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LIFE AND CHARACTER 
 
 REV. SYLVESTER JUDD, 
 
 See page 494. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 CROSBY, NICHOLS, AND COMPANY. 
 
 NEW YORK: C. S. FRANCIS AND CO. 
 
 1854. 
 

 Entered ac4<»<}ing to Actpf ^oJigJreG^, pi the year 1854, by 
 
 CROSBY, NICHOLS* AND 'cOj, 
 
 In the Clerk'svdffl*e«crf lh§ -rfiistrist <5)urt oj tJie .District of Massachusetts. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 printed by john wilson and son, 
 
 22, School Street. 
 
«|m fittk «|ill)M« 
 
 * WHOSE FATHER WAS TRANSLATED FROM THEIR HOME 
 
 BEFORE THEY WERE OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW AND COMPREHEND HIM, 
 
 €^is ?^tBtora of f)\s l£artf)4ifc 
 
 IS TENDERLY AND MOST LOVINGLY 
 
 3ien(catel»» 
 
 b 
 
In the composition of this work, the design has been to 
 make it, as far as possible, an autobiography. Not only 
 the existence of abundant material for this purpose, but 
 the desire that Mr. Judd should be made the exponent 
 of himself, led to the adoption of this course. 
 
 In making selections from sermons, lectures, letters, 
 and private pages, that would fill volumes, such have 
 been chosen as were thought best fitted, by their playful 
 touches and varied lights, to present him as he was, going 
 in and out in daily life ; to delineate in their true shades 
 the multiform and shifting phases of his character, both 
 as to individual prominence and collective harmony; to 
 exhibit the governing principle of his being, in all rela- 
 tions, public and private ; and, especially, to show how an 
 earnest seeker after truth and right sped on his way, 
 and with what persevering self-reliance and brave con- 
 scientiousness the battle of life may be fought. 
 
 If, with this intention, the extracts given shall be 
 deemed too ample, the explanation must be found in the 
 perhaps partial feeling of one who has watched with fond 
 
VI 
 
 interest his every variety of development, from the first 
 opening of his eyes in infancy to their final close on 
 earthly light, — that the rich mass of manuscript matter 
 left behind was too good to be lost. 
 
 The life of Mr. Judd consisted rather in inward pro- 
 gressions than in outward changes, and of course furnishes 
 little variety as a story of incident. But, to those who 
 feel that a range at large in the field of thought is of 
 greater worth than a transition from one physical locality 
 to another, that high and noble principles are more 
 honorable than conspicuous stations, and that wealth of 
 soul far outweighs the richest material products, it will 
 not be found wanting in interest and attractiveness. 
 
 Those who have known Mr. Judd only as an author 
 will readily perceive, that this was by no means the most 
 distinctive form in which he put forth his powers ; but 
 that the author was lost in the man, at the same time, as 
 has been truly remarked by another, that "the author 
 was intensely the expression of the man." 
 
 As to the plan chosen, it was found quite impracticable 
 to introduce, with that prominence which seemed their 
 due, the important details of his general views and modes 
 of action into the current history of his life, without get- 
 ting bewildered in mazy, labyrinthian episodes, the grace- 
 ful escape from which would have been diflSicult to the 
 writer, and the impression produced upon the reader con- 
 fused and unsatisfactory. Should it seem that by this 
 method something of repetition occurs, or that any thing 
 is lost as to the general unity and harmonious blending of 
 the whole, it is believed that amends will more than be 
 
Vll 
 
 found in the increased clearness secured, and the greater 
 justice done to salient points. 
 
 The compiler — for to authorship there is little ground 
 of claim — has not aimed to pronounce an eulogium on 
 the subject of this history, or to enter into any analysis or 
 critical review of his literary productions. She has sought 
 only, in a simple, truthful manner, to sketch a life and 
 character, which — with a most intimate knowledge of the 
 one, and a perfect understanding of the idiosyncracies of 
 the other — have impressed upon her own heart the 
 deepest love, the most profound reverence; and the pre- 
 paration of which, by leading her to live over again the 
 past in intimate communion, has served, in some degree, 
 to beguile the deep feeling of loss occasioned by the tem- 
 porary interruption of sensible communication. 
 
 ARETHUSA HALL. 
 Bbookitn, N. Y., July 4, 1864. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I. Paqk 
 
 Pabentage and Childhood 1 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 Boyhood and Youth . , 15 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Preparation for College and College Life .... 28 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 Change in Theological Views 70 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 Life at the Divinity School 106 
 
 CHAPTER Vi. 
 Settlement and Residence at Augusta 173 
 
X CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. Paob 
 
 Relation to the Ministry 254 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Relation to Progress and Reforms 292 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 As AN Author 340 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 As A Lecturer 409 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 Habits of Study 436 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Temperament and General Characteristics .... 446 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 Domestic Relations 467 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 Departure from Earth 611 
 
LIFE AND CHAKACTER. 
 
LIFE AND CHARACTER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 WESTHAMPTON. 
 
 Sylvester Judd, the tliird of that name, was born 
 in Westhampton, Mass., July 23, 1813. This is a 
 small town in Hampshire County, about ten miles 
 west of Connecticut River^ and one of the four desig- 
 nated, according to the principal points of compass, 
 by the name of Hampton. There is no part of it 
 that can very well aspire to the appellation of vil- 
 lage ; although its one church, one or two stores, and 
 a few dwelling-houses, sparsely clustered around, 
 form a point of general centralization. It is strictly 
 an agricultural town, and its inhabitants are mostly 
 farmers. The surface of its ground is very much 
 broken, and diversified with abrupt, rocky hills, 
 covered with a variety of forest-trees, thus forming 
 much beautiful scenery of richly wooded hill and 
 shady dell, varied here and there with green pastures 
 and cultivated fields, in the midst of which stand 
 
 1 
 
J^ PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 the owner's residence and its appendages, expressive 
 of neatness and taste, industry, good calculation, 
 and thrift, or otherwise, as the case may be. The 
 soil in general is poor, rather penuriously rewarding 
 the toil of the husbandman. Many of the young 
 men go abroad to seek their fortune ; and, in some 
 instances, roads from one part of the town to another, 
 once well travelled, are now closed, and whole farms 
 given up to pasturage. 
 
 The inhabitants are, in general, industrious and 
 frugal in their habits ; and many of them have, by 
 prudence and economy, amassed what in such small 
 country towns are considered very comfortable little 
 fortunes. They are, in the main, moral in their cha- 
 racters, regular church-goers on the sabbath, and a 
 good degree of religious feeling prevails among them. 
 
 Among the first settlers of the place, about the 
 time of our National Revolution, were several heads 
 of families, well educated and refined for those days, 
 and, if not of the highest order of old-school gen- 
 tility, certainly well nigh approaching it. 
 
 First and foremost among these, and, — in the 
 good old-fashioned times when reverence for age and 
 station had not become an obsolete virtue, — looked 
 up to by all the young, as well as their seniors, with 
 great deference, was the minister, the Rev. Enoch 
 Hale, the first, and, in those more stable days, for half 
 a century the only pastor of the church. His wife 
 was a kind-hearted, motherly woman, lady-like in 
 manners, and exercising a good deal of taste in per- 
 sonal appearance and household arrangements. The 
 influence of the good parson and his lady on the 
 
PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 6 
 
 society of tlie settlement; in its nascent state, was by 
 no means small, and its favorable effects have been 
 traceable ever since. All of their own large family 
 of sons and daughters received a good degree of gen- 
 eral culture. Two of the sons, Hon. Nathan Hale, 
 long and well known as the able editor of the " Bos- 
 ton Daily Advertiser," and the late Dr. Enoch Hale, 
 of Boston, a highly respectable physician, were edu- 
 cated for the liberal professions. 
 
 Dr. Hooker, son of the Bev. John Hooker, of 
 Northampton, for many years the only physician of 
 Westhampton, and now sustaining a beautiful green 
 old age of almost ninety years, must be mentioned as 
 the head of another influential family. 
 
 Many other worthy names might be noticed, were 
 this the place. The temptation is strong to linger a 
 little upon this retired rural retreat, and its quiet, 
 friendly people. But it must suffice to add, that, 
 under the early impetus given to the general tone of 
 things, the mass of the succeeding generations grew 
 up with a very good appreciation of learning and in- 
 telligence, and, if not with high refinement, at least 
 with an entire absence of vulgarity. Private schools 
 of a high order have been sustained from time to 
 time ; and, according to its population, the town has 
 furnished our colleges with a large number of stu- 
 dents, who in due time have held honorable places 
 in the learned professions. 
 
 THE PATERNAL GRANDFATHER. 
 
 Holding a prominent place among the first settlers 
 of "Westhampton, was Sylvester Judd, senior, the 
 
4 PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 paternal grandfather of the subject of this history. 
 He was a son of the Eev. Jonathan Judd, of South- 
 ampton, the first clergyman of that place, and for 
 sixty years pastor over the same people. Like all 
 clergymen's sons of that day, he enjoyed better op- 
 portunities for education and general development 
 than were usual. In due course of time, he began 
 to clear and improve some wild land, purchased by 
 his father in a part of the township near the borders 
 of Southampton ; he erected a dwelling-house ; he 
 married a wife having peculiarities which are often 
 termed odd, and which left their impress in some de- 
 gree on the son and grandson with whom this narra- 
 tive has to do ; and, while yet a British subject, set 
 up for himself. Bears were often heard in the corn- 
 field near by ; and the young mother shuddered for 
 fear in the absence of her husband, and took care to 
 secure her children safely within doors. 
 
 This pioneer in a then new country sympathized 
 fully in the interests of the Kevolution, but did not 
 engage in active service farther than in buying and 
 forwarding provisions for the army, or something of 
 that sort. He was one of the members of the first 
 Convention for framing a Constitution for Massachu- 
 setts in 1779. 
 
 Though large and stately in person, he was a man 
 of very little physical strength, and never applied his 
 own hands much to labor. He was the careful over- 
 seer of his business and hired men, and engaged 
 pretty largely in buying and selling cattle, sheep, 
 swine, and so forth, for market. Success attended 
 his efibrts ; and in a short time v/e find him, in part- 
 
I 
 
 PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 nership with Dr. Hooker before mentioned, the joint 
 proprietor of a store in the centre of Westhampton, 
 and afterwards of one also in the adjoining town of 
 Norwich. He possessed a good deal of shrewdness 
 in turning a shilling to a pound, a trait for which the 
 immediate inheritors of his name were not particular- 
 ly distinguished. A little extra capital soon enabled 
 him to put up an addition to his house, making it a 
 square, hip-roofed mansion, commodious, and, in those 
 days, rather imposing. Large trees stood in the am- 
 ple yard around ; and the whole place had a pleasant, 
 inviting aspect, suggestive of circumstances quite 
 above board. 
 
 He was the first Justice of the Peace of the town, 
 and, in those days when titles were less common and 
 more distinguishing than now, was always known 
 as 'Squire Judd. For many years he represented 
 Westhampton in the General Court at Boston, and 
 served often on committees for laying out roads, and 
 in other like capacities. He was a man of firm in- 
 tegrity and deep religious principle. A good deal of 
 the old-school gentleman, he was deferential to the 
 minister, courteous to woman, and, as known in his 
 later years, a merry-hearted old man, good company 
 for the young as well as the old. 
 
 As his children, one after another, established 
 households of their own, the old family mansion was 
 the favorite place of resort and re-union. Thanks- 
 giving was the great holiday festival of the year. 
 On this day, all the children with husbands and 
 wives, and grandchildren great and small, gathered 
 around the paternal board. Great indeed was the 
 
 1* 
 
b PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 good cheer. Every thing which the farm or the 
 store aflforded was laid under contribution. The fes- 
 tivity was prefaced with a rich mug of Jlij>, and gen- 
 uine New England cider formed the beverage of the 
 meal. It seemed to be almost a conscientious princi- 
 ple with some to make on this day a thankofFering 
 upon the festal board of every article of food with 
 which the God of harvests had blessed their store. 
 
 "When the long-continued repast was over, the 
 large old family Bible was brought forward. Its 
 leaves 
 
 ** The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace," 
 
 and then, in sonorous voice, 
 
 «* The saint, the father, and the husband prays." 
 
 If more space than seems appropriate is given to 
 these delineations, the apology must be found partly 
 in the desire to perpetuate a knowledge of the good 
 old New England character, habits, and homes, which 
 is so fast being lost in the impermanence and rail- 
 road whirl of the present day, and partly in the re- 
 flection from the mind and writings of the younger 
 Sylvester Judd of that love of nature and primitive 
 simplicity which were in a measure induced by these 
 very scenes. 
 
 THE PARENTS. 
 
 Sylvester Judd, the second, at the age of thirteen, 
 and having enjoyed only such means of education as 
 the common school then furnished, was placed as a 
 clerk in his father's store. After remaining in that 
 
PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 7 
 
 employment about two years, weary of its confine- 
 ment, and with true boyish restlessness and desire to 
 see something of the world, for about six months he 
 took up his abode in Boston. A part of this time 
 he served as clerk in a store. Fortunately, at his 
 boarding place, he fell in with some persons of intel- 
 ligence, whose influence was to stimulate his own 
 mind to an appreciation of knowledge and a deter- 
 mination for its attainment. At length, satisfied with 
 his experiment, he was quite willing to return to his 
 former station in Westhampton. 
 
 But a new life was begun. The great object now 
 was mental progress. Whatever spare money he 
 could get was invested in books, and all the leisure 
 moments intervening between the calls of customers 
 were devoted to their perusal. Yet these ill sufficed 
 to gratify the thirst for knowledge that had now 
 sprung up in his mind. There was no other way 
 but to encroach upon the hours due to sleep ; and for 
 many successive years it was a common thing for the 
 young man to sit up until twelve, one, and two o'clock, 
 poring over his books. For about six weeks only, he 
 received some aid in his studies from the Rev. Mr. 
 Hale, who at that time was in the habit of taking 
 young men into his family, and fitting them for col- 
 lege, or otherwise attending to their education. But 
 with this slight assistance, and under all the hin- 
 drances he had to encounter, he mastered the Latin 
 language sufficiently to read Yirgil, progressed far 
 enough in Greek to understand the New Testament 
 in the original, obtained a very thorough knowledge 
 of French as a written language, and gained some 
 
8 PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 considerable acquaintance with Spanish. He went 
 through a full course of the higher mathematics, 
 penetrated deeply into history and political econo- 
 my, and made himself quite extensively acquainted 
 with polite literature, — a noble example of the prac- 
 ticability and value of self-teaching. 
 
 Soon after he had attained the age of twenty-one, 
 the senior partners retired. A new firm was estab- 
 lished by their sons, whose places of business were 
 respectively Northampton, Norwich, and "Westhamp- 
 ton J the younger Mr. Judd remaining at the latter 
 place. 
 
 About this time, he was married to Miss Apphia 
 Hall, daughter of Aaron Hall, of Norwich, a young 
 lady of much native sensibility and refinement, and 
 of high appreciation of general culture. 
 
 THE MATERNAL GRANDFATHER. 
 
 Her father, at the time the Eevolutionary War be- 
 gan, was in his Freshman year at Harvard College. 
 But the college was broken up, its members scattered, 
 and this young student was forced to exchange the 
 quiet halls of Cambridge for a life in camps. He 
 was in the service, the greater part of the time act- 
 ing as ofiicer's clerk, until the close of the war. And 
 in after-days, in a good old age, it was his delight 
 to repeat again and again stories of those times that 
 tried men's souls to the listening ears of wondering 
 grandchildren. His early pursuits left a fondness 
 for information, and till his latest days he was much 
 given to general reading. From the great deprecia- 
 
PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 9 
 
 tion of the paper currency with which the soldiers 
 of the E-evolution were paid, he realized nothing of 
 consequence for his long services and the disappoint- 
 ment of his early hopes and prospects. After follow- 
 ing the profession of a schoolmaster for many years, 
 he finally, with limited means, entered upon a farmer's 
 life in the town of Norwich, then in its early settle- 
 ment. His small, poor farm never afforded him any 
 thing more than a bare living. He was a man highly 
 respected and influential in the town. As Justice of 
 the Peace, he always bore the appellation of 'Squire 
 Hall, and for years served as representative of the 
 town in the General Court. He was a man of high- 
 toned honesty, of great conscientiousness, and of 
 strongly developed sense of justice. 
 
 HOME AND CHILDHOOD OF THE BOY. 
 
 In a few years after his marriage, the young coun- 
 try trader built for himself a commodious house, 
 opposite his little store, and near the meeting-house. 
 He planted an orchard, and took pains to engraft fine 
 fruit ; and, a thing never done in the town before, set 
 out in the yard around his house shade-trees, and 
 sent to a distance for shrubbery, flowering plants, 
 and vines. 
 
 Though born in a house a few rods distant, here 
 the third Sylvester Judd, whose life and character it 
 is the particular aim of these pages to delineate, had 
 his home during his child-life. Here was a portion 
 of the face of nature with which he first became 
 familiar ; and here did he receive his first impressions 
 
10 PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 of the mystery called death, by the removal from the 
 household of a little brother. Here he conned his 
 first book-lessons at the common school ; here took 
 his first religions impressions, and received Calvinis- 
 tic instructions at the sabbath- school. In mature 
 • years he writes of these teachings : " I cannot forget 
 those days. I well remember the benevolent coun- 
 tenances of my teachers, and the solemnity with 
 which they told their young pupils that we were sin- 
 ners, and must be born again, or we could not go to 
 heaven. I recollect, too, the mingled look of still 
 unsatisfied curiosity, and unanalyzed yet real disap- 
 pointment, which came over the more thoughtful of 
 my class, whose minds were just beginning to unfold 
 themselves to the intense impressions of religious 
 things." Here he learned the Assembly's Cate- 
 chism; and, at the close of the afternoon sermon, 
 took part in the public catechizing, the children 
 being " arranged in the broad aisle, the boys on one 
 side, and the girls on the other, with the minister in 
 the pulpit at the head, and the elderly people occupy- 
 ing the neighboring pews."* Here was the "Noon 
 House, — a small building near the school-house, 
 where several elderly men and women went (on 
 sabbath noons), and ate their dinner, and had a 
 prayer." His father's house was also open on sab- 
 bath noons for as many as it would contain of the 
 people living too remote from church to go to their 
 homes in the interval of service. Here the venera- 
 ble old grandfather and grandmother, in an old- 
 fashioned chaise, followed by a young aunt and 
 * "Margaret." 
 
PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 11 
 
 other members of the family in a small wagon, were 
 seen driving up in early hour for church service, as 
 regularly as the sabbath came, fi:om his farm two 
 or three miles distant. And in the father's parlor at 
 noon were gathered the grandparents and particular 
 friends and relatives of the family, where they par- 
 took of a cold collation of " nutcakes and cheese," 
 and other articles of food that could be prepared 
 beforehand ; for there, in those times, as little was 
 done on the sabbath between sun and sun as possi- 
 ble, — " snuffed snuiF; " smoked pipes ; " talked of 
 the weather, births, deaths, health, sickness," and 
 so forth. 
 
 The sabbath was at this time observed, in this'^ 
 quiet country town, very much after the manner of ■ 
 the Puritan sabbath, so graphically described by Miss j 
 Sedgwick in " Hope Leslie." At these sabbath- 
 noon gatherings, every face wore a serious aspect ; 
 and if, as often happened, the muscles of the elders 
 were relaxed by the outbreaking wit, or rather droll- 
 ery, of an old aunt, and her antagonist a gentleman 
 of about the same age, it would be accompanied by 
 "a half - deprecating, half- laughing " expression, 
 which seemed to say, " She is so droll, that a body 
 must laugh, though it be sabbath-day." 
 
 The young Sylvester was the second child and 
 son of the family ; and then followed three brothers 
 and a sister, all born at the "new house," as it was 
 called in distinction from the one where the two 
 eldest first saw the light. As a child, he was quick 
 to learn, and careful to learn correctly. He joined in 
 plays and active sports, but was always distanced 
 
1^ PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 in these pastimes by his older and next younger 
 brother. He manifested an amiable disposition, was 
 gentle in manners, and evinced a tendency for getting 
 into sympathy with others. He was distinguished 
 for conscientiousness; and the impression of those 
 then about him is, that he was never known to utter 
 an untruth. Whether, at this early age, there was 
 discernible in him any marked susceptibility to na- 
 ture's influences, is not known ; neither were there 
 remarked striking characteristics of any kind. 
 
 The following expressions from his own pen, in 
 after-years, may serve as a hint of his own remem- 
 bered impressions : ^* The child has sometimes aspi- 
 rations that tower high, thoughts that reach far, fears 
 that sink low. We can all remember such moments 
 in our history. How much of eternity has come 
 over that boy's mind, who has cast his fishing-line 
 into the waters of our silently flowing Connecticut ! 
 I do not say his reflections may not be dissipated by 
 the first dip of his float; but an impression has 
 planted itself in his heart, which will influence him 
 for ever." And again : *^ I had from my earliest 
 days thought much of God, and very often did I 
 retire to pour out my soul in secret to him." 
 
 For a few years after marriage, the father pros- 
 pered very well in his pecuniary afiPairs ; but, after 
 the coming on of the war with England in 1812, 
 his small business was very much embarrassed, and 
 at length well nigh closed. After a time, he par- 
 tially resumed his operations ; but no good degree 
 of prosperity attended his exertions. He was not 
 naturally fitted for mercantile transactions, and never 
 
PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 13 
 
 entered into them with any great degree of enthu- 
 siasm. As time passed on, his love of study quite 
 overbalanced his willingness to submit to the drud- 
 gery of exchanging pins, tape, and snuif, for a few 
 eggs and paper-rags; of measuring off calico and 
 ribbons for their value in butter and cheese ; or 
 drawing molasses, rum, or brandy, for waiting cus- 
 tomers. For in those days, the country store was 
 an omnium gatherum of all sorts of merchandise, ^' a 
 motley array of dry and fancy goods, crockery, hard- 
 ware, groceries, drugs, and medicines." 
 
 REMOVAL TO NORTHAMPTON. 
 
 A younger brother of his, Hophni Judd, Esq., 
 had been educated for the profession of law, and had 
 established himself in Northampton. Here, in con- 
 nection with the Hon. Isaac C. Bates, he had become 
 a proprietor and editor of the " Hampshire Gazette," 
 an old respectable newspaper, the first, and then the 
 only one, in the county. But, unhappily for sor- 
 rowing friends, this promising young man, with 
 bright professional prospects, and on the eve of con- 
 summating his fond visions of domestic bliss, two or 
 three years previous to the time above referred to, 
 had fallen a prey to slowly-consuming pulmonary 
 disease. 
 
 It was now determined, in 1822, that the West- 
 hampton brother should quit his ill-remunerating 
 and distasteful occupation there, remove to North- 
 ampton, and become sole proprietor and editor of the 
 paper with which the deceased brother had been con- 
 
 2 
 
14 PARENTAGE AND CHILDHOOD. 
 
 nected. It was not, indeed, without some degree of 
 painful feeling that he decided to leave the house 
 which he had built, with its flourishing young shade- 
 trees, shrubs, and flowers, and the promise of fruit 
 from the orchard, which he had taken pains to plant, 
 and the ground around, that had received the foot- 
 prints of one of his little boys that had passed away 
 from sight. His children were, of course, too young 
 to share in these feelings. To them, change, and 
 the prospect of being where there was more chance 
 for amusements, was very pleasant. Of this period 
 of his life, before the change of residence to North- 
 ampton, the younger Sylvester wrote, at a later 
 time, that the memory of it was merely as " a pleas- 
 ing dream." 
 
 But the now aged grandfather, left solitary in his 
 farm-mansion by the transition to the spirit -world of 
 his life-partner, and seven out of his eleven children, 
 and the marriage of the remainder, had, the year 
 previous, given up his old home, and come to reside 
 with this, his only son. A widowed daughter now 
 came to administer to the wants of the declining 
 parent, so that the house was not left desolate ; nei- 
 ther did it go into the hands of strangers, but for 
 many years afterwards was the fond place of gath- 
 ering on Thanksgiving and other times for children 
 and grandchildren. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 BOYHOOD AND YOUTH, 
 
 NORTHAMPTON. 
 
 The spring of 182^, then, finds the boy Sylvester, 
 in the ninth year of his age, transferred from his 
 native place to the adjoining town of Northampton. 
 The village which bears this name, and in which his 
 father now came to reside, is justly celebrated as one 
 of the most beautiful spots in all New England. 
 Its streets are embowered with wide-spreading, ven- 
 erable elms ; it has an abundance of shrubbery, 
 many well-kept gardens and tastefully laid out 
 grounds ; in its environs are inviting foot-rambles 
 and pleasant rides ; here is Round Hill, with its 
 wood-crowned summit and green-nested residences, 
 looking out afar upon a beautiful panorama of green 
 fields and rich meadows, of neat little villages with 
 their church spires and public buildings ; and stretch- 
 ing off in the distance, with the irregular peaks of 
 Holyoke and Tom in the foreground, is the far ex- 
 tending perspective of mountains, with dark cloud- 
 shadows and bright sunlight upon their sides, now 
 reposing in dignity, and anon chasing each other with 
 flying footsteps ; here, too, is the well-shaded venera- 
 ble old burial-ground, where sleep the forefathers 
 
sJ 
 
 16 BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 of the village. All these elements conspire to ren- 
 der the place most lovely and attractive. 
 
 EARLY RELIGIOUS EMOTIONS. 
 
 Amid these charming scenes, Sylvester passed the 
 period of boyhood. A deep impression was made 
 by them upon his mind and heart. A sensibility to 
 the beautiful was developed. Deep religious emo- 
 tions also often stirred his young spirit. The account 
 given by himself of some of the religious experi- 
 ences of his boyhood is as follows : — 
 
 "Religion, which as a subject of thought often 
 engaged my attention, and as a subject of feeling 
 deeply interested my heart, was a mystery to me. It 
 was a fundamental article of my belief, that I could 
 not become religious until I was made so by an 
 extraneous and special operation. Still I earnestly 
 ^longed for the ' one thing needful.' I can but allude 
 to the irrepressible desire, the cravings of my heart, 
 for a full participation in the religious feeling. But 
 the influences of my creed came over my spirit like 
 an autumnal frost, and sealed up the fountains of 
 emotion. Abused Nature did not always remain 
 igilent under her injuries. She poured her com- 
 plaints into my ear with a voice that I should not 
 have disregarded. But the prejudice of education 
 rendered these monitions powerless upon my rea- 
 son and convictions. I supposed myself totally 
 depraved; and thus was my earlier youth passed 
 without being permitted to indulge in its proper 
 sensibilities. 
 
BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 17 
 
 "The works of God were all perverted to me. 
 They were dispossessed of their highest^ their reli- 
 gious beauty. When I fished by the river-side, 
 when I rambled in the woods, when my fancy led me 
 to a favorite hill-top that overhangs as lovely a land- 
 scape as our continent embraces, I thought this 
 world was beautiful; I thought it beneficent in its 
 uses ; I felt that there was a unison between the scene 
 around me and my own heart. But then I knew that 
 my own nature was cursed, and that the earth had 
 been cursed ; and I supposed that this harmony was 
 depraved, or at least that there was nothing desirable 
 about it; and I did not allow myself to cherish it 
 as much as I wished, nor with that delight which it 
 has since afforded me. I used to repine almost, that 
 I had not lived with Adam in Paradise, when the 
 earth was really beautiful, and man's nature could 
 properly sympathize with its chai'ms. I used to 
 hope that I might live to see the millennium, when 
 this double curse would be removed, and men would 
 be restored to the true enjoyment of nature. I 
 looked up to the stars at night : I supposed that they 
 had not been cursed. While my imagination would 
 be revelling in the idea of their number and dis- 
 tances, my heart would throw itself abroad, and min- 
 gle somewhat in spirituality with the infinite God 
 who made them ; I felt something of humility, some- 
 thing of adoration, something of love ; but I had not 
 been converted. Of course my feelings were not 
 religion. There could be no right harmony between 
 my heart and the unsullied glories of God's handy- 
 work, which thronged the firmament." 
 
 2* 
 
18 BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 HIS BOYHOOD-SCHOOLS. 
 
 On coming to Northampton, Sylvester at first 
 attended a private scliool taught by a lady. Here he 
 distinguished himself for quickness of perception, 
 and facility in acquiring knowledge. He then went 
 awhile to the old Hawley Grammar School of the 
 place. Nothing is known of his doings here, save 
 what may be inferred from a passage in a Lyceum 
 Lecture, which, after attaining manhood, he deliv- 
 ered in Northampton. He says : " Many of us were 
 taught our rudiments in the old Grammar School- 
 house, whose square roof and low walls, with its 
 broken windows and loosened clapboards, still sur- 
 vive to kindle our recollections. There was little 
 study, but an iron discipline. Instead of instruction 
 for the mind were the ferule and switch for the hand 
 and the back. There were school-hating and truant- 
 loving. For philosophical experiments, the combined 
 skill of the school was employed in constructing a 
 fire of green logs, and keeping it active during the 
 day. Perhaps there were better things than these. 
 But these things were. I wish, indeed, I could 
 allude to that old building, with a better tribute to 
 its memory." 
 
 In 1824 he was allowed to accompany some young 
 ladies, relatives of his, to Westfield Academy, then 
 under the care of the Eev. Emerson Davis. He 
 was a member of this celebrated institution for only 
 one or two terms, but long enough to attract the 
 notice and win the approbation of the principal, little 
 
BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 19 
 
 boy as he then was, in the midst of young men fit- 
 ting for college. The kind, good preceptor is remem- 
 bered to have said, that there was great pleasure in 
 giving young Judd instruction or correcting any mis- 
 take in his recitations, because he never had to repeat 
 it a second time — it was always remembered. While 
 here, he commenced the study of Latin, and made his 
 first attempts at elocution and composition-writing. 
 His first written production was submitted to the 
 examination of one of the young ladies under whose 
 care he was, before being handed to his teacher. It 
 was quite creditably written, but very short. On her 
 asking why he did not write more, he very naively 
 replied, "because he was afraid he should not have 
 any thing left to say in the next one." He did so 
 well in elocution, always recollecting to observe sug- 
 gestions previously made, that, at the annual public 
 exhibition, he had one or two parts assigned to him. 
 He was at that time a bright, pleasant-looking boy, 
 gentle in his manners, and very obliging in his dis- 
 position. He became quite a pet with the young 
 ladies of the school, much older than himself, who 
 used to gather around, and make him the subject of 
 their caresses. 
 
 On returning to Northampton, he attended a pri- 
 vate school taught by Mr. Charles Walker, from 
 whom he received a copy of the " Lights and Sha- 
 dows of Scottish Life," inscribed as "a reward for 
 attention to study and correct deportment." 
 
 In the summer of 1825, we find him at a private 
 school under the care of Mr. Robert A. Coffin, who 
 presented him a like testimonial of good scholarship 
 
20 BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 and deportment. He continued at this scliool for 
 two or three years ; and the efforts at composition, 
 at this period, are the earliest productions of his pen 
 which he preserved. They are very respectable for 
 a boy of his age, but exhibit no particular saliency 
 of thought or fertility of imagination. They contain 
 many indications of moral and religious sensibility. 
 One is entitled, " The Advantages of Early Piety." 
 
 A REVIVAL, AND HIS CONVERSION. 
 
 In 1826, there occurred in Northampton what 
 is termed a revival of religion, under the minis- 
 trations of the Rev. Marli Tucker, accompanied with 
 its usual powerful appeals, and multiplied religious 
 meetings. The mind of the boy being naturally 
 susceptible to religious impressions, and even before 
 this time having been exercised with solicitude about 
 his own spiritual welfare, he very naturally threw 
 himself into tlie current of strong feeling which 
 was abroad. AYithout much inward conflict or mental 
 distress, as it is believed, he soon found peace in the 
 hope that his eternal salvation was made secure. Of 
 this experience he writes : " At length a revival came, 
 that long wished-for occurrence. Into its scenes 
 of stirring interest and solemn devotion I entered, 
 with that enthusiasm which the subject was adapted 
 to enlist, and which my own nature prompted. I 
 found that which I sought. I was happy in the free 
 exercise of a new heart, and was satisfied in my 
 election being secured." Zealous in imparting to 
 others the great benefits which he felt he had at- 
 
BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 21 
 
 tained, this young disciple immediately entered upon 
 the ministerial office, so far as laboring and praying 
 for the conversion of his companions was concerned. 
 He, with others, often held meetings in a barn, 
 where, mounted on a barrel's head, he would put 
 forth earnest appeals to his playmates to forsake sin, 
 and enter the pathway of eternal life. There was 
 in his prayers an unction which moved the hearts of 
 those even of maturer age. He did not at this time 
 unite with the church, though the E,ev. Mr. Tucker 
 regarded him as his spiritual child. 
 
 INTERRUPTION IN STUDY, AND EXPERIENCE AS A 
 CLERH^ 
 
 He remained at school, continuing to make good 
 progress in his studies, and acting quite consistently 
 with the Christian character. He would have been 
 glad to press steadily on, and fit himself for college. 
 But he was interrupted in this course. This was a 
 severe trial, and for a number of months he was 
 quite unsettled and unharmonized. Nervous irrita- 
 bility developed itself; and, from being the happy, 
 kind-hearted boy, he became at times unamiable, 
 morose, and filled with, disquiet. He talked a great 
 deal about going to sea, and his friends feared that in 
 desperation he would yield to his impulse in that 
 direction. His darling wish was to pursue his 
 studies, and it was a bitter thing to give it up. He 
 passed some months with his grandfather in "West- 
 hampton, and at length became in a degree reconciled 
 to the disappointment. 
 
%% BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 In the spring of 18^9, determining to try what 
 he could do in the mercantile line, he went to Green- 
 field to serve as clerk in the store of an uncle. Not 
 succeeding very well in a business for which he had 
 little tact or inclination, he remained about a year, 
 and returned home, where for some months he made 
 himself useful to his father in keeping books and 
 settling accounts. His spirit had in a measure re- 
 sumed its natural quietness : at least, he had done 
 much towards patiently submitting to the inevitable. 
 While at Greenfield, he had access to a circulating 
 library, from whose shelves he drew largely. A 
 considerable portion of the books read at this time 
 were novels, though a respectable minority of them 
 were on solid subjects. He wrote a brief review of 
 all he read ; and, from the dates attached, it is found 
 that in six months he perused, and noticed on paper, 
 more or less at large, forty volumes. No prospect 
 of permanent employment offering itself at home, 
 he embraced an opportunity of trying what he could 
 do as a dry-goods clerk in Hartford. He went now 
 not only with a willingness to devote himself to the 
 business, but with a determination to make most 
 earnest efforts to succeed. The result of this experi- 
 ment, and his feelings attending it, may be seen from 
 the following letter : — 
 
 "Hartfoed, Oct. 14, 1830. 
 
 "Dear Father, — My own great, unceasing, and, 
 as I had supposed, well-directed exertions have proved 
 useless. After I had been here three weeks, "W. 
 asked Mr. if it were probable I should stay 
 
BOYHOOD AND YOUTH* 23 
 
 with him. He said it would be determined soon, 
 and mentioned wherein he thought I failed. Four 
 weeks have elapsed since then, during which time 
 I have been doubly diligent, and fondly hoped I 
 was pleasing my employer. Monday morning last, 
 
 Mr. said to me, without any previous warning, 
 
 * Sylvester, I do not think you will answer our 
 purpose.' After a little explanation, I asked if it 
 were determined that I should not stay. He replied, 
 'Yes.' If a bolt from heaven had struck me to the 
 earth, I could not have been more startled. 
 
 " Thus, father, am I again thrown out of employ- 
 ment, and my dreams of future happiness, connected 
 with Hartford and my present circumstances, blasted 
 in a moment. But that is not the worst. An inde- 
 lible stigma is fixed upon my character, at least so 
 far as concerns my capacity of remaining a mer- 
 chant's clerk. I know not what to do. 
 
 " New York is so near that I have a good mind 
 to go down and get aboard ship in some capacity or 
 other, and sail for distant climes, where neither the 
 queries of present friends, the inquiries of present 
 relations, nor the sneers of present enemies, will 
 trouble me more. But still I say, 'New England, 
 with all thy faults, I love thee well.' I do not mean 
 to visit Northampton again, at least until I can give 
 a better account of myself than at present. 
 
 " There is still another thought that deeply affects 
 me, especially when I consider its consequences 
 either way. Had I known half as much of myself 
 years ago as I thinlc I do now, instead of handling 
 the yard-stick, I might now be treading my way, at 
 
24 BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 least to some distinction in tlie paths of literature and 
 science. Still I hope it is not now too late to appeal 
 to the heart of a father. I recollect reading not 
 many years since, in the diary of a person, — [and 
 here it may be added, the son quotes from the father,] 
 — an expression to this effect : ' I ought to have been 
 sent to college, a place by far best calculated to 
 develop the natural propensities of my mind.' If 
 I know any thing of myself, I think I can say with- 
 out self-flattery, that such is my own case, using the 
 present for the past time. Do I appeal in vain, 
 when I ask, in short, that I may have a liberal edu- 
 cation 1 " 
 
 KNOWS NOT W^HICH WAY TO TURN. 
 
 C Disappointed, chagrined, despairing, — to use his 
 own words in writing of it afterwards, — he Tcnew 
 not which way to turn. The desire of his heart, years 
 before, had been for a student's life. He had sacri- 
 ficed this wish, and striven earnestly to succeed in 
 the business which seemed most feasible. His best 
 efforts had proved j&ruitless, unavailing; and, as he 
 thought, the failure had left its stamp of disgrace 
 upon him. He made a trip to New York, and for a 
 few days sought to dissipate his troubled feelings by 
 learning what he could of interest of this great, busy 
 city. In a short time, his mind getting somewhat 
 accustomed to the disappointment, he returned home. 
 The chief obstacle in the way of his pursuing a 
 liberal course of study was the want of means on 
 the part of his father to sustain him in it. As has 
 
BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 25 
 
 before been sbown, the business of the father at 
 "Westhampton had not been profitable. On coming to 
 Northampton, he had met with good success as editor 
 of the ** Hampshire Gazette." It was a business in 
 which he was interested, and for which he was fitted. 
 The paper improved in his hands ; it was sought and 
 appreciated for the amount of valuable and highly 
 instructive matter it contained. In a short time, his 
 subscribers more than doubled. But he was never 
 the man to press his debtors to pay their dues, if 
 they were not disposed to come forward voluntarily 
 and do so; and the net income was not large. In 
 addition to the want of means, the father had very 
 little confidence in any thing the professions had to 
 ofier, with the exception of the ministry ; and possi- 
 bly, biassed by his own experience, he was a little 
 wedded to the idea that self-teaching was more valu- 
 able than any other ; and the best way, after all, was 
 for a man to make himself. 
 
 The question involved too much to allow of a 
 decision at once, though it is evident there was a 
 leaning towards the affirmative. It was at length 
 settled, that Sylvester should pass the coming winter 
 at his grandfather's in Westhampton, and attend a 
 private school taught by Dr. Wheeler of that place ; 
 at the same time giving some assistance as clerk in 
 the little store where his father used to be, and 
 which was now in the hands of a kinsman. Even 
 this arrangement for the winter, with the uncertainty 
 of its being prolonged beyond a few months, was 
 joy indeed to his heart. He resumed liis studies 
 with great zest. His compositions at this time 
 
 3 
 
26 BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 
 
 evince quite an enlarged sphere of tliouglit. To 
 some of the follies and gossip of the school-circle, 
 he applied the wholesome caustic of a little satire. 
 Elocution also received some of his attention, and 
 he joined a class in a singing school, and underwent 
 a drilling in the rudiments of music. But, his ear 
 being a little at fault, he never met with much suc- 
 cess in his efforts at singing, although he had a great 
 fondness for it. 
 
 This residence for a few months in the place of 
 his birth, and in circumstances so pleasant to him, 
 together with frequent visits previously, and attend- 
 ance upon the Thanksgiving family gatherings at 
 the home of his childhood, where now the venerable 
 old grandfather dwelt, added to the remembrances 
 and associations of his young years, formed a strong 
 tie to the place, which ever retained its hold upon 
 him. At about this date, he writes to a cousin, " I 
 always loved Westhampton, its hills and dales, its 
 woods, fields, and gurgling brooks, yes, and its inha- 
 bitants too ! " And ten years afterwards, writing to 
 another cousin who was also a school-fellow of his at 
 this time, he says : " All my youth centres in West- 
 hampton. Northampton is nothing to me : I seem 
 never to have lived there. In Westhampton I did 
 live. I could die there. Its hills, its meagreness, its 
 people, all have an interest for me." 
 
 In the spring of 1831, Sylvester returned to 
 Northampton, still perplexed as to what course he 
 was to take. There was no school in town of the 
 kind he needed to fit him for college. But Hopkins 
 Academy at Hadley was only about three miles dis- 
 
BOYHOOD AND YOUTH. 21 
 
 tant ; the walk back and forth would serve as a good 
 physical balance for the requisite exercise of mind ; 
 and he could thus board at home, and save all 
 expense, except that of tuition. His mind also was 
 now fully made up, if he could go through the 
 required preparation, to devote himself to the sacred 
 ministry ; thus meeting his father's views on that 
 point. 
 
 It was therefore at length settled, that he should 
 enter Hopkins Academy, and pursue his studies as 
 far as the advantages of the institution would admit ; 
 leaving it for time to decide whether a college-course 
 was to follow at the end of that period. 
 
28 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PREPARATION FOR COLLEGE. AND COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 HOPKINS ACADEMY. 
 
 On the first of June, 1831, therefore, our young 
 friend became a member of Hopkins Academy, board- 
 ing at home, and taking a walk of six miles every 
 day in his journey to and from school. But a light 
 heart made willing footsteps. The gently flowing 
 Connecticut he crossed ; through the rich meadows 
 of corn and grain he passed ; birds in the apple-trees 
 and old elms cheered him on ; and the broad Hadley- 
 street, lined with its thick-set ancient trees, afforded 
 him shade and smooth walking at the close of his 
 trip. 
 
 He was happy now in the entire abandonment of 
 all his energies to his favorite pursuits. The intrica- 
 cies of Greek and Latin, and the knotty problems of 
 mathematics, were no stumbling-block to him. He 
 never seemed to study hard, or to make any particu- 
 lar exertion to learn his lessons, and yet he always 
 had them. He was fond of writing, and it seemed 
 to cost him no effort. His compositions at this period 
 are quite full, and on a variety of subjects connected 
 with the times and circumstances, among which were 
 the Military Spirit and the Evils of War. His sense 
 
PREPARATION FOR COLLEGE. 29 
 
 of the injustice done to Poland showed itself in a 
 lament for its fate. All his pieces discover more than 
 a common range of thought, and are marked by reli- 
 gious fervor. Moral subjects, and especially those 
 of reform, attracted his attention. His increase of 
 knowledge all seemed turned to moral purposes^ In 
 one piece he thus apostrophizes : " Charity, heavenly 
 messenger! thy look tells us how holy seraphs are. 
 A garland encircles thy forehead radiant with gems 
 more white than Ceylon's pearls, more brilliant than 
 Brazilian diamonds. Thy blue eyes are modest as is 
 the firmament above our heads. Thy countenance 
 is lighted up with a smile benignant as those who 
 bore the welcome news, — ^ glad tidings.' " 
 
 In his second year at Hadley, something of a poetic 
 element was developed in his nature. He tried his 
 pen a little at rhyme and blank verse, in original 
 pieces, translations, and parodies. But, while many 
 of these were very well sustained, there was then no 
 evidence of his possessing great poetical talent. The 
 annexed lines, showing his sense of the pecuniary 
 embarrassments which hindered the gratification of 
 his wishes, occur in an address to Poverty : — 
 
 ' Thou potent one, in strongest chains 
 Who bind'st me filled with woes and pains. 
 Do break the rivet, set me free. 
 As birds once held by wires, with glee 
 Shoot forth, when loosed, and know not where 
 To stop, for theirs is all the air. 
 So let me go. No good, I'm sure 
 To hold me thus. It will not cure 
 My restlessness, however tight 
 Thou fittest these manacles. 
 
30 PREPARATION FOR COLLEGE. 
 
 Good sir, loose, loose your hold. 
 Where science leads, I wish to go. 
 And soon to reach Fame's temple too; 
 Where mind's choice pleasures grow, 
 I wish to tread, and there to sow 
 The seeds of influence and esteem. 
 Regard not these as airy dream. 
 But say, God speed thee in thy way. 
 
 Cease clenching thus, lie down to rest. 
 Thy bed I'll smooth like linnet's nest. 
 
 Again, I say, let go thy hold. 
 Or I will be as thou art, bold. 
 Thou leerest like a demon lost: 
 By Jove! but thou shalt learn the cost. 
 I yet will burst my fetters strong. 
 And bind them where they best belong. 
 I'll break thy iron teeth, thy jaw 
 I'll cleave with steely point, thy maw 
 Hot stones shall fill." 
 
 At the exhibition which closed his academic 
 course, he was honored with the valedictory address, 
 which he gave in the form of a poem ; and, at three 
 or four of the previous quarterly exhibitions, he 
 spoke original pieces. He also delivered an Astro- 
 nomical Lecture before the Lyceum of the town. 
 Some part of the time he was at the academy, he 
 was president of its Literary Society. 
 
 On quitting Hopkins Academy, he writes : " The 
 school is done. The thousand tender ties which have 
 been binding my heart to others for more than a year, 
 have now been cut off; and my heart, thus set adrift, 
 feels desolate. The road which I have trod so often, 
 and always with pleasure, must now be walked by 
 other steps than mine. I leave Hadley with many 
 regrets. Her citizens have always treated me with 
 
PREPARATION FOR COLLEGE. 31 
 
 that civil attention which has made a deep impression 
 on my mind. Their respect is not the hypocritical 
 respect of necessity, but that resulting from kind- 
 ness of heart, and a habit of attentive courtesy." 
 
 RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE. 
 
 As has already been stated, in 1826, at the age of 
 thirteen, Sylvester shared in the interests of a revival 
 of religion in Northampton, and found happiness in 
 the hope that his own eternal salvation was secured. 
 He had always been susceptible to religious impres- 
 sions, and now he had experienced the great change 
 which he had been taught to believe necessary. The 
 boy's mind was at peace ; and he went on for a year 
 or two, quietly endeavoring to perform what he con- 
 sidered Christian duties, and happy in the thought 
 that he was indeed a child of God. At length, dis- 
 appointment in pursuing his studies came, together 
 with some other trials and crosses of his natural 
 temperament. He became irritated and depressed. 
 His religion, which was then probably more an 
 impulse than a principle, was not found sufficient 
 for the emergency. "Wrong feeling brought self- 
 distrust, and self-distrust again re-acted in wrong 
 feeling. He became lost, blinded and unhappy in 
 his religious course, and was well-nigh inclined to 
 give it all up. 
 
 But when the hope of a student's life was revived, 
 with it returned decidedly religious feelings, and the 
 determination to make the ministry his profession. 
 Soon after he commenced attending Hopkins Aca- 
 
S2 PREPARATION FOR COLLEGE. 
 
 demy, he made a public profession of religion, by- 
 uniting bimself to the Calvinistic church in North- 
 ampton, then under the care of the Rev. I. S. 
 Spencer. There was another revival at this time, 
 and into its interests he entered with renewed fer- 
 vor. Partaking largely of the then existing revival- 
 spirit, he was urged on with a zeal not always 
 according to knowledge. The prevailing idea of his 
 mind was, that all were divided into two classes, — 
 the converted and the impenitent ; and that the latter, 
 without the change termed conversion, were for ever 
 hopelessly lost. He had received the belief, also, that 
 their salvation, or the responsibility of their eternal 
 perdition, rested, in a great measure, upon the faith- 
 ful labors of the truly converted. Burning with the 
 desire that all might be saved, and filled with horror 
 at the thought of the eternal misery of any soul, he, 
 with other young converts of the time, labored, in 
 season and out of season, for the conversion of the 
 impenitent, and for the arousing of old professing 
 Christians, who, it seemed to them, were dead to the 
 tremendous realities of their obligations. At the 
 academy, frequent prayer-meetings were held ; and 
 many were the admonitions and appeals to his un- 
 converted fellow-students. In company with another 
 young man, he even went so far as to go forth on a 
 sort of missionary tour to the adjoining towns, to 
 hold meetings^ and urge sinners to repentance. 
 
PREPARATION FOR COLLEGE. 33 
 
 ENTERING COLLEGE. 
 
 In August, 1832, a little more than a year from 
 the time he entered Hopkins Academy, Sylvester 
 finished the studies preparatory for . college. His 
 father could promise only a part of the means 
 requisite for a college-course ; but, with some encou- 
 ragement of aid from other friends, the hope of 
 gaining something by teaching or some other busi- 
 ness in vacations, and the opportunity of availing 
 himself of a public scholarship, he entered Yale 
 College in the September following. In a letter to 
 a friend, a short time previous, with reference to the 
 pecuniary embarrassments by which he was envi- 
 roned, he says : " I shall probably go coarsely dressed, 
 but do not be ashamed of me. I must economize." 
 The last scene in which he engaged, previously to 
 his departure, was assisting at the obsequies of his 
 revered and aged grandfather, at the old home in 
 Westhampton. Of this event he writes to his brother 
 J. W. : " Our endeared grandsii'e, the virtuous citi- 
 zen, the man of integrity, the firm Christian, is no 
 more. His counsels will never again greet our ears, 
 or his living example lead us to purity of life and 
 morals. But he, being dead, may yet speak to us. 
 "What a noble pattern for imitation! May his de- 
 scendants look at it, revere and follow it ! His path, 
 we can but think, has been the path to heaven ; and 
 there, we trust, he now rests in the bosom of his 
 God. 
 
 " We, too, must die ; and, when we die, may a 
 
34 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 light like his proceed from our graves to guide pos- 
 terity in the path of virtue and religion ! May we be 
 gathered to our fathers, as he will be, attended by 
 the blessings of all around us ! Oh that his mantle, 
 as he is borne on angels' wings to heaven, may de- 
 scend and envelop us ! " 
 
 And now we see this young man, after his many 
 struggles and disappointments, at last ensconced 
 within the walls of one of our oldest and most 
 hanored universities, the dream of his early youth 
 accomplished, the highest wish of his maturer years 
 realized, the path to literary fruition stretching out 
 gloriously before him. He felt that his cup was now 
 full to overflowing, and his grateful heart poured 
 itself forth in lively acknowledgments to the Author 
 of all good. A deep sense of his responsibility to 
 others also attended him. 
 
 On finding himself settled in college, he writes in 
 his Journal, Sept. 27, 1832 : — 
 
 " On Tuesday last, I was examined, and admitted 
 Freshman here. I have begun a new life. It has 
 its morning, noon, and evening, its hopes and disap- 
 pointments, its joys and sorrows ; its dangers from 
 heedlessness, its dangers from extreme care ; its path 
 to glory, and its path to infamy. It presents allure- 
 ments to ambition, and often pampers envy. The 
 spirit of emulation and unholy rivalry is a deep, 
 gulfy stream, which lies along the path of this life, 
 in which thousands are wrecked. I shall need the 
 instructions of tutors and professors to guide me in 
 the path of science, but especially shall I need the 
 counsels of Infinite Wisdom to direct my way to 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 35 
 
 heaven. How shall I begin ? A good beginning 
 seems to oiFer a successful, beneficial, and happy pro- 
 gression, and a triumphant termination. As a man, 
 I must be honorable ; as a student, industrious ; as a 
 classmate, courteous and kind ; and, more than all, as 
 a Christian, I must be gentle in spirit, exemplary in 
 conduct, chaste in conversation, and ready in every 
 good word and work. Oh for grace to obey the 
 commandments of my Saviour, to cultivate his spirit, 
 and love him with all my heart ! " 
 
 Some extracts from letters written during his 
 college-life will form the best history of this period. 
 Those which immediately follow will exhibit his 
 religious position on entering college. 
 
 FRESHMAN YEAR. 
 
 To HIS Cousin, G. L. 
 
 " Yale College, Oct. 29, 1832. 
 
 " The multifarious duties of college-life so eat up 
 time, that there is scarcely a vestige of him left, in 
 which to mingle our feelings with those of absent 
 friends, by the medium of letter-writing. As you 
 may well suppose, time so occupied flies swiftly. I 
 have been here now almost six weeks ; but, in the 
 retrospection, these dwindle to a moment. They 
 seem like a swift-winged dream. 
 
 " Our class has increased to one hundred. About 
 one third are professors. Of the remainder, some 
 are moral, some profane, and some openly vicious. 
 How interesting would be the sight, if all these 
 
36 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 could be reclaimed from sin to holiness ! How 
 noble the work for the Christian, while here, to be 
 engaged not only in fitting himself for greater use- 
 fulness, but also in winning these talented youth to 
 espouse the cause of Christ, and consecrate all their 
 talents to him ! You will see how responsible a 
 person becomes, who is placed in contact with minds 
 which are to exert a vast influence on society, for 
 the influence he exerts on them. Such is my 
 situation. And may God grant that I shall fulfil 
 the every iota of my responsibility ! 
 
 '^ It is not necessary that I give you the particu- 
 lars of a Freshman's initiation. Suffice it to say, that 
 we had smoking, breaking windows, stealing keys, 
 calling before mock-tutors, and so forth. These a 
 Freshman must endure, and with the more grace the 
 better ; for resistance seems almost vain. 
 
 " We board in commons ; that is, some hundred 
 or hundred and fifty students eat on the lower 
 floor of a building, partitioned into rooms, connected 
 by doors. Our fare is good, but we have noise and 
 confusion without end. While the blessing is being 
 asked at one table, there will be rapping, ringing 
 bells, and hollowing for ' Waiter, waiter,' at another. 
 This mixture of noise and sacred things is some- 
 times too great for my risibles, so that I am obliged 
 to laugh in spite of myself. 
 
 " Permit me to inquire how nearly assimilated 
 you are to the purity of heaven. The true answer to 
 this question determines your advance heavenward. 
 It seems to me that we are apt to labor under a mis- 
 take of this kind ; to wit, we look upon a Christian, 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. S7 
 
 and consider liim to be going so fast towards heaven, 
 as he advances in life ; and, when he dies, we say he 
 has got to heaven. But, if assimilation of character 
 be the test of a man's nearness to the heavenly- 
 world, it follows, that if you and I are less watchful, 
 prayerful, and godly than we were eighteen months 
 ago, we are farther from heaven ; and that, if we con- 
 tinue in this cold state, we shall never reach it, or, 
 at least, we shall come to a much lower seat there 
 than if we had died then." 
 
 To HIS Sister-in-law, E. W. J. 
 
 "Dec. 3, 1832. 
 
 " Now when I write to those in whom I feel an 
 interest arising from a relation like yours and mine, 
 I do not wish to give them, as I am sure they would 
 not wish to receive, the fag-end of a multiplicity of 
 thoughts ; but wish, as mother says, to wash up, put 
 on a clean cap, take my knitting-work, sit down in 
 the old rocking-chair, and visit, sociably and freely. 
 
 " ^ The sacred affection,' ha ! Really, E., I thought 
 you were a matron, settled down in life, and that 
 you had forgotten the airy things that maidens and 
 poets dream. If you are not so, you must at least 
 consider us students as on the Alps of wisdom, and 
 looking down on the thunderings and lightnings 
 of that ^sacred affection' with a sort of sovereign 
 indifference, free from their dangers ourselves, yet 
 rather pleased to see their effect upon others." 
 
 The home-circle was remembered by him with the 
 keenest interest ; and to it, jointly or individually, 
 
38 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 were frequent communications addressed. The an- 
 nexed letter discloses also how fondly he was kept 
 in mind by the different members of the family : — 
 
 " Dec. 15, 1832. 
 
 "Ever-remembered Parents, Brothers and Sis- 
 ters, — 'Tis a rainy and gloomy evening. The noise 
 that is ever kept up in and about college has ceased. 
 I am comfortably seated by my stove in the act of 
 writing. My chum is reading by my side. This 
 afternoon I received two boxes of good things from 
 home, and have just had the pleasure of eating my 
 cake and cheese with my friend, Mr. P. and my 
 room-mate, Mr. J. Thus you see we have had our 
 Thanksgiving ; although a little out of time, yet not 
 out of spirit. We cut the cake with our penknives, 
 and drank toasts on water. These articles came like 
 water to a thirsty traveller. On opening the box, I 
 was sensibly reminded of the care you all take of 
 me. First came the apples ; then mother's care in 
 the form of curtains, carpet, cake, and so forth, 
 which I well knew A. assisted in the preparation of. 
 
 Then came H i's bag of pop-corn, butter-nuts, 
 
 and the choice apples the little ones had taken pains 
 to mark their names on, and send to me. I put 
 
 P n's apple to my lips, and thought P n 
 
 shall have a kiss, and kissed the apple in place of 
 her rosy lips. 
 
 '^ I received this afternoon, from Mrs. L., a mother 
 in Israel, the unexpected offer of my board without 
 remuneration. This was too acceptable and gener- 
 ous to be refused. So you see my cup of temporal 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 39 
 
 felicity is full. The clouds that have darkened my 
 future prospect seem, at least for the present, to 
 have rolled away. Have I merited this? Indeed 
 not. It is His high prerogative to give, though 
 merit shows no claim. 
 
 " My studies, too, are not of a nature to weary the 
 spirit with constant tediousness and difficulty. Devo- 
 tion to them may be called a recreation rather than a 
 task. To Him who is distilling upon me the gentle 
 dews of peace and prosperity, and not pouring out 
 upon me storms of perplexity, disappointment, and 
 misery, be the glory. I say these things because I 
 have seen some under the iron grasp of poverty, 
 ready to despair, with no prospect of relief; and 
 others vexed at and baffled by algebraic problems, or 
 Latin and Greek abstruseness, ready to throw their 
 books to the four winds. 
 
 " The college-bell wakes us at six in the morning, 
 when we hurry on our clothes, wash in a hurry, and 
 hiirry to the chapel for prayers ; some buttoning 
 their vests, some tying their handkerchiefs, and all 
 with the sleepy scales scarcely loosened from their 
 eyes. This is too much a formality, I fear, in which 
 religion is too solemnly mocked, but by which it is 
 known that all the students are up, and ready for 
 recitation, which immediately ensues. 
 
 "The package of letters I received yesterday. 
 
 Take care, H i, that your ^ iron-shod sled ' don't 
 
 run away with you. I am afraid that, some Saturday 
 afternoon, it will start off to slide down hill, and 
 take you with it, when you had better be at home. 
 
 " P n will soon learn to write her own letters ; 
 
40 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 then she can tell her absent brother what she wishes, 
 without employing an amanuensis. (Look in the 
 dictionary.) I am afraid that I shall not go home in 
 the vacation to get your 'hundred kisses.' Keep 
 your temper sweet as your lips, and then your kisses 
 will be sweet indeed. You had better study your 
 
 books, P n, than to make dolls, for your dolls 
 
 will be spoilt or lost ; but what you learn will never 
 be lost. I hope soon to see a neat little letter in 
 your own handwriting. It is now after ten ; and, as 
 I suppose you are in bed, so I will be. Good night. 
 "Your kindnesses, my mother, have ever been 
 reiterated, and too often upon my ingratitude. But 
 I can be ungrateful no more. If your children, or 
 your child, have ever caused you hours of anxiety 
 and silent sorrow, may hours of brightest hope and 
 unclouded joy, on their account, be yours now and 
 evermore ! " 
 
 A few months after entering college, he inscribed 
 in his journal, the following — 
 
 "CONSECRATION." 
 
 f^' "Fully sensible of my weakness, sinfulness, and 
 proneness to wander, in full view of the tempta- 
 tions from the world, the flesh, and the devil ; aware 
 of the great obligations this act imposes upon me, 
 yet knowing that our blessed Captain requires the 
 entire soul, the supreme affection, and whole devo- 
 tion of all his followers, not only as the strict demand 
 of duty, but as the happy enjoyment of privilege, 
 and trusting in Him who strengthens the weak. 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 41 
 
 makes holy the sinful, and who gives grace to resist 
 in the hour of temptation, and with much prayer for 
 direction and support, I now make this solemn con- 
 secration : — 
 
 " I consecrate myself, my time, my talents, my 
 influence, my thoughts, my property, my knowledge, 
 and my all, to God and his service. Be my witness. 
 Holy Father, thou my Saviour, thou my Sanctifier, 
 angels, spirits of the pit, myself. 
 
