University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

At an early hour of the ensuing morning, Ralph
was aroused from his slumbers, which had been
more than grateful from the extra degree of fatigue
he had the day before undergone, by the appearance
of Forrester, who accounted and apologized
for the somewhat unseasonable nature of his visit,
by bringing tidings of a preacher and of a preaching
in the neighbourhood on that day. It was the Sabbath;
and though, generally speaking, very far from
being kept holy in that region, yet, as a day of repose
from labour—a holyday in fact—it was observed,
at all times, with more than religious scrupulosity.
Such an event among the people of this
quarter was always productive of a congregation.
The occurrence being unfrequent, its importance
was duly and necessarily increased in the estimation
of those, the remote and insulated position of
whom rendered all the constituencies of society
primary and leading objects. No matter what the
character of the auspices under which it was attained,
they yearned for its associations, and gathered
where they were to be enjoyed. A field preaching,
too, is a legitimate amusement, and though not

intended as such, formed a genuine excuse and
apology for those who desired it less for its teaching
than its talk—who sought it less for the word
which it brought of God, than that which it furnished
from the world of man. It was a happy
cover for those who, cultivating a human appetite,
and conscious of a human weakness, were solicitous,
in respecting and providing for these, not to
offend the Creator in the presence of his creature.

The woodman, as one of this class, was full of
glee, and promised Ralph an intellectual treat; for
Parson Witter, the preacher in reference, had more
than once, as he was pleased to acknowledge and
phrase it, won his ears, and softened and delighted
his heart. He was popular in the village and its
neighbourhood, and where regular pastor was none,
he might be considered to have made the strongest
impression upon his almost primitive, and, certainly,
only in part civilized, hearers. His merits
of mind were held of rather an elevated order, and
in standard far overtopping the current run of his
fellow-labourers in the same vineyard; while his
own example was admitted, on all hands, to keep
pace evenly with the precepts which he taught,
and to be not unworthy of the faith which he professed.
He was of the Methodist persuasion—a
sect which, among those who have sojourned in our
southern and western forests, may confidently
claim to have done more, and with motives as
little questionable as any, towards the spread of
civilization, good habits, and a proper morality
among the great mass, than all other known sects
put together. In a word, where men are remotely
situated from one another, and cannot well afford
to provide for an established place of worship
and a regular pastor, their labours, valued at
the lowest standard of human want, are inappreciable.

We may add, that never did labourers
more deserve, yet less frequently receive, their
hire, than the preachers of this particular faith.
Humble in habit, moderate in desire, indefatigable
in well-doing, pure in practice and intention, without
pretence or ostentation of any kind, they have
gone freely and fearlessly into places the most remote
and perilous, with an empty scrip, but with
hearts filled to overflowing with love of God and
good-will to men—preaching their doctrines with a
simple and an unstudied eloquence, meetly characteristic
of, and well adapted to, the old groves,
deep primitive forests, and rudely barren wilds, in
which it is their wont, most commonly, to give
it utterance. Day after day, week after week,
and month after month, finding them wayfarers
still—never slumbering, never reposing from the
toil they have engaged in, until they have fallen,
almost literally, into the narrow grave by the wayside;
their resting-place unprotected by any other
mausoleum or shelter than those trees which have
witnessed their devotions, their names and worth
unmarked by any inscription; their memories,
however, closely treasured up and carefully noted
among human affections, and within the bosoms of
those for whom their labours have been taken;
while their reward, with a high ambition cherished
well in their lives, is found only in that better abode
where they are promised a cessation from their labours,
but where their good works still follow them.
This, without exaggeration applicable to the profession
at large, was particularly due to the individual
member in question; and among the somewhat
savage and always wild people whom he
exhorted, Parson Witter was in some cases an
object of sincere affection, and in all commanded
their respect.

As might readily be expected, the whole village
and as much of the surrounding country as could
well be apprized of the affair, was on the go and
gather; and Colleton, now scarcely feeling his
late injuries, an early breakfast having been discussed,
mounted his horse, and under the guidance
of his quondam friend, Forrester, took the meandering
path, or, as they phrase it in those parts, the
old trace, to the place of meeting and prayer.

