"With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked."
"With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked."
While on a visit to this spot, accompanied by his second son, Rev. Massena B. Ballou, in 1843, he lingered long and thoughtfully among the tomb-stones, and at lastsaid:—"I believe I could sleep sweeter here, among the hills of Cheshire, by the side of my early home and kindred, than in the grounds of Mount Auburn." And this was in truth characteristic of him and of his feelings, as the reader will have gathered ere this. A retiring spirit governed him at all times, unmoved by one single prompting of ambition or a desire for fame, and only zealous in the service of his Lord and Master. His works he desired to leave behind him as perfect as might be, because he hoped that, even after he had himself ceased to live, they might be productive of good to his fellow-men; but it was the only memento he wished to leave behind. "I can hardly conceive of language," he says, "to express the flood of tender emotions that overflow my heart, when I look upon that valley and those well-remembered hills. I seem as if touched by some potent wand, and to be changed from age to youth again. It becomes impossible to realize the crowd of incidents and experiences that have thronged my pathway for more than half a century. I am once more in that frugal, happy home, where contentment ever smiled upon us, and the kind words of my brothers and the affection of my sisters, more than compensated for what by some would have been considered not an enviable lot. Though that cottage is now levelled by Time's ruthless hands, yet how prominent it stands before my mind's eye! That aged and beloved parent now rests on yonder hill-side. Those brothers and sisters,—how various the fortune of each! All,allhavenow passed that portal to which my own footsteps are steadily wending." He was often inspired to pour out his feelings in song, after visiting Richmond and the haunts of his youth, for his heart was full of the memories of those days that had endeared the spot to him. The following lines upon this subject were composed for his children to sing with instrumental accompaniment, and are written in the metre of one of his favorite songs, the air of "Dumbarton's Bonny Belle."
BALLOU'S DELL."There are no hills in Hampshire New,No valleys half so fair,As those which spread before the viewIn merry Richmond, whereI first my mortal race began,And passed my youthful days,—Where first I saw the golden sun,And felt his warming rays.There is no spot in Richmond whereFond memory loves to dwell,As on the glebe outspreading thereIn Ballou's blithesome dell.There are no birds that sing so sweetAs those upon the spray,Where, from the brow of 'Grassy Hill,'Comes forth the morning ray.Unnumbered flowers, the pride of spring,Are born to flourish there,And round them mellow odors flingThrough all the ambient air.There purling springs have charms for meThat vulgar brooks ne'er give,And winds breathe sweeter down the leaThan where magnolias live!"
BALLOU'S DELL.
"There are no hills in Hampshire New,No valleys half so fair,As those which spread before the viewIn merry Richmond, whereI first my mortal race began,And passed my youthful days,—Where first I saw the golden sun,And felt his warming rays.
There is no spot in Richmond whereFond memory loves to dwell,As on the glebe outspreading thereIn Ballou's blithesome dell.There are no birds that sing so sweetAs those upon the spray,Where, from the brow of 'Grassy Hill,'Comes forth the morning ray.
Unnumbered flowers, the pride of spring,Are born to flourish there,And round them mellow odors flingThrough all the ambient air.
There purling springs have charms for meThat vulgar brooks ne'er give,And winds breathe sweeter down the leaThan where magnolias live!"
This is but one of a large number of pieces composed by Mr. Ballou while inspired by the same theme. It will serve to show the reader the hallowed and inspiring feelings that lived in the writer's heart, as his memory went back in freshness to the days and associations of his boyhood, as in retrospection he shook away the snow of time from the evergreen of memory.
The attachment to one's birth-place, to the home of early youth, "be it ever so humble," is a beautiful trait of character, and is significant of a refined and noble spirit. It is in masses one of the first and most prolific fruits of civilization, distinguishing a stable community from a nomadic tribe; and, as another peculiarity of the trait, it is most touchingly exhibited in the least fortunate members of the human family. The Icelanders, dwelling in a hyperborean region, where for a large portion of the year they are deprived of the light of the sun, and depend upon the stars and the Aurora Borealis to guide their footsteps in the long, long winter midnight, are accustomed to say, with a spirit of unmistakable fondness and affection, Iceland is the fairest country of the globe! The poor Highlander regards the smoky hut where he was born with enthusiastic love. As life draws gradually towards its close, this feeling deepens in the human breast. Standing on the extreme verge ofexistence, and just about to leave the world forever, man, as he turns to survey the pathway he has travelled, overlooks its midway stations, and fixes his eyes upon the starting. The beginning and the end of the journey are then brought close together; from the earthly to the eternal home there is but one step; from the tenderest recollections of his earthly parent he passes into the presence of his Father in heaven. Love of home! what a theme for the essayist!
It would almost seem as if the deprivations and hardships of his youthful days must have thrown an unhappy spell about his early home, and as though the memories that came up to him from the long vista of years would be laden with recollections of want and severe trial, of personal endurance, of scanty food and more scanty clothing; in short, of all the stern realities of his childhood's home. But this was very far from being the case with him. He has often said to us, in relation to this subject, that he deemed his life at that time anything but unhappy,—that what now appeared to be so great hardships, by comparison, were then but trifling discomforts, and matters of course. He was never inclined to set up for a martyr, or to gather any credit for having endured patiently, and risen in time above the fortunes of his youth. He could only recall this period of his life with feelings of pleasure. Such feelings as these force upon us the conviction that there is ever about the place of one's birth a spell that hardship seems only the more closely to bind about the heart,—that deprivation and want but the more stronglycement. The cheerful allusion to the affectionate regard of his brothers and sisters, and the remark that contentment ever smiled upon his early home, show the true spirit of the man, and the natural trait which ever influenced him to make the best of everything.
"How I used to cherish a kind word from my father, when I was a boy!" says Mr. Ballou. "He was in some respects an austere man; and when I was born, being the youngest of our large family, he had got to be advanced in years, and looked with a more serious and practical eye on the events of life and all things about us. He was Puritanic, strictly religious, as he interpreted the meaning of that word, and his mind was ever engrossed upon serious matters. But when he put his hand sometimes upon my head, and told me I had done well, that the labor I had performed might have been more poorly done by older hands, or that I was a good and faithful boy, my heart was electrified beyond measure; and I remember his words and smile, even now, with delight."
