In “The Banner of the Cross,” a Philadelphia paper, a writer, whose name
is unknown, wrote, in 1842, the first description of the now famous
chapel, St. John’s Church, on the pike leading from Columbia, Tenn., to
Mt. Pleasant.
“It was my privilege,” says the writer, “in the month of January, 1834,
to listen to the details of the progress of the Church in Tennessee
from the lips of Bishop Otey, who had just been consecrated. I did not
think then that in God’s providence I should ever witness in person the
results of the Bishop’s labors in the then far-off country. But yesterday
(September 4, 1842), which was a bright, beautiful Sabbath, I witnessed
a scene gladdening to a church-man’s heart, and knowing your interest in
all that concerns the Church in the Southwest, I have thought a sketch of
it might be interesting.
“In this country, upon the road leading from Columbia to Mt. Pleasant,
and about six miles from the former place, in a grove of majestic
and towering oaks, may be seen a neat brick church of simple Gothic
architecture; its interior plain and appropriate and capable of seating
five hundred persons.
“It has been just completed and is the result of the joint liberality
of Bishop Polk and three of his brothers, who, with a spirit worthy of
commendation and imitation, have devoted a portion of the wealth with
which God has blessed them to his service.
“Without aid from abroad, these gentlemen have erected and paid for
this edifice and presented it, together with a plot of about six acres
of land, to the diocese. The lot has been selected from an eligible
portion of the bishop’s plantation, within a few hundred yards of whose
mansion the church stands. It has been erected for the convenience of
the few families in the neighborhood who, with a large number of negroes
on their plantations, will make quite a congregation. For the latter
class the bishop has been in the habit, for a long time, of holding
regular services in his own house. They will now have an opportunity of
worshiping in a temple which they may almost call their own.”
After referring to the services in the church on the day of its
consecration, the writer continues:
“There is yet one thing which I must not forget to notice. I have said
that on the adjoining plantations there are negroes for whose spiritual
good this church was in part erected. By the time the white congregation
was seated in the body of the church, the door, the vestibule, the
gallery and staircase were crowded with blacks. Even the vestry room was
filled with them, an old man sitting within the doorway, almost at the
very feet of the clergy. A happier group I have seldom seen. Some of
them had prayer books in their hands, but, for their general benefit in
singing, the psalms were given out in the old-fashioned way—two lines at
a time—and, I am sure, during the singing the loudest psalms of praise
came from the sable groups.
“When the whites had commenced, a cordial invitation from the bishop
was given to the blacks to come forward. At the same time he explained
in a few words what was required of them in worthily partaking of that
sacrament.
“Then quite a great number came, with much reverence and devotion, to
that feast precious alike to bond and free. Ah! could some of our friends
have witnessed that scene, how it would have silenced a suspicion that
a slaveholder values not the soul of his slave. Thus does the enlarged
benevolence of these men embrace a class hitherto too much neglected, a
class which, in our good city of brotherly love, are suffered to grovel
in ignorance, degradation and sin:
“Here will they learn to worship God in spirit and in truth; here be
taught to pray with the heart and with the understanding also; and here,
when death has arrested their course upon earth, will they find a
resting place under the tall old oaks in their own churchyard; for the
lot upon which the church is built has, for some time, been set apart for
the purpose.”
As intimated above, the church was built by the then bishop, after
Gen. Leonidas Polk and his brothers, upon their own estate, for the
accommodation of the communicants around them and their slaves. The
description above presents a feature of slavery which was common
throughout the South, and shows how zealously the master looked after the
spiritual welfare of his slaves.
[Illustration: View of St. John’s from the Pike.]
The Polk family—not the President, James K. Polk—who lived in Columbia,
six miles away, and was a relative of the Ashwood Polks, but the Polks
at Ashwood—lived in true baronial style. The most distinguished of that
family was Bishop Leonidas Polk, who, while bishop, was the moving
spirit in the erection of the chapel, copying after the rural chapels
of England. Leonidas Polk was educated at West Point for a soldier, and
graduated in 1827, but so strong was the other side of his character that
he resigned his commission in the army and entered the ministry. This was
a sore disappointment to his father, the old Revolutionary soldier, Col.
