University of Virginia Library

1. CHAPTER I.

Scene First.—A
moonlight night,
in a forest, in the
northern part of
Virginia; many
lights gleaming in
the distance. But
what am I about!
I beg your pardon, my sober
minded reader, for any theatrical
commencement. The
truth of the matter is, I just
“dropped in” at the play, the
other night, and my head is
even now full of the vain
things which I there saw and heard. But I should
not seek to give stage effect to the really authentic

tale which I am about to relate to you, and which
I only desire to “Tell as it was told to me.” So, to
begin again, soberly and in order;—it was a glorious
June night, some fifteen years ago, when Henry
Elbridge, the younger son of a rich and aristocratic
Virginian family, rode up a rocky pathway, which
wound through one of the magnificent forests of the
“Old Dominion.” He was superbly mounted, and
followed, at a little distance, by a black groom. Suddenly,
at a turn of the road, he checked his horse,
and an exclamation of wondering delight escaped his
lips. The forest far around him was lit up as for a
festival; and a multitude of snowy tents were pitched
beneath the trees, gleaming through the over-hanging
branches. A crowd of people, of all ages and
conditions, were lifting up the voice of prayer and
praise in that grandest cathedral of nature's God—
the gorgeous wood, with its lofty, rugged pillars, and
its thousand “sounding aisles.”

It was that most unique, that most wildly-beautiful
of scenes, a methodist camp-meeting at night. It was
entirely a new spectacle to our hero; for, though
born in Virginia, he had been educated in New England,
having but just graduated at Harvard. He was
an ardent, enthusiastic, intellectual young man, with
a heart peculiarly impressible in matters of love and
religion. He had been led by curiosity alone to witness
the scene which he now contemplated with so
lively an interest.

At the close of the prayer and hymn he dismounted,
and approached nearer to the preacher's stand—a rude

platform erected on the highest part of the grounds.
Taking rather a retired position, he stood carelessly
leaning against a patriarchal oak, and awaited the
evening's discourse. The preacher, the celebrated
B—, had not yet arrived; but presently a hush of
respectful expectation fell upon the assembly, as a
man of imposing form, and massive features, ascended
the platform. He commenced in a manner calmly
impressive, but soon his impassioned and o'ermastering
eloquence a woke within him, in might and grandeur.
His dark eye flashed with fervid zeal—his
every word seemed freighted with solemn meaning—
the very tones of his voice pierced the heart, sword-like,
through the double armour of pride and unbelief.
His theme was the crucifixion of our Lord; and, as
he proceeded, the groans of the strong man, and the
cries of women, attested the power of the orator and
the subject. Bound by the mighty spell of truth,
genius-revealed, stood young Elbridge, the burning
exhortations of the speaker falling like a storm of fire
on his overwhelmed and shrinking spirit. Every sin,
every error, every unworthy act of his life, seemed
passing in dread review before him—his features became
convulsed, his head bowed, and his breast
heaved tumultuously. He seemed to behold the
mocking trial of our blessed Master—the crown of
thorns, the crimsoned scourge, the spear, the cup of
gall;—all the human suffering, and divine meekness
of that life-giving death; and, while his heart was
rent with anguish unspeakable, a flood of despair, like
a wave from the sea of eternal wrath, swept over his
soul; he raised his clasped hands, cried frantically,
For me He died! for me, for me!” and fell prostrate.
He had swooned.

When he revived, he was lying in a tent, his head
supported by his servant; and beside him stood the
preacher, whose exhortations had so stirred up the
great deeps of his soul. Then followed words of hope,
and peace, and pleading prayer; and, ere the morning
dawned, a new life, mystical and holy, awoke
within the bosom of the young convert; a sweet, confiding,
childlike sense of reconciliation with the father,
thrilled his heart; and the joy of the saint, sudden,
“unutterable, and full of glory,” burst upon him
like a tropical day.