It may in truth be affirmed, that in no people have distinctive characteristics been more apparent, and more clearly defined. For the present, therefore, they must stand by themselves as a part of the human family; and they should be treated as a distinct and peculiar race of men. This fact gives to our subject, as before remarked, a romantic and unique character. Finding this people, as we do, so far advanced in a knowledge of the useful and ornamental arts as to preclude any rational inferences in respect to their derivation from previously extant people, and so completely and so widely detached, in a geographical point of view, from all other nations, bearing resemblance in their arts, their social institutions, and in many striking physical peculiarities, as to afford no plausible theory by which to trace their oriental connections, we are left entirely disenthralled from speculative opinions; and, hereafter, we may be allowed to dwell upon novel and animating truths, without being warped by prejudice, or swayed by conjecture.
I likenot your care and sorrow,Care to-day and care to-morrow;I like not your brows of sadness—Give me rather tones of gladness;A heart where laughter loves to dwell,Exclaiming, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'What is fame?—an empty bubble,Nothing worth, though earned with trouble;What are riches?—can mines of wealthBuy happiness—contentment—health?Nor fame nor riches own a spell,To wean me from 'La Bagatelle!'There is a time for every doing,A time for working and for wooing;A time when we can all be gay,Cheat Sadness of her hoped-for prey,Lock monkish Sorrow in his cell,And hey! for 'Vive la Bagatelle!'Then live the dance, and live the song,And live Joy's gay and happy throng;Then live the laugh, the joke, the pun—Live frolic, fancy, sport and fun;And let their song in chorus swell,Its burthen, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'
I likenot your care and sorrow,Care to-day and care to-morrow;I like not your brows of sadness—Give me rather tones of gladness;A heart where laughter loves to dwell,Exclaiming, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'
What is fame?—an empty bubble,Nothing worth, though earned with trouble;What are riches?—can mines of wealthBuy happiness—contentment—health?Nor fame nor riches own a spell,To wean me from 'La Bagatelle!'
There is a time for every doing,A time for working and for wooing;A time when we can all be gay,Cheat Sadness of her hoped-for prey,Lock monkish Sorrow in his cell,And hey! for 'Vive la Bagatelle!'
Then live the dance, and live the song,And live Joy's gay and happy throng;Then live the laugh, the joke, the pun—Live frolic, fancy, sport and fun;And let their song in chorus swell,Its burthen, 'Vive la Bagatelle!'
Le Chansonnier.
NUMBER ONE.
JUBA.
Reader, were you ever in Carolina?—in that part, I mean, where the long, swelling range of the Blue Ridge begins to decline gradually to the fair and fertile plain, 'et molli se subducere clivo?' I shall take it for granted you have not, and do most earnestly recommend you (if you be not prejudiced with tales of fevers dire, which attack only the stranger,) to wend your way thither, if practicable, the ensuing season. Have you been cramped over the counting-house desk till your frame pines for purer air? Seek the mountains; inhale the balmy and bracing breeze from our thousand wood-capped hills; and thank heaven that the air is free. Have you moved in the monotonous and mill-horse round of city life, either in its high or its low dissipation and frivolity, till your heart is sick within you at its hollowness and vanity? There shall you see men of Nature's own make, not starched into a precise formality, nor with souls and limbs alike fettered with artificial restraint, but with nerves, and elastic frames, that do credit to their 'raising,' with quick feeling and buoyant hopes sparkling in their eyes; in a word, Backwoodsmen. Perhaps you may see an individual of the half-horse, half-alligator tribe; but the species is nearly extinct, and physiologists will soon reckonthem among the Megatheria of past ages—the Hipposaurus of America.
If pure air, glorious scenery, deep woods, the sports and pleasures of forest, field, and fell, and the assurance of full welcome, allure you not, I consign you,sans replevin, to Dyspepsia, the city demon, and leave you heartless, hopeless, stomachless, to all the horrors of indigestion.
'T was summer; not this summer, nor last summer, but the first of June, 177-.
The sun, robed in a mantle of crimson cloud, had risen some hour or more over the high hills which branch off from Table Rock. Their round and undulating tops were fast changing from azure to purple, as the light fell gradually upon them, while here and there some massy pine, standing single from his fellows, his dark form in bold relief against the glowing and gorgeous sky, seemed champion of his race, tossing defiance from his waving and mighty limbs. The glorious tint of a southern heaven, liquid and pure, spread in its intensity of hue over the wild and magnificent scenery of the distant landscape. The far summits of lofty mountains, whose rough peaks were dimmed by distance, running in long succession from the north-east, and suddenly breaking in the square and precipitous outline of Table Rock, formed the back-ground of the picture. From the back and sides of these swelling ridges, the land fell gradually in a series of hillocks, some crowned with the primeval forest, as yet untouched by the axe of the settler, some clothed with the verdure of the rising crop, and declining into deep and peaceful valleys, through which the wild mountain streams, girt with a fringe of green, rushed to the lowlands.
On one of the most beautiful of these green knolls stood, at the time of our story, the family residence of Charles Edwards. Embowered, as is the custom of the country, in the verdant embrace of wide-spreading trees, saved from the destruction of their companions of the forest, its white walls and wide piazzas gleamed through their screen, and the bright rays of the sun, reflected from the upper windows, sparkled like fire through the shade. In front of the mansion, a long and broad avenue, composed of the magnolia, pride of our woods, and the white-limbed sycamore, extended to the main road, which passed at some distance from the house.
