Recollections of a Lifetime, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (New York & Auburn: Miller, Orton & Mulligan, 1856)

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LETTER XV.

Ideas of the Pilgrm Fathers--Progress of Toleration--Episcopacy--Bishop Seabury--Dr. Duché--Methodism in America,--In Connecticut--Anecdotes--Lorenzo Dow--The Wolf in my Father's Fold.

My dear C******

I have intimated that, at the period of which I am writing, there was a storm gathering which was speedily to sweep away the last vestige of that system of legal and statutory privilege which the Congregational clergy had enjoyed in Connecticut, from the foundation of the colony. The government at the beginning was a kind of theocracy, in which God was considered as the active and positive ruler, of whom the men appointed to office were the agents. This impression pervaded the minds of the first settlers of New England. These were all Independents in religion, who had been persecuted at home, and had come here to enjoy their peculiar worship without molestation. This was in fact the fundamental idea of the Puritan Fathers.

It was therefore not only with amazement, but indignation, that they found, as the population increased, that Quakers, Baptists, and other sectarians, came among them, and demanded toleration of their peculiar notions. In vain did they seek to crush out these disturbers of the public peace. Persecution

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only made them thrive: the trampling heel of oppression benefited them, as hoeing among weeds renders them more rank and pestiferous--inasmuch as the roots strike deeper, and the multiplied and invigorated seed are scattered over a constantly widening surface.

To the oppressed Puritans in England, toleration of their peculiar faith was an obvious idea. Their circumstances suggested it as a right, and denial of it as a sin. They emigrated to the New World, carrying this conviction with them. But universal liberty of worship was not yet conceived: that was reserved for those Baptists, Quakers, and others, who, from their position, had begun to see the light, though it was even to them but dimly revealed. They sought rather, each sect for itself, the tolerance of their worship, than general toleration as the right of man. Roger Williams, indeed, seems to have made this discovery, yet at first he advocated it rather in the spirit of intolerance.

As time advanced, the malcontents increased, and although orthodoxy contended at every point, it was compelled to yield inch by inch, until, at the period around which my narrative revolves, only a single remnant of its ancient privileges remained in the statute book of Connecticut. That consisted in a law which compelled every man, on reaching his majority; to pay a tax to the Congregational society in whose bounds he lived, unless he lodged a certificate

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with its clerk that he belonged to some other religious persuasion.

This became the point of attack, in which all the dissenting sects in religion, and all the opposers in politics, united. But the time for this union, as stated in a preceding letter, had not yet arrived. The heterogeneous particles were silently moving to their coalescence and their crystallization, forming in the end the party which took the watchword of toleration, and which gained the ascendency in 1817; but as yet, the keenest sagacity had not seen the coming event--which was nevertheless near at hand.

"Up to this time--the early part of this century--orthodoxy seemed, on the surface, to stand almost unquestioned in Connecticut.* Unitarianism had begun in Boston, but had not made any noticeable con-

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quests in the land of "steady habits." Methodism--destined soon to sweep over the State--only glimmered faintly, as a kind of heat-lightning, in the distant horizon, indicating the electricity that was in the atmosphere. Universalism, in the form of Restorationisin, was doubtless planted in many minds, for the eloquent and enthusiastic Murray* had been preaching in the country. As yet, however, there were few organized societies of that persuasion--now so numerous--in the Union.

Episcopacy had been introduced at an early date. Indeed, Connecticut had the honor of receiving the

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first ordained bishop of the Episcopal Church in America, thus anticipating even Virginia, to whom the Church of England was a mother church, from the beginning. This was Bishop Seabury,* who was consecrated in the year 1784, and established at New London.

I have heard of him a well-authenticated anecdote, which is very suggestive. On his arrival from England, whither he had been to acquire his high ecclesiastical honors, there was a general curiosity to see him and hear him preach, especially in Connecticut--although the mass of the people, being Congregation-

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alists, and knowing that he had been, an active and conspicuous tory in the Revolution, were strongly prejudiced against him. In their imaginations, a bishop who preferred monarchy to a republic, and who was called "my lord bishop," rode in a coach,* and appeared in swelling robes, was something exceedingly formidable, if not dangerous, to Church and State.

When therefore he came to New Haven to preach, about this time--that is, soon after he had returned with his prelatic honors--the church was crowded to excess. Many who tried to get in were necessarily excluded. When the service was over, a man of the middle class met one of his friends at the door, who was unable to obtain admittance: "Well, did you see him?" said the latter.

"Oh yes," was the reply.

"And did he preach?"

"Oh yes."

"And was he as proud as Lucifer?"

"Not a bit of it: why he preached in his shirtsleeves!"

There was a considerable body of Episcopalians in the State, though chiefly confined to the larger towns. The professors of this religion throughout

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the Union, but more especially in New England, had been charged with being unfriendly to the Revolution, and it is known that a considerable portion of them were avowed tories during that painful struggle. Not only was Seabury a tory, but even Dr. Duché, who had been chaplain to the first Congress, and for a time was a zealous friend of liberty, fell from grace, and upon the occupation of Philadelphia by the British, joined them, and wrote a letter to Washington, calling upon him to give up the ungodly cause in which he was engaged.

The Episcopalians had indeed one tie more than other men to the "Old Country," and that was a powerful one. England was not only their mother in things secular but in things sacred, the sovereign being the head of that institution which to them was the Ark of the Covenant. Rebellion to the king was therefore a sort of sacrilege. And besides, the mass of the rebels were Puritans, Presbyterians, Independents, who rather repelled than invited sympathy and co-operation. It was more natural therefore, for the members of the English Church in America to take part with the king and against the Revolution, than for others.

No doubt the charge of want of patriotism was exaggerated; and as to Virginia, where Episcopacy was the dominant religion, it seems to have had less foundation. But at all events, this sect was not only repugnant to the people of New England, for the rea-

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son assigned, but also on account of what they conceived to be its tone and aspect of aristocracy. Its progress, therefore, was, of course, slow in that quarter, and it may be remarked that it did not take a strong hold till, as the Protestant Episcopal Church in the United States, it was separated from the English Church, and became, as it now is, an American establishment, wholly independent in its government and organization, though the same in doctrine as its transatlantic original.

At the period of which I am speaking--from the year 1800 to 1810--the relative number of Episcopalians in Connecticut was in respect to the orthodox probably about one to three or four. In Ridgefield, there was a small brown edifice, which was called the "Episcopal Church," though sometimes, by way of ridicule, the "Episcopal Barn." The sarcasm may be forgiven, for in those days the Episcopalians arrogated the word church as their exclusive property, just as the Catholics claim it now. The Congregationalists, according to their vocabulary, only held meetings, and their places of worship were nothing but meeting-houses. It is not till within the last ten years that the word church has been popularly applied to all places of worship.

The Episcopal church in Ridgefield, just mentioned, was situated on the main street, nearly opposite the Up-town school. Some years before, Dr. Perry had been installed there, but he began to preach his own

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opinions, and finding himself in danger of being expelled, he abdicated, and became a physician--and a very eminent one. At length it became vacant, but in order to keep the holy fire alive, about once or twice a year it was opened, and service was held there. On these occasions the people flocked to see and hear the strange ceremonies, generally from curiosity, though perhaps there were a dozen persons of this persuasion. At the time of one of these performances, Amby Benedict, the revolving shoemaker, was engaged at our house, and he went to church--though, I believe, he was warned against it by some members of our household. On Monday morning, when he returned, we asked him about it--how he liked it, and what he thought of it.