How the simplicity and purity of the man shine forth in this little paragraph!
"It may be interesting to your readers to know how Father Ballou was regarded in the town of his nativity," says the Rev. Joshua Britton, Jr., of Richmond, N. H., in a communication addressed to the Christian Freeman. "He was accustomed to visit this place once in every few years, and always received a cordial and hearty greeting. It was my privilege and happiness tospend a few days with him on the occasion of his visit here in October last. I removed to this town in October, 1850, and soon learned that there was a general desire among our friends to see and hear their fellow-townsman again. The approach of cold weather prevented our taking any immediate steps to accomplish this object. In June, 1851, I saw him at the meeting of the State Convention in Chicopee. He had many affectionate inquiries to make respecting his friends in Richmond, but then he could not name any time when he would visit us. In July I wrote him, and he replied August 5, and said:—'I want very much to visit Richmond, and will on one of the days you have named.' He suggested that we could complete the arrangement at the convention meeting in Boston. We did so, and fixed upon Sunday, October 12th, as the day when he would be with us. He was careful to have no appointment for the following Sunday, in order that he might remain in this vicinity. He was met at Fitzwilliam depot, by one of our friends, on Friday, October 10th, and conveyed to his residence. Sunday was a favorable day for meeting, and there was a large audience from this and the adjacent towns in this state and in Massachusetts. It was a happy day for us all; but I must not dwell here.
"Though I enjoyed the meeting very much, yet my enjoyment was still greater on the following week, in the society of our aged friend and father, at my own home and the homes of our mutual friends in this town.
"It may be proper to state that Father Ballou had novery near relatives here. None, I believe, by the name of Ballou. He was a cousin of Father Luke Harris, and with him and his family he spent a portion of the time quite pleasantly. He seemed happy in being once more in his 'native Richmond.'
"Three days the writer accompanied Father Ballou while he made calls upon various families in different parts of the town. We were uniformly kindly received; and those not acquainted with Father Ballou can hardly conceive the ease and success with which he familiarly approached all,—the young, the middle-aged, and the aged. We had brief interviews, but they were agreeable and profitable. Prayer was offered with and consolation afforded to the sick. In one or two instances we met with those whose minds were in doubt on doctrinal points: these, of course, listened to a few words of explanation. Then there was the going back to former days, and a rehearsal of time's numerous changes. We visited the old burying-ground, and stood by the graves of the parents of my aged companion. We visited the old homestead, the place where he was born, and spent his boyhood. This was changed, and unchanged. The buildings, fences, and some of the fields, presented a new aspect, but the valleys and hills remained as before. At the homestead we entered the orchard, where the owner was engaged picking apples. We walked about and found apples, of which my companion ate, though he declined taking any, a short time previous, on an adjoining farm. We also, by invitation, dined here, andhad a pleasant chat with the family. This farm is a mile and a half east of our meeting-house. Grassy Hill is on its eastern border, and overlooks the valley in which it is situated. Some will recollect the poetry of our friend, 'My native Richmond.' He repeated this, at my suggestion, at a dwelling in full view of this eminence; and as the words 'Grassy Hill' were spoken, he gracefully waved his right hand in that direction, his countenance expressing satisfaction and delight.
"Several times, during his stay, the inquiry was agitated,—'Will you come to Richmond again?' His reply was, ''Tis uncertain,—I may; should life be spared, and my health remain as good as it is at present, I think I may.' But, as we had some reason to expect, this proved to be his last visit. He was conveyed to Winchester on Friday, where he preached on the following Sabbath. He returned on Tuesday, Oct. 21st. I made a few calls with him on the afternoon of that day, and in the evening he spent an hour at our singing-school, tarrying with us at night. On the following morning we bade him 'good-by,' and he proceeded homewards to visit a daughter, rejoined his wife, and in due time reached their home in Boston."
In Mr. Ballou's letter to the Trumpet, describing this visit, he says:—
"When I arrived at the depot in Fitzwilliam, I was met by a worthy and respected friend, from Richmond, who came on purpose to convey me to his hospitable dwelling in the neighborhood of the place of my birth.Our road passed through the farm on which I was born, and on which my childhood and youth were spent. All around lay the hills and the mountains, the valleys and streams, which I always carry with me on the map of fond memory. But where were the father, the mother, the brothers and sisters, who watched over my infancy and guided my youth? The hope of the gospel answers, inHeaven! Before the Sabbath, I was conveyed by our worthy Brother Britton, the beloved pastor of the Universalist society, to the dwellings of a number of my kindred and friends, who received me with a welcome corresponding with the esteem in which they were held by me. But some bitter drops were mingled with the sweet cordials of friendship and love. Some deaths had recently removed the beloved and respected, causing those sanctifying sorrows to which love and friendship are heirs. When the Sabbath came, I was conducted by Bro. Britton to the house of devotion, and into the pulpit where he is wont to break the bread of life to the flock of his charge. I was agreeably surprised at beholding the crowded congregation, which filled the house to its utmost capacity with people, who came not only from all parts of Richmond, but from all the adjoining towns. * * * * When I beheld this large assembly, all of which seemed to be moved with one spirit, every countenance presenting the same expression of desire and expectation, I felt oppressed with a sense of my weakness, and lifted my desires to Him who is able to strengthen the weak,and from what seems a scanty portion to feed the multitude."I could not avoid a comparison between what I then saw with the condition of the cause of divine truth sixty years ago, when I first attempted to speak in its defence in a private dwelling in this Richmond. Then, but a few could be collected to hear the impartial and efficient grace of the Redeemer proclaimed and defended."The Universalist meeting-house in Richmond is quite respectable for size, conveniently constructed, and neat in appearance. The society who worship here is not very numerous, yet I believe more so than that of any other denomination in town. As far as my acquaintance enabled me to judge, I had reason to believe that better disposed disciples of the Divine Master are seldom found. Bro. Britton preaches here one-half of his time. He is a sober, candid, well-educated and faithful pastor, and highly esteemed by his society here, and also in Winchester, where he labors successfully the other half of his time. His family consists of an amiable companion, who knows the importance of her station, and is faithful in the discharge of its duties, and an adopted daughter, who is justly held in high esteem both by those whom she regards as her parents, and by all her acquaintances."The Sabbath following my appointment in Richmond, which appointment was on the second Sabbath in October, I preached in Winchester. The day was extremelyrainy and cold, and few comparatively attended meeting. The society here has a very good and convenient house, and its condition at present is said to be promising. The friends of truth here are firm and steadfast, full of hope and confidence, promising perseverance unto the end."After my labors on this rainy Sabbath, I found myself much exhausted, and was sensibly unwell. My friends were kind and attentive to me, and the worn-out servant was well provided for. On Wednesday a respectable merchant of Richmond brought me in his carriage to the depot in Fitzwilliam. By aid of Divine Providence I arrived the same day at Lancaster, where I found my wife and our family connections in good health, and my own somewhat improved. Thanks be to God for all his mercies!"Hosea Ballou."
