University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

The Shaker Society at Hancock in
Massachusetts, is one of the eldest
establishments of this sect, which has
extended its limits far beyond the anticipations
of the “unbelieving world,”
and now boasts that its outposts have
advanced to the frontiers of civilization
—to Kentucky, Ohio, and Indiana, and
exults in the verification of the prophecy,
“a little one shall become a thousand,
and a small one a strong nation.”

The society is distributed into several

families of a convenient size[1] for domestic
arrangements, and the whole
body is guided and governed by “elder
brothers” and “elder sisters,” whose
“gifts” of superior wisdom, knowledge,
or cunning, obtain for them these titles,
and secure to them their rights and immunities.
There are gradations of rank,
or, as they choose to designate their distinctions,
of “privilege” among them;
but none are exempt from the equitable
law of their religious republic, which
requires each individual to “labour
with his hands, according to his
strength.”

A village is divided into lots of various
dimensions. Each enclosure contains
a family, whose members are
clothed from one store-house, fed at the
same board, and perform their domestic
worship together. In the centre of the

enclosure is a large building, which contains
their eating-room and kitchen,
their sleeping apartments, and two large
rooms connected by folding doors,
where they receive their visitors, and
assemble for their evening religious service.
All their mechanical and manual
labours, distinct from the housewifery,
(a profane term in this application) are
performed in offices at a convenient distance
from the main dwelling, and
within the enclosure. In these offices
may be heard, from the rising to the
setting of the sun, the cheerful sounds
of voluntary industry—sounds as significant
to the moral sense, as the smith's
stroke upon his anvil to the musical ear.
One edifice is erected over a cold perennial
stream, and devoted to the various
operations of the dairy; from another
proceed the sounds of the heavy looms
and the flying shuttle, and the buzz of the
swift wheels; in one apartment is a
group of sisters, selected chiefly from
the old and feeble, but among whom
were also some of the young and tasteful,
weaving the delicate basket; another
is devoted to the dress-makers, (a
class that obtains even among shaking
Quakers,) who are employed in fashioning,
after a uniform model, the striped
cotton for summer wear, or the sadcoloured
winter russet; here is the patient
teacher, and there the ingenious
manufacturer; and wherever labour is
performed, there are many valuable contrivances
by which toil is lightened and
success insured.

The villages of Lebanon[2] and Hancock
have been visited by foreigners and
strangers from all parts of our union—
all are shocked or disgusted by some of
the absurdities of the shaker faith, but
none have withheld their admiration
from the results of their industry, ingenuity,

order, frugality, and temperance.
The perfection of these virtues among
them may perhaps be traced with propriety
to the founder of their sect, who
united practical wisdom with the wildest
fanaticism, and who proved that she understood
the intricate machine of the
human mind, when she declared that
temporal prosperity was the indication,
and should be the reward of spiritual
fidelity.

The prosperity of the society's agriculture
is a beautiful illustration of the
philosophical remark, that “to temperance
every day is bright, and every hour
propitious to diligence.” Their skilful
cultivation preserves them from many of
the disasters that fall like a curse upon
the slovenly husbandry of the farmers
in their vicinity. Their gardens always
flourish in spite of late frosts and early
frosts—blast and mildew ravage their
neighbours' fields without invading their
territory—the mischievous daisy, that

spreads its starry mantle over the rich
meadows of the `world's people,' does
not presume to lift its yellow head in
their green fields—and even the Canada
thistle, that bristled little warrior armed
at all points, that comes in from the
north, extirpating in its march, like the
hordes of barbarous invaders, all the fair
fruits of civilization, is not permitted to
intrude upon their grounds.

It is sufficiently manifest that this
felicity is the natural consequence and
appropriate reward of their skill, vigilance,
and unwearied toil, but they
believe it (or affect to believe it) to be a
spiritual blessing—an assurance of peculiar
favour, like that which exempted the
Israelites from the seven Egyptian plagues
—an accomplishment of the promise that
every one that “hath forsaken houses,
or brethren, or sisters, or father, or
mother, or wife, or children, or lands for
my name's sake, shall receive an hundred
fold.”

