Margaret a tale of the real and ideal, blight and bloom : including sketches of a place not before described, called Mons Christi |
 | 1. |
| 2. |
 | 3. | PART III.
WOMANHOOD. |
 | Margaret |  |
3. PART III.
WOMANHOOD.
LETTER FROM MARGARET TO ANNA JONES.
My dear Anna:—You told me to write you everything; but
how shall I utter myself? How can I give shape or definition to
what I am? Easy were it for me to tell you what I am not. Has
a volcano burst within me; has a tornado prostrated me? If you
were to excavate the Herculaneum that I seem to myself to be,
would you find only the charred semblance of life, the skeletons
of old emotions, the very slaves of my hopes stricken down in
the act of running away? With Rose, I would forget myself,
that to which this writing recalls. She says I can endure the
prospect better than she. If this be so, it must be attributed
to its possessing the merit of novelty. I am in ruins, and so
are all things about me. Yet in the windfall some trees are
new-sprouting; invisible hands are rebuilding the shattered
edifice. View me as you will, I think I am somewhat improving.
Do I begin existence wholly anew, or rise I up from the
fragments of an earlier condition? What is the transition—
from myself to myself, or from myself to another? What is
the link between Molly Hart and Margaret Brückmann, can
you tell? In which of the climacterics do I now exist? I am
witheringly afflicted. Chilion is not!
Pallentesque rosæ, nec dulce rubens hyacinthus!”
brother turns the voices of the birds into wailing, and the sun
is pale at mid-day. In Scotland are deep caverns, where invisible
streams of water make subterranean melodies. They are
called Caves of Music. I am such a Cave. Chilion flows
through me, a nethernmost, mournfulest dirge. Then, too, Ma
is so silent, her features are so rigidly distressed. She smokes
Pa has lost the glow of his countenance; he has grown absolutely
pale; and where he sits working, I see tears drip on his
leather apron. Hash is so sober, so soft, it frightens me.
Nimrod comes down from the Ledge, and does his best to
enliven us, but his gayety has fled, and he knows not how to
be mournful. Bull had one leg broke at the time of Chilion's
trial, and hopples out to Chilion's boat, where he sits by the
hour. Rose is soothing and active, but she has a load at her
own heart, which in truth I need help her bear. Isabel comes
up almost every day, full of sympathy and generous love. Deacon
Ramsdill, Master Elliman, Mrs. Bowker and others have
made us some kind visits. Sibyl Radney comes down, and milks
the cow, and does some of my other little chores. Yesterday,
Rose and Isabel went with me to the Burying Ground. Good
old Philip Davis, the Sexton, came one night, so I have been
told, and neatly covered Chilion's grave with green sod. It is
by itself apart, in one corner of the grounds. Few persons
have gone near it, and the tall yellow grass has grown rank
about it. I threw myself upon it and dissolved in weeping.
Murmur I could not, an inarticulate, ungovernable anguish
was all I could feel. O my brother! I knew not I had such
a brother, I knew not I loved such a brother! We found a
dandelion budding on it—when I was little he taught me to
love dandelions! Rose folded me in her arms, Isabel prayed
for me. I thought of the blood-sweating agony of Him, the
Divine Sufferer; it penetrated and subdued mine. Mrs.
Bowker gave me a lady's slipper taken from the plant Chilion
sent her. There is a fancy that flowers die, when those who
have tended them do. Will Chilion's flowers live? there are
many of us who will fulfil his love towards them.
We live at home as we were wont to do, only Rose is ever
with me. I share with her my bed in the garret. I love the
old house, more than all places, and what matters it? I seem
to myself to be deep as our own bottomless Pond. The Indian
and his child lie there; in me the last of many ages and
races of hope and life seem to have perished. Clamavi de
profundis. Yet, yet, the sun swims through me, and I hear
Jesus walking on the troubled waters above. “Peace, be
still;” yes, be still. How sadly does suffering make us conscious
of ourselves. I knew not that I had any depth. Now
shaft opens into shaft, and the miners are still at work.—I
hear my chickens peeping, and I must go feed them. Rose
comes in from a sail on the water with Bull. Her beautiful
thanks for your flowing hair, your blue, brimming eyes, for
your royal spirit that daily visits me. Your brother Frank
was immeasurably good to us. He has written Rose, who
blesses him in her own soul, if she can in no other way. She
will write him.
I had a melancholy commission to execute at No. 4, on behalf
of Chilion. Since the death of Solomon, Mr. Smith's
affairs have gone on disorderly. The Still took fire one night
and was consumed. He himself drinks to intoxication every
day, and I did not see him. Mrs. Smith and Damaris were
taken wholly unprepared by my errand. The idea of forgiving
Chilion had never entered their heads. And indeed it
would not restore Solomon to life! I showed them the willow
basket Chilion wished me to give them. Damaris cried, and
we all cried. At length she said she would forgive Chilion,
if I would forgive her for striking me when they were digging
in the Pines. How complicate is our life! When I came
away I made them a present, small for me, but large perhaps
for them. I offered also to put up a monument for Solomon.
But, ah's me! I have since been told, Mr. Smith declares it
shall recite the fact that he was murdered by Chilion, or he
will have it done himself. Can it not be avoided? Yet I will
submit.
In the town the greatest excitement prevails. They cannot
decide about rebuilding the Church. Then, Isabel says, there
is a preliminary and deeper question. Some are anxious that
Parson Welles should have a colleague, and they also stipulate
that he shall be a very different man from their old minister.
On the one side are Judge Morgridge, Deacon Ramsdill,
Esq. Bowker, Esq. Beach, Esq. Weeks, Mr. Whiston, Mr.
Pottle; and on the other, Deacon Hadlock, Mr. Adolphus
Hadlock, Deacon Penrose, Dr. Spoor, Mr. Gisborne, Mr.
Shooks; among the more prominent ones. All these persons
I believe I spoke to you about, in answer to your world-wide
inquiries, a point in which you excel any one I ever knew. I
have not been to the Green, or Desert, as Isabel says it is.
ROSE TO FRANK JONES.
I cannot forget you, I live in your approbation, I thrive
under your care. Many obligations for your kind note. I am
more soundly, and Margaret says there is some color in my
cheeks. If we were composed of four concentric circles, I
can say the three outer ones approximate a healthy and natural
state. But the fourth, the innermost, the central one, the core,
what can I say of that? I dare not look in there, I dare not
reflect upon myself. One thing, I have no real guilt to harass
me; I only call to mind my follies. My ambition ever centred
upon a solitary acquisition, and for that alone have the
energies of my being been spent, sympathy; an all-appreciating,
tender, great, solemn sympathy. Begniled by this
desire, I mistook the demonstrations of a selfish passion for
tokens of a noble heart. Betrayed beyond the bounds of
strict propriety, I became an object of the censure of mankind.
Too proud to confess, or too much confounded to
explain my innocence, I suffered the penalties of positive infamy.
It always seemed to me that I was placid by nature,
and moderate in my sensations. This opposition created in
me a new nature; my calamities have imparted heat to my
temper, and acrimony to my judgment. I became impetuous,
vehement, and as it were possessed. A new consciousness was
revived, both of what I was and of what the world was. Up
to that time I had floated on with a tolerable serenity, trusting
myself and others, and ever hoping for more. Then commenced
my contention and my despair. I became all at once
sensible of myself in a new way; as one does in whose bosom
literal coals of fire shall be put. My heart swelled to enormous
proportions; it became diseased, and dreadfully painful.
It spread itself through my system, tyranuized over my thought,
and fed upon the choicest strength of my being. My intellect
was darkened, I became an Atheist. Under these circumstances,
which you already know something about, after having
long kept it hidden, I declared myself to Margaret. She had
penetration enough to understand me, and sufficient magnanimity
to love me; she awed me by her superior, uniform
goodness. I availed myself of a moment when she was in
tears to unfold the cause of my own. I rejoiced in her weakness,
because I thought thereby I could find entrance to her
greatness. The melancholy, to me most melancholy events
of her brother's death, I need not recapitulate. When we left
Livingston, I seemed to be driven on as by the elements;
whither or how I cared not. I had some tact, and my connection
with the Theatre, it was said, would be an advantage
to the company. Indeed, it was hinted that I might become a
glittered before me, and into the prospect I threw whatever
power of resolution or hope I had remaining. Margaret
agreed to abide ever with me, and aid me as she could; while
I was to earn the livelihood for us both. One good I did derive
from this adventure, self-forgetfulness. I attained a sort
of ecstasy of outward delight; and, will you believe it, I grew
better. This external happiness sank into my being deeper
and deeper; it chased away my regrets, it healed my morbidness.
My evil and distress seemed to diminish. I was
becoming cleansed and purified. Can you understand this?
The happier I waxed the more reconciled I became, and the
strife between what I was and what I would be, between my
hopes and my calamities, ceased. Self-forgetfulness the road
to virtue! What will you Divines say to that? All at once
we were thrown into your house, where all is so elegant, so
serene, so pure, so affectionate. Your goodness, Sir, startled
me. I dare not be left alone with you. When you spoke, it
agonized me. You recalled me to myself. If you had been
only good, I believe I should have died, or run away. Anna
came to your aid. You were a man. Can a man understand
a woman? Margaret says they can. I have denied it. I
needed more than your goodness, I needed sympathy, sympathy
with my feelings, my wretchedness, my wickedness even.
Could you render it? I had a woman's need of sympathy;
could any man give it? Many and painful were the struggles
I underwent. Now that I am away from you I can speak
more freely and composedly, as I know you will and must
allow me to do. Margaret says my smile bewitched you; a
game it has more than once practised. How fervently have I
prayed for a Medusa-face! But it was not that; it was that
your kind feelings, as of old, “took me in.” Then your good
minister spoke so discriminatingly and benevolently to me.
Truly I can say, never man spake like that man. But could
you reach my heart, could you underlie my deepest feelings,
could you sustain, heal and assure that which your presence
animated into painful life? Let me not disquiet you by questions
like these. But I have no alternative, either I must
describe my whole estate, or retreat from you forever. You, in
effect, demand a disclosure, and Margaret urges me to make
it in full. I have not seen a great deal of the world, but I
have felt enough of it. I have become suspicious of men,
not of their motives altogether, or of their wishes, or kindness;
but of their moral capability. Then whatever benefit
a larger measure here. All kinds of diversion are at our command.
We have purchased horses, and can ride; we have
boats, and can sail; we have woods, and can walk. We work
too, weed the garden, drive the cow to pasture, feed the
poultry, wash dishes and wind spools. We have leisure and
books, and can read. Beyond this, am I prepared to encounter
the world in the particular manner you propose to conduct
me to it? I have left it, I have bade it a long adieu. I will
not say I hate it, only I will have nothing to do with it. Margaret,
with all that oppresses her so sensibly, is still elastic,
hearty, luxuriant. She has a great being, and evil floats
through her and passes away. I am so contracted and small
it all lodges in me, and propagates itself through my whole
existence. Or at least, so great is her power of self-recuperation,
that if the whole globe were heaped upon her she would
make her way up through it; and not only that, she would
assimilate its elements to her nature, and convert its forces to
her uses. A cloud that drives me home for shelter against the
rain, only enhances the beauty of her Universe. Then her
compassion is so quick, and her ministries so gentle, while I
am cold and stubborn to the wants or woes of all. She too
is a believer in Christ, which I am not, or at least in the sense
that she is. Her faith is life-giving, soul-penetrating, noble,
luminous, purifying. Mine, all that I ever had, was a mechanical,
artificial, vulgar sort of calculation. I was once
converted indeed; but I have sadly fallen away. At the best
I am but a poor Christian truly. Margaret, I know, never
sinned. I have sinned day by day. I say not these things to
commend her, but to reveal myself.
Shall I turn to the other more significant, and so far as this
question is concerned, more weighty reflections, — the formidable
fourth circle I mean; a combination of impressions,
characteristics, substances, of not the most auspicious nature.
Forgetting you, I forget that. With you, that revives. It is I
would fain believe drawing to a diminished diameter; its
action is reduced, it beats with a less audible pulse. It is a
woman's broken heart, a woman's despair; it is a woman's
feebleness, acute delicacy, shrinking sensitiveness, high sentiment
of honor and low consciousness of disgrace, all thrown
in together. What would you do with it? What would it do
with you? What would you do with such a woman? There
is a bird, Margaret says, that crosses sheets of water on the
leaves of the floating lily; can you cross me so? There is
only catches the drops as they fall from the skies. I have
refused to quench my thirst at common sources, and whither
shall I look? Dearest Frank, I must yield to your judgment
what I dare not to your love — myself. You will have need
of strength as well as affection if you take me. On your
soberest discretion I can alone rely. Seeing how I am, is it
in your power to make me what I should be?
How we long for Mr. Evelyn's return. I am sure Margaret
loves him; when I tell her so, she smiles, and says, “Yes,
and Frank Jones too.” But I know she desires my consent
to your wishes, and I think she would feel badly to have Mr.
Evelyn marry abroad. But what an admirable wife she would
make you; this entre nous. Perhaps we shall both set up a
Convent here, and feed poor children. Margaret is all there
is left to me in this world; and I, who am the whole cause of
her sorrows, still live on her bounty. I am a last year's leaf
that I have sometimes seen on the beech trees blanched and
dry, still cleaving to the brightness and bloom of her Spring-time.
EXTRACT FROM ROSE TO FRANK.
Mr. Evelyn has come! The effect I am sure was not small
on Margaret. The night before she did not sleep a wink, for
she kept me awake till morning. Pa and Ma, as I call her
father and mother, were for fixing up a little, but she would
allow of no changes. She half smiled and half cried by
turns; her face went through all the variations of the prism.
Mr. Evelyn had forwarded a kind note, saying he would like
to see her alone. She took me with her down the Delectable
Way to an old haunt of her's, where she first encountered
him. I would have withdrawn, but she held me fast. We
heard his horse coming up the hill. “This is a strange feeling,”
said she; “is this what you mean by love, Rose?” She
never looked more beautiful. Her heron's wreath set off her
rich dark curls, she wore a simple muslin, her expression
might have ravished an angel. Mr. Evelyn left his horse and
came forward. Hardly could she articulate my name in the
introduction. By an instantaneous and almost invisible act,
their hearts, so long one, sealed the unison. I had anticipated
something, but I was excited and enchanted. Margaret has
a carriage;—to see them in that pure embrace, and with such
an interpenetration of soul and spirit, quite overpowered me.
Deacon Ramsdill came limping along with one of his queerest
of all smiles — “Sheer nater, just so when I was a youngster,”
said he, and so diverted us from a fit of crying into
which I am sure I should have fallen. Mr. Evelyn was then
introduced to Pa, Ma, and Hash. He made inquiries after
Chilion, which we could only answer by our tears.
We have sometimes wondered that he never wrote Margaret,
but he says his letters were lost on the way. She
showed him some autumnal leaves and flowers she gathered,
and has kept in remembrance of him. These were her letters
to him, dumb signals, that she preserved in the garret! She
has loved him, I do insist; but that lively pain of love we
girls are so wont to indulge, perhaps she has not felt. This
may be partly owing, such is my solution, to the strange,
rapid, distressing scenes she has been through since she first
saw him.
Mr. Evelyn has taken the spare room at Aunt Wright's.
There is a cause for sorrow in that family, which, I fear, will
not soon be removed. Aunt has long had her heart set on
Margaret for cousin Obed. This interest did not abate on
Margaret's accession to fortune. Though I believe Obed had
if not his hopes damped, at least his ideas of things very much
chastened by his trip abroad. The world is so large, and there
are so many men in it, I think he had relinquished whatever
thoughts he may have entertained of Margaret. In addition,
her connection with Chilion has of late inspired him with a
secret dread of her. But none of these things availed with
his mother, who has rendered herself positively annoying by
urging the fulfilment of certain promises she says Margaret
made in years gone by. However, the matter is settled now,
and Aunt freely consented to admit to her house the rival of
her son, when she found there was prospect of an handsome
remuneration.
EXTRACT FROM ROSE TO WINIFRED JONES.
The marriage came off last night. The service was done
by Parson Welles, who really seemed to be as happy as the
rest of us. How delighted we were to have Frank and Anna
here! There were also present a few other of the select
friends of the family. We assembled in the kitchen. It was
ceremonies. Mrs. Weeks sent us up some cake for the occasion;
there was wine for our friends; all we ourselves have
eschewed spirituous drinks. I need not say how some of us
were reminded of another night and other scenes. It was, to
my own eye, a scene within a scene, beauty, love and life
haunted by profanity, revelry and death. Deacon Ramsdill
was almost beside himself with joy, and Master Elliman with
joy and wine. Mr. Girardeau seems to be very much pleased
with the disposition Margaret has made of herself, and Mrs.
Wiswall and Bertha think there is nobody like Mr. Evelyn;
so do I, excepting of course Frank.
What can I say of your dear brother, and now my own love?
He is all I wished—wished? all I needed. I shall begin to
believe with Margaret, that love is more powerful than all evil.
He risks much in taking me, not that I am much, but that I
am mean. He promises to sustain all my feeblenesss, and renew
my defects. He bears me in his own arms to the Infinite
arms. Through him, streams upon my soul the long hidden
light of God. The Christ whom he preaches I begin to love
and adore. He does understand my heart, and composing with
uplifts my whole nature into serenity and peace.
Margaret and Mr. Evelyn are going on a journey; in the
mean time, we clear out the work-shop, and fit it up for their
return.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
Our excursion was rich and blest indeed. In New-York,
we saw the room where I was born, and the bed even whereon
my father and mother died. Nimrod was with us and
showed us every thing. The Clergyman who married my
dear parents is dead, but in Baltimore we found his daughter,
who bore me to her father's, and nourished me like a
mother. My grandfather's abode, the shop where my mother
tended, the room where she slept, we saw. In one of the
cemetries their graves were shown to us, near that of my grandmother;
the monument bore the names, Gottfried Brückmann,
and Jane Girardeau. My grandfather, when he knew not
where I was, became sorrowful on his daughter's account, and
had her remains removed where they now lie. My dear, dear
mother! The inscription says she was twenty years old; so
near her poor orphan daughter's age! New fountains of grief
are opened in my soul. I am persuaded the pale beautiful
She has watched over her child, she has blessed the earth-wanderer!—We
went up the Hudson, whither Nimrod and Ben
Bolter carried me; we stopped at the same landing-place; we
found the Irish woman who nursed me, and I was glad to be
able to repay her kindness. We went to Windenboro, Rose's
native town, but found little to relieve the impressions that may
have occupied us. To our inquiries about their old minister
we received but few warm-hearted replies. The successor of
Mr. Elphiston, while he preaches a milder form of dogma, exhibits
less benignity of feeling. I hesitated about speaking of
these things to Rose; but she said she could bear anything,
that that part of herself once devoted to these painful reminiscences,
through successive processes of anguish, remorse and
penitence, had become hollow.