The sight is something goodly, as well to the man
of the world as to the man of God, to behold the fairly
decked array of people, drawn from a circuit of
some ten or even fifteen miles in extent, on the Sabbath,
neatly dressed in their choicest apparel, men
and women alike well mounted, and forming numerous
processions and parties, from three to five
or ten in each, bending from every direction to a
given point, and assembling for the purposes of devotion.
No chiming and chattering bells warn
them of the day or of the duty—no regularly constituted
and well-salaried priest—no time-honoured
fabric, around which the old forefathers of the
hamlet rest—reminding them regularly of the recurring
Sabbath, and of the sweet assemblage
of their fellows. The teacher is from their own
impulses—and the heart calls them with a due
solemnity to the festival of prayer. The preacher
comes when the spirit prompts, or as circumstances
may impel or permit. The news of his arrival
passes from farm to farm, from house to house
—placards announce it from the trees on the road-side,
parallel, it may be, with an advertisement for,
or of, strayed oxen, as we have seen it numberless
times—and a day does not well elapse before it is
in possession of everybody who might well avail
themselves of its promise for the ensuing Sunday.
The parson comes to the house of one of his auditory

a night or two before—messages and messengers
are despatched to this and that neighbour,
who despatch in turn—the negroes delighting in a
service and occasion of the kind, in which, by-the-way,
they generally make the most conspicuous
figures, though somewhat sluggish, as couriers usually
are now not merely ready but actually swift of
foot. The place of worship and the preacher are
duly designated, and by the time appointed; as if
the bell had tolled for their enlightenment, the
country assembles at the stated place, and though
the preacher may sometimes fail of attendance, the
people never do.

The spot appointed for the service of the day
was an old grove of gigantic oaks, at a distance of
some five or six miles from the village of Chestatee.
The village itself had not been chosen,
though having the convenience of a building, because
of the liberal desire entertained by those
acting on the occasion to afford to others living at
an equal distance the same opportunities without
additional fatigue. Besides, five or ten miles to a
people to whom good horses were familiar things,
did not call for a second consideration. The morning
was a fine one, all gayety and sunshine—the
road dry, elevated, and shaded luxuriantly with the
overhanging foliage—the woods having the air of
luxury and bloom which belonged to them at such a
season, and the prospect, varied throughout by the
wholesome undulations of valley and hill, which
strongly marked the face of the country, greatly
enlivened the ride to the eye of our young traveller.
Every thing contributed to impart a cheering influence
to his senses; and with spirits and a frame
newly braced and invigorated, he felt the bounding
motion of the steed beneath him with an animal
exultation, which took from his countenance that

look of sullen melancholy which had hitherto
clouded and obscured it. As they proceeded on
their way, successive and frequent groups crossed
their route, or fell into it from other roads—some
capriciously taking the by-paths and Indian tracks
through the woods, but all having the same object
in view, and bending to the same point of assemblage.
Here gayly pranced on a small cluster of the
young of both sexes, laughing with unqualified glee
at the jest of some of their companions—while in the
rear, the more staid, the antiques and those rapidly
becoming so, with more measured gait, paced
on in suite. On the road-side, striding on foot
with pace almost as rapid as that of the riders,
came at intervals, and one after the other, the now
trimly-dressed slaves of this or that plantation—
all devoutly bent on the place of meeting. Some
of the whites carried their double-barrelled guns,
some their rifles—it being deemed politic, at that
time, to prepare for all contingencies, for the Indian
or for the buck, as well as for the more direct
object of the journey. At length, in a rapidly approaching
group, a bright but timid glance met that
of the youth, and curbing in the impetuous animal
which he rode, in a few moments he found himself
side by side with Miss Munro, who answered his
prettiest introductory compliment with a smile
and speech, uttered with the grace so natural to
her, and, as the romancers tell us, so characteristic
of a dame of chivalry.

“We have a like object to-day, I presume,”
was, after a few complimentary sentences, the language
of Ralph—“yet,” he continued, “I fear
me, our several impulses at this time scarcely so
far resemble each other as to make it not discreditable
to yours to permit of the comparison.”

“I know not what may be the motive which

impels you, sir, to the course you take; but I
will not pretend to urge that, even in my own
thoughts, my route is any more the result of a
settled conviction of its high necessity than it may
be in yours—and the confession which I shame to
make, is perhaps, of itself, a beginning of that very
kind of self-examination which we seek the church
to awaken.”