The free mountain breeze stirred the dark green and varnished leaves, and bore away the powerful perfume of the magnolia, sighing the while among the foliage, as loath to leave so sweet a resting-place. The wild carol of the happy birds came in rich melody upon the listening ear; all was full of a deep and quiet joy; and nothing marred the tranquillity of the scene.
Suddenly, far down in the vale, through which the road wound upward to the hills, rose the notes of a bugle, faint in the distance; borne slowly by, upon the light wind, they faded away in indistinct melody. Again it rang more clear, and soon the full power of the blast passed by, awakening the mountain echoes, which repeated its brilliant tones far in their deep recesses; then the heavy and rolling sound which precedes the approach of cavalry, broke upon the ear, like the muttered growl of the gathering thunder before a storm;while at times the sharp clash of steel scabbard and stirrup, and the ring of bridle bit and chain, as the impatient steeds tossed their proud heads, came nearer and more near. The troop was still concealed by the deep copse that bordered the road; but as they wheeled into the avenue, the sunlight flashed on polished helmets and glittering equipments, and the whole air was stirred by their martial music.
At a rapid pace they advanced upon the house, and filing through the gate, divided into two parties, one of which surrounded the house and the other the 'quarter' where the negroes had their dwellings, to provide against escape. After the usual orders had been given, as to the disposition of sentinels, and the hasty refreshment of men and horses, the officers advanced to the house, and with repeated knocking, demanded admission.
Here we will leave them for awhile, and betake ourselves to better company.
Charles Edwardswas the descendant of a family which early settled in the province, and had long possessed the lands on which he himself lived. His father, who died long ere the seeds of disturbance in these colonies had begun their rapid and stormy growth, was devotedly loyal to his king, had held high office under the crown, and thoroughly imbued his son in his own principles. The more effectually to insure his attachment to the mother land, he was early sent there to be educated, and in the time-honored halls of loyal Oxford, Charles received those impressions which are so apt to be our guides in future life. But he also there learned the birth-right of an English subject, and the correlative duties of a government. He had returned to America, and held high rank in the judiciary, until a few years before the revolution. He had married, and was the father of a son and daughter.
The times which tried men's souls came on, and severe as the struggle was, to rend from his heart-strings all that he had most venerated, he failed not to do it. He gave himself to his suffering country; he cast his all into the scale; and though infirmities prevented him from personally engaging in her cause, his advice and counsel were not wanting. He had sent his son, a noble youth of twenty, to join Sumpter, with such hardy spirits as would follow him, and himself retired to his family mansion, to rouse the western mountaineers.
His daughter—Maria Edwards—how can I describe her? I have seen faces more delicately fair, but never one so calculated to express the varying emotions of the soul. The eye that now slumbered under that dark and beautifully-pencilled brow, and now instinct with life and spirit, flashed with sudden light, how beautiful it was! at one time awing by its deep and pure tranquillity, at another, startling by its brilliancy. Why should I try so vain a task, as to note down the items of that spiritual loveliness which one may feel but not portray? Do you, most imaginative reader, spare me the pains of so futile an attempt; recall to your memory the vision of her who once shone in your eyes the polar star of your affections; the richand perfect form that glided before you in your moments of purest and holiest feeling, while your rapt sight rested entranced upon her every motion, and your head was dizzy with excess of loveliness, and your full soul throbbed in your bounding pulses, as you followed the object of your idolatry. The eye, which beamed upon you with insufferable light, the brightness of whose glance was your life, and which, when it fell upon you, thrilled through blood and bone. The hand, whose light and fairy touch could bind you more strongly than that of a giant, and whose gentle pressure was more to you than all the world beside; the fair, calm brow, on whose polished surface heaven had set the impress of its own purity and innocence. Does memory recall such a being? Such, but more spiritually beautiful, was Maria Edwards. Such she was, worthy to be daughter, sister, bride, of the men of olden times. She was indeed qualified to rouse the sleeping spirit of chivalry into action—into deep, firm, and unchanging devotedness to the cause of truth and principle. Startled from a prophetic reverie of the future independence of her country, by the rude clamor and clash of steel without, she at once comprehended the horror of her situation. Her father, her idolized father, had long been the object of suspicion to the invaders, and nothing but the danger of sending a detachment into the neighborhood of the mountain fastnesses, had prevented him from being long since a prisoner; but now, after the defeat of Sumpter, at Hanging Rock, they deemed the spirit of the country broken. Now the hour of peril was come, and that fair girl braced herself to do and dare. The rich color passed from her face, but resolution enthroned itself on that high, pale brow. She descended calmly to the room where her parents were, and found her mother, with more of woman in her composition, clinging in wild terror to the arms of her husband. Fear knew no place in Mr. Edwards's mind, but the sight of his weeping and fainting wife, as she hung upon him in despair, well nigh unmanned him.
Maria gently unclasped her mother's hand, and twining her own fond arms around her, whispered, 'Mother, if you love my father, let him prepare himself for this emergency.' She felt the appeal, and with a violent effort, subduing her emotion, permitted him to leave the room, though her tearful and straining eyes followed his retreating form with an ardent gaze. Mr. Edwards turned, as he reached the door, for one more look, and for a moment stood irresolute; but the violent knocking without, roused him into action. As he turned away, the clear, calm voice of his daughter thrilled on his ear: 'Remember, my father, you have a name, a country, and a God!' 'I do, I will!' was his energetic reply, as he ordered the servant to open the door, which now rang with redoubled blows.
