Continental Monthly Volume 1 Issue 3 by Various

V >> Various >> Continental Monthly Volume 1 Issue 3

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

The second century, like the first, opened with fierce ecclesiastical
tumult. Whitefield's itineracy, like the blazing cross in the Lady of
the Lake, was the signal for an uprising. Fired by his passionate
oratory, the masses revolted from the chill formalism of a dead
ministry. The effect of the excitement which pervaded New England, when
considered merely as an appetizer of the intellect, can not be
over-estimated, and the vigor which the colonial mind thus acquired
astonished in an after day the dullards of the British Parliament. The
chief throb was felt in Connecticut, where strolling preachers of a new
order held forth in barns and school-houses. Among these imitators of
Whitefield were some men of high character, such as Tennant and Finley
(afterwards president of Nassau Hall, Princeton), while others were
frenzied enthusiasts. Davenport, the chief of these, was 'a
heavenly-minded youth,' whose usefulness was wrecked by fanaticism. In
his journey he was attended by one whom he called his armor-bearer, and
their entrance into each village was signaled by a loud hymn sung by the
excited pair. The very tone in which Davenport preached has been
perpetuated by his admirers; it was a nasal twang, which had great
effect. A law was passed against those irregularities, and Davenport was
thrown into Hartford jail, where he sang hymns all night, to the great
admiration of his friends. On being released he went to Lyme, where,
after sermon, a bonfire of idols was made, to which the women
contributed their ornaments and fine dresses, and the men their vain
books. This religious movement was marred by much evil; yet its fruits,
as we have stated, were found in that mental strength which subsequently
bore the brunt of the Revolution. Its excited scenes are hit off by such
reports as these,--'Sally Sparhawk fell and was carried out of meeting;'
this statement being frequently repeated. The style of preaching in
vogue may be imagined when we read of Tennant's appearance in the
pulpit, with long locks flowing down his back, his gaunt form encased in
a coarse garment, girt about the loins with a leathern girdle, in
imitation of the prophet Elijah. His discourses were 'awful and solemn,'
and the houses were crowded, though the cold was so intense as to sheet
Long Island Sound with ice. Other memorials of this great awakening are
found in Edwards' thrilling sermons, such as 'Sinners in the hands of an
angry God,' 'Wicked men only useful in their destruction,' etc. For
years after, the grand idea of New England was piety and good morals,
and as there were no journals, except here and there a dwarfed weekly,
the power of the pulpit was unrivaled. Religion was a common theme in
every house. As a result, it is stated that during the whole Revolution,
there was but one case of wilful murder in Massachusetts, and Dwight
informs us that up to his day there had never been a lawsuit in
Northampton, nor a loss by fire in which the damage was not mutually
shared by the citizens. He also adds that on a given Sabbath five-sixths
of the community were found in meeting. The minister in each town was
supported by tax, and being in some sense a public officer, the ceremony
of ordination was sometimes celebrated with procession and band of
music.

Jonathan Edwards, the great light of New England, at this time could
have been found in a quiet village on the Connecticut, whence his fame
had already spread to the mother country. How Northampton gloried in her
matchless preacher! For sixty years his grandfather, Solomon Stoddard,
had labored there. Let us linger a moment over those scenes which,
though fled like a dream, once witnessed the joys and sorrows of a
lifetime. Here in this retired street stands the weather-stained
parsonage, graced by a pair of saplings, planted by his own hands, to
which Northampton points as 'the Edwards elms,' and which now fling
giant shadows across the lawn. This dwelling, though scant of
furniture, is passing rich in its domestic treasures. Here is a wife of
lustrous beauty, sweet of disposition, fervent of spirit, and 'mighty in
prayer.' She is a matchless judge of sermons, wise in human nature, and
being wiser still in grace, must long rank as a model of the ministerial
wife. Here, too, is her group of daughters, well worthy of such
parentage, Esther, Sarah, Mary, and Jerusha, all beautiful and artless
as herself. Here a world of daily interest is found in the studies and
duties of a New England home. But who is he, of tall and attenuated
form, whose days are passed in his solitary study, secluded like a
hermit from the common experience of life? Like Moses, he is slow of
speech, and might be considered almost severe of countenance. The
lineaments tell their story of childlike simplicity of character, and
yet they are inspired by an expression of power, which at first seems
repellant. Those large black eyes seem to pierce and read on every
thought. I have referred to this family in a previous article,[D] but
would now speak at more length of its paternal head. This man has but
two pursuits, study and prayer. Of the outer world he has ever remained
in blissful ignorance, and even of his own parish he only knows what he
has learned of his wife. He has no 'turn' for visiting, and can not
afford time for vain talk. The secret of this is, that he breathes an
atmosphere of his own; his soul is like a star, and dwells apart. Behold
him seated at his table, jotting down casual thoughts on the backs of
letters and scraps of paper (for paper is very dear); he is building up
some great argument, whose vast proportions will in due time be
developed, like the uncovering of a colossus. Beware, Mr. Solomon
Williams of Hatfield, and you, Chubb and Tyndal, and John Taylor of
Norwich, for you will each and all of you find your master in this
secluded parson. Thirteen hours per day are given to study, and this has
been the average for years.