“Alas, Miss Lucy, even this was not in my
thought, so much are we men ignorant of, or indifferent
to, those things which are thought of so
much real importance. We seldom regard matters
which are not of present enjoyment. The
case is otherwise with you. There is far more
truth, my own experience tells me, in the profession
of your sex, whether in love or in religion,
than in ours—and believe me, I mean this as no
idle compliment—I feel it to be true. The fact is,
society itself puts you into a sphere and condition,
which, taking from you much of your individuality,
makes you less exclusive in your affections, and
more single in their exercise. Your existence
being merged in that of the stronger sex, you lose
all that general selfishness which is the strict result
of our pursuits. Your impulses are narrowed
to a single point or two, and there all your hopes,
fears, and desires become concentrated. You
acquire an intense susceptibility on a few subjects,
by the loss of those manifold influences
which belong to the out-door habit of mankind.
With us, we have so many resources to fly to
for relief—so many attractions to invite and seduce—so
many resorts of luxury and life, that
the affections become broken up in small—the
heart is divided among the thousand; and, if one
fragment suffers defeat or denial, why, the pang
scarcely touches, and is perhaps unfelt by all the

rest. You have but few aims, few hopes. With
these your very existence is bound up, and if you
lose these you are yourselves lost. Thus I find
that your sex, to a certain age, are creatures of love
—disappointment invariably begets devotion—and
either of these passions, for so they should be
called, once brought into exercise, forbids and excludes
every other.”

“Really, Mr. Colleton, you seem to have looked
somewhat into the philosophy of this thing, and you
may be right in the inferences to which you have
come. On this point I may say nothing; but, do
you conceive it altogether fair in you thus to compliment
us at our own expense? You give us the
credit of truth—a high eulogium, I grant—in matters
which relate to the affections and the heart;
but this is done by robbing us entirely of mental
independence. You are a kind of generous outlaw—a
moral Robin Hood—you compel us to give
up every thing we possess, in order that you may
have the somewhat equivocal merit of restoring
back a small portion of what you take.”

“True, and this, I am afraid, Miss Lucy, however
by the admission I forfeit for my sex the reputation
for chivalry to which it universally lays so much
claim, is after all the precise relationship between
us. The very fact that the requisitions made
by our sex produce immediate concession from
yours, establishes the very dependence of which
you complain.”

“You mistake me, sir. I complain not of the
robbery—far from it; for, if we do lose the possession
of a commodity so valuable, we are at
least freed from the responsibility of keeping it.
The gentlemen, now-a-days, seldom look to us for
intellectual gladiatorship; they are content that our
weakness should shield us from the war. But, I

conceive the reproach of our poverty to come unkindly
from those who make us poor. It is of this,
sir, that I complain.”

“You are just, and justly severe, Miss Munro;
but the fact is, what else have you to expect? Amazon-like,
your sex, according to the quaint old story,
sought the combat, and were not unwilling to abide
the conditions of the warfare. The taunt is coupled
with the triumph—the spoil follows the victory—
and the captive is chained to the chariot-wheel of
his conqueror, and must adorn the march of his superior
by his own shame and sorrows. But, to be
just to myself, permit me to say, that what you have
considered a reproach was in truth designed as a
compliment. I must regret that my modes of expression
are so clumsy, that, in the transfer of my
thought, the sentiment so changed its original shape
as entirely to lose its identity and name. It certainly
deserved the graceful swordsmanship which
foiled it so completely.”

“Nay, sir,” said the now highly animated girl,
“you are now bloodily-minded towards yourself,
and it is matter of wonder to me how you survive
your own rebuke. So far from erring in clumsy
phrase, I am constrained to admit that I thought,
and think you, excessively adroit and happy in its
management. It was only with a degree of perversity,
intended solely to establish our independence
of opinion, at least, that I chose to mistake and
misapprehend you. Your remark, clothed in any
other language, could scarcely put on a form more
consistent with your meaning.”

Ralph bowed at a compliment which had something
equivocal in it, and this branch of the conversation
having reached its legitimate close, a pause of
some few moments succeeded, when they found
themselves joined by other parties, until they were

swollen in number to the goodly form of a cavalcade
or caravan designed for a pilgrimage.