 *' I consecrate myself as soul and body, the one to 
 devise, and the other to act, till death dissolves their 
 mutual connection; and then my spirit, wherever 
 in the universe of God its existence may continue, 
 and its service be required. I consecrate my time, 
 to fill up each year, month, week, day, hour, and 
 moment, with some act performed that shall bear the 
 impress, Holiness to the Lord ; — my talents, to give 
 them a decidedly religious culture, and to exert them 
 in the cause of truth and holiness, and in opposi- 
 tion to error and irreligion, wherever seen and how- 
 ever found ; — my influence, to extend its sphere 
 as much as possible ; to have it so decided that all 
 may know that it is for God, at all times and under 
 all circumstances ; to never draw it away for fear of 
 reproach or unpopularity, with* whomsoever I may 
 be ; and to make it as wholly for the cause of truth 
 and religion as possible ; — my thoughts, to keep the 
 current of them constantly directed to subjects which 
 directly or indirectly promote his glory, to watch 
 them, and check at once all aberrations, and to give 
 them for food, not the allurements of ambitious or 
 envious contemplations, or lustful scenes, or scenes 
 
 4* 
 
4^ COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 of worldly pleasure, but the rich feast of heavenly 
 and divine things ; — my property, to use what little 
 I now have, in securing an education for the gospel 
 ministry, and, should more ever be my portion, 
 to use none of it for superfluous or rich articles of 
 dress or household equipage, for the dainties or lux- 
 uries of food, or for any unnecessary gratification ; 
 but to make a wise distribution of it among objects 
 of benevolence, whether the poor and distressed 
 directly about me, or the dark and benighted souls 
 all over the world; reserving so much as a wise 
 regard to the interests of my immediate dependents 
 may require ; — my knowledge, when I know sin- 
 ners are pressing to ruin, to endeavor to bring them 
 to repentance ; when I know Christians are cold and 
 worldly, to endeavor to warm their hearts, wake 
 them to duty, and give them an impulse heaven- 
 ward ; when I know the result of any measures will 
 be prejudicial to the interests of religion, acting 
 always discreetly and carefully, to point out the evil, 
 and attempt its stay, and to increase my knowledge 
 by every possible means, in things that have a bear- 
 ing on the destiny of man, the glory of God, or the 
 salvation of the world; — and I consecrate my all 
 — help. Lord — can I do it? Have I counted the 
 cost ? Will my after-life bear witness to a consecra- 
 tion entire, and never disregarded or broken ? How 
 weak I am! Help me, dear Saviour, not only to 
 write, but to keep this last, and each particular, of my 
 setting apart myself to thy service : yes, I do it — I 
 make a dedication of my all. Henceforth, fare thee 
 well, vain world ! Welcome, Cross ! I'll take thee 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 43 
 
 up, and bear thee through strifes, through sneers, 
 though death be my portion. Come, Spirit of heaven ! 
 come, take up thine abode in my heart. I would 
 make room for thee there. I would cherish thee as 
 the apple of my eye, suflfering nothing to grieve 
 thee, or cause thee to leave me. Begone, Pride, 
 Anger, Envy, Selfishness, with all your train! the 
 blest Spirit comes — make room. Thou Holy Dove ! 
 come, and rest on me. I would be meek as thou, as 
 innocent, as pure. 
 
 " This act of consecration is to be in force to-day, 
 to-morrow, next year, while I live-, in death, and 
 after death — to all eternity. I henceforth, in what- 
 ever I have not heretofore, stand before the world a 
 Christian; a stranger and sojourner here; as one 
 who is not of this world, but as one whose heart and 
 treasure are laid up in heaven ; and I will await the 
 hour of death with a calm resignation, following the 
 example and doing the will of my Saviour, till he 
 calls me away, to give me my crown of everlasting 
 glory. 
 
 " Resolving to read this considerately and prayer- 
 fully, at least once a week, and praying the Lord to 
 enable me to keep it, or, if it be not entire, one more 
 entire, I subscribe my heart and name to it. 
 
 " S. JuDD, Jr. 
 
 " Yale College, Jan. 26, 1833." 
 
 To HIS Younger Brother, H l, 
 
 Who was residing at the old place in Westhampton. 
 
 " Yale College, Jan. 23, 1838. 
 
 ..." But you have no one to call you up in the 
 morning. No, that voice you used to hear is hushed ; 
 
44 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 that inquisitiveness to see that all was right, no longer 
 makes you particular ; that peevishness, as you used 
 to think it, troubles you no more. He sleeps in the 
 dust. But shall we not let his example live, and 
 influence us day by day ? His precepts were good, 
 his carefulness praiseworthy ; and shall we not regu- 
 late some of our actions thereby ? Oh ! he is dead ; 
 I can hardly realize it. And shall I never see him, 
 or meet his welcome smile, or shake his aged hand 
 again? This reflection starts the big tear, and I can 
 but weep as I think of it. The grave covers the 
 mortal remains of our dear grandfather; but his 
 name and virtues will never be obliterated from our 
 memory ; and his spirit, we trust, dwells with his 
 Maker above." 
 
 Further on, under the same date, he shows his 
 sense of the insufficiency of knowledge alone to give 
 the happiness he sought. 
 
 " Would you enter upon the vast field of human 
 learning, the farther you advance, the wider it spreads 
 out before you. You are climbing a mountain whose 
 height is endless. Peak on peak will arise on your 
 view. One surmounted, another is before you. There 
 is no end. 
 
 " I would not discourage human learning. But 
 the subject is so vast, investigation is attended with 
 so much uncertainty, and one is so obliged to thread 
 his way through clashing theories and conflicting 
 opinions, that I would say to one, who can content 
 himself with a farmer's life, and with such know- 
 ledge as is indispensable to our happiness, particularly 
 that of the Bible, in the hope of one day seeing that 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 45 
 
 which is secret brought to light, — to such a one, I 
 would say, be contented. 
 
 " Let me tell you, dear brother, from experience, 
 advancement in learning of itself does not make me 
 happy. I am no more satisfied now than when I first 
 entered Hadley Academy. And were it not that one 
 day, I hope, by what I now learn, to spread farther 
 the news of His salvation whom above all others I 
 love, I would quit college to-day. • 
 
 " Riches, favor, worldly honors, human learning, 
 are like the fabled Syrens, in whose embrace we 
 revel, and are delighted awhile ; but, if they do not 
 destroy our souls, they soon leave them to disquie- 
 tude, desolation, and misery. But there is divine 
 learning which satisfies the soul, and will satisfy 
 for ever." 
 
 To HIS Sister-in-law, E. W. J. 
 
 In which appear his efforts, even then, to solve the problem of the salvation of 
 children. 
 
 " Yale College, Jan. 28, 1833. 
 
 " 'Tis in social prayer-meetings we knit the bonds 
 of brother or sister-hood more closely. 'Tis there 
 we catch a mutual flame that burns along the road. 
 'Tis there we begin and cement a union that shall 
 never end. 
 
 " I can assure Miss G. that I am not studying for 
 the Baptist or for any other denominational ministrj, 
 but for the Christian ministry. 
 
 " I am sorry you have so little faith in children's 
 conversions. This much seems to be true, that, when 
 they are able to understand the nature of conversion. 
 
46 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 they can be truly converted, and will endure to the 
 end. But, when they are not able to understand the 
 nature of it, how can they experience conversion? 
 And on what principle of the Bible or common sense 
 will they be damned ? 
 
 " I think that, if children can understand conver- 
 sion, they can also be made to know what it costs to 
 be a Christian. The world and its charms, and its 
 emptiness too, also the treacherousness of their hearts, 
 should be set before them, and likewise the heavenly 
 world and its charms and its fulness, and hell and 
 its misery. And if they can understand this subject 
 fully, surely they can choose which they will, and 
 persevere in the choice. The evil is here. Children, 
 by nature and education, are taught to feel, that to 
 look pretty, to dress well, to excel companions, to be 
 gay and happy in the world, and so forth, are the 
 chief end of man. Just alter this state of things, 
 bring down eternal things to their understanding and 
 feelings, let a child know that a few short years set 
 us afloat on the ocean of eternity, and all things 
 earthly will pass away, — I say, let them know and 
 feel these things, let parents, teachers, and guardians 
 constantly teach, and live themselves, in view of 
 these things, and I think there is but little danger of 
 children's * taking in the bewitching world ' as they 
 grow older; for they learn to set a true estimate 
 upon it." 
 
 To HIS Young Sister, A. 
 
 " Yale College, Feb. 8,* 1833. 
 
 ' "I would ask, as a far more 
 
 important question, what proficiency you are making 
 
i 
 
 / 
 
 COLLEGE LIFE. 47 
 
 in the school of Christ? The lessons which he 
 teaches are not like those of arithmetic and gram- 
 mar, which aifect the head only ; but are lessons in 
 humility, meekness, faith, holy love, and holy zeal, 
 and affect the heart and life. You have not been 
 long in this school, but long enough to have made 
 great advancement in the divine knowledge which it 
 teaches. Persons, after attending this school awhile, 
 are very apt to grow weary, to be remiss in their 
 attendance, and not half get their lessons. Oh, how 
 cruel it is that we should slight our blessed School- 
 master so, who has been at infinite pains to establish 
 a school, the only object of which is to make us 
 wise for our own present and eternal happiness ! 
 
 "You will recollect that the teachings of the Bi- 
 ble fit us not only for a heaven hereafter, but for a / 
 heaven here on earth. If all people would be meek 
 and lowly in heart, gentle in disposition, patient in 
 tribulation, ready to forgive, mild in temper, ready 
 to assist others, of truly polite manners, courteous 
 and obliging, do you not think the world would be 
 a heaven begun ? Let us aim at cultivatiiig .these^^'. 
 inestimable graces, these dispositions of mind, which \ l^^'''^ 
 assimilate ours to the character of angels ; which | 
 make us like our blessed Saviour. We should never 
 be fretful, impatient, or overbearing, though a brother 
 or sister, a father or mother, or any one, should 
 request of us to do, or should themselves do, any 
 thing which crosses our own convenience or pleasure. 
 Christ never was, and we never should be. We 
 have but few years at most to live, and soon the 
 
48 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 attractions of the scenes of time will be lost in the 
 awful grandeur of the scenes of eternity." 
 
 To HIS SiSTEE-IN-LA-W, E. W. J. 
 
 " Yale College, April 4, 1833. 
 
 " This is a misty, gloomy night ; but such, you 
 know, is the very element of revery and contempla- 
 tion. Dark clouds hang over the face of the hea- 
 vens. The moon and stars are gone: their faint 
 light can scarce show the late traveller his path. 
 This reminds me of the veil that extends between 
 us and eternal things. Oh, if it could be withdrawn, 
 what glories, what beauties, what soul-enrapturing 
 scenes, would burst upon the view ! The ineffable 
 glory of the Son of God, clothed in loveliness and 
 compassion to the humble believer, but in wrath and 
 terror to the guilty sinner, would be revealed. The 
 New Jerusalem, with its golden streets, its gates of 
 pearl, would appear adorned with a beauty and mag- 
 nificence, which fancy with all her powers can never 
 reach. 
 
 " Since I was with you, I have read my Bible 
 more, and felt more, as I have turned leaf after leaf, 
 that the Almighty Jehovah was speaking. With the 
 eye of spiritual discernment, I have been enabled to 
 discover the application of various promises, and 
 have applied them. This has given me strength and 
 boldness in prayer, and implicit reliance on the good- 
 ness and mercy of God, and lit up in my soul a 
 flame of holy love. Often in secret on my knees in 
 prayer, I have felt a holy transport, a sweet peace, 
 that I would not exchange for the wealth of Indies, 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 49 
 
 for the sceptre of empire ; blissful prelude, I trust, 
 of the time when no sin shall embitter our enjoy- 
 ments, and ^not a wave of trouble roll across my 
 peaceful breast.' " 
 
 Finding it very difficult, with the greatest econ- 
 omy in all respects, to obtain the means of defraying 
 his expenses at college, Sylvester decided to pursue 
 the regular studies by himself at home, the last 
 half of his Freshman year. During this time, a 
 conflict began to arise, with considerable violence, 
 between his reason and his received faith. In try- 
 ing to reconcile the former to the latter, sceptical 
 feelings were evolved which greatly distressed him, 
 and from which he shrunk back with horror. 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 " NoETHAMPTON, June 23, 1833. 
 
 " You are a very watchful Mentor, and I am 
 sorry that your Telemachus is not so docile as he 
 might, and perhaps ought to be. You are a very 
 discreet adviser, hold a gentle rein ; but he is apt to 
 feel the bit, and knows that entire obedience alone 
 will secure gentle treatment. 
 
 " I take my station daily by the north, chamber 
 window. Here I sit and muse in my own solitude, 
 annoyed by no bell, no tutor's call, or fear of the 
 black mark. Here I become wrapt in the story of 
 Helen and Priam, laugh at the fun of Horace or am 
 half enticed by his sensuality, or plunge into the 
 depths of Euclid. Love ! how strange a thing it is ! 
 As you remarked going to B., it rules the world. 
 
 5 
 
50 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 Yes, little naked Cupid, with his bow and arrow, 
 effects a mightier conquest than all the crested myri- 
 ads of ancient times, or all the artillery of modern 
 days. We see this abundantly substantiated in our 
 classic reading. I speak, of course, as one who 
 stands upon an eminence, and gazes upon the busy 
 world below ; wonders, remarks, but keeps himself 
 aloof What a sight you have daily to gaze upon ! 
 Why, any one, but you and I, would feel that he 
 was on enchanted ground, and would tread lightly. 
 But you and I, so wise, so experienced, look on in 
 cold indifference. If I don't get me engaged first, I 
 want you to select for me the most suitable of your 
 heaven-born pupils. The wife makes the man. If 
 you make the wife, you may make me. So don't 
 despair yet." 
 
 To HIS College Chum. 
 
 "Northampton, Aug. 12, 1833. 
 
 " Dear Friend I. — How do you do ? How are 
 you enjoying yourself these long summer days ? I 
 doubt not you will say my days are passing gaily 
 and happily. But there must be quite a contrast 
 between the present and last winter, when we used 
 to hang the old blankets round the stove. The sun, 
 I think, must ^bate in, all in a fury,' as a Paddy 
 says, to your chamber. And this reminds me how 
 pleasantly I am situated. I enjoy the luxury of a 
 large chamber, with windows on two sides, through 
 which the air circulates freely, and shade-trees all 
 around. And more, you must be hauled out of bed. 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 51 
 
 nolens volens, at five. I sleep as long as I please. 
 You must be hurried off to recitation at the precise 
 hour, be subject to a tutor's intrusion into your 
 room, &c. &c.; all which things I am happily rid of. 
 I go where I please, study when I please, get my 
 lesson perfect as I please, and am altogether my own 
 man. But I have had a hard summer. The first 
 part of it was passing most happily, when I got 
 poisoned. God only knows how. It affected me 
 terribly. The sickness, in consequence, broke up all 
 my plans and resolutions, broke up my studies, and 
 too much of my religious devotion. I am not syste- 
 matic in any thing ; and all things, of course, are at 
 loose ends. The disease still, in a diminished de- 
 gree, hangs about me. I know not that I shall ever 
 get wholly rid of it. But the Great Disposer of all 
 events will, I doubt not, glorify himself in me. 
 
 " I have many esteemed friends here. But they 
 are not just the ones to say every thing to, and go 
 everywhere with. I was made indeed for society. 
 But there are few, I think, who can make more 
 agreeable companionship with solitude than myself. 
 So you need not suppose my solitary hours are 
 woful ones. 
 
 " I have a little garden, where I spend some of 
 my morning hours. I find an occasional ride very 
 pleasant. My prospects for unalloyed earthly feli- 
 city were never brighter than at the commencement 
 of the summer, and my hours seemed winged with 
 enjoyment ; but that saucy poison got hold of me, 
 and made terrible havoc. Religion can solace me in 
 my sorrows, can heal the wounds which disappoint- 
 
5^ COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 ment has made, and make me my happy self again ; 
 and to her I would fain apply. . . . 
 
 ''If, — and yon see I but repeat what I have often 
 said, — if, I say, the things which are commonly 
 believed by Christians with reference to heaven and 
 hell are true, immutable truths, what exertion can be 
 too great, what self-denial too severe, what agony too 
 intense ? "Who would pronounce a man a fanatic 
 for being all excited to pull a sleepy neighbor from 
 a burning house ? And who will sneer at and de- 
 nounce those who manifest a little zeal at most, in 
 saving poor blinded mortals from the fires of an 
 interminable hell? Let Christians be reasonable 
 men. Let them tear their creed to tatters, scatter 
 their Bible to the four winds, call hell a delusion, 
 and heaven a lie, or else act up to their belief. 
 What ! exchange the everlasting crown of glory for 
 fame's fading laurels, and the felicities of eternity 
 for the fleeting joys of time ! Oh, is it not madness ? 
 Who will do it ? Will you ? Will I ? Or will we 
 see others do it, and be as indifferent as when we 
 see a vfoman peddle her eggs for snuff"? But I will 
 not amplify. I was only thinking of what strange 
 material man is made, — man, who boasts of his 
 reason, his sense, his forecast ; who prides himself 
 on acting according to the dictates of his reason, and 
 yet plays the fool most egregiously." 
 
 SOPHOMORE YEAR. 
 
 Again at college, and entered on Sophomdre year, 
 he thus writes — 
 
F 
 
 COLLEGE LIFE. 53 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 " Yale College, Nov. 7, 1833. 
 
 . ..." I received to-day a prettily bound Yirgil, 
 English edition, bearing this : — 
 
 'SYLVESTER JUDD, 
 
 * Ob operam Latine scribendo feliciter novatam, hoc volumen 
 Virgilii opera complectum, adjudicaverunt examinatores Berkleiani. 
 « Quod testor, • Jeremias Day.' 
 
 " If never before, now at least, I know what it is 
 to be pressed for time. Every hour is demanded 
 long before it comes. If the days were double their 
 length, they would all be occupied. But, though 
 my thoughts are so much confined here, they occa- 
 sionally creep out of their shell, and look towards 
 home. Blessings are doubly prized when lost ; and 
 home is doubly dear when absent. However, I am 
 happily situated here, more so than last year. 
 
 " I was a little surprised not to receive a special 
 token of remembrance from the dear brothers and 
 sisters at home, when I received the box; as I 
 expected a letter from each of them. Hope they 
 have not forgotten their absent brother, and will 
 write soon. Thanksgiving is coming on soon. I 
 should rejoice to be at home, but shall content myself 
 here. . . . 
 
 " Do write me as often as you can. Sensible how 
 great the task is, your letters are the more valuable. 
 
 " Your ever affectionate, though perhaps you think 
 too fitful and unstable, son, 
 
 " Sylvester." 
 5* 
 
54 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 To THE Same. 
 
 "• Yale College, Dec. 5, 1833. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — Your ' token ' was received 
 yesterday. I am highly rejoiced at receiving the 
 gift, but still more so in the thought that my mother 
 is devoted to my interest and happiness. The con- 
 tents of the box remind me of Thanksgiving seasons 
 at home ; the cake especially, which is like that you 
 always make on such occasions. Hard study, like 
 hard work, makes one hungry : mother may suppose, 
 then, of course, that it is very pleasant to resort to 
 
 a little buttery, as indeed it is. . . . But H i and 
 
 P n, what has become of them ? Have they 
 
 forgotten me? I looked the papers all over care- 
 fully twice, but could find no ^From P n,' 
 
 'From H ^i,' and was quite disappointed. Was 
 
 H i off playing with the boys, or P n with 
 
 the girls ? I do not understand what it means, and 
 would like to have the matter explained. I have 
 been expecting letters from the little ones for a long 
 
 time ; but none have come. Has P ^n forgotten 
 
 that she promised to write me ' certain, true '?.... 
 
 " Neither death nor severe sickness has come 
 nigh us. But can we always live ? Who shall be 
 taken first ? Is it a brother or a sister, or one of our 
 dear parents ? Is it I ? But I can say, though I 
 walk through the dark valley, yet will I not fear." 
 
 The winter vacation of this year he spent in 
 Hartford, where was going forward a general * revi- 
 val of religion.' Throwing himself into its interests, 
 and nerving himself to meet its doctrines, he sue- 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 55 
 
 ceeded in throwing off, for a while, the sceptical 
 tendency which had come over him, and returned to 
 college full of the revival-spirit. 
 
 To HIS Brother H l. 
 
 " Yale College, Feb. 2, 1834. 
 
 . . . . " You are not called to the joys and privi- 
 leges of the children of God, without also being called 
 to partake of their trials and labors. You must 
 work; you must fight. The Christian's life is a 
 warfare ; his whole life is the scene of action 
 
 " You have come into the kingdom at an auspicious 
 moment. The great wheels of revolution, moral, po- 
 litical, and religious, are beginning to move. In the\ 
 church, erroneous doctrines, false views, antiquated \ \y 
 prejudices, that have rested with a mountoin's weight 
 on all its energies, are beginning to be torn away. 
 .... I could ask you a great many questions about 
 particulars and individuals ; but they are summed 
 up in this : How is religion in H. ? " 
 
 To HIS Sister A. 
 
 "Yale College, March 20, 1834. 
 
 . . . . " There can be no doubt about the duty of 
 talking personally, on the subject of religion, to your 
 companions. But how shall you do it ? Take proper 
 times, be discreet, be mild, and, above all, show a 
 spirit overflowing with love for their souls. You 
 must be in the habit of conversing with them, not 
 only saying something to-day, while there is excite- 
 ment, but at all times. In order that your words 
 may take effect, your whole life and actions must 
 correspond to what you say." 
 
56 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 "Yalk College, March 8, 1834, 
 
 ^^ Dear Mother, — I am informed that the Lord is 
 graciously reviving his work in Northampton. I 
 need not say that this excites in me great joy and 
 thankfulness ; and has stirred me up to greater im- 
 portunity of prayer, that the influences of the Spirit 
 may be felt throughout the whole town ; and particu- 
 larly that my friends, those connected by the nearest 
 earthly ties, may become subjects of the work. ... I 
 hardly know what to say with respect to little brother 
 
 and sister, H i and P ^n. They are not too 
 
 young to become Christians, decided Christians. . . . 
 Ministers rarely preach to children. School-teachers 
 are not apt to be faithful. . . . My vacation commences 
 the last week in April. I look forward to its recur- 
 rence with interest, as the time when I shall meet 
 again with those I love, and when I shall be able to 
 throw in my little strength to aid the cause of reli- 
 gion in Northampton." 
 
 To HIS Brother, C. P. 
 
 (Same date.) 
 
 " Dear Brother, — Permit me to say, that the 
 speculations, philosophical, metaphysical, rational, or 
 whatever they may be, of your last letter, have 
 nothing to do with the great subject before us. The 
 object of my last to you was to incite you, by motives 
 and arguments, to enter with your whole soul into the 
 work of saving souls. It was not my aim to discard 
 philosophy or Franklin. None can have a greater 
 respect for one or the other, in their proper places, 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 57 
 
 than I have. I regard Franklin as one of the great- 
 est men of his times. In unsophisticated common 
 sense, in wisdom and shrewd insight into men and 
 things, he had few equals. He is the boast of his 
 country, and will be the pride of posterity. But 
 * there is no other name given under heaven, whereby 
 men can be saved, but the name of Jesus.' Take 
 care that you do not wrap yourself in your subtle 
 abstractions about the nature of things, without 
 making a proper use of things as they are. It may 
 prove the winding-sheet of your soul." 
 
 To HIS Brotheb, H L. 
 
 "Yale College, July 2, 1834. 
 
 . . . . " This is a term which is always noted for 
 its want of a high tone of religious feeling. Still 
 I believe there are some who feel for the cause of 
 Zion, and are willing to pray and labor for her 
 upbuilding. There is a general apathy in the city 
 and in all this region. . . . 
 
 " Mr. is, in many respects, to be esteemed ; 
 
 but his manners, in respect to gentleness, suavity, 
 and his disposition in respect to opinionativeness, I 
 think might be improved. He reminds me of my- 
 self. He is a complete picture of a Judd. I derive 
 a double lesson from it : 1. I learn the folly of 
 expecting perfection here below ; 2. I leai*n how 
 my own actions appear in the sight of others. Take 
 these improvements of the subject, so far as they are 
 applicable, to yourself. It gets to be second nature 
 with some people to be positive and overbearing. 
 
58 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 This makes them appear conceited and haughty. 
 But 111 not enlarge on a disagreeable subject. . . . 
 
 " How do you succeed in your studies ? Is the 
 walk pleasant? Do you get acquainted with the 
 citizens of Hadley ? A thousand pleasing and varied 
 recollections spring into my mind at the thought of 
 Hadley. The year and little more, that I spent 
 there, was certainly the most happily passed of any in 
 my life. I began my course there, just after a long 
 series of disappointments and vexations. It was a 
 course, too, on which my heart had long been set, 
 and one just suited to the bent of my mind. My 
 daily companions were of the most agreeable sort; 
 and, though now scattered and far distant, their 
 remembrance is pleasant. I presume there is no 
 danger that you will not study enough. But you 
 may grow proud, and lose your spirituality. Here 
 is great danger. Take care." 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 " Yale College, July 24, 1834 
 
 . . . . ^' Need I ask if your bosom is filled with pity, 
 sympathy, and love for the poor black man ? Truly 
 he needs all this. He needs more. He needs that 
 we stoop and raise him to the high moral and reli- 
 gious character which we ourselves have attained. . . . 
 The religious state of things in college and the city 
 is not so favorable as last term. My own current of 
 feeling has been more interrupted and changeable 
 than then. Still it is good to love and serve our 
 Master in heaven. We are determined to advance 
 his cause in our hearts and around us. My natural 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 59 
 
 temperament, you know, mother, is ardent, and sub- 
 ject to change. This occasions me some trouble. I 
 fear sometimes going too far in too exclusive devo- 
 tion to one object. I am sorry that there should be 
 any decline of religious feeling in Northampton. It 
 need not be. We can always feel." 
 
 To HIS Sister A. 
 
 (Same date.) 
 
 . . . . " Calculate not too strongly on obtaining hap- 
 piness by any change of circumstances in your future 
 life ; for instance, going away to school, and the like. 
 I do most solemnly assure you, that you will be dis- 
 appointed. I have wished a hundred times, within 
 two years, that I was living again in the sunny 
 scenes of my childhood. But considerations of duty 
 will not suffer me to harbor such feelings, and they 
 make me contented where I am." 
 
 The sentiment of the last paragraph was no doubt 
 occasioned by the religious difficulties in his own 
 mind; from which he had suffered with increase 
 of knowledge, and which had returned upon him 
 after the early part of this year. Yet he had revealed 
 them to no one, and had made up his mind to press 
 forward in all the duties his professed faith demanded. 
 "With this came the torturing feeling that he was 
 playing the hypocrite. Then, in his zeal to act up 
 consistently with what he considered the implied 
 claims of the Calvinistic system, he was considered 
 by some of his class-mates as officious, as going too 
 far ; and thus he became somewhat unpopular, and 
 
60 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 experienced additional trouble. He was at times 
 tempted to give up the whole matter of going on 
 through college, especially as his pecuniary embar- 
 rassments were so great. 
 
 JUNIOR YEAR. 
 
 But still he persevered; and, to get money for 
 helping to pay his expenses, he passed the winter of 
 his Junior year in teaching at Middletown, Conn., at 
 the same time keeping up with his class. Soon after 
 his establishment here, he writes — 
 
 To HIS Father and Mother. 
 
 "Middletown, Dec. 13, 1834. 
 
 ^*You will feel somewhat interested to know how 
 I get along in my new situation. Every thing has 
 gone well, so far. . . . The number of my scholars this 
 week has been thirty ; their ages from twenty-two 
 to fourteen. I teach every thing, as a matter of 
 course in schools of this character. A tolerable ac- 
 quaintance with most of the branches pursued enables 
 me to pay sufficient attention to my classes, without 
 taking up much of my time out of school, so that I 
 have most of my mornings and evenings to pursue 
 my college-studies. I hope to be able to prepare 
 myself in what will be absolutely necessary for the 
 college-examination next spring. 
 
 " I do, I must own, feel quite weary, after having 
 kept my tongue going in asking questions, explain- 
 ing, remarking, and so forth, for three hours on the 
 stretch, with scarce a moment's intermission. But 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 61 
 
 Mrs. W. furnishes me with, a first-rate dish of tea ; 
 and after supper I feel quite refreshed, and prepared 
 for study." 
 
 To HIS Cousix, G. L. 
 
 " Yalb College, April 5, 1835. 
 
 '' Dear Cousin, — I own I have neglected you. 
 Great pressure of duties will be a suificient apology. 
 I returned from. Middletown last week, where I 
 passed my winter much more pleasantly than I could 
 have anticipated in so laborious an avocation. 
 
 " But I come to other subjects. We are enjoying 
 a most delightful revival of religion. Professors are 
 very humble and prayerful ; sinners are being con- 
 verted almost daily, and great solemnity is on the 
 minds of those who are still impenitent. The work 
 is attended with little excitement ; but, like the still 
 water, 'tis very deep. The whole aspect of things, 
 in and about college, is changed. . . . 
 
 " We shall probably meet in a few weeks, when I 
 can communicate with you on a thousand subjects, 
 about which I have no time to write now ; — am 
 pressed with studies and other duties." 
 
 During Junior year, his mind was ill at ease as to 
 the theological basis of his religion ; yet he shut up 
 his troubles within his own breast. He became more 
 than usually reserved, and correspondence with his 
 Mends was less frequent. 
 
62 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 SENIOR YEAR. 
 
 Just entered upon his last, his senior year in 
 college, still secretly troubled and unsettled as to 
 his creed, and sensible of the unaccountable appear- 
 ances in himself to which it occasionally led, he thus 
 writes — 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 " Yale College, Oct. 24, 1835. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — I suppose that you have 
 been expecting a letter from me these several days. 
 But I have not had, neither have I now, any news 
 of particular interest to communicate. College has 
 become rather an old story. I will only say that 
 I find myself more agreeably situated this year than 
 in previous years. . . . 
 
 " When I think what I have passed through, I 
 am sure no consideration would induce me to enter 
 Freshman again. Still the ordeal is most necessary, 
 and highly salutary in every point of view. Some 
 never learn to control themselves, until they have 
 been absolutely controlled by others. A man in 
 college learns his proper station, and loses thOse 
 notions, both of inferiority and superiority, which 
 he may previously have indulged. It is not an un- 
 pleasant reflection that I am so near through my 
 college-course, or, at least, that I am so near through 
 the fatigues of college-life ; for there is something 
 in the prospect before me, at which I shrink back. I 
 must be soon thrown upon my own resources, must 
 take stations of responsibility, must be looked up to 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 63 
 
 as a counsellor and guide, and must be bereft of that 
 support, protection, and guidance, which a young 
 man in college, under his own father's roof, so con- 
 stantly receives. Keilections of this sort make me 
 most wish that time would stop awhile, and let me 
 stay where I am ; for, just now, every thing goes 
 pleasantly as I could wish, and more so than I ever 
 expect again in this world. I find, mother, that I 
 am getting into rather a loose reverie, and will return 
 to matter-of-fact things 
 
 "Talked with C. P. about temperance. He, of 
 course, goes the full length. It may be that bene- 
 volence demands that a man should entirely abstain 
 from invigorating drinks ; but, if it does, it also de- 
 mands that we dress in sheepskins, in order to send 
 the surplus money of our clothing to the heathen. . . 
 
 " The religious appearances in college at present 
 are very favorable ; more so than usual at the com- 
 mencement of the first term." 
 
 To HIS Sister-in-law, E. "W. J. 
 
 "Yale College, Nov. 15, 1835- 
 
 " Dear Sister E. — When I contemplate writing 
 you, I feel that I must unlock the secret chambers 
 of my soul, and present to you a transcript of what 
 passes therein. This I cannot do. It would do you 
 no good, nor will it benefit me. Every one possesses 
 his own secrets, which he keeps concealed in his own 
 bosom, revealing them to no mortal eye, and only 
 waiting till the light of the judgment-day shall beam 
 in upon them. It is well that a veil is hung over 
 the hearts of all. For, if it were not so, who could 
 
64 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 be happy, even in the presence of his dearest friends ? 
 "We should distrust every one, and the tranquillity 
 of society would be at an end. There is perhaps 
 nothing peculiar in my case. My nerves are nicely 
 strung, and I may feel more keenly than some. I 
 know I am more apt to express what is going on 
 within. I felt deeply and sadly, the morning I left 
 Northampton ; partly because I was going away from 
 those I loved, and was about to leave them in the en- 
 joyment of so much happiness which I could not stay 
 to be a sharer in ; partly because I had incurred the 
 censure of those whose good opinion I so much 
 valued; partly for other reasons, of which I will 
 not trouble you with a recital. You thought, and 
 so did mother, that I was odd. If I did thus act, it 
 was only to divert myself under the pressure of 
 reflections that were every day weighing me to the 
 earth. These did not originate, as you perhaps con- 
 jectured, in . No, it was something else. 
 
 Nothing in particular, — partly of a religious nature. 
 "We are occupied, this year, with a variety of 
 agreeable pursuits ; and time passes so rapidly and 
 so smoothly, that I should hardly note its lapse. I 
 have been here more than six weeks. It seems but 
 a moment. I could almost wish that senior year 
 might last for ever." 
 
 About the same time, he writes his brother H 1 : 
 
 "You recollect, perhaps, that I appeared rather 
 low-spirited during some parts of the vacation. This 
 
 had nothing to do with , but was a religious 
 
 affair,''^ 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 65 
 
 To HIS Sister A. 
 
 " Yale College, April 10, 1836. 
 
 . . . . " You are very happy at home, receiving the 
 instructions of your father, helping your mother, 
 
 comforting the poorly brother H 1, and enjoying 
 
 the thousand little delights of the family circle. 
 
 P n, too, has some one to sleep with. Poor 
 
 little thing ! how cold she was ! How lonely and 
 sad — like a dove without its mate ! 
 
 "I presume, dear sister, that your feelings are 
 right ; but the expression should be right also. Your 
 countenance should be lighted up with the sympa- 
 thizing emotions of the heart. It is of little use 
 that your internal emotions are right, while the 
 external expression is of an opposite character. Be 
 cautious and attentive on this subject, and recollect 
 there is great danger of deceiving yourself, from the 
 fact that you know a great deal better how you feel, 
 than how you appear. 
 
 " Mal^e bosom-friends of our own family. If they 
 are not to be trusted, who are? If they cannot 
 sympathize with you, who can ? Be friendly to all. 
 Make friends of few, and confidants of still less. Be 
 a friend to yourself. Stand erect in your own inde- 
 pendence ; but never refuse to associate with others 
 because you fear them. This is servility. Yes, 
 * open your soul ; ' but take care, in the first place, 
 who loolcs in ; and, in the second, what you expose. 
 Never expose a weak spot ; but rather make show 
 of your strength, if you have any. You need not 
 expect to live through life on sentiment: intellect 
 
 6* 
 
66 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 and reason must sooner or later be called into action. 
 The perplexing scenes of active life will soon demand 
 your energies. 'Tis pleasant to indulge our reveries, 
 but it is too often a dangerous practice. Toil, sor- 
 row, and disappointment are before us. Habits of 
 /reverie do not train up the mind for the stern con- 
 ! flict ; they do not prepai'e it for the grief and pain 
 that are liable to overwhelm us." 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 " Yalb College, June 6, 1836. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — If I have omitted too long 
 to write you, you must ascribe it to the thousand 
 little occasions of delay that are constantly occurring. 
 My visit at H. was, of course, very pleasant, and 
 more especially as I found myself in the midst of 
 many of our dear family. I do not know how great 
 an occasion there may have been for offering burnt- 
 offerings ; but I am sure our meeting was a very 
 happy one. When I read the letter from W., I felt 
 for a few minutes quite ' homesick.' By a longer 
 absence, I suppose, I am preparing myself for a 
 greater felicity when I do go home. I am pleasantly 
 situated this summer; board with Miss C, spend 
 about two hours a day, attending to recitations. I 
 enjoy very much the polished and literary society 
 of New Haven. The ladies are said to be very 
 
 beautiful 
 
 - " My shirts suit exactly. I know you love to 
 have your children suited, and take indefatigable 
 pains to accomplish the end. I am only sorry that 
 they are so difficult at times to please. Perhaps 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 67 
 
 their nicety is owing to their education : it may be 
 they have inherited some of it. . . . 
 
 " H 1 was in doubt where to enter college : I 
 
 gave it as my opinion decidedly, that he had better 
 go to Amherst. C. P. intends to enter here. I am 
 sure I do not wish to have three brothers of us 
 graduate at one college. If three of us graduate, I 
 know it will add to our gratification, and also our 
 usefulness, to do so at different colleges. For my 
 own part, I should not wish to be a class-mate with 
 a brother. It does not seem to work well." 
 
 To HIS SiSTER-lN-LAW, E. W. J. 
 
 " Yale College, July 6, 1836. 
 
 " Dear Sister, — I have this day, this hour, finished 
 my college-course. I need not, and I could not if 
 I should attempt it, describe to you my emotions. 
 'Tis certainly a pleasant thought, that fatigue and 
 hard study are over, at least for the present. But 
 this is a small consideration. The questions recur. 
 What have I accomplished? How am I able to 
 meet the responsibilities that now rest upon me ? 
 Am I better ? I am perhaps a little wiser ; but am 
 I better 1 I dare not answer. 'Tis painful to part 
 with class-mates. Our examinations were closed 
 yesterday. To-day we have listenecf to a poem and 
 a farewell address, — both interesting, affecting. Our 
 class is now dispersing for six weeks. We come 
 together again at Commencement, and receive our 
 diplomas. I, of course, shall remain here until after 
 Commencement. I have been extremely busy for 
 the last six weeks, as you may suppose. I am 
 
68 COLLEGE LIFE. 
 
 obliged to spend about three hours a day in Miss 
 C.'s school, and have been quite busy with my own 
 regular studies. 
 
 " A. spoke of your visit (home), which I am sure 
 I quite envied you. When I received a line from 
 W., saying that you were going, I felt for a mo- 
 ment quite homesick ; but I am soon to be sepa- 
 rated still further from the friends I love, and must 
 extinguish in my heart the struggling emotions I 
 cannot control. A man's friends are always more 
 lenient and partial than the world at large." 
 
 And now the college-life, so ardently desired, so 
 fondly anticipated, comes to a close. Like all hap- 
 piness in prospect, this had failed to be to the eager 
 student all that he expected. Not that he did not en- 
 joy much ; not that the mines of literature and science 
 did not yield him rich rewards for his toil ; but, like 
 the wise man, he found, that in some respects ^' he 
 that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow." 
 
 He pursued the regular course of study with great 
 avidity, and held a distinguished rank for scholarship 
 and talent among his class-mates. He was made a 
 member of the Phi Beta Kappa Society ; and, in his 
 Sophomore year, he received the Berkelian prize for 
 Latin composition, and also the prize for English 
 composition. He again received the prize for Eng- 
 lish composition in his Junior year. At the Junior 
 Exhibition, as well as at his Commencement, the 
 part assigned to him was an English oration ; a part 
 there, as elsewhere, reckoned a most honorable dis- 
 tinction. 
 
COLLEGE LIFE. 69 
 
 To reduce his expenses as much as possible, 
 besides spending part of his Freshman year studying 
 at home, he sometimes kept bachelor's hall, and 
 boarded himself; and made his journeys, in vacation, 
 on foot. He taught, more or less, in schools in New 
 Haven. A kind. Christian lady, Mrs. Lee, of New 
 Haven, for a term or more, invited him to the hos- 
 pitalities of her house. Yet all this was not sufficient 
 to meet his bills ; and, with his father's security, he 
 was obliged to get a loan for the balance. 
 
 And thus, with great effort, much, self-denial and 
 economy, a large share of embarrassment, and some 
 mortification, added to his heavy and unlooked-for 
 inward struggles, did he make his way through 
 college. 
 
70 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEAV, 
 
 RECAPITULATORY. 
 
 In notliing is the high value in Avhich Mr. Judd 
 held religious truth so strongly seen, as in the dis- 
 criminating care with which he suffered himself to 
 adopt new opinions, and the fears he entertained, 
 through a long period, lest, in changing his religious 
 views, he should hazard every thing most valuable 
 in this life and the next. A person of less delicate 
 sensibility to the worth of truth and religion would, 
 long before the inward conflict had been so far pro- 
 tracted, have gone over to the other side, and boldly 
 announced his change of position. 
 
 Possessing naturally an inquiring mind, and having 
 from his earliest years been influenced by his father 
 to think for himself, he could not receive upon 
 trust any truths, doctrines, or dogmas whatever, that 
 might be presented to him, without an examination 
 of the evidences for himself. He had, in early 
 years, been puzzled in reconciling some of the doc- 
 trines of that system of religious faith under which 
 he had been educated. As his mind matured, and 
 his sphere of thought enlarged, his difficulties and 
 embarrassments of this kind increased ; so that the 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 71 
 
 happiness, even of his first year in college, was 
 marred by doubts and perplexities arising from this 
 source. 
 
 In this year, he thus writes in his Journal : "I had 
 half resolved to go away, abandon all I know, and 
 become a sailor on the seas, or an inhabitant of the 
 wilderness. For what? To seek for happiness I 
 have lost ? No : that, I fear, is for ever gone. But 
 to rid my friends of what must be a canker to their 
 
 joys." 
 
 Religion was all in all with him, permeating the 
 inmost recesses of his soul. His natural sensibility 
 to its influences was very great ; and, under the power 
 of the teachings and measures to which he had been 
 subjected, he had yielded himself, heart and life, to 
 what he supposed its claims. Love to God reigned 
 in his spirit ; delight . in his works penetrated his 
 whole being. Co-extensive with these were love to 
 his fellow-men, and a burning desire that they might 
 be saved firom the miseries of the impenitent in the 
 world to come. Having received from the cradle 
 the idea that all come into the world in a state of 
 depravity, naturally hating God and goodness, and 
 loving sin and all unholiness, and of course needing 
 an entire and necessarily an instaneous conversion 
 to save them from irremediable and eternal destruc- 
 tion, — in true consistency with this creed, as has 
 already been shown, he threw all his energies of 
 mind and body into the work of saving the souls 
 of the unconverted. 
 
 In this spirit, from the time at which he dated 
 his own conversion, he began to labor ; and, with 
 
72 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 the same zeal for the salvation of his fellow-men, 
 he entered college. How earnestly he labored and 
 prayed for the conversion of his fellow-students ; 
 with what untiring energy he sought for a continued 
 revival of religion among them, and in other places 
 in which he was interested, may be seen from the 
 preceding chapter. Almost racked with eiForts for 
 the promotion of this all-absorbing object, and at the 
 same time tormented with doubts as to the truth 
 of the system according to which he was acting, 
 his nervous susceptibility increased, a quickened 
 self-consciousness was induced, his general health 
 suffered, and he sank at times into deep despon- 
 dency. But, faithful to the natural instincts of 
 his heart, he labored on, imparting nothing of this 
 inward conflict to his friends, from an unwillingness 
 to give them pain ; and was deterred from making 
 known the doubts forced upon his mind, to his 
 instructors or fellow-students, lest the cry of heresy 
 should burst forth upon him, in answer to his honest 
 inquiries and conscientious scruples. 
 
 Thus, that college-life, to which he had looked 
 forward with such longing desires and such joyous 
 expectations, passed on. And thus unhappy, un- 
 harmonized, and at times on the very verge of scep- 
 ticism, yearning for sympathy, and yet not free to 
 impart his mental anguish to any one, he closed his 
 collegiate course. 
 
 TEMPLETON. 
 
 In the autumn of the same year, 1836, in order 
 to obtain the means of liqiiidating the debts he had 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 73 
 
 incurred for his education, and of providing means 
 for the further prosecution of his studies, — after 
 having, through some misunderstanding, met with 
 a severe disappointment in regard to a situation as 
 teacher in Westfield Academy, — he took charge of 
 a private school in Templeton, Mass. There, for 
 the first time, he began to have intercourse with 
 that denomination of Christians termed Unitarians, 
 and came to understand more fully their distin- 
 guishing views. Previously, he had been very little 
 acquainted with Unitarian works or Unitarian preach- 
 ing ; but he now perceived that the deductions of his 
 own unbiassed mind, and the conclusions towards 
 which he found it verging, were much in harmony 
 with those received by this body of Christians. 
 
 New troubles now were let in upon his afflicted 
 spirit. Difficulties were rife between the Calvinistic 
 and Unitarian societies. He was under the patronage \ 
 of the former, and was supposed by them to be 
 committed to their interests. His own heartfelt/ 
 convictions sided with the latter, and all his sympa- 
 thies were tending in that direction. 
 
 To increase the embarrassment of his situation, he 
 had many family relatives in this place. He thus 
 writes — 
 
 To HIS Bbother J. W. 
 
 "Templeton, Jan. 13, 1837. 
 
 *^ About half of our friends are Unitarians, and 
 the other half Orthodox. This is the only thing 
 that is disagreeable ; yet they treat me kindly. Still 
 the Unitaiians cannot be very friendly towards the 
 
 7 
 
74 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 school. These religious divisions are paltry things, 
 and engender strife and wicked feelings enough to 
 sink the whole church to perdition." 
 
 To HIS Sister-in-law. 
 
 » Templeton, Feb. 29, 1837. 
 
 '^ My feelings have been so multifarious, I could 
 not give you an intelligible history of them. They 
 have been so vacillating, that you would hardly be 
 able to recognize their identity from one moment to 
 another. More than this, I do not wish to disclose 
 all my heart. Such feelings ! I should tremble to 
 pen them, and you would be pained to read them. 
 You know too well my disposition. You know 
 too well how my thoughts are apt to play their 
 pranks, for me to recapitulate. I seek for no relief, 
 no improvement, until I have ^ shuffled off this mor- 
 tal coil.' 
 
 ^* I suppose you have been made acquainted with 
 the state of society in Templeton. ^I have been 
 employed by the Orthodox party ; but, alas for me ! 
 I am too liberal. 
 
 " I am getting to be a very poor correspondent. 
 My heart is as warm with affection for my friends, 
 as the most enthusiastic could wish ; but I am not 
 always in a mood to converse with them. I am 
 obliged often, firom fear of wounding their sensibi- 
 lities, to restrain my words. I would not be odd, 
 and I know I am not original. There are recesses 
 in every one^s heart, where he loves sometimes to 
 retire and shut out the world. Perhaps I visit these 
 too often, and tarry too long, till familiarity has made 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 75 
 
 seclusion sweet ; and the world has less strong hold 
 upon my interests. All this is possible." 
 
 About the time of leaving college, he was invited 
 to fill a Professorship in Miami College, Ohio. In 
 reference to this, he thus writes 
 
 To HIS Brother J. W. 
 
 " Templeton, March 24, 1837. 
 
 ^' I am desirous to explain a little relative to my 
 declining the offer to go to the West. I did not 
 come to my decision, without the most deliberate and 
 prayerful consideration ; and the disappointment to 
 my Mends could not have exceeded the pain in my 
 own feelings. The amount of my objection to taking 
 the proposed situation may be contained in a word : 
 I was not willing to be placed under those restric- 
 tions in religious thought and feeling which would 
 necessarily be imposed upon me in the contemplated 
 circumstances. 
 
 " Too long has the world groaned under the bond- 
 age of superstition, intolerance, and bigotry. I am 
 not going to enter upon a crusade against mankind ; 
 but I cannot, I dare not, lend my influence to bind 
 more closely the yoke ; neither am I willing to yield 
 myself to its thraldom. God made man, made you, 
 made me, made all men, for high and noble ends. 
 He made us in his own image, to reflect his own 
 glory before the eyes of the universe. A spiritual 
 nature was given us, by which to mount up, as on 
 eagles' wings, to an elevated existence, to an assi- 
 milation with the Deity. "We dash in pieces our 
 
76 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 heavenly image ; we sink from our high estate ; we 
 become the slaves of one another. Yes, man is the 
 most abject slave of his fellow-man. He dare not 
 think for himself ; he dare not speak or act for him- 
 self ; and, more than this, becomes the slave of 
 himself. An unnatural sense of right and wrong 
 causes him to tremble at his own footsteps, and 
 startle at his own breath. Delusions, that settle like 
 the pall of death upon the soul, have come down 
 from many generations. Their antiquity gives them 
 authority, and the assumed sanction of Deity begets 
 for them reverence. None dare question their truth ; 
 or, if he doubt, he is condemned if he speak. I 
 boast of no superior penetration ; but there are some 
 things so plain, that he who runs may read. I can 
 claim no superior boldness ; but, if I have not cour- 
 age enough to attack the absurdities of others, I am 
 sure I have too much obstinacy to be led by their per- 
 versions. . . . Away with faint-heartedness ! Let the 
 cry of heresy come. Let persecution come. Only 
 let truth, God's own truth, prevail. I anticipate the 
 day when truth shall ride forth, conquering and to 
 conquer. I cannot say when ; I only pray for nerve 
 and resolution to urge on the chariot-wheels. I 
 cannot rest. The Lord has been leading me by ways 
 that I thought not of. He has sorely tried me, to 
 see if I would trust him. I hope he will make me 
 a fit instrument for accomplishing his work. I do 
 not seek independence of action for its own sake. 
 No, no. It is always easier to float with the current. 
 But alas ! 'twas * floating me down to dark despair.' 
 "These considerations have long been pressing 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 77 
 
 upon me: at times they have made me wretched. 
 Convictions were overwhelming me; but I would 
 not yield to them, and then came the struggle. I 
 thought of what my friends would think, and then 
 came a deeper agony. yes, that I must disappoint 
 the expectations of my dearest friends, — this has 
 been my bitterest anguish. But God has sustained 
 me in my resolutions, and I trust he will aid me in 
 the execution. Feeling and thinking thus, you see 
 I could not become connected with an Old School 
 Presbyterian College in Ohio. May I never repent 
 my decision ! " 
 
 "What was to be done ? It was misery to live so. 
 It was more : he felt it to be moral dishonesty. To 
 go on as he had done, he felt to be hypocrisy ; to 
 avow his true position, a step for which also he 
 did not feel prepared, was to break up his school. 
 Much, therefore, as he needed the pecuniary aid 
 which it might afford, he resigned the situation, and 
 returned to Northampton in the spring of 1837, 
 disappointed, disheartened, broken down almost, un- 
 der the difficulties of his situation. 
 
 THE GREAT CRISIS. 
 
 A great, an inevitable crisis he saw approaching. 
 The ranks of Calvinism, in which he had been quite 
 conspicuous, he must now desert, and go over to the 
 enemy. The connection existing between the asso- 
 ciations of his earlier years and his present state must 
 be destroyed. A change of religious sentiment was 
 
 7* 
 
tS CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 then, even more than now, looked upon almost 
 as the Hindoo regards a loss of caste. From his 
 church, if not for excommunication, he had to 
 look for severe censure. Among the friends of his 
 youth, he might expect marked coolness. His own 
 family he knew would be greatly grieved, and would 
 feel in him their fondest expectations disappointed. 
 The dearest ties of his heart must be sundered. In 
 short, he felt that he would be looked upon by all 
 as weak-minded, an apostate from the true faith, an 
 outcast almost from the hopes of heaven. He thus 
 utters himself in his Journal : — 
 
 " May 6, 1837. 
 
 f "Go to the Unitarian Church. Oh! 'tis misery 
 \ to think of it. It is an ope?i step, which I have not 
 
 yet taken. Truth, thy way is a thorny one 
 
 Walked out in the evening. In Nature's temple I 
 love to worship, whose dome is the sky, whose pil- 
 lars are the mountains. 
 
 " ^ Had rather see me in my grave.' I ask not 
 your pity; I ask not your charity even: only do 
 not grieve. But the emotion, — this unmans me. 
 One tear weighs more than a folio of arguments." 
 
 "June 24. 
 
 ^ "My spirits are gone, my vigor, my ambition. 
 "What will raise me, I know not. The future is one 
 black atmosphere of night. Its heavy darkness is 
 reflected upon the present." 
 
 The conflict with himself, endured so long un- 
 shared, had so channelled itself even into his physical 
 being, that he was now almost prostrated in body 
 
I 
 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 79 
 
 as well as in mind ; and, in this condition, no doubt 
 he took exaggerated views of the trials of his situa- 
 tion, and suffered a keener anguish than he otherwise 
 would. His family friends knew something of the 
 change in his views, but were not aware of the extent 
 to which they were about to lead. He dreaded the 
 full denouement to them and to the world. Moan- 
 ing around the house, he would go, with hardly life 
 enough to drag himself up and down stairs, some- 
 times humming in heart-piercing tones, " Oh, where 
 shall rest be found ? " or *' Hast thou not one bless- 
 ing for me, O my Father ? " He would say he envied 
 the cartman in the street, the blacksmith at his forge, 
 the shoemaker, anybody whose life was so private 
 that he could enjoy his own opinions in obscurity 
 and peace. If he could be any thing but a clergy- 
 man, or could so modify his views, that, with any 
 degree of consistency, he could preach in the denomi- 
 nation in which he had been educated, it would be 
 a relief. But no, it would not do. He must go 
 through the ordeal, and abide its scathings. He 
 must be true to his own conscience, his own convic- 
 tions of duty, let come what would of earthly loss 
 or reproach. 
 
 As an expose of his position, and a history of the 
 change which had come over him, he about this time 
 prepared, for the private use of his father's family, a 
 manuscript, which he entitled "Cardiagraphy." It 
 is dated Northampton, June, 1837 ; and, twelve 
 years later, he writes a friend, in relation to it, " On 
 none of the points have my views undergone any 
 change." Extracts from this will put the whole 
 
80 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 matter in a truer light than can be thrown upon it 
 in any other way. He introduces the subject as fol- 
 lows : — 
 
 " CARDIAGRAPHY. 
 
 '^ I write to relieve myself in expressing my feel- 
 ings, and to gratify my father's family, who may 
 wish to know me better. 
 
 "The sketch will be a medley, because, in the 
 ceaseless tide of feeling, it is impossible to detain it 
 sufficiently long to give a connected account. 
 
 " Some parts may seem to contradict others ; not 
 but that I am as nearly a unity as it is possible for a 
 human being to be, but because there are shadings of 
 thought and feeling, for which there are no corre- 
 sponding niceties of words. Hence, language may 
 be at variance, where the heart harmonizes 
 
 " I seem to be changed. In some respects I am ; 
 but in a higher sense, I am not. So far as relates to 
 the fundamental point of all religion, — that which 
 ought to be the great end of energy, intellectual and 
 physical ; that which antedates and supersedes creeds, 
 formularies, communions, schools ; that which is 
 immutable amidst all other changes, to wit, the hap- 
 piness of man and the glory of God, — I declare I 
 am conscious in myself of no change. Men have 
 always differed, in all ages, as to the means, that is, 
 as to the best mode of belief and action, by which 
 this end can be secured. The same man, at different 
 periods of his life, embraces different views. 
 
 " The circumstances of men, from education. 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 81 
 
 temperament, government, location, are perpetually 
 changing; and it can hardly be supposed, that the 
 same creed, explained in the same way, will be best 
 adapted to all. As one, advancing in the study of 
 man, becomes more acquainted with the nature of 
 his race, his views of the means alluded to will 
 undergo some modification. But as it regards the 
 great end before him, God's glory and man's happi- 
 ness, the good man will never change his views. 
 This will be his pole-star, by which he will guide 
 his course for ever, though compelled to tack and 
 veer as storms and currents sway. 
 
 " From these considerations, I can better answer 
 the question, have I changed? T can only reply, 
 that if ever I had this great end in view, if ever I 
 was actuated by the high motive of doing good to 
 man, and glorifying my God, I am now. From my 
 earliest years, I have been susceptible of impressions 
 relative to the glory of Him who made the universe, 
 and who seeks its happiness, and relative to the hap- 
 piness of my fellow-beings. And now that my mind 
 and heart ai'e more mature ; now that I can more fully 
 appreciate the worth of happiness, and can more 
 clearly conceive of it in its highest, noblest, purest 
 and most imperishable exercise, — I am conscious of 
 no diminution of this susceptibility, but would hope 
 that its strength is increased, its action is more de- 
 cided, and its discriminations are more delicate. 
 
 " "Will you, my friends, call me changed, — sadly, 
 dangerously, greatly changed ? 
 
 " In regard to other particulars, do I love God ? 
 Do I delight in his service ? I can only say, if ever 
 
S2 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 I experienced these feelings, I do now. These are 
 the holiest and most delightful emotions that can fill 
 our hearts; and why should I neglect or repress 
 them ? But you will say my course of religious 
 action is changed. That is true to a certain extent. 
 But you must be aware that courses of religious 
 action have almost infinitely varied in all ages and 
 all parts of the religious world. There is no iden- 
 tity here; and it is unreasonable to fix upon one 
 course as the only test of religious character. 
 
 "Yet, while I am thus conscious in myself of no 
 alteration in respect to the fundamental motive of 
 action and the chief point of character, I am too well 
 aware that you possibly, and the world certainly, will 
 consider me greatly changed. 
 
 " I allude frequently to consciousness, and, as I 
 think, with truth ; though I might infer, from what 
 some of you have said, that the evidence derived 
 from this source was not to be depended upon. But 
 I am not mistaken when I afiirm, that it is a primary, 
 incontrovertible, unequivocal source of evidence. It 
 is the sense by which we take cognizance of the 
 world within, as by the other senses we become 
 acquainted with the world without. These, as the 
 eye and ear, sometimes deceive us. Nor is it sur- 
 prising; for the external world is limitless in its 
 extent, and infinite in the variety of its objects. 
 Still, we rely most implicitly upon these senses, and 
 never allow ourselves to be contradicted when we 
 have them for a witness. Now, consciousness is the 
 eye of the soul ; and the soul, as a sphere of vision, 
 is circumscribed in its extent and in its objects. The 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 83 
 
 soul is one, though presenting a variety of aspects. 
 By carefully looking within, we may soon survey 
 the whole ground of observation ; and whatever we 
 thus see, we are sure exists. If we are conscious 
 we love or hate, are envious or liberal, are angry or 
 pacific, are pained or pleased, we are sure we have 
 these feelings ; nor could all the counter-testimony 
 in the world shake our conviction. It is, indeed, 
 true that consciousness sometimes deceives us ; but 
 the aberrations of this sense may be corrected as 
 easily, and I think much, more easily than those of 
 the other senses, by the aid of the judgment and 
 by further examination. 
 
 "By the necessities of my nature, then, I am 
 compelled to rely upon my consciousness. In so 
 doing, I aim to act with the Christian philosopher ; 
 who, discovering in the laws of his nature the laws 
 of God, makes it his high purpose, in all things, to 
 obey them. He who knowingly transgresses the 
 laws of his nature, rebels against God. You will 
 see, then, that that religion, that doctrine, that 
 proposition of any sort, which contradicts my con- 
 sciousness, must be contradictory to the laws of my 
 nature, contradictory to reason, contradictory to God. 
 It opposes all true religion, for that is founded in 
 God; it is impious, it is absurd. It is not ^mys- 
 terious ' and ' incomprehensible : ' it is absolutely false. 
 I cannot estimate the wickedness of the man who 
 freely embraces it ; and will only add, that, though 
 it may present many attractions, its * house will be 
 found in the way of hell, going down to the cham- 
 bers of death.' 
 
84 CHANGE IN THEaLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 *' To speak more immediately of my present reli- 
 gious sentiments. I am emerging, or rather have 
 emerged, from the abyss of doubt and universal 
 scepticism. I was infidel to what? To the great 
 points of Calvinism. But Calvinism, it was said, 
 was most assuredly the religion of the Bible ; and 
 God was the author of the Bible and of that religion. 
 Here, then, was the struggle. The prejudices of 
 my education, the sermons I continually heard, 
 the authority of the multitude, of the learned, of 
 antiquity, the menace of everlasting perdition that 
 hung over a spirit of doubt, had infused into me a 
 nature, so to speak, which must accord with Cal- 
 vinism. Soon another nature, my earlier, original 
 nature, began to rise within me. It asserted its 
 claims to supremacy in my heart. It uttered its 
 stern notes of remonstrance and reprehension at my 
 self-immolation on the altar of prescription. I lis- 
 tened to its voice, and felt that it was the voice of 
 reason and conscience. But I dared not think for 
 myself freely. I dared not act independently. Still 
 the strife continued. 'Tis painful now to think of 
 • it, and still more painful would it be to give you the 
 details of days and weeks and months of agonized 
 conflict. At last, however, I did yield. My original 
 nature conquered its foe. But it was not at first 
 a victory of subjugation, but seemingly of utter 
 extermination, ijn losing Calvixiismj I seemed to 
 , have lost my Bible, my religion, my God. But an 
 ^\ unseen hand was guiding me. The Spirit of the true 
 God was upon me. I was led to examine my Bible, 
 to see what it contained. I found my God there. 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 85- 
 
 I was led to look upon the works of his creation, 
 the heavens, the earth ; and I found him there. My 
 God, my Bible, my religion, were returned to me ; 
 and I was happy. I record this with the most pro- 
 found gratitude to Him who is the author of all 
 light, truth, and blessedness. 
 
 " This course of doubt was commenced with in- 
 tensity four years ago, and was protracted, with 
 alternating influences, through three years or more. 
 Doubt seemed to have settled as a disease upon me. 
 It was a canker-worm at my heart. My best aiFec- •' 
 tions were withering to their root. Nor am I still 
 entirely free of its effects ; and indeed I can hardly 
 expect ever to be, so long as I am invested with my 
 frail mortality. 
 
