The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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THE CAMP MEETING. |
 | THE CAMP MEETING. The legendary |  |
THE CAMP MEETING.
On the sixteenth day of September, in a memorable
year, a Camp Meeting was appointed. It was to take
place not many miles from New York, and great preparations
were making. Notice was given in every
direction. The religious and the irreligious, the devout
and the curious, alike convened at the time appointed,
with equal impatience, though not with the same motives.
To the pious Methodist it was to be a season of
prayer, of holy communion, of divine influences, of deep
self-abasement and of inward strivings. To the idle
and restless it was merely a method of beguiling time.
To the vulgar and profane it afforded opportunities
for carousal, for foolish jests, and licentious conduct.
Every precaution was, as usual, taken for securing the
band of Christians who encamped from riot and intrusion,
but beyond the lines expressly marked for their purpose
they could have no control, and the road was bordered
for several miles by wagons, by booths where liquor was
sold and distributed, and by mountebanks and fiddlers.
The spot selected for the encampment was a green
valley. On one side of it arose grass-covered hills,
The tents, amounting to several hundred, were pitched
on the hills around. Some of them were of plain white
cloth, others of a more fanciful form, and diversified by
stripes of red or blue. A stage, which answered for a
pulpit, was erected of plain broads and placed on the
banks of the water. It was large enough to contain
five or six preachers at once, and had a flight of steps
ascending to it. In front of this were seats arranged in
rows, with aisles dividing them, the men sitting on one
side, the women on the other. The seats covered a
great extent of ground, and rose gradually, conforming
to the hill, back, so that the last row of seats overlooked
the whole.
It was not till the evening of the second day that the
meeting was general, and all the tents pitched. A shrill
blast was then blown from a trumpet, and the people
quitted their tents, where they had established their
domestic comforts, and took their seats fronting the
pulpit, which was filled by preachers. So far, the
scene was noble and picturesque. The multitude, as
you looked down from the hills around, was countless.
They had, like the children of Israel, pitched their tents
in the wilderness, and stood waiting on the banks of
Jordan till they might cross to the land of spiritual
promise. All was solemn and impressive. Even the
scoffers, if such there were, were awed into silence.
The moon rose in the heavens with unshorn majesty,
its silver rays reflected by the stream, and forming a
beautiful contrast to the red light that glared from lamps
suspended from the trees, or raised aloft by poles.
The meeting was opened by fervent prayer. Every
hearer was still and mute. One preacher after another
arose and addressed the audience. Sometimes a deep,
low groan was heard, but the work appeared to linger.
vehement. At length a pale young man rose up, and
commenced in a melodious and commanding tone.
`Why tarry ye, O Lord God of Hosts? Why tarry
ye? Gird on thy sword and come forth! Call on the
young men and the maidens—the infant that is just
opening upon the morning of life, and the hoary head
that is sinking with the last rays of evening. Tell them
that the reaper is come—that even now the chaff is to
be separated from the wheat! Tell them that the day
of judgment is at hand! It is at hand!' he exclaimed,
with vehemence, and striking on the thin boards of the
pulpit with a force that resounded to the most distant
tents, while the sweat fell in drops from his face. `The
day of judgment has come! Howl and gnash your teeth!
Call on the mountains to cover you! flee! hide yourselves!
the Avenger has come! the Lord is here—He
is here—He is here!'
Shrieks of `He is here!' `He is here!' resounded
from every part of the valley, as the preacher, exhausted
by his own emotion, sunk back upon the seat, and
covered his face. The work was now begun. Many
a poor wretch felt that there was no hope for him, and
declared that the fire was already consuming his soul.
A ring was formed round the pulpit, and those who were
`under conviction' brought into it. Some continued
screaming and calling for mercy until they suk under
the violence of their excitement and fell upon the ground,
motionless and apparently dead. Others, with uplifted
voices, sung rapturous hymns of joy over the fallen
convicts, and others burst out into loud and vehement
shouts of `Glory! glory! glory!'
As it approached midnight, it was thought best by
those who were least excited, to dissolve the meeting.