"Well," said he, "there's too many apologies for me: it's all the while getting up and sitting down, and talking out loud. Why--if you'll believe it--there were three or four persons who kept mocking the parson, and saying 'awmen!' till I was rael 'shamed on 'em!"

For some years subsequent to this period, the Episcopal church of Ridgefield remained only as a monument of waste and decay, but at last it revived, and is now in a flourishing condition, as indicated by a handsome edifice, erected nearly on the site of the old structure. This revival is in harmony with the general increase and progress of Episcopacy throughout the United States.

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Methodism, which had swept over England, came at last to America. Its success in both countries arose from several causes. The Anglo-Saxon race, from time immemorial, have shown a tendency to deep and anxious religious thoughts and exercises.* It was this national trait which gave such an impulse to Christianity on its first introduction into Great Britain; it was this which, a few centuries later, enabled the different orders of friars, who went from town, to town preaching spiritualism-with a vehement and popular eloquence, to rouse the people into enthusiasm, and sow deep and wide the seeds of their doctrines. When the teaching of religion had been organized into a system and settled by authority, there were constantly rising up men deeply impressed with the importance of religious truth, and earnest in the desire to please God, and make their own "calling and election sure."

Hence arose, at one time, the Lollards, at another the Gospellers, and finally the Puritans, who overturned the government, and brought about what is called the Reformation. In due time, these became divided into various sects, and in the last century, they, as well as the established church, seemed to, have declined in religious spirit and fervor. The characteristic elements of the national character, though long suppressed, at last burst forth. Whit-

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field, by his fiery eloquence, first ignited the spark, and disclosed the deep and glowing emotions which, were kindling in the bosom of society. It was reserved, however, for Wesley, to give them full expression, and to combine into a permanent form, under the name of Methodism, a church which should embody and perpetuate a new and startling development of religious feeling and experience.

The great characteristic of Methodism, at the outset, aside from its spiritual fervor, was, in the first place, that it addressed itself to the lower classes, and in the next, that it was chiefly propagated by illiterate preachers. Southey, in his Life of Wesley, gives us some amusing anecdotes, illustrative of this latter circumstance. Among these he describes a noted itinerant declaimer, who, being unable to read, employed his mother for that purpose. "She reads the text," said the orator, "and I 'splains and 'splounds." It was, in fact, the doctrine of these people at that day, which was also held by the early Baptists, that human learning is rather a hindrance and a snare to the preacher: that spiritual gifts and grace are indeed the only requisites. I remember to have heard an anecdote, applicable to this period, which is in point. In one of his discourses, a gifted Poundtext, somewhere in Connecticut, addressed his audience in this wise: "What I insist upon, my brethren and sisters, is this: larnin isn't religion, and eddication don't give a man the power of the Spirit. It is grace and

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gifts that furnish the rael live coals from off the altar. St. Peter was a fisherman--do you think he ever went to Yale College? Yet he was the rock upon which Christ built his Church. No, no, beloved brethren and sisters. When the Lord wanted to blow down, the walls of Jericho, he didn't take a brass trumpet, or a polished French horn: no such thing; he took a ram's horn--a plain, natural ram's horn--just as it grew. And so, when he wants to blow down the walls of the spiritual Jericho, my beloved brethren and sisters, he don't take one of your smooth, polite, college larnt gentlemen, but a plain, natural ram's-horn sort of a man like me."

Thus, Methodism found its first impulse in a development of the inherent religious elements of the English character, rendered more explosive by long compression. It unquestionably derived aid in its beginning, also, from what was its reproach with its enemies--the use of illiterate propagandists--for it must be remembered that Methodism did not address itself to high places, but to the million. Many of its preachers possessed great natural eloquence, and their defects of grammar and rhetoric rather pleased than offended the rude audiences to whom they spoke. In recent times, political leaders, and promoters of various public objects, have found it convenient to take a hint from this portion of history.

It must be stated, furthermore, that the new sect

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derived a sort of epidemic power from nervous or mesmeric phenomena which the ignorant deemed miraculous, and therefore divine. In the midst of agonizing prayers and preachings, individuals would fall down as in a swoon. These were immediately surrounded with persons, calling in impassioned tones upon the Holy Spirit, as if there personally present, to wash out their sins, and clothe them in the white robes of the Lamb of God. The subject of these solemn and agitating exercises, waking from his catalepsy, was saluted as having passed from death to life, from perdition to salvation! Then were poured out prayers of thanksgiving, and then all joined in hymns, set to plaintive and sentimental airs, many of them associated in the popular mind with the warm and tender emotions of youthful love and human affection. And these scenes often took place at night, in the midst of the forest, amid the glare of torches, the pageantry of processions, and the murmurs of a thousand voices, joining in a general anthem of agonizing prayers and slioating praises.

To a religious mind, every thing that tends to promote religion in the hearts of men, is apt to be regarded as distinct from the ordinary providence of God, yet it is difficult to prove even in such movements, that He ever proceeds without the use of means. The notice of these is the sphere of the historian, and therefore, not denying or disregarding the invisible influences of the divine Spirit,

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I merely chronicle the open and tangible events of the time I refer to, with the machinery employed to produce them. The founders of Methodism did not disdain human means: nay, I suspect it will be difficult to find in the originators of any sect or creed, a more profound knowledge of human nature, or a more sedulous employment of human agencies, than are to be discovered in the early promoters of Methodism. Their camp-meetings, their love-feasts, their adaptation of popular airs to religious songs, their spirit of social fellowship, their use of the inferior arts of oratory, their employment of the intense enthusiasm of congregated masses, their promotion of cataleptic spasms to excite a feeling of supernatural awe in the people, were all calculated to produce precisely such effects as actually proceeded from them. It is neither necessary, nor is it philosophical, in explaining what is natural, to go beyond the known laws of nature. That God was in all this, we believe, but only as He is in all the other movements of human life, tending to work out human destiny. Who can doubt that the career of Washington, the soldier and statesman, was as much ordered by Providence as that of Wesley the divine?

We all know with what epidemic celerity Methodism spread over certain portions of England, especially among the masses of Bristol, Moorfields, Blackheath, Newcastle, and other places. Wesley began his mission in 1729: at his death, in 1791, after a

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laborious life of sixty-five years, there were three hundred itinerant preachers, and a thousand local preachers, with eighty thousand persons, associated in societies, all belonging to his creed. This of course spread to America, but there was less immediate field for it here. Nevertheless, it was gradually extended, especially in the newly settled parts of the southern and western country. In Kentucky and Tennessee it was widely planted, and here it was attended with some of the most extraordinary phenomena* recorded in the history of the human mind. At

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the religious gatherings, whether in dwellings and churches or in the open woods and fields, persons would be suddenly taken with certain irresistible spasms, inciting them, to the most strange and extravagant performances. Some would bark like dogs, and attempt to climb the trees, declaring that they were treeing the devil. Some had delicious trances; others danced as if beset with sudden frenzy; others still were

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agitated by violent and revolting convulsions and twitchings, which obtained the popular name of the jerks. All classes of persons who came within the atmosphere of the mania--Methodists, Presbyterians, and Quakers--men and women--became subjects of these extraordinary agitations. I recollect to have heard the late Thomas H. Gallaudet say that, when a young man, he visited one of the meetings where these phe-

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nomena were taking place, and that he felt within himself an almost uncontrollable temptation to imitate some of the strange antics that were going on around him.

Nor did all this--so calculated as it was to excite public curiosity, and to produce in the minds of the ignorant a superstitious idea that there must be something supernatural in a religion that led to such

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results--constitute the whole of the machinery of Methodism, at this period. Some of the preachers seemed to be impelled in their orbits--if not as swift, certainly more eccentric than those of the comets--by a zeal, an energy, an enthusiasm, which some kind of inspiration alone could create. The wandering priests of Buddhism--who traverse mountains and rivers, seas, islands, and continents, with a restlessness which knows no abatement; the Mohammedan friars that profess to work miracles, and in evidence of their powers, spin round and round till they fall fainting upon the floor; the Bramins, who rush under the wheels of Juggernaut, or cause themselves to be suspended by irons hooked into the muscles of the back, and then whirled round in the

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air from a long pole;--these were all rivaled, if not outdone, by the indomitable zeal of some of the preachers and propagators of Methodism at this period.

The most conspicuous of these was the noted Lorenzo Dow.* He was a native of Connecticut, and at the period of my boyhood had begun to be talked about chiefly on account of his eccentricities--though he was also a man of some talent. About the time

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that Methodism began to spread itself in Connecticut, Dow appeared in Ridgefield, and taking a stand on Squire Nathan Smith's wood-pile, held forth to a few boys and other people that chanced to be in that quarter. I was returning from school, and stopped to hear his discourse. He was then about thirty years of age, but looked much older. He was thin and weather-beaten, and appeared haggard and ill-

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favored, partly on account of his reddish, dusty beard, some six inches long--then a singularity if not an enormity, as nobody among us but old Jagger the beggar cultivated such an appendage. I did not comprehend what he said, and only remember his general appearance. He was merely passing through Ridgefield, and soon departed, having produced the impression that he was an odd sort of person, and rather

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light-headed, I afterward heard him preach twice at camp-meetings, and will endeavor to give you some idea of his manner. The following is a passage, as nearly as I can recollect, his general discourse being aimed at those who accused the Methodists of being New Lights--a mere set of enthusiasts.

"Now, my friends, you all know we are called New Lights. It is said that we have in us a false fire which throws out a glare only to mislead and deceive the people. They say we are actuated by the spirit of the devil, instead of the spirit of religion. Well, no matter what they say; no matter what they call us: the question is, whether we have the real fire or the false fire? I say we have got the true fire, and the old Church-an d-State Presbyterians have got the false fire. That's what I say, and I'll prove it.

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"There is in nater, no doubt, as well as in religion, both false fire and true fire: the first is rotten-wood, which shines in the night. You often see it among the roots and trunks of old decayed trees. But you may pile it up as high as a haystack, and it won't make a pot boil. Now ain't that like the old sleepy, decayed Presbyterians? But as to the true fire--if you take a few kindlings, and put 'em under a kittle, and put some water in the kittle, and then set the kindlings on fire, you'll see something, won't you? Well: what will you see? Why the water begins to wallop and wallop and wallop! Well, suppose you had never seen water bile before--you'd say the devil was in it, wouldn't you? Of course you would. Now, it is just so with this carnal generation--the old school, the rotten-wood, the false-fire people--they see us moved with the true fire of religion, and they say the devil's in it--because they never saw it before, and don't understand it. Thus it is they call us New Lights. No wonder, for they have nothing but false fire in their hearts!"

Lorenzo was not only uncouth in his person and appearance, but his voice was harsh, his action hard and rectangular. It is scarcely possible to conceive of a person more entirely destitute of all natural eloquence. But he understood common life, and especially vulgar life--its tastes, prejudices, and weaknesses; and he possessed a cunning knack of adapting his discourses to such, audiences. He told

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stories with considerable art, and his memory being stored with them, he could always point a moral or clinch a proposition by an anecdote. He knew that with simple people an illustration is better than logic, and when he ran short of Scripture, or argument failed, he usually resorted to some pertinent story or adapted allegory. He affected oddity in all things--in his mode of preaching as well as in dress. He took pains to appear suddenly and by surprise among the people where he proposed to hold forth: he frequently made his appointments a year beforehand, and at the very minute set, he would come like an apparition. He often took scraps of texts, and extracted from them, by a play upon words, an unexpected argument or startling inference. His endeavor seemed to be to exercise an influence over the imagination by associating himself in the minds of the people with John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness, and living on locusts and wild honey. His special admirers saw great merit in his oddities, and even in his long shaggy goat. By the vain world of that day, this was deemed beastly--for then foppery had not taken the beard as its type and its glory. It was thirty years later, that I saw an American among the fashionable circles of Paris, and who had his reddish hair and beard dressed like Christ in Raphael's pictures--very much petted by the French ladies, who thought him so like our Saviour!

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At the time of which I am writing, one of the great points of dispute between Methodism and Orthodoxy was that of "Falling from Grace:" the former taking the affirmative and the latter the negative. The infirmities of human nature, sometimes visible in the Elect, furnished abundant and laughter-moving weapons against the doctrine of the saints' perseverance. The apostle Peter, who had denied his Lord and Master under circumstances which made his conduct appear in the highest degree craven and cowardly, furnished a standing argument for the preachers of Methodism. The scandals of deacons and priests in the orthodox church, were picked up and thrown into the argument with more wit than delicacy. In this coarse, Parthian warfare, Lorenzo was an adept--and he seemed to take as much delight in provoking the ribald mirth of the mocker of all religion, as in controverting ecclesiastical error in the mind of the sincere inquirer. It is true that, in private, the orthodox sometimes paid back and perhaps with interest, for the Methodists claimed to attain spiritual perfection. It was not difficult to find cases in which their practice jarred a little with their pretenses. The Methodists had the advantage, however, for their preachers introduced these topics in their discourses, often making pointed and personal attacks the pepper ami salt of their harangues--while the more stately orthodox usually confined their discussions to private circles, or perhaps general and dignified notices in

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their sermons. On one occasion, Dow illustrated his views on the subject of "Falling from Grace," somewhat as follows, his test being a part of the verse Heb. ii. 1: "Lest at any time we should let them slip."

"Now, my brethren," said Dow--when he had stated and enlarged upon his argument--"let me take a case, and a very likely one to happen. Nay, I'm not at all sure that it hain't happened, and not a hundred miles off. Well, here is Major Smith, who becomes convarted. He joins the church, and is safe as a codfish, pickled, packed, and in port. Of course his calling and election, are sure. He can't let 'em slip. He can't fall from grace--not he! Don't be too certain of that, my brethren! Don't be too sure of that, major!

"I say nothing agin the character of Major Smith, mind you. He is a very fair sort of a man, as the world goes. Nevertheless, they du say that he was in the habit of taking, now and then, a glass or two more than was good for him. He was fond of a warm gin toddy, especially of a cold day, for he was subject to wind on the stomach; and then, in order to settle his toddy, he would take a glass of flip, and then to settle his flip, he'd take a glass of toddy, agin. These he usually took in the arternoon and at Northrup's tavern.

"But, as I say, one day Major Smith was convarted, and taken into the church, and so he must reform.

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He must give up toddy and flip, and Northrup's tavern. And he has gin them all up--for he is parfeckly sincere--mind you. Well, some weeks later, on the arternoon of a cold blustering day in December, he happens to be passing by Northrup's tavern. Just at that time, as the devil will have it--for the devil is always looking out for a chance--his old friend and bottle companion, Nate Seymour, comes to the door, and sees the major. Well, the latter rides up, and they shake hands, and talk over the news, and finally Nate says, 'Won't you come in a minute, major?'

"Now, as I tell you, it's a cold winter's day, and the major says he'll jest get down, and warm his fingers. He won't drink any thing of course, but he thinks it best not to break all at once with his old friends, for they may say he's proud. Perhaps he'll have a chance to say a word in season to some one. So he goes in, and, as it happens, Nate jest then puts the red-hot poker into a mug of flip. How it bubbles and simmers and foams! What a nice odor it does send forth into the room! And jest then the landlord grates in a little nutmeg. What a pleasant sound is that to poor, shivering human nater, on a cold day in December!

"Well, Nate takes it and hands it to the major. The major says to himself, 'I'll just put it to my lips, so as not to seem frumptious and unreasonable, but I won't drink any.' So he takes it, and it feels mighty warm and nice to his cold fingers. He looks at it;

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its fames rise to his nostrils; he remembers the joys of other days; he puts it to his lips!

"Well, and what then? Oh nothing, my brethren--only I tell you, that elect or no elect, that is a very slippery spot for the major!"

The effect of this upon an audience to whom such language was adapted, especially as it all referred to a well-known person, who, after being taken into the church, had backslidden to his old habits, may be easily appreciated. Who could argue down such telling logic with the million?

For a considerable time the Methodists made few converts in Ridgefield, but they planted themselves in the neighboring towns, and soon their number were sufficient to hold camp-meetings in various quarters. At length, Dr. Baker, a respectable physician of our village, became imbued with the rising spirit, and he began to hpld meetings in his kitchen. Here there was praying, and exhorting, and telling experiences, and singing sentimental airs to warm and sentimental religious hymns. The neighbors gathered in, and soon it was noised abroad that a great work was going on. Various passions were insensibly wrought upon to swell the movement; curiosity was gratified by something new and strange; the love of the dramatic, implanted in every bosom, was delighted with scenes in which men and women stood up and told how the Lord had brought them from death unto life: the tender melodies touched and melted many hearts;

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the sympathy of young men and young maidens was titillated; the love of fellowship between man and man was flattered; and all these varying emotions seemed to be melted into one warm, flowing current of religion, sanctified by the presence of the Holy Spirit! How curious are the workings of the human heart! how much of earth is often mingled in with what claims to breathe of heaven!

I cast no reproaches upon these persons: Dr. Baker was a true and worthy man, and among his associates were several excellent people. I do not deny that in the end much good was done; that the thoughtless, the frivolous, the vain, and in some cases the wicked and the debased, were drawn, even through these means, to religious convictions and a religious life. Still, these things were looked upon as a vain, and delusive mania, or perhaps even the work of the Evil One, by the world around, and especially by those of the established creed. Nevertheless, the movement spread, and at last became epidemic. Some of my father's flock strayed from, the fold, and became the spoil of the enemy. One or two of his staunch church members saw new light in the horizon of their religion. A little short man, up at the North End, who had a fine treble voice and a tall wife with the throat of a trumpet, but who was withal one of the pillars of the church--came to our house, bringing the said wife on a pillion, both charged with Lorenzo Dow's true fire. Therefore, they lifted up their voices

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and testified to my father that a new era had come, and that it was time for him and his people to wake up from their slumbers, which boded death and destruction to their souls!

The precise scene I do not remember. I have only a general recollection of the deep anxiety of both my parents about this time. A cloud was on their hearts and their countenances, by day and night. The deacons were called in, and there were profound consultations as to what was to be done. The neighboring clergy were consulted, and it was soon discovered that they, too, were beset by the same dangers. In some cases, their people joined the Methodists; in others, they imitated them by evening meetings for prayer and mutual exhortation. The very air at last seemed impregnated with the electric fluid. Not only men of a religious turn seemed in a state of unusual excitement, but the cold, the careless, the worldly, began to ask, What shall we do to be saved? Attempts were made in some places to preach down the rising tempest as an illusion. Parson Elliot, of Fairfield, gave it battle, as I have stated, declaring that in religion, as well as in the affairs of life, a steady, tranquil devotion was better than sudden and irregular storms of fervor.

Nevertheless, the movement could not be arrested. My father, who was, I think, a far-seeing man, did not attempt to breast the shock. He took a wiser course. He adopted evening meetings, first at the

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church, and afterward at private houses. No doubt, also, he put more fervor into his Sabbath discourses. Deacons and laymen, gifted in speech, were called upon to pray and exhort, and tell experiences in the private meetings, which were now called conferences. A revival of religious spirit arose even among the orthodox. Their religious meetings soon became animated, and were speedily crowded with interested worshipers or eager lookers-on. At the same time, the church was newly shingled and freshly painted; the singing choir was regenerated; the lagging salary of my father was paid up, and as winter approached, his full twenty cords of wood were furnished by his people according to the contract.

And yet the wolf was all the while stealing the sheep! Nevertheless, my father's church increased, and at the same time the dreaded Methodists converted a large number of the idle, dissipated, and irreligious, who had become, like Ephraim of old, so joined to idols, that there seemed no other way than to let them alone. But for Methodism, this had undoubtedly been their fate. And thus what seemed a mania, wrought regeneration; thus orthodoxy was in a considerable degree methodized, and Methodism in due time became orthodoxed. Years passed on, and now there are two bright places of worship in Ridgefield; one Methodist and one Congregational, and both filled with worshipers. The people of the latter consist for the most part of the staid, sober, and

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middle-aged class: those of the former--though the church had its rise in a kitchen--comprise many respectable citizens, with a full proportion of the gentler sex, who comprehend and employ the advantages of coquettish French bonnets, trimmed with wreaths of artificial flowers! Moreover, the clergymen of the two churches exchange with each other, and the professors of both are mutually admitted to the communion tables. Let us never judge too harshly of any movement, which, though it may develop some frailties, has evidently a religious basis. Folly, affectation, vulgarity, are always fit objects of ridicule, even when clothed in a sanctimonious garb, but in letting our arrows fly at vice, we should ever be scrupulous not to wound virtue.

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LETTER XVI.

The Three Deacons.

My dear C******

It may be amusing, perhaps profitable, to give here a few sketches of the remarkable characters of Ridgefield, at the opening of the present century. Some were types of their time; others, however eccentric, were exemplifications of our race and our society, influenced by peculiar circumstances, and showing into what fashions this stuff of humanity

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may be wrought. They were, moreover, among the monuments that are still prominent in my recollection, and seem to me an essential part of the social landscape which encircled my youth.

I begin with the three deacons of my father's parish. First was Deacon Olmstead, full threescore years and ten at the opening of the present century. His infancy touched upon the verge of Puritanism--the days of Increase and Cotton Mather. The spirit of the Puritans lived in his heart, while the semblance of the patriarchs lingered in his form. He was fully six feet high, with broad shoulders, powerful limbs, and the august step of a giant. His hair was white, and rolled in thin curls upon his shoulders: he was still erect, though he carried a long cane, like that of father Abraham in the old pictures, representing him at the head of his kindred and his camels, going from the land of Haran to the land of Canaan. Indeed, he was my personification of the great progenitor of the Hebrews; and when my father read from the twelfth chapter of Genesis, how he and Lot and their kindred journeyed forth, I half fancied it must be Deacon Olmstead under another name.

I know not if there be such men now--so grand, yet so simple; so wise, yet so good; so proud, yet so meek and lowly. It is doubtless the cant of each generation in its age and decrepitude, to degrade the present and magnify the past, perhaps because the heart is a little jaded and sickened with the disappointments

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which press heavily upon it, and naturally turns with disgust at these, to bestow a kind of worship upon the shades which stalk along the distant horizon of youthful remembrances. Perhaps there is also something more personal and selfish in this process, for vanity often lingers even in the wreck of our existence. Thus an old man tottering to the grave, not unfrequently boasts of the feats he performed in his youth; and the aged dame--gray, wrinkled, and paralytic--parades the charms of her maidenhood. A vain conceit, a swelling self-appreciation, often mingle themselves unconsciously in our thoughts, and as we cannot boast of the present, which is sliding from us, we find relief and satisfaction in glorifying the past, which we still claim as our own. And again, in age, we are no doubt liable to self-deception, from looking backward over an extended view, and taking the things which rise up like monuments above all around them, as the representatives of their day and generation, while in fact they are only their exceptions and marvels.

At all events, there is an impression, I think, that the great men of the past century in New England have not their representatives in the present generation, especially in personal appearance and character; yet it is probable that our race is not really degenerated either in its physical or moral standard. There was something stately, no doubt, in the costume of the olden time: there was also a corresponding air of starchness in the carriage. A cocked hat and

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powdered wig made it necessary for a man to demean himself warily, like an Italian porter who carries a tub of water upon his head. Thus guised, even little Dr. Marsh,* of Wethersfield, whom I remember in his antique costume, was quite a portly gentleman. The long powdered queues, the small-clothes and knee-buckles, the white-top boots and silk stockings, with the majestic tread of a Humphries, a Daggett, or a Dana--who flourished forty or fifty years ago in the high places of Connecticut--no doubt made these leaders of society look like the born lords of creation. In comparison, the simple short-cropped, pantalooned gentlemen, who now fill the same, or similar stations--the T.....'s, E......'s, and S....'s--may seem a degenerate race. Yet if you subject these to any positive test--though it must be admitted that manners have lost something of their polish and much

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of their dignity--they will doubtless be found to be about as tall and as talented, and perhaps as virtuous as their predecessors. At the same time, I suspect it will be also discovered that the great mass of society is elevated in many things above the corresponding portions of the community in the early clays of which I speak.

But be this as it may, there is no doubt that Deacon Olmstead was in all things a noble specimen of humanity--an honor to human nature--a shining light in the Church. I have spoken of him as having something grand about him, yet I remember how kindly he condescended to take me, a child, on Ms knee, and how gently his great brawny fingers encircled my infant hand. I have said he was wise; yet his book learning was small, though it might have been as great as that of Abraham, or Isaac, or Jacob. He knew indeed the Bible by heart, and that is a great teacher. He had also lived long, and profited by observation and experience. Above all, he was calm, just, sincere, and it is wonderful how these lamps light up the path of life. I have said he was proud, yet it was only toward the seductions of the world: to these he was hard and stern: to his God, he was simple, obedient, and docile as a child: toward his kindred and his neighbor, toward the poor, toward the suffering--though not so soft--he was sympathetic as a sister of charity.

Some men seem to imagine that the heart should

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grow alien to man as it draws nigh to God; that piety, burning brightly, dims, if it does not extinguish, the lamp of love and friendship and social impulses. They look upon religion as the serpent of Moses, and human affections as the snakes of the Egyptian priests, and in their view the former should destroy and devour the latter. It was not so with this noble old man. His Christianity did not take from the stature of his humanity. It was, indeed, as a Christian that his character was most distinctly marked; yet he was no ascetic, for he enjoyed life and its comforts: he did not disdain its wealth--he toiled for it and obtained it. He lived--as a man, a father, a member of society--a large and generous life, for he had a large and generous nature. Had this been all, he would still have passed to his grave beloved and honored; but there was much more. His religion was large, grand, imposing, like his person. He believed with such a clear, manly faith, that as he walked abroad, you felt that God and eternity were realities to him--and by irresistible influence, they became realities to you--like the sun and the earth. When you heard him pray--as I have often done--you knew that God was there. How sublime is such a man living such a life, even though he was but a simple country farmer!

I must now present a somewhat different portrait--that of Deacon John Benedict. He was a worthy old man, and enjoyed many claims to respect. He was not only a deacon, but a justice of the peace; moreover,

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he was the father of Aunt Delight--of whom I desire ever to speak with reverence. She, not being a beauty, was never married, and hence, having no children of her own, she combed and crammed the heads of other people's children. In this way she was eminently useful in her clay and generation. The Deacon respected the law, especially as it was administered in his own person. He was severe upon those who violated the statutes of the State, but one who violated the statutes of Deacon John Benedict committed the unpardonable sin. He was the entire police of the meeting-house on Sunday, and not a boy or girl, or even a bumblebee, could offend, without condign punishment.

Nevertheless, the Deacon is said in one case--rather before my time--to have met his match. There was in the village a small, smart, nervous woman, with a vigorous clack, which, once set going, was hard to stop. One day she was at church, and having carried her dinner of mince-pie in a little cross-handled basket, she set it down under the seat. In the midst of sermon-time, a small dog came into the pew, and getting behind her petticoats, began to devour the pie. She heard what was going on, and gave him a kick. Upon this the dog backed out with a yelp, but bringing the dinner basket hung across his neck, with him. Back, back he went, tail first, across the pew into the broad aisle.

"Oh dear!" said the woman, in a shrill voice--"the dog's got my dinner! There! I've spoken loud

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in meeting-time! What will Deacon Benedict say? Why! I'm talking all the time. There it goes agin. What shall I du?"

"Hold your tongue!" said the Deacon, who was in his official seat, fronting the explosion. These words operated like a charm, and the nervous lady was silent. The next day Deacon John appeared at the house of the offender, carrying a calf-bound volume in his hand. The woman gave one glance at the book, and one at the Deacon. That was enough: it spoke volumes, and the man of the law returned home, and never mentioned the subject afterward. This is the whole of the story as it was reported to me in my youth.

Deacon Hawley was very unlike either of his two associates whom I have described. He was younger, and of a peculiarly mild and amiable temper. His countenance wore a tranquil and smooth expression. His hair was fine arid silky, and lay, as if oiled, close to his head. He had a soft voice, and an ear for music. He was a cabinet-maker by trade, a chorister by choice, a deacon by the vote of the church, a Christian by the grace of God. In each of these things he found his place, as if designed for it by nature and Providence.

How easily did life flow on for him! How different was its peaceful current, from the battle waged by Granther Baldwin--whom I shall soon describe--from the beginning, and ceasing only when death put

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his cold finger on the heart and silenced it forever. Oh nature! thou art a powerful divinity, sometimes moulding the heart in love and charity, and sometimes as if in bitterness and spite. Let those who become the judges of man here below, make due allowance for these things, as no doubt the Judge hereafter will consider them in adjusting each man's account.

In worldly affairs as well as spiritual, Deacon Hawley's path was straight and even: he was successful in business, beloved in society, honored in the church. Exceedingly frugal by habit and disposition, he still loved to give in charity, though he told not the world of it. When he was old, his family being well provided for, he spent much of his time in casting about to find opportunities of doing good. Once he learned that a widow, who had been in good circumstances, was struggling with poverty. He was afraid to offer money as charity, for fear of wounding her pride--the more sensitive, perhaps, because of her change of condition. He therefore intimated that he owed a debt of fifty dollars to her late husband, and wished to pay it to her.

"And how was that?" said the lady, somewhat startled,

"I will tell you," said the Deacon. "About five and twenty years ago, soon after you were married, I made some furniture for your husband--to the amount of two hundred dollars. I hare been look-

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ing over the account, and find that I rather overcharged him, in the price of some chairs; that is, I could have afforded them at somewhat less. I have added up the interest, and here, madam, is the money."

The widow listened, and, as she suspected the truth, the tears came to her eyes. The Deacon comprehended all in an instant: he did not pause to reply, but laid the money on the table and departed,

Another trait of this good man was his patriotism. The prosperity of the country seemed always to be in his heart--a source of gratification to himself and a cause of thanksgiving to God. His conversation, his prayers, were full of these sentiments. Though of moderate intellectual gifts, his temper was so even, his desires so just, that his judgment was almost infallible; and hence he exercised a large, though quiet and unseen influence upon other men. It is strange, in this world, to see a man who always and under all circumstances, seems to have as his master motive--the wish to do just right. Yet such a man was Deacon Hawley.*

I know not how it is, but the term deacon is associated in many minds with a certain littleness, and especially a sort of affectation, a cant in conversation, an I-am-holier-than-thou air and manner. I remember Deacon C.... of H...., who deemed it proper

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to become scriptural, and to talk as much as possible like Isaiah. He was in partnership with his son Laertes, and they sold crockery and furniture. One day a female customer came, and the old gentleman being engaged, went to call his son, who was in the loft above. Placing himself at the foot of the stairs, he said, attuning his voice to the occasion, "La-ar-tes, descend--a lady waits!" Deacon C.... sought to signalize himself by a special respect to the ways of Providence: so he refused to get insurance against fire, declaring that if the Lord wished to burn down his house or his barn, he should submit without a murmur. He pretended to consider thunder and lightning and conflagrations as special acts of the Almighty, and it was distrusting Providence to attempt to avert their effects. Deacon Hawley had none of these follies or frailties. Though a deacon, he was still a man; though aspiring to heaven, he lived cheerily on earth; though a Christian, he was a father, a neighbor, and, according to his rank in life, a gentleman, having in all things the feelings and manners appropriate to each of these relations.

This good man is not lying: he died not many years since at the age of ninety-one, enjoying to the last good health, and that tranquillity of mind and body sometimes vouchsafed to the aged after the heat and burden of active life. I look back upon his memory as a strip of sunshine bursting from the clouds, and falling upon the landscape of life, to make us feel

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that there is light in the world, and that every man--even those of humble capacity and humble position--may possess it, use it, glorify and disseminate it. Such a life indeed tends to rob existence of its bitterness, and to give dignity to man and glory to God!

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LETTER XVII.

The Federalist and the Democrat--Colonel Bradley and General King--Comparison of New England with European Villages.

My dear C******

From the ecclesiastic notabilities of Ridgefield I turn for a moment to the secular. And first, Colonel Bradley claims my notice, for he was the leading citizen of the place, in station, wealth, education, and power of intellect. He was a tall, gaunt, sallow man, a little bent at the period of my recollection, for he was then well stricken in years. He lived in a two-story white house, at the upper end of the main street, and on the western side. This was of ample dimensions, and had a grave, antique air, the effect of which was enhanced by a row of wide-arching elms, lining the street. It stood on a slight elevation, and somewhat withdrawn from the road; the fence in front was high and close; the doors and windows were always shut, even in summer. I know not why, but this

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place had a sort of awfulness about it: it seemed to have a spirit and a voice, which whispered to the passer-by, "Go thy way: this is the abode of one above and beyond thee!"

In order to comprehend the impression likely to be made by such a sombre tenement, you must remember the general aspect of our country villages at that time, and indeed at the present time. Each house was built near the street, with a yard in front and a garden beside it. The fences were low, and of light, open pickets or slats, made to exclude cattle, pigs, and geese, which then had the freedom of the place. There was a cheerful, confiding, wide, open look all around. Everybody peeped from the windows into everybody's grounds. The proprietor was evidently content to be under your eye; nay, as you passed along, his beets and carrots in long beds; his roses and peonies bordering the central walk; the pears and peaches and plums swinging from the trees, all seemed to invite your observation. The barn, having its vast double doors in front, and generally thrown open, presented its interior to your view, with all its gathered treasures of hay, oats, rye, and flax. Near by, but yet apart, stood the crib for the Indian corn, showing its laughing, yellow ears between the slats, designed to give circulation to the air.

There was in all this a liberty and equality which belonged to the age. These had their foundation, partly at least, in two sources--a love of an open,

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unobstructed view, and a sort of communal familiarity in the intercourse of society. The first settlers of the country found it covered with forests, which, while they sheltered the lurking Indian, the poaching wolf, and the prowling bear, also obstructed cultivation. Trees were then the great enemy, and to exterminate them was the first great battle of life. In those days men became tree-haters. The shadow of the wood was associated with dearth and danger--the open space with plenty and peace. It was not till long after, when the burning sun of our summers had taught the luxury of shade, that the people of New England discovered their mistake, and began to decorate their streets and pleasure-grounds with trees.

In these, the primeval days of our history, men gathered in the village were mutual protectors one of the other; there was a bond of sympathy between them, founded in necessity, and this led to confidence, and confidence to familiarity. Equality of intercourse, with a general equality of feeling, were the results. And besides, wealth had not accumulated in the hands of particular individuals or in society generally. The habits therefore were simple, and the tastes of the people demanded little beyond the means and usages of mere comfort. The love of embellishment gradually crept over society, but at the period of which I speak, it had not, in Ridgefield and other villages in Connecticut, gone beyond the elements I have described.

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The American who travels in foreign countries marked with the vestiges of feudal times, and the consequent division of society into castes, will be forcibly struck with the contrast which these things present to a New England village. As you pass through France, or Italy, or Germany, or Spain, you will find the houses and grounds inclosed by high stone and mortar walls, which not only hide them from the view of the passer-by, but are a positive defense against intrusion. The proprietors bar you out, as if they not only feared your entrance, but suspected you of having the evil eye, and you must not therefore look upon them or their possessions. The walls are generally high and forbidding in proportion to the rank of the proprietor: a palace is often a veritable castle, with its moat, bastions, portcullis, and warder; and all this is imitated, as far as may be, from the chateau down to the bare and desolate tenement of John Smith and Tom Jones. The doors or gates of the rich are of massive bronze or ponderous oak, and fastened with formidable locks. You can only enter by permission, and under the eye of a porter, who scrutinizes you closely. This is true not only of Paris, but of all the neighboring towns, great and small. It is the same throughout the French empire. Even in the villages, which consist of a crowded mass of tenements, like the mean suburbs of a city, every house is a prison, built of stone and mortar, and not merely denying entrance, but shutting out,

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as far as possible, the chance surveillance of neighbors and travelers. This is the system throughout the continent. I have often felt almost suffocated in walking and riding in the environs of Florence and Rome, and other European cities, on finding myself confined in a narrow lane, some twelve or fifteen feet wide, with walls so high on either side as to render it impossible to look over them. This is not only true within the cities, and their immediate precincts, but often, for miles around; even the fields and farms are frequently thus inclosed, indicating not only fear of intrusion or violence, but a repugnance to mere supervision.

This system of making every house a castle--not sacred by the law, as in our country, but by stone and mortar--had its origin in the violence of feudal times, when might was right. It is a system begun by the kings, imitated by the barons, and perpetuated in society by the emulous vanity of snobs and underlings. At first a necessity, it came at last to be a fashion. At present it is little more, even where it is general or universal. Its chief use now is to defend--not wealth or tangible property--but the fanciful interests of rank. A prince, a duke, a count, must not become familiar to common men. His heart must be packed in ice, so as to silence every large and philanthropic pulsation. He must associate only with his peers. He must exclude the vulgar; he must live, aloof, enshrined in high walls and gates of oak and brass[.]

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There must be in the very aspect of his dwelling a standing proclamation of his touch-me-not exaltation. In all things his life and manners must conform to the dignity of his house and his home. He has better blood than other men, and this would be contaminated by contact with common humanity. The rich bankers, Messrs. Shin and Shave, must imitate this high, titled example; they must be exclusive, at least to all beneath them. Messrs. Grog and Prog, the wealthy grocers, must follow suit according to their kind.

This brick-and-mortar exclusiveness answers another purpose: it seems to sustain the theory that the interior of the continental home is inviolable. According to this, the proprietor lays out his grounds as he pleases: he sleeps, eat, drinks, dresses, talks, walks, and amuses himself according to his fancy. He does not consult his neighbors upon any of these things. He is lord of all he surveys; not only his walls, but the current ideas of society insure him a complete domestic and social independence. So long as he does not meddle with politics or the police, he sits under his own vine and fig-tree, with none to make him afraid. He has no apprehension that some eavesdropping ear, or burglarious gaze, is waiting and watching, and will show him up to-morrow in a Two Penny Tale Teller.

This is the state of things, as it appears to the superficial observer, and hence it is that European continental life has great fascinations for some of our

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American exclusives. They think it delightful to live enshrined in high walls, and to do as they please. But let us reflect and count the cost. Is this seeming social independence real, permanent, reliable? In point of fact nothing is more hollow and false. Life, liberty, property, are placed between two monsters, either of which may at any moment rise up and devour you. The government, to which you look for protection, is a despot, and full of eyes staring with suspicion. Though it may seem to smile on you, yet it has your dossier--that is, your life, opinions, tastes, character--even the secrets of your house and your home--written in its note-book. The police that surrounds you, and seems to protect you, may at any moment denounce and destroy you. It is by privilege, and not by right; that you live, breathe, and have a being. On the other hand, the people, whom you bar out and defy--their time may come, and as you have treated them with scorn, they are likely to repay you with vengeance.

Is not our American system of mutual confidence and mutual support, infinitely better than this? It involves sacrifices, no doubt. Impertinence, gossip, scandal, will thrive in a state of social equality and mutual dependence, but real dignity and true virtue will not seriously suffer. The false semblance, the hollow affectation of these, may be stung, but it will generally be to good and wholesome purpose. And even if there be evils, we shall learn to cure them in

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time. We are a young country, and are trying various experiments. We can not expect to leap into the millennium at once. It has taken Europe--modern Europe--more than a thousand years to learn its lessons in philosophy, art, and manners. All things considered, we are as far advanced as they, and that, too, after less than a century of experience. What may we not hope in the future, and at no distant day? Let us, then, be of good cheer!

But to return. Certainly nothing can be more strongly in contrast with our frank, confiding, wide-open New England village than this suspicious, systematic, radical exclusiveness in Continental Europe. Impressed with an early love of the simplicity and equality of our country towns, I have never been able to conquer the disgust with which I have looked upon the walled houses and walled towns of Europe. They seem to me anti-social, unchristian, not merely bespeaking their barbarous origin, but perpetuating the seeds of violence and schism in the bosom of society, which will ere long be sown on the wind to produce the harvest of the whirlwind. If this system and these ideas must be endured in monarchical regions, they should not be introduced into this country. I am happy to add that they are imitated by few, and with even these, they are worn as garments that sit ill upon them, and consequently provoke ridicule rather than respect. An American exclusive is about as much an incongruity in our society

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as an American duke. He is generally without real power, and those he attempts to influence are apt to go in the opposite direction from that which he points out.

I beg pardon for this wide digression, which, however, is not without a purpose. Col. Bradley was an exclusive. His cold, distant manner bespoke it. He was, I believe, an honorable man. He was a member of the church; he was steady in his worship, and never missed the sacrament. He was a man of education, and held high offices. His commission as colonel was signed by John Jay, president of the Continental Congress, and his office of Marshal of the District of Connecticut was signed by Washington. His commission as judge* of the County Court was signed by the governor of the State. He was, as I have said, the most distinguished citizen of the place, and naturally enough imagined that such a position carried with it, not the shadow, but the substance of power. He seldom took an open part in the affairs of the town, but when he did, he felt that his word should be law. He deemed even a nod of his head to be imperative; people were bound to consult his very looks, and scenting his trail, should follow in his footsteps. Like most proud men of despotic temper, he sometimes condescended to bring about his ends by puppets and wire pullers. Affecting to dis-

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dain all meddling, he really contrived openly or covertly to govern the church and the town. When parties in politics arose, he was of course a federalist; though ostentatiously standing aloof from, the tarnish of caucuses, he still managed to fill most of the offices by his seen or unseen dictation.

Such, a man could little appreciate the real spirit of democracy, now rising, like a spring-tide, over Connecticut. Believing in the "Good old way," he sincerely felt that innovation was synonymous with ruin. Thinking all virtue and all wisdom to be centered in the few, he believed all folly and mischief to be in the many. The passage of power from the former to the latter, he regarded with unaffected horror. The sanctity of the church, the stability of the law, the sacredness of home, life, and property, all seemed to him put at hazard if committed to the rabble, or what to him was equivalent, that dreaded thing--democracy.

He was certainly a man of ability, well read in history, and of superior mental gifts. He saw the coming storm, which soon lowered and thundered in the sky; but he neither comprehended its force, nor the best manner of combating it. He had not those sensitive feelers--the gift of such born democrats as Jefferson and Van Buren--which wind their invisible and subtle threads among the masses, and bring home to the shrewd sensorium an account of every trembling emotion in the breast of the million. In fact

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so far as the mass, the people were concerned, he was a profound owl, seeing deeply into the nothingness of night, but stark blind in the open day of real and pressing action. In wielding power, put into his hands by authority, he was a strong man: in acquiring it at the hands of democracy, he was a child.

I can not better illustrate his character--and the humor of his day and generation--than by depicting one of our town meetings of this era. This was of course held in my father's church, according to custom. At an early hour Col. Bradley was there, for he was punctual in all things. He sat apart in a pew with about half a dozen other men, the magnates of the town. In other pews near by, sat still others, all stanch respectabilities. These were the leading federalists--persons of high character, wealth, and influence. They spoke a few words to each other, and then relapsed into a sort of dignified silence. They did not mingle with the mass: they might be suspected of electioneering--of seeking to exercise an influence over the minds of the people. That was too degrading for them: it might do for General King, and the other democrats who could condescend to such things. These circulated freely in the aisles, giving the warm right-hand of fellowship to all they met, especially the rabble. Nevertheless, the federalists had privately determined a few days before on whom they would cast their votes, and being a majority, they carried the day.

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Thus it went an for a time. But gradually, and year by year, the leaven of democracy affected more and more the general mass. Federalism held itself haughtily aloof from the lower classes, while democracy tendered to them the gratifying signals of fraternity. Federalism really and sincerely distrusted the capacity of the people to govern themselves, except through the guidance and authority of the superior classes; democracy believed, or pretended to believe, in the people, and its works were according to its real or seeming faith. There were questions at issue between the parties, which involved these opposite and diverging principles. Shall government be a republic, having an oligarchical bias, and committing power to the hands of the few; or shall it be a democracy, living and breathing and having its being from the constant inspirations of the whole people? Shall suffrage be limited or universal? Shall there be perfect religious toleration? Shall there be no preference in regard to sects? These were the actual, pending questions in Connecticut. With such issues, the parties were not only highly excited, but there was a depth of sincerity which gave a certain dignity even to party strife.

However old-fashioned it may seem, I still look back upon those stiff federalists, sitting in their pews like so many judges in Israel--rigid in their principles, hard, but honest, in their opinions--with a certain degree of respect. Perhaps, too, they

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were not altogether wrong, though the battle has gone against them. If, at the outset of our government, which was launched at the very period when the French Eevolution was agitating the world with its turbulent waves, the suffrage had been universal, probably we should have gone to destruction. Federalism, no doubt, locked the wheels of the car of state, and thus stayed and regulated its progress, till the steep was passed, and we were upon the safe and level plain. Theoretically wrong, according to present ideas, federalism was useful and necessary in its day. It is to be regretted that its spirit of patriotism is not imitated by all modern partisans.

Col. Bradley, whom I have described as the head of the federal party in Ridgefield, was pretty nearly a type of his kind in those days. There was perhaps a shade of Jesuitism about him, a love of unseen influences, the exercise of invisible power, which was personal and not a necessary part of his principles. I perfectly recollect his appearance at church, and the impression he made upon me. He was bald, and wore a black silk cap, drawn down close over his eyes. These were like jet, not twinkling, but steady and intense, appearing very awful from the dark caverns in which they were set. I hardly dared to look at him, and if perchance his slow but searching gaze fell upon me, I started as if something had wounded me. At long intervals he carne to our house, and though he was of course a supporter of my father,

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being a member of the church, I had the impression that everybody breathed thick and anxiously while he was there, and felt relieved when he went away. It is now many years since he passed to his tomb, yet his appearance and general character are still fresh in my memory. He was not loved, but on the whole, his life was beneficial to the community in which he lived. He had high gifts and large opportunities: if he did not do all the good he might, it was certainly rather through the influence of original, constitutional defects, than willing and chosen obliquity of conduct.

It is not possible to conceive of two persons more unlike than the one I have just sketched and General King. The former was tall, thin, dark; the latter was of middle height, stout, erect, and florid. The first was highly educated, meditative, secret, deep, cold, circumspect; the latter was unschooled, yet intelligent; frank, though perhaps superficial; imperious, yet fearless and confiding. Col. Bradley was a federalist; Gen. King a democrat. These two, indeed, were the leaders of the two great political parties in Ridgefield.

If we could dive into the heart of man, and discern the reasons why one takes this course and another that; why one is of this sect in religion, or that party in politics, I imagine we should make some curious discoveries. In certain cases the springs of these actions are open: one is obviously deter-

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mined in his choice by education; another manifestly derives a proclivity from family influences; another is governed by his social position; but in other cases, we are left to guess at motives, and these often seem so personal and selfish as to reflect little honor upon human nature. As to professed politicians, I think mankind generally, without being suspected of cynicism, regard them as choosing their party on the same principles that they would choose a horse--in both cases selecting that which they can best mount and ride. They look upon the good public as so many donkeys, made to be used for hobbies and then contemptuously dismissed. We see men act thus openly and shamelessly every day of our lives, and strange to say, it is not punished, however scandalous it may appear. Nay, so far as we can judge, the people rather like it.

In still other instances the causes which determine the political conduct of men are more latent, though not the less selfish and personal. We are very apt to see according to our point of view. The fable of the pigeon's neck, which reflects red on one side and purple on the other, and hence leads two persons in opposite positions into a dispute as to the actual color of the bird, is instructive. One man, in an elevated condition in life, and having large possessions, naturally inclines to magnify the importance of authority, and the respect due to property. Thus, he becomes a federalist or a conservative. Another, destitute of

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all but his head and hands, presses the claims of labor, and exalts the rights of man. He becomes a democrat. In these instances, persons actually controlled by a regard to their several positions, through the seductions and delusions of the human heart, generally consider themselves as actuated by an exclusive regard to patriotism and principle. I am afraid that we can find few instances--at least in the arena of politics--in which the heart of man rises above this fountain-head of selfishness.

The cases in which the manufacturer sustains protection and the ship-owner tree-trade, the southern man the interests of slave labor, and the northern man the interests of free labor, are similar examples of selfishness, though somewhat more gross. It might seem, then, that the ballot-box--the great depository of the public will, and the source of public action and power in a republican government--must be a mass of corruption; that if the majority of votes are leavened with selfishness, the aggregated millions cast at the polls must be an offense in the sight of God. Yet in truth it is not so. The whole result is really a very intelligent index to the actual wants of the country. Suppose every man has voted selfishly, the accumulated suffrage shows where the weight of opinion lies as to the entire interests of the people. And even when we consider the juggles of politicians who make loud professions, only to obtain office, we know that for the most part,

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when they have attained it, the government goes on nearly the same, whoever may administer it. Thus, on the whole, the ballot-box develops and represents a balance of good sense in the nation that outweighs even the multitudinous vices, follies, and foibles of individuals.

If I were to be asked what made Gen. King a democrat, I should be at a loss to answer. He was fond of authority: his whole presence and manner bespoke it. His carriage was erect, his head set back, his chest protruded. His hair was stiff and bristling, and being long on the top, was combed back in the manner of Gen. Jackson's. Like him he had a decidedly military air and character. He was, no doubt, a very good man on the whole, but I imagine he was not imbued with any special sympathy for the masses, or the rights of man, I have pretty good reason to believe that his natural disposition was dictatorial--despotic. It is related that one day he came into the field where his men were haying. A thunder-storm was approaching, and he commanded the laborers in a tone of authority to do this and that, thus requiring in fact what was impossible. Jaklin, an old negro, noted for his dry wit, being present, said in an undertone--

"I'm thankful the Lord reigns."

"Why so?" said a bystander.

"Because," was the reply, "if the Lord didn't reign, the Gineral would!"

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Why, then, was he a democrat? Was it because Col. Bradley and himself were rivals in trade, rivals in wealth, rivals in position? Was it that by a natural proclivity, derived from this relation, he became an opponent of one who stood in his way, and thus became a democrat? Who will venture to solve such questions as these?

I pray you not to consider me as saying any thing invidious of Gen. King. He was really a man to be respected, perhaps loved, even though he was not of great intellect, or morally cast in the mould of perfection. He had plain practical sense, perfect sincerity, high moral courage, an open, cheerful, frank manner. Be it understood that I speak from my childish recollections. Such is the impression he made upon me. Erect, martial, authoritative as he was, I still liked him, for to me he was kind, always asked about our family, and was particularly unlike that cold, silent, dark-browed Col. Bradley. His whole person bespoke manliness. No one looking on him would suspect him of meanness, in thought, word, or deed. He was eminently successful in business, and his wealth, at length, outstripped that of his great rival. His party also triumphed, and he became the first man of the place in position and influence.

If thus fortunate in these respects, he was even more so in his family. He had ten children--four sons and six daughters: all reached maturity, and

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constituted one of the comeliest groups I have ever known. The girls all married, save one: three of the sons--among the handsome men of their time--professed bachelorism; a proof of what all shrewd observers know, that handsome men, spontaneously enjoying the smiles of the sex, feel no need of resigning their liberty, while ugly men are forced to capitulate on bended knees, and accept the severe conditions of matrimony, as the only happy issue out of their solitude. One only, Rufus H. King, of Albany, whom I have already mentioned, took upon, himself the honors of wedlock. All these persons possessed that happy balance of good sense, good feelings, good looks, and good manners, which insures success and respectability in life. Is not such a family history worthy of being recorded in this book of the chronicles of Ridgefield?