I left the Guilford battle-ground and the hospitable cottage of Mr. Hotchkiss, at noon, the snow falling fast. At four miles distant, on the Salisbury road, I reached the venerable New Garden meeting-house, yet standing within the stately oak forest where Lee and Tarleton met. It is a frame building with a brick foundation. It was meeting-day, and the congregation were yet in session. Tying Charley to a drooping branch, I entered softly. A larger number than is usually present at "week-day meetings" had congregated, for a young man of the sect from Randolph county, thirty miles distant, and a young woman of Guilford, had signified their intentions to declare themselves publicly, on that day, man and wife. They had just risen before the elders and people when I glided into a seat near the door, and with a trembling voice the bridegroom had begun the expression of the marriage vow. His weather-bronzed features betokened the man of toil in the fields, and strongly contrasted with the blonde and delicate face, and slender form of her who, with the downcast eyes of modesty, heard his pledge of love and protection, and was summoning
* "No magazines were opened for our accommodation." says Lee in his Memoirs; "rest to our wearied limbs was the only boon within his gift. Our tattered garments could not be exchanged; nor could our worn out shoes be replaced. The exhilarating cordial was not within his reach, nor wholesome provision in abundance within his grasp. The meager beef of the pine barrens, with corn ash-cakes, was our food, and water our drink; yet we were content; we were more than content—we were happy."—Page 189.
Quaker Marriage.—A Centenarian Preacher.—His Blessing.—Jamestown.—Ridge Roads.
all her energy to make her kindred response. I had often observed the simple marriage ceremony of the Quakers, but never before did the beauty of that ritual appear so marked with the sublimity of pure simplicity. *
At the close of the meeting, I learned from one of the elders that a Friend's boarding-school was near, and, led by curiosity, I visited it. The building is of brick, spacious, and well arranged. It was under the superintendence of Thomas Hunt, a son of Nathan Hunt, an eminent Quaker preacher. An incidental remark concerning my relationship with Quakers, made while conversing with the wife of the superintendent, caused her to inquire whether I had ever heard of her father-in-law. I replied in the affirmative, having heard him preach when I was a boy, and expressed the supposition that he had long ago gone to his rest. "Oh no," she replied, "he is in the adjoining room," and leading the way, I was introduced to the patriarch of ninety-one years, whose voice, still vigorous, I had listened to when I was a lad of twelve years. He remembered well when the New Garden meeting-house was built, and resided in the neighborhood when the wounded and dying, from the field of Guilford, were brought there. Although physical infirmities were weighing heavily upon him, his mind appeared clear and elastic. When I was about departing, and pressed his hand with an adieu, he placed the other upon my head and said, "Farewell! God's peace go with thee!" I felt as if I had received the blessing of a patriarch indeed; and for days afterward, when fording dangerous streams and traversing rough mountain roads, that uttered blessing was in my mind, and seemed like a guardian angel about my path. Gloomy unbelief may deride, and thoughtless levity may laugh in ridicule at such an intimation, but all the philosophy of the schools could not give me such exquisite feelings of security in the hands of a kind Providence as that old man's blessing imparted.
The storm yet continued, and the kind matron of the school gave me a cordial invitation to remain there until it should cease; but, anxious to complete my journey, I rode on to Jamestown, an old village situated upon the high southwestern bank of the Deep River, nine miles from New Garden meeting-house, and thirteen miles above Bell's Mills, where Cornwallis had his encampment before the Guilford battle. The country through which I had passed from Guilford was very broken, and I did not reach Jamestown until sunset. It is chiefly inhabited by Quakers, the most of them originally from Nantucket and vicinity; and as they do not own slaves, nor employ slave labor, except when a servant is working to purchase his freedom, the land and the dwellings presented an aspect of thrift not visible in most of the agricultural districts in the upper country of the Carolinas.
I passed the night at Jamestown, and early in the morning departed for the Yadkin. Snow was yet falling gently, and it laid three inches deep upon the ground; a greater quantity than had fallen at one time, in that section, for five years. Fortunately, my route from thence to Lexington, in Davidson county, a distance of twenty miles, was upon a fine ridge road ** a greater portion of the way, and the snow produced but little inconvenience. Toward noon, the clouds broke, and before I reached Lexington (a small village on the west
* The marriage ceremony of the Quakers is very simple. The parties give notice at a monthly meeting of the society that on a certain day they intend to enter into the holy estate of matrimony. On the day appointed, they, with their friends, repair to the meeting-house, where they arise before the whole congregation and say, the bridegroom first, "I, A B, do take thee, C D, to be my wedded wife, and promise, through Divine assistance, to be unto thee a loving husband, until separated by death." The bride then repeats the same, only changing the person. A certificate of the marriage is then read by a person appointed for the purpose, and is signed by as many present as may choose to do so. These simple proceedings compose the whole marriage ceremony, which is as binding in the sight of God and man as the most elaborate formalities of priest or magistrate. The groomsman and bridesmaid are called waiters among the Quakers of New Garden.
** These ridge roads, or rather ridges upon which they are constructed, are curious features in the upper country of the Carolinas. Although the whole country is hilly upon every side, these roads may be traveled a score of miles, sometimes, with hardly ten feet of variation from a continuous level. The ridges are of sand, and continue, unbroken by the ravines which cleave the hills in all directions for miles, upon almost a uniform level. The roads following their summits are exceedingly sinuous, but being level and hard, the greater distance is more easily accomplished than if they were constructed in straight lines over the hills. The country has the appearance of vast waves of the sea suddenly turned into sand.
Journey to the Yadkin.—Salisbury.—A Night with a Cotton-planter near Concord