The apparently lifeless were borne to the tents to which
voice of prayer, of praise, of deprecation, and self-condemnation
was still heard, but, in most, the flesh had
overcome the spirit, and tables were set out with provisions,
which they hastily swallowed, and then flung
themselves on their beds of straw and slept profoundly.
One only was left upon the ground. It was a young
girl of a fair and delicate complexion. Her dress
did not resemble that of the Methodists, but was of a
fashionable and rich texture. Her mind had evidently
yielded to the general excitement, and she lay in an obscure
spot, overcome by her emotion, and her face still
wet with the tears she had shed, of penitence or terror.
It is possible she might have remained in this situation
till morning, had not one solitary wanderer passed that
way—the young preacher who had first kindled the
flame that had spread so widely. He had remained, in
imitation of our Saviour, to watch and pray, regardless
of hunger or fatigue, until his hair was damp with the
dew of the night.
Perhaps when he first saw the form of the beautiful
being who obstructed his path, he imagined that the
angels had come to minister unto him. He stopped,
however, and gazed upon her with a surprise that partook
more of earth than heaven, then, bending over her,
he exclaimed, `Awake, O sleeper, awake!' His voice
roused her from her insensible, dreaming state, and, raising
herself on her elbow, she looked wildly about her.
`Oh! what will become of me,' said she, bursting
into a flood of tears, `what will become of me!'
There is something in real feeling that speaks to the
heart. The preacher quitted his solemn, inflated language,
and said, in a natural tone, `I will conduct you
to your tent.'
He attempted to raise her, but she was powerless.
`I will go and get help to carry you,' said he, kindly;
but she caught his arm, and intereated him not to leave her
alone. He shrunk from her touch. Strange thoughts
crossed his mind. It was true, the being before him
looked innocent and lovely, but she might be Lucifer or
some other fallen angel. Christ was tempted in the
wilderness, and his heated imagination had already
drawn a parallel between himself and the Saviour of
the world. With uplifted hands he knelt and prayed.
The tears of the young girl again fell in torrents; her
sobs became audible; it was evident that emotion
wrought powerfully upon her mind. The terrors of
conscience again returned; she called herself the most
vile, the most abandoned of creatures. Such language
was music to the ears of the pious preacher. He no
longer dreaded a mortal, humbled by the sense of her
own guilt. He ceased to use the treatenings and
denunciations of the gospel. He talked to her of mercy
and pardon, and, as he gazed upon her tender and innocent
face, believed they might be in store for her.
Various were the alternations of her countenance. It
seemed to accommodate itself to the language of the
preacher. When he prayed it was sublimed by devotion;
when he spoke of future punishment and an avenging
God, it was the image of terror, and, when he again
changed his theme and talked of the joy and peace of
those who were brought out of darkness into marvellous
light, of the happiness of the regenerate soul, then it
glowed with hope and enthusiasm.
The preacher was interrupted by the approach of a
woman, who expressed her joy at finding the young girl,
said she had gone to one of the tents when the people
dispersed, had fallen asleep, and did not miss her till she
awoke from her first nap. It appeared as if she had some
authority, for the girl took her offered arm, and, turning
and, supported by the woman, quitted the spot.
The young man remained alone. The light of one lamp
after another gradually expired, and even the moon had
sunk behind the hill before he aroused from his reverie.
All at once starting up, he walked with a hurried and
rapid pace till he entered one of the distant tents.
The next morning the trumpet again resounded, and
the multitude collected. The young preacher spoke
with even more fervor than on the evening before, and
the same excitement was produced by his voice and
language. His eye wandered over the wide extent of
seats, but he looked in vain for the evening convert.
He ventured upon a few inquiries concerning her, but
she had been unregarded and unknown.
The meeting continued several days, but the young
convert was seen no more. Yet her image haunted the
mind of the preacher; his first doubts returned; he
thought anew of the temptations that beset the christian
pilgrim on his journey. Even the seeming innocence
and beauty of the object brought stronger conviction
to his mind that she might be employed by the fiend
of darkness. Perhaps he felt that he could not have
selected a more ensnaring form. The consciousness
that she clung to his thoughts, that her image sometimes
mingled even in his very prayers, and then again her
sudden disappearance—all seemed to him like mystery,
and filled him with dismay. He almost expected to
meet her in his lonely walks. In the night he dreamt
of her and awoke with the conviction that the enemy
of man was wrestling for his soul. His watchings and
prayers were redoubled; his life became more austere,
and his habits were those of self-denial and restraint.
To the eyes of his followers he was already a siant, but
he himself knew that he was a sinful, erring man.
This deep and vital sense of his own infirmities, of
the wanderings of his mind, of his need of a quickening
spirit, gave force and energy to his language, and sensibility
to the tone of his manly and eloquent voice.
Whenever he spoke in public, the meetinghouse was
thronged. His fame extended even to the circles of
fashion, and many a fair lady condescended to sit, side
by side, with her waiting woman, and submitted to being
crowded by her footman, for the sake of hearing
this second Whitefield—for so was the young Evans
called. Black eyes and blue forgot for a moment their
brilliancy, and came away dimmed by their own tears.
It was to one of these crowded audiences that the
preacher was pouring forth the fervor of his thoughts
with an eloquence and rapidity that put to scorn the
rules of rhetoric, when suddenly he stopped—his eyes
became fixed and motionless, but not cast upward as if
to catch heavenly inspiration; his hands fell powerless
by his side, and, after an unsuccessful effort to proceed,
he sunk back into his seat.
Another preacher arose and made a concluding
prayer, and dismissed the audience. Evans had not
looked up. With his face buried in his hands, he remained
till nearly all had left the building; then, with
slow and cautious glances, he gazed around; but he
saw not the form, which, to his enthusiastic imagination,
had come again to drag him downwards, to fill his mind
with earthly thoughts and alienate it from the blessed
visions of immortality. Slowly he descended the steps
of the pulpit and entered the porch; but he had nearly
fallen when he perceived the terrific object standing
near the door as if laying in wait for him; and yet,
when she approached him and extended her hand with
an ingenuous smile, he had not resolution to refuse it.
`It is a long while since we have met,' said the
young lady.
`Three years,' replied the preacher, not trusting
himself to look up.
`And yet,' said she, `that night is present to me as
if it were but yesterday.'
`I remember it well,' said he, in a low voice.
`Perhaps,' returned she, `you may think your zeal
was thrown away; but it was not wholly so. This is
not a place, however, to talk of experiences. If you
will appoint an hour to call at Mrs Rodman's in C—
Street, who, I know, is one of your friends, I will
be there.'
`I have no time,' said he, coldly, `for worldly appointments.
My duty calls me to labor in the vineyard of
the Lord.'
`And does not your duty,' she replied with quickness,
`call you to gather fruit for the harvest?'
`I have but little hope,' said he, solemnly surveying
her gay and showy dress, `of that fruit which the world
has blighted.'
The color rose high in her cheeks, and her head was
thrown back with a slight hauteur that gave her plumes,
which the preacher considered the trappings of vanity,
additional motion. He turned to go. Her momentary
resentment subsided, and she hastily said, `I shall be at
yours and my friend, Mrs Rodman's, tomorrow morning
at ten o'clock. Perhaps you may come; if not, I, at
least, shall have done my duty,' and with an air of
dignity, she passed him.
He was bewildered as he gazed after her. They
were the same features; it was the same voice; but he
could not realize how three years could have wrought
such a change in her manner and language. The trembling,
timid girl now stood before him, a full grown,
with fashionable life and the adulation of the
world substitutes, for the diffidence of youth, an air of
conscious importance. The native power of his own
mind prevented his feeling worldly inferiority before this
pupil of fashion, but he had unconsciously assumed
more deference of manner.
After some reflection he determined to meet her the
next morning. She was no longer dangerous in his
view, for she now appeared to him like the gaudy beauties
who walk Broadway by thousands, and on whom
he seldom glanced. Yet he was convinced that her
mind was once tender and open to conviction, and perhaps
the grace of God might again revisit it. At all events,
it could not injure him to converse with her, and possibly
it might benefit her.
In the mean time, Frances Randolph, for so was the
former convert and now one of the reigning beauties
called, waited with impatience for the appointed hour.
