abandonment of that high character? There may be a little, and not
a little, of truth in both. Puritanism was itself a novelty, and
novelty begets novelty. We do not mean that it never had a type;
but it was cast in an English mould--a mould that was formed at a
particular juncture of English history, by the operation of special
and peculiar agencies; and even on English ground, it could last
in all its force only while the causes which produced it continued
to take effect, and just in that proportion, allowing, indeed, a
reasonable time for its natural subsidence. In America, the causes
did not exist, and the subsidence was unavoidable. It was indeed
a high and stern character, which would require a space for its
abatement into milder forms; but it was not in man to maintain it
without its original provocations.
If we were called to give a philosophical account of its productions,
we should say briefly, that the basis of this character, independent
of religion, was that sturdy and indomitable love of liberty which
has for so many centuries characterized the English. It was only
necessary to graft religion, the strongest passion of man, on
such a stock, to render it truly sublime in its capabilities for
endurance, or daring under oppression. The natural consequence of
the annoyances and vexations of bad government with such minds,
and of encroaching on the rights of conscience, was the production
of a striking severity and determination of character--especially
among the ruder and less cultivated classes of society. The fear
of God, as every Christian is happy to record, rose above the fear
of man; all sympathy between the two great parties was divorced;
and neither could discern the virtues of the other. The indifferent
customs of the oppressors were allied to their vices in the estimate
of the oppressed, and the theory of perfection with the latter was
to eschew, repudiate, and abhor that which was done or approved by
the former. Some of the highest and most desirable attainments and
attributes of civilization were counted as sins, and inconsistent
with Christian character, simply because they were held dear by
their opponents. Refinement of manners was reckoned a snare to the
soul, and regarded as beneath the high aims of religion, because
it was the study of courtiers, and of the higher conditions of
life. To smile, was a mark of levity, or a proof of unbecoming
thoughtlessness, because it might be a stage of progress toward a
sinful mirth. All historical recollections of primitive self-denial,
and sacrifice, and earthly painfulness, were set up as the permanent
lot of Christians, and the measure of present duty. 'In the world
ye shall have tribulation,' was accepted as equally applicable to
all the conscientious, in all times and circumstances. In a word,
the theory of Christian character was moulded by the accidents of
a peculiar condition; and those accidents contributed eminently
to the formation of a lofty and vigorous character, a character
which combined the most essential elements of moral sublimity, and
oppression matured and confirmed it. There might be some acerbity of
temper under such provocations, and rusticity of manners in such a
course of training. The germ of a terrible retribution might lurk and
lower amid the loftier aspirations of a pure and heavenly piety; for
how could a deep and abiding sense of perpetual wrong fail to have
its influence over minds but partially sanctified?--and the period
of the interregnum sufficiently developed this fearful ingredient.
Nevertheless, it was, on the whole, a character to be respected, as
well as to be feared. It was compounded of the best and of the worst
elements.
But a transplantation beyond sea, in a wilderness, where all the
causes of its production and the modifying circumstances of its
growth were wanting, did not indeed at once reduce and new-create
it; for it had been too long in coming to such a maturity, to forget
its former being; it had acquired too much vigor, to bend and become
supple, even by a round of years, in a new world--in a field left
to its own sole occupation, unsupported by the blasts and storms of
its native regions. But it was morally impossible that the second
generation in such circumstances should fully sustain the character
of their fathers. The second was naturally destined to soften down
yet more; the third to experience a farther modification; and so on,
till this character should necessarily, and to a great extent, be
remodelled by the altered circumstances of a new state of existence.
That certain of the primitive features, enough for ever to identify
the race, should remain, was as natural as that any should be
effaced. And here we are, the children of our puritan fathers. Who
could mistake us?
Again, we solemnly aver, that we mean not to speak disrespectfully.
Far from it. Eternal shame on the recreant, who could libel such
a parentage! Let the princes of the earth boast of their lineage;
let the sons of a race emblazoned with the proudest heraldry, hang
out the flag that displays their arms, and prove their worth and
greatness, by deciphering the emblems of a piece of parchment,
borrowed from the remotest antiquity. Ours be the glory of descending
from a stock heaven-born by the imprint of the hand of God, who could
dispute a right with kings, embarrass the wicked counsels of their
ministers, measure weapons with their armies, and found and maintain
an independent empire, to rival equally their wealth and power.
But this high claim affects not at all the matters of fact in our
moral and religious history. For us to assert a title to perfection,
would be as foolish as untrue. He is wise who knows himself; and so
is that nation which understands its own history, and understanding,
profits by it. Human society has no where yet attained the best
possible condition. Nay, more: where is the community that has not
in its bosom portentous elements of mischief? And who will deny
that it is the part of wisdom to investigate and expose them, and
if possible, to invent and apply a remedy? We have our virtues,
doubtless, though it might be more becoming to allow the world to see
and acknowledge them, than to laud ourselves. Our fathers had their
virtues--enough for us to be proud of; and they and their children
have had their faults. Neither is it dishonorable willingly to see
and frankly to confess them. It is injudicious; it is a disease of
the mind; it may lead to fatal error, to insist on bestowing and
claiming praise for that in ourselves which is faulty.
While, therefore, we proceed to unfold yet more distinctly and
minutely the religious blemishes of our national character, in
their origin and successive modifications, we are prepared to
assert our respect, and even our veneration, for the virtues of our
ancestors. They who brought religion, and planted and nourished it
here, were men of a high order. Nevertheless, it would be allowing
more than belongs to man, in any stage of his history, or to any
set of men, to write them down as perfect. We do conscientiously
believe, that the puritanism of England, and that portion of it
which has so extensively leavened the religion of this country, was
gravely faulty, in some very essential and influential particulars.
We believe, moreover, that these faults have been, directly and
indirectly, the occasion of evil--of disaster to our religious
history.
We have said, that puritanism was itself a novelty, in the form it
assumed at the period to which we allude. It was the offspring of
circumstances peculiar to the time. We have hinted that it was the
parent of novelties in a series of changes that have come down to
our own day. Certain it is, our eyes and ears have recently been
forced to witness some strange, not to say alarming, exhibitions
of religion and moral reform, in this land. They have assumed an
aspect to challenge universal attention. Whoever feels an interest
in Christianity, cannot fail to look upon those extraordinary
phenomena of the moral world, with some concern. They demand and
must receive the most grave consideration. The press which sustains
them must be the organ to discuss them. They must be viewed
calmly and considerately, and treated philosophically as well as
conscientiously. Beyond a question, they are novel developments, but
not without cause; and as certain as there is a cause, we think it
may be sufficiently palpable to be traced. For ourselves, we have
presumed upon the essay, and will deliver our opinion.
We have intimated that the severity of the puritanical character
could not endure in all its vigor, without the continued action
of its producing causes. In correspondence with this theory, we
observe, that the growth of this portion of American society has
given birth to a gradual and uninterrupted modification. Not to
speak of others, there are two attributes very essential to give
permanency and controlling influence to any specific form of human
society: antiquity and a proof commending itself to the good sense
of the community. Puritanism, in the form now under consideration,
could not claim antiquity. True there had been things like to it;
but this particular type was well understood to have been of recent
origin. It grew out of resistance to oppression, in part, within the
memory of living witnesses. It was the product of an accident, and
the resort of a temporary expediency. Circumstances being changed,
and so far as it differed from the doom of necessity, that same
discretion which adopted the expedient in one case might and would
naturally accommodate itself to another. So far as necessity was the
cause, it was equally impossible to oppose necessity in a change of
circumstances. The force of antiquity was utterly nugatory.