We have a manuscript life of my father, done in English,
with my mother's correction; also, in several forms, my
mother's hand-writing. We possess likewise several letters
from Margaret Bruneau to Gottfried Brückmann, and some of
his to her, which Mr. Evelyn found in Rubillaud. The clothes
of my father and mother, his flute, violin and several other
little things are here. Mr. Evelyn visited the grave of Margaret
Bruneau, which he found covered with flowers. Her letters
are full of sweet simplicity and holy love. All whom he saw
extolled her virtues. In Pyrmont, he found a brother of my
father's, whom we hope to be able to persuade to come to
America. Withal, in our travels we heard of a German soldier
in the interior of Pennsylvania, who served in the same
corps with my father. Him also we visited. I have been
travelling in search of my childhood! An unknown history
opens to me. I have been living here how unconsciously with
Ma, who is the cousin of my mother. Yet she has treated me
as her own child. I was confided especially to the care of
Chilion, whom Nimrod told my mother about. How well he
executed his charge! The change in my grandfather's name,
and that of Nimrod, prevented all recognizances for many
years. I know not that Ma ever understood the relation subsisting
between us. This past, how precious to me! Hidden
event scattered over many years, and many countries, become
a part of my biography. It has taken a whole century to give
me birth! Time, like mother Carey's chickens, bides the
blast, rocks on the gulphy wave, bearing her eggs under her
wings, which she deposits at length on the broody shore. In
me shall these transactions be cherished into life! Do I deprecate
on these by-gone years? Dust sometimes falls with the purest
snow discoloring the face of Winter, but it enriches the growth
and enhances the beauty of Spring. Shall I become better, as
a new season of existence opens to me?
Our house is begun, but it must necessarily move on slowly.
We hope to be able to go into it, or some part of it, in the
course of twelve or fourteen months. It stands on the Delectable
Way, near the Eastern margin of the Pond. It will command
a more extensive Western view than we now enjoy,
taking in the whole length of the Pond, the Brandon hills, and
Umkiddin. Through avenues that we shall cut in the Maples
will be seen the Village, the River, the Meadows, the champagne
country and mountains beyond. At the South will be
opened the valley of Mill Brook and the neighboring highlands.
The space between the house and Butternut is to be converted
into a garden. It is to be constructed of granite, of which an
abundance, and that of the finest quality, is found in the neighborhood.
We have an architect from New York, Mr. Palmer
from the Ledge is master workman. Of the style I shall say
but little, nor repeat the discussions we have had on the subject.
Mr. Evelyn knew more of the world, and it was right I
should yield to him. His travels abroad have tinged, and perhaps
moulded his taste. It will have, I fancy, a slightly castellated
appearance; so at least it looks on paper. It is to be
two stories high, and ample in all its appointments. Mr.
Evelyn talks of effect, the high grounds, woods, and all that;
entire simplicity he objects to. Without ever giving any reflection
to the matter, I found Master Elliman had in fact indoctrinated
me with a love of the plain Grecian. But not as a
dwelling-house, and here, Mr. Evelyn says, only as a Temple
or Church. We are to have a room for Music and Art, one
for Natural History and Philosophy, a Library, Conservatory,
Aviary, and all that, and a plenty of rooms for our friends.
There are also extensive barns and out-houses. We have
gained a title to the whole of Mons Christi, by purchasing the
complete environs of the Pond, and a square mile of territory
on the North and West. We are clearing away woods, and
bringing many acres of excellent soil under cultivation. There
are nearly one hundred men employed in all departments, and,
if you will believe it, I do not think they consume more than
three gallons of spirit a day. We are widening and grading
the Delectable Way into a carriage road. Pa and Hash have
Hash and Sibyl Radney will be married as soon as we shall
have finished their house. Hash superintends the farm; Nimrod
and Rhody are anxious to remove here; it is his ambition
to take care of the barn and horses. He has become our jockey,
and went out lately and made us a purchase of some beautiful
Narragansetts with draught and carriage horses. Master Elliman
comes up, stares about, applies his red handkerchief to his
nostrils, and the other day frankly confessed there were realities
in the universe. People from the Village, Avernus, and all
parts, visit us, and gaze wonderingly upon our works. Joyce
Dooly, the Fortune-teller, was here the other day with her five
black cats. She mounted a rock, in presence of the multitude,
and harangued them, declaiming on her own merits.
She said she had brought about this change, had foretold it
all, and seen it in her cats. Rufus Palmer, who is really a
genius, is engaged on statuary, from plates Mr. Evelyn brought
from Europe.
Side by side, in the midst of the noise of hammers, the
shouting of teamsters, on the beach, lie in lonely silence my
canoe and Chilion's fishboat. His viol hangs in our room, unlike
St. Dunstan's, it makes no music! In Nova Zembla, it
is reported, men's words are wont to be frozen in the air, and
at the thaw may be heard. In a cold grave, and colder world
are all Chilion's sweet melodies frozen, will they ever be heard
again?
They are building a Church in the Village. We furnished
the balance of the subscription for that purpose, and they have
adopted a model suggested by Mr. Evelyn. The Church will
suit me, it is pure, that is to say, elegant, Grecian. It is now
decided to form a new society, and one with which Mr. Evelyn
has connected himself. It is called Christ-Church. The house
stands on the East side of the Green, under two stately elms;
and forms a prominent object from our dwelling. The Free
Masons, in full company and costume, laid the corner stone.
Deacon Hadlock, the main pillar of the old Church, is inconsolable,
and inapproachable. Mr. Evelyn went to see him, but
he would not be persuaded. We offered them a sum of money
towards rebuilding the old Meeting-house, but it was rejected.
I need not tell you all the gossip that is afloat between the two
societies, or write how our people say the others are endeavoring
things to their prejudice. There is probably some wrong
feeling on both sides. The Master was here to-day, and said
grievances, appointed committees, and ordered an examination
of the derelicts; and finally excommunicated Deacon Ramsdill
and Esq. Weeks, and suspended Judge Morgridge and
Esq. Beach. He laughed himself into a perfect dry convulsion
fit, when he told me. “That android sanctissimus,” said he,
referring to the Rev. Dr. Brimmerly of Kidderminster, “is
moving.” That gentleman, he said, had held several private
conferences with Parson Welles. Reports unfavorable to the
reputation of Mrs. Wiswall, who has taken a house in town,
and of Bertha, and also of Rose, have reached here, and we
are called a harboring place of unprincipled persons, a community
of —
Deacon Ramsdill was here this afternoon; he has not been
deprived of his good cheer. “They have picked us out,” said
he, “and thrown us to the hogs. But arter all,” he added,
“rotten apples are the sweetest.”
MARGARET TO ANNA.
What shall you think of Frank being our Minister, and
Rose our Minister's wife! On the election, there could have
been but one sentiment, as you know there was but one voice.
His views and feelings, and the character of his discourses,
precluded much disputation. We had some difficulty in the
Ordination. A Council of Clerical and Lay Delegates, from
the County, assembled, examined the candidate and rejected
him. Parson Welles I believe was at first disposed to have
Frank for a colleague, and retain a pastoral connection with
Christ-Church; but he was diverted from these inclinations by
causes which I do not understand. The Church was reduced
to the necessity of adopting other measures. The Rev. Mr.
Freeman of your city, was sent for, and the Rev. Mr. Lovers
of Brandon, who had expressed a willingness to aid us. Mr.
Lovers preached the sermon, and the ordaining prayer with the
imposition of hands was made by Mr. Freeman. Thus, Mr.
Evelyn says, through Dr. Freeman, who was himself Episcopally
ordained, and derives his authority from a succession said
to remount to the first ages of the Church, we have an Apostolic
Bishop ordained over this Diocese of Livingston! The
new spacious house was filled, and many came in from abroad.
At the close, the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper was administered
to the congregation. I joined in the participation!
With what sensations I cannot now relate. Springs of new
my soul. Poor Rose sat by me trembling like a leaf.—We
have ordered an Organ from London, and I suppose it will
fall to me and Rose to play it, for the present at least. Tony
the Barber plays the violin for us. He has not touched his
instrument before since Chilion's death. How we miss
Chilion at every step!
Frank and Rose are boarding at Esq. Bowker's; a Parsonage
I suppose will be built for them next year, on Grove
Street. Rose says the only feeling she has, or of which she
is at present capable, is humility; and that whether she estimates
her duties to the world at large, or reflects on the favors
received in her own soul. She relies much upon Frank, who
will nourish, renovate and guide her. If she can at all
embody the graces, or disseminate the love of Christ, in whom
her faith is confirmed, she says she shall be satisfied. She
says she is like those trees, which fall over on the banks of
rivers, and grow with the roots upwards; but if she only grows
she does not care how. She is fair almost to fragility; she has
at times, a most mysteriously spiritual look, like the Moon
shining through white window curtains. There are those in
the Church who truly love her, and will tenderly treat her.
In Mrs. Bowker and Isabel Weeks she finds a most according
friendship. To Frank she is all in all. How good and great
in him to love her so! Her unnaturalness has gradually subsided,
and the sweetness and freshness of her youth begin
rapidly to unfold. Christ, that makes us all children, Frank
says, has reproduced the morning of her childhood, and she
advances to beautiful perfection.—She had often been to the
Communion before, she says, but never with such feelings.
She never before realized what our new Bishop said it was, an
inter-communing with the soul of Jesus. She is succulent as
the Widow's house-leek, and would thrive I believe if she
were only attached to the shingles of Christ-Church. Like
the dodder, her rooting in the old world is destroyed, and she
now winds about goodness and mercy, which she is destined
I think ever to adorn. Dear Rose, she has been to me a
child, a sister, a lover. She will always be near me—can we
be too happy? For all, how much are we indebted to Frank
and Mr. Evelyn! The friendship so long subsisting between
our husbands, how delightfully is it consummated!
MARGARET TO ANNA.
Our house is finished, and what has been a long story to us,
I shall make a short one to you; which can be done the more
readily, since I hope you will soon come and see all things for
yourself. The expense within and without Mr. Evelyn says
has not been less than one hundred thousand dollars. We
have imported some things, not that Mr. Evelyn would not
have preferred domestic articles, but many we could not find.
Besides what matters it. I am made up of all nations, some
German, some French, some English, some American; and it
is only dealing with my countrymen, trade with whomsoever I
may. You should not have introduced me to your house unless
you supposed I was more or less than human. Our plate certainly
does not equal yours; our linen is home-made; our
curtains and hangings are very beautiful, thanks to your good
taste. Mr. Evelyn brought from Europe a valuable library,
some elegant maps and engravings, and a few choice pieces of
sculpture. We have since ordered more of these articles.
In addition, Rufus Palmer has been engaged on statuary for
us these two years. He is now in Europe, and when he returns,
we have promised him in exchange for his productions,
our Isabel; that is if they will consent to take up their residence
at Mons Christi. We have busts of the old Philosophers,
a copy of the Venus de Medici, Apollo Belvidere,
Antinous, Belisarius, a Psyche and Butterfly, a Prometheus
and others, and some excellent Paintings; we have a parlor
organ, a piano and guitar, in addition to my father's flute
and violin; also an excellent set of chemical, philosophical
and astronomical instruments. At the head of the Delectable
Way stand statues of Peace and Truth; under the trees in
front of the house, are Faith, Hope, Love and Beauty. Near
the Tree-bridge, in the Via Dolorosa, we design to put Penitence
and Fortitude. On the Via Salutaris stands Humanity.
A Ceres has been set up in our cornfield. In Diana's Walk
is her own Ladyship with the Golden Bow. On Feronia's
Isle and in Egeria's Haunt we propose to place something,
and if the white birches are not sufficient of themselves, we
shall add marble Muses. My Pantheon, that Mr. Evelyn
used to banter me about, still remains, and my bubbles
have taken marble forms. Between the Butternut and the
old house is a broad opening conducting to the foot of Mons
Christi, which we call The Avenue of the Beautiful. In this
is a Temperance pouring water from a goblet into a marble
long furnished the water of our Cistern, and is designed both
for man and beast. On it hangs Pa's silver tankard, which
he himself put there, the only relic of his former prosperity,
and which he is glad to have diverted from its customary use.
This water, always a copious stream coming down from the
highlands back of Pa's, serves for a fountain in the garden,
where its jet and spray may be perpetually seen, and flows
thence to our house and barn in quantity sufficient for all
needs. When we formerly made our escape from Mons
Christi to the Ledge, Rufus showed me a figure on which he
had been hammering at his leisure, designed to represent me
as I was when I found the water; this he has since completed.
It is a perfect Molly Hart, in short gown, pinafore
and gipsey hat. Ma wanted it put in the old house, but
there seemed to be no room for it. We have it in our drawing-room;
and near it are the cherry plate, bowl and spoon
I used to eat bread and cider and bean porridge with, and
also the wolf's bone knife and fork Chilion made me. The old
Chesnuts, which were already in decay, have been cut down,
and the bounds of the Mowing enlarged, which gives us a
beautiful green lot in our front view. North of the Mowing
is an extensive young orchard of various kinds of choice
apples, pears, quinces and peaches. Our Aviary, which is
large, and well furnished with shrubbery, we intend to stock
with native birds. In the Conservatory we have some foreign
plants, and shall experiment more with the domestic. We
have a room called the Prophet's Chamber, which our Bishop
frequently occupies, and where he writes some of his sermons.
In the garden is a large Bee-range. The old house
remains as it was, saving repairs. There Pa and Ma live.
The loom and wheels have been restored to the work-shop,
and there sits Ma, in her short-gown and naked arms, smoking
and weaving us blankets. She cannot be induced to
forego any of her old habits. Pa, who never suffered from
what the Master would call a cacoethes laboris, loves and
enjoys his ease. He has made us some stout walking shoes,
which is the most he has done for a year. On the chimney
are my marble kitten and flower-pot. About the house
still grow my beans, hops, virgin's bower, eye-brights, blood-roots,
and other flowers Chilion helped me rear. Chilion's
clothes, fishing tackle, gun, powder horn, shot-bag, occupy
their old places on the walls of the kitchen. The suit in
which he was executed, his violin, a partly finished basket
the work-shop; Ma will not allow them to be touched. Some
of his hair she has wrought into a ring, which she wears on
her finger. Margaret, my peach tree, is dead, but a young
Margaret is growing in the same spot. Dick, my squirrel,
and my birds are dead, their empty cages hang in the old
place. Bull, whose heart, as well as his leg, was broke, when
Chilion died, totters backwards and forwards from house to
house. So have perished some of the dear fellow-fixtures and
comrades of my life! Beyond Pa's, stands Nimrod's house,
and a little farther up the way live Hash and Sibyl. Grandfather,
who is exceedingly interested, and I believe pleased,
in all we do, divides his time between us and Aunt Wiswall.
Judah Weeks has promised marriage to Cousin Bertha.
Speaking of this reminds me to tell you, that Obed has married
Beulah Ann Orff. Mrs. Evelyn, the good mother of
Charles, has also come to Livingston, and lives with us for the
present.
You inquire what our household arrangements are to be.
Our regular family is composed of Mr. Evelyn, myself, Sylvina
Pottle and Dorothy Tapley. Then we have more or less of
our friends with us a good deal of the time. Mr. Pottle has
a large number of children, and at Mr. Tapley's they are very
poor, and those people were anxious their daughters should
come and live with us, and earn something. Our food is
simple; I never had any other, and what is bred in the bone
will never be out of the flesh, as Deacon Ramsdill says; and
Mr. Evelyn is not particular. I still enjoy a dish of bean porridge
with Molly. I always got up early, and could not easily
be taught new tricks. Then I have been out in the air so
much I must still be out. We have prayers every morning,
and Mr. Evelyn explains the Scriptures to us. We have
breakfasted this Summer at six and an half o'clock, dined at
twelve, and taken tea at five. So we are doing at present.
Our hired men board with Nimrod and Hash. Ma has woven
a working suit for Mr. Evelyn. We have both had our hands
full getting the house in order. I look for leisure this winter
to read more, and practice music more.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
I must tell you of a delightful change that has come over
No. 4. You remember how the place looked the first time
indolence and dissipation; and their estates were mortgaged
to Mr. Smith, who held the inhabitants as fiefs, and sometimes
harassed them. Mr. Evelyn had their houses repaired
and painted, sent men to help them clear out their intervals,
planted a row of trees along the street, and had a beautiful
statue of Diligence set up at the corner. He then assumed
their debts, and said he would give them no trouble for three
years, provided they would pay the interest punctually. He
also contributed to a School-house that was erected half way
between No. 4 and Breakneck. In six months the Gubtails,
with what work they did for us and hay they brought us,
cleared themselves entirely. Mrs. Tapley and Mrs. Hatch
wove for us, and Mr. Hatch and Isaiah made our iron work.
Old Mr. Tapley, a very sot, has labored unremittingly on his
farm. When they had new door-yards, the girls began to
ornament them with flowers and shrubs. We let Dorothy
go into the woods two days for this purpose; and that
hamlet has now a truly picturesque appearance. The people,
I think, do not drink any ardent spirits. The Still, that Mr.
Smith undertook to rebuild, Mr. Evelyn purchased for a barn,
which those people found they needed. Mr. Smith himself, I
am told, has amended his habits; he has at least renovated
the exterior of his house. Avernus should rather be called
Elysium; God made it a beautiful spot, and man has restored
its fallen image. Nor is this effect confined to No. 4; it has
reached the village, and is more or less distributed into every
part of the Town. Our Bishop says Temperance is a Christian
grace, and has preached strongly against the Sin of
Intemperance. In this he is also joined by Parson Welles,
who still preaches in the Town-house. Many have abandoned
drinking, and four distilleries have stopped. Mr. Readfield,
our new merchant, keeps no ardent spirits, and Deacon Penrose
must have found his sales materially lessened. Esquires
Beach and Bowker both say their duties, as Justices of the
Peace, have greatly abated. Mr. Stillwater has converted his
new bar-room into a reading-room, and says his profits are
nearly equal to what they were before. On Sunday you will
see the No. 4's flocking down to Meeting with a constancy
only equalled by their former negligence, in which they were
quite of a sort with ourselves.
At the time they were upon rebuilding the Jail, Mr. Evelyn
proposed to the Commissioners if they would consent to an
establishment on an enlarged scale, with rooms more commodious,
for warmth in winter, he would bear the additional cost.
Judge Morgridge, Esq. Bowker and others, thought it would
be an excellent plan; and it was consented to. The building
stands a little back from the old site. Each room, Mr. Evelyn
furnished with a good bed, books, lights, looking-glass, washstand
and flower vase. The windows have green blinds,
which by a simple contrivance the prisoners can open and
shut at their pleasure. The horrors and discomforts of the
old Jail I have myself too sensibly realized. A new keeper
has been appointed in place of Mr. Shooks. At the last Town
Meeting the Selectmen were instructed to look after the
moral condition of the prisoners. What with the site of the
old Meeting-house smoothed and grassed, the burnt woods improved
by Mrs. Wiswall's house and grounds, a new School-house,
new Court-house, Tavern and Jail, the Green has reassumed
some of its former beauty.
Christ-Church have made choice of three Deacons, Esq.
Bowker, Joseph Whiston and Comfort Pottle. Deacon Ramsdill
was getting old, and Judge Morgridge and Esq. Beach,
who have served in that office, thought they had better choose
some young men.
You would sometimes have tempted me to live in your City.
But, dear Anna, do you not come under the jurisdiction of
Master Elliman's Puppetdom? Are you not, measurably,
simulacra hominum feminarumque? Are you foot-free, tongue-free,
soul-free? The representation of the Theatre seemed to
me to be carried through the City; all were acting not themselves,
but their parts. Perhaps I judge wrongfully. You, I
know, are natural and real. But what will you say of Mr.
Boxly, Mrs. Winchen, Miss Lees and others whom I saw at
your house? I would not do them injustice, and I know I am
incompetent to give an opinion, but how could I live among
such people! I remember once looking at the sea near the
wharves in January. The water and the cold were in deadly
combat. The waves winced, bellowed and agonized. But
the cold kept steadily at work, as a spider, and with threads
of ice, the Borean monster glued and entangled the whole surface,
and soon it all lay a sullen, ghastly, adamantine heap.