"When I arrived at the depot in Fitzwilliam, I was met by a worthy and respected friend, from Richmond, who came on purpose to convey me to his hospitable dwelling in the neighborhood of the place of my birth.Our road passed through the farm on which I was born, and on which my childhood and youth were spent. All around lay the hills and the mountains, the valleys and streams, which I always carry with me on the map of fond memory. But where were the father, the mother, the brothers and sisters, who watched over my infancy and guided my youth? The hope of the gospel answers, inHeaven! Before the Sabbath, I was conveyed by our worthy Brother Britton, the beloved pastor of the Universalist society, to the dwellings of a number of my kindred and friends, who received me with a welcome corresponding with the esteem in which they were held by me. But some bitter drops were mingled with the sweet cordials of friendship and love. Some deaths had recently removed the beloved and respected, causing those sanctifying sorrows to which love and friendship are heirs. When the Sabbath came, I was conducted by Bro. Britton to the house of devotion, and into the pulpit where he is wont to break the bread of life to the flock of his charge. I was agreeably surprised at beholding the crowded congregation, which filled the house to its utmost capacity with people, who came not only from all parts of Richmond, but from all the adjoining towns. * * * * When I beheld this large assembly, all of which seemed to be moved with one spirit, every countenance presenting the same expression of desire and expectation, I felt oppressed with a sense of my weakness, and lifted my desires to Him who is able to strengthen the weak,and from what seems a scanty portion to feed the multitude.
"I could not avoid a comparison between what I then saw with the condition of the cause of divine truth sixty years ago, when I first attempted to speak in its defence in a private dwelling in this Richmond. Then, but a few could be collected to hear the impartial and efficient grace of the Redeemer proclaimed and defended.
"The Universalist meeting-house in Richmond is quite respectable for size, conveniently constructed, and neat in appearance. The society who worship here is not very numerous, yet I believe more so than that of any other denomination in town. As far as my acquaintance enabled me to judge, I had reason to believe that better disposed disciples of the Divine Master are seldom found. Bro. Britton preaches here one-half of his time. He is a sober, candid, well-educated and faithful pastor, and highly esteemed by his society here, and also in Winchester, where he labors successfully the other half of his time. His family consists of an amiable companion, who knows the importance of her station, and is faithful in the discharge of its duties, and an adopted daughter, who is justly held in high esteem both by those whom she regards as her parents, and by all her acquaintances.
"The Sabbath following my appointment in Richmond, which appointment was on the second Sabbath in October, I preached in Winchester. The day was extremelyrainy and cold, and few comparatively attended meeting. The society here has a very good and convenient house, and its condition at present is said to be promising. The friends of truth here are firm and steadfast, full of hope and confidence, promising perseverance unto the end.
"After my labors on this rainy Sabbath, I found myself much exhausted, and was sensibly unwell. My friends were kind and attentive to me, and the worn-out servant was well provided for. On Wednesday a respectable merchant of Richmond brought me in his carriage to the depot in Fitzwilliam. By aid of Divine Providence I arrived the same day at Lancaster, where I found my wife and our family connections in good health, and my own somewhat improved. Thanks be to God for all his mercies!
"Hosea Ballou."
With other numerous calls upon his time and attention, and in addition to his never-ceasing professional and parochial labors, Mr. Ballou has had at various times overtwentyministerial students, who, for the time being, generally became residents of his family, and who studied the profession with him. To these young men he devoted his powers with the same untiring zeal that characterized his other professional labors. His mode of instruction with these students was peculiar; he went with them always, to use one of his favorite phrases, "to the root of the matter," and was never content until hehad imbued their minds with at least a portion of the realizing sense he himself experienced relative to all the main points of the faith he advocated. His words of advice to them were few, but they were just what each one needed, and no more. He was never fulsome with them, but complimented when it was deserved, checked when it was necessary, and suggested when improvements might be made, but ever inculcating those Christian qualities which shone forth as a burning light in his own loveliness of character. Nearly all of those students are now teachers of the gospel of Christ, men honored for their Christian spirit, and as true disciples of the gospel. Most of these are settled in the New England States; and, as we write, we easily recall the names of numbers who are much respected and beloved by the denomination to which they belong.
In the instruction and guidance of so large a number of candidates for the sacred calling of the ministry, he assumed a very weighty addition to his constant labors. We have seen that his parochial, ministerial, scholastic and editorial duties, were exceedingly onerous, and many would have shrunk from the idea of adding to such an accumulation of labors. But it was a principle of Mr. Ballou's life never to neglect a single opportunity of serving the great and sacred cause in which he had embarked; he felt the full force of his mission, and to it he was constantly ready to devote every energy of his physical and mental nature, every moment of his time, looking to the source of all power for the strength andinspiration necessary to sustain him in his task. Among those who felt a vocation to preach the word of God, there was an earnest desire to pursue its study under the guidance of one who was the father and oracle of the creed they had espoused. They felt that, transmitted through other mediums, many of the rays of light that beamed from his original mind must necessarily be lost; they sought to derive directly from him the clear instructions, the vigorous reasoning, the straightforward mode of investigation, which distinguished him. They wished to be near him, to follow his example in everything pertaining to a Christian's duty. As to himself, he was never so happy as when imparting instruction to those who really desired and sought it. His inquiring and intelligent spirit constantly sympathized with minds of kindred stamp, nor did he ever lose his warm sympathies for youth. With the mottoprogressinscribed upon his banner, he was at heart and in soul as much with the young as the hoary-headed. The child-like simplicity of his nature brought ardent youth very near to his vigorous and green old age, harmonizing the two extremes in a wonderful manner.