It opened, and the venerable form and silver hair of the old man stood in strong contrast with the inflamed features and violent gestures of the officer who commanded the party. Violent and ruthless as he was, he retreated with involuntary respect; but soon recovering his roughness of manner, he demanded why an officer of the king was forced to stand so long before the door of his subject.
'I thank heaven, Sir,' said Mr. Edwards, 'thatyourKing has few subjects here, and among those few, you are much mistaken if younumber me. You are the first, Sir, who has ever had occasion to impeach the hospitality of my house; the first whom I could not heartily bid welcome.'
'Tis very well, Sir,' replied Captain G——, 'but, by Heaven! I carry with me the means of making myself at home, and scorn to accept as a favor the forced hospitality of a hoary and ungrateful traitor, when I can command it as my due. As long as rebellion finds a place in this land, I am at free quarters. You, Sir, and your treasonable practices, are well known; and you will prepare yourself to accompany me, within this hour, to meet the doom of a traitor.'
'Show me your warrant, even from your illegal authorities, if indeed you cover your violence under the pretence of law.'
'Here is one warrant,' said the officer, touching his sword, 'and there are fifty more without, if you wish to see them.'
'A most convincing authority, Sir, and one which, as I cannot resist, I must yield to. A few minutes to prepare, and then——'
'Well, Sir, yourself and family must be ready within an hour. Collins, let the men dismount, and take care of their horses; and hark ye, put careful fellows round the house, and see if you can get any of the dark skins to join you. Promise freedom, you know, and all that; and when we get to head quarters, we will see about a shipment to Jamaica. Do you hear me, Sir?
'Yes, please your honor,' said the orderly; 'but we have tried the niggers every way, and they won't join; they say they'd rather stay in their sarvitude.'
And such was the fact. To the slaves of the southern states, the British, as a master-stroke of policy, offered their freedom. Many accepted it, joined the army, and were regularly 'divisioned' off to the West Indies, there, in the sugar plantations, to find their boasted liberty. But by far the greater number preferred their old and kind masters, and stood by them to the last. Such were the negroes on Mr. Edwards's estate, many of whom would have given their lives freely for their master, and their adored 'young missis.'
When Mr. Edwards communicated to his wife and daughter the order for their immediate departure, the one received it with tearful resignation and joy, that in weal or wo they were not to be divided, the other, with a high determination to let nothing pass which gave hope of relief. Suddenly it burst upon her mind that Sumpter could not be far off, though of late he had been concealed, she knew not where. She determined to communicate with him, well knowing that his acquaintance with the country would enable him to intercept the troop, ere they could return to camp.
In order to effect her purpose, she called Juba, her father's known and trusty servant, who had watched over her brother's boyish footsteps, and was heart and soul devoted to the family. To him she unfolded the necessity of immediate communication, with her brother, and leaving it to his ingenuity to devise a way of escape, hastened him on his journey. The poor fellow had come into the room with deep sorrow depicted on his swarthy lineaments; but as his mistress sketched her plan, and showed him how much she depended on his shrewdness and faithful attachment, his dark face rapidly changed to a joyous and happy expression, and the tears rolled down,as he vowed never to cease his exertions till his master's family were once more safe.
His first attempt to glide off unperceived, was frustrated by the sentinels, who, with presented arms, bade him stand back. He then returned to the house, and taking on his head a large water-bucket, proceeded, carelessly whistling, to a spring on the edge of the cleared land. It was situated near the crest of a small hill, which, though open and cleared upon one side, was upon the other covered with forest, interlaced with the thousand wild vines and thick bushes which form the undergrowth of our woods. Here, too, a sentinel had been placed, and our friend Juba advanced dancing up the ascent, swaying his body to preserve his equilibrium. The sharp challenge of the sentry, enforced by the rattle of his musket, as it was thrown up to his shoulder, warned him to stand.
Ki! massa; dont shoot poor nigger, Sà;' and he recoiled in well-acted fear. The soldier, laughing at the effect of his order, called to him: 'Well, my dark beauty, what are you at now? You can't pass here.'
'No, Sà; on'y want lilly water, Sà, for the buckra won't drink none, Sà, but from dis 'ere spring?'
'Oh, well, if that's all, come, and fill your tub, there; and be quick, d' ye hear?'
Juba soon filled his tub, and apparently struggled to lift it, but failing to do so, applied very respectfully to the good-natured soldier to help him. This he readily consented to do; and holding his firelock in one hand, and grasping the handle of the tub with the other, raised it to the height of his shoulder. This was what the wily Juba wanted; and rapidly turning the whole contents over the dragoon, he saluted him with the bottom of the tub upon his head, with such force as to drive out the boards, and leave the hoops and staves dangling round his neck, a new order of merit; and then gaining the woods, by a succession of rapid bounds, he sped away with the quick and light steps of the mountain deer. The soldier, who was somewhat staggered by the blow, rapidly recovering his carbine and presence of mind, pulled trigger on him before he reached the covert. But the powder, thoroughly wetted, refused to ignite; and before he could re-prime, Juba was far out of reach and sight. 'Well,' said the Englishman, 'here's a pretty go! I may as well fire, though, and when the guard comes out, make the best of my story. The cursed cucumber-shinned rascal! How his bandy legs twinkled, as he ran!'