 " I have not spoken, nor will it be embraced in 
 my present design to speak, of all the causes, second- 
 ary and remote, that may have led me to doubt. 
 Some of them were trifling, others of serious charac- 
 ter. It was enough to find myself in the eddies of 
 scepticism, and it is enough that I have been enabled 
 to escape from the apparently inevitable destruction. 
 
 "When I was spending my college-vacations at 
 home, you knew that I was not happy. There was 
 more than one cause for this. Some of them you 
 might have understood. But you probably did not 
 imagine, that one great cause of my despondency was 
 to be attributed to religious doubts and anxieties. 
 A combination of causes pressed me to the earth, 
 and my spirits were prostrated in the silent agony of 
 my heart. You called me oad. But I was only 
 odd to divert myself. I could not be regular. I 
 
86 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 could not have acted out myself, for tliat would have 
 been the bitterness of death to you all. I loved 
 your happiness ; therefore I did not tell you my 
 miseries ; for I knew that you could neither sympa- 
 thize with, nor relieve me. How much would you 
 have been overwhelmed with anguish, had I declared 
 to you the deep darkness, the gloomy disquietudes, 
 the damning doubts of my own crushed heart ! 
 
 " I hoped, though my hopes were often dim as 
 night, — yet I hoped continually that the day of my 
 illumination would come, and joyfully anticipated 
 the hour when I could tell you all I knew and all I 
 felt. I thought you would rejoice to see the wan- 
 derer return to his father's house. Why should you 
 be disconsolate, if he seems in some points to differ 
 from you? In the wide region of, to him, untra- 
 versed thought through which he has been obliged 
 to range, with attention painfully yet intensely di- 
 rected to every object that met his vision, are you 
 surprised if he has learned something new ? 
 
 " Your happiness has always been near my heart. 
 Forgive me, if in any thing I have made you grieve. 
 I have always been keenly sensitive. I know I have 
 not disciplined my sensibilities as I ought. I am 
 too easily irritated by trivial circumstances. The 
 bitterest trial, and indeed there can be none bitterer, 
 is to witness and excite the solicitudes of my firiends. 
 I do not wish to be forgotten ; but I wish, rather 
 than to be remembered with sorrow, to be cast into 
 your oblivion. Though all my friends should choose 
 to abandon me, I should still feel that I can rest, 
 with all the calmness of love and felicity of hope, 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 87 
 
 upon the bosom of my God. Heaven's mercy, like 
 the canopy of the skies, is a limitless expanse ; and, 
 though I should not see you in body, and might not 
 commune with you in spirit, I should still feel that 
 you were somewhere sheltered beneath it. But I 
 must turn to other topics. 
 
 " The doctrine of original sin is the substructure \ 
 of Calvinism, and, indeed; of the popular Orthodoxy 
 of the day. It is the foundation of most of the other 
 objectionable doctrines that have agitated the church, 
 such as infant-damnation, limited atonement, irresist- 
 ible grace, inability, and so forth. And it seems 
 strange to me, that men should have protected and 
 cherished a monster, against whose true offspring 
 they are so implacable. This doctrine, in its proper 
 interpretation, is this, — that fi:om Adam has been 
 transmitted, through all generations of men, a sinful 
 or depraved moral nature ; and that the distinguish- 
 ing property of this nature, in respect to God, is 
 to hate God, to rebel against him, and to seek to 
 dethrone him. We are told these are the Jirst, 
 spontaneous, natural feelings of our hearts ; that 
 they are increasing so long as the object is before 
 them, — enduring as long as we endure ; that they 
 become invigorated by exercise, more depraved by 
 mutual contact with men, maddened by opposition, 
 desperate by defeat; till at last, gathered together 
 under the eye of Him whom they naturally hate, 
 they burst out into the full blaze of hell for ever. 
 There is another form of the doctrine, which, while 
 it denies the hereditary defilement, still affirms that 
 the first and all the subsequent exercises of the soul 
 
88 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 are sinful, and only sinful. 1 could have no choice 
 between the doctrines. You may say that this is not 
 a fair statement of the doctrine, — that you are not 
 conscious of embracing such a doctrine. I fear, 
 truly, that too many are not aware of the absurdities 
 of their own creed. But I believe this is the doc- 
 trine of native defilement, in its naked, unpruned, 
 uncompromised truth. A consistent Calvinist must 
 admit this doctrine, and all the consequences that 
 legitimately flow from it. I do not wonder that rea- 
 son revolts and conscience frowns at such a principle 
 in religion. I do not wonder that the Calvinistic 
 church, in all periods of its existence, and the Pres- 
 byterian and Congregational churches now are con- 
 vulsed by it. I wonder rather that men dare not 
 re-assert their proper dignity, and rend asunder the 
 manacles of superstition and darkness that enchain 
 them. I wonder, too, how Christianity, with such 
 an incubus upon its energies, should ever have 
 achieved its gigantic triumphs. On this latter point, 
 the truth is, Christianity is adapted to human nature ; 
 and men practically act according to their nature, 
 though their speculative theology may be contrary 
 to it. 
 
 "When God looked down upon the works of 
 his creation, the heavens, the earth, man, all living 
 creatures, he pronounced them good. I now look 
 upon the sun and moon and stars, and find them 
 adapted to good. I look upon the earth, and find it 
 adapted to good : even its hurricanes, its earthquakes, 
 its ocean-storms, are all for good. I find the beasts, 
 the birds, the insects, all for good. I look upon 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. * 89 
 
 man in his physical frame, and find all adapted to 
 good. The eye is pleased with light, the ear with 
 sound, the smell with odors ; all senses have their 
 appropriate objects ; which objects, if rightly used, 
 promote and are essential to our highest sensual 
 happiness. I look upon the intellectual system, and 
 find it adapted to good. It is surrounded by its 
 appropriate objects, by which it is ever won to action, 
 and with which it is ever delightfully engaged. So 
 far, all conspires to good, and to the highest happi- 
 ness of man and the glory of God. I next turn my 
 eye to what has been called the chef-d^ceuvre of the 
 Almighty, and the crowning glory of the human 
 race, — the soul of man. "What a hideous spectacle 
 am I taught to behold ! The vision of horror flashes 
 out in one word : it hates, hates God, hates all that 
 is good. I see no adaptation to good, but only to 
 evil and utter woe. I can hardly say that it was 
 made to love ; for it seems to be formed only to hate 
 and be wretched. But what are its objects ? What 
 shall it love, if it can ? — and God commands it to 
 love. Shall it love God, the loveliest of all beings ? 
 It looks at him, and hates with a perfect hatred. 
 Shall it love man ? But men hate one another, and 
 with undying energies strive to crush one another 
 in the dust. Shall it love that which hates itself ? 
 Shall it love the external world and the brute crea- 
 tion ? But these are all made for good, and to please 
 God, and it must hate them too. Do you say it may 
 be indifferent to all things ? No, that cannot be. 
 All our senses must be active in reference to their 
 appropriate objects, either for pain or pleasure, for 
 
 8* 
 
r 
 
 90 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 love or hatred. The soul of man must act ; it does 
 act. It needs religion, but religion it hates. Men 
 must live together in society; but the quenchless 
 fires of hatred burn and blacken their souls. Man's 
 intellect looks through universal nature, and disco- 
 vers beauty, uniformity, design, — in all things a 
 God, and is pleased with the discovery. But his 
 soul, with malicious envy, looks at the scene, and 
 recoils in bitter hatred. How can it escape its 
 wretchedness ? Can it love its hatred, and be happy ? 
 But man was made to love the lovely, and he cannot 
 be happy while he loves the hateful. Besides, if he 
 can be happy in loving the hateful, he would love 
 his fellow-haters, and men would form alliances with 
 the fiends of the pit, and, in their mutual happiness, 
 would plant a new paradise in the regions of hell ; 
 and then ' blasphemies ascending to Heaven ' would 
 be the requiem of their malignity. 
 
 " But who makes the soul of man ? God. Human 
 agency is concerned in the structure of the body ; but 
 God alone makes the soul. And God commands the 
 soul of man to love himself. What conclusions do 
 the premises of Calvinism drive us to about our 
 God ! I cannot sketch them : the thought is blas- 
 phemous. I must be an atheist, and reject them ; 
 an idiot or a madman, and admit them. 
 
 "Unbiassed man, in his active emotions, must 
 love the lovely, and hate the hateful; or love the 
 hateful, and hate the lovely. 
 
 " Look into your own hearts, my Mends, and tell 
 me, do you find there dark despair, malignant hatred, 
 insatiable envy, bitter cursings ? There can be no 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 91 
 
 half-way course. Whenever your feelings have been 
 enlisted, it was either to love or to hate. Do you 
 say that you loved the mercy, and hated the justice, 
 of God ? You may have feared punishment ; but to 
 fear punishment, and to hate God, are two very dif- 
 ferent things. Besides, if you had really felt that 
 you deserved punishment, you would not hate God 
 for punishing you. If you really felt that you did not 
 deserve punishment, you could not have feared that 
 you would have been punished. And more, if you 
 had contemplated his character calmly and fully, you 
 must have realized, that, if he was just to punish, he 
 was as merciful to forgive ; and even more so, from 
 the fact that he still continued to you the means of 
 grace. How could you, then, have hated him ? Do 
 you say that you still continued in sins, and there- 
 fore hated God ? You were either happy in your 
 sins, or you were not. If you were, you could not 
 have hated God ; for no man can be exercising feel- 
 ings of hatred towards God, and at the same time 
 be happy in any thing. If you were not, if your 
 sins were a loathing to you, you were in the very 
 state to receive pardon from God; and how could 
 you then have hated him ? If you were thoughtless 
 about God, I have nothing say. For the man who 
 never thinks of God, knows not whether he hates or 
 loves him. But you say you spontaneously hated 
 God. Back again upon all the horrors of original 
 sin ! Is it true that man's nature, before actual sin, 
 is adapted to hate his God ? Alas ! alas ! "What 
 infatuation possesses the human mind! How has 
 man mistaken himself! How has he mistaken his 
 
V% CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 God ! O delusion, doubly damned, that causes our 
 creed to give the lie to our consciousness, and makes 
 the soul dig in itself its hell, and then lie down in its 
 own suffering ! 
 
 " But I turn from this gloomy prospect. I would 
 escape from these dark ages of a deceived and deceiv- 
 ing theology. Truth and Love, twin angels of a better 
 dispensation, are calling me away to their own bright 
 home. ' God made man in his own image.' This 
 declaration is reaffirmed by Daniel, Solomon, St. 
 Paul, and St. James. The last says, ' Men are made 
 after the similitude of God.' To discredit our Bibles 
 is to deny our God. To be ignorant of ourselves 
 is to enter upon the broad way of all error and all 
 delusion. To know ourselves, and not act according 
 to our natures, is supreme folly and unhappiness. 
 To know ourselves, and yet willingly debase our 
 natures, is rebellion against our Maker, and justly 
 exposes us to his wrath. God has made us, and not 
 we ourselves ; and to speak freely of ourselves im- 
 plies neither presumption, self-conceit, nor pride. 
 
 ^^My soul looks upward to its God; it sees his 
 perfections ; it loves and is happy. It looks upon 
 its fellow-beings, it sees in them the image of its 
 God ; it loves and is happy. It looks over the face 
 of nature, it sees everywhere the manifestations of 
 its God ; it loves and is happy. The soul craves a 
 pure, a godlike religion. It finds such in the Bible, 
 and knows the Bible is divine, and rejoices in its 
 possession. It looks upon Jesus Christ, and, seeing 
 in him the counterpart of its God, rejoices to find its 
 God ' manifest in the flesh ; ' and that, amidst the 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 93 
 
 many infirmities of our being, its aspirings after 
 conformity to its God are assisted by a sensible 
 exemplar. My soul seeks happiness, and finds it, 
 where alone it is to be found, in the fulness of my 
 God. Man, discovering in himself the image of his 
 God, learns the true idea of his own dignity. I 
 abhor slavery in all its forms ; that of the body and 
 of the intellect, but chiefly that of the soul. Con- 
 fidence is the great bond of society, and I learn the 
 true grounds of it. Man is to be trusted. Religion 
 is the soul loving its God. I learn, then, in whatever 
 clime and by whatever name this feeling is exer- 
 cised, there to join the communion of my own heart. 
 Religion does not consist in ' going to meeting,' or 
 in any formal exercises. It is the soul communing 
 with its God. I would strive, then, to make the 
 ' world my temple, and life itself one act of devo- 
 tion.' 
 
 " These views and feelings, my dear friends, — and 
 I have not told you half, — I delight to cherish. I 
 Sim fixed in them. I cannot give them up. They 
 are part of my being. They are within me and of 
 me. They are inwrought into the fibre of my soul. 
 I am conscious of them. I shall rejoice to live for 
 them, and I would gladly die for them. 
 
 " If they are not founded in truth, then there is 
 no religion, no God, no soul. The world is an 
 enigma. We ourselves are a wild chaos of absurdi- 
 ties. All things are the sport of a malignant chance. 
 There is no truth. We are in a whirl of illusions. 
 But this cannot be. 
 
 " Liberty, light, love, — this is my motto. With 
 
94 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 regard to liberty, all men are free to act, so far as 
 they do not interrupt the lawful action of others ; 
 and the lawful action of all men is that which pro- 
 duces universal happiness. Men may think within 
 the bounds of truth. Universal truth and universal 
 human happiness perfectly agree. In determining 
 the question. What is truth ? this may be the test, its 
 adaptation to promote happiness. That is not truth 
 which impairs the glory of God, and takes from 
 human happiness. 
 
 "With regard to light, all knowledge is useful. 
 The objects of knowledge are the things which God 
 has made. All philosophy, all science, all learning, 
 are to be prized as we would prize the things of God. 
 All knowledge is the handmaid of religion, and it is 
 religion that gives knowledge it^-chief^ value. All 
 truth harmonizes. 
 
 "Reason is the great instrument of knowledge, 
 the great instrument of truth. Reason is sacred. 
 It may no more be trifled with or abused, its dictates 
 may no more be slighted or contemned, than truth 
 itself, or God himself. Reason is the arbiter of the 
 soul. It judges upon what is presented in nature 
 and in the Bible, and declares to us the truth. Rea- 
 son guides us to the throne of God. There the 
 heart holds sweet intercourse ; there the will sub- 
 mits in lowliness ; there the intellect receives new 
 treasures of knowledge. God has made nature, he 
 has made the Bible. Truth is immutable. It is the 
 same in nature and in revelation. Who will, then, 
 impiously dissever the Bible from nature, — revealed 
 religion from natural religion? God speaks, and 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 95 
 
 reason is the echoing of his voice. He creates, and 
 reason is the mirror of his omnipotence. He is the 
 author of truth, and reason is its revelation. Who 
 will be indifferent to reason ? "Who will slight his 
 God ? Who will trample down reason ? Who will 
 prescribe his God ? 
 
 " I would yield my heart cheerfully to the dictates 
 of reason. I cannot, I dare not demur. I reject 
 Calvinism because it opposes my consciousness, my 
 reason, nature, and the Bible. In following an un- 
 biassed reason, I feel that I please my God. My soul 
 bursts from its prison-house ; it walks forth, buoyant 
 with freedom ; it treads upward towards its God. 
 
 "Love, 'love is the fulfilling of the law.' 'God 
 is love.' ' He that loveth is born of God.' To love 
 is godlike. To love is to be happy. We should 
 love all men, because there is something lovely in 
 man. We should love God supremely, because he 
 is infinitely lovely. I should love all men, and all 
 men should love me. This would make a heaven of 
 earth, as it is the heaven of heaven. If I have not 
 loved others, it is because I have not known them. 
 If they have not loved me, I would fain hope it 
 is because they have not known me. Love is the 
 cincture of heaven, and the golden chain that may 
 raise earth to the skies. 
 
 " To love is the prerogative of the soul ; 'tis its 
 commanding excellence. It is its free, native, bliss- 
 ful exercise. But, according to Calvinism, the soul 
 naturally hatesT^ It cannot love its God. It cannot 
 love the human race; O creed, full of all abomina- 
 tions ! 
 
96 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 " Unitarianism, — I am too well aware of the odor 
 in which, this name is held. But I have learned not 
 to fear names. A hard lesson has this been to me. 
 There is only one name which I almost reverence, 
 and towards which I am perhaps too strongly pre- 
 possessed. That is Truth. Whatever bears this 
 name has a passport to my heart. 
 
 " But what does the name Unitarianism wear upon 
 its face so revolting ? It relates primarily and solely 
 to the Unity of God. In this sense, with the Jews 
 of old, we are all Unitarians. But you are some- 
 thing more. You are both Unitarians and Trinita- 
 rians. It is possible to believe too much as well as 
 too little. Men constantly vibrate between credulity 
 and scepticism. You believe that God is one, and 
 that he is three. But you will say, that you do not 
 mean that he is in the same sense one that he is 
 three, or three that he is one. You believe in a 
 Trinity. I should go farther, and aver that we have 
 good evidence of a quaternity and a quinquenity in 
 the Godhead. If you will read carefully the account 
 of angels in the Pentateuch, and of wisdom in the 
 Proverbs, you will find all the attributes of the 
 Almighty ascribed to them. 
 
 "With regard to the Holy Spirit, he is either 
 the one Great God of the universe, or he is a being 
 distinct from him. If you think he is one and 
 the same, so far you are Unitarians. If he is dis- 
 tinct, it must be in one of three ways : he is either 
 greater, equal to, or less than God. If greater, then 
 God has a superior, which cannot be ; if equal, then 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 97 
 
 there are two Gods, which cannot be ; if less, we 
 have an inferior Divinity, which cannot be. 
 
 '^Christ also is the one great God of the uni- 
 verse, or a being distinct from him. If you think 
 him one and the same, then you are Unitarians. 
 But the Trinitarians say that he is in some respects 
 distinct from God, yet that he is truly God. Now, 
 in whatever respects, properties, attributes, qualities, 
 or any thing you choose, he is distinct, he must 
 differ in one of three ways. He is either greater, 
 equal to, or less than God. But either of these can- 
 not be. Therefore, in whatever sense he is in the 
 least degree distinct from God, he is not God. But 
 the New Testament everywhere speaks of him as a 
 distinct being, — as a person by himself ; and so 
 I believe he truly is : but I cannot believe he is 
 the one great God of the universe, indivisible, in- 
 communicable. Whatever and whoever differs from 
 God differs, in a strict, metaphysical sense, infinitely. 
 You say we do not understand the connection be- 
 tween our mind and body. True ; but we do fully 
 understand this, that our mind is not our body, nor 
 our body our mind. The very idea of connection 
 implies a difference in the things connected. 
 
 '' Let me appeal to your own experience. When 
 you direct your petitions to God and to Christ in 
 the same prayer, do they seem to you as one and the 
 same ? Do you regard them both as the one Infinite 
 Jehovah ? When you pray to Christ alone, or when 
 you think of him by himself, do you think of him 
 as the Infinite God ? Do you worship Christ, having 
 the clear idea of him as God ? If you do not, and 
 
 9 
 
98 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 he be really the great God of the universe, you are 
 guilty of the habitual sin of degrading God, and you 
 degrade him infinitely ; for, as we have before seen, 
 whatever differs from God differs infinitely. You 
 say an infinite being must die to make an atonement 
 for sin ? I will only ask, could God suffer ? could 
 God die ? 
 
 " Yet Christ is a great, a glorious being. There 
 is no other like him. He is ' the brightness of God's 
 glory, the express image of his person.' He is 
 truly, I do not say in a literal sense, 'God with 
 us.' He is 'God manifest in the flesh.' He is our 
 Redeemer from sin. He is the ' Captain of our sal- 
 vation.' He is ' the High Priest of the new cove- 
 nant.' We may love him, because in him dwells 
 the perfection of excellence. We may imitate him, 
 because he is like God. I wish only to preach 
 Christ. For me to live is Christ. In the days of 
 / my doubt, I had almost given up Christ. My soul 
 y j 'wandered over the tumultuous waters of scepticism, 
 \ 'and could find no rest for the sole of its foot. It 
 has now returned to the ark of its everlasting rest. 
 
 ''If the rejection of the obnoxious and essential 
 points of Calvinism necessarily involves Unitarian- 
 ism, you cannot imagine that I should hesitate which 
 of the two to choose. If to desire the greatest hap- 
 piness of the universe, and the highest glory of 
 God ; if to see the wisdom and goodness of God dis- 
 played in all his works ; if to take elevated views of 
 his noblest work, man ; if to believe and love the 
 revelation which God has made of himself to man ; if 
 to unite the philosopher and the Christian, and make 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 99 
 
 them harmoniously subserve the same chief end ; if 
 to desire to see the image of God, wherever prostrate, 
 raised, — wherever bright, made still more radiant ; 
 if, in a word, to desire to see man illuminated in his 
 darkness, purified from his sins, delivered from the 
 dominion of his Adversary, elevated from his degra- 
 dation, and to see him loving and being loved, 
 ascending towards his God, unfolding his large 
 capacities for the bliss and holiness of the skies ; 
 rising, in the full vigor of his strength, in the in- 
 tensity of his longings, upward and upward, till 
 earth and heaven shall meet in rapturous unison; 
 and the souls of men and angels, and the Spirit of 
 the living God, shall flow together in one infinite, 
 changeless heart of love ; — I say, if this is to be a 
 Unitarian, then I am one. And I rejoice in the 
 inefiable glory which God, by such a character, is 
 pleased to confer upon us, unworthy worms of the 
 dust. 
 
 " If Unitarianism looks coldly upon man, and with 
 indiiference upon its God ; if it locks itself up in the 
 shadowy recesses of selfishness ; if it indulges no 
 lofty aspirings, no holy desires ; if it has no sympa- 
 thies, no heart, no head ; if it be a negative insensi- 
 bility in respect to the great, the godlike, and the 
 good, though it may abjure Calvinism, ^! am n ot a 
 Unitarian. ^ 
 
 " Death I do not fear. The thought has some- 
 times been oppressive ; but now the shadows have 
 all melted away in the clear light of faith and hope. 
 I have some dread of the physicalities of dying, — 
 nothing more. I have had a desire to die, that I 
 
 >^ 
 
100 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 might escape the miseries of existence. In the lap 
 of the grave I would gladly have pillowed my aching 
 head, my burdened heart. Thoughtwom, careworn, 
 I would gladly have relieved my crazed brain any- 
 where. I used to sing, or rather groan out, you 
 know, ' There shall the wicked cease from troubling, 
 there shall the weary be at rest.' I felt it all to my 
 inmost soul. I have few such feelings now. I look 
 forward to death with calmness, yet with some exhila- 
 ration. Death is only the vestibule of heaven. Its 
 threshold may be easily crossed. Our bodies are 
 the furnace of the soul, from which it will issue at 
 death, defecated and polished, to mingle in com- 
 munion with the Holy and the Infinite. Where the 
 disengaged spirit goes to, we cannot tell. 'Tis 
 enough to know it goes to its God ; that it lives in 
 his life, is beatified in his bliss, is glorious in his 
 glory. Why should we, then, fear to die ? Jesus 
 Christ has dissipated the gloom of the grave. There 
 is no terror there. I would reverberate that out- 
 breaking of ecstasy and triumph, ^ O death ! where is 
 thy sting ? grave ! where is thy victory ? ' I thank 
 my God, who giveth me the victory through my Lord 
 Jesus Christ. 
 
 " What is hell ? To be without God is hell. To 
 have any other society than that of the holy is hell. 
 To have your natures undeveloped to the spiritual is 
 liell. To be assimulated to the earth, till the soul 
 becomes materialized by the gross contact, is hell. 
 Any thing that is not heaven, holiness, God, to beings 
 born with such natures and such susceptibilities as 
 we have, is hell ; 'tis the ' gnawing worm,' the 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL \^EWS. 101 
 
 ' quenchless fire.' There may be direct inflictions of 
 punishment ; but this is not necessary to make a hell 
 for us. God, in this world, generally punishes men 
 by leaving them to the fruit of their own doings. 
 In the next world, it will be hell enough to be un- 
 spiritualized, unholy, unglorified. 
 
 " I am happy in my religious views ; but there 
 are thoughts associated with them which make me 
 very wretched. My heart is like the landscape over 
 which the shadows pass, blend, break away, and 
 mingle again. My indiscretions are a permanent 
 source of unhappiness. My irritability makes others 
 unhappy, and, of course, reacts upon myself. The 
 anxieties of my friends awaken concern in my own 
 heart. 
 
 " I have told you something of my wanderings. 
 1 have unfolded to you something of my heart. This 
 is my Cardiagraphy. I have not tol^Tyou every 
 thing. I could not. You would not wish to know. 
 There are chambers which may never be opened. I 
 shall throw the keys away. I say I rejoice in my 
 religious thoughts. Joy, of course, with me, must 
 be a qualified term. I rejoice with trembling. I am 
 at a period in life when young men are apt to look 
 with a cloudy eye. The shadows of my dark night 
 are not yet all dispersed. I feel sometimes as if I 
 had reached but the twilight of a brighter day. 
 When moral diseases have once settled upon the 
 mind, it is with difficulty they can be cured. To 
 doubt was my disease. Its effects, as I have said 
 before, are still experienced. Yet I will not despond. 
 I must be nerved for every confiict. My eyes, I am 
 
10^ CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 sure, have seen the salvation of the Lord, and I will 
 try to go on my way in peace. I reflect with the 
 deepest interest on many events of my life; nor 
 can I ever forget them. You may be disappointed 
 in me ; may even regret that the expense and pains 
 of a college-education have been bestowed. But I 
 beg of you to forbear such thoughts. I would hope 
 that I am a wiser and a better man. I would hope 
 that I am fitted for more usefulness in the world. 
 I love my friends, and always shall. If, as again a 
 wanderer, I am compelled to leave the communion 
 of their hearts, my heart will return perhaps more 
 fully to the bosom of its God, where I know your 
 hearts are, and where our hearts shall meet to be for 
 ever blessed together. 
 
 " I have been looking over what I have penned. 
 I am afraid you will think I have expressed myself 
 too strongly; but I feel deeply. I have written 
 hastily, because feelings never sit for their portraits. 
 You have sometimes chided me because I have kept 
 myself concealed. You will not blame me, then, 
 for turning aside the veil, even though you witness 
 what you might wish had no existence. As a mem- 
 ber of the family, I wish to be not coldly but warmly 
 known. Yet transparency we may rather deprecate, 
 except when 'tis permeated by truth and beauty. 
 
 " I feel that I am an infant in knowledge, a novice 
 in attainment. But I am determined, ^forgetting 
 the things that are behind, to press on towards the 
 mark ' of truth, holiness, spirituality, perfection in 
 God. No, I cannot rest. I feel a Spirit stirring me 
 up to holy purposes, to high accomplishments. The 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 103 
 
 courses of religious action, as before alluded to, are 
 various. You will not care what name I bear, pro- 
 vided I am only engaged in removing the sin and 
 earthliness of man, that he may reflect, in unobscured 
 lustre, the full-orbed glory of his God." 
 
 The above extracts, with their intensity of feeling, 
 and somewhat incoherency of expression, form a 
 good portrait of the mind of Mr. Judd at this time. 
 About the same date he writes — 
 
 To A. H. 
 " I am at home, doing nothing. I have no dis- 
 position to write anybody, or say any thing. There 
 is no topic on which I can speak freely. The pre- 
 sent is perplexing and disagreeable; the future is 
 shrouded in uncertainty and gloom. My mental and 
 moral powers are under a perfect paralysis. Take, 
 if you please, this scrawl, not of my thoughts, for I 
 have none ; not of my feelings, for the ' mire and 
 dirt ' of those troubled waters I would not put upon 
 paper. I would ask to be remembered to my jfriends, 
 if I were what I might be ; but such a thing as I 
 am, how can I care to be held in remembrance ? " 
 
 Here he was now a young man, just entering upon 
 his twenty-fifth year. He had received those advan- 
 tages of a public education which had been the hope 
 of his early years, — the ardent wish of his more 
 mature youth. With all the enthusiasm of his na- 
 ture, he had entered upon them as preparatory to 
 the profession of a Calvinistic minister. With him 
 
104 CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 
 
 went the expectations of family and friends, and of 
 the church with which he was connected, that he 
 would become a zealous and distinguished clergy- 
 man of the Calvinistic faith. But, compelled in 
 conscience to sever himself from the religious de- 
 nomination of his fathers, he now found himself, so 
 far as the associations and many of the affections of 
 his former life were concerned, stranded upon an 
 / unknown shore, half crazed by the tumultuous buffet- 
 ■ ings from which he had just escaped, and fainting 
 with weakness from the conflict he had endured. 
 
 Not possessing a very firm physical organization, 
 but with affections deep and strong, and keenly alive 
 to blame or reproach, it was hard for him to with- 
 draw the veil, and abide the shock of a disclosure, 
 with all its attendant consequences. His whole be- 
 ing, physical and mental, reeled under it. This 
 change in theological views, involving the costliest 
 sacrifices of the heart, put him to the strongest test 
 that a man can be called upon to endure, that duty, 
 principle, truth, were with him paramount to every 
 thing else. 
 
 His father was a man of much liberality of feeling. 
 He had always encouraged freedom of opinion, and 
 had therefore not much to say condemnatory of the 
 position in which his son now found himself by the 
 honest exercise of this freedom. But it is true, that 
 to many of his family friends, this was a sore trial. 
 He had, as they thought, embraced error which 
 might be fatal to his own soul ; and he was to become 
 a teacher of this error to others. 
 
 On perusing this " Cardiagraphy," however, this 
 
CHANGE IN THEOLOGICAL VIEWS. 105 
 
 baring of his conscientious, loving spirit to their 
 view, they were completely disarmed. They could 
 utter no word of opposition to the stand he took, 
 when they beheld the fearful but honest strife that 
 had so long been warring within him. They even 
 stood back in reverence before the integrity of feel- 
 ing evinced, the costly sacrifices he was ready to 
 make to his sense of truth, and the general purity of 
 soul revealed. And from those nearest him, he from 
 this time experienced no interruption in the current 
 of kindly sympathy and love. 
 
 Taken all together, this summer of 1837 was to 
 Mr. Judd a period of such almost annihilating suf- 
 fering, that his friends sometimes feared as to the 
 final result. Its scathing influence he very sensibly 
 felt for several succeeding years, and from its para- 
 lyzing effects upon his nervous system he indeed 
 never recovered. 
 
106 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 FIRST YEAR AT HARVARD. 
 
 On entering upon his theological studies, Mr. Judd 
 was embarrassed by the same pecuniary difficul- 
 ties with which he had all along been forced to con- 
 tend. There was indeed the additional perplexity 
 arising from being severed, denominationally, from 
 all his old Christian friends, from whom otherwise 
 he might have hoped to obtain easy loans until he 
 should be able to refund the sums furnished. But 
 now he certainly could not expect from them any 
 facilities in aiding him to become what they consi- 
 dered a preacher of error. His father had already 
 furnished him all the means in his power. To the 
 Unitarian body, with which he now found himself 
 most closely allied in views and feelings, he was an 
 entire stranger. But, as knowledge of his change of 
 opinions spread abroad, he did not have to wait long 
 for the kindest attentions from those of that commu- 
 nion with whom he came in contact. He naturally 
 wished to make Harvard the alma mater of his theo- 
 logical course. Here he availed himself partly of a 
 fund for the benefit of divinity students, and partly of 
 the liberality of Mr. Edmund Dwight, of Boston, a 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 107 
 
 gentleman who was in the habit of loaning money to 
 students there, without interest, to be returned or 
 not, according to convenience. So, with the most 
 strict economical arrangements, he entered the Di- 
 vinity School of Harvard University, at the com- 
 mencement of the academic year in 1837. 
 
 Here now he found himself a member of venera- 
 ble old Harvard, the reputed hot-bed of what he 
 himself had once regarded as heretical opinions ; in 
 the midst of strangers to his former faith ; an alien 
 from the household of Calvinism ; in the exercise of 
 new habits of thought, and in all respects surrounded 
 by new scenes and associations. Boston, the seat of 
 refinement and literature, was of easy access ; Bunker 
 Hill and Dorchester Heights, the thrilling scenes of 
 whose history had traced their imagery on his boy- 
 hood's imagination, were not far off ; Mount Auburn, 
 the ' city of the silent,' was near at hand ; and nature, 
 in her highest forms of beauty and cultivation, was 
 all around. He was settled in a religious faith, 
 which, to him, was the truth of God. All his doubts 
 and scepticism were dispersed, the struggles with 
 his early creed over, the dreaded ordeal of develop- 
 ment past, and his stand taken in a new course. 
 With his escape from those tormenting disquietudes, 
 and with the free and full unbosoming to his friends 
 of what had so long been shut up in his own soul, 
 forming a sort of cold barrier between him and those 
 closest to his heart, returned the gentle tenderness 
 of his childhood-days, and an openness of commu- 
 nication quite in opposition to his natural reserve. 
 He felt his spirit in harmony with itself, with heaven 
 
108 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 and with eaxth. Love, in its highest sense, was the 
 element in which he floated. 
 
 But was he now completely happy ? No. The 
 health of his physical nature being impaired, his 
 nervous system, like the strings of a wind-harp, was 
 tremblingly alive to every gentle breeze or rude 
 blast that might sweep over it. Next to the pre- 
 sence of God in his soul, the greatest want of his 
 nature was human sympathy. Partly in consequence 
 of his own idiosyncracies of character, and in part 
 from the religious struggle which was going on in 
 his mind, he went through college without any hosom 
 friend among his fellow-students. On going to Cam- 
 bridge, he felt that — 
 
 *' His soul had been 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea; 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be." 
 
 His spirit yearned for sympathy, for companion- 
 ship in all its recesses, in all its weaknesses. He 
 felt how poor a thing was human weakness to con- 
 tend with strength. His experiences had been varied, 
 intricate, entangled. He himself found it difficult 
 to trace the clew of light through the labyrinth of 
 darkness in which he had wandered ; much more so, 
 in his enervated condition, to give an intelligible, 
 consistent trace of it to any one else. He was too 
 vulnerable on all points of greatest interest to him, 
 to bear the shock of a misunderstanding, or a short- 
 coming to his needs. Yet he was not sufficient to 
 himself. He needed the tender support of a strong 
 mind that had itself suffered as he had, that had gone 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 109 
 
 down to the silent abyss of unutterable sorrow, that 
 knew all its devious ramifications, and that under- 
 stood how to remove the garment of sadness so 
 gently, that the change would be known only by the 
 refreshment which succeeded. With him were long- 
 ings for the infinite, the unattained. These he found 
 satisfied in a good degree in his God and his religion ; 
 but as to human participators, where should he find 
 them ? He descended into the depths of the loneli- 
 ness of his own spirit ; he sounded its profoundest 
 recesses, and drew up thence fountains of knowledge 
 which enabled him ever after to discover the stand- 
 point of suffering souls, and to get into a real 
 sympathy with their griefs. 
 
 Yet the sunlight of joy gilded the tops of rocks 
 that rose above these troubled waters. Some parts 
 of his many-sided nature were more than satisfied. 
 He found delight in mental investigations. He did 
 find much sympathy and congeniality. And on he 
 went, manfully yet sorrowfully, with a brave, though 
 sinking heart. 
 
 The Unitarians he thought had too little fervor in^ 
 tjieir religion. He was instrumental in establishing 
 private meetings for prayer among his fellow-students, 
 and was distinguished among them for readiness to 
 bear his part, and for the nearness with which he 
 seemed to approach their common Lord, and pour 
 forth his supplications. In his Journal, Feb. 2S, 
 1838, he writes of them, " These are delightful sea- 
 sons. We seem to get each night a little nearer to 
 heaven." 
 
 In his second year, under the title of ^^ Familiar 
 
 10 
 
110 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 Sketches/' he communicated to the "Christian Re- 
 gister " a series of letters addressed to his friend 
 
 "W n, upon the change in his religious views, 
 
 which were soon, at the request of the American 
 Unitarian Association, under the title of ^' A Young 
 Man's Account of his Conversion from Calvinism," 
 published by that body as Tract No. 128. He com- 
 mences thus : — 
 
 "Dear W n, — You desire of me some ac- 
 count of myself, — of what I am, what I think, what 
 I feel ', " and then goes on to state, in the main, what 
 has already been given in the preceding chapter on 
 his change of theological views. He speaks more 
 at large of what he considers the difficulties of the 
 system of Calvinism, its practical effects, its opposi- 
 tion to the Bible and to the analogy of nature, the 
 fear of Unitarianism, the objections raised against it, 
 and the arguments for the creed of the Genevan. 
 " The doctrine of the Trinity," he says, " which is 
 regarded as the great point of division between the 
 Calvinists and Unitarians, was secondary in the order 
 and the interest of my inquiries." 
 
 In the third letter, he writes : " I have given you 
 a summary account of some of the results of my 
 inquiries. These may appear, at first glance, to be 
 simple, natural, and easily reached. The process, 
 however, is not instantaneous, or unattended with 
 difficulties. Our religious investigations have this 
 peculiarity, that at every step they are thronged with 
 considerations of momentous and changeless conse- 
 quences. In philosophy we may digress in our in- 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. Ill 
 
 quiries, diversify our experiments^ revolutionize our 
 theories, without the apprehension of affecting seri- 
 ously the welfare of society, or of giving a new deter- 
 mination to our immortal destiny. In religion it is 
 not so. A consistent religious course is of supreme 
 value to every man in this life. But in the next — 
 who can measure the tide of consequences that flows 
 on through eternity ? We tremble at every thought, 
 decision, act, lest we impart some slight bias to the 
 nicely adjusted sequence of events, by which, in 
 the progress of ages, instead of being elevated to the 
 happiness we desire, we shall become involved in 
 inextricable misery." 
 
 Speaking of 'the metaphysical subtilties in which 
 on a certain occasion he found himself involved, he 
 says : " I might have persisted in these perplexing 
 abstractions, I cannot say how long, when my thoughts 
 were diverted by the entrance of a little girl, who 
 came tripping in with the freedom and glee of youth. 
 She was in the incipient development of her primi- 
 tive being. She had not experienced, so far as I 
 know, a change from what was her original nature. 
 I called her attention, and read to her the verse, 
 * Blessed are the pure in heart,' and so forth, and 
 asked her if she thought it was good in God to bless 
 only those who had pure hearts. * Oh ! ' said she, ^ I 
 wish my heart to be always pure.' Then she added, 
 with a look between a smile and a thought, such as 
 you sometimes see pass over the face of a child, ' I 
 should not be happy in heaven with God, if I had a 
 wicked heart.' All the world may not perceive the 
 bearing of this slight occurrence. You will under- 
 
112 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 stand me when I say it was a hint, a blessed hint, 
 to better things." 
 
 Farther on, he says : " There is one thing which 
 engages my attention much : it is the naturalness of 
 the religion of Evangelical Unitarians. Eeligion 
 with them does not appear, as we sometimes witness, 
 an exotic transplanted to an uncongenial soil, to be 
 cultivated by artificial appliances ; but as something 
 which has sprung up in the native mould of the 
 heart. It is warm, free, constant. It is not active 
 for a time, and then chilled by the intervention of 
 worldliness. It is not assumed for a sabbath, a meet- 
 ing, or an accidental emergency ; but interests itself 
 in the various circumstances of life, and expresses 
 itself on every fitting occasion. It mingles with the 
 recollections of childhood, and with the scenes of 
 youth. God has ever been to it a Father, the Holy 
 Spirit a Sanctifier, and Christ a Saviour. 
 
 '' Evangelical Unitarianism does justice to human 
 nature. This is its peculiar excellence. Christ did 
 not come to create a new race of beings on the earth, 
 but to develop, bring out, elevate, and re-establish 
 the existing race in its original purity. Unitarianism 
 recognizes in all men the priceless ^ pearl' of the 
 * kingdom ; ' and it would raise them up into the full 
 light of truth, and the rich joys of holiness. It is 
 teaching the great doctrines of humanity, which shall 
 subvert and utterly demolish, throughout the world, 
 every system of oppression and degradation, religious, 
 moral, and political. It is teaching the sublime and 
 godlike lesson of the worth of the universal human 
 heart." 
 
LIFE AT THE UIVINITY SCHOOL. 113 
 
 The reader may already have remarked a change 
 in Mr. Judd's general style of writing, from the time 
 he first found repose in his new views. These were 
 attended with a perfect mellowness of feeling, a full 
 and easy flow of thought, an elevation and richness 
 of expression : they seemed, in a sense, to produce 
 the full flowering of his being. As a whole, his 
 Cambridge correspondence is in quite striking con- 
 trast with that of New Haven. 
 
 Copious extracts from letters written while he 
 was in the Divinity School will form the principal 
 material of this chapter. A greater space is afforded 
 to his miscellaneous correspondence of this period 
 than would otherwise be, because it so fully unfolds 
 the general elements of his character. 
 
 His first communication home is addressed — 
 
 * To HIS Mother. 
 
 " Cambeidge Theological Sebmnart, Aug. 27, 1837. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — You see I am on the here- 
 tic's ground. Strange as it may seem to myself, 
 unanticipated as it has been by you, it is neverthe- 
 less true that I am here." 
 
 " Aug. 30, Commencement-day. — A great assembly 
 as usual ; a multitude of venerable men and learned 
 men. It seemed like standing in the shades of Old 
 England's aristocracy. But; alas ! I lost my dinner. 
 Contrary to the custom in New Haven and Amherst, 
 those who are only A. B.'s are not invited to dine 
 with the Faculty. ... 
 
 " I shall room alone. It will cost more, but I can 
 study more. Every thing, you know, is to be sacri- 
 
 io» 
 
114 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 ficed to study. Shall have no one to irritate me by- 
 paltry disturbances. So I may be as calm as the 
 wood-sheltered lake. 
 
 " I feel that, in coming here, I have bid a sort of 
 everlasting farewell to most of my old Orthodox 
 friends, so that I have not the solace of communion 
 with the absent. Still, I do not love them the less, 
 but truth the better." 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 " Cambridge Theological Seminaey, Sept. 7, 1837. 
 
 " I suppose you are prepared for every thing ; and 
 it is unnecessary to allude to my own feelings on 
 finding myself in this new, this strange, this forbid- 
 den situation. Yet I am almost surprised to realize 
 that I am here. It seems sometimes like a dream, 
 from which I shall soon awake. And the past, the 
 past ! Where is it ? How has it flown ? Either 
 that or this must be a dream. How changed are all 
 things around me, and before me in the future ! I 
 seem to have experienced a sort of metempsychosis. 
 But the past was real. It lingers, dilates, kindles in 
 my thoughts, as does the vision of his home-valley 
 to the distant traveller. 
 
 "I shall touch briefly upon the present. The 
 associations of this whole region are of a most in- 
 teresting character. New England had its origin 
 here. This is the land of our ancestors. 
 
 '^ The subject-matter of your notes, of our frequent 
 conversations, and indeed of my whole life, for these 
 many months, is of such a nature that I rather avoid 
 entering upon it fully. It borders, some would 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 115 
 
 think, too much, on the sentimental. It certainly is 
 incorporated with those deep emotions which have 
 no language, which will not bear a calm retrospec- 
 tion, and such as we rather tremble to feel, than are 
 ready to communicate. There are abysses of feeling 
 which we know nothing about till we are plunged 
 into them. I shudder as I look back upon the past. 
 Man knows not the heart. It is a thing of mysteries. 
 It is the mystery of mysteries. Its fall capabilities 
 it will take an eternity to reveal. To feel is my 
 nature. It is my thought, my act. I have always 
 felt. But such occasions as the last eight months 
 have environed me with, I have not always been 
 subject to. Every object was an emotion, and every 
 feeling a pang. Man fi'owned me fi*om his presence. 
 Nature, my mother nature, chided my sorrowing. 
 Self was a dashing sea. But this is all past, for ever 
 past ; I mean the occasions, not exactly the feeling. 
 This throws its currents over me when I would 
 gladly rest in solitude and distance. 
 
 " This summer has been most eventful to me, both 
 in feeling and act. Old relations have been broken 
 up, and new ones assumed. I cannot forget the 
 past. It embraces too great a portion of myself I 
 would not. The very anguish of my feelings begets 
 a sort of pleasing delirium. Besides, at present, I 
 have nothing to feel about ; and, were it not for the 
 past, I know not but that my heart would turn 
 to marble. I am lonely here. I am not much 
 acquainted even with the students yet. I have not 
 found my man. Hope a good Providence will send 
 him soon. Where is she 1 Where is the ^ well of 
 
116 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 waters ' by which I can stand ' at the time of even- 
 ing when the daughters of men come out to draw 
 water ' ? This perhaps will seem to you idle and 
 unworthy of me. I dismiss the topic. If we stand 
 still, I have heard it said, the world will come round 
 to us. 
 
 " The events of the summer seem to have no 
 regular eclair cissement. They are a labyrinth from 
 which I escaped, not by a proper egress, but by a 
 flight out at the top. ... I must commence life again. 
 Eeligiously I have ; so I must in other things. But 
 my poor nature seems almost wrecked, and almost 
 without the power of resuscitation. I feel sometimes 
 as if I were sinking into old age. Perhaps this is 
 only the exhaustion of over-action. My life in its 
 vigor may return." 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 " CAMBEiDaB Theological Seminary, Sept. 7, 1837. 
 
 "It makes a stranger feel much more lonely 
 to be with a multitude who all know each other. 
 This is the loneliness of the multitude, which is 
 much worse than the loneliness of solitude. In the 
 latter case, we are never alone ; for we can commune 
 with ourselves and our God. And we can hold con- 
 / verse with nature, who is never engaged, but always 
 solicits our acquaintance by innumerable attractions. 
 We need never fear to make the acquaintance of 
 nature. Man sometimes deceives us ; nature, never. 
 Man grows tired of our company: nature is ever 
 presenting new fascinations in order that we may 
 stay. I do not know but you will think I am sick 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. IIT 
 
 of men. I am in some respects, but I love nature 
 more. She is my companion, my study, my delight. 
 She reveals a God. 
 
 " Sept. 8. — I was interrupted in my reverie yes- 
 terday by the bell. Perhaps it is well for me that 
 my thoughts are brought back, I was going to say, 
 to real life. But my own reveries are as much real 
 life Jo me .as any thing else ; so that, whether I am 
 in the world or out of the world, I am in my proper 
 life. As I hinted in my last letter, our seminary is 
 retired. This is favorable to study, and especially 
 to theological study ; which always flourishes better 
 in the grove than in the city. Indeed, it sometimes 
 seems to me almost impossible for a man to cultivate 
 a perfect religious character in the city, where the 
 earth and the sky are paved out and walled out from 
 his view. 
 
 " I find myself in the midst of an aristocracy of lit- 
 erature, wealth, and family, — in my proper element, 
 I suppose father will say. There is the aristocracy 
 of the lower orders, and the aristocracy of the higher. 
 Who would fillip a copper for the difference ? Man 
 is aspiring. That is his glory. If he were not so, 
 he would be of the brute. The world would stag- 
 nate. Give each man all the influence he can get, 
 and we shall all have our proper influence. The 
 scholar looks down upon the farmer, the farmer upon 
 the shoemaker, the shoemaker upon the chimney- 
 sweep. All, in my estimation, are good enough. 
 'Tis folly to be proud, 'tis misery to envy. Where 
 shall I stand ? An egotistical, but a very proper 
 question, — where I can, of course. I have none to 
 
118 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 raise me ; and, I am sure, I wish for none to pull me 
 down. It was no more intended that there should 
 be a perfect level of influence, than that there should 
 be a dead level of thought. And to desire influence 
 for the good of men and the glory of God, is a most 
 religious motive. 
 
 ^^ You must be very busy in fitting C. P. off. Let 
 not my affairs hurry you. I am afraid, I know 
 indeed, you exert yourself too much for your child- 
 ren. If they all prove such heretics as I have, I do 
 not know but you will be discouraged. But we 
 shall ever be grateful. 
 
 ^' Sept. 10. — We had a most excellent sermon 
 this morning from Frof^ Ware. It was Orthodox 
 enough for any one. All that Unitarians need is to 
 adhere to their principles, and acquire some of the 
 spirit of the Orthodox." 
 
 To HIS Cousin G. L. 
 " Cambeidge Theological Seminary, Sept. 9, 1837. 
 
 " Dear Cousin, — I wish, in the outset of this let- 
 ter, to allude to my neglect of correspondence. You 
 may have thought it very strange. It was strange. 
 My apology is to be found in my history. You have 
 some conception of what that has been for the last 
 two or three years. Religious considerations, of a 
 new and peculiar nature, have been pressing with 
 such weight upon my mind, that I could not write. 
 I have often wished to write you. I have more than 
 once taken up my pen, but have thrown it down in 
 despair. I could not disclose to you the subject 
 about which my thoughts were most anxiously en- 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 119 
 
 gaged. I was entering upon an untried world. 
 Objects around me were indistinct, and yet of over- 
 whelming importance. I could not write about 
 them. I could only think and feel. When I write 
 to a confidential friend, I wish to, I must, write from 
 the heart. Biit where our thoughts become involved, 
 forbidden, strange, we must not pen them. 
 
 " I have been struggling these many years with 
 the difficulties of Orthodoxy. 'Tis no new thing. 
 Long before I went to college, I was often in doubt. 
 You can guess something of my ups and downs. 
 But why did I not tell you something of the matter ? 
 Alas ! I could not. I said nothing, as you know, to 
 our own family. It was the secret, the corroding, 
 burning secret of my own heart. Perhaps my re- 
 serve was not quite reasonable. Yet I did disclose 
 myself as soon as I could. Perfect conviction and 
 settled determination on a change of such vast mo- 
 ment are not the work of a day. My last act, 
 previously to an unreserved declaration, was to read 
 my Bible from Genesis to the Apocalypse. With 
 the whole word of God, as I thought, on my side, 
 I felt ready to meet the world. 
 
 *' You have noticed some peculiarities in my con- 
 duct. But you, as well as others, mistook their 
 occasion. It was religious doubts that hung about 
 me like mill-stones, and haunted me like spectres of / 
 midnight. To free myself of these, I sought every 
 kind of diversion. I was willing to talk about the 
 ladies, to laugh with my fellows, to ramble in the 
 fields, or any thing else. 
 
 " I have always loved religion, and I think I do 
 
1^0 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 not love it the less now. I have always rejoiced to 
 see it promoted, whether by revival, preaching, con- 
 versation, or any way. I think my solicitude on 
 this point has not subsided. It is the doctrines of 
 your faith that have troubled me. It is on the theory 
 of religion that my mind has gradually been under- 
 going a change, till it has finally settled on its 
 present views. During my last year in college, my 
 mind was not decided, as it is now; still, I had 
 light enough, if you will excuse the language, to 
 make ' darkness visible ' around me." 
 
 Under date of Cambridge Theological Seminary, 
 Sept. 13, 1837, after describing Bunker Hill Monu- 
 ment, and the extensive, varied, and beautiful view 
 from its top, Mr. Judd thus writes — 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 '^ The reflection involuntarily arises, how man and 
 nature have conspired to render this world beautiful. 
 Why need men deem the world cursed ? Why need 
 they deem themselves cursed, whom God has made 
 so beautiful ? If men would take half the pains to 
 improve their own natures that they do to cultivate 
 the world around them, then indeed would the ^ wil- 
 derness blossom as the rose.' But man seeks the 
 outer. The inner is sufiered to go to waste. 
 
 " The reflection occurs, too, how changed since the 
 poor Indian paddled his canoe in these waters, and 
 hunted here in an unbroken forest ! Two centuries 
 have witnessed a change in man's external condition, 
 the like of which the world has never seen. May 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 121 
 
 the next two centuries see as great a change in his 
 moral aspects! But the poor Indians, where are 
 they now ? 
 
 '^ I must leave the scene, and descend the monu- 
 ment. I admire the monument, I love the patriotism 
 that designed it. But there is, after all, something 
 so exclusive, so cruel in patriotism, that we are half 
 disposed to condemn the whole thing. It makes us 
 love our own country to the sacrifice of every other. 
 It has always filled the world with blood. Yet I 
 am sure you will not wish to be introduced so coldly 
 to the sentiments of the Revolution, or to those deep 
 feelings that naturally arise as you stand by the 
 graves of the martyrs of Liberty. 
 
 "Thoughts of blood, agotiy, and death, make the 
 heart curdle. There is a sublimity about a battle- 
 field, beyond any thing else that this world realizes 
 as sublime. The hosts of men, the gorgeous trap- 
 pings, the mortal conflict, the ending of time, the 
 beginning of eternity, — these raise the feelings to 
 an unsurpassed elevation, yet one that I would like 
 to experience. Yes, much as I hate war, if a fight 
 must occur, I would like to witness it. But may 
 such an event never happen ! War is a most unnatu- 
 ral, inhuman system. I am a peace-man, ultra as 
 need be. I am withal so great a coward that the 
 consistency of my principles will probably never be 
 hazarded. 
 
 " Sept. 14. — Last evening, I and two of my 
 classmates were at tea at Prof Ware's, jun. We 
 were agreeably entertained. Mrs. W.^ who is an 
 English lady, is a charming woman. She thinks 
 
 11 
 
122 LIFE At THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 that, if the Orthodox and Unitarians Jcnew each other 
 better, there would be much more charity and har- 
 mony of feeling among the two denominations. They 
 are strangely ignorant of each other's true excellen- 
 cies. But I sometimes almost despair of their ever 
 being cordial towards each other, until they get to 
 heaven together. Perhaps our differences here are 
 designed to fit us for greater unity there. Still, the 
 case is very bad. I must hope and labor for better 
 things. 
 
 ^'I board in commons. Have good bread and 
 good butter, which, you know, are the essentials of 
 good living. I shall expect a parcel of letters when 
 the bundle comes. May I not have one from my 
 mother? ^^Her son, affectionately." 
 
 Postscript in the Same. 
 
 " Dear Sis. A., — How do you get along without 
 some one to plague you ? Does not this want make 
 
 life seem dull ? Does C. P. fret any ? Does P n 
 
 mind? .... Have you received letters from R., 
 or written to her ? "What do you fill your paper with 
 when you write her ? Have you a thousand girlish 
 indescribables to pour out into her bosom ? You will 
 probably have more before the world has done with 
 you ; so you need not be in haste." 
 
 To HIS MOTHEB. 
 
 '• Cambridge TnEOLoaicAL Seminary, Sept. 16, 1837. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — It is Saturday night. My 
 thoughts revert from present scenes to those I have 
 left behind. It is the hour of rest and reflection 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 123 
 
 with you at home. I wish I could be there to par- 
 ticipate in your sympathies and thoughts. You may 
 fancy this language sounds strangely from me, from 
 one who never seemed ready to share in the happi- 
 ness of others, or to communicate his own. Truly _ 
 I have been too much an isolated being — with you, / 
 but not of you. This is partly the fault of my na- 
 ture, partly the fault of circumstances. No one who 
 has not been through the untried states that I have 
 for the last three years can realize the unavoidable 
 necessity there is imposed for being alone, thinking ' 
 alone, sympathizing alone. A habit of seclusion in / 
 this way is contracted, which it is not easy to aban- / 
 "don. The stars and the twilight, the dim moon and 
 the lonely walk, that were the solitary man's com- 
 panions, he comes to love, and he continues to love, 
 even when he might return to the haunts of men. 
 He pours out his heart into the ear of nature, and he 
 would listen to her responses. She becomes at once 
 his confidant and his oracle. Still, men should not 
 be forgotten, nor could I be indifferent to them. 
 
 " Such a state of mind is the occasion of irrita- 
 bility. The interruptions from those immediately 
 about him, which a man feels whose thoughts are 
 away, will always make him fretful. This dispo- 
 sition is not excusable, although it may in some 
 respects be palliated. . . . 
 
 " But I would let these things pass. It is to be 
 hoped, that time, regular occupation, the society of 
 those who are not opposed to cherished views and 
 kindred influences, will assuage the waters of this 
 troubled sea. 
 
124 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 " I wish, then, that I could be at home to-night. 
 I am tii'ed of strange faces. In walking over half 
 Boston the other day, I met no one whom I had 
 ever seen before. I anticipated that I should fall in 
 with some familiar countenance ; but not one passed 
 me. In Cambridge, to be sure, I am becoming 
 somewhat acquainted with faces ; but the order, in 
 such a case, is from the face to the heart, and it takes 
 some time to understand the latter. 
 
 ^^ Sept. 19. — I wonder that I do not receive any 
 letter from home. It is now three weeks since I 
 left Northampton, and I am impatient at your 
 silence. I go to the post-office three and four times 
 a day, but no letter from any source. This silence 
 of my friends, added to the natural loneliness of my 
 situation here, makes me feel doubly solitary. No 
 familiar faces, no familiar voices, no familiar words. 
 This, you may imagine, makes me strongly anxious 
 to hear from you. 
 
 " Sept. ^0. — Yesterday I was informed of means 
 by which my expenses here will be principally met. 
 A benevolent gentleman in Boston gave one of the 
 students, who has this year left the seminary, one 
 hundred dollars a year, which he might either regard 
 as a gratuity, or repay whenever he preferred to do 
 it. He is now settled, and is going to reimburse 
 the one hundred a year. Prof. Palfrey says that 
 I may have the same, in the same way. He says 
 the donor is rich, does not want his money, only 
 wishes that it may be doing some good. I can 
 receive it with or without becoming obligatory for 
 it. I, of course, shall choose to repay it whenever I 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 125 
 
 can. So you see my anxieties are nearly at an end. 
 This sum, in addition to the hundred and twenty- 
 five or hundred and fifty dollars which I shall receive 
 from the funds of the institution, in common with 
 all the members, will nearly cover all my expenses. 
 ^^ So I may go on my way as blithe as a bird. 
 The Unitarians, it is said, do not oblige any one to 
 preach their creed, even though they assist him." 
 
 To HIS Father. 
 
 "Theological Seminaet, Sept. 22, 1837. 
 
 '^ With regard to stories about your withdrawing 
 aid, and so forth. "When I thought of going to 
 Cambridge, I was obliged to look about for means. 
 I stated to my Unitarian friends that you had assisted 
 me to the extent of your ability, during my college- 
 course, and that I could not think of applying to my 
 Orthodox fi-iends. I always said that you rather 
 favored free investigation, and that I esteemed it 
 fortunate for myself, that my own mind had not been 
 biassed by parental prejudices. Of opposition from 
 our family I have not complained. I have some- 
 times alluded to passing remarks of my Orthodox 
 friends at large, that I ^was an infidel,' and worse 
 things than that. 
 
 " I can readily see how stories are exaggerated* 
 Unitarians in times past have been somewhat perse- 
 cuted. They are expecting that every one who leaves 
 Orthodoxy will meet with the same treatment, and 
 construe the intimations of a wounded, disappointed 
 feeling, such as would be perfectly natural to my 
 Orthodox friends, into open opposition. The world 
 
 11* 
 
126 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 will talk. I am getting used to it. It affects me 
 that my dear friends at home should be implicated." 
 
 To HIS Father. 
 
 " CAMBRIDaE ThEOLOQIOAL SEMINAaT, Oct. 21, 1837. 
 
 " Dear Father, — You will gather from my letters 
 to the family, something of what I have interested 
 myself in, as a stranger in these parts. Every place 
 in all this region is full of high interest. Last 
 Saturday I strolled all over Boston, with an epitome 
 of its ancient history in my hand, for a guide-book. 
 .... I went over the city as a sort of antiquarian. 
 You allude to the library. 'Tis vast. We are sur- 
 prised at the great size of many of the old books. 
 Such were manifestly made for the few. Books for 
 the many must be small. The small size of books in 
 our day evinces a great change in the spirit of the age, 
 in reference to the diffusion and levelling of know- 
 ledge. As one casts his eye through the immense 
 alcoves of the library, all stored with books, the very 
 titles of many of which are more than he will be 
 able to read or remember, he is apt to feel saddened 
 at the thought of misspent hours, and of the brevity 
 of life itself. But there may be a mistake here. 
 Our best knowledge does not come from books, nor 
 even from the world around us. It comes from 
 ourselves. Still I should like to pass my life with 
 such a library in my reach." 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 *' Cambkidge Theological Seminary, Oct. 28, 1837. 
 
 . . . . " Friendship, yes ; but I am troubled with 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 127 
 
 my old difEculty, — reserve, concealment, wn-com- 
 municativeness. Shall I, can I, be firee of it ? "What, 
 with you ? Yes, with you. You have other friends. 
 They possess your heart. How can I allow myself 
 to be introduced into mixed company ? But I am 
 too bad with you, — too bad with myself. I have 
 been thrown into tortures because I would not say 
 any thing; and yet I have suffered in the after- 
 thought, when I did communicate. . . . Yet in all 
 things you must still allow me to hesitate, to check 
 myself, to caution you, &c. &c. Can the Ethiopian, 
 &c. ... I hate to be obliged, to a friend, to reconcile 
 all things. How can I recapitulate the ecstasies of 
 bliss and pain, the entanglements, the self-destruc- 
 tions of those days ! I am impatient, vexed, so full 
 of repining that I can hardly write. I could curse 
 my fate. But this is not a right state of mind : I 
 will pray for equanimity and submission. . . . 
 