In biographical writing there is often an obvious and studied obscurity in regard to some certain portion of the subject's life. The reason for such a course, on the part of the author, is very plain; for there are few public men, who are deemed worthy the notice of a biographical record, who do not look back with regret, and often with deep mortification, to some heedless act of early life;—somedeed wherein the laws of right and wrong have been disregarded, and honorable and upright principles trampled under foot; some thoughtless moment, when the tempter has found them with their armor off, and has led them into contact with evil that has pierced their defenceless bodies, and left there scars deep and rankling, as monuments of the frailty of their nature. In reference to this subject as it relates to Mr. Ballou, there is not one hour of his life which will not bear the scrutiny of strict justice. From his very boyhood he was remarkable for firmness of principle, and unwavering integrity of purpose. Had he a personal enemy in the world, that person could not point to a single act of his life that it would not give us pleasure to chronicle here!
We know that this is saying much, and that the reader will be apt to look back and re-read the last passage; but, while we write this strong language, we wish to be understood as doing so in all calmness and judgment; each word, as written, is duly set down and abided by. Now, we humbly ask, how many are there, among those to whom the world accords the meed of greatness, that can have this language applied to them and their characters in truth? I do not mean to signify that there are no such men; but to say—and the experience and personal knowledge of all will bear testimony to the fact—that such cases are very rarely found in this every-day world.
When we go back and consider Mr. Ballou's early life, the very limited means he enjoyed of mental cultivation, and all the vicissitudes through which he has passed, andcontrast this view of his life with the station which he ultimately filled, and consider the works of his pen and mind, we are led to remember that it has ever been the fate of genius to climb the rugged steeps of fame and honor under the greatest disadvantages; that the brightest gems the exploring mind has brought from the caves of knowledge have been wrought, before they were given to the world, with the poorest means, and the least available tools. It is the circumstance of those very disadvantages that has elicited more mental diamonds than all the schools and richly-endowed institutions in the world.
Though the difficulties and impediments that thus environ the path of genius seem like a heavy stone about the neck, yet they are very often like the stones used by the hardy pearl-divers, which enable them to reach their prize, and to rise enriched. Adversity is to genius what the steel is to the flint,—the fire concealed in the one is brought out only by contact with the other. "Hard is the task," says Coleridge, "to climb into the niches of Fame's proud temple; rough and cold is the road; but rougher and stronger than the rocks that strew it are the men who toil over it. Up they climb from the cottages and lowly homes of the world; over Alps and Alps do they stride, heaving the millstone of persecution from their towering heads, and bursting into the sunshine of glory, despite of all that circumstances could do to keep them down."
The experience of all mankind shows that nothing great can be accomplished without labor. The original differencebetween men who have achieved greatness, and those who have died in obscurity, is, perhaps, after all, very inconsiderable; but the same ideas which in the latter died in their birth for want of culture, in the former, fostered, sustained and developed, by assiduous labor, flourished, and produced both flower and fruit. Uncultivated genius is a melancholy spectacle; it is like the light of a shooting star, brilliant, flashing, but evanescent, dazzling the eye for a moment, and then sinking into outer darkness; while cultivated genius, blazing with a steady, constant and pure flame, dispenses a surer and vivifying warmth far around it,—its light is not that of the meteor, but the planet. All history and all experience go to show that the bane of genius is not adversity, but prosperity. It was not Alpine toils, but "Capuan delights," that decimated the ranks of Hannibal's army, and wasted them away; it is not the cold north wind, but the genial sunshine, that destroys the mighty avalanche. The soul of genius, like the iron of the mine, must undergo the ordeal of fire, ere it can become steel. We might quote many examples of history to prove that this is a universal law of our nature. It is true that some have achieved greatness when their worldly circumstances were easy and affluent; but in such cases the gift of genius has been accompanied by a mental organization which imposed internal struggles, and hence the rule may be said to be without exceptions.
Books, thoughts, deeds, imperishable memorials of their author, so laboriously accomplished, do not die withthe body. No; a thought once expressed never dies;—it must exert its influence, and be the pioneer to many more. Like the gentle ripple upon a calm, placid lake, it starts upon the world a speck, but ceases not to expand its force until it reaches over all extent. Man does not die with the body; as the soul shall live forever, so does the influence he has exerted upon society live after him, and by that influence is he judged. Is not this thought in itself a strong incentive to virtue and well-doing? What man or woman is there, however humble be their sphere of action, but desires most earnestly to leave behind a good and honored name?
An ancient maxim avers that "spoken words fly away, but written ones are permanent." But modern science teaches us that no sound uttered by the lips of man is lost,—that the vibration of the air bears it onward and onward, through all time. How very few there are in this world whose words, written and spoken, are so considered that they are willing to have them consigned to immortality! How few whose utterance of a year old will bear the test of their own judgment! There are moments of existence, generally the closing ones, when all our words and deeds crowd back upon the memory with overwhelming force. There are records of men in seasons of extreme casualties, who have testified to the painful accuracy of memory under such imminent circumstances; and there are few, indeed, who so shape their lives as to be enabled to bear with equanimity a retrospective glance on the panorama of their existence. So to have livedthat, in ceasing to live, they have no reason to blush for their existence, as it regards the daily duty of the Christian.—Alas! in seasons of trial and temptation this duty is often, very often, forgotten; the way-side of life is strewn thick with temptations and allurements to win us from the straight and narrow path. Fruits of golden promise tempt the hand to pluck them, and it is only after tasting that we discover them to be only dust and ashes, like those which grow on the fated shores of the Dead Sea. Happy, then, and worthy of all reverence, is he whose unwavering course through life has ever been onward and upward. The summit gained, whence both the promised land and that of his earthly pilgrimage are in view, he can turn back and say, as his vision embraces the line which his feet have trod so toilsomely, yet ever so cheerfully:—"I have held that path without variation; no temptation has seduced my footsteps to the right or to the left, nor have my lips uttered aught upon that journey which a wish, in this trying moment, would recall!"
