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.'