YOUTH AND EDUCATION.
About this time, 1801, Major Peaslee Badger contemplated a change in his plans of life, the execution of which removed the subject of this memoir far away from the lovely waters and the romantic hills of his native town in New Hampshire. It also removed him from the various advantages of the better social influence and culture which belong to an older form of society; but it also rewarded him with the freedom, hardihood, and self-reliance of forest life.
Anxious to make farmers of his sons, Major Badger resolved to further this purpose by selling his farm in Gilmanton, and by making a more extensive purchase in a new country. At this early time, when emigration had not directed its course to the valley of the Mississippi, and when the attractions of Iowa and Minnesota lay sealed up for a future development, the mind of Mr. Badger was directed to the fertile woodland region of Lower Canada, which at that time was regarded as the best part of the world. To this region he accordingly made a journey, was much pleased with the country, and, after selling his farm in Gilmanton, which he sold for between four and five thousand dollars, he again visited this section of the king's dominions, in company with his eldest son, where he purchased eight hundred acres of the best of land. Only a few families at this time resided in the town. Leaving his son and several hired men to wage the war of industrious labor on the primeval wilderness around them, he returned home, and recruiting himself with new forces, and taking with him all necessary farming utensils, with several yoke of oxen, hastened to join the company that were already at work in turning the wilderness into a fruitful field. When he had arrived within eighteen miles of his land, a wilderness of wide extent spread out before him. No road was visible. Sending some of his men forward as surveyors, and setting others to work in cutting a road through the woods, he continued slowly his progress; and, finally receiving some assistance from the inhabitants of the town of Stanstead, and augmenting his company with the addition of those who had been laboring on his farm, he went forward with the road with great courage and success, building several bridges across large streams, and conquering every obstacle in the way till an excellent road was completed through the whole distance to his farm. It has since become a highway of great travel, and is known by the name of the Badger Road to this day. This brave pioneer opened the way for the settlement of the town. Building a small cottage for temporary convenience, they prosecuted their work with zeal for several weeks, when they constructed a house for permanent residence, the best that had, at that time, been built in the town. These preparations being made, Major Badger returned to convey his family to their new abode, in the town of Compton, Lower Canada, for which place they set out in February, 1802, in eight sleighs, laden with provisions and furniture, and after nineteen days of slow and expensive journeying, experiencing the alternations of good and evil fortune, they arrived on the 4th or 5th of March at their new home in the woods. Woman is ever the natural conservative, loving her established and long-tried home.
"My mother," says Mr. B., "was much opposed to the new arrangement, which caused her to leave her kind friends and neighbors; but such was her fortitude that none discovered her feelings. In taking leave of our native town and near relatives, the greatest solemnity filled my heart. Many wept at our departure, and I could scarcely bear up under the grief I felt in leaving the place of my birth. As we arrived at our new habitation, and my mother viewed her lonely palace, she could no longer suppress her feelings, but sat down and wept, whilst my sisters were also sad, and murmured somewhat at the new prospect before them. I wondered that my father should think of living in the midst of a forest, but thought that what others could accomplish, we could certainly do."
The contrast between the cheerful society and scenery of Gilmanton, and the solitude of this woodland region, which was swept by colder winds than the climate of the east had known; the isolation of the place, which required a journey of seventy miles to purchase the necessary grains for seed and family consumption, were calculated to awaken a deep feeling of loneliness, and at the same time to invigorate the spirit with new energy and promptings to personal efforts. But man's nature is flexible, and easily bends to every variety of condition. As soon as the news of their arrival had spread, nearly all the inhabitants of the town came in to greet them in a friendly visit; and soon spring unfolded in all its gayety of woodland gem and costume, whilst all the company became laborers to the extent of their respective abilities. Joseph, now ten years of age, who had known nothing of work, learned his first lessons in the sugar groves of the new farm. Soon they became contented with their situation, and the woody solitudes gave cheering proofs of transition, as extended acres appeared to view, ready to bear the verdure of the meadow, or the harvests of golden grain. On each side of the Coatecook river lay four hundred acres; the eastern swell was called Mount Pleasant, the western, Mount Independence. Here, in a few years, they reaped a large prosperity from the productive earth. In the journal of Mr. B. I find a notice of the total eclipse in 1806, the effects that followed it on the agricultural prospects of that country, and the melancholy thoughtfulness which the day inspired in his own mind. The effect was great, according to his statement; so much so as to be sensibly felt through the seasons. Fourteen acres carefully planted with fruit-trees and grafted with the best of scions, yielded nothing to reward the toil of the laborer.
In the general picture here presented, the reader may see the theatre of action occupied by the young man who was destined in future years to impress great numbers with his own ideas and sentiments. Doubtless there are in the world some conventional minds, who, hastily deciding all things by local prejudice or capricious fashion, would hold it impossible for genius and power to hail from any but certain favored localities; from college routine, and the aids of walls of books and of titled professors. But this is not the way in which the goddess of force and faculty distributes her gifts and makes her highest elections. She is by no means afraid of mountains and woodland solitudes; nor does she despair of winning her ends when professors and colleges do not wait upon her bidding. She exults rather in natural productions; being able to turn the night-stars, heaven's winds, earth's flowers, and even common events, into teachers; and the same of all experience and inward faculty. She brings a universal power from Stratford to London, from Ayreshire to Edinburgh, from Vosges and Domremi to Orleans and to Rheims. All great men are educated. The only variance resides in the modes and teachers. We like it that a prophet should, in early life, hail from the woodland world, and that the vastness and tranquillity of landscapes should reside in his public discourse; that his words and manners should savor, not of dry scholastic pretension and mannerism, but of songsters' voices, of colossal trees, wild rose and rushing brooks. Mr. B., however, for his time and day, was an educated man; we mean even in the more restricted sense in which the world understands this word; and certainly he was this, in its most important meanings.
"We soon had opportunity," says Mr. Badger, "for education in our new country. This was very pleasing to me, and I felt the necessity of improving every privilege of the kind." And I would say that those who knew him in after life could not but see in him the rare faculty bestowed on some of our race, that of turning a few means to a great account.
Passing on to his fifteenth year, he speaks of a season of illness, occasioned by excessive ambition at manual labor, which kept him from school a part of the time during one summer. "My sickness," he says, "was of pleuritic nature, and at times my life was despaired of. A few Christian people had moved into the place, and during my sickness, some of them conversed with me on the subject of religion. At times I remember to have wept, and supposed that my condition was deplorable. The death of a Christian woman, who had often conversed with me, occurring at this time, made a deep impression on my mind. My reflections, when alone, were melancholy in the extreme. I often wished I had died when young; and frequently did I promise God that if my life was spared I would serve Him." Many paragraphs of this sort, whilst they may wear a tinge of the religious culture common to the age, show deep and unharmonized strivings of soul. To those who knew his great vivacity, the fact of melancholy, which he records in the journal of his youth, may seem strange; but it is natural. In susceptible and thoughtful natures, in natures of deep strivings, there is ever a stratum of seriousness, wearing at times the tinge of sadness. The soul, in such, will often say, "I am in Time an exile. The earth cannot feed me;" and especially will this feeling be active in the early experience, before the wisdom of years has given stability to life, to its aims and emotions.
But a young man like him could not be otherwise than fond of amusement. With young company of his age he frequently met, and was accustomed to spend considerable of the time when together in the favorite pastime of the young—the dance.
His elder brothers settling for themselves in life, threw an increased burden of care upon Joseph, whose health was so far restored as to act his part efficiently. His father about this time entered into the mercantile business, which turned out to his disadvantage; and soon after this, when seven miles from home, he had the misfortune to break his leg, suffering extremely for fifteen days, expecting constantly that amputation would have to take place. Recovering so far as to admit of removal home, after a long time he was restored to health. "After this," says his son, "he twice met the severe misfortune to break his leg, and on the 5th Sept., 1814, it was amputated six inches above the knee. This and several such misfortunes, in part, reduced him from the high station in which he was born and had formerly lived."
"The first preaching that we heard was by an old gentleman of the name of Huntington. He was a Universalist, a good man, I think, but not a great preacher. He addressed the people for the greater part of one summer generally at my father's house. I do not remember to have seen anything like reform among the people. The old gentleman died in a few years, and I trust has gone to rest. Also Elders[9] Robinson Smith and A. Moulton, of Hatley, a neighboring town, favored us with their ministry. We called them Free-willers, but their preaching was life-awakening, and it was held in remembrance long after they were gone, although they saw no immediate fruits of their labors. I recollect of hearing Mr. Moulton once, the first time I think I ever saw him. His voice to me was like thunder. For several days after, it seemed as though I could hear the sound of it."
This indeed is the proof of God's presence in the mission, that the minister has that to say which the sinner cannot forget, that which lingers in his way like an invisible spell. The man who has God's word is not a mere lecturer or essayist in the holy temple. He has words of divine fire to speak, an undying love to utter, a warning of eternity to hold forth. He commands the giddy and the sinful to listen to a voice which, if he repent not, will tingle in his ears even to his dying day. Smooth, elegant composition may be patiently taught, and patiently learned, but God's living word out of heaven to unfaithful man, is another thing. This word has many organs, finds its way far and near, and reaches the heart of the ardent young man whose footsteps are on the classic ground, or in the larger path of nature's wild.
"When about sixteen or seventeen," continues the journal, "I heard that a young man about my age from Vermont would preach in our vicinity. There was a great move to hear him, and I resolved to go. The house was full. He was evidently one much engaged in God's work. He looked very pale and much worn out. Mr. Moulton was with him, prayed at the beginning of the meeting, after which the young man, Benjamin Putnam, came forward, and in a manner and address that were engaging, and to me peculiarly pleasing, preached a sermon from Isaiah 22:22; a text which I shall never forget. 'And the key of the house of David will I lay upon his shoulder: so he shall open, and none shall shut; and he shall shut, and none shall open.' He described Christ as the Son of God, and the power as being laid upon his shoulder; he also dwelt on what he had opened both to and for man, which none could shut, and finally spoke of the closing of the same door, which none should be able to open. I thought this discourse more glorious than anything I had ever heard. I thought him the happiest young man I ever saw. As soon as meeting was closed he came forward through the assembly and spoke to my brother, which had a solemn effect on us both. Many of his expressions I have ever remembered.
"The Methodist ministers next made their way into our town, and I have always thought that they came in the name and spirit of the Highest. They were humble and earnest. As my father's family seldom attended their meetings, I perhaps did not become acquainted with the first that came. Hays and Briggs were the first I heard. While listening to the farewell sermon of the former I remember to have been deeply affected, and one evening, while listening to Mr. Briggs, I felt a strong conviction of my sin, and believed that I was undone without regeneration. They first formed a small class in town. Leaving the circuit the next year, Joseph Dennet and David Blanchard were their successors, under whose ministry many of the old and the young were turned to God, whilst even children were made happy in Christ. I think that the preaching of the latter was the first that ever brought tears from my eyes. Also, in those days, we had frequent visits from the missionaries, but I do not remember that their preaching had much effect on my own mind or that of any other person.
"In the conflict of good and evil tendencies in the minds of young men who share largely of the passions and giddiness which characterize the period of one's youth, it is interesting to contemplate the skill with which these influences assail each other, each winning its temporary victory, and each wrestling at times with great might for the doubtful mastery. Notwithstanding these solemn emotions to good, I was quite wild and had several bad habits. In hearing Mr. H. preach the summer I was eighteen, I was much aroused to a sense of duty, and though seeing the way of my life to be death, my determinations as yet were not equal to the chain of habit that bound me. On the first of August I looked forward to the 16th, which was my birthday, as the day in which I should begin to walk in newness of life, and for several days this occupied my thoughts. But the time passed, and my resolution with it, whilst my feelings reacted more strongly than ever toward my former ways. The Spirit of God righteously strives with sinners; and many have I seen on languishing beds lamenting their early resistance to the holy influence, and that they had ever broken their promise to Him. I had a taste for reading, and spent much of my time in the perusal of novels and with vain young company. A young man by the name of Richardson was my most intimate friend. On the Sabbath and every other opportunity we were together; we spent the time mostly in reading; I thought I enjoyed happiness in his society. In our assemblies for diversion we ever had a good understanding. His friendship lasted until my conversion, when something far more glorious opened to my view. It appeared a great mystery to him, and it caused me much sorrow to leave him, but the first lesson I learned from the cross taught me how to relinquish and how to renounce.
"In the autumn of 1810 we had many vain assemblies for dancing and other recreations. Never had I before gone so far in wickedness as at this time. But, in the midst of our gayety, events of Providence compelled our thoughts to serious objects, as death, through the agency of a fatal fever, spread over the town its sorrow and sadness, cutting off the old and the young indiscriminately. On the 10th of January, 1811, I commenced a journey to New Hampshire, to visit my friends, whom I had not seen since 1802. When I arrived at Stanstead, I passed several days with a cousin of mine who was engaged in teaching the art of dancing. He was an agreeable gentleman, and of great talents; but it was a grief to his friends that he had taken to this employment. I was much pleased with the instructions he gave me, as I was anxious to attain perfection in the art.
"With several young men I proceeded on my way to New Hampshire, and making the journey merry with rudeness and laughter, we prosecuted it till I arrived at Gilmanton. Here I found that my honored grandsire no longer occupied his place on earth. His companion, who had watched over my childhood for two years, and had made the voice of prayer familiar to my lips, still survived. Several other relatives had also gone to their long home, and though these things made little impression on my heart, owing to the state of my mind, I could not but solemnly reflect on the hand that had so long upheld me, when I visited my early home, the place of my birth, and recalled the many scenes of my childhood freshly to mind. We have in life but one childhood, and no hours of retrospect put us into such unison with nature as when we live it over in the revival of its scenes.
"I passed several weeks in Gilmanton, attending school a part of the time, and freely enjoyed the company of my young friends. My sister Mary, the wife of General Cogswell, occasionally rebuked me for my lightness, and though I made light of her admonitions at the time, they made much impression on my mind. But most of all I dreaded that my uncle, Mr. Smith, who had been the minister of the place for thirty years, should talk to me about religion. I was very loth to visit him at all, but I stayed with him the last night I remained in town, and to my happy disappointment escaped the drilling I had so much feared, as he did not once mention the subject. In company with my cousin, Joseph Smith, I set out the next day for home, and by evening arrived at Judge William Badger's, a cousin of mine, with whom we had an excellent visit. The next day, when passing through Meredith, we saw a young man standing in the door of a house with a multitude around him. The building appeared to be full of people, to whom he was preaching. We arrived that evening at Camptown, and though I was nearly sick and my spirits depressed by some influence I could not define, and my mind uninterested by surrounding objects, I yielded to the persuasion of my cousin to go on. Nothing was able to interest me. After some time we started for the place since so much celebrated, the Notch of the White Mountains.
"But nature, which to me was ever welcome, did not attract me as usual. A spirit, over which I had not control, seemed to work within me to the extreme of solemn conviction. People, road, trees, rivers—all seemed gloomy, and I appeared to myself as a monument spared to unite with them in mourning. We finally passed the gloomy Notch, and as I drank in its lonely influence, I felt, unavoidably, its likeness to the mood of my own spirit. At Franconia, many new prospects and objects appeared to view. The manufactory of iron was at that time and there a great curiosity. At Littleton, further on in our journey, we rode on the river, as it was hardly frozen. I disguised my feelings, and as we were riding along, several in number, I fell in the rear that I might enjoy the meditations in which my mind was absorbed. At this time, an old gentleman, whose silver locks and grave appearance attracted my attention, appeared near me, coming from his house to the river to draw water. My eyes were fixed upon him. 'How far,' said he, 'is your company journeying?' To the province of Lower Canada, I answered. 'Do you live there?' said he. I answered that I did. Then in a solemn tone the old patriarch inquired, 'Is there any religion in that part of the world?' I was surprised to hear this subject introduced by a stranger. I told him there were some in our country who professed religion. He then burst into a flood of tears, and exhorted me with a warm-hearted pathos to seek salvation, and, though I disclosed none of my feelings to him, I was most deeply moved, and the image of the venerable old man was continually before my eyes through the day. I could scarcely refrain from weeping; and whatever others may think of such apparently accidental events, I am free to confess, that from that time until now, I have firmly believed that this old gentleman was a God-sent prophet unto me. The impressions he made continued till I enjoyed the sweet religion that inspired his look and his voice. I have often wished that I might see him and humble myself in thankfulness before him, a thing not to be expected in this life.
"When we arrived at Stewardstown, near the head of the Connecticut river, I parted with my cousin, whose destination was different from my own. Crossing the line, I passed the night with Dr. Ladd, a friend of my father, who was a Christian and a man of extended knowledge. I treasured up many of his observations. I was then only twenty miles from home, and heard the sad news of the ravages sickness had made during my absence, which greatly disturbed me with the thought that I should never again see all my friends. On the 10th of March, however, I arrived, and though fearful to inquire for my relatives, found, to my joy, that they were all well. In company I sought to be cheerful, but in solitude the keenest sensations of sadness were active.
"Having business with my cousin at Stanstead, I made him a visit, where I heard a missionary preach and attended as a pall-bearer at a funeral, to which my feelings were much averse. On my return, when I had proceeded as far as Barnston, for some cause I returned a mile and a half, and taking a lantern started on foot through the woods, when suddenly a storm exhibited its signs of dark and angry violence. When about half through the forest, the winds, thunder and lightning were terrific. The rain fell in torrents, my light was soon extinguished, and nothing was left to guide me through the swamp except the lurid flashes of the lightning that made the gloom more terrible. Several trees were struck and fell near me across the road; some branches fell from the tree I had chosen for my shelter, as the tempest mingled with darkness, raged in madness; and never was I so deeply impressed with the might of Him who rules the world and sways the elements. Here I gained a fresh idea of the awful power and mercy of God. I was nearly induced to kneel upon the earth, and there, in the storm, make a covenant with my Maker.
"At length the storm ceased and I arrived in safety at the house of a friend. The next day I reached home, and though met by cheerful faces, through the state of my mind, the music of their tones were as mournful sounds. The company in which I had found delight, could no longer entertain me; my home was dressed in mourning, my pillow wet with tears, and the bright prospects which had cheered me had vanished from my sky. I had no heart for business, no relish for pleasure. O how tiresome was every place! I read the Bible in private; often left my father's table in tears; often retired to the grove whose trees, more than those around me, seemed to know my heart, that I might relieve my soul in weeping. None knew the cause of this love of solitariness. Some said 'he suffers the influence of disappointment;' others, that 'he is plotting something for advantage:' none supposed that within me a deep striving was separating me from the world and leading me to the Fountain of Salvation. This period was a severe trial. Every power, it would seem, combined to test my spirit. Sometimes, from the conflict within, whilst darkness held its temporary victory, I was almost tempted to be angry with the Powers above, and with the whole creation; and once, I remember to have so far fallen under the evil power, as to swear at the existing order of things. It was continual trouble. I strove to labor what I could, and to fulfil my station in the family, using all the fortitude I could command. Here many things occurred that I shall not particularize; some things between my father and myself, which I once thought I should mention in every respect, but which the delicacy of the subject and the tenderness of our relation prevent. I can only say that my father was of deistical opinions, and at that time did not possess the degree of friendship and tenderness for the cause of religion which I could have wished him to, and which he indeed possessed some months after.