There have been, at various times, and in different works, short biographical sketches of Mr. Ballou's life given, from various pens;—these, of course, contemplate only his public career, and are quite brief. In the third volume of the Universalist Miscellany, published in 1846, there appear the following remarks from the pen of the editor, which we subjoin. After giving a short account of his public career, the writer of the sketch referred to goes on to say:—
"We have not time, even if we had the ability, to give a just description of him as a man, a Christian, and a preacher. We will not, however, permit the occasion to pass without offering a word on each of these points.
"We presume no one was ever more highly beloved and truly respected by his acquaintances than Mr. Ballou. Pleasant in his disposition, and honest in his dealings, he has uniformly enjoyed their confidence and esteem. Though he always sustains a becoming dignity of character, and is never light or trifling, he has a pleasantry and shrewdness which render his company peculiarly agreeable.
"As a Christian, Mr. Ballou is firm in faith, and catholic in spirit. While he believes with undoubting confidence what he preaches, and has no respect for what he considers error in doctrine, he never manifests a want of kindness towards those of an opposite faith. We are aware that many entertain a different feeling; but they misjudge him. It is true that for the insincere and hypocritical he has no feeling; and, if he had, he would not be faithful to his ministry.
"As a preacher, Mr. Ballou, for clearness of conception and power of argument, has few, if any, superiors. We have often heard him preach with an unction and power that we have never heard surpassed. But we do not design, in this article, to speak at length of his qualities as a preacher.
"No man ever enjoyed the respect of our denomination more than does Mr. Ballou. He is cordially loved andesteemed by all who believe in the salvation of the world."
These remarks are valued the more highly as coming from one who was intimate with the subject of this biography for a long period, and also as a fair and unprejudiced tribute to his character and life by a brother-laborer in the vineyard of Christ. The number of the Miscellany which contains the remarks we have quoted is embellished by a mezzotint likeness of Mr. Ballou, from a painting by E. H. Conant, and engraved in the finest style of art by Sartain. This picture, however, is inferior, as to likeness, to many others which are preserved of him.
We conceive the following, from the pen of the venerable and beloved Father Streeter, the oldest minister in the Universalist denomination now among us, to be of great interest; the work in hand would be quite incomplete without it. It is the impression of a faithful brother concerning the deceased, from the commencement to the close of his professional career.
"I first saw Father Ballou a short time before the commencement of his public ministry. It was in the town of Vernon, then called Hinsdale, in the State of Vermont. At that time there was but one open and decided Universalist in the place. This solitary champion of the common salvation had long been impressed with a desire to have the gospel of the grace of God, in the fulness of its universality, preached to those of his neighbors who might feel disposed to give it a hearing.An arrangement was at length made with the Rev. David Ballou, an elder brother, to deliver a lecture in the place."The day was designated, and due notice of the meeting given. At the appointed time the preacher came, and Hosea came with him. He was then a tall, slim young man, with an aspect, however, which indicated profound thought, and a deep solemnity of feeling. In his general appearance there was a marked peculiarity, a certain something which arrested and fixed the attention, and which impressed the beholder with the conviction that no ordinary individual was before him,—that the germs of eminence, the genuine elements of intellectual greatness, were embodied within him."Such, at any rate, was the impression among the more inquisitive and discriminating who attended that meeting. At the close of the sermon, Hosea gave an exhortation, and offered the concluding prayer; and this effort was spoken of, especially by the less conservative and bigoted, as one of rare spirituality and power. It became the topic of general remark, and of high encomium."The next day, if I mistake not, he made his first attempt as a preacher of the everlasting gospel, as a public advocate of the sublime doctrine of the salvation of all men 'by the blood of the cross.' It was, as I have often heard him say, a partial failure. The exordium went off very well; but, as he proceeded with the discussion, he often hesitated, now and then came to apause, and was finally obliged to sit down before he had reached the original design of the discourse."He was deeply mortified. He was discouraged. He resolved to abandon all thoughts of the ministry. He felt himself utterly incompetent to the efficient discharge of its high and momentous duties. His friends, however, interfered in the premises. They succeeded in changing his purpose. They persuaded him to persevere in the work of a Christian minister, and it was not long before he made his second attempt at sermonizing. The effort succeeded. It was a complete triumph. The manner in which he acquitted himself was a matter of deep astonishment to his friends, and to all who heard him. In that meeting his lofty and invaluable career finds its legitimate date. It was followed by no faltering, no irresolution, no shrinking from toil, however laborious, or however wearing to the physical frame or to the mental powers."He soon became immensely popular. His fame went forth as on the wings of every wind. From all quarters, far and near, the Macedonian cry, 'Come over and help us,' poured in upon him. These calls, so far as it was possibly practicable, were promptly and cheerfully honored. His labors, of course, became exceedingly abundant,—almost, indeed, without intermission. By day and by night he was found at his post, and zealously doing his great work."He frequently held meetings in the town where he was born and brought up, and in nearly all the townsin that region. His circuits often embraced some hundreds of miles, and in making them he preached almost every day, and not unfrequently several times in a day; and wherever it was generally known that he was to hold forth, immense crowds rarely failed to be present, that they might listen to his testimony. Though a mere youngster, I myself once walked, or rather ran, eight miles and back, to hear him. The news of the meeting did not reach me till somewhat late on Sabbath morning, and no mode of conveyance to the place could be obtained. I was, of course, reduced to the necessity of either losing that rare spiritual treat, or of making my way to it on what Mr. Murray used to call 'apostolical horses;' in other words, on foot. And so great was my anxiety not to lose a word that might fall from his lips, that I forgot to take with me a crumb of anything for a lunch, and so I lost my dinner; or, rather, I had to make it on the sermon and the prayers which I had heard, and it was truly one of the most luscious meals which it has ever been my good fortune to eat. It was devoured with a high relish."The subject of these remarks was the youngest of five brothers, three of whom were preachers; and I once had the privilege of attending a meeting at which four of them, with the venerable father, were present. Hosea was the preacher. He seemed to have made special preparation to meet the peculiarities of the occasion. Contrary to his usual custom, the sermon was written. At the proper time he commenced itsdelivery. The old father—himself a Baptist clergyman of considerable note—and the elder brothers, were seated around him."He was not familiar with the use of a manuscript, and, of course, to read from one he found to be a new and somewhat awkward business. For a little time, however, he persevered in the effort. The experiment was far from being satisfactory either to himself or to the congregation. In spite of him, the eye would quit its hold upon the contents of the paper, and wander about among the dense masses who filled the seats below. These excursions caused him to lose his place. He often found it again with no little difficulty, and sometimes not without a most vexatious delay."At length his patience gave out. Its power of endurance was completely exhausted, and, taking up the manuscript and rolling it between his hands, he deliberately put it in his pocket. 'Brethren,' said he, 'I shall weary your patience with these notes.' This was the end of all hesitancy. He proceeded in the discussion of his subject with his accustomed fluency, and everything flowed onward with the smoothness of oil. It was a season of deep and thrilling interest."The venerable father, though not a Universalist, and with no disposition to become one, listened to the arguments and illustrations of this youngest of his sons with the profoundest attention. I carefully watched the muscles of his face, and plainly saw that mighty emotions were stirring within him. Every now and then alarge tear would start out from the eye, and course down the furrows in his time-worn and manly cheek. It is not strange that such should have been the case, for the discourse was one of peculiar tenderness, and of uncommon pathos and power. Probably it was rarely, if ever surpassed, even by the speaker himself, in the palmiest days of his ministry."Indeed, Father Ballou's pulpit powers were of an exceedingly high order. Taken as a whole, my impression is that I have never known his equal. Never have I seen a man who could hold his hearers so perfectly under his own control. They were entirely at his command. He clothed them in smiles, or melted them to tears, and these things he seemed to do at pleasure. This power embodies the chief component in true eloquence. We often refer, and with profound admiration, to the pulpit talents of Griffin and Beecher, of Channing, and Dewey, and Chapin. And to these men the meed of rare eloquence unquestionably belongs; but still, taken all in all, they fall far below the standard of Father Ballou. Theirs is an eloquence of another and a humbler type. They deal chiefly with the intellect,—with the demands of a literary and refined taste; he dealt more especially with the latent chords of the heart,—moved and controlled the deeper sympathies and more refined affections of the human soul. Relying but little upon books, he went principally upon the profundity and strength of his own resources. The structure of his mind approached very near to an actualintuition. He grasped the whole of a subject at a glance. His powers of analysis were prodigious, and singularly accurate. He stopped not to inquire what others had thought or done. He examined every subject for himself. Like the diver for pearls, he plunged to the depths of divine truth; and, when he had found a precious gem, he rose with it to the surface, held it up before the eyes of the people, and said to them, This belongs to you, and there are more of the same sort where I found it,—enough for you all, and for the millions of the race to which you belong."But it was not in the office of a Christian minister, merely, that Father Ballou excelled. He was admirable in every sphere of life. As a husband and a father, the head of a numerous family, he was truly a model man. He knew how to rule his own household. His word was law, and obedience to it was prompt and cheerful by all around him. There were no family jars in that well-ordered and happy home. The idea, perhaps, is an extravagant one, but I have often thought that his house was the nearest fac-simile of the great mansion of the Infinite Father on High of which I could form a conception."And then as a brother and a friend he had no superior. With the exception, perhaps, of some members of his own family, there is no one living who enjoyed so long and so intimate an acquaintance with him as myself; and it is one of the happiest reflections of my life,that, in all our intercourse, not a single unkind word or emotion ever passed between us."Indeed, I never knew his kindly regards mastered but once, and that was after the endurance of many gross and most cruel provocations. But on one occasion his philosophy and his religion failed him, and then his brow was mantled with the very majesty of wrath, the frowning aspect of a deep and withering indignation. The roll of a moment or two, however, and it was all over. The old saint was himself again, and never, from that time to the day of his death, did I ever hear him utter an unfriendly word in relation to the individual by whom he had been so grossly and wickedly abused. But I must not enlarge. I have no wish to deal in flattery; but, injustice to my own feelings, and to the memory of our departed father, I must say that he was one of the very best men with whom it has been my happiness to associate. Indeed, I doubt whether he had a solitary failing,—so far, I mean, as the convictions and purposes of his own mind were concerned."S. S."
"I first saw Father Ballou a short time before the commencement of his public ministry. It was in the town of Vernon, then called Hinsdale, in the State of Vermont. At that time there was but one open and decided Universalist in the place. This solitary champion of the common salvation had long been impressed with a desire to have the gospel of the grace of God, in the fulness of its universality, preached to those of his neighbors who might feel disposed to give it a hearing.An arrangement was at length made with the Rev. David Ballou, an elder brother, to deliver a lecture in the place.
"The day was designated, and due notice of the meeting given. At the appointed time the preacher came, and Hosea came with him. He was then a tall, slim young man, with an aspect, however, which indicated profound thought, and a deep solemnity of feeling. In his general appearance there was a marked peculiarity, a certain something which arrested and fixed the attention, and which impressed the beholder with the conviction that no ordinary individual was before him,—that the germs of eminence, the genuine elements of intellectual greatness, were embodied within him.
"Such, at any rate, was the impression among the more inquisitive and discriminating who attended that meeting. At the close of the sermon, Hosea gave an exhortation, and offered the concluding prayer; and this effort was spoken of, especially by the less conservative and bigoted, as one of rare spirituality and power. It became the topic of general remark, and of high encomium.
"The next day, if I mistake not, he made his first attempt as a preacher of the everlasting gospel, as a public advocate of the sublime doctrine of the salvation of all men 'by the blood of the cross.' It was, as I have often heard him say, a partial failure. The exordium went off very well; but, as he proceeded with the discussion, he often hesitated, now and then came to apause, and was finally obliged to sit down before he had reached the original design of the discourse.
