University of Virginia Library

6. THE PATRIARCH.

Soon after my entrance upon clerical duties, in
the state of North-Carolina, I was informed of an
isolated settlement, at a considerable distance from
the place of my residence. Its original elements
were emigrants from New-England; a father, and
his five sons, who, with their wives and little children,
had about thirty years before become sojourners
in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian
solitudes. They purchased a tract of wild, swamp-encircled
land. This they subjected to cultivation,
and by unremitting industry, rendered adequate to
their subsistence and comfort. The sons, and the
sons' sons, had in their turn become the fathers of
families; so, that the population of this singular spot
comprised five generations. They were described
as constituting a peaceful and virtuous community,
with a government purely patriarchal. Secluded
from the privileges of public worship, it was said
that a sense of religion, influencing the heart and
conduct, had been preserved by statedly assembling

on the sabbath, and reading the scriptures, with the
Liturgy of the Church of England. The pious ancestor
of the colony, whose years now surpassed
four-score, had, at their removal to this hermitage,
established his eldest son in the office of lay-reader.
This simple ministration, aided by holy example,
had so shared the blessing of heaven, that all the
members of this miniature commonwealth held fast
the faith and hope of the gospel.

I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and
of ascertaining whether such precious fruits might
derive nutriment from so simple a root. A journey
into that section of the country afforded me an opportunity.
I resolved to be the witness of their Sunday
devotions, and with the earliest dawn of that
consecrated day, I left the house of a friend, where
I had lodged, and who furnished the requisite directions
for my solitary and circuitous route.

The brightness and heat of summer began to glow
oppressively, ere I turned from the haunts of men,
and plunged into the recesses of the forest. Towering
amidst shades which almost excluded the light
of heaven, rose the majestic pines, the glory and the
wealth of North-Carolina. Some, like the palms,
those princes of the East, reared a proud column of
fifty feet, ere the branches shot forth their heavenward
cone. With their dark verdure, mingled the
pale and beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar,
like the light interlacing of sculpture, in some ancient
awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of birds

from those dark cool arches, poured their anthems
of praise to the Divine Architect.

The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived
at the morass, the bulwark thrown by Nature around
this little city of the desert. Alighting, I led my
horse over the rude bridges of logs, which surmounted
the pools and ravines, until our footing rested
upon firm earth. Soon, an expanse of arable land
became visible, and wreaths of smoke came lightly
curling through the trees, as if to welcome the
stranger. Then, a cluster of cottages cheered the
eye. They were so contiguous, that the blast of a
horn, or even the call of a shrill voice, might convene
all their inhabitants. To the central and the
largest building, I directed my steps. Approaching
the open window, I heard a distinct manly voice,
pronouncing the solemn invocation,—“By thine
agony, and bloody sweat,—by thy cross and passion,—by
thy precious death and burial,—by thy
glorious resurrection and ascension,—and by the
coming of the Holy Ghost.” The response arose,
fully and devoutly, in the deep accents of manhood,
and the softer tones of the mother and her children.

Standing motionless, that I might not disturb the
worshippers, I had a fair view of the lay-reader. He
was a man of six feet in height, muscular and well
proportioned, with a head beautifully symmetrical,
from whose crown time had begun to shred the luxuriance
of its raven locks. Unconscious of the presence
of a stranger, he supposed that no eye regarded

him, save that of his God. Kneeling around him,
were his “brethren according to the flesh,” a numerous
and attentive congregation. At his right hand
was the Patriarch—tall, somewhat emaciated, yet
not bowed with years, his white hair combed smoothly
over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck.
Gathered near him, were his children, and his children's
children. His blood was in the veins of almost
every worshipper. Mingling with forms that
evinced the ravages of time and toil, were the bright
locks of youth, and the rosy brow of childhood,
bowed low in supplication. Even the infant, with
hushed lip, regarded a scene where was no wandering
glance. Involuntarily, my heart said,—“Shall
not this be a family in Heaven?” In the closing
aspirations, “O Lamb of God! that takest away the
sins of the world, have mercy upon us!”—the voice
of the Patriarch was heard, with strong and affecting
emphasis. After a pause of silent devotion, all
arose from their knees, and I entered the circle.

“I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I come to bless you in the name of the Lord.”