“Report speaks favourably of the preacher we
are to hear to-day, Miss Munro—have you ever
heard him?” was the inquiry of the youth.

“I have, sir, frequently, and have at all times
been much pleased and sometimes affected by his
preaching. There are few persons I would more
desire to hear than himself—he does not offend
your ears, nor assail your understanding by unmeaning
thunders. His matter and manner, alike,
are distinguished by the proprieties of modest good
sense, a gentle and dignified ease and spirit, and
a pleasing earnestness in his object that is never
offensive. I think, sir, you will like him.”

“Your opinion of him will certainly not diminish
my attention, I assure you, to what he says,”
was the reply. At this moment the cavalcade was
overtaken and joined by Rivers and Munro, together
with several other villagers. Ralph now
taking advantage of a suggestion of Forrester's
previously made—who proposed, as there would
be time enough, a circuitous and pleasant ride
through a neighbouring valley—avoided the necessity
of being in the company of one with respect
to whom he had determined upon a course of the
most jealous precaution. Turning their horses'
heads, therefore, in the proposed direction, the two
left the procession, and saw no more of its constituents
until their common arrival at the secluded
grove—druidically conceived for the present purpose—in
which the teacher of a faith as simple as
it was pleasant was already preparing to address
them. The venerable oaks—a goodly and thickly
clustering assemblage—forming a circle around,
and midway upon a hill of gradual ascent, had
left an opening in the centre, concealed from the

eye except when fairly penetrated by the spectator.
Their branches, in most part meeting above,
afforded a roof, less regular and gaudy, indeed, but
far more grand, majestic, and we may add, becoming,
for purposes like the present, than the dim and
decorated cathedral, the workmanship of human
hands. Its application to this use, at this time, recalled
forcibly to the mind of the youth the forms and
features of that primitive worship, when the trees
bent with gentle murmurs above the heads of the
rapt worshippers, and a visible Deity dwelt in
the shadowed valleys, and whispered an auspicious
acceptance of their devotions in every breeze.
He could not help acknowledging, as, indeed, must
all who have ever been under the influence of such
a scene, that in this, more properly and perfectly
than in any other temple, may the spirit of man
recognise and hold familiar and free converse with
the spirit of his Creator. There, indeed, without
much effort of the imagination, might be beheld the
present God—the trees, hills and vales, the wild
flower and the murmuring water, all the work of
his hands, attesting his power, keeping their purpose,
and obeying, without scruple, the order of
those seasons, for the sphere and operation of which
he originally designed them. They were mute lessoners,
and the example which, in the progress of
their existence, year after year, they regularly exhibited,
might well persuade the more responsible
representative of the same power the propriety of
a like obedience.

A few fallen trees, trimmed of their branches
and touched here and there with the adze, ranging
at convenient distances under the boughs of those
along with which they had lately stood up in proud
equality, furnished seats for the now rapidly-gathering
assembly. A rough stage, composed of logs,

rudely hewn and crossing each other at right angles,
covered, when at a height of sufficient elevation,
formed the pulpit from which the preacher
was to exhort. A chair, brought from some cottage
in the neighbourhood, surmounted the stage.
This was all that art had done to accommodate
nature in this respect to the purposes of man. In
the body of the wood immediately adjacent, fastened
by their respective bridles to the overhanging
branches, were the goodly steeds of the company;
forming, in themselves, to the unaccustomed
and inexperienced eye, a grouping the most curious.
Some, more docile than the rest, were permitted
to rove at large, cropping the young herbage
and tender grass; occasionally, it is true,
during the service, overleaping their limits in a
literal sense; neighing, whickering and kicking up
their heels to the manifest confusion of the pious
and the discomfiture of the preacher.