"He was deeply mortified. He was discouraged. He resolved to abandon all thoughts of the ministry. He felt himself utterly incompetent to the efficient discharge of its high and momentous duties. His friends, however, interfered in the premises. They succeeded in changing his purpose. They persuaded him to persevere in the work of a Christian minister, and it was not long before he made his second attempt at sermonizing. The effort succeeded. It was a complete triumph. The manner in which he acquitted himself was a matter of deep astonishment to his friends, and to all who heard him. In that meeting his lofty and invaluable career finds its legitimate date. It was followed by no faltering, no irresolution, no shrinking from toil, however laborious, or however wearing to the physical frame or to the mental powers.
"He soon became immensely popular. His fame went forth as on the wings of every wind. From all quarters, far and near, the Macedonian cry, 'Come over and help us,' poured in upon him. These calls, so far as it was possibly practicable, were promptly and cheerfully honored. His labors, of course, became exceedingly abundant,—almost, indeed, without intermission. By day and by night he was found at his post, and zealously doing his great work.
"He frequently held meetings in the town where he was born and brought up, and in nearly all the townsin that region. His circuits often embraced some hundreds of miles, and in making them he preached almost every day, and not unfrequently several times in a day; and wherever it was generally known that he was to hold forth, immense crowds rarely failed to be present, that they might listen to his testimony. Though a mere youngster, I myself once walked, or rather ran, eight miles and back, to hear him. The news of the meeting did not reach me till somewhat late on Sabbath morning, and no mode of conveyance to the place could be obtained. I was, of course, reduced to the necessity of either losing that rare spiritual treat, or of making my way to it on what Mr. Murray used to call 'apostolical horses;' in other words, on foot. And so great was my anxiety not to lose a word that might fall from his lips, that I forgot to take with me a crumb of anything for a lunch, and so I lost my dinner; or, rather, I had to make it on the sermon and the prayers which I had heard, and it was truly one of the most luscious meals which it has ever been my good fortune to eat. It was devoured with a high relish.
"The subject of these remarks was the youngest of five brothers, three of whom were preachers; and I once had the privilege of attending a meeting at which four of them, with the venerable father, were present. Hosea was the preacher. He seemed to have made special preparation to meet the peculiarities of the occasion. Contrary to his usual custom, the sermon was written. At the proper time he commenced itsdelivery. The old father—himself a Baptist clergyman of considerable note—and the elder brothers, were seated around him.
"He was not familiar with the use of a manuscript, and, of course, to read from one he found to be a new and somewhat awkward business. For a little time, however, he persevered in the effort. The experiment was far from being satisfactory either to himself or to the congregation. In spite of him, the eye would quit its hold upon the contents of the paper, and wander about among the dense masses who filled the seats below. These excursions caused him to lose his place. He often found it again with no little difficulty, and sometimes not without a most vexatious delay.
"At length his patience gave out. Its power of endurance was completely exhausted, and, taking up the manuscript and rolling it between his hands, he deliberately put it in his pocket. 'Brethren,' said he, 'I shall weary your patience with these notes.' This was the end of all hesitancy. He proceeded in the discussion of his subject with his accustomed fluency, and everything flowed onward with the smoothness of oil. It was a season of deep and thrilling interest.
"The venerable father, though not a Universalist, and with no disposition to become one, listened to the arguments and illustrations of this youngest of his sons with the profoundest attention. I carefully watched the muscles of his face, and plainly saw that mighty emotions were stirring within him. Every now and then alarge tear would start out from the eye, and course down the furrows in his time-worn and manly cheek. It is not strange that such should have been the case, for the discourse was one of peculiar tenderness, and of uncommon pathos and power. Probably it was rarely, if ever surpassed, even by the speaker himself, in the palmiest days of his ministry.
"Indeed, Father Ballou's pulpit powers were of an exceedingly high order. Taken as a whole, my impression is that I have never known his equal. Never have I seen a man who could hold his hearers so perfectly under his own control. They were entirely at his command. He clothed them in smiles, or melted them to tears, and these things he seemed to do at pleasure. This power embodies the chief component in true eloquence. We often refer, and with profound admiration, to the pulpit talents of Griffin and Beecher, of Channing, and Dewey, and Chapin. And to these men the meed of rare eloquence unquestionably belongs; but still, taken all in all, they fall far below the standard of Father Ballou. Theirs is an eloquence of another and a humbler type. They deal chiefly with the intellect,—with the demands of a literary and refined taste; he dealt more especially with the latent chords of the heart,—moved and controlled the deeper sympathies and more refined affections of the human soul. Relying but little upon books, he went principally upon the profundity and strength of his own resources. The structure of his mind approached very near to an actualintuition. He grasped the whole of a subject at a glance. His powers of analysis were prodigious, and singularly accurate. He stopped not to inquire what others had thought or done. He examined every subject for himself. Like the diver for pearls, he plunged to the depths of divine truth; and, when he had found a precious gem, he rose with it to the surface, held it up before the eyes of the people, and said to them, This belongs to you, and there are more of the same sort where I found it,—enough for you all, and for the millions of the race to which you belong.
"But it was not in the office of a Christian minister, merely, that Father Ballou excelled. He was admirable in every sphere of life. As a husband and a father, the head of a numerous family, he was truly a model man. He knew how to rule his own household. His word was law, and obedience to it was prompt and cheerful by all around him. There were no family jars in that well-ordered and happy home. The idea, perhaps, is an extravagant one, but I have often thought that his house was the nearest fac-simile of the great mansion of the Infinite Father on High of which I could form a conception.
"And then as a brother and a friend he had no superior. With the exception, perhaps, of some members of his own family, there is no one living who enjoyed so long and so intimate an acquaintance with him as myself; and it is one of the happiest reflections of my life,that, in all our intercourse, not a single unkind word or emotion ever passed between us.