The ancient Patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed
on me with intense earnestness. A welcome, such
as words have never uttered, was written on his
brow.

“Thirty-and-two years, has my dwelling been in
this forest. Hitherto, no man of God hath visited
us. Praised be his name, who hath put it into thy
heart, to seek out these few sheep in the wilderness.

Secluded as we are, from the privilege of worshipping
God in his temple, we thus assemble every Sabbath,
to read his holy Book, and to pray unto him in
the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been preserved
from `forgetting the Lord who bought us,
and lightly esteeming the Rock of our Salvation.”'

The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven
on my memory. Are they not written in the record
of the Most High? Surely a blessing entered into
my own soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened
the hope of those true-hearted and devout disciples.
Like him, whose slumbers at Bethel were visited by
the white-winged company of heaven, I was constrained
to say,—“Surely the Lord is in this place,
and I knew it not.”

At the request of the Patriarch, I administered the
ordinance of baptism. It was received with affecting
demonstrations of solemnity and gratitude. The
sacred services were protracted until the setting of the
sun. Still they seemed reluctant to depart. It was to
them a high and rare festival. When about to separate,
the venerable Patriarch introduced me to all his
posterity. Each seemed anxious to press my hand;
and even the children expressed, by affectionate
glances, their reverence and love for him who ministered
at the altar of God.

“The Almighty,” said the ancient man, “hath
smiled on these babes, born in the desert. I came
hither with my sons and their companions, and their
blessed mother, who hath gone to rest. God hath

given us families as a flock. We earn our bread
with toil and in patience. For the intervals of labor
we have a school, where our little ones gain the rudiments
of knowledge. Our only books of instruction,
are the bible and prayer-book.”

At a signal they rose and sang, when about departing
to their separate abodes,—“Glory to God in
the highest, and on earth, peace, and good will towards
men.” Never, by the pomp of measured
melody, was my spirit so stirred within me, as when
that rustic, yet tuneful choir, surrounding the white-haired
father of them all, breathed out in their forest
sanctuary, “thou, that takest away the sins of the
world, have mercy upon us.”

The following morning, I called on every family,
and was delighted with the domestic order, economy,
and concord, that prevailed. Careful improvement
of time, and moderated desires, seemed uniformly
to produce among them, the fruits of a blameless
life and conversation. They conducted me to
their school. Its teacher was a grand-daughter of
the lay-reader. She possessed a sweet countenance,
and gentle manners, and with characteristic simplicity,
employed herself at the spinning-wheel, when
not absorbed in the labors of instruction. Most of
her pupils read intelligibly, and replied with readiness
to questions from Scripture History. Writing
and arithmetic were well exemplified by the elder
ones; but those works of science, with which our
libraries are so lavishly supplied, had not found their

way to this retreat. But among the learners was
visible, what does not always distinguish better endowed
seminaries; docility, subordination, and profound
attention to every precept and illustration.
Habits of application and a desire for knowledge
were infused into all. So trained up were they in
industry, that even the boys, in the intervals of their
lessons, were busily engaged in the knitting of stockings
for winter. To the simple monitions which I
addressed to them, they reverently listened; and ere
they received the parting blessing, rose, and repeated
a few passages from the inspired volume, and
lifted up their accordant voices, chanting, “blessed
be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and
redeemed his people.”

Whatever I beheld in this singular spot, served to
awaken curiosity, or to interest feeling. All my
inquiries were satisfied with the utmost frankness.
Evidently, there was nothing which required concealment.
The heartless theories of fashion, with their
subterfuges and vices, had not penetrated to this hermetically
sealed abode. The Patriarch, at his entrance
upon his territory, had divided it into six equal
portions, reserving one for himself, and bestowing
another on each of his five sons. As the children
of the colony advanced to maturity, they, with
scarcely an exception, contracted marriages among
each other, striking root, like the branches of the
banian, around their parent tree. The domicile of
every family was originally a rude cabin of logs,