And _such_ study to create realities out of the fogs of metaphysics, and
to span the concrete and the abstract with a bridge such as Milton threw
across space. This man can spend hours in pursuit of 'volitions' with
all the excitement of the chamois-hunt. Now his eye brightens, for he
has transfixed an idea, and holds it up in all the nicety of artistic
touch, while he dissects it to its ramifications. It is all _con amore_
with him, though his readers will need a clue to the maze of intricate
reasoning.

One can not pass through the streets of Northampton, so broad, so rural,
and so picturesque, without being overshadowed by that memory, which may
be expressed in the sweet lines of Longfellow,--

'Here in patience and in sorrow, laboring still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the better land.'

It is gratifying to know that his memory is honored in Northampton by
the naming of a church, though all may not understand the connection.
The old 'meeting-house' (for the Puritans used the word church only in a
spiritual sense) stood fronting the site of the present enormous
edifice. It was torn down in 1812. Here for nearly a quarter of a
century the tall form, and face pale and meagre from intense thinking,
appeared each Sabbath before a people among whom his recluse habits
rendered him almost a stranger. Here, having rested upon the desk, upon
the elbow of his left arm, whose hand held a tiny book of closely
written MS., he read with stooping form and low tones those solemn
arguments and tremendous appeals which now thrill us from the printed
page. Each of those tiny books was a sermon. Many of these are still
preserved, and Dr. Tryon Edwards, of New London, has a chest filled with
these memorials of his great ancestor. They are written in so fine a
hand as to be hardly legible except to one practiced in their
deciphering--a result of the extreme economy of one who, with all
carefulness, was the largest consumer of paper and ink in New England.
Solemn as was the deportment of this reverend man, sundry practical
jokes at his expense are on record. It is said that the house dog was
his close attendant, and on Sabbath day would invade even the pulpit in
search of his master. Hence he was carefully fastened during 'holy
time.' On one occasion, however, some wag not only loosed the animal,
but actually garnished his neck with a pair of ministerial bands. The
poor dog, unwitting of his sacred insignia, made his way into the pulpit
without being noticed by his absent minded master, until some one showed
him the dog, _a la parson_, perched up behind him on the pulpit bench.

As a public speaker Edwards' delivery was the minimum of force, and in
this feature he admitted his utter failure. Indeed, when driven from
Northampton, he replied to Erskine's invitation to remove to Scotland,
that he was assured that his style would not be acceptable. After his
dismission, the sorrows of poverty fell heavily upon him, and he writes
to the same correspondent that 'he and his large and helpless family
were to be cast upon the world.' A collection was made for him in
Scotland, and forwarded at this time of need. The Scottish saints,
indeed, held strong sympathy with the colonies, and it was their
'benefactions' which supported the mission of Brainerd, the most
successful of modern days. Edwards remained more than a year at
Northampton after leaving its pulpit, and was humbled by seeing the
people assemble to hear sermons read by laymen in preference to his own
ministrations. What a bitter cup this must have been: but Sarah cheered
his heart, and grace reigned. In the mean time the girls wrought fancy
work, which was sent to Boston, and sold in their behalf, and thus they
were spared from want. Subsequently he was appointed missionary to the
Stockbridge Indians. It was Orpheus among the wild beasts, but without
his success. President Wayland quotes this fact in order to support a
theory which is palpably false, that a preacher should not be much above
the literary platform of his people; whereas, Edwards' ill success was
in a large measure owing to the troubles and opposition incident to
frontier life. With all his sorrows, however, he had one great
satisfaction. His chief assailant, Joseph Ashley, of Northampton, who
had borne so large a part in his expulsion, came in deep penitence, and
besought his forgiveness, which was granted with Christian tenderness.
Ashley's compunctions continued, and after Edwards' death increased in
horror so greatly that to obtain relief he published to the world an
explicit confession of his sins against 'that eminent servant of God.'