"At times, everything seemed to unite in tormenting me, in causing me trouble; again, all things in nature, when my clouds were partially dispersed, had a voice for the Creator's praise. I alone was untuned. The very winds, as they passed, spoke of His power. The stars, ever calm, looked down in love, seeming faithfully to perform the will of their Ordainer; and the flowers of the earth, which bloomed in beauty, sending forth their fragrance to His honor; and the songs of birds, whose notes were full of the primeval innocence, all combined to administer reproof. The following lines would then have spoken my feelings, as the full-blown spring-time lay unfolded around me:
"'Ye warblers of the vernal shade
Whose artless music charms my ear,
Your loveliness my heart upbraids—
My languid heart, how insincere!
While all your little powers collected, raise
A tribute to your great Creator's praise.
"'Ye lovely offsprings of the ground,
Flowers of a thousand beauteous dyes,
You spread your Maker's glory round,
And breathe your odor to the skies:
Unsullied you display your lively bloom,
Unmingled you present your sweet perfume.
"'Ye winds that waft the fragrant spring,
You, whispering, spread His name abroad,
Or shake the air with sounding wing,
And speak the awful power of God:
His will, with swift obedience, you perform,
Or in the gentle gale or dreadful storm.
"'Ye radiant orbs that guide the day
Or deck the sable veil of night,
His wondrous glory you display,
Whose hand imparts your useful light:
Your constant task, unwearied, you pursue,
Nor deviate from the path your Maker drew.
"'O Lord! thy grace my languid heart can raise,
These dissipated powers unite,
Can bid me pay my debt of praise
With love sincere and true delight:
Oh! let thy power inspire my heart and tongue,
Then will I, grateful, join Creation's song.'
"Leaving company almost entirely, and not going into society except on certain occasions, to please my friends or escape reproach, I gave myself up to solitary meditation and to the inward and undefined strivings of my being. In this state of spiritual disquietude, I felt no impulse to attend a church. I was most at home when alone. I heard divine voices where there was no man to act as medium or interpreter. At a funeral, I recollect having assisted in singing, and to have heard from Elder Moulton a sermon that impressed me, he being a man of considerable spiritual power, and one for whom I had particular respect. I heard him also a second time after this, when he most deeply affected my mind. I sometimes repaired to the forest for the express purpose of coming to God in prayer, but for some time was restrained from speaking aloud or kneeling on the earth. My heart was often eased in weeping; and though I had no form of prayer, I believe I prayed as really, as acceptably, as ever I did. Is it not a strange doctrine, so generally promulgated, that sinners, previous to conversion, ought not to pray? To me it is a dark doctrine. The Scriptures do not intimate it. My experience, the divine command, and common sense oppose the dogma. The fact that men are morally weak and sinful, is itself a sufficient occasion for prayer.
"One Sunday, without the knowledge of our family, I went about two miles to attend a Methodist meeting, in which several spoke, and spoke well. Mrs. John Gilson, a little, delicate woman, with much diffidence arose to speak. Her wisdom and manner won my heart, and her message, which was particularly to me, seemed to carry the evidence that it was from God. I could never forget it. I knew she was my friend, and believed that she spoke for my good, and I would have rendered her my thanks at the close, but for the restraining power of a sentiment common to me, which was, an unwillingness to disclose to any one my deepest emotions. We had been taught by some, that before we could attain salvation, we should be willing to be damned and lost. I never had this willingness. But, in candor, I must say that my sense of guilt was so deep that I felt I had merited the sentence to be finally uttered against the impenitent."
The reader will perceive that the thread of this journal is drawn from such portions of Mr. Badger's early life as seem most directly to express its various moral phases. From other points of experience, it is natural to suppose, much was omitted, the main purpose being that of tracing the moral history of his mind through the years of his youth. I think I never opened a journal that contained throughout a plainer natural impress of truth and reality.