serving simply the purpose of shelter. In front of
this, a house of larger dimensions was commenced,
and so constructed, that the ancient abode might
become the kitchen, when the whole was completed.
To the occupation of building they attended as they
were able to command time and materials. “We
keep it,” said one of the colonists, for “handy-work,
when there is no farming, or turpentine-gathering,
or tar-making.” Several abodes were at that time,
in different stages of progress, marking the links of
gradation between the rude cottage, and what they
styled the “framed house.” When finished, though
devoid of architectural elegance, they exhibited capabilities
of comfort, equal to the sober expectations
of a primitive people. A field for corn, and a garden
abounding with vegetables, were appendages to
each habitation. Cows grazed quietly around, and
sheep dotted like snow-flakes, the distant green pastures.
The softer sex participated in the business
of horticulture, and when necessary, in the labors
of harvest, thus obtaining that vigor and muscular
energy which distinguish the peasantry of Europe,
from their effeminate sisters of the nobility and gentry.
Each household produced or manufactured
within its own domain, most of the materials which
were essential to its comfort; and for such articles
as their plantations could not supply, or their ingenuity
construct, the pitch-pine was their medium of
purchase. When the season arrived for collecting
its hidden treasures, an aperture was made in its
bark, and a box inserted, into which the turpentine
continually oozed. Care was required to preserve
this orifice free from the induration of glutinous
matter. Thus, it must be frequently reopened, or
carried gradually upward on the trunk of the tree;
sometimes, to such a height, that a small knife affixed
to the extremity of a long pole, is used for that
purpose. Large trees sustain several boxes at the
same time, though it is required that the continuity
of bark be preserved, or the tree, thus shedding its
life-blood at the will of man, must perish. Though
the laborers in this department are exceedingly industrious
and vigilant, there will still be a considerable
deposit adhering to the body of the tree. These
portions, called “turpentine facings,” are carefully
separated, and laid in a cone-like form, until they
attain the size of a formidable mound. This is
covered with earth, and when the cool season commences,
is ignited; and the liquid tar, flowing into
a reservoir prepared for it, readily obtains a market
among the dealers in naval stores.

Shall I be forgiven for such minuteness of detail?
So strongly did this simple and interesting people
excite my affectionate solicitude, that not even their
slightest concerns seemed unworthy of attention.
By merchants of the distant town, who were in
habits of traffic with them, I was afterwards informed
that they were distinguished for integrity and
uprightness, and that the simple affirmation of these
“Bible and Liturgy men,” as they were styled, possessed
the sacredness of an oath. The lay-reader
remarked to me, that he had never known among

his people, a single instance of either intemperance
or profanity.

“Our young men have no temptations, and the
old set an uniformly sober example. Still, I cannot
but think our freedom from vice is chiefly owing to
a sense of religious obligation, cherished by God's
blessing upon our humble worship.”

“Are there no quarrels or strifes among you?”

“For what should we contend? We have no
prospect of wealth, nor motive of ambition. We
are too busy to dispute about words. Are not these
the sources of most of the `wars and fightings'
among mankind? Beside, we are all of one blood.
Seldom does any variance arise, which the force of
brotherhood may not quell. Strict obedience is
early taught in families. Children who learn thoroughly
the Bible-lesson to obey and honor their
parents, are not apt to be contentious in society, or
irreverent to their Father in Heaven. Laws so
simple would be inefficient in a mixed and turbulent
community. Neither could they be effectual here,
without the aid of that gospel which speaketh peace
and prayer for His assistance, who “turneth the
hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just.”

Is it surprising that I should take my leave, with
an overflowing heart, of the pious Patriarch and his
posterity?—that I should earnestly desire another
opportunity of visiting their isolated domain?

Soon after this period, a circumstance took place,
which they numbered among the most interesting
eras of their history. A small chapel was erected

in the village nearest to their settlement. Though
at the distance of many miles, they anticipated its
completion with delight. At its consecration by the
late Bishop Ravenscroft, as many of the colonists as
found it possible to leave home, determined to be
present. Few of the younger ones had ever entered
a building set apart solely for the worship of God;
and the days were anxiously counted, until they
should receive permission to tread his courts.

The appointed period arrived. Just before the
commencement of the sacred services of dedication,
a procession of singular aspect was seen to wind
along amid interposing shades. It consisted of persons
of both sexes, and of every age, clad in a primitive
style, and advancing with solemn order. I
recognized my hermit friends, and hastened onward
to meet them. Scarcely could the ancient Jews, when
from distant regions they made pilgrimage to their
glorious hill of Zion, have testified more touching
emotion, than these guileless worshippers, in passing
the threshold of this humble temple to Jehovah.
When the sweet tones of a small organ, mingling
with the voices of a select choir, gave “glory to the
Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was
in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world
without end,” the young children of the forest started
from their seats in wondering joy, while the
changing color, or quivering lip of the elders, evinced
that the hallowed music awoke the cherished
echoes of memory.