 " I wander about, dying, wasting an inch a day 
 in my own solitude. Come, Friendship, from earth, 
 from heaven, come ! I will rush to thine embrace." 
 
 To THE Same. 
 
 ^^ Nov. 3. — Twenty-four years of my life are 
 passed, and I have not been myself yet. What 
 might have been, if, and if, and if, I cannot now say. 
 Here I am, helpless as a new-born babe ; without 
 vigor, without courage ; unsupported ; seeking sym- 
 pathy, but finding none ; seeking aid which is every- 
 where refused. Yet I am not altogether so. I have 
 another self ; a busy, every-day self, — all which the 
 world knows or cares about. Still I am in a sense 
 
1^8 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 SO ; a sense that oppresses me with, its weight, and 
 comes over my spirit at times in the full tide of its 
 reality. I am too boundless in my desires : nothing 
 fills them. The world itself cannot satisfy me." 
 
 , To HIS Brother H l. 
 
 " Cambeidqe Theological Seminary, Jan. 13, 1888. 
 
 " It is not well to neglect our friends. I confess I 
 have done it. But now, since all personal crises are 
 passed, and the world knows me as I am, I hope I 
 shall make amends for my many omissions, and enter 
 with my original freedom into the society of those I 
 respect and love. If there be any wish on your part 
 to know me better, surely I am ready to remove all 
 barriers to such information. I am willing to appear 
 upon the confessional at any hour. 
 
 "Tell C. P. I think I shall board myself this term. 
 My situation in Cambridge is, in the main, quite to 
 my mind. My external circumstances were never 
 better adjusted for my happiness. The pursuits of 
 the seminary are congenial with my taste ; the spirit, 
 with my feelings." 
 
 To HIS Cousin G. L. 
 " Cambridge Theological Seminary, Jan. 16, 1838. 
 
 "My excuses for not writing and confiding my 
 thoughts to my friends, you remark upon with con- 
 siderable severity. I will only allude to one thing 
 by way of reply, or in farther extenuation of my con- 
 duct. When one is in a state of doubt, he does not 
 know what the result will be. In his revolutions of 
 thought, he may come back to the old ground. Of 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 1^9 
 
 course, he will not wish to disquiet his friends by- 
 intimations of what is indefinite and uncertain in his 
 own mind. 
 
 "As to my reading the Scriptures, I wished to 
 represent to you simply, that, as a consummation, I 
 reperused the whole, more clearly to understand the 
 connections, bearings, and spirit of portion in relation 
 to portion, and of each portion relative to the whole. 
 The Bible is the standard. It must not bend to 
 our reason, and our reason need not bend to it ; for 
 they perfectly harmonize. This is the beauty and 
 delightfulness of our condition. The revelations. of 
 the Divine Will, in the Scriptures, in Nature, in 
 the human heart, are all perfectly coincident. They 
 are mutual supporters and illustrators of the same 
 glorious truths. . . . 
 
 '^ Our ^ orbits ' may be different, but I pray to God 
 that they may be ' harmonious.' I wish to do good. 
 My whole heart and soul, I speak without boasting, 
 are more than ever bound up in that great end. I 
 believe the time is coming when Christians, Trini- 
 tarians or Unitarians, will see eye to eye, and will 
 learn to love each other more, aiid will feel that they 
 have only one Master to serve, one world to save, 
 and one heaven to gain. Christianity, in its true 
 development and legitimate action, is what we want, 
 not * ans ' or ' isms.* I wish I could introduce you 
 to some of our students. I am confident you would 
 admire the manifestations of the genuine Christian 
 character, however you might deplore their theolo- 
 gical errors. . . . 
 
 *' I am as happily situated at Cambridge as I can 
 
130 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 expect to be anywhere. The pursuits of theology 
 were ever most congenial with my feelings ; and our 
 daily tasks are only such as give us a pleasant em- 
 ployment, without fatigue in the application. Our 
 students are those in whose intercourse, social and 
 religious, I pass many delightful hours. The society 
 of Cambridge offers many attractions to such as are 
 disposed to visit. My habits are rather reclusive. 
 My occasional calls are exceedingly pleasant." 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 " Cambeidqb Theological Seminary, March 15, 1838. 
 
 ^^ My dear Mother, — The package of letters from 
 home came to my hands last evening. I need not 
 express to you the pleasure I feel in receiving the 
 kind memorials of so many of our family. It con- 
 cerns me to know that your numerous debilities are 
 aggravated by a new affliction. I doubt not that it 
 is a satisfaction to yourself to be assured that your 
 ' absent children ' are sharing a degree of temporal 
 felicity, which is not always universally diffused 
 through so large a family. For this, how much are 
 we indebted to the instruction, example, and prayers 
 of our ever-devoted mother ! Long may she live ! 
 Long may we be blessed with her blessings ! 
 
 " My last letter was rather long. You see I have 
 now taken a still larger sheet, and perhaps your 
 patience will be frightened even before it is ex- 
 hausted. When I purchased, last vacation, these 
 mammoth sheets, father wondered what I should do 
 with them. Possibly he did not imagine, that he 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 131 
 
 should be set to the task of reading over the whole 
 of one closely written. If the substance of the epis- 
 tle were equal to its length, there might be a com- 
 pensation for reading. But, alas ! I cannot promise 
 that. . . . 
 
 ^^ I need not say that it is my strong desire that 
 
 H i should never appear in regimentals again. A 
 
 military spirit should rather be repressed than fos- 
 tered in children." 
 
 "April 10. — By a comparison of dates, you will 
 see that some days have elapsed since I last wrote. 
 During the interval, I have been variously engaged. 
 Monday I called on Dr. Ch aT ^niu g. He is a man of 
 small proportions, very indifferent in his appearance. 
 There is nothing in his face, his eye, or his head, 
 that indicates the great mind which reigns within. 
 He is now quite- indisposed^-^^ cannot talk with his 
 friends_ygxy long at a time. Yet, from what he did 
 say, it was evident that his soul was full of great 
 thoughts, great plans of progress, reformation, and 
 Christianization. He dwells not with common men 
 or common Christians. He aspires to something 
 higher, holier, purer. He feels a deep interest in 
 the young men of the seminary. He teaches us to 
 attempt and hope for greater things than the world 
 has yet seen. Liberty and Christian love seem to be 
 the ruling principles of his heart. 
 
 " Yesterday I walked alone to Mount Auburn, that 
 place of beauty and death, of melancholy and de- 
 light. All my evening walks have been gladdened 
 by an unclouded moon. When I come out of Bos- 
 ton unaccompanied by any human b^ing, it is plea- 
 
13^ LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 sant thus, at midnight, to look upon the silvery light, 
 and breathe in the quiet air. . . . 
 
 " How many times has this ^ I want ' of your chil- 
 dren been repeated ! When shall it end ? Truly, I 
 suppose you do not wish it to end, while you have 
 the means to supply it ? But it would be pleasant to 
 us to return, in some feeble measure, the ten thousand 
 favors we have received from our dear parents. 
 May God bless them with his infinite fulness ! " 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 "Cambridge Thboi-ogicai, Sejonaet, June 3, 1838. 
 
 " I seem to myself to be quite impatient of writ- 
 ing. There is the vexation of waiting months for a 
 reply to emotions that burn in the heart. Then 
 there is the trouble of not being precisely under- 
 stood, and all that sort of thing. Yet I must write, 
 and write I will. Only these despairing circum- 
 stances do almost persuade me not to assume my 
 pen. 
 
 '' I have been very busy. The German I have 
 commenced, and must give it some study. I have 
 taxed myself to read some French every day, also to 
 prosecute some miscellaneous readings. Last week 
 was Anniversary-week, and we were called into Bos- 
 ton every day. Spring, too, has burst upon us in all 
 its beauty and attractiveness. This has called me 
 much from my room. 
 
 "But the under-current has been ever flowing. 
 Yet few know it, and fewer care for it. It is only 
 when my external self, my known being, staggers 
 and reels, that T fear some observer will detect the 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 133 
 
 hidden cause. 'Tis strange how I, that is, one like 
 myself, catch the sympathies of longing hearts. . . . 
 There is now and then a person in this world 
 ^ charged ; ' and you have but to touch them, and the 
 fire of their souls is at once emitted. 
 
 "You will not think but that other and higher 
 thoughts engage my attention. With you alone do 
 I take the liberty of writing freely." 
 
 " June 29. — You manifestly dabbled when you 
 wrote. But that is sometimes excusable. The mood 
 — ay, yes, the mood — 'tis that gives us inspiration. 
 "When that is off, to write is like the nightmare. . . . 
 We are strange creatures. For the good we have, 
 we are thankless. For the good we lose, we abso- 
 lutely rebel. 'Total depravity,' — well, so be it. 
 Heart is every thing, with or without husband or 
 child. With, — perhaps 'tis more than every thing. 
 There are hearts in heaven. We are apt to think 
 of Christ only religiously. But did it ever occur to 
 you (I am serious) that he sympathized with our 
 affection's heart ? He was tempted like as we are, 
 was he not ? Yet without sin. Ay, there is the 
 rub, — without sin. Our hearts do make us sin. 
 
 ''Aim at the stars, you say. What if, in a dark 
 night, I catch a glow-worm ? . . . Elevated society 
 has its drawbacks. I love sometimes to escape to 
 the low, home-spun realities of common life. Its 
 rudeness only provokes an agreeable humor. In it 
 you expect nothing, and . never run any risk of 
 disappointment. ' ' 
 
 12 
 
134 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 SECOND YEAR AT HARVARD. 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 " Cambridge Theological Seminaet, Sept. 7, 1838. 
 
 " I am on the rack to-day. I pace my room, 
 ' poke ' my hair, seek the diversion of classmates. 
 Let me not write then. Let me wait till I can be 
 more calm. The impressions of the present moment 
 make me somewhat tumultuous, somewhat irregular. 
 .... Let u s d espair J 'Tis well. Then we shall be 
 ready to leave this w^rld, to plume our wings to 
 an upward flight to the realms of everlasting frui- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 "Dr. "W. pleased me very much. How pleasant 
 is it to meet, in his own home, such a man, whom 
 you have known as Dr. W. on Depravity, or Dr. W. 
 in controversy with Dr. T. ! The man at home, — 
 how much better than the man abroad ; or, I should 
 say, how much more he comes to your heart ! 
 
 " L-^Am^^Jtolerably-Ainhapp y. Yet I s hould be 
 happy. Am lonely, while many are around me. 
 Yet I would not be without this heart of mine. . . . 
 But I leave it and all, — leave hope, and take to 
 sighing. No, let me turn to a petrifaction. "Write 
 soon to Your wearied, aching brother, 
 
 " Sylvester." 
 
 To . 
 
 «' Cambridge Theological Seminart, Sept. 15, 1838. 
 
 "If the muse has departed, does not her haunt 
 still remain ? Sunsetting still comes to you, and 
 midnight and the stars. The bay is still there, with 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 135 
 
 its many islands, like the repose of tlionglit, amidst 
 the eddyings of everlasting being ; and the ocean, 
 with its fathomless heart of poetry. . . . 
 
 '^ An oppressiveness had settled on my spirits, for 
 the dissipation of which, I hasted to seek the influ- 
 ences of my Mend, confident, nurse. Nature. . . . 
 
 " I love sometimes to utter myself ; and the 
 communion of congenial hearts, — that rare water- 
 spring in this desert-world, — is dearer to me than 
 all things else this side of eternity. God bless you 
 and love you, as my Lamb says. So prays sincerely 
 your friend." 
 
 To THE Same. 
 ' " Nov. 5, 1838. 
 
 " Yet why do I write ? What impulses summon 
 my pen to an unfamiliar and almost, forbidden duty ? 
 I have^ disciplined myself these years to silence ; 
 still, silence is my agony. Yet our very agonies, ^^ 
 thus cherished till they become a part of our exist- 
 ence, seem sweet unto us. But — huts, yets, dashes 
 — they are the cliffs and chasms that intersect the 
 path of us mountain-wanderers. How much better, 
 then, to keep in the smooth plains below ! To the 
 heart is allowed no free utterance. It is awed by 
 its own aspirations ; it is exhausted by its own 
 struggles ; and more — it dare not trust its loved 
 emotions with a mocking world. Is this right ? 
 
 " I write compactly ; for I know, that, if I once 
 commence, I shall have much to say, and still leave 
 all unsaid. How can we bring our souls within the 
 compass of three pages of a letter-sheet ? And, 
 
136 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 besides, what if I should never take the letter from 
 my room ? Is there no pleasure in a sort of auto- 
 correspondence ? 
 
 ^^ The study of character has been the habit, and 
 I might say delight, of my life. An irrepressible 
 longing for sympathy first led me to the observation, 
 which has received a fresh stimulus from the de- 
 mands of my profession. I have accustomed myself 
 to scale the heights of character, to fathom its 
 depths. The result of this has been, that there is 
 much of genuine sentiment in the world, so we can 
 but detect it. Some persons possess one point of 
 excellence, some another ; some many points, some 
 few. So we can meet one with whom we sympa- 
 thize on all points, how would our souls rush 
 together, like sister-angels ! The three indispen- 
 sable elements of the perfect character are intellect, 
 sentiment, virtue, — these in their broadest and 
 most embracing significance. 
 
 ^^ And by virtue I do no t rpfey-4e-"febe-caiitncjf sect, 
 r or the abstractions of philosophy, but to all moral 
 y^' excellence, to religion in its highest exercise, to 
 morality in TtsToliest practice. These qualities, 
 blended, relieved, sustained, matured, constitute a 
 character which we gaze upon with loving admira- 
 tion ; to which we bow with a delightful reverence ; 
 and which if we can unfold to our own embrace, 
 and call in any measure our own, we feel like 
 participants of the heavenly joys. The actual of 
 this ideal we sometimes see in the world. But too 
 often the excess or deficiency of some one quality 
 deforms and obscures the whole. Frequently, when 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 137 
 
 those qualities combine in equal degrees, they are 
 not elevated ; and, when they are elevated, they 
 are not equal. Intellect palsies sentiment, and sen- 
 timent is the foe to virtue, and virtue sometimes 
 rises to that bigot-excess which looks with contempt 
 alike upon intellect and sentiment. And then, more 
 often, the lustre of truly noble and consistent cha- 
 racters is dimmed by some one of those innumerable 
 petty faults which are grouped under what we call 
 disposition and temperament, such as vanity, selfish- 
 ness, petulance, nervousness, idiosyncracies of all 
 sorts. This topic is exhaustless ; but I leave it." 
 
 To HIS Cousin G. L. 
 
 " NOETHAMPTON, Feb. 15, 1839. 
 
 " I left Cambridge in the latter part of November. 
 My health was not good. I suppose I had indulged 
 in too close attention to books, without sufficiently 
 regarding diet and exercise. My nervous system 
 became most painfully deranged. My system has 
 somewhat recovered its tone, which I attribute, in 
 a good measure, to the course of protracted and 
 vigorous exercise which I pursue every day. I am 
 beginning to be sensible, what I have hitherto, in a 
 great measure, been indifferent about, that exercise 
 is very essential to the student. In college, my 
 health was good without exercise. So I was lulled 
 into the fatal notion that it would always be. ... I 
 did not think of giving a dissertation on physical 
 regimen. I have only stated a bit of experience. 
 To me it has been of some service. If you can 
 make use of it, you are welcome to the knowledge. 
 
 12* 
 
138 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 The clergy are all sick and dying. "What is the 
 disease ? " 
 
 To Mas. E. H. 
 
 " Divinity School, March 18, 1839. 
 
 " I often act impulsively. A disposition to speak 
 out the emotion of the moment overleaps the per- 
 haps proper barriers of conventional decorum. But 
 more than this, and higher too, as some think, — a 
 love of sympathy is irrepressible with me. This 
 passion, which plants itself in all hearts, seems to 
 have especially luxuriated in my own. Specifically 
 and immeasurably have I looked for religious sym- 
 pathy. Always, I say, but not so much now as in 
 some previous years. Yet I can find but few who 
 know what it is to have struggled and wept. Life 
 and thought, with most, seem to have been a pleasant 
 current." 
 
 To HIS Beother H L. 
 
 " April 1, 1839, Cambeidge. 
 
 " Dear Brother, — What shall I say to you ? 
 What shall I say of myself? Separated, but not 
 estranged ; absent, but not forgetful, we should still 
 commune as the spirit prompteth. Have we been 
 long silent ? It is our mistake and necessity, more 
 than our purpose and crime. We love communion ; 
 and none but an imperious occasion could or should 
 interrupt it. 
 
 " You have sometimes complained of the crooked- 
 ness of conventional life. True, there is much 
 wrong. The spirit struggles to break from un- 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 139 
 
 toward environments ; rather does it struggle to 
 subdue them to itself, — a noble conquest, never 
 half-achieved. Then do we moralize and weep. 
 These things are disciplinary, and serve the highest 
 good of the soul. Therefore do not murmur. Be 
 true thyself, and all things shall be true about thee. 
 Perhaps, after all, there is not so much that is false 
 as we imagine. No one man is so bad as we 
 conceive. We suffer from an optical illusion. In 
 contemplating the multitude, the little bad that ea'ch 
 man possesses is presented to us in the aggregate of 
 the whole, and our judgments become severe as our 
 aversion is intense. All the vices of society should 
 not be visited upon one man. Give each his due. 
 Make individual man more your study. He is 
 natural ; society is artificial. He is true ; society 
 is false. Society is the masquerade of humanity. 
 Under each mask you will detect the true man, and 
 be satisfied. Study, then, the individual man. You 
 will find in each the same uneasiness, the same 
 craving, the same aspiration, in a measure, which 
 you may have thought peculiar to yoursel£_Jiu- 
 manity, — that is, what is common to all men, what,^ 
 Qach man possesses, — is a vast and rich field of 
 observation. Look beyond the adventitious, the 
 trappings and tinsel which all despise as much as 
 you do, and you will discover much to delight, 
 much to profit and content you. Dissatisfaction 
 with man is not well. It bodes no good. It impairs 
 the energies of reform. It embitters the soul. It 
 frustrates the ends of human existence. 
 
 " Excuse this homily. It does us good to reflect ; 
 
140 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 to check the course of our tliinking, and compare 
 ourselves with others, — compare our prevailing 
 speculations with man as he is. 
 
 "Your health, we all hope, will soon be estab- 
 lished. Be patient. Let few things irritate you. 
 Don't overdo. Health is a more valuable acquisition 
 than property, wives, any good except truth. Bow 
 submissively to the Infinite Will. 
 
 '^ I have been to walk to-day to Mount Auburn. 
 A delightful day, delightful spot, delightful com- 
 pany, delightful time. 'Tis well to dip into society. 
 You will sometimes bring up pearls even from mud, 
 diamonds from sand. The world is rich in hearts, 
 heads. Fear not. Man was not made to be feared, 
 but to be loved. Love will draw all hearts after 
 you. 
 
 " Let me have a letter from you soon. Speak all. 
 Repress no feeling. Dark thoughts become light 
 when brought into sunshine. 
 
 " I am quite well, and life is pleasurable. 
 
 "Your brother most affectionately." 
 
 To . 
 
 " Divinity College, Cambridge, April 2, 1839. 
 
 " The impressions of such a day as yesterday are 
 too decided to be lost in a few changes of the dial- 
 plate. Yet I cannot recount them, — shall not 
 attempt it. Mount Auburn, the spirit's home, the an- 
 swering nature to what we cherish in our own hearts 
 with so intense a love; the dear, sweet spot that 
 kindles emotion but to tranquillize it, and awakens 
 thought but to sanctify it ; the receptacle of the dead. 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 141 
 
 and yet the life of the living ; its deep, solemn, silent, 
 melancholy shades; its evergreens, so like immor- 
 tality, — its leafless trees, so like death ; Mount Au- 
 burn — my very thoughts die out in utterance. Let 
 me be silent; let me sit still and feel. The soul 
 would lie down in the repose of a solemn contempla- 
 tion and an earnest listening. The shade and the 
 sunlight, the dell and the slope, the verdure and 
 the searedness, come over us with a refreshing, sub- 
 duing influence. 
 
 " The emotion of such an hour, — is it not one, 
 indivisible ? Does it admit of definition or ana- 
 lysis ? Subtile, how can we seize it ! Vast, how can 
 we confine it ! Yet real is it as our own life, deep as 
 our own eternity. 
 
 *^ I would die among my own kindred ; but I wish 
 to be buried in Mount Auburn. If an ancient fancy 
 were true, that the spirit delights to revisit the place 
 of our sepulture, mine should come to a place so 
 sweet, so lovely. It should hardly miss its heaven 
 for it. 
 
 " We were speaking of a sense of unworthiness 
 before God. Did you allude to the subject because 
 you thought I cherished too much assurance ? Yet 
 I am persuaded, I cannot doubt, — except in those 
 moments when we seem insanely to doubt of every 
 thing, — ' He that loveth is born of God ; ' and 
 nothing can disturb that conviction. 'Tis to me as 
 my own life. 
 
 (( y^Q grovel too much. We take our flight be- 
 neath the clouds, and become immersed in their 
 shadows and drippings. If we would but mount 
 
/ 
 
 14^ LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 above them, we slioiild_see._-tliese gloomy masses 
 permeated and transparent with the light of the all- 
 ehlightening sun. As we approach that luminary, 
 we become light ourselves, and all things glow with 
 light about us. To an inhabitant of the sun, there 
 is not a dark spot on the face of the universe. 
 
 " Truth is light, love is light, God is light. Truth, 
 Love, God — O my soul ! By what art thou sur- 
 rounded ! To what canst thou attain ! How glo- 
 rious may be thy life ! Yet how dost thou fold thy 
 wings, make feet of thy hands and claws of thy feet, 
 and crawl about in the dark caverns, the slimy pits, 
 of this nether world ! A^QU^^-^-^^^^l-^^^^^i^ ^e ! 
 Shake from thy pinions the dusty coatings of earth. 
 Start thee on thy celestial flight. Falter not, till 
 thou shalt rest, serene, secure, and blest, in the high- 
 est heaven of truth, love, and God.] 
 
 To HIS Sister P n. 
 
 " Cambridge, ApiSl 6, 1839. 
 
 " How does my young sister do ? Is she happy, 
 and making all happy with whom she has inter- 
 course ? Make the most of your youth. It will 
 soon be past, and no earnest wishes can recall it. 
 'Your young years are given you to be happy in and 
 to be good in. Be both. Be good, and you will be 
 happy. 
 
 " How is your grammar ? Have you learned how 
 to dispose of the infinitive mode ? Your parsing 
 lessons seem uncommonly perplexing to you. But 
 practice makes perfect. The nominative case will 
 not, by and by, skulk behind the objective, and the 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 14S 
 
 adverbs get hid among the adjectives, where you 
 cannot find them. They love to play bo-peep awhile ; 
 but they will grow tired of it before long. And 
 then the rules are so apt to slip away. You must 
 tie a string to them, and hang them up, each one on 
 its own nail. You sometimes put two or three 
 on one nail, or else one on another's nail, and, when 
 you come to take them down, you find you are using 
 the wrong one. 
 
 " I suppose, now I am gone, that knob of hair 
 gets posted up on the back side of your head, like a 
 hump on a camel's back. I am sorry you wish to 
 be an old woman so soon. You will be glad enough, 
 by and by, to go back to the short hair or braided 
 ringlets of your girlhood." 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 " Cambridge, April 6, 1839. 
 
 *' In the progress of the heart, we have a thousand 
 casual, incipient, stray thoughts and feelings, such 
 perhaps as should never be expressed, but which, 
 when expressed, are exceedingly liable to be mis- 
 understood. They possess no meaning that you can 
 explain, no end or aim that you would acknowledge. 
 Yet stir they within us, and it pleases to give them' 
 utterance to a trusty ear. Beyond this, we cannot 
 allow them to be spoken, even to our best friends. 
 These feelings have no consistent character. They 
 are one thing to-day, and another to-morrow. They 
 vary with persons, places. How unsafe, then, to 
 unfold them to the world ! There is a key, indeed, 
 that explains the whole ; but who has it ? " 
 
144 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 " Cambmdqe, April 6, 1839. 
 
 " Dear Mother, — I am in tlie way of writing let- 
 ters this morning ; and although, according to the 
 strict rules of epistolary ethics, I can hardly feel 
 .that I am in your debt, yet am I constrained to give 
 you also a word. 
 
 " In the first place, with regard to my health, it 
 has never been better than during the past week. I. 
 know, when we speak of health, we refer to a per- 
 manent state of the system ; but I am very grateful 
 for a week's soundness and stability. It is an augury 
 of good to come. I walk from six to eight miles a 
 day, and purpose that nothing shall interfere with"" 
 the habit. Our hold on health is not sure. While 
 life is ours, may we live well, then shall we die 
 safely." 
 
 To HIS Cousin G. L. 
 
 " Divinity School, CAMBEroaE, April 9, 1839. 
 
 '' A letter from A. speaks of a revival of religion 
 in the Mount Holyoke Seminary, and adds that 
 cousin T. has been particularly interested. Can any 
 one rejoice more than I do, that your sister has come 
 at last to the enjoyment of her true life ? Can any 
 one appreciate, more than I, the value of that change 
 by which the soul unfolds itself to divine influences, 
 and becomes a partaker of the ^ divine nature ' ? 
 Truly this is the end of our being. For this does 
 the soul aspire. Any thing short of this is a check 
 upon our nature. "We wander about like lost sheep, 
 straying from the fold of the divine Shepherd. We 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 145 
 
 find no green pastures, no still waters. God ad- 
 dresses us, 'Keturn, O wanderers, return, and ye 
 shall find rest unto your souls.' Do we thus return, 
 do we go back to our Father's house, are we rein- 
 stated in a Father's love, — what a heaven is ours ! 
 
 "A, revival oLjcelifflon, while it appeals to the 
 deepest susceptibilities of the human mind, has some- 
 thing unnatural about it. It makes religion too 
 much a matter of times and seasons, of places and 
 positions, of formularies and plans. It generates 
 something of a false, superficial, temporizing piety. 
 And yet I suppose great deference is due to the 
 spirit of the times. If this demands what are gene- 
 rally known as revivals, it will have them, and you 
 will find it difficult to convert men in any other way. 
 This spirit does not prevail equally in all denomina- 
 tions. Which has the advantage, I will not judge. 
 It is a curious_feLctj._that Methodists are rarely con- 
 verted, except in camp-meetings. So each denomi- 
 nation has its modus operandi. This is somewhat 
 natural and scriptural, somewhat unnatural and un- 
 scriptural. Who shall strike the balance ? " 
 
 To 
 
 " DmNiTT ScHOOt, April 10, 1889. 
 
 " This meeting of friends, it is the feast-day of the 
 soul. All mortal joys do minister to a noble friend- 
 ship. Such communion shall the stars nightly bless. 
 If it be less intense, it possesses fewer alloys than 
 love. If it does not transport like love, it sufiers 
 less from jealousy. It is more divine than love, — 
 such love as is rife in the world, — because the lat- 
 
 13 
 
146 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 ter often originates in the inferior passions, while 
 the former springs, pure, ingenuous, angelic, from the 
 heart of the soul. I believe your sex is favored as 
 regards firiendship. There is but little of the genuine 
 emotion in ours. The habits of men are too com- 
 mercial and restrained, too bustling and noisy, too 
 ambitious and repellant, for the cultivation of those 
 nice sensibilities on which a true friendship rests. 
 "Women are the bonds of society, and the conser- 
 vating principle in human intercourse. Their secu- 
 lar aspirations never lead them to isolation, either 
 the isolation of solitude or the isolation of superiority. 
 Their susceptibilities are so ardent, that, if raised 
 into elevated positions, like waves of the sea, they 
 soon melt into the common mass around them. 
 Men^re like mountains, bold, icy, moveless, that 
 woo the winds and worship the stars, but frown an 
 eternal defiance at each other. Yet does man turn 
 to woman for those resources of sympathy and love, 
 without which he must die. I cannot say, indeed, 
 but there is something generous, chivalric at least, 
 in a man's declining intercourse with his fellow-man, 
 that he may offer an undivided confidence to woman. 
 Still I wish, for my own happiness at least, that we 
 were more disposed to cultivate the friendly rela- 
 tions. 
 
 " Is there no friend for me ? Is there no Damon 
 to my Pythias ? It is a notion which I humor my- 
 self in indulging, that there is, somewhere in the 
 world, somebody just like me, whose modes of 
 thought, habits of philosophizing, intellectual and 
 religious training and discipline, whose aspirations. 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 147 
 
 hopes, doubts, whose idiosyncracies and eccentrici- 
 ties, are the counterpart of my own. You smile at 
 this ; and so do I, and call it all a dream. Yet we 
 live to dream. But to come to what is realizable. 
 I hope to encounter some one who will be as much 
 to me as I expect ever to be to any one. More than 
 this, I cannot ask. Can you direct me to such a 
 one ; one who, while he retains the distinctive pecu- 
 liarities of his own person, will be so much like me 
 as to welcome me to the full communion of his heart ? 
 I am growing very egotistical and prosy." 
 
 " April 14, Sunday. — * Welcome, sweet day of 
 rest,* — day that shines on millions of our race with 
 a refreshing light : my eyes rejoice in thy dawning, 
 my heart awakes to worship and to praise. Yet do 
 sad reflections press upon my spirits. With what a 
 discordant note are the voices of men sent up to the 
 eternal Ear ! Are not these voices impeded on their 
 way by so much of strife and collision ? and do they 
 not die away, mid-heaven ? Angels might close their 
 ears to such music as ours. As we have one com- 
 mon Father, so can we never have one common 
 worship ? 
 
 "And then, in its own character, how deficient is 
 the worship of Christendom! What does it lack? 
 So far as the answer can be given in one word, I 
 should say heartiness. It needs an earnest soul, an 
 active spirituality, an intense humility. We do not 
 require a new soul, but the thorough agitation of 
 the old one. Revivals and sermons, the representa- 
 tions of heaven and hell, all of which do but affect 
 the soul outwardly, as I may say, are not so much 
 
148 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 required ; but quiet, retirement, introversion, solemn 
 self-questionings, thorough self-explorations. We 
 hear much of the worth of the soul, and that worth 
 is usually measured out to us in terms of duration, 
 or in estimates of pleasure and pain ; while few seem 
 to imagine that the soul is valuable for what it is in 
 itself. But what is it in itself? How few know! 
 How few trouble themselves to inquire ! How little 
 do our public ministrations teach ! We occupy our- 
 selves with gazing into eternity, and wishing we 
 were there, as if eternity were not within us. Love 
 in the soul is heaven there. Good, thoughts are 
 aiigels. Good fancies are golden streets and gates of 
 pearls. Christ attends us with all the sympathies 
 of an elder and a divine Brother's love. God, the 
 eternal Spirit, is about us and over us ; that unre- 
 plenished light which no night-shadows immerse, no 
 clouds obscure. He who loveth is immortal. What 
 wait we for more ? Simply that this body, that 
 invests us like a drapery of mist, may dissolve and 
 melt away. So shall we come to the undimmed 
 visions of eternal glories. 
 
 " I look for no millennium, for no extension of 
 Christ's kingdom, for no progress in ethics, for no 
 substantial advance in the common principles of 
 morality, till men shall come to realize that they have 
 souls. I love preaching, I love the sabbath. But 
 these must be so improved as to restore man to him- 
 self, or their highest efficacy will not be secured. 
 When I grow tired of hoping, then I sing, — 
 
 « Thine earthly sabbaths, Lord, I love ; 
 But there's a nobler rest above.' " 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 149 
 
 '^ April 18. — Dr. FoUen gave Kis last lecture on 
 Atheism yesterday evening. The Theistical problem, 
 is it not vast ? Are we not confounded when we 
 would tell what God is ; what Nature is ? Is Pan- 
 theism a system unnaturally unnatural ? _Do wenot 
 discover Pantheistic tendencies working in all minds ? 
 The Infinite One, ekKalndv. The tendency of phi- 
 losophy is to generalize, ad infinitum, which is, to 
 reduce all things to the one. This result can only 
 be prevented by the instinctive repulsion of our na- 
 ture. Reason tends to unity ; spontaneity, to variety. 
 Reason seeks for resemblances : spontaneity forces us 
 to acknowledge differences. And then our religion 
 does sometimes lead us to the confession of universal 
 absorption, — God in us, and we in God. Our hours 
 of reverie also do carry us away from our individu- 
 ality. We follow in the track of some principle, — 
 existence, extension, life, heat, — pursuing our course 
 through men, trees, the earth, sun and stars, tiU we 
 have made the compass of universal being. We 
 discover an_ inexorable oneness binding together 
 all objects and creations. We begin to lose our- 
 selves in the vast conflux of existences to an indis- 
 tinguishable identity ; and then, for fear of an irre- 
 trievable perdition, to be sure that any individuality 
 remains, I pinch my hand, get up and walk, feel 
 proud, any thing, that I may return to my identity, 
 and rescue myself from the horrible sensation of 
 being swallowed up in the infinite abyss of the 
 One ! " 
 
 ''April 21. — Can we reach the friendship we 
 long for ? And how does it dissolve in our hands 
 
 13* 
 
15Q - LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 like snow-flakes, when we have grasped it ! It is not 
 strange that we grow jealous of that which we prize 
 most highly. It is not strange that we return with 
 a melancholy repugnance to that life of loneliness 
 and heart-aching; from which the voice of love and 
 friendship has once summoned us, — a condition 
 rendered doubly caustic from the recollection of in- 
 tervening felicities." 
 
 " April 23. — The intensity of an emotion is some- 
 times the direct means of its relief. Our heaviest 
 wretchednesses do sometimes, of very grief, like chil- 
 dren, cry themselves to sleep. Eternal Silence ! on 
 thy bosom let me rest. Breathe upon me, O breath 
 of Silence ! that this tumultuous heart may be sub- 
 dued into a calm slumber." 
 
 To HIS Brother H 1. 
 
 " DiyuniY School, Cahbbidge, April 28, 1889. 
 
 " My dear Brother, — You are our youngest bro- 
 ther, and, as such, must ever claim a peculiar share 
 in our solicitudes and love. Have • we at any time 
 been arbitrary, or exacting, or capricious, yet do we 
 not love you the less. You have now left your 
 father's house, and entered upon your apprenticeship 
 to the business of life. You are thrown into cir- 
 cumstances of increased responsibility and multiplied 
 dangers. Of what concern is it that you set out well ! 
 Listen, then, to a brother's counsel, which he gives 
 from the love he bears you, and also from some ex- 
 perience of the necessities of your new situation. 
 
 '^ Be faithful. In all duties that come under your 
 charge, execute them to their fullest demand. Slight 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 151 
 
 nothing. Slur over nothing. Be always ' on hand.' 
 Let it make no difference whether your employers 
 are present or absent ; but do every thing well, and 
 equally well at all times. 
 
 " Be honest. I am told that some merchants and 
 booksellers are not so honest as they should be. 
 This is very wrong, 'tis very wicked. Cultivate the 
 principle of honesty, that you may be scrupulous in 
 all things. Do not allow yourself to be influenced by 
 the loose example of any whom you may see doing 
 wrong. Always give the half-cent when it is due. 
 Give a fair account of all the goods you dispose of. 
 Take no advantage of the ignorance of others, but 
 rather enlighten them. Disdain all low tricks of 
 trade. Be in all things open, frank, fair, as you 
 wish others to be with you. 
 
 " You are, indeed, partly in the employ of your 
 brother ; but you must not expect indulgence on that 
 account. You must consider that in all business- 
 relations, he will treat with you as with any other 
 clerk ; that he will be as strict in his requisitions, 
 and as severe in his reproofs. 
 
 "Be very careful in the choice of your compa- 
 nions. There are many unprincipled men and boys 
 in the city. Never associate, not for an hour, with 
 one whose character is in any degree suspicious. If 
 any one is profane, or uses vulgar or profane lan- 
 guage, or if he would tempt you, in the least, to any 
 vice or dissipation, shun him as you would a viper. 
 Break off all intercourse with him. There are young 
 men, in the city, of good and estimable characters, 
 whose acquaintance you may seek, and by whose 
 

 152 LIFE AT THE DI\T[NITY SCHOOL. 
 
 society you may be profited. But it is not best, at 
 first, to have too many acquaintances. Make your 
 acquaintance slowly. Reserve your time for other 
 things. Read as much as you can. Do you not 
 have many leisure-moments which could be devoted 
 to reading ? You are surrounded by books. Can 
 you not make much use of this privilege ? Every 
 bookseller should be acquainted with the character 
 of the books he sells. Spend your evenings in read- 
 ing. Do not read many.. novels,- but take.. more sub- 
 ( stantial books, such as history, biography, travels. 
 By and by, you will come to relish poetry, philosophy, 
 j metaphysics, &c. 
 ''— '^ Above all things, my dear brother, cultivate your 
 religious character. Daily read a portion of the 
 Scriptures. Daily lift your heart in prayer to your 
 heavenly Father. Seek his guidance and protection. 
 Make him the object of your supreme affections. 
 He will listen to your prayers. He will surround 
 you with his influences. He will preserve you in the 
 hour of temptation. 
 
 *' Be regular in your attendance at church on Sun- 
 days. Do not trifle away the Lord's day, as some 
 young men are disposed to do. Occupy its leisure 
 hours in meditation, or in reading books of a devo- 
 tional character, or such as tend to cultivate your 
 moral and intellectual nature. 
 
 "Strive in all things to be a man, b, good mdh. 
 Do not regard the low standard of character that 
 may prevail around you. Embrace high and noble 
 principles. Be disinterested, be self-denying. Do 
 not think that the great object of life is to make 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL, 153 
 
 money, but rather to elevate and purify your own 
 character, that you may be a blessing to the world. 
 Let all with whom you associate feel that you are a 
 young man of principle ; that you cannot stoop to 
 vice, or be drawn aside by error. 
 
 " Be kind. Love all men. Make your brothers, 
 your sisters, all with whom you associate, happy by 
 your presence. 
 
 ^^That you may be and become all such as we 
 wish and counsel, is the earnest prayer of 
 
 Your Brother." 
 
 To 
 
 " Divinity School, June 14, 1839. 
 
 "If you observe the dates — but what are dates? 
 The soul knows no dates. Successions are they of 
 sun-risings, meal-taking, heart-aches. They do in- 
 terfere with the unbroken oneness of the soul's being. 
 Yet, in time, according to the laws of succession, 
 the soul does vary, revolve. Week rolls upon week, 
 and the heart pours along its floods evermore. I have 
 seized my pen ; but the ink, that comes flowing from 
 my inkstand, glimmers and is quenched in the utter 
 despair of my heart, of my life. Felt you ever so, 
 when the wildest impulses of your nature tempted 
 and urged you to an act, which a still stronger 
 impulse would not suffer to be done? Rosalie 
 [AUston's painting], Corinne, and then the vile 
 admixtures, the obstinate interference of this me- 
 chanical world, the imperiousness of expediency, 
 the impudence of discretion, and then my own 
 faltering, tameless nature. 
 
154 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 . ..." I do not forget your doctrine, that a direct 
 expression of sympathy is not always needed or 
 desirable, objectively or subjectively. But the op- 
 pressiveness of sympathy may be as caustic and rest- 
 less as the agony of our subjective emotions, and 
 equally demands our utterance. The greatest evils 
 of life are not always so much the pain received into 
 our own breasts, as the sufferings we inflict, either 
 in the way of cause or occasion, upon others. Nor 
 is a consciousness of rectitude on our part always 
 suflicient to prevent the ingress and corrosion of this 
 reflex agony. 
 
 " The language of sympathy is brief and direct : 
 indeed it is not so much a language as an action ; 
 and its power lies, not so much in utterance as in 
 silence. Those nights when the sleepless heart 
 struggles with a wearied body, how bad they are ! 
 The eye, shut from objects which the light of day 
 brings to its relief, fastens with a wild intensity 
 and aching minuteness on those scenes which have 
 interested the heart." 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 " Cambridge, June 27, 1839. 
 
 " A philosophical tranquillity, if it were attainable, 
 is perhaps at all times our most desirable condition. 
 At least, it is natural for us to grow averse to those 
 things which have flattered and lured the soul into 
 a perpetual disappointment and pain. As to myself, 
 I can say nothing. ^The end of man were an 
 action, not a thought, though it were the noblest.' 
 Let us, then, ' do that which lies next us.' So we 
 
LIFE AT THE DI^^NITY SCHOOL. 155 
 
 bestir ourselves, we may set agoing the mists that 
 crowd heavily upon us, and they shall all roll away 
 into the infinite void." 
 
 To HIS Brother H l, 
 
 " Divinity School, CAMBEiDaE, June 29, 1839. 
 
 " The anti-war question has been pretty thorough- 
 ly discussed in the seminary ; and we are perhaps 
 surprised to find that our whole school, with scarcely 
 an individual exception, sustains the position, that 
 all war, offensive and defensive, is inconsistent with 
 the spirit of Christianity. This is a result, which, 
 as I am aware, has not been reached in any other 
 seminary, literary or theological, in the country. 
 It is in no way of boasting, when I intimate that 
 Unitarianism is most peculiarly fitted for such a 
 conclusion. Its idea of the worth of man, as man, 
 and its faith in the indestructible principles of hu- 
 man virtue, render such a decision comparatively 
 easy. We see that the man is too valuable to be 
 shot down for the capricious and * honorable ' ends 
 of government. And we believe too, that, if a right 
 course is pursued, all disputes which agitate nations 
 may be settled by appeals to the exalted sentiments 
 of the soul. I would insinuate nothing, in this 
 connection, against other denominations. I believe 
 that all, in some way or other, will eventually arrive 
 at the same results. I only claim for ourselves a 
 little vantage-ground. As regards non-resistance, 
 there are some questions connected with it which 
 some of us find it difficult to settle. However, our 
 only inquiry is, What would Christ do ? What does 
 
156 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 he in all strictness require of us ? The testing fires 
 of a life-struggle are before us, and will prove the 
 genuineness of our resolves. . . . 
 
 "Suppose you should say, you could not con- 
 scientiously serve in the militia. Then would they 
 not thrust you through an iron door, and feed you 
 on bread and water ? Yet these same iron doors 
 have been sometimes an heaven's vestibule ; and 
 bread and water, angels' food. Be courageous in 
 thine own purposes. Stick fast to thy position, and 
 the world will come round to you. You cannot go 
 round to it. The race is moving. Make a Chris- 
 tianly and true life of the present. Here lies our 
 hope. The world has ever needed a regeneration, 
 — never more than now. Thy own true life shall 
 be the spirit that bloweth where it listeth, and 
 makes roses in the desert, a new creation from sur- 
 rounding death. 
 
 " I shall be glad to know of your progress. But, 
 if you cannot write, still live, and all men shall be 
 your epistle unto me. — Your Brother, in much 
 love, hope, and consolation." 
 
 To 
 
 *' Divinity School, July 6, 1839. 
 
 "I know not how it is, but a slight misunder- 
 standing sometimes affects me more than the most 
 serious differences. In the latter case, the hope of 
 reconciliation leaves us, and the soul summons all 
 its powers of endurance. In the former we are 
 balanced in suspense, which is the most intolerable 
 of all conditions. 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 15Y 
 
 " There are but few in whom the intellectual 
 and sentimental developments are equal and perfect. 
 When there is a consistent harmony of these some- 
 what antagonistic qualities^ then is our admiration 
 and love more especially interested. In the general, 
 we see but parts of men in men. The great lump, 
 humanity, is sliced and divided, the portions distri- 
 buted. To some is given an eighth, to some a 
 quarter, while some get only a paring. To attain 
 our ends, we — that is, those in whom the perfect 
 humanity resides — are obliged to make the circuit 
 •of society ; and even then the result comes to us so 
 disproportioned and disjointed as to half-disgust and 
 weary us. If we are so fortunate as to find our 
 Rosalie's face, we must set it upon the body of the 
 hag in ^ Gil Bias,' and place the whole upright on 
 Jeremiah's foot. Eh ! Men ! It seems like a wild- 
 goose chase to hope ever to realize our aims. Why 
 aim, then ? 
 
 " Furthermore, it always seems selfish and unfair 
 to make use of a man for a particular purpose, and 
 then dismiss him in favor of another, who happens 
 to meet our next want. I recollect a lady, whom I 
 asked to sing, once said to me, 'You don't care for 
 me, but only for my singing.' Well, she insinuated 
 a truth. I then thought I would never ask a lady 
 to please me by her musical powers again ; I would 
 seek all enjoyments in myself, my infinite self, and 
 retire there for all sympathy. Sometimes a lady's 
 whole being is her singing. But this lady had 
 another self. ' Care for we,' she said. That ' Me,' 
 — what did it comprehend ? What would it have ? 
 
 14 
 
158 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 This illustrates the more general matter of sympa- 
 thy in its various conditions and exercise. . . . Yet 
 we cannot well live without it ; and, if we cannot 
 find it in wholes, we must take it in parts. 
 
 " About the time I dropped my pen at the bottom 
 of the preceding page, the dinner-bell rang, and the 
 * keen demands of appetite ' urged me to another 
 duty. This eating, — is it not a pleasant thing ? 
 Your gastronomer, — is he not the true philoso- 
 pher ? This three times a day, table-gathering and 
 beef-eating, butter-spreading and tea-drinking, and 
 friendly chat, and free laugh, makes one wonderfully* 
 content with life. It satisfies a most important and 
 importunate part of our nature. "Why not centre 
 all life in that ? Why trouble one's self about the 
 philosophers ? All men have their eating suscepti- 
 bility ; and you will not find it necessary to go 
 
 out of to get company. Did you ever look 
 
 into a swine-fold ? ^ So I can but get meal-mixture 
 enough,' says the hog-philosopher, 'and mud-mix- 
 ture for a siesta, I am content.' * Amen !' says the 
 hog-moralizer, who sees no end but the butcher's 
 knife and the salt-barrel. ' Amen ! ' adds the hog- 
 sentimentalist, who settles his fair proportions still 
 deeper in the heterogeneous compound that forms at 
 once his bath and his bed. ' Amen ! ' respond all 
 the little piglings, who scamper at their feet's end 
 up and down the straw and the mire. ' Amen 1 ' 
 shall we not all say ? This is the genuine gas- 
 trosophy ; and, since life is allowed to be pretty 
 essentially connected with the stomach, we must 
 believe that the true eating is the true sophia. Eh ! 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 159 
 
 Men! again. Soups and puddings make us qualm- 
 ish and fretful. The end is not reached. So plates 
 and spoons urge us to our immortality. I would 
 soar, but I am clogged. Shall I to my bed and 
 sleep ? " 
 
 " July 9. — I recollect what you said about part- 
 ing with Rosalie in a crowd. When we make our 
 adieus to those we love, no eyes should see us but 
 silence and the stars. There are times when we 
 shrink from any thing like participation of feeling 
 and interest. Such are our parting hours. "We can't 
 bear the stupid and half-sympathetic gaze, the won- 
 ders why, the curious inquiries, of the vulgar. Be- 
 sides, those are most self-moments. "We would not 
 be distracted. We seek an absorbing concentra- 
 tion. 
 
 '' I have learned now, what I could never reconcile 
 or understand before, what the true malignity of sin 
 is. It is not that I was born with a defiled nature, 
 but that, differently constituted, I do sin. I sin\ 
 with angels, not with devils ; and this afflicts me 
 with a prostration of soul, with an utter self-humi-/ 
 liation and condemnation. 
 
 " Our earliest impressions of the stars make them 
 the abiding-place, and, as one may say, the observa- 
 tory, of the Divinity ; nor does a corrected philosophy 
 of our maturer years wholly dissipate this illusion. . . . 
 
 "My ideal of the religious mind, and the model 
 according to which I would shape my affections, is 
 not so much Jeremiah as it is John. I seek rather 
 the loving than the weeping mood. Standard writers 
 and types for me are such men as Fenelon, Cud- 
 
160 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 worthy Law, Thomas Smith, Bishop E[all, Howe, 
 and others of a similar taste. 
 
 ''Five years ago, under the elm-trees and deep 
 midnight of New Haven, I struggled and ques- 
 tioned, and doubts beat upon me like a storm of fire. 
 All men seemed to leave me then. . . . 
 
 " But how shall I put this into readable and hold- 
 togetherable shape ? I can think of no other way 
 but to run a thread through the backs of the sheets, 
 and so tie them fast. "What, too, if they should get 
 displaced in your hands ? I am such a consistent 
 piece of mechanism myself, that the least mismanage- 
 ment of that sort would utterly confound you. So 
 I go to work. The student has turned seamster, 
 or, rather, I am the man seamstering. But you 
 would have chuckled. "What a bother ! The first 
 point is to thread one's needle. I am not altogether 
 inexperienced, yet is it a perpetual vexation. How- 
 ever, I succeeded after a due trial. Then I clapped 
 my thimble, — a good one it is, my mother gave it 
 to me, — on the proper digital. Then, by a due 
 force, I pushed the resolute needle through the 
 quire of paper, have tied the ends of the thread 
 together, and so am a consistent man. Consistency, 
 thou art a jewel. 
 
 " Oh for a wife, — a great-souled, worth-appre- 
 ciating wife, — to put on my buttons, and stitch my 
 manuscripts ! Shall I never find such a one ? " 
 
 On a vacation at Northampton, Mr. Judd thus 
 notes, in his Journal, an account of retracing his old 
 Hadley walk : — 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 161 
 
 "July 29, 1839. 
 
 "Up Bridge-street were. the old familiar houses, 
 sidewalks, roads, fences, gateways. That old, wea- 
 ther-worn barn looked towards me, and would receive 
 one look of recognizance. The boys, — not my own 
 boyhood's boys, they are scattered, and for ever, — 
 new youngsters, coming out upon the same grass, 
 to play and hope and die, like their predecessors. 
 Onward I went, through the narrow foot-path, in 
 the wide street. The great elms are its guardians 
 still. The old gate-keeper still draws up the tink- 
 ling gate. The bridge, — I looked through its 
 windows northward. The river issues firom green 
 hills, wood-land. On it flows, and Nature retinues 
 it with a thousand shadowy trees, and meadow- 
 banks. It opens in the embrace of a green, shrubby 
 island, imparts a lingering kiss, and flows on for 
 ever. I would plunge into its stream, and be borne 
 onward too. 
 
 " Then the expanded meadows, the corn and grass, 
 the same dusty road, the same tree too, under which, 
 a weary, satchelled school-boy, I had rested. I 
 turned now, and most mechanically leaned against 
 its trunk, for the sake of auld lang syne. 
 
 " Returning, the moon was out. Southerly it 
 lighted and hid the heavens. There were clouds, 
 and Lyra and Cassiopoeia, and, in the dim horizon, 
 the Bear and thin clouds. Misty the air. Mount 
 Holyoke shone purely, like a bank of milk-white 
 mist. Angels might have wrought their drapery 
 from it. And the moon shone upon the Connecticut, 
 as I looked through the bridge southerly iipon it. 
 
 14* 
 
16^ LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 The water was trembling in li^lit. The dark, shaded 
 banks enclosed it like a gem. From the high 
 heavens I fancied it looked earth's nightrjfiwelry. 
 Walked the thoughtful quickly on. The burying- 
 ground, — its white monuments stood up like the 
 sheeted dead, new-risen from their graves ; and its 
 black monuments, like the wasted skeletons of a 
 hundred years. As he hurried by, these dead seemed 
 to move. They joined in dance over the hillocks, in 
 the dim moonlight, the black and the white, under 
 funereal pines and elms, with tall, gaunt weeds that 
 grew there. They danced noiselessly, as the dead 
 must dance. They danced to no music ; for they 
 needed none, save the silent wind. He quickened 
 his pace, and this dance of the dead grew more 
 hurried and more involved. When he was well 
 past, and looked back, the dance was stopped, and 
 the moveless stones stretched their grizzly necks to 
 gaze at the passer. He was soon hid by a turn in 
 the street, not frightened ; for he felt that such 
 communion was most fitting to his spirit." 
 
 THIRD YEAR AT HARVARD. 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 " DiyiNiTY School, Sept. 12, 1839. 
 
 " This term we begin to write sermons, and next 
 term shall preach, not abroad, but in the College 
 Church. The duties of my profession, — responsi- 
 ble, arduous, solemn, — begin to come upon me, no 
 longer as a prospective imagining, but as a home- 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 163 
 
 pressing reality. May I have strength, courage, 
 faith, holiness, for the great work ! " 
 
 To 
 
 " DiviNiTT School, Sept. 19, 1839. 
 
 " I feel, every day of my life, I need encouraging. 
 I stumble at a straw. I sink with a feather's weight 
 upon me. How is it that on some points I am all 
 self-trust, and on others all outward repose ? How 
 do the giant and the child blend so together in our 
 little fi-amework ? Why should not the giant sus- 
 tain the child ? 
 
 " I am, if your doctrine be true, an angel fallen 
 from the bright haven of his earlier home, who now, 
 with a palpitating heart and broken wing, is drag- 
 ging himself wearily through morass and mist, in 
 sea3rch of what he has lost. 
 
 " I have made some most astonishing resolutions 
 for this term, — that I will not sigh or complain 
 once. "Why should I not be a man, and have done 
 with effeminacy and nonsense ? " 
 
 " Oct. 28. — Have you considered the value of 
 autobiographical writing, in general? There is a 
 positive pleasure attending that species of com- 
 position, because the subject is at once interesting 
 and familiar. It is a revelation of the life, while 
 much else that we write is a speculation, or a doubt, 
 or a social necessity ; it improves the habit of self- 
 observation ; it subserves the memory ; it is a con- 
 venient index to the events of our life; it is a 
 source of pleasure to our friends, or to the one 
 friend whom we might favor with the perusal of it. 
 
164 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 But the capital advantage, as I conceive, lies in this, 
 — the aid it affords in the solution of the problem 
 of man, — of what I am, of what you are. All the 
 data are before you, and a skilful combination of 
 the figures will enable you to approximate the re- 
 sult. Influences are traced up to their source, and 
 onward to their issues. Doubts that have once per- 
 plexed us find, in the present retrospection, an easy 
 resolution, and are carried upward to the vast Un- 
 known before us, and aid us to calculate its uncer- 
 tainties, and throw some light into its mysterious 
 depths. You learn what you are destined for, by 
 perceiving what you have lived for. In observing 
 what you might have been, you decide what you 
 can be. This retrospection will correct a thousand 
 mistakes into which the enthusiasm, the vanity, or 
 the ignorance of youth may have involved you ; and 
 you will find your present position the more secure, 
 just in proportion to this subtraction of errors. A 
 multitude of questions in the philosophy of mind 
 and of opinion will receive some light from such an 
 investigation. It will conduct you to a more defi- 
 nite understanding of the place you hold in society, 
 in the world, in the universe. By what limits are 
 we connected to the Infinite ? How does a general 
 or a special Providence actually touch the soul, and 
 circumscribe human actions ? To these questions 
 it will render some satisfaction. But I need not 
 enlarge. The great questions, ^ What am I, and 
 why am I ? ' would become somewhat disentangled 
 by a careful review of one's life. And is not this 
 compensation enough for such a labor ? " 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 165 
 
 Fkom his Journal. 
 " Nov. 1, half-past ten, evening. — Our prayer- 
 meeting continued to this moment. Conversation 
 took a deep, searching, and exceedingly interesting 
 character. Our prayers were most earnest. Our 
 souls seemed very near heaven. We melted into 
 love and holiness. God was most especially pre- 
 sent. Our hearts were softened, cheered, — all ho- 
 liest purposes quickened. To God, my God, my 
 Father, commend I my soul this night. Holiest 
 One, I am thine, for ever thine." 
 
 To 
 
 " Nov. 15. — I have just come from our prayer- 
 meeting. A good time it was. "We pray as the 
 spirit moveth, and each brother breathes out the deep 
 things of his heart. God seems especially nigh to 
 us at these moments. The Holy Spirit visits us 
 with his especial influences. Were you ever one 
 of a social praying circle ? How precious they are ! " 
 
 ^' Nov. ^5. — It rains this morning, rains fitfully, 
 windily, darkly. My spirits droop like the wing of 
 a bird. To be alone, shut up in my chamber, is 
 oppressive. And yet not always so. Sometimes 
 I like to be alone when darkness and storms per- 
 vade the world without. But this morning I seem 
 predisposed to an indefinable dejection. The influ- 
 ences of last evening TTang heavily upon me. Last 
 evening was one of deep and thoughtful interest. 
 The ordination-services affected me more than I can 
 describe. What I must soon encounter, with its 
 responsible duties and its momentous issues, was 
 
Y- 
 
 ^^ 
 
 166 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 impressed with a painful vividness. *Wlio is suffi- 
 cient for these things ? ' O my God ! be thou my 
 help, my supporter." 
 
 '^ Dec. — The low murmurings of the soul are all 
 that is heard. We listen, but perceive no voice, only 
 an indistinct moaning. From the depths sound up 
 evermore that inarticulate wail. Is it the smothered 
 pantings of the soul ? Is it the lament of some other 
 spirit incarnated and incarcerated in our own ? Is 
 it a cry heard only in heaven, and one which will at 
 last find its fulfilment there? O Earth, Eafth! 
 wherefore are we cast upon thy dark borders ? Where- 
 fore is the longing soul tantalized by thy shows ! 
 Wherefore thy racks and troubles ? Yet I love thee. 
 Earth. From thy womb sprang I into light. On 
 thy bosom have I been nurtured. Thy flowers are 
 beautiful. Thy heavens are glorious. By thy pro- 
 bation am I purified for my coming destiny. Through 
 thee, as a vestibule, I pass into brighter worlds. 
 Hush, then, this tumult of the heart ! Let me pa- 
 tiently bear and suffer, and wait, that I may at last 
 triumph and enjoy. Let me be a child, and submit 
 to that chastening which for the present seemeth not 
 grievous, but which will terminate in exceeding 
 joy. 
 
 '^ All things sadden me. Mr. coming in, and 
 
 talking about 'these views,' makes me sad. _JPhilo- 
 
 sophy, theology-,- ppej;ry^_jrnake_me_sad^ Coleridge, 
 
 and Ripley, and Norton make me sad. My Father's 
 presence with me now makes me sad. The snow, 
 my rose-plant, the cold moon, produce the same 
 effect. The past, the present, and the future, life 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 167 
 
 and no life, what I am and what I have been, the 
 letters of my friends, pain in my head and in my 
 heart, — all, all deepen that one feeling. Now do 
 not attempt to thread these things all on one string. 
 You cannot do it. You cannot detect a common 
 point of harmony. Possibly none such exists. Such 
 a mood likes sometimes to utter itself without point 
 and without coherence. It has its own idiom, and 
 adopts its own language." ... 
 
 To HIS Brother J. W. 
 
 "Northampton, Jan. 16, 1840. 
 
 " Those who suffer from the conduct of other men 
 should guard themselves against indulging an undue 
 severity of judgment respecting such as have injured 
 them. A case of this sort affords the finest oppor- 
 tunity for the exercise and for the cultivation of that 
 first of Christian virtues, — charity. I think we are 
 too apt to wrong those who have done us an injury. 
 The wasting, bewildering, chilling effect of mercan- 
 tile reverses, is to my mind a greater evil than the 
 mere loss of property. The latter may be remedied. 
 The former is too apt to penetrate the character, and 
 constitute a permanent feature of the life. It be- 
 comes us to consider that there is a higher than 
 property, and that the peace and repose of the soul 
 are infinitely better than the rescue of debts, or even 
 than the flush of business. 
 
 " Your boy is doing admirably. He and his uncle 
 go out to slide every morning. It would please you 
 to see him fagging up the hill, with a red face, 
 panting breath, his feet pressing with a short, quick. 
 
168 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 divergent step, into the snowy path ; his arms swing- 
 ing up and down like a young bird on the ice. He 
 is on the sled ; and hurrah ! down he goes ! His sled 
 shies off into a snowbank, and over he goes. Up 
 he jumps, spitting out the snow from his mouth, 
 pushing up his cap which has fallen over his eyes, 
 with — ' "Well now that's too bad, I declare, uncle 
 Ves.' He drags the sled up the hill again, and pre- 
 pares for another overturn." 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 "Northampton, Jan. 17, 1840. 
 
 ^' A. complains that you are too philosophical, that 
 is, I suppose cool, unimpassioned, cautious. This, I 
 agree, is well. We come to it at last, whether we 
 will or no, find, after all, plants and pebbles are about 
 as good as any thing else. What signifies a perpetual 
 stretch of the mind? Let us come back into our 
 own little world, and amuse ourselves with such toys 
 as we can find there. It is curious to see one and 
 another reaching the point of bursting, and longing 
 to pour over somebody. If this disposition can be 
 gratified, well. If not, do not let us consume with 
 regret. Our resources, which in youth we deem 
 ample enough for the whole world, are apt enough 
 to get squandered ; and, when it is too late, we mourn 
 over the desertion and emptiness of our hearts. Yet 
 experience avails little for the newcomer on the 
 stage, and the same round will be run over and over 
 again. The repose of religion is the only secure rest 
 for the soul. 
 
 " I am now upon my last vacation. The ensuing 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 169 
 
 term will soon be gone, and then — may God be my 
 helper and guide." 
 
