The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35

The Patriarch.

"Gently on him, had gentle Nature laid
The weight of years.—All passions that disturb
Had passed away."— Southey.

Soon after my entrance upon clerical duties, in the state of North Carolina, I was informed of an isolated settlement, at a considerable distance from the place of my residence. Its original elements were emigrants from New England; a father, and his five sons, who, with their wives and little children, had about thirty years before become sojourners in the heart of one of the deepest Carolinian solitudes. They purchased a tract of wild, swamp-encircled land. This they subjected to cultivation, and by unremitting industry, rendered adequate to their subsistence and comfort. The sons, and the sons' sons, had in their turn become the fathers of families; so, that the population of this singular spot comprised five generations. They were described as constituting a peaceful and virtuous community, with a government purely patriarchal. Secluded from the privileges of public worship, it was said that a sense of religion, influencing the heart and conduct, had been preserved by statedly assembling on the sabbath, and reading the scriptures, with the Liturgy of the Church of England. The pious ancestor of the colony, whose years now surpassed four-score, had, at their removal to this hermitage, established his eldest son in the office of lay-reader. This simple ministration, aided by holy example, had so shared the blessing of heaven, that all the members of this miniature commonwealth held fast the faith and hope of the gospel.

I was desirous of visiting this peculiar people, and of ascertaining whether such precious fruits might derive nutriment from so simple a root. A journey into that section of the country afforded me an opportunity. I resolved to be the witness of their Sunday devotions, and with the earliest dawn of that consecrated day, I left the house of a friend, where I had lodged, and who furnished the requisite directions for my solitary and circuitous route.

The brightness and heat of summer began to glow oppressively, ere I turned from the haunts of men, and plunged into the recesses of the forest. Towering amidst shades which almost excluded the light of heaven, rose the majestic pines, the glory and the wealth of North Carolina. Some, like the palms, those princes of the East, reared a proud column of fifty feet, ere the branches shot forth their heavenward cone. With their dark verdure, mingled the pale and beautiful efflorescence of the wild poplar, like the light interlacing of sculpture, in some ancient awe-inspiring temple, while thousands of birds from those dark cool arches, poured their anthems of praise to the Divine Architect.

The sun was high in the heavens when I arrived at the morass, the bulwark thrown by Nature around this little city of the desert. Alighting, I led my horse over the rude bridges of logs, which surmounted the pools and ravines, until our footing rested upon firm earth. Soon, an expanse of arable land became visible, and wreaths of smoke came lightly curling through the trees, as if to welcome the stranger. Then, a cluster of cottages cheered the eye. They were so contiguous, that the blast of a horn, or even the call of a shrill voice, might convene all their inhabitants. To the central and the largest building, I directed my steps. Approaching the open window, I heard a distinct manly voice, pronouncing the solemn invocation,—"By thine agony, and bloody sweat,—by thy cross and passion,—by thy precious death and burial,—by thy glorious resurrection and ascension,—and by the coming of the Holy Ghost." The response arose, fully and devoutly, in the deep accents of manhood, and the softer tones of the mother and her children.

Standing motionless, that I might not disturb the worshippers, I had a fair view of the lay-reader. He was a man of six feet in height, muscular and well proportioned, with a head beautifully symmetrical, from whose crown time had begun to shred the luxuriance of its raven locks. Unconscious of the presence of a stranger, he supposed that no eye regarded him, save that of his God. Kneeling around him, were his "brethren according to the flesh," a numerous and attentive congregation. At his right hand was the Patriarch—tall, somewhat emaciated, yet not bowed with years, his white hair combed smoothly over his temples, and slightly curling on his neck. Gathered near him, were his children, and his children's children. His blood was in the veins of almost every worshipper. Mingling with forms that evinced the ravages of time and toil, were the bright locks of youth, and the rosy brow of childhood, bowed low in supplication. Even the infant, with hushed lip, regarded a scene where was no wandering glance. Involuntarily, my heart said,—"Shall not this be a family in Heaven?" In the closing aspirations, "O Lamb of God! that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us!"—the voice of the Patriarch was heard, with strong and affecting emphasis. After a pause of silent devotion, all arose from their knees, and I entered the circle.

"I am a minister of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I come to bless you in the name of the Lord."