The sisters too have their peculiar and
appropriate blessings and exemptions.
They are saved from those scourges of
our land of liberty and equality, “poor
help” and “no help.” There are no
scolding mistresses, nor eye-servants
among them.

It might be curious to ascertain by
what magical process these felicitous
sisters have expelled from their thrifty
housewifery that busy mischievous principle
of all evil in the domestic economy
of the `world's people,' known in all its
proteus shapes by the name of `bad
luck;' the modern successor of Robin
Goodfellow, with all the spite, but without
the genius of that frolic-loving little
spirit, he who

How much broken china, spoiled
batches of bread, ruined tempers, and

other common domestic disasters might
be avoided by the discovery of this secret;
what tribes of mice, ants, flies, and other
household demons, might be driven from
their strong holds. We hope that none
of those provoking solvers of mysteries,
who are so fond of finding out the `reason
of the thing,' that they are daily
circumscribing within most barren and
inconvenient limits the dominion of the
imagination, will pretend to have found
the clue to this mystery in the exact
order and elaborate neatness of the
sisterhood.

The sisters themselves certainly hint
at a sublime cause of their success, when
in reply to a stranger's involuntary admiration
of their stainless walls, polished
floors, snow white linen, and all the detail
of their precise arrangement and
ornamental neatness, they say with the
utmost gravity, `God is the God of
order and not of confusion.'

The most signal triumph of the society,

is in the discipline of the children.
Of these there are many among them:
a few are received, together with their
`believing' parents; in some instances
orphans, and even orphan families are
adopted; and many are brought to the
society by parents, who, either from the
despair of poverty, or the carelessness of
vice, choose to commit their offspring to
the guardianship of the shakers. Now
that the first fervours of enthusiasm are
abated, and conversions have become
rare, the adoption of children is a principle
cause of the continuance and preservation
of the society. These little
born rebels, natural enemies to the social
compact, lose, in their hands, their prescriptive
right to uproar and misrule,
and soon become as silent, as formal,
and as neat as their elders.

We hope we shall not be suspected of
speaking the language of panegyric
rather than justice, if we add that the
hospitalities of these people are never

refused to the weary way-worn-traveller,
nor their alms to the needy; and that
their faith (however absurd and indefensible
its peculiarities) is tempered by
some generous and enlightened principles
which those who had rather learn
than scoff would do well to adopt. In
short, those who know them well, and
judge them equitably, will not withhold
from them the praise of moral conduct
which they claim, in professing themselves
as a community, a “harmless, just,
and upright people.”

It is time that we should return from
our long digression to give some account
of the spiritual and physical labours of
Reuben Harrington. At nine o'clock
in the evening that followed the day of
the brethren's sage council, the bell,
according to the uniform custom, sounded
for the evening worship. The brethren
and sisters poured in equal streams
into the two large apartments, which
were now thrown into one by the opening

of the wide folding doors. A few
candles were hung around the walls,
casting a dim and quivering light upon
the strange throng. The men took their
stations in one apartment, the women in
the other, and arranged themselves opposite
to each other in straight lines, extending
across the room. The eldest
were placed in the front ranks—by this
arrangement, the young people were
saved from the temptation to wandering
looks, and their consequence, wandering
thoughts—not uncommon in the most
orthodox congregations.

After a few moments, the deep and
reverential silence of the assembly was
broken by a shout, in which every voice
was simultaneously lifted to its highest
pitch. The shout was followed by a
hymn, but sung so loud, with such discordant
and irregular sounds (for music
it could not be called), that it was impossible
to distinguish any words, excepting
“our mother” and “mother Anne,”

which seemed to form a kind of chorus.
The singing was accompanied by an
equal and steady motion, and alternating
from one foot to the other, which resembles
to a profane eye the pas bas of the
world's dancers. This deafening yell
and uniform motion continued till their
breath was spent, when all the assembly,
as if governed by one instinct, relapsed
into silence.

