We suspect certain pages of Mrs. Trollope's _Domestic Manners of the
Americans_ to be highly coloured, but they are cleverly written, and will
be read with considerable interest.
_A Backwoodsman._
"We visited one farm, which interested us particularly from its wild and
lonely situation, and from the entire dependence of the inhabitants upon
their own resources. It was a partial clearing in the very heart of the
forest. The house was built on the side of a hill, so steep that a high
ladder was necessary to enter the front door, while the back one opened
against the hill-side; at the foot of this sudden eminence ran a clear
stream, whose bed had been deepened into a little reservoir, just opposite
the house. A noble field of Indian corn stretched away into the forest on
one side, and a few half-cleared acres, with a shed or two upon them,
occupied the other, giving accommodation to cows, horses, pigs, and
chickens innumerable. Immediately before the house was a small potato
garden, with a few peach and apple trees. The house was built of logs, and
consisted of two rooms, besides a little shanty or lean-to, that was used
as a kitchen. Both rooms were comfortably furnished with good beds,
drawers, &c. The farmer's wife, and a young woman who looked like her
sister, were spinning, and three little children were playing about. The
woman told me that they spun and wove all the cotton and woollen garments
of the family, and knit all the stockings; her husband, though not a
shoe-maker by trade, made all the shoes. She manufactured all the soap and
candles they used, and prepared her sugar from the sugar-trees on their
farm. All she wanted with money, she said, was to buy coffee, tea, and
whiskey, and she could 'get enough any day by sending a batch of butter
and chicken to market.' They used no wheat, nor sold any of their corn,
which, though it appeared a very large quantity, was not more than they
required to make their bread and cakes of various kinds, and to feed all
their live stock during the winter. She did not look in health, and said
they had all had ague in 'the fall' but she seemed contented, and proud of
her independence; though it was in somewhat a mournful accent that she
said, ''Tis strange to us to see company: I expect the sun may rise and
set a hundred times before I shall see another _human_ that does not
belong to the family.'
"These people were indeed, independent--Robinson Crusoe was hardly more
so, and they eat and drink abundantly; but yet it seemed to me that there
was something awful and almost unnatural in their loneliness. No village
bell ever summoned them to prayer, where they might meet the friendly
greeting of their fellow-men. When they die, no spot sacred by ancient
reverence will receive their bones--Religion will not breathe her sweet
and solemn farewell upon their grave; the husband or the father will dig
the pit that is to hold them, beneath the nearest tree; he will himself
deposit them within it, and the wind that whispers through the boughs will
be their only requiem. But then they pay neither taxes nor tithes, are
never expected to pull off a hat or to make a curtsey, and will live and
die without hearing or uttering the dreadful words, 'God save the king.'"
_A Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati._
"It was in the middle of summer, but the service we were recommended to
attend did not begin till it was dark. The church was well lighted, and
crowded almost to suffocation. On entering, we found three priests
standing side by side, in a sort of tribune, placed where the altar
usually is, handsomely fitted up with crimson curtains, and elevated about
as high as our pulpits. We took our places in a pew close to the rail
which surrounded it.
"The priest who stood in the middle was praying; the prayer was
extravagantly vehement, and offensively familiar in expression; when this
ended a hymn was sung, and then another priest took the centre place and
preached. The sermon had considerable eloquence, but of a frightful kind.
The preacher described, with ghastly minuteness, the last feeble fainting
moments of human life, and then the gradual progress of decay after death,
which he followed through every process up to the loathsome stage of
decomposition. Suddenly changing his tone, which had been that of sober,
accurate description, into the shrill voice of horror, he bent forward his
head, as if to gaze on some object beneath the pulpit, and made known to
us what he saw in the pit that seemed to open before him. The device was
certainly a happy one for giving effect to his description of hell. No
image that fire, flame, brimstone, molten lead, or red-hot pincers could
supply, with flesh, nerves, and sinews quivering under them, was omitted.