Such seemed to me to be the strife between fashion and
nature; and such, alas! it is, Mr. Evelyn says, the world over.
Give me leave to yawn when I am tired, wonder at what is
admirable, and wear a shoe that fits my foot. I fear the
blows will cure, and that you will have to take a good many
boxes of his nostrum before you are well quit of plague in the
vitals. “The whole world belike,” says the Father from
whom I learn all my wisdom, “should be new-moulded, and
turned inside out as we do hay-cocks, top to bottom, bottom to
top.” For the present I am contented to keep away, not from
you Anna, but from what is about you; and if you push upon
me I shall run as far as there is land-room on the Continent;
and if worse comes to worse, I shall make my expiration in the
words of one of old;
might envy; pleasure-grounds, rich meadows, the embellishment
of a full grown plantation, beautiful lawns, many a
paddock. We are in the midst of a royal hunting ground,
packs of hounds are in the neighborhood; we have plenty of
game, and an unlimited right of common, in which in their
season are excellent wild-turkey and grey-squirrel shooting;
admirable fox-chases; a full command of the view up and
down; a capital kitchen garden; our estate is well watered;
gravel walks intersect our grounds, and lead in all directions.
We see live Hippiades every day; we have a perpetual advowson
to the living of Mons Christi, and are subject to no ground
rent. For rustic ruins I can show you an abundance of
reverend stumps, garnished with grape-vines, and studded with
fungus. In Italy are palaces ventilated by wind-mills; we
resort to no contrivances of that sort. Guianerius, out of my
author, recommends the air to be moistened with sweet-herb
water, and the floor to be sprinkled with rose-vinegar. We
take the air as it comes, wet or dry, hot or cold, and find that
blowing across Mons Christi to be always exhilarating and
salubrious. In Summer it is charged with the freshness of the
earth, the aroma of woods, the music of birds. In Winter it
glitters with health and life.—Then we all work, not take
exercise, but work. “The Turks,” so says Democritus Junior,
“enjoin all men, of whatsoever degree, to be of some trade or
other: the Grand Seignior himself is not excused. Mahomet,
he that conquered Greece, at that very time when he heard
ambassadors of other princes, did carve spoons.” There is
some difference, peradventure, between the habits of Turks
and Christians! “Through idleness,” continues my authority,
“it is come to pass that in city and country, so many grievances
frequently rageth, and now domineers almost all over Europe
amongst our great ones.” The ancient Germans plunged
idlers into the thickest marshes, leaving them to perish by a
death that resembled their own dispositions. Without executioners
to expedite the matter, all of that class do so perish
now-a-days, nillywilly. Friction is recommended. Think of
our farmers stimulating their skins with flesh-brushes to keep
up a circulation! Nay, verily, we must work. Fowls do not
appear ready spitted, Deacon Ramsdill says, and we must
work for them too. The Lacedemonians had such an idea of
liberty they could not reconcile it with any manual labor.
One of them, returning from Athens, said, “I come from a
City where nothing is dishonorable.” Work shall be no disgrace
at Mons Christi.
We have our sports too, hawking, fowling, fishing, riding,
berrying. “To walk amongst orchards, gardens, mounts, thickets,
lawns and such like pleasant places, like that Antiochan
Daphne, brooks, pools, ponds, betwixt wood and water, by a
fair river side, ubi variæ avium cantationes, florum colores,
pratorum frutices, to disport in some pleasant plain, run up a
steep hill sometimes, sit in a shady seat,” must needs be, as
my benevolent author observes, “a delectable recreation.”
This we enjoy. Then there are our indoor diversions, music,
dancing, chess and various games. In winter, we sleigh-ride,
coast, skate, snow-ball. No, Anna, let me stay here while I
may.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
The end of my being is accomplished! The prophecy of
my life is fulfilled! My dreams have gone out in realities!
The Cross is erected on Mons Christi!! Yesterday, the
Anniversary of our National Independence, was the event
consummated. It was made by Mr. Palmer, from a superb
block of the purest marble, which he got from his quarry, and
is fifteen feet high, with a proportionate breadth. We met
near the Brook Kedron on the Via Salutaris. There were all
the members of Christ-Church, the Masonic Corps and a
multitude of others. I was to lead the procession, supported
by Mr. Evelyn; they had me seated on a milk-white horse,
dressed in white, and a wreath of twin-flowers vine on my
head. Then followed the Cross, borne on the shoulders of
twenty-four young men; next came the Bishop and wife, the
two, man and woman; these were succeeded by the Masons,
and the line was closed by the people at large. On the Head
was a band of Christ-Church musicians playing the Triumphs
of Jesus, which we got from Germany. We came over the
brook Kedron, traversed what we have made the broad, and
ornamental Via Salutaris, and entered the Avenue of the
Beautiful. At the foot of the hill I dismounted. By a winding
gravel-walk I went up—with a trembling, joyous step I went—
followed by the Cross-bearers. Reaching the summit, I wound
the arms and head of the Cross about with evergreens; the
young men raised it in its place, a solid granite plinth. Returning,
we assembled under the Butternut in the Avenue of
the Beautiful, where Frank made a discourse to the people;
some idea of which I would like to convey to you. He had
for his text, “God forbid that I should glory save in the Cross
of our Lord Jesus Christ.” The Cross he said stood to us in
two aspects; first the end of Christ's life, and second, the burden
of his life. Of the first he said it was the termination of
his career, the finale of a distinguished course of mercy and
love; hence as the finishing stroke of his life, he said it represented
his whole life. As the stars and stripes stand for our
country, our government, our liberties, our national all, so he
said the Cross stood for Christ's all. He said a Christian would
glory in the Cross of Christ as a citizen glories in the flag of
his country. But more than this, he said the Cross of Christ
had a deeper significance than was implied in merely his decease
on Calvary. He said it referred to what transpired before
his death, to events of his personal history and experience,
in a word, to the burden of his life. He said that Christ
bearing his own Cross, his telling his disciples to take up their
cross and follow him, Paul's expression “I am crucified with
Christ,” the declaration that “he died unto sin once,” all denoted
that he underwent a crucifixion in his life-time, a crucifixion
to the world, to sin and all evil; that his resistance to
the diabolical temptation, his strong crying and tears, his being
touched with the feeling of our infirmities, his agony and
bloody sweat, were such a crucifixion; that his watchings,
his labors, his deprivations, his rebuffs, the intrigues of his
enemies, the desertion of his friends, were a cross; that meeting
evil with good, repulse with kindness, insults with forbearance,
his blessing those who hated him, his grandeur in the
midst of what was low, his effulgence in the midst of what was
dark, his singleness and sincerity in a period of calculating
with all ages and squared with an unlimited future,
his incarnation of God among sin-possessed men, his attempts
at the transfusion of himself into the race, and such things,
were all a cross. He said we bore the cross when we reversed
the practices of a fallen world and adopted those of the highest
humanity; when we shone as lights in the world; when we
were blameless and harmless in the midst of a crooked and
peverse nation; when we forbore one another in love; when
we were ready to be persecuted for righteousness' sake; when
we obeyed God rather than man; when we lived unspotted
from the world; when we put off the old man with his deeds,
and put on the new man; when we became the pillar and the
ground of truth; when we returned blessing for cursing,
and good for evil; and so whatever obstacle we overcame, or
impediment encountered in our progress towards perfection,
or in the extension of the kingdom of God in the earth, he
said was a cross. He said glorying in the Cross of Christ
would be the selectest ambition of every Christian. We have
adopted the Cross, he said, for our emblem, because it is so
good an exponent of Christ, and of our character, purposes
and principles as Christians. In allusion to the green flowering
aspect of the Cross, he said that betokened the Final
Triumph, the Conquest over Sin, the destruction of the Evil
by the Good; and also the bloom and lustre of Virtue.
While he was speaking, a milk-white Dove from our cot
flew and alighted on the top of the Cross. Hardly could we
contain ourselves; a most delicious tremor ran through me.
The Dove, said he, is the symbol of the sweet love, and pure
effluence of God!—I cannot tell you all he said; I repeat his
principal topics. That certain unction of his, that holy medium
in which his mind moves; that rosy sun-light of love
that tinges the peaks of his thoughts, that creative effect of
pure goodness wherein lies his forte—all this you will understand
better than it can be told. After the address, we went
into the woods to Diana's Walk, and had a collation, when the
Lord's Supper was administered, and hundreds partook. Returning,
Mr. Evelyn embraced me with tears—he does not
often weep. Christ has also embraced me with tears, and I
too must weep. The heart of the Beautiful One is touched,
and what can I do? I dreamed of him the other night, lying
prostrate under the Butternut. His Cross too had fallen, and
the flowers were withered. “I am aweary,” said he, “I have no
place to lay my head. I am a stranger in the world, and no
one takes me in; I am sick, and no one visits me. My heart
I was bruised for their inquities, but they are iniquitous still.
From Calvary I have wandered over the earth. From age to
age I have been an outcast. My agony in the garden was too
true, too real; I was overshadowed by my destiny. I could
not bear the insupportable load.—I do not see the travail of my
soul. I have come hither to die, Margaret.” He leaned upon
my arm; he looked as he does in Moralez's Ecce Homo,
stricken with a divine grief, wasting under an inexpressible
disappointment. I brought him water from the spring Temperance,
and his spirit came again; his look changed into the
Transfiguration of Raphael. I sprinkled water on the cross-leaves,
and they revived. Our marble group, Faith, Hope, Love
and Beauty, appeared from under the trees, living, and ministered
unto him. He came into our house, I dreamed, with the
Sisters, gave a pleased glance at the rooms; said, “I dwell
with them that dwell with me,” and vanished.
Explain to me, Anna, what do these things mean? Have
Christians treated Christ so badly? You recollect the story
circulated when I was in Boston, that the French had torn
Raphael's Tapestries from the Vatican, and sold them; and
some one purchasing that which bore an image of Christ, burnt
it to ashes, for the gold and silver he hoped to get from it!
Does Christ haunt the world like Fionnulla, the daughter of
Lir, sighing for the first sound of the mass-bell that was to be
the signal for her release? Was his light hidden under ground
at the time of his death, and does it there burn eternally, like
the lamp in the Tomb of Pallas? Tell me, what is the significance
of this distress? Whither has fled the Redemption of
Man?—How far are we called upon to submit to an irretrievable
order of events? Was Christ done, eighteen hundred years
now last past? Were Calvary and Tyburn Hill alike as two
peas? Are the Star Chamber and Fanueil Hall the same? Is
it all one whether I pick strawberries on Mons Christi, or dance
a rigadoon in a raree-show? whether I am a geode or a Milliner's
baby? Eidepol! God is one, but man is many, and the
soul is none.
The green-wreathed Cross towers afar. It can be seen from
the Green, and beyond the River; at No. 4, Breakneck,
Snakehill, Five-mile-lot; and I presume in half a dozen towns.
From my window I see it piercing the clouds, which are its
perpetual aureola. The stars shall crown it; the sun shall
stoop to do it reverence. I mean to train over it a Boursalt
rose, and in winter drape it with running club-moss.
This Cross has travailed in my soul, Anna; I could not rest
till it had gone forth in substance. We have trimmed the path
up the Head with rose-bushes, amaranths, angelicas, thyme,
bitter-sweet night-shade, and here and there a thorn. Can you
realize how much Christ has been to me? How much of
beauty, goodness, virtue, love, peace, hope, light, strength, I
owe him! I do find his yoke easy and his burden light. Even
when I knew him not, he blessed me. I could not be more
happy if I had had my birth in his soul. The Eider Duck of
Heaven, he lines the nest of his offspring with down plucked
from his own breast. He offered himself for our sins; he suffered
for us. The voluntary Prometheus, he bound himself to
the Caucasian rock of humanity, his heart was preyed upon by
all the evils of the race. He sympathizes with us. Why is
the world so insensible to him! Venus, bewailing the death of
Adonis, changed his blood into the wind-flower. Christ, bewailing
the death of man, would have changed his blood into
beautiful soul-flowers. But—Venus running to the aid of her
boy, pricked her foot with a thorn, and that blood changed the
white rose into the red. Christ pricked his feet with thorns,
the roses of the woods are red, humanity still welters in its
blood.
To Mr. Evelyn and Frank how much I owe. They have
removed the dross, the dogmatic obscurity and wanton frivolity,
that attached to the New Testament; and made it a luminous,
divine book to me. When Mr. Evelyn was in England, this
was told him. Lord Northwick had just brought from Italy a
picture of St. Gregory, by Annibal Caracci. For some cause
connected with the troubles of the times, in order to get possession
of the picture, a poor dauber had been hired to paint
over it in body-color, an imitation of some inferior artist.
When it was opened, his Lordship's friends, who had been
looking for something admirable, stared in mortified astonishment.
“It has got soiled, I see,” said his Lordship, “give me
a sponge.” Whereupon, with a sponge, he began to rub the
piece, nor had he long done so, when out peeped the head of
St. Gregory; soon the attendant Angels were seen, and in a
short time the whole of that magnificent picture became visible.
So the Bible has been daubed over to my eyes. I have
seen in it not the work of God, but the production of some
poor artist. I have turned from it as a miserable travesty.
The sponge has been applied; the false colors removed, and the
original is inexpressibly beautiful.—The Gospels are the Word
Christ was. He shines through them. They stand in him,
like the Apocalyptic Angel in the Sun. Mr. Evelyn reads
them to us from the Greek, whereby, he says, he himself has a
better sense of them, and can impart a better sense.
Come, Anna, come to Mons Christi. Come and see our
happiness, come and feel it. I am running over. I wish there
was a silver pipe reaching from here to you, such as I once
saw let down from the blue sky, that you might draw off and
be surcharged like me. I wish from the great spring-head of
Jesus, an aqueduct could be laid that should fill your beautiful
Common with fountains! And, Oh, I wish all hearts might
become gardens of fountains, like what Mr. Evelyn saw in the
Tuilleries at Paris. I never feared death. I was never troubled
about the hereafter. I have an immortality each moment of
my life. I am inundated with ages of bliss. I could die tomorrow,
and feel that I had lived forever. I could live forever,
and never be sensible of an addition to what I now have.
Rose is here playing one of Beethoven's Waltzes; it is a jet of
music spriting into my ecstasy. My life is hid with Christ in
God. The One circumflows and in-heavens us. The Infinite
Father bears us in his bosom, shepherd and flock. I feel that
all good beautiful souls live forever. Rose says she begins to
feel so too. She brought me a bunch of flowers from the Via
Dolorosa! The birds are jubilating in the woods. I see Pa and
Mr. Evelyn at work in the garden. Come and spend the Summer
with us.—I am but a child. I feel only a child's feelings.
I lie on the grass, and frisk with my hands and feet, a mere baby
in God's Universe. Come, and you shall instruct me.—Let me
be Jesus' child; I ask no more.
For the nonce, I sign myself,
Margaret Christi.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
We have a new Cemetery. It lies back of Grove Street, south
of Deacon Hadlock's Pasture, and is intersected by the Brook
Kedron, and covers part of the wooded slope on the descent of
Mons Christi. It possesses a variety of surface and of trees,
and the ornaments of walks and shrubbery. On either side of
he Brook is a willow-shaded gravel path. When Mr. Evelyn
was in Europe he visited the Cemeteries of Naples, Pisa, and
Père la Chaise at Paris, and here he would reproduce the
effect. We cannot imitate all architectural and princely forms,
citizens have already put up tasteful monuments. Rufus
Palmer helps us in this, as in other things, and he has two
young men studying and practising with him; one of whom,
Socrates Hadlock, gives excellent artistical promise. Mr. Girardeau
has a lot, and to it have been brought the remains of
his wife, my own father and mother, his sister Marie, and
Raxman. Rose also intends to remove here her father and
mother, and sister. The kind Arab wish, “May you die
among your kindred,” we shall in some sense realize! We
have been concerned about Chilion, his dying request we supposed
it impossible ever to execute, and had kept it graven on
our own memories. At last, however, we ventured to speak of
it to the people, and in full town-meeting it was asked if they
would consent to the carrying out of Chilion's wishes. All
who spoke, answered affirmatively, and whatever denials existed
kept silence. The plain marble shaft, Mr. Palmer first
made, now stands over his new grave; on it is his name,
Chilion, and underneath are these words, “Here lies one who
tried to love his fellow men,”—words I know that were near
his heart, and are now gone forth to the world. Mr. Smith,
when the transfer of graves was had, allowed that Solomon's
monument, on which has so long stood the dreadful word
“Murdered,” should be changed for another. The old burial
ground remains; the ancient head-stones, those which are
identified, as the spot itself is, with the early history of Livingston,
keep their primitive places. The Cemetery seems to us
mournful and attractive; an iron fence surrounds it, but its
gates are always unlocked. With dove-like, Pleiadian melody,
the Brook Kedron flows through it. Mr. Evelyn has striven to
diffuse a taste that prevails in Europe, and already are many of
the mounds and lots blooming with flowers. People walk there
a great deal, and on the Sabbath it is thronged. It shears
death of its terrors, spiritualizes life, and hallows affection.
There is a Fountain reaching from Mons Christi to our
Common! It is fed by the Brook Kedron, and rises in the
centre of the Green. It springs by graceful impulses, and
breaks into beautiful attenuations. The Green is encircled by
great elms, and here is a little liquid elm in the midst of them.—
Mr. Stillwater has changed his Tavern to the Cross and Crown.
Col. Welch, who left here during the War, has returned. He
addressed a letter to Judge Morgridge, the brother of Mrs.
Welch, intimating a wish to come back and end his days
the subject was considered, and they declared unanimously for
his request, and voted moreover to reimburse his expenses
hither, repair his house and renovate his grounds. Col.
Welch's, the Poor-House, the Pock-House, or whatever it be, is
ineffaceably associated with my first knowledge of Mr. Evelyn,
and with a morbific career of no uncertain character. Mr.
Evelyn has said he did not know as he should have ever married
me, if he had not first given me the Small-Pox. (?) Col.
Welch's is a commanding situation, and one of the finest on
the Green. His family of sons and daughters, becomes a
great acquisition to our circle of friends.
You are acquisitive of all the news, Anna, and I must tell
you, Cæsar Morgridge and Phillis Welch, Tony Washington
and old Dill, are married; and Master Elliman is betrothed to
Miss Amy! How this last was brought about I can hardly
say; only it was natural that a matter of thirty years standing
should come to a head at last. He told me, laughing, that he
was now heir-apparent to the tottering throne of Puppetdom
in Livingston. He has long occupied the sacerdotal office of
Parish-clerk, he says, and now aspires to higher degrees in
Anagogics. But, soberly, I think my good, fast, tender-hearted,
queer old friend has changed somewhat—not in his dress,
for he wears the same nankin breeches, shovel hat, fringed
vest, tye-wig, as of yore—but in his feelings and interior self.
He consents to reality and nature more; he exhibits a cordial
interest in life, men and manners. I am under irredeemable
obligations to him. He instructed me largely in the form, but
kept me away from the heart of things, the common heart I
mean; and left me wholly to find a heart for myself, or make
such an one as I could. This, Mr. Evelyn says, was a great
service.
