Biography of J.S. Buckminster, S.C. Thacher and J.E. Abbot

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HARVARD COLLEGE
LIBRARY

THE BEQUEST OF

EVERT JANSEN WENDELL

CLASS OF i8Sz

OF NEW YORX

/

i

i

BIOGRAPHY

OF

J. S. BUCKMINSTER, S. C. THACHER
AND J. E. ABBOT.

ABRIDGED

FOR THE USE OF YOUNG PERSONS,

BOSTON:
LEONARD C. BOWLES.

1833.

M I s-ff+a ,5"

Entered tecordfng to the actofCongreBi, in the year
1S3!, by Leonard C. Bowles, in the Clerk's Office of
tlie District Court orMauachuietta.

ADVERTISEMENT.

This little work is designed entirely for the
use of Sunday Schools and Juvenile Libraries.
It is compiled from the Memoirs prefixed to
the Sermons of Buckminster, Thacher and
Abbot, and it is hoped will be found as inter-
esting to young persons as the originals have
been to the community in general. Such ex-
amples of youthful piety and manly excellence
cannot be presented too early to the opening
mind. They are here set forth in a form in-
tended for the instruction of the young; and
that no one will peruse this volume without
receiving pleasure and improvement, is the
earnest wish of

THE COMPILER.

Boston, Dec, 25, 1832.

^ajk...

L

BIOGRAPHY

OF

BUCKMINSTER.

Joseph Stevens Buckminster was
bom May 26lh, 1784, at Portsmouth, New
Hampshire. His ancestors, both by his fa-
ther's and mother's side, for several genera-
tions, were clergymen. His father, the
late Dr Buckminster of Portsmouth, New-
Hampshire, was one of the most eminent
clergymen of that state. His mother w^as
k woman of a very elegant and cultivated ^.'[^
mind, and though slie died while her son
•was very young, i| was not till she had
made many of those impressions on his mind

1

<*■■

I.'. V

10 BI0GBAPH7 OP

and' heart which most deeply affect the
character.

The early display of the talents of Buck-
minster was very remarkable. All who
saw him, strangers as well as friends,
after his earliest infancy, felt sure that he
would be an eminent man. It seemed as
if the early opening of a mind so fair was
intended to prepare, and in some degree
compensate his friends for its sudden and
premature loss. An account of some
of the peculiarities of his youth will
be found in the following extract of a let-
ter.

*Prom the birth of my brother, our parents
intended ium forth'6 ministry, and took the
greatest delight in cidtivating a mind, whose
early promise gave them reason to hope he
was to be a blessing to the world. I do
DOt know how soon he was able to read;
but at four yeai-s old he began to study the
Latin grammar, and had so gieat a desire

BUCKMIirSTER, 11

'to learn the Greek also, that my father, to
please 'him, taught him to read a chapter in
the Greek Testament by pronouncing to
him the words. As early as this he dis-
covered that love for books and ardent
thirst for knowledge, which he possessed
through life. He was seldom willing,
while a child, to leave his books for any
amusement, and my father was so much
afraid, that close application would injure
his health, that he used to reward him for
playing with boys of his own age, and would
often go with him to persuade him, by ex-
ample, to take part in their sports. I'have
no recollection, that, when we were chil-
dren, he ever did any thing that was wrong.
He had always the same open, candid dis-
position, that marked his manhood; nor
can I recollect anv time, when I did not
feel the same confidence, that whatever he
did was right; the same affection and re-
spect, which made the last years I spent
.with him so happy. From the time he was

1^ BIOGRAFHT OF

five, till he was seven years old, it was his
practice, to call the domestics together on
Sabbath morning, and read to them one of
my father's manuscript sermons, repeat
the Lord's prayer, and sing a hymn; and he
performed the service with such solemnity,
that be was always heard with attention,
I have heard my dear father say, he never
knew him tell an untruth, or prevaricate in
the least. Indeed, there was alwavs some-
thing about him, which gained the love of
all who knew him; and never anything,
which made them fear, their expectations of
his future excellence would be disappoint^
ed.

*We lost oiir excellent mother, when he
was six years old. But he had received an
impression of her character, which time
could not efiace; and I believe through life
he was anxious to be, in every respect,
what he knew she would have wished him
to be.

^After he went to Exeter, he passed

^UCITMINSTXR, 19

l)ut little lime at home. The year be-
fore he entered college, his eyes were so
weak, that my father thought it necessary
to take his books from him. It was a de-
privation he could not bear to submit to;
and he found means to secrete some old fo-
lios in the garret, which he would spend
some time each day in reading. This is the
only act of disobedience, of which I ever
knew him guilty. I perfectly remember
the great delight he used to take, in listen-
ing to the conversation of men of literature
and science, and in works of taste and im-
agination. But the progress of his mind,
and the development of his powers, I was
too young to observe or take an interest

At the age of twelve he was ready for
college, but on account of his extreme
youth, his father continued him for some
time at Exeter — where he had been pre-
pared for college under the care oi Dt

■ :\
1*

••ftlC

14 BUCKMINSTER.

Benjamin Abbot — and he was entered as a
student at Cambridge, in 1797.

On the entrance of Mr Buckminster at
College, it was at ohce seen and acknow-
ledged, as it had been in his childhood, that
he was designed for peculiar excellence.
His course of conduct at this institution
was equally honorable to his principles and
his talents. Amidst the temptations of the
place, he showed that the most splendid
genius can be connected with the most re-
gular and persevering industry; indepen-
dence of character with a perfect respect
for the governors and the laws of college;
and a keen relish for innocent enjoyments,
with a dread of every appearance of vce.
It may here be mentioned, that he never
incurred any college censure, and was not
even fined, till the last term of his senior
year, and then only for some trifling
negligence. It may be said of him, as has
been remarked of another, that ' he did not
need the smart of guilt to make him virtu-

BUCKMINSTER. 15

oas, nor the regret of folly to make him
wise. '

In die summer of ISOO he received the
honors of the university. There are many,
who recollect the oration which he then de-
livered, and the impression made by the
sight of his small and youthful figure con-
trasted with the extent of his knowledge,
thi brilliancy of his imagination, and his
graceful manner of speaking.

For more than four years after leaving
college he devoted himself to the study of
Theology; to which he was inclined from
the time when he received his earliest re-
ligious impressions. His time was spent,
partly in the family of his relative, Theo-
dore Lyman, Esq. at Wallham and Boston,
and partly at Exeter as an assistant in the
Academy. The portion of his time,
which was given to the instruction of
youth, he always remembered with pleas-
ure.

The number of works in^ theology and

115 BIOGRAPHY 09

Other branches which he read during the
period of which we speak, would seem
scarcely credible to one, who did not
know the rapidity with which he looked
through a book, and the sagacity with which
he seized and retained all that was valuable
in its contents. From some . fragments of
a journal of his studies, it appears, that,
where he thought a book very important,
he was in the habit of writing a full ac-
count of its contents. He also used to
make references, at the end of a volume,
to the pages where any interesting passages
were found. These particulars are it is
true trifling in themselves; but they may,
perhaps, gratify that natural curiosity which
we all feel to know something of the pre-
paration of a distinguished man for his fu-
ture greatness.

Having gone over a very wide and ex-
tensive field of preparatory study, in Octo-
ber, 1804, Mr Buckminster consented to
preach to the society in Brattle Street,

BUCKMINSTER. 17

Boston. The delight and wonder, with
which his first sermons were listened to by
all classes, of hearers, cannot be described.
The most refined and the most ignorant
equally hung upon his lips. The attention
of the thoughtless was fixed. The gaiety
of youth was made serious. The mature
and the aged were at once charmed, in-
structed and improved. After preaching
for a few weeks, he received an invitation to
become the minister of this society, and
was ordained January 30, 1805. The
fatigue and agitation of spirits, which he
suffered at this time, brought on a severe
fit of illness, which interrupted his labors
until the following March, when he recom-
menced them with a sermon on the advan-
tages of sickness. The effect of these la-
bors on the delicate frame of Mr Buckmin-
ster was soon visible. A disorder, which
had made its appearance some years be-»
fore, was increased during the year 1805.
Jt was one of the most tremendous mala-

18 BIOGRAPHY OP

dies, which God permits to afflict the hu-
man frame; and to which minds of the
most exquisite structure are particularly
exposed. The manner, in which this visi-
tation was endured by Mr Buckminster,
can never be thought of by those who wit-
nessed it, without an increased admiration
of the fortitude, and reverence of the piety,
which supported him. Those, who saw
his gaiety of disposition, and the lively in-
terest, which he took in his friends, and
all the occupations of life; and who wit-
nessed all his cheerfulness and activity,
returning almost immediately after the se-
verest of these attacks, were disposed to
think, that he could not know the terrific
nature of his disorder, or once look for-
ward distinctly to its termination. It was
;6el8om that even his nearest friends heard
him mention his calamity; and perhaps,
there was only one of tliem, to whom all
the thoughts of his soul, on this subject,
were cojifidedL By the following ex-

BVCKMmSTER. IdT

tract from his private journal, it will appear
tow little they knew him who supposed he
Tvas insensible to the dreadful consequen-
ces of his disorder.

^October 31, 1805. Another j5t of
epilepsy. I pray God, that I may be pre-
pared, not so much for death, as for the
loss of health, and, perhaps, of mental fa-
culties. The repetition of these fits must,
at length, reduce me to idiocy. Can I re-
sign myself to the loss of memory, and of
that knowledge, I have vainly prided my-
self upon? God! enable me to bear
this thought, and make it familiar to my
mind, that by thy grace I may be willing
to endure life, as long as thou pleasest to
lengthen it. It is not enough to be willing
to leave the world, when God pleases; we
should be willing, even to live useless in it,
if he, in his holy providence, should send
such a calamity upon us. I think, I per^
ceive my memory fails me. God save
me from that hour.'

In the spring of 1806, the increase of

J

20 BIOGRAPHY OP

his disorder led him to think of a voyage td
Europe. His society, generously prefer-
ring his advantage, to their own pleasure^
readily consented that he should go; and
he sailed for Liverpool early in May! In
August — having been joined in London, by
a friend from Boston — he embarked for the
Continent, and landed at HarUngen, on the
Zuyder Zee. He passed rapidly through
the chief cities of Holland, ascended the
Rhine, and, partly on foot, made the tour
of Switzerland. At Geneva he wrote, in
a letter to a friend, the following descrip-
tion of the fall of the mountain of Ross-
berg, which is perhaps one of the most in-
teresting of the smaller productions of his
pen.

^ Geneva^ Sept, 26, 186.
* There is an event, which happened just
before our arrival in Switzerland, of which
no particular account may have yet reach*
ed America, and which I think cannot be
uninteresting, especially to those of our
friends who have visited this charming

BUCKSIINSTBR^ 21

country. Indeed it is too disastrous to be
related or read with indifference.

* If you have a large map of Switzerland,
I beg of you to look for a spot in the canton
of Schweitz, situated between the lakes of
Zug and Lowertz on two sides, and the
mountains of Rigi and Rossberg on the
others. Hefe, but three weeks ago, was
one of the most delightfully fertile valleys of
all Switzerland; green, and luxuriant, adorn-
ed with several little villages, full of secure
and happy farmers. Now three of these
villages are for ever effaced from the earthy
and a broad waste of ruins, burying alive
more than fourteen hundred peasants, over-
spreads the valley of Lowertz.

'About five o'clock in the evening of the

3rd of September, a large projection of the

mountain of Rossberg, on the north-east,

gave way, and precipitated itself into this

valley; and in less than four minutes com-'

pletely overwhelmed the three villages of

Goldau; Busingen, and Rathlen, with a

part of Lowertz and Oberat- The torceiit
2

6S BIOORAPHT OF

of earth and stones was far more rapid
than that of lava, and hs effects as resistless
and as terrible. The mountain in its descent
carried trees, rocks, houses, every thing
before it. The mass spread in every di-
rection, so as to bury completely a space
of charming country, more than three miles
square. The force of the earth must
have been prodigious, since it not only
spread over the hollow of the valley, but
even ascended far up the opposite side
of the Rigi. The quantity of earth, too,
is enormous, since it has left a considerable
hill in what was before the centre of the
vale. A portion of the faUing mass rolled
into the lake of Lowertz, and it is calcu-
lated that a fifth part is filled up. On a.
minute map you will see two Utile islands
marked in this lake, which have been ad-
mired for their picturesqueness. One of
them is famous for the residence of two
hermits, and the other for the remains o/
an ancient chateau, once belonging to the
house of Hapsburg. So large a body c

BnCKMINSTER. ^

water was raised and pushed forward, by
the falling of such a mass into the lake,
that the two islands, and the whole village
of Seven, at the southern extremity, were
for a time, compl*»tely submerged by the
passing of the swell. A large house in this
village was lifted off its foundations and
carried half a mile beyond its place. The
hermits were absent on a pilgrimage to the
«aMbey of Einsideln.

*The disastrous consequences of this
event, extended further than the loss of
such a number of inhabitants in a canton of
little population. A fertile plain is at once
converted into a barren tract of rocks andt
calcareous earth, and the former marks and
boundaries of property obliterated. The
main road from Art to Schweitz is com-
pletely filled up, so that another must be
opened with great labor over the Rigi.
The former channel of a large stream is
choked up, and its course altered; and as
the outlets and passage of large bodies of
water must be affected by the filling u^ oC

M BIOGRAPHY OF

such a portion of the lake, the neighboring
villages are still trembling with apprehen-
sion of some remote consequence, against
which, they know not how to provide.
Several hundred men have been employed
in opening passages for the stagnant waters,
in forming a new road for foot passengers
along the Rigi, and In exploring the ruins.
The different cantons have contributed to
the relief of the suffering canton of Schweiftj-^
and every head is at work to contrive means
to prevent further disasters.

'The number of inhabitants buried alive
under the ruins of this mountain, is scarce-
ly less than fifteen hundred. Some even
estimate it as high as two thousand. Of
these, a woman and two children have been
found alive, after having been several days
under ground. They affirm that while they
were thus entombed, they heard the cries of
creatures who were perishing around them, for
want of that succor which they were so hap-
py as to receive. Indeed, it is the opinion
of many well-informed people, that a large

BUCKMIN8TER. ^

number might still be recovered; and a
writer in the Publiciste goes so far as to
blame the hiactivity of the neighboring in-
habitants; and quotes m^3b«Kvell-attested
facts to prove,that persons have lived a long
time,buried under snow and earth. This at
least is probable in the present case, that
many houses, exposed to a lighter weight
than others, may have been merely a little
crushed, while the lower story, which in
this part of Switzerland, is frequently of
stone; may have remained firm, and thus
not a few of the inhaSitants escaped unhurt.
The consternation, into which the neigh-
boring towns of Art and Schweitz were
thrown, appears indeed to have left them
incapable of contriving and executing those
labors, which an enlightened compassion
would dictate.

*The mountain of Rossberg, as well as
the Rigi, and other mountains in its vicinity,
is composed of a kind of brittle calcareous
earth, and pudding-stone or aggregated

rocks. Such a prodigious mass as tbat
2*

.^

26 BIOGRAPHY OF

which fell, would easily crumble by its o\vn
weight, and spread over a wide surface.
The bed of the mountain, from which the
dasolation c«m^ is a plane inclined from
north to south. Its appearance, as it is
now laid bare, would lead one to suppose
that the mass, when first moved from its
base, slid for some distance before it pre-
cipitated itself in the valley. The height
of the Spitsberg — the name of the projec-
tion which fell — above the lake and valley
of Lowertz, was little less than two thous-
and feet. The composition of the chain of
the Rigi, of which the Rossberg makes a
part, has always been an obstacle in the
way of those system-makers, who have
built their hypothesis upon the structure of

•

the Alps. It has nothing granitic in its
whole mass, and though nearly six thous-
and feet above the sea, is green and even
fertile to its summit. It is composed oi
nothing but earth and stone, combined in
rude masses. It is also remarkable that
the strata of which it is composed^ are

BUCKMINSTSR. 27

disiitictly inclined from the north toward
the south, a character which is common to
all rocks of this kind through the whole
range of Alps, as well as to the great part
of calcareous, schistous, and pyriiic rocks,
and also to the whole chain of the Jura.
*It was about a week after the fall of the
mountain, that our route through Swit-
zerland led us to visit this scene of desola-
tion; and never can I forget the succession
of melancholy views, which pre mied
themselves to our curiosity. In* our way
to it, we landed at Art, a town sit' a ed at
the southern extremity of the lake of Zug;
and we skirted along the western boundary
of the ruins, by the side of Mount Rigi,
towards the lake of Lowertz. From vari-
ous points on our passage, we had complete
views of such a scene of destruction, as no
words can adequately describe. Picture
to yourself a rude and mingled mass of .
earth and stones, bristled with the shattered
parts of wooden cottages, and with thou-
sands of heavy trees, torn up by the roots^

S8 BIOGRAPHY OF

and projecting in every direction. Ija one
part you might see a range of peasants'
huts, which the torrent of earth had reach-
ed with just force enough to overthrow and
tear in pieces, but without bringing soil
enough to cover them. In another, were
mills broken in pieces by huge rocks, tran-
sported from the top of the mountains,
which fell, and were carried high up the
opposite side of the Rigi. Large pools of
water had formed themselves in different
parts of the ruins, and many little streams,
whose usual channels had been filled up,
were bursting out in various places. Birds
of prey, attract ted by the smell of dead
bodies, were hovering all about the valley.
But the general impression made upon us
by the sight of such an extent of desolation,
connected, too, with the idea that hundreds
of wretched creatures were at that moment
alive, buried under a mass of earth, and in-
accessible to the cries and labors of their
friends, was too horrible to be described or
understood. As we travelled along the

BUCKMIN8TEB. 29

borders of the chaos of ruined buildings, a
poor peasant, wearing a countenance ghastly
with woe, came up to us to beg a piece of
money. He had three children buried in
the ruins of a cottage, which he was en-
deavoring to clear away. A little further
on, we came to an elevated spot, which
overlooked the whole scene. Here we
found a painter seated on a rock, and busy
in sketching its horrors. He had chosen
a most favorable point. Before him, at the
distance of more than a league, rose the
Rossberg, from whose bare side had rushed
the destroyer of all this life and beauty.
On his right was the lake of Lowertz, partly
filled with the earth of the mountain. On
the banks of this lake was all that remained
of the town of Lowertz. Its church was
demolished ; but the tower yet stood amid
the ruins, shattered, but not thrown down.
The figures which animated this part of the
drawing, were a few miserable peasants,
left to grope among the wrecks of one half
their village. The foreground of the pic-

90 BIOGRAPHY OF

ture, was a wide desolate sweep of earth
and stones, relieved by the shattered roof
of a neighboring cottage. On the left hand,
spread the blue and tranquil surface of the
lake of Zug, on the margin of which yet
stands the pleasant village of Art, almost in
contact with the ruins, and trembling even
in its preservation.

' We proceeded, in our descent, along
the side of the Rigi, toward the half bur-
ied village of Lowertz. Here we saw the
poor curate, who is said to have been a
spectator of the fall of the mountain. He
saw the torrent of earth rushing toward his
village, overwhelming half his people, and
stopping just before his door! What a sit-
uation! He appeared, as we passed, to be
superintending the labors of some of the
survivors, who were exploring the ruins of
the place. A number of new-made graves,
marked with a plain pine cross, showed
where a few of the wretched victims of
this catastrophe had just been interred.

^Our course lay along the borders of the

BUCKMIKSTER. 51

enchanting lake of Lowertz. The appear-
ance of the slopes, on the eastern and
southern sides, told us what the valley of
Goldau was a few days since, smiling with
varied vegetation, gay with villages and
cottages, and bright with promises of au'
tumnal plenty. The shores of this lake
were covered with ruins of huts, with hay,
with furniture and clothes, which the vast
swell of its vvaters had lodged on the banks.
As we were walking mournfully along to-
wards Schweitz, we met with the dead bo-
dy of a woman, which had been just found.
It was stretched out on a board, and barelji
covered with a white cloth. Two men,
preceded by a priest, were carrying it to a
more decent burial. We hoped that this
sight would have concluded the horrors of
this day's scenery, and that we should soon
escape this painful vestige of the calamity
of Schweitz. But we continued to find
relics of ruined buildings for a league along
the whole extent of the lake ; and a little
beyond the two islands, mentioned above^

93 BiooRAPHt or

we saw, lying on the shore, the stiff body
of a peasant, which had been washed up by
the waves, and which two men were exam-
ining, to ascertain where he belonged. Our
guide instantly knew it to be one of the in-
habitants of Goldau. But I will mention no
more particulars. Some perhaps that hare
been related to me are not credible, and
others which are credible are too painful.

^The immediate cause of this calamitous
event is not yet sufficiently ascertained, and
probably never will be. The fall of parts
of hills is not uncommon ; and in Switzer-
land especially, there are several instances
recorded of the descent of large masses of
earth and stones. But so sudden and ex-
tensive a ruin as this, was, perhaps, never
produced by the fall of a mountain. It can
be compared only to the destruction made
by the tremendous eruptions of Etna and
Vesuvius. Many persons suppose that the
long and copious rains, which they have
lately had in this part of Switzerland, may
have swelled the mountains, in the Ross-

BUCKMIirSTEIU 98

terg, sufficiently to push this part of the
mountain off its inclined base. But we
saw no marks of streams issuing from any
part of the bed which is laid bare. Per-
haps the consistency of the earth in the in-
terior of the mountain was so much altered
by the moisture which penetrated into it,
that the projection of the Spitzberg was no
longer held by a sufficiently strong cohe-
sion, and Its ow» weight carried it over.
Perhaps, as the earth is calcareous, a kind
of fennentation took place sufficient to
loosen its foundations. But there is no
end to conjectures. The mountain has
fallen, and the villages are no more.

'I cannot but reflect upon my weakness
in complaining of our long delay at Stras-.
burg. If we had not been detained there
ten days, waiting for our passports, we
should have been in Switzerland the 3rd of
September, probably in the vicinity of
the lake of Lowertz — perhaps under
the ruins of Goldau. Several traveUexs.

Or tather ^trangers^ were destroyed \ bat

9

1

%

S4 BIOGRAPHY OF

whether they were there on business or
pleai^ure, I know not. Among them are
several respectable inhabitants of Berne,
and a young lady ot fine accomplishments
and amiable character, whose loss is much
lamented. My dear friend, bless God that
we are alive and enjoying so many com-
forts.'

Something of the manner in which Mr
Buckmin§ter was affected by the scenery
of the Alps, will be seen by the following
extract.

'You find in some of the rudest passes
in the Alps homely inns, which public be-
neficence has erected for the convenience
of the weary and benighted traveller. In
most of these inns, albums are kept to re-
cord the names of those, whose curiosity
has led them into these regions of barren-
ness, and the album is not unfrequently
the only book in the house. It is curious
to observe in these books the differences
o£ national character. The Englishman

BUCKMINSTEB. S5

usually writes his name only, without ex-
planation or comment. The Frenchman
records something of his feelings, destina-
tion, or business; commonly adding a line
of poetry, an epigram, or some exclamation
of pleasure or disgust. The German
leaves a long dissertation upon the state of
the roads, the accommodations, &c. de-
tailing at full length whence he came, and
whither he is going, through long pages of
crabbed writing.

'In one of the highest regions of the Swiss
Alps, after a day of excessive labor in
reaching the summit of our journey, near
those dirones erected ages ago for the ma-
jesty of nature, we stopped, fatigued and
dispirited, on a spot destined to eternal
barrenness, where we found one of these
rude but hospitable inns to receive us.
There was no other human habitation with-
in many miles. All the soil which we
could see, had been brought hither, and
placed carefully round the cottage, to
nourish a few cabbages and lettuces.

BIOGRUHT or

There were some goats whicR supplied tlie
oottagers with some milk; a few fowls lived
in [he house; and the greatest luxuries of
the place were new-made cheeses, and
some wild Alpine mutton, the rare* provi-
sion for the traveller. Yet here uature had
thrown off the veil, and appeared in all
her sublimity. Summits of bare granite
rose all around us. The snow-clad tops of
distant Alps seemed to chill the moou-
Jtieams that lighted on them; and we felt
all the charms of the picturesque, mingled
with the awe inspired by unchangeable gran-
deur. We seemed to have reached the
original elevations of the globe, o'ertopping
for ever the tumidls, the vices, and the
miseries of ordinary existence, far out of
the hearing of the murmurs of a busy world,
which discord ravages, and lusu ^ orrupts.
We asked for the album, and a large folio
was brought us, almost filled with the
scrawls of every nation on earth that could
write. Instantly our fatigue was forgotten,
find the evening passed away pleasantly

BITCKMINSTXB. S7

in the entertainment which this book af-
forded us. I copied the following French
couplet :

Dans ces sauvages Heux tout orgueil s* humanise';
Dieu s'y montre plus grand; Phoinme s'y pulveiise

Still are these rugged realms; e'en pride is hush'd;
God seems more grand; roan crumbles into dust.'

From Switzerland he directed his course
to Paris, where his stay, which he intend-
ed should be short, was continued five
months; intercourse^ with England being
very difficult on account of the political
state of the countries. Much of his time
both here and in London, was employed
in collecting a library; and before he left
Europe he formed and sent home a coUec-
tion of near three thousand volumes of the
choicest writers on theology and other
subjects. Some of the reasons which led
him to sptod so large a part of a small
fortune in the purchase of boo'.s will be
seen in the following extract of a letter to

his father; which contains also ^ n^'c^
3*

JL..

S8 BiooRAPHT or

touching allusion to the calamity Tvhicfa still
followed him.

^London, May 5, 1807.
*If the malady, with which it has pleased
God to afBict me, should not entirely dis-
appear, I hope I shall be able, by his grace,
so to discipline my mind, as to prepare it
for any consequences of such a disorder;
consequences, which I dread to anticipate,
but which I think I could bear without
guilty complaint. I sometimes fancy my
memory has already suffered; but, perhaps,
it is all fancy. You will, perhaps, say,
that it is no very strong proof, that I have
any serious apprehensions on this score,
that I am continually purchasing and send-
ing out books, and saying to my mind, thou
hast goods laid up for many years. True —
but, though I may be cut off by the judg-
ment of God from the use of these luxu-
ries, they will be a treasure to those, who
may succeed me, like the hoards of a miser,
scattered after his death. I consider, that,
by eveiy book I send out, I do somethmg

for my dear country, which the love of
money seems to be depressing almost into
unlettered barbarism/

In February he returned to London,
passed the following spring and summer in
a tour through England,' Scotland and
Wales, embarked at Liverpool in August,
and reached home in September. His dis-
order — though the mild climate of the con-
tinent seemed to mitigate it, and even to
flatter him with the hope of complete re-
covery, ren>ained, on the whole, the same.
His constitution, however, gained some
strength by his travels, and was longer able
to endure the attacks of his malady.

He returned now to all the cnitles of his
office with redoubled activity. He was
welcomed by his society with the w^armest
affection and regard. But no praise ever
caused him to lessen his diligence. His
only relaxation was music, of which, from
his youth, he was passionately fond, and in
which his taste was exquisite.

The remaining yeais ot bisk ^^^tv. \&k

:i

40 BIOGRAPHY OV

were marked by few events. The peace-
ful duties of a clergyman admit but of little
variety, and have no general interest. He
was an actVe member of almost all our
literary and charitable societies. He took
the liveliest inter<'st in every plan for the
improvement of the community; and
scarcely one was attempted in which his
advice and assistance were not asked and
given.

But in the midst of all his usefulness and
activity, when he was most interesting to
his friends, and their hopes from him were
most highly raised, they we e all at once
extinguished. A sudden and violent at-
tack of his old disorder instantly made a
total and irrecoverable wreck of his intel-
lect, and, after lingering a few days — dur-
ing which he had no return of reason for a
moment — he sunk under its force, Tues-
day . une 9, 1812, having just completed
his 28ili year.

In his person Mr Buckminster scarcely
cached the middle height. His limbs

&tJCEMINSTB&. 41

were well proportioned and regular.. His
head resembl&d the finest ancient models
and his features were almost faultless ; dig-
nified, sweet and intelligent. He was af-
fable and easy in his manners — and there
was a remarkable simplicity, directness
ind absence of all disguise in his mode of
uttering his thoughts. He had that un-
failing mark of a good disposition, an easi-
ness to be pleased. He did not converse
a great deal in large companies, but al-
ways with correctness and elegrnce.
Though he was habitually cheerful, t-.ere
were occasional inequalities In his manner,
which were to be traced to his bodily in-
disposition. Many of his friends who have
entered his room, when he was suffering
from the effects of his disease, well re-
member, that after a few moments of con-
versation, he would shake off the oppres-
sion of his languor, his wonted smil«
would play over his features, that peculiar
animation, which usually lighted up his
countenance, would again break out, and

^ BIOQRAPHT OF

he would enter upon any subject of con-
versation, with the warmest and liveliest

interest.

Mr Buckminster posses?: ed all the fea-

tures of a mind of the l^igliest order. It
was not marked by any of these singular-
ities by which men of genius are sometimes
disgraced.

He was a i-eal student. He possessed
the genuine love of labor for itself. Like
most men of learning he loved to read
more than to think, and to think more
than to wfite, and though he composed
rapidly it was with intellectual toil.

We have not attempted a formal descrip-
tion of the qualities of Mr Buckminster's
heart. A life of purity and rectitude, of
devotedness to God and zeal for the good
of mankind proves its soundness and its
sensibility. We might speak of his perfect
sincerity, his simplicity, his love of truth,
his candor of disposition. We might re-
mark, how little ths great admiration he
received, injured his character. We might

\ BUCEMmSTEBT. 43

attempt — but it would be in vain — to de-
scribe the magic influence, by which he
drew around him a circle of most devoted
fi'iends, by whom his memory is cherished
with the fondest regrets. Even now,
when time has softened the violence of
grief, there are many, who delight to re-
member the hours they have spent with
him, and to dwell on those traits which
they loved, while he was living, and which
death cannot eli'ace from their recollection.
It was his wish not to outlive his use-
fulness; that wish was granted. He disap-
peared in all the brightness of his honors,
without any twilight coming over his fame.
The dreadful spectacje was spared of
such a mind in ruins. May the example
of a life hke his, devoted to truth, to vir-
tue and to the best interests of mankind,
animate many to follow him in the path
of piety and benevolence, that, by the
grace of God they may join him in another
world, where fi iendship will be uninterrupt-
ed, and virtue eternal.

.*.

l.ABl- C. niACJIKR.

BIOGRAPHY

OF

T H A C H E R,

BIOGRAPHY

OF

THACHER.

Samuel Cooper THAOfiER was born
in Boston,' on the 14th of December, 1785*
He was the son of the Rev. Peter Thach-
er, &*D. who in the January of the same
year tiad been installed minister of the Brat*
tie street cbtirch; to which situation he was
called from Maiden, a village in the neigh-
borhood of Boston, where he had been
settled for the first fifteen years of his min-
istry. For many generations, the ances-
tors of Mr Thacher had, fix)m dispo-
sition and preference, been of that profes-
: sion, which among the IsraeUtes, was niade
the duty of a tribe.

■ J

50

BIOORAPHT or

r

W*'

^ r

From early life, the subject of this m€
moir exhibited those qualities of mind an
heart, which are so very desirable in
teacher of religion; and in riper years h
determined to enter a profession which hi
fathers before him had followed and adorn
ed.

He received the elements of instructioi
at the free schools of his native town; am
was fitted for college at the Latin Gram
mar school. In the year ISOO, he was ad
mitted as a student of the University in Cam
bridge; and was graduated with its highes
honors at the annual Commencement ii
1804.

While at the University, he had the hap
piness of gaining the attachment and respec
of his classmates and fellow students, and a
the same time the confidence and favoi
of the college government. He possessec
good sense, good temper, and a true inde
pendence of spirit; and therefore couk
hardly fail to recommend himself, both t(
the companions, and to the guardians, of his
studies. He knew that the improvement

THACBSR. 51

•

«oT his mind was his business andlfis duty;
and that the object of his instructers, in al
their discipline, could be no other than his
good. He was not disposed to consider
every new thing they required as contrary
to his rights, and every officer of instruction,
his natural foe. He thought too, that he
could show quite as much independence
by firmly opposing the passionate measures
of mistaken youth, as by resisting the fan-
cied tyranny ^f his superiors an4 tutors.
But still he had so much kindness of dispo-
sition, was so affectionately attached to his
companions, and so free from a servile spir-
it, that he never lost their friendship, or fell
under their suspicion.

Before leaving the University, Mr
Thacher had decided on the choice of a
profession. In a letler to his elder broth-
er, dated December, 1803, he communi-
cates his intention of preparing fcr the
ministry. To this object, he says, < all
hb hopes and wishes are directed;' and he

mm God that he ^may not be permitted ta
4#

..s

52 BIOGRAPHT OF

touch his ark with unholy hands.' Imme-
diately after taking his first degree, he com-
menced his theological studies in Boston;
and enjoyed the valuable privilege of hav-
ing them directed by the Rev. Dr Chan-
ning. The friendship formed between these
two gentlemen was intimate and confiden-
tial; and was interrupted only by that event,
which suspends all human connexions, till
they are renewed in a better world.

In the early part of the year 1805, Mr
Thacher took charge of the Latin Gram-
mar School, during a vacancy in the of-
fice of head master. He afterwards, for a
short time, kept a private school. The
summer of 1806 introduced him to an en-
tirely new scene of study and enjoyment,
and gratified a desire, which he had long
indulged, of seeing other countries than
his own.

It had been thought necessary, that the
lamented Mr Buckminst^r in travelling
abroad for Us health, should be accom-
panied by some firiend, who might be at

-THAOHER. 53

hand to administer assistance, or procure
relief for him, if needed; and Mr Thacher
was requested to be that friend. This of*
fer he immediately accepted; considering
himself as very fortunate in being able to
accomplish a favorite object, at the same
time that a fellow traveller was secured whom
he so highly esteemed. Mr Buckminstei*
sailed for England in May. Mr Thacher
left Boston in June, and in July had the
pleasure of joining his friend in London.

Early in August they embarked together
at London for the Continent; and after a
disagreeable passage of three days landed
at Harlingen, in Holland. At Rotterdam,
where they arrived before the middle of
the month, the two friends were compelled
to separate. Mr Buckminster set off on
a tour through Switzerland, and Mr Thach-*
er proceeded to Paris.

*And what shall I write you of Paris,' he
Isays, in his letter to his brother, 'of Paris,
the centre of gaiety and pleasure^ of sijlea^
4t

54 BIOORAPHT OF

dor, folly, vanity and crime; the place
where you find every form of beauty, mag-
nificence and taste; every display of inge-
nuity and art; in short, every thing but
goodness? The sentiment of Burke is
here completely reversed, and vice doubles
its evil by losing all its grossness. — The
embellishment of Paris still advances; and
it is said the Emperor has done more to
adorn it in three years, than the house of
Bourbon in the whole eighteenth century.
By making Italy and Flanders tributary to
his capital, he has formed a collection of
paintings and statues, without rival in the
world. He opens magnificent squares m
places which were formerly crowded with
dirty and narrow streets; he renews public
buildings which have decayed, or supplies-
their place with something still more splen-
did; and if he should live twenty years longr
er, he will make Paris throughout one vast
palace. Even if his fortune should be re-
versed, he has left such indelible traces of
himself, and connected them with so ma-

THACBER. 65

ny monuraents of elegance and taste, that
they can never be effaced without mutilat-
ing the beauty of the city.'

In the same letter, which is dated Octo-
ber 17th, he thus speaks of the health of
Mr Buckminster, who had then rejoined
him. *When you next see Mr L. after re-
membering me to him with all possible grat-
itude and regard, tell him, that though I am
unwilling prematurely to raise his hopes,
yet I believe he may indulge very sanguine
expectations of the complete recovery of
Mr Buckminster. He has returned from
Switzerland, not merely in good, but in
robust health; and ever since his arrival on
the Continent, and for a month before, he
has had no return, nor symptom of a return,
of his disorder..' And in another letter,
dated December 20th, he says; *The cli-
mate of France agrees wonderfully with
Mr 6. who is in robust and uninterrupted
health, although occasionally a little home-
sick. His greatest danger, at present, is

66 BIOGKAFHT OF

of becoming bankrupt, from the number of
books which he continues to buy*. Theser
were grateful hopes, and such as would in-
spire a tone of gaiety; but it is well known
how mournfully they were disappointed.

On account of the political state of the
country, the friends were obliged to remain
In Paris much longer than they had intend-
ed; and it was not till the February of 1807
that they were able to return to London.

While in France, Mr Thacher had felt
himself restrained from writing with freedom
about politics or distinguished men; be-'
cause he knew that all his letters were in-
spected by the police, before they werer
permitted to leave the country. But ctoce
more in England, he could indulge himself
in full epistolary liberty; and in one of his^
letters from London he gives a lively d©*:
scription of Bonaparte, whom he saw for
a few moments at St Cloud. It does not
vary in its particulafs, from descriptions of
his appearance which have been given to
the public; but every thmg posse^es a

THACHBB. 57

certain degree of interest, which relates to
that fallen wonder of mankind.

*It was at morning mass, just before the
present war was announced; and from his
wearied and unrefreshed countenance, I
did not envy him the night he had been
passing. He had the appearance of a man,
exhausted by intensity of thought, and now
vainly endeavoring to escape from the sub-
ject of his meditations. He was perpetual-
ly restless and uneasy; some part of his
body was in continual motion; he was now
swinging backward and forward, then
drawing his hand over his forehead and
face, and then taking snuff, with an air
which evidently implied that he was un-
conscious of the action. The whites of
his eyes bear a much greater proportion to
the colored part than usual, and he makes
them more remarkable by perpetually roll-
ing them about. It is a very curious fact,
that it is still a dispute what is their color;
and among the thousand pictures of him
bung up in Parisy part make them. bluA^

5d BiodBitaY or

and part hazel or black. Upon the whole
however, he has a very fine countenance,
and I must confess my opinion of his capa-
city was heightened by observing the fine
proportion which it displays.'

In August Mr Thacher sailed with his
friend from Liverpool, and in September
arrived in Boston. Soon after his return
he accepted the office of Librarian of Har-
vard College, and entered on his duties in
1808.

The discharge of his duties as Librarian
left Mr Thacher time for the study of his
profession. The library of which he had
the care, furnished him with advantages of
which he did not neglect io make use; and
though vvlien lie began to preach, he was not
generally pleasing in the pulpit, on account
of some defect of voice and peculiarity of
manner, yet the clearness of thought, the
good sense and pious feeling, which his
discourses exhibited, secured for him the
approbation of men of judgment and taste

THICHEB, 59

On the third of November, 1810, the
Rev. John T. Kirkland was inducted Presi-
dent of Harvard University; and on this
joyful occasion Mr Thacher was appointed
to deliver a congratulatory address in Latin.
Maiiy then present remember the graceful
appearance of the orator, and the praises
which his performance received from all
lips, for the propriety of its sentiments, and
the elegance of its Latinity. He was uni-
versally esteemed, as a college officer by
the students, who loved him for the mild-
ness and urbanity, while they respected
him for the firmness, of his character.

But the time approached when he was to
leave his employment at Cambridge for
a sphere of higher and more arduous duties.
The society of the New South Church, of
which President Kirkland had been the
minister, was now of course destitute ; and
Mr Thacher, after preaching before them
for a few weeks, was invited to supply their
loss. He accepted the call, and was or-
dained their pastor on the 15th of May,
1811.

60 BIOORA^BT OF

Mr Thacber began bis pastoral duties
witb tbe interest and zeal of one wbo deep-
ly feels tbeir importance, and tbe obliga-
tions wbicb be is under to discbarge tbem
faitiifuUy. He now lived only for bis peo-
ple, and directed all bis exertions to tbe
promotion of tbeir good. He won tbeir
hearts by tbe affectionate friendliness of
bis manners, satisfied tbeir minds by bis
clear explanations of gospel trutb, sbared
in tbeir joys as if tbey were bis own, and
led tbem in tbeir sorrows to tbe source of
all consolation.

But very soon a melancboly cloud rose
up, and tbrew its sbade over tbe morning
prospect of bis usefulness. He was not
gifted witb a constitution sufficiently vigor-
ous to support bim for any lengtb of time,
under die manifold labors of bis profession;
and in tbe spring of tbe year after bis set-
tlement, be found it necessary to take a
journey, for tbe benefit of bis declining
bealtb. In tbe month of April be left Bos-
ton, travelled through Worcester and Hart-

TEACHER. 61

ford t0 New Haven, and thence to New-
York. From this place he took the steam-
boat to Albany, and continued his jour-
ney to Saratoga Springs. A free use of
the waters was so beneficial to him, that
after remaining there for some days, he set
out on his return to Boston, with renewed
strength and hopes. But the heat of the
weather, and the fatigue of ridmg, proved
excessively injurious to his weak frame.
On the morning after arriving at Worcester,
he was attacked with a raising of blood
from the lungs, which immediately reduced
him to a state of extreme debility.

This attack confined him in Worcester
nearly a month; and when at last he re-
sumed his journey, he could only travel at
the rate of a very few miles a day. He
did not return at once to Boston, but was
detained by the hospitality of Gorham Par-
sons, Esq. at the neighboring village of
Brighton; where every attention and com-
fort was ministered to him, which his situ-
ation could require; or kindness could sui^

62 BIOORAPHT OF

gest. Here he gradually recovered so far
as to believe himself able to recommence
his ministerial duties in November. The
title of the first sermon he preached on
again addressing his society from the pulpit
was, On recovery from dangerous sick"
ness; and its subject, the duties of the
sick.

The following notice of his own situa«
tion, toward the commencement of the dis-
course,must have sunk deeply into the hearts
of his hearers.

* Brought by the goodness of God from
the borders of the grave, I cannot better
use the strength which is restored to me,
than by endeavoring to gather instruction
for you, as well as myself, from the scene
through which I have passed. And if by
this experience I should be enabled to sug-
gest any considerations with regard to the
duties of the sick, which may contribute to
make any of you prepared for the hour of
trial, I shall think that much greater danger
and pain would not have been too dear a

THACHBR. 63

price for such a privilege.' — 'I propose to
speak of the duties of those who are assail-
ed by painful and lingering sickness; whose
powers of exertion are impaired, but not
destroyed; to whom a breathing time, as it
were, is allotted, between the summons
and the execution of that sentence, which
is upon the life of us all; over whom

Death his dart
Shakes, but delays to strike.*

While Mr Thacher was absent on his
journey, he met with a severe trial in the
death of Mr Buckminster, his fellow-travel-
ler in foreign lands, his brother in the min-
istry, his friend. His feelings prompted
him to pay a tribute to the memory of one
so dear to him, by publishing an account of
his life and character; and his intimate ac-
quaintance with the deceased, perfectly
qualified him for the duty. The memoir
of Mr Buckminster, which has been prefix-
ed to his remains, is from the pen of Mr
Thacher.

4t

64 BIOORAPHT 09

But his useful labors were broken off;
and the connexion with his people, which
was becoming every day more intimate,
was doomed to be suspended, and after
many hopes and fears, at last to be dissol-
ved.

In the autumn of 1815, he was severely
attacked by a return of hemorrhage from
the lungs. He remained in a very feeble
state through the winter and spring; and it
was- then determined by his physicians that
he should take a voyage to Europe as the
most likely means of restoring his health.

In August Mr Thacher once more bade
farewell to his home; not, as before, for
the purpose of watching over the health of
a friend, but with the hope of recovering
bis own. And few have gone down to
the sea followed by so many affectionate
regrets, and so many fervent prayers.

In September he arrived in Liverpool,
after a pleasant voyage, and with improved
health. His stay in that city was short;
and he soon proceeded to London.

THACHER.

65

*0n my arrival in London,' he says in
one of his letters, 'I immediately applied
to a physician; chiefly however for his ad-
rice as to the place in which I shall pass
the winter. He very properly requires a
longer time before he expresses an opinion
of the circumstances of my case, and ad-
vises me to pass a week or two in London
and its vicinity, making inquiries^as to dif-
ferent spots, which he mentions, without
instantly deciding on which to choose.
Here then I am, in this vast metropolis,
with the map of the wide world spread be-
fore me, and seeking some spot to which I
may direct my solitary steps. Yet I as-
sure you, that though a melancholy feeling
will now and then find its way into my
heart, I am habitually cheerful; for I re-
gard myself as in the path of my duty.'

The physicians whom he consulted in
London were Dr Baillie, physician to the
King, and Dr Wells. They united in as-
suring him, that in their opinion, no disease
had fixed itself on his Ixm^^^^ ^xA ^5m^^^
5

6Cr BIOORAPHT OF

resources of hi& constitution were not
wasted.

The place which at length was selected
for his winter's residence, was not such a
one as his inclinations would have chosen J
for though it bore a name of promise, it was
far removed, not only from his friends, but
from the civilized portions of the world-
*I am on the point of embarking,' he writes,
under the date of October the 18th, 'for the
Cape of Good Hope, I am led to this
measure, by finding the opinions of the
most eminent physicians here coincide with
that of Dr Jackson, and my other medical
friends at home. Of course it would have
been more pleasing to me to have been
recommended to some spot less distant
from you all. But as I came abroad, not
for pleasure or curiosity, but in order, by
God's blessing, to regain the ability of
being useful, I am bound to take that course
which shall seem to lead mcst directly to
this object.' 'And afier all,' he says, in a
letter to another friend, 'a few thousand

THACHER. 67

xniles make no great difference, when one
lis already so far from home. The great
effort was to leave you at all. That being
done, every thing else is comparatively
easy.-

The following letter to his elder brother
^^ontains an account of his voyage and ar-
rival at the Cape.

«Cape Town^ Jan. 8, 1817.

•*Jtfy Dear Brother,

*I have at length the pleasure of writing

to you from the Cape of Good Hope, where
we arrived safely two days since. When

it came to the point of leaving England, I

found it a greater trial of my feelings than
I expected. The probabdity of a long and

•tedious paasage; my entire ignorance of the
persons who were to be ray companions;
the possibility of extreme sickness among
total strangers; together with the vague no-
tions of dreariness and barbarism, which
were associated in my mind with the idea
^f Africa; all these things conspired to ^ive

i

68 BIOGRAPHY OF

me a momentary depression of spirits, to
which I had before been a stranger; and
vrhen I receive^ the last kind pressure of
Mr Williams' hand, on leaving London, I
found it hard to command my feelings.

*But every thing has been better, much
betlGic than I expected. My fellow passen-
gers were civil to me from the first, and

ft

after a little time became particularly
friendly and attentive. Our weather, espe-
cially on this side the line, was uncommon-
ly good; and we made the gigantic elevation
of the rock which forms Table Mountain,
in sixty-five days from the Downs, witliout
a single accident or danger. At the foot
of the precipice which terminates the
mountain on the south side, lies the little
tovm from which I write to you. It is in
the Dutcb taste, very regular, very clean,
and its whole aspect comfortable as well as
pretty. The inhabitants are celebrated for
hospitality; but your friends, Mr and Mrs
Ross, are more than hospitable. They
domesticate me in one of the pleasantest

MACHSA. 0d

families I have ever met with from home^
uniting all that is most agreeable in the Eng-
lish and Dutch characters. They remem-
ber Bt)ston with great regard, and are al-
ways speaking of your kindness. So you
see it is; the same good Providence whick
has protected me so long and so far, rais-
es for me friends in a corner of the world
where I could least expect to find them.
My continual prayer is for a grateful and
confiding spirit.

*As far as I can judge, the improvement
of my health promises to compensate me
for the toils of so long a voyage. A short-
ness of breath, which I felt in America,
•and which followed me to London, disap-
peared at sea. My cough, if I do not de-
<5eive myself, (Dr Jackson will understand
, that parenthesis,) is seldom- more, and of-
ten less, than it was before my last attack.
In short, if the climate of t&is country
agree with me as well as it has hitherto, I
do not doubt that, with the blessing of God,

I may return to vou ia a& ^c»4%.'5^»^fc ^
5* "

TO

BIOORAPHT OF

health as I had in 1813 and 14. For my-
self I ask no more of Heaven than to be re-
stored to the ability of once more- laboring
in that beloved spot where my lot is cast.

'I propose to remove in a few days to
Stellenbosch, a village about twenty-five
miles distant, which is described as one of
the most beautiful residences in the world.
If I am prospered, I shall hope to embark
for England in April, and thence to turn
my face towards my dear native home.'

The reason given by Mr Thacher, in
another letter, for remaining at Cape Town,
is, that it is subject to a south-east >^ind oi
the most unpleasant kind, which pours ovei
the Table Mountain in hot gusts of suet
violence, as to fill the streets with dust, and
oblige the inhabitants to shut themselves
up in their houses. In a few days after hit
arrival, he removed to the above named
village of Stellenbosch, and lived there til]
his departure for England.

The two following letters will be valued
as descriptions of the pkce of refuge tc

THACHER. 71

which he had fled, from the pursuit of win-
ter, and of his own situation and employ-
ments there. The first of these is to his
only sister.

SieUenbosch, Cape of Good Hope, Feb. 10, 1817.

* As I cannot but ^flatter myself that the
most afllBctionate of sisters sometimes em-
ploys herself in thinking of the situation of
her exiled brother, I am going to try to
give an idea of where he is, what he is
doing, how he looks, how he feels, and
what are his plans. What would I not give
«t this moment, for a similar account of
yourself and all those dear friends I have
left behind me.

*Send then your imagination across the
waters, many thousands of miles, to anoth-
er hemisphere, a different climate, and a
far different race of men. You will see
stretching far into the Southern Ocean,
the land where he is; a land, not of any
classic or romantic recollections, but al-
ways esteemed a land of \i«xW\Ssa!L '^sx^

5t

72

BIOORAFHT OF

barrenness — the fit habitation of the lion,
the serpent and the tiger, of the sooty Eihi-
op, the wild Caffire, and the yellow Hot-
tentot. At first view, it will seem to you
to present nothing but bare and bleak
mountains of immense height and frightful
steepness, or else plains of sand to which
the eye sees no limit, and which are for
ever heated by the rays of a blazing sun.

'But a nearer view will show you that
Providence has prepared even here scenes
of comfort and peace, and even of beauty
and enjoyment. The vallies between the
mountains are all fertile. Wherever you
find a drop of water, there is verdure.

'If, therefore, you cast your eye nearly
east from Cape Town about twenty-five
miles, you will see, at the foot of the first
great chain of mountains, a little village of
perhaps two hundred white houses, peeping
from among the green trees. Here you
will find fruits of the most delicious flavour
and in the greatest profusion. The air is
the driest and purest you can imagine.

THACHEB. tS

The valley is surrounded by mountains of
the most singular forms, which are so dis-
posed as to furnish you some very roman-
tic and agreeable rides. If you are in
search of peace and solitude, there is not a
spot on the globe where you will find
them in greater perfection. Here it is that
you will discover your wandering brother*
You will see him moving about in his grey
frock-coat and white underdress, looking
very comfortable, it is true, but very little
like a minister. His face is beaten and
blackened by long exposure; and an African
sun bids fair to throw over it that peculiar
tinge of yellow, which you may sometimes
have seen in a mulatto who is not very
dark. He is not over corpulent, though
of quite tolerable dimensions. He lodges
in an admirable house, where he has every
comfort. As the inhabitants are all Dutch,
he has not much society; not knowing a
word of their melodious and classical Ian-
guage. He is in a fair way therefore to
improve his talents fox Vm^xVxstkvvj * ^^x.

74 BIOGBAFHT OV

however that he is destitute of company;
for very happily the clergyman of the place,
and all bis family, speak English very well.
This divine is a man of great piety and
benevolence, of excellent sense, and is truly
liberal in all his opinions. He takes great
delight in a fine garden, which he cultivates
himself with great skill. At the foot of it
runs a Uitle river, perfectly clear, and al**
ways murmuring over its stony channel.
The banks of this stream ai*e covered with
a fine grove of trees, planted by Mr Bor-
cherd's own hand. He has made a little
arbor, which is always shady and cool, sur-*
rounded by myrtles and wild flowers, and
trees overrun with the passion-flower,
which here grows with a stem of the thick-
ness of my arm. Here he has placed
seats, on which he sits and chats with your
brother by the hour; they neither of them
being romantic enough to be interrupted by
the turtle doves and other birds, which
are singing in the branches over their heads.
This same good man has several pretty and

lively daughters; but it is not to be suppos*
ed that they make any part of the attraction
which draws so grave a person as your
brother so often to the parsonage.

^His mode of passing his time is as reg-
ular as it was at home. He gets up pret-
ty early in the morning for a walk before
breakfast; then reads a little or writes a
littlej till eleven or twelve; then pays avis-
it to Mr B orchard ^s, and gets a walk or a
ride before dinner. In the afternoon he
walks or rides again; and after passing a
quiet evening, always at home, goes to bed
at ten. He is generally quite cheerful and
contented, but it is said that there are some
moments, when he is thinking of borne
and the best and most beloved of friends,
in which he has a little of that sickness of
heart Tvhich hope deferred will sometimes
give. But this is momentary; for he must
be the most ungratefd of men to distrust
that good Providence which has so signally
protected him, so much improved his
health, so smoodied the path of V^^ ^^^ssr

76

BIOORATHY OF

deriogs, raised him up friends whereve
be has been, and crowned him with loving
kindness and tender mercy.

'Thus, my dear sister, I have endeav
ored to give you an idea of where and hov
I am. It is now nearly six months sinc<
I have received a line from home; a long
long interval to one who places so mucl
of his earthly happiness there. I do not
attribute this however to the negligence oj
my friends, but to the distance at which 1
. am removed from them. I anticipate witl
delight the period when this distance will
begin to lessen. After the first of April I
hope to embark for England, and to be
permitted to reach home by the beginning
of autumn. With this hope I will solace
myself. Adieu. My prayers never cease
to ascend for your happiness here andhere**
after.

'Your affectionate brother,

'Samuel C. Thatcher.'

The other letter is addressed to a lady
of bis society • It is writlenfcoia th^ «am«

t

TEACHER. 77

Tillage and bears the date of the 1st of
Maicb.

<I fear I must have seemed very ungrate^
ful to my most constant and excellent
friend, in suffering so long an interval to
pass without thanking her for her letter.
And yet I have been so long accustomed
to have the kindest constructions put upon
my actions at your house, that I am not
^thout hope that my silence has been im-
puted to what is indeed its true cause, my
inability to do better. The time I passed
in London was full of solicitude and hurry,
which scarcely left me leisure for my indis-
pensable duties. On arriving at the Cape,
I was immediately obliged to fly from the
sirocco winds of the town to this little
village, where we hear from the bay only
once a week. Opportunities of writing
have often occurred and passed without my
knowledge; and I now begin this letter
without knowing when it will be sent.
And if with all these reasons thet^ ^^&

78 BIOGRAPHY OF

mingled sometbiDgof the self-indulgence of
a spoiled valetudinaiian, you well know
where I learned to claim such privileges;
and I also know where there is charitj
enough to forgive me.

4 wish I could find any thing around me
interesting enough to repay you for the
pleasure I received from your letter. But
the truth is, there is scarcely a spot on the
glohe more barren, both in a moral and fhysr
ical view, than all I have yet. seen of this
part of South Africa. There is nothing
classical, no monunients of antiquity, no
model of the fine arts, and so little of letters,
that a bookshop is a thing unknown through-
out the colony. Man, too, is here found
in his most degraded form. Some of my
speculations on the dignity of our species
have never received so severe a rebuke, as
when I look in the face of a Hottentot or a
Bosjesroan. Not that I do not find means
to get over this difficulty ; for he must be
but a poor theorist — I think 1 hear your
father say it — who abandons bis fancies

THACHBE. 79

for SO trifling a cause as mere finatters of
fact.

'Their is nothing interesting here but
the appearances of nature; and these are
just what it is impossible to convey any
idea of in a letter. Apparentl}i , this is one
of the confines of the solid globe; and the
mountains, which are thrown up as bul-
warks against the ocean, are immense mas-
ses of rock, cast in the most abrupt and
rugged forms. There is no such thing in
any part of the country that I have seen
as what we should call in New England a
beautiful landscape. You may sometimes
find in the vallies a few verdant and fertile
spots, which afford a refreshing contrast to
the bare summits and sterile sides of the
mountains which surround them. A botan-
ist would find a perpetual feast; but unfor-
tunately, I with my blind eyes am none.
I am struck however with seeing many
shrubs, which at home are raised with
difficulty and care, growing here spontane-
ously in the open air. TVm^\v^\\& ^\^^^^

80 BIOGRAPHY or

plants are in oiher respects different from
those of the cultivated ones. A geranium,
which at home will scarcely bear the touch,
I should find it difficult to crush here with
a strong blow of my foot; and the myrtle,
so delicate with us, is here growing in lofty
hedges so strong as to be impenetrable to
cattle. Their flowers however are not
nearly so beautiful nor so fragrant as they
are in a state of cultivation; just as it is with
the mind, which shoots more vigorously
when left to itself, but loses in delicacy and
refinement, what it gains in hardihood and
force.

' The Cape is a great resort for invalids
from India, many of whom I see, and find
several of them very mtelligent and agree-
able. I never before was so impressed
with the value and magnitude of the British
empire there. How shall I delight to ask
your father some questions on this subject,
if the inestimable privilege is accorded me
of again making one of your domestic circle.
The Count Las Cases, xVie Iti^tA ol^Q\Ar

THACH£R. 81

parte, is here. His constant theme is his
master, whom he represents as the most
amiable of men, instead of that monster of
criieky he has commonly been taken for.
The Count, you will probably have heard,
was sent from St Helena for attempting to
send to Europe a letter in cipher. It may
be news to you that the British have taken
possession of the Island of Tristan d' Acun-
ha, and fortified it, with the avowed purpose
of preventing our vessels from using it in
another war. So it seems agreed on all
hands that we must look forward to future
contests.'

This letter was probably the last, which
Mr Thacher wrote from the Cape. It is
stated in some of his subsequent ones, that
his health did not improve so much during
the latter part of his residence there, as his
feelings at an earUer period had led him to
expect; and this is attributed to his not be-
ing permitted by the climate to take that
regular exercise, to which he had been ac-
customed) and which was absolutely necesr

82 BIOG&APHT OF

sary to him. He thought on the whole,
however, that he left the Cape with amen-
ded health.

He set sail for England on the fifth of
April. On the eighteenth day of the pas-
sage, and in fine weather, the ship sudden-
ly sprung a leak, and took in water so rap-
idly, that several of the passengers were
alarmed, and deserted her at the island of
Ascension. Being assured by the captain
tha| no real danger was to be apprehended,
Mr Thacher remained on board. The
evil did not increase, though some rough
weather was afterwards experienced, and
he was safely landed at Hastings, on the
^ twenty-fifth of June, from which place he
went immediately to London.

There is little doubt that this voyage was
highly injurious to his health. He himself
allowed that it deprived him of much of the
strength and more than all the flesh which
be had gained from his travels. It was te-
diously long, and was rendered uncomfort-
able by the excessive and continued heat,

THACHER. 83

which was the consequence of the ves-
gel's being compelled by the winds to keep
near the African coast. The burning rays
of an equinoctial sun beat down on the head
of the invalid, and 'he withered and
shrunk,' to use the language of an elegant
tribute to his memory, ' like a frail plant.'
A few weeks, however, passed in a mild-
er climate, did much to restore and reani-
mate him.

In London he again asked advice; and his
physicians were of opinion that he ought not
to return home. They thought that after
taking, as he had, three summers in succes-
sion, the severity of a New England winter
would be more than he could bear. He
gave up his own wisl.es to what appeared
his duty, and dooming himself to a longer
absence from his country and friends, sought
out once more a retreat for the winter.

Toward the end of August he went to

Paris; and after a residence in that city of

a few weeks, proceeded to Moulins the

chief town in the Department of tha Ms»^^^.
6

84 BIOG&AFHT OF

This place is near the centre of France,
and was chosen by him on account of' its
great reputation for the mildness and salu-
brity of its climate. His health declined from
the time of his arrival in France; and though
he himself had constant hopes of his recov-
ery and return to America, the friends who
had opportunities of seeing him, perceived
that in all probability, the time of his final
rest was at band.

The last letter which he wrote home
bears the date of December 17th. On
that day he was cheered by a visit from
his countryman and friend Professor Ev-
erett, who had come from Paris on purpose
to see him. The following extracts of
two letters addressed by that gentleman
to Judge Thacher, furnish an affecting nar-
rative of the close of Mr Thacher 's life.

'In a letter which your brother has writ-
ten you, and which you will probably re-
ceive with this, he says every thing to you
of his health which I could say. To me,
who bad not seen him since I left him at

THACHER. 85

home, near three years ago, he of course
had the appearance of one reduced by long
iUness; but those who have seen him longer,
andhad some opportunity of comparing him
at different periods of time, do not, as you
are aware, speak discouragingly. Some
symptoms, which in their continuance might
have been unpleasant, showed themselves,
as he writes you, on the journey from Paris,
which being seventy-one leagues, was of it-
self rather fatiguing. The fatigue of jour-
neying, and the indifferent quality of the
food procured on the joad, seemed to have
produced a disorder in his digestion, which
continued some days after his arrival, not
without weakening him considerably.
This, however, has ceased, and he is al-
ready regaining strength. His appetite is
good, and the weather permits him to take
daily exercise in walking abroad. He has
only no>v to wait to see the effect on his
illness of the climate of this place. It is
certainly a beautiful country. The fields
have not yet lost their vexAva^^ "axA "^^

86 BIOGRAPHY OF

jBowers of the Tulip Tree, gathered from
the open air, are to be seen in the flower-
pots wherever you go. The Loire, all
the way as I came, and the AUier, here at
Moulins, that flows into it, instead of being
covered with ice, like our rivers in De-
cember, is as blue and calm as on a sum-
mer's day. — The English, chat have passed
years here, particularly Lord Beverly, who
has been here eighteen years, are delighted
With the climate; and I am convinced it is
more regular than that of the Mediterranean
cities, where, with some warmer days in
winter, there is often a vicissitude of trying
blasts. Should however any circumstance
make it desirable to your brother to go
further south, he is on the main Lyons
road, and can always pursue his journey.
* You can hardly judge of my sorrow at
finding he had left Paris but four days be-
fore my arrival; though I could not but re-
joice that he was getting out of the atmos-
phere of the Parisian rains, and the noise
of that great city. I determined to seize

THACHEtt. 87

the first moment of visiting him here, and
have only to regret that my visit is too
short. '

The letter from which the above extract
is made, was written at Moulins. That
from which the remaining notices are taken,
was written at Paris, after Professor Ever-
ett had received the intelligence of his
friend's death.

* Other letters will perhaps inform you
of every interesting circumstance relative
to this event; and from Mr Thompson's
family you will gather in the spring the
most particular accounts. Their constant
attentions, which contributed not a little
to render the last days of our dear brother
as comfortable as could have been hoped,
and far more so than might have been ex-
pected in a foreign land, will enable them
to satisfy to its extent your curiosity in this
respect. But I cannot forbear mentioning
to you what I had myseJi «sv qt^^^^^nmsh^
6*

88

BIOO&APHT OF

of observing, or have learned from his
servant.

' The journey to Moulins, as I have al-
ready mentioned in my other letter, was
very fatiguing, and immediately followed
by symptoms both distressing and alarming.
This seems to have been the last effort of
nature to throw off the disease, and not
being successful — as, from the character
of the complaint, such an effort could not
be — an unfavorable turn was to be antici-
pated. But as the local symptoms yielded,
under the treatment of Dr Bell, as the lost
appetite began to return, and as there was
the promise of a mild and pleasant winter,
instead of apprehending any ultimate bad
effect of this attack, it seemed only to have
delayed awhile the experiment to be made
of the climate. But I do not think that
any considerable portion of the strength,
lost in this severe attack, was ever recov-
ered; and it seems to have put the delicate
springs of life, already so long and greatly
strained, to a trial beyond them to sustain.

THACHBR. 89

Nevertheless, he continued to go out in
pleasant weather, and even declined being
.attended on his walks. He was able to
take his food with appetite, he slept well,
and was invariably cheerful and tranquil.
His cough, however, appeared to gain, and
without being at single eftbrts very distress-
ing, or attended at all with loss of blood,
was by its continuance very e!ihausting.

' It was in this condition, after an inter-
val of nbout seven weeks from his arrival
at Moulins, that I saw him. I had been
much grieved on my own account, at finding
that he had left Paris, but four days before
I reached it; and I determined to go and
see him as soon as I could make the ar-
rangement. On my arriving at Moulins,
I met him walking in the street, much al-
tered indeed from what I had last seen him
at home. The wind was quite violent,and
I immediately accompanied him to his
lodgings. That was the last time but one
that he ever went out. I passed the time
I was there entirely witiv biY£v\^\A^^Ni5^
6t

90 BIOORAPOT dF

it fatigued him to talk, he felt interested in
hearing me, and I related to him all I could
recall of my travels and observaiions in va-
rious countries, which I thought would
amuse him. He asked some questions,
but upon the whole his attention seemed
fixed on higher things.

' The day that I left him, he felt himself
weaker than usual, and desired Capt. Bur-
roughs to lend him his arm to walk out. This
was the last time he ever went abroad.
When I bade him farewell, which I strived
to do without betraying the anxiety and sor-
row I felt, we exchanged the expectation of
meeting in Paris in the spring, and he added,
that he had now no wish but to return to
America. From that day he grew weaker,
and I soon received a letter from Mr Thom-
son mentioning that he was visibly failing.
The first of J.muary, in the afternoon, he
was seized with very violent pains, and was
obliged to go to bed. Dr Bell, on being
called, thought it his duty, as he has him-
self written to me, to announce to him that

THACHE&. 91

he could probably continue bnt a few hours.
, This intelligence,' says Dr B. 'he received
with perfect tranquillity and resignation;'
and he proceeded to make some arrange-
ment of his affairs. His pains had yielded
to the applications made, and he passed
the night better than was feared. Capt.
Burroughs, and his servant Josef, watched
with him. In the morning his pains re-
turned with new violence. This struggle
was the last, and, like all the rest, was
borne with a sweet fortitude, that makes
one ashamed of impatience at the little suf^
ferings of life. After this lie was at ease,
and though he said but little, recognized
the persons around him, and discovered
himself to be in possession of his reason,
as his calmness evinced him to be in the
full exercise of his faith. A little after
twelve he called for some syrup to moisten
his lips. His servant gave it him; he swal-
lowed it without difficulty, rested his cheek
upon his hand, and ceased to breathe! — He
diedy said his servant, like au auge\« — ^\L^

92 BIOGRAPHT OF

last mournful offices were performf*d with
every possible mark of respect, and Dr Bell
read prayers over his lifeless remains.*

Feelings of peculiar melancholy must
affect us, when we review the last years
of Mr Thacher's life. Compelled by ill-
ness to give up the exercise of a profession
to which he had devoted himself from ear-
ly youth, and for which he was so eminent-
ly qualified by his talents and virtues, he
takes a reluctant leave of his friends and
country, in the hope of regaining under
milder skies the health which had forsaken
him. He crosses the ocean which rolls
between the two continents of the world;
and finding no place of rest in Europe, be
bends his solitary course from the crowded
metropolis of England, to a silent village
at the extremity of southern Afiica. Here
he spends month after month with little
society or means of entertainment; hear-
ing but seldom from his friends; snatching
the rare opportunity of a pleasant day to
waader alone among the deceit bills \ now

TEACHER. B3

visited' by a scanty restoration of strength,
and now doomed to see it all depart away
from him again — * a sunbeam followed by
a shade * — ^but yet with a flattering hope of
recovery to support him, and a never shak-
en trust in God, which without hope, would
have supported him still. At length his
exile terminates, and, he again commits
himself to the sea. The unrelenting heat
of the tropics robs him of nearly all his
remaining strength; and hardly has the cool
air of a temperate clime restored a portion
of bis vigor, and he blesses himself with
the thought of returning home, when he
is obliged to resume his weary pilgrimage,
to watch again the fluctuations of his in-
sidious disorder, and again to see his hopes
alternately encouraged, checked, deceived,
— and at last destroyed.

It is a sad thing to feel that we must die
away from our own home. Tell not the
invalid who is yearning after his distant
country, that the atmosphere around him
is soft, that the gales ace ^e^ m^ \^'^\sl.^

•94 BIOGRAPHY ^F

and the flowers are springing from the
gieen earth; — he knows that the softest
air to his heart, would be the air which
hangs over his native land; that more grate-
fully than all the gales of the south, would
breathe the low whispers of anxious affec-
tion; that the very icicles clinging to his
own eaves, and the snow beating against
bis own windows, would be far more pleas-
ant to his eyes, than the bloom and ver-
dure which only more forcibly remind him,
how far he is from that one spot which is
dearer to him than the world beside. He
may indeed find estimable friends, who will
do all in their power to promote his com-
fort and assuage his pains; but they cannot
supply the place of the long known and
long loved; they cannot read, as in a book,
the mute language of his face; they have
not learned to wait upon his habits, and an-
ticipate his wants, and he has not learned
to communicate, without hesitation, all his
wishes, impressions, and thoughts, to them.
He feels that he is a stranger; 4md a more

THACHER. 95

desolate feeling than that could not visit his
soul. — How much is expressed by that
form of oriental benediction, May you die
among your kindred!

The piety, which with the subject of this
memoir was a habit, sustained him, as we
have seen, in the trying circumstances of
his last illness. Affectionate and domestic
in his disposition, he must have been more
than usually sensible to their depressing in-
flue ice; but he manifested no impatience
under the burthen which his Father's hand
had laid ztpon his spirit, because he had
long been conv'nced that all His dispensa-
tions were just and merciful, and that it was
his duty to suffer with resignation all His
will.

Mr Thacher's piety was indeed the most
perfect feature of his character. It appear-
ed to control and guide his principles, his ac
tions, his conversation and his manners.
It seemed to take the place of judgment
and will; to rule in his mind as it did in his

d6 SIOGKiLFtft OF

heart. In short, it would be impossible to
give an idea of his character, without tak-
ing into view this ruling principle; for he
was one, whose submission to the will of
God, sense of dependence on him, and
trust in the promises of the Gospel, were
so constant and ardent, that they gave a
peculiar holiness, purity and sweetness to
all that he said and did.

The following extract from a sketch of
his character by the Rev- Dr Channing will
further exhibil; the nature of Mr Thacher's
piety.

'It was warm, but not heated; earnest,
but tranquil; a habit, not an impulse; • the
air which he breathed, not a tempestuous
wind, giving occasional violence to his
emotions. A constant dew seemed to dis-
til on him from heaven, giving freshness to
his devout sensibihties; but it was a gentle
influence, seen not in its falling, but in its
fruits. His piety appeared chiefly in grat-
itude and submission, sentiments peculiarly
suited to such a mind as his. He felt

THACHER. 97

Strongly, that God had crowned hi« life with
peculiar goodness, and yet, when his bless-
ings were withdrawn, his acquiescence was
as deep and sincere as his thankfulness. —
His devotionnl exer( ises in public were
particularly striking. He came to the mer-
cy seat as one who was not a stranger there.
He seemed to inherit from his venerable
father the gift of prayer. His acts of ado-
ration discovered a mind penetrated by the
majesty and purity of God; but his sublime
conceptions of these attributes were always
tempered and softened by a sense of the di-
vine benignity. The paternal character of
God was not only his belief, but had become
a part of his mind. He never forgot that
he 'worshipped the Father.^ His firm con-
viction of the strict and proper unity of the
divine nature taught him to unite and con-
centrate in his conception of the Father,
all that is lovely and attractive, as well as
all that is solemn and venerable; and the
general effect of his prayers was to diffuse
a devout calmness, a filial eoT\?idLeiic^.i c^n^x
the minds of his pious beaters.^

98 BIOORAPHT OT

His deportment in private and social
life was remarkably gentle and engaging,
and at the same time dignified. They who
were led by his mildness and affability, to
think that he might be too nearly and fa-
miliarly approached, were sure to be de-
ceived. There was a line drawn about
him, unseen but not to be passed over,
which repelled rudeness or levify. He won
without effort the affection of friendship,
and made himself the object of respectful
attachment both at home and abroad. His
temper was calm and even, for his heart
was the dwelling of piety and peace.

His ashes repose in a foreign land. His
friends are deprived of the melancholy grat-
ification of paying their frequent visits to
his tomb. The peasant of France passes
carelessly by it, and knows not how cher-
ished and excellent he was. whose remaii
it covers. The weeds may grow round i
and the long grass may wave over it^ f(
there is none to pluck them away. Bi
his memory is sacredly kept in many

THACHER. 99

heart; and there stands a monument to his
name more lasting than marble, in the g )od
which he effected while living, and in the
example which he has left behind h..n.

6*

% •

-j?.KT. jroHi.- 1^--^^

BIOGRAPHY

OF

ABBOT.

BIOGRAPHY

OF

ABBOT.

John Emert Abbot was the son of Ben-
jamin Abbot, LL. D., Principal of the
Phillips Academy in Exeter, N. H., and
was bom in that town on the sixth day of
August, 1793. He seems to have been
destined to the ministry from his very
birth. His mother, whom he is said to
have greatly resembled, and who lived but
a few months after his birth, solemnly ded-
icated him to God before her death. The
knowledge of this circumstance made an
impression on his mind, and he seems nev-
er to have lost sight of \:a^ ^<e9X\si^^\^«

106' BI06RAPHT OJP

His religious character began early; he
probably never knew the time when he was
without religious impressions. The same
aniiableness of disposition and gentleness
of manner marked his childhood, which
when a man, made him an object of more
than common interest to those who knew
him. 'While in the Academy,' says one
of his schoolmates, * no one regarded him
as capable of doing wrong; we looked on
him as a purer being than others around
him.'

He completed his classical education at
Bowdoin college, in Brunsv^ck, Maine,
and was graduated with reputation in 1810,
at the early age of seventeen. His col-
lege life appears to have been of a piece
with his whole existence, unassuming and
exemplary. At times,however,his diffidence
and self-distrust oppressed him with the
idea, that be should disappoiii the wishes
of his friends, and become a Useless being.
He has smce told a friend, that so great at
one period was his despondency, that he *

ABBOT. 107

would wiDbgly have exchanged all his fu-
ture hopes and prospects for the certainty
of a living as a schoolmaster in some re-
mote village; the office of a clergyman, al-
though from his earliest recollection the ob-
ject of his most ardent desires, appearing
to him a situation of too much dignity for
' him to aspire to.
. After leaving college, he soon began his
preparation for the holy work to which his
heart was devoted, and studied Theology

<tly at the University in Cambridge and
By under the direction of the Rev. Wil-
li E. Channing, in Boston. This term
of preparation passed with great diligence
and fidelity. Religious truth was dear to his
mind. But there \vas one part of the pre-
paration for the ministry to which he attach-
ed supreme importance. He thought the
religiotu character of infinitely greater mo-
ment than all other qualifications of talents
and acquirements. He had a reverence

for the sacred office. His wishifiras to bp

7#

106 BI06RAPBT OF

a good and useful, and never to be a great
man; to this single object he bent his fine
powers, and girded himself, like his Master,
to go about doing good. There was no
selfish ambition in any of his plans; they all
centred in the supreme desire to become
a good minister.

How much he had this at heart, and
what his favorite views of the profession
were, may be seen from the following ex-
tract of a letter, written just before he be-
gan to preach.

*How soon I shall bef presented foJ
proval, I know not exactly. As I
nearer the close of my course, I feel a
greater importance to be thrown into the
little time which remains before its termin-
ation. And the more I reflect, the more
solemn appears the office of a shepherd of
the Christian flock. To enlighten the igno-
rant with truth, to guide the wandering and
the doubting, to give hope to the penitent
and consolation to the sorrowing, and to

ABBOT. 109

arouse the sleep of the sinner, is indeed a
blessed, but a most responsible office; and
it seems the more solemn when we think
that it is committed to 'earthen vessels^ —
who themselves are ignorant and wandering,
surrounded with temptations, darkened by
error, and polluted with sin. It is a most
animating thought, that he, who promised
to his apostles, 'L©, I am ever with you,'
forsakes not their feeble successors.'

His sentiments and feelings m regard to
his profession are yet more fully discover-
ed in a letter written just after he began to
preach. *I am, as you may suppose, now
in a state of feeling and views, to which
life has never before called me. I look to
the profession which God has now permit-
ted me to assume, with a kind of solemn
delight, when I think of the magnitude of
its object, the weakness of its instrument,
and the promised aid from above. There
is a thought which often affects me, when
I remember that all my life, all the labors,

and opportunities, and powet^ \\v^n^ \^-

7#

110 ' BIOGRAPHY OP

ceived, are now to be devoted and conse-
crated to Him who gave and has continued
them. There is a sort of elevation, which
considerations like this soipetimes create,
which if I could bear with me to the world,
I should be most happy. I expected a
sort of overpowering feeling, in first com-
mencing the sacred duties, but when I first
entered the desk I felt composed and
calm.'

In another letter he writes thus. 'B7
these active duties I hope to acquire a hab-
it of more energy, and to gain something of
practical wisdom, and to become a better
member of society, and minister of the
hopes and comforts of the gospel to the

poor and sorrowing. My dear ,

what a holy and glorious profession has God
permitted me to assume! I feel that it is a
blessing for which I can never be grateful
enough. Its duties seem to be those of
the good spirits who are messengers of
mercy and love to us; bearing consolation
to the afiiicted, and hope to the despond-

ABBOT«

111

ing, and warning to the wanderer, and Ba-
imation and peace to the humble and peni-
tent. I often feel that my earlier anticipa- '
tions of the happiness of the profession are
indeed surpassed.'

With such views of the profession in
which he was to labor, he entered upon its
duties. With his talents, preparations, and
earnestness, he could not fail to be accep-
table, and he won many hearts and left deep
impressions in the several places to which
he was called to preach.

When the pulpit of the North Church in
Salem became vacant, by the death of the
venerable Dr Barnard, the eyes of his peo-
ple turned at once to Mr Abbot as his suc-
cessor. He preached to them, became ac-
quainted with them, and was ordained as
their minister on the 20th of April, 1815.

The trials of a clergyman's life are never
small to a conscientious man, and in the
place to which Mr Abbot was called, they
were on some accounts peculiarly great.
He succeeded an aged aad ex.^ex\^^^^

112 BIOGRAPHY OP

minister who had gained the full confidence
and affection of his flock by his intimacy
and fidelity in pastoral duty.

He had come to a large parish when not
twenty-two years of age, with but little ex-
perience, and oppressed with a sense of re-
sponsibility. But he showed himself to be
equal to the charge. ^ Young as he was,'
says one who knew him well, ' he discov-
ered at once the wisdom and prudence,
which we should suppose could be the
result of experience only. ' He secured to
an uncommon degree the respect and at-
tachment of his people, and his love for
his calling soon amounted, as he himself
expressed it, almost to a passion. As far
as was practicable he made himself person-
ally known to every individual, interested
himself as a friend in their welfare, was by
their side in perplexity and sorrow, and
ready to make any sacrifices of personal
ease for the sake of their good. At the
same time he pursued his studies with dili-
gence, and made especially the preparation

ABBOT. 1 13

of his sermons for the pulpit an object of
chief attention.

His frame was too feeble to support this
various load of cares. He had never been
robust; and the duties which he pursued
with so much ardor made him forget the
care of himself. In the spring of 1817,
his health was evidently impaired; and a little
cough, which seemed alarming to some of
his friends, but too slight to be noticed by
him, followed him through the summer.

In October he took a little journey to
the south, which injured instead of bene-
fiting him. He felt it his duty, feeble as
he was, to preach in the Unitarian church at
Philadelphia. On his return, the weather
was cold and stormy; he took a severe cold
which settled upon his lungs witli a violent
cough, and was accompanied with bleeding.
Fearing lest he should become too weak
to reach home, he pressed on with inju-
dicious rapidity. On the day after his ar-
rival in Salem, the first Sabbath in Novem-
ber, he preached to his "^o^^- '\>cft

^

tl4 BIOGRAPHY OF

weadber was tempestuous. His utterance
was interrupted by a perpetual cough; and
the service of the holy communion, which
he administered for the last time, was a
season of distress to his church, and full of
the saddest forebodings. He was too ill
to attend worship in the afternoon, and
from that time appeared to be in a settled
decline. During the winter he was con-
fined to his chamber, and principally to his
bed; his weakness was extreme; his voice
only a whisper; and he believed himself a
dying man. But there was nothing in him
of distress, agitation, or gloom; he was the
same tranquil and cheerful man that he had
been in health. His unwillingness to speak
of himself, and his aversion to talking much
of what was passing within him, which was
always a prominent trait in his modest char-
acter, prevented his conversing much, or
to many persons, of his feedings and pros-
pects. He knew that religion did not con-
sist ID being forward to tell the secrets of
the soul. He did not conceal, however,

ABBOT. 115

from those who had a right to know his
thoughts, that he thought his days were
numbered. To a friend, who often watch-
ed with him, he spake frequently without
reserve; dwelt upon the thought of dying,
with perfect calmness; and expressed with
energy the satisfaction and peace which he
derived from the views of religion which he
had imbibed and preached.

On the approach of spring, appearances
were more favorable, and he removed to
Exeter. There he spent'the summer with
his parents, and his strength was so far re-
stored that he contemplated a return to his
ministerial labors in the autumn. A letter,
which he wrote in July to an intimate friend,
presents a beautiful exemplification of his
habitual piety. *I think,' he says, Hhat I
gain strength, and now caimot but rejoice
in the hope, which for so long a time I felt
it necessary to check as it rose, of being
again permitted to minister the gospel to
my beloved people. In this restoration, I
see the direct agency o( IVvtix.) ^\vci ^'^iX.

116 BIOGRAPHY OF

breathed into me the breath of life; the
skill of man and the powers of medicine
^ seemed all in vain; it was &i5 air, the warmth
of his sun, the bright and cheering prospect
of the earth which his goodness quickened
and beautified, which thus far have dispell-
ed the damps of disease, and enkindled the
feeble and dying flame within me. I sup-
pose that every person, when restored from
sickness, flatters himself that the feelings
of piety, which deliverance awakens, will
not decay. God grant that mine may be
as permanent and influential as they ought
to be!'

In another letter he speaks of his atten-
dance on public worship, which he was just
able to renew. 'I could not help my mind
from wandering much away, and being
filled with recollections of the past years of
my own life; for I had not been present at
the ordinance since that distressful day,
when I last met our own church at the al-
tar. I think there is no time when the
heart more expands towards all present or

ABBOT. 1 17

distant) whom God has made dear to it,
than when commemoratiug that greater
friend, whose love was stronger than death.'
But the approach of autumn proved these
flattering expectations to be delusive. His
cough, which had never left him, became
again alarming, and it was thought expedi-
ent that he should spend the winter in a
warmer climate. He acquiesced in the
measure, but did not greatly desire it.
*Life for its own sake,' he said, 'was scarce-
ly worth preserving at such a price; but
he was not his own; and he felt it to be a
duty to use every means which presented
a hope that he might be restored to his
people.' On the eighth of November, he
sailed for Havana, to spend the winter with
a friend in that place. But all hope of
benefit from this step was disappointed.
His voyage was rough and fatiguing; and
although,as he very gratefully acknowledges
in his journal, every possible attention
was paid to his accommodation and conv-
forty he yet suffered muc\\. Ai^ow "^^

lis BIOGRAPHY OF

whole/ he writes after his arrival, *I have
been disappointed in regard to the voyage.
My cough is somewhat increased, and my
strength lessened.' His residence upon
the island was not more salutary. The
kindest attentions of devoted friends were
vain. It was found hazardous for him to
remain within the walls of the city, and he
quitted the hospitable dwelling of the old
friend with whom he at first resided, for a
lodging among strangers in the country.
He felt that nothing had been gained, and
he sometimes said so; but no complaint es-
caped his lips, no look of discontent over-
spread his countenance. And when it was
mentioned as a subject of regret that he had
quitted his country, he said, 'By no means;
he considered it the peculiar appointment
of Providence, and, whatever might be the
event, he would not alter a single circum-
stance if he could.'

During his residence in Cuba, there was
not a day, says the friend who accompan-
ied him, that be was not a subject for home

ABBOT. 119

and a nurse; yet Jiis mind was tranquil and
active as when in health. He began a
journal upon leaving home, which he con-
tinued until increasing weakness obliged
him to give it up thirteen days after his
arrival.

What he wrote is minute in its descrip-
tions of scenes and events, and shows that
he was alive to all around him, and could
observe and reflect as he always did. His
remarks upon the character and influence
of the Roman Catholic superstitions; upon
the state of morals; and upon the evils
which result from making the Sabbath a day
of amusement; are highly creditable, and
almost wonderful, when it is considered
that he was so feeble as to be entirely ex-
hausted by the effort required to write a
few pages. But he was one who never
would suffer the opportunity of improving
his mind or heart to pass by. Hg^formed
an acquaintance with several Fffars of dis-
tinction, with whom he conversed in Latin
by means of a pencil; one of whom, of su-

n

120 BIOORAFHT OF

perior rank and fortune, became greatly at«
tached to him, and daily exchanged visits.
Through him he was received with hospi-
tality at the convent of which he was a
member, obtained access to the library,
with liberty to borrow books, and was re-
quested to visit freely at all times. He
visited the prison, the slave-market, and
the burial place of Americans, where he
attended the funeral of a young man, a fel-
low passenger, and other similar places of
sufiering. When the fatigue attendant on
such exertions was named to him, he re-
plied, that it was the duty of a clergyman
to make himself familiar with such scenes,
Bs they fitted him for the better discharge
of his duty. So much had he at heart the
one object of being a useful minister.

From the journal, which we have men-
tioned, a few passages may here be quoted.

^

:>■

ABBOT. 121

EXTRACTS FROM A JOURNAL AT HAVANA.

* Havana, December 3d.

^ Owing to the impossibility of getting our
baggage on shore before yesterday, and to
the constant excitement of the last day of
our voyage, which prevented my writing, I
must now sum up in short compass the
events of the past few days. On Friday,
about 4 P. M., the highlands of Cuba were
first descried, stretching above the horizon
like a faint line of clouds. It was not with-
out emotion that I first caught a view of
that strange land, now for a time to be my
residence, and at last, perhaps, the resting
place for my ashes. But I thought it wrong
to indulge these melancholy feelings; and
we spent our evening very pleasantly in
talking about the new scenes which soon
were to be displayed to us.

'On the whole, I have been disappointed
with regard to the voyage. It has had no

beneficial influence on my general health;

8

122 BIOGRAPHY OF

my cough is somewhat increased, and my
strength lessened. I expected that the sea
breeze would brace me, and increase my
appetite; but the air was the most part de-
bilitating, and my appetite was extremely
feeble through the whole voyage. I could
take no exercise: when there was wind the
vessel heeled too much out of water, and
in calmer weather, the heat of the sun would
not permit it; and what little exercise I was
able to take, fatigued, rather than invigor-
ated and cheered me. Our days passed
over us with a sameness which was inex-
pressibly wearisome. We tried to read bn
deck; but the rolling often of the vessel,
the dash of the waves, and the constant
employment going on busily about us, pre-
vented my paying sufficient attention to
enable me to enter into the feelings and
sentiments of either Waverley, the Ram-
bler, or Jeremy Taylor. The Rambler
indeed furnished me more entertainment
and instruction than any other book.
'The uniformity of the prospect all

ABBOT. 123

around us soon became tiresome. There
was nothing to excite interest or repay at-
tention. I was very much disappointed
in the scenery of the ocean. There was
nothing of that grandeur and majesty which
I had expected, to fill my imagination.
Having no points by which to measure
distances, you become forgetful of the im-
mense extent of waters which roll around
you. I have been much more impressed
with both the sublime and the beautiful as-
pect of the ocean, when standing on the
beach at Hampton, or gazing on its billows
from the precipices of Nahant or Sandy
Bay, than with any seen from the ship.
When calm, the appearance of the deep
was tamet to insipidity; and when swept by
the winds, it seemed but a wild and horrible
waste. At times indeed we saw a rainbow
much broader and finer than any on land,
formed on a cloud which hung low over
the horizon; at times, when the waves ran
high, you would see all the prismatic colors
spread for an instant ovet \]ia.^ ^xxsSaR,^ ^

124 BIOGRAPHY OP

some wave near you; the white crest,
which rose and spent itself with the billow
on which it rested, was always beautiful.
These were but minute particulars. I saw
no sunset so beautiful by far as very many
which I witnessed from our parlor window
in Exeter. Sometimes it went down a
full and cloudless orb; and I was astonish-
ed thatjt did not then seem more majestic.
At^other times, when the clouds veiled it In
part, it sunk too rapidly to give them that
multitude of glorious hues, changing gradual-
ly into each other and fading slowly away,
on which, in our northern climates, the eye
may so long linger with delight. The
most beautiful^object we saw was the plan-
et Venus, which we noticed once, as we
were going below rather later than usual,
shining with a fuller orb and a more re-
splendent brilliancy than we had ever be-
fore witnessed. I saw the moon rise but
once; she then rose through clouds, aiid
her light was soon obscured by the hazi*
ness of the atmosphere. The porpoise,

ABBOT.

125

and the dolphin, so remarkable for the
beautiful colors with which its skin is
tinged as it dies, are generally seen, and
often taken, in sailing to Havana. But the
only fish which we saw were what the sai-
lors call an 'old wife,' waggling its awk-
ward coursie through the waves, and multi-
tudes of flying fish mounting above them.
The flying fish seemed to be about the
size and form of our smelt; and its scales
glistened in the sun with the same silvery
brilliancy. It rises out of water a few feet,
and moves rapidly about one hundred feet
in general. Their flight continues till the
sun and air have dried their wings, when
they drop again into their proper element.
' The kindness of Mr P. had provided
every accommodation for us which could
be furnished. M.'s state room opened
into the cabin, which Mr S. and' myself
occupied. But the vessel, though excel-
lent in every other respect, was^aot a com-
fortable one, on account of her lying so

very much on her side. Thft e»:5>\:KiXL ^^\sr

8*

126 BIOGRAP HY OF

sidered her the most crank vessel, (which
is the seaman's phrase to express this cir-
cumstance,) that he had ever met with; and
seemed to me to be continually anxious
lest in carrying no more than ordinary sail,
some unpleasant accident should arise.
We were exceedingly dehghted with the
whole economy of the vessel; the very
kind manner in which the crew were treat-
ed, — a kindness in Capt. H. almost parent-
al; and the cheerful alacrity with which
every order was obeyed. I heard not a
profane or angry word while on board; and
there seemed a constant harmony, content-
ment, and good humor to prevail amongst
the crew. We felt very deeply our obli-
gations to Capt. H, and his mates, for
their uniform and very attentive kindness
towards ourselves. Everything was done
which could be done to render our situation
as comfortable and pleasant as possible.

'On Saturday morning, (28th November)
as I was packing some loose clothing in my
trunk, I heard a hoarse voice calling out

ABBOT. }27

Ugh above me In an unknown tongue, and
our captain stoutly answering in his native
English. I ran on deck, and found that
we were just doubling the small cape or
headland on which Castle Moro is situated;
— a moment more — and Havana with all
its strange scenery — its walls of stone, its *
churches, its harbor filled with vessels of dif-
ferent nations, and jarring tongues — ^was
opened at once to our view.

'The first view of the Moro was very im-
pressive to us. The clifi* on which it is
built rises abruptly, almost perpendicularly
from the waves, which roar, and dash, and
foam at its feet. The castle is built of a
ferruginous limestone, which forms in fact
the foundation of this part at least of the
Island of Cuba, and of which the walls of
the houses are made. The Moro had the
yellowish hue imparted by the iron, tinged
here and there with greenness arising
from moisture; and on every Utile spot of
earth which could find rest in the crevices
of the stones or the roughive^^^ ol ^^ ^Ss&^
8t

1S8 BIOQRAPBT OF

some vegetation was flourishmg. At the
extreme poifit of the headland — the comer
of the castle — a round light house of stone
is reared to the hight of 110 feet above the
level of the water. The light is fed by
gas, prepared in a small house near the
foot of the rock, and conducted by con-
cealed passages to the lantern. This light,
however, important as it is, is neglected as
almost every thing else is; for the night on
which we were near the harbor, no light
was to be seen in the lantern, though the
light of the lamps in the castle shone dis-
tinctly. The harbor of Havana is a small
bay with a very narrow entrance. On the*
bank of the passage opposite the Moro, is
another, smaller castle, which was not pe-
culiarly interesting. But at a little distance
from the Moro, and on the same side of the
bay, is the Cavanas. It covers so great
an extent that it is said all the inhabitants
of Havana might find protection within its
walls. If it were weH garrisoned and pro-
vided; it would be impregnable. As it is,

ABBOT« 139

its power is feeble. It is built like the
Moro, on*a steep precipice of rockj^thou^
around its base the vegetation and shrub-
bery are abundant. We recognized the aloe
and prickly pear flourishing thickly in this
neglected spot.

'While we were waiting Mr C.'s arrival,
Mr S. called me to observe on the point
opposite to where we lay, a multitude of
negroes just brought in some slave ship,
and now driven down to the shore to be
washed. There seemed to be about
150 or 200 miserable beings, almost all
of them quite young, some very small chil-
dren; some were naked, and none had any
other covering than a large piece of coarse
dirty cloth, wiapt round them. They were
driven over a bank of sharp, pointed stones,
cringing at almost every step with pain;
there were about a dozen men with clubs,
apparently guarding them. We left them
in this situation. Mr C. soon came on
board; and in a short time we found our-
selves under the roof oflVve tcio^xYvsA^sA

ISO BIOGRAPHY OF

affectionate friends. It is impossible to
describe our sensations when we first pass'
ed through the streets, in going from the
mole on which we landed to our dwelling
place; all was so strange, — so utterly un-
like any conceptions we had formed of the
place, or any fancies we had ever entertain-
ed. The heavy stone walls and barred
windows of every house, the loud jargon of
an unknown tongue, the cries of fruit sell-
ers, the strange figures and sights every in-
stant changing to us, as we drove rapidly
along the narrow, crowded, and dirty
streets; — all seemed so wild, so dreamlike
— that we knew not how to express the
varying feeUngs which the scene excited.
But it is not difficult to imagine the feelings
with which we received the affectionate and
most cordial welcoming of an old and be-
loved friend in this land of strangers and of
wretchedness.

'Thursday, 3d December, we observed
as a day of thanksgiving, with our friends
in New England. The vessels from Mas-

AfiBOT. 131

sachusetts, to the wonderment of the Span-
iards, all hoisted their colors. Our friend
Mr S., Mr H., and four Massachusetts
captains, among whom was our Captain H.,
Mrs G. with her husband, who both loved
the institutions of our country better than
their own — dined with us. The turkey
which we brought from Judge P.'s farra
headed the table — (I say the turkey, for
his companion, alas! had sunk under the
fatigues of the voyage and the sorrows of
his desolate condition) — and what with
the turkey, a ham, plum pudding, apples, —
all from New England; and Mrs P.'s cran-
berry jelly, then opened in honor of the
day — we had a true Massachusetts thans-
giving dinner. The occasion awoke many
touching recollections of past days and of
distant friends; and I could not but fancy that
we were then remembered with an affec-
tion to which the day and our own situation
had imparted some new tenderness and
force. — We indeed had reason to be thank-
ful from our very hearts to \!bax ^^.wsvsa

192 BIOORAPHT OF

Ood, who had preserved us amidst the
perik of the great deep; and now is bles-
sing us widi the kmdest friends, and with
all the accommodations and comforts which
a situation like ours admits.

*In the evening Mr W. played a few
psalm tunes, which some of the ladies sung.
The first they attempted was ' Love divine';
— that sweet time, which had so often sooth-
ed me in our own house of worship, and
prepared the minds of my beloved people
for our united prayers; — ^butnow I remem-
ber in all its force the lament of the Jews in
Babylon — ' How shall we sing the songs of
the Lord in a strange land ! If I forget thee^
Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cun-
ning. If I do not remember thee, let my
tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I
prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.'
No associations to me are so strong as those
which have connected themselves with mu-
sic; and none so affectmg as those which
sacred hymns awaken. — Soon after. Padre
Verdier, a friar of rank in the convent of

ABBOT. 133

San Domingo, came in. He often visits
the family, and there is mqch reciprocal
attachment. His dress was a gown of
white woollen stuff, like bombazeen, girded
about the middle; over which was a kind
of cloak, of black bombazeen, which met
over the breast, and was open below. The
cowl hung over the back like a great cape;
and in front was suspended his rosary. He
is a man of large fortune, possessing
a patrimony of ^300,000 independently of
his annual income from the various offices he
sustains in the convent. One of his offices
is ' preacher to his majesty;' which makes
it his duty alone on public occasions to pro-
nounce a discourse. His manners are very
gracious— those of a polished gentleman, and
his conversation was very cheerful and
easy. * * * *

'On Saturday we went again to Mr G.'s
with the intention of spending the night
there. The morning was a remarkably fine
one. Just as we were sitting down to
dinner^ a heavy cloud passed o\e\ w^«»^^<3«v
which the rain fell violently ^ot ^ ^ev^ i«Nssr

IM

BIOGBArar OP

ales. It ceased;andallatoDce atremeo-
doiis wind besan to Uow and to roar. It
increased rapidly, and soon it was neces*
sary to close up both doors and windcw-
shutters; — we had then no other light than
what was furnished by candles and the
chinks of the doors. It grew quite cold;
and I was for some time hardly warm
enough, though clad in almost my winter's
dress, with my hat on, (which, by the wayi
Mr G. and I for precaution's sake had nev-
er put off,) and covered with a surtout and
a South American Indian thin blanket. We
concluded early to go to bed as the most
comfortable resort. Now all grew exceed-
ingly anxious, for fear I should get cold in
the night. Mr and Mrs S. insisted on re-
linquishing their room, and slept in the
great hall; and after blankets were nailed
overjthe doors and windows, and all pre^
cautions which the most anxious kindness
could provide, were taken, I went to my
slumbers, which were refreshing and little
disturbed, though the wind swept most

ABBOT. ltS5

heavily round us, and I could see the sky-
above me through one or two openings in
the thatching. This wind the Havanerians
term a norther; and it was a more violent
one than has occurred for a year or two.

'Tuesday jSlh December. — Today is one
of the great Catholic festivals. It com-
memorates the immaculate conception of
the Virgin Mary, who alone, of all the hu-
man race, was, according to the true faith,*
bom unstained with original sin. The mass
of Catholics seem to have no idea connect-
ed with a religious festival, but that of
amusement or riot. Before day began,we
were all roused from sleep by the thunder
of cannon and the ringing of all the bells
of the city. It had all the tumult of our
Independent day morning; and this strange
mode of honoring and propitiating the Vir-
gin was repeated three times, I think,in the
course of the day. There are very many
festivals in the year; — some marked in the

*Every one who receives tbe honors of knighthood
swears particularly to defend this astkl^ ^^It^i^

\

196 BIOGRAPHY OF

calendar with a single cross, to be partially
observed; others marked with a double
cross, which receive a full celebration: no
public business can then be transacted,
workmen leave their labor, and all classes
give themselves to visiting, amusements,
or tumultuous joy.

' I walked a little way in the forenoon.
We passed the door of a great gambling
house, and I had some curiosity to se6
what was going forward within. Mr C.
was with me, and we walked in. On one
side as we entered, was the barkeeper's
stand, from which liquors were distributed;
and opposite was a billiaid room, where a
number of men were engaged in play. We
went forward from this to a large court,
surrounded with a piazza under which as
many as fifty or sixty men were seated, at
a range of tables, Svith each a slate, divi-
ded into columns, before him. In a little
box, elevated from the floor, and in
sight of all, a little boy was placed, with a
brass globe before him, which he whirled

ABBOT. 137

rapidly round, and then drew from it some
number, which he sung out in a peculiar
and rather plaintive measure. In every in-
terval there was a most profound silence; —
when the number was announced, every
one of the company marked it in one of
the columns on his slate. The object of
the game, I understood, was to fill some
particular column; but in what manner it
^as to be accomplished I could not learn.
This game employs hundreds of persons
without cessation. We live not far from
the gaming-houses; and you hear the voice
of the little boy who sings the number,
every moment of the day, — ^not through
the week-days only, but on that day so sa-
cred to us, as the season of holy rest, re-
flection, and praise. Yet there is no place
where the laws are more severe against
every kind of gaming, than in Havana.
Not long ago, Mr C. says, two or three
men had the direction and the income of
three great gaming-houses. One of the
men was appointed to the office o^ xsx^^x

St

138 BIOGRAPHY OF

\

of the city, which gave him the right, and
rendered it his duty, to suppress all places
of that nature. His associates, to whom
he was disagreeable, determined at this
time to break terms with him, and carry on
their gaming-houses, and receive their in-
comes alone. Their old partner, in his
private capacity, entreated and threatened;
but they obstinately persisted in termina-
ting their partnership, and excluding him
from his former source of profit. What
private entreaties could not efiect, public
authority could: as mayor of the city, the
protector of morals, he ordered the three
gambling-houses instantly to be shut up;
and they were not opened till their owners
had made their peace with him, by admit-
ting him again to a full participation of their
profits. This shows the ease with which
these fountains of wickedness might be
closed up, as well as exemplifies the extent
and fearlessness of ofScial corruption ui
this miserable country. The corruption^
known, acknowledged, and shameless, of
the public officers here, If you can credit

ABBOT. 139

any part of innumerable stories told by re-
spectable and veracious people, is great
beyond description.

* * * *Miralla came to me this mor-
ning, and said that Padre Yerdier, with
the ^professor of the sacred text,' wished
to see me, in his chamber. I followed
him, and was introduced to Padre Andrew,
a tall friar, about fortyfive, high in reputa-
tion for learning, and of very courteou3
manners. The friars converse with great
readiness and ease in Latin; but their pro-
nunciation of the language is adapted to the
Spanish, as ours is to the English language;
and most of our conversation, whenever
we have met, has been upoii paper. Now,
however, Miralla often interpreted the re-
marks of both, and conversation went on
without difficulty. I happened to have the
German edition of Griesbach's New Tes-
tament with me, which I showed to the
professor, with the remark, that it is this
text which is principally used in America;
when to my astonishment I toxoA yiVs^

140 BIOGRAPHY OF

Mirallabad told me, to be true, that neith-
er friars nor priests know a word of Greek.
It seemed strange indeed that the professor
of sacred text in tlie university of the con-
vent of friars, confessedly the most learn-
ed, that of the Dominicans, should be per-
fectly ignorant of the original text,— of
everything but the vulgar translation of his
own church. The professor looked hard
at the title page of the testament, and turn-
ed over its leaves, and then handed it again
to me, saying that ^he presumed it did not
or could not differ from the Vulgate.' I
answered, 'paucis in locis,' — in a few
places; — ^but Miralla, whose heresy comes
near to free thinking, mischievously ex-
claimed, ^in plurimis, plurimis locis,' — ^in
very many, many passages; and trium-
phantly turned the fathers to the disputed
text of 1 John, v. 7, which be told them was
omitted in the testament I had shown them.
The friars looked rather blank at this, and
asked Miralla why it was done; which he
answered, not apparently to their satisfac-

ABBOT. 141

tion, by appealing to the want of MSS.
authority. Padre Andrew then turning to
me, asked ^how the doctrine of the trinity
was to be proved, if that text were omitted.'
I said that ^ that doctrine was thought to be
proved by a comparison of various passa-
ges of scripture.' 'But/ said the friar, ^ if
the doctrine be true, why omit the text?'
Here M iralla took up the affair, and labor-
ed long ^o explain that the doctrine con-
tained in the words might be true; and
yet it might not be true that the words
themselves were written by an apostle.
The distinction did not appear to be com-
prehended very well; and the professor turn-
ing again to me, renewed the inquiry,— on
what ground we omitted the text. I knew
no simpler way of answering, than by point-
ing to the long dissertation on the subject at
the end of Griesbach, which the friar look-
ed at attentively for a moment, and then re-
turned it, and would have changed the con-
versation. But Miralla insisted on expound-
ing the whole passage to Uieca^ ^xA^'is^i^x^i^

14!2 BIOGRAPHY OF

10 prove, from the 6lh and 8th verses to-
gether, the doctrine of the simple humanity
of our Saviour. I feared the friars were
angry a little in the dispute, but soon found
It was only the usual vehemence of Spanisk
gesticulation. After a little more quite
pleasant conversation, and the exchange of
good wishes, we parted, under the engi^-
ment that the next morning I should call
on them at their ceUs and visit the library
of their convent.

'When they had feft us, I expressed my
astonishment to M iralla, that he should thus
dare to assault the true faith, and treat its
ministers with such lightness and freedom.
He said that with very few he should dare
to take so great liberties; but that these gen-
tlemen, besides being his personal friends,
were the most learned and most liberal of
their order. The Dominicans are regard-
ed as the most learned body of friars in the
country; but their theological learning ex-
tends, I understand, not beyond the works
of the authorized expositors of the Vulgate

ABBOT. 14S

text, the writings of some of the fathers,
and the subtle disquisitions of the Angelical
Doctor, St Thomas Aquinas and his mys<*
tical brethren. The two friars whom I had
met were very favorable examples of the
liberal clergy of the country. The monas-
tic orders, Miralla tells me, and he known
them perfectly, are miserably ignorant on
every subject.

^I went in die afternoon to see the Fran-
ciscan church and convent. It covers, I
believe, more ground than any establish-
ment of the kind, but I did not learn its
exact extent. There was no one but the
servants in the church, so that we could
examine it at leisure. There were four
altars on each side, beside the grand altar
at the further extremity of the church.
The altars were elevated about four feet-—
they looked like misshapen, dirty, old-fiub-
ioned bureaus without drawers. Four or
six pillars, covered with gilding and tinsel
ornaments, rose up by the wall behind the

akars from the floor to the to^i!. Toi^
9*

144 BIOORIPBT OF

spaces between the pillars were filled with
pictures and statues of the Virgin, our Sav-
iour, and various saints. Directly over
every altar is a large, wooden figure of some
saint, all of whom Miralla knew and named
by some peculiarity of dress or appearance.
The saint occupies the chief place; and
small waxen or wooden figures, either with
or without the cross, represent the vener-
able form of Jesus Christ; the Virgin, too,
with the infant in her arms, found some-
times more than one place at every altar.

^As we walked up to the principal, altar,
which alone is in a recess, I observed two
wooden figures, large as life, miserably
carved and painted, supported on brackets
high from the floor, and in an attitude ap-
proaching each other. These were the
apostles Peter and Paul: the former car-
ried the keys; atid under St Paul was. in-
scribed — probably to mark his inferiority —
the words of penitence in which he lament-
ed the errors of his early life — ' I am the
least of all the apostles, and am not worthy

to be callisd an apostle,' Sue. The princi--
jpal altar is elevated above the floor by six
or eight steps; all of which were now filled
closely up with candlesticks, nearly of my
height, in which were wax candles six feet
high, aU lighted, in honor of the Virgin, a
picture of whom, with a smirking faceaod
a silver glory, fronts you as you approach
the altar. I find it in vain to attempt de«
scribing the interior of the Catholic chur*
ches: so numberless particulars whose
union alone affects the eye, such profuse
variety of images and gaudy decorations,
none of which alone are worthy of remark
— that I feel that I can give no distinct
idea of what I saw. • The only feelings
which tlie whole parade excited wete those
of deep sadness and disgust, — and then of
gratitude to God that I was bom a Protes^r
tant. The floors of the churches are not
divided as with us, into pews; — ^the whole
space is open: a few long benches alone
furnish the means of rest to those wha
chance to enter the cbutcVibdhvM ixAs&\flKb

9t

146 BIOGBAPHT OF

commenced. Close to sereral of the
massy pillars which support the roof, I
observed several chairs, with high wick-
er-work back and sides. These were the
confessional chairs. Here the priest seats
himself, and the penitent whispers his
crimes or his follies, and receive his abso«
lution. In the mean while people walk
about as much as they please, provided
they come not so nigh the chair as to over-
hear what is said; but the confessor, if
there be anything to excite laughter in the
story of his penitent, does not feel it ne-
cessary to restrain himself, and is often
seen shaking his sides in merriment.
* We passed from the church to the con-
,'vent, which, as is the case with that of St
Domingo, and probably all others, adjoins
immediately to the church, and is built in
tHe form of a hollow square, three stories
high, round the interior of which a piazza
is built, and into which the single door of
all the cells opens. The centre is occu-
pied by a cistern. ^ Bad pictures of the ac-

ABBOT. 147

tions of their founders, or portraits of em-
inent men of their order, are hung along
the walls. The only one which I now re-
member was hung on the staircase, and
represented a huge giant striding across the
ocean, with a little child seated on his
shoulders. Directly between his feet ww
a large plan of the city of Havana. This,
M iralla told me, commemorates the giant
Christopher, the guardian saint of the island,
who once was met, as the l^ends say, by
our Saviour in the form of an infant, soli-
citing to be borne in the arms of the saint,
which was readily granted, to the saint's
immortal benefit and honor. It b to be
remarked that the use of pictures as or-
naments to their convents is forbidden to
the monastic orders. We passed several
of the friars, and they are seen continually
in the street. They are seventy in num-
ber; and their dress is a loose, long, blue
gown, tied about the middle with a white
string. Their heads when covered are
protected from the sun by ^\soa5a^\3K55»^^

148 BIOGRAPHY OF

brimmed, white hat; shoes and stockmgff
are forbidden; but they are contented with
obedience to half the injunction. There
lire three divisions of the general order of
Franciscans, who are characterized, by
some variety of dress, but who hold the
same rules of discipline. All monastic or*
ders are bound by three vows, — ^to poverty^
chastity^ and obedience to superior authori-
ties; the points of belief in allare the same;
and they differ from each other, only in
their varying disciplinary precepts; — ^in the
particular object to which each order pro-
fesses to devote itself, as for instance one
order to preaching, another to the care of
the sick, a third to missionary labors, &c;
— and in their modes of dress and appear*
ance. These discriminating forms are all
prescribed to each order in the particular
precepts of its founder. One of the pe*
culiarities of the Franciscans is^ that they
subsist entirely by begging. The vow of
poverty binds the individual only in other
orders; the riches of the convent which

ABBOT. 149

supports them may be, and indeed gener-
ally are immense; — but the vow of the
Franciscans obliges them to poverty both
as individuals and as a fraternity. The
vow, however, is not, I believe, regarded;
the convent, if I understood aright, enjoy-
ing a respectable income from its funds.

*When we left the convent, we rode
about the city for half an hour, passing par-
ticularly through those streets in which
churches were built. There is nothing in
the least imposing or beautiful in the appear-
ance of any one which I have seen. All
are built of the same rough, dirty looking
limestone, without, in many instances, any
apparent attempt at symmetry of form.
The two towers, for instance, which ter-
minate the front of the cathedral, reputed
the finest of the churches, are of very un-
equal sizes, and differ considerably in their
architecture. No order of architecture
seems aimed at, except occasionally, when
you see a gothic door.

^Leaving the city we rodft\» ^JDa'5^aRSi^

150 BIOGRAPHY OF

which is at a short distance from the walls*
This is a public avenue, about half a mile
in length, and wide enough for three carri^
ages abreast; it is planted on each side with
double rows of orange and lime trees; at
each end is a dirty limestone fountain, and
in the middle a statue of one of the Charles-
es of Spain. The trees, however, are
too low, thin, and broken to afford any but
a very imperfect shade; and we oftener
find the fountains dry, than pouiing forth
their foul and muddy waters. The Paseo
is the great scene of public display, for all
the finery, fashion, and beauty of the city.
Here the new volantes are first sported,
and all the splendor of new jewelry and
uncopied dresses is displayed. The ex-
hibitiofi takes place every day as soon after
sunset as possible; but on Sundays and fes-
tival days the greatest 'paseo' takes place.
At this time a throng of volantes crowds to-
ward the avenue, filled with persons in
their richest suits, the ladies without cover-
ing of shawl or headdress of any kindi and

ABBOT. 151

the tapiset, or high boot of tlie vc^ante
which screens them at other times, is now
let down, that none may miss the opportu-
nity of seeing and admiring. The carria-
ges, as they arrive, fall into a line on the
left, follow each other with the slowest step
to the foot of the avenue, and return in
the same order on the right. As the right-
ers and lefters pass each other, — such a
shaking of fans ! — such bowing of heads !
— such abundant smiles ! As the object is
merely to display and be seen, it is consid-
ered vastly impolite and vulgar for any to
converse as they ride; and to suffer a vol-
ante to pass without looking straight and
full into it, is a prodigious incivility. Thus
all go round the circuit for an hour, and
then the farce is over. On great days the
Paseo is exceedingly crowded; and as
many as fifteen hundred volantes have often
been seen at once on the parade ground,
including the avenue itself and some part
of the street in which it terminates. Stone
seats are placed along the W\^^\q^iSe&%\s<is^

152 BIOGRAPHY OF

these are altogether unfrequented, as it is
quite unfashionable to walk. Dragoons are
stationed in the riding ground to keep or*
der; and today we found three bandy of
music ordered therein honor of the Queea
dowager's birth day. The air was damp,
and I was wearied with sights, and we re-
turned home before the paseo commenced.
' 10th December. We went to Padre
Yerdier's cell, where Miralla left me» The
convent of San Domingo is built of the lime-
stone so universally in use here, and is, I
think, three stories high; but then one of
its stories is more than double the story
with us. With its church, it covers a square
of about 360 feet. On the left hand as you
enter the door by which I always passed in,
stands a large wooden figure, wretchedly
carved, painted white, with a crown of
thorns upon its head, and the naked body
stuck all over with tinsel ornaments and ar-
tificial roses. In the corner of the en-
trance adjoining, is the wooden figure of a
female, dressed in flame colors, covered

ABBOT. 153

with tinsel, .and crowned with a circlet of
stars. This was the Virgin: her hands
were held up in the posture of supplication,
and ber blowzy face turned towards the
figure of her son. Both are enclosed in
glass cases, and both must be passed with
tokens of religious reverence.-^Passing
through this entrance, you find yourself in
a large open court, one side of which is
formed by the church, into which a door
opens, and along the three remaining sides
the cloisters and galleries run. The lower
part of the wall on all sides is covered with
very hrge and extremely coarse and ill-
designed paintings, representing the chief
events in the history of St Dominic. In
one, the Virgin, — ^to whom, so far as I have
observed, all instances of protection or de-
Kverance are ascribed by the Catholics — is
figured as interposing to preserve him from
being beaten by some sailors, whose cudg-
els are lifted for that purpose; in another,
she consoles him in apparent vision for an
unmerciful' flagellation he bsiA vtifiL\^\a\ o^

154 BIOGRAPHY OF

hiinself; here, he tears an infernal spi
pieces who tempted him in the forn
dove; and there, he protects himsel
his friends from injury, and puts ban
armed men to flight by holding on hig
consecrated cross. In one picture, Si
ter and St Paul appear to him, and i
according to the legend, praising him a
all men, advise him to establish them<
tic order which bears his name; and ii
next picture, the Virgin herself brin
him a dress which she had chosen
fashioned for the new sect of monks,
which now forms the habit of the ordc
^ This court is paved with marble s
though in its centre is a little spot on i;^
one or two little withered trees once g
A door opens immediately on your
as you enter this court, which leads
into a second, resembling it, except
it has no pictures on its walls, and a i
weU or fountain occupies its centre,
doors of the cells all open into this sqi
This morning was the first time I had

ABBOT. 155

m a monastic cell; and how different {torn
the cells of the fathers or of romance! P.
Yerdier's werei the well furnished apart-
ments of a man cf the world. The room
which I first entered was hung with pic-
tures of English country life; and adjoin-
ing to this was his dressing and sleeping
room. We found our friend ready to re*
oeive mie. Soon after us the prior of the
convent came In. His authority is unlim-
ited with respect to the concerns of thd
convent. He was a very benign look-
ing man, about sixty, perfectly affable, and
quite fatherly in his manners. His char-
acter was represented to me as irreproach-
able. He accompanied us to the library.
This is contained in a fine lar^e room,
which to a Protestant would be one of its
greatest commendations; as, with the ex-
ception of the writings of the Latin Fa-
thers, and I think translations of the Greek,
the collection was made up almost entire-
ly of the monkish commentators and eccle-

n

156 BIOGXAPHT OF

siasticat historians. I saw Calmet's IKe-
tionaiy, Comment, and Dissertations — ^La-
tny's Apparatus — Huet — some of Newton '6
mathematical wcnrks — Cicero in foKo, and
Tacitus; — ^besides these and an odd vohitte
of Stephen's Latin Thesaurus, I do not re*
member seeing any work which I had ever
seen or heard of before. There were no
modem works; the books were all in veOom;
and many of them deplorably worm eaten.*
Excommunication is denounced at the door
against any one who shall take away any
volume from the library.

We passed from the lilMrary to P. An-
drew's ceU, where we rested oursdves a
little, and were treated with gin and water.
Formerly, the friars took their meals in
common; and this is in fact a standmgrole
of the order; but it was found incon-
vement; so that now each friar sends to

*l iDquired what number of books^ the library con-
tained, but none knew. There were not more than
IMOy i ahoold judge, if there wtr« so masy.

ABBOTk 157

an eating liouse for his dinner, and instead
of silence and severe fare, may live as mer-
rily and as luxuriously as he chooses. All
indeed take the solemn vow* of poverty;
but the prior has the power, as P. Verdier
told me — who, by the way, enjoys a prop-
erty of $300,000 — to permit the brethren
to retain property under certain restric-
tions and for charitable ends. — The funds
of the convent amount to about '"$3,000,
000; but the annual income, owing to the
situation of the property, is at present but
$40,000. The convent [maintains fifty
friars. On leaving the prior, I expressed
a wish to be informed, as far as was prop-
er, concerning the . general regulations of
the convent, its particular modes of disci-
pline and of life; and he put a volume into
my hand, which, he said, would inform me
as to everything relating to the principal
monastic orders. I read it, and have a few
extracts from it; but the inconsistency be-
tween the rules which they profess to obey,
and the actual manners oi xh^ tciox^'Sk.i Na*
most wofuUy glaring.

158 BIOGRAPHY OF

'Connected with the convent, or rather
constituting a part of its economy, is what
the monks call a university; in which P.
Verdier told me, were taught these bran-
ches: — Theology, civil law, canon law,
mathematics, philosophy including logic,
ethics, metaphysics and physics, medicine,
grammar, and the 'jus regale.* I asked
to see the university rooms; and was
shown into a hall, in which the officers
were chosen, &c. This was the only
room belonging to the university. I could
learn nothing intelligibly with regard to its
regulations; and presume the whole affair
to be no more than this — that a certain
number of the brethren are chosen to at-
tend to the education of those children whose
parents choose to entrust them to their
care. Whether the students live within
the walls, I know not; but as no evidence
of it \ms seen, I presume they do not.
On inquiring concerning the books studied,
I was shown several of them, all of which
were abstracts from Thomas Aquiuas.

ABBOT. 159

This author hideed is, I might almost say,
the sole teacher of the monks. P. Ver-
dier tpld me that the five authors held above
all others for auihority in the Catholic
church, are Jerome, Pope Gregory, (which
pope they did not seem quite to know) Agus-
tine, Ambrose, and Thomas Aquinas; but
he added, that the latter was deemed alone
sufficient to solve all difficulties and doubts.
And in the constitutions of the monastic
orders, it is enjoined most earnestly, ' that
they ever read, learn, and teach the doc-
trine of our angelical doctor, and according
to that determine and settle all disputed
points.' It is added at the close of the
injunction, ' whosoever shaH depart from
the sound doctrine of St Thomas Aquinas,
and either by word or writing utter any-
thing opposed to it, shall be deprived for
ever of the office he may hold, and of all
other rank or dignity. ' This is indeed con-
tinuing the ignorance of the dark ages.
In one of the lower rooms of the convent
is a library of on€ thousand volwxxsfe.'ti ^^-

m BioG&uvT or

lecled hr a societr aod c^ien to die pnkEc.
'Sandar, ]3di. In the afteniooB rode
berood the vaDs with Mr C. and
home cm foot, ^lieo in the
he offered to take me to the
sortof necroes, that I m^tt see hov their
Snndar was spent. We diore acccxdindr
to a street ibnned on one side far the val
of the city, and on the otiier fined with hnr
houses, which now were filled with n eg y u e a
of all sexes and sizes, gamUinc, shoaling,
and dancing to a loud racket prodoced b^
beating boards and barrels, and occasicnaDf
a (Mie-beaded drum. The street was
crowded, all dressed in their most dashiiM;
garments, — all laughing, talking, or sitting.
It was a scene of perfect uproar, and its
noise you could hear at a great distance
from the city. The houses are owned or
hired by the free negroes; and here aU who
are able to do it, bold their weekly assem-
bly of vice and coufusion. These probabfy
are tbe spots in which schemes of iiDmij
are ccmtrived; and here probably, should

ABBOT. 161

ever an insurrectian occur, will its elements
be quickened and organized.

'Sunday is indeed universally the day of
amusement. There is no other service
performed at the churches on that, than on
any of the week days. Mass is performed
at intervals from sunrise till twelve; and the
rest of the day, by the rehgious themselves,
is devoted avowedly to pleasure. They
who have attended one mass have complete-
ly fulfilled their duty. As you walk through
the streets you would never suspect it was
a day of religious rest. The streets re-
sound with the cries of negroes vending
their wares, or playing with their compan-
ions; the shops are mostly open; you see
much of the usual business going on; and
meet at every step volantes conveying vis-
iters from one family to another. The
theatre or opera of course are open; the
gambhng houses filled.

'As the sun goes down, all crowd to the
Paseo, to see and be admired. There

was no day of the week in which we found
10*

162 BIOGRAPHY OF

SO little quiet and peace. It is peculiarly
the day of secular pleasure. In this the
priests and the monks participate without
reserve. One Sunday afternoon a great
and continual uproar of shouting, singing,
and laughing was heard at Mr C.'s; none
for a time could imagine whence it could
proceed; until a gentleman went on the
azotea, a platform which opens from the
ball, and commands a view of the monas-
tery of St Domingo, and saw in one of the
cells a large party of monks, military offi-
cers, and Spanish men assembled, enjoy-
ing themselves wiih the most riotous^con-
viviality.

^As the public offices are closed, the for-
eign merchants cannot carry on their busi-
ness abroad, and their day is devoted either
to the business of the coimting-house, or
the relaxation of riding or visiting. They
do not attend mass. Indeed it would be
idle and useless to do it. I went once from
curiosity to the church of St Domingo.
As each persoa came b, the ceremony of

ABBOT. 163

crossing with fingers dipped in consecrated
water was gone through; after which they
were seated, some on the floor, others on
the single btoch, which was placed along
by the pillars. Ladies (who, by the way,
must always be clothed in black and veiled
at mass) often came attended by servants,
who spread small carpets on the floor for
their mistresses to kneel or sit upon. Af-
ter waiting some time beyond the appointed
hour, a monk, followed by a black servant,
cune in to oflSciate. All crowded then
rcund the altar at which the ceremony was
to be performed. I was quite near. The
priest repeated the prayers as fast as he
•could, and in a voice so extremely low that
1 was unable to distinguish one solitary
word of the whole service. There was of
course a continual crossing and kneeling on
the part of the priest; with this the people
bad nothing to do; we all kneeled twice or
three times only, but for what reason I
know not, and probably few who attended
did knew. Then a little bell was rung, by

lot

164 BIOGRAPHY OF

the black man, and every body beat their
breasts. The monk soon consecrated tlie
elements, partook them himself alone, and
dismissed the assembly. This was tke
whole service. None received the con"
munion; none heard the prayers^ and if they
had been heard, none would have compre-
hended' their import, for they were in an
unknown tongue. But the Catholics de-
parted, satisfied that they had been present
at the holy sacrifice, had knelt at proper
intervals, and beat their bosoms at the
ringing of the bell.'

The increasing heat of the weather sooa
rendered it impossible for Mr Abbot to take
the necessary exercise, and his strengdi
hourly decayed; when, in one of those sud-
den changes to which the climate is subject,
but against which man has made insuflSci-
ent provision, he took a severe cold which
threatened a speedy termination to his suf-
ferings. As soon as he was a little reliev-
ed, he embarked for Charleston, S. C.

ABBOT. 165

The sea breeze in some degree restored
ihs appetite and strength; and when he ar-
rived, the sensation, which every one feels
on treading again his native shore, gave a
stimulus to his exhausted frame, which he
mistook for returning health. He imme-
diately found kind and devoted friends,
though he came to them a stranger, and
received every comfort which the most af-
fectionate and tender sympathy could be-
slow. But he soon found that his feelings
had deceived him, and his spirits sunk for
a moment under the pressure of disease,
and disappointed hope, and the delay in
returning home, occasioned by the lateness
of the New England spring. On it being
remarked to him that he was in low spirits,
he answered, 'No; not in low spirits, but
sober. I think it very doubtful whether I
am ever any better, and it is time for me
now to consider myself a stranger and pil-
grim on earth.' He would often say, '0
that I had wungs like a dove, that I might
flee away and be at rest*' He sometimes

166 BIOGRAPHY OF

regretted the distraction of mind produced
by travelling, and said there was great jus-
tice in the remark of Jeremy Taylor, that
*no one can be devout who leads a wander-
ing life.* The thought of dying was evi-
dently familitir to him. As he was riding
one fine morning, he applied to himself the
lines written by Michael Bruce, just be-
fore his dtath: —

Now spring returns— but not to me returns
The vernal joy my better years have known;

Dim in my breast life's dying taper bums.
And all the joys of life with health are flown.

Yet in the midst of a weakness and lan-
guor which might have excused him for at-
tending exclusively to himself, he engaged
in teaching the slave, who waited upon him^
to read.

~ When the weather became hot in the
middle of April, he left Charleston, and
reached Philadelphia by packet on the 22d,
so much reduced that it was thought doubt-
ful whether he could live to reach home.
His father and several friends met him

ABBOT. 16*7

there. Their presence produced a tempo-
rary exhilaration of spirits, but his strength
VfSLS rapidly decreasing, and from that time
he could speak only in a whisper. * But,'
said he, in a letter written at this time, *we
will rejoice together that God has preserv-
ed us in the land of the living; and I will
be happy, whatever may now await me, in
the thought that my wanderings are done,
and I am again in my own home.'

He arrived in Exeter, at the abode of
his parents, in June. During the summer
his decline was certain but gradual. He
had too long contemplated the event to be
moved by it. His whole demeanor re-
mained collected and tranquil. There was
a quietness in his manner, a placid gentle-
ness in every look and word which came
from him, which discovered that death had
no terrors to sadden or deject him, and that
nothing now remained but to withdraw his
interest from earthly things, and 'prune his
flight for heaven.' The desire to save
others from pain, which had always beea

168 BIOGnAPHT OP

characteristic of him, prevented hira for a
long time from speaking of his death to the
friends who were with him, and made him
reluctant to convey even by any thins in
his manner, that he thought him.self so near,
his departure. But about a fortnight before
his death, he expressed to his father his be-
lief that all prospect of recovery was past;
said, that he had long since relinquished
hope; that he had wished to live that he
might be useful to his parish, and that he
might be instrumental in conmunicating re-
ligious instruction to hisbrolher and sister;
but he was convinced that for the wisest
and best reasons this was not permitted, and
he perfectly acquiesced. After this dis-
closure his mind seemed relieved. Every-
thing indicated composure of spirit and a
quiet wailing to be gone. He was for the
most part spared much pain, and the pow-
ers of his mind remained perfectly unim-
paired. During the last week of his life he
listened occasionally, in the little time in
which his extreme exhaustion would suffer

ABBOT. 169

him to command his attention, to passages
from the Bible and other pious books; and
never omitted his habit of retiring to his
devotions, till a few davs before his death.
Two days previous to that event, he made
a memorandum in writing of several little
tilings, which he wished to leave as re-
membrances to some of his friends; and re-
newed the request, which he had marie on
leaving the country, that a certain part of
his library, containing his most valuable
theological books, should be given to his
church for the use of its future ministers.*
In the night of October 6th his complaints
increased,and his dissolution was evidently
near. Toward morning he passed through
a severe paroxysm of pain, and his breatfi
afterward grew shorter. He called his

* The following if* a memorandum which he made
when ho mailed tor Havana.

* 1 wish to leave all tho<«e books, which are marked
in the ratalof^ue which 1 handed you, to the North
Society, tor the use of their pastor for the time hein^.
In this way I hope tliat when 1 shall speak to my be-
loved people no more, I may still, in a remote man-
ner, be doing good to them and to tUelc cV»!A\^^^

170 BIOORAPRT OP

brother to him, and bade him look upon
him, and see what religion would do for
man at the hour of death. When the mo-
ment of his departure came, he was sensi-
ble of its arrival, and calmly said, 'Mother,
lam going to leave you.' He kissed her,
and said, 'Where is my father ?' To him
also he gave a parting kiss, and then, look-
ing up to heaven, pronounced in an audible,
distinct voice, 'Father, into thy hands I
commend my spirit.' No other words
were heard but the ejaculation, 'Blessed
Jesus — .' He requested to remain quiet,
and his eyes were still raised, as in prayer,
when he gently ceased to breathe.

The details of Mr Abbot's life have
been thus minutely given, because his
character could be fairly drawn only by
making it speak for itself. His was
strictly, and without mixture, a religious
character. He might well be called,
in that expressive phrase which Dr Bu-
chanan has recorded, 'a man of the
BEATITUDES.' You saw upon the slightest

ABBOT. 171

acquaintance, that he had formed himself
with care on the example of his Master,
and that it was his aim to be always like
him gentle, msek, humble, and iranquiL
His sensibility was acute and delicate^
Perhaps of this part of himself he was not
sufficiently master; but it contributed to
make him a very interesting man. It im-
parted glow and ardor to his friendship,
and made his attachments strong and pure.
It gave hmi great zeal in his religion, and
probably influenced him to consider it, so
much as he did, a matter of the affections.
Religion was emphatically with him the still
small voice; all within and without obeyed
it, but without any bustle or ostentation;
it was always sober and calm, except when
occasionally it excited to excess the gen-
tler emotions, and checked his utterance,
and found vent in tears. This, which de-
scribes his general character, is a de;gcrip-
tion also of his preaching. He perhaps
never was vehement, and seldom touched
the strings of the stronger pas^^v^wv^ \svs\.

172 BIOGRAPHY OF

he always interested you, and his senti*
ments came upon your soul like the mild
fanning of a sweet breeze, and you forgot
to ask whether he was eloquent; and you
perceived how much he was engaged, not
by the power of his declamation or the vi-
olence of his gesture, but by the quivering
of his lip, and the filling of his eye, and
his interrupted utterance.

These qualities rendered him particu-
larly engaging in the pastoral duties of his
office. His tenderness and sensibility
soothed those whom he visited in trou-
ble, and rendered him deservedly dear to
his flock. His devotedness to ihem was
great. He made their interests his own,
and appeared to have no wishes, pursuits,
or plans, with which they were not asso-
ciated. A separation from them was the
only subject on which he could not speak
to the last without emotion. Of death he
conversed calmly; but when he thought of
his people he was moved. *0n this sub-
ject/ (he says, in a letter from Charleston,

ABBOT. 173

March, 3, 1819,) 'I must think and feel in
silence. I have not yet sufficient self-com-
mand 10 speak to any one of my fears and
hopes; and hardly dare trust myself yet to
look steadily forward to the possibilities of
the future. Before I was sick, perhaps I
might have' had more firmness of heart;
but the numberless and unexpected ex-
pressions of kind interest which the season
of my calamity has called forth from those,
■whose affections I desired most earnestly
to conciliate, have created and nourished
feefings, which I can never lose, and
strive as yei in vain rightly to regulate.'
His sensibility upon this topic remained,
when every other earthly object seemed to
be merged in the thought of heaven; and
the constant, kind and delicate attentions
of the people he so much loved, were in
the highest degree grateful and soothing.

It is not strange that to such a man his
friends should be warmly attached ; and the
energy with which they speak of hlra, forms
the best eulogium oi \iva \^w:^- "^Ssk^
lOf

174 BIOGRAPHY OF

seem to labor for expressions that shall ad-
equately convey their sense of his excel-
lence. Even ihey who knew him from
infancy, who have been familiar with him
at every period of his life, who were grown
when he was a boy, and have watched the
whole progress of his character, regard him
with a sort of veneration, as if he were a
purer being than commonly visit, earth.
Such is the fascinating power of a charac-
ter consistently religious!

Habitual and fervent piety was his ruling
principle. It was this which gave its com-
plexion to his whole character. To those
who knew him, it betrayed itself in the tone
of his manners and conversation, and his let-
ters are full of the proofs of it. We may-
quote, as a specimen, one passage from a
letter written before he began to preach.
'When I look back upon my life, it is not
without wonder at the goodness of Provi-
dence in constantly raising up, in every sit-
uation, some kind and good friend. From
the time when my early footsteps were guid-

ABBOT. 175

ed in the way of holiness, and my infant
knees howed in prayer by the best of parents^,
it seems as if I had been a pecuhar object of
mercy, in giving me at every period of life
some one to guide, counsel, and make me
happy. It is a most consoling thought,
that, though / cannot recompense, there is^
One, who suffers not the giving of a dftip of
water to pass unnoticed and unrewarded;
and a most delightful thought, that we shall
recognize in heaven the friends who have
blessed us on eartli. '

It was this settled trust in God and the
perfect wisdom and goodness of his provi-
dence, which supported his perpetual even-
ness of disposition, and gave him so much
resignation and cheerfulness in the long trial
of his sickness, and his weary approach to
the tomb. During liis voyage, when his
nights were made restless by his cough and
boisterous weather, his mind, he said, was
tranquilized by the recollection of passages
from the Psalms; and he remarked on their
woDderful adaptation to evet^ ^^^s>^\x ^sss.^

It6 BIOGRAPHT OF

circumstance of affliction. He mentioned
also the pleasure he took in repeating; that
beautiful hynm of Mrs Steele, which begins
thus:

O Lord, my best desires fuffil,

And teach me to resign
Life, health and comfort to thy will —

And be thy pleasure mine.

The sentiment of this hymn expresses the
habitual temper of his mind.

The memory of what he was can never
pass away from the minds of his friends;
and we have done enough perhaps in our
endeavor so to make him known, as shall
promote the interests of religion.

Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Fair spirit! rest thee now!
E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod,

His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!

Soul, to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death .

No more may fear to die.

-i Mr8 Hjbmaks.

■■■S?'"""izi

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