his father’s master. The smithy was in another town, Ilkley, where young Collyer lived and completed his apprenticeship at the age of 21. He then worked at the forge and soon became foreman of the shop and married. His young wife died early in 1846, leaving a young son. Collyer was grief-stricken. He sought and found solace in the Bible. He went with working people who were members of the sect called Methodists and he joined them in their services of small groups meeting in farm houses. He was welcomed and, in a short time, made a lay preacher of the church. In April, 1850, Collyer married again and, leaving his young son behind to be brought over later, he and his bride sailed for America. After arriving in New York, he and his bride went the cheapest route to Philadelphia, selecting that city for no special reason. They went to the Amboy, boarded a boat and went by way of the Raritan canal to the Delaware River and then to Philadelphia. Collyer wrote that it was the loveliest country he had ever seen. It was the Spring of the year and all the fruit trees were in bloom in the orchards. Collyer quickly found employment in a forge located in Shoemakertown, about six miles north on Broad Street which becomes York Road. The name of the town was changed in time to Ogontz and it has long been part of the city itself.

For nine years Collyer worked as a blacksmith in a shop which made principally the heads for claw hammers. It was piece work. Collyer mentions that he was out of work for a short time when a steel particle entered his eye, and again when he broke an arm at work. There was a time also when the boiler of the plant had to be replaced, and the shop was closed for several weeks. During this time Collyer supported his family by helping a neighbor to make hay, and by working as a laborer on the turnpike and at digging wells. He also persuaded his employer to let him work as a hod-carrier for a while in the rehabilitation of the plan. Especially trying was the layoff of several months during the panic of 1857.

Lay preachers were also used by the Methodist church in Pennsylvania, and Collyer was given an opportunity to preach. His first attempt was a failure. Nobody could understand his Yorkshire dialect, which Collyer had prided himself on having lost. He had to practice speaking and he had to plan to be available when the pulpit of a small church, a post which was considered undesirable, might be vacant. He did these things and preached regularly, on Sundays when he was not at the forge.

During these years Collyer became acquainted with a remarkable woman, a member of the Society of Friends, named Lucretia Mott. She had founded the American Abolitionists Society, and she convinced Collyer, who previously had given the matter little thought, that slavery was a curse. Collyer did not preach against slavery in the pulpit; this was forbidden by the bishops, who were trying to keep together northern and southern factions. But his personal views became known, on slavery and on another controversial subject just coming to attention, the theory of evolution and the ideas of Charles Darwin, which Collyer accepted. On one occasion Collyer had been asked, and had accepted an invitation to preach in a Unitarian church, a den of infidels in the minds of some, some of the more orthodox worshipers of other churches. Charges were made, an investigation by his superiors was conducted, and Collyer was deprived of his right to preach in the Methodist church. His membership in the church, however, was not revoked, and never was. This was in 1859 that these events occurred.

Immediately, Mrs. Mott came to the rescue. She told Collyer about a Unitarian church in Chicago that was looking for a roving minister, not to preach in the pulpit, but to work with the poor people of the city. Would he be interested? He said that he was, and he was interviewed by local representatives, and offered the position. Leaving his wife and children behind, to join him later, Collyer arrived in Chicago on February 24, 1859. He lived and worked in Chicago until, after having been invited to become minister of other churches, in Boston, Brooklyn and New York from 1862 on, he finally accepted a call to the Church of the Messiah in New York, New York, in September, 1879. He became Pastor-Emeritus in 1903, but continued to preach and write until his death, November 30, 1912, a few days before what would have been his 89^th birthday. He was buried in a local cemetery in the New York area, greatly mourned by all who knew him. He was the author of eleven books and, after his death, a friend published a collection of many of his essays.

More details should be added to this skeleton outline. Consider the rapidity with which important events in the life of Collyer, and in the lives of many others, came about from almost the time of his arrival in the city. Chicago at the time was growing rapidly, too rapidly in the opinion of many persons. The houses and many of the buildings were simple frame structures. The streets were so close to lake level that they provided poor drainage. They were being raised by adding fill, and the buildings were being raised as much as ten feet above their previous levels, without a pause in business, on the backs, someone has said, of Irish laborers. Immigrants from Europe were coming into the city in ever increasing numbers. The churches rallied to help these new residents get started in their new world. The First Unitarian Church, to which Collyer was attached, was located in the south part of the city. Collyer worked on the streets of the center of town and on the north side, what we now call the near north side. Collyer had been at his assignment for but a few months when a tornado struck across Iowa. Here is how he described his part in this matter, or rather, how he described his getting into it. Collyer’s life seems to have been a series of one anecdote after another, the way he tells it, but we must be brief.

“A tornado . . . had swept through Iowa, with a besom of destruction to life and life’s values. The good heart of our city responded at once to the cry for succor. You may still trust Chicago to do that. The Board of Trade formed a committee of its members to take action, money was subscribed swiftly – a large sum for those days – and, being what I was, they asked me to take charge of the money and go over into Iowa to help them.