 To HIS Brother C. P. 
 
 "DiviNiTT School, Cambridgb, March 5, 1840. 
 
 ** I am not insensible to what you say about the 
 unsatisfactoriness of me taphysic aJU-studies. In all 
 the horrors of their perplexities, my own mind has 
 been involved. Perhaps you will think my own 
 feelings are soniawJiaLsectarian. (jBut I am persuaded 
 that any system of theology which is sustained mere- \y^ 
 ly on metaphysical grqunds must ever prove unsa-, . 
 tisfactory. \ And I am also convinced, from thorough 
 experience and a most faithful observation, that the 
 popular orthodox doctrines are sustained in that way ; 
 and I have found my only relief in the simple views 
 of Unitarianism. 
 
 "I would not have you abandon your idea of 
 preaching. Timt will settle all your difficulties. 
 There is truth enough somewhere in the world ; and, 
 by waiting, you will find it. For my own part, the 
 other professions have not the least relish for me, 
 unless, indeed, it may be teaching. The religion of \. 
 the New Testament, simple, unsystematized, un- \ 
 glossed, will afford ample scope for your talents and 
 your piety." 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 "DiTiNiTT School, Cambridge, March 8, 1840. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — I write you once more from 
 a room, to which, on account of its quiet and conve- 
 nience, I am very much attached ; and from scenes 
 
 15 
 
170 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 to which I am always happy to return. Some de- 
 gree of thoughtfulness attends the reflection that 
 my last vacation is over. These seasons of interval 
 from study have always been anticipated with de- 
 light ; and the time spent with my family and 
 friends has never failed to afford an abundance of 
 profitable enjoyment. My subsequent life must be 
 one of uninterrupted devotion to the duties of my 
 profession. Yet I cannot doubt, that, if these du- 
 ties are entered upon with proper motives, and a 
 just reliance on Him from whom comes all our 
 strength, they will ever be attended with that de- 
 gree of satisfaction and pleasure, which, aside from 
 any higher consideration, shall be a full compensa- 
 tion for their fatigue." 
 
 To HIS Brother C. P. 
 
 "Divinity School, Cambrxd6e, May 16, 1840. 
 
 " Dear Brother C. P., — Your letters of March 
 21 and May 2 are before me. So many letters at 
 once seem like a sort of ' run upon the bank ; ' 
 but I believe I can meet my dues, though I cannot 
 always pay gold and silver. I can let you have 
 more paper, which perhaps, in this case, will do as 
 well. I am glad you are in so good a mood ; and, 
 as laughing is healthful, I shall not suffer much from 
 disease while I can have letters from you. 'Tis well 
 to have the dulness and torpidity of study broken 
 up once in a while. I wish I was at home to be 
 merry with you. How comes on the fishing ? Did 
 you have any glorious nibbles ? By the way, I shall 
 not soon forget how you looked on your back, fling- 
 
LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 171 
 
 ing up heels and hands, convulsed with laughter, 
 when I fell into the water." 
 
 To HIS Beother H L. 
 
 "Divinity School, Cambridgb, May 17, 1840. 
 
 " It is only for those we love that we feel justified 
 in growing uneasy. Apparent coldness, attended 
 with a real interest, in our friends, seems to be some- 
 times necessary ; yet it is one of the most disagree- 
 able states into which we can be thrown ; and, if 
 excused by the circumstances of the case, it is per- 
 haps to be regarded as a sort of martyrdom to princi- 
 ple, and not to be set down as a result of caprice or 
 selfishness. However, when it can be avoided, it 
 should be. There are real cold shadows enough 
 to fall upon the pathway of life, without throwing a 
 screen before the little fire that does burn. In all 
 these things, however, I have been as great a sinner 
 as any one ; and, while I suggest a proper course 
 for another, I would endeavor to reform myself" 
 
 On finishing his theological studies, he thus writes 
 in his Journal : — 
 
 " Cambridge, July 17, 1840. — My studies are 
 over, my profession acquired, my work before me. 
 My bodily health at least is good, my energy vigor- 
 ous. My heart, O my heart ! is it fully sanctified yet ? 
 Am I humble ? Life — am I prepared for it, and 
 its? Heaven — am I thither tending, and thither 
 taking men's souls ? Nine years ago, the first of 
 June, found me commencing my studies at Hadley 
 Academy. Three years — how quickly passed ! 
 
IT8 LIFE AT THE DIVINITY SCHOOL. 
 
 The choicest, best part of my life, how gone ! "What 
 have they carried me through? No matter now. 
 I am a better and a calmer man. I have few agita- 
 tions, know few griefs. Could name one or two 
 things, but they are trifles. I enter the theatre of 
 the world to act my part. What shall I accom- 
 plish ? With what object link myself, to what idea 
 give an impulse ? Christ, I am thine, wholly thine. 
 Sanctify me to thyself; make me wise for thy sake ; 
 make me energetic for thy sake ; make me influen- 
 tial for thy sake. 
 
 " A Unitarian — never more one ; never more 
 opposed to what is opposed to it. Another name for 
 Christianity. Shall it not be carried forward in the 
 world to a universal triumph ? Yet am I /no secta- 
 w--'^ jian, no party man. Care little for names^^^u~&c. 
 "Give me thy blessing, my~ Father in heaven! 
 as I enter upon the work of my life. How can I be 
 strong without thee ? How can I but utterly fail 
 without thee ? Make thy good Spirit my everlasting 
 guide." 
 
173 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 SETTLEMENT AND RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 SETTLEMENT. 
 
 On the 6th of July, 1840, a few weeks before closing 
 his course at the Divinity School, Mr. Judd made 
 an engagement to supply the pulpit of the Unitarian 
 Church in Augusta, Maine, for a period of six 
 weeks. To meet this engagement, on the evening 
 of July S4, he took passage from Boston. In his 
 Journal he writes, "Out of the harbor we passed 
 through a multitude of islands, and plunged into 
 the eternal sea and its eternal swell." The next 
 morning, " made the mouth of the Kennebec, under 
 a bright sky," among " a parcel of rocky, barren 
 islands, and woody shores near at hand ; the waters 
 dashing and breaking, and scattering their spray 
 wild and beautiful." The sail up these new waters 
 he found " charming." 
 
 His first sermon in Augusta was preached on the 
 morning of the 26th of July. In the evening, he 
 walked out upon the hill back of his boarding-house, 
 west of the town, where his attention was attracted 
 to the " east bank of the river, a broad, green slope," 
 he says, "swelling into the horizon, divided into 
 green plots, sprinkled with neat white houses, and, 
 
 15* 
 
174 SETTLEMENT AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 withal, some public buildings, constituting a very 
 pleasant picture." 
 
 True to his filial duty and affection, the first letter 
 known to be written from this place was addressed — 
 
 To HIS MOTHEK. 
 
 " AuGCSTA, Me., July 27, 1840. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — A new date commences a 
 new life. It is now Monday morning, the morning 
 after I have taken the first step in that new life. 
 Here I am, away in a novel part of the world, sur- 
 rounded by strange faces. I have rooms assigned 
 me at one of the hotels, — a quiet and retired place, 
 fine room, amply furnished within, and ample in its 
 view without. 
 
 ^^ Yesterday I discharged the regular pulpit duties. 
 How I succeeded, it is hardly worth while to inquire. 
 If any good is done, I shall be glad. I can say but 
 little about the people yet. Those whom I have 
 seen are very intelligent and serious men. They 
 begin to urge my staying with them." 
 
 Under the same date, he writes his brother H ^i : 
 
 *^ Yesterday, for the first time, I entered upon the 
 regular discharge of the duties of my profession, 
 saving half a day that I preached last Sunday in 
 Boston. "What strength of character, what purity of 
 heart, what love for souls, what faith in God, is re- 
 quisite for him who undertakes to become a preacher 
 of the gospel ! May I be thoroughly furnished as 
 a good soldier of the cross. I enter upon my public 
 duties with very considerable resolution and hope." 
 
SETTLEMENT AT AUGUSTA. 176 
 
 Mr. Judd's health, which was so much impaired 
 when he went to Cambridge, was now as fully con- 
 firmed as it could be while yet a weakened nervous 
 system held it at its mercy. On finishing his studies 
 at the Divinity School, and entering upon his pro- 
 fessional duties, he strove manfully to leave the trials 
 of his lot behind, to "let the dead past bury its 
 dead," and to labor and feel only in the " living 
 present ; " but, do the best he could, the dark clouds 
 of the past would at times project themselves over 
 the sunlight of his present, and shade with melan- 
 choly his otherwise happy prospects. 
 
 During this first week of his stay in Augusta, he 
 received the most courteous attentions by way of 
 calls, hospitable entertainments, rides, walks, and 
 the like ; but, nevertheless, something of this sombre 
 spirit would come upon him. He thus writes in his 
 Journal : — 
 
 " July 30. — Augusta, as I may have told fifty 
 people, is a very pretty place. But I am somehow 
 un-homed here. The books on my table look un- 
 easy. Webster's Dictionary, my Bible, the inkstand 
 and wafer-box, seem to be strangers, and are looking 
 up to me for sympathy. Well, ye shall have it. . . . 
 I went to the post-ofiice. The clerk shook his head 
 as I entered ; but I felt as if I could castigate some- 
 body." 
 
 Again: *' Aug. 1. — I stood out upon the piazza 
 that shelves out from my room, paced it up and 
 down, and my mind set to revolving some old, for- 
 bidden thoughts of faith and virtue and spirituality, 
 and some others not perhaps wholly spiritual. Then 
 
176 SETTLEMENT AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 came out Mrs. and some little girls, and I was 
 
 back again to the world, talked of my getting wet 
 this afternoon, of my nearly getting immersed yes- 
 terday afternoon, &c., &c. This diverts me, but 
 does not relieve me." 
 
 After hearing but four sermons from Mr. Judd, 
 two members of the parish committee called upon 
 him to ascertain whether he would consent to stand 
 as a candidate. He had had some thought of passing 
 the coming winter at Mobile, Alabama ; and, more- 
 over, he could not easily reconcile himself to the 
 idea of what then seemed to him being so far off 
 from his past circle of acquaintance and associations. 
 His mind was a good deal excited about the matter. 
 He asks, "What is duty, what is duty?" The 
 next morning, he says, " I went out of the village 
 upon the highlands* north, up, up, over granite 
 ledges, through the woods. "Was so happy ! Could 
 have died. We are always ready to die when we 
 are happy." 
 
 He speaks of attending a small, pleasant party 
 
 at Mr. 's, August 7, and humorously says : 
 
 '^ Discussed for the forty-eleventh time the beauties 
 of Augusta. Strong coffee saved me the trouble of 
 going to sleep, and set me into a horrible fantasy." 
 
 During the time of his engagement at Augusta, 
 he visited Deerfield, Mass., and sought to get a 
 release from an engagement he had made to preach 
 there the next September, but did not succeed. 
 ^ Under date August 24, at Augusta, he writes, 
 "Feel about as blue to-day as I know well how to 
 get along with. Some new things, some old things 
 
SETTLEMENT AT AUGUSTA. 177 
 
 reviving, or sending up their ghosts. The society 
 had a test-meeting last night ; agree to like me, if 
 they can raise money enough." 
 
 " Aug. 26. — Received the formal vote of the 
 society to become their pastor, which I shall say 
 * yes ' to for a year. May God help ! I am weak. 
 I am cowardly. Nerve me for this difficult work. 
 How can I glorify thee ? How can I save souls ? " 
 
 On the 31st of August, he left Augusta to fulfil 
 the claims which the Unitarian Church in Deerfield 
 had upon him for four sabbaths in September. The 
 impression he made here was so favorable, that the 
 church wished very much to retain him as their 
 pastor. He enjoyed much pleasant social inter- 
 course, and many delightful rural rambles. He 
 visited the sick and afflicted ; thus making, as he 
 said, his " first essays at the clinical practice." He 
 spent many days at Northampton, and made one of 
 a family gathering, of which he was always so glad 
 to be a member. He went to Westhampton, and, 
 with his cousin G. L. and a brother, visited the 
 grandfather's old mansion, then in the hands of 
 strangers, his father's former residence there, the old 
 store, the orchard, the large black walnut planted 
 by his father when he was a little boy, and feelingly 
 marked the changes in all. He thus comments : 
 *' Men's faces change, their hearts not much." He 
 was glad to avail himself of the opportunity of seeing 
 all his family friends in the vicinity. He felt him- 
 self very much drawn to Deerfield by the many 
 manifestations of kind regard on the part of the 
 people, as well as by its proximity to the circle of 
 
178 SETTLEMENT AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 his home-fi-iends. Yet, while enjoying so much in 
 various ways during these four weeks, so much of 
 old, depressing feelings still hung about him, that 
 he represents himself, at one time, as feeling " so 
 much between an exclamation and an interrogation," 
 that he hardly knew how he did feel. The evening 
 before his first preaching in Deerfield, he writes, — 
 
 '^ 71 o^clock. — Heaven prepare me to do good 
 to-morrow ! May some word be fitly spoken ! 
 
 '' Heaven bless my poor heart ! 
 
 '' Some female voices in the room below are sing- 
 ing Greenville, and the sound calls me back to this 
 world and man ; a fact I stop to record. Sing on, 
 sing on." 
 
 '' 9 0^ clock. — I hear some one praying in the room 
 underneath me. It comes upon me, a penetrating, 
 gentle influence, and I feel as if I could pray too. 
 . . . No ink in the stand. Bothers me to get enough 
 to write with. So I will stop. Have enough to 
 say, this poor self of mine longs for vent. 
 
 " Sept. 15. — Made some calls. This parochial- 
 izing hard rather for such a temper as mine. This 
 diffusing of such a solitary, anchoritish kind of fellow 
 is queer business. May the Lord bless me therein ! 
 It is an effort, but how much more agreeable than I 
 could anticipate ! How, in imparting happiness, are 
 our own souls blessed ! . . . But I, too, need some 
 ministering. Who will come in to speak to me, to 
 pray with me, to love me ? " 
 
 He writes to his father, Sept. 16 : — "I have 
 made nearly a dozen visits ; not, however, to the 
 rich and the great, but among the sick and afflicted. 
 
SETTLEMENT AT AUGUSTA. 179 
 
 This parochial clinicism is new business to me, and 
 that for which I feel most unfitted. All the habits of 
 my life, all the tendencies of my nature, shrink from 
 such duties. The sick-room, the bedside, the an-\ 
 guish of disease, the alarm of friends, I am not fitted ) 
 to encounter. But it must be done. May I have/ 
 aid from on high ! " 
 
 On the 30th of September, he is again at Augusta, 
 under which date he writes : " My friends in Deer- 
 field clung to me to the last. Their interest in me, 
 too, too kind. I cannot forget them. Had I known 
 their feelings at an earlier period, then I should have 
 been happy to stay with them. As it is, my engage- 
 ments, both in heart and in honor, are here." 
 
 Thursday, October 1, Mr. Judd received ordina- 
 tian as pastor of the church and society known as the 
 East Parish in Augusta. All the Maine Unitarian 
 clergymen were present ; and, in the evening, the 
 Maine Convention of Unitarian Ministers was held, 
 and a sermon preached by the Rev. Mr. Hedge, of 
 Bangor. 
 
 Of these services, Mr. Judd says : " All the feel- 
 ings that have crowded into this occasion, I could 
 not describe, nor shall I attempt it. A most ani- 
 mating as well as solemn time. New vows are upon 
 me, a new life before me. Who is sufficient for 
 these things ? " 
 
 His first sermon, after becoming a pastor, was 
 preached October 4, from the text, *^ Woe is unto 
 me, if I preach not the gospel." The next day he 
 writes to his mother : — 
 
 ** I have received ordination for the gospel minis- 
 
1^4 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 try, and am in the midst of the scenes of my profes- 
 sional labors. Say what any one will of forms, this 
 induction into office, according to the usages of our 
 church, is no light business, to the candidate at 
 least, I assure you. Its immediate impressions, its 
 prospective reflections, are of the gravest character. 
 Pray for me, that I may be found faithful." 
 
 Immediately after settlement, Mr. Judd set about 
 organizing a Sunday-school, and establishing teach- 
 ers' meetings ; in which effort he was heartily seconded 
 by children, parents, and teachers. He also, the 
 first week after his ordination, began to employ his 
 afternoons in visiting among his people. They 
 seemed quite aroused, and, as he writes, " strongly 
 animated for every good word and work." The 
 ladies presented him a gown and white cravats for 
 the pulpit, in which, jfrom that time, he always offi- 
 ciated on the sabbath. He writes of this to his 
 mother: "You would hardly know me, expanded 
 by so many folds of black silk." His arrangements 
 for board were most agreeable. His room was plea- 
 sant, and he was surrounded with every thing that 
 could minister to his comfort and convenience. 
 
 Thus was he happily settled with the prospect in 
 his professional life, stretching out full of hope and 
 promise for the future. His heart was in the great 
 work to which he had looked forward through his 
 long course of preparation, and in which he felt 
 ready to labor, body and soul, so long as he should 
 remain a tenant of earth. Yet, even now, " stifled 
 breathings firom the smothered deep of the dead 
 would move from their long sleep;" and, in the 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 181 
 
 dejection of his spirits, he often felt that " the grave \ 
 would be sweet unto him." Yet these feelings he 
 endeavored to keep hushed in his own bosom ; and 
 probably no one among his people once dreamed of 
 the heavy weight of past sorrows which lay entombed 
 in his heart. 
 
 About this time, he had an invitation from the 
 church in Deerfield to settle with them, when the year 
 for which he had engaged at Augusta should have 
 expired. But he thought it would be injurious to 
 his church in Augusta to announce at that time that 
 he would leave them at the end of a year, and there- 
 fore declined the Deerfield invitation. 
 
 On the 26th of November, he preached his first 
 Thanksgiving sermon. With associations natural to 
 the occasion, he writes in his Journal, that he wished 
 he was at home with his dear mother. He writes 
 to^ her, Nov. 30: "I thought of you Thanks- 
 giving-day, and should have been most happy to 
 be with you. I had to make Thanksgiving for 
 others ; that is to say, I preached a sermon, and 
 tried to direct the hearts of my people in the proper 
 way for such an occasion. I have a great deal of 
 visiting to do. I have made between one hundred 
 and fifty and two hundred calls. And this is hard 
 work among a strange people. My duties are ar- 
 duous, but not painful. I wish some of my good 
 family friends were here, or at least within speaking 
 distance. I shall not see you before summer. May 
 God bless you, and keep you and all of us till then 
 and for ever! . . . ^^Your loving Son." 
 
 Mr. Judd thus writes — 
 
 16 
 
182 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 " Augusta, Dec. 14, 1840. 
 
 " What do you think of me ? Well, chide me, 
 do an if you will. But I cannot write you. I am 
 mere matter of fact ; and, as such, I might as well 
 roll a mountain up hill as to write you. Can you 
 understand this ? Will you, then, excuse me ? I 
 have always been accustomed to write you in a differ- 
 ent strain ; and now, to commence on this, 'tis impos- 
 sible. Might as well keep up a correspondence with 
 an enemy as with a friend, when our feelings 
 change. Not changed towards you, but towards 
 the world; towards much that once interested me. 
 When I came to Augusta, it was in a belligerent 
 attitude. I was determined to make war upon my- 
 self. How I have succeeded, — but no more of 
 that. Some occasional tamperings with, and yield- 
 ings to, the enemy perhaps. But, on the whole, I 
 have held my way pretty well. My common, every- 
 day life, what do you care to know about it ? 'Tis 
 pleasant, active, various, and useful, I hope." . . . 
 
 During this initiatory period of strangership, Mr. 
 Judd's thoughts, as was very natural, often turned 
 to his home-fi:iends. He again writes — 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 " Augusta, Dec. 28, 1840. 
 
 " My dear Mother, — I was delighted and sur- 
 prised to get your last letter. It was so long and so 
 kind. It seemed like a renewal of your youth. I 
 should have rejoiced to be at home with you Thanks- 
 giving-day ; and if it were not for being obKged to 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 183 
 
 make Thanksgiving for others, in the way of preach- 
 ing sermons, I should hope I might enjoy many more 
 of those seasons with you. As it is, I hardly know 
 when I shall be at home Thanksgiving-day again. 
 
 " This morning, I feel somewhat, to use a cant- 
 term of the profession, Mondayish. This is said to 
 be the minister's sabbath. It may be a day of rest : 
 it is also a day of ennui and uneasy idleness. 
 
 " I shall hope for a letter from you soon, though 
 I know my mother does not forget her cliildren, even 
 when she cannot write them." 
 
 Under the same date, he writes — 
 
 To HIS Sister-in-law E. W. J. 
 
 '' I wish you, in the most wndignified manner pos- 
 sible, would just drop in and see me this afternoon. 
 To-day is Monday, when it is allowed to the minis- 
 ter to be a little free, a little unclerical ; and I'll en- 
 gage you should not be awed by any stiffness on my 
 part. Indeed, I should be very glad of the chance 
 to break out a little, I am obliged to be so precise 
 and formal. I occupy a delightful room, with the 
 river, old Kennebec, flowing just behind me, not 
 four rods from our house. I have married no one 
 yet, but expect to officiate in that service this week. 
 I thought of A. day before yesterday. I went out 
 to slide with a little boy ; a member of the family, 
 about as old as he. I remembered how he and 
 uncle ^ Conspicuous ' slid down Round Hill, last 
 winter. Alas ! we never shall again. A kiss for 
 the boy, and unfailing love for yourselves." 
 
184 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 As Monday was Mr. Judd's letter-writing day, 
 here is still another epistle, having the same date : — 
 
 To G. L. 
 
 *^ My dear Cousin, — I acknowledge my remiss- 
 ness, if that will go any way towards excusing it ; 
 and, for the rest, appeal to your charitable consider- 
 ation of my position, my engagements, labors, &c., 
 &c. Settlement is not being settled after all. It is 
 a perpetual move and fluctuancy. Our hours are 
 not our own, our thoughts are not our own. We 
 are obligated to the church, to God. I find enough 
 to do, and my heart is in what I do. My labors are 
 constant, but not arduous ; they are fatiguing at 
 times, but not wearing. I am in good health, never 
 better ; and good health is as good as faith. Visiting, 
 ministerial decorum, funerals, marriages, «S:c., &c., 
 are full of matter to talk about among the initiated, 
 and, great or little as they may be in themselves, are 
 full of difficulties. Society here, I am told, is quite 
 animated during the session of the Legislature, which 
 meets next week. But, whatever goes on, it is all 
 the same to me. I have my duties, and the world 
 its pleasures. If we touch these last, we are too 
 apt to be contaminated by them. If we could 
 correct, elevate, and sanctify them, happy should 
 we be. 
 
 " W. is dead. Merciful God ! to what are we 
 coming ? Make us ready. 
 
 " I board in a fine family, and am surrounded by 
 all needful comforts. Heaven make me grateful, 
 active, and holy ! . . . . 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 185 
 
 " Hurrah for Harrison ! Do give me leave, in this 
 little by-place in my sheet, to say it. A minister 
 must not be a politician, you know. Add to this, 
 that a majority of my people are Democrats, and 
 you will see I don't get a chance to express myself 
 very often." 
 
 1841. 
 
 The remainder of the history embraced in this 
 chapter will be arranged under the successive years 
 of the period. The design is to give the general 
 current of Mr. Judd's pastoral life, which, indeed, 
 is, in the main, of so even a tenor as to furnish few 
 external incidents of striking interest. As in the 
 other parts of the work, large drafts will be made 
 upon his own writings. His Journal has the follow- 
 ing entry at the opening of this year : — 
 
 " Jan. 1, 1841. — Have been wished a happy new 
 year ; hope it may prove so. I wish all men a 
 happy new year." 
 
 To his mother he says, Jan. 18 : — 
 
 *^The first of January I was called to marry a 
 couple. I trembled, I assure you, — more than 
 they did, I guess. But I shall get used to it, I 
 suppose." 
 
 Again, in Journal, Jan. 23, he writes : — 
 "Good Saturday night. The sublime Sunday is 
 near. How I love thy tabernacles, O Lord ! I do 
 love them. I lose myself; or, rather, myself is all- 
 absorbed and taken up into infinity." 
 
 16* 
 
186 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 FaoM A Journal-like Letter to A. H. 
 
 "Augusta, Jan. 25, 1841. 
 
 " I am getting to like my situation here more and 
 more. Give me good friends, ^nd I should be 
 happy in Spitzbergen. This morning (Monday) I 
 dawdle and putter about. Have but little to do, and 
 feel like doing less. Have a great many calls to 
 make. I am often reminded of the dilemma of the 
 young clergyman, who said he frequently did not 
 ask for the babies where they had some, and did 
 ask for them where they had none. However, I 
 shall get acquainted by and by." 
 
 " Jan. 28. — Wrote sermons to-day ; ate breakfast 
 and dinner and supper. We sometimes do such 
 things here." 
 
 ''Feb. 2. — Attended the funeral of Judge F. 
 to-day. God prepare us to die ! I sometimes feel 
 I should not haggle long with Death, if he should 
 be disposed to take me." 
 
 / About this time, Mr. Judd entered into a matri- 
 (monial engagement with Miss Jane E. Williams, 
 daughter of Hon. Reuel Williams, of Augusta. Mr. 
 Williams was one of the original founders and libe- 
 ral patrons of the Unitarian Church in Augusta ; 
 and, from his first ministrations in the place, Mr. 
 Judd had been in the habit of visiting in a friendly 
 way in this family. 
 
 This was a great epoch in Mr. Judd's interior 
 life. As is evident from the general tone of his 
 previous inner history, union of soul, sympathy of 
 spirit, love and affection in general, was to his nature 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 187 
 
 the greatest want, next to the favor of Heaven. 
 But, tempest-tossed as he had been through so long 
 a period, and still keenly suffering at times from the 
 depressing effects of what he had endured, a solace 
 like that arising from such an alliance of heart with 
 his heart was peculiarly required, and particularly 
 suited to his present needs. 
 
 In the interval between his engagement and mar- 
 riage, he went on fulfilling his ministerial duties 
 with more devoted energy, with deeper love for his 
 whole flock, with larger desires for their highest 
 happiness. In the month of June, he took a rural 
 walk with the children of his parish ; the first of 
 that series which he ever after annually kept up. 
 At this time, they passed through a favorite little 
 place known as "Happy Valley," and onward to 
 the tomb owned by Mr. Williams, and to the high 
 bluff near by on the eastern bank of the Kennebec, 
 commanding a pleasant view. 
 
 On the 4th of July, he preached a sermon enti- 
 tled "The Beautiful Zion," the design of which 
 was, in a plain and simple manner, to set forth to 
 his people the prominent objects at which they, 
 as a Christian church, should aim, and the purposes 
 for which he, as a Christian minister, should labor. 
 This discourse he printed at his own expense, and 
 distributed to each family of his congregation for 
 their study and consideration. 
 
 Warmly interested in the religious state of a 
 brother, he writes to him, July 21 : — 
 
 " I hope you will model yourself after Christ, and 
 not aftex^creeds or professors of religion. Make the 
 
188 BESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 New Testament your study. Imbibe the full spirit of 
 Christ. Conform to all his precepts. Let it be your 
 constant prayer that you may be a Christ-ism indeed." 
 
 In a familiar way, he thus gives an account of the 
 publication of his bans, to A. H., August 9 : — 
 
 " We were published yesterday. ' Rev. Sylvester 
 Judd, jun., and Miss Jane E. Williams, intend mar- 
 riage.' People seemed glad their minister intends 
 marriage ; just as if they had not known it for six 
 months. But there it is in the box, to satisfy the 
 law, and, as is usual in such cases, particularly dis- 
 satisfying to the parties concerned." 
 
 On the evening of Aug. 31, 1841, Mr. Judd was 
 married. The morning after, he set off with his 
 wife, to introduce her to the family gathering at his 
 father's home. And here he passed three or four 
 weeks in the beloved family circle, and found plea- 
 sure in revisiting the haunts of his childhood, — the 
 old familiar scenes, the spots, in some instances, where 
 the dark waters of sorrow had overwhelmed his soul. 
 And not one of the least pleasures of this occasion 
 was a ride to Springfield, in company with his wife, 
 for the purpose of refunding to Mr. Dwight the 
 money of which he had been so kind as to give him 
 the use in facilitating his theological studies. The 
 means of discharging this obligation had been se- 
 cured by the most rigid economy in the use of his 
 salary. But the delight experienced in now cancell- 
 ing the last debt for his education was more than a 
 recompense for the self-denial. 
 
 To his brother C. P., lamenting his absence from 
 the home-circle at this time, he says : " You are at a 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 189 
 
 great distance. We are widely separated. The same 
 good God cares for us all. The religion of Christ 
 is blessed everywhere. The virtue of our own hearts 
 will suffice for us as well in South Carolina as in 
 Maine. The same Heaven will unite us all." 
 
 In remembrance of this visit, he, a month or two 
 afterwards, writes a brother : '' I shall long remem- 
 ber our sweet, happy visit at home. May we have 
 many such ! " 
 
 Shortly after returning to Augusta, Mr. Judd was 
 established at housekeeping on the east side of the 
 river, in the midst of a very large and pleasant cir- 
 cle of new family connections, besides the agreeable 
 society of his own particular people. He now felt 
 himself fairly settled, in the fullest import of the 
 word, and ready to enter, with singleness of pur- 
 pose and integrity of spirit, upon the labors of that 
 profession which had been his early desire, and in 
 reference to which he had devoted so many years of 
 untiring study. 
 
 He writes in his Journal, Oct. 1 : "A year since 
 my ordination ! What a year ! How interesting its 
 events, how solemn its issues ! Have I been faithful 
 to my people ? I have given myself to them, have 
 recognized no interest separate from my profession. 
 God bless me and them ! " 
 
 His congregation slowly increased; church meet- 
 ings were kept up ; sabbath-school teachers' meet- 
 ings were pleasantly sustained; the sabbath-school 
 itself flourished ; and he found himself very happy 
 in discharging the duties of his office. With leisure 
 for self-collection, he cast about for subjects which 
 
190 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 he deemed of first importance to present to the 
 consideration of his people. Among these, the evils 
 of war and intemperance had their place. In regard 
 to war, it will be remembered, that, as long before 
 as when he was a member of Hopkins Academy, its 
 opposition to the principles of the Prince of Peace 
 attracted his notice, and formed the theme of one or 
 two compositions. Nov. 8, 1841, he writes a bro- 
 ther : '^ I am sorry you must train. The militia is 
 a horrible system ; barbarous as ten heathenisms ; 
 utterly antichristian. So I view it. Can a Chris- 
 tian be a fighter, a killer of his own flesh and blood ? 
 What think you of that ? " On Thanksgiving-day, 
 this year, he writes his mother of his thoughts of 
 her, and of his wish to be at home ; and hoped the 
 time would come when all the members of the fa- 
 mily could be there at that festival. 
 
 r^ 
 
 184^. 
 
 At the commencement of the year ■ 1842y Mr. 
 Judd formed the plan of delivering in his church, 
 y ; once a month, on sabbath evenings, a lecture on 
 I some moral subject of general importance. The 
 ^rst of this series was delivered to a crowded audi- 
 ence. The subject was " Washingtonianism/' a form 
 of operation in favor of temperance, in which he 
 was very much interested. The second lecture of 
 the course was upon " Popular Amusements in con- 
 J nectipn with Morals and Religion," wEicIT'was also 
 given to a very full house. 
 
 The theme of the third lecture was "A Moral 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 191 
 
 Keview of the Revolutionary "War ; or some of 
 the Evils of that Event considered." The aim 
 of the discourse was to make the evils of the 
 Revolutionary War, which he acknowledged to be 
 the holiest war on record, an argument to the minds 
 of his hearers for the renunciation of all war. The 
 Legislature of the State was in session ; and many of 
 its members were among his audience. In detailing 
 the evils attending the contest, he was understood by 
 many to reflect upon Washington and other fathers 
 of the Kevolution. Some members of the Legisla- 
 ture were so angry as to leave the house while he 
 was speaking, and the most of them were seriously 
 offended. Mr. Judd, in common with the other 
 clergymen of Augusta and Hallowell, as was cus- 
 tomary at every session, had been requested this 
 winter to ofiiciate in turn as chaplain of both houses. 
 So high was the state of excited feeling among the 
 members, that the first official business they did, on 
 meeting the next morning, was to pass and transmit 
 to Mr. Judd an order of dismissal. His own people, 
 however, stood by him, and even adhered to him the 
 closer for this unwarrantable attempt to interfere 
 with his liberty in the pastoral office. 
 
 The excitement produced by this discourse, and 
 its consequences, were altogether surprising to My. 
 Judd. He wrote it, not as a politician, but as a 
 Christian, and from the conscientious conviction in 
 his own mind that all war is wrong. He felt that 
 his position in the matter was wholly misunderstood ; 
 that few, if any, whom this sermon displeased, looked 
 at the subject from his point of view. 
 
19^ RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 He therefore felt it important to publish the dis- 
 course, that all who heard him might have the 
 opportunity of a calm, deliberate perusal, and thus 
 the better judge of its true spirit ; and that, so fg-r 
 as rumors went abroad respecting it, the public 
 might have an opportunity to judge of his true 
 position. This he did, adding copious notes, and 
 giving a long list of references as authority for his 
 statements. The whole was prefaced by an Intro- 
 duction, addressed " To all who love the Lord Jesus 
 Christ, and would be obedient to his heavenly mission." 
 He commences by saying, " The writer of the fol- 
 lowing discourse is a minister of the gospel ; of that 
 gospel which was ushered into the world with glad 
 tidings of peace, and left to the world with a promise 
 of peace ; of that gospel whose soul and life, whose 
 doctrine and practice, are peace among men." He 
 goes on to say, " He believes, that, if Christ himself 
 were now on the earth, he would never, for any 
 pretext, reason, or motive whatever, engage in war. 
 .... It is his single desire, in this discourse, by 
 unfolding the evils of war, to disseminate the love 
 and the observances of peace. He would make the 
 evils of the Revolutionary War, be they more or 
 less, an argument to the mind of his hearers for the 
 renunciation of all war. He would dispel the illu- 
 sion of war, by entering its most sacred retreats, 
 and showing that an essential evil cleaves to the 
 system, and that immoralities are inborn in its purest 
 sources. 
 
 " He protests that he has no wish to reflect upon 
 the fathers of the Revolution ; as noble a race of 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 193 
 
 men as the earth affords, in every other capacity, 
 but who, in their war-capacity, — and among them 
 he enumerates his own ancestry, — the facts deve- 
 loped in this discourse serve to indicate, were not 
 proof against that gorgon-face which turns every 
 thing it looks upon into another nature. 
 
 " In the conduct of the discourse, he has confined 
 himself chiefly to facts ; facts which are a matter of 
 historical record ; facts, which, in the copiousness 
 of the references, are open to every one's revision. 
 If there be any sentiments in the discourse, they are 
 the sentiments of facts ; if there be any argument 
 in the discourse, it is the argument of facts ; if there 
 be any crimination, it is the crimination of facts ; if 
 any strictures, they are the strictures of facts ; if any 
 libel, it is the libel of facts. He took the facts as 
 he found them, — too stubborn things to be winked 
 out of sight ; and he presented them as he found 
 them, hoping that the facts, and the facts alone, 
 would have weight with his hearers. ... 
 
 " He freely allows to all concerned to regard the 
 war in what light they please. He claims the same 
 right for himself He does not ask his readers to 
 adopt his point of view. He conceives, that, if they 
 will only stand in it but for a moment, they will con- 
 fess the writer is not to be wholly condemned. . . . 
 
 '' The writer is supposed to have been actuated 
 by hostile feelings to the Revolutionary War in 
 particular ; which is so far from being the fact, that, 
 if there is any war for which he may be supposed to 
 cherish friendly feelings, it is that war. . But he 
 looks upon war in the abstract, — upon all war, — 
 
 17 
 
194 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 as antichristian and demoralizing. AVhen contem- 
 plating the subject of peace or war as one of the 
 series of his monthly lectures, it was a matter of 
 comparative indifference to him how he treated it, — 
 that is, whether by discussing its general principles, 
 or exhibiting its characteristic details, — provided 
 only he could secure this effect among his hearers ; 
 a love of peace, and an aversion to war. Finally, in 
 casting about over a field ample enough for volumes 
 of discourses, he thought he would select the Ame- 
 rican Revolution as that with which both himself 
 and his hearers were most familiar. . . . He threw 
 off the facts to his hearers in such language as first 
 suggested itself. If there be any thing in the 
 writer^ own expression calculated unnecessarily to 
 wound long-cherished sensibilities, or to retard in 
 any degree the object he has in view, no one can 
 regret it more than himself. . . . He does not deny 
 there were causes for a separation from Great Britain ; 
 for rebellion against the government, if you please. 
 He only submits if there were causes for a war with 
 that country. . . . He does not conceive we are to 
 attribute the freedom, independence, prosperity, and 
 ease we now enjoy as American citizens to the war, 
 so much as to those elements of liberty which God 
 has implanted in the human breast, and which are 
 stimulated into action by a just view of man, and of 
 his relations to society ; elements which are enduring 
 as the soul, and will survive when armies and battle- 
 fields are forgotten for ever. He does not conceive 
 that our liberties depend upon a point of polished 
 iron, but upon the deep-seated purposes of liberty, 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 195 
 
 habitually cherished and rightly exercised in the 
 soul itself. We are free, not because our fathers 
 exchanged shots with British soldiers, but because 
 we would he free. Independence is of the soul, not 
 of nitre, sulphur, and charcoal." 
 
 The discourse and explanations being published, 
 and an opportunity thus given leisurely to examine 
 the grounds taken by Mr. Judd, it was found to 
 be not so great a bugbear as was supposed ; and the 
 excitement soon died away. 
 
 The American Peace Society passed a " resolve of 
 sympathy with the Rev. Mr. Judd, in the persecu- 
 tion he had suffered, of admiration for his courage, 
 and of approval of the great object of the sermon 
 as correct and Christian." He received many letters 
 of sympathy, mingled with congratulations, for the 
 stand he had taken in the cause of peace ; and the 
 press, to a considerable extent, espoused his cause, 
 and condemned the course of the Legislature in dis- 
 missing him from office for the utterance of his own 
 honest opinions, in his own church, and to his 
 own people, while they had nothing of which to 
 complain in the discharge of his official duties to 
 them. 
 
 The subject of re-appointment, as one of the chap- 
 lains, came up at the next session, and caused con- 
 siderable debate. Several members claimed, in effect, 
 " that the clergyman alluded to should not be pun- 
 ished for opinions expressed, not in the House, in 
 the way of his duty, but among his own people, and 
 in his own desk." One member "regarded the act of 
 the last year as intolerant ; " another " thought the 
 
196 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 address did not contain such charges as were alleged, 
 or could be sustained ; " another, still, " did not want 
 to hear prayers from such a source. He believed 
 that the sentiments of Mr. Judd came from his heart. 
 They came from a heart desperately wicked, and the 
 Scriptures teach us that the prayers of the wicked 
 are an abomination before the sight of the Lord." 
 The matter was finally evaded by appointing a com- 
 mittee for inviting clergymen to officiate ; and Mr. 
 Judd was omitted. 
 
 Near the commencement of this year, Mr. Judd 
 began meeting a class of young ladies for literary 
 improvement. He held social meetings, at private 
 houses, for the general improvement of his congre- 
 gation. He also established a sort of parish levee 
 for pastor and people, to be held once a month. 
 
 There was this year a general excitement, on the 
 subject of religion, among several denominations of 
 the town, in which some of Mr. Judd's people 
 shared. 
 
 It had always been a great desire of his heart, that 
 the barriers of sect should be broken down; that 
 Christians of diiferent name should become acquaint- 
 ed with each other, should mingle their sympathies 
 on common ground, and thus learn to love one 
 another ; and now, in the earnest hope of effecting 
 this object, he addressed the following proposal, for 
 a union-meeting of the several denominations of 
 Christians in the town of Augusta, to each of the 
 clergymen : — 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 197 
 
 «' Rev. "Augusta, April 9, 1842. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — In view of the religious interest 
 whicli pervades so deeply all classes of the people, 
 it seems desirable that there should be a better un- 
 derstanding among the several varieties of Chris- 
 tians. 
 
 " I propose, therefore, that(a union-meeting of all 
 denominations be held, at some convenient time and 
 place; say at Dr. T.'s church, as that is most com- 
 modious ; perhaps on Wednesday evening, April 
 20th : the several congregations to be represented in 
 their several ministers, and the several ministers to 
 be represented in their several congregations. 
 
 "The action of the meeting shall consist in a 
 mutual confession of sin; mutual forgiveness and 
 reconciliation; mutual prayer for the blessing of 
 God ; exhortations to kindness and brotherly love ; 
 persuasives to holiness ; in endeavors to promote 
 harmony of feeling in the midst of variety in doc- 
 trines and forms ; to enlarge the rights of conscience ; 
 to stay the progress of infidelity; to add to the 
 reverence of our common religion ; to compose the 
 discords that mar the beauty of our Zion ; and things 
 similar and tantamount. The aim and object of the 
 meeting shall be the destruction of sin, the triumphs 
 of the gospel, and the taking of some steps towards 
 the ushering in of the millennial days. 
 
 "It might be well, perhaps, that the ministers 
 should conduct the exercises of the occasion. 
 
 " Topics that might serve for consideration, or be 
 made subjects of remark, and form a basis in this 
 movement of hai'mony, are such as the following : — 
 
 17* 
 
198 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 *'The necessity of reconciliation as a means of 
 securing the blessing of God, — Matt. v. 23, 24 ; 
 The beauty of holiness ; The harmony of heaven ; 
 Agreeing to disagree; Love the chiefest of the 
 graces ; Our points of harmony numerous and im- 
 portant; The preciousness of the gospel; Attach- 
 ment to Christ ; How much better our motives are 
 than they seem ; The evil of sin ; — and such like 
 topics as may seem best adapted to secure the ends 
 of the meeting. 
 
 " Such a meeting, it seems to me, would be, or 
 might be made, one of the happiest our town or the 
 church of Christ has seen for many a day, and would 
 tend essentially to the advancement of the Redeem- 
 er's kingdom. With great regards, I subscribe my- 
 self your Christian Brother, 
 
 " Sylvester Judd, Jb." 
 
 In reference to this, he afterwards expressed him- 
 self as follows : *^ This proposal only contemplates a 
 single meeting, for a single evening ; a one hour's 
 union and conciliation of the scattered members of 
 the Christian body about their common Head and 
 Master, Christ ; a solitary conjunction, in the interval 
 of ages, with the great central Orb of the lights of 
 the world, whose several circuits are so diverse, 
 antagonistical, discordant ; a momentary realization, 
 here on. the earth, of that heayen~;w^ hope so soon 
 to enter, and wJjDSelevel we must so soon be com- 
 pelled to take." 
 
 It was expected, that the several congregations, 
 while each retained its peculiarities of doctrine, form. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 199 
 
 and practice, would retire from tHe meeting with 
 kinder feelings, readier sympathies, and a more con- 
 sonant zeal in the great work to which all are de- 
 voted. 
 
 This proposal was concurred in by the ministers 
 of the Episcopal, the Universalist, and the Free-will 
 Baptist churches : but the Calvinistic and Methodist 
 declined ; the Baptist did not fully respond to the 
 call; the Roman Catholic clergyman was out of 
 town ; and, much to the grief of Mr. Judd, and the 
 disappointment of his hopes, the proposed plan for 
 fostering Christian intercourse between those taking 
 the same gospel for their standard, and journeying 
 on in the hope of enjoying the same heaven through 
 eternity, entirely failed. 
 
 Ever feeling that the spirit of human brotherhood 
 was one of the first importance, and, on the contrary, 
 that war was one of the greatest hindrances to na- 
 tional prosperity, his Thanksgiving sermon this year 
 was on " Peace as a Means of retaining our National 
 Blessings." 
 
 In his usual Thanksgiving letter to his mother, he 
 
 says, "A., in her letter to P ^n, gives you an 
 
 account of our Thanksgiving. It is less joyous to 
 me, because I must preach ; and at such times, too, 
 I am wont to select topics that please neither me 
 nor my hearers best, but such as I consider most 
 necessary. Then, too, I get so tired. When I 
 came home from church, I could hardly sit in my 
 chair for very weariness." 
 
200 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 1843. 
 
 In the spring of 1843, Mr. Judd entered upon 
 his first effectual labors of authorship, so far as the 
 manual execution was concerned. He found it diffi- 
 cult, however, to secure the necessary leisure for 
 this purpose, while at the same time attending to his 
 numerous ministerial^^ parochial, and other duties ; 
 and it was by great industry that he made much 
 progress in it. So much was he engaged in his 
 literary efforts this year, that correspondence with 
 friends was much less frequent than was his wont. 
 To his brother H i he writes, under date, — 
 
 "Augusta, April 9, 1843. 
 
 "Press towards the mark. Be temperate in all 
 things, — eating, drinking, feeling, acting. ' Make 
 haste slowly ' is an old maxim. Our country pre- 
 sents a certain uniform level of distinction, wealth, 
 and so forth. No one can rise to advantage, except 
 his ground be most secure. A merchant's life is an 
 honorable and a useful one. But read much, think 
 much, acquire a reputation for sound judgment more 
 than for summary despatch. Integrity is respected, 
 disinterestedness esteemed. I say nothing of those 
 who by artifice and show gain popularity. Their 
 fall is generally sudden, as their rise is unworthy. 
 Honesty of purpose, purity of motive, soundness of 
 understanding, will alone endure in the long-run. 
 Be above the bricks of trade,' condescend not to 
 low artifice, despair not of humanity, love all, and 
 serve God. Be not too much immersed in politics. 
 I was moved to say a few words to you, my dear 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 201 
 
 brother, and shall be glad to know of your views 
 and feelings and plans. Your interest and happiness 
 are near my heart." 
 
 In allusion to his studies in ornithology, to which 
 he was led with reference to the literary work on 
 which he was engaged, is the following letter — 
 
 To HIS Father. 
 
 '« July 4, 1843. 
 
 "We have been giving some attention to birds, 
 that C. P. will tell you about. One is astonished at 
 the variety of birds, and the extent of his own 
 ignorance regarding them. I find the common peo- 
 ple know nothing about them. The farmers and 
 woodsmen can't give me the name, even a common 
 name, for the most familiar species. For years, the 
 birds, the same birds, have been flying, singing all 
 about them ; and they have made no distinctions, 
 laid up no observations. Boys and girls don't know 
 the yellowbird or goldfinch. The robin, I believe, 
 all know, and but little more. All know it by sight ; 
 yet few are acquainted with its sweet, soft, long- 
 continued warble. I have heard it deep in the 
 woods, and about our house, by the hour together." 
 
 He passed some weeks in Northampton about this 
 time, and visited Westhampton, and also Norwich, 
 the former residence of his maternal grandfather, 
 seeking some hints for the romance he had on hand. 
 
 The extracts that follow are from a letter written 
 to one of his church, on the removal of a sister 
 from this life : — 
 
202 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 To Miss S. F. 
 
 "Augusta, Nov. 29, 1843. 
 
 " It lias pleased God, in his own time and in his 
 own way, to take her to himself. To take her to 
 himself, I say. You know somewhat my views of 
 death ; you know my own hopes of the departed 
 believer. I have endeavored in various ways to 
 unfold what seems to be the great gospel doctrine 
 of our relation to the future world. This is a 
 fundamental idea, — that the good Father of all re- 
 ceives to, and cherishes in, his own bosom the souls 
 of all his children. Christ said he was going to the 
 Father, whence he came ; and he tells his disciples, 
 that, where he is, there shall they be also. I believe 
 that we enter upon a new condition of existence ; 
 that we assume new bodies like unto Christ's glori- 
 fied body. Hence, as I have often had occasion to 
 say, there is no death to the believer. What we 
 call death is only entering the door of a higher and 
 better life. It is the bridge that carries us across to 
 fairer lands, to more propitious skies. 
 
 " But these thoughts are familiar to you ; and I 
 cannot doubt, in this hour of darkness and bereave- 
 ment, you look to the serene, unfading Light in the 
 heavens which disease shall never blight, nor death 
 destroy. Already, in repeated instances, has your 
 heart been called — to mourn, shall I say ? To 
 weep ? to be distressed ? Yes, if you please. But 
 has it not been called also to heaven ? Has not 
 your eye been raised to the world of spirits ? Have 
 not voices been sent to you from Jesus, to summon 
 your own faith and aiFections to the abodes of the 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 203 
 
 blest ? If the light that has shone about your 
 earthly path be extinguished, does it not glow more 
 brightly in the world to which you go ? 
 
 " May the blessing of Him who was ever ready to 
 sympathize with the distressed, comfort the mourn- 
 ing, and sustain the dying, be and abide with you 
 continually ! With sincere regards and prayers for 
 your peace, I am yours." 
 
 1844. 
 
 Jan. 1, 1844, began with Mr. Judd by his re- 
 ceiving from the ladies of his congregation a valua- 
 ble cloak, and sundry other articles of convenience. 
 On the 8th of this month, he received official notice 
 of his election to act as chaplain at the State House. 
 Having pressed on, as best he might, in the composi- 
 tion of *^ Margarety^lhis spring found him advanced 
 to Part III. In April he set out many trees about 
 the house of his father-in-law, which he occupied, in 
 Myrtle-street, doing much of the work with his own 
 hands. In the front part of the yard he planted 
 quite a thicket, by grouping together young trees of 
 many different sorts, as they are often found in their 
 native woods. 
 
 The ensuing May, after attending the religious 
 anniversaries at Boston, he spent a few weeks in the 
 city of New York, and examined carefully all the 
 objects of nature and of art in and about this great 
 metropolis ; taking with him, as sole companion on 
 his excursions, the same little nephew in whose 
 down-hill sliding sports he participated a few years 
 
204 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 before. He passed up the Hudson to Albany, highly 
 enjoying the beautiful scenery upon its banks, and 
 from that city pursued his way homeward, through 
 the grandeur of Berkshire highlands, to Springfield. 
 
 In June, after his return to Augusta, we find him 
 taking the sabbath-school children to " Happy Val- 
 ley," to lecture them on ornithology. And, for the 
 August following, he planned a rural festival for 
 sabbath-school scholars, teachers, and parents, to be 
 held among the pines of " Malta Hill," an eminence 
 on the eastern side of the Kennebec, and there 
 delivered a sermon, full of beauty, on " The Church 
 in the Woods." Finding none enough at leisure, 
 or sufficiently enthusiastic in regard to the happy 
 influences of such a rural, social gathering, to afford 
 him much aid in the preparations, — pressed as he 
 was in his own literary and other labors, and natu- 
 rally having very little power of physical endurance, 
 he went to the woods nearly alone, and worked hard 
 in making the appearance of the spot as attractive 
 as he could. 
 
 This year, having become somewhat widely known 
 as an engaging speaker, he received many invitations 
 to give public addresses. 
 
 In order to indulge his natural fondness for me- 
 chanical operations, and, at the same time, furnish 
 the little articles of convenience that it would aflfbrd, 
 he fixed up a sort of carpenter's shop in his barn, 
 obtained tools, and from time to time disposed of 
 some of his hours of exercise there. He also culti- 
 vated, with some assistance, quite a garden. 
 
 His relations to his people went on pleasantly. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 205 
 
 and his various other pursuits and interests did not 
 call off his attention from the great objects of his 
 profession. 
 
 In September of this year, his first child was 
 born. Something of his impressions, on entering 
 upon this new relation, will be found in another 
 chapter. In November following, the twin, ideal 
 child, '^Margaret," was matured for birth into the 
 literary world. With reference to its completion, 
 he thus writes : — 
 
 To A. H. 
 
 " Nov. 24, 1844. 
 
 " I finished my book last Friday. I have written 
 on it till my hand is stiff, my eyes are sore, and my 
 back aches. It has taken every leisure moment. 
 I have not written a line to father, mother, brother, 
 or sister, these months. I was resolved to finish 
 that, before I did any thing else." 
 
 1845. 
 
 Since the first rise of Washingtonianism, Mr. 
 Judd had been actively engaged in its objects. As 
 time passed on, its method of operating on the 
 principles of moral suasion had seemed to fail, and 
 interest in it had declined. His faith in it, how- 
 ever, had not abated, neither was his interest in 
 temperance diminished. And, in the beginning of 
 1845, he preached to his people, and afterwards 
 published, a *^ Discourse touching the Causes and 
 Remedies of Intemperance.'* He finds the failure 
 
 18 
 
206 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 of the Washingtonian movement to arise from this, 
 that it was rather an impulse than a principle, a 
 sentiment rather than sound faith; and reiterated 
 his belief, that light, love, and God's spirit, would 
 be availing. A great deal of excitement about tem- 
 perance arose in the place ; and in all the movements 
 respecting it he was concerned, but constantly ad- 
 hered to his original principle, that the spirit of love 
 might be made more effectual in removing the evil 
 than the penalties of law. He held conversations 
 with intemperate men, entered into sympathy with 
 them, sought to understand their difficulties in the 
 way of reform, and encouraged their efforts for re- 
 gaining lost respectability. 
 
 The jail he frequently visited, and endeavored to 
 exert humanizing influences upon its inmates, and 
 to elevate their aspirations to virtue and honor. 
 He inquired into the state of their families, and, 
 as far as he was able, sent necessaries to such of 
 them as were suffering. 
 
 On Christmas eve of this year, his church was, 
 for the first time, opened for religious exercises, — 
 a practice ever after continued. The necessary aid 
 in trimming the church not forthcoming, he went 
 forward himself, and obtained the evergreens for the 
 purpose. 
 
 After many delays in publishing, in August 
 
 " Margaret " was fairly out of press, and ready to 
 
 make her debut in the world. ' From various causes, 
 
 ^ y I Mr. Judd was disappointed in his hope to keep him- 
 
 f self concealed as the author of the book. He now 
 
 
 appeared before his people in a new aspect, and there 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 201 
 
 became attached to him a degree of personal pub- 
 licity, which he did not intend or wish. 
 
 He had, for some time, been desirous of a more 
 commodious study than the house he occupied afford- 
 ed, and one more favorably situated as to prospect 
 and the inflowing of nature's influences. He wished 
 for a larger extent of ground, such as should give op- 
 portunity, in addition to a garden, for fruit and shade 
 trees, for shrubbery, lawn, and walks ; and, in the 
 spring of this year, he began to look about for such 
 a building lot as would afford scope for the realiza- 
 tion of his wishes. He obtained a copy of Downing's 
 " Cottage Residences ; " and from this work, which 
 he examined with great pleasure and interest, he 
 received most valuable suggestions, which aided him 
 in maturing a plan of such a house as would satisfy 
 his taste and convenience. 
 
 But, with his small salary, he had no means of his 
 own, wherewith to carry this project into execution. 
 In this juncture, his father-in-law gave him a com- 
 modious lot, adjacent to his own homestead, a site 
 Mr. Judd particularly admired, and furnished him 
 funds to the estimated amount of the cost of the 
 buildings he had planned. 
 
 His correspondence this year was, in consequence 
 of his increasing engagements, quite limited. 
 
 1846. 
 
 The beginning of 1846 finds Mr. Judd devoting 
 his leisure to the writing of " Philo.'* In February 
 he became a member of the Sons of Temperance. 
 
208 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 The basis of this association being such as he could 
 fully sympathize in, to its interests he devoted much 
 of his time. In March he was appointed by the 
 town one of the committee on common schools, the 
 interests of which had received much of his atten- 
 tion. 
 
 As the spring opened, he began to be very much 
 engaged in preparations for the building of his 
 house, the superintendence of which, the preparation 
 of the grounds, setting out trees, and so forth, 
 engrossed much of his time for the following sum- 
 mer and autumn. In July of this year, however, he 
 found time to prepare an address, which he delivered 
 before the Sons of Temperance in Waterville. 
 
 On the 21st of November, he removed to his new 
 home. His first thought, after getting well settled, 
 was to have a consecration of its freshness to his 
 people. A general invitation was publicly given to 
 every member of his congregation to visit him on 
 Thanksgiving evening. The verandas and every 
 window of the cottage being illuminated, a beauti- 
 fully attractive and welcome aspect was presented to 
 his people as they approached. On entering, they 
 found the study — which was the largest apartment, 
 and the room of reception — adorned with ever- 
 greens, and, in the midst, their loving pastor, with 
 deep and tender emotion beaming from his counte- 
 nance. In another room was spread a sumptuous 
 repast, furnished by the guests themselves. 
 
 In the latter part of the evening, Mr. Judd gath- 
 ered all to the study, and there, with a trembling 
 voice, and feelings almost too strong for control. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 209 
 
 spoke to his people in a most familiar and heart-felt 
 manner. He acknowledged that his cares in the 
 erection of the edifice had beguiled him somewhat 
 from his attentions to them. He begged their par- 
 don for any neglect, but at the same time assured 
 them, that thp labor had been in part for them ; 
 that that study was for the better preparation of 
 spiritual food for them ; that theirs it was for fami- 
 liar resort to their pastor at any time ; that the 
 verandas were for them to sit under, the walks to 
 promenade in at their pleasure, and the arbors for 
 their children to sport in. He told them he felt 
 that all these comforts would tend to make him 
 more entirely theirs. And, in conclusion, he bap- 
 tized his new domicile, as consecrated to them, under 
 the name of Christ Church Parsonage, and then 
 closed the evening with fervent prayer for himself 
 and them in their mutual relations. 
 
 1847. 
 
 The first month of this new year, Mr. Judd, still 
 anxious for a pleasant intercourse among different 
 denominations, invited all the clergymen of the 
 town, with their wives, to meet each other sociably 
 at his house. Quite a number accepted the invita- 
 tion ; but, from various causes, the circle was not so 
 complete as he had hoped. The example was fol- 
 lowed in one or two instances, and then non-inter- 
 course again ensued. He had, in various ways, 
 sought to maintain agreeable ministerial intercourse ; 
 but, not meeting with those results for which his 
 
 18* 
 
210 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 own heart yearned, he made no more marked efforts 
 for its attainment. In th^' summer of this year, 
 however, he was gladdened by the union of all the 
 sabbath schools in town, in a floral procession, on 
 the Fourth of July. This affected him so deeply 
 that he made the value of such a union, and the 
 happy consequences flowing therefrom, the subject 
 of a discourse the next sabbath. 
 
 During this year, his duties as one of the school 
 committee occupied a great deal of his time and 
 thoughts. He examined teachers, made frequent 
 visits to schools, talked with scholars and teachers, 
 if any difficulties existed, tried to obviate them, and 
 sought to stir up parents to a greater interest in the 
 education of their children. He wrote several an- 
 nual reports of the committee, in which the state 
 of the schools was set forth with a degree of plain- 
 ness and satire quite forcible and amusing. 
 
 Temperance continued largely to occupy his at- 
 tention. He met with the Sons of Temperance in 
 Augusta, and delivered an address before an associa- 
 tion of that name in Unity. At Bangor he gave a 
 lecture before its Lyceum, and in Hallowell deliv- 
 ered an address at the county meeting for Cattle 
 Show and Fair. He preached occasionally at the 
 Poor-house, and at the Hospital for the Insane ; he 
 attended once a fortnight, as was always his habit, 
 the Utilitarian Society, an industrial association of 
 ladies of his parish. In August he met with other 
 clergymen at Belfast, for the ordination of the Rev. 
 Mr. Niles ; and, a few days afterwards, was called 
 to the same place, to preach a funeral sermon on the 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 211 
 
 death of Hm whom he had just assisted to install as 
 a minister of the gospel. 
 
 '^ Philo " was farther prosecuted in the first part" 
 of this year. In the month of June his second 
 daughter was born. In August he commenced the 
 revision of " Margaret " for a new edition. 
 
 The war with Mexico, which was going on this 
 year, so totally opposed to Mr. Judd's principles in 
 general, and to his sense of right in this case in par- 
 ticular, took a deep hold of his feelings, and entered 
 largely into his public ministrations. And, when the 
 annual Thanksgiving occurred, so fully was his mind 
 impressed with the horrors of this war, and its 
 attendant train of evils, — 
 
 " Cross battering cross on heights of Monterey ; , 
 
 the rupturing 
 
 Of ties that should all nations interlace ; 
 
 The thrusting in of ages right in front 
 
 Of progress, lung step backward of all good," — 
 
 that he could not summon his feelings to utter the 
 voice of joy and thanksgiving on that day before his 
 people. In his prayer, unaffected contrition in behalf 
 of the nation fell from his lips, and deprecations of 
 justly-merited national punishment found an earnest 
 voice. On rising at the usual time for sermon, he 
 opened the Bible at the Lamentations of Jeremiah ; 
 and then, with paleness of face and trembling voice, 
 he uttered with deep pathos the meanings of the old 
 prophet over the sins and desolations of his beloved 
 country, and then dismissed the congregation. 
 