Upon the discharge of his piece, he was immediately relieved, and conducted to the captain, who, after many an oath, ordered to sound to horse instantly, and make the best of their way back. The prisoners were placed in the centre, the files formed, and at a rapid trot they entered on the long, rough, and mazy road by which they came. To one alive to the beauty of forest and mountain scenery, every part was in the highest degree interesting. Here, they passed along the side of the mountain, bearded and rough with pine and cedar; there, in the deep declivity, welled calmly out the clear and peaceful stream, which, after its tossing and troubled course down its rocky bed, seemed glad to be at rest. The sighing of the windamong the tree tops, and the indescribable murmur which proceeds from a deep forest, even when the winds are at peace, grew more full and loud, as the wild breeze increased, waving aside the lofty and matted branches, and startling the sombre retreats of the dark woods with rare glimpses of sunshine. Now and then the antlered deer bounded from the thicket, and clearing the road with high and curving leap, noiselessly glanced away on the mountain side; or the black snake, the racer of his tribe, roused from his basking in the sun, rapidly wound his way among the dry and rustling leaves, his brilliant eye flashing and beaming in his swift and tortuous course. Here the creeper of the southern woods, having mastered, in its parasitic grasp, some tall and stately tree, flung out its crimson, trumpet-shaped flowers, and fantastic drapery, across the rough path. All was hushed in noon-day silence, save the occasional note of the mocking-bird in the wild jessamine, or the harsh cream of the lordly and lonely eagle, as he circled, on broad vans, high in the quiet air.
The party had just descended into one of the verdant dells which issued from the mountain side, and the leading files gradually mounted the ascent. The officer in advance turned in his saddle, raised his arm, and was about to speak, when the sharp crack of a rifle rang upon the silence. He struggled a moment to retain his seat, but vainly, and fell to the earth, with a deep groan. His followers fell back, and watched in anxiety the spot from which the report had come. Captain G——, who by no means wanted courage, instantly ordered them to unsling their carbines, and fire upon the first suspicious movement. Some seconds passed by in perfect stillness, when a slight rustling in the brushwood drew the attention of the troopers; but ere they could come to a 'present,' again, from the top of the bank, streamed the deadly shot of the backwoods rifle; and as the slight smoke cleared away, the vacant saddles and bloody forms below, told of their dreadful accuracy of aim.
'First and second files! to the front! charge!' shouted the captain. 'On them, my boys! Give them your carbines, and then cold steel!'
The brave fellows dashed forward, under cover of their own fire, and spurred for a close encounter, knowing well that their only hope was to dislodge their half-armed antagonists. But of the bold and brave men who rushed up that trifling ascent, how few reached the top! The deadly aim, and rapid and continuous discharge of the countrymen, presented an insurmountable obstacle.
They recoiled once more, in confusion and dismay. Again and again their undaunted captain brought them to the charge, and with a last desperate effort, he and some of his bravest attained the top, though with terrible loss. Then the wild faces and rough hunting-shirts of the backwoodsmen appeared, as with heavy rifles, clenched in their sun-burnt and sinewy hands, they rushed with a loud shout to the close. The broad-swords of the troopers flashed over their heads, and descended with full sway, only to shiver on the solid breech of the rifle. One by one they fell, struck down by blows which no skill could parry, and the captain himself, with blade shivered to the hilt, only escaped to his rear-guard, close followed by the exulting mountaineers.
'Stand firm, my lads!' said he; 'I know how to keep off their cursed bullets.' So saying, he seized Miss Edwards, and placing her on the saddle before him, called to his men to retreat as fast as possible, and keep him between them and the enemy; and thus reining back his managed steed upon the narrow path, and with pistol pointed at the fair girl's head, he shouted, with loud and scornful tone: 'Now, dogs, one step nearer, one bullet more, and this ball passes through her brain.' 'Fire, for heaven and your country's sake!' shrieked the noble girl; 'rid the world of this miscreant, though I perish with him!'
Many an arm which might have matched that of Hercules, trembled and quivered like an infant's; many an eye, which could mark down the squirrel from the loftiest pine, was dimmed and dazzled by unwonted emotion. Often was the unfailing rifle raised, but with slow and tremulous hand, which precluded any certainty of aim; for the most daring marksman felt a dread lest his ball might, by some slight deviation, lodge in the bosom of that fair maiden.
Deep was the gloom and anguish on the brows of the countrymen, as the stern Englishman, laughing in scorn, slowly retreated toward the mouth of the defile. He well knew, that if once clear of the woods, he would have little to fear, as a few hours' hard riding would put him out of reach. To this was added a feeling of revenge, in bearing away that fair prize; for her elevated beauty had raised a deep passion in his licentious bosom; and he resolved that nothing but death should make him resign her. Full of these wild and varying emotions, triumph, revenge, and love, alternately raging in his bosom, he proudly looked defiance on his baffled enemies, as his well-managed steed stepped slowly back to the entrance of the dell. He had now nearly attained the open and clear glade, and was already enjoying in anticipation the security won by his daring attempt, when he was most disagreeably interrupted by a sudden jerk, and felt himself falling from his saddle, his arms close pinioned in a powerful grasp.