"Indeed, I never knew his kindly regards mastered but once, and that was after the endurance of many gross and most cruel provocations. But on one occasion his philosophy and his religion failed him, and then his brow was mantled with the very majesty of wrath, the frowning aspect of a deep and withering indignation. The roll of a moment or two, however, and it was all over. The old saint was himself again, and never, from that time to the day of his death, did I ever hear him utter an unfriendly word in relation to the individual by whom he had been so grossly and wickedly abused. But I must not enlarge. I have no wish to deal in flattery; but, injustice to my own feelings, and to the memory of our departed father, I must say that he was one of the very best men with whom it has been my happiness to associate. Indeed, I doubt whether he had a solitary failing,—so far, I mean, as the convictions and purposes of his own mind were concerned.
"S. S."
Mr. Ballou was ever governed by a calm resignation to the decrees of Providence, and as it regarded the subject of his own death,—that thought which is said to make cowards of us all, that theme upon which we are too much inclined to dwell with feelings of dread and fear.
Notwithstanding we are taught by Christian philosophers that life should be a preparation for death, there are very few of us who regard this inevitable event in its proper light. Dr. Young uttered a most profound truth when he said:—
"Each man thinks all men mortal but himself."
"Each man thinks all men mortal but himself."
A man recognizes the certainty of this event's taking place with regard to his neighbor, his friend, and the members of his own family. He feels that the hour of separation from his aged and beloved parents must come; that the brother or sister, whose infant joys and sorrows are his own, whose sympathy has cheered his manhood,must one day be taken from him; that the wife of big bosom must close her eyes in death; that the stern messenger may at any time smite the darlings of their little flock, gathered around his knee in play or prayer; and while they are yet in life he prepares for them the last resting-place in some sheltered spot, some woodland cemetery, where the brightest smile of nature may gild the place of their repose. But he cannot realize that he himself, in the pride of his manhood, the blood coursing cheerily through his veins, a sense of vitality giving an elasticity to every movement, will be called upon to lay down this glorious panoply of life, to feel the bounding blood curdle and become as ice within his veins, and the bright vision of the world fade into nothingness before his glazing eyes. He himself, by some miracle, must be snatched from the universal doom. Thus death finds almost every man unprepared. The very criminal, upon whose ears fall the deep tones of the funeral knell, hopes for a reprieve even at the foot of the scaffold. The soldier cannot think of death as he mounts the "imminent deadly breach;"—his comrades may fall, but he must escape. Thus, in our strange, delusive sophistry, even if we think of death, we seek to alienate the idea from ourselves.
As it regarded the death of any member of his extensive family circle, what a tower of strength and consolation he ever was to the mourning hearts of his children! How calm and serene he would appear when called, in the providence of God, to sympathize with them at the loss oftheir little ones, near and dear to their parental hearts! However deep the distress of soul which exercised the breast of any member of his family by the solemn visitation of death, his venerable presence would always restore peace to the almost broken heart, and make the sunshine radiate once more in the mourner's bosom. He had several trials, and keen ones, too, through which he passed, of this character. His third daughter, Mrs. Whittemore, wife of Rev. Benjamin Whittemore, was called upon to lay one and another of her tender offspring in the grave, until, at last, when the third was placed there, she exclaimed, in the agony of her heart, that she could not leave the tomb where half her loved ones lay in death. But for his presence even reason might have deserted her throne; but his calm and sainted expression, his holy balm of religion, his simple words of hope, were as oil upon troubled waters. So again was he similarly exercised, through visitations of death, in the family of his eldest son, Rev. Hosea F. Ballou, and Rev. Massena B. Ballou; in the family circle of his third daughter, Cassendana, wife of Joseph Wing; and again in the home of his fourth daughter, Elmina, wife of Rev. J. C. Waldo; and also in the circle of the sixth daughter, Fiducia, wife of Abijah W. Farrar.
But more particularly was this power of consolation evinced as exercised in his own family, when the eldest daughter, Fanny, widow of Leonard Holmes, was taken from life. It was the first death that we had known in our immediate circle of brothers and sisters, and the strokehad all the power and force of a first great sorrow. Then his spirit shone forth in all the Christian beauty and loveliness of its influence. Then the majesty and holy power of his religion was evinced in letters of light. And while referring to this family,—for there were six orphan children left behind,—we might appropriately refer to the munificent bounty of his hand towards them; of a home purchased and given to them; and of much fatherly kindness and generosity towards those orphan children. This spirit of resignation he infused largely into his children, who in turn offered to his own spirit that strength of hope and divine reliance which in periods of trial he had imparted to them. This might be said to be particularly the case with Clementina, his fifth daughter, wife of Isaac H. Wright, who, without the domestic care of a family, was enabled to be much and often at home,—especially if any physical illness affected either father or mother,—and who, with others of the children, was with him night and day, constantly, during his last illness, and the closing hours of his life.
We have before referred to the grateful influence his presence exerted in the sick room, and when called upon to lift up his voice with the dying; but so prominent a trait of character, as evinced in his home relations, should not be omitted here. It may be interesting to remark, in these domestic notes, that Mr. Ballou resided, for over thirty years, with his second daughter, Cassendana, and her family, in Boston. A more cheerful and happy home it would be difficult for fancy to paint. There was nocontention there,—no jealousies, no jarring of interests; everything seemed to take its hue from him; and calm domestic joy and serene contentment reigned over all. He seemed to exhale the atmosphere of peace, and no contending elements could withstand the soothing character of his presence.
Mr. Ballou's idea of death, as being but the portal to blissful immortality, may be gathered by the following, from his own pen:
"The idea of immortality makes everything in life valuable. Here we may lay up all our treasures, where neither moth nor rust can corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal. Here God's bright favor will never grow dim, nor will our love and gratitude ever decay. Do you see Hope's celestial form, leaning on her anchor, and, while the raging waves of a restless sea dash against her, she remains unmoved? Do you observe her aspect firm, and her eyes turned towards heaven? And would you wish to cast her down, and wreck her on the quicksands of dismal doubt? Go, brother, to the chamber of sickness, where life's waning embers can no longer warm the dying heart; there hear from cold and quivering lips this hope expressed: 'I long to be with Christ,—I long to be at rest!' Would you blast this amaranthine flower? Would you plant in its stead the nightshade of despair? Listen no longer to the wild suggestions of fancy and wandering imaginations, under the specious pretence of searching after truth. For Jesus is the way, the truth and the life.