Wm. Polk, causing him to write to his son that the step was the spoiling
of a good soldier for a poor preacher.
But the old gentleman, who himself had joined Washington’s army at the
age of eighteen years and had fought all through the Revolutionary War,
being thrice wounded and gaining the title of Colonel and the reputation
of being one of the ablest soldiers of his day, was greatly mistaken
in this choice of his soldier-preacher son. Not only did Leonidas Polk
become one of the great pioneer preachers of his day, but, as Dr. Wm. M.
Polk says in his biography of him: “It might have touched the feelings
of the veteran if he could have known that Leonidas would one day buckle
on the sword—that he would lead more men in the field than his father had
ever seen arrayed in battle, and that he would die at last a soldier’s
death in the field of honor, fighting for what he deemed to be the cause
of right and liberty.”
Speaking of Col. Wm. Polk, the same historian tells this amusing incident
of the old soldier:
“When Lafayette returned to America in 1824 and made his memorable tour
through the States, Colonel Polk was one of the commissioners appointed
to do the honors of the State of North Carolina to his old comrades in
arms.
“An eye-witness has left an amusing account of some incidents of the
reception of Lafayette on his passage through North Carolina. Col.
William Polk has been requested by Governor Burton to provide a cavalry
escort for the illustrious visitor, and a troop of excellently drilled
and handsomely uniformed volunteers was formed from the Militia of
Mecklenburg and Cabarrus escort, under command of General Daniel, and
met Lafayette near the Virginia line. There was much hand-shaking and
speech-making.”
“But,” as the narrator writes, “Lafayette spoke but little English and
understood less. He had retained a few phrases, which he would utter,
generally in an effective manner, but sometimes ludicrously mal a propos.”
“Thanks, my dear friend! Great country! Happy man! Ah, I remember!” were
nearly his whole vocabulary. He was received at the borders of each State
by appointed commissioners, and when he had been escorted through it
he was safely delivered to the commissioners of the next commonwealth.
At Halifax the cortege was met by General Daniel, who had stationed a
company of soldiers by the roadside, flanked by the ladies, who were
assembled to do honor to the guest of the State. It had been arranged
that the ladies were to wave their handkerchiefs as soon as Lafayette
came into sight, and when General Daniel exclaimed “Welcome, Lafayette!”
the whole company was to repeat the welcome after him. Unluckily, the
ladies, misunderstanding the programme, waited too long, and were
reminded of their duty by a stentorian command of, “Flirt, ladies, flirt!
flirt, I say!” from the general, who walked down the line to meet the
Marquis. Equally misunderstanding their part, the soldiers, instead of
shouting, “Welcome, Lafayette,” in unison at the close of the general’s
address, repeated the sentence, one by one, and in varying tones.
“Now a deep voice would exclaim: ‘Welcome, Lafayette!’ then perhaps the
next man in a shrill tenor would squeak: ‘Welcome, Lafayette!’ and so
on down the line. Daniel, frantic at the burlesque of his order, vainly
attempted to correct it, but as he unfortunately stammered when he was
excited, his ‘Say it all to-to-together!’ could not overtake the running
fire of ‘Welcome, Lafayette!’ which continued all along the line. ‘Great
country! Great country!’ replied Lafayette, turning to Colonel Polk,
who was vainly trying not to smile. Observing and recognizing an old
acquaintance, Lafayette greeted him with great effusion: ‘Ah, my friend;
so glad to see you once more! Have you prospered and had good fortune
these years?”
“‘Yes, General, yes; but I have had the great misfortune to lose my wife
since I saw you.’
“Catching only the ‘Yes, General,’ and the word ‘wife,’ Lafayette
supposed he was informing him of his marriage, and patting him
affectionately upon the shoulder, he exclaimed: ‘Happy man! Happy man!’
nor could be made to understand that his observation was not a happy one.
“After replying to the address of welcome, which had been delivered by
Colonel Polk from the steps of the Capitol, Lafayette, with all the
dramatic action of a Frenchman, turned to Polk and before the old soldier
knew what he was about, threw his arms about his neck and attempted to
kiss him on the cheek. Colonel Polk straightened himself up to his full
height of six feet four, and instinctively threw his head back to escape
the caress; but Lafayette, who was a dapper little fellow, tiptoed and
hung on to the grim giant, while a shout of laughter burst from the
spectators and was with some difficulty turned into a cheer.