They remained as motionless as so
many statues, till the profound stillness
was broken by Harrington—“ Brethren
and sisters,” he said, “we labour this
evening for a special gift, and to encourage
our hearts, and enliven our faith, it
is meet that we should bear upon our
minds all those holy men and women of
old, who, according to their light, have
worshipped in the dance. Sisters, bethink
yourselves of Miriam; of Miriam,
the sister of Aaron, a prophetess—the
first in the female line—who when she
sang the glorious triumph of the Lord

over the Egyptian host, `took a timbrel
in her hand, and all the women went out
after her with timbrels and with dances'
—remember the daughters of Shiloh,
who went `yearly to the feast of the
Lord to dance in dances—and king David,
who leaped and danced before the
Lord, so that Michal, profane Michal,
despised him in her heart, even as the
world's people in these latter times
despise us, and deride our labour-worship.

“Ye believers need not be told that
the Psalmist justifies his deeds by his
words, and exhorts the faithful again
and again `to praise the Lord with the
timbrel and the dance'—to praise His
name in the dance.' Solomon tells us,
`there is a time to dance,' and manifestly
he could not mean there was a time for
those vain festive rites wherewith the
carnal children of this world worship
their god. Hath not the holy prophet
Jeremiah predicted our day in these

memorable words, `then shall the Virgin
rejoice in the dance, both young men
and old together?” When was this
prediction verified in the ball-rooms of
the world's people? There the young
man goes not forth with the aged brother,
but selects the fair and youthful
maiden for his partner in the dance;
and nothing can be more unlike our
spiritual labours, than the movements of
their bodies, and the exercises of their
minds! Again the same prophet saith,
`O, Virgin of Israel, thou shalt again be
adorned with thy tabrets, and go forth
in the dances.”'

Here Reuben paused, either to take
breath, or because he had exhausted his
authorities; and the assembly, without
any visible external direction, but apparently
in obedience to a common impulse,
broke up their ranks,—arranged
in pairs, the elder taking precedence of
the younger, and the sisters of the brethren,
they made in a dancing procession

the circuit of the two apartments.
A small knot of brethren and sisters
remained in the centre of each room,
shouting strange music to the dancers,
and slowly turning so as to keep their
faces always towards the procession,
which moved on with a uniform shuffling
step, as if it was composed of so many
automatons, their arms rising and falling
mechanically; and their monotonous
movements, solemn, melancholy, or stupid
aspects, contrasting ludicrously with
the festive throngs which are usually
seen stepping on `light fantastic toe,'
through the mazy dance.

There was but one in all this assembly
that seemed to be governed by natural
feeling; this was Emily, who, in obedience
to the stern requisition of her
aunt had come, or rather been dragged
into the room; but unable to perform
her part of the insane worship, unable
in truth to support her own weight, she
had sunk on her knees in a recess of the

window near which she was standing;
her cap had fallen from her head, and
laid beside her—her fair hair, thus permitted
to escape from its bondage, had
fallen over her neck and shoulders, she
had covered her face with her hands,
and disordered, pale, and trembling,
there she remained, till the assembly
forming into the procession, exposed her
to every eye, looking like a culprit
awaiting her sentence.

Susan had missed her from her side,
and had hoped that she had stolen away
to her own apartment, and that her disappearance
would remain unobserved.
Vain were the elder sister's efforts to
command peace in her own troubled
mind, when she beheld the humiliating
and sorrowful spectacle. The burning
colour that flushed her usually sallow
cheek, and her unsteady movements,
betrayed her affliction. She would have
given the world to have sheltered her
fallen favourite from the disgrace of such

an exposure, but to move from the ranks
was impossible. The elders and the disciplined
passed Emily in their rounds
without any other notice than a languid
and brief glance; but the younger, and
especially the children, unable to control
their curiosity, gazed on her till
their heads were at right angles with
their bodies. Suddenly the procession
stopped; and Harrington advancing
from the ranks, `laboured alone with
great power,' and whirling around like a
top, to which his form bore no faint resemblance,
he continued his violent
exercise for an hour; then approaching
Emily, and laying his hand upon her
head—“To me, brethren and sisters,”
he said, “is assigned the task and given
the gift to snatch this prey from Satan.
The work is to be wrought out in private
conference, when words of rebuke, of
wisdom, and of conviction will flow from
my lips, as the water flowed from the
rock at the touch of Moses.—Fear not,
young maiden—tremble not—be not thus
disheartened—the devil shall release you
from his toils, and you shall yet shine
out a bright star among the faithful.”