Training-days have provoked a good deal of talk. Their
innumerable evils we all felt. Pa himself was brought home
drunk from a recent muster-field! The question took a serious
form among the people. Parson Welles, sensible of the growing
skepticism, preached to his, now so small, congregation,
in behalf of the practice. This had the effect to deepen
inquiry in the general mind. Christ-Church members, went
one day in solemn, mournful procession, men, women and
children, to their Oracle, the Gospels—for such they emphatically
are;—they went with as much perturbation of curiosity
and weight of concern as ever Athenians did to the Delphian
whose house they met. The next training-day, Capt. Tuck
came forward, and with a speech quite in his vein, threw up
his commission. The subaltern officers followed the example
of their captain, the soldiers went into no balloting, and the
Livingston Company was not. Capt. Hoag said also that his
mind had changed. Deacons Penrose and Hadlock with some
others, sought to reorganize a band; but they were too old for
such a purpose themselves, and they could not find young men
enough even to form an Irish company. General Kingsland,
of Dunwich, ordered our people to attach themselves to the
Dunwich Company. One or two muster-days passed, and
nothing was done. At last he sent in an armed body, of fifty
or a hundred men, to take our people to Dunwich, without
fail. In work-shops, mills, farms, offices, the citizens continued
their ordinary pursuits. These soldiers dispersed themselves
in all parts of the town. I was riding in the Meadows,
when they came there. Several of our people were at work,
and among them, Judah Weeks, who was mowing. “Don't
you intend to go with us?” said the soldiers, after explaining
their errand. “I am very busy,” replied Judah, “I could not
possibly go to-day, neither do I care to at any time.” “I am
empowered to force you,” said one of the troop. “Very well,”
replied Judah, and continued his mowing. The soldier seized
him by the collar, but Judah, who is very strong, still kept his
scythe swinging, until he had drawn the soldier one or two
rods into the grass. “I will shoot you,” said the soldier, “if
you don't obey.” “That is it, hey?” said Judah. “If I am
to die I wish to do so with my wife and child. Call Bertha,
some of you,” he said to the people who began to flock around.
His wife and child were brought. “Now I am ready,” said
he. The soldier raised his musket, and lowered it. I know
not that he had any intentions of shooting. The soldiers went
off, and Judah resumed his work. We next encountered them
carrying a young fellow, who proved to be my old pupil, Consider
Gisborne. Four of them had him by his arms and feet.
He kicked lustily, and got away. An affair occurred at the
Mill, of which there have been several accounts. I will give
you the version we received from Captain Tuck himself.
General Kingsland in person, a Captain and Lieutenant, all in
field costume, came to the Mill, and sent in a message that
they had express business with Capt. Tuck. The Captain
went to the door, told them he was much hurried, that all his
stones were running, and several people were waiting for their
entered the Mill, followed the Captain, who was actively
employed from hopper to hopper. The place was floating
in the dust of meal, which presently found lodgment on
their plumes, blue coats and sashes. The General became
uneasy and urgent, the Captain replied that he was very busy,
and at the same time demonstrated the nature of his business
by emptying a meal-bag, from which fumed up any quantity of
the fine white effluvium. Whereupon, in the words of Captain
Tuck, “the General and his forces made a precipitate retreat.”
Sprinkled with flower from crest to spur, they mounted
their horses, and by most private ways withdrew from Livingston.
The Captain vaunts himself much on what he calls
his ruse de guerre; and declares that meal-powder is more
effective than gun-powder.
We are menaced with fines, but our people say they had
better pay them, than train. Indeed, a levy was made, some
property put up at auction, but no bidders appeared. However
the whole matter is to be carried before the State Legislature,
and we are looking forward to their action with no small
solicitude.
The world rattles about us, like wood-peckers in the forest.
If any thing rotten or defective can be discovered, well for us,
we will have it cut down.—I have certified myself of the meaning
of that very anagogical word, “world;” it signifies any
thing that is not Livingston, or out of Christ-Church, or below
Mons Christi. We means us, and they them. How very pleasant
to be brought plump up against the fence of the not you!
By being ourselves we have developed another being, quite as
long and as broad, and inclined to pugilism withal. I used
not to be, and nobody else was. Mr. Evelyn first scared me
with this idea of “the world.” But our world grows larger
every day, and I lack not for company, though theirs grows
pari passu. How will either come out in the end?
Some of our people walk carefully, as birds on ice. Soon
I trust they will find the earth, or wings wherewithal to leave
it.—How good a thing it is, in all our doubt and uncertainty,
that we have an oracle to which we can appeal, I mean the
Gospels. In the wreck of so much that is excellent, why have
they not perished also? When the Persians destroyed the
Temples of Greece, they did not dare touch that of the Isle of
Delos, it was so sacred. Has the extreme value of these books
saved them from pillage? Therein, through the vices of men
let me discern their virtues.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
Our Sabbaths are delightful days; they always were to me;
because I did not have to go to Meeting; now, because I do
go. They were ever, liberty, rest and recreation to me, now
they bring a higher spiritual enjoyment. We go to Church,
forenoon and afternoon, and sometimes dine in the Village, at
Frank's, or elsewhere. In Summer we walk, in Winter ride.
We all go, Pa, Ma, Hash and Nimrod, with their families, and
whoever is living with us. There is a mellowness about the
sky and air, that day; which is all the difference I perceive.
People tell me what a drearily solemn day, it used to be to
them. “It was a despit pinched up sort of a time,” said Mrs.
Whiston to me awhile since, “as if God was asleep and we had
to go tip-toe all day, and couldn't speak above our breath for
fear of waking him.” We all carry flowers to Church, not
quite so extravagant a bunch as I once got a rebuke for. The
death of Deacon Hadlock, and the infirmities of Parson Welles,
have quite thinned off the old society, and Christ-Church includes
almost the whole town. Indeed, the old Parson himself,
with such of his flock as chose to accompany him, was at
our Church, a few Sabbaths since. Zenas Joy is our chorister,
and Dorothy Tapley, who has fine musical powers, plays the
organ. One half of the hymns are sung by the whole congregation;
this, Deacon Ramsdill says, is as it used to be, and so
the old folks are pleased, and the young ones too. The Feast
of the Lord's Supper occurs every month. Our Communion
days are so Christ-giving, so abounding in what some are wont
to call soul-food, so contributory to the Divine Atonement,
they seem almost the best days. We all eat that bread and
drink that wine whereby we mean to show the Lord's death
until he come; that is, as our Bishop says, until Christ perfectly
comes in our souls, and over the earth. The children
many of them are Communicants; the excellent teaching they
have in the Sunday school, prepares them for this higher
Church order. At noon, the people go into the Cemetery, and
eat their dinner on the seats near the Brook Kedron. At night,
scores and sometimes hundreds come to Mons Christi, visit the
Cross, walk about our grounds; sometimes they come into our
drawing-room, where we have religious conversation, and sing
hymns. How much there is in the religion of Christ to talk
about, and I have become sanctiloquent as any of them. That
word Love, of which St. John says, he who has it dwells in
God and God in him, how much there is in it! It has already
given us a new Heaven and a new Earth, and goes on creating
you, Anna, to hear some whom you would consider most jejune
and sterile, talk. The graces of the Spirit, joy, love,
peace, goodness, &c., have thrown up tropical islands in these
wastes of brine. I shall have many things to tell you, more
than I can write.—Last Sunday, Obed brought his child to
be baptized. It received the name Bartholomew Elliman!
The Master and the Widow, I understand, have made peace,
or suspended hostilities. The Master promised an annuity to
the child if it might be named from him. Frankly, Anna, I
must confess, the Widow is the most purely selfish woman I
ever heard of. Some would get drunk, some were bigots,
some fanatics, some intolerant, but all had a spice of honesty
at the bottom. But she is a hypocrite to the core. She has
given me some trouble, and done me some good, perhaps; for
which all thanks. An ambitious avarice has been her ruling
passion. Will you believe it, the day of the Erection of the
Cross, when we were having the sacrament in the woods, she
was there, so they say, with her pockets filled with her Nommernisstortumbug,
which she endeavored to truck among the
people. Nimrod never could endure her; he always said she
followed Church-going the same as black-birds do the
plough, to pick up the worms. Our Bishop has had a sober
talk with her, as every good Christian should do. And this
admonishes me, that I perhaps am somewhat at fault in what I
say. I have dealt too roundly with her. Words do so cover
the whole field of our vision while the object shall go half naked.
He says she has some incorrupt nature, that she is not wholly
dead in the old Adam, sin: and declares that Christ may yet
make her live. He says, Christ and the Gospels are sufficient
to destroy any amount, and any inveteracy of evil, in the heart.
If the Leech can be touched, we must all believe so too. The
Bishop says the Gospel must find something in our natures
similar to itself before it can have effect; that roots feel
feel their way into the earth in search of nutriment, homogeneous
and corresponding, each root for itself, that of wheat for one
substance, and that of sorrel for another; so he says the Gospel
feels its way in the human heart. As music addresses and develops
the musical sentiment, so Evangelical love and truth address
and develop the sentiment of love and truth. In this way he
acts; he gains access to the heart, makes sure that the floor
will hold him, then commences an onslaught on the unclean
spirits, drives them out, with old Adam at their head; brushes
away the dust and cobwebs of meanness; opens the shutters,
of Righteousness. Such are many of the wonders God hath
wrought by him in Livingston! Can he succeed with the
Widow? In all countries moss grows, the ice-bolstered rocks
of the Arctic are green and soft with it. There the merganser
spends its summer, the snowbird rears its young, and
our own robin sings. Shall we despair then of these temperate
regions? The Master says Whitfield did more to
puppetize and dehumanize New Englanders than any other
man; that he seized upon the idea of total depravity and
sowed it broad cast in the Churches; and that Parson Welles,
while he agreed with him in doctrine, was so averse from his
measures, that he would never have him in Livingston. This
for your private benefit, Anna. You ask many questions
about matters and things, and I can only return you such
answers as I am able to pick up. Address your next inquiries
to Mr. Evelyn; he will give you more satisfaction. When
our troops went to the attack of Louisburg, Whitfield gave
them this motto, “Nil desperandum, Christo Duce;” an admirable
one for our own flag.—I am forgetting, like many
other sinners, the Sabbath. It is the Lord's Day to us; in the
most exalted sense, it is Christ's own day. All days are holy,
this seems to be the cream of the week. On the spiritual
river where we would ever sail, the Sabbath opens into clearer
water, a broader bay; and we can rest on our oars to get a
distincter view of the blue heavenly hills whither we tend.
Is it not a good thing, this hebdomadal renovation of skin and
clothes? You know the old saw; “Cleanliness is next to
Godliness.” Our Bishop preaches on cleanliness, carnal and
spiritual; and if it be a true sign, I think you would count us
a very godly people. Houses, rooms, yards, fences, streets, as
well as persons, in all parts of the town, look wonderfully
clean, neat, tidy; No. 4 would grace Hyde Park. You would
also see, on the Sabbath conspicuously, greater simplicity in
dress; there is taste and some ornament; but “gaudy apparel,”
has almost entirely disappeared, “as unbecoming those
who profess Godliness.” That transition in fashion with
which a foreign connection so afflicts your city, is here neither
frequent nor abrupt. In an intermixture of styles from one
season to another, the variety is not sufficiently marked to
prevent our wearing out the old without disquiet, or adopting
the new at our convenience.
The other night at a party at our house, Deacon Bowker
she has not done this two score years. Col. Welch said he
was falling into his second childhood by renewing his youth,
sooner than he anticipated. A dance on cold water he pronounced
strange, but excellent. Deacon Ramsdill declared
he should live an hundred years. “It's sheer nater,” said he,
“it is just like soap, the longer you keep it, the better it
grows.” If Chilion could only play for us! William Beach
proves a first rate violinist, so does Abiah Tapley.
We make much of music, and it does well by us. I wish
to see unfolded and embodied the entire musical capability of
the town. We have an instrumental company called The
Chilion Band. They play on the Green, Summer evenings,
and in the Cemetery; they have gone to Breakneck, Snakehill
and all parts of the town. They frequently come to Mons
Christi, play in our groves, and on the Head. The effect of
this last is indescribable. It reaches the village, and the
inspiring melodies, like morning light, irradiate over wood,
valley and mountain. Mr. Evelyn has written some Christian
Hymns, very beautiful, and combining some lyric fire. These
hymns you will hear in many a house, in the fields, and the
children sing them at school.
Our Schools are doing well. There were formerly but two
in town, we have now six. Hancock Welles, grandson of the
Parson, after he left College, was engaged for a permanent
teacher in the Grammar School, for which a new and commodious
house was erected on the Green, in place of the one
that was burnt.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
We have digested and adopted a system of Christ-Church
Festivals. Mr. Evelyn observed the extent and influence of
these things in the Old World, and, after due sortings and
siftings, we thought something of the kind might be produced
in the New. The idea, he says, is a good one, but the manner
in which the thing has been managed is open to reprehension.
Festivals, he says, have been instituted by Kings and
Popes, for Machiavellian purposes, or any other than Christian
or human; that they have never been the offspring of a free
and enlightened mind, but either the enforcements of arbitrary
power, or the expedients of priestly art. Christ-Church Festivals
have at least this merit; the people were cognizant of
their incipiency, assisted in each step of their progress, and
Mr. Evelyn says, are also open to exception in their subjects.
Why should we observe the Purification of the Virgin
Mary, St. Michael's Day, or Ash-Wednesday? Or why,
neglecting more affecting and spiritual events, should we make
use of the Circumcision of Christ? We cannot, of course,
with the English Church, keep the Gunpowder Plot and King
Charles's Martyrdom. Our Festivals are twelve in number, one
for each month of the year. Three of them are such as have
already become national or at least New England, the Spring
Fast, Independence and the Autumnal Thanksgiving; three
more are founded on the Beatitudes, and are named as follows,
the Festival of the Poor in Spirit, that of the Peacemakers,
and of the Pure in Heart. There is the Festival of Charity,
or Christian Love, from I Cor. xiii. Then from the life of
Christ, are Christmas, drawn from his birth, etc. Childmas,
which refers to his holy Boyhood and Youth; the Festival of
the Crucifixion, which comprises his strong crying and tears
in the flesh, his temptation, his bearing his Cross, his agony
in the garden and his death; that of the Resurrection, which
includes his transfiguration, his spiritual anastasis, his being
the Life of the soul, and his rising from the dead. Then we
have the Festival of the Universal Brotherhood, taken from
Christ's interview with the Samaritan woman, and the declaration
of Paul, that in Christ all are one. We have also twelve
other Festivals in the monthly recurrence of the Holy Communion.
Our Bishop has also prepared a system of Sabbaths,
which he pursues with tolerable regularity. He has given us,
Baptismal Sunday, founded on Christ's Baptism; Children's
Sunday,—his blessing the little children; Unity Sunday; Atonement
Sunday—“that they may be one in us;” Regeneration
Sunday—“except a man be born again;” Repentance Sunday,
etc. etc.
Christmas, if you please, leads the signs in our evangelical
Circle, is the beginning of the Christian year; this falls in
September; the Pure in Heart, in October; Thanksgiving in
November; the Festival of the Universal Brotherhood, which
also includes All Saints, is given to December. In January is
the Peacemakers, when we decorate the Church with evergreens,
have the Lion and Lamb symbolized, and make our
endeavors for private and universal Peace. We seek forgiveness
and proffer restitution. To February, the Poor in Spirit
is assigned; the Crucifixion to March; and in April is Fast.
May gives us Childmas, which is peculiarly for the children;
mental, moral, religious; this is also the Anniversary of
the Erection of the Cross. The year closes in August, with
the Resurrection.
The time of Christmas was changed for the following reasons;—that
the month and season of our Saviour's birth are
not known; that the 25th of December, the Calendar day, is
of Gentile origin, which indeed were not an insuperable objection,
provided it were recommended by any intrinsic propriety.
But this is not the case. The Festival to which that
day refers, obtaining among Northern nations, is only adapted
to a Northern latitude. The sun's annual return, which they
were wont to celebrate, gave them a cause of gratulation, at
the expense of their trans-equatorial brethren, who at the same
moment are mourning its withdrawal. Such an arrangement
would not be cosmopolitan and universal enough for ChristChurch.
Therefore we selected an equinoctial point when it
shines with the same strength on all portions of the globe.
So far as Livingston is concerned, there were few or no preexisting
Ecclesiastical prejudices to be affected, and the people
were at full liberty to select what time they chose. This Festival
with us is not taken up solely with the Birth of Christ, it
contemplates in addition his Second Coming, i. e. his spiritual
revelation in the hearts and lives of his disciples. So looking
both backward and forward, it may well occupy some central
point.
On most of our Festivals, there is a short religious exercise
in the Church. The Poor in Spirit is a season of sober introspection,
humility and prayer. The Crucifixion has for its
objects to effect within us a crucification to the world and of the
world to us. We become truly partakers of the sufferings of
Christ, his temptation, his reproach, his cross-bearing, his
dying. Childmas, in May, gives several holidays to the children.
They have a May-pole, May-dances, and a Queen of
May. They go into the woods for evergreens and flowers.
In the evening the Band play for them, and they dance with
their parents on the Green. You will see them, going down,
in the morning, from Breakneck and Snakehill, blithe as the
birds about them; the girls dressed in white, and the boys in
blue-checked linen. This Festival is also devoted by the
people at large to ornamenting the streets, replenishing the
flowers of the Cemetery, and planting shrubbery about their
houses. Independence day, the 4th of July, we have an Oration,
a rural dinner and a dance in the evening at the Masonic
the Masons have freely relinquished to our use whenever we
want it. They always unite with us in keeping this Festival.
The Resurrection, in August, seeks to realize for us that
spiritual resurrection from sin which St. Paul strove to attain,
and which Christ so perfectly enjoyed. It also looks to the
final elimination of the spirit from the body. The Festival of
Love in June would advance us in that love which thinketh
no evil, beareth all things, is the bond of perfection, the seal
of our being born of God, and fulfils the law. The Pure in
Heart among other things, is devoted to a general School visitation.
The School-houses are filled with parents and friends;
the scholars examined, and addresses made. The election of
the May Queen is made to turn somewhat on these examinations.
She who received the crown this year was Delinda,
daughter of Zenas Joy. Peacemaker's, coming the first of
January, is supplied with whatever of interest attaches to that
day. Thanksgiving is observed agreeably to immemorial New
England usages, bating the Turkey-shoot at No. 4, and Horseracing,
which are abolished; and the Ball at Mr. Smith's has
been supplanted by a general dance at the Masonic Hall.
Our Festivals are not put by for Sunday, but when they fall
on that day, which not infrequently happens, the Bishop prepares
discourses accordingly. Thus is the whole year interwoven
and girded about by our beautiful Festivals; some of
them exceedingly joyous and gay, others more sedate and reflective.
What Herbert says of them I dare not;—
That he loves God, or Heaven, or Happiness.”
Christ and Happiness.
The sectaries have sought to introduce themselves among
us. Our Bishop freely offered them his pulpit, but they refused
to occupy it; he has proposed exchanges, but those they
declined. They would not join in our Communion, although
the emblems are tendered to all who love the Lord Jesus
Christ. They kept aloof from our festivals. We have all
been baptized, and nearly two hundred the Bishop has immersed.
What could they want! They came, nearly forty
of them, preachers and all, from Dunwich, one night, to
Snakehill. The superintendent of the Schools in that
District had orders to open the School-house to them.
up; the room was full. Our Bishop said we should be glad
to hear anything they had to say, and hoped they would express
themselves freely. One began to say something, but he
appeared embarrassed and stopped. Then one of their leaders
fell upon his knees, and said, “Let us pray,” and pray he
did, nearly half an hour, and with a most stentorian voice.