The ancient Patriarch, grasping my hand, gazed on me with intense earnestness. A welcome, such as words have never uttered, was written on his brow.

"Thirty-and-two years has my dwelling been in this forest. Hitherto, no man of God hath visited us. Praised be his name, who hath put it into thy heart, to seek out these few sheep in the wilderness. Secluded as we are, from the privilege of worshipping God in his temple, we thus assemble every Sabbath, to read his holy Book, and to pray unto him in the words of our liturgy. Thus have we been preserved from 'forgetting the Lord who bought us, and lightly esteeming the Rock of our Salvation.'"

The exercises of that day are indelibly engraven on my memory. Are they not written in the record of the Most High? Surely a blessing entered into my own soul, as I beheld the faith, and strengthened the hope of those true-hearted and devout disciples. Like him, whose slumbers at Bethel were visited by the white-winged company of heaven, I was constrained to say,—"Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not."

At the request of the Patriarch, I administered the ordinance of baptism. It was received with affecting demonstrations of solemnity and gratitude. The sacred services were protracted until the setting of the sun. Still they seemed reluctant to depart. It was to them a high and rare festival. When about to separate, the venerable Patriarch introduced me to all his posterity. Each seemed anxious to press my hand; and even the children expressed, by affectionate glances, their reverence and love for him who ministered at the altar of God.

"The Almighty," said the ancient man, "hath smiled on these babes, born in the desert. I came hither with my sons and their companions, and their blessed mother, who hath gone to rest. God hath given us families as a flock. We earn our bread with toil and in patience. For the intervals of labor we have a school, where our little ones gain the rudiments of knowledge. Our only books of instruction, are the bible and prayer-book."

At a signal they rose and sang, when about departing to their separate abodes,—"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace, and good will towards men." Never, by the pomp of measured melody, was my spirit so stirred within me, as when that rustic, yet tuneful choir, surrounding the white-haired father of them all, breathed out in their forest sanctuary, "Thou, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us."

The following morning, I called on every family, and was delighted with the domestic order, economy, and concord, that prevailed. Careful improvement of time, and moderated desires, seemed uniformly to produce among them, the fruits of a blameless life and conversation. They conducted me to their school. Its teacher was a grand-daughter of the lay-reader. She possessed a sweet countenance, and gentle manners, and with characteristic simplicity, employed herself at the spinning-wheel, when not absorbed in the labors of instruction. Most of her pupils read intelligibly, and replied with readiness to questions from Scripture History. Writing and arithmetic were well exemplified by the elder ones; but those works of science, with which our libraries are so lavishly supplied, had not found their way to this retreat. But among the learners was visible, what does not always distinguish better endowed seminaries; docility, subordination, and profound attention to every precept and illustration. Habits of application and a desire for knowledge were infused into all. So trained up were they in industry, that even the boys, in the intervals of their lessons, were busily engaged in the knitting of stockings for winter. To the simple monitions which I addressed to them, they reverently listened; and ere they received the parting blessing, rose, and repeated a few passages from the inspired volume, and lifted up their accordant voices, chanting, "blessed be the Lord God of Israel, for he hath visited and redeemed his people."