 Some, even of his own people, regarded the ser- 
 vices merely as a very good joke ; some were almost 
 
212 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 oiFended that he gave them no better treat on that 
 day of their rejoicing. The newspapers very exten- 
 sively told the story ; and, in their comments, some 
 approved, and others regarded it as oddity, affecta- 
 tion, or desire for notoriety. But few understood 
 just how the matter lay in his own mind, and what 
 moral necessity there was in his own bosom, forcing 
 him to give the tone he did to the services of the 
 day. He also omitted to read the Governor's pro- 
 clamation, because he thought it contained an unau- 
 thorized prescription to clergymen as to what they 
 should preach in their own pulpits. 
 
 What leisure he could find amid the many other 
 engagements of this year was spent in exploring the 
 neighboring woods for trees suited to carry out his 
 plan for the embellishment of his grounds, and in 
 transplanting them to their appointed places. Almost 
 every variety of forest-tree in the vicinity was laid 
 under contribution for this purpose ; and he sent to 
 his father to procure him seeds of such as were not 
 found about him, on which he wished to experiment 
 by way of cultivation. 
 
 1848. 
 
 In 1848, Mr. Judd's invitations to lecture abroad 
 before lyceums and other societies very much in- 
 creased ; and compliance with them added to the 
 multifarious labors he had already on hand. The 
 Fourth of July, he delivered an address before the 
 common-school celebration at Gardiner. In August 
 he addressed the literary societies of Waterville 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 213 
 
 College on the subject, " Christ and the Scholar, or 
 what Christianity is to the Scholar." 
 
 The bereavement suffered by a favorite aunt on 
 the removal of her only remaining child, a daughter, 
 in the spring-time of life, called forth the following 
 letter of condolence : — 
 
 To Mrs. S. J. H. 
 
 "Augusta, Feb. 28, 1848. 
 
 " My dear Aunt, — I have learned with great con- 
 cern of the death of S. Such an event, while it may 
 sometimes have been present to your imagination, 
 could not, I am sure, at so early a period, have been 
 anticipated. Your cup of sorrow, already full, must 
 now, indeed, overflow. W., in the flower of his youth, 
 was snatched from you ; and now your only remain- 
 ing child has followed. I can just remember being 
 present at your marriage. I can remember then, a 
 very little boy, riding with you and uncle H. to North- 
 ampton. I remember seeing Governor Strong, who 
 called me to his garden, and gave me some peaches. 
 
 '^ But these things are past ; they hover as shadows 
 among the dreams of my childhood. Eventful, in- 
 deed, has been your experience since those days. 
 Time has hastened swiftly by : you are now mother- 
 less, and you weep by the graves of the past. Your 
 own sunshine has been flecked by many a cloud. 
 
 " God help and comfort you ! Though you walk 
 through a valley of shadows, may you be enabled to 
 trust in Him with whom are the issues of our days ! 
 God have us all in his keeping, even until our 
 appointed time shall come ! 
 
 " Your ever-affectionate nephew." 
 
^14 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 In the trial and condemnation of Dr. Coolidge for 
 murder, which, took place in Augusta in March, he 
 took a keen interest ; and it was the occasion of 
 developing more fully his views on capital punish- 
 ment and the treatment of prisoners. He visited 
 the condemned man in his cell, and strove to impart 
 such support as he might in the awful moment of 
 condemnation. The sabbath which followed the 
 rendering of the verdict, he preached a most touch- 
 ing discourse from the text, " Let the sighing of the 
 prisoner come before thee ; according to the greatness 
 of thy power, preserve thou those that are appointed 
 to die." In various ways, as far as was in his 
 power, he sought to minister to the moral and reli- 
 gious welfare of the wretched man, until he was 
 transferred to the State's prison. 
 
 In the beginning of this year^ " Philo " was again 
 prosecuted with a good deal of assiduity, and was 
 completed for the press in March. 
 
 About the same time, Mr. Judd learned, with 
 great pleasure, of the illustration of " Margaret " in 
 a series of outline sketches by Mr. Darley, of New 
 York, and, through the kindness of the artist, was 
 favored with the loan of the portfolio containing 
 them. These, of course, he examined with avidity, 
 and found great satisfaction in seeing his own ideals 
 delineated with so much force, and, in general, with 
 such truth to his own conceptions. This was a 
 stimulus and encouragement to the further prosecu- 
 tion of his literary labors. He also looked forward 
 with impatient desire to the publication of these 
 sketches. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 215 
 
 Mr. Judd had been aiming steadily, from his first 
 settlement in Augusta, to bring his whole congrega- 
 tion up to the true standard of spiritual life. It had 
 grieved him that so few joined in the communion, 
 and that there was so great neglect, on the part of 
 parents, to bring their children to baptism. About 
 this time, however, he commenced a course of labor 
 with reference to these subjects more exclusive and 
 systematic. He directed his attention more particu- 
 larly, at first, to the latter ordinance. He talked 
 about it with individuals personally, and alluded to it 
 often from the pulpit. He was successful in moving 
 the hearts of parents in this matter, and of many 
 adults who had not received baptism ; and the sab- 
 bath of June 11 he appointed for the administration 
 of the ordinance to all such in the congregation as 
 were willing to come forward for the purpose. On 
 this day, he made a strong appeal upon the subject 
 to his hearers ; and then, with fearful heart, lest 
 many of his beloved ones should still withhold 
 themselves or their children, he invited all who had 
 not received baptism to present themselves. As he 
 saw heads of families, one after another, stepping 
 into the aisles, and drawing near the altar with their 
 groups of children, and some adults coming forth 
 alone, his heart was almost too deeply moved to 
 utter its burden of joy and thanks, and implore 
 appropriate blessings on those about to receive the 
 seal of oneness with the visible church, and, as he 
 hoped, with the great church, invisible and catholic, 
 throughout heaven and earth. And, when he de- 
 scended from the pulpit to the baptismal basin, and 
 
216 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 proceeded to baptize " in the name of the Father, 
 and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost," — in some 
 instances, first a parent and then the children, and, 
 last of all, his own little ones, the weight of his 
 emotions almost overpowered him, and his voice 
 well nigh failed in pronouncing the many-times- 
 repeated formula. Mr. Judd felt that a good work 
 was begun, and rejoiced in this evidence that liis 
 labors had not been in vain. 
 
 The year before, the Universalist Society united 
 with the Unitarian, at their church, in the celebra- 
 tion of Christmas-eve ; and, this year, Mr. Judd's 
 church, agreeably to an arrangement then made, and 
 reciprocating the service, joined them in their obser- 
 vance of the evening. 
 
 1849. 
 
 In April of the following year, 1849, the two 
 churches above referred to united in several social 
 religious meetings, at their respective places of wor- 
 ship, which they found both interesting and profit- 
 able. 
 
 The following letter Mr. Judd addressed to a 
 young lady of his church : — 
 
 " Christ Church Parsonage, May 10, 1849. 
 
 *' Dear J., — I cannot say how deeply, how so- 
 lemnly, how gladly, your note of a few days since 
 aiFected me. Your heart seemed to be speaking to 
 me, and my own heart was touched. How I live 
 amongst my people, and yet seem to know but little 
 of them ! Yet I do know a great deal of them, more 
 
RESIDEIfCE AT AUGUSTA. 217 
 
 than they think I do. The trouble is, they do not 
 all speak so freely to me as you do (in your note). 
 They say they are afraid of me, and all that. You 
 try to be good, I know you do ; you seek for a con- 
 formity with what is divine, pure, and beautiful : 
 may you be aided in all your exertions ! What is 
 good is beautiful, and a tender sensibility to the 
 beautiful is one method of becoming good. 
 
 ^^ You have trials too. You seem to me too young, 
 too innocent, too fortunate, for trials. That shadows 
 should fall on your path, that so soon you should 
 begin to think of mysteries, and -be wetted with 
 tears, is what I should not anticipate. But so it is, 
 so it too often is. God preserve you in all you have 
 to endure ! Cast your cares upon him, for he careth 
 for you. I have my trials too, my sorrows, my 
 unavailing woes. You and I, and all of us, need a 
 divine strength, — need the infinite love of the infi- 
 nite Father. 
 
 " I do not think it well to dwell too much on our 
 sins. I would repent of them, I would view them 
 in their just wickedness, I would pray God to forgive 
 them ; but to have them perpetually near, to have 
 them fill the imagination, and to tyrannize over the 
 memory, is not well. Eather turn to what is ele- 
 vating, cheerful, hopeful. We should be like travel- 
 lers, rather advancing towards the bright hills, than 
 stopping to reflect on the obstacles we have met. 
 
 " Yet bear your cross bravely, it must be borne ; 
 every day it reappears, Jesus' cross, he bore it for 
 you ; bear it for your own soul and for the world. 
 It will grow lighter; by and by it will sit your 
 
 19 
 
218 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 shoulders well ; gradually it will change its shape 
 and its office, and then it will become a crown. 
 
 '^ All sweetness, peace, and holy serenity, be yours, 
 through Jesus, the blessed One ! — so prays 
 '' Your affectionate friend and pastor, 
 
 <* Sylvester Judd." 
 
 In his regular ministrations, Mr. Judd gave his 
 people a sermon in July, entitled " The Commu- 
 nion for Sinners." In this, he takes the position^ 
 that Christ lived, labored, and died, for the cleans- 
 ing, the purgation, of the human race ; that the 
 blood of Christ stands for his life, and his life is his 
 inward, vital energy, the yearnings of his spirit, the 
 profundity of his benevolence; and this is shed, 
 poured out, lavished, for the remission of sin. 
 
 He therefore said, " To-day, so I think, to-day, if 
 any of you have regrets for the past, agitation for the 
 present, and pious purposes for the future ; to-day, 
 if any one of you would be cleansed by the blood, 
 quickened by the life, of Christ ; to-day, if you would 
 be gathered into the circle of the divine sympathies, 
 of which Christ is the centre, — if you would enter 
 the communion of the church universal, of which 
 Christ is the head, — you may partake." 
 
 For three or four years after settlement at Augusta, 
 Mr. Judd regularly, every year, paid a visit to the 
 paternal home. But at length the pressure of en- 
 gagements, and the economy he found it necessary 
 to practise, rendered his visits there less frequent. 
 But, in the summer of this year, he made a journey 
 thither. 
 
 "While absent, he wrote as follows — 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 819 
 
 To HIS MoTHER-lN-LAW. 
 
 " Northampton, June 5, 1849. 
 
 '' Dear Mother, — It has rained every day but one 
 since I left Augusta; though, on the whole, there 
 has been much good weather. The grass is fine, 
 and the world of vegetation is coming out in great 
 glory. What beauty there is in this valley of the 
 Connecticut, and particularly in this portion of it! 
 So deep, so rich, so magnificent, a beauty, I never 
 beheld. It seems more like our ideas of the tropical 
 regions. When I walk out, I seem not to be walk- 
 ing, but wading, in the midst of beauty, with seas of 
 it about me, and waves of it rising above me. The 
 shrubbery here, the gardens, the shade-trees, the 
 walks, are unsurpassed. I am amidst the scenes of 
 my youth; and there are many changes. The 
 change is great in the material world : it is greater 
 in the human world. My early friends are all gone, 
 elderly people that I used to know are dead, and 
 those whom I meet ' know not Joseph.' 
 
 " I have been into the graveyard. There ai-e the 
 old familiar names ; there are recalled the old familiar 
 faces; there, in that silence, is clustered much of 
 what was once life to me. Amidst the beauty 
 of which I speak, and under the shadows of those 
 grand old elms, seem to me to move unseen spirits ; 
 and they are pervaded with the recollection of a past 
 generation." 
 
 1850. 
 
 In the beginning of the year 1850, Mr. Judd was 
 called to experience a new and tender sorrow, in the 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 sundering of one link in the chain which had so 
 long, unbroken, bound together the home-circle of 
 his youth. His strong family attachments have been 
 somewhat developed in the previous pages. And 
 now one of his brothers must be taken from his 
 sensible communion. On hearing the tidings of 
 immediate danger, he hastened on to have one more 
 interview ; and, if it must be so, to soothe and sustain 
 the parting spirit. But he was too late. An uncon- 
 scious, insensible form was all that remained, over 
 which, with all the susceptibility of childhood, his 
 sobs and tears gushed forth. He, however, restrained 
 his emotions sufficiently to perform, with tender 
 love, the funeral offices of his dear brother. 
 
 Soon after his return to Augusta from these 
 solemn obsequies, he preached a fraternal sermon, 
 touching in its pathos, on *^ The Affigction of Bro- 
 thers," from the text, ^^And Joseph lifted up his 
 eyes, and saw his brother Benjamin, his mother's 
 son, and said. Is this your younger brother, of whom 
 ye spake unto me ? And he made haste ; for his 
 bowels did yearn upon his brother, and he sought 
 where to weep." 
 
 In May, 1850, he gave a sabbath discourse in his 
 church on " The True Dignity of Politics," from the 
 text, " The Lord shall be for a spirit of judgment 
 to him that sitteth in judgment." The Legislature 
 of the State then being in session, a large number of 
 its members were present. ' 
 
 The next day, he received, by the appropriate 
 hands, the appended communication : — 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 221 
 
 " Stam op Maine, House op Rephesentatives, 
 May 2, 1850. 
 
 '^ Ordered, that a committee be raised to wait on 
 Rev. Mr. Judd, and request for publication a copy 
 of his sermon delivered last evening, at Christ 
 Church, on 'The True Dignity of Politics.' " 
 
 On his complying with this request, by order of 
 the House a thousand copies of the sermon were 
 printed for the use of the Legislature. 
 
 On the Fourth of July of this year, Mr. Judd 
 delivered an oration on '^ Heroism," in the Court 
 House Square, Augusta, before the fire-clubs of 
 Augusta, Hallowell, Gardiner, and Pittston, which 
 was published by request of the audience. 
 
 In the early part of the year, "Philo," after a 
 delay in publication of two years from the time of 
 completion, was finally issued fi:om the press. 
 
 During this interval between the finishing and 
 pubhshing of "Philo," securing the time for it no 
 one knows when, Mr. Judd had brought far towards 
 maturity another work, entitled " Richard Edney." 
 This book was brought out the same year, soon after 
 " Philo." 
 
 To a young boy of his flock, absent at school, 
 whose mind was led to a particular consideration of 
 religious subjects, he addressed the letter below : — 
 
 " Augusta, May 6, 1850. 
 
 " Dear A., — I am very glad to hear, that you are 
 attentive to those interests which are of the highest 
 consequence to every human being, even your moral 
 and spiritual culture. "What is it to be a Christian ? 
 The word Christian comes from the word Christ, 
 
 19* 
 
222 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 and signifies one who is like Christ, or who loves 
 Christ, and is willing to be a disciple of Christ. 
 What is it to be like Christ ? It is to endeavor to 
 feel as he felt, and to do as he did. Christ is our 
 example, and we are to walk in his steps. "We must 
 endeavor to do good, to cultivate a right temper and 
 disposition. *If ye love one another,' the Bible 
 says, 'all men shall know ye are my disciples.' 
 ' The fruits of the spirit are love, joy, peace, meek- 
 ness, temperance,' and the like. If you would know 
 whether you are a Christian, you must ask yourself 
 if you have these fruits. Again, the Bible says, 
 'He that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.' 
 If you would know whether you are born again, you 
 must ask yourself if you have Christian love. Do 
 you love God and your neighbor ? Do you try to 
 love all men ? Are you willing to do good to those 
 that hate you, and 'can you pray for those that de- 
 spitefully use you ? If so, then you are a child of 
 God, and a disciple of Christ. 
 
 ''I hope and pray that you may be led in the 
 right way. Avoid that which is evil, and cleave to 
 that which is good. Let your light shine among 
 your companions and in your school. When you 
 are engaged in plays and sports, even then remem- 
 ber that you are God's child, and that you may do 
 no wrong. Let no bad word escape your lips, and 
 no wicked feeling arise in your heart. Trust in 
 God, and he shall keep thee. Read your Bible, par- 
 ticularly the New Testament, and see what Christ 
 says, and what Christ would have you do. The best 
 sermon that was ever delivered in the world is the 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 223 
 
 Sermon on the Mount. Study that. Every day, in 
 prayer, ask God to bless you and to keep you. 
 
 "I need not say that I am interested for you. 
 All the little ones of my flock are very near my 
 heart. 
 
 " That you may be happy and good, and grow up 
 a worthy Christian man, is the earnest prayer and 
 wish of your affectionate 
 
 " Friend and Pastor." 
 
 An old tradition of the Indians had suggested to 
 Mr. Judd the plan of another work, in a poetical 
 form, the main scene of which was to be laid at the 
 White Hills. That he might carry out this purpose, 
 he felt the necessity of visiting these mountains. 
 He was also very happy to be able to make a little 
 excursion, such as his means had never before 
 allowed him to indulge in. 
 
 In August he started with Mrs. Judd, and first 
 fulfilled an appointment to meet his college class- 
 mates on the classic ground of his alma mater. 
 Then, passing to New York, he luxuriated in the 
 beautiful scenery on the banks of the Hudson, wit- 
 nessed the fashion and frivolity of Saratoga, kept 
 sabbath in sight of the quiet waters of Lake George, 
 passed over the smooth bosom of Champlain to Bur- 
 lington, and thence, amid the picturesque views of 
 the Green Mountains, proceeded to the White 
 Hills. 
 
 The new work, it is believed, was commenced 
 soon after his return. 
 
224: RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 185L 
 
 In Mr. Judd's regular sermon, at the commence- 
 ment of this new year, occur the paragraphs follow- 
 ing : — 
 
 " How, withal, our years grow shorter ! How 
 what was once as a great, overshadowing expanse 
 dwindles away, until it becomes, like the little cloud, 
 no bigger than a man's hand ! 
 
 " 1 feel this myself. I have passed through the 
 long years of childhood, and the less long years of 
 youth, and have reached what may be termed the 
 middle-sized years of middle age ; and see beyond, 
 and feel myself rapidly approaching, the downward 
 series, where our days drop like water from a 
 height, thinning as they fall, till they terminate in 
 the merest thread. 
 
 ^^ Yet I sympathize, and will sympathize, with 
 every thing beautiful, every thing good, every thing 
 joyous, every thing useful, in the world ; and to the 
 furtherance and increase of such things I will give 
 what of ability or means God gives me. 
 
 " Still, too, I know and feel, and in this I can but 
 share the common sentiment of many who now hear 
 me, that these things must end; that I am hastening 
 to the final bourne, to death and the judgment. I 
 am sensible, that, even if I should Kve as many years 
 as I have lived, and repeat the precise number of my 
 months, that the remaining portion of my life will 
 seem to be a very short one. There will not be, 
 either for me or for you, any more long summer 
 days, any more long winter nights. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 225 
 
 " Whatever, however, we do, how many of us are 
 suiferers ! Many a mute shadow of woe passes by 
 us at these times. Many a phantom of hope and 
 love is recalled on New Year. There are some 
 cold firesides, some desolate chambers. In the night- 
 wind of the year that has just come to its close, you 
 hear many a farewell voice. New mounds rise in 
 our graveyards, new monuments in our memories ! " 
 
 January, 1851, found the sabbath school in rather 
 a declining state, both as to numbers and interest. 
 The past superintendent had become discouraged, 
 and he declined further service. No one seemed 
 willing to undertake to carry it on. In this exigency, 
 the pastor, rather than see an institution on which 
 he depended so much go down, went forward, and 
 added the care of this to his other engagements. He 
 declared to his people most earnestly, that, as long 
 as one scholar remained, he should stand by and 
 sustain the sabbath school. He therefore performed 
 the duties of superintendent from January until 
 November of this year. 
 
 With his people at large, his labors were persist- 
 ent and systematic in carrying forward what had 
 become his leading idea, that the pale of the church 
 should be so far drawn back as to include the whole 
 people, and thus become a bond of union rather than 
 a separating barrier. 
 
 With this aim, he this year went quite fully into 
 an explanation of his views. In March he preached 
 upon " The Utility of the Communion," from the 
 text, " What mean ye by this service ? " This he 
 explained, not as necessary to salvation, not as evi- 
 
226 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 dence of any marked change in the character of those 
 who partake of it ; but, like many other usages 
 adopted by men, as a sign and a memorial. 
 
 The next subject in course was the consideration 
 of the question, " "What is the Church ? " As simple 
 tests of the church, he mentioned, that it is the pillar 
 and stay of the truth ; that Christ is its head ; that 
 it teaches the method of salvation by Christ. And 
 by these tests he claimed that the Unitarian body is 
 the church, and that all believers in Christ were 
 truly in the church. 
 
 This was followed by a discourse, the object of 
 which was to show that all are religiously responsi- 
 ble for the observance of Christ's precepts, he who 
 makes no public profession of religion as well as he 
 who does ; and that all are equally privileged and 
 equally bound to obey his command, "Do this in 
 remembrance of me." 
 
 Then came a sermon on "Birth E-elation to the 
 Church," in which it was shown that we, in Christian 
 lands, are as truly born into the church as into the 
 family or the state ; and that it was a false theology 
 which had divorced a part of the community from the 
 Christian church, and forbidden its most prominent 
 means of grace to a large portion. 
 
 x\gain he considered the " Inconsistent Neglect of 
 the Communion," showing how eagerly people would 
 receive other proffered goods and advantages, what- 
 ever would minister to their interests ; but, when it 
 came to the memorial fitted to make upon their 
 hearts the deepest impression of what is life to their 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 227 
 
 own souls, through a mistaken idea they would turn 
 their back upon it. 
 
 In another sermon he dwelt largely upon " Lay 
 Co-operation" in connection with carrying forward 
 the great objects of the gospel. 
 
 He gave a sermon expressly to Sunday-school 
 teachers, and one to children, on their relation to 
 these subjects. 
 
 In one sermon he took pains to explain what he 
 considered Unitarianism to be, and the advantages it 
 claims. In another, considering Christianity as best 
 adapted to promote the highest interests of the 
 human race, he enforced the duty of spreading it. 
 
 In the value of the noted temperance-law of 
 Maine, as a remedy for the evils it was enacted to 
 suppress, Mr. Judd had no confidence. Before the 
 passage of the law, in June of this year, and while 
 the subject was being agitated, he delivered a dis- 
 course bearing upon the matter from the text, *' They 
 were not able to resist the spirit and power by which 
 he spake." He maintained that a combination of all 
 the means, motives, and influences by which the 
 human mind and heart can be affected, brought to 
 bear upon the subject, would supersede and exclude 
 the idea of physical force, which, he claimed, ever 
 fails to affect the mind and heart of man ; that men 
 should be treated as rational and intelligent beings, 
 not as brute beasts ; that the former course pene- 
 trates and subdues, the latter evokes anger and 
 opposition. 
 
 In July, 1851, Mr. Judd was invited by the 
 newly formed Unitarian Church in Brooklyn, L. I., 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 where a brother was residing, to supply their desk 
 for a few sabbaths. Much of the time, during 
 his stay of two or three weeks, was spent in the 
 neighboring city of New York, about which he 
 moved, exercising his usual habit of keen, philoso- 
 phic, reflective observation. Nothing in this great 
 Babel of contrasts and varieties escaped his remark, 
 or failed to call forth his thought. He visited the 
 opera, and the newly-arrived emigrant-ship ; gal- 
 leries of paintings, and cellars and stalls of old 
 books ; artists' studios, and shops of glass-stainers ; 
 looked in upon gorgeous churches, and upon the 
 wretched abodes of poverty and squalidness. He 
 had the pleasure of examining many valuable paint- 
 ings, and some originals of the old masters, at 
 private residences. 
 
 He joined the Universalist Sunday-schools of New 
 York in an excursion to Biddle's Grove, and very 
 much enjoyed the beautiful scenery of the spot, and 
 the happy influences of the festive gathering. 
 
 The change which this little journey and visit 
 afforded in his usually quiet and studious life was 
 quite agreeable, though the city offered, in the main, 
 few attractions to draw him from his peaceful, rural 
 home. But he returned with his mind enriched 
 with many fresh thoughts and new images to sub- 
 serve his ministerial labors and literary studies. 
 
 On his arrival, he found that a beloved sister-in- 
 law — one most lovely in her character, and but 
 recently a wife and mother — had, in his absence, 
 passed from the sphere of earthly communion, in a 
 manner too sudden to afford opportunity of his learn- 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 229 
 
 ing her danger. .3iQied_witk.tender^sorrQW at this 
 loss^ and his mind-. -glowiiig with the pictured forms 
 he had so lately viewed, Jiccomposedyibr tbafollQW- 
 ing sabbath, a beautiful and consolatory sermon from 
 the words, " And they saw his face as it had been 
 the face of an angel." He spoke of the lovely 
 2^Madonna face ; " of the place it holds in the heart \ 
 of the Roman Catholic ; of its soothing, prompting 
 influence upon him, and the more than angel-power 
 with which it comes to him. He alluded delicately, 
 but remotely, to_the loveliness and Madonna-like 
 serenity of the departed, and to the aureola with 
 which death crowns all the loved and lost; in a 
 touching and soothing manner, he adverted to the 
 blessed influences which the memory of those lost to 
 sight may still exert upon fond ones left behind ; and 
 showed how here and there, in many a seemingly . 
 desolated dwelling, might be beaming forth upon its 
 occupants, as it were, the face of an angel. 
 
 Having always felt, in the highest degree, the 
 advantages of religious and social intercourse, and 
 of rural festivals, from the first plan of a railroad 
 connecting Augusta with other towns in the State, 
 adjacent and remote, Mr. Judd had watched its pro- 
 gress with the keenest interest, in reference to its 
 facilitating these objects. He had conceived the 
 plan of having sabbath-schools of different churches, 
 within such distances as to render it practicable, 
 gathered together once a year in the open air, under 
 forest-shade, for the formation of acquaintance, the 
 exchange of friendly greetings, the inculcation of 
 the idea that all are one in the general church of 
 
 20 
 
230 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 Christ, and tlie indulgence of recreation and inno- 
 cent amusements. 
 
 With this end in view, and also that he might 
 have a rural place of gathering consecrated for the use 
 of his own sabbath school, he selected a pine-grove 
 on the "Malta Hill" eminence, the region which 
 had always been with him a place of favorite resort. 
 Here he went forward in clearing up the underbrush, 
 in constructing a rude rostrum for speakers, and cir- 
 cular seats around for hearers. Ample space was 
 made for the setting of tables, and for various 
 amusements. In September of this year, he ap- 
 pointed a meeting, at the spot, of his own sabbath 
 school and congregation, where he preached a ser- 
 mon, and dedicated the place under the name of 
 Greenwood Church. 
 
 He consecrated the place to the advancement of 
 the children in Christian knowledge and practice ; 
 dedicated it to the love of the beautiful, — the gar- 
 ment with which God clothes his works, and a 
 vitality with which he inspires his rational offspring. 
 He recognized it as one of the original temples of 
 God, and consecrated it to him as a rural sanctuary. 
 " Adam and Eve," said he, " first worshipped in the 
 woods, that is, among the trees of the garden. Their 
 sermons were delivered in the murmur of the brooks 
 Pis on and Havilah. Their organ was the piping of 
 the winds, their choir was the birds of Paradise." 
 
 Mr. Judd was in the way of noticing from time 
 to time, in an anniversary sermon, his ordination. 
 The extracts following are from a sermon preached 
 Oct. 5, 1851, from the text, "We preach Christ, 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 231 
 
 warning every man and teaching every man in all 
 wisdom, that we may present every man perfect in 
 Christ Jesus : " — 
 
 '^ It is eleven years since I was ordained to the 
 sacred ministry and instituted to the church of Christ 
 in this place. As the times go, this is a long minis- 
 try. I have seen changes in every other parish in 
 the city ; in some instances, several. There is not 
 an officiating clergyman in town who was here when 
 I was settled. 
 
 " There have been changes in the church ; changes 
 by addition and by removal ; changes, many and sad, 
 by death; and, what is perhaps sometimes more 
 painful, changes by ingratitude, indifference, vanity, 
 and worldliness of mind. There have been changes 
 wrought simply by time : babes have become youths ; 
 youths have mounted to manhood and womanhood ; 
 wives have become widows ; and children, orphans. 
 
 '' Amidst all the changes that we might note, in 
 the period of time referred to, I sometimes think, — 
 I know not whether it be a commendation or other- 
 wise, — that I have changed as little as anybody. 
 As to my manner of life, and purpose of heart, and 
 principles of truth, I believe no one can accuse me 
 of change. I have differed with persons, perhaps 
 wiser and better than I ; I have not often differed 
 with myself, as I should hope never to with Jesus. I 
 think I am safe in asserting this, — that I have been 
 amongst you such an one as this might be said of, 
 'You always know where to find him.' The first 
 year of my ministry, as to its general drift and bear- 
 ing, was a pretty fair index to what the whole has 
 
2S2 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 been. God had thoroughly indoctrinated me in the 
 great truth of Christ and the church, peace, temper- 
 ance, recreation, human nature, human duty, human 
 destiny, before my settlement ; and I have only had 
 occasion to mature, improve upon, and apply these 
 views since. 
 
 " By bringing me to TJnitarianism, God unsealed 
 my eyes ; he led me to a world of truth, before hid- 
 den ; he flooded my mind with blessed revelations 
 of himself, and Christ, and man ; and, unless I were 
 traitor to God, love, and my convictions and con- 
 science, I could not but preach and do as I have. 
 
 '' It is not my purpose at this moment to speak of 
 personal or local affairs, except to remark that eleven 
 years of labor among a people, if nothing else, at 
 least involves a minister in peculiar, interesting, and 
 solemn relations to them, and, conversely, them to 
 him. So much church and Christian labor with a peo- 
 ple establishes this fact, at least in their history, that 
 they are all bound to the church and to Christianity. 
 Would I have preached and prayed here for eleven 
 years, — would I for one year, for one mouthy, with 
 the consciousness that nine-tenths of the parish were 
 under no sort of obligations to religion, or to Chris- 
 tianity, or to the church, or to the pastor, who 
 in a sense represents all these ? Have I baptized 
 these children; have I followed them onward into 
 youth ; have I been throwing, so to say, my parental 
 arms about them, and shedding my parental heart 
 over them ; and are they imagining they have nothing 
 to do with religion, or the church, or God, in whose 
 name I have acted, and whose spirit has ever been. 
 
KESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. S3 3 
 
 or ought even to have been, working through me ? 
 Nay, these children are in a sense my children, and 
 mine simply as pastor of Christ Church, and of course 
 they are children of the church. And this obliga- 
 tion, my Mends, of at least eleven years' growth as 
 regards many of you, is waxing stronger and stronger 
 every year. No matter who may be pastor of this 
 church, whether I or some other man, you cannot 
 get rid of this obligation, except by a species of un- 
 heard of self-excision, by putting yourselves, so to 
 say, out of the world. This obligation is in every 
 sermon you hear, it is in every sabbath that comes 
 over you, it is in the very soil you tread upon. No : 
 to get rid of this highest, most personal, most vital 
 church and Christian obligation, you must become 
 expatriate in your native land, an excommunicant in 
 your native church. 
 
 " I have endeavored, and I think you will all bear 
 witness to the sincerity of that endeavor, — I have 
 endeavored, I say, in the language of the text, to 
 preach Christ. Nor do I make boast, but only refer 
 to it as a simple matter of fact, when I express it as 
 my sober belief, that,i'or the past eleven years, Chi'ist 
 has been more preached in this pulpit than in any 
 other in the city; that more sermons have been 
 formed on a basis of simple reference to Christ, and 
 Christ has gone into the staple of more sermons in 
 this pulpit, than in any other in this city." 
 
 In conclusion, he says : " May I not bespeak, on 
 your part, a stronger, more sedulous attention to the 
 great things of which we treat ? Have I not fairly 
 laid open to you the matter of the church, the mat- 
 
 20* 
 
^34 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 ter of human nature, of human duty ? have I not 
 fairly stated the important topics on which firom time 
 to time I have discoursed ? If ye are wise men, will 
 ye not judge wisely and act wisely ? 
 
 "This is a sort of anniversary sermon. I ought 
 perhaps to have preached more such. As long as I 
 continue here, I shall intend to preach such. Ele- 
 ven years ! How quickly they have flown ! It 
 seems but yesterday ; it was a darker autumnal day 
 than this ; we were assembled here for the ordina- 
 tion of your new minister. It was a day, to my 
 own heart, full of hope, full too of concern. The 
 years have hasted away, and are hasting. "What 
 men, what women, what children, will we be ? Shall 
 no new life be kinjlad^-^JajQ- ^new alt€^«fi¥«^^b^rn ? 
 Shall death, . judgment, an.d^.jd^endty Jmiry-oayand 
 we be no better, no purer ? 
 
 "Is there one of these children, now maturing in 
 my eye and blooming to my thought, whom I can- 
 not, by and by, call my child ? There are bereave- 
 ments in this world, my friends, almost as bitter as 
 those of death. 
 
 " And more : will not all these children, these 
 young men, and young women, fulfil my own, as it 
 were the anxious hopes of a parent ? will they not 
 give themselves to Jesus ? will they not covenant 
 with his church ? will they not grow up sons and 
 daughters of righteoasness for ever? 
 
 " I have been here long enough to see changes, I 
 say ; and among them have been the removal of our 
 youths, by marriage, for business, or whatever the 
 cause may have been. Others still are going off. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 235 
 
 Will the young man who leaves ns, who goes to dis- 
 tant countries, whose home shall be on the wide sea, 
 — will that young man remember us, and the hearts 
 that love him, and the church that prays for him ? 
 and will he not suffer the good seed that has been 
 sowing these many years in his soul to spring up 
 to his everlasting life ? " 
 
 On Christmas occasion, this year, he discoursed on 
 the jubilant element, — the susceptibility of deep, 
 strong joy, — as a primitive and an eternal condition 
 of our nature. He referred to the social element of 
 happiness, and to the sad abuse of festivals and holi- 
 days ; but maintained the necessity of our natures for 
 something of the kind, and expressed the belief that 
 recreative pleasures, on a large and general scale, 
 are not unfavorable to morality. 
 
 On this same Christmas-day, — while he and his 
 household were spending the day from home with 
 family-friends, — quite unknown and unsuspected by 
 him, his people were testifying their kind regard 
 by erecting a Christmas-tree, and loading it with 
 their diverse offerings for himself, his wife, and his 
 little children, and spreading his board with a liberal 
 entertainment. As nightfall came on, and he with 
 his family were expected to come home, they illu- 
 mined his house, and made ready to receive him. 
 The surprise on his part was complete ; and, for a 
 moment, he did not know how to understand it. 
 His heart was deeply touched. After the festivities 
 of the evening were mainly passed, and before the 
 company separated, he poured out his grateful thanks 
 
^36 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 to these kind friends, and expressed the sense of 
 stronger union to his people, and greater security 
 of their co-operation, heart and soul, with him, than 
 he had ever before experienced. It was with him 
 an hour of deep and tender joy. 
 
 He wrote as follows to young ladies of his charge, 
 away at school : — 
 
 "Augusta, Feb. 7, 1851. 
 
 " My dear A., A., and C, — I often think of the 
 absent members of my flock, and am sincerely desi- 
 rous of your peace, purity, and happiness. I am 
 sometimes solicitous about you, particularly such as 
 are young and inexperienced. I know you have 
 trials, and that you must encounter many disappoint- 
 ments. My wish is that you may have strength to 
 endure all that shall be appointed unto you. 
 
 " Allow me to say a few direct words. Be faith- 
 ful to your studies. Do not misspend your time. 
 Remember that these years of your youth are both 
 fleeting and precious. 
 
 " Be faithful to your own tempers and dispositions. 
 Banish envy and prejudice. Do not suffer yourselves 
 to repine, if in any thing others excel you. 
 
 '' Be faithful to your religious duties. Read the 
 New Testament of our Lord and Saviour Jesus 
 Christ. Do not forget that you are the children of 
 God, and that you ever owe your heavenly Father 
 your supreme love and obedience. Cultivate the 
 habit of prayer. Bear in mind that the Bible is 
 your creed, and the words of Jesus your counsellor 
 and director. Particularly take the Sermon on the 
 Mount ; read that, ponder on its meaning, drink in 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 237 
 
 its spirit, make it your guide and comforter. Re- 
 member that you are to reject all human creeds, and 
 to rely on Christ's words alone. 
 
 '^ If you are in darkness, doubt, and despondency, 
 apply to your own hearts the blessed promises of 
 Jesus. If you are weary and heavy-laden, go to 
 him, and he will comfort you. Feel evermore your 
 nearness to God, and repose implicitly on your 
 heavenly Father's love. 
 
 " I know you will miss home, and your old friends, 
 and these Augusta streets and houses. But remain 
 patiently and improvingly where you are, and by 
 and by you will be ready to come back again. We 
 shall be glad to see you when you do return. 
 
 "I wish each of you, or all of you together, 
 would write me. Receive these few words from the 
 kindness and affection of 
 
 " Your Friend and Pastor, 
 
 " Sylvester Judd." 
 " The Parsonage j Augusta, June 22, 1851. 
 
 *' My dear E., — I was glad to see that you remem- 
 bered me, and am always glad to know how what 
 St. John calls ^my children' are doing. I wish, 
 above all things, that they may prosper, and be in 
 health. 
 
 "Am I to understand, from that programme you 
 were so kind as to send me, that the several young 
 ladies spoke their parts ? What did you say about 
 ' chivalry ' ? 
 
 " There is much that is beautiful in our ideal of 
 that thing. But those gallant knights seem to have 
 been very cruel and bloodthirsty men. One of the 
 
S38 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 darkest and saddest pages of history is the taking of 
 Jerusalem by the Crusaders. Have you read Frois- 
 sart's Chronicles ? You will find a good deal on the 
 times and manners of chivalry in Scott's novels. 
 
 " St. John was rejoiced to hear that his children 
 were ^walking in the truth.' So I hope you are 
 doing. I trust you cleave to your Bible ; that you 
 feel an interest in Jesus, your blessed Redeemer and 
 divine Teacher ; that you cultivate a spirit of con- 
 scientiousness ; that you maintain habits of prayer ; 
 that, in all things, you seek to conduct yourself as a 
 child of God, and a lamb of the flock of Jesus. 
 
 '^ Believe me your affectionate Friend and Pastor, 
 
 " Sylvesteb Judd." 
 
 1852. 
 
 Mr. Judd's reputation as a lyceum lecturer had 
 so extended, that in 1852 his applications of this 
 kind had become very numerous. 
 
 But the great, absorbing subject which enlisted all 
 the energies of his spirit was the interests of the 
 church, — the advancement of principles relating to 
 its progress in spirituality, which had been the fre- 
 quent theme of his discourse. Long and patient 
 had been his investigations, deep and earnest his 
 thought ; and his conclusions were to his own mind 
 clear and incontrovertible. With the modesty natu- 
 ral to his character, he had heretofore abstained from 
 thrusting upon the public at large views peculiar to 
 himself. In speaking with a friend, he adverted 
 to his always having kept back in his denomination. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 239 
 
 and left it to others to go forward ; ^' but now," said 
 he, " I am getting to be almost forty years old, and 
 I feel that, if I am ever going to do any thing, I 
 have a right to do it now." 
 
 On the birth-relation to the church, he spoke much 
 to his people in public, and conversed with them in 
 private. At meetings with his brethren in the minis- 
 try, the question, " What shall we do with the chil- 
 dren ? " had been so often put in the same form, that 
 it had assumed something of the character of a by- 
 word; and its reiteration, although regarded as an 
 interrogatory of momentous import, had come often 
 to provoke a smile. Yet satisfactory answer came 
 there none. 
 
 Touching this general subject, he thus writes — 
 
 To Rev. E. E. H. 
 
 " Augusta, July 27, 1852. 
 
 " Brother H., — For years I have been burying 
 myself, plans, hopes, speculations, in a something I 
 call the church, the true. Christian church. In 
 ' Margaret ' the thing is broadly hinted at ; in * Philo ' 
 it comes up in another shape ; in ' Eichard Edney ' 
 it becomes an assumed :^ct. . It is, of course, ' catho- 
 lic ; ' it is, of course, ' orthodox ; ' it is the church ; 
 it is ' holy and apostolical ; ' and it is, to the core, 
 Unitarian. To these Jdeas I am gradually bringing 
 my own parish. 
 
 ^*^T-here is no salvation for this world but in Uni- 
 tarianism, — the one God, the one humanity, the 
 one communion of all souls, the unity in God of 
 science, art, religion, life, earth and heaven, time and 
 
240 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 eternity. The idea of the Fall of man begot that of 
 the Trinity, the disunity of God. There has been 
 no harmony since ; no harmony of states, churches ; 
 none of the spiritual and secular element ; none of 
 science and religion. 
 
 " Believe me everlastingly yours and God's, 
 
 "S. JUDD." 
 
 Other subjects of prominent interest to his mind 
 were the means for rendering public worship more 
 impressive, and'thg^alue of a permanent organiza- 
 tion of the churches of the Unitarian denomination. 
 
 The Unitarian clergymen in Maine had, very 
 generally, become deeply interested in all these mat- 
 ters. Many of them agreed, that, at the Maine 
 Ministerial Association, which was to be held in 
 Belfast, August 3, 1852, they would remain as long 
 as need be for the full discussion of these subjects, 
 and would not separate until some steps were taken 
 towards the furtherance of these interests. This 
 meeting continued three days, and was one of intense 
 interest to Mr. Judd. It was voted, " That measures 
 be taken to form a permanent organization of the 
 churches of the Unitarian connection in Maine ; and 
 that a Convention be called for that object, to be held 
 in Portland in the following September." The draft 
 of a plan of organization was prepared to be submit- 
 ted to the Convention, which was printed and dis- 
 tributed to the several churches throughout the State. 
 The preparation of a Preamble, or Declaration, set- 
 ting forth the reasons and principles of the proposed 
 organization, was entrusted to Mr. Judd. 
 
 On the sabbath after his return from Belfast, Mr. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. ^1 
 
 Judd laid the whole matter before his people, explain- 
 ing the reasons and advantages of such an organiza- 
 tion, and the many "important objects of interest to 
 the church which it was intended to promote. The 
 pathos of his tone and look showed how fully his 
 very soul was fused into the interests of the church 
 of Christ on earth. The hearts of his people were 
 deeply touched. In giving an account of it to the 
 Rev. Mr. P., he says, "One brother moved that 
 the people substantially approve the plan. This was 
 seconded. I asked all, men, women, and children, 
 in favor, to rise. All rose ! the whole congregation, 
 some strangers. I felt strengthened. These are the 
 times of God's Spirit, — these are all Pentecosts ! " 
 So full was his own heart at this unanimous, approv- 
 ing testimony, that his faltering voice scarce sufficed 
 to pronounce the benediction. 
 
 He adds, "The more I think of what we have 
 done, the more it seems just and right, timely and 
 auspicious." 
 
 In the interval before the meeting of the proposed 
 Convention, Mr. Judd followed up, with his people, 
 his great idea, underlying all his other wishes for 
 improvements in the church, that of bringing all his 
 congregation, including children, to believe and feel 
 themselves as of the church. 
 
 To one of his church, he wrote : — 
 
 "Christ CHrRCH Parsonage, Augusta, Aug. 11, 1852. 
 
 ^'Dear , You went away so suddenly and 
 
 unexpectedly, I had no time to see you. Do write, 
 
 that we may know how you are. Believe, dear , 
 
 21 
 
S42 KESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 that God loves you ; that you are his child, his holy 
 one ; that he will never leave nor forsake you ; that 
 Jesus bears you in his soul, even as a tender lamb. 
 
 " I have been very busy indeed since you left. 
 I hoped to get a moment's leisure this summer ; but 
 duty and toil seem to crowd more and more. I 
 spent all of last week with my clerical brethren at 
 Belfast, consulting on matters pertaining to Christ 
 and the church. 
 
 " I hope you will write me ; do, a word. Assure 
 me of your remembrance. 
 
 " I pray for you, and hope for you ; and be as- 
 sured of the deepest interest and unfailing interces- 
 sions of your Friend and Pastor, 
 
 ** Sylvester Judd." 
 
 In August; he was successful in realizing his long- 
 cherished idea, that, through the facilities afforded by 
 railroads, the sabbath schools of churches in distant 
 towns could be brought together in rural festivals. 
 *' Greenwood Church " was put in repair for the 
 occasion ; and a white flag, bearing a cross, waved 
 above the tops of the trees. 
 
 The day appointed was fine. The children, with 
 happy faces, gathered in great numbers from several 
 other towns in the State, attended by parents and 
 teachers. Addresses were given, hymns sung, and 
 then for a time the children were dismissed to their 
 various innocent and exhilarating recreations. Re- 
 freshments were served, the old renewed their youth 
 in participating in the children's joy, pleasant ac- 
 quaintances were made, kindly feelings cherished, 
 an enlarged benevolence generated. In meeting 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. ^43 
 
 again to receiye the parting benediction, children 
 were brought forward for baptism, and, in God's 
 own temple, consecrated to his service. 
 
 According to appointment, the Convention met in 
 Portland in September. With scarcely an exception, 
 all the Unitarian churches in Maine were represented 
 by pastors and delegates. 
 
 The Preamble finally adopted was as follows : — 
 
 "We, the Unitarian Church of Maine, ourselves 
 and our posterity, are a church ; a part of the 
 church universal, of the church of God and Christ ; 
 a church congregational, evangelical, apostolic. We-^ 
 are the church, not of creeds, but of the Bible ; 
 not of a sect, but of humanity ; seeking not uni- 
 formity of dogma, but communion in the religious 
 life. We embrace in our fellowship all who will be 
 in fellowship with us. 
 
 "Locally, and in a limited sense, a collection or 
 society of Christians is a church. 
 
 " These Christians, with their families, uniting in 
 regular assembly for religious worship, instruction, 
 growth, and culture, having the ordinances and a 
 pastor, constitute a parochial church. 
 
 " These Christians, with their families, in any 
 city, town, or precinct of the State, not having the 
 forms and means of regular religious service, and 
 without a pastor, constitute an unparochial church. 
 
 " In the State of Maine there will therefore be 
 parochial and unparochial churches. 
 
 " These several churches, considered as a whole, 
 constitute the Unitarian Church of Maine. 
 
 " This church, as auxiliary to the divine purpose 
 
 • 
 
^44 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 that calls it into being, proposes to create an organi- 
 zation of a permanent character, to meet annually, 
 to be called the Association of the Unitarian Church 
 of Maine, and having a Constitution, which is hereto 
 adjoined. . 
 
 " The objects of this association are mutual con- 
 ference, illumination, and strength ; to gather more 
 and more into one the scattered elements of our 
 faith ; to deepen the sympathies that should exist in 
 all parts of a common Zion ; to review the condition 
 of the several churches ; to concert the best methods 
 of propagating gospel truth ; and to adjust ourselves 
 more nearly to the course of events, whereby Divine 
 Providence seems evidently to be ushering in a bet- 
 ter and a millennial day to the whole human race." 
 
 The Constitution provided, that " any church not 
 calling itself Unitarian, yet sympathizing in the 
 spirit and objects of the association, might be repre- 
 sented in it." Also, that "no ecclesiastical power 
 or authority should ever be assumed by the associa- 
 tion, or delegated to it." 
 
 Among other officers of the association were six 
 business-committees ; namely, on churches, on Sun- 
 day schools, on missions, on charities and reforms, 
 on publications, and on church-art. 
 
 It was also provided, that " at each annual meet- 
 ing there should be a convention-sermon or address ; 
 written reports from the Executive Board and the 
 several business-committees ; a public discussion of 
 matters pertaining to Christian philanthropy and the 
 religious life ; and the administration of the Lord's 
 Supper." 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 24:5 
 
 Mr. Judd was appointed one of the Executive 
 Board, and chairman of the committee on churches. 
 He was, of course, deeply gratified in seeing the 
 plans which he and his brethren had formed thus 
 fully consummated. 
 
 About the last of September, with his little girl 
 of eight years old for company, he again visited the 
 White Hills. Proceeding across the State to Barnet, 
 Vt., he passed through the pleasant valley of the 
 Connecticut to his beloved Northampton home. 
 
 During this visit, he was in a most genial, happy 
 state of feeling ; a boy once more under his father's 
 roof, and by his mother's side. He was interested 
 in noticing every thing about the town. To the 
 annual cattle-show and fair he gave much attention. 
 The various kinds of fruits and garden-vegetables he 
 examined closely, with a view to ascertain the best 
 kinds. He wrote, almost daily, graphic, picture-like 
 letters to his wife, placing before her all that was 
 being said and done. 
 
 Oct. 5, he writes : " Yesterday was rainy. We 
 stayed in the house, about the fire, talking, laughing, 
 joking. We boiled chestnuts ; ate pears and peaches ; 
 talked about the reason of using hops in making 
 
 yeast ; whether P ^n said Jenny Lind painted ; 
 
 the eflfect of poor land to make Democrats ; whether 
 there was a natural law of reaction in human affiiirs." 
 He gives minute directions about his affairs at home. 
 His mind seems to have been in an unusually active 
 state. He preached his ji^iews of the church here. 
 
 Leaving Northampton, he proceeded to New York, 
 where he spent a few days, availing himself of what- 
 
 21* 
 
^46 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 ever of interest he found there. But of this city he 
 writes to his wife : " It is not agreeable to me. It 
 is a dreadful impersonation of human life j nothing 
 real, nothing common, but a vast hungry shadow of 
 things. To meet so many people whom you never 
 saw, between whom and yourself is such a chasm, — 
 'tis horrible." 
 
 After paying short visits to Philadelphia and 
 "Washington, he repaired to Baltimore, to be present 
 at the Unitarian Autumnal Convention, to attend 
 which his people had cheerfully contributed the 
 means. He had hoped to introduce for discussion 
 before the Convention those topics relating to the 
 church which were of so much interest to his own 
 mind. But other matters, previously arranged by 
 the business-committee, occupied nearly the whole 
 session of the Convention. He did, however, at the 
 very last of the meeting, find an opportunity briefly, 
 but eloquently, to indicate his views. He felt 
 disappointed and rather saddened at not being able 
 to secure for these subjects more prominence, but 
 consoled himself with the thought that they were 
 fairly introduced, and that, on the next year, they 
 would receive the chief attention. He presented 
 this subject also in sermons in Brooklyn and in 
 Baltimore. 
 
 Happy was he in returning to his own people, 
 and, as he wrote while absent, to "what is to me 
 the most beautiful spot on earth, the parsonage." 
 
 He now addresses himself in great earnestness to 
 the realization of his wishes among his own people, 
 — the bringing of all, parents and children, to 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 247 
 
 consider themselves as part and parcel of the church 
 of Christ, and to express this conviction by receiving 
 the symbols of his death in communion with each 
 other. He meets the children to talk with them 
 about the meaning of the Lord's Supper, and the 
 fitness of their joining in it. He meets the adults 
 of his congregation at private houses again and 
 again ; and they familiarly discuss the subject. He 
 draws up, has printed, and circulates among them, 
 the following Declaration, which he proposes shall 
 be signed by every individual under his pastoral 
 charge, by family : — 
 
 " Chkist Chceoh, Augusta, Mb. 
 
 "Being no longer strangers, but heirs of the 
 covenant confirmed before of God to the fathers, 
 we, the undersigned, pastor and people, parents and 
 children, constituting Christ Church, Augusta, of 
 the Unitarian Church of Maine, of the church uni- 
 versal, express the following : — ^ 
 
 " We recognize the church, cO-ordinately with the \ 
 family and the state, as a divine, and permanent form —J 
 of human society. / 
 
 " We confess to the authority of God's most holy 
 Word, and cherish the dispensation of grace and 
 truth by Jesus Christ, his Son. 
 
 "We believe in t;he unity of theology, religion, 
 and morality, and the harmony trf nature ami: reve- 
 lation. 
 
 " We hold to the Christian ministry, worship, and 
 rites. 
 
 " We aim at the highest Christian culture, spirit- 
 
248 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 ual birth and growth^ and the perfection of our na- 
 tures. 
 
 '^ "We will seek to bring up our children in the 
 nurture and admonition of the Lord. 
 
 " We will do good as we have opportunity. 
 
 " We will aid in the extension of the kingdom of 
 Christ in the earth. 
 
 '' So far as in us lies, we will live peaceably with 
 all men. 
 
 '^ It shall be our endeavor to do justly, love mercy, 
 and walk humbly with our God. 
 
 '^ Acknowledging the essential unity of the Chris- 
 tian body, we claim the right of private judgment, 
 and the sanctity of the individual conscience. 
 
 "We would live agreeably to the laws of God, 
 and die in the hope of a glorious immortality." 
 
 He has several meetings of his people to consider 
 this declaration, the final result of which was, that it 
 received the hearty approval of his people by an 
 almost unanimous vote. He gets ready a blank book 
 to serve as a register of names subscribed to this 
 declaration. He had, for a few months previously, 
 omitted to administer the Communion at the regu- 
 lar period ; and the last time the table was spread, 
 when the hour came for this service, his feeling that 
 they were then entirely on a wrong basis was so 
 strong, that he did not administer the emblems. He 
 then said to his people, with the deepest feeling, and 
 in the most solemn manner, in reference to dismiss- 
 ing the congregation and administeriag the rite to a 
 solitary few, "that he never should do it again." 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 249 
 
 But now all the indications among his people are 
 as favorable as he could hope. Some who had always 
 stood aloof fi:om any thing pertaining to the church, 
 exclusively, come forward and support his views. 
 He is cheered by the prospect of the consummation 
 of his long-cherished desires. His whole nature 
 seems peculiarily harmonized with itself. His affec- 
 tions go forth to his family friends with even more 
 than wonted tenderness. To his mother he de- 
 spatches short familiar missives of his daily life, more 
 
 frequently than usual. To his brother H ^i, he 
 
 writes : " I remember your fraternal kindness when 
 I was in New York. Many years may we all live ; 
 in love, purity, and piety, may our days go by ; may 
 the world be better for our having lived in it ! God 
 keep us in his covenant unto the end ! " 
 
 By letter to Rev. Mr. Palfrey of Belfast, Nov. 2, 
 he says : " The question you asked me at Baltimore, 
 * Shall we not have a meeting of the Ministerial 
 Association ? ' has risen with great force on my mind 
 since I got home. I feel that we have commenced 
 a great work ; that we are only at the beginning of 
 things, and of mighty things ; and never more than 
 now did I feel the need of conference with my 
 brethren, and prayer to Almighty God. Curiosity 
 and interest are awake everywhere. There is a 
 waiting for the dawn. The movement in other 
 places hangs somewhat on our lead. There is need 
 of fuller explanations than our association-documents 
 contain. 
 
 " More than all, we have hitherto conferred some- 
 what in the mist, somewhat in doubt. But having 
 
250 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 taken the decisive step ; having, so to say, just landed 
 on the shores of that great country that has been 
 the object of so much toil and anxiety, we are no-w- 
 in a condition for fair and calm deliberation. 
 
 ^' Shall we have a meeting ? " 
 
 In another letter to the same, Dec. 20, he says : 
 " It has seemed to me, that we, some of us, ought to 
 publish to the world some of our church-principles, 
 viewS; and plans. There is a spirit of inquiry awake 
 in this vicinity. Yet there is hardly a published 
 word anywhere that can be got hold of Our own 
 people need to see the thing in print. It is matter 
 to be pondered. Our ' Report ' even does not ex- 
 plain itself to anybody. I propose there be pub- 
 lished a book of this sort : ' The Church, in a series 
 of Discourses by Clergymen of the Unitaxian Church 
 of Maine. Boston : Crosby and Nichols.' 
 
 " I am willing to take all the risk of publication ; 
 and what I want is, that any of us whose minds 
 have been exercised in this matter should give to 
 the world a discourse upon it. You take up one 
 point, I another, &c., &c. I want we should show 
 
 a kind of organic, unitary front. I am tired of so 
 
 much personality. For my own part, I have several 
 discourses I might put in. Have you not preached 
 some sermons that are just the thing 1 
 
 "I repeat, I take all the rislc.'^ 
 
 And again to Mr. P., Dec. 24, he writes : " Into 
 our hands, my dear brother, God has thrown the 
 initiation of the great cause. It -must come from 
 Unitarians : it can come from nowhere else. 
 
 '^ Suppose a man does say ^ / won't/ we mustn't 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 261 
 
 mind it. Suppose one to say, ^I won't consider 
 myself a sinner, or that I have religious responsi- 
 bilities, or that I ought to lead a spiritual life, 
 ought to love God,' &c. &c., — we go to work, and 
 endeavor to convince him of these things. Suppose 
 your child says, ^I won't be your child,' or ^I 
 won't keep the sabbath,' or ' I won't go to school,' 
 you just assume these points, and then go ahead. 
 
 '^ We shall find plenty of the ^ don't-care ' sort of 
 folk. It is our duty to make them care. 
 
 "We have the authority of God, the Bible, histo- 
 ry, reason, common sense ; and, if higher is wanted, 
 I know not where to look for it. 
 
 " My people at this moment are in an interesting 
 state. The great, the solemn question is now before 
 them, ^Will we be a church, to all intents and 
 purposes?' We have had several meetings. No 
 question can be so searching. There is shaking 
 among the dry bones, I assure you. I never felt 
 that I could preach the gospel as I can now. I 
 never felt what a sword the spirit is as now. I will 
 report results in due time : there are doubts and 
 scruples and hesitancies, of course. 
 
 " Would that all our churches could move to- 
 gether in this ! 
 
 "So I must prepare that volume of discourses 
 without your help. I am sorry. 
 
 " We have asserted the church of all our church- 
 es ; the next step is for these churches, that is, 
 each individual church, to assert the same of itself. 
 This is essential. But, slow and easy, there is time 
 enough." 
 
252 RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 He lectures before lyceums at Eichmond, Gar 
 diner, Kennebnnk, Portland. He has immediate 
 engagements for lyceum lectures at Salem and Glou- 
 cester, and a large number of similar engagements 
 for the coming winter. 
 
 He engages to preach in Boston the first Thurs- 
 day Lecture of the year 1853. With great labor, he 
 condenses, as far as possible, his views on the birth- 
 right church into one discourse. He rejoices to 
 have an opportunity to lay them before a clerical 
 audience. 
 
 1853. 
 
 Mr. Judd preaches to his people the first sermon 
 of the new year, and, as was his wont, reviews the 
 one just past. He speaks of those who in this 
 period have passed away from sight, — of those who 
 may depart the coming year. He notices the great 
 mortality there has been among his people, and asks, 
 '' Who of us ' will be missed from these seats on 
 another New Year's day? Which of you shall I 
 next be called upon to lay in the grave ? Or will it 
 be you that shall perform the last sad duties to the 
 cold remains of your pastor ? " 
 
 The succeeding day, with much fatigue, he com- 
 pletes his preparation for the Boston Thursday Lec- 
 ture of the same week. At night he leaves his home, 
 to be conveniently situated the next morning for 
 starting at an early hour on his way to meet his 
 engagements in Boston and the towns near by. 
 
RESIDENCE AT AUGUSTA. 253 
 
 And now, the subject of this history having ar- 
 rived at the fulness of manhood's years ; his mental 
 and moral powers, if not yet at the acme of their 
 capabilities, at least having reached a high degree of 
 development and maturity, — let us pausQ in this 
 life-drama, and notice the prominent chai'acteristics 
 which make him, as a man, what he is. 
 
 22 
 
254 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY 
 
 EARLY POSITION AT AUGUSTA. 
 
 The object of this chapter is to unfold and explain 
 at large many points which have been but cursorily- 
 hinted at in the preceding one. 
 
 Augusta, the scene of Mr. Judd's ministerial 
 labors, being the capital of Maine, and occupying 
 rather a central position, has always been regarded 
 religiously, as well as in other respects, an important 
 post. The Unitarian church in this place was one 
 of the earliest of that name established in the State. 
 It was at first small, and was sustained principally 
 by a few individuals. Previously to Mr. Judd's set- 
 tlement there, a number of clergymen had preached 
 for the church, for longer or shorter periods, and 
 one or two had been settled as pastors; but, for 
 various reasons, no one had remained a great length 
 of time. 
 
 When Mr. Judd entered into the pastoral relation 
 with this church in, 1840, it was still so feeble as to 
 require aid from the American Unitarian Association. 
 But, few in numbers, and somewhat cold in religious 
 feeling, as were the people whose charge he assumed. 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 255 
 
 he entered upon his labors with the warmest desire 
 for the promotion of the highest, the spiritual inte- 
 rests of his whole flock. While he embraced the 
 general principles known as Unitarian or Liberal, 
 he brought into their service all the ardor of feeling, 
 ail ihe -desire for spirituality and devotion, of those V"^ 
 called Orthodox, in communion with whom his early / 
 life had been passed. On his first intercourse with 
 the Unitarian denomination, he felt the coldness of 
 intellect too much predpminating over fervor of spi- 
 rit. And, while he saw full well that this was a 
 natural result of the opposition it had had to contend 
 with, and the controversy in which it had been forced 
 to expend much of its energy, he believed the sys- 
 tem itself pregnant with life-giving, spiritual warmth, 
 and felt that the time had come for bringing forth 
 its legitimate fruits of devoted piety. 
 