She had, from childhood, been left to her own guidance.
Her mother died when she was young, and she
had been taken from school to preside over her father's
splendid and hospitable table. She had money at will,
was full of enterprise and talent, and, though deficient in
the acquirement of knowledge, and the best purposes of
education, yet she possessed sufficient materials to dazzle
and captivate. The rumor of the Camp Meeting had
excited her curiosity, and, attended by an old domestic
who was subservient to her wishes, she had accomplished
her purpose of attending it. It was not surprising
that her mind had partaken of the general enthusiasm,
and, as has been already seen, she bid fair to become
one of the most zealous of the converts. But the domestic
who attended her, alarmed by the effect produced
upon her young mistress, resolutely refused to stay a
camp ground. The impression soon faded from her imagination,
but when, three years after, she recognised
in the celebrated Evans, the same preacher who had
so much excited her feelings, she determined to indulge
a new whim by seeing and conversing with him.
Evans, in the mean time, passed a restless and agitated
night, and the emotion excited by an earthly object
was renewed with additional violence. He had been
early placed under the guidance of an uncle, who was a
Methodist preacher, and his own glowing and ardent
mind led him naturally to pursue the same profession.
He had talked and preached of the great enemy of
mankind who went about like a roaring lion seeking
whom he might devour, till he seemed to believe him
omnipotent. True, he would have shrunk with horror
at the idea of making him the ruler of the universe;
yet those who listened to his impassioned eloquence
came away less impressed with the consoling thought of
redeeming mercy, of a tender and watchful parent ever
ready and willing to aid, than of the horrible dominion
of the prince of darkness, the adversary of souls.
Frightful visions haunted Evans through the night, and,
in the morning, when the appointed hour arrived, the
distress of conflicting emotions rested on his countenance.
But how did it vanish before the bright and
beaming smiles and unrestrained welcome of the young
lady! Could anything unholy come in such a form?
`Lead me not into temptation,' is not merely the
prayer of a Christian, but of a philosopher and a sage;
of one who studies the influence of circumstances, of
character, and situation; who, in the strength and vigor
of manhood, has investigated his own resources; who
feels that it is wise to avoid a combat under which he
may sink, or at best gain an unprofitable victory.
Evans was ignorant of the customs and habits of the
gay world. His associations had been confined to the
class to which he belonged, and though many were
refined and polished, they knew nothing of the arcana
of fashion. Their thoughts and views were heavenward.
He, too, thought but little of any other world
than his own in which he lived, and that to which he
was journeying. He could form no idea how monstrous
must be the amalgamation of a Methodist convert and
a reigning belle in the same individual; and still less of
the versatile character of a fashionable woman, who
could at one moment dote on religion for its novel
excitement, and, the next, discuss a point of dress with
equal ardor. To him all that Frances said and thought
of herself was reality. She related to him the effect the
Camp Meeting produced upon her mind, and, perhaps
unconsciously, exaggerated the state of her feelings
when she assured him, that long after she labored
under the deepest conviction of sin and an inward self-abhorrence;
certain it is, that no one could have detected
this awakened state, not even the nicest observer, under
the tissue of gauze, flowers, and feathers, which still
continued to adorn the fair penitent, and made her the
`mould of fashion' when she walked Broadway or
fluttered in the ball room. He considered her as compelled
to sacrifice to the world the best powers of her
nature; that she was chained by situation and habit,
and that it was his duty to assist her in breaking bonds
that would destroy her forever.
It is possible, had she been left wholly to his influence,
he might have succeeded; but more congenial, though
not so novel excitements, were constantly operating.
When she quitted the preacher with her heart warmed
by his eloquence, it was to listen to the seducing voice
of flattery and ambition. She attended the Methodist
meetings as often as she could without exciting observation,
invitation or splendid public ball. Much time, however,
she certainly gave to Evans, and, while her pious friend,
Mrs Rodman, rejoiced in the progress she viewed her
as making towards heavenly perfection, she little thought
how much of vanity had mingled in her attention to it.
With Evans, weeks and months passed rapidly on.