It was our faithful friend Juba, who, when he perceived the purpose of the Englishman to interpose his young mistress as a shield between the parties, stood for a moment aghast at the attempt: then turning to his young master, who was looking on in despair, he exclaimed:
'Ki! he t'ink he tote off young missee so! Please God, hedon'td'ough!' And bounding into the brush, on the side of the mountain, he passed rapidly, and unperceived by the retreating troopers, and ascending a large and spreading oak, whose huge branches overhung the road, he ensconced himself directly over the path, and crouching like the catamount, waited his opportunity. The dragoons passed at a rapid pace, and as they attained the open ground, halted at some distance, to await their officer. He came slowly on, his proud lip curled with scorn; when, as he passed under the low limb, Juba dropped upon the crupper of his horse, and grasping his wrists with the energy of intense passion, they both rolled over to the ground, the pistol going off in the fall. The dragoons, on seeing their officer fall, rushed forward to liberate him, while the mountaineers dashed onward to the rescue of the fair girl, led by herfiery-footed brother. She, in the mean time, faint and dizzy-headed, extricated herself from the horse, and staggering to the side of the road, was relieved by insensibility from the horrors of the new combat.
One of the troopers, perceiving her situation, rushed suddenly forward, at full speed, to consummate a life of villany by the deep guilt of her murder. He careered rapidly on, and there was every prospect that he would complete his fiendish purpose, before the woodsmen could come up. But his doom was sealed. One who had watched her budding infancy, was there; and as his steel waved in the air, and his arm was raised to strike the fatal blow, the ball which never missed its mark, passed though his heart!
The dragoons, unwilling to abide that storm of fire, and hopeless of success, fled. Still the English captain and Juba rolled upon the earth, in deadly contest, till at last the Englishman, with a desperate exertion of his great strength, shook off the grasp of the black, and rose to his knees. Juba, well-skilled in ground-fighting, instantly caught him by the collar, and suddenly drawing up his knees to his bosom, as he lay upon his back, and placing his feet upon the Briton's breast, with a violent exertion, sent him whirling over the edge of the precipice which bordered the road.
The black bounded upon his feet, and with a loud shout of triumph, watched the rapid descent of his antagonist. Helpless, and stunned with the violence of his fall, the body of the Englishman rolled over rock, and through the thin bushes, the rapidity of the descent momentarily increasing, till at last he soused into a bed of the blackest and softest mud on the edge of the mountain stream. There Juba left him, and turned to his adored mistress, whom he found insensible in the arms of her brother. In inarticulate and trembling grief, the poor fellow watched the slow return of life; and many a swarthy face worked with emotion, when they heard his joyful exclamation, as the blood returned to her cheek, and her eyes opened on her father, mother, and brother.
'Are we then safe? Am I indeed once more in your arms, my dear parents? Oh, it was a fearful vision!' murmured the poor girl.
'You are safe, my own dear sister!' said her brother; 'and that you are so, you must thank Juba.'
'It is to you, then, my good Juba,' said her father, 'that we all owe so much. Come here, not to your master, for you are free, but to your friend.'
Juba approached, and kneeling before his former owners, murmured in broken voice, that he did not wish to be free, if he could not stay with his master and mistress.
'You shall, Juba; we all owe you too much, ever to part with you. But where is your captain?'
'He gone rollin' down, head-ober-heel, till he 'tick in de branch. Ki! he black now as eber was a nigger; and he fine red coat an't much ob it lef.'
Several of the woodsmen descended, and fished the poor officer out of the mud, though not, perhaps, in the most gentle manner;and having restored him to his senses, by a copious ablution 'in flumine vivo,' they left him under guard, to digest his rage and mortification as best he might.
An opportunity of exchange soon occurring, he returned to his chief; and there was no name more dreaded and hated, except that of Tarleton himself, in the latter part of the war, until his career of violence was cut short, with that of many of his comrades, by Morgan's mounted riflemen, at the battle of the Cowpens. The younger Edwards returned with his brave associates, and after the war, the family circle once more united, enjoyed that happiness, the universal fruit of peril and danger firmly met and gallantly overcome.
Our friend Juba flourished for many a long year, in undiminished warm-heartedness to the last; and when time had powdered his head, and deadened the ebony lustre of his hue, he would tell of the perils of his youth, among which the above made no small figure.
Maria Edwards, the beautiful and true-hearted, met with one who appreciated her; and the bliss of a long life was enhanced by the recollections of her early sufferings in the backwoods.
A. H.
Ourthoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail,Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay;Though darkened in this poor life by a veilOf suffering, dying matter, we shall playIn truth's eternal sunbeams; on the wayTo heaven's high capitol our car shall roll;The temple of the power whom all obey,That is the mark we tend to, for the soulCan take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.I feel it—though the flesh is weak, I feelThe spirit has its energies untamedBy all its fatal wanderings; time may healThe wounds which it has suffered; folly claimedToo large a portion of its youth; ashamedOf those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,And soar on wings of lightning, like the famedElijah, when the chariot rushing by,Bore him, with steeds of fire, triumphant to the sky.We are as barks afloat upon the sea,Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled,The spirit, whose strong influence can freeThe drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead,Cold night of moral darkness; from the bedOf sloth he rouses at her sacred call,And kindling in the blaze around him shed,Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall.And gives toGodhis strength, his heart, his mind, his all.Our home is not on earth; although we sleepAnd sink in seeming death awhile, yet thenThe awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leapTo life, and energy, and light, again;We cannot slumber always in the denOf sense and selfishness; the day will break,Ere we for ever leave the haunts of men;Even at the parting hour, the soul will wake,Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take.
Ourthoughts are boundless, though our frames are frail,Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay;Though darkened in this poor life by a veilOf suffering, dying matter, we shall playIn truth's eternal sunbeams; on the wayTo heaven's high capitol our car shall roll;The temple of the power whom all obey,That is the mark we tend to, for the soulCan take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal.