Edwards, like Milton, had long meditated a work which 'the world would
not willingly let die,' but, although he had for some years been
gathering materials, yet it was not until his removal to Stockbridge
that he addressed himself fully to the mighty task of authorship. His
habits of abstraction grew upon him amazingly during this effort, and
the notable Sarah sheltered him from intrusion, and anticipated his
wants. She was conscious of the greatness of the work with which he had
grappled, and stood by his side like a guardian angel while he
demolished errorists. It was her custom after the labors of the day to
steal up to the study, where, like Numa and Egeria, they held serene
communion. This was his sole medium of secular information, for in his
occasional walks he was like one in a dream. The whole man was engrossed
in what he alone could perform; indeed, to reconcile liberty and
necessity were a task for which he seemed providentially set apart. But
beneath these arguments, which rise Alp on Alp, there lurked a quiet
perception of humor, and the _reductio ad absurdum_, which he
occasionally drives home, showed the keenness of Puritan wit. How he
must have smiled, nay even laughed, in the midst of his abstractions at
that[E] metaphysical animal which illustrates the absurdity of his
opponents. When 'The Freedom of the Will' was finished, and the author
had sent it forth to do battle, he felt that the work of his life was
done.

Just at this time a deputation waited on him to solicit his acceptance
of the presidency of Nassau Hall. It was a strange sight to that rude
hamlet of Stockbridge--those reverend forms finishing their long journey
at the feet of the poor exiled missionary. When their errand was
announced, he burst into tears, overcome by a sense of unworthiness, and
in a subsequent letter he confirms his unfitness by reference to his
'flaccid solids and weak and sizy fluids.' But the demand was pressed,
and Northampton learns with astonishment the exaltation of her banished
pastor. The successful deputation possessed one member of rare interest.
This was John Brainerd, who had succeeded his brother David as a
missionary, and whom Edwards had met ten years before at the bedside of
his dying brother. David would have been, had both lived, the husband of
Jerusha--but now they slept side by side in Northampton burial-ground,
and the surviving brother reappeared bearing this invitation. It was one
not easily resisted; and so, amid dangers and infirmity, he was fain to
say,

'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.'

Before another spring, a higher glory awaited him; and the same year,
five of his family, including the incomparable Sarah, were likewise
'received up.' A sad year was that to Princeton and to the church.

We have stated our opinion, that the activity of the New England mind
arose from the digestion of strong doctrine; that very activity now
generated a new style of preaching, which may be termed the metaphysical
school. The days of _thaumaturgia_ were passed, and in place of
discussing demonology and temptation, an appetite for subtle dogma
prevailed. I doubt if Britain and Germany, with their combined
universities, could have equaled, during the last century, the New
England pulpit in mental acuteness or philosophical discrimination. A
reference to Edwards recalls mention among his followers of such names
as Smally, Bellamy, Emmons, and Hopkins. Those who listened to the
preaching of such men could not avoid becoming thinkers, and thought has
made our country what it is. Very possibly what is known as 'Yankee
ingenuity' arose from the thinking habits of careful sermon-hearers. A
man who could follow the subtle theories of the pulpit, could think out
the most elaborate machinery. Next to Jonathan Edwards, Dr. Emmons
possessed the most philosophical mind of the age. So severe and
invincible is his logic, that it is said that the New Haven lawyers
often sharpened their minds on Emmons' sermons. His scheme of making God
the author of sin may be considered one of the errors of a great mind. A
modern novelist has placed old Dr. Hopkins among the characters of a
romance. But however great may be the powers of Mrs. Stowe, it was quite
impossible for an aesthetic and poetic mind to grasp that bundle of
dried-up syllogisms which once occupied the Newport pulpit. Hopkins had
preached the church at Great Barrington empty, and that of Newport died
by lingering degrees. Only to think of that tall, ungainly form, the
head covered with a linen cap, stiff and white, coming forth like an
apparition once a week to the public gaze. We do not wonder at the
child's inquiry '_if it was God that stood up there_.' Hopkins' scheme
of 'indifferent affection' was a grand conception, but as unnatural as
grand: yet it showed an amazing boldness for a public teacher to lay
down as a postulate that a willingness to be damned was a condition of
salvation.