Such a prayer may it never be my lot to hear again! He
argued with us, philippized us, denounced us, and as Nimrod
said, “whipped us over God Almighty's back!” Has the
Prince of Puppetdom in reserve a more horrid piece of drollery?
Deacon Whiston could not contain himself; like
Elijah of old he mocked them, and said, “Cry aloud, for he is
a god; either he is deaf, or is talking, or is on a journey.”
“There is no voice, nor any that answereth,” added our
Bishop. The effect was irresistible. The meeting was
broken up, and those most misguided people mounted their
horses and made all haste to depart. They would convert us,
from what? Christ himself! To what, in the name of all
that is good? To John Wesley, or John Calvin! They
would save our souls. These are already saved, or at least
Christ is doing that work for us hour by hour. They have
been in various parts of the town endeavoring to ply the
ridiculous enginery of God's wrath and eternal damnation.
They are eighteen hundred years behind the age, our Christian
age at least. As Nimrod says, they “are barking up the
wrong tree.” I have no grudge against these people. Some
of them have excellent private qualities. Whatever there is
of the Christian in them I like, and there we and they agree,
and that ought to be a common foundation broad enough for
us all to stand upon. But the Ism is the difficulty. This
governs their action, this they would thrust upon us. Their
Ismaticalness conceals and extrudes the Christian. We meet
them as Christians, they meet us as Ismatics. It is Christ
versus Isms. Which shall prevail?
Lycurgus forbade the entrance of strangers into Laconia,
and the departure of his subjects. He was afraid of contamination.
The gates of Livingston are ever open, come in, go
out, who will. “The Lord encampeth round about them that
fear him,” was our Bishop's text last Sunday. We have thus
far been delivered from serious evil. We are not afraid of the
world, only the world must expect to get most condignly meal-powdered,
if it undertakes mischief against us. We have, in
Livingston, nine hundred members of Christ-Church, bold
for any battles of the Lord; and equally ready to die at the
stake, if needs be. “If the Lord were pleased to kill us, he
would not have received a burnt-offering at our hands, and
showed us all these things,” our Bishop says. “Cursed cows
have short horns,” Deacon Ramsdill says. And plantain
thrives best when it is most trod upon, that I know. Pray
for us that we may be able to go safely through all fiery trials.
It is related that the Cyclops for their savageness and
cruelty were condemned to Tartarus; but that Tellus, the
Goddess of the Earth, persuaded Jupiter it would be for his
interest to employ them in forging thunder-bolts, and other
instruments of terror with a frightful and continual din of the
anvil. When I call to mind certain kinds of preaching I
remember to have heard, and which I am told everywhere
abound, I reflect that Christ banished all such things from his
kingdom; but the gods of this lower world have persuaded
themselves it would be for the interest of the Supreme to have
these Cyclops recalled, and our pulpits are full of their din!
Where, alas! where is the sweet, gentle, loving voice of
Jesus, a voice that would not lift itself up, nor cry, but did
sometimes weep!
The Preacher, he whom I first heard in the woods some
years ago, acts singularly. He hovered about Livingston,
peeping in upon us, and then running away. He said he believed
the Latter Days were come; then he hid himself in the
woods, and nobody heard from him for a long time. At last
he came to the village, is now an attentive waiter on our
Bishop's ministrations, and says he is resolved to become a
Missionary, and disseminate the principles of Christ-Church in
the world.
We have had various sorts of people among us within two
or three years, and with an equal variety of motives; Congregationalists,
Presbyterians, Episcopalians, Catholics, Armenians,
Russians, Greeks, Jews, Mohammedans, Hindoos. The latter
were foreigners, gentlemen travelling the world in pursuit of
knowledge. We had most of them at our house. What
should happen one Sunday, but a venerable Presbyterian
Doctor of Divinity, a Jew, and the Mohammedan, should set
in the same pew in Christ-Church, and as it was Communion
day, they all partook of the Sacrament together, and after service,
came to Mons Christi in company! The Doctor remarked
he had always preached faith in Christ, and the
never understood these things before, or saw them so happily
exemplified.” The Jew said, laughing, if it were not for our
pig-pen, he believed he should be a Christian. The Mohammedan
published an account of his travels, and from Teheran
in Persia, I received a copy done in Arabic. We taxed our
wits, and at the same time gratified our vanities, in translating
it. The chapter on Livingston would amuse you. The
author has even given a description of me! This is a precious
tidbit, and I shall not endanger it by committing it to
the post-rider. You shall see it, when you visit us. One of
the Hindoos—there were two of them in company, and Brahmins,
I believe—said he would leave with us words from their
sacred books; as follows. “Truth, contentment, patience,
mercy, belong to great minds.” “A man of excellent qualities
is like a flower, which whether found among weeds, or
worn on the head, still preserves its fragrance.” An Episcopal
Bishop was here, and he said that sooner than deny the Apostolic
authority of our Bishop, he would forego his own. He
said this to us, but whether he wished it to go abroad to the
world, is more than I know. Such are some of the pleasant
records of visits we have had. That other things of a very
different nature have been said and done, I cannot deny. But
I should tire you by reporting all the evil there is in the world,
or the want of love which many betray, who come here.
“Father, forgive them, they know not what they do!” What
a prayer was that! Let us aspire to it.
Here is another affair for you. One day there came to our
house a gentleman with a letter from his Holiness Pope Pius
VII, addressed to us as his dear children, and recommending
to us the bearer, and his objects. The bearer was a Roman
Cardinal, and his objects thus appeared. He said the Pope
had learned that we had erected the Cross, and that he hoped
to find us obedient children of the Holy Catholic Church.
We told him that we belonged to that Church. He said he
hoped to effect our affiliation with the Roman Catholic Church.
We told him that we fellowshipped all churches in which was
the spirit of Christ, and that so far as the Roman Church possessed
that, we were happy to belong to it. He then said
something about allegiance. “What,” said Mr. Evelyn, “to
Pope Pius?” “Not exactly that,” replied the gentleman.
“To the Council of Trent?” persisted Mr. Evelyn. “I perceive
I have made a mistake,” said the gentleman, and making
a very polite apology started to leave. “Give our sincere
the allegiance due to him, that contained in the Apostolic
direction, to honor all men. If he should come this way we
hope he will give us a call.” The Cardinal had not reached
the door when an Armenian Prelate was announced from
Syria. He said he had understood we were Monophysites,
and came to see if we were not a lost branch of their Church
established in this country centuries ago. While he was yet
speaking a Patriarch of the Greek Church came in. He said
he had been told we denied the Procession of the Holy Ghost
from the Son, and hoped to find us identified with his order.
Presently we had them all three seated and pleasantly talking
together. We sent for our Bishop, and they all dined with us.
The Greek made the sign of the cross with three fingers, the
Armenian with two, and the Catholic with his hand indiscriminately.
We took them in our carriage to the village and
about the town. They passed the night at our house. We
had other friends with us, and could not give them each a
room; and the Roman Cardinal and Greek Patriarch slept in
the same bed; an event, Mr. Evelyn said, that had probably
not happened since the year 1054, when Pope Leo X. and the
Patriarch Cerularius excommunicated each other. At our
devotions in the morning, the Greek read the hymn, the
Armenian read the Scripture, and the Catholic made the
prayer. They left us, and we have heard nothing from them
since. I hope, when these gentlemen reach home, they will
not suffer, as did that Timagorus; who, sent on an embassy to
Persia, for conforming to some of the usages of that Court,
on his return, was put to death by the Athenians, who thought
the dignity of their city compromised by his conduct.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
We have had a more considerable alarm, the causes and
course of which I will speak of. Livingston you know has
been the subject of public remark, and perhaps some scandal.
The conduct of our people in military matters has gone
abroad to their prejudice; in addition, Judge Morgridge has
been accused of remissness in duty; it was said that he had
not sent so many convicts to the State Prison as formerly, and
that he shortened the term of such as were committed to the
Jail. It was intimated that we had rendered ourselves obnoxious
to Legislative severity, and some punitive action on the
part of the government was apprehended. A memorial to the
our people, men, women and children, setting forth our condition
and most earnest wishes. Deacon Bowker was our
representative at the time; he read the memorial, but added
nothing, only took his seat, and as he said, prayed God to aid
the issue. The Legislature, in a manner that does credit
equally to their prudence and humanity, ordered an investigation
of the case; and a Committee was raised to visit Livingston,
and report at the next session. Two gentlemen with
plenipotentiary powers of inspection came amongst us. They
were here frequently, and in fact spent several weeks of the
year on their object. We sought neither to meal-powder nor
gold-blind them, but showed them the civilities due to all, and
maintained the uniformity due to ourselves. They tell the
story of a young painter, who being very poor, was reduced to
the necessity of converting one of his pictures into lining for
his jacket; and thus exposed his genius by wearing it on his
back. Livingston wears its virtues on its back—and in its
heart too—where they can be seen at a glance:—but to our
history. The Committee made up their report, which having
been printed swells into a large pamphlet. I will give you a
syllabus of it. They say our roads are in fine order, in fact
none are better in the State; that the whole town has a striking
aspect of neatness and thrift; that during all the time of their
visit they saw not one drunken man, while in most towns such
characters appeared without looking for them; that the consumption
of intoxicating drinks has diminished from six or
eight thousand gallons annually to a few scores; that the
amount paid for schools has risen from three or four hundred
dollars to two thousand; that all taxes laid by the State and
County have been promptly paid; that our poor have lessened
three quarters; they say also, that the value of real estate in
Livingston has advanced twenty per cent., and that wholly exclusive
of the improvements on Mons Christi; and that the
mania for removing to the West, which prevails all over New
England, has here subsided. On the charges preferred against
Judge Morgridge, so far as his connection with this town and
vicinity are concerned, they report in the first place that fewer
criminal actions have been brought before him than formerly,
and those of a less malefic nature; and that the number of
prisoners in the Jail has fallen from forty or fifty to eight or
ten, and only one of these belonged to Livingston. They next
inquire if these facts are to be attributed to the official negligence
of the Judge, or to the actual decrease of crime. On
to those gentlemen, I will give you the results of their observation.
They say that during the last four years since the
enlargement of the Jail, the addition to the comfort of the
inmates, and the practice we have of visiting them frequently,
and attending to their moral condition, the recommitments have
almost entirely ceased; whereas in former times these constituted
nearly one half of the subjects of prosecution; and
they consent that our mode tends really to reform the prisoner,
and restore him a useful citizen to the State; and they say
they see not cause for censuring the Judge who sends convicts
rather to the Jail, where their morals and manners are
amended, than to the State Prison where the reverse is wont
to befall. The Committee came evidently possessed with the
suspicion, which some have taken the pains to create in the
public mind, that we shielded our criminals, and snatched
them from public justice. They say they have canvassed the
whole town, explored by-places, gone into private dwellings,
watched about taverns, traversed the streets by night, and
cannot find any criminals; that the people appear to be industrious,
time-saving, minders-of-their-own-business, and free
from the ordinary tokens of guilt. They speak also of the
absence of petty offences, which exist almost everywhere; and
we could tell them once flourished here, such as unhinging
gates, hanging cart-wheels on trees, plundering gardens and
hen-roosts, shearing horses, etc. etc. They add, pleasantly
enough, that, while they have been in a hundred houses, at all
hours of the day, they have not heard a woman speak scandal,
or scold her children. They remark that a petition for divorce
from Hopestill Cutts and his wife, formerly pending
before the Legislature, has been withdrawn; and here, as all
along, apprehensive of some collusion, they declare they made
such an investigation as perfectly satisfied them these people
were living in harmony and love.
Regarding the nature and extent of the penalty, they say
Judge Morgridge has generally adopted the minimum point of
the law, which he thinks has proved itself to be adequate both
for the protection of the community and the punishment of
the offender. They report a visit to the Jail, where, they say,
they found what appeared to be a radical change going on in
the minds and hearts of the convicts. The fact that none are
recommitted indicates, they say, that the accommodations of
the Prison do not offer a premium on crime. Another circumstance
which demonstrates to their minds the actual cessation
drinks. The able-bodied poor, who used to waste their time
and aggravate their indolence by liquors, they found soberly
working, and wisely economizing. Our merchants also told
them the people traded as liberally and paid more punctually
than ever, and that they had less occasion for prosecutions.
Thus, in various ways, the Committee profess themselves satisfied
that there is a diminution both in the causes and the sum
of criminality; and they report a resolve which entirely exonerates
the Judge from the charge of infidelity to the laws, and
carelessness of the good of the state.
As regards military drills, our people made a solemn exhibit
to the Committee of what formerly existed here, the intoxication,
profanity, gambling, horse-racing, brawling, dissipation of time,
wreck of morals, etc. the offsprings of those occasions; and
furthermore, they protested, that, as members of Christ-Church,
as Christians, as believers in the Gospel, they could not conscientiously
engage in taking, or preparing to take, the lives of
their fellow-beings, in premeditated battle. “I lost my all in
one war,” said Captain Tuck, “and am prepared to do the
same in another. Take our property, consign us to dungeons,
load us with chains, but do not compel us to violate our consciences.
I am under orders from Lord God Almighty, Jesus
Christ is my Commander-in-Chief, in their service I shall
deem it my highest honor to live, or to die.” Our people
affirmed, in addition, that the military expenses of the town,
taking the matter in all ways, had not been less than one
thousand dollars a-year; some said two thousand; and that
they needed the money for other purposes. They added that
they were willing to pay such taxes as the government imposed,
and they only sought the ability to pay. These facts the Committee
reported without comment. They were present at
several of our Festivals, at Christ-Church on the Sabbath, at
our Town Meetings, and dances, and expressed a general satisfaction
in what they saw.
And now what is the good news I have to tell you?—this,
that in the ultimate decision of the Legislature, it was voted,
nearly unanimously, by both houses, that Judge Morgridge
should not be disturbed in his office, and that the Town of
Livingston should be exempt from all Military duty! It was the
Summer Session, when the resolve was finally passed, and
Deacon Bowker arrived with the glad intelligence Independence
day; our fears took flight in raptures, and our ordinary
good cheer creamed like a tankard of beer. Master Elliman's
from Thomas Aquinas to Duns Scotus.”
There has been a multiplication of travel hither, the influx
of strangers is incessant and great. One advantage the people
say they begin to realize from their mode of life; that is
money. Mr. Stillwater says his tavern profits exceed by far
those of other years. The people generally speak of increased
sales, on this score. Many orchards, formerly miserable rumlots,
have been converted into productive fruiteries. We have
imported grafts, and new seed, and now they raise choice
apples, pears and peaches, that find a ready market anywhere.
Some of the people, who cannot confine themselves wholly to
cold water, make cider, by an improved process, which Mr.
Evelyn says is equal to the purest wines of France. Dr. Johnson
tells a story of Steele to this effect. The essayist having
one day invited to his house several persons of quality, they
were surprised at the number of liveries that surrounded the
table. One of the guests inquired of Steele how such a train
of domestics could be consistent with his fortune, for he was
known to be poor. He frankly confessed they were fellows of
whom he would very willingly be rid; and being asked why
he did not discharge them, declared they were bailiffs, who
had introduced themselves with an execution, and whom, since
he could not send them away, he had found it convenient to
embellish with liveries, that they might do him credit while
they did stay. How much of the equipage, the appointments,
the furniture, the dress, of the world, is a sort of liveried
bailiff, who as soon as the feast is over will take every thing
from you! Whatever decorations Livingstonians exhibit, are
their own, their debts are paid. Mr. Evelyn has accomplished
a good deal with the somewhat rugged soil of Mons Christi.
Last year he sold, in New York, four hundred bushels of apples,
at an average of seventy five cents per bushel. He raised
also six hundred bushels of rye, corn and oats, potatoes and
other things as many as we want. We have six cows, and
such cream, and butter, and cheese, did you ever taste better?
Our sheep, hogs, turkeys, ducks, hens, are innumerable. In
the Saw-mill, at the Outlet, we have put a run of stone, and
grind our own grain. The Notch through the hill from the
Via Salutaris to the Outlet is now a fine road, and a fine
drive; and that wild and superb scenery back of the highlands
is accessible to all. Balboa, he that discovered the Pacific
Ocean, when he came in sight of it, fell on his knees and
thanked God; then plunging into the water up to his waist,
of his sovereign. We have just reached the edge of this illimitable,
whale-bearing, sky-cleaving Nature; with hoe and axe,
microscope and alembic, love and health, we take possession of
it, in the name of God and Christ, amen. The Chinese carry
their gardens and rice-fields to the tops of their mountains.
What may yet become of New England! The Indians indeed
are gone; what do we in their stead? This suggests to
me that the remains of Pakanawket and his grandchild, after
reposing so long in the depths of the Pond, at last rose to the
surface. We had them buried in the woods which he pointed
out as the home of his grandfather; and over them we put an
antique monument of red sand-stone, on which are sculptured
their effigies in the style of the Middle Ages. In the darkest
woods they lie, but their shrine has as many visitors as that of
Thomas a Becket. What more, what better could we do?
MR. EVELYN TO ANNA.
From the tone of your letters, I gather that Margaret, in
what she writes you, treats of her own agency in these matters
Livingstonian, in a manner somewhat obscure. I shall take
the liberty to elucidate this point briefly. I do not intend to
overtax her modesty, or involve her singleness of heart, beyond
what is meet; but in truth I must declare, the first person in
her letters would be more fitting and exact, than any second;
it is she herself, and not we, who is, under God, and in Christ,
the soul of all that which we now behold. This may be as
frankly avowed, as it is sincerely felt. Nor do I fear inducing
a dispute with my dear wife, by saying as much. She knows
that I know it, and if she has not confidence enough in herself
to confess the fact, she has in me to yield to it. If she has not
a consciousness of her own strength, it is because it is so absolutely
and plenarily great that she lacks the contentions and
annoyances of weakness which reveal to most of us the little
strength we do possess. Wherein she is conscious of her
strength, she so expends it in action as to leave no carking and
petted residuum to trouble her with. Her self-consciousness
is not, what we sometimes behold, a crying infant, but a grown-up
sister; it resides quite as much with her industry as in her
heart, and she is not obliged to quit her work and rock the
cradle of herself. She thus escapes a morbid tendency on the
one hand, and a heedless one on the other; she can be self-forgetful
and self-moved; she can love and she can labor.—
hide itself under her laurels. You have known me, Anna,
that I had some vis in my composition, but of that kind which
the books call mortua, more than the description viva; in
other words, that I was sluggish and lazy. I saw, and thought,
and speculated enough, I attained many correct conclusions;
but I never did anything. When I left College, I soon convinced
myself, that like many other rare geniuses, I was doomed
to be the victim of circumstances. I was not poverty-stricken,
but man-stricken. The forms and the spirit of error
and evil had distorted the face of the globe; but why should
I attempt to remove mountains, or change the bed of rivers?
Let me travel over the one, and sail on the other. I would
not perish where so many of my kith and kin had come to
their end, that is to say in contention. I essayed poetry, but
soon learned, that I had not only to make verses, but remodel
the standards of taste; that if I would succeed, I must first
put all the critics to death, as the Emperor Hadrian did Apollodorus,
for blaming the proportions of a Temple he had erected.
Of the Professions, Theology I could not, Law and Medicine
I would not; and then, as a last resort, I concluded to
fall in love with a very pretty, and very poor girl, here in Livingston.
I knew I could live with her, whereas I must die in
all the world besides. Well for me that I had sense enough to
understand her, or heart enough to love her. I could always
philosophize, but lacked the energy of execution. In place
of hastening the better day, I was disposed to yield most implicit
obedience to that direction of the Apostle, “Wait until
the Lord come.” Margaret's energy has inspired all my capabilities,
and given motion to my will. But more than this,
for example, I could sit with Phidias in his studio, and out of
ideal gold and ivory make a Jupiter, with all suitable enrichments.
She takes the veritable materials, and the statue
is done. Thus is our whole history; I have been able to impart
a certain fanciful existence to Ideality; she perpetually
reduces the same to the Actual. Nor does she seem to study
her plan, with most artists, and then go to work; she goes to
work, and the plan and the result are both before you. She
seems to be only embodying herself in what is about her, her
profuse and impulsive being creates life in all things, her own
going forth is the signal for the appearance of Beauty and Virtue;
she translates Nature to Man; and Man to himself. I
talk like a doting husband, but this is what I am, and what
she has made me. She was reared on bread and cider, and
constitution among snow-banks; her mind, never overloaded,
was always occupied; her nature would neither endure, nor
did it ever receive, the fetters of fashion, conventionality, dog-ma,
or world-fear. Without education, in the common sense
of the term, her faculties were matured; without instruction,
she was wise; and having never heard of Mr. Nash, she was
graceful and polite. Christianity she was unembarrassed to
receive, and in that alone has she found a master. For this
indeed she was somewhat prepared by her night-visions; but
when it came, it overpowered and aggrandized her. I never
could have imagined so perfect an incarnation of Christ, as she
is; and that without parting with any of her proper individuality.
She drinks in Christ as the oaks do the dews, to replenish
herself in greater proportion and beauty thereby. The
Bread from Heaven, designed for the aliment, development,
and ripening of all souls, she feeds daily upon. I know not
that she is a Philosopher, save that she acts philosophically. Our
Philosophers, for the most part, by an industrious collation of
many facts, like travellers with heavy packs on their shoulders,
fare slowly up the hill of their conclusions. On a few facts
her conclusions rest; one fact stands with her for many facts,
and this from a certain comprehensive and nice power of analogy
she possesses. That law by which all facts in the physical,
moral and religious world gravitate towards a common centre,
and coalesce in one, she has an intuitive perception of. Or
rather the soul of all things, the Truth and Love, of which
facts are but the signs, she understands by the correspondence
of her own soul therewith. Hence is her logic rapid, and correct,
and her action perfect and sure. She is perhaps more
Philosophy than a Philosopher; and if, as has been observed,
History be Philosophy teaching by example, Nature is Margaret
teaching by practice. She also possesses much of the
Universal Heart; a variety of hearts enter into the ingredients of
hers. Hence, occupying the stand-point of the many, her sight
is extensive, her projects are feasible, and her success certain.
When I first saw her, she was more purely in a state of nature,
than any civilized person I ever encountered. To this, partly,
I attribute the power of the Gospel on her. Neither internal
sin nor external evil had deformed or diseased her, and she
was prepared, like a new-born babe, to breathe the atmosphere
of Christ the moment she came in contact with it, and to drink
the sincere milk of the word. I once wholly despaired of
seeing a Christian; she is one! I might say, I more than
do it! Christ pervades every corner and cranny of her being;
she is filled with the fullness of God. And yet she loves me,
with a most devout and child-like love. “And yet?” Why
should she not?—In pursuing her objects in town, she is no
dry, hoarse-voiced, arrow-speeding, denunciatory, monomaniac;
she gushes up like a fountain, and having supplied her home,
has enough wherewithal to overflow, and run down the hill.
She is meek and lowly of heart in an uncommon degree.
Whatever manly qualities she exhibits, it is without masculineness,
and she is a woman, without effeminacy. She has no
bitterness of spirit; the only person in the world whom she
was disposed to view as thoroughly and hopelessly depraved,
was the Widow Wright; but I believe she has got the better
of that judgment. She has no blur in her own eye when she
would remove that of her brothers.
But of her connection with this Livingstonian re-Christianization—I
say, she may report to you what she does, more than
what we do. This is a palpable truth. For instance, our Festivals;
I had witnessed their working in the Old World, I was
convinced of their utility; I could relate their history, distinguish
their errors and defects; while I was speaking on the
subject, she had elaborated the system we now enjoy. Is it my
doings or hers? At the same time, standing as she does in
the common heart, corresponding with so many minds, it
seemed to emanate as much from the people as from herself.
The hierophancy that exists in all souls, needed only to be awakened,
to make every one a practical interpreter of Nature.
This, you will recollect, was after the extraneous habits and
factitious modes of the people had somewhat worn away, and
they were prepared to act on an original native sense of things.
How this superincrustation, hardened by many years duration,
and even converted into the commonest uses of life, became
removed, would puzzle a greater philosopher than she thinks
I am, to tell. Its disappearance was gradual, and yet perceptible.
The Spirit of God entered into men's souls, and these
dead forms were uplifted, the oppressive bands were broken
asunder. Truth and Love, here as everywhere, like that
Nebuchadnezzarean tree, had their branches cut off, and its
leaves shaken off, but the stump of the roots was in the earth,
and needed but to be wet with the dew of Heaven, to shoot
forth in primeval, paradisian vigor and bloom. Humanity,
like a buried giant, heaved off its superincumbence, and rose
to life; Religion cast aside her Harlequin robes. Margaret
of Deacon Ramsdill, sound as they are homely, must
have assisted her. From breast to breast an electrical fire
spread itself. She subsidized all my strength, she drew your
brother into the field; and she had also a most serviceable
coadjutorship in many other wise and valiant men and women.
Her knowledge of human nature would strike you as very
great. She says Jesus Christ taught her this knowledge; that
since she has been a Christian, and a student of the gospels,
this intuition, or experience, has been singularly developed in
her. Our taking up our abode at Mons Christi was, on the
whole, her own suggestion; what we did for the No. 4's, and
particularly the setting up of the Statue, was for the most part
a plan of hers. A pink she once saw in one of their filthy
houses seemed to suggest the Statue; and a beautiful image
of Diligence she felt would carry a varied impression to the
hearts of those gross people, that should work their complete
reformation. And the result did not disappoint her. Many,
many things about our house, grounds, ways, and in the town
are purely her own inventions. All our superb statues are
chiefly hers. I would not applaud her at the expense of any
others. I shall not write myself altogether a “puppet;” your
brother has done a great work for us. He came with purposes
possibly not fully ripe, but with talents of the first order, and
a heart glowing with a Christ-like ambition. There is a host
besides of whom, if not the world, Livingston is worthy.
Of Margaret I was speaking. I have translated to her the
whole of the New Testament; and, she, I must concede, understands
it better than I do. She has a most accurate perception
of the general sense, she detects hidden springs of
beauty, she harmonizes varying passages and contradictory
language, she gathers what may be termed the manner of
Christ, his accents and emphases, his moods and feelings; she
is not constrained by those unnatural prominences which to
those of us who have been long accustomed to hear particular
topics discussed, and particular texts dwelt upon, occur everywhere
in the Bible. A parable, a trope, an hyperbole, never
embarrasses her. There may be a reason for this, in the fact
that she understands Christ so well; she is, if I may so say,
so much in his vein. She goes deeper than the partial, varying
human letter, even into the spirit of Jesus, and comes up
full of his meaning. Then, she brings to the Gospel so fresh
and pure a nature. Do the best I can, I still find myself
stumbling upon certain passages which have been detached
invested with a sense wholly remote from the original. She
has been troubled by no systems, and these passages, to her,
all melt down, and flow on in harmony with the great stream
of Gospel truth.
My dearest wife! I see her now on the Pond. She comes
from the Islands; and our little Gottfried is with her. Her
head is wreathed with evergreens, and the boy has a cincture
of the same. With featest stroke she drives forward her
canoe, firmly the child clutches the seat. Happy husband
and father of so good a wife, so good a child am I! Fresh
and warm is she in heart and complexion, as when I with her
first looked on these beautiful waters. Yearly does my love
for her increase, with every holy deed our souls are knitted
more closely together. She leaps upon the beach, she runs
along the grass, the little Gottfried chases his mother. I must
go and meet them, for I am made young and agile too. She
will bide what I have written; she never blushes at truth, but
only when I love her.
MARGARET TO ANNA.
From the same fountain flow tears and smiles! How curiously
we are made. My cheeks tingle, my heart goes pit-a-pat.
Mr. Evelyn would not send off his letter without showing
it to me. All the world may speak well or ill of me; I take
it, as Nimrod says a horse does the bit, very coolly. His
censure or approbation quite undoes me. What is he not to
me! When other things are so much, how much is he!
God, Christ, and Mr. Evelyn; the Infinite and the Finite, in
triune, golden chain encircle me, in one sweet heaven embosom
me. Man is that wind-harp, through which the breath
of God sounds so softly, as in the thick pines. Mr. Evelyn
revealed Christ to me, Christ revealed God to him. Dear,
dear, thrice dear Mr. Evelyn. Does he not know how much
my strength is nourished from him, as well as from bean porridge?
He has not told you how I have watched him when
he was asleep; nor how I vibrate to his voice when he calls
me in the garden; nor how I wait upon his words, his opinions,
his judgment. When he was gone so long, and so far
away, I cherished him, as a hidden birth in my soul, which
his coming alone brought into life. Did I not tell you, Anna,
how much I loved him? Yet, you understood something of
me, and more of him, and you would not be surprised that I
I should ever see him again, and he did not write me. What
under these circumstances could a girl like me do? Why,
love in silence, the same as fishes swim. You are a woman,
and you know what that is; and we are women, Rose says,
and we are but women, I allow. It never occurred to me that
I was poor, or that I was bred in “the orful wicked ways of
the Pond,” as the Leech said. Yet how did I love Mr.
Evelyn? His letter, if it does not recall me to myself, does
certainly recall all my life to me. And if I have not always
answered all your questions, dear Anna, it was because I was
more apt to fill out my sheet with what was then on my hands,
than with what had slid off into my memory.—But I must first
settle certain preliminaries as to what a woman is. You would
sometimes seem to admonish me lest I become a partaker of a
vague somewhat unwomanly. Yet in theory I always agreed
with you, and our differences, if there were any, only contemplated
the details of practice. And, here, what I have to say
is formed, not from any considerable stress of logic, but out
of what lies all around me. To say “We are women,” means
no more at Mons Christi, than to say, “We are men,” and
just as much. There is the same difference, I think, between
a man and a woman, as between a black birch and a white
one. The character of woman has risen a hundred fold in
Livingston, yet are we all women still. The girls are not
boys, neither are the ladies lords. We have no amazons, or
hybrids, unless I except the Goddess of Health. Man and
woman, we are both united and elevated by the common tie of
respect and esteem, mutual deference and goodwill, love and
honor. We are boys and girls, wives and husbands, men and
women still. Man is less exclusive and despotic, woman is
less slavish and tame. Our Festivals, our dances, the general
diffusion of Christianity in town, have had the effect to
abrade many prejudices, correct many diversities, raise the
women in their proper scale, and restore the just order and
equitable arrangements of society. It seems, after all, to be a
question of beards and breeches, and since nature has not
furnished us the first, why should we be anxious to supply
ourselves with the last? “Don't be afraid of Livingston!”
Captain Tuck says, and in this matter, so say I.
Now, being a woman, how should, or how did I love Mr.
Evelyn. They tell of two yew trees that fell in love, but
being separated by a large extent of forest, could not speak
together. Cherishing their love in concealment, they at length
saw each other, their love was consummated. We did love,
we were separated, we at last met, and our love was consummated.
But, the growing tall, how was that? Were we prepared
for a perfect love at the first? Did we need each other?
Were we of proportionate moral stature? Were there no distances
even in ourselves requiring that we should first grow
tall before we could overlook them? Does not one need a
certain amount of self-subsistence, before he or she can subsist
another? We are capable of loving, long before we are
capable of being loved; I mean capable of supporting the
love of another. “A solemn thing is love,” said Isabel, when
Rufus offered her his heart. Mr. Evelyn, as I recollect, when
I first saw him, imparted to me something of a tremor. But
what if he had then proposed to marry me? That would have
made me tremble worse and more hopelessly. His love for
me must first become a subjective part of my own existence,
it must grow up in me, it must mould me somewhat into his
image; and so too must mine for him act upon him; then
when we meet, our diversities will have vanished, we shall be
like each other, we shall be ready to live together always.
Perhaps you will say this is rather the record of my own experience,
than the establishment of any principle; and what is
worse, it may indicate a very dull and unsavory process. I do
believe in falling in love, spontaneously, ardently, as much
as Rose does, but I do not believe in falling into a quagmire. I
cannot approve of those marrying who have no points in common.
I confess indeed to the power of love in diminishing
differences, and uprooting antipathetic tendencies. But should
not their general tastes, sentiments, views, feelings, be accordant?
Let love set the mill a-going, but how can we expect
any good results from cogs that never fit, or from a wheel-band
running on the barrel of a watch?—Yet, are we not
Pythagorean half-souls? Men or women, do we not all need
our mates? Do we not float through the world, like loose
planets, till we are caught in the attraction of some other orb?
I must have Mr. Evelyn, Rose must have Frank, Rhody must
have Nimrod, Sybil Hash, Isabel Rufus, you Mr. Greenwood;
and so, vice versa. This at least is Rose's doctrine, and I
leave it with her to carry on the discussion.
Marriage is proposed as the cure of love; “Get them husbands
betimes,” says my oracle. We find marriage the sustentation
and enrichment of love. When did I love Mr.
Evelyn more than to-day! That we have diversities is certain;
sight; agree to disagree; bear with one another in silent, consuming
pain? No. Let them be thrown into the common
crucible of our affection, and fused together into some tertium
quid, some new homogeneous form. We have been married
seven years. Twice,—for they say I have an excellent memory,
and I cannot very well forget the times,—twice he has
distressed me, agonized my heart beyond description; I could
have died. I thought—I cannot tell what—it is past now.
Only I fancied he did not do me justice—it was a little thing
—it was not that I was a woman and he a man, for he has
never failed not only to love but even to honor me. It was
two souls becoming dark to each other, veiling their faces.
We were hidden only a short time; the dew of sadness that
was upon our windows became beautiful, and then vanished.
Yet when he chided me, he loved me. You look from a welllighted
room through a window when it is pitch dark abroad,
and you see your own image out in the darkness. He was
dark, but in his soul was my image; he tenderly cherished
me, and I had to ask to be forgiven. The Apostle prays that
we be perfect in love. In love we go on to perfection, in perfection
we go on to love. “Are we not illimitable and
immortal only in love?” asks my father of my own dear
mother. “God dwelleth in him that dwelleth in love.” He
dwells in Mr. Evelyn and me. His Shekinah is our house and
our hearts. Our trees and our flowers grow larger and more
beautiful every year; so does our love. God is the same
forever, he never grows old, he is never common place; nor is
our love ever dull, having its roots in the Infinite. To the
eyes of love all things are new.
I too am a mother, so is Rose, so are you. Gottfried
Brückmann is four years old, Jane Girardeau, two. Rose has
the prettiest little blossom you ever beheld; she daily waxes
more happy, more strong. How pleasant to multiply the
avenues into which the Divinity may pour itself! You used,
sometimes, to raise questions about miracles. Let us cease
wondering, and become wonder-workers. The ways of nature
are the true anagogics. Gottfried is brown as a nut, and I
see Jeannie rolling on the grass. They are hale and hearty,
and do not grow under a board; they eat lustily three times a
day, and sleep well o'nights. The root called pie-plant, just
before it shoots from the earth in the Spring, is the most beautifully
tinted thing you ever beheld. Remove the soil, and
there you have disclosed a most exquisite rose flesh color,
and gold. Children that germinate with a plenty of
mother earth about them, come out in the fairest hues. Cloth,
as Ma used to say, is sometimes killed in coloring; but those are
artificial dyes. The tints of nature betoken vigor and heart.
Rhody has a son whom they call Chilion; Isabel a
daughter, Margaret hight. Rufus has built an elegant marble
Italian Villa, on the north eastern brow of Mons Christi.
Thus we form an extensive community. I am not afraid of
our children becoming contaminated here. Hash and Nimrod
are really new men in Christ Jesus. You would hardly believe
that they have daily prayers with their households; which
is nevertheless the fact. Our Bishop has urged the duty of
family religion, and great is the change in this respect, in all
parts of the town. I can hardly describe my astonishment,
when, the other morning, going into Pa's, to find that once
blasphemous, atheistic old man, soberly reading the Scriptures
with Ma, and devoutly praying! But what shall become of
our children, in aftertimes, and elsewhere? Livingston seems
to us, like Arranmore to the Irish, where, in clear weather,
they fancy they can see Paradise. The world is dark and
sinful, and how can we adventure our children in it! Pa
takes a great liking to the little ones, and they often run over
there. The old man is still mercurial; but his pot-valiantry
is gone; cold-water is his only fog-breaker; for Anacreontics
he sings Christian hymns. He only wishes he had two ears.
Ma says Jeannie looks like me. And I was a child once.—
The other day I rowed across the Pond, and leaped off into
the water where I used to bathe, and chase the sand-pipers.
The rocks, the shadows, the vines were there, and I was there,
in my little canoe. I forgot the Universe, and my life, and my
children, to be a child once more. Presently Mr. Evelyn
came, with Gottfried and Jane, and we frolicked in the
water together, and were all children as one. How should a
child punish a child; I mean, how should I punish my children.
Are parents never in the wrong? Are children never
in the right? “Nurses should not have pins about them,”
said Deacon Ramsdill. Do not parents, by their own pride
and ignorance, often prick their children, and then whip them
for crying?
“The bones of an infant,” says Dr. Buchan, “are so soft
and cartilaginous, that they readily yield to the slightest pressure,
and easily assume a bad shape. Hence it is that so
many people appear with high shoulders, crooked spines, and
shape by the application of stays and bandages from their
birth.” The world abounds in what Comenius calls Deformed
and Monstrous people, in both a physical and moral aspect;
all squeezed out of shape in their infancy. Can you fail to
understand how men become depraved? “Laissez faire,” says
Mr. Evelyn. We would encompass our children by the influences
of the Good and the Beautiful, which is all they can,
primordially, understand of God. Let their characters have
an imperceptible development, like rose buds.
Mr. Evelyn would make you believe that I have been personally
interested in this rejuvenescence of the town; so mote
it be. After all it is God's work, and we are only his subalterns.
You are surprised at the result; I am not. There
are 2,304,000 pores in the human body; so many avenues, I
might say, has God to the heart; and if we will but be co-workers
with him, we can find access also. God follows, or I
should say, makes nature his mode of entrance and influence;
we have but to go in by the same way, and work after the
same pattern. Not but that there have been difficulties; but
the greatest one, after all, was to find God's stand-point of
Nature. What the people of Livingston needed, I could but
see; what they would receive, may, at times, have admitted
of some questioning. Their vices were not indeed peculiar,
they shared in the common backsliding from God; their cisterns,
drained of water, held only sediment, for which they
were ready, at any moment, to do battle. I remembered the
feeling that prevailed here when I was lost in the woods; how
good everybody was, self-sacrificing, and self-forgetful; I remembered
my dreams. There were the many things Deacon
Ramsdill told me; there was my experience with the children,
when I kept the School, where I learned more of the
infinite susceptibilities, wants, tendencies of our nature, than
could in any other way have been presented to me out of myself;
there was what Chilion told me about Music; there was
the geode, and the incrusted crystals. Ever too was myself,
I could but be sensible of my own wants, and what would do
me good. There was the revelation of Christ to me, by Mr.