I feel it—though the flesh is weak, I feelThe spirit has its energies untamedBy all its fatal wanderings; time may healThe wounds which it has suffered; folly claimedToo large a portion of its youth; ashamedOf those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,And soar on wings of lightning, like the famedElijah, when the chariot rushing by,Bore him, with steeds of fire, triumphant to the sky.
We are as barks afloat upon the sea,Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled,The spirit, whose strong influence can freeThe drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead,Cold night of moral darkness; from the bedOf sloth he rouses at her sacred call,And kindling in the blaze around him shed,Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall.And gives toGodhis strength, his heart, his mind, his all.
Our home is not on earth; although we sleepAnd sink in seeming death awhile, yet thenThe awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leapTo life, and energy, and light, again;We cannot slumber always in the denOf sense and selfishness; the day will break,Ere we for ever leave the haunts of men;Even at the parting hour, the soul will wake,Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey take.
J. G. Percival.
NUMBER TWO.
Itcannot be denied, that the congregational independency of New-England, established by her puritan ancestry, has run a race of some steadiness. The moral imprint of the pilgrim fathers was too deep, not to last long, and their institutions too well devised, to be easily disturbed. But look to the Unitarian defection, of which her great metropolis is the centre, and the first foot-marks of the banished immigrants the strongest hold! Look to Harvard University, founded in the faith, nurtured by the prayers, and endowed by the money, of the pilgrims, and of their descendants, now transferred to another and far different faith. We allude to this change, as historians simply, and not as theological censors. Look to the whole community, originally organized as a religious society, on the basis of a theory, that its religious character should be abiding, and its religious authority supreme, and lo! its religious establishment has long since been thrown to the winds, and all religious organizations become secondary and dependant; viewed with jealousy, and denied all participation in affairs of state! Look at her theology, originally Calvinistic of the highest school, and behold the gradations through which it has passed! Unitarianism has taken her original and strongest posts; the Edwardian metaphysical school has had its day; Hopkinsianism is out of date; and at this moment, a system y'cleptNew Divinityis in full rage! We stay not to tell of the Taste and Exercise scheme, and others already forgotten; or to mark the career of Wesleyanism, Free-will-ism, and nameless et ceteras. Her primitive catechisms, alas! where are they?—and in what account are they held? Look at her pastors, originally as gods in the land, trampled under foot by a new regime of itinerating society-agents, whose will is law, and whom to oppose is sedition and undoing!
Neither can it be denied, that Presbyterianism has had some character and force. We should almost as soon have believed, had we been flourishing some fifty years ago, that Ben Nevis, or Ben Lomond, or Salisbury-Crag, or Arthur's Seat, or any other rock of Scotland, in highland or low, would have turned to sand, and been blown away by the winds, or melted down into mud, mingling with the lochs, or dissolving into snow, or evaporated into clouds, as that the religion of John Knox should have yielded to circumstances, and been modified. But 'time and chance happeneth to all,' and to every thing. Puritanism hath yielded; and why, philosophically speaking, should not its cognate Presbyterianism? Wonderful to relate, the alphabetical symbols of the title-page of her Confession of Faith and Directory seem to be dancing in the eye, and menaced with some new combination; and the original imprint is already gone. The body of the Presbyterian Church of the United States is transformed into another body. The tide of innovation rolls onward irresistibly. The wheels of the chariot of reform spins to the eye and ear like the top that has just been sprung from the fingersof the watchful little urchin; or buzz invisible, like the round tire of the spinster, as she draws out the forming thread from between her thumb and first digit, conscious of her powers, and dancing to and fro with the airs of a sprite. A machinery is in motion, before which apparently the Presbyterian Church can no longer stand, except by the secession of a minority, and the loss of her Seminaries and endowments. The 'Sauve qui peut!' has not yet in fact come to our ears; and it is barely possible that the retreat of a fragment of her hosts may yet be conducted with some appearance of order. As a matter of fact, Congregationalism, in its modified condition, and pregnant with enterprise and change, hath stolen into her ranks, seized her flag, and now commands her legions. It may not be quite fair; nevertheless, triumphant invasion, like successful insurrection, may laugh at such moral casuistry, and go on its way rejoicing. We have nothing to do with these facts, except as they bear on our present design of showing how the elements of change have been operating among us, in what forms they are developed, and to indicate their probable origin.[2]
The Episcopal Church of the United States, as is well known, is a fragment of the Church of England—has adopted in substance the liturgy and discipline of her parent, maintains her consistency by attachment to these forms, and bids fair to go on without change under an ecclesiastical polity adapted to the state of society in this country.
Of Wesleyanism, we have little to say, except in compliment of its tolerable consistency. No hierarchy has ever been formed on earth, at least in Christendom, of a more unlimited power of control. And so long as they come down and adapt themselves to popular impulses, they may do well. Mankind will never rebel against government, however concentrated and energetic its constitutional powers, so long as it humors, and never crosses, their prejudices. We mean no disrespect by the comparison; but we suppose it will hardly be denied, that Methodism began, and has principally been supported, by aggressive movements on territories previously occupied, though not perhaps sufficiently well improved, by other Christian sects; and a close and rigorous discipline is indispensable to the enterprises of invaders. Like as it happens to all conquerors, who seem likely to maintain their ground, for the sake of peace, the world has accorded to them the dominion they have acquired. The fact that Methodism is Methodism still, in the midst of the turmoil of revolution that is going on in our religious world, and that its former characteristic wildness rather subsides into the airs of sobriety, while the confusion of fanaticism rages in other ranks, where the boast of comparative order was once cried as a badge of honor, would seem to demonstrate, that the great and fundamental principle of government which the Methodists have built upon, hath a conservative power in it worthy to command respect.