As to the arbitrations of good sense, it hardly need be said, at
this time, that there were many things in puritanism which could
not long be tolerated under such an appeal. Hence almost the entire
code of its more severe customs has long since become obsolete, even
in the land of the pilgrim fathers. So far as they have not passed
from memory, they are handed down, not as authority, but simply as
an amusing, and in regard to some things, an incredible, tale. They
who had rebelled against the established usages of society once,
might do it again. They who had made a code, might amend it. Peculiar
circumstances had formed the puritanical character in the mother
country; and there was no good reason why peculiar circumstances
should not modify, or re-model it in this. The authority of precedent
in change was established.
Here, if we mistake not, is developed a practical secret of
stupendous influence over the religious destinies of our country.
That there were good reasons for rebellion against the prelacy of
England, and adequate causes for the production of a distaste for
Episcopal usages on an extended scale, can hardly be denied.
Here was the beginning of an order of things, that has come down
to us, and had more influence in this than in the parent country.
Here it has taken the lead, for the reason that this land was made
the refuge and asylum of those who felt themselves injured, and who
were injured, by the operation of a system of oppression. It is an
instructive lesson, and ought to stand up as a beacon, in all coming
time, among other historical advices of the same class, to warn those
who, clothed with legitimate authority, are tempted to abuse it, by
lording it over God's heritage. To provoke and enforce schism in the
Church of Christ, involves a most grave responsibility, and may lead
to infinite mischief.
We have sufficiently recognised the fact of the ascendancy of
puritanism in American society, and that its peculiar temperament was
the soul of a system of dissent from an Episcopal organization. Again
we say, we mean not to speak disrespectfully. Our aim is an exposé
of facts, and, if possible, to present a philosophical view of their
historical train. We respect the piety of the puritans, and desire
to do justice to all their virtues; and if we have not already shown
a satisfactory candor, we hope before we shall have done, abundantly
to appease the most sensitive partiality for our puritan ancestry. We
are not unwilling to believe, that the original elements of American
society, in so far as this particular class predominated, were on the
whole most happy, and will yet, in the long run, be overruled for the
greatest good. Their virtues were stern and lofty, and their faults
are subject to the corrective influence of time and events. It was
as impossible that the latter should not have their race, as that
the former should not come in with their balance of influence, and
finally obtain a conservative shape and commanding position. And this
end, as we opine, will the sooner be accomplished, as the public can
be made to discriminate, by the instructive career of events between
the good and the bad. Whenever society, or any portion of it, runs
off in a wrong direction, it must ultimately find itself in a false
position; and the discovery being made, there is the same certainty,
if virtue enough remains, that it will aim at a recovery.
If we do not err in our discernment of the signs of the times, there
is even now a conviction rapidly obtaining in the public mind of
this country, that we have nearly if not quite arrived at a _ne plus
ultra_ of religious radicalism; and that a conservative and redeeming
influence is being formed and growing into importance. The race of
change, which has been a long time, even ages, in the course, has
recently been so accelerated, as to set the axles of the machinery on
fire, and run off the wheels. The chariot of religious radicalism, we
think, is tumbling and falling.
In our opinion, this catastrophe is not the product of an hour, nor
of an age. We go farther back for the primal cause. As a matter of
history, we find that the leading and most influential religious
machinery of this country was composed of the dislocated fragments of
long-established European institutions, broken off by convulsions,
not wanting virtue so much as order, symmetry, and consistency.
The virtue was strong, and while its character of firmness was
maintained, it could better dispense with a fixed and well-ordered
machinery, sanctioned by time, and having a reasonable claim to
apostolic origin. But the rapid growth and the fervid condition of
our social organization, have put the new theory to a test too stern
for a felicitous development.
DEATH OF ROB ROY.
'WHEN this chieftain was on his death-bed, a gentleman whom he
had reason to consider as an enemy, came to see him. On being
requested to admit him to his bed-side, he said: 'Raise me up,
buckle on my arms, then admit him!' The guest was received with
cold civility, and in a short time departed. 'Now,' said Rob
Roy, 'call in the piper.' The piper came, and he expired with
the voice of war pealing around him.'