From a survey of the earlier clergy, even as superficial as the present
one, we are struck with its ambition of a lofty range of doctrine. They

'reasoned high
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
Fixed fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end in wandering mazes lost.
Of good and evil much they argued then,
Of happiness, and final misery,
Passion, and apathy, glory, and shame.'

The highest tribute which Milton could offer the fallen angels was that
mental power which survived the general wreck. And no lesser flight
would have satisfied the subjects of this sketch. Their lifelong effort
was still to climb higher, ever exclaiming

'--Paula majora canamus.'

Their services in the cause of public education are beyond our
appreciation, and it may be well for us to remember that Harvard, Yale,
Williams, Union, Princeton, Amherst, Hanover, and other institutions,
sprang from the bold philanthrophy of men so poor as often to be objects
of pity. They saw that knowledge is power, and that power they would not
only possess, but bequeath to coming generations.

Long as these rambles have been, they would still be incomplete without
a tribute to the influence of wives and mothers which soothed and
mellowed the sterner aspect of primitive life; but this can only be
referred to as a theme worthy of distinct treatment. It should not be
forgotten that the children reared under such influences have often been
counted worthy of the highest stations of honor and trust; and although
the scapegrace character of ministers' sons is a common fling, yet
careful research has proved that it has many and brilliant exceptions.

While penning these pages, my mind has often wandered over ancient
burial-grounds where pastor and people sleep side by side. One may find
them in every New England town, and they chain with a spell of which the
modern cemetery with its showy marbles knows nothing! We turn from the
fresh mortality, which chills us with its recent sorrows, to those massy
headstones whose faint inscriptions tell of generations long since freed
from toil. Here one may find the rude monuments of those who still walk
the earth and lead its progress, and here the heart may run over, as
Byron says,

'With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead but sceptered sovereigns who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.'

* * * * *

HEMMING COTTON.

'Hem them in!' is the country's cry;
See how the bayonet needles fly!
Nothing neglect and nothing leave,
Hem them in from the skirt to sleeve.
Little they reek of scratch or hurt
Who toil at hemming the Southern shirt;
Little they'll care, as they shout aloud,
If the Southern shirt prove a Southern shroud.
Hurrah for the needles sharp and thin!
Cotton is saved by hemming it in.'

* * * * *

ONE OF MY PREDECESSORS.

No books have quite the same fascination for me as the narratives of old
travelers. Give me a rainy day, a state of affairs which renders the
performance of a more serious task impossible, and a volume of Hakluyt
or Purchas, or even of Pinkerton's agreeable collection, and I
experience a condition of felicity which leaves Gray and his new novel
far in the background. For I thus not only behold again the familiar
scenery of the earth,--never forgetting a landscape that I have once
seen,--but I am also a living participant in the adventures of those who
have wandered the same paths, hundreds of years before. I visit
Constantinople while the Porphyrogenite emperors still sit upon the
throne of the East; I look upon the barbaric court of Muscovy before the
name of Russia is known in the world; I make acquaintance with Genghis
Khan at Karakorum, and with Aurungzebe at Delhi; I invade Japan with
Kampfer, penetrate the Arctic Seas with Barentz, or view the gardens of
Ispahan in the company of the gallant Sir John Chardin.

This taste was not the cause, but is the result, of my own experience.
My far-off, unknown Arab progenitor says, in one of his poems: 'Fly thy
home, and journey, if thou strivest for great deeds. Five advantages
thou wilt at least procure by traveling. Thou wilt have pleasure and
profit; thou wilt enlarge thy prospects, cultivate thyself, and acquire
friends. It is better to be dead, than, like an insect, to remain always
chained to the same spot of earth.' In the Middle Ages, and especially
among the members of the enlightened Saracenic race, the instinct of
travel was mainly an instinctive desire for education. There was no
other school of knowledge so complete and practical, in the dearth of
books and the absence of other than commercial intercourse between the
ends of the earth, I fancy that this instinct, skipping over some
centuries, reappeared, in my case, in its original form; for it was not
until after I had seen a large portion of the earth, that I became
acquainted with the narratives of my predecessors, and recognized my
kinship with them. With the ghost of the mercantile Marco Polo, or those
of the sharp fellows, Bernier and Tavernier, I do not anticipate much
satisfaction, in the next world; but--if they are not too far off--I
shall shake hands at once with the old monk Rubruquis, and the Knight
Arnold von der Harff, and the far traveled son of the Atlas, Ibn Batuta.