He had ceased to think of temptation or danger; but,
now that he felt secure, earthly hopes were fast undermining
his heavenly aspirations. Perhaps he had no
precise view in his intercourse with the young lady; yet
her image filled his waking and his dreaming thoughts.
He loved to listen to the history she gave of her own
emotions; and how could it be otherwise when they
were excited by himself? Could he help, in return for
this communication, expressing his own fervent wishes
for her happiness both here and hereafter, that a creature
so lovely, so fashioned after the image of the Creator,
should prove herself worthy of her high destination?
By degrees they talked almost wholly of themselves.
It was after one of these interesting conversations when
Miss Randolph had left the preacher absorbed in the
dreams of his own imagination, in which were mingled
the brightest pictures of love and domestic happiness,
that Mrs Rodman quietly entered and took her seat.
After a few attempts at conversation, she remained
silent at her work, for she would not disturb the reflections
of the preacher. She was convinced that they
were intense and sublime. Sometimes, however, she
stopped and gazed upon his face. It was lighted by an
emotion she had never seen before—not even in the
pulpit. The good lady was not in the habit of analyzing
expression; if she had been, perhaps she might have
discovered that there was more of earth than heaven
in the thoughts and recollections that lingered there.
Women are not given to obstinate taciturnity. Once
and with much more success than before.
`I am thinking,' said she, `what a wonderful change
has taken place in Frances Randolph. She has been
to two class meetings within a short time, and I am sure
she would rather attend one of our love-feasts than any
of the balls or plays she used to be so fond of. Oh!
Mr Evans, you have been a blessed instrument in this
work! I wish she could be the means of bringing her
father to conviction—her husband, I have no doubt,
she will—'
`Her husband!' said Evans, looking at the speaker
with astonishment.
`Why, yes,' said Mrs Rodman, `you know she is to
be married next month to a son of Mr Reid, the rich
merchant.'
`Impossible!' said Evans.
`Why, it does seem strange,' replied she, `but I have
no doubt she expects to convert him. You know it is
said in scripture, “The believing wife shall convert the
unbelieving husband.”'
The preacher's countenance did not light up with any
expression of hope or joy that corresponded to the good
woman's, but, bidding her good morning, he hastened
to his home.
The veil was now lifted. He felt that it was the
creature, and not the Creator, he had been worshipping.
It was long before he could realize that the lesson was
a salutary one. Bitter was his struggle, but his religion
had been too vital, too sincere, and too much ingrained
in his very existence, not to conquer. After a few days
had passed, in which Frances was surprised that he did
not meet her as usual, he sent the following note;
`I learnt a few days since that you were soon to be
married. I accuse you of nothing—but we meet no
than I had at first feared. I have devoted those powers
to you, which ought to have been devoted wholly to the
service of God. Farewell!'
When the note arrived Miss Randolph was arraying
herself for a `Greek ball.' She had made a sort of compromise
between her Methodist views and the charitable
designs of the gala. `Even Evans,' thought she, `would
approve of my giving a few dollars to the suffering
Greeks,' and she surveyed herself with peculiar complacency
in the whole length mirror that was lighted by
girandoles and stood in a recess in her chamber.
Her dress was unusually splendid. She had felt fully
justified in sparing no expense that might make her look
lovely in the cause of virtue, and resolved, with many
other belles and beaux, to spend her strength that night
in the cause of humanity, and dance till the morning
dawned. It is to the ingenuity of the present age that
we owe the happy invention of making `charity its own
reward.'
Miss Randolph extended her slender arm loaded with
bracelets—all in the cause of the Greeks—and took the
note from her servant. She broke the seal, and, turning
to a lamp, read its contents. For the honor of human
nature it must be recorded that she fell into a strong
hysteric. She gave up the Greek ball, and her lover
called for her in vain.
In about three months after the reception of the note,
Evans saw in the newspaper an account of the marriage
of Mr Reid and Miss Randolph. It was the last pang
he felt on her account. No recital of balls, dress, or
wedding cake reached his ear. Her walk and his were
widely different. She went on in the broad path of
fashion; he returned to his accustomed habits, a better
and a wiser man.
| THE CAMP MEETING. The legendary | |