The Baptists are a thoroughly radical denomination, with the exception of the one great principle that binds them together. Thatis forever conservative in the direction of its own single aim, which is supported by a plausible argument in the lower regions of mind; and until the mass of mankind shall have become sufficiently enlightened to escape from the dominion of one idea, it is likely to have considerable influence. Bating this element, no class of Christians are more susceptible of being driven to and fro by the shifting blasts of fanaticism, and none have enacted wilder parts throughout our borders. A ministry they have, in fact, because it is necessary; but they repudiate the principle of such an order descending by ministerial appointment in their own line, and by their own sole ordination. In principle, if we rightly understand them, every member of their society is on the same level.
We might characterize other minor religious bodies that have enacted their parts in our land, and had some influence. But these to which we have glanced, aregentes majoresamong our sectarian clans; not, however, to speak disrespectfully, but merely to indulge in some variety and sport of figure. These, it will be granted, have taken the lead in those religious enterprises which have recently signalized our history, and among these the descendants of the puritans have not been the least distinguished.
If there be any truth and faithfulness in the portraiture of puritanical character, drawn in the review of Milton's posthumous writings, in the Edinburgh Review, some few years ago, it would appear, that a belief in the marvellous was one of its prominent traits. The faith of a puritan always had power to call to its aid celestial agencies; and that which goes deeply into the belief of enthusiastic religionists, is likely to come to pass in some manner to satisfy their dreams and visions. If they believe in witches, they will have them; in ghosts, they will muster in throngs; and their existence will be so well attested, that incredulity itself must yield to the verdict. The faculty of high and mysterious communion with heaven, might be set down as one of the definitions of the genius of puritanism. So was it in the mother country; so was it in New-England. Cotton Mather's writings are a conscientious record of facts; of facts, the existence of which the reverend author never entertained a doubt, and which was the creed of the time.
We may add, there was a spice of the faith of miracles in the puritanical creed; miracles in the natural and moral world. Was not a generation that could swallow such marvellous accounts as Cotton Mather's and the like, easy of faith?
And it should be borne in mind, that this disposition was an all-powerful element of the moral world in that age; that it naturally descended from father to son; and that ages must necessarily pass away, under any modifying causes whatever, before it could be entirely effaced. New-England, and some other parts of our country, had long reposed under the shadow of this great tree. Its fruit dropped into their lap, and they lived on it.
Neither is it any less notable, that this character has been principally developed in the religious form. The civil right of religious liberty was, indeed, the original element of strife, which stirred up the action of religion in extravagant modes. But religion was the ruling passion. It was religion that brought the puritan emigrantsto this country; religion was the basis and soul of their empire; religion was in all their thoughts, and feelings, and plans. But it was a religion of their own order; a religion with their own characteristic peculiarities; a religion asserting what might be called a rampant freedom; a religion paying great respect to the dreams of enthusiasts; which had learned to trample on authority civil and ecclesiastical, and which, ever after, could ill brook control of any description.
It was also a religion of enthusiastic expectation. Based on the marvellous, infused with the marvellous, it could be satisfied with nothing but the marvellous. Impatient of being controlled, it was equally impatient to use control. Like the abolitionists of this hour, it distilled principles up to the highest possible proofs of the art, and then swallowed and administered them, to turn men's brains. 'Slavery is wrong,' say these more modern theorists; 'therefore, be it enacted, there shall be no more slavery from this moment.' 'Christianity is designed to bring in the millenium; therefore,' reasoned the puritan fathers, 'we will have it forthwith. We will set up society, in this new world, on this model.' The theory was, as we suppose, that a code-millenial would bring about the millenium. Certain it is, that the fathers of New-England attempted, by statutory provisions, to enact a religious and perfect state of society. They, doubtless, believed it could be done. Confident of the correctness of the theory, the failure was, probably, regarded as a mistake, or some defect in the mode of its application; or, as owing to some adverse influences; for, from that day to this, there has been prevalent, by fits, a sort of religious epidemic, more or less extensive, in our community, developing symptoms of a like faith, that it is possible, by a single stage, to pass from all our imperfections to perfection; and from the immediate conversion of our own country, to the immediate conversion of all the world. In no part of the world, and in no age, has there been so much abortive and disastrous scheming for moral reform, and religious enterprise, as among us. The original theory of a politico-religious state of society, undertaken by the fathers of New-England, as we need not say, was necessarily abandoned at an early period. A brief experiment proved it to be impracticable. But this leaven of undefined and enthusiastic expectation has ever been at work. It has appeared, in various forms, in almost every religious sect known in the country, older or younger, larger or smaller.