Whatever I beheld in this singular spot, served to awaken curiosity, or to interest feeling. All my inquiries were satisfied with the utmost frankness. Evidently, there was nothing which required concealment. The heartless theories of fashion, with their subterfuges and vices, had not penetrated to this hermetically sealed abode. The Patriarch, at his entrance upon his territory, had divided it into six equal portions, reserving one for himself, and bestowing another on each of his five sons. As the children of the colony advanced to maturity, they, with scarcely an exception, contracted marriages among each other, striking root, like the branches of the banian, around their parent tree. The domicile of every family was originally a rude cabin of logs, serving simply the purpose of shelter. In front of this, a house of larger dimensions was commenced, and so constructed, that the ancient abode might become the kitchen, when the whole was completed. To the occupation of building they attended as they were able to command time and materials. "We keep it," said one of the colonists, "for handy-work, when there is no farming, or turpentine-gathering, or tar-making." Several abodes were at that time, in different stages of progress, marking the links of gradation between the rude cottage, and what they styled the "framed house." When finished, though devoid of architectural elegance, they exhibited capabilities of comfort, equal to the sober expectations of a primitive people. A field for corn, and a garden abounding with vegetables, were appendages to each habitation. Cows grazed quietly around, and sheep dotted like snow-flakes, the distant green pastures. The softer sex participated in the business of horticulture, and when necessary, in the labors of harvest, thus obtaining that vigor and muscular energy which distinguish the peasantry of Europe, from their effeminate sisters of the nobility and gentry. Each household produced or manufactured within its own domain, most of the materials which were essential to its comfort; and for such articles as their plantations could not supply, or their ingenuity construct, the pitch-pine was their medium of purchase. When the season arrived for collecting its hidden treasures, an aperture was made in its bark, and a box inserted, into which the turpentine continually oozed. Care was required to preserve this orifice free from the induration of glutinous matter. Thus, it must be frequently reopened, or carried gradually upward on the trunk of the tree; sometimes, to such a height, that a small knife affixed to the extremity of a long pole, is used for that purpose. Large trees sustain several boxes at the same time, though it is required that the continuity of bark be preserved, or the tree, thus shedding its life-blood at the will of man, must perish. Though the laborers in this department are exceedingly industrious and vigilant, there will still be a considerable deposit adhering to the body of the tree. These portions, called "turpentine facings," are carefully separated, and laid in a cone-like form, until they attain the size of a formidable mound. This is covered with earth, and when the cool season commences, is ignited; and the liquid tar, flowing into a reservoir prepared for it, readily obtains a market among the dealers in naval stores.

Shall I be forgiven for such minuteness of detail? So strongly did this simple and interesting people excite my affectionate solicitude, that not even their slightest concerns seemed unworthy of attention. By merchants of the distant town, who were in habits of traffic with them, I was afterwards informed that they were distinguished for integrity and uprightness, and that the simple affirmation of these "Bible and Liturgy men," as they were styled, possessed the sacredness of an oath. The lay-reader remarked to me, that he had never known among his people, a single instance of either intemperance or profanity.

"Our young men have no temptations, and the old set an uniformly sober example. Still, I cannot but think our freedom from vice is chiefly owing to a sense of religious obligation, cherished by God's blessing upon our humble worship."

"Are there no quarrels or strifes among you?"

"For what should we contend? We have no prospect of wealth, nor motive of ambition. We are too busy to dispute about words. Are not these the sources of most of the 'wars and fightings' among mankind? Beside, we are all of one blood. Seldom does any variance arise, which the force of brotherhood may not quell. Strict obedience is early taught in families. Children who learn thoroughly the Bible-lesson to obey and honor their parents, are not apt to be contentious in society, or irreverent to their Father in Heaven. Laws so simple would be inefficient in a mixed and turbulent community. Neither could they be effectual here, without the aid of that gospel which speaketh peace, and prayer for his assistance, who 'turneth the hearts of the disobedient to the wisdom of the just.'"

Is it surprising that I should take my leave, with an overflowing heart, of the pious Patriarch and his posterity?—that I should earnestly desire another opportunity of visiting their isolated domain?

Soon after this period, a circumstance took place, which they numbered among the most interesting eras of their history. A small chapel was erected in the village nearest to their settlement. Though at the distance of many miles, they anticipated its completion with delight. At its consecration by the late Bishop Ravenscroft, as many of the colonists as found it possible to leave home, determined to be present. Few of the younger ones had ever entered a building set apart solely for the worship of God; and the days were anxiously counted, until they should receive permission to tread his courts.

The appointed period arrived. Just before the commencement of the sacred services of dedication, a procession of singular aspect was seen to wind along amid interposing shades. It consisted of persons of both sexes, and of every age, clad in a primitive style, and advancing with solemn order. I recognized my hermit friends, and hastened onward to meet them. Scarcely could the ancient Jews, when from distant regions they made pilgrimage to their glorious hill of Zion, have testified more touching emotion, than these guileless worshippers, in passing the threshold of this humble temple to Jehovah. When the sweet tones of a small organ, mingling with the voices of a select choir, gave "glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end," the young children of the forest started from their seats in wondering joy, while the changing color, or quivering lip of the elders, evinced that the hallowed music awoke the cherished echoes of memory.