 A high reverence for truth, and a spirit of earnest, 
 religious devotion, two features which had strongly 
 marked his previous course, inspired him at the out- 
 set, and formed the basis of his whole career as a 
 Christian minister. The very first sermon he ever 
 wrote, while yet unlicensed to preach, was from the 
 text, '^ Buy the truth." He had a high sense of the 
 consistency, the sacredness, the imperiousness of 
 truth. He regarded it as the element of the soul. 
 He believed it manifested to us by means of an 
 internal, corresponding ideal, and that a man's own 
 consciousness must therefore be the arbiter as to what 
 is truth. He felt that man's better nature had been 
 much abused and fettered by infusions of error, the 
 tenets of mere sect. He rejoiced to see strugglings 
 
^56 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 for release, and was happy to witness tokens of 
 change. 
 
 He sought for mi(] emhracfi^ truth ii^ ^ts simplest^ 
 most~unsophisticated forms?—- He did not care to 
 make out a formal system of doctrine. He wished 
 no creed but the simple language of the Bibl^. He 
 took the words of Jesus with childlike trust to his 
 own heart, and gave them out to his people as the 
 guide of their lives, and, if obedient to them, their 
 passport to heaven. Christ was the grand idea that 
 underlay all his preaching. To be Christ-like was 
 the alpha and omega of all his teachings. He pre- 
 sented Christ to his people as the life of their life, 
 the wellspring of their souls ; his cross, the burden 
 of life which all must bear, and which, if borne 
 well, would bring forth flowers and fruit to their 
 souls. His church he caused to be designated as 
 Christ Church. His sermons were practical.,.xather 
 / .than theorjedcal. He at once looked to the spiritual 
 needs of his church, and, from the first, began to 
 labor with a systematic bearing upon the growth of 
 his whole congregation in Christ-likeness. 
 
 To this end, besides the regular ministrations of 
 the sabbath, he early commenced meeting his people 
 socially at private houses for religious conversation. 
 Baptism and the Lord's Supper he regarded, the one 
 as a seal of Christian birth, the other as a means of 
 growth in Christian graces, — both open to all, and 
 equally binding upon all. At the very beginning 
 of his ministry, it grieved him that so very small a 
 proportion of his hearers seemed to feel the obliga- 
 tions of Christians resting upon them ; that so few 
 
) 
 
 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 257 
 
 brought their children to baptism ; so few observed 
 the ordinance appointed in remembrance of himself 
 by the great Founder of the Christian system, under 
 which they lived, and the mighty blessings, civil as 
 well as religious, which it conferred upon them. 
 One of the first topics of conversation at these reli- 
 gious Yneetings was Baptism and the Lord's Supper. 
 Not that he considered these ordinances as possessing 
 any inherent efficacy; that the baptismal water or 
 the eucharistic bread and wine conferred on the 
 recipients any peculiar sanctity ; but rather that their 
 tendency was to bring such as observed them to a 
 fuller sense of the inevitable obligations arising 
 from their having birth under the Christian dis- 
 pensation ; obligations equally binding upon all, and 
 to which they added nothing by complying with 
 these observances. 
 
 In his sermon called "The Beautiful Zion," 
 preached within the first year of his settlement, 
 are found the following passages : — 
 
 " The beauty of Zion/' he says, " will be enhanced 
 hy the number of those that come to her altars. The 
 entire mass of the Jewish population frequented the 
 courts of the Lord, and contributed to the services 
 of the temple. In the apostolic days, whole families, 
 children includecf, joined in the commemoration of 
 Christ, and participated in the use of the sacred 
 emblems. The eastern and western churches, in 
 their prominent divisions, — the Greek, Roman, and 
 Episcopal, — permit the privileges of the Eucharist 
 to all who choose to enjoy them. It is an innovation 
 of Protestantism, I believe, that discriminates access 
 
 22* 
 
/ 
 
 258 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 to the altar. But, says the Psalmist, ' all they in Zion 
 appear before God.' It is desired and expected that 
 all who love the Lord Jesus Christ should remember 
 him in his death. I know of but one pre-requisite 
 for church-membership ; that is, love to Christ. 
 This may include the young as well as the old, and 
 would shut out no one who aims at a conscientious 
 fulfilment of his religious obligations." 
 
 As years passed on, Mr. Judd presented to his 
 people, from time to time, a rich variety of topics, 
 fitted to awaken thought, to expand the intellect, to 
 enlarge the sphere of knowledge, to arouse sensibility 
 to nature's teachings, to administer consolation to 
 the afi9.icted, to throw a cheering light upon the 
 transition from this to the invisible world, and, more 
 especially, to enlist the afifections of the heart in love 
 to God and love to man, and to deepen the spirituality 
 of the soul's life. But, amid all these, and as a 
 means of forwarding all valuable Christian progress, 
 ever and again he returned to/ the prevalent distinc- 
 tion between the church and tEe "world, which he 
 considered a formidable barrier to the^ universality 
 of Christian character. 
 
 On entering into connection with the people of 
 his charge, he found a covenant which had been the 
 basis of their church-organizatiod. All that was 
 required of those considering themselves peculiarly 
 members of the church was simply writing their 
 names under this covenant. But Mr. Judd did not 
 at all insist on this. He invited to the communion, 
 as it was administered from month to month, all 
 who loved the Lord Jesus ; all who felt interested 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 259 
 
 in the blessings of the gospel, or who were reli- 
 giously disposed. Yet almost the whole congregation 
 would turn their backs upon this memorial of their 
 Saviour, and the urgent entreaties of his minister, 
 who, with sinking heart and a despairing sense of 
 the futility of his labors, would descend to break the 
 bread and administer the cup to the scattered few 
 that remained. 
 
 At length, as has been seen, many parents became 
 so far aroused as to bring their children to baptism, 
 until nearly all his flock had received this Christian 
 seal. Instead of dismissing the congregation, and 
 making the communion a private service, separate 
 from the other acts of religious worship, it was made 
 a part of the regular afternoon-exercises. This prac- 
 tice was much more consonant to Mr. Judd's feelings 
 than that of sending away, as it were, those to whom 
 he would gladly administer, to the fullest extent, 
 the bread and the water of life. By this means, 
 some few were added to the number of partakers ; 
 but, in the main, very little was effected. Many, 
 disliking the constraint and embarrassment it imposed 
 upon them, finally began to absent themselves from 
 church on such occasions. A good deal of dissatis- 
 faction ensued ; and so much opposition to the course 
 at last arose, that it was found expedient to abandon 
 it, although a return to the old method was, to use 
 Mr. Judd's own words, " like plunging a dagger into 
 his heart." 
 
260 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 THE BIRTHRIGHT CHURCH. 
 
 As years elapsed from the time of his settlement, 
 Mr. Judd's mind had, by degrees, become more and 
 more impressed with the idea that the prevailing 
 sentiment as to what constitutes church-membership 
 is erroneous ; and, for the last two or three years of 
 his labors, his attention was mainly centralized to 
 this one point. He wrought out his views into a 
 regular form, which, to his own mind, was consistent 
 and truthful. He felt that they were of vital impor- 
 tance to the welfare of the church, if not, indeed, to 
 its preservation as a distinct organization. He felt^ 
 also, that his maturity of years entitled him to speak 
 out, not only to his own people, but to the world at 
 large, the conclusions of his own mind. He pre- 
 sented them in a distinct manner to his congregation ; 
 he brought them out very definitely before the asso- 
 ciation of the clergymen of his denomination in 
 Maine ; he introduced them to the Autumnal Con- 
 vention of Unitarians at Baltimore ; he prepared to 
 lay them before a clerical audience in Boston, — all 
 of which has been already stated. 
 JHis fundamental position was, that the church, 
 {/ equally with the family and the state, is of divine 
 appointment. Touching this subject, he says, "I 
 would have the church resume the position in human 
 society which God designed it to hold. There are 
 three, and but three, great, eternal, and divine orga- 
 nizations of human beings, — - the famity, the state, 
 the church. The first organizes the conjugal ele- 
 ment ; the second, the political element ; the last, the 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 261 
 
 religious element. The first gives us a home ; the 
 second, a country ; the third, heaven. The.' symbol j 
 of the first is the fireside ; of the second, in ancient 
 parlance, a throne; of the third, the "altar. These'"" 
 three are holy, and have their foundation in the ? 
 unalterable texture and appetency of the human / 
 mind. These three, in a true community, exist -ifi^ 
 harmony ; these spheres are respectively different. 
 Over and in a nd through the w hole is one God, 
 amiversal Sovereign, Legislator, Father. "While 
 other things, needful for the moment, rise, perform 
 their office, and pass away, these alone remain. 
 
 " In each of these, all men are. To each of them, 
 e^ery human being sustains a fundamental 6ir^A- 
 reZa^io7i:^^-^We.,are..iK)xn. into the family, into the 
 state, into the church. We continue in them all, 
 until, by due process, we are disowned from the 
 first, banished from the second, excommunicated 
 from the last. As no man remembers the time 
 when he began to be in the state, so he should never 
 know the time when he began to be in the church." 
 
 He continues : " God entered into solemn cove- 
 nant with Abraham, and with his seed for ever, with 
 the special promise, that in him all nations should 
 be blessed. This was the gospel, Paul tells us, 
 preached before unto Abraham. Under that cove- 
 nant, a church was gathered. This church was a 
 heritage ; into it the children were born, in it they 
 were trained up; all it had, it gave them. This 
 church had in its keeping the precious promise of 
 universal blessing, and the great doctrine of the one 
 God. Christ came to fulfil the oath sworn to our 
 
 'j^ 
 
262 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 father Abraliam, that all nations should be included 
 in the covenant-blessings of God. Christ enlarges 
 and spiritualizes the old covenant. The same law 
 of transmission and continuity holds. Children are 
 born into the Christian church. ' Of such/ says 
 Christ, ^ is the kingdom of God,' — the new, the 
 all-comprehensive, and heavenly dispensation. The 
 command is, ^ Feed my sheep,' ^Feed my lambs.' 
 Peter says, ^ The promise is unto you and to your 
 children.' Paul declares the children of believers 
 are holy. The new era is inaugurated ; Christianity, 
 as we call it, becomes an institution, a common- 
 wealth. Whatever other changes, there is none in 
 the fundamental principle, that the church transmits 
 itself by natural succession, that the lambs follow 
 the sheep, that children are trained i^p into that 
 which their parents are." 
 
 Mr. Judd maintained, that baptism in the Chris- 
 tian church, as circumcision in the Jewish, presup- 
 poses a church-estate ; that it does not introduce 
 into the church, but is merely the seal of the cove- 
 nant eternally existing between God and his children 
 and their seed for ever. And to this view he derives 
 support from the Cambridge Platform of 1648. 
 
 He did not regard Baptism and the Lord's Supper 
 as the only ordinances of the church. His own words 
 on this point are as follows : " The church is not that 
 which has in its keeping, and observes, the sacraments 
 of the Lord's Supper and Baptism alone. These are 
 ordinances, but not all the ordinances. Preaching 
 is an ordinance, public prayer is an ordinance ; and 
 one ordinance is as sacred as another. The church 
 
KELATION TO THE MINISTRY. ^63 
 
 comprehends all the ordinances. They are all parts 
 of Christian service, all means of grace alike. Its 
 peculiar devotional ordinance is prayer, its peculiar 
 church-ordinance is singing, its peculiar instructional 
 '■ ordinance is preaching, its peculiar festal and com- 
 memorative ordinance is the Lord's Supper. 
 
 " The idea of the church implies all these things ; 
 one as much as another, the whole as well as a 
 part. I would root out the notion, that a part of the 
 church-services are for one set of people, and another 
 part for another. In entering the church, I would 
 have every man enter the whole reality that the 
 church is. I would have the masses and the chil- 
 dren feel and acknowledge that the whole church is 
 theirs ; not only its sabbath, and its Bible, and its 
 singing, but its communion likewise. I would do 
 away with the notion, that a different moral, spirit- 
 ual, or religious responsibility rests upon one more 
 than upon another. If it is the duty of one man to 
 pray, it is the duty of all men to pray. If it is a sin 
 for one man to dance, it is a sin for all men to dance. 
 If it is the duty of one man to partake of the com- 
 munion, it is the duty of all men." 
 
 The object of the church he considered to be 
 " Christian nurture, regeneration, or the bu'th of the 
 ^irit, the communication of the life of God and 
 spirit of Jesus to the soul of man ; and that children 
 were to grow up Christians in the church, and not 
 out of it ; that the outward fertilizers, or means of 
 growth, were the sabbath, prayer, singing, the 
 preached word, and the communion of the body and 
 blood of Christ." 
 
^64 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 These ideas he claims to have been originally 
 implied in the gospel, and practised upon in the 
 early ages of Christianity. Here are his own words 
 again : " The gospel did originally embrace children. 
 Christ, if I may so say, laid the foundations of his^ 
 kingdom in the heart of childhood. The ^ new 
 covenant,' the enlargement of the Abraham ic cove- 
 nant, threw itself about infancy, and girdled, with 
 its promises, its sanctity, and its beatitudes, the gene- 
 rations as they rose. But something intervened to 
 prevent the progress of Christianity towards its con- 
 summation in the ages ; something intervened to 
 suspend the beautiful law of nature and of God, 
 whereby what is most blest and most pure descends 
 from father to son. This hindrance was the doctrine 
 of total depravity, a correlative and offshoot from 
 tli e dogma of the Trin ity; a monstrosity in human 
 speculation, an unheard-of thing in the history of 
 philosophy, a Upas-tree in the fair field of the evan- 
 gelical dispensation. Through the monk^Augus- 
 tine, this came ; it got into the Christian church ; it 
 was decreed orthodoxy. Like a dyke it rose, right 
 in the midst of the fairest flow of things the world 
 has ever seen ; like a volcano, it was upheaved in 
 /the midst of the most beautiful scheme that ever 
 j gladdened the eye of an angel, and distorted every 
 / thing, turned currents out of their course, and filled 
 the bed of a pure Christianism with blackened scoria, 
 and all horrid shapes of wild and woful thought. 
 
 '* The old covenant that comprised children with 
 their parents is broken. The children are born 
 corrupt, of the devil, out of the Christian pale. In a 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 265 
 
 word, as I have said, this dpgma^imckurclied all the 
 children ; it flung the generations, as they rose, loose 
 out into the world ; it broke the goodly covenant- 
 relation Christ made with his children and his chil- 
 dren's children for ever." 
 
 And now, he says, " We come to a pause in human 
 afiairs, so far as Christianism is concerned. We see 
 the whole church is thrown into a dilemma. Ever- 
 more the question presses, 'What shall we do with 
 the children ? ' ' Water-baptism is reg^ierative,' the 
 high priests of the new school said. ' Baptize the 
 children, and we shall cure their depravity, renew 
 their natures, and thus recover them to the church.' 
 So things went on for some centuries. After a sort, 
 the children were huddled back, like melancholy 
 lambs, into a fold from which they had been rudely 
 driven. 
 
 "Calvin and Luther, still holding firmly by the 
 Trinity and total depravity, yet had the common 
 sense to see that water could not purge the soul ; 
 and, while they admitted infant-baptism, they still 
 suflfered the infant to be out of the church. They 
 baptized the innocent vagabond, and then let it run 
 wild still. At least, this is the final result of Cal- 
 vinism, or the older Augustinianism^ in America. 
 
 "The consequence," he adds, "is, that, in the 
 United States at least/ nine-tenths of the people are 
 growing up, in a technieat^BMSg^TsimreTV^Hehristiah, 
 unholy, prayerless, hopeless. The covenant which 
 God made witlT Abraham, that in him, through 
 Christ, all nations should be blessed, — a covenant 
 with him and his seed after him to all generations, — 
 
266 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 is broken ; the promise that these great blessings 
 were to us and our children is falsified ; the cardinal 
 principle that children are of the kingdom of God is 
 set at nought, and the beautiful law of religious 
 perpetuity interrupted for ever. A single thing, a 
 little thing apparently^ a short paragrapE^ a -penlul 
 y of ink, — the doctrine of total depravity, — has done 
 ^ all this." 
 
 '^ What now calls itself the church and Christian 
 is a little knot of people in Christendom, a few scores 
 in what is called a society, a few hundreds in our 
 towns, — in no sort of covenant-relation even with 
 their own wives or husbands, fathers or mothers, 
 brothers or sisters, sons or daughters ; a little knot, 
 I say, and all the rest is the world, — Christendom, 
 not gentildom ; not so good as that, but devildom. 
 
 '^ Next, what ? Invariably, inevitably, this : these 
 few must try salvatory measures on the great multi- 
 tude of outsiders. But how many shall _be saved ? 
 The elect, says ultra-Calvinism. We must preach 
 to all, but expect to save only a few, says a more 
 j moderate Calvinism. Do not dispute about these 
 V^ j things, says Methodism ; but make a rush, and save 
 1 as many as you can. Universalism hushes the whole 
 trouble, and says. Never you mind, all will be saved. 
 Unitarianism, — horresco referens, — legitimate de- 
 scendint of the old-church patriarchs and prophets, 
 of the Messiah and the apostles, — sole heir of a gor- 
 geous and a divine antiquity, — si^hs and takes on ; 
 does not know ; tries ; is, like Ephraim, ^ a silly dove, 
 without heart : they call to Egypt, they go to As- 
 yria.' 
 
 r 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. S67 
 
 " The great question now is. How shall we get 
 men into the church ? The voice of the true church 
 cries even in the false church, Give me back my 
 children. Now, to get people back into the church, 
 Romanism, or the Catholicism of the fourth century, 
 devised the scheme of water-regeneration. This 
 alone saved the church of that time from extinction. 
 So in the English Church, the latent, perhaps, yet 
 really vital, question of all questions is. How shall 
 we get the people into the church ? And that sect 
 also baptizes them in." 
 
 In New England, Mr. Judd instances the revival- 
 system as a means of replenishing a wasting church. 
 He recognizes the fact, that, in this cause, devout 
 clergymen have labored and worn out health and 
 life, and yet this system is found to be a failure. 
 He shows, by many statistics, that the proportion 
 of church-members at this day, compared with 
 forefathers' time, " has dwindled into a small, and is 
 yearly dwindling into a smaller, minority." " The 
 world," he says, ^*is every year gaining on the 
 church. Revivals, the grand harvest-seasons of 
 the church, are losing their power. "With paper and 
 pencil, one can easily figure out the final issue." 
 He notices the heart-sickness and discouragement of 
 many ministers, — " This having a sacred rite, and 
 having so few to attend it ; seeing the multitudes 
 going away ; seeking to get them to it ; blamed if 
 there be no increase ; feeling as if they would aban- 
 don the whole thing ; coming almost to despise what 
 they tenderly love ; shaping a sermon for their 
 object, now this way, now that ; some tempted to 
 
268 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 demolish the pale and have no church, others pain- 
 fully struggling to augment its numbers." 
 
 And then, in the discourse upon this subject from 
 which the above summary of his views has been 
 deduced, he comes to this general conclusion : " I 
 see no possible escape from these difficulties, but 
 first to depress the pale wholly out of sight, and then 
 to bring it up, with a wider sweep, around the whole 
 worshipping congregation. I know of no other way 
 of restoration than that whereby the children of 
 Christian parents may be included in the Christian 
 covenant and pale, the system of forms and doctrines, 
 and the sphere of blessings and responsibilities, in 
 which their parents are. I mean, that whatever may 
 be the highest Christian institutions known to Chris- 
 tendom ; whatever be conceived to be the most sacred 
 communion and fellowship; whatever typifies the 
 highest Christian experience, or points most pecu- 
 liarly to the supreme relation we hold to God, Christ, 
 and the moral universe, — that into that, most essen- 
 tially, most integrally, most fully, the children be 
 admitted ; and, inasmuch as the church does stand 
 for the highest Christian institution, and is the most 
 sacred communion and fellowship, and typifies the 
 deepest Christian experience, and the supreme rela- 
 tion we sustain to God and Christ and the moral 
 universe, into that church the children should be 
 admitted. More than admitted ; that into it they be 
 bom ; that of it they form a part ; insomuch that 
 they shall never know the time when they were not 
 in and of it, any more than they know the time when 
 they began to be citizens of the state, or when the 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 first summer morning shed its sweet beams upon 
 them, or the first sabbath enfolded them in its sanc- 
 tity and rest. If there be a school of highest Chris- 
 tian discipline, a circle of highest Christian culture! 
 a theatre of highest Christian action, a place of high4 
 est Christian life, peace, enjoyment, I contend that j ; 
 not only the children, but the great mass of the| 
 community, should be included in it. And such ai 
 school, circle, theatre, place, is the church. . I would 
 take this which we call the church, with all its awful- 
 ness and beauty, all its beatitudes and obligations, 
 and not wait to see if I can get here and there a man 
 into it, but take it and carry it right under the whole 
 bulk of the rising generation, and endeavor that they 
 shall all be in it. I would carry it under the yet 
 unborn generations, and see to it that all share in it 
 as their birthright." 
 
 In carrying out this idea, he adds, "Where the 
 ground is open, I would cease to gather people in 
 what are called societies, with a p^radventure that 
 by and by they will organize within the society a 
 coterie called the church, to be by and by increased 
 by additions from without. I would gather people 
 in church-estate, and no otherwise, and at once and 
 for ever. I would gather them and their fami- 
 milies for the whole blessing that the church is: 
 they should be committed to the Bible, the sabbath, 
 the preaching, the communion, alike. If people are 
 not fit to come together in this way, they are not fit 
 to come together at all. Religious or Christian 
 society defines the word church ; and any man that 
 is fit to be a member of a Christian society is fit to 
 
 23* 
 
gTO RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 be of the church. Any man that is fit to unite in 
 one church-ordinance, be it singing or prayer, is fit 
 to unite in another, even the communion. So that 
 if the question were upon starting a new Xlnitarian . 
 wcieti/^ so called, in any place, the real thing should 
 be the forming of a new Unitarian church. 
 
 " I would bring people together with the feeling, 
 that, if they accept one ordinance of the gospel, they 
 are bound to accept the whole ; that, if there be a 
 special centre of sanctity, or holy influence and rege- 
 nerative impression, there, if nowhere else, all are 
 bound to be. If I am a pastor, and the people 
 are my flock, and there be any one place where the 
 grass is greener and the waters clearer than in another, 
 there, by all obligations of the soul and God, am I 
 bound to take them all. If Christ is bread and 
 water, I am bound to give him to all who need sal- 
 vation. 
 
 *' As to existing things, I would have our societies, 
 so called, become churches as rapidly as possible. I 
 would have a religious society feel that it is a church, 
 and realize at once all the grandeur of its position 
 and vastness of its obligations. I wish all people at 
 once to enter upon all its ordinances, all its privi- 
 leges, and all its duties. Especially, I wish that all 
 the children should be brought at once into their true 
 church-position, and be trained up, now and ever- 
 more, in the central sanctity, the holy of holies of the 
 Christian dispensation." 
 
 In still more extended furtherance of this idea, 
 Mr. Judd says : " Inasmuch as our country has cer- 
 tain political divisions called States, and these divi- 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 271 
 
 sions represent a certain amount of available and 
 suggestive unity, I would have all the churches in a\ 
 State form a general church of the State ; the bond \ 
 of union and centre of action to be a State Asso- / 
 ciation. ... 
 
 '^ I believe that if the church would in this way 
 adjust itself, I will not say to the world, but to the 
 community in the midst of which it is ; if it would 
 become the open, free vehicle of divinest Christian 
 ideas to the masses and to the children ; if it would 
 fold in its central sanctity the generations as they 
 rise ; if, instead of reserving to itself, it would give 
 out its most sacred, its heavenly food, and commu- 
 nion and hope, to its own children born into it, — 
 we should witness such a development of spirituality, 
 such an advancement in all Christian virtue, such a 
 progress of the age to millennial glory, as history 
 has never yet recorded. I do say, that on the pre- 
 sent church- system the millennium can never come, 
 — never! It recedes every year." 
 
 In a sermon entitled "The Communion for 
 Sinners," he asks, "What is involved in the par- 
 ticipation of these emblems ? what in becoming a 
 communicant of the body and blood of Christ ? " 
 
 He answers, " Not that a man assents to a creed, 
 not that he can answer a series of theological ques- 
 tions that may be propounded to him, — a clear head 
 for theology and a simple heart for the ordinances 
 being distinct things ; not that the opinions of others 
 are of consequence, that we satisfy everybody or 
 anybody ; nor that participation implies that a man 
 is not a sinner, or that he is regenerated, but that a 
 
272 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 man should desire to receive whatever the sacrament 
 is fitted to give ; that it is not so much a test as an 
 aid of character; that it is the earnest of hope, as 
 well as the reward of attainment ; that it does not 
 declare that one is good, but that he would be good ; 
 not that he has experienced salvation, but that he is 
 looking forward to it ; and that the communion 
 does not offer itself to the confirmed believer exclu- 
 sively." 
 
 He then inquires into the direct and immediate 
 effects of the emblems, and finds it, not miraculous, 
 not mysterious, not possessing any intrinsic efficacy 
 nor any virtue from sacerdotal consecration ; but 
 mainly suggestive and associative ; as a summary of 
 his life and death; a condensed gospel; a visible 
 token of great invisibilities ; silent preachers, an 
 inarticulate utterance of profound truths ; as awak- 
 ening personal questions of salvation by him ; as 
 epitomizing the highest truths of the religion of 
 Christ. 
 
 He said it was necessarily implied that a man, 
 though a sinner, must have some interest, some 
 earnestness, some faith, some desires to be a better 
 man. 
 
 He contended, that, if the sinner may partake of 
 the benefits of the blood of Christ, and find therein 
 cleansing, health, and salvation, he may also partici- 
 pate in the emblem which typifies that blood ; if the 
 sinner, however vile, or however gross his depravity, 
 may be urged to come to Christ ; then, if the bread 
 and the wine do in any degree aid the approach to 
 Christ, may he be urged to partake of these em- 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. ^73 
 
 blems ; and if the symbols are too holy to be touched 
 by profane hands, how much more should Christ, 
 the eternal substance of this fleeting shadow, be 
 deemed too holy for the approach of sinners ! 
 
 He regarded the communion as a means of grace, 
 a means of bringing sinners to Jesus, a means which 
 like prayer, like the sabbath, like preaching, God 
 will bless to our redemption and ultimate sanctifica- 
 tion. 
 
 "With such views in regard to Christian nurture 
 and church-relationship, as may well be supposed, 
 Mr. Judd took great interest in the training of chil- 
 dren — in the impressions which young minds should 
 receive. Even before he became a pastor or a father, 
 as early as 1838, he could find no better subject for 
 a lyceum lecture in his Northampton home than 
 "Children." As is shown in the previous pages, in 
 the early part of his ministry he commenced bring- 
 ing them under the gentle teachings and moral in- 
 fluences of nature, in the rural May walks to which 
 he invited them. However much he might be 
 pressed with various labors, on some beautiful morn- 
 ing in the month of May, he would have all the 
 children of his charge — and but too happy if any 
 others would join them — gather around his cottage, 
 from which he would lead them forth to witness the 
 fresh resurrection of nature, to gather wild spring- 
 flowers, and listen to the vernal greeting of the 
 merry wood-birds. 
 
 In the same spirit he met the young ladies of his 
 flock, for literary, social, and moral culture. He 
 preached occasional sermons to young men. ,. To im- 
 
274 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 press the fathers and mothers with a sense of their 
 responsibility, he wrote in his own unique manner 
 the sermon, which, after being delivered to his own 
 people, was published in the newspapers under the 
 title of "The Jittle-Ooat;" the text being — "His 
 mother made him a little coat." Passing from the 
 letter to the spirit of the subject, he speaks of cloth- 
 ing for the mind and the soul; and endeavors to 
 impress mothers that they should be more solicitous 
 about such little coats, than for the fashions of frocks, 
 jackets, or other garments of the body. 
 
 " I meet a man in the streets," he says, " literally 
 clothed in rags ; clothed also with manifold tokens 
 of a depraved life. I ask. Did not his mother, when 
 he was young, make him a little coat ? "When I see 
 a person clothed in humility, entertaining a modest 
 sense of himself and a just estimate of others, un- 
 ostentatiously attaching himself to great principles, 
 meekly waiting the will of God, reverent of truth, 
 and supple to goodness, I am allowed to conceive, 
 that, when he was young, his mother made for him 
 a little coat. . . . 
 
 " These coats last a long time. Children shall 
 wear them when parents are dead ; they shall wear 
 them in distant lands ; that old family style shall 
 show itself in many places and times. "What sort 
 of clothes are you making for your children ? Is 
 their vesture wisdom or folly ? Is it the true beauty 
 of goodness, or a poor imitation from the drapers ? 
 XQ3ir_words, your acts, go to make up this clothing. 
 Something you did yesterday becomes part of a gar- 
 ment your child must wear many years. . . . 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 275 
 
 " Young mother, a naked spirit comes to your \ f ^^ 
 hands as well as a naked body. You have prepared.>^ "^ 
 clothing for the last : shall the first go unendued, 
 picking up what it may wear at haphazard ? Is the 
 body of your child all you have thought about ? It 
 is yours to dress a new, living spirit ; to cut out and 
 make for it celestial attire ; it is yours to give it the 
 robe of immortality. Your older children are even 
 now wearing coats you made for them years ago. 
 Do you like them ? Is it a garment of praise ? 
 Have they a character which you would wish them 
 to wear for ever ? But the child you are dressing 
 for almost the first time, — for whom you are making 
 his first little coat, — what shall he be ? ... . 
 
 " Make the little coat, O mother ! Make it so * 
 that it will be no disgrace to him before God or his 
 fellow-men to be seen in it ; so make it that it will 
 be to him a robe of dignity and esteem in the world, 
 and a robe spotlj^^^ajodjbrig^ kingdom of 
 
 heaven for ever." 
 
 After his ideas as to the birth-relation to the 
 church had been accepted, and in due form concurred 
 in, by all his people, and they had asserted and as- 
 sumed their responsibiHty as a Christian church, in 
 a sermon with reference to their new position, he 
 asks : " What then ? Is this the end ? 'Tis only 
 the beginning. Now the great work of life fairly 
 commences, to be continued through time, and per- 
 petuate itself in the endless years of our futurity." 
 
 He then began a series of discourses on " Chris- 
 tian Education." In one, he maintained that we 
 think in words. In another, his object was to show 
 
X 
 
 276 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 the force of the words that children are educated to 
 use, and that become with them familiar, household 
 words, in forming their character intellectually, mo- 
 rally, and religiously. He showed that we become 
 what we are educated to be, and that we may be- 
 come Christians by being educated to Christianity, 
 according to the wise man, — " Train up a child in 
 the way he should go, and, when he is old, he will 
 not depart from it." He would have children taught 
 forms of words like the following : " God is my 
 Father ; I am his child. Christ is my Shepherd ; I 
 am his lamb. The church is my company; at its 
 altars I commune. I am a Christian, and am to be 
 like Christ." 
 
 In answer to objections made by some of his 
 people to admitting children to the communion, he 
 appealed to that saying of Jesus, " Of such is the 
 kingdom of heaven," and maintained that, if fit for 
 the kingdom of heaven, they were fit for the com- 
 munion of saints on earth. 
 
 TJNITARIANISM. 
 
 While Mr. Judd, as a Christian minister, ranked 
 himself under the name of Unitarian, he was no 
 sectarian. He was willing to exchange with other 
 professedly Christian ministers who would exchange 
 with him. He was ready — nay, his heart yearned 
 — to be in fellowship with all the good, of whatever 
 name ; and he believed the truly good were to be 
 found under every name. How much he longed 
 for Christian intercourse on common ground among 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 277 
 
 ministers of different denominations, — that different 
 sects should unite in love, — has already appeared 
 in the foregoing narrative. He would, as '^ Philo " 
 has it, that — 
 
 " The roses white and red of conflict long, 
 And vile religious enmities, be tied 
 In beautiful bouquets of fellowship.'* 
 
 He believed that different sects would love each 
 other, if they dared to meet in Christian intercourse, 
 and become acquainted. He had great faith in 
 human nature, and gave due credit to the conscien- 
 tious convictions of those who differed from him. 
 For religious controversy he had a great distaste-^ 
 ^^^-.g,™^....-^^..--^^.^^^. mingled. He recognized the 
 
 opposition of other denominations, but opposed their 
 opinions only in self-defence. The simple gospel 
 was his creed ; and, in his preaching, he loved to 
 dwell upon that which affects the heart rather than 
 that which alone reaches the intellect. 
 
 Yet he had definite doctrinal opinions which to 
 him were of inestimable value. The doctrine of 
 total depravity he considered the fatal root of all 
 religious error. Difficulty in receiving this was 
 what first shook his faith in Calvinism, and what, at 
 length, became the turning-point in his renouncing 
 that faith. With that, as a matter of course, fell his 
 belief in the doctrine of the Trinity. He delighted 
 in the idea of the entire Unity of the Great Supreme, 
 the Lord, God over all, and the unity existing in all 
 his works, which binds all to him, and each to all. 
 In discussing this idea, so glorious to his mind, he 
 
 24 
 
278 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 would revel in and exhaust the whole vocabulary of 
 unitary words in the language, and still coin others 
 to suit his purpose. 
 
 In this light, he gloried in the name Unitarian, 
 and maintained for Unitarianism the highest rank 
 and antiquity. 
 
 ^^ As a Unitarian," he says, " I believe in the 
 simple, whole, unqualified truth as it is in Jesus. 
 Unitarianism, as I understand it, is the gospel itself; 
 it is this, I mean, to my own mind ; it is this to me, 
 or it is nothing. If I did not suppose Unitarianism 
 to represent the gospel, as it came virginal, verdant, 
 beautiful, from the hands of its God, I should cease 
 to be a Unitarian. Unitarianism is not merely a 
 denial of certain things, nor an affirmation of certain 
 other things : it is the spirit and substance of the 
 gospel itself. It is that, or, to me, nothing." 
 
 And again : '^ I seem to be taking it for granted, 
 that devotion to what we call Unitarianism is a 
 devotion to the truth as it is in Jesus. I do indeed. 
 It is this, or it is nothing, I repeat. It is this, or 
 palsied be this tongue ere it should utter a syllable 
 in its behalf." 
 
 A few other passages bearing upon this point 
 deserve a place in this connection : — 
 
 '^ Unitarianism destroys nothing : it restores. It 
 breaks off the withes wherein divine truth is bound, 
 and liberates it. Take Christ away from humanity, 
 and you degrade humanity. Unitarianism, by bring- 
 ing Christ back from an unnatural and factitious 
 place in the universe, and restoring him to the 
 world as an elder brother, elevates humanity ; and 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 279 
 
 in Christ every one becomes a brother of man and a 
 child of God 
 
 " But why, you ask, care aught about the name, 
 if you only have the thing ? I think I do not. 
 Give us the substance of the matter, and perish 
 names, I say. What is the substance of the matter ? 
 That the church should fall back on the simple 
 gospel ; that it should leave the deserts and fast- 
 nesses and briery ways of creeds and denomination, 
 and come into the happy valley of love and evan- 
 gelical feeling ; demolish its idols, its popes^ its 
 Calvin,s,it;s metaphysics, and return to the sanctuary, ^ 
 the comer-stone of which is Jesus, laid in Jerusalem ; 
 the pillars of which extend ^ down through all time ; 
 the worship of which is in the spirit, and, being so, 
 is one in heaven and one on the earth.' 
 
 " What is IJnitarianism ? It is a system of abso- 
 lute truth, even as Christianity is. It is not the 
 side of any thing : it is many-sided in itself. It 
 covers the whole of what is, the same as God does. 
 It is not an exigency, or experiment, or device, or 
 temporary want : it is essential, continuous, con-^ 
 temporaneous with rational being, profound as the^ 
 soul, enduring as the eternity of God, in which its 
 own life is, and its aim is perfected. It is not a cold 
 system : it is warm, genial, vivifying^ as the Sun of ^^^ 
 Righteousness, which is its central beam. It is Hot 
 simply a critical system : it is experimental, opera- 
 tive. While it judges, it produces ; and wherein it 
 is most keen and searching, that is but the develop- 
 ment of its own purest vitality. It is not simply 
 an intellectual system : it touches the feelings, it 
 
280 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 thrills all chords of rational sensation ; it weeps 
 with Jesus^ it energizes with Paul; in the darkest 
 day, its face may be seen to shine like an angel's 
 with Stephen. 
 
 ^'It affirms the unity of the revelations of God 
 in Scripture and in nature. It takes along with 
 itself human reason ; it takes along with itself na- 
 ture ; it explains the mission of Christ, — explains 
 it ? is it, — the gathering of all things into one, the 
 making of twain one, the reconciliation, the atone- 
 ment, the propitiation, the communion of saints, the 
 return of the prodigal, faith and repentance, the one 
 body, the one church." 
 
 He maintained that the Unitarian church is not 
 a departure from the word of God, but a return to 
 it ; that it is orthodox, because it possesses sound 
 doctrine, according to reason and scripture ; is ca- 
 tholic, as seeing all men one in Christ ; apostolic, as 
 having the foundation of the apostles ; evangelical, 
 as adhering to the whole scope and spirit of Chris- 
 tianity. 
 
 " The doctrines of Unitarianism," he says, " what 
 are they not ? Whatever Christ taught, whatever 
 prophet has uttered or martyr died for ; whatever 
 truth God from creation has been pouring, from the 
 bright urn of central reality, over the realms of 
 nature, or into the recesses of the soul, — these are 
 its doctrines. 
 
 *^ Unitarianism expresses a great idea, the greatest 
 and profoundest of theological ideas. If there be 
 those who see in it nothing but sectarian partiality 
 and narrowness, I am sorry ; I do not. Considered 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 281 
 
 as a name rejected by the multitude, and welcomed 
 by the few, in that sense, perhaps, it is sectarian. 
 But, considered as the name for God's everlasting 
 truth, it is not sectarian. It expresses the highest 
 truth of God, the universe, man. 
 
 " But what do I mean by Unitarianism ? In 
 what sense do I use the word ? In its plain, natural, 
 and strict sense ; as expressive of the great unity 
 that God is, that all things are in God ; as expres- 
 sive of this fact, that above the heavens and beneath 
 the foundations of the earth, and through all space 
 and time, God is, God sole and indivisible ; that 
 Christ is no part of God or person of the Godhead, 
 but is included in the circumference of the Unity of 
 God. Before there was any Bible or any Adam, 
 or any Christ, God was, one and indivisible ; and out 
 of this oneness or Unitarianism of God came the 
 earth and its beauty, Adam and his fleshy nature, 
 Christ and his spiritual nature, man and his immor- 
 tal nature. 
 
 *' I mean, then, by the term Unitarianism, that 
 which expresses the spirit in which the Bible was 
 conceived, and the only true method of its interpre- 
 tation. I mean by it the unity, the harmony of\ 
 God and man, time and eternity, religion and life, \ / 
 religion and recreation, religion and reason, religion \ / 
 and nature ; the unity, the harmony of man and \ 
 man, nation and nation, things angelic and things j 
 terrestrial; or, in the language of the apostle, all / 
 things in God. 
 
 " I believe that Christ came on this atoning, uni- 
 24* 
 
2S2 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 fying, unitarianizing errand, to reconcile or make us 
 all at one with God. 
 
 " I believe that sin is a departure from God, a 
 breach in the unity that should subsist between the 
 soul and God. 
 
 " I believe, that, in proportion as a man becomes, 
 in the highest sense of the word, unitarianized, 
 divinely unitarianized ; in proportion as he enters 
 into this harmony, and becomes at one with God ; in 
 proportion as he accepts the doctrine and realizes the 
 power of the great Unity, he ceases to sin. 
 
 "I believe, furthermore, that the corruptions, er- 
 rors, wrongs, and woes of the Christian church were 
 owing to the loss of its original Unitarianism. 
 
 " There is the unity of the church. I yearn for 
 it, I pray for it. I long to be united to my Metho- 
 dist brother, and my Episcopal brother, and my Bap- 
 tist brother, and my Calvinist brother, — my Trini- 
 tarian brother, of every name and sort. 
 
 " In the unity of God, the unity that Christ 
 prayed for, in the unity that really subsists between 
 all goodness, I feel that I can be, I feel that I 
 ought to be. Heaven speed the time when I shall 
 be ! . . . 
 
 '^Standing on the eminence I_nQW drO, I seem to 
 see the narrow horizon^oT^ur mortality extending 
 away, and merging in the horizon of immortality. 
 I seem to see, travelling up this steep of the divine 
 Unity, myriads of the human race, on their way to 
 the seats of eternal blessedness, growing out of this 
 unity of heaven and earth ; I seem to see heaven 
 encompassing earth, and seeking to irradiate our 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 283 
 
 pilgrimage, and to breathe into our imperfect life 
 some of its own loveliness and beauty. 
 
 " Clouds lower, and tempest falls, and darkness 
 gathers ; but God is the same, yesterday, to-day, and 
 for ever : his unitary love and goodness continue on, 
 and by and by it will shine out as the sun. . . . 
 
 " Our circle is wide. It includes all good men 
 and women under heaven ; it loves all whom God 
 loves ; it sends all good men to heaven, without 
 regard to their speculative notions. 
 
 "We, as Unitarians, as Liberal Christians, stand 
 in the very centre around which, here on the earth, 
 the great circle of the communion of saints must of 
 necessity sweep ; we are most peculiarly in the 
 heart of the current of the Holy Spirit, along which, 
 if I may so say, God is borne, and Christ, and the 
 holy angels, and all the spirits of the just. . . . 
 
 "Standing as we do, so to say, on the infinite 
 plane of God and the absolute verity of things, we 
 can, in a s^is%-«ee all that God sees, as we approve 
 all that God approves. Our great and good are 
 indeed a throng that no man can number. Creed 
 does not narrow our vision, nor creed limit our 
 embrace. As Unitarian Christians, we are restricted 
 neither to country nor age, to color nor condition. 
 Some of our saints may be found among the Eoman- 
 ists ; there are Calvinists whom we recognize as the 
 children of God ; our fellowship reaches as far as 
 there is a single man on the face of the earth who 
 fears God and does righteousness. Wherever throbs 
 one desire for virtue, that we legitimately feel; 
 wherever arises one prayer for blessing, that legiti- 
 
JB84 KELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 mately pours on us. We do not reject a man from 
 the true church because he believes in total depra- 
 vity ; we include him rather, because he, in his own 
 person, is proof that man is not totally depraved. 
 The martyrs who have died for the truth are our 
 martyrs ; the heroes'who are battling for the right 
 are our heroes. . . . 
 
 '^ Every virtue that ever flourished beneath the 
 skies is ours ; every green and sunny spot, sacred to 
 innocence and repose, is ours ; every great and noble 
 deed that has blessed mankind is ours ; every deep 
 and earnest prayer that human lips ever breathed is 
 ours; every home where fidelity and piety reign 
 is ours ; there is no church, no temple, no fane, — 
 there is no ocean-side, no wooded glade, where the 
 pulse of man has beaten lovingly, or his thought 
 dilated sublimely, or his soul aspired divinely, that 
 is not ours. And all, too, is Christ's, and Christ is 
 God's, and we in Christ are in God," 
 
 IMPROVEMENTS IN PUBLIC VS^ORSHIP. 
 
 Mr. Judd's interest in and approval of an organ- 
 ized association of the churches of the Unitarian 
 denomination in Maine, have been noticed already. 
 
 Another topic which interested him was that of 
 devising measures for rendering public worship more 
 impressive. As a means to this end, he thought a 
 book might be prepared for church-service, to be 
 used at the option of the clergymen in the regular 
 sabbath exercises. Such a book too, he believed, 
 would be very useful to small collections of people 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 285 
 
 wishing a religious service by themselves, not regu- 
 larly organized into a church, and too feeble to 
 support a clergyman; also to sabbath schools and 
 weekly religious meetings. He considered the ma- 
 terials for such a book rich and abundant in the 
 church-literature of the different denominations of 
 past ages. He would willingly glean from the Ro- 
 man Catholic church, or any other that furnished 
 prayers and hymns of an elevated, spiritual, and 
 devotional character. 
 
 In writing to the Rev. Mr. P. on this subject, 
 he says : " I would suggest that there be a service 
 for the ordination of pastors and deacons, and bish- 
 ops, if you will. Our deacons ought to be inducted 
 with some little solemnity. 
 
 "Also a service for the sea. What quantities 
 of sailors we have in this State ! what a seaboard ! 
 From Kittery to Calais are thousands, captains, 
 mates, fore-the-mast-men, vessel and all, that ought 
 to have such a book, with a burial service too, for 
 the sea. 
 
 *^Fast and Thanksgiving are perpetual New Eng- 
 land days, both old and of the future : should they 
 not be briefly remembered ? 
 
 "You would add a page for Christmas. That, at 
 least is our day, shall always be." 
 
 Yet the idea of a liturgical service was in his mind 
 quite subordinate, compared with that of the birth- 
 right church, or even with church-association. His 
 own words are : " The question of a liturgy is to my 
 own mind a subordinate one. Let us become a 
 church ; and, if some liturgical services are desira- 
 
886 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 ble, we can have them. It may be that something 
 of that sort would help the other." 
 
 In regard to church-architecture, Mr. Judd felt a 
 great interest. Taking the ground that it did or 
 should symbolize an idea, he maintained that we had 
 no strictly Christian architecture; an architecture 
 emblematical of the great leading ideas of Christ's 
 teachings. The Gothic, with its pointed arch and all 
 its upward leadings, he contended, carried the mind 
 all in one direction to the great God above, and did 
 not, at the same time, embody the idea of his being 
 brought at one with us through Jesus Christ ; he our 
 Father, and we his children. He objected that the 
 decorations should be Jewish rather than Christian ; 
 showing forth scenes and characters of the patriar- 
 chal time, rather than of the time and life of Christ. 
 The great Christian idea of human brotherhood he 
 could not find symbolized, and he disliked the as- 
 sumption of priestly superiority indicated by the 
 elevation of the minister so far above his people. 
 
 He made church-architecture quite a study, col- 
 lected what works he could find on the subject, and 
 looked forward hopefully to the time when he might 
 have a church built for himself, embodying the true 
 Christian idea, as he understood it. 
 
 SUBJECTS OF DISCOURSE, MANNERS, ETC. 
 
 Mr. Judd's subjects of discourse were extremely 
 varied, embracing the whole range of human inter- 
 ests. Each was treated in his own original manner, 
 and was eminently suggestive to the minds of others. 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 287 
 
 The theme most predominant was Christ, on whom 
 he delighted to dwell in every phase of his character 
 and relation to ns. The following are some of 
 these themes : " The indwelling Christ ; Christ to 
 the believer; The remembrance of Christ; Christ 
 the light of the world ; Christ's sympathy with his 
 people ; Christ's changing us into his image ; Christ 
 passing through the veil; The moral beauty of 
 Christ; Spiritual coming of Christ; Christ the 
 inspiration of Scripture; Christ the hope of the 
 world ; Christ the resurrection and the life ; Christ 
 our righteousness ; Faith in Christ ; Christ the rock ; 
 Christ the vine ; Christ and the scholar ; Christ the 
 way, the truth, and the life ; Cross of Christ ; Christ 
 a mediator ; Coming to Christ ; Christ and nature." 
 Such are a few among the many subjects of which 
 Christ was the basis. 
 
 His sermons upon the great, leading objects he 
 labored for have been often referred to. 
 
 An uncommon proportion of his congregation was 
 removed by death. Those occasions led to a large 
 number of discourses on suffering, death, and im- 
 mortality, which are rich in the sweetest consola- 
 tion. They illuminate that valley which to so 
 many is dark and fearful, open the portals of eternal 
 life, and, with a glowing faith, reveal the blessed- 
 ness of those who find a final home in the bosom of 
 their God. From these might well be gleaned a 
 volume rarely adapted to soothe and cheer the sor- 
 rowful and mourning heart. 
 
 His subjects were often on his mind for months, 
 before he wrote upon them ; and, when they were 
 
V 
 
 ^8 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 at length written out, it was with difficulty that his 
 pen kept pace with the rapidity of his composition. 
 The clothing of his thoughts seemed to flow in upon 
 him unhidden. His subjects so grew upon him, so 
 stretched out into infinity in their various ramifica- 
 tions, that he often seemed at a loss what to select 
 from the mass of material lying before him. There 
 was a logic in his own mind by which he legitimately 
 came to his conclusions ; but it was often by jumps 
 from point to point, natural and easy to him, yet 
 such that others could not always find the interme- 
 diate Urra firma on which to follow him. He had 
 an intuitive perception of the separate links of his 
 chain ; but, from the fact that they were so evident to 
 his own mind, he could not always point them out, 
 one by one, to the view of others. Amid the rapid 
 flow of thought arising from his comprehensive view, 
 he could not always wait to assort his ideas in the 
 most consecutive manner ; and therefore his sermons 
 may sometimes have left the impressionjoFlbeing a 
 series of detached thoughts^ jiot very closely related 
 i ta,£ach other. ,; 
 
 In the illustration of his subjects,_he drew largely 
 from nature and art, from all times and from all 
 countries, evincing great general knowledge and 
 reflection, and the most acute observation; thus 
 making his pulpit, in an educational point of view, 
 a rare school for the mental expansion of the young. 
 Common, daily life he also brought la,rgely under 
 contribution. Little incidents of a moral bearing, in 
 the streets of the city, at the mills, the dam, would 
 often surprise by their reappearance from the desk. 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 289 
 
 and lead to the feeling that there ^^ was a chiel amang 
 them takin' notes." 
 
 A lady of his church, in writing of him, says : 
 *' Very few ministers bring their innermost feelings 
 respecting life and death, and the sorrows of our 
 common lot, so tenderly, and with such simplicity, 
 before their people. I think Mr. Judd had the 
 faculty of entering into everybody's heart, of placing 
 himself in the situation of every mourner, parent, 
 child, brother, sister, or friend ; and he seemed to 
 feel just what they felt." 
 
 Mr. Judd did not often trust himself to preach 
 without notes. His reflective habits and natural 
 dif&dence combined to prevent that ready utterance 
 and self-possession necessary to ensure success in 
 extemporaneous speaking. He therefore very sel- 
 dom made speeches or took part in discussions at 
 public meetings : he indeed often shrank away to 
 some obscure seat, where he would not be likely 
 to be noticed; and sometimes^ when loudly called 
 for, he would not come forward, because he felt he 
 could not. As he had very limited opportunity for 
 exchanges, his labor in writing was quite confining. 
 
 Mr. Judd's manners in the pulpit were peculiarly 
 modest and humble. He might be seen entering 
 the church with noiseless tread, and passing up the 
 aisle in the most quiet manner, as though he wished 
 nobody to see him. The black robe in which he 
 officiated always draped itself upon him i^ simple, 
 easy guise, displaying no self-consciousness or osten- 
 tation. His face was exceedingly youthful for one of 
 his age ; and, in the pulpit, he was often taken for 
 26 
 
290 RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 
 
 a man of mucli younger years. His ample forehead 
 and penetrating blue eye gave him a highly intellec- 
 tual expression ; while his fair skin, softened, sandy 
 hair, and delicate small hand, imparted to him a 
 gentle, scholar-like appearance. He so ordered the 
 several parts of church-service, reading the Scrip- 
 tures, hymns, prayer, and preaching, as to produce 
 a general harmony of the whole. The Scriptures, 
 which he was accustomed to expound as he read 
 along, and the sacred songs, had meaning as they 
 fell from his lips. His prayers were usually rather 
 short and informal, poured forth from the present 
 spontaneity of his own spirit. He felt the needs of 
 the hour and the occasion, and ceased when he had 
 uttered the appropriate petitions. 
 
 In his elocution, there was a blending of the ear- 
 nest and the tender. He uttered his words in a 
 subdued tone, but with great distinctness, solemnity, 
 and pathos. He was perfectly absorbed in his sub- 
 ject, and in the duties of the day. Many of his 
 unique expressions would cause a smile to circulate 
 through the congregation, and produce a general 
 rustle in the house; while the deep seriousness of 
 his own tone and look would show,. that it was more 
 in sorrow than in mirth he spake, or that simple 
 earnestness in his subject had led to the unexpected 
 juxtaposition of the word or thought. He seldom 
 used much gesture, though occasionally he would 
 throw off a very impressive one. 
 
 He often became so pale and trembling from his 
 own emotion, as scarcely to be able to utter the afflic- 
 tive thoughts that pressed upon his heart. Such an 
 
RELATION TO THE MINISTRY. 291 
 
 instance was that, when, on first preaching to his 
 people on the birthright church, and enumerating 
 the various expedients of different denominations to 
 get the outsiders into the church, personating his 
 own feelings particularly, he said in tones of grief, 
 "And TJnitarianism has folded its hands, and wept." 
 In a sort of despairing anguish, came such expres- 
 sions as the one quoted a few pages back, " Never, 
 no, never." And, in urging upon his own people 
 the adoption of his views of the birthright church, 
 he said, " I would willingly lay myself in the grave, 
 if, by so doing, I could accomplish this." 
 
 The freshness of the thoughts presented, the ori- 
 ginality of illustrations, the suggestive character of 
 the discourse, the general information conveyed, the 
 importance of the subjects treated, the clear, rich 
 tones of his voice, and his unstudied manner, all 
 combined to render Mr. Judd a very attractive and 
 popular preacher. His words made an impression 
 that was carried away by the hearer, and which 
 attended him through the week, and prompted to^i 
 right-doing in the daily affairs of the shop, the office, ' 
 the factory, and the farm. 
 
292 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 RELATION TO PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 
 
 GENERAL POSITION. 
 
 In this department of his character, Mr. Judd had 
 no one-sided view to which he was wedded ; no one 
 form of human interest on which he concentrated 
 all his powers, and for which alone he labored. His 
 desires for human welfare were all-embracing, com- 
 prehending every form of moral and intellectual 
 improvement. No one more than he was sensible 
 of the many existing evils, and the need of reforma- 
 tions. But, in his labors, he strove rather to lay the 
 axe at the root of the tree than to spend his strength 
 upon the branches. He regarded the spirit of Christ 
 and his precepts as infallible specifics for the cure of 
 every type of moral evil, and sought rather to imbue 
 the heart with these than to enlist the feelings in 
 opposition to any one description of wrong ; be- 
 lieving that, if the 'fountain was made pure, the 
 streams could not fail to be pure also. "I hardly 
 expect," he says, ^^ to see freedom granted to the 
 slave, or justice to the Indian, until Christian doc- 
 trine and principle become a living conscience with 
 the mass of the people." 
 
 But, while ,this was the foundation of his labors. 
 
RELATION TO PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 293 
 
 and the most prominent mode of his exertions, he 
 did not fail to proclaim against particular forms of 
 evil, and to use his most earnest efforts for their 
 suppression. Yet, in this, he pursued mainly an 
 individual course. He could not, in general, unite 
 with organized bodies, because he disapproved their 
 measures. He did not believe in denunciation as 
 a means of bringing people to a sense of duty; 
 he did not believe in reforming people by coercion. 
 "The moral reformer^" he _ says, ".must combine 
 beauty in his manner, motives, and deeds, or he 
 cannot persuade men. The moment one, in his 
 spirit or expression, becomes ugly, though he be 
 engaged in the best work in the world, he will enlist 
 no sympathy, kindle no love, and, of course, accom- 
 plish nothing." 
 
 He relied on enlightening, convincing, and per- 
 suading. The spirit of love, persistently exercised 
 in winning the offender from wrong, he believed to 
 be omnipotent. He held to overcoming evil with 
 good. "Instruction," he says, "reaches the intel- 
 lect ; love engages the affections ; but denunciation, 
 overpowering both these, convulses the passions, 
 either quickening them into resistance or paralyzing 
 them with fear." 
 
 He had nothing of the spirit of party ; and, when 
 he had opponents, he did not care to spend breath 
 in disputing with them. He, indeed, would in 
 silence leave his own cause to defend itself by its 
 inherent merits, rather than contend. " Love and 
 honor," he says, "and all gentleness and amenity 
 springing therefrom, must rule in parties, govern 
 
 25* 
 
294 RELATION TO 
 
 opposites, and qualify antagonisms, such as are inevi- 
 table to a free land. Our politicians and reformers, 
 our conservatists and radicals, our woman's-rights 
 men and man's-rights women, our orthodox and our 
 heterodox, rum men and anti-rum men, slaveholders 
 and abolitionists, have got to come to this, — the 
 recognition of the reasonable soul ; the observance 
 of the sovereignty of ideas ; the creed and covenant 
 of our higher nature ,* or, in plainer words, to the 
 simple letter of Scripture, which says, ^ Provoke not, 
 love one another, overcome evil with good ; ' or, 
 however we may have truth and right on our side, 
 we shall find we are perpetually degenerating to 
 the plane of bestiality and barbarism, and that the 
 disintegration of those moral bonds that should for 
 ever unite us is rapidly hastening." The only 
 reformatory societies he ever joined were " The 
 Sons of Temperance," whose basis of operation, by 
 moral suasion, corresponded with his own views ; and 
 ^*The League of Human Brotherhood." 
 
 It was a grievous thing to him to see men of 
 noble mind and heart falling out with each other, 
 and assuming the attitude of antagonists. Touching 
 this point, he has these words : " There is something 
 sublime in the rencontre between "Webster and 
 Hayne ; but, let me aver, there is something more 
 sublime, more afiecting, bordering more nearly on 
 the deepest pathos we know of, — so touching as, I 
 imagine, to draw tears from those serene orbs of 
 Hope and Love that from the heavens look down on 
 the centuries and us, — in the parting of two such 
 men as Buckingham and Webster ; their total sepa- 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 295 
 
 ration, never more by ingle-side or country's altar to 
 meet, in heart or hand never more to meet on all 
 this round globe." 
 
 He was not at all radical in his tendencies. In 
 1841, he writes, " I am, in all valuable and essential 
 respects, an old-fashioned Unitarian. I would be 
 an evangelical Christian. I am in theology some- 
 what of a conservative." At a later period, he says 
 to his people, ^^ I am sometimes called an innovator. 
 Your minister is charged with seeking after what is 
 unique and novel ; he has even been classed with 
 'those who would break up existing things, and 
 demolish the groundwork of existing society, I do 
 not believe there are half a dozen persons in the 
 parish, or in the town, who have more reverence 
 than I have — a cordial, hearty reverence — for old 
 people, old forms, old houses, old families, old cus- 
 toms, old churches. There is not one who wouldi 
 give more to go back half a century, and spend an ' 
 evening, a day, a week, with our ancestors." 
 
 Again : " We hear talk of being behind the age, 
 or before the age. For one, I wish to be precisely 
 at that point where God and my own conscience will 
 approve of what I am, whether it is behind or before 
 the age. I think it possible to be very near the 
 true and the right, on whichever side of the popular 
 line we may chance to fall ; and that I take to be 
 the identical position of the departed ones, com- 
 paring earthly things with heavenly." He further 
 remarks on this point : " Before the majesty of the 
 Christian law, if asked where I am, I feel as a noted 
 character did when they called him out after Jenny 
 
296 RELATION TO 
 
 Lind's singing, and can only say, 'I am nowhere.' 
 I mean, there is something better than a side. There 
 must be sides, indeed ; but, as to the matter of abso- 
 lute truth, it is rather a circle than a side, — like the 
 sphere of Hermes, whose centre was everyivhere, 
 and whose circumference was nowhere. In ques- 
 tions of policy, there may be sides ; but one need 
 not be slab-sided ; neither need there be so many 
 sharp edges and barbed points." 
 
 He held to the utmost freedom of thought, and 
 the fullest expression of it. While he did not at all 
 sympathize in the ultra-views of some clergymen of 
 the Unitarian body, he did not approve of excluding 
 them from the fellowship of the denomination, be- 
 cause, in the exercise of their own conscientious 
 convictions, they could not look at every thing just 
 as he did. So, in regard to those who differed from 
 him in the means of reform so far that he could not 
 act with them, he was most tolerant and charitable. 
 
 The doctrine which in his mind formed the found- 
 ation of every species of duty to our fellow-men, 
 was that of universal human brotherhood; embrac- 
 ing all of every color and nation, rich or poor, bond 
 or free, Jew or Mahomedan, Heathen or Christian. 
 He strove to lead men to love their neighbor as 
 themselves ; to do to others as they would that others 
 should do unto them ; to consider themselves child- 
 ren of one common Father, brethren of Christ, and, 
 in love to each other, to be harmonious followers of 
 the Prince of Peace. 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 297 
 
 WAR. 
 
 The most wide-spreading violation of this princi- 
 ple, and that which he regarded as most hindering 
 the universal spread of the gospel of Christ, was 
 war. This giant evil, whose name to him was Le- 
 gion, penetrated his soul more than any other ; and 
 upon this he inclined to dwell more than upon other 
 forms of human wrong. '^ Taking country with 
 country, age with age," he says, " war is an infinitely 
 greater evil than intemperance. While the latter 
 has slain its tens of thousands, the former has slain 
 its tens of millions." His early preaching upon this 
 subject, and its consequences upon his chaplaincy to 
 the Legislature of Maine, have already been nar- 
 rated. 
 