The hour had at length arrived. The audience
was numerous if not select. All persuasions—for
even in that remote region sectarianism had done
much towards banishing religion—assembled promiscuously
together and without show of discord,
excepting that here and there a high stickler for
church aristocracy, in a better coat than his neighbour,
thrust him aside; or, in another and not less
offensive form of pride, in the externals of humility
and rotten with innate malignity, groaned
audibly through his clenched teeth; and with shut
eyes and crossed hands, as in prayer, sought to pass
a practical rebuke upon the less devout exhibitions
of those around him. The cant and the clatter, as
it prevails in the crowded mart, were here in miniature;
and Charity would have needed something
more than a Kamschatka covering to have shut
out from her eyes the enormous hypocrisy of many

among the clamorous professors of that faith, of
which they did not feel much and knew little. If
she shut her eyes to the sight, their groans were in
her ears; and if she turned away, they took her
by the elbow, and called her a backslider herself.
Forrester whispered in the ears of Ralph, as his
eye encountered the form of Miss Munro, who sat
primly amid a flock of venerables—

“Doesn't she talk like a book? Ah, she's a
smart, sweet girl; it's a pity there's no better
chance for her than Guy Rivers. But where's he—
the rascal? Do you know I nearly got my fingers
on his throat last night. I felt deusedly like it, I
assure you.”

“Why, what did he to you?”

“Answered me with such impudence! I took
him for the pedler in the dark, and calculated I had
got a prize; it wasn't the pedler, but something
worse—for in my eyes he's no better than a polecat.”

But, the preacher had risen in his place, and all
was silence and attention. We need scarcely seek
to describe him. His appearance was that of a
very common man; and the anticipations of Colleton,
as he was one of those persons apt to be taken
by appearances, suffered something like rebuke.
His figure was diminutive and insignificant; his
shoulders were round, and his movements excessively
awkward; his face was thin and sallow;
his eyes dull and inexpressive, and too small, seemingly,
for command. A too frequent habit of closing
them in prayer, contributed, no doubt, greatly to
this appearance. A redeeming expression in the
high forehead, conically rising, and the strong
character exhibited in his nose, neutralized in some
sort the generally unattractive outline. His hair,
which was of a deep black, was extremely coarse,

and closely cropped; it gave to his look that general
expression, which associated him at once in the
mind of Ralph, whose reading in those matters
was fresh, with the Commonwealth History of England—with
the Puritans, and those diseased fanatics
of the Cromwell dynasty, not omitting that profound
hypocrite himself. What then was the surprise
of the youth, having such impressions, to hear
a discourse, unassuming in its dictates, mild in its
requisitions—and of a style and temper the most
soothing and persuasive.

The devotions commenced with a hymn, two
lines of which, at a time, having been read and repeated
by the preacher, furnished a guide to the
congregation; the female portion of which generally
uniting to sing, in a style the sweetness of
which was doubly effective from the utter absence
of all ornament in the music. The strains were just
such as the old shepherds, out among the hills, tending
their charges, might have been heard to pour
forth, almost unconsciously, to that God who sometimes
condescended to walk along with them. After
this was over, the preacher rose, and read, with a
voice as clear as unaffected, the twenty-third Psalm
of David, the images of which are borrowed chiefly
from the life in the wilderness, and were therefore
not unsuited to the ears of those to whom it was
now addressed. Without proposing any one portion
of this performance as a text or subject of
commentary, and without seeking, as is quite too
frequently the case with small teachers, to explain
doubtful passages of little meaning and no importance,
he delivered a discourse, in which he simply
dilated upon and carried out, for the benefit of those
about him, and with a direct reference to the case
of all of them, those beautiful portraits of a good
shepherd and a guardian God, which the production