Evelyn. There was the well at No. 4, of which he speaks,
clear water, a subterranean Heaven in that greasy, odious place,
and along with it Dorothy's pink, that seemed to me like
another little Heaven in the deep degradation of humanity.
There was also a strong conviction that the sin which I saw
the folly of men was preposterous and remediable. So in
many ways I was taught the Will of God. I know not that I
was ever conscious of any mission to this people; but after our
house was done, I could not be satisfied till something else
was doing. Our, or my, if you please, first experiment was at
No. 4, as he has told you. The effect was almost instantaneous,
and quite magnificent; that the Scripture might be fulfilled
where it is written, “though they have lain among pots,
they shall become as the wings of a dove covered with silver,
and her feathers with yellow gold.”
I have a fortune indeed; and some would fain make themselves
believe that we have opened a battery of systematic bribery,
that we have got into the human heart, as Philip did into
the Athenian walled-towns, by our gold. You would be surprised
to know how little we have bestowed in a mere eleemosynary
manner. We gave nothing to the No. 4's, except
what took an ornamental form. Their solid comfort and prosperity
is wholly to be attributed to themselves. It was not
largesses they needed, but industry, economy, temperance and
love. We bought them a barn, when their hay and corn
began to increase; but they have since repurchased it. I gave
Abiah Tapley a clarionet, and Isaiah Hatch a bugle, that they
might join our Band; Dorothy we have educated. In the
town at large we have done little for charity; our money
indeed has gone freely, but more in ways æ-thetic and religious
than anything else. It has aided in the erection of a
Church, a Cemetery, a Fountain, School-house, remodelling the
Jail, planting trees, setting up Statues, etc. etc. To Judah
Weeks we made a loan, on an importation of sheep, cows,
fruits and seeds, he was bringing from England; but he has
repaid it. And, I believe, at this moment, I could receive
back principal and interest, all I have laid out. The pecuniary
ability of the people has kept pace with their moral
excellence. Land has advanced in price, strangers are anxious
to come and settle amongst us. The people have expended
a good deal, and they have made money. Abstinence
from ardent spirits, military duty, needless fashions, lawsuits,
have saved the town ten thousand dollars a year; so Judge
Morgridge said at our house the other night. Add to this the
recovery from idle habits, negligent dispositions and an unproductive
uniformity, and you will see our people are able to
expend much in other ways.
Waste lands have been redeemed; sundry improvements in
saving, and a profit. Education, Literature, Religion, Recreation,
Beauty, Music, Art, Morality and General Happiness,
are things the people enjoy, and for which they are able to
pay. They have laid the foundation for a building to serve a
composite purpose, of Library, Museum, Lecture Room,
Reading Room, &c. The Natural History of the place some
are beginning to develop and illustrate; its insects, birds,
fishes, rocks, flowers, weather and sky. Arthur Morgridge
and Aurelius Orff spent the whole of last year in examinations
of this sort, and their book under the superintendence of
Master Elliman will be published, and two hundred copies will
be sold in Livingston. Hancock Welles, the Principal of the
Grammar School, spends one whole day in the week with his
scholars, studying the world about them; I mean the Livingstonian
world, of wood, earth and water. Of our extraneous
public taxes some of the people complain a little. Mons
Christi paid a general tax last year of two thousand dollars.
Mr. Evelyn says the State has helped Livingston somewhat,
and if Livingston can help the State out of its difficulties, it
will be better for all in the end.
Speak of wealth, Anna? Mr. Evelyn says our country expends
for military and warlike purposes, in all ways, at the rate of
80,000,000 dollars a-year, for intoxicating drinks 50,000,000
more, and for vain and hurtful customs enough to carry the
tale to 200,000,000! What if this sum could every where be
devoted to Christ, Beauty and Happiness; you would cease to
wonder at what is done in Livingston.
What time, what labor, what money is laid out in the great
world on what is known as Fashion! Vice is ugly, and yet
you embrace her; if she were beautiful, that might be an excuse
for your conduct. Can anything exhibit a more “hideous
mien” than Fashion? The French Milliners are a more
dangerous foe to the race than French arms. Madame Laponte
threatens a worse evil than Napoleon. She has actually invaded
America, and thousands of females have fallen victims
to her arts. Your grandmother said I should certainly lose
my symmetry if I did not wear a whalebone corset, which
she showed me, and one that would have weighed I should
think three pounds. Your friend Miss Lees, said I should
lose caste if I did not carry my waist up over my shoulders;
long waists she said were fast going out of fashion, or worn
only by the vulgar. Is it not, after all, only a circular race
between Tippee and Twaddle? Tippee is now ahead, Twaddle
round they go; which leads, or which is beaten, who can tell.
Can that be Beauty which lowers your corsage to-day, and
raises it to-morrow; which flaunts a furbelow one year and
denounces it the next? Your ladies seem to me more jiggered
than dressed; they are tasty, but not neat; they struggle for
good keeping, but attain no harmony; they are bespangled
without ornament, and fashionable without beauty. Mr. Evelyn
has a volume with plates illustrative of our ancestral costumes;
and I am persuaded that if the Indians had appeared in an
attire which has been the glory of Christian belles, it would
have been set down as the proper accompaniment of Barbarism,
and the Greeks in such dresses would never have advanced
beyond the woods of Attica. One department of our Museum,
devoted to Antiquities, I recommend to have supplied with
garments showing the fashions of our own and other times;
as suitable a relic as we can transmit to posterity. The
Spartans forbade all colors but purple. If we do not restrict
ourselves to that extent, we will at least become more moderate.
A robe, a la Grecque, has been introduced into town, is greatly
admired, and somewhat worn. But alas for the persons of
quality who have wens on their necks! You contrive to hide
this deformity by your cardinal-hoods. But what will you do
with the next person of quality who has monstrous ankles?
The wen must then go bare! Our people have got the good
graces of the Quakers! four of whom have come to reside
here, with hands full of industry, and purses full of money;
and they are interested members of Christ-Church.
We have had the staunchest concurrence, a munificent
sympathy, a most effective aid. Names, which if it could be,
I should like to have published to the world, are blazoned
here on Livingston hills, and storied in Livingston hearts;
Judge Morgridge, Deacon Ramsdill, Deacon Bowker and wife,
Esq. Weeks, Isabel, Judah and Mabel Weeks, Esq. Beach,
William and Julia Beach, Mr. Stillwater, Abiah and Dorothy
Tapley, Captain Tuck, Consider Gisborne, the Pottles, the
Whistons, Anthony and Ruth Wharfield, the Palmers, Tony
Washington, Arthur Morgridge, Mr. Readfield, the new Merchant,
Job Luce, Grace Joy and Beulah Ann Orff, Zenas Joy,
Captain Hoag, Socrates Hadlock, Hancock Welles, Kester
Shield, Philip Davis; and many, many others, whose names
are writ in the Lamb's Book of Life.
How has it been done? I will tell you. Dorothy Tapley, you
know, lived with us. She used frequently to be in the room
a deep musical aptitude. I gave her what little instruction I
could, and sent her to your city to be perfected. She is now,
as we judge, a singer and player of the first order, and has
many pupils in town. Again, one Sunday, there came to our
house, in company with many others, a poor, ragged boy from
the North Part of the Town. Some of our paintings were
shown to him. Again he came, and sat an hour alone, and
looked at them. In a few days, he brought us some rude
chalk imitations of a Sir Joshua Reynolds. Of course we
should assist him. His name is Elam Dater; Julia Beach
found him wandering in the streets, took him to Church,
and had him come to Mons Christi. He has taken some portraits,
but his forte is Landscape and Design. He has furnished
us several fine views of Livingston, one of Mons
Christi, as seen from the Green, which I mean to send to you.
He is now engaged on an original work, the Beatitudes, to be
executed on one piece of canvass, having Christ with the
green tree-cross, in the centre, and the several groups arranged
about him. It is to be purchased by Christ-Church members,
and put in the Church. So genius, as well as real-estate, and
all good things, rise under the influence of an indomitable,
universal Christian Love. “When we love God and love our
fellow-men,” says our Bishop, “then and only then is our insight
clear, our judgment sound, our strength available, and
our resolve steadfast. Hereby alone we attain to virtue, are
inspired by Beauty, and moved to Greatness. The Spirit of
Christ in a man, does more enlarge the mind, develop the
capabilities, animate the will, than all other things. In the
new Heavens and the new Earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness,
Art, Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, taking new forms from
the divine life of the soul, shall offer to the world unexampled
creations, and transcendent grandeur.” This is the secret of
what you behold in Livingston, Anna; all contained in a nutshell.
Music I cherish for its own sake, for my dear brother
Chilion's sake, my dear dead father's sake, and for Christ's
sake. Some of the Ancients did not encourage music, lest it
should weaken the temper of the people. The object of most
nations, Mr. Evelyn says, has been to make the citizen subservient
to the State. Nor has it been sufficient to enslave his
strength, and drain his products, they must also prevent his
proper moral growth. Ability to prosecute wars has been the
test of a healthy national condition. Individuality of character
as effeminacy. To live for the State became the
chief end of man. We discern a higher end, the glory of God.
He made man musical; Music is a Divine gift, and God works
in it.—The more I reflect upon Chilion, the more am I impressed
with his greatness. His conceptions, as I see them
now, were magnificent, and his execution powerful. But he
was chaotic and undeveloped. Only at the hour of his death
did I understand the feelings of his life. He came out, like
the sun, at the close of a cloudy day, glittered, and expired.
His music always thrilled me, as I have seen it blow many
about, like leaves in the wind. His violin was truly oracular,
orphean, superhuman. Through it, I am sure, he would have
communicated much of the hidden secrecy of the soul. Reserved
in manner, hesitating in speech, his instrument became
his confidence, his utterance, his communicable self. An
Inexplicability took him from us! Soul of Chilion, descend
into my soul. If tears were song, I would sing thee over the
world; when I have ceased to weep, I only pray there may
remain strength enough to sing. Yet like an inapproachable
star, his light descends to me from afar. All Livingston has
caught something of his spirit. There were many, in whose
hearts he silently sank, and upon whom he scattered his wild
but divine musical seeds. Without speaking, he originated
sensations in many a breast, and without putting forth a hand,
his designs have been moulded into the beautiful forms of Art.
Many pieces which he played extemporaneously and aboriginally,
I remember; Abiah Tapley is able to recall others; so
that our Band is in possession, not only of his name, and ideal,
but of many of his creations. He very early taught me the
use of the violin, and in this way I have been able to retain
and distribute more of him than I otherwise should. I did not
know how good Chilion's music was, until I discovered how
much poor music there is in the world! His frozen words
have thawed, and may be heard all over our Town. Robert
Bruce, since in his lifetime he could not go to the Holy Land,
at his death ordered his heart to be embalmed and carried
thither. Chilion could not come to this our Holy Land, but
we have here his embalmed melodies.
Have you not reflected that Christ was a singer? At the
Last Supper “they sang a hymn.” Mr. Evelyn says he
thinks it could not have been, what some suppose, the Hillel
of the Jews. David, he says, could not compose a song for
Christ. I think it was an extemporaneous swan-song of Jesus.
the Beatitudes the highest kind of Poetry. Or I should say, I
do not think the highest kind of Inspiration to be Poetry, I
mean at least it is not rhyme. In many of Christ's words are
harmony and softness, mellifluence and music. The Gospels
seem to me truth melodized. The best parts of the New
Testament have never been thrown into a lyric form; even by
those whose profession is scripture versification. Master Elliman
has a copy of Sternhold and Hopkins, and I had as lief
use it as Watts; notwithstanding the great distance between
them. Your Mr. Belknap is better, but he falls sadly below
the true Gospel Idea. The Gospel, if it were understood, if
with warm hearts, they descended into the depths of its spirit,
our Poets, I am certain, could turn into rhyme and beauty.
Mr. Evelyn's volume, prepared for Christ-Church, we like
very much.—Nature is musical, and God in Nature; the stars,
the brooks; so must all things become, Religion, Life, Society,
Intercourse, Labor, Politics, Controversy, Reform; so speaks
my sprite. “My Peace I leave with you,” said Jesus. The
Peace of Jesus would be the music of the world.
Beauty also has its own end and office, is absolute and
divine. Beauty is musical, music is beautiful. God made
the trees of the garden of Eden good to look upon, that is,
beautiful. Beauty is Truth's usher, whereby it is introduced
to the heart. No Truth is received till it puts on a beautiful
aspect. The mind even seems to have the power of exorcising
Falsehood, expelling from it the spirit of Ugliness, and transfusing
it with that of Beauty. People tell me that they never
used to make up their minds to believe Theological errors,
until they were first presented in a beautiful form. The
Widow Luce says, she was first made to see some beauty in
the doctrine of Reprobation, before she assented to it! The
old Prophets had ideas of beauty that we have lost sight of.
“The Beauty of the Lord our God be upon us,” says David.
Then in the New Testament, Christ is called the Beautiful
Shepherd; of the woman who anointed him he says, “She
hath wrought a Beautiful work on me.” St. Paul says, “Provide
things Beautiful in the sight of all men.” This secret
sentiment of high moral Beauty, a Beautiful Goodness runs
through the Gospels. God is Beautiful, and Christ has ever
seemed to me the Beautiful One, beyond all created description
or compare. His Beautiful Goodness won my unconscious
child's heart, and when I knew it not, made me its own; and
as it were when I was asleep, impressed its image upon me,
existence of thought, and shall live with me forever.—The
power of Beauty over what is known as the common mind,
our house and grounds, our statuary and paintings furnish
instances of, every day. “This is a beautiful spot,” people
say, when they come to Mons Christi. I remember overhearing
old Mr. Shooks, the former Jail-keeper, the flintiest,
driest, crossest man I ever saw, make that exclamation; and
he really looked pleased when he said it. His heart was
touched. Innocent gladness is one of the most beautiful things
under the sun; it is the roses and pansies of humanity. Pa's
gay humor, wicked though he was, always impressed me as
something beautiful. How shall we account for this effect of
Beauty? I know of no better way than that given by my
Author. “It gets in at our eyes, pores, nostrils; engenders
the same qualities and affections in us as were in the party
whence it came. The rays sent from the object carry certain
spiritual vapors with them, and so infect the observer. Our
spirits are inwardly moved by this subtil influence.” In this
connection, Anna, read that what I shall call stupendous passage
of St. Paul, where speaking of Christ, he says, “Whom
beholding, we are changed into the same image, from glory to
glory.” If we only beheld Christ as we should, we should be
transformed into his Divinest Beauty; there would be “engendered
in us the same qualities and affections as are in him.”
Mr. Evelyn says, Christ is not preached as any complete whole,
soul and body; not as a full-orbed, deeply capacious personal
being; but only as one who, in a certain moment, did something,
as one who, at the end of his life, died to execute a certain
intention of God. Hence no body is changed into the
real image of Christ, but all are casting about to satisfy themselves
as to the application of that single executive stroke of
his. So many paintings of a merely dead Christ, I do not
fancy. That by Giotto, from which it is said most of the
famous paintings in Europe are obtained, originated in this
way. Giotto hired a man to hang an hour on the cross, and
at the expiration of the time, instead of relieving him, stabbed
him dead, and then fell to drawing! Are we not more saved
by a living, than a dead Christ? Is there nothing in a living
Christ for a painter to draw from, and a Christian too?—Beauty,
God's creation, is sinless and pure; and it helps to make us
good. In 1529, when the soldiery took Florence, and entered
a monastery for purposes of pillage, where was a picture of the
Last Supper by Andrea, they were so struck with it, they
of a living Christ, such is the power of simple Beauty!
The matter of Philosophy I shall leave wholly with Mr.
Evelyn. I think when we are Philosophers, we shall have
Philosophy. Or if, as he says, I am Philosophy, it is because
I am myself. Not being what we should be, our speculations
are buffoonery. Could we understand the Philosophy of
a single moment, or a single atom, we should understand the
Philosophy of Infinity. “Who by searching can find out
God?” Could I understand God in the structure of a single
head of fox-tail grass, I should know more than all theosophists.
Let me fall back and work the work of Nature, so shall I work
the work of God, and be above all schools. Mr. Evelyn says
the Germans will presently surprise the age with the novelty
of their views, and the grandeur of their speculations. What
avails speculation in this slouched, vagabondish world? Eternity
is made up of moments, let me live the present moment
well, and I shall live forever well. Immensity is composed of
square rods, let me tread well where I now stand, and I shall
always have a good foothold. Christ was a true Philosopher,
let me be a Christian. Mr. Evelyn says I act philosophically;
I am only conscious of acting according to my nature. I
confess I am much less uneasy than I used to be; I am quite
a convert to the Master, and as he once told me, like a cow I
have learned to eat my grass quietly and thankfully, asking no
questions. “God,” says Job, “giveth not account of any of
his matters.” Be He monotheistic or pantheistic, as some
dispute, my duty is one, to live well. God is and I am, God
lives and I live, God works and I work, in God I shall be;
with this I am satisfied. A Universe of beauty, love, joy and
truth are before me, let me press on. So, at least, I feel
to-day, and the morrow shall take care for the things of itself.
Another distinct and stringent law of God and Nature is
recreation. Of the many kinds that are afloat, we have been
obliged to use care in our choice. What would Christ approve,
what is best, we ask. In what can all ages and conditions
unite? What relaxes without weakening, is cheerful
without frivolity, and offers attraction without danger? Not
to the exclusion of other things, our election has fallen on the
Dance, a species of recreation enjoined in the Old Testament,
and recognized in the New; one practised in every age and
country, and recommended by the sanction of the best and
greatest of men. All these things our people soberly thought
of, while I had got my lesson years ago. It has Music and
won for it the approval of all. We sometimes dance on the
Green, sometimes in our Hall. It is enjoyed in all families.
Parents dance with their children, husbands with wives. It
has supplanted many ridiculous games, and extirpated cruel
sports. It has broken up drunken carousals, and neutralized
the temptation to ardent spirits. Having once entered upon
it, we become straightway sensible of its advantages. Whatever
grace is needed in person, or courtesy in manners, it
operates to perfect. And surely, as my authority observes,
“it is pleasant to see those pretty knots and swimming figures.”
It brings the people together, interests strangers, and
diffuses a serene, whole-souled harmony over the town. It
has no boisterousness and much life. It embodies the recreative
element in the healthiest and holiest forms. Where all
unite, there is no excess. We praise God in the dances; it
is a hymn written with our feet. I would dance as I would
pray, for its own sake, and because it is well-pleasing to God.
Fenelon, when one of his curates complained to him that his
parishioners would dance after their religious services, replied,
“Let us leave those poor people to dance; their hours of happiness
are not too numerous.” This was kind of the good
Fenelon, but it indicates a bad state of society, that wherein
the greater part of life is a drudgery. We are happy when
we work, when we pray, as well as when we dance.
We are great politicians, so at least President Jefferson said.
I will tell you. We were visited successively by both the
Presidents, Mr. Adams and Mr. Jefferson. Mr. Adams'
forte, Mr. Evelyn says, is the science of government, on which
topic he has written a book. Of course he and Mr. Evelyn
fell to talking politics. Said he, “I have perused the history
of every monarchy and republic, the records of which have
descended to our times. Salonina, the most virtuous and distinguished
empress that ever adorned a Roman throne, promised
the philosopher Plotinus, that she would rebuild a decayed
city of Campania, and appoint him over it, that he might
experimentally know, while presiding over a colony of philosophers,
the validity and use of the ideal laws of the republic
of Plato. The history of that republic I have never seen,
until by the hospitality which has invited me to your house,
and the attention which has taken me over your town, I seem
to be all at once transported into the bosom of it!” President
Jefferson has the reputation of being less of a theorist, and
more acquainted with men as they are. Said he, “You are
full of such. You have freedom, competency, virtue. I had
rather be Mrs. Evelyn than William Pitt. Don't you blench
though all danger menaces you. The Government shall not
molest you; the nation is honored by having within its borders
the town of Livingston!”
“Courage!” said Diogenes to a young man whom he saw
blushing. “That is the color of virtue.” One needed courage
to face this battery of applause. Epaminondas, the day after
his victory at Leuctra, came abroad in squalid attire, and with
an abject look, giving as a reason that he was overmuch
joyed the day before. I do not understand that we need to
put on sackcloth and ashes because men are pleased with
God's doings, nor behave like a certain artist, somewhat whimsical
he was, who, when one praised a statue he was making,
smote it with his hammer and dashed it in pieces. I recollect,
when I was keeping school, at Esq. Beach's one evening, hearing
a warm discussion, a sort of grave snip-snap, about Napoleon's
return from Egypt, Russia seceding from the Coalition,
Tom Jefferson becoming President, and what not. There
were Esq. Beach on one side, Esq. Weeks on the other, and
Esq. Bowker a sort of third party man. Indeed, you would
have thought a new geological cataclysm was at hand, and
that we were about to be submerged in some diplomatic ocean,
or swallowed by some Megalosaurian man. These men are
all on one side now, that of Christ and Love. Our people
have lost all fear of England or France, and Mr. Jefferson has
at heart, I think, some of the noblest purposes that ever filled
a human breast. If the great Suwarrow comes amongst us
and behaves himself, he shall be welcome; but if he goes to
playing his pranks, we shall have to open our meal-bags upon
him. These Megalosaurian Men, O Anna! But in the New
Earth now in process of creation, we shall dig for their remains,
as we do for other fossils, and wonder, not how they
got in there, but how they could have subsisted. We do not
lean on an arm of flesh whereby we are cursed, but on that of
God; and what saith the Prophet? “Blessed is the man that
trusteth in the Lord; he shall be as a tree planted by the
waters, and that spreadeth out her roots by the river, and shall
see when heat cometh, but her leaf shall be green.” “Who
is he that will harm you, if ye be followers of that which
is good?” is the question of Christianity. “Fear not, little
flock, it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom,”
are the words of Christ. What Atheistic, Anti-Christian
and do, to demonstrate their infidelity!
I am writing a long, long letter. Like Elihu, the son of
Barachel, the Buzite, I could have “answered and said, I am
young, and ye are very old, wherefore I was afraid and durst
not show you mine opinion. But great men are not always
wise. Therefore I said, Hearken to me. I am full of matter.
I am ready to burst like new bottles. I will speak that I may
be refreshed.” I am sensible, Anna, that I have not told you
everything that your interest relates to, and Mr Evelyn urges
me on to give you my views and notions.
There are individual histories in town, each in itself sufficient
to make a book. We read accounts of conversions; I
could recite you some here, equal to any you ever heard of.
When the Lives of our Saints, and the Exploits of our Champions
shall be published, it will make a volume superior to any
that has issued from the press this some time. I wish you
could hear what is rehearsed at our house every week of battles
won on the field of Evil, of temptations endured from the
world; the poor becoming rich in grace; the besotted finding
their way up to virtue; the fearful overcoming their dread;
the persecuted blessing their enemies; the proud humbling
themselves, and such things. There is a long story to Elam
Dater; there is Miss Arunah Shooks encountering inward
foes, such as might have intimidated St. George himself; there
are the trials of Hiram Ravel, in the North Part of the Town,
that would embellish a Book of Martyrs; there is the conviction
and conversion of John Weeks, reminding you of George
Fox; there are Isabel, Dorothy, Triandaphelda Ada Hadlock,
Sylvina Pottle, and others, whose biographies ought to be
written. But I leave them for the present.
We are a united but not an identical population, Mr.
Evelyn wishes me to tell you. Striped grass, planted
with other grass, becomes of one color, an uniform green.
For one, I wish to see no such loss of individuality, and
absorption in the aggregate. Let each spear retain its own
lines, each man his own qualities, and why as Deacon Ramsdill
says, can they not all live happily and perfectly together in the
same field, the same town? I do not wish the people all to
do as we do, only I do wish to see them Beautiful, True, Happy,
Christian. The town is eight miles long by six broad; it
contains two hundred farms, three stores, two taverns, one
Church, six school-houses, three or four joiners' shops, a
tannery, fulling-mill, grist-mill, blacksmith shops, &c., no
part of the inhabitants; that is our identity. Each one eats
his own meals, maintains his own family, follows his own calling,
thinks his own thoughts, dies his own death; in this are
we separated. Unity in variety is a good motto. There are
many common interests, our Church, our Festivals, Roads,
Cemetery, Dances, Library, Schools, Music, Art, Love, Christ,
Nature, God. The inhabitants of ancient Cuma, were reputed
stupid by their neighbors. But it was found they owed this
character to their virtues. We are indifferent to some things
that engage and distract the world. But there is life, spirit,
and enterprise among the people. Sour rivalries, envious association,
jostling activities, are not. To perfect ourselves,
our institutions, our Town, is a life-work. If there arises a
dispute, there are trusty people enough to whom we are glad
to refer the matter. Nor can one take advantage of our confidence.
The spirit of Christ is lynx-eyed; or as our Bishop
says, it penetrates the secret things of darkness, unmasks the
hypocrite, and reads the heart of the designing. “If we should
all become good,” you said, “there would nothing remain
whereby to keep philanthropy and benevolence alive.” Love,
like jealousy, grows with that it feeds on; thrives on itself.
Like plants, the fruits of the Spirit mature best in a soil where
the elements are analogous. Virtue grows on God, as the
misletoe on oaks. Does God ever decay?
Of myself need I say anything more, or of my connection
with these things? Can a bee tell how it builds its comb?
Other people might give you a more satisfactory account, but
to me it seems to have grown up as corn grows. Judge Morgridge
is about publishing a little history of our affairs, which
I recommend to your friends. The leaves of the five-finger
draw together to shelter the flower when it rains, and open when
the sun comes out. So have I done to my plans; can I tell
how? The Widow Wright taught me Utility; “Not looks,
it's use, child,” was her maxim. The hang-bird taught me
Caution. Mother Goose's Melodies taught me not to cry when
I could not help a thing. But more than this, if we could but
see it, there is a waiting for Goodness and Truth in all souls.
“In every bone there is marrow, and beneath every jacket
lives a man,” saith the Arab proverb. Then through the
world wanders the spirit of Love, though she be no more than
the chipping bird that builds a nest in the rose-bush, or a butterfly
that shimmers over a dirty pool. Did I have dreams
which others enjoyed not? Were they mature and finished
fulfilled; “In a dream he openeth the ears of men, and sealeth
their instruction.” Did Christ himself come very near to
me and speak with me? As the disciples after Christ's death
understood many sayings of their Master, which were hidden
before, so have I in later years come to understand the deep
meaning of Christ to me. I must live his childhood's life; I
must grow up in his image; “his life must be made manifest
in my mortal body,” as St. Paul has it. When I came to
compare the inward Christ of my soul with the historical
Christ, whom Mr. Evelyn made known to me, they flowed
together, and mingled in one.
I had dreams too of Beauty and Art, a Classical Magician
waved over me his wand. Could I see the chain that binds
together, Christianity, æsthetics, Heroism! But in me they
are one, in the world they are at odds. I could not rest till
these things went forth in forms and life. In purity and
love have we genius; the Gospel gives beauty to the eye, and
holiness to the soul. Our Cross, not like Constantine's which
he bore at the head of his armies, blossoms as the rose, and
heals up the ravages of war. Our Oriflamme of silver whiteness,
is such as the Apostle John might have unfurled when he
started on his mission of love. I am dealing with great subjects,
quite beyond my depth. I admire old Atlas, but I have
neither his thews nor his good nature, I cannot bear up
the world. I remember when Hash was driving a cart up a
hill, I used to trig the wheels, that is, put under a stone. If
any Demiurgic Teamster is disposed to drive the Cart of
Peace and Good Will over the Earth, I stand ready to trig the
wheels; beyond this I cannot do. My hand aches with writing,
as your eyes must with reading. Wait till I come back, Rose
is at the door on horseback, we are going to take a ride.
We went full four miles to the North Part, and carried some
supplies to a poor sick family there. How beautiful is our
town! No European village that I have heard of, no American
village that I have seen, is so beautiful. Here are
views that would, I will engage, match you with Greenwich
Tower, or St. Mark's Steeple in Venice. The Green with its
majestic rim of elms, thanks to our forefathers, and its central
star, the Fountain; the Cemetery with its white monuments
under the green trees; the River beyond the Village, the fine
houses on Grove Street; Aunt Wiswall's, whose house and ornamental
grounds cover the burnt forest, Col. Welch's; Mons
That Cross, seen at sunset among the gorgeous clouds, is
superb. Rose, who used to be afraid of thunder-storms, says
she looks to that and grows quiet. In all the streets, and
many of the bye-ways are ornamental trees, elms, maples,
tulip-trees, horse-chesnuts, spruces, larches; the houses of
the town are painted white, grey, cream-color, some red. You
meet such happy, loving faces, merry groups of children; the
old people seem so warm-hearted and benevolent; the young
men and women are easy and polite. Esqs. Beach and
Bowker we saw; they had been arbitrating on a case.
This is now their principal business, and they get ample pay
for it. Even people come in from other towns and great distances
to employ them. They say they can trust Livingston
lawyers! Mr. Adolphus Hadlock also we saw. He has twice
sold out, and moved from town, and twice returned. No poor
man was ever so frightened. But the conversion of his Triandaphelda
Ada, and the marriage of his son Socrates to Dorothy,
seem to have reconciled him; and he walks the streets
now more like a man than that “Aunt Dolphy.” The Jail
is tenanted by a man with his family, who was originally confined
for murder; he was converted through the instrumentality
of our Bishop, pardoned by the Governor, and now keeps
an agricultural seed and implement store; but is engaged to
yield his rooms whenever there is any convict to occupy them.
Old Alexis Robinson, who became wholly insane, and was confined
in the old Jail, has recovered his senses, and is supported
handsomely by the town, and has a room in the new prison,
dwelling-house, or whatever it be. Master Elliman has dubbed
Livingston L. L., Laudabilis Locus.
Holy and delightsome is the Earth! God saw that every
thing he had made was very good. I bless God for the dandelions
that bestar the green grass; I bless him for the song-sparrow
that sings out against my window; I bless him for the
little Jane Girardeau that is here playing with the kitten.
What an ecstasy were the golden fires kindled as the Sun went
down last night, and the polished silver dawn I saw at four
o'clock this morning, set with the Mohammedan's sign of worship,
the crescent Moon. The Spring, the Summer, the Autum,
the Winter, do feast and ravish me. Not that anagogical Hebrew
Oil, compounded of stacte, onycha, galbanum, had so sweet
a perfume as that with which I am daily anointed, and which
maketh my face to shine in innumerable flowers, that fill the
woods and ways all the season through. The best prayer I can
Sin, I cannot. All things are incense to me,—the woods, the
brooks, the birds, the fogs, the dew, the clouds, the sky; I
will be incense to God; like my dear Redeemer, a sweet
smelling savor. Into me the Universe flows, from me it returns
back to its Maker. If I cannot tell the cause of the flux
and reflux, like Aristotle on the banks of the Euripus, I will
not get angry, and die.
How singularly are we situated; on one side you approach
Mons Christi, by the Delectable Way, on another, by the Via
Salutaris; from the east, by the Via Dolorosa; across the
place runs the Brook Kedron! Names taken up in stark caprice,
have become animated with the deepest significance.
Our Bishop had told the people there was a street in Jerusalem
called the Via Dolorosa, through which Christ is said to
have borne his Cross to Calvary. One Sunday Miss Arunah
Shooks, deeply impressed with a sense of her sinfulness, as she
said, in having so often offended Christ and broken the laws of
the Gospel, came up that way, alone; she said she wanted to
bear her cross to Mons Christi. And what do you think that
cross was? This, she said, that she treated me so rudely
when I went to see Chilion in the Jail, and she wanted to come
and ask my forgiveness. She said she had long struggled with
her convictions, but after the confession, she felt a load drop
off.—Livingston itself—a name derived from a respectable
American family—the Living Stone, disallowed, it may be, of
men, but chosen of God and precious; the Stone cut out of a
mountain without hands—may it at least become a Mountain
great enough to fill its own place in the Earth!
I did not tell you that my old friend Ben Bolter is here.
One of his legs was shot off by the Tripolitans; he has made
a full-rigged miniature schooner for Gottfried, and they sail
together on the Pond. My boy may become a sailor after all.
Ben Bolter exhibits gratifying tokens of a renewed mind.
In the North part of the town, on the very spot where the
Gallows stood and Chilion was hung, has been erected a monumental
piece representing Moses kneeling to Christ and surrendering
the Book of the Hebrew Code; Christ appears as it
were closing the Book with his foot—the action being partially
veiled by drapery. It is exquisitely done; Art is satisfied, Justice
acquiesces, Humanity triumphs.
We have a Library indeed, but how few good books! Is it
a dream; or has some one said it, or will some one say it, or
is it my sprite that says—“America has not fulfilled the reasonable
straps and bandages were stripped asunder, that Nature, too
long the mother of dwarfs, would reimburse herself in a brood
of Titans, who should laugh and leap in the continent, and run
up the mountains of the West with the errand of genius and
love.” A very facetious sprite is that, whoever he be. He
reminds me of a certain Talmudic God, that spent his time
whittling sharp sticks, wherewith he was wont at his leisure to
prick the sides of mortals and enjoy their grimaces. “We
have a thousand authors of all sorts,” says Father Burton two
hundred years ago. But in truth I have found little to entertain
me more than “The Loves of Osmund and Duraxa,” I saw in
Boston some years since. So I must “conclude myself a mere
block that is affected by none of them,” according to the writer
aforesaid. As soon as Napoleon finds his quietus, I hope the
world will take breath again, and somebody be moved to write
a good book here in America.
We have had our crosses frequent and severe; individual
and corporate, personal and social. The last the Town was
called to endure, fell out in this wise. The following appeared
in the Kidderminster Chronicle.
“Livingston.—We have long kept silence about the movements
in this place; but the matter has become too public to
excuse any farther negligence. Over the Red Dragon of Infidelity
they have drawn the skin of the Papal Beast, and tricked
the Monster with the trappings of Harlotry! On the ruins of
one of our Churches they have erected a Temple to Human
Pride and Carnal Reasoning. The contamination is spreading
far and wide; and unless something be attempted, the
Kingdom of God in our midst must soon be surrendered to the
arts of Satan. It is understood that the Rev. Mr. L—, of B—,
has openly and repeatedly exchanged pulpits with the man,
who having denied his Lord and Master, they have had the
hardihood to invest with the robes of the Christian Office.
Brethren shall we sleep, while the enemy is sowing tares in our
midst?
A convention of Clergy was soon called at Kidderminster,
before which the Rev. Mr. Lovers of Brandon, the gentleman
alluded to, was summoned. He had made three or four exchanges
with Frank. His prosecutor was the Rev. Mr.
Orstead, of Windenboro, who wrote the notice for the paper.
The trial went on two or three days. The council was divided
on the question of withdrawing fellowship from Mr. Lovers,
suspending, or deposing him. But their meeting was brought
what to do, an accuser appeared against Mr. Orstead in
the person of an unmarried female, who charged upon him a
child she had recently borne. His guilt was so far proved,
that he confessed it. Mr. Lovers was saved, and Mr. Orstead
degraded. The unhappy man, despised at home, Frank went
to see, invited him to Livingston, where he has spent some
months; and I hope has become a better man.
During the excitement this affair gave our people, Dr. Freeman
came to see us, and renew those condolences and sympathies
he has so often expressed for us. While at our house,
he told me this story. When the Dutch in Albany, some years
since, would renew and enlarge their Church, they suffered the
old one to remain, and erected the new one about it, completely
enclosing it. Their worship continued in the old place
till the new house was nearly done. They then tore the old
Church to pieces, and carried the fragments out of the door of
the new one, into the finishing of which they entered. “Great
reforms,” continued the Doctor, “must be gradual. It is
easier to tear down than to build up; easier to remove an
error than supply a truth. Rome was not built in a day.
There are more Alarics than Romuluses in the world.”
This was a good story, and you have it for what it is worth.
“But I see,” said the Doctor, “you have built up far more
than you ever pulled down.” I replied that we had not sought
to pull down anything, but rather to put life into what was
dead, and reinstate Christ in his own Church. He agreed
that it was so.
As regards those who oppose us, could we, as did Nicholas
Sture, that Swede, who when he was stabbed by his Sovereign,
drew out the sword, kissed it, and returned it, could we
so meet all attacks, happy were we. “Tell me how I may
be revenged on my enemy?” said some one to Diogenes.
“By becoming more virtuous,” replied the philosopher. We
are charged with Infidelity! Will unkindness, traducement,
insinuation, bleardness, never cease? Anaxagoras, the most
religious of Philosophers, was persecuted for profanity; Socrates
was condemned for an heretic; Christ himself was
executed as a blasphemer, impostor and insurgent! When
Pyrrho, who professed indifference to all evils, was reproached
for driving off a dog that flew at him, “Ah,” replied he, “it
is difficult to bear everything!” So indeed it is; but as he
added, “We must try.” The Athenians constructed a Statue
from the marble which the Persians brought to raise as a monument
signal defeat of our enemies; I feel disposed the rather to
weep over human follies.
What will become of us? If we trust in God, we have his
promise, that the waters shall not overflow us, or the fire burn
us. We abide under the shadow of his wing. That a great
work has been done here none can deny. It is said that certain
fish, when brought to the surface of the water, sometimes burst
from the rarefaction of the air. Livingston has been raised
from a lowest depth. Yet it seems to me so compact in all its
proportions, that it cannot fall asunder. The world may
wholly leave us; but the thrush sings sweetest in the loneliest
woods, and we will keep up our song in solitude. The Spartans
were forbidden to pursue a flying foe; we shall not follow
our retreating enemies, with any intent to kill; nor shall
we turn our backs upon them if they rally again.
Orpheus has seemed to me a natural prophecy of Christ; a
part of the groaning of the creation after the Redemption. By
the sweetness of his music he drew the wild beasts after him;
he caused trees and rocks to move; his strains subdued the
rulers of Hell; through the charms of his melody the wheel of
Ixion stopped, and even the Furies relented. His music was
at last drowned by a hoarse discordant horn. He was himself,
too, torn in pieces, and the river Helicon, sacred to him, hid
itself under ground. Our Pond I used to call the Lake of
Orpheus, at the Master's suggestion, that here those waters had
risen. I have since called it the Lake of Christ. Such Orphean
music was he. He drew after him a whole age. He stilled
the fury of man, and the malice of devils. Some hoarse discordant
horn was raised in the Church; his music was quenched;
he was torn in pieces; his waters, hid under the Earth,
as I would fain fancy, have appeared on Mons Christi!
Whither now shall the Christian Helicon flow?
| Margaret | |