The assembly acquiesced silently in
the result of Reuben's extraordinary
worship. They dispersed to their several
apartments; and Susan, without one
word of inquiry or reprimand, led Emily
to her own room, and spent the silent
watches of the night in weeping and
praying for her.

On the following day Harrington began,
and continued for many successive
days, his private conferences with Emily.
For some time he confined himself to
harangues on the peculiar doctrines of
his sect. Emily listened dutifully, but
the more she listened, the more her
growing aversion to them strengthened.
He insisted that the net in which Satan
had caught her could not be broken,
unless she would be governed by his
wisdom—guided by his inward light.

Emily sighed and wept, but never attempted
a reply.

After awhile he changed his tone;
he occasionally softened his rebukes with
praise, sometimes mingled flattery with
his admonitions, and darkly intimated a
purpose that he dared not yet fully disclose.—Still
Emily listened patiently:
she had been always remarkable for singleness
of heart, a soft temper, and
tender affections, but never for a quick
or keen perception. Her mind too had
been recently weakened by the hard
conflict between her natural affections
and her mistaken sense of duty: it was
not wonderful, therefore, that she did
not distrust Harrington's integrity, nor
suspect the meaning that glimmered
through his mystical language.

He continued gradually preparing her
mind for the proposition he had in reserve
for her, nothing doubting of its
final acceptance; for Reuben, in common
with all thorough hypocrites, was

quite incredulous as to the existence of
goodness, and believed that the seemingly
upright only wanted the opportunity
and the motive to turn aside from
the straight and narrow way. At last
impatient at his own slow and serpentine
advances to Emily's understanding, and
afraid that in spite of her habitual passiveness
her patience would be exhausted
before he had approached the attainment
of his purpose, and hoping too, against
hope, that her uniform silence foreboded
his final success—he took a bold straightforward
step. At his accustomed hour
he entered the room where Emily was
sitting with the elder sister. He detained
Susan for a moment to enquire
`if she yet perceived any smoking of the
flax —any symptom of revival in the
child?' She shook her head mournfully,
and slowly withdrew, leaving him alone
with Emily with evident reluctance.

He then drew his chair close to the
poor girl, and taking her hand, (a freedom

he had never before ventured upon)
and not rebuked by the innocent look of
surprise and inquiry which she turned
on him, he proceeded to say, in the
softest voice he could assume, “You
are a worthy maiden, Emily—a chosen
vessel—a vessel selected for a great ministry;
if you have been cast into the
furnace, it is that you may come out as
gold seven times tried; the honoured
instrument must be made bright and
keen in the fires of tribulation. Awake,
maiden, awake, and survey the path that
I am appointed to open to your view—
the path we must travel together; for
we are not permitted longer to remain
here, mere watchmen on the walls of
Zion, but are commanded to march
boldly forward to the enemy's camp.

“Listen, while I disclose to you the
revelation that has been vouchsafed to
me. I have obtained a great advance
upon the forward wheel; it has been
made plain to me that we are together to

accomplish a great work—to turn and
overturn, till we bring to pass the conversion
of the world.”

A faint light dawned on Emily's mind,
and fearfulness mingled with the amazement
with which she had hitherto gazed
on Harrington. He perceived that she
was startled, but he went on undaunted.
“The Israelites were commanded to
spoil the Egyptians, and we are permitted,
nay, ordered, to take of the lucre
(which belongeth equally to our brethren
and to us) in order to help us forward
in our blessed mission, and to reward
our labours. A goodly sum in the
bank at Albany awaiteth us. All these
matters it is duty for a season to hide
from our brethren and sisters; they cannot
yet receive them. Our departure
must be secret—at night—yea, this
night.”

Astonished, alarmed, and still uncertain,
Emily did not utter a word: her
eyes were fixed on Reuben, and looked

as though they would have started from
their sockets.