I went at once . . .”

The tornado had struck in a zig-zag path, hardly more than half a mile wide, from Cedar Rapids to Camanche on the Mississippi River. Collyer hired a wagon and team and followed this path, giving help and assistance as he went. He returned to Chicago with many stories to tell. By this time he had been ordained a minister in the Unitarian Church, and was serving as pastor of Unity Church, a newly organized venture on the near north side of the city. His place as minister-at-large was taken by a good trained woman who, Collyer said, “could not only help me, but teach me some good lessons.”

I note that I almost forgot one of my purposes in quoting Collyer’s account of the tornado. He wrote that a tornado “had swept through Iowa, with a besom of destruction to life and life’s values.” Collyer wrote very well, and he often made use of unusual words or expressions, which give added flavor to what he says. The word “besom” means a broom, more properly a broom made of sticks tied into a bundle and fastened on a larger stick which serves as a handle. The word is also used to describe the path made by a rough broom when it is swept across a surface.

Elsewhere, Collyer mentions “fire-elding” being provided for the purpose of cooking and warming the house; his mother used a “rough harden towel” to dry the children after bathing them; a man in a carriage who gave Collyer a lift did not ask him where he was from and where he was going, he asked him his “whence and his whither.” Collyer succeeded in large measure eliminating his native dialect, but he never gave up all the words and expression, if they suited his purpose. He gained a reputation as a writer of simple Angl-Saxon type English.

Of Chicago Collyer years later wrote, “The population in 1860 was one hundred and nine thousand, and she was alive to the tips of her fingers and the core of her heart and brain.” In 1861 the Civil War broke out.

A Unitarian minister in New York conceived the idea of a body of competent men, all civilians, who could and would serve as nurses, chaplaines, aiding in all possible ways to help the wounded and dying after battle. With the approval of the President and the somewhat reluctant acquiescence of the Army Chief of Staff, the Sanitary Commission was born. Collyer was asked to serve, his congregation approved his leaving them when required, and he saw service along the Potomac immediately after the Battle of the First Bull Run. He reported that conditions in the camps which he inspected were excellent and that the officers in charge were fine men.

During the war, Collyer saw service not only along the Potomac, but also in Missouri, then after the Battle of Fort Donelson and, a few weeks later, after the Battle of Shiloh or Pittsburg Landing, as he and many others called it. He was sent to give aid to the people of Kansas after Quantrill and his guerrillas had burned the town of Lawrence, murdering 150 men, women and children. He took care of Confederate prisoners at Camp Douglas in Chicago. After his trips to battlefields, Collyer would tell his congregation the news they wanted to hear, about men of the church and of the city, friends and relatives he had seen or heard about, and a report of happenings. Collyer was well known and many came to hear him who were not members of any church. His name comes up now and then in accounts of events during those days. I can imagine Mr. Willard King’s pleasure at reading, in a diary of Judge David Davis that, on Sunday, April 2, 1865 he “went with Mr. Dexter to hear Mr. Collyer preach.” He has quoted this comment in his biography of Lincoln’s campaign manager, published by the Harvard University Press in 1960.

Collyer’s accounts of some of the events during the Civil War offer a striking picture of what it was like to have lived in Chicago during those years. One of these accounts is to be found in a book entitled “Nature and Life: Sermons” published in 1867. It is titled “The Battle-Field of Fort Donelson,” and it is described as a “narrative sermon” which he delivered on March 2, 1862. Collyer served as a nurse under Dr. R.L. Rea, of Northwestern University Medical School. This information is provided in a footnote on page 190 of this book, “Collyer’s first book incidentally. The copy I was able to consult is in the library of the Northwestern Medical School. It is inscribed in ink on the flyleaf as follows: “R.L. Rea from the author. In remembrance of Donelson and Pittsburg Landing and a great catalogue of worthy deeds beside. August 30^th, 1867.” Mr. Beatty, Librarian at the University and a member of this Club, has permitted me to bring over for your examination, if desired, this first of Collyer’s many books, and two others, which were presented by Collyer to his friend, long-time Professor of Anatomy at Northwestern, and turned over to the Medical Library as gifts of Permelia M.M. Rea in March, 1939.

In another account of the action after Fort Donelson’s capture, Collyer described a case among the wounded that was of special interest to me, and no doubt it will interest some of my colleagues as well. The wounded from this action were being moved by steamer down river to another town where more adequate facilities might be available. There were so many patients that the men were simply placed on the floor of the saloon, where their bodies were so close together that it was difficult to walk among them. Collyer was busy as usual, washing patients, changing their dressings, feeding them and giving them what comfort and assistance that he could, when he noticed one man who was looking at him intently through bandages that covered most of his badly battered face. He was pointing to his abdomen and clearly indicating that he wanted food. On examination, Collyer saw that the man, who had received no nourishment for days and was considered hopeless, had a little slit in one corner of his mouth. He remembered having seen a tiny funnel, made of silver, in a stateroom where he had rested for a little while earlier. He obtained the funnel and saw that he could insert it into the tiny opening into the man’s mouth. Then Collyer obtained some sweet milk from their stores, dissolved a lot of sugar in it and something else – without a doubt whisky, for Collyer declined to say what it was – and tried pouring it through the funnel into the man’s mouth. He found that the liquid flowed in without obstruction. Collyer gave the man as much as he dared, then turned to care for other patients. But the first man kept looking at Collyer, and pointing to his abdomen, so Collyer gave him more of his concoction. Before the river trip was completed, the patient looked much better, and the surgeon, on seeing him, pronounced that he would recover.

Collyer, where he described Dr. Rea’s attributes, showed that he had unusual understanding of a physician’s work. He mentions, among other things, that he was “hard,” and that is exactly the right word to use, for a surgeon must harden himself to cut and hurt in order that a patient may get well.

Late in his life Collyer was asked to write his reminiscences, which he did. They were published as installments in a religious magazine and later collected and put out in book form. It is the kind of book which shows Collyer’s complete mastery of words. In it he tells a story in connection with his service a few weeks after the action at Fort Donelson; it was after the Battle of Pittsburg Landing. A larger number of volunteers went to lend a hand. They traveled by train to Cairo, then took a steamer and rode up the Ohio River to the Cumberland and up that tributary to the vicinity of the battle. Some of the ministers aboard, led by the Reverend Mr. Moody of Chicago, decided to hold a meeting in the saloon, and they asked Collyer to join them. Moody addressed the group, telling them that they were going to the battlefield to save the souls of men who were dying in sin. When he sat down, Collyer got to his feet, said that “Brother Moody” as he called him, was mistaken. They were going to be as useful as they could be in taking care of wounded. They should leave the saving of souls to almighty God. When Collyer sat down, there was silence for a moment or two, and then another minister got up and spoke. His attitude was that of a big brother. He criticized Collyer for his way of looking at things, which was typical of Unitarians he said. He claimed that he went right to the heart of matters, and it was clear to him that they were there to save souls, but of course while doing so they could render assistance of a worldly kind too. He said that he was going to point to the thief on the cross, and assure the wounded men that there was still time for them to repent their sins. Hardly had he finished when Collyer again jumped to his feet, and this time he let the other ministers know exactly how he felt. He said that he would be eternally ashamed if he ever told any man who was fighting for the country while he, and all his fellow ministers were safely sleeping in warm beds, to look at the thief on the cross, that the first thing they must do was to nurse the wounded back to life. When he sat down, there was a roar of applause.

Many years afterwards, Collyer was standing on the platform of the elevated train in Chicago, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Turning, he saw the kindly face of Brother Moody. They chatted, and then Moody’s train arrived and he left. As he was entering the door of a car, he turned and said, in effect, “Brother Collyer, do you remember that night on the steamer? You were wrong that time.” “Not at all,” quickly rejoined Collyer. “Brother Moody, I was never so right in my life, and don’t you forget it.” It was the last meeting of the two men. The story is of interest because it indicates that when Collyer stated his views, people heard and remembered, even if they did not always agree with him.

After the war, Collyer concerned himself with church duties. He published the book that has been mentioned as his first, and in the following year, 1868, he published a book with the title, “A Man in Earnest. Life of Augustus H. Vonant.” Conant was a friend of Collyer’s and a fellow Unitarian minister, located at the church in Geneva, Illinois. Dr. Charles H. Lyttle, retired Professor of the Meadville-Lombard Theological School of the University of Chicago told me that this book is available at the Newberry Library, but I regret to say that I have not had an opportunity to look for it as yet. Dr. Lyttle’s evaluation of this book is in every way more valuable than anything I could say about it. He says that the book is splended, very well written and of a nature to make interesting reading today. That, he added, is rather rare for a biography written in the nineteenth century, when so much mush trash was put together. Dr. Lyttle was 89 years old when I talked with him last Summer.

The big project that consumed most of Collyer’s time and energy was the construction of his new church at the corner of North Dearborn Street and Walton Place, just across the street from Washington Park. His congregation had grown, and they needed more room than the first church on the near north side provided. Collyer was accustomed to giving two services on Sundays. The first was the regular morning service for church members. The second was an evening service which attracted a great many persons, man of whom were not affiliated with any church. As many as 1,000 persons would attend the evening service, so it was held in a large hall. Few of Collyer’s parishioners attended the evening service. It was, he remarked, like a potato blowpipe. The second pellet drives the first one out. His evening service was more general and less religious in nature.

The cornerstone for the new church was laid in 1867. It was not until 1869 that the congregation was able to use part of the new building for services. They used the first floor, intended for the Sunday School. In 1871, the church was entirely completed. It was the largest Protestant church building in the city of Chicago, and beautifully finished inside. As time for dedication services approached, Collyer was asked by members of his congregation to write a hymn specially for the occasion. He had never written any verse, but he tried. The result was a hymn that starts “Unto thy temple, Lord, we come / With thankful hears to worship thee.” It is written in what church musicians call common meter, that is, in stanzas of four lines, each containing eight beats. It is a straightforward, what I sometimes call a manly hymn. It was sung at the services to the tune of Old Hundred. This hymn is still included in the Hymnal of the Unitarian-Universalist Church, but I notice that it is now sung to the tune of Duke Street. I see that I am getting ahead of myself in describing these matters. The church was dedicated in 1869, before it was entirely completed.

The principal speaker at the dedication services, in 1869, was a famous New York minister. At the conclusion of the services, he remarked regretfully that it was a shame that the new building seemed to be starting with a great debt hanging around the neck of the congregation and its minister. The officers of the church decided to try to get more pledges from the people present. With the New York minister doing the exhorting and Robert Collyer marking down the pledges, the congregation pledged well over 60,000 dollars. Collyer said that he saw reference to the figures once as over 70,000 dollars, but believed those estimates were too high. The records were lost in the great Chicago fire. On the street a few days later Collyer saw a member of the congregation who had contributed 1,000 dollars originally at the church service, and then increased the amount to 2,000 dollars. Collyer took occasion to thank the man, who was a kind hearted but somewhat profane talker. “D you know why I gave the money,” said the man. “Because you have a great heart,” Collyer replied. “Not at all,” said the man. “It was because that guy from New York started asking us if we were going to let the ship of our gallant captain sink with its great debt? I said to myself, ‘Hell, no. I’m a son of a bitch if I do,’ and I pledged you another thousand.” Collyer’s congregation included some of the wealthiest people in the city and many of the poor.

In the Summer of 1871, Collyer visited Europe and saw, among other things, what happened to Paris in the Franco-Prussian War. He returned to Chicago with much to tell. The new church was now fully completed. Services were held in the new sanctuary on three successive Sundays. On the evening of that third Sunday, the sky was redeemed with the reflection of a great fire in the south part of the city. People from the near north side crowded the banks of the Chicago River to watch. “And on Monday night,” wrote Collyer, “when I saw the last home burn, far up in the north, the fire had swept over a space four miles in length and a half in breadth between the river and the lake, leaving over ninety-eight thousand men, women, and children homeless when the night fell, and on a rough estimate more than seventy thousand crouching outside the fire line in the open and in the bitter October storm.”

Members of The Chicago Literary Club are familiar with the account of the great fire that was written by Frank Loesch, a member and a famous trial lawyer. They might wish to read also the account written by Collyer and available in his book, “Some Memories.” This big man wore himself out trying to save things before the flames struck his lovely church, for with eyes swollen so that he was unable to see he had to be led away and put to bed. He recovered quickly, however, to find that his home was completely burned out as was his fine church. Only the front door and part of the wall there remained. All his money was gone. He had emptied his pockets to pay a drayman to cart his books, all three thousand of them, to a place of supposed safety. They were a complete loss. The strange thing is that the residents of the Ogden house across the street, had offered to do all they could to help save the church. They said that Collyer should use the water in their cistern to try to safeguard the lovely church. The Ogden house was the only building in the path of the fire, save for the Water Tower, which was untouched by the fire. It stands on the site of the present Newberry Library. Nearly all of the members of Collyer’s church had had their homes destroyed.

While walking along the street a couple of days later, Collyer saw his friend Horace White, editor of the Chicago Tribune and a member of the Club from 1874 until his death in 1916, White was trying to see if he could get together a newspaper. Collyer asked him to run a notice that he, Robert Collyer, would conduct services as usual the following Sunday on the grounds before the burned-down building.

The notice appeared and a great many persons showed up, including persons who were not members of his congregation. They had to stand on ground covered with still-smoldering ashes. Collyer had but one hymnal, borrowed from his friend, Charles W. Wendté, minister of the Third Unitarian Church on the far south side, and a member of this Club from 1874 until his death in 1931. The Wendtés had come with a wagon, and had taken Collyer’s family into their home after the fire. Collyer “deaconed” the hymns, that is, he would read two lines, and then the congregation with the help of choir members who were present would sing these lines, and so on. This time, Collyer, who always wrote out his sermons in long hand, spoke from the heart, as he called it. He tried to encourage his parishioners. He said they would rebuild the church they had lost. But he said that they must pay him no salary, that they would need all they could get for building their own homes, with a little left over for the church. He said not to worry about him, that he would make out all right. He said that he might even put on a leather apron and work at the forge, at which the congregation laughed, and he did too. It had been many years since he had held hot metal in tongs on an anvil while he gradually increased the tempo of his blows with the hammer to shape his job of work. Then the officers of his church took over. They said that they would indeed rebuild, the church and their homes and the city. And they must build greater structures than they had before the fire. Brave words those, but spoken by men of determination.

There had been reporters who heard the services and what was said and an account was printed in the Chicago papers. Chicago papers did I say? That story made papers all over the nation and indeed all over the world. It was the story of the stalwart minister who had been a blacksmith and now intended to work at the forge to rebuild his burned-down church. The story of the indominatable spirit of Chicago was being forged, and the central figure was a powerful man of the cloth, not another Hinky Dink or a Carter Harrison type or powerhorse’s like one of the infamous Everleigh sisters, but an honest to God minister.

People all over the country began sending money and other contributions such as clothing to Chicago. Much of it was sent directly to Robert Collyer, who turned it over to the agency that had been set up to receive funds for the city. Chicago received something like five million dollars from people everywhere. Collyer got one letter from a young woman who identified herself as an Irish working girl, who was a Catholic, but had read about what he was trying to do, and would he accept her money? Collyer would, and thanked the girl. He once said that sometimes it is more blessed to receive than to give, especially when the gift brought tears to your eyes. A man back east sent a quarter and asked that in return he be sent a souvenir of the fire. Collyer sent him a letter that he described as “sassy,” and returned the donation, minus two cents to pay for the stamp. A man in Boston said that he would pay the money for Collyer’s salary, and enclosed enough for the first quarter of a year. Probably the most interesting letter came from the students of Cornell University. This University was only about six years old at the time and did not have many students, a few hundred perhaps. Some of the students were attending the Sibley College of Mechanic Arts of Cornell University. This institution offered short courses in practical engineering and it had machine shops and a forge. Today it is the engineering school of Cornell, and while it still retains Sibley’s name, it describes its activities as including space engineering. The Cornell students in 1871 were impressed by newspaper accounts of the blacksmith turned preacher and moved by his impassioned plea for funds to rebuild his church. Collyer heard about this through a letter from President Childs of Cornell, in which he said that he was holding one thousand dollars as a contribution to the building fund for the new Unity Church. The students had attached a string to their gift however. They wanted Collyer to make for them, “with his own hands, and in a proper and workmanlike manner, one small, sufficient, and substantial horseshoe.” Collyer was not sure that he could do it, it had been so long since he had put on a leather apron and worked with a hammer in his hand. But the money offer was tempting and the church certainly could use it. So he obtained the cooperation of a friend who was a blacksmith, and went to the shop after tipping off reporters for the newspapers. He made a horseshoe, and in telling about it afterwards, he remarked that it was a good one, if he did say so himself. He stamped it with his name as maker, had a notarized statement made attesting to what he had done, and sent it to Ithaca. He received the thousand dollars and fifty dollars to boot. The students added to the fund and eventually the gift amounted to $2,250.75. The story about the horseshoe made the papers all over, how the good pastor made one “small, sufficient, and substantial horseshoe.” The language about the specifications indicates that the students were having a little fun over instructions, perhaps, that were given to them when they worked in the shops down near the boat-houses. “Shortly afterwards,” wrote Romeyn Barry in his book, “Behind the Ivy” (Cornell Press, 1950), “Alvah Bradish painted the portrait of the big, strapping clergyman at the forge, and sixty-odd years ago reproductions of that picture were as common in the homes of America as later became Whistler’s portrait of his mother.”

These events by no means complete the record of Robert Collyer before The Chicago Literary Club conferred upon him, to use his words, “the great and unexpected honor . . . of being elected the first president, of which he is still proud and grateful also, as well he may be.” Bear in mind that his own home had been completely destroyed in the fire. He had a finer home constructed, on North LaSalle Street, but he could not bear the thought of having it so heavily mortgaged. The debt must be paid off. So he proposed to his Board that they take the money donated for his salary and use it to obtain guest ministers to speak form the pulpit. He would keep his hand in and be available in case of emergencies. The arrangement would permit him to earn money as a lecturer on the circuit which many famous New Englanders especially had followed. The Board agreed, and Collyer lectured under the auspices of the Redpath Bureau of Boston from Maine to Minnesota, between November, 1872, and May, 1873. He made enough to pay off the mortgage on his home.

Unity Church was rebuilt, and rededicated in services for which Collyer wrote another hymn. Like his earlier hymn, this one was written in common meter, and he asked that it be sung to the same grand tune of Old Hundred, named of course for the hundredth Psalm. The first stanza goes:

“O Lord our God, when storm and flame

Hurled homes and temples into dust,

We gathered here to bless thy name,

And on our ruin wrote our trust.”

The theme, it is evident, was specifically appropriate for its purpose, and therefore not specially suited for other uses, and so it has not survived the way his “Unto thy temple, Lord, we come” did.

So now we come to that famous day, Friday the thirteenth of March, 1874, when at three o’clock in the afternoon a “meeting of gentlemen interested in the formation of a Literary Club in Chicago” was held in the old Sherman House. There were seven men present, but one was a ringer as we used to say, and did not belong there. He was a salesman hoping to get some printing business, and he never came back. The minutes of this meeting appear on the first page of Volume I of the Records of the Club, as preserved in the Newberry Library. They are in a fine calligraphic script, which I think must have been done by a professional penman, rather than Mr. E.G. Mason, secretary of the meeting. This was an organizational and planning session, of which there were seven before the first regular meeting, a business session, was held on May 4. The first paper was presented two weeks later, which was a Monday night. Collyer gave his inaugural speech at a banquet on Monday, June 15, 1874. Its title was “Literature and Great Cities,” and the theme was that all great literature eminated from the large cities where friendly creative people could meet with like congenial spirits. This paper was re-read on the occasion of the Club’s sixtieth Anniversary by Caspar Ooms, on Monday, April 2, 1934. From Wild’s “History” we learn that the paper “was greatly enjoyed and much appreciated for its still timely significance after sixty years of change and growth.” The writer was referring to change and growth of the city as much as anything; Collyer had concluded his essay by picturing the Chicago of the future, with all the land as far north as Milwaukee and as far south as St. Louis one great continuous metropolis.

Now the early days of the Club are described beautifully by Gookin in his “History,” so it will not be necessary to mention them here. I should like, however, to direct your attention to several features in the formulation of which Collyer must have played a considerable role. Mention has already been made that the meetings from almost the beginning were held on Monday nights, the only evening when a minister can get away from his duties, unless there are committee meetings of his church bodies. The reading of a paper was made the important part of the meetings, all else being secondary. Written into the Constitution were those familiar provisions which are now part of what we call our By-Laws. These included the right of free speech on any subject of the speaker’s choosing, which was guarded by the provision that other members did not have to attend the meetings. The tradition was started early of requiring the speaker to write out his talk in full; remember that Collyer always wrote his sermons. But the important feature in my opinion is the emphasis placed on friendliness of the members. This characteristic was not written into the Constitution. It developed. Let me allow that thought to rest in your consciousness, dear reader, while I detour a little to provide you with a quick glance at the rest of the career of this remarkable man, Robert Collyer.

Collyer left us in September, 1879. He had been invited several times to become minister of the largest Unitarian congregations in the country, beginning in 1862, in Boston, Brooklyn and New York. He would be visited by Ralph Waldo Emerson, who was several time a guest in the Collyer home, and invited to be guest minister by the Theodore Parker Congregation in Boston, for example. Collyer would go, with the consent of his Chicago congregation, never suspecting that the invitation was of the nature of a tryout. He routinely turned down all outside offers, even though the positions paid a much greater salary than he commanded at Unity Church. Once, the members of his congregation thinking that he might be persuaded to accept another offer, held a mass meeting to demonstrate against his leaving. But in 1879, we did lose Collyer from the Chicago scene. It is reported that he thought his work was done in this city, but who can tell the real reason? He accepted the call from the Church of the Messiah in New York and built it up to a position of power and influence. It is now called the Community Church in New York.

Graduates of Cornell University know or can learn from the book on the history of the university by retired Cornell historian, Morris Bishop (1962) that Robert Collyer was invited to preach to faculty and students at Cornell for 21 years, a record number of appearances by one man when he announced, regretfully in 1980 that he was “too old to come again.” He would live in the dormitories on these visits and hold conferences with students and faculty members who might wish to see him. Almost always on Monday mornings, after his Sunday services were over, he would wander over to the shops of the engineering school and talk with the young men there. Often he was observed picking a 12-pound hammer from the floor with one hand, holding it aloft and regarding it with an amused expression on his face. Maybe he would repeat a saying he composed to be placed on the belfry for a bell which he had given the university. It was from the old mill in Fewston, obtained when the factory was torn down, and for years this bell was rung to call students to classes in the shops at Cornell. The saying was, “By hammer and hand all things shall stand.” Collyer would move the 12-pound hammer around as one might twirl a table fork. Some of the students tried to emulate this feat afterwards. Except for a couple of stalwart fellows who rowed in the varsity shell, they found that they could not pick up the hammer with one hand, and nobody could flip it about the way the pastor did. Mention has been made of the fact that Collyer was a big man. Dr. Lyttle, the Chicago theologian who knew Collyer in New York, has told me that he weighed 240 pounds. This may have been after his paralytic stroke in his declining years. He still retained full mental faculties but it was terribly difficult to move him about, from wheel chair to bed and so on. Photographs of Collyer when he was a young man, standing with legs somewhat spread apart, remind one of pictures of a professional football player, a defensive tackle for example. When he was over 80 years old, Collyer had occasion to remark that he had never been ill in bed for a day in his life.

He was a handsome man, as his portrait in the Club rooms shows. His head was large, his face might be described as massive. His hair was combed back in a great shock such as is popular today. He continued to wear it somewhat long when it turned pure white. His face then seemed to have been carved out of granite. He was a favorite subject for artists and photographers apparently, for many pictures and paintings and sculptures of him are in existence. The portrait in the Club rooms was painted by Percival de Luce, according to Gookin, and shows Collyer at about the age of 59, a few years older than he was as President. The portrait is a copy of one by the same artist which hangs, I believe, in the headquarters offices of the Unitarian-Universalist Association in Boston. There is a marble head of Collyer in the Public Library of Ilkley, England, where Collyer served his apprenticeship as a blacksmith. Cornell has the old horseshoe (although nobody could find it to show me when I was at Ithaca for some scientific meetings this last August) and some horseshoe rails, which are at the Olin Library. I owe to Miss Kathleen Jacklin, archivist of the Olin Library, copies of materials bearing on Collyer which I might have missed. There is in Chicago a bronze head of Collyer on display in the sanctuary of the Second Unitarian-Universalist Church (the name was changed from Unity Church in 1969), the successor to Collyer’s church, now located on Barry Avenue. Around the base of this piece there appears a quotation from Wordsworth, which reads, “A man he seems of pleasant yesterdays and confident tomorrows.”

On the altar of this church there is the actual anvil used by Collyer in England. It was obtained by one of the members of his congregation many years ago. It is a two-beaked anvil, with both a round and a square swage hole on the top surface, for holding various tools used in the shaping of metal. It is a striking piece as one looks at it, looking for all the world like some modernistic artist’s conception of a mighty bull. This church, which I think Collyer would like to see were he alive, because the people there are so friendly, makes use of a representation of this anvil on its printed materials, notices and the like. In a rear room are other reminders of Collyer’s days in Chicago, in the form of an old treadle sewing machine, a large stove and a marble-top table of great size. The Ladies Sewing group of the old church obtained these many years ago and installed them in a rented house on Larabee Street, for use in teaching the girls of poor people the art of cooking, sewing and housekeeping. Those who are interested in knowing the location of the old church, the one that was burned down and then rebuilt, should visit the Scottish Rite Cathedral on the southeast corner of Dearborn Street and Walton Place. I believe that the entrance, however, is around the corner on Delaware Place, because the Masons occupy not only the original church, as reconstructed, but the two adjacent buildings as well. It is impressive to stand in the great room which once echoed the great voice of Robert Collyer. I say, great voice, with no real evidence. I am inclined to rely on the fact that he spoke regularly before audiences of over 1,000 persons, that he could be heard well from the top balcony of the Boston Music Hall, and that he had never heard of a microphone.

With little schooling, Collyer managed to give himself a fine education through his reading and study. He tells about buying his first book as a boy. Somebody had given him a big George III penny, and he planned to spend it for sweets at the one store in what he calls their “vill.” But next to the jar of candy was a small book, priced at one penny, and he bought that. It was the story of Dick Wittington and his cat. Young Collyer read all the books he could obtain as a youth, except for some religious books in his home, which he found too dry. His father, noting his boy’s interests, borrowed books from anybody who had them for his son. He impressed three things on the boy. Read the books promptly, keep them clean, and return them as soon as you can. At the time of the Chicago fire, Collyer estimated his library to contain 3,000 volumes, all of which, with all his papers, were lost in the fire. A nobleman of England, reading about his loss, inquired about the authors and titles of the books that were lost. This was furnished him and, in due course, Collyer was surprised to receive practically all of the same books, plus a few in addition. His benefactor had been able, with much effort and considerable time, to perform this astonishing feat, and I say “astonishing” because I think that I can imagine the amount of labor involved.

Of Collyer’s writings, I have said little. They should be read for their own sake by those interested. I suggest that you start, as I did, with his autobiography to about the year 1873, entitled “Some Memories.” Then you might try his first book, the one he presented Dr. Rea in 1867 and read at least the last piece in this collection, his narrative sermon on service at Fort Donelson. Above all, get a copy of his last book, a collection of essays, gathered by John Haynes Holmes, and published in 1913 under the title, “Clear Grit. A collection of lectures, addresses and Poems, by Robert Collyer.” There are six poems, two of them being hymns, and there is a poem on Lucretia Mott. Here are the titles of some of the prose pieces in this book:

The Human George Washington

Robert Burns

Charles and Mary Lamb

Charles Lamb: Genius and Humor

Nathanial Hawthorne

John Greenleaf Whittier

Henry David Thoreau

There are more. His article on Robert Burns is probably the best short account of the Scottish poet that I have ever read. Collyer had unusual ability to read and understand human nature, and this ability shows up in these essays. Some of the persons written about were known personally to Collyer. Thoreau, for example, visited Collyer in Chicago not long before he died. One writer not a subject of these essays but often mentioned by Collyer in other works was Charlotte Bronté; it may be recalled that she and her sisters lived on the Yorkshire moors.

For those who may wish to read more about the life of Collyer, his book “Some Memories” covers his early life and career up to about the year 1873. John Haynes Holmes, his successor as pastor of the Church of the Messiah in New York, wrote a two-volume biography of Collyer, published in 1917. He was interested in Collyer’s career after he went to New York, and he relied on the autobiography for earlier life details. So there is a period of from about 1873 to 1879 which is not covered. They were his years as a resident member of The Chicago Literary Club. Gookin’s “History” covers these years when we had our man all to ourselves.

Collyer seems to have had the ability of retaining friends as well as making them. He made eight trips in all to Europe, sometimes visiting the continent, but more than likely visiting old haunts. He would find the stone on which Dick Wittington is said to have sat in London and sit on it himself and think about the story in the first book he ever owned himself. He would visit his mother when living, of course, and because she had moved to the city of Leeds, he would take a special trip back to Fewston or to Ilkeley. He always talked with people, and many of the “old timers” remembered him as a youth. He would be asked to preach, and he would explain his Unitarian connections, but they wanted to hear him anyway, so he would meet with them. Collyer visited his Philadelphia friends, and he came back to Chicago at least six times, for he is listed as having presented papers before the Club at these times. One time, his talk was a Ladies’ Night address, at a time when full dress was the rule, for the Club was very formal in those days. He would visit his old church and be asked to preach there, which he did. He would talk at chapel at the University of Chicago, when President Harper would ask him to do so.

In his year as President the Club developed rapidly. There were six men to begin with. At the fifth regular meeting of the Club, on October 5, 1874, a printed list shows 73 names. By the end of the calendar year, 1874, there were 92 members on the resident list. It may be of interest to note that of these 92 men, 51 remained on the rolls until they died. The last survivor was Franklin MacVeigh, who died at the age of 93 years on July 6, 1934. Nineteen of the 92 men taken in during the calendar year 1874 resigned, and 22 appear to have been dropped from the rolls, principally for failure to pay their dues. A word might be said about the 19 resignations. Eight of these dropouts retained their membership for an average period of 21 years, the longest being for 43 years. In the early years of the Club there was a limitation on numbers of members, and if a man could no longer attend meetings regularly, he may have thought he should make room for someone else. Another factor may have been the fact that only in recent years has the practice been introduced of making the payment of dues optional for long-time members who have reached retirement age.

In the beginning, there were many discussions about how to secure members, and we may be sure that Collyer was active at these discussions. It was a practice to vote men in as members and then inform the candidate, as a kind of surprise. Sometimes he would accept and, if he paid his dues, he was in as a full-fledged member. Sometimes he would decline. Sometimes he would not bother to answer. Records were kept, and from an early list I notice that one, N.S. Davis, declined. This must have been the famous Dr. Nathan S. Davis, founder of the American Medical Association and active with Northwestern University School of Medicine. Some persons simply refuse to be immortalised. Are you interested in statistics? The Report of the Secretary for June, 1875, shows that 153 men had been elected by action, unsolicited, of the entire Club. Of these, 15 men had declined to join the Club, 20 names were voided because the men had failed to respond, and the rest, all 118 men, were active dues paying members. Gookin records how the system of having the entire membership vote on candidates, with three black balls failing, encountered some difficulties because of a wave of casting black balls. Collyer was presiding on one occasion, apparently after he had served as President, and looking into the ballot box was heard to remark, “Gentlemen, if the black balls elected, the candidate would be a member.” The system of putting this duty in the hands of a committee, as were all other functions of the Club, was soon adopted, and no further difficulties were recorded.

There were many discussion about what the Club should do and what kind of men were desired as members. Read the account of some of these matters as Gookin wrote them up, and laugh, as Gookin could note, at the trouble they had with Collyer who refused to set or follow any standards for admission into the Club. Right after the committee had set higher standards, and the members were leaving, Collyer was overhead saying, “Oh, well, if we meet up with a good fellow, I suppose we could ask him to come around.” That is what the meeting had been about, to get Collyer not to ask any casual acquaintance to come around and meet the members and join up. Gookin is good enough to state that many of the men taken in as members during the first year, when we may imagine that Collyer was operating with little restraint, became some of the best members the Club ever had.

Friendliness, such as Collyer stood for, long has been the outstanding characteristic of the Club. The purposes were first stated to be for the promotion of literary and esthetic culture. The word “social” was soon added, and placed first in the listing, because it was recognized that congeniality was most important, as it was the chief feature of the Club recognizable by visitors. Major Alonzo Huntington, the Club’s tenth President, spoke in his inaugural address as long ago as 1884 of the “gentle friendliness” of the Club. Was it not Payson Wild, Secretary almost as long as Gookin – well, not quite – who wrote a little two-stanza verse which, in more opulent times would appear printed in the Year Book? Many sentimental old guys in the Club liked to see that poem, printed in a form of type called Cloister by printers, and using old-fashioned abbreviations for some of the words. Suppose I reproduce it in full, even though the first stanza tells my point:

Ye Chicagoe Litterary Clubbe

Ye Clubbe doth noted be for Friendships fine,

Why fyrst shld be set down, I doe opine,

For Letters be but Naught without a Friend

To sitte with thee and rede & apprehend.

Behold ye next our handsome Heritage:

Ye noble Names uponne our Record Page;

I quote them not, but Zounds, and if I shoulde,

Ye’d heare a famous Liste o’ Greate & Goode.

The name of Robert Collyer leads all the rest of those who were great and good, and The Chicago Literary Club is in a very real sense his bequest to us and our living heritage.