These old narratives have a charm for me, which I do not find in the
works of modern tourists. There is an honest homeliness and unreserve
about them, which I would not exchange for any graces of style. The
writers need no apologetic or explanatory preface; they sit down with
the pressure of a solemn duty upon them. When much of the world was but
dimly known, the man who had reached India, China, or the Islands of the
Sea, and returned to describe his adventures, made his narrative a
matter of conscience, and justly considered that he had added something
to the stock of human knowledge. The world of fable had not then
contracted into as narrow limits as at present; foreign countries were
full of marvels, and science had not made clear the phenomena of nature.
The old travelers had all the wonder and the credulity of children. All
was fish that came to their nets, and their works are singular compounds
of personal adventure, historical episodes, statistics of trade, and
reflections on the laws, manners and religions of races, interwoven with
many astonishing stories, and with the most amusing conjectures and
speculations. Their sincerity is apparent on every page. How delightful
is that remark of honest old Bernal Diaz, when, in describing the
battle of Tlascala, he states that many of the Spanish soldiers believed
that St. James and St. Thomas fought in person against the pagans, and
adds, in the simplicity of his heart, 'Sinner that I am, it was not
given to my eyes to behold either the one or the other of those holy
persons.' Montanus, in his travels through Muscovy, speaks of a
wonderful plant on the borders of Tartary, which resembled a
pumpkin-vine in appearance, only that instead of pumpkins it produced
lambs covered with wool. He calls this 'a mighty pleasant story,' but
takes care to say that he had never seen with his own eyes the lambs
growing upon the vines, but only the wool thereof, which the natives
manufactured into garments.

Another characteristic of the old books of travel is, that they are,
unconsciously, autobiographical. The honest pilgrim, in his desire to
give a faithful description of new lands, is little aware that he is all
the time describing himself as well. His prejudice, his likings, his
disappointments and aspirations are all transparently revealed to us,
and through him we lay hold on the living character of his age. We
follow him, step by step, on his slow and wearisome journey, enjoying
his fatigues and dangers with the better zest, since we know in advance
that he reached home safely at last. One of the most popular modern
books of travel--Eothen--is a poem which gives us the very atmosphere
and odor of the Orient, but nothing more; and the author floats before
our vision in so dim and wraith-like a manner, that many readers have
doubted whether the work was founded on actual experience. On the other
hand, those old narratives, of which Robinson Crusoe is the ideal type,
bear unmistakable stains of the soil on every page. You not only feel
the vital personality of the traveler, but you would distinguish his
doublet and hose among a thousand. He does not soar, with an airy grace,
from one hill-top to another, picking out for you a choice scene here
and there, as he skims the land--he plods along the road, laboriously
and with muddy shoes, and sees the common much oftener than the sublime.

In all that concerns man, indeed, a much plainer speech was permitted to
the old traveler. There were no squeamish readers in those days, and
hence, in some respects, he is too candid for modern taste. But it often
happens that precisely the characteristics or customs of strange races
which are of most value to the anthropologist, belong to those cryptic
mysteries of human nature, to which, in our refined age, one is
prohibited from referring. At least, the absence of constraint--the
possibility of entire frankness, even though the writer should have no
occasion to avail himself of the privilege--imparts a rare loveliness
and raciness to the narrative. On the other hand, in modern works which
I have tested by my own personal knowledge of the subject, I have been
quite as much struck with the amount of suppressed as with that of
expressed truth. Mansfield Parkyns and Captain Burton, I have no doubt,
will bear me out in this statement. Why has no African explorer, for
instance, yet ventured to announce the fact,--at once interesting and
important,--that if a traveler in the central regions of that continent
could be accompanied by his wife, the chances of his success would be
greatly improved? In the apparent celibacy of explorers, barbarous races
perceive simply an absence or perversion of the masculine instinct,
which at once excites their distrust.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20