“Nay, precious maiden,” he continued,
misinterpreting her silence, “do
not tremble thus—ye need not be
alarmed. We have a farther dispensation:
as we go among the world's people,
we are permitted to be united in
wedlock by one of the world's priests.”
Till this moment Reuben's meaning had
but partially appeared to Emily through
the fog of cant phrases in which he had
artfully involved it; but his last words,
and the fond look that accompanied
them, were like the touch of Ithuriel—
her persecutor stood revealed in his true
light. She snatched her hand from him,
and groaning aloud she sprang towards
the door—the door opened, and Susan
entered.

“Oh for mercy's sake save me, take
me away!” cried the poor girl, clinging
to her aunt in desperation.

“What means this?” inquired Susan,

looking at Harrington; “have you dared
to insult the innocent girl?—Be calm,
Emily, my child, be calm.',

“Smooth your brow, sister,” replied
Harrington, with perfect coolness, “and
I will tell all that has passed between
us.”

“Say on,” she answered, without in
the least relaxing her features, “and
bear it in mind that I shall know from
this afflicted girl, who never opened her
mouth to speak a lie, whether ye speak
truly.”

“My word,” replied Reuben, “will go
farther—much farther with the people
than that poor fargone sinner's.”

“That may be, Reuben, but not with
me, therefore speak quickly and truly.”

There is a moral power in virtuous
resolution that the most vicious find it
difficult to resist. Reuben perceived
that he could neither conceal nor deny,
and that his best, indeed his only policy
was to state the truth, and to varnish it

over with the best gloss his ready wit
could invent. He said that all his attempts
to reclaim Emily had hitherto
been fruitless; that as elder sister knew,
he had laboured in season, and out of
season, and all in vain—all without producing
a sign of life in the child.

“That morning,” he said, “it had
been sent in upon his mind to try her
with a temptation, in order to ascertain
how far she was under the dominion of
Satan; or at least to drive away the
dumb devil that possessed her,—in that
he had succeeded.” He then went on
to detail what he had said to Emily verbatim,
omitting nothing but his design
on the funds of the society: a circumstance
that he rightly judged his last
monstrous proposition had effaced from
Emily's mind. “And now, sister,” he
said, in conclusion, “I think your conscience
will tell you that you have judged
me with unrighteous judgment; that
nature has so far gotten the upper hand

of grace with you, that you are blinded,
sorely blinded; and henceforth you will
feel it to be duty to leave the girl to my
appointed ministry.”

“Never, never,” replied Susan, firmly:
“she has been unkindly dealt with
already—nature and grace both speak for
the child, Reuben—both tell me that she
needs `more gentle usage.”'

“But, woman, I have the gift.”

“I have a gift also, Reuben; and
sooner shall you have my heart's blood,
than I will trust this girl with you again;
ye need not lift your voice in the congregation;
ye need not whisper among the
brethren. Remember I am your elder;
I fear you not, Reuben; I suspect you.”

The determined look with which Susan
accompanied her words, quelled Harrington's
spirit: he dared not attempt a reply,
and smothering an imprecation, he
departed to digest, as he best could, his
rage and mortification.

Susan did not think it expedient to

make any farther direct disclosure to
Emily of her suspicions of Harrington,
but she cautiously questioned and cross-questioned
her. Emily, confounded by
Reuben's subtlety, and feeble and exhausted,
could not remember that he had
said to her any more or other, than he
had repeated to the elder sister.

Notwithstanding the agreement of the
simple girl's testimony with Reuben's
story, Susan was too sagacious to be deceived
by the interpretation the crafty
brother had put upon the language he
had held to her, and having for a long
time felt a growing dislike and distrust
of him, she was not convinced that she
had been mistaken in her conclusions;
and she remained quite satisfied that she
had done right in refusing him any farther
communication with Emily.

Emily's melancholy became every day
deeper and more fixed, and Susan began
to fear the total annihilation of her mind.
She imposed no restraint on her, but permitted

her to walk when she chose; to
remain secluded from observation in her
own room, and sometimes to lie all day
on the bed in a state of listlessness and
vacuity, in which she appeared scarcely
conscious of her existence.