which he read had furnished ready to his
hands. He spoke of the dependence of the creature,
instanced, as it is daily, by a thousand wants
and exigencies, for which, unless by the care and
under the countenance of Providence, he could
never of himself provide. He narrated the dangers
of the forest—imaging by this figure the
mazes and mysteries of life—the difficulty, nay,
the almost utter impossibility, unless by his sanction,
of procuring sustenance, and of counteracting
those innumerable incidents by fell and flood,
which in a single moment defeat the cares of the
hunter and the husbandman—setting at naught his
industry, destroying his fields and cattle, blighting
his crops, and tearing up with the wing of the hurricane
even the cottage which gives shelter to his
little ones. He dwelt largely and long upon those
numberless and sudden events in the progress of
life and human circumstance, over which, as they
could neither be foreseen nor combated with by
man, he had no control; and appealed for him to
the Great Shepherd, who alone could do both.
Having shown the necessity of such an appeal and
reference, he next proceeded to describe the gracious
willingness which had at all times been manifested
by the Creator, to extend the required protection.
He adverted to the fortunes of all the
patriarchs in support of this position; and singling
out innumerable instances of this description, confidently
assured them, in turn, from these examples,
that the same Shepherd was not unwilling to provide
for them in like manner. Under his protection, he
assured them, “they should not want.” He dilated
at length, and with a graceful dexterity, upon the
truths—the simple and mere truths of God's providence,
and the history of his people—which David
had embodied in the beautiful psalm which he had
read them. It was poetry, indeed—sweet poetry
—but it was the poetry of truth and not of fiction.
Did not history sustain its every particular? Had
not the Shepherd made them to lie down in green
pastures—had he not led them beside the still
waters—restored he not their souls—did he not
lead them, for his name's sake, in the paths of
righteousness, and though at length they walked
through the valley where Death had cast his never-departing
shadow, was he not with them still,
keeping them even from the fear of evil? He furnished
them with the rod and staff; he prepared
the repast for them, even in the presence of their
enemies—he anointed their heads with oil, and
blessed them with quiet and abundance, until the
cup of their prosperity was running over—until
they even ceased to doubt that goodness and mercy
should follow them al the days of their life; and,
with a proper consciousness of the source whence
this great good had arisen, they determined, with
the spirit not less of wise than of worthy men, to
follow his guidance, and thus dwell in the house of
the Lord for ever. Such did the old man describe
the fortunes of the old patriarchs to have been; and
such, having first entered into like obligations, and
pursuing them with the same fond fixedness of purpose,
did he promise should be the fortunes of all
who then listened to his voice. As he proceeded
to his peroration, he grew warmed with the broad
and boundless subject before him, and his declamation
became alike bold and beautiful. All eyes
were fixed upon him, and not a whisper from the
still murmuring woods which girded them in was
perceptible to the senses of that pleased and listening
assembly. The services of the morning were
closed by a paraphrase, in part, of the psalm from
which his discourse had been drawn; and as this
performance, in its present shape, is not to be found,
we believe, in any of the books devoted to such
purposes, it is but fair to conclude that the old man
—not unwilling, in his profession, to employ every
engine for the removal of all stubbornness from the
hearts of those he addressed—sometimes invoked
Poetry to smile upon his devotions, and wing his
aspirations for the desired flight. It was sung by
the congregation, in like manner with the former
—the preacher reading two lines at a time, after
having first gone through the perusal, aloud, of the
piece entire. With the recognised privilege of the
romancer, who is supposed to have a wizard control
over men, events, and things alike, we are enabled
to preserve the paraphrase here.

The service had not yet been concluded—the
last parting offices of prayer and benediction had
yet to be performed, when a sudden and singular
stir took place among certain of the audience,
which terminated in their hasty departure from the
main body of the assembly. A movement of the
kind was so very novel, so perfectly indecorous,
and in the face of all former usage, that it could

not fail to attract the attention of everybody.
Those, not the first to withdraw, followed in rapid
succession, to see after one another; until, under
the influence of that wild stimulant, curiosity,
the preacher soon found himself utterly unattended,
except by the female portion of his auditory.
These too, or rather the main body of them, at
least, were now only present in a purely physical
sense; for, with the true characteristic of the sex,
their minds were busily employed in the wilderness
of reflection which this movement of the men
had necessarily inspired. Ralph Colleton, however,
with praiseworthy decorum, had lingered to
the last—his companion Forrester, under the influence
of a whisper from one over his shoulder, having
been among the first to retire. He too, could not, in
the end, avoid the general disposition, and at length
took his way to the animated and earnest knot,
which he saw assembled in the shade of the
adjoining thicket, busied in the discussion of some
concern of more than common interest. In his
departure from the one gathering to the other, he
caught a glance from the eye of Lucy Munro,
which had in it, to his mind, so much of warning,
mingled at the same time with an expression of
so much interest, that he half stopped in his progress,
and but for the seeming indecision and
awkwardness of such a proceeding, would have
returned—the more particularly, indeed, when encountering
her gaze with a corresponding fixedness,
though her cheek grew to crimson with the
blush that overspread it, her glance was yet not
withdrawn. He felt that her intention was that
of advice and caution, and inwardly determined
upon a due degree of circumspection. The cause
of interruption may as well be reserved for the
next chapter.