WITH heather pillowing his head,
The dying outlaw lay,
And plaided clansmen round his bed
Stood watching in dismay.
Wild throes of dissolution shook
His worn and wasted frame,
But native lordliness of look
Distemper could not tame.
The walls of his rude dwelling-place
Were hung with weapons bright--
With branching antlers of the chase,
And trophies won in fight.
His tall, gaunt hound, of proven worth,
Acute of eye and ear,
Slept idly on the lighted hearth,
Forgetful of the deer.
Cold dew--that herald which precedes
The winding-sheet, and wail
Of mourning ones--in clammy beads,
Stood on his forehead pale.
Faint grew the swell of his proud breast,
And dim his falcon-eye,
But manfully his lip suppressed
The groan of agony.
While ran his blood with feebler flow,
Strode in a clansman stout,
And told the chief, in accents low,
'A stranger waits without!'
Then syllabled the name--a word
Unwelcome to his ears,
Which darkly in his bosom stirred
The hoarded hate of years.
'No member of a hostile clan,
While heart or pulse can beat,
Shall see me,' said the dying man,
'In posture of defeat.
Array me in the spoils I took
From enemies laid low;
Clad thus, Macgregor cannot brook
The presence of a foe.'
'Bring forth the bonnet that I wore
When blood was on the heather,
Though in the mountain wind no more
Will nod its eagle feather:
Gird on my sword, of temper tried,
Old beam of hope in danger,
To deeds of hardihood allied,
And then admit the stranger!'
Attendants clad the dying man
In garb that well became
The leader of a martial clan,
A warrior of fame;
Admitted then his guest, who met
Reception stern and cold;
The Highland Chief could not forget
The bloody feuds of old.
The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now call
The harper in, to cheer
My passing spirit with the strain
Most welcome to my ear!'
The hoary minstrel brought his lyre,
To notes of battle strung,
And fingering its chords of fire,
In stormy concert, sung:
I.
'The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown,
And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown;
He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand
To gather around him with bonnet and brand;
Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag,
We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag.
II.
'The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye!
Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.
III.
'On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set,
With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!'
Ere died the battle-song away,
Rose up the voice of wail,
While motionless the chieftain lay,
With face like marble pale.
No kindly word from him repaid
The harper for his strain;
The hushing hand of Death was laid
On heart, and pulse, and brain!
_Avon, May,1837._ W. H. C. H.
A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS.
AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY.
'WHAT! How's this! I told you to make one of my boots _larger_
than t' other; 'stead o' that, I'm blow'd if you haven't made
one SMALLER than t' other! What a hass you must be, to be sure!'
THE INCENSED COCKNEY.
THE great Homer did not think it unworthy his muse to sing of boots;
why then should not I write of them?--especially as I have a tale
to tell, which, if carefully perused, will, ('though I say it, who
ought not to say it, still I _do_ say it,') tend to the edification
of the reader. I have called my story 'A Tale of Tight Boots,' hoping
that when he should see that it concerned his understanding, he would
understand the necessity of regarding it attentively.
The scene of my story is the goodly city of Boston; the time, May,
1836, 'being bisextile, or leap-year.' Business and pleasure had led
me to town--alas! I made it a 'bad business,' and my pleasure ended
in pain. I established myself at the Tremont, and began to look
around for adventures.
Rap--tap--tap!
'Come in!'
'A note, Sir.'
'Mr. H---- requests the pleasure of Mr.----'s company at dinner
to-day, at two o'clock, precisely.'
Mr. H---- was an old and much-loved friend; of course I accepted. I
learned that there was to be a large company, and what was of more
consequence to me, that Miss L----, whom I had addressed for the last
six months, was to be there. No one will think it strange, then, if
I devoted more than usual attention to my toilet. Finding that the
style of my boots was a little _passêe_, I resolved to treat myself
to new ones. The shop of the artizan who kept the 'crack article'
was not far off, and thither I betook myself. Having selected a pair
which came near the _beau ideal_ of a boot, in my mind's eye, I
proceeded to try them on.