In the revivals of the time of Jonathan Edwards, and onward, it was confidently believed that the millenium had dawned. The deep religious feeling of the time was every where pervaded by this sentiment—an innocent state of mind, indeed, and very romantic. It was the natural fruit of the stock which had borne and matured it. Good as was the tree, in the main, these faulty excrescences were constantly shooting forth. The sap was deeply infused with a diseased virus, and the roots were planted in a not uncongenial soil. And the worst of it was, that the culture, for the most part, kept in check the better qualities, and nourished the more vicious. As much reverence as we have been taught, and accustomed to feel, for the name, character, and talents of Jonathan Edwards, it can hardly bedenied, that he was greatly influenced by the peculiar atmosphere of his time. 'Would to God,' many, doubtless, will say, 'that the theologians of our day had more of his spirit!' To which we cordially say, 'Amen!' Were not the Tennents enthusiasts? And with all the eloquence of Whitfield, had he not many of the qualities of a ranter? Admitting that he gave an impulse to the religious action of the age, what has been the subsidence? In England we have the two hives of the Tottenham Court and Moorfields Chapels, not very productive of honey. The Lady Huntington Connection scarcely subsists by a semi-conformity to the Church of England. In this country, the vehemence of its career left behind it such fruits, and developed itself in such forms, as the Davenport faction. Doubtless there may be a different opinion as to this connection, as cause and effect; but with us it seems to be legitimate. Had Whitfield been as skilful a tactician as Wesley, and organized his corps, he might have left the field in a better plight. But the effect of his career was, to set things loose, with no abiding power to regulate them. Separatism, disorder, and devastation, were the natural consequence. That Whitfield did good, who will deny? That his mode of operation was a germ of evil, is scarcely less evident. To balance these influences, and estimate the difference, is a nicer task than we can presume to undertake. This much, however, we will venture to say: that no calculation can determine this question, which does not weigh well the importance of order to the welfare of society, in the long run. The time, we believe, has come, even in our country, when this item of moral arithmetic is getting to be appreciated.
Come we, then, after so long a discussion, to the more astounding facts of our recent religious history. If, indeed, it should be thought or said, there are more things in heaven and earth than our philosophy has dreamed of; though doubtless some will account us as having made good search, and perhaps will accuse us of too much philosophy; or, if they who may feel any urgent reasons for rejecting our conclusions, shall aver, that we have labored in vain to establish a connection where no connection exists, which we partly opine may happen, not so much from a consciousness of weakness in our argument, as for the anticipated convenience of our adversaries; we nevertheless think, that all concerned will agree in the necessity of philosophizing a little on the phenomena subjected to our consideration. There must be a cause for these great and impressive developments; and the cause lies deep in the past. Human society, in the aggregate, never comes to such results, independent of antecedent stages and influences, that are competent to produce them; and at no time can they be so distinctly traced, as when the long line of events which has at last brought on a crisis, is laid under the eye of the observer, and is capable of being calmly examined.
We pause, then, in this place, to ask: 'What is the more prominent and distinctive religious symptomatic feature of our age and country?' If we may credit the press, in all its disclosures, we are strongly inclined to the conviction, that all the sober men in our religious world, of all sects, will agree in the verdict, that it is a something, which can be defined by no single and comprehensive term so well as that ofCharlatanry. The science of history seems to havebeen discarded, and all professional advice growing out of it in a great measure has gone into contempt. A regular education, based on the experience of ages, is supplanted by schools of quackery, of mushroom growth, each propounding its own specific for the cure of all the social and moral evils that have visited, and which are now afflicting, mankind.
We mean not to quarrel with the advocates and promoters of revivals, the more sober and more reasonable class of which is to be found in our history; nor to deny that there is a philosophy in the theory of them, when properly chastened and regulated, which can be vindicated by scripture, and the social character of man. But who does not know, that this theory has been over-worked in the application, and produced the most disastrous results? Because some apparent good had come out of public religious awakenings, it was very natural for ardent religionists, ministers, and laymen, to desire them more frequently and extensively. Hence the inquiry into their causes, or immediate occasions; and hence the gradual formation and application of a theory, as the means of producing them. The same disposition which began to theorize, continued to theorize; and as the common proverb hath it, 'Practice makes perfect,' so in this matter, practice has at least altered the theory, and continued to alter it in every hand that took it up. Some twenty years ago, or less, as is very well known, the great and leading revivalist of the day theorized so minutely, not to say extravagantly, as to be scrupulously exact in the selection of time and circumstance for his operations; in the kind of room; preferring any other rather than a church; any place rather than a pulpit; in the arrangement of seats, in the grouping of his hearers, in the position and number of lights, etc., etc. The physical-mechanical was as much a study as the mechanical-moral. Like the lawyer who could not pursue his argument without the thread which he had been accustomed to have on his finger, no more could this revivalist operate with effect, independent of his own peculiar machinery. When this came to be generally understood, the charm of it vanished with the discovery. The power of this genius consisted in the art of insinuation—we mean not in the bad sense—but in coming at the mind and affections in a still and quiet way, by the action of an unperceived machinery, in connection with Bible truth. It is to be observed, that the theory then prevalent among the great body of those who sympathized with these transactions, was, that this was the way to subdue and convert the world; that every thing else should yield to, and fall in with, this. It was a religious catholicon. For a considerable time the most stirring portions of our religious world were under this species of influence. It was a particular and new form of revivals; and we know not why it should have been distinguished from that which immediately succeeded, by calling the latter a system of 'new measures,' except as one differed from the other. Both, certainly, were new, and both prescribed one capital and fundamental principle-'the anxious seat.'
But another genius soon after arose, of a very different order; a mighty mind of the giant race; a Boanerges—a very 'son of thunder;' the blaze of whose career eclipsed the twinkling light of hispredecessor, and the noise of whose artillery silenced all former noises of the same denomination. 'He went not up to Jerusalem to those who were apostles before him;' but he 'went down into Arabia.' None can boast of having been his teachers. His genealogy is not reckoned. He was a priest of his own order, of his own making, and after his own model.
The system of more gentle measures had begun to decline and to lose its force; the arts of the machinery were getting to be understood. Something more startling and more astounding was demanded for the exigencies of the time: