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

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LETTER XI.

Up-town and Downtown--East End and West End--Master Stebbins--A Model Schoolmaster--The School-house--Administration of the School--Zeek Sanford--Schoolrooms--Arithmetic--History--Grammar--Anecdote of G.... H......--Country Schools of New England in these Days--Master Stebbins's Scholars.

My dear C******

Ridgefield, as well as most other places, had its Up-town and Down-town--terms which have not unfrequently been the occasion of serious divisions in the affairs of Church and State. In London this distinction takes the name of West End and the City. The French philosophers say that every great capital has similar divisions--West End being always the residence of the aristocracy and East End of the canaille. They affirm that it is not only so in fact as to London, Paris, Vienna, and other capitals of the present day, but that it was so in Rome, Athens, Babylon, and Nineveh of old. This they explain by a general law, pervading all countries and all ages, which establishes a current of air from west to east, thus ventilating and purifying the one, and charging the other with the fuliginous vapors of a crowded population. Hence, they say that not only cities must have their West End and East End, but that houses should be built on the same principle--the parlor to the west and the kitchen to the east. This

is surely laying deep the foundations of the patrician and plebeian divisions of society.

Whether our great American cities furnish any support to this ingenious theory, I leave to be determined by the philosophers. I shall only venture to remark that Ridgefield, being a village, had a right to follow its own whim, and therefore West Lane, instead of being the aristocratic end of the place, was really rather the low end. It constituted in fact what was called Down-town, in distinction from the more eastern and northern section, called Up-town. In this latter portion, and about the middle of the main street, was the Up-town school, the leading seminary of the village, for at this period it had not arrived at the honors of an academy. At the age of ten years I was sent here, the institution being then, and many years after, under the charge of Master Stebbins. He was a man with a conciliating stoop in the shoulders, a long body, short legs, and a swaying walk. He was, at this period, some fifty years old, his hair being thin and silvery, and always falling in well-combed rolls, over his coat-collar. His eye was blue, and his dress invariably of the same color. Breeches and knee-buckles, blue-mixed stockings, and shoes with bright buckles, seemed as much a part of the man as his head and shoulders. On the whole, his appearance was that of the middle-class gentleman of the olden time, and he was in fact what he seemed.

This seminary of learning for the rising aristocracy of Ridgefield was a wooden edifice, thirty by twenty feet, covered with brown, clapboards, and except an entry, consisted of a single room. Around, and against the walls ran a continuous line of seats, fronted by a continuous writing-desk. Beneath, were depositories for books and writing materials. The center was occupied by slab seats, similar to those of West Lane. The larger scholars were ranged on the outer sides, at the desks; the smaller fry of a-b-c-darians were seated in the center. The master was enshrined on the east side of the room, contrary, be it remembered, to the law of the French savans, which places dominion invariably in the west. Regular as the sun, Master Stebbins was in his seat at nine o'clock, and the performances of the school began.

According to the Catechism--which, by the way, we learned and recited on Saturday--the chief end of man was to glorify God and keep his commandments: according to the routine of this school, one would have thought it to be reading, writing, and arithmetic, to which we may add spelling. From morning to night, in all weathers, through every season of the year, these exercises were carried on with the energy, patience, and perseverance of a manufactory.

Master Stebbins respected his calling: his heart was in his work; and so, what he pretended to teach, he taught well. When I entered the school, I found

that a huge stride had been achieved in the march of mind since I had left West Lane. Webster's Spelling-book had taken the place of Dilworth, which was a great improvement. The drill in spelling was very thorough, and applied every day to the whole school. I imagine that the exercises might have been amusing to a stranger, especially as one scholar would sometimes go off in a voice as grum as that of a bull-frog, while another would follow in tones as fine and piping as a peet-weet. The blunders, too, were often ineffably ludicrous; even we children would sometimes have tittered, had not such an enormity been certain to have brought out the birch. As to rewards and punishments, the system was this: whoever missed went down; so that perfection mounted to the top. Here was the beginning of the up and down of life.

Reading was performed in classes, which generally plodded on without a hint from the master. Nevertheless, when Zeek Sanford*--who was said to have a streak of lightning in him--in his haste to be smart,

read the 37th verse of the 2d chapter of the Acts--"Now when, they heard this, they were pickled in their heart"--the birch stick on Master Stebbins's table seemed to quiver and peel at the little end, as if to give warning of the wrath to come. When Orry Keeler--Orry was a girl, you know, and not a boy--drawled out in spelling: k--o--n, kon, s--h--u--n--t--s, shunts, konshunts--the bristles in the master's eyebrows fidgeted like Aunt Delight's knitting-needles. Occasionally, when the reading was insupportably bad, he took a book and read himself, as an example.

We were taught arithmetic in Daboll, then a new book, and which, being adapted to our measures of length, weight, and currency, was a prodigious leap over the head of poor old Dilworth, whose rules and examples were modeled upon English customs. In consequence of the general use of Dilworth in our schools, for perhaps a century--pounds, shillings, and pence were classical, and dollars and cents vulgar, for several succeeding generations. "I would not give a penny for it," was genteel; "I would not give a cent for it," was plebeian. We have not yet got over this: we sometimes say red cent in familiar parlance, but it can hardly be put in print without offense.

Master Stebbins was a great man with a slate and pencil, and I have an idea that we were a generation after his own heart. We certainly achieved wonders according to our own conceptions, some of us going

even beyond the Rule of Three, and making forays into the mysterious region of Vulgar Fractions. Several daring geniuses actually entered and took possession.

But after all, penmanship was Master Stebbins's great accomplishment. He had no magniloquent system; no pompous lessons upon single lines and bifid lines, and the like. The revelations of inspired copy-book makers had not then been vouchsafed to man. He could not cut an American eagle with a single flourish of a goose-quill. He was guided by good taste and native instinct, and wrote a smooth round hand, like copper-plate. His lessons from A to &, all written by himself, consisted of pithy proverbs and useful moral lessons. On every page of our writing-books he wrote the first line himself. The effect was what might have been expected--with such models, patiently enforced, nearly all became good writers.

Beyond these simple elements, the Up-town school made few pretensions. When I was there, two Webster's Grammars and one or two Dwight's Geographies were in use. The latter was without maps or illustrations, and was in fact little more than an expanded table of contents, taken from Morse's Universal Geography--the mammoth monument of American learning and genius of that age and generation. The grammar was a clever book; but I have an idea that neither Master Stebbins nor his pupils ever fathomed its

depths. They floundered about in it, as if in a quagmire, and after some time came out pretty nearly where they went in, though perhaps a little obfuscated by the dim and dusky atmosphere of these labyrinths.

The fact undoubtedly is, that the art of teaching, as now understood, beyond the simplest elements, was neither known nor deemed necessary in our country schools in their day of small things. Repetition, drilling, line upon line, and precept upon precept, with here and there a little of the birch--constituted the entire system.

James G. Carter* had not then begun the series of publications, which laid the foundation of the great movement in school education, which afterward pervaded New England. "Bring up a child in the way in which he should go," was the principle; the practice regarded this way as straight and narrow--somewhat like a gun-barrel--and the scholar as a bullet, who was to go ahead, whether he had to encounter a pine board or an oak knot. In climbing up the steep ascent to knowledge, he was expected to rely upon his own genius; a kindly, helping hand along the rough and dubious passages, was rarely extended to him. "Do this!" said the master, with his eye bent on the ferule, and generally the pupil did it, if the matter related to the simpler school

exercises. But when you came to grammar--that was quite another thing.

Let me here repeat an anecdote, which I have indeed told before, but which I had from the lips of its hero, G... H..., a clergyman of some note thirty years ago, and which well illustrates this part of my story. At a village school, not many miles from Ridgefield, he was put into Webster's Grammar. Here he read, "A noun is the name of a thing--as horse, hair, justice." Now, in his innocence, he read it thus: "A noun is the name of a thing--as horse-hair justice."

"What then," said he, ruminating deeply, "is a noun? But first I must find out what a horse-hair justice is."

Upon this he meditated for some days, but still he was as far as ever from the solution. Now his father was a man of authority in those parts, and moreover he was a justice of the peace. Withal, he was of respectable ancestry, and so there had descended to him a somewhat stately high-backed settee, covered with horse-hair. One day, as the youth came from school, pondering upon the great grammatical problem, he entered the front door of the house, and there he saw before him, his father, officiating in his legal capacity, and seated upon the old horse-hair settee. "I have found it!" said the boy to himself, as greatly delighted as was Archimedes when he exclaimed Eureka--"my father is a horse-hair justice, and therefore a noun!"

Nevertheless, it must be admitted that the world got on remarkably well in spite of this narrowness of the country schools. The elements of an English education were pretty well taught throughout the village seminaries of Connecticut, and I may add, of New England. The teachers were heartily devoted to their profession: they respected their calling, and were respected and encouraged by the community. They had this merit, that while they attempted but little, that, at least, was thoroughly performed.

As to the country at large, it was a day of quiet, though earnest action: Franklin's spirit was the great "schoolmaster abroad"--teaching industry, perseverance, frugality, and thrift, as the end and aim of ambition. The education of youth was suited to what was expected of them. With the simple lessons of the country schools, they moved the world immediately around them. Though I can recollect only a single case--that already alluded to of Ezekiel Sanford--in which one of Master Stebbins's scholars attained any degree of literary distinction, still, quite a number of them, with no school learning beyond what he gave them, rose to a certain degree of eminence. His three sons obtained situations in New York as accountants, and became distinguished in their career. At one period there were three graduates of his school, who were cashiers of banks in that city. My mind adverts now with great satisfac-

tion to several names among the wealthy, honorable, and still active merchants of the great metropolis, who were my fellow-students of the Up-town school, and who there began and completed their education. I will venture to name another--Rufus H. King, of Albany, who was my competitor in every study, and my friend in every play. May I not be permitted to add that he has ever been, and still is, my friend? As a man, he is precisely what he promised to be as Master Stebbins's pupil. I know he will excuse me for thus speaking of him in behalf of our revered old schoolmaster, to whose character and memory I can inscribe no more worthy monument than this reference to his pupils.

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LETTER XII.

Horsemanship--Bige's Adventures--A Dead Shot--A Race--Academical Honors-- Charles Chatterbox--My Father's School--My Exercises in Latin--Tityre tu patulæ, etc.--Rambles--Literary Aspirations--My Mother--Family Worship--Standing and Kneeling at Prayer--Anecdotes--Our Philistine Temple.

My dear C******

Permit me a few more details as to my school-day recollections. I went steadily to the Up-town school for three winters, being occupied during the summers upon the farm, and in various minor duties.

I was a great deal on horseback, often, carrying messages to the neighboring towns of Reading, Wilton, Weston, and Lower Salem, for then the post-routes were few, and the mails, which were weekly, crept like snails over hill and valley. I became a bold rider at an early age; before I was eight years old, I frequently ventured to put a horse to his speed, and that, too, without a saddle. A person who has never tried it, can hardly conceive of the wild delight of riding a swift horse--when he lays down his ears, tosses his tail in air, and stretches himself out in a full race. The change which the creature undergoes, in passing from an ordinary gait into a ran, is felt by the rider to be a kind of sudden inspiration, which triumphs like wings over the dull, dragging laws of gravitation. The intense energy of the beast's movements, the rush of the air, the swimming backward of lands, houses, and trees, with the clattering thunder of the hoofs--all convey to the rider a fierce ecstasy, which, perhaps, nothing else can give. About this period, however, I received a lesson, which lasted me a lifetime.

You must know that Deacon Benedict, one of our neighbors, had a fellow living with him, named Abijah. He was an adventurous youth, and more than once led me into tribulation. I remember that on one occasion I went with him to shoot a dog that was said to worry the deacon's sheep. It was night, and dark as Egypt, but Bige said he could see the

creature, close to the cow-house, back of the barn. He banged away, and then jumped over the fence, to pick up the game. After a time he came back, but said not a word. Next morning it was found that he had shot the brindled cow; mistaking a white spot in her forehead for the dog, he had taken deadly aim, and put the whole charge into her pate. Fortunately her skull was thick and the shot small, so the honest creature was only a little cracked. Bige, however, was terribly scolded by the deacon, who was a justice of the peace, and had a deep sense of the importance of his duties. I came in for a share of blame, though I was only a looker-on. Bige said the deacon called me a "parsnip scrimmage," but more probably it was a particeps criminis.

But to proceed. One day I was taking home from the pasture, a horse that belonged to some clergyman--I believe Dr. Ripley, of Greensfarms. Just as I came upon the level ground in front of Jerry Mead's old house, Bige came up behind me on the deacon's mare--an ambling brute with a bushy tail and shaggy mane. As he approached, he gave a chirrup, and my horse, half in fright and half in fun, bounded away, like Tam O'Shanter's mare. Every hair in the creature's tail and mane stood out, as if spinning with electricity. Away we went, I holding on as well as I could, for the animal was round as a barrel. He was no doubt used to a frolic of this sort, although he belonged to a D. D., and looked as if he believed in total deprav-

ity. When he finally broke into a run, he flew like the wind, at the same time bounding up and down with a tearing energy, quite frightful to think of. After a short race, he went from under me, and I came with a terrible shock to the ground.

The breath was knocked out of me for some seconds, and as I recovered it with a gasping effort, my sensations were indescribably agonizing. Greatly humbled, and sorely bruised, I managed to get home, where the story of my adventure had preceded me. I was severely lectured by my parents, which, however, I might have forgotten, had not the concussion entered into my bones, and made an indelible impression upon my memory, thus perpetuating the wholesome counsel.

When I was about twelve years old, a man by the name of Sackett was employed to keep a high-school, or, as it was then called, an Academy. Here I went irregularly for a few weeks, and at a public exhibition I remember to have spoken a piece upon a stage fitted up in the meeting-house, entitled "Charles Chatterbox." Irad Hawley, Rufus H. King, and Sally Ingersoll, played Hagar and Ishmael. This was the substance of my achievements at Sackett's seminary.

The narrowness of my father's income, and the needs of a large family, induced him to take half a dozen pupils to be fitted for college. This he continued for a series of years. Some of his scholars

came from New Haven, some from Danbury, and some from other places. I may remark, in passing, that a number of these---some of whom are still living--distinguished themselves in various liberal pursuits. It might seem natural that I should have shared in these advantages; but, in the first place, my only and elder brother, Charles A. Goodrich--now widely known by his numerous useful publications--had been destined for the clerical profession, partly by his own predilection, partly by encouragement from a relative, and portly too from an idea that his somewhat delicate constitution forbade a more hardy career. To this may doubtless be added the natural desire of his parents that at least one of their sons should follow the honored calling to which father, grandfather, and great-grandfather had been, devoted. Hence, he was put in training for college. The expenses to be thus incurred were formidable enough to my parents, without adding to them, by attempting any thing of the kind for me. And besides, I had manifested no love of study, and evidently preferred action to books. Moreover, it must be remembered that I was regarded as a born carpenter, and it would have seemed a tempting of Providence to have set me upon any other career. So, with perfect content on my part, from the age of twelve to fourteen, I was chiefly employed in active services about the house and farm. I could read, write, and cipher; this was sufficient for my ambi-

tion and satisfactory to my parents, in view of the life to which I was apparently destined.

Nevertheless, though, my school exercises were such as I have described, I doubtless gathered some little odds and ends of learning about those days, beyond the range of my horn-books. I heard a good deal of conversation from the clergymen who visited us, and above all, I listened to the long discourses of Lieutenant Smith upon matters and things in general. My father, too, had a brother in Congress, from whom he received letters, documents, and messages, all of which became subjects of discussion. I remember furthermore, that out of some childish imitation, I thumbed over Corderius and Erasmus--the first Latin books, then constantly in the hands of my father's pupils. I was so accustomed to hear them recite their lessons in Virgil, that

Tityre tu patulæ sub tegmine fagi--

and

Arma, arms--virumque, and the man--cano, I sing--

were as familiar to my ears as hillery, tillery, zachery zan, and probably conveyed to my mind about as much meaning. Even the first lesson in Greek--

was also among the cabalistic jingles in my memory. All this may seem nothing as a matter of education; still, some years after, while I was an appren-

tice in Hartford, feeling painfully impressed with the scantiness of my knowledge, I borrowed some Latin school-books, under the idea of attempting to master that language. To my delight and surprise, I found that they seemed familiar to me. Thus encouraged, I began, and bending steadily over my task at evening, when my day's duties were over, I made my way nearly through the Latin Grammar and the first two books of Virgil's Æneid. In my poverty of knowledge, even these acquisitions became useful to me.

From the age of twelve to fifteen, in the midst of my activity, I still lived largely upon dreams. Nothing could be more ludicrous than the extravagance of these, except it might be their vividness and seeming reality, in contrast to all the probabilities of my condition. Though generally occupied in the various tasks assigned me, I still found a good deal of time to ramble over the country. Whole days I spent in the long, lonesome lanes that wound between Ridgefield and Salem; in the half-cultivated, half-wooded hills that lay at the foot of West Mountain, and in the deep recesses of the wild and rugged regions beyond. I frequently climbed to the top of the cliffs and ridges that rose one above another, and having gained the crown of the mountain, cast long and wistful glances over the blue vale that stretched out for many miles to the westward. I had always my gun in hand, and though not insensible to any sport that might fall in my way, I was more

absorbed in the fancies that came thronging to my imagination. I had a love of solitary and even desolate scenes: there seemed to be in me an appetite that found satisfaction in the wild and precipitous passes of the wilderness. This, after an absence of a few weeks, would return like hunger and thirst, and I felt a longing for the places which appeased it. Thus I became familiar with the whole country around, and especially with the shaded glens and gorges of West Mountain. I must add that these had, besides their native, savage charms, a sort of fascination from being the residence of a strange woman, who had devoted herself to solitude, and was known under the name of the Hermitess. This personage--whom I shall hereafter describe more particularly--I had occasionally seen in our village, and I frequently met her as she glided through the forests, while I was pursuing my mountain rambles. I sometimes felt a strange thrill as she passed, but this only seemed to render the recesses where she dwelt still more inviting.

Of all the seasons, autumn was to me the most pleasing. Even late in November, when the leaves had fallen and were driven about in eddies by the hollow winds--the tall trees creaking and moaning aloft--the remote and solitary wilds had their fascination. There was in me certainly none of the misanthropic feeling which made Byron fall in love with such scenes. Nevertheless, some passages in

Childe Harold, which appeared a few years after, described the emotions I then experienced, and gave full expression to the struggling but imprisoned thoughts which filled my bosom. It is one of the highest offices of the poet to furnish words for the deep, yet unspoken poetry of the soul. Certainly no language of mine can express the delight with which I have read and re-read the following stanza, and which has ever seemed to me like unsealing a mystic fountain in my bosom--that has since flowed on in a stream of pleasing associations.

      "To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
      To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
      Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
      And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been--
      To climb the trackless mountain, all unseen,
      With the wild flock that never needs a fold--
      Alone o'er steeps and pouring falls to lean:
      This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold
Converse with nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'd."

I must repeat that however much I was attracted by these wild and lonesome scenes, and however I may have felt a tinge of melancholy in my solitary walks, I had no feeling of unhappiness, no oppressive sense of isolation, no anxiety, no ennui. It is true that at such times, there came to me scraps of solemn poetry from Milton, Young, and Watts, of which my mother's mind was full, and which she loved to repeat. These broke in snatches upon my memory, and

served as lightning-rods to conduct to my lips some of the burning emotions of my breast. I remember often to have repeated them, half aloud, while I was in the woods, though doubtless without having any very exact appreciation of their meaning, or the slightest regard to any fitness of application. I could not then write a reliable line of sense or grammar; still, among my fancies I planned poems, and even dreamed of literary fame. Such I was in fact to my own consciousness, while at the same time I was regarded by all around as a rather thoughtless, though happy boy, with a genius for whittling.

I have no doubt that I inherited from my mother a love of the night side of nature--not a love that begets melancholy, but an appetite that found pleasure in the shadows as well as the lights of life and imagination. Eminently practical as she was--laborious, skillful, and successful in the duties which Providence had assigned her, as the head of a large family, with narrow means--she was still of a poetic temperament. Her lively fancy was vividly set forth by a pair of the finest eyes I have ever seen--dark and serious, yet tender and sentimental. These bespoke not only the vigor of her conceptions, but the melancholy tinge that shaded her imagination. Sometimes indeed the well of sadness in her heart became full, and it ran over in tears. These, however, were like spring showers--brief in duration, and afterward brightening to all around. She was not the only woman who

has felt better after a good cry. It was, in fact, a poetic, not a real sorrow, that thus excited her emotions, for her prevailing humor abounded in wit and vivacity, not unfrequently taking the hue of playful satire. Nevertheless, her taste craved the pathetic, the mournful--not as a bitter medicine, but a spicy condiment. Her favorite poets were King David and Dr. Watts: she preferred the dirge-like melody of Windham to all other music. All the songs she sang were minors. Alas! how few are now living to verify this feeble portrait--among the cloud of witnesses who would once have testified to the general, though inadequate resemblance!

You will gather from what I have said that my father not only prayed in his family night and morning; but before breakfast, and immediately after the household was assembled, he always read a chapter in the sacred volume. In our family Bible it is recorded that he thus read that holy book through, in course, thirteen times, in the space of about five and twenty years. He was an excellent reader, having a remarkably clear, frank, hearty voice, so that I was deeply interested, and thus early became familiar with almost every portion of the Old and New Testament. The narrative passages seized most readily upon my attention, and formed the greater part of my early knowledge. The direct, simple style of the Bible entered into my heart, and became for a long time my standard of taste in literary composition. It cost

me a real struggle, long afterward, to relish the magniloquence of such writers as Johnson, despite the smack of Latin and Greek in its composition, and the ponderous force of thought which, it conveyed.

The practice of family worship, as I before stated, was at this time very general in New England. In Ridgefield, it was not altogether confined to the strictly religious--to clergymen, deacons, and church members. It was a custom which decency hardly allowed to be omitted. No family was thought to go on well without it. There is a good story which well describes this trait of manners.

Somewhere in Vermont, in this golden age, there was a widow by the name of Bennett. In consequence of the death of her husband, the charge of a large farm and an ample household devolved upon her. Her husband had been a pious man, and all things had prospered with him. His widow, alike from religious feeling and affectionate regard for his memory, desired that every thing should be conducted as much as possible as it had been during his lifetime. Especially did she wish the day to begin and close with family worship.

Now she had a foreman on the farm by the name of Ward. He was a good man for work, but faith had not yet touched his lips, much less his heart. In vain did the widow, in admitting his merits at the plow, the scythe, and the flail, still urge him to crown her wishes by leading in family prayer. For a long

time the heart of the man was hard, and his ear deaf to her entreaties. At last, however, wearied with her importunities, he seemed to change, and to her great joy, consented to make a trial.

On a bright morning in June--at early sunrise--the family were all assembled in the parlor, men and maidens, for their devotions. When all was ready, Ward, in a low, troubled voice, began. He had never prayed--or at least not in public--but he had heard many prayers, and possessed a retentive memory. After getting over the first hesitancy, he soon became fluent, and taking passages here and there from, the various petitions he had heard--Presbyterian, Methodist, Universalist, and Episcopalian--he went on with great eloquence, gradually elevating his tone and accelerating his delivery. Ere long his voice grew portentous, and some of the men and maids, thinking he was suddenly taken either mad or inspired, stole out on their toes into the kitchen, where, with gaping mouths, they awaited the result. The Widow Bennett bore it all for about half an hour; but at last, as the precious time was passing away, she lost patience, and sprang to her feet. Placing herself directly in front of the speaker, she exclaimed, "Ward, what do you mean?"

As if suddenly relieved from a nightmare, he exclaimed, "Oh dear, ma'am--I'm much obliged to you--for I couldn't contrive to wind off."

I hope you will not feel that this anecdote par-

takes of a license unworthy of these annals, for as you see, it lias an historical foundation, as well as a practical moral. I regret to leave a doubt in regard to one of the details, and that is, that I have not been able to determine whether on this occasion the family stood up, leaning over the backs of their chairs, or knelt before the seats. The former was the custom in my younger days, Puritanism perhaps not having overcome the fear of imitating the soul-endangering practices of prelacy, whether belonging to Mother Church of England or the Scarlet Lady of Rome. Perhaps, too, the fatigue of standing was deemed an acceptable sacrifice: I say fatigue, for in those days, men gifted in prayer were like the ocean--so deep in spots that it required a very long line to reach the bottom. Deacon Cooke, of Danbury, a very sensible and pious man, by the way, once said that he did not believe the spirit of prayer could be sustained, on ordinary occasions, for more than five minutes at a time. This, however, was rank heresy then, and was not understood or approved till fifty years after. Granther Baldwin was a better representative of the age I am speaking of: beginning at the Creation, and coming down to the Fall, he would go on through Babel, Babylon, and Balaam, the landing of the Pilgrims, Braddock's defeat, and the Declaration of Independence. These things, added to local matters, usually consumed half an hour at the evening exercises. After a hard day's work--especially in summer time

--it required a strong understanding to endure it. John Benedict, then paying his addresses to Betsey Baldwin, whom he afterward married, one night fell asleep over his chair, at prayer-time, and pitching forward against Granther Baldwin, overturned both him and his devotions. John barely escaped being forbidden ever to enter the. house again; indeed, he stayed away some weeks, and only returned upon Betsey's going after him.

This happened near the beginning of the present century: some five and twenty years later, kneeling at family prayers had become common in Connecticut. A similar change had also begun in meetinghouse worship. At the present time, it is common for people in Congregational churches even, to kneel at prayer-time. I am not able to state, authoritatively, the reason for this change, though I presume, as just intimated, it has arisen from the gradual wearing away of the Puritan prejudice against kneeling. If this be correct, it indicates an important fact, which is, that sectarian differences, especially those of mere form, have greatly subsided of late years. It is in respect to these, that there have been the most bitter contentions; the movement here noticed has, therefore, in all its bearings, the significance of a real reform.

It is stated that when the first Congress assembled at Philadelphia, September, 1774, the members, duly impressed with the solemnity of the occasion, nat-

urally desired the aid of religious exercises, and therefore the appointment of a chaplain was proposed. But considering that the persons present were of various creeds, it was feared that they could not unite in the choice of a clergyman to fulfill the duties of such an office. The difficulty was, however, happily removed by Samuel Adams, of Massachusetts, who, although, a rigid Congregationalist, proposed the appointment of an Episcopalian, and Dr. Duchè, a popular preacher of Philadelphia, was immediately chosen. It must have been an interesting scene--a minister, bound to forms, finding extemporaneous words to suit the occasion, and the Quaker, the Presbyterian, the Episcopalian, and the Rationalist--some kneeling, some standing, but all praying, and looking to Heaven for wisdom and counsel, in this hour of doubt, anxiety, and responsibility. Here is a worthy subject* for the pencil of Weir, Powell, Huntington, Healy, Page, Terry, Rossiter, or some other of our historical painters. Adams and Sherman, the Puritans, standing erect; Thompson, the Quaker, finding the movement of the Spirit in the words of a consecrated priest; with Washington, Henry, and other Episcopalians, kneeling, according to their creed, and all invoking wisdom from above--would make a touching and instructive picture. Its moral would be, that

the greatest minds, in moments of difficulty and danger, acknowledge their dependence upon God, and feel the necessity of elevating and purifying their hearts by prayer; and that the differences of sect, the distinctions of form, all vanish when emergency presses upon the consciences of men, and forces them to a sincere and open avowal of their convictions.

In looking back to this period, and remembering the impassable gulfs that lay between Christian sects, it is gratifying to observe what is now witnessed every Sabbath in our principal cities--the Episcopalian, while maintaining his creed and his forms, still receiving to his communion-table the Presbyterian, the Methodist, the Congregationalist, the Unitarian, the Universalist--all who profess to be followers of Christ, while these sectarians exercise a similar charity in return. Is not this progress--is not this reform? How much is meant by these simple facts--the communion-table of Christ extended; the heart of man expanded, purified, ennobled!

I must not pass over another incident in my memory, and having reference to the topic in hand. Under the biblical influence of these days, my father's scholars built a temple of the Philistines, and when it was completed within and without, all the children round about assembled, as did the Gazaites of old. The edifice was chiefly of boards, slenderly constructed, and reached the height of twelve feet; nevertheless, all of us got upon it, according to the 16th

chapter of Judges. The oldest of the scholars played Samson. When all was ready, he took hold of the pillars of the temple--one with his right hand and one with his left. "Let me die with the Philistines!" said he, and bowing himself, down we came in a heap! Strange to say, nobody but Samson was hurt, and he only in some skin bruises. If you could see him now--dignified even to solemnity, and seldom condescending to any but the gravest matters--you would scarcely believe the story, even though I write it and verify it. Nevertheless, if he must have played, he should have taken the part of Samson, for he is one of the most gifted men I have ever known.

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LETTER XIII.

My Father's Library--Children's Books--The New England, Primer and Westminster Catechism--Toy Books--Nursery Books--Moral Effect of these--Hannah More's Moral Repository--The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain--Visit to Barley-wood--First Idea of the Parley Books--Impressions of Big Books and Little Books--A Comparison of the Old Book and the New Books for Children and Youth--A Modern Juvenile Bookstore in Broadway.

My dear C******

You will readily comprehend from what I have said, that up to the age of ten or twelve years, I had made little acquaintance with literature. Beyond my school-books, I had read almost nothing.

My father had a considerable library, but it consisted mostly of theology, a great deal of it in Latin, and in large folios. Into such a forbidding mass, I never penetrated, save only that I sometimes dipped into a big volume, which happened to be in large print. This was in English, and was, I suspect, some discussion of Calvin's Five Points; still it attracted my attention, and sometimes, especially of a rainy day, when I could hear the big drops thump upon the shingles over my head--for the library was in the second loft, and led by an open stairway to the attic--I read whole pages of this book aloud, spelling out the large words as well as I could. I did not understand a sentence of it, but I was fascinated with the fair large type. This circumstance I have never forgotten, and it should not be overlooked by those who make books for children, for in this case, I was but a representative of others of my age.

It is difficult now, in this era of literary affluence, almost amounting to surfeit, to conceive of the poverty of books suited to children in the days of which I write. Except the New England Primer--the main contents of which were the Westminster Catechism--and some rhymes, embellished with hideous cuts of Adam's Fall, in which "we sinned all;" the apostle and a cock crowing at his side, to show that "Peter denies his Lord and cries;" Nebuchadnezzar crawling about like a hog, the bristles sticking out of his back, and the like--I remember none that were in general use

among my companions. When I was about ten years old, my father brought from Hartford, Gaffer Ginger, Goody Two Shoes, and some of the rhymes and jingles, now collected under the name of Mother Goose,--with perhaps a few other toy books of that day. These were a revelation. Of course I read them, but I must add with no real relish.

Somewhat later one of my companions lent me a volume containing the stories of Little Red Riding Hood, Puss in Boots, Blue Beard, Jack the Giant-killer, and some other of the tales of horror, commonly put into the hands of youth, as if for the express purpose of reconciling them to vice and crime. Some children, no doubt, have a ready appetite for these monstrosities, but to others they are revolting, until by repetition and familiarity, the taste is sufficiently degraded to relish them. At all events, they were shocking to me. Even Little Red Riding Hood, though it seized strongly upon my imagination, excited in me the most painful impressions. I believed it to be true; at least it was told with the air of truth, and I regarded it as a picture of life. I imagined that what happened to the innocent child of the cottage, might happen to me and to others, I recollect, while the impression was fresh in my mind, that on going to bed, I felt a creeping horror come over me, as the story recurred to my imagination. As I dwelt upon it, I soon seemed to see the hideous jaws of a wolf coming out of the bedclothes, and approach-

ing as if to devour me. My disposition was not timid, but the reverse; yet at last I became so excited, that my mother was obliged to tell me that the story was a mere fiction.

"It is not true, then?" said I.

"No," said my mother, "it is not true."

"Why do they tell such, falsehoods, then?" I replied.

"They are not falsehoods, because they are not intended to deceive. They are mere tales invented to amuse children."

"Well, they don't amuse me!"

I do not remember the rest of the conversation: this general impression, however, remained on my mind, that children's books were either full of nonsense, like "hie diddle diddle" in Mother Goose, or full of something very like lies, and those very shocking to the mind, like Little Red Riding Hood. From that time my interest in them was almost wholly lost. I had read Puss in Boots, but that seemed to me without meaning, unless it was to teach us that a Good Genius may cheat, lie, and steal; in other words, that in order to show gratitude to a friend, we may resort to every kind of meanness and fraud. I never liked cats, and to make one of that race--sly, thieving, and bloodthirsty by instinct--the personification of virtue, inclined me, so far as the story produced any moral effect, to hate virtue itself.

The story of Blue Beard made a stronger and still

more painful impression upon me. Though I knew it to be a fiction, it was still in some sort a reality to me. His castle, with its hideous chamber hung with the ghastly corpses of his murdered wives, was more a living truth in my imagination, than any fact in history or geography. In spite of my efforts to cast it out, it remained with all its horrors--a dreadful burden upon my mind.

Still worse was the story of Jack the Giant-killer. He, too, was a good genius, but of course--according to the taste of this species of composition--a great liar. One should feel sympathy with such a gallant little fellow, especially in combatting giants like Blunderbore, whose floor was covered with human skulls, and whose daintiest food consisted of "men's hearts, seasoned with pepper and vinegar!" Surely--such is the moral of the tale--we must learn to forgive, nay, to love and approve, wickedness--lying, deception, and murder--when they are employed for good and beneficent purposes! At least, the weak may use any weapons against the strong: the little may conspire against the great; and in such a contest, all weapons are lawful and laudable.

How far this supper of horrors familiarized my own mind with violence, and thus defaced that moral sense, which is common in children--leading them to prefer the good, the true, and the beautiful, if it be duly cherished--I cannot venture to say. How far this potent but wicked logic of example, this argument

of action--vividly wrought into the imagination and the mind--in favor of meanness, deception, and crime served to abate the natural love of truth and honor in my bosom, I do not pretend to conjecture. Doubtless, I suffered less, because my taste was shocked; still, the "evil communications" were in my soul. Had it not been for the constant teaching of rectitude, by precept and example, in the conduct of my parents, I might, to say the least, nave been seriously injured. In looking back, and judging of the matter now, I believe it would certainly have been so. As it was, these things were fearful temptations, and I am convinced that much of the vice and crime in the world are to be imputed to these atrocious books put into the hands of children, and bringing them down, with more or less efficiency, to their own debased moral standard.

That such tales should be invented and circulated in a barbarous age, I can easily conceive; that they should even be acceptable to the coarse tastes and rude feelings of society, where all around is a system of wrong, duplicity, and violence, is not a matter of surprise. But that they should be put into the hands of children, and by Christian parents, and that too in an age of light and refinement--excites in me the utmost wonder.

The common opinion, no doubt, is, that they are at least amusing; that at the same time they are too improbable on the very face to carry with them any

moral effect. This is a double mistake. The love of the horrible, the monstrous, the grotesque, is not indigenous to the youthful mind--unless it may he in certain anomalous cases. There are children, as I have said, who seem to be born with a proclivity to evil. There are others, who, from the unhappy influence of malign example, seem to show an early development of debased tastes. But in general the child revolts at these things, and it is not till it is broken in by repetition, till it is reconciled by familiarity, that it begins to crave them. A child loves at once a kitten, a chicken, a doll--the innocent semblances of itself; but will usually fly into a passion of repugnance at the sight of any thing monstrous in nature or art.

The idea that familiarity with crime is harmless, is equally at variance with experience. The Bible is full of warnings against the deadly effect of bad ideas communicated by example. Common sense--the first instinct of reason--tells us not to take children into scenes of crime and bloodshed, unless we wish to debase them. There is little difference, as to moral effect upon children, between things real, and things imaginary. All that is strongly conceived by the young, is reality to them. The tale of Jack the Giant-killer in the book, is very much the same as would be the incidents of the story acted out at the theater, or the reality performed before the eye. In all these cases, it fills the mind with evil, and commends

evil, by inevitable influence. Is it not leading children into fearful temptation, to put such works as these into their hands? It will be understood that I am here speaking more particularly of nursery books. These, from the impressibility of young children, and from the fact that the judgment is not yet developed and exercises little control over the mind--produce a most powerful effect. Yet it is only for such that the books referred to have been framed, as if, in a diabolical spirit of mischief, at once to deprave the taste, and degrade the intellect of childhood.

At a somewhat later date--that is, when I was about twelve years old--I read Robinson Crusoe, which greatly delighted me. The work had about a dozen engravings, in which Crusoe and his man Friday were depicted somewhat like two black spiders: nevertheless, my imagination endued them with, charms equal to those of Heath's Book of Beauty in after times. About this period, I met with Alphonso and Dalinda, a translation of one of Madame de Genlis' Tales of the Castle. I have never seen it since, but I judge by its effect upon my imagination, that it must be written with great skill and knowledge of the youthful mind. The manner in which a series of romantic and wonderful incidents are philosophically explained, seemed to me exceedingly felicitous, and certainly gave me my first glimpses of some of the more curious marvels of Natural History and Natural Philosophy.

From this point I made my way into works designed for adults, and now began to read voyages, travels, and histories. Thus a new world was within my reach, though as yet I did not realize it. About this time I met with Hannah More's Moral Repository, which, so far as I recollect, was the first work that I read with real enthusiasm. That I devoured. The story of the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain was to me only inferior to the Bible narrative of Joseph and his brethren. Twenty years after, I enjoyed the pleasure, I might almost say ecstasy, of passing over the scene of this inimitable story, and of telling my experience to the author at Barley-wood. It was in conversation with that amiable and gifted person, that I first formed the conception of the Parley Tales--the general idea of which was to make nursery books reasonable and truthful, and thus to feed the young mind upon things wholesome and pure, instead of things monstrous, false, and pestilent: that we should use the same prudence in giving aliment to the mind and soul, as to the body; and as we would not give blood and poison as food for the latter, we should not administer cruelty and violence, terror and impurity, to the other. In short, that the elements of nursery books should consist of beauty instead of deformity, goodness instead of wickedness, decency instead of vulgarity.

So far as I can recollect, the work just alluded to first gave me a taste for reading, and awakened my

mind to some comprehension of the amazing scope and power of books. I had heard the Bible read from beginning to end, and the narrative portions had attracted my attention and deeply interested me. I had heard scraps of poetry and passages of prose, quoted and recited by my mother and my sisters older than myself and who had been well educated, mostly at New Haven. I had heard abundance of learned conversation among doctors of divinity and doctors of laws, who, with others, visited my father's house; and finally I had heard the disquisitions, historical, biblical, and philosophical, of our profound and erudite village oracle, Lieutenant Smith; yet I do not recollect to have discovered, before this time, that books contained inexhaustible sources of instruction and amusement, and all within my own reach. I had listened to what I heard, though often impatiently, and doubtless I had picked up and pocketed, here and there, an idea. Such, however, had been the course of my life, or such was my disposition, or such the books that had fallen into my hands, that I regarded big books as tasks, proper for the learned, but not fit for such as me; and little books as nonsense, or worse than nonsense, worthy only of contempt or aversion. What a real blessing would then have been to me the juvenile works of Mrs. Child, the little histories of Agnes Strickland, the tales of Mary Howitt, Mrs. Hofland, and other similar works, so familiar to children now.

As to schoolbooks, those I had used had become associated in my memory with sitting three hours at a time upon hard oak benches, my legs all the while in such a cramped position that I could almost have kicked my best friend by way of relief.

In casting my mind backward over the last thirty years--and comparing the past with the present, duly noting the amazing advances made in every thing which belongs to the comfort, the intelligence, the luxury of society--there is no point in which these are more striking than in the books for children and youth. Let any one who wishes to comprehend this matter, go to such a juvenile bookstore as that of C. S. Francis, in Broadway, New York, and behold the teeming shelves--comprising almost every topic within the range of human knowledge, treated in a manner to please the young mind, by the use of every attraction of style and every art of embellishment--and let him remember that nineteen twentieths of these works have come into existence within the last thirty years. He will then see how differently this age estimates the importance of juvenile instruction, from any other that has gone before it.

LETTER XIV.

The Clergymen of Fairfield County--The Minister's House a Minister's Tavern--Dr. Ripley, of Green's-farms--Dr. Lewis, of Horseneck--Dr. Burnett, of Norwalk--Mr. Swan--Mr. Noyes--Mr. Elliott, of Fairfield--Mr. Mitchell, of New Canaan--A Poet-Deacon--Dr. Blatchford, the Clairvoyant--Mr. Bartlett, of Reading--Mr. Camp, of Ridgebury--Mr. Smith, of Stamford--Mr. Waterman, of Bridgeport, &c.--Manners of the Clergy of Fairfield County--Their Character--Anecdote of the Laughing D. D.--The Coming Storm.

My dear C******

Before I complete my narrative, so far as it relates to Ridgefield, I should state that in the olden time a country minister's home was a minister's tavern, and therefore I saw, at different periods, most of the orthodox or Congregational clergymen belonging to that part of the State, at our house. My father frequently exchanged with those of the neighboring towns, and sometimes consociations and associations were held at Ridgefield. Thus, men of the clerical profession constituted a large portion of the strangers who visited us. I may add that my lineage was highly ministerial from an early period down to my own time. The pulpit of Durham, filled by my paternal grandfather, continued in the same family one hundred and twenty-six consecutive years. A short time since, we reckoned among our relations, not going beyond the degree of second cousin, more than a dozen ministers of the Gospel, and all of the same creed.

As to the clergy of Fairfield county, my boyish impressions of them were, that they were of the salt of the earth--rock-salt, the very crystals of Christianity; nor has a larger experience altered my opinion. If I sometimes indulge a smile at the recollection of particular traits of character, or more general points of manners significant of the age, I still regard them with affection and reverence. Some of them were grave and portly, especially those who bore the awe-inspiring title of Doctors of Divinity. I cannot now recollect among them all a single little or emaciated D. D. At the very head of the list, in my imagination, was Dr. Ripley, of Green's-farms, now Southport, I believe. He was a large and learned man--two hundred pounds' avoirdupois of solid divinity. He read the Bible in the original tongues for diversion, and digested Hebrew roots as if they had been buttered parsnips. He was withal a hale, hearty old gentleman, with a rich, ruddy smile over his face, bespeaking peace within and without. I was once at his house, which commanded a fine view of Long Island Sound, and particularly of Compo Bay, which was near at hand. I remember that he told me about the landing of the British there, under Tryon, in April, 1777, on their expedition against Danbury--a story in which I took deep interest, for I had already beard a good deal concerning it from Lieut. Smith.

Dr. Lewis, of Horseneck, weighed less according to the steelyards: he had perhaps less Greek and Latin

in him, but I have an impression that he was a man even more full of godliness. He was in fact the patron saint of my young fancy, and his image still seems before me. He was of the middle size, neither fat nor lean, stooped a little, and had a thin face with a long nose. Yet his countenance was the very seat of kindliness, charity, and sanctity. His thin, white locks floated down his cheeks and over his shoulders in apostolic folds. His voice was soft, yet penetrating. He had not, I think, any prodigious power of intellect, but during his preaching every ear was intent, every heart open. The congregation sometimes nodded, especially of a hot summer Sunday, even beneath the thunders of Dr. Ripley; nay, Deacon Olmsted himself, enthroned in the deacon's seat, was obliged now and then to take out his sprig of fennel, in the very midst of the doctor's twelfthlies and fifteenthlies; but nobody ever slept under the touching and sympathetic tones of Dr. Lewis. The good man has long since been translated to another world, but the perfume of his goodness still lingers amid the churches which were once impressed with his footsteps.

Among the other clerical celebrities of this period was Dr. Burnett, of Norwalk--a man of distinguished ability, but of whom I have only a faint remembrance. His successor, Mr. Swan, was one of the most eloquent men of the day. I shall never forget a certain passage in one of his addresses at an evening meeting. He had taken as a motto for his discourse

--"Choose you this day whom ye will serve," Josh, xxiv. 15. Having pressed upon the audience the necessity of deciding whether they would serve God or the Adversary, he adverted to an anecdote in ancient history, in which, an ambassador to some foreign state--demanding a decision of the government in a question under discussion--drew a line upon the earth, with his staff, and said, "Tell me--here, this very hour--now--where will you stand, on this side or that, for us or against us? Shall it be peace or shall it be war?" Mr. Swan was a tall man, and as he said this, he seemed to mark the line upon the ground with a solemn sweep of his long arm. He then added, addressing the audience in tones that thrilled and awed every heart, "Tell me here, this very hour, now--where will you stand? Where will you stand tonight--where at the day of judgment--on this side or that--for God or against Him? Shall it be peace or war? peace forever, or war through the measureless ages of eternity ?" I can recall no eloquence--and I have heard the most celebrated orators of my time--which produced a more deep, fearful, and startling emotion, than this.

There was another minister--the very antipode of the one I have just described, and yet a great and good man in his way--great and good in the effect of his life. His name was Noyes, and he was settled at Weston. He was a person of moderate intellect, yet his benignant face and kindly voice suggested to

the imagination that disciple whom Jesus loved. His whole conduct was but a fulfillment of what his countenance promised. Mr. Elliot, of Fairfield, I do not recollect personally, but I have heard about his preaching against the New Lights--the Methodists and revivalists--who then began to disturb the quiet of orthodoxy. He asserted that, "as in nature it is the mizzling, fizzling rain, and not the overwhelming torrent, that fertilizes the fields, so in religion, it is the quiet dew of the Holy Spirit that produces the harvest of souls." I give the story and the words as I heard them.

Mr. Mitchell, of New Canaan, was a man of ability and influence, but I remember more of his successors than of him. There being a vacancy in the parish, the people tried several candidates--one named Hough, one named Hyde, &c.; but none of them suited everybody. At last came Mr. Bonney. "Well," said one of the deacons as if by inspiration---

"We have now had Hough and Hyde,
Let us take Bonney and ride."

This from the lips of a deacon sounded like prophecy, and so Mr, Bonney was duly called and installed.

Mr. Fisher, of Wilton, was of comely and imposing presence, and withal au able man. As was proper, he became a D. D. Mr. Dwight, of Greenfield Hill, was afterward the renowned President of Yale College. I shall have occasion to speak of him again.

Mr. Humphries, of Fairfield, became President of Amherst College, and is now living at Pittsfield, enjoying at the age of seventy-seven, the full vigor of manhood--with an enviable reputation as a ripe scholar, an eloquent preacher, a good and great man, combining the dignity of the divine with the amiable and attractive qualities of the friend, the citizen, and the neighbor.

Dr. Blatchford, of Bridgeport, removed early to Waterford, near Troy, N. Y., and I can only remember to have seen him; his personal appearance has vanished from my mind. I recollect, however, that he had a horror of cats and kittens, and such was its intensity as to endue him with clairvoyance, so that he could easily detect one of these creatures in the room, though it might be out of sight or even confined in a closet. Frequent attempts were made to deceive him, but without success. His instinct was infallible. When he was seen coming, the first thing attended to by my mother was to shut, up the whole purring family, and they were kept under lock and key till the good doctor had departed. Once upon a time, while dining with a friend, he suddenly threw down his knife and fork, his face being pale with horror.

"What is the matter?" ejaculated his host, in great excitement.

"It is a cat!" said the doctor, in a hollow voice.

"A cat?" was the thrilling reply. "Impossible:

we were particular to shut up the cat and kittens as soon as you came."

"I say there's a cat in the room!" said the doctor with fearful emphasis.

A hurry-scurry ensued, and after a long search a kitten was found slumbering in the cradle, under the clothes, and snugged down beside the baby!

There were, furthermore, Mr. Bartlett, of Reading, an animated and learned preacher--now a hale and hearty man at the age of ninety-two; Mr. Camp, of Ridgebury, of a feeble body but powerful mind; Mr. Smith, of Stamford, a dignified gentleman of the old school, and married to the sister of John Cotton Smith, afterward Governor of the State; Mr. Waterman, of Bridgeport, author of a clever Life of Calvin.

From these hasty notes, you will see that the clergy of that day in Fairfield county were a very able set of men, and worthy of being duly and honorably chronicled in these mementoes of the past. I speak of the era of 1800, yet including a few subsequent years. A half century before, a wig with a black coat meant D. D. and D. D. usually meant wig and black coat: but that dynasty had passed. Breeches and white-top boots--white meaning butternut color--were, however, still clerical.

These gentlemen whom I have described, traveled on horseback, and were always well mounted; some of them were amateurs in horseflesh: I have already had occasion to notice the points of Dr. Rip-

ley's beast. In manners they were polite, and somewhat assiduous in their stately courtesies. They spoke with authority, and not as the scribes. Their preaching was grave in manner, and in matter elaborately dovetailed with Scripture. The people drank hard cider, and relished sound doctrine: it was not till nearly half a century afterward that--imbibing soda-water, champagne, and other gaseous beverages--they required pyrotechnics in the pulpit. A soul to reach heaven must then have the passport of Saybrook; and in point of fact, orthodoxy was so tempered with charity, that nearly all who died, received it.

If the creed of that day was severe and bespoke the agonies of its Puritan origin, it still allowed large range for temporalities and humanities. The minister of the Gospel was a father, neighbor, friend, citizen--a man in a large and generous sense. Manliness meant godliness, and godliness manliness. He spoke truth, and acted righteousness. He was independent in his circumstances, for a parish settlement was like marriage, for better or for worse; and what God had joined, man could not lightly put asunder. The common, opinion now is, that the judges of temporal tribunals should be placed beyond the seductions of dependence; the people of those days thought that in matters relating to eternity, this rule was at least equally important. The clergymen were in some sort magistrates--not tech-

nically, but being generally the best educated persons--especially in country towns--they exercised a large influence, as well by the force of authority, traditionally allowed to their positions, as by their superior intelligence. They were sometimes consulted by their parishioners in matters of law* as well as gospel, often made out deeds, settled disputes between neighbors and neighborhoods, gave advice in difficult and doubtful questions of business, and imparted intelligence upon matters of history, geography, and politics.

I need not tell you that they were counsellors in religious matters--in the dark and anxious periods of the spirit--in times of sickness, at the approach of death. They sanctified the wedding, not refusing afterward to countenance the festivity which naturally ensued. They administered baptism, but only upon adults who made a profession, or upon the children of professors. I may add that despite their divinity, they were sociable in their manners and intercourse. The state of the Church was no doubt first in their minds; but ample room was left for the good things of life. Those who came to our house examined my brother in his Greek and Latin, and I went out be-

hind the barn to gather tansey for their morning bitters. They dearly loved a joke, and relished anecdotes, especially if they bore a little hard upon the cloth. I remember some of them at which I have heard Dr. Ripley almost crack his sides, and seen even the saintly Dr. Lewis run over at the eyes with laughing. Shall I give you a specimen? The following will suffice, though I can not recollect who it was that told it.

Once upon a time there was a clergyman--the Rev. Dr. T.... of H....--a man of high character, and distinguished for his dignity of manner. But it was remarked that frequently as he was ascending the pulpit stairs he would smile, and sometimes almost titter, as if beset by an uncontrollable desire to laugh. This excited remark, and at last scandal. Finally, it was thought necessary for some of his clerical friends, at a meeting of the association, to bring up the matter for consideration.

The case was stated--the Rev. Dr. T.... being present. "Well, gentlemen," said he, "the fact charged against me is true, but I beg you to permit me to offer an explanation. A few months after I was licensed to preach, I was in a country town, and on a Sabbath morning was about to enter upon the services of the church. Back of the pulpit was a window, which looked out upon a field of clover, then in full bloom, for it was summer. As I rose to commence the reading of the Scriptures, I cast a glance

into the field, and there I saw a man performing the most extraordinary evolutions---jumping, whirling, slapping in all directions, and with a ferocious agony of exertion. At first I thought he was mad; but suddenly the truth burst upon me--he had buttoned up a bumblebee in his pantaloons! I am constitutionally nervous, gentlemen, and the shock of this scene upon my risible sensibilities was so great, that I could hardly get through the services. Several times I was upon the point of bursting into a laugh. Even to this day, the remembrance of this scene--through the temptation of the devil--often comes upon me as I am ascending the pulpit. This, I admit, is a weakness, but I trust it will rather excite your sympathy and your prayers than your reproaches."

Such were the orthodox--that is, the Congregational--clergy of Fairfield county,* doubtless to some extent examples of their brethren throughout New England, at the period of which I speak. The religious platform still stood planked to the State. The law still gave preference to orthodoxy, as it had done from the beginning. The time had not yet arrived when Methodism, Episcopacy, Democracy, should combine with radicalism to overturn the system which the fathers had built. The storm was brewing, but as yet it was scarcely noticed even by those who were soon to be overwhelmed by it.