'A little too tight on the instep,' said I, after I had fairly
succeeded in drawing them on.
''Bout right, Sir,' said the man of boots, rubbing his hand over the
place indicated; 'they'll give a little; fashionable cut, Sir; make
'em all so, now; fine foot, Sir, yours, to fit a boot to; high in the
instep--hollow here. They look well, Sir.'
The last part of the man's argument, or rather _gab_, had the desired
effect. He had assailed me in a tender point--almost the only one,
I believe, in which it was possible for him or any other person to
flatter me. My better judgment and understanding were overcome. I
kept the boots.
* * * * *
HAVING made my toilet, and put on my future tormentors, I set out for
the residence of my friend. The arrival, salutations, announcement
of dinner, etc., are matters of course--so I let them pass. In due
time, I found myself walking into the _salon de manger_, with Miss
L---- on my arm. A moment more, and I was seated at the table beside
her. I did the duties that fell to me; said to my companion every
pretty thing I could think of; sent her plate for some turkey;
carved a chicken that stood before me, and offered the wing to the
lady opposite; drank wine with my hostess, and procured some tongue
for a lady on my left, who had no gentleman to take care of her.
By the way, I wish she had eaten her own, considering the use she
afterward made of it. In fine, my mind was so completely occupied
by the pleasures of my situation, the few good things I said to my
companion, and the many she said to me, that I was unconscious of the
curse that from the first had been developing itself.
Soon, however, I became aware that something prevented my being
perfectly happy. I felt as one who, in the midst of a delightful
dream, is assailed by a bed-bug--made conscious, merely, that there
is some draw-back to his pleasure--something that prevents his giving
himself entirely up to that perfect bliss which seems to beckon him
to its embrace. A few moments more, and I was fully aroused. I found
the instep of my right foot in a state of open rebellion against the
strictures that had been laid upon it, and particularly against the
act of close confinement. In truth, there was good reason; for the
instep was the seat of intense pain. I drew it under my chair; but
no rest for it was there. I thrust it back to its first place; still
its anguish was unabated. In spite of myself, I became silent, and a
shade passed over my face. The quick eye of my companion detected it,
and fearing she had said something that had wounded me, began, with a
kindness peculiar to herself, to apply a healing balsam. She had been
speaking of an article in a late number of the _Knickerbocker_, and,
in fact, commenting upon it with much severity. The thought seemed
to flash on her mind that I was in some way interested--the author,
perhaps, or a friend to the author. She passed to commendation.
'There were, notwithstanding, fine traits in the piece; redeeming
qualities in spite of its imperfections. There was evidence of much
talent--talent not all put forth,' etc. Dear girl! she mistook
my disease. It was not my vanity that was wounded. My vanity was
wounding me.[1] To gratify it, I had put on the tight boots; and now,
like an undisciplined urchin, it had become the tormentor of its too
indulgent parent.
At this moment, my Newfoundland dog, which, it seems, had followed
my steps, and waited patiently at the door, amusing himself by
calculating, from the doctrine of chances, the probability of his
being admitted, took advantage of an opening made by the egress of
one of the servants, and walked into the room. Remembering that he
had not been regularly invited, and a little doubtful as to his
reception, he came slowly forward, with his tail rather under the
horizontal, his nose thrust forward to catch the first intimation of
my presence, and eyes upturned, glancing from one to another of the
company, to see how he was to be received. He made a slight smelling
halt at each guest, until he came to my chair. Finding that he had
reached the object of his search, he without farther ceremony seated
himself on his haunches beside me, wagged his tail back and forward
on the carpet, and looked up in my face with an expression of much
dignity, mingled with a slight twinkle of self-congratulation, which
seemed to say: 'So, then, I have got along in the right time?'