JONATHAN EDWARDS AND THE OLD CLERGY.
Of late years the attention of many thinking men has been much turned to the early clergy of America. One reads of St. Peter's Church that, notwithstanding its immense size above ground, it has an equal amount of masonry under ground. Of the iceberg even more can be said, since its submerged proportions are of vastly greater extent than its visible surface. One may well inquire how much of American greatness is hidden in its foundation. How massive indeed must be the hidden corner-stone on which rests the structure of national character. New England is now turning its attention to the histories of ancient families; genealogy is no small feature in modern literature, and thus the age seems to confess that such research is a token of advance.
I believe that the strength of our ancestors was owing to their pure and simple piety; indeed, one can not go back even for a century without meeting this element in clear developement. The old New England preachers were of a character peculiarly adapted to the severe exigencies of their day. They stood as iron men in an iron age. However rude in other social features, the early settlers, as they worked their way to the frontier, demanded the soothing influences of pastoral care, and the first institution reared in the forest was the pulpit, the next the school-house. The pastors were settled for life, and minister and people abode in communion, with little change but that of age. In seeking a field, the youth just launched into his profession 'candidated' among vacant churches, and was heard with solemn attention by the selectmen and bench of deacons. Notes were taken by the more fastidious for subsequent criticism, and the matter was discussed with all the importance of a national treaty. When the call had been accepted, the stipend was generally fixed at one hundred pounds, and a rude parsonage opened its doors of welcome. To this was almost invariably attached a farm, whose native sterility called for such expenditure of toil that it might truly have been said,
'The furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke.'
These men indeed united mental and physical labor in a remarkable degree. The long winters were devoted to study, to sermons, or to meetings,—the summer to the plow and the harvest. One instance is on record in which the entire stock of a year's sermons were written between December and April. But, notwithstanding the inevitable drudgery of such a life, the ministry was, upon the whole, noted for study. The course held at Harvard required close application, and even at the chapel exercises the Scriptures were daily read in the original languages. These labors and studies are recorded in that quaintest of all American books, Mather's Magnalia. Whatever be the pedantry and vanity of its author, he is undeniably worthy of rank among the men whom he chronicled. Indeed, the Mathers, father and son, illustrated a race of rare moral and intellectual power. The first of these, who enjoyed the profitable name of 'Increase,' was equally popular and successful as president of Harvard or pastor of the church of Cambridge, and the son takes little pains to conceal his filial pride as he blazons the virtues of 'Crescentius Madderus.' He is particular in recording him as the first American divine who received the honorary title D.D. As one looks back upon the primitive days of the nascent university, he is struck by the contrast between the present numerous and stately array of halls, the magnificent library, and all the pomp of a modern commencement, and the slender procession of rudely clad youth led by Increase Mather. As they marched out of the old shaky college and filed into the antique meeting-house, what would they have said to a glimpse of Gore Hall and its surroundings? But those were the beginnings of greatness, simple as they were.
The pages of the Magnalia are filled with portraits hit off in a masterly style. Mather was a true 'Porte Crayon,' and knew how to bring out salient points with a few happy touches. His picture-gallery is like an ancient Valhalla, full of demigods. Among their characteristics are strong contrasts. Here are piety and poverty and learning, hand in hand. These men, as we have stated, could swing the axe, or chop logic, at a moment's notice; could pull vegetables, or dig out Hebrew roots, with alternate ease. Notwithstanding their long days of labor, their minds kept their edge, being freshly set by incessant doctrinal disputations. Such, indeed, was the public appetite for controversy that polemic warfare never slumbered. Our view of their character is assisted by a contrast with the English clergy of the same day, and which reveals shameful deformities on the part of the latter—avarice, indolence, and gluttony. Of such, Milton spake in Lycidas, with withering contempt, as those who
'for their bellies' sake
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold.'
If the Puritan poet be charged with prejudice, we have only to turn to the pages of Macaulay for confirmation. Where, indeed, if this be true, did Fielding obtain the originals for the ordinary at Newgate, or 'parson Trulliber' in Joseph Andrews?
Sad and strange was that disappointment which awaited the first emigrants to Massachusetts Bay. But there was a divine mercy in it; they came to seek peace, but a sword awaited them. I refer to the famous Anne Wheelright controversy, which rent the infant settlement of Boston for more than ten years. The excitement extended through the entire colony, affording many a bitter and vindictive argument. The pulpit belabored it in sermons of two hours' length, after which the deacons in their official seats occasionally expatiated to audiences whose patience on this theme was inexhaustible. As the controversy waxed hot, it got into the hands of the civil authorities, and some of its disputants were thrust into jail as heretical. Anna Wheelright was a woman of great mental vigor, and could hold her own in a debate with her reverend disputants. Unfortunate as this controversy may appear, it proved a benefit, by sharpening the public mind to a prodigious degree. Indeed, the very children of Boston could define the terms of the covenant of grace. Weary of a controversy bordering on persecution, Anne Wheelright sought a new home in the wilderness, and was subsequently murdered by the Indians. But the force of mental exercise which she had put in motion still continued. It is worthy of remark that almost the only intellectual peculiarity to which Franklin refers, in speaking of his father, is 'a turn for polemics.' The great features of New England character were, at that day, opinion and faith. It was these, as boldly and defiantly expressed, which excited the fears and jealousy of Charles the Second, and instigated the deprival of the colonial charters.
The studious and prayerful habits of the clergy continued from generation to generation, and their piety was most tender and touching in their ministrations. We might dwell, had we time, on the Cottons, the Mitchells, and the Sheppards, but, revered above all others, comes before us the venerable form of John Elliott, the missionary, clad in homespun apparel, his face shining with inward peace, while his silver locks overhang his shoulders. He was the Nestor of divines, and the character of his labors might be judged from his motto—' Prayers and pains with faith in Christ Jesus can accomplish anything.' His efforts and successes amongst the Indians were remarkable, and it was commonly reported that he possessed the gift of prophecy. But he was not the only man of that day who dwelt so close to the confines of the spiritual world as to be alternately visited by angels and devils. Indeed, what tales of the supernatural Mather relates, what a juxtaposition of saints and demons! Of course, there was a foundation to build upon,—had not Mather himself in his family for more than a year a possessed girl, whose familiar haunted the house and made it ring at times like a bedlam? It was a peculiar characteristic in this chapter of diablerie, that when the Scriptures were being read, or prayers attended, the spasms became terrific; but when any ungodly book was substituted in place of the Bible, there was an immediate relief.
The age was one of wonders, and Mather devotes an entire book to what he calls Thaumaturgia. Many of its statements are bold impositions on the reader's credulity; but there was much which, in those days of ignorance, must have seemed to Mather to be undeniable phenomena of a mysterious nature. After the colony had escaped many minor dangers, a new ordeal of suffering awaited it in a faith in sorcery, resulting in the horrible episode of Salem witchcraft, which may be considered the darkest stain upon the age. The death-beds and parting scenes in such a community were cherished features in domestic history, and almost every cottage could boast its Euthanasy. Ministering angels not only hovered over the couch, but touched their harps in melodies, whose music sometimes reached the human ear. Youth tender and inexperienced claimed a share in these triumphs, and Nathanael Mather, though but seventeen, expires in all the maturity of a saintly old age.
Coming down to the survivors of the first emigration, we find them lingering amid the respect and veneration of the community, and their graves were deemed worthy of patriarchal honor. After their departure the ministry seems to have lost tone and fervor. The union of church and state swept them into secularities, and thus impaired their strength. So great was the decline, that by the close of the first century, formality chilled the churches, and the people bewailed their coldness, while the aged wept at the remembrance of by-gone days. Cotton Mather had prophesied of a coming time when churches would have to be gathered out of the churches in the colony. The cry of the saints was 'Return, how long, O Lord, and let it repent thee concerning thy servants.' Some of the more hopeful maintained that the midnight only heralded an approaching dawn. Two ministers on Long Island, Barber and Davenport, had received divine assurance of a return of power, and held themselves in anxious waiting. At last, brilliant flashes began to play athwart the sky, and instead of the meteoric glare which some feared, it indicated the purer sunbeam, in whose genial power the church was to rejoice for more than a third of a century. Whitefield's advent sent a thrill through all New England. He sailed from Charleston to Newport, where venerable parson Clapp, tottering with age, welcomed him as though he had been an angel of God. Whitefield's power was comparable to the supernatural, and it was in this view John Foster, at a later day, found the only solution of his success. In the pulpit his appearance and manners exceeded the dreams of apostolic grace—a youth of elegant form, with voice of enchanting melody, clear blue eyes, an endurance which knew no exhaustion—a fancy which ranged both worlds—were all fused by a burning zeal for the salvation of souls. Such was Whitefield at twenty-five, and as such he was worthy of that ovation which he received at Boston, when governor and council went out in form to welcome him. The evangelist bore his honors meekly, and hospitality did not weaken the vials of wrath which he poured upon the unfaithful. He found, as he said, in New England 'a darkness which might be felt.' At Cambridge, he thundered at the deadness of Harvard and its faculty, and electrified the land by striking at its glory. The hearers alternately wept and shivered, and the professors, headed by old Dr. Holyoke (who afterwards lived to celebrate his hundredth birthday), levelled a defensive and aggressive pamphlet at their castigator; but Governor Belcher kissed the dauntless preacher, and bade him 'cry aloud and spare not, but show the people their sins.'
The second century, like the first, opened with fierce ecclesiastical tumult. Whitefield's itineracy, like the blazing cross in the Lady of the Lake, was the signal for an uprising. Fired by his passionate oratory, the masses revolted from the chill formalism of a dead ministry. The effect of the excitement which pervaded New England, when considered merely as an appetizer of the intellect, can not be over-estimated, and the vigor which the colonial mind thus acquired astonished in an after day the dullards of the British Parliament. The chief throb was felt in Connecticut, where strolling preachers of a new order held forth in barns and school-houses. Among these imitators of Whitefield were some men of high character, such as Tennant and Finley (afterwards president of Nassau Hall, Princeton), while others were frenzied enthusiasts. Davenport, the chief of these, was 'a heavenly-minded youth,' whose usefulness was wrecked by fanaticism. In his journey he was attended by one whom he called his armor-bearer, and their entrance into each village was signaled by a loud hymn sung by the excited pair. The very tone in which Davenport preached has been perpetuated by his admirers; it was a nasal twang, which had great effect. A law was passed against those irregularities, and Davenport was thrown into Hartford jail, where he sang hymns all night, to the great admiration of his friends. On being released he went to Lyme, where, after sermon, a bonfire of idols was made, to which the women contributed their ornaments and fine dresses, and the men their vain books. This religious movement was marred by much evil; yet its fruits, as we have stated, were found in that mental strength which subsequently bore the brunt of the Revolution. Its excited scenes are hit off by such reports as these,—'Sally Sparhawk fell and was carried out of meeting;' this statement being frequently repeated. The style of preaching in vogue may be imagined when we read of Tennant's appearance in the pulpit, with long locks flowing down his back, his gaunt form encased in a coarse garment, girt about the loins with a leathern girdle, in imitation of the prophet Elijah. His discourses were 'awful and solemn,' and the houses were crowded, though the cold was so intense as to sheet Long Island Sound with ice. Other memorials of this great awakening are found in Edwards' thrilling sermons, such as 'Sinners in the hands of an angry God,' 'Wicked men only useful in their destruction,' etc. For years after, the grand idea of New England was piety and good morals, and as there were no journals, except here and there a dwarfed weekly, the power of the pulpit was unrivaled. Religion was a common theme in every house. As a result, it is stated that during the whole Revolution, there was but one case of wilful murder in Massachusetts, and Dwight informs us that up to his day there had never been a lawsuit in Northampton, nor a loss by fire in which the damage was not mutually shared by the citizens. He also adds that on a given Sabbath five-sixths of the community were found in meeting. The minister in each town was supported by tax, and being in some sense a public officer, the ceremony of ordination was sometimes celebrated with procession and band of music.
Jonathan Edwards, the great light of New England, at this time could have been found in a quiet village on the Connecticut, whence his fame had already spread to the mother country. How Northampton gloried in her matchless preacher! For sixty years his grandfather, Solomon Stoddard, had labored there. Let us linger a moment over those scenes which, though fled like a dream, once witnessed the joys and sorrows of a lifetime. Here in this retired street stands the weather-stained parsonage, graced by a pair of saplings, planted by his own hands, to which Northampton points as 'the Edwards elms,' and which now fling giant shadows across the lawn. This dwelling, though scant of furniture, is passing rich in its domestic treasures. Here is a wife of lustrous beauty, sweet of disposition, fervent of spirit, and 'mighty in prayer.' She is a matchless judge of sermons, wise in human nature, and being wiser still in grace, must long rank as a model of the ministerial wife. Here, too, is her group of daughters, well worthy of such parentage, Esther, Sarah, Mary, and Jerusha, all beautiful and artless as herself. Here a world of daily interest is found in the studies and duties of a New England home. But who is he, of tall and attenuated form, whose days are passed in his solitary study, secluded like a hermit from the common experience of life? Like Moses, he is slow of speech, and might be considered almost severe of countenance. The lineaments tell their story of childlike simplicity of character, and yet they are inspired by an expression of power, which at first seems repellant. Those large black eyes seem to pierce and read on every thought. I have referred to this family in a previous article,[4] but would now speak at more length of its paternal head. This man has but two pursuits, study and prayer. Of the outer world he has ever remained in blissful ignorance, and even of his own parish he only knows what he has learned of his wife. He has no 'turn' for visiting, and can not afford time for vain talk. The secret of this is, that he breathes an atmosphere of his own; his soul is like a star, and dwells apart. Behold him seated at his table, jotting down casual thoughts on the backs of letters and scraps of paper (for paper is very dear); he is building up some great argument, whose vast proportions will in due time be developed, like the uncovering of a colossus. Beware, Mr. Solomon Williams of Hatfield, and you, Chubb and Tyndal, and John Taylor of Norwich, for you will each and all of you find your master in this secluded parson. Thirteen hours per day are given to study, and this has been the average for years. And such study to create realities out of the fogs of metaphysics, and to span the concrete and the abstract with a bridge such as Milton threw across space. This man can spend hours in pursuit of 'volitions' with all the excitement of the chamois-hunt. Now his eye brightens, for he has transfixed an idea, and holds it up in all the nicety of artistic touch, while he dissects it to its ramifications. It is all con amore with him, though his readers will need a clue to the maze of intricate reasoning.
One can not pass through the streets of Northampton, so broad, so rural, and so picturesque, without being overshadowed by that memory, which may be expressed in the sweet lines of Longfellow,—
'Here in patience and in sorrow, laboring still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the better land.'
It is gratifying to know that his memory is honored in Northampton by the naming of a church, though all may not understand the connection. The old 'meeting-house' (for the Puritans used the word church only in a spiritual sense) stood fronting the site of the present enormous edifice. It was torn down in 1812. Here for nearly a quarter of a century the tall form, and face pale and meagre from intense thinking, appeared each Sabbath before a people among whom his recluse habits rendered him almost a stranger. Here, having rested upon the desk, upon the elbow of his left arm, whose hand held a tiny book of closely written MS., he read with stooping form and low tones those solemn arguments and tremendous appeals which now thrill us from the printed page. Each of those tiny books was a sermon. Many of these are still preserved, and Dr. Tryon Edwards, of New London, has a chest filled with these memorials of his great ancestor. They are written in so fine a hand as to be hardly legible except to one practiced in their deciphering—a result of the extreme economy of one who, with all carefulness, was the largest consumer of paper and ink in New England. Solemn as was the deportment of this reverend man, sundry practical jokes at his expense are on record. It is said that the house dog was his close attendant, and on Sabbath day would invade even the pulpit in search of his master. Hence he was carefully fastened during 'holy time.' On one occasion, however, some wag not only loosed the animal, but actually garnished his neck with a pair of ministerial bands. The poor dog, unwitting of his sacred insignia, made his way into the pulpit without being noticed by his absent minded master, until some one showed him the dog, a la parson, perched up behind him on the pulpit bench.
As a public speaker Edwards' delivery was the minimum of force, and in this feature he admitted his utter failure. Indeed, when driven from Northampton, he replied to Erskine's invitation to remove to Scotland, that he was assured that his style would not be acceptable. After his dismission, the sorrows of poverty fell heavily upon him, and he writes to the same correspondent that 'he and his large and helpless family were to be cast upon the world.' A collection was made for him in Scotland, and forwarded at this time of need. The Scottish saints, indeed, held strong sympathy with the colonies, and it was their 'benefactions' which supported the mission of Brainerd, the most successful of modern days. Edwards remained more than a year at Northampton after leaving its pulpit, and was humbled by seeing the people assemble to hear sermons read by laymen in preference to his own ministrations. What a bitter cup this must have been: but Sarah cheered his heart, and grace reigned. In the mean time the girls wrought fancy work, which was sent to Boston, and sold in their behalf, and thus they were spared from want. Subsequently he was appointed missionary to the Stockbridge Indians. It was Orpheus among the wild beasts, but without his success. President Wayland quotes this fact in order to support a theory which is palpably false, that a preacher should not be much above the literary platform of his people; whereas, Edwards' ill success was in a large measure owing to the troubles and opposition incident to frontier life. With all his sorrows, however, he had one great satisfaction. His chief assailant, Joseph Ashley, of Northampton, who had borne so large a part in his expulsion, came in deep penitence, and besought his forgiveness, which was granted with Christian tenderness. Ashley's compunctions continued, and after Edwards' death increased in horror so greatly that to obtain relief he published to the world an explicit confession of his sins against 'that eminent servant of God.'
Edwards, like Milton, had long meditated a work which 'the world would not willingly let die,' but, although he had for some years been gathering materials, yet it was not until his removal to Stockbridge that he addressed himself fully to the mighty task of authorship. His habits of abstraction grew upon him amazingly during this effort, and the notable Sarah sheltered him from intrusion, and anticipated his wants. She was conscious of the greatness of the work with which he had grappled, and stood by his side like a guardian angel while he demolished errorists. It was her custom after the labors of the day to steal up to the study, where, like Numa and Egeria, they held serene communion. This was his sole medium of secular information, for in his occasional walks he was like one in a dream. The whole man was engrossed in what he alone could perform; indeed, to reconcile liberty and necessity were a task for which he seemed providentially set apart. But beneath these arguments, which rise Alp on Alp, there lurked a quiet perception of humor, and the reductio ad absurdum, which he occasionally drives home, showed the keenness of Puritan wit. How he must have smiled, nay even laughed, in the midst of his abstractions at that[5] metaphysical animal which illustrates the absurdity of his opponents. When 'The Freedom of the Will' was finished, and the author had sent it forth to do battle, he felt that the work of his life was done.
Just at this time a deputation waited on him to solicit his acceptance of the presidency of Nassau Hall. It was a strange sight to that rude hamlet of Stockbridge—those reverend forms finishing their long journey at the feet of the poor exiled missionary. When their errand was announced, he burst into tears, overcome by a sense of unworthiness, and in a subsequent letter he confirms his unfitness by reference to his 'flaccid solids and weak and sizy fluids.' But the demand was pressed, and Northampton learns with astonishment the exaltation of her banished pastor. The successful deputation possessed one member of rare interest. This was John Brainerd, who had succeeded his brother David as a missionary, and whom Edwards had met ten years before at the bedside of his dying brother. David would have been, had both lived, the husband of Jerusha—but now they slept side by side in Northampton burial-ground, and the surviving brother reappeared bearing this invitation. It was one not easily resisted; and so, amid dangers and infirmity, he was fain to say,
'To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.'
Before another spring, a higher glory awaited him; and the same year, five of his family, including the incomparable Sarah, were likewise 'received up.' A sad year was that to Princeton and to the church.
We have stated our opinion, that the activity of the New England mind arose from the digestion of strong doctrine; that very activity now generated a new style of preaching, which may be termed the metaphysical school. The days of thaumaturgia were passed, and in place of discussing demonology and temptation, an appetite for subtle dogma prevailed. I doubt if Britain and Germany, with their combined universities, could have equaled, during the last century, the New England pulpit in mental acuteness or philosophical discrimination. A reference to Edwards recalls mention among his followers of such names as Smally, Bellamy, Emmons, and Hopkins. Those who listened to the preaching of such men could not avoid becoming thinkers, and thought has made our country what it is. Very possibly what is known as 'Yankee ingenuity' arose from the thinking habits of careful sermon-hearers. A man who could follow the subtle theories of the pulpit, could think out the most elaborate machinery. Next to Jonathan Edwards, Dr. Emmons possessed the most philosophical mind of the age. So severe and invincible is his logic, that it is said that the New Haven lawyers often sharpened their minds on Emmons' sermons. His scheme of making God the author of sin may be considered one of the errors of a great mind. A modern novelist has placed old Dr. Hopkins among the characters of a romance. But however great may be the powers of Mrs. Stowe, it was quite impossible for an æsthetic and poetic mind to grasp that bundle of dried-up syllogisms which once occupied the Newport pulpit. Hopkins had preached the church at Great Barrington empty, and that of Newport died by lingering degrees. Only to think of that tall, ungainly form, the head covered with a linen cap, stiff and white, coming forth like an apparition once a week to the public gaze. We do not wonder at the child's inquiry 'if it was God that stood up there.' Hopkins' scheme of 'indifferent affection' was a grand conception, but as unnatural as grand: yet it showed an amazing boldness for a public teacher to lay down as a postulate that a willingness to be damned was a condition of salvation.
From a survey of the earlier clergy, even as superficial as the present one, we are struck with its ambition of a lofty range of doctrine. They
'reasoned high
Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
Fixed fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end in wandering mazes lost.
Of good and evil much they argued then,
Of happiness, and final misery,
Passion, and apathy, glory, and shame.'
The highest tribute which Milton could offer the fallen angels was that mental power which survived the general wreck. And no lesser flight would have satisfied the subjects of this sketch. Their lifelong effort was still to climb higher, ever exclaiming
'—Paula majora canamus.'
Their services in the cause of public education are beyond our appreciation, and it may be well for us to remember that Harvard, Yale, Williams, Union, Princeton, Amherst, Hanover, and other institutions, sprang from the bold philanthrophy of men so poor as often to be objects of pity. They saw that knowledge is power, and that power they would not only possess, but bequeath to coming generations.
Long as these rambles have been, they would still be incomplete without a tribute to the influence of wives and mothers which soothed and mellowed the sterner aspect of primitive life; but this can only be referred to as a theme worthy of distinct treatment. It should not be forgotten that the children reared under such influences have often been counted worthy of the highest stations of honor and trust; and although the scapegrace character of ministers' sons is a common fling, yet careful research has proved that it has many and brilliant exceptions.
While penning these pages, my mind has often wandered over ancient burial-grounds where pastor and people sleep side by side. One may find them in every New England town, and they chain with a spell of which the modern cemetery with its showy marbles knows nothing! We turn from the fresh mortality, which chills us with its recent sorrows, to those massy headstones whose faint inscriptions tell of generations long since freed from toil. Here one may find the rude monuments of those who still walk the earth and lead its progress, and here the heart may run over, as Byron says,
'With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead but sceptered sovereigns who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.'