But with what breathless attention did they hang
on every word of Bishop Ravenscroft, as with his
own peculiar combination of zeal and tenderness, he
illustrated the inspired passage which he had chosen,
or with a sudden rush of strong and stormy eloquence
broke up the fountains of the soul! Listening and
weeping, they gathered up the manna, which an
audience satiated with the bread of heaven, and prodigal
of angels' food, might have suffered to perish.
With the hoary Patriarch, a throng of his descendants,
who had been duly prepared for that holy vow
and profession, knelt around the altar, in commemoration
of their crucified Redeemer.

At the close of the communion service, when about
to depart to his home, the white-haired man drew
near to the Bishop. Gratitude for the high privileges
in which he had participated; reverence for the father
in God, whom he had that day for the first time
beheld; conviction that his aged eyes could but a
little longer look on the things of time; consciousness
that he might scarcely expect again to stand
amid these his children, to “behold the fair beauty
of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple,” overwhelmed
his spirit. Pressing the hand of the Bishop,
and raising his eyes heavenward, he said,—“Lord!
now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for
mine eyes have seen thy salvation.”

Bishop Ravenscroft fixed on him one of those
piercing glances which seemed to read the soul; and
then tears, like large rain-drops stood upon his cheeks.
Recovering from his emotion, he pronounced, with

affectionate dignity, the benediction, “the Lord bless
thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face to shine
upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift
up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace.”

The Patriarch, bowing down a head, heavy with
the snows of more than fourscore winters, breathed
a thanksgiving to God, and turned homeward, followed
by all his kindred. Summer had glided away ere
it was in my power again to visit the “lodge in the
wilderness.” As I was taking in the autumn twilight
my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of rustic appearance,
approaching with hasty steps, accosted me.

“Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies
stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water,
and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come
to him?”

Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished.
With the light of the early morning, I commenced
my journey. Autumn had infused chillness into the
atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy
into the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness
the passing away of the glories of summer, and to
robe herself as if for humiliation.

As the sun increased in power, more of cheerfulness
overspread the landscape. The pines were
busily disseminating their winged seeds. Like insects,
with a floating motion, they spread around for
miles. Large droves of swine made their repast
upon this half ethereal food. How mindful is Nature
of even her humblest pensioners!

As I approached the cluster of cottages, which
now assumed the appearance of a village, the eldest

son advanced to meet me. His head declined like
one struggling with a grief which he would fain subdue.
Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it
to his lips. Neither of us spoke a word. It was
written clearly on his countenance, “Come quickly,
ere he die.”

Together we entered the apartment of the good
Patriarch. One glance convinced me that he was
not long to be of our company. His posterity were
gathered around him in sorrow;

He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of the
Saviour, who “went not up to joy, until he first suffered
pain,” his brow again lighted with the calmness
of one, whose “way to eternal joy was to suffer
with Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to
die with him.”

Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that the
holy communion might be once more administered
to him, and his children. There was a separation
around his bed. Those who had been accustomed
to partake with him, drew near, and knelt around
the dying. Fixing his eye on the others, he said,
with an energy of tone which we thought had forsaken him,—“Will ye thus be divided, at the last
day?” A burst of wailing grief was the reply.

Never will that scene be effaced from my remembrance:
the expressive features, and thrilling responses,
of the Patriarch, into whose expiring body
the soul returned with power, that it might leave this
last testimony of faith and hope to those whom he

loved, are among the unfading imagery of my existence.
The spirit seemed to rekindle more and more,
in its last lingerings around the threshold of time. In
a tone, whose clearness and emphasis surprised us,
the departing saint breathed forth a blessing on those
who surrounded him, in the “name of that God,
whose peace passeth all understanding.”

There was an interval, during which he seemed
to slumber. Whispers of hope were heard around
his couch, that he might wake and be refreshed. At
length, his eyes slowly unclosed. They were glazed
and deeply sunken in their sockets. Their glance was
long and kind upon those who hung over his pillow.
His lips moved, but not audibly. Bowing my ear more
closely, I found that he was speaking of Him who is
the “resurrection and the life.” A slight shuddering
passed over his frame, and he was at rest, for ever.