But with what breathless attention did they hang on every word of Bishop Ravenscroft, as with his own peculiar combination of zeal and tenderness, he illustrated the inspired passage which he had chosen, or with a sudden rush of strong and stormy eloquence broke up the fountains of the soul! Listening and weeping, they gathered up the manna, which an audience satiated with the bread of heaven, and prodigal of angels' food, might have suffered to perish. With the hoary Patriarch, a throng of his descendants, who had been duly prepared for that holy vow and profession, knelt around the altar, in commemoration of their crucified Redeemer.

At the close of the communion service, when about to depart to his home, the white-haired man drew near to the Bishop. Gratitude for the high privileges in which he had participated; reverence for the father in God, whom he had that day for the first time beheld; conviction that his aged eyes could but a little longer look on the things of time; consciousness that he might scarcely expect again to stand amid these his children, to "behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to inquire in his temple," overwhelmed his spirit. Pressing the hand of the Bishop, and raising his eyes heavenward, he said,—"Lord! now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation."

Bishop Ravenscroft fixed on him one of those piercing glances which seemed to read the soul; and then tears, like large rain-drops stood upon his cheeks. Recovering from his emotion, he pronounced, with affectionate dignity, the benediction, "the Lord bless thee and keep thee; the Lord make his face to shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee; the Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."

The Patriarch, bowing down a head, heavy with the snows of more than fourscore winters, breathed a thanksgiving to God, and turned homeward, followed by all his kindred. Summer had glided away ere it was in my power again to visit the "lodge in the wilderness." As I was taking in the autumn twilight my lonely walk for meditation, a boy of rustic appearance, approaching with hasty steps, accosted me.

"Our white-haired father, the father of us all, lies stretched upon his bed. He takes no bread or water, and he asks for you. Man of God, will you come to him?"

Scarcely had I signified assent, ere he vanished. With the light of the early morning, I commenced my journey. Autumn had infused chillness into the atmosphere, and somewhat of tender melancholy into the heart. Nature seems to regard with sadness the passing away of the glories of summer, and to robe herself as if for humiliation.

As the sun increased in power, more of cheerfulness overspread the landscape. The pines were busily disseminating their winged seeds. Like insects, with a floating motion, they spread around for miles. Large droves of swine made their repast upon this half ethereal food. How mindful is Nature of even her humblest pensioners!

As I approached the cluster of cottages, which now assumed the appearance of a village, the eldest son advanced to meet me. His head declined like one struggling with a grief which he would fain subdue. Taking my hand in both of his, he raised it to his lips. Neither of us spoke a word. It was written clearly on his countenance, "Come quickly, ere he die."

Together we entered the apartment of the good Patriarch. One glance convinced me that he was not long to be of our company. His posterity were gathered around him in sorrow;

"For drooping,—sickening,—dying, they began,
Whom they ador'd as God, to mourn as man."

He was fearfully emaciated, but as I spake of the Saviour, who "went not up to joy, until he first suffered pain," his brow again lighted with the calmness of one, whose "way to eternal joy was to suffer with Christ, whose door to eternal life gladly to die with him."

Greatly comforted by prayer, he desired that the holy communion might be once more administered to him, and his children. There was a separation around his bed. Those who had been accustomed to partake with him, drew near, and knelt around the dying. Fixing his eye on the others, he said, with an energy of tone which we thought had forsaken him,—"Will ye thus be divided, at the last day?" A burst of wailing grief was the reply.

Never will that scene be effaced from my remembrance: the expressive features, and thrilling responses of the Patriarch, into whose expiring body the soul returned with power, that it might leave this last testimony of faith and hope to those whom he loved, are among the unfading imagery of my existence. The spirit seemed to rekindle more and more, in its last lingerings around the threshold of time. In a tone, whose clearness and emphasis surprised us, the departing saint breathed forth a blessing on those who surrounded him, "in the name of that God, whose peace passeth all understanding."

There was an interval, during which he seemed to slumber. Whispers of hope were heard around his couch, that he might wake and be refreshed. At length, his eyes slowly unclosed. They were glazed and deeply sunken in their sockets. Their glance was long and kind upon those who hung over his pillow. His lips moved, but not audibly. Bowing my ear more closely, I found that he was speaking of Him who is the "resurrection and the life." A slight shuddering passed over his frame, and he was at rest, for ever.

