 | CHAP. VII. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution |  |
7. CHAP. VII.
His peculiar manner and power arose from an energy of soul, which
nature could give, but which no human being could justly copy.
Wirt.
On the ensuing Sabbath, Somerville joined the young
ladies on their way to Hollis-street. The crowd presented
a strange contrast to the congregations of the
present day. Here and there a taper-waisted damsel,
glittering in embroidered brocade, with flowers even
larger than life, while close by her side walked the
dandy of that period, with bright red waistcoat, leather
small-clothes, and enormous buckles sparkling in the
sun. Then followed a humble dame, with rustle gown
and checked apron, leading a reluctant urchin, stumbling
along with his little three-corned scraper; the
tears still trickling down his cheeks, forced from him by
the painful operation of being shoved and shaken into
his tight breeches for the first time. In the rear came
an older boy, alternately casting an envious eye on the
trim little fellow before him, and a despairing glance at
his own clothes, which, drenched by repeated rains,
hung in slovenly folds about his ancles.
Among this motley group was one individual, who
entirely arrested Lucretia's attention. She walked before
them with a most masculine stride, and ever and
anon cast back an anxious, earnest look, as she muttered,
woman she never dreams of.”
“Some insane creature, I imagine,” observed Somerville.
Lucretia thought so too; but the expression of her
face haunted her imagination; and she was unable to
dispel the charm, until she had vainly searched around
the church for the singular apparition.
Eager and respectful attention characterized the
whole audience.
There was nothing in the appearance of this extraordinary
man which would lead you to suppose that a
Felix would tremble before him. He was something
above the middle stature, well proportioned, and remarkable
for a native gracefulness of manner. His
complexion was very fair, his features regular and his
dark blue eyes small and lively: in recovering from the
measles, he had contracted a squint with one of them;
but this peculiarity rather rendered the expression of
his countenance more rememberable, than in any degree
lessened the effect of its uncommon sweetness.
His voice excelled both in melody and compass; and
its fine modulations were happily accompanied by that
grace of action which he possessed in an eminent degree,
and which has been said to be the chief requisite
of an orator. To have seen him when he first commenced,
one would have thought him any thing but enthusiastic
and glowing; but as he proceeded, his heart
warmed with his subject, and his manner became impetuous
and animated, till, forgetful of every thing
and to beseech in agony for his fellow beings.
After he had finished his prayer, he knelt for a long
time in profound silence; and so powerfully had it affected
the most heartless of his audience, that a stillness
like that of the tomb pervaded the whole house.
Before he commenced his sermon, long, darkening
columns crowded the bright sunny sky of the morning,
and swept their dull shadows over the building, in fearful
augury of the storm.
His text was, “Strive to enter in at the strait gate;
for many, I say unto you, shall seek to enter in, and
shall not be able.”
“See that emblem of human life,” said he, as he
pointed to a shadow that was flitting across the floor.
“It passed for a moment, and concealed the brightness
of heaven from our view—but it is gone. And where
will ye be my hearers, when your lives have passed
away like that dark cloud? Oh, my dear friends, I
see thousands sitting attentive, with their eyes fixed
on the poor, unworthy preacher. In a few days, we
shall all meet at the judgment-seat of Christ. We
shall form a part of that vast assembly which will gather
before his throne; and every eye will behold the
Judge. With a voice whose call you must abide and
answer, he will inquire whether on earth ye strove to
enter in at the strait gate—whether you were supremely
devoted to God—whether your hearts were absorbed in
him. My blood runs cold when I think how many of
you will then seek to enter in, and shall not be able.
whole earth? Can you say it has been your whole endeavour
to mortify the flesh with its affections and lusts?
that your life has been one long effort to do the will of
God? No! you must answer, I made myself easy in
the world, by flattering myself that all would end well;
but I have deceived my own soul, and am lost.
“You, O false and hollow christian, of what avail
will it be that you have done many things—that you have
read much in the sacred word—that you have made
long prayers—that you have attended religious duties,
and appeared holy in the eyes of men? What will all
this be, if instead of loving Him supremely, you have
been supposing you should exalt yourself in heaven, by
acts really polluted and unholy?
“And you, rich man, wherefore do you hoard your
silver? Wherefore count the price you have received
for him whom you every day crucify, in your love of
gain? Why, that when you are too poor to buy a drop
of cold water, your beloved son may be rolled to hell
in his chariot pillowed and cushioned about him.”
His eye gradually lighted up, as he proceeded, till
towards the close, it seemed to sparkle with celestial
fire.
“Oh, sinners!” he exclaimed, “by all your hopes
of happiness, I beseech you to repent. Let not the
wrath of God be awakened. Let not the fires of eternity
be kindled against you. See there!” said he,
pointing to the lightning, which played on the corner of
the pulpit—“'Tis a glance from the angry eye of Jehovah!
