REMINISCENCES OF THE PAST.
Sunday--Sacred worship--The sanctuary recalling
youthful scenes--Early plighted vows at the table of
the Lord--Retrospect--Mournful reflections--Change in
the congregation--Mr. and Mrs. N---- The
C----family--Col. T---- Village burial ground--C----The
buried pastor--My mother--Palmyra--Early ministerial
labours--Lyons.
_Fairfield, Aug. 15th._
In these GLEANINGS BY THE WAY, I have very little plan or method, but send
you just what happens to interest me most at the time.
Perhaps there are no two places that we visit, after long years of absence,
with so much interest as _the sanctuary_ where we first plighted our vows
of allegiance at the sacramental table to Jehovah, and the old, shaded
_burial place_ where repose the ashes of many whom we knew and loved in
early life. In my late excursion through Western New York, I was permitted
to enjoy this pleasing, yet melancholy satisfaction. Upon the first Sunday
of the present month, I was permitted to worship in the sanctuary where
twenty-two years before I first knelt at the communion table to receive the
consecrated symbols of my Saviour's dying love. As I stood within the rail
of the altar and looked around that sanctuary, a tide of thought rushed
upon me, awakening in my mind varied and conflicting emotions.
The sacred place with its history called up some pleasing reflections. I
could not but rejoice that "_the truth as it is in Jesus_," continued to be
proclaimed there, and that the cross of Christ was perpetually held up as
the sinner's only hope. I could not but rejoice to see the increase and
prosperity of Christ's spiritual flock; the number of communicants having
swelled from _fifty_ to nearly _two hundred_. I could not but be thankful
to remember how mercifully and kindly the Lord had led me through the
wilderness for more than twenty years, and how unerringly he had fulfilled
all his covenant promises!
But there were also painful reflections called up by what I saw before me.
Remembering as I did that here, in this spot my covenant vows were pledged
before high heaven, I could not but recollect how far I had fallen short of
that entire consecration to God--that separation from the world, and
supreme love for Christ, implied in those vows--I could not but recollect
what poor returns I had rendered to that Saviour who had laid down his life
for my redemption, to that merciful God
* * * * * * that sought me
Wretched wanderer, far astray;
Found me lost, and kindly brought me
From the paths of death away.
Since the hour I had first knelt at that altar to consecrate myself to the
service of Jehovah, his covenant promises had been all verified. "Not one
thing had failed of all the good things which the Lord my God had spoken
concerning me." During all this period, "his loving kindness he had not
taken away, nor suffered his faithfulness to fail." But amid all these
unwearied displays of divine faithfulness, alluring me with the sweetness
of spiritual joys, and rousing my dullness, as well as rebuking my
waywardness with the chastenings of a father's rod, how often had I, like
Israel of old, by spiritual declension, and worldly conformity "forsaken
the Lord--provoked the holy one of Israel unto anger, and gone away
backward!" Most overwhelming, indeed, would have been the review of the
past, but for that voice of redeeming love which breathed from the altar on
which lay the symbols of Christ's great sacrifice, saying--"the blood of
Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin." "Come now, and let us reason
together, saith the Lord; though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as
white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." "If
any man sin, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ, the
righteous; and he is the propitiation for our sins."
The scene within that sanctuary also awakened other mournful reflections. A
large congregation sat before me, but where were the individuals and
families that twenty years before filled those pews? Only here and there
amid the assembled congregation could be traced a familiar countenance. The
great mass had gone! Some had undoubtedly left the place and removed to
other parts of the country; but the majority of the senior members of the
former congregation, had finished their probation and gone to the Spirit
land! How solemn did the place seem as I stood and looked upon the mere
handful now remaining of that large congregation that once filled this
temple. There were four pews to which my eye was particularly directed. I
recollected distinctly how they were occupied twenty years ago. Each of the
families that sat in those pews were among the most respectable and
influential people in the place. Regular as the Sabbath morn came, was Mr.
and Mrs. N---- with their large and interesting family seen moving up the
aisle in a dignified train and with looks of deepest seriousness towards
their pew. He was for a long time one of the wardens of the church. He had
filled some most important posts of civil duty, and enjoyed the esteem and
respect of all. Mrs. N---- afforded in her whole life a most lovely
specimen of consistent, dignified, matronly piety. So extensive were the
charities of this family, that it might almost literally be said of them,
that "they were eyes to the blind, and feet to the lame. They delivered the
poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help
him,"--so that in truth wherever they went in the neighbourhood of their
own home, "the blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon them; and
they caused the widow's heart to sing for joy." But those venerable forms,
those worthy characters, were no longer to be seen in that pew. Long since
they had been borne to the place of the dead, and several of those children
that used to sit by them, had also been laid by their side in the grave.