A voice of weeping arose from among the children,
who had been summoned to the bed of death. Ere I had
attempted consolation, the lay-reader with an unfaltering
tone pronounced, “the Lord gave, and the Lord
hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.”

Deep silence ensued. It seemed as if every heart
was installing him who spake, in the place of the
father and the governor who had departed. It was
a spontaneous acknowledgment of the right of primogeniture,
which no politician could condemn. He
stood among them, in the simple majesty of his birth-right,
a ruler and priest to guide his people in the
way everlasting. It was as if the mantle of an arisen
prophet had descended upon him, as if those ashen
lips had broken the seal of death to utter “behold

my servant whom I have chosen.” Every eye fixed
upon him its expression of fealty and love. Gradually
the families retired to their respective habitations.
Each individual paused at the pillow of the
Patriarch, to take a silent farewell; and some of the
little ones climbed up to kiss the marble face.

I was left alone with the lay-reader, and with the
dead. The enthusiasm of the scene had fled, and
the feelings of a son triumphed. Past years rushed
like a tide over his memory. The distant, but undimmed
impressions of infancy and childhood,—the
planting of that once wild waste,—the changes of
those years which had sprinkled his temples with gray
hairs,—all, with their sorrows and their joys, came
back, associated with the lifeless image of his beloved
sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, he covered
his face, and wept. That iron frame which had
borne the hardening of more than half a century,
shook, like the breast of an infant, when it sobs
out its sorrows. I waited until the first shock of
grief had subsided. Then, passing my arm gently
within his, I repeated, “I heard a voice from heaven
saying,—`Write, from henceforth, blessed are the
dead, who die in the Lord.”' Instantly raising himself
upright, he responded in a voice whose deep
inflictions sank into my soul, “Even so, saith the
spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works
do follow them.”

I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the
Patriarch. In the heart of their territory was a
shady dell, sacred to the dead. It was surrounded
by a neat inclosure, and planted with trees. The

drooping branches of a willow, swept the grave of
the mother of the colony. Near her, slumbered her
youngest son. Several other mounds swelled around
them, most of which, by their small size, told of the
smitten flowers of infancy. To this goodly company,
we bore him, who had been revered as the father
and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his descendants,
two and two, followed the corpse. I
heard a convulsive and suppressed breathing, among
the more tender of the train; but when the burial-service
commenced, all was hushed. And never
have I more fully realized its surpassing pathos and
power, than when from the centre of that deep solitude,
on the brink of that waiting grave, it poured
forth its consolation.

“Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short
time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up
and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as it were a
shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the
midst of life, we are in death. Of whom may we
seek succor but of thee, Oh Lord!—who for our sins
art justly displeased? Yet, O Lord God most holy
—O God most mighty,—O holy and most merciful
Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal
death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts,
shut not thy most merciful ears to our prayers, but
spare us, O Lord most holy,—O God most mighty,
—O holy and merciful Saviour,—suffer us not, at our
last hour, for any pains of death to fall from thee.”

Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourning
community immediately after committing the
dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They accompanied

me to some distance on my journey, and
our parting was with mutual tears. Turning to
view them, as their forms mingled with the dark
green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear
voice. It was the lay-reader, speaking of the hope
of the resurrection: “If we believe that Christ died
and rose again, even so them also, that sleep in
Jesus, will God bring with him.”

Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. I
inquired, is Devotion never encumbered, or impeded
by the splendor that surrounds her? Amid the
lofty cathedral,—the throng of rich-stoled worshippers,—the
melody of the solemn organ,—does that
incense never spend itself upon the earth, that should
rise to heaven? On the very beauty and glory of
its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and
go more forth to the work of benevolence, nor spread
its wing at the call of faith?

Yet surely, there is a reality in religion, though
man may foolishly cheat himself with the shadow.
Here I have beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of “all
pomp and circumstance,” yet with power to soothe
the passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues
in daily and vigorous exercise, and to give victory
to the soul, when death vanquishes the body. So,
I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has languished
or grown cold, I have warmed it by the remembrance
of the ever-living faith, of those “few
sheep in the wilderness.”