The perspiration ran in streams from the face of the preacher; his eyes
rolled, his lips were covered with foam, and every feature had the deep
expression of horror it would have borne, had he, in truth, been gazing at
the scene he described. The acting was excellent. At length he gave a
languishing look to his supporters on each side, as if to express his
feeble state, and then sat down, and wiped the drops of agony from his
brow.
"The other two priests arose, and began to sing a hymn. It was some
seconds before the congregation could join as usual; every upturned face
looked pale and horror-struck. When the singing ended, another took the
centre place, and began in a sort of coaxing, affectionate tone, to ask
the congregation if what their dear brother had spoken had reached their
hearts? Whether they would avoid the hell he had made them see? 'Come,
then!' he continued, stretching out his arms towards them, 'come to us,
and tell us so, and we will make you see Jesus, the dear gentle Jesus, who
shall save you from it. But you must come to him! You must not be ashamed
to come to him! This night you shall tell him that you are not ashamed of
him; we will make way for you; we will clear the bench for anxious sinners
to sit upon. Come, then! come to the anxious bench, and we will show you
Jesus! Come! Come! Come!'
"Again a hymn was sung, and while it continued, one of the three was
employed in clearing one or two long benches that went across the rail,
sending the people back to the lower part of the church. The singing
ceased, and again the people were invited, and exhorted not to be ashamed
of Jesus, but to put themselves upon 'the anxious benches,' and lay their
heads on his bosom. 'Once more we will sing,' he concluded, 'that we may
give you time.' And again they sung a hymn.
"And now in every part of the church a movement was perceptible, slight at
first, but by degrees becoming more decided. Young girls arose, and sat
down, and rose again; and then the pews opened, and several came tottering
out, their hands clasped, their heads hanging on their bosoms, and every
limb trembling, and still the hymn went on; but as the poor creatures
approached the rail their sobs and groans became audible. They seated
themselves on the 'anxious benches;' the hymn ceased, and two of the three
priests walked down from the tribune, and going, one to the right, and the
other to the left, began whispering to the poor tremblers seated there.
These whispers were inaudible to us, but the sobs and groans increased to
a frightful excess. Young creatures, with features pale and distorted,
fell on their knees on the pavement, and soon sunk forward on their faces;
the most violent cries and shrieks followed, while from time to time a
voice was heard in convulsive accents, exclaiming, 'Oh Lord!' 'Oh Lord
Jesus!' 'Help me, Jesus!' and the like. Meanwhile the two priests
continued to walk among them; they repeatedly mounted on the benches, and
trumpet-mouthed proclaimed to the whole congregation 'the tidings of
salvation;' and then from every corner of the building arose in reply,
short sharp cries of 'Amen!' 'Glory!' 'Amen!' while the prostrate
penitents continued to receive whispered comfortings, and from time to
time a mystic caress. More than once I saw a young neck encircled by a
reverend arm. Violent hysterics and convulsions seized many of them, and
when the tumult was at the highest, the priest who remained above, again
gave out a hymn as if to drown it. It was a frightful sight to behold
innocent young creatures, in the gay morning of existence, thus seized
upon, horror-struck, and rendered feeble and enervated for ever. One young
girl, apparently not more than fourteen, was supported in the arms of
another, some years older; her face was pale as death; her eyes wide open,
and perfectly devoid of meaning; her chin and bosom wet with slaver; she
had every appearance of idiotism. I saw a priest approach her, he took her
delicate hand, 'Jesus is with her! Bless the Lord!' he said, and passed on.
Did the men of America value their women as men ought to value their wives
and daughters, would such scenes be permitted among them?
"It is hardly necessary to say that all who obeyed the call to place
themselves on the 'anxious benches' were women, and by far the greater
number very young women. The congregration was in general, extremely well
dressed, and the smartest and most fashionable ladies of the town were
there; during the whole revival the churches and meeting-houses were every
day crowded with well-dressed people."
"It is thus the ladies of Cincinnati amuse themselves; to attend the
theatre is forbidden; to play cards is unlawful; but they work hard in
their families and must have some relaxation. For myself, I confess that I
think the coarsest comedy ever written would be a less detestable
exhibition for the eyes of youth and innocence than such a scene."
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