Hark!” continued he, raising his finger in a
louder, and broke in one tremendous crash over the
building. “It was the voice of the Almighty, as he
passed by in his anger!”
As the sound died away, he covered his face with his
hands, and knelt beside his pulpit, apparently lost in
inward and intense prayer. The storm passed rapidly
by, and the sun, bursting forth in his might, threw across
the heavens a magnificent arch of peace. Rising, and
pointing to the beautiful object, he exclaimed, “Look
upon the rainbow; and praise him that made it. Very
beautiful it is in the brightness thereof. It compasseth
the heavens about with glory; and the hands of the
Most High have bended it.”
The effect was astonishing. Even Somerville shaded
his eyes when he pointed to the lightning, and knelt as
he listened to the approaching thunder;—while the deep
sensibility of Grace, and the thoughtless vivacity of
Lucretia, yielded to the powerful excitement, in an
unrestrained burst of tears.
“Who could resist such eloquence?” said Lucretia,
as they mingled with the departing throng.
“I should think no one who had a human heart,”
answered Somerville. “It is as resistless as it is untutored.
I was never before so completely aware of my
own nothingness,—never so forcibly reminded, that I
was a mere drop in the vast ocean of existence.”
“Some doubt Mr. Whitfield's talents as well as his
piety,” rejoined Lucretia; “but after what I have witnessed
this morning, I shall never distrust the sincerity
such language must have been bathed in the fountains
of life. Who that had heard him to-day, could
think of him as a lad of fifteen, making mops, washing
floors, and taking care of horses at an inn?”
“Yet young as he then was,” replied Somerville,
“it is said the singular boy found leisure, amid his servile
employments, to read Thomas à Kempis, and to
write two or three sermons.”
“It is but another proof that genius will find its upward
way, whatever obstacles may lie in its path,” said
Lucretia. “You have promised to join us at Mr. Osborne's
church this afternoon, you know. You will
there hear preaching of a different kind; but I do
not think the contrast will prove unfavourable to my
friend.”
Grace, usually silent and timid, said nothing; but her
beautiful eyelashes were still impearled with tears,—
and her sweet face was radiant with pleasure, when she
heard the allusion to her father.
Mr. Osborne's eloquence was, as they had anticipated,
a perfect contrast to that of Mr. Whitfield. He too
seemed to feel the importance of his subject, and often
rose to majestic fervour when urging it upon his hearers.
He never appeared to them invested in the sublimity of
wrathful denunciation,—but he intreated them, with all
the earnestness of a father, to kneel at the Saviour's
feet, and lay their burthens there.
The Quaker poet has described in one powerful line,
the sensations excited by the first view of the stormy
and its frightful barrier of rocks and precipices.
My spirit was mute in the presence of power!
the soul; but Mr. Osborne was like a calm, deep river,
reflecting the light of heaven with mildness and splendour.
The first left the sensitive heart of Grace in a
state of painfulness, almost amounting to anguish; from
the latter, she returned to kneel at the bed-side with
involuntary devotion, as she said, “Father in heaven,
let me be guided in all things by thee.” Without ever
talking of religion, or pretending to more piety than her
associates, Grace well understood this delightful state
of internal resignation. It was not because she so
often heard her father speak on the subject. Young as
she was, experience had taught her that nothing else
could exalt every feeling into the region of pure,
etherial tranquillity, and leave no void in the heart.
Lucretia had more quickness of feeling, but less depth;
and she possessed a large share of that freedom of
thought, that boldness of investigation, which renders
exalted talents a peculiarly dangerous gift. Such minds,
while they proudly avoid the shoals of superstition, are
too apt to be wrecked on the rocks of scepticism. The
same faculties which open the hidden causes and effects
of nature to our view, will not guide us aright when
studying into the state of the soul, and the nature of its
future existence. There is a point where “the divinity
within” peremptorily says, “Here shall thy proud waves
be stayed.” Very few have groped about the veil, which
until they have become enveloped in the thick folds of
its drapery, without at times wishing for the simple, undoubting
faith of the ignorant. Indeed there never was
a soul, however cold in its speculations, however wild
and irregular in its passions, that has not felt the calm
influence of devotion stealing over it, like the delicious
breathings of distant music. Such impressions were
now vivid in the mind of Lucretia; but it was her fault,
that religion was the offspring of excitement, and the
sport of impulse. Its power was as transitory as it was
entire; and before she retired to rest she had forgotten
every thing but Somerville. He had invited the ladies
to an evening sail in the harbour, and promised that the
plan should be carried into execution before the week
had expired. To think of his looks, expressions, the
very tones of his voice, furnished ample food for her
imagination during the interim; for in a heart that loves
as youth and genius are too apt to love, the progress of
affection nearly equals the rapidity of light.
| CHAP. VII. The rebels, or, Boston before the Revolution | |