Adjoining this pew, was another occupied by a family of great
respectability and worth. The head of this family was one who filled a
large space in the public mind, and for many years held a seat in the
highest legislative council of the nation. I looked for him in that pew,
but he was not there! he was numbered with the dead! I was wont to see amid
that family group, a young beautiful blooming girl--the pride of her
parents' hearts, but now _she_ was not there! She had been married, and
had every thing around her that earth could afford to make one happy. But
in the midst of all that was bright and lovely, consumption had fixed its
deadly blight upon her, and nothing could rescue her from the grave.
I looked across the church to two other pews, their former occupants,
though they were families that had been long residents in the place, and
possessed great wealth and respectability, were gone. Not a single
representative of either family remained in the congregation or the place.
Mr. C----, the head of one of these families, was also long a warden of the
church. They had a lovely daughter, who was an only child. I well recollect
her appearance in the house of God. She was a delicate flower, and most
tenderly was she nurtured by her affectionate parents. All their earthly
hopes seemed to centre in her. No expense was spared in her education.
Every advantage that was supposed calculated to refine her taste, cultivate
and expand her intellect, embellish her manners, and fit her to shine in
the world, was placed within her reach. She was indeed a lovely young
being. She had already interested the affections of one every way worthy of
her. He was highly educated--of an excellent moral character, and belonged
to a family of great wealth, influence and respectability--the very family
who occupied the other pew of which I am soon to speak. But strong parental
affection, high personal accomplishments--the brightest prospects in life,
and the warm attachment of a devoted lover, could not shield Susan from the
power of disease, or the cold iron grasp of death. The long grass now waves
over her grave, and her broken-hearted father lies by her side. Their large
estate has been scattered to the winds--and her mother resides in a
distant part of the land a lonely widow.
I have already alluded to a fourth pew in this sanctuary, whose occupants I
had some twenty years before so often seen in this place of worship. Col.
T---- held a proud place among the distinguished and influential men in
Western New-York. He possessed all which wealth and high standing and
extensive influence can impart to secure to himself and family the most
unalloyed earthly enjoyment. And I trust that he had something better than
this, even that hope, which sheds light over the gloom and darkness of the
grave. He and his family were regular attendants upon the service of the
sanctuary. He had two sons whom he expected would inherit a portion of his
property and perpetuate his name in the world. But the youngest to whom we
have before alluded, did not long linger upon the shores of time, after he
saw the object of his young affections torn from him and swallowed up in
the grave. His only surviving brother, in the very midst of life, shortly
followed him. And soon his father and his mother were laid by his side.
This is a picture--a miniature picture of life! Thus doth "the fashion of
this world pass away!" What solemn testimony was before me, that "all flesh
is grass, and all the goodliness thereof as the flower of the field." How
emphatic then did the words of the prophet seem--"The grass withereth, the
flower fadeth; because the Spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it: surely the
people is grass." Not only had the flock changed--but the pastor was also
gone! He who had instructed my youth--who had led me to the Saviour--who
had first broken to me the sacramental bread, and given some of the first
impulses to my preparation for the ministry--no longer stood before that
altar--his voice was no longer heard in that sanctuary! A simple marble
slab placed in the recess behind the pulpit, told the melancholy tale that
he too had gone to the spirit land.
The account I have given you of my visit to this sanctuary, is so full of
death I need scarcely take you to the village burial ground. It was a
place, however, consecrated by the dust of too many dear friends for me to
abstain from treading among its grass-covered and heaped hillocks of earth.
This burial place, consisting of several acres of ground, enclosed by a
neat pale, and shaded by shrubbery and trees, was located in the outskirts
of the town, and at present, is seldom used for interments. A solitary walk
amid its graves brought up a long train of recollections of the past. How
mournful, yet how sacred did I find the satisfaction of brushing away the
long grass that had grown over the spot where reposed the mouldered ashes
of one who gamboled with me amid the sports of childhood's careless hour,
and rushed onward at my side in life's joyous course till youth was
ripening into manhood, and then the barbed arrow of death met him, and he
fell like a young, vigorous, foliage-clad tree, struck by heaven's bolt, in
all the freshness of his existence! How mysterious and inscrutable did the
ways of Providence appear to me as I trod down the tall weeds that had
grown up around the grave of one who had been associated with me during a
portion of my academical life, and who looked forward to the same
profession with myself! C---- had one of the warmest and most amiable
hearts that ever beat within the human bosom. He had faults of character,
but they were all counterbalanced and lost amid the many excellencies that
distinguished him. He had long contended with poverty and discouragements
of various kinds, in order to press his way towards the sacred ministry.