“Of Col. William Polk’s influence in the State of Tennessee, Governor
Swain, of North Carolina, has said: ‘He was the contemporary and personal
friend and associate of Andrew Jackson, not less heroic in war and quite
as sagacious and more successful in private life.”
“It is known that Colonel Polk greatly advanced the interests and
enhanced the wealth of the hero of New Orleans by information furnished
him from his field notes as a surveyor, and in directing Jackson in his
selections of valuable tracts of land in the State of Tennessee; that to
Samuel Polk, the father of the President, he gave the agency of renting
the most fertile section of that State; and selling his (William Polk’s)
immense and valuable estate in lands in that, as first President of the
Bank of North Carolina, he made Jacob Johnson, the father of President
Andrew Johnson, its first porter, so that of the three native North
Carolinians who entered the White House through the gates of Tennessee
all are alike indebted for benefactions and for promotions to a more
favorable position in life to the same individual, William Polk—a man
whose insight into character rarely admitted of the selection and never
of the retention of an unworthy agent.”
At the outbreak of the war, Leonidas Polk was appointed Major General by
Jefferson Davis and became one of the great generals of the Confederacy.
He was killed by a cannon ball, on Pine Mountain, near Marietta, Ga.,
June 14, 1864.
Continuing the subject of the slave-owners’ interest in the spiritual
welfare of his slaves, Miss Beauchamp, who was governess in Bishop Polk’s
family, tells this amusing story:
“The Bishop, who would at times be away for weeks on visitations through
his diocese, always brought on his return joy and pleasure to the
household. He would amuse us for days with a recital of his adventures in
the border regions of Louisiana and with the people he would meet there.
On one occasion, having been up Red River, where an Episcopal clergyman
was seldom seen, he was called in to baptize a sturdy, four-year-old
youngster, who defiantly resisted sacrament unless his black Fidus
Achates, Jim, would receive it at the same time. ‘Well,’ said the Bishop,
‘bring in Jim and I will make a Christian of him, too.’ Accordingly,
Jim, being instructed by his mistress, was brought into the parlor; the
pair went through the ceremony with perfect propriety and were dismissed
to their play. Meanwhile, the friends and neighbors who had called to
assist at the baptism and pay their respects to the Bishop, sat in solemn
state, awaiting the announcement of dinner. Smallpox had been lurking
in the country. Every one was excited on the subject of vaccination,
and discussions as to whether it had taken on this or that subject had
been the order of the day for more than a week. Suddenly the circle was
astounded by the reappearance of Jim, who exclaimed, almost breathless
with excitement: ‘Mistes! mistes! you must have Marse Tom baptized over
ag’in; it never tuck that ar time. He’s out yonder cussin’ the steers
wusser’n ever, and says he ain’t gwinter stop for nobody.’ The ice melted
at once, and the stiffness of the circle vanished as the Bishop turned
to his hostess and said: ‘A commentary on the doctrine of baptismal
regeneration, my dear madam.’
“Every Sunday afternoon all the negroes on the plantation came up to
the house and were taught by Mrs. Polk, her daughters and myself in
different classes. Singing entered largely into the exercises, many of
the negroes having a taste for music, and some of them excellent voices.
The ceremonies of marriage and baptism were always performed by the
Bishop himself and the names chosen by the negroes were sometimes very
amusing. Many of them could not read, and they showed their appreciation
of Greek mythology and Shakespeare by the number of Minervas and Ophelias
among them. One Sunday twenty-five little negro infants were taken into
the Bishop’s arms and christened. Though the scene was a very impressive
and interesting one, yet some of the names were so droll to my ears that
I could scarcely preserve a becoming gravity. One was named ‘Crystal
Palace,’ another, ‘Vanity Fair,’ etc. But when a little creature, black
as Erebus and squalling with its mouth extending to enormous size,
was taken into the Bishop’s arms to be named ‘Prince Albert’ it was
impossible for me to resist longer, and a heavy fit of coughing, gotten
up for the occasion, saved me from a reproving look from the Bishop.’”
[Illustration: The Cemetery at St. John’s, Where Generals Cleburne,
Strahl and Granbury Were Buried.]
One of the most beautiful and touching scenes is quoted further from the
same book, and related by the Bishop’s wife, on page 176.
After describing the visitation of cholera in the winter of 1849-50, and
the Bishop’s almost fatal illness from it, together with almost all his
family and the death of nearly a hundred of the servants of himself and
friends, Mrs. Polk relates this touching incident:
“As soon as the Bishop was able—indeed, at the risk of a relapse—he
was at the bedside of the sick and the dying. The last case of cholera
occurred on the 7th of June, when a very fine servant, named Wright, by
trade a blacksmith, was attacked. His master had been reading and praying
with him. Wright raised his head and said: ‘Master, lift me up.’ ‘I am
afraid to, Wright,’ the Bishop said—‘the doctors say it might be fatal.’
‘I am dying now, master; lift me up.’ The Bishop raised him, when Wright
suddenly threw his arms around his master’s neck and exclaimed: ‘Now,
master, I can die in peace; I do love you so I have often wanted to hug
you, and now let me die resting here on your heart and you praying for
me!’ His wish was complied with and soon he was at rest.”
St. John’s Church received its most sacred and consecrated fame during
the war. When Hood’s army invaded Tennessee after the fight around
Atlanta, in November, 1864, the route of the army lay along this pike in
the march to Nashville. The army had been marching over the poor lands of
the barrens, the hills of Georgia and the barrens of the Highland Run,
and when it entered Middle Tennessee, in the garden spot of which sat
this little church, Gen. Patrick R. Cleburne, who had won great fame as
a dashing fighter, raised his hat to the restful beauty and quietness of
St. John’s and remarked: “If I am killed in the coming battle, I would
like to be buried yonder.” In a few days occurred the bloody battle
of Franklin, in which not only Cleburne, but Generals Gist, Strahl,
Granbury and Adams—five of the greatest field officers of Hood’s army,
were killed, and all except Generals Adams and Gist, were buried in the
beautiful cemetery at St. John’s. Years afterward, one by one, their
remains were exhumed and carried, with fitting honors, to their former
homes, where monuments had been erected to their memories. General Adams
was killed on the breastworks, his horse falling half over, and he
himself over in the enemy’s lines supported and soothed by one of the
officers who mourned the mortal wound, saying that he was too brave a man
to die. Cleburne fell leading his men up to the breastworks.
The communion silver for St. John’s was given by Mrs. Sarah H. Polk, the
widow of the old Revolutionary soldier, and the mother of Gen. Leonidas
Polk. It was beautiful and massive. The war left St. John’s desolate, the
Federal army burned the beautiful and imposing mansion of the fighting
bishop, the communicants were scattered and for nearly half a century
the picturesque chapel has, with occasional services in it, alone stood
silent sentinel over its great dead a monument of an heroic age.
The account of how the communion silver was saved during the war is a
story told by one of the ladies of the Polk family, and so generally
interesting that it is related here, as it illustrates so perfectly the
peculiar superstitious nature of the negro:
One of the most faithful negroes belonging to Col. Geo. W. Polk was a
negro named Wiley, who had been in the family as a trusty and faithful
servant for so many years that Colonel Polk thought he could trust his
life in Wiley’s hands. Another negro was old John, a very old negro,
who was gardener, and too old to do much more than keep up the flower
garden and the walks of the estate. Word was brought to Colonel Polk
that some Federals stationed in Columbia, six miles away, intended to
make a midnight raid on St. John’s and secure the silver service at the
church. Perhaps it was Wiley himself who brought the information, and
that the raid, or rather the theft, would occur that night. It did not
take Colonel Polk long to act. Soon after dark, taking Wiley and a small
express, he went to the old church and secured the silver. Silently he
and the negro went out in the dark carrying the silver in a large cedar
box and taking off the top of one of the old square box-tombs, he hid it
there and placed the top slab back in its place.
Trusting Wiley implicitly, he did not believe the silver would ever be
found.
Several days passed, and Colonel Polk felt that all was secure. But one
morning as he walked early in the garden he saw old John, the gardener,
looking at him furtively and in a peculiar way. Wiley was also around,
and the old negro showed plainly that he wished to say something to his
master that he did not wish Wiley to hear. Knowing the negro nature as he
did—that they never came out openly and said what they thought—and that
the furtive glances which old John gave him now and then meant more than
words, the Colonel waited until Wiley had left, and purposely entered
into conversation with the old negro. He did not want to flush his game,
as he would have done by a direct question, so he patiently waited until
the old negro should speak in his own way, for he knew that the old negro
has something important to tell him in his own negro way.
“Marster,” said the old man at last, “I had sich a quare dream las’
night, I thort I’d tell you, and maybe you could ’terprit it for de ole
man. It’s hung onto me all day an’ pestered me so I can’t wuck, an’ I
can’t do nothin’ till I tells you. I feels sho’ it means old John is
gwineter go soon, fur I seed two angels as plain as I ever seed anybody,
but I can’t jes zackly understan’ it all, an’ I thort maybe ef I’d tell
you, you mout he’p me.”
“Go on, John,” said the Colonel; “I shall be glad to help you interpret
the dream.”
“Wall, Marse George, I dreamed I wuz down at the ole church a wanderin’
among the tombs, out in the ole part, among the trees. An’ den I kinder
fell into a trance, an’ den I heard a voice say: ‘John, git up an’ come
wid me.’ I riz an’ looked, an’ I see a pale light shinin’ from de church
winder, an’ bimeby I seed, two angels come out uv de church. One wuz er
white angel an’ one wuz er black angel, an’ dey carried de corpse of er
leetle chile in dey arms. Dey come out de church an’ put de coffin in er
waggin an’ den dey move off solem. I foller de sperits, an’ dey carried
de corpse of dat leetle chile to er ole tomb an’ tuck offen de top an
dey put de leetle dead chile in de ole tomb an’ den dey vanished. It
seem lak a long time went by—mebbe two nights—an’ den I seed, way in de
night, ’twix’ midnight an’ day, other sperits ride inter de ole church
yard—soldier sperits, mounted on steeds—an’ dey rid up to de tomb an’
broke it open an’ tuck de corpse of de leetle chile an’ went away. Now,
Marse George, dat’s pesterin’ me mighty. Whut dem soldier sperits wanter
pester de body uv dat leetle chile fur?”
The Colonel saw at once the application of the dream, and that it was
the negro way of warning him without letting Wiley know that the warning
had ever been given. He reassured the old darky, who walked off to his
work satisfied. That night Colonel Polk went alone to the old tomb and
took out the silver, burying it in his garden. About midnight, Wiley led
the Federals to the tomb, only to find the silver gone. But Wiley never
came home again. Knowing that his secret was out, he ran off with the
soldiers.
For many years, as remarked above, St. John’s held the remains of
Generals Cleburne, Strahl and Granbury, three of the five generals who
fell around the breastworks of Franklin. But one by one, as the years
went by, the remains of these brave men were removed and carried to
their native States—Cleburne to Arkansas, Granbury to Texas—and finally,
after nearly forty years of rest among the trees and under the beautiful
bluegrass of St. John’s the gallant young soldier, Strahl, was taken
to his old home in West Tennessee. Above them all, the people of their
native soil have erected suitable monuments.
Only a few years ago were the ashes of Strahl removed. A brave, handsome
young fellow he had been, daring as a soldier and true and self-poised,
one of the recognized great soldiers of Hood’s ill-fated army. He led
his men up to the side of the Federal entrenchments and down in the
trenches. With those who had not been killed or wounded, he stood, and
“keep firing” was the word he passed up and down the thin line, hugging
one side of the breastwork while their enemies held the other, not six
feet away. Mr. Cunningham, editor of The Confederate Veteran, who stood
near the general, tells it: “The trench was filled with the dead and the
dying. Standing with one foot on the bodies of my comrades and the other
on the bank, I rested my rifle upon the top of the breastwork and kept
firing at the enemy on the other side. The line had been so thinned that
only a solitary fellow soldier stood near me, and now he was shot and
fell heavily against me and tumbled over in the mass of dead men. This
left me alone, and I asked General Strahl, who had stood for a long while
in the trenches and passed up loaded guns to men above: ‘What shall I do,
General?’ ‘Keep firing,’ came back, and almost with the word the general
himself was shot, and while being carried to the rear was struck again
and instantly killed.”
This was the brave young soldier who had lain for nearly forty years in
his grave, and whom we were going to disinter and send back his ashes
to his old home. It was a raw March day, some three years ago, when the
committee from his State came for his remains, and as I stood by the
grave and saw the muddy soil upturned beneath which, many years ago, had
been laid the form of a handsome, brave and gallant man, cut down in the
hey-day of his life and hope, I could but wonder at the changes the forty
years had made. These men, who gave their lives for the cause, believing
as truly as did their sires of old, that they were fighting for the right
of self-government, could they awake to-day would wonder at the turn in
the tide of affairs. A nation, the greatest in the world—the leader of
thought and action, the champion of the defenseless and the power that
stands for the real advancement of humanity; a people so thoroughly
reunited that many of the very men who fought by the side of this one,
who died, had fought since in the old uniform, under the old flag against
the foes of their country. And, strangest of all, not one of the two
things that this brave life died for would be accepted by his sons if
given them to-day—the institution of slavery and the right of a State to
secede.
These, if offered to the South to-day, would be unanimously rejected.
Alas, what is our boasted wisdom but the wisdom of babes? And our
bravery, what more than that of the unthinking school-boy who fights for
a ring of marbles which he afterward throws at the birds?
Here once was a man—free, blessed, brave and handsome.—“Seeking the
bubble reputation, even at the cannon’s mouth.”
Now, behold, we have gone down to where his body had been laid away, and,
instead of a form, there is a dark line of mold where the coffin had
been, part of the sole of a cavalry boot, a few bones and a skull.
“Behold this ruin! ’Twas a skull
Once of ethereal spirit full.
This narrow cell was life’s retreat,
This space was Thought’s mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot!
What dreams of pleasures long forgot!
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear,
Have left me trace of record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye—
But start not at its dismal void—
If social love that eye employed,
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,
But through the dews of kindness beamed.
That eye shall be forever bright
When sun and stars are sunk in night.
Within this hollow cavern hung
The ready, swift and tuneful tongue;
If Falsehood’s honey it disdained,
And, when it could not praise, was chained;
If bold in Virtue’s cause it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke,
This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When time unveils Eternity.”
Stooping, one of his old soldiers bent reverently to lift the skull of
his general, and place it in the handsome casket intended for its final
resting place. But it clung to the earth, and on looking we see that a
beautiful rose bush that had been growing all the years at his head had
sent its roots down, completely filling the skull and drawing nourishment
from the mind that had once led conquering lines into battle.
’Tis sentiment only that counts at last. What more beautiful thought than
that from the brain of the brave should come the perfume of the rose? Or,
as Tennyson, In Memoriam:
“’Tis well—’tis something we may stand
Where he in English soil was laid,
And from his ashes may be made
The violets of his native land.”
The American nation, being young and foolish—a fighter, a doer, a seeker
of dollars in the strenuous race called living—does not, in this century
cherish as it will centuries hence, such a historical pile as the
beautiful old chapel. For a sum, right now there are those who pass it
dally who would tear it down to build a stolid stable for their asses.
There are others who pass it without a thought, save, perhaps, that
’twere a pity so much good brick should go to waste. There are others
who would like to remodel it, turn it into a dwelling, with Queen Anne
shingles and a portico in front. In England, such piles as these are
their inspiration and their pride—sermons in stones, history in walls,
battles in bricks and mortar. It is these that cement the Englishman’s
love for his country, its institutions, its laws. It is these which make
him love to call it home. We are in the reckless, wild oat stage of money
daring, of wealth producing, of gaudiness and strutting display. There
is no place among us now for the poet and the scholar, the musician, the
dreamer, the preacher. But the time is fast coming when all this will be
changed—when to be unread is to be unbred—to be rich is to be rotten. In
that day this quaint, epoch-making, history-shingled chapel, this pile
of soul-nobleness, this monument to right on the battlefield of might,
will outshine all the gilded domes which vulgar wealth has erected as a
monument to vanity in the plains of plenty.
* * * * *
Back of the loaf is the snowy flour,
And back of the flour, the mill,
And back of the mill is the wheat and the shower,
And the sun—and the Father’s will.