A voice of weeping arose from among the children, who had been summoned to the bed of death. Ere I had attempted consolation, the lay-reader with an unfaltering tone pronounced, "the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord."

Deep silence ensued. It seemed as if every heart was installing him who spake, in the place of the father and the governor who had departed. It was a spontaneous acknowledgment of the right of primogeniture, which no politician could condemn. He stood among them, in the simple majesty of his birthright, a ruler and priest to guide his people in the way everlasting. It was as if the mantle of an arisen prophet had descended upon him, as if those ashen lips had broken the seal of death to utter "behold my servant whom I have chosen." Every eye fixed upon him its expression of fealty and love. Gradually the families retired to their respective habitations. Each individual paused at the pillow of the Patriarch, to take a silent farewell; and some of the little ones climbed up to kiss the marble face.

I was left alone with the lay-reader, and with the dead. The enthusiasm of the scene had fled, and the feelings of a son triumphed. Past years rushed like a tide over his memory. The distant, but undimmed impressions of infancy and childhood,—the planting of that once wild waste,—the changes of those years which had sprinkled his temples with gray hairs,—all, with their sorrows and their joys, came back, associated with the lifeless image of his beloved sire. In the bitterness of bereavement, he covered his face, and wept. That iron frame which had borne the hardening of more than half a century, shook, like the breast of an infant, when it sobbed out its sorrows. I waited until the first shock of grief had subsided. Then, passing my arm gently within his, I repeated, "I heard a voice from heaven saying,—Write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord." Instantly raising himself upright, he responded in a voice whose deep inflections sank into my soul, "Even so, saith the spirit, for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them."

I remained to attend the funeral obsequies of the Patriarch. In the heart of their territory was a shady dell, sacred to the dead. It was surrounded by a neat enclosure, and planted with trees. The drooping branches of a willow, swept the grave of the mother of the colony. Near her, slumbered her youngest son. Several other mounds swelled around them, most of which, by their small size, told of the smitten flowers of infancy. To this goodly company, we bore him, who had been revered as the father and exemplar of all. With solemn steps, his descendants, two and two, followed the corpse. I heard a convulsive and suppressed breathing, among the more tender of the train; but when the burial service commenced, all was hushed. And never have I more fully realised its surpassing pathos and power, than when from the centre of that deep solitude, on the brink of that waiting grave, it poured forth its consolation.

"Man, that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and is cut down like a flower. He fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay. In the midst of life, we are in death. Of whom may we seek succor but of thee, Oh Lord!—who for our sins art justly displeased? Yet, O Lord God most holy—O God most mighty,—O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts, shut not thy most merciful ears to our prayers, but spare us, O Lord most holy,—O God most mighty,—O holy and merciful Saviour,—suffer us not, at our last hour, for any pains of death to fall from thee."

Circumstances compelled me to leave this mourning community immediately after committing the dust of their pious ancestor to the earth. They accompanied me to some distance on my journey, and our parting was with mutual tears. Turning to view them, as their forms mingled with the dark green of the forest, I heard the faint echo of a clear voice. It was the lay-reader, speaking of the hope of the resurrection: "If we believe that Christ died and rose again, even so them also, that sleep in Jesus, will God bring with him."

Full of thought, I pursued my homeward way. I inquired, is Devotion never encumbered, or impeded by the splendor that surrounds her? Amid the lofty cathedral,—the throng of rich-stoled worshippers,—the melody of the solemn organ,—does that incense never spend itself upon the earth, that should rise to heaven? On the very beauty and glory of its ordinances, may not the spirit proudly rest, and go no more forth to the work of benevolence, nor spread its wing at the call of faith?

Yet surely, there is a reality in religion, though man may foolishly cheat himself with the shadow. Here I have beheld it in simplicity, disrobed of "all pomp and circumstance," yet with power to soothe the passions into harmony, to maintain the virtues in daily and vigorous exercise, and to give victory to the soul, when death vanquishes the body. So, I took the lesson to my heart, and when it has languished or grown cold, I have warmed it by the remembrance of the ever-living faith, of those "few sheep in the wilderness."