After years of toil, and sacrifices of every kind, when he had just reached
the goal, and was to be invested with the ministry of reconciliation,
disease fastened upon his earthly tabernacle, and he sank down in death. No
tender mother, nor kind sister was near to close his dying eyes. No family
friends were present to follow his remains to the tomb. There he lies in a
lone spot, far from the home of his childhood, with the weeds grown up all
around his grave, and few that pass by understand the full import of the
simple inscription of the marble slab that marks the spot where his ashes
repose!
And there too, amid the gathered crowd of the dead, was all that remained
of the mortal part of one whose voice had been heard a hundred times amid
those grounds repeating the solemn burial service of our Church. But years
have passed away since that service was repeated over him. Well do I
recollect the melancholy occasion, when the cold icy clod of winter fell
upon his coffin, as the affecting words were pronounced--"_We commit his
body to the ground: earth to earth--ashes to ashes, dust to dust._" I could
not pass through those grounds without paying a visit to the grave of the
buried minister, for he had not only shed spiritual light upon my path, but
was united to me by the strong ties of kindred and blood. He was my own
brother! The grass was green over his grave; for it had flourished there
undisturbed for more than twelve years.
But no spot in all that ground seemed so sacred, or so pregnant with power
to awaken deep emotions and melt my soul into tenderness, as my mother's
grave! What a volume of past recollections does every visit to that grave
call up! What hallowed thoughts and sacred remembrances stand associated
with the dust that slumbers in that narrow house? Can I ever forget a
sainted mother's love! Can I ever forget the hour she took my tiny hand
into hers and led me to a secret place there to pray for me and to teach me
how to lift up my infant voice to the Creator of the skies? Can I ever
forget how each night and morning in childhood's happy days I knelt at her
side to repeat "OUR FATHER?" Can I ever forget how in my childish sorrows
her voice soothed my distress, and her bright beaming smile spread a
sunshine around my path? Can I ever forget how, when sickness came upon me,
and the scorchings of fever sent the blood boiling through my veins, she
hung over me like a guardian angel--laid her soft hand upon my burning
brow, and night after night sat and watched by my pillow? Can I ever forget
that look of holy rapture and unutterable gratitude that lit up her
countenance when the constraining love of Christ first led her unworthy
child to go forward and take hold of the horns of the altar? And above all,
can I ever forget her prayers and solemn counsel, her holy trust in Christ
and upward looking towards the summit of the everlasting hills, when the
icy hand of death was upon her, and her hold upon life was breaking away?
And could I stand by her grave, and not have these recollections come
thronging upon me? But I must stop. I had almost forgotten that I was
writing for the eye of others. Did I not know that many into whose hands
these remarks will fall, have also stood by _a mother's grave_, and
thought and felt unutterable things, and will therefore appreciate the
source and sacredness of these feelings to which I have been almost
involuntarily led to give expression, I would immediately erase them from
this sheet.
But I have lingered over these scenes much longer than I intended. I had
purposed to give you some account of an excursion I made to Palmyra and
Lyons, two rising and beautiful villages located within sixteen miles of
each other, at different points on the line of the great Erie Canal. The
whole range of country from Geneva onward to these villages, and still
farther north till we reach the shores washed by the waves of the broad
Ontario, which expands before the eye like a great inland sea, is one of
the richest and most beautiful farming districts found in our country. This
region, fourteen years ago, was the scene of my early missionary labours.
It was then comparatively a new country. A change has come over the whole
aspect of this agricultural district, and that within so limited a period,
that it would almost seem to have been effected by the wand of enchantment.
Edifices too for public worship have been raised, and the sound of the
church-going bell is now heard in many places where a few years since all
seemed like spiritual desolation. The Episcopal Church had neither
existence nor local habitation in the county of Wayne fourteen years ago.
An effort had been previously made at Palmyra to establish the Episcopal
Church, but it proved abortive. Palmyra, Lyons, and Sodus, were the
principal points where my early ministerial labours were bestowed. Here we
organized churches, and in two places commenced rearing up houses of public
worship. In each of these three places they now have a settled pastor. I
spent a Sabbath most delightfully at Palmyra, preaching in the neat and
tasteful church edifice erected there. Most deeply affecting was it to see
among the serious and exemplary communicants of this church some who during
my residence in that place were among the giddiest youth of the village.
At Lyons they are building a beautiful stone Gothic Church--which will be
an ornament to the village, and highly creditable to those engaged in this
enterprise. I have met with but few men, to whom upon so short an
acquaintance, I have felt my heart more drawn than to the worthy young
pastor placed over this congregation. His ministerial fidelity, attractive
pulpit powers, and lovely Christian character seem to have attracted all
hearts towards him. Here too, was I delighted to find among the
communicants some whom I had baptized in infancy.