 In a lyceum lecture upon '* Non-resistance," which 
 he delivered in Augusta, Dec. 1852, are the following 
 passages : " It is said that force and war have aided 
 civilization. I must deny this in toto. Almost the 
 whole of ancient civilization, buried by the tide of 
 violence, has been lost to the world. Arts have dis- 
 appeared, pferhaps never to be recovered. The cities 
 of the East, once beautiful and prosperous as our 
 own, are in desolation. The traveller everywhere 
 wanders amid the sepulchres of departed virtues, or 
 traces the footprints of lost attainments. Wherever 
 we turn in the history of nations, says a recent 
 writer, we are met by indisputable evidence of the 
 former existence of ancient chronicles throughout 
 the world, accumulated during countless centuries, 
 now utterly annihilated. The ancient archives in 
 
298 RELATION TO 
 
 Greece, Asia Minor, and Syria, the Ptolemaic Li- 
 brary, the Alexandrian Library, which it had taken 
 six hundred years to gather, the literary collections 
 of Indian and Central Asia, the Tyrian annals, the 
 Punic chronicles, the writings of the Arian fathers, 
 the Hebrew Hagiography, the Roman public registers, 
 are all gone. Egypt, possibly the nurse and founder 
 of human civilization ; the productions of her priests 
 and philosophers, the wisdom whence Moses and 
 Plato drew ; the twenty thousand volumes in common 
 use among her people, — are all dust and ashes, or 
 silent, widowed monuments of a glory that was. The 
 memorials of the ancient Britons met the same fate. 
 After the Saxon invasion of England from east to 
 west, Gildas informs us, nothing was to be seen but 
 churches and other edifices, public and private, noble 
 structures, burnt and demolished. The Danes com- 
 mitted to the flames the chief cities of England, 
 where the chief wealth and intelligence of the coun- 
 try, in the arts, in literature, and manufactures, 
 were collected. The Romans have been called the 
 civilizers of mankind. Their first great exploit, 
 says Mr. Taylor, in his ' History of the Fine Arts in 
 England,' was the demolishing of the arts aiid civi- 
 lizations of the Etrurians, who, it is well known, 
 were so superior to the Romans in learning, arts, 
 and manners, that the latter were mere savages as 
 compared with that ingenious and interesting peo- 
 ple. Mexico has been rendered tenfold more dis- 
 orderly by our recent attack on her. 
 
 " I do not deny that civilization has advanced, yet 
 not by means of, but in spite of, war. . . . 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 299 
 
 " Christendom expends more in one year on the 
 means and instruments of human slaughter, than has 
 been given to the promulgation of the gospel since 
 Jesus Christ died upon the cross. The American 
 Bible Society congratulates itself on receiving in a 
 certain year $166,000. The same year, the Ameri- 
 can government expended on its army and navy 
 $20,000,000 
 
 " If that Japan expedition would fling all its can- 
 non and its powder into the middle of the Pacific 
 Ocean, and say to those people, ' We come to you as 
 brothers, from a great, growing, fraternal land y help 
 us and we will help you ; ' then they would give us 
 the shelter of their harbors, and the facilities of their 
 coal-mines ; nay, help us build warehouses in their 
 streets, and erect telegraph-posts on their hills. 
 Then those children of the evening and these of the 
 morning would rejoice under a common sun, whose 
 beams are an eternal noon to all, — the fatherhood of 
 God and brotherhood of Christ. . . . 
 
 " There arises the question of intervention. We 
 want to accomplish certain results, and we mistake 
 the means ; we are in haste, and are not willing to 
 wait the slower movements of God and time. Vio- 
 lence is a quicker remedy than persuasion. The sort 
 of materialistic philosophy in which we are more or 
 less educated, inclines us to draw the sword of steel 
 rather than that of the Spirit. Our object is com- 
 mendable : we would suppress some evil, or advance 
 some good ; and, instead of asking Jesus Christ how 
 he would have us do, we take counsel of our coars- 
 
SOO RELATION TO 
 
 est instincts, of the traditions of the elders, and dash 
 like Caribs at the end proposed. 
 
 " The power of ideas, the force of truth, the om- 
 nipotence of example, the consuming energy of love, 
 — these are not popular principles. Even the true 
 force of Christ has been for ages lost to the world, 
 in that his great work in this world has been sup- 
 posed to be the baring of his naked breast to the 
 keen, vindictive sword of Heaven's violated law. 
 
 " Well, we want to help Hungary. And what is 
 the first thought that offers itself to the popular in- 
 stinct ? Why, pour in between the invader and the 
 patriots a score of our gallant troops ; shoot down 
 the Austrian, beat back the B-ussian. The spirit^ 
 evoked is that of the ramrod. 
 
 " The end proposed is commendable ; but are we 
 not wholly mistaken in the means? Do we not 
 wholly overlook the power there is in moral force ? 
 Are we not more anxious to do something striking, 
 than what is sure ? Do we not in this betray the 
 materialism, the grossness, the savageness of our 
 philosophy ? Where is our faith in the spiritual, 
 even if it be invisible ; in Christ, even if we see him 
 not? 
 
 " Intervention ! The most solid, enduring, effec- 
 tive intervention America can give, is summarily 
 that of her example. A great and good republic, 
 prosperous, stable, happy, and pure, on these wes- 
 tern shores, is the most formidable and terrible thing 
 to tyrants that can be conceived. The despotisms of 
 the old world have as heavy cannon-balls, as sharp 
 swords, as experienced gunners, as we have, and 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 301 
 
 in the end stand as good a chance to come out best in 
 the conflict as we do. They have not free schools ; 
 they have not universal suffrage ; they have not a 
 free press ; they have not an equalization of ranks ; 
 they have not a voluntary religion. Here they can- 
 not meet us. Here is our strength. These are our 
 weapons of warfare. If we undertake to fight the 
 devil with his own weapons, we shall find he can use 
 them better than we. 
 
 "Intervention! Every day that America lives, 
 tells on the destinies of Europe. Every day the 
 sun passes over us in its progress round the globe, 
 it scatters some bright hint from us to other lands. 
 Every American ship that ascends the Thames, or 
 penetrates the Baltic, practically interferes ; every 
 flourishing town, every new school-house, every 
 railroad we build, interferes; our annual statistics 
 interfere ; all wholesome laws we pass interfere ; 
 humanity, thriving and advancing, interferes. Our 
 not having a standing army is, if I may so say, a most 
 violent interference. This little negative circum- 
 stance strikes dread and alarm to the bottom of the 
 heart of the governments of the old world. Cities 
 here without walls, highways without guards, travel 
 without passports, a press without censorship, — 
 these are the things that agitate Europe. . . . 
 
 "God once interfered on behalf of oppressed, 
 degraded humanity, on behalf of sin and sinners, in 
 favor of liberty, and against tyrants. How did he 
 do it ? He sent his beloved Son into the world to 
 love us, to labor and pray for us, to teach us, and, if 
 need were, to die for us. The mission of Christ to 
 
 26 
 
302 RELATION TO 
 
 the world is precisely the mission of every Christian 
 man j the mission of Christ to the world is precisely 
 the mission of every Christian nation. If you can 
 understand what Christ's mission was, so can you 
 understand what the proper mission of America is 
 among the nations of the earth." 
 
 On the point of Non-resistance, Mr. Judd says : 
 '^He whose birth determined the dispensation of 
 history in which our lines have fallen, who founded 
 the cultus to which we are attached, in whose name 
 we are baptized, left precepts like the following : 
 ' Resist not evil ; render not strife for strife, but, if 
 one cheek be struck, rather turn the other to the 
 smiter; overcome evil with good; pray for your 
 enemies^ so shall ye be children of your Father 
 which is in heaven.' 
 
 ^* From this language I educe a certain law of life ; 
 a law regulating the relations of the injured and the 
 injurious, of truth and error, virtue and vice ; the 
 course of those who would do good, and the condi- 
 tions of the loving and acting soul ; a law applicable 
 indiscriminately to individuals and communities, to 
 families, schools, governments. 
 
 *' I say the law is indiscriminately applicable to all 
 communities of human beings. I see no cause or 
 color of distinction. . In the nature of the case, it 
 refers to human beings in their social relation ; and 
 who shall dare limit the extent of these relations ? 
 Who shall interpret this language of Christ as be- 
 longing to church-matters, and not to state-matters ; 
 or as defining the duties of a dozen men, and not of 
 a dozen million ? 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 303 
 
 " It had been said. An eye for an eye, a tooth for 
 a tooth. Christ replies. Nay, that was neither wisely, 
 nor humanly, nor divinely said. There is a better 
 way. Do not injure those that injure you. Benefit 
 them, as the universal Father treats good and evil 
 with rain and sunshine alike. 
 
 ^' I am supremely a Christian, being neither pagan 'l^ 
 nor Jew, unbeliever hot trajiscendeiiJtalist. _I donot 
 presume to vindicate Christ's doctrine; I dare not 
 qualify it ; I trust I have too much Christian honor 
 to blink it. I accept it. As a Christian disciple, I 
 would study it ; as a Christian teacher, I would en- 
 force it. 
 
 ^Yet, while I receive it directly from Christ, I 
 have no doubt that he, guided by the holy spirit that 
 was in him, in proposing his system, embodied the 
 accumulative wisdom of ages, condensed the results 
 of the highest rationality, and reflected, in the clear 
 mirror of his own heavenly thought, the fundamen- 
 tal principles of universal human nature." 
 
 Applicable also to this subject are the remarks 
 subjoined from an oration before the fire-clubs of 
 Augusta and the neighboring towns, delivered July 
 4, 1850, in the Court-house Square, Augusta, upon 
 the subject of " Heroism : " — 
 
 " There is that heroism which appeals strongly to 
 our sensibilities, which captivates the imagination, 
 and takes with the popular heart. But what is hero- 
 ism ? What is it in its noblest, most divine, most 
 pure exercise ? The kings of the earth would make 
 their subjects believe it is physical, military daring. 
 So they have employed bards to sing and historians 
 
304 RELATION TO 
 
 to record such exploits, and perpetuated the memory 
 thereof in marble and in oil. So, if a man killed one 
 man, it might indeed be murder ; but, when he had 
 killed a milKon, he was a hero. . . . 
 
 ^^ Peace, we are told, is unheroic ; it is stagnant, 
 tame, corrupting. ^ A subtle poison,' in the language 
 of Mr. Alison, ^ debases the public mind at such a 
 time. Peace exhibits, indeed, an enchanting pros- 
 pect ; but beneath that smiling surface are to be found 
 the rankest and most dangerous passions of the hu- 
 man heart.' The convulsions of war shake up and 
 renovate this state of things ; war is a sort of sub- 
 soil ploughing; it is the refiner's fire and fuller's 
 soap ; it is the thunderstorm that settles the dust, 
 and clears the sultriness of a hot day. 
 
 I am obliged to say there is more heroism, more 
 gallant daring, more generosity and manliness, in one 
 year of peace, than in whole ages of war. I mean 
 that there is more strict, undoubted, legitimate hero- 
 ism in our steamship and railroad enterprises, in our 
 cotton-mills and saw-mills, in our scythe-factories 
 and starch-factories, in our scouring the ocean for 
 whales, and excavating the earth for its ores, and 
 similar things, than in all the battles of a century. 
 There was more heroism in John Jacob Aster's at- 
 tempt to found a colony in Oregon in 1812, than in 
 the war that broke it up ; more in De Witt Clinton, 
 who about the same time started the project of the 
 Erie Canal, than in the same war that broke that up ; 
 more in Whitney, who would give us a railroad 
 to the Pacific, more grappling with difiiculties, 
 more fortitude in peril, more coolness in the midst of 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 305 
 
 assault, tlian in Leonidas or Odin. I mean at least 
 to say, that the greatest qualities of the human mind, 
 which, it may be, war sometimes develops, exist in 
 full force in peace. . . . 
 
 " There is need of heroes at the present moment. 
 America has need of them, and the kingdom of God 
 has need of them ; heroes, not of brute force, but of 
 ideas ; not of waste and ruin, but of reconstruction ; 
 not of carnage and rapine, but of virtuous action. 
 The old race of heroes is becoming extinct, and a 
 new one is rising ; old notions of strife and aggran- 
 disement are supplanted by new ones of peace and 
 prosperity ; outward excitement and passion yield 
 to inward enterprise and energy. "We want not 
 heroes in epaulets, but in pepper-and-salt ; not those 
 of the sword, but of the plough, the loom, and the 
 anvil. We want heroes of the river and the forest, 
 of the field and the ocean, of the pulpit and the 
 forum, of the ballot-box and the senate-chamber. . . . 
 
 " Hang up the old musket and the kettle-drum. 
 The lightnings of heaven are arming for us; and 
 recruits from the impalpable air, on the pathway of 
 the telegraph, are ready to run round the world 
 in behalf of the great cause of liberty and virtue. 
 Steam, with all its ponderous agencies, comes up 
 from the fountains of water, and asks to be enlisted 
 for God and the right. The press, like the rising 
 sun, waits to irradiate the whole earth with the 
 brightness of our thought, the gladness of our love, 
 the wonders of our genius. 
 
 " Hang up the musket and the kettle-drum. Take 
 the spade and the drill, and the mountains flee away 
 
 26* 
 
306 RELATION TO 
 
 at your approach, the valleys are filled up, and a way, 
 a highway, is made for our God, — a railway is made 
 for our wives and children, for our mothers and 
 fathers, our brothers and sisters, the world over. 
 
 " In ancient times, the French had a sacred banner, 
 called the Oriflamme, or Golden Flame, which was 
 used only on august occasions, and when the Chris- 
 tians went out to war with the Infidels. It was a 
 great banne]^, wrought of silk and garnished with 
 gold, and bearing in its centre a white cross ; and, 
 when it was unfurled to the breeze, it glistened 
 like the auroral lights. 
 
 " The sacred Oriflamme of America, O ye young 
 men, unfurl ! — the banner of freedom, the banner 
 of knowledge, the banner of progress, the banner 
 of universal brotherhood ! a golden flaming banner, 
 a white-cross banner, a banner of beauty and delight ! 
 Unfurl it to the admiration of all people, gather your 
 forces around it, carry it at the head of your ranks ; 
 go forth under it to the conquest of sin and error, 
 vice and iniquity, oppression and injustice; let it 
 stream above your civil processions ; let its golden 
 light gleam upon your homes and your fields ; plant 
 it upon the top of American destiny and the world's 
 hope ; let it irradiate the future, let it catch the 
 eye of posterity ; let it greet the heavens, let it bless 
 the earth. 
 
 ^' Be heroes, and, if need be, martyrs under it, — 
 the Oriflamme, the Golden Banner, the White-cross 
 Banner ; nail it to the mast of highest enterprise and 
 holiest endeavor ; and, if you must perish, perish with 
 that waving triumphantly over you." 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 307 
 
 SLAVERY. 
 
 In consistency with ids general principles, Mr. 
 Judd had a deep sense of the wrongs of slavery, and 
 of the foul blot it forms on our national escutcheon. 
 He felt it to b^ totally in opposition to the great law 
 of human brotherhood, which was his central idea. 
 He often deplored it in his sermons and in his 
 prayers. Yet it was not with him an all-absorbing 
 form of evil, throwing every other into the back- 
 ground. It was covered by the general ground on 
 which he took his position. As a specific evil, he 
 speaks of it as " that gigantic subject of gigantic dif- 
 ficulties." He did not undertake to solve readily the 
 problem of its immediate abandonment. 
 
 He was utterly opposed to severe treatment of 
 the slaveholder, or to harsh denunciations. "I do 
 not believe," he says, " slavery is going to be abo- 
 lished by abusing the South, nor by cowing the 
 North." In reference to the harsh measures of 
 abolitionists, he says, "As regards slaveholders, we 
 might as well hang them all, and done with it. We 
 make them guilty of all possible crimes. Or, if we 
 do not like that, we may adopt the other alternative, 
 and love them into repentance and reformation." 
 He did not think their means adapted to their end ; 
 that slaveholders could be denounced into emanci- 
 pation. He could not band himself with them. 
 
 In an address upon " The Idea of our Country," 
 delivered at Portland, July 4, 1852, these remarks 
 occur : " The positive and leading idea of our coun- 
 try, as distinguished from most others, is supposed 
 
308 RELATION TO 
 
 to be liberty, the basis of which is reason and intel- 
 ligence, virtue, and religion, — liberty for all in all 
 things ; freedom of action, thought, conscience ; free- 
 dom of the press and the pulpit; freedom in the 
 choice of our rulers. I love this idea, and for this 
 idea I love my country. It is a nobje idea, gener- 
 ous, trustful, implying unbounded confidence in 
 humanity, and replete with hope for the race. 
 
 *^ A fact, a certain fact, that ofisets this idea, that 
 militates against it, that confronts it with a terrific 
 scowl, — shall I name it ? shall I suffer its shadow to 
 rise in the beauty of this our pleasant prospect ? shall 
 I suflfer its harsh clangor or its melancholy wail to 
 mingle with the bird-like tone and the sweet sensa- 
 tions of this our Independence-hour ? The last census 
 informs us, that there are three million one hundred 
 and ninety-eight thousand three hundred and twen- 
 ty-four slaves in the United States ; not rhetorical 
 slaves, I take it, not slaves in fancy or by construc- 
 tion, but real veritable slaves, merchandise, wares, 
 chattels. 
 
 '^ Well, here we are, on this Fourth of July, with 
 our parade and paradox of freedom and equality. So 
 we will be, so we must be, if for no other motive, 
 that slavery may come to an end. The more we 
 love liberty, the more we shall hate slavery. We 
 dote on liberty, and hail it, and celebrate it, be- 
 cause slavery is so dreadful a thing. The clearer 
 and stronger are our conceptions of liberty, the more 
 wisely and the more earnestly shall we labor against 
 slavery. I am not sorry slavery seems hideous to us 
 to-day ; I am not sorry that you can scarcely bear to 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 309 
 
 hear the subject mentioned, nor that it grates on the 
 harmonies and pleasures that belong to the occasion 
 and the multitude. It is so evil a thing, so discor- 
 dant with every true American sentiment, that the 
 pain the mention of it gives us shows how we abhor 
 it, and that even our silence rebukes it. 
 
 " Slavery, I shall insist, is not an idea of our 
 country. No. It may be legally, it is not logically, 
 here ; it is no correlative or deduction, no branch 
 or offspring, of republicanism. The Declaration of 
 Independence, the Federal Constitution, did not in- 
 troduce it : they found it here. How much they 
 are implicated I shall not undertake to say. The 
 year 1620 united two remarkable events, — the arri- 
 val of a Dutch ship; laden with marketable negroes, 
 in James E-iver ; and the arrival of the Mayflower, 
 laden with the Pilgrim fathers, in the harbor of 
 Plymouth. The Virginians welcomed slavery. The 
 General Court of Massachusetts, 1646, returned to 
 Africa a cargo of slaves brought into Boston, de- 
 claring themselves ^ bound by the first opportunity 
 to bear witness against the heinous and crying sin 
 of man-stealing.' They were so scrupulous as to 
 send and fetch back a slave who had been smuggled 
 down into Maine. This was the sort of Fugitive 
 Slave Law of our forefathers. 
 
 " No. The idea of our country is liberty. To 
 this idea we consecrate this day ; in it we will live 
 and work ; through it we hope ultimately to displace 
 the terrible fact to which I have referred. For one, 
 notwithstanding this opposing circumstance, I wor- 
 ship liberty as purely as any one ; I will devote 
 
810 RELATION TO 
 
 myself as earnestly to it as any one ; neither the 
 stain of slavery is in my skirts, nor are its clogs about 
 my feet." 
 
 " The foundation of all right politics/' he remarks, 
 ^^ is the will of God ; that will as revealed in Scrip- 
 ture, in nature, or in reason and conscience. A 
 regard to God's will — latent perhaps, yet actual — 
 underlies all worthy legislative action. You may 
 say you are guided by the will of the people ; so 
 perhaps you are. But what is the idea of the will 
 of the people ? That idea is expressed in the old 
 maxim. Vox jpojpuli vox Dei ; that is, God is sup- 
 posed, by his providence or his grace, by his spirit 
 or his truth, to act in the will of the people. He 
 who attempts to govern men, if he would govern 
 them rightly, must govern them as God would 
 govern them. That men have inalienable rights 
 is an annunciation of a certain fact ; which fact 
 originates with God. It is a truth based upon the 
 harmony of certain ideas ; which harmony is a divine 
 creation. It is a formula in which is set God's will 
 to man." 
 
 THE INDIANS. 
 
 The wrongs done to the aborigines of our country 
 also was a subject over which Mr. Judd's heart 
 bled, and to which he often feelingly alluded. In 
 the address just quoted from is found the following 
 passage : " Another idea of our country is equity, 
 justice to all. The most glaring defection here 
 appeara in our treat ment of the Indians. I think 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. -311 
 
 we have dealt worse by the Indians than by the 
 Africans. "We exterminate the former ; we domes- 
 ticate the latter. We find the black man a peck of 
 corn a week ; we curse the red man with whiskey. 
 I am sometimes astonished, that, in the varied phi- 
 lanthropies of the age, no advocate of the aboriginal 
 population arises ; that, where there is so much 
 fervid denunciation of the wrongs of slaveholding, 
 there are none to execrate th,at greater villany, 
 Indian-driving. 
 
 '" A few years since, it used to be our impression 
 that the Indians, having passed the Mississippi, and 
 fleeing before our rapacity beyond the Rocky Moun- 
 tains, would at least find repose beside the blue 
 waters of the Pacific. But this boon is denied 
 them. 
 
 " These native Americans have not had justice : 
 justice has not been rendered to their characters or 
 virtues, to their capabilities or promise, far less to 
 their rights and immunities. 'Tis in destiny that 
 they must perish, some say. Destiny is a very con- 
 venient thing ; it works just about as our passions 
 dictate ; it is a very agreeable thing, since it favors 
 our particular plans and devices. I wonder what 
 the Indian thinks of it, or of the white man's God, 
 or the white man's religion. . . . Who knows what, 
 if we would rightly interpret it, and conscientiously 
 adjust ourselves to it, might be written in the destiny 
 of the Indian ? 
 
 *'Away with this doctrine of manifest destiny, 
 which, on our lips and in this connection, means 
 nothing more than consummate selfishness ! " 
 
312 RELATION TO 
 
 INTEMPERANCE. 
 
 The prevailing intemperance of our country came 
 in for a large share of Mr. Judd's attention and 
 labor. But this again he considered a form of evil 
 which needed for its eradication, above all, a pure 
 Christianity. 
 
 " Intemperance," he says, " after all, is only a 
 branch of a larger tree of evil ; a heavily-laden 
 branch, I own. There are also avarice, and oppres- 
 sion of all sorts, much hurtful ambition, much 
 general injustice to humanity ; all cousins-german 
 of the same stock. That tree is a corrupted heart, 
 if you will, or a corrupt state of society, if you had 
 rather. I wish to see the tree upturned from its 
 roots." 
 
 In this, as in other reforms, he believed the 
 appropriate and most eflfectual instrumentality is 
 love, and not force. He did not approve of legal 
 action in the case ; thought it involved in labyrin- 
 thine difficulties, and not a means adapted to the 
 end. He '^ could not consent that the constable 
 should do the appropriate work of a minister of the 
 gospel." Of the Maine law touching this subject he 
 said, "I cannot avoid feeling it has a tendency to 
 nourish the evil it deplores. It does not address 
 the affections of those whose business it touches ; it 
 ignores the fact that man has a reasonable soul ; 
 it wins no love ; it converts no man's will." He 
 saw great objections to it in " its incentives to public 
 corruption in the form of perjury, concealment, 
 tergiversation, pretence, bribery, barratry; in the 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 313 
 
 operations of a dread resilience ; in the leadings on 
 to that something worse, an exacerbated collision of 
 public sentiment, where force shall be repelled by- 
 force." But, while he had no confidence in the 
 adequacy or adaptedness of this law for the end 
 designed, and felt it to be entirely averse to the true 
 principle of moral reform, he contented himself with 
 defining his position, and passively awaited the result 
 of a fair trial of its efficacy by those who had faith in 
 its remedial power. 
 
 In Washingtonianism he recognized the germ, 
 which, if fully developed, would have banished 
 intemperance ; and its mode of operation he em- 
 braced heart and soul. He lamented that with most 
 it proved to be an impulse rather than a principle, 
 and that it was so soon abandoned and overruled by 
 the devotees of force. "Washingtonianism," he 
 says, " ceasing to rely on God, leaned upon an arm 
 of flesh, and has fallen to the ground. Formerly, 
 they loved one another ; they loved the beastly 
 drunkard ; they spoke kindly to the guilty rum- 
 seller. Brotherly feehngs were in their hearts ; a 
 smile was on all faces, and a softness in all manners. 
 Good times were those, — a season of genial excite- 
 ment, delightful recreation, exuberant gratitude. 
 Nobody wanted to drink then, so much was enjoyed 
 in other ways. Poor, broken-hearted mothers began 
 to sweep up the floor, wash the dirt from the faces 
 of their children, make the old house seem tidy and 
 neat, and look cheerfully out from their clouted 
 windows, because the father had signed the pledge. 
 The frown fell from the brow of Intolerance ; the 
 
 27 
 
314 RELATION TO 
 
 purse of Avarice was open ; Degradation creeped up 
 from the kennel ; the hand of Fellowship was reached 
 forth from the churches ; Profanity spoke with mi- 
 raculous reverence of God ; everybody congratulated 
 everybody ; and everybody expected glad words from 
 everybody. The single touch of Love thrilled and 
 electrified the whole town. When we wrote letters, 
 we made mention of it ; it was remembered in ser- 
 xnons and prayers. Those days are gone. And oh ! 
 it is enough to make a strong man weep — darkness 
 has come over the town ; we are repulsed by a cold 
 expediency; there is plotting and counter-plotting, 
 crimination and recrimination ; the poor, broken- 
 hearted mother shivers over her scant fire ; the 
 Levite goes by on the other sido; and the good 
 Samaritan has been himself waylaid ; nobody con- 
 gratulates anybody ; everybody believes everybody 
 tells lies ; we have grown hypocritical and double- 
 faced ; a brooding suspicion closes all hearts ; the 
 work of temperance is carried on by whispers and 
 secret manoeuvring ; Christ has been cast out, and 
 sent headlong down the hill ; the common enemy 
 cries, ' Aha ! aha 1 ' over our ruin. God send back 
 the good old times ! " 
 
 Again he says : " In the promotion of temperance, 
 eminently and peculiarly a moral reform, moral and 
 Christian means have had the go-by. Nothing is 
 now heard of but force and violence. All the 
 phrases and tactics and spirit . of war are brought 
 into the work. Moral suasion, they tell us, was 
 good for nothing. I say moral suasion, in any 
 proper sense of the word, has not been tried. I 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 315 
 
 mean systematic, organized, continuous, untiring 
 application of light and love. As a people, we do 
 not know how to use moral suasion. The education 
 of the people for ages has been that of legal suasion. 
 The popular theology, which covers the whole life, 
 touches every sphere of action, penetrates to the 
 deepest springs of feeling, at the breasts of which 
 the infancy of each generation is nursed, — the 
 popular theology, I say, of this land, of all lands, 
 is, to a great extent, that of legal suasion." 
 
 He traced the course of intemperance in New 
 England, in a large degree, to the fact that our 
 worthy Puritan fathers made no provision for the re- 
 creative wants of the people. " The Puritans," he 
 says, "shocked by the profane recreation in Eng- 
 land, instituted nothing in its place. They practised 
 no sports themselves ; they offered none to their chil- 
 dren. To establish a system of recreation that would 
 be at once satisfying and pure, enlivening and inno- 
 cent, seems never to have entered their minds. They 
 studiously refrained in their own persons from all 
 kinds of agreeable diversion. Yet perhaps there 
 never was a people in the world who stood in greater 
 need of recreation than the Puritan colonists ; none 
 upon whom the cares of life pressed so heavily. But 
 recreation in some sort, man will have ; the laws of 
 nature could not turn aside for Puritanism ; the 
 necessities which God has implanted in our constitu- 
 tion could not be satisfied by the sternness of these 
 Anti-Jacobites ; they were not stifled, they took a 
 new turn, they broke out somewhere else. Our 
 fathers, having discarded every thing else, betook 
 
316 RELATION TO 
 
 themselves for recreation to the cup. Denying them- 
 selves what was healthful and innocent, they made 
 ample amends in what was ruinous and criminal. 
 Here, then, we have laid bare one great secret of New 
 England intemperance. Our fathers had no dances, 
 no bowling-alleys, no sleigh-rides, no games of goose 
 or backgammon, no promenades, no systematic holi- 
 days, no musical entertainments, no literary or scien- 
 tific amusements, no pleasures of art, no ladies' fairs, 
 no tea-parties, no Sunday-school celebrations, no ru- 
 ral festivals ; they never went to Niagara ; Saratoga 
 was unknown ; their labors were arduous, their cares 
 incessant ; and their only recreation consisted in the 
 use of intoxicating drinks. Ministers, who denounced 
 sports, drank rum ; magistrates, who inflicted penal- 
 ties for light conduct, drank rum ; parents, who 
 whipped their children for playing Saturday nights, 
 drank rum. To take a glass of liquor was a cheap, 
 summary, expeditious, unobtrusive way of self-re- 
 creation; it gave offence to no one, it answered the 
 demands of nature, it imparted a glow to the spirits, 
 it relieved the sense of burden and fatigue, and lu- 
 bricated all the joints of action ; its ulterior effects 
 were not anticipated; and those people seemed to 
 themselves to have accomplished all recreative ends, 
 when they had satisfactorily drank. Rum thus be- 
 came the recreative element to our ancestors. If a 
 man was tired, he drank rum ; if he was disappointed, 
 he drank rum ; if he required excitement, he drank 
 rum ; the elders drank when they prayed, the minis- 
 ter when he preached. Rum sustained the patriot- 
 ism of the soldier and the fatigue of the ploughman ; 
 
PROGBESS AND REFORMS. 317 
 
 it kindled alike the flames of devotion and the fires 
 of revelry. 
 
 " Thus, as I conceive, were laid the foundations 
 for that enormous extension of intemperance which 
 our own times have witnessed, and we have been 
 called so often to lament." 
 
 Therefore, in promoting the temperance-reform, in 
 cutting off the means of gratification in this quarter, 
 Mr. Judd maintained the necessity of supplying 
 something to take its place. He says, " The friends 
 of temperance and humanity have not fairly won the 
 field, until the morbid thirst of the inebriate is di- 
 verted from objects of low sense to those of a more 
 spiritual character, his self-respect and self-balance 
 perfectly restored, his powers engaged in agreeable 
 and salutary ways, his heart succored and blest, and 
 his whole nature regenerated." He recommended, 
 " as a preliminary good, that they should open coffee- 
 shops, furnish them with books and newspapers, 
 render them every way attractive, visit them fre- 
 quently themselves," &c. He insisted that the in- 
 temperate should be furnished with the means of 
 innocent pleasure, relaxations, and agreeable excite- 
 ments ; that a general cheerfulness should be dif- 
 fused ; that music should be cultivated ; that danc- 
 ing, unexceptionably regulated, should be practised. 
 
 The following is the concluding paragraph of a 
 sermon upon " Intemperance," from which most of 
 the extracts on this subject have been made : — 
 
 " Finally, my brethren, if we cannot afford to love 
 one another : if we will give no encouragement to 
 the charities of life ; if we refuse to be exemplifiers 
 
 27* 
 
318 RELATION TO 
 
 of the truth as it is in Jesus ; if we will not aid in 
 a universal dispensation of health and peace ; if we 
 will cultivate no sensibility to what is beautiful in 
 sight, and sound, and motion ; if we will not facili- 
 tate the entrance of the Spirit of God into the hu- 
 man heart, by every form of address ; if we will make 
 of the journey of life only a pilgrimage to the tem- 
 ple of Mammon ; if we will prostitute every senti- 
 ment of virtue to the lust of office ; if we will resist 
 the inspiration of a more exalted philanthropy ; if 
 we will not descend to the depth of human affairs, 
 and apply ourselves to the springs of action, and 
 labor on a scale commensurate with our farthest- 
 reaching hopes ; if we will offer no replenishment 
 to the waste, or succor to the wants, of humanity; 
 if the rigors of our ancestral theology are never to 
 be softened ; if we will do nothing ; if society will 
 do nothing ; if the church will do nothing, — then, 
 as of old, the rum-bottle will continue to be the 
 solace of New Englanders ; not pledges, not socie- 
 ties, not laws, will save us from plunging into that 
 horrible vortex, — so deep, no light from heaven will 
 reach us ; so deep, heathenism shall shine as the 
 brightness of the sun seven times, in comparison 
 with us ; so deep, nought but the thunders of doom 
 will awaken us to a sense of our condition." 
 
 TREATMENT OF CRIMINALS. 
 
 The proper treatment of criminals was another 
 subject that engaged Mr. Judd's deep interest. He 
 held that this should be reformatory rather than 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 319 
 
 punitive. He had so much faith in human nature 
 as to believe, that, however depraved the course of 
 life may have been, there is still some uncalloused 
 spot in the heart that may be touched by kind deeds 
 and gentle words. He adopted in full the spirit of 
 the old proverb, " Beneath every jacket there lives 
 a man." He believed the testimony of the New 
 York judge, who said, '^ I have never yet had a 
 criminal before me for sentence, but whose feelings 
 I could touch, and whose heart I could subdue, by 
 allusions to his mother ; " 'and remarks, " There is a 
 mother-heart in all children, as well as a child-heart 
 in all mothers." 
 
 He traced much of the persistence in crime to the 
 practice of making the guilty one an outcast from 
 society ; one in whom no confidence can be placed, 
 of whom no good thing can be expected. And, in 
 this relation, he would quote another old proverb, 
 ^' You may as well hang a dog as give him a bad 
 name." With the 'Saviour, he would say to the 
 offending one, " Neither do I condemn thee, — go, 
 sin no more ; " and maintained that a helping hand 
 should be extended, a readiness to forget the past 
 manifested, and encouragements for regaining self- 
 respect offered. He urged that our prisons should 
 become general schools of reform, and not abodes of 
 punishment. 
 
 "I know it is a received maxim," he says, "that 
 not the severity, but the certainty, of. punishment 
 prevents crime. I have little confidence in either 
 mode. We must seek to reform the criminal. The 
 most dangerous men, the dark prowlers through 
 
320 RELATION TO 
 
 our community, are those whom we have punished 
 in our prisons." 
 
 As to Capital Punishment, he believed it inter- 
 dicted by the whole spirit of the New Testament, 
 and totally inexpedient as a means of preventing 
 crime ; and he was filled with horror at the thought 
 of judicially slaying a fellow-man. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS REFORMS. 
 
 He wished the distinctions between the rich and 
 the poor might be narrowed down to the simple 
 basis of Christian relationship ; that the poor should 
 not indulge in envyings and jealousies of the rich ; 
 that the rich should not despise the poor, but honor 
 humble merit, and aid and encourage honest efforts 
 to rise. He would bring Victoria Square and 
 J^unckle Lane together at the Assembly-room of the 
 Griped Hand ; have them shake hands and converse 
 together like Christians, though certain people might 
 not know where it would stop, though it might per- 
 chance go on through this world into the next. He 
 maintained the dignity of labor, and that true honor 
 arises not from condition, but from acting well one's 
 part, whatever it may be. 
 
 *' As regards Woman, and her grievances and aspi- 
 rations," he says, " if she is not king, she is queen of 
 home ; she is mistress of a peculiar sphere ; she is 
 the head of. a wonderful empire ; and allow me to 
 add, that, in proportion as home is made attractive, 
 men will stay at home, and women can in this way 
 come to rule the men. Let me add this also, that 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 3^1 
 
 much of the vice of the world results from the prac- 
 tice of going from home in pursuit of excitement or 
 pleasure ; and, if woman will make home pleasant 
 and genial, she will do not a little towards uprooting 
 vice and redeeming the world." 
 
 And in ^' Philo/' in answer to the question, 
 " What is woman's mission ? " he says : — 
 
 « Her eflfect 
 Lies not in voting, warring, clerical oil. 
 But germinating grace, forth putting virtue. 
 The Demosthenic force of secret worth. 
 And Pantheism of truth and holiness. 
 .... Need she push, when through all crowds 
 She melts like quicksilver'? .... 
 Her action is not running, nor her forte 
 To nod like Jove, and set the earth a shaking. 
 Silent, she speaks; and motionless, she moves; 
 As rocks are split by wedges of froze water. 
 
 If woman feels the sacred fire of genius. 
 Give her the liberty to genius owed. 
 But the world's greatness is diminutive. 
 And what is small the true magnificence. 
 And a good mother greater than a queen. 
 
 There's work enough for any woman, great 
 In character and consequence as man's.'* 
 
 Mr. Judd's ideas in regard to Foreign Missions 
 were in consonance with the same general philosophy 
 of beginning with the roots rather than with the 
 branches. While preparing for the ministry, he 
 writes in his Journal : " As to foreign missions, I 
 would go ; but there is war among Christian nations, 
 slavery in our own, Christian sailors intemperate, 
 licentious. Christian nations must first be converted . 
 I am oppressed." The same views he always had, 
 
$%% RELATION TO 
 
 that, as long as the example of Christian nations was 
 so ill a recommendation of their religion, so long as 
 such great and glaring evils existed in connection 
 with it, the Christian missionary had very little 
 encouragement for attempting to Christianize the 
 heathen. His sympathies were therefore much more 
 in the direction of home-reforms, of bringing our 
 own people up to the standard and spirit of pure 
 Christianity, than in that of efforts abroad. He 
 believed the heathen much better off as they are, 
 than the great mass of people in professedly Christian 
 countries. 
 
 Mr. Judd's treatment of the subject of Death — 
 though not essentially differing from that of other 
 clergymen of his faith — might perhaps not inap- 
 propriately find a place under the head of reforms. 
 Instead of dwelling mostly on the shroud, the pall, 
 and, by a preponderance of lugubrious expressions, 
 seeming almost to leave the spirit as well as its tem- 
 porary, its earth-garment, in the dark night of the • 
 tomb, — in the true spirit of our Christian faith, he 
 gave chief prominence to the fact, that, in what we 
 name death, the soul is only making an important 
 stride in its existence ; that then indeed commences 
 its truest life, and from that point might well be 
 dated its real birth. In the fulness of his belief in 
 God, in heaven, in the soul's immortality, his funeral 
 services tended to draw aside the veil between us 
 and the invisible, and let in a flood of cheerful con- 
 fidence upon the bereaved ones, that it is but a 
 temporary separation, and that the departed one is 
 in no very just sense lost to those that survive. He 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. S^S 
 
 thus caused light to emanate from the apparent dark- 
 ness, and fill the heart with buoyant, Christian hope. 
 
 Instead of shutting out the light of day, and 
 shrouding in darkness and gloom the dwelling from 
 which an enfranchised soul had sped rts flight, he 
 would allow the cheering sunbeams to penetrate, 
 and the blue sky, with its serene depths and soft 
 clouds, like angel-attendants, to look in. Flowers, 
 and whatever art could furnish of appropriate beauty 
 and suggestiveness, he thought the fitting garniture 
 of the chamber of death. He did not approve of 
 draping the whole person in weeds, and spreading an 
 air of hopelessness and melancholy over every thing. 
 At the same time, he felt there was something fitting 
 and in unison with our natural sensibilities, in the 
 wearing of some simple badge, some outward symbol 
 of love and remembrance of those taken from our 
 sight and our palpable communion. 
 
 Here are his own words in relation to the sub- 
 ject : — 
 
 ^^We get the somberest hues of the dye-house, 
 and bury our persons and our griefs deep in night. 
 Why is black the chosen color of death ? Some 
 people wear blue, some white, in token of mourning. 
 I shall not enter into the question whether weeds 
 shall be entirely discarded. Undoubtedly some out- 
 ward symbol has its congeniality and appropriate- 
 ness. But why should we make our mourning so 
 mournful ? But the reasonableness of black has not 
 occurred. It is, indeed, suited to certain views of 
 death and the grave, but only to the darkest, atheistic 
 side of the case. It strikes me that some lighter 
 
 ^y 
 
324 RELATION TO 
 
 color would as well become the Christian and the 
 Christian death. "We talk of the heathen, of their 
 dark views of death ; but what impression of dark- 
 ness could be greater than that of one of our own 
 funeral scenes ? How black the hearse is, and the 
 pall, and the procession ! Can it be, a Heathen 
 might ask, that those persons have hope in death ? 
 I do not say, my hearers, that black should be dis- 
 pensed with. I cannot say, if God, in his providence, 
 should remove by death those I love, but I should 
 like to wear it. But, at least, let us illuminate this 
 darkness of our vestments by some cheer, some hope, 
 some serenity in our hearts." 
 
 COMMON SCHOOLS. 
 
 In the elevation and improvement of common 
 schools, Mr. Judd was much concerned. For several 
 years, as has been stated, he was a member of the 
 Superintending School Committee in Augusta. He 
 urged the importance of improvements in school- 
 houses and their appendages. " Many school- 
 houses," he says in one of his annual reports, " are 
 badly placed ; crowded upon the street, half afloat in 
 mud in the spring, smothered in dust in summer ; 
 without trees, without blinds, without suitable out- 
 buildings, without a yard for the children to play 
 in. The edge of a public street is the worst possible 
 site for a school-house. Is land so valuable, that 
 the house cannot be withdrawn four or five rods 
 further from the highway ? One would imagine there 
 was a conspiracy on the part of the landowners to 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 325 
 
 drive the school-house just as far into the road as 
 possible ; as if the school-house were a wild animal 
 that no one could tolerate on his premises." 
 
 He strove to effect a reform in the relations of 
 parents to schools. It struck him as a deplorable 
 insensibility on the part of parents, that, year after- 
 year, they should send their children where they 
 were receiving impressions lasting as their lives, 
 without even seeing the person to whom was en- 
 trusted the moulding of their characters, or scarcely 
 the place and its appointments which were to give a 
 coloring to their growing years. " The great defect 
 under which the schools suffer, the leading, crown- 
 ing defect," he writes, in his report, " is the lack of 
 interest on the part of parents. Of the thousands in 
 the town who sustain the most interesting relation 
 to the children, hardly one, during the past year, has 
 visited a school. It is a culpable, an unpardonable 
 negligence ; a negligence well nigh fatal to the well- 
 being of the school ; one that does more evil than 
 any efforts of the committee can do good, that neu- 
 tralizes the exertions of the most skilful teacher, and 
 operates sadly to defeat the great ends of our educa- 
 tional system. Those who will not hire a bog-digger 
 without superintending his labors do not go near 
 one whom they employ to cultivate, develop, and 
 form the mind and morals of their children. 
 
 *' The occasional, informal, kind, and cordial pre- 
 sence of the fathers and mothers in the school would 
 animate and encourage both teacher and scholar. It 
 would promote good order, repress insubordination, 
 anticipate and nip in the bud those troubles that are 
 
 28 
 
326 RELATION TO 
 
 liable at any moment to break out. It is due to 
 the school, due to the expense lavished upon it, 
 to the hopes founded upon it, to the hazard that 
 evermore attends it, that it be visited by parents. 
 It might be intimated, that, as a general thing, the 
 .parents in a district have no right, no moral right, to 
 prefer complaints against a teacher on the ex parte 
 statements of the children. Their first duty is to 
 go to the school, examine for themselves, confront 
 teacher with scholar, observe the routine of instruc- 
 tion and discipline, and see if there be sufficient 
 ground of complaint. 
 
 " Parents sometimes complain of their children 
 being rudely beaten in school : if they would visit 
 the school occasionally, such instances of severity 
 would not occur. They complain that their children 
 are neglected : these visits would prevent such ne- 
 glect. They complain that the teacher has a bad 
 spirit : these visits would tend to rectify and repress 
 this spirit. 
 
 " Let the committee do what it can, there will be 
 a large field for parental exertion, vigilance, and 
 oversight. Let the fathers go into the school as 
 they have opportunity. Let the mothers, two or 
 three of them together, take their knitting or their 
 sewing, and sit an hour or two in the school." 
 
 He sought to have the practice of flagellation, or 
 any mode of corporal punishment, done away with, 
 and believed that moral government might, with 
 infinite advantages, be substituted in its place. 
 
 He regarded it a great defect, that, while almost 
 every art and science was simplified, and brought 
 
PEOGRESS AND REFORMS. 327 
 
 down to the comprehension of the young, so that 
 they could easily become acquainted with its general 
 principles, the science of morals, in familiar illus- 
 trations of its principles, and ready application to 
 the common, daily intercourse of man with man, 
 of child with child, had not a prominent place in 
 schools ; and, through his urgency of this need, his 
 suggestions and encouragement, the '' Manual of 
 Morals " was prepared, to supply, as best it might, 
 this deficiency in popular school-books. 
 
 In his sense of the vast importance of right culture 
 and general improvement to the young, as already 
 alluded to, he met classes of young ladies for literary, 
 as well as moral, advancement. The boys and girls, 
 of whatever denomination, with whom he became 
 acquainted in the schools and other ways, he invited 
 to his study, and offered to lend them books, on the 
 single condition that they should be well treated and 
 punctually returned. And often might be seen one 
 and another, with bright, grateful face, returning a 
 volume that had given some new interest, or awa- 
 kened a thirst for further knowledge, and receiving 
 another chosen with reference to his mental condition, 
 and dismissed with some pertinent and suggestive 
 remark which would fix itself in his memory. And 
 thus Mr. Judd caused his private library to circulate 
 to a considerable extent around the town. 
 
 PUBLIC IMPROVEMENTS. 
 
 All the great internal improvements of the country 
 he watched with close attention. In the subject of 
 
328 , RELATION TO 
 
 railroads and plank-roads no man took a greater 
 interest, and few probably were bett^ informed. 
 But it was cbiefly in relation to their influence in 
 binding together the great human family in bonds 
 of brotherly fellowship that he rejoiced to see them 
 extended. He believed, that, if people could be 
 brought to know each other, there would be less nar- 
 rowness of views, fewer party-strifes ; that sectional 
 jealousies would diminish, and the interests of the 
 race be advanced. He thus beheld, in railways and 
 their attendant wires for the transmission of thought, 
 the engines of a higher civilization, and, in the end, 
 of a more extensive promulgation of Christianity. 
 Indeed, he was never known to avail himself of the 
 electoral franchise, except in carrying forward an 
 enterprise of this kind, which was to some extent 
 involved in the pending election. 
 
 Nothing in the progress of the local interests of 
 the town escaped his attention. The costly experi- 
 ment of its dam for facilitating various mechanical 
 operations, its factories, its foundries, its ship-build- 
 ing, and all sorts of machinery, received his careful 
 notice. And, when Augusta assumed the attitude of 
 a city, he deemed the event of sufficient importance 
 and seriousness to demand a sermon upon the regu- 
 lations requisite for promoting the physical and 
 moral welfare of cities, — in the provision for an 
 abundance of wholesome air, for the free inflowing 
 of the light of heaven, for the bordering of streets 
 with trees, the affording of ample space for gardens, 
 and the securing of large, well-laid-out parks, where 
 something of nature's sweet influences might be 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 329 
 
 enjoyed by those whose means limit them to the 
 confines of the city. 
 
 Improvements in house-building, as to taste, eco- 
 nomy, and convenience, he sought to promote. He 
 was thankful for Downing's contributions to this 
 purpose, and was one among the many who mourned 
 his untimely loss as that of a beloved benefactor. 
 His own pleasing cottage, the fi.rst of an improved 
 style of building in the town, gave an impetus to 
 ornamental architecture, which quite changed the 
 appearance of its neighborhood. He studied care- 
 fully and philosophically the best principles on 
 which to construct hot-air furnaces. He took great 
 pains to obtain for himself, and to recommend to his 
 neighbors, improved kinds of apples and other fruits, 
 and garden vegetables. 
 
 HOLIDAYS AND RECREATION. 
 
 Mr. Judd believed in the salutary influence of 
 holidays, in their tendency to promote peace and 
 good- will ; to bring the poor, in some sort, on a level 
 with the rich. He believed that Christianity has re- 
 gard to this festive, recreative element of our nature ; 
 that recreation, in some form, is a God-ordained 
 means of uniting, harmonizing, and equalizing man- 
 kind ; and traced many of the evils existing in our 
 country to the want of provision for the recreative 
 element of our nature. He endeavored to make the 
 most of the few national festivals we have, and would 
 gladly have had their number increased. The rural 
 sabbath-school festivals, which he did so much to 
 
 28* 
 
330 RELATION TO 
 
 encourage, have been spoken of. The observance of 
 birth-days, marriage-days, and other family-anniver- 
 saries, he thought, had a happy tendency. He was 
 careful to have his church trimmed for the Christmas 
 season, and held a public service on Christmas eve, 
 and always provided some pleasant home-entertain- 
 ment to make a merry Christmas for his children. • 
 
 While he honored our Puritan fathers in the main, 
 he could not but see and regret some errors into 
 which their sterling principles led them. " I think," 
 he says, " they committed a radical error in abolish- 
 ing all the papal holidays, or in not substituting 
 something therefor. We have Thanksgiving, and 
 the Fourth of July, and Fast-day when the young 
 men play ball. We need three times as many festi- 
 vals ; or the least that may be asked is, that our 
 sabbaths be rendered more cheerful, more social, 
 more liberal. The Puritans rejected saints' days ; 
 but, in the glorious gospel of the Son of God, in 
 this new, varied, majestic world to which they mi- 
 grated, was there nothing, in the infinite conditions 
 of the soul, out of which they might derive occasions 
 for public delight ? 
 
 " Man has a recreative want ; a want that keeps 
 its place side by side with every volition and every 
 action; a want importunate in its demands, and 
 invincible in its efforts. This necessity, moreover, 
 if it be not answered in ways healthful and harmless, 
 is wont to betake itself to what is injurious and 
 unlawful. Nature always vindicates herself; and, 
 if we maltreat her in any way, she is sure to punish 
 us. Man's recreative want belongs not to one part 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 331 
 
 of him, but to all parts ; not to his body alone, but 
 to his mind also. Every faculty of the soul, every 
 function of the brain, every muscle of the flesh, is 
 subject to the laws of action and reaction ; must bend 
 and unbend; requires recreation, relaxation. Man 
 has also a higher need than mere physical rest ; a 
 moral need of gladness, enlivenment, peace, joy; 
 a need of sympathy, kindness, love. He has need 
 of humane influences that shall infuse themselves 
 through the centre of his being ; of a warm friend- 
 ship that shall embrace him fraternally ; of an inspi- 
 ration that shall vivify and exalt his powers ; of 
 friendly voices to cheer him in all the pilgrimage 
 of life ; of aids in his endeavors, strength in his 
 weakness, compassion for his distress, approbation of 
 his honest thought. Agreeably to these laws, if such 
 needs are not supplied, man becomes cold, hard, 
 insensible, selfish, reckless, desperate. These are 
 laws psychological and physiological, spiritual and 
 material. They are natural and divine laws ; they 
 are of God's creating, and binding as any precept of 
 the decalogue, punitive as any statute of the uni- 
 verse. 
 
 ^' Kecreations, it will not be questioned, have been 
 abused; they have been perverted to sinister ends 
 by those who devised them ; they have waxed gross 
 in the hands of those who employ them. All this 
 may be true, and yet the general principles for which 
 we contend remain unaltered. The origin of this 
 perversion is traceable to the early age of New Eng- 
 land. . Eestriction, that should have directed the 
 course of the stream, laid a curb-stone on the foun- 
 
3S^ RELATION TO 
 
 tain, and the waters broke forth madly, destructively. 
 Eecreation took the form of pillage, and, while it 
 glutted itself, wasted withal. Young men, tearing 
 themselves from the coercive grasp of parents, magis- 
 trates, ministers, celebrated the achievement in a 
 profusion of drunkenness. Then arose a species of 
 excess, the vestiges of which remain in our day, 
 known in common parlance as bursts, bouts, sprees. 
 
 " By recreation — need I say it ? — I do not mean 
 merely children's plays ; nor do I mean circuses or 
 theatres or negro-songs or jugglery. The entire 
 idea includes many things : a gentler spirit pervad- 
 ing the whole constitution of society ; a gathering 
 together of the scattered fragments of the human 
 family; a recognizance in all of brotherhood, the 
 divine image, and immortality : it implies, especially, 
 a ministry of refreshment, agreeableness, light and 
 truth, kindness and love, to man's whole nature, 
 physical and social, moral, intellectual, religious. 
 As regards particular forms of recreative action, you 
 will hardly oblige me to say, that you are to engage 
 in nothing on which you cannot ask the blessing of 
 God ; nothing that does not so fulfil his will as to 
 promote his glory. And most deeply do I feel it to 
 be the duty of the wise and good to do, what our 
 fathers did not, — provide for the recreative wants 
 of the people. 
 
 '' Society owes it to itself and to its members, first 
 to give recreation, then to regulate it ; what is given 
 freely can be regulated with ease ; sanctity attaches 
 to the munificence of the generous mind ; what is 
 wrung from the miser, we squander without remorse. 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 333 
 
 Let society make of recreation a friend, and it will 
 cease to be its enemy ; let ns overcome its evil with, 
 good. Let your children grow up with the idea that 
 they may practise no recreation in which their parents, 
 if not participants, shall at least be present as obser- 
 vers and wardens. The extremes of society ought 
 to suspend hostilities, and compromise their dissen- 
 sions ; the sinful gaiety on one side should be aban- 
 doned, and the equally sinful severity on the other ; 
 there is the common ground of health and innocence, 
 friendship and peace, purity and virtue, which, for a 
 few moments at least of life, they might occupy 
 together. "We ought to strive for a pious happiness 
 and a happy piety. 
 
 " Our people thirst for happiness, for recreation, 
 for something festive ; and, when a man is not sus- 
 tained by religion, or fed by literature, when there 
 is no genial, pleasant occasion to call him out on the 
 common in company with his fellow-citizens, he 
 betakes himself to his bottle. I believe happiness, 
 on a large and general scale, is not unfavorable to 
 morality ; and for this reason, when all are happy, 
 and all are united in their happiness, there is no 
 opportunity for individual passion and selfish desire 
 to be very active. 
 
 '^ There is something unitary in our pleasures ; 
 more than there is in our passions or our specula- 
 tions, more than in politics or commerce. 
 
 " At these times, the human heart is mellow ; it 
 opens; it embraces. Everybody feels as everybody 
 else does, and all love to have others feel as they do. 
 You not only want to enjoy yourself, but you want 
 
334 RELATION TO 
 
 others to enjoy themselves too. As a merchant, you 
 want to do more business than your neighbor, and 
 sometimes you contrive to get away some of his busi- 
 ness ; but, when people come together on festive 
 occasions, then they want everybody else to be as 
 happy as they are : then, indeed, the only fear is, 
 that others are not having a good time. 
 
 ^' A holiday is equally for the poor man and the 
 rich. I like the Fourth of July, for this reason, the 
 poor can enjoy it ; and I love to see them thus rising 
 to a level, from which no one can drive them." 
 
 Mr. Judd makes "Margaret" speak thus in regard 
 to dancing : " Another distinct and stringent law of 
 God and nature is recreation. Of the many kinds 
 that are afloat, we have been obliged to use care in 
 our choice. What would Christ approve, what is 
 best, we ask ? In what can all ages and conditions 
 unite ? What relaxes without weakening, is cheer- 
 ful without frivolity, and offers attraction without 
 danger ? Not to the exclusion of other things, our 
 election has fallen on the dance ; a species of recrea- 
 tion enjoined in the Old Testament, and recognized 
 in the New ; one practised in every age and country, 
 and recommended by the sanction of the best and 
 greatest of men. It has music and beauty for its 
 garniture and strength. Its intrinsic value has won 
 for it the approval of all. We sometimes dance on 
 the green, sometimes in our hall. It is enjoyed in 
 all families. Parents dance with their children, 
 husbands with wives. It has supplanted • many 
 ridiculous games, and extirpated cruel sports. It 
 has broken up drunken carousals, and neutralized 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 335 
 
 the temptations to ardent spirits. Whatever grace 
 is needed in person, or courtesy in manners, it ope- 
 rates to perfect. It brings the people together, in- 
 terests strangers, and diffuses a serene, whole-souled 
 harmony over the town. It has no boisterousness 
 and much life. It embodies the recreative element 
 in the healthiest and holiest forms. Where all unite, 
 there is no excess. We praise God in the dance : 
 it is a hymn written with our feet. I would dance 
 as I would pray, for its own sake, and because it is 
 well-pleasing to God." 
 
 Of Christmas he writes elsewhere : " Could it be 
 really felt in all its power, as that which signalizes 
 the advent of Christ into the world, it would help 
 to break up our miserable sects ; could it fall upon 
 the world in all its divine weight, it would be ' as 
 the stone cut out of the mountain without hands,' 
 that should become a great mountain to crush the 
 sins and follies, the abuses and oppressions, of the 
 nations. . . . 
 
 " I long for the festival of peace, for the jubilee 
 of freedom. I long to see the time when the whole 
 race might be summoned to celebrate some great 
 gala-day of brotherhood. 
 
 " Would that the song of the angels were more 
 often echoed by our Linds and Parodis ! Would that 
 the key-note struck up among the stars might be 
 taken up by every organ and every choir on the 
 globe ! Peace on earth, good-will among men, — 
 think of that as breaking out in the stillness of 
 night ; think of it as uttered by beings from another 
 world ; think of it as a voice poured into the atmo- 
 
336 RELATION TO 
 
 Sphere of this our earth, and as floating unceasingly 
 in all winds, in all storms ; a voice that shall never 
 die, till men really come to love one another." 
 
 IMPROVED STATE OF SOCIETY. 
 
 Mr. Judd yearned for a generally improved state 
 of society, for a millennium ; such, in its spirit, as 
 has been long expected by the great mass of Chris- 
 tians, but the preliminaries of which they so incon- 
 sistently reject. 
 
 In the imaginary picture of an advanced state of 
 society, drawn in " Margaret," among other features 
 is the following, touching this subject : " Our festi- 
 vals are twelve in number, one for each month in the 
 year. Three of them are such as have already be- 
 come national, or, at least. New England : the Spring 
 Fast, Independence, and the Autumnal Thanksgiv- 
 ing. Three more are founded on the Beatitudes, 
 and are named as follows : the Festival of the Poor 
 in Spirit, that of the Peacemakers, and of the Pure 
 in Heart. There is the festival of Charity, or Chris- 
 tian Love, from 1 Cor. xiii. Then, from the life of 
 Christ, are Christmas, drawn from his birth ; Child- 
 mas, which refers to his holy boyhood and youth ; 
 the Festival of the Crucifixion, which comprises his 
 strong crying and tears in the flesh, his temptation, 
 his bearing his cross, his agony in the garden, and 
 his death ; that of the Resurrection, which includes 
 his transfiguration, his spiritual anastasis, his being 
 the life of the soul, and his rising from the dead. 
 Then we have the Festival of the Universal Brother- 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 337 
 
 hood, taken from Christ's interview with the Samari- 
 tan woman ; and the declaration of Paul, that in 
 Christ all are one. We have also twelve other fes- 
 tivals in the monthly recurrence of the Holy Com- 
 munion. Our bishop has also proposed a system of 
 sabbaths, which he pursues with tolerable regularity. 
 He has given us Baptismal Sunday, founded on 
 Christ's baptism; Children's Sunday, his blessing 
 the little children ; Unity Sunday ; Atonement Sun- 
 day, * that they may be one in us ; ' Regeneration 
 Sunday, ' except a man be born again ; ' Repentance 
 Sunday, &c., &c. 
 
 " In most of our festivals, there is a short reli- 
 gious exercise in the church. The Poor in Spirit is 
 a season of sober introspection, humility, and prayer. 
 The Crucifixion has for its object to effect within 
 us a crucification to the world, and of the world 
 to us. Childmas, in May, gives several holidays to 
 the children. They have a May-pole, May-dances, 
 and a Queen of May. They go into the woods for 
 evergreens and flowers. In the evening the band 
 play for them, and they dance with their parents on 
 the green. The Resurrection seeks to realize for us 
 that spiritual resurrection from sin which St. Paul 
 strove to attain, and which Christ so perfectly en- 
 joyed. It also looks to the final elimination of the 
 soul from the body. The Festival of Love would 
 advance us in that love which thinketh no evil, 
 beareth all things, is the bond of perfection, the seal 
 of our being born of God, and fulfils the law. The 
 Pure in Heart, among other things, is devoted to a 
 general school-visitation. The school-houses are 
 
 29 • 
 
338 RELATION TO 
 
 filled with parents and friends ; the scholars exam- 
 ined, and addresses made. The election of the May 
 Queen is made to turn somewhat on these examina- 
 tions. On Peacemaker's-day, we decorate the church 
 with evergreens, have the lion and lamb symbolized, 
 and make our endeavors for private and universal 
 peace, seek forgiveness, and proffer restitution. Our 
 festivals are not put by for Sunday ; but when they 
 fall on that da/, which not infrequently happens, 
 the bishop prepares discourses accordingly. 
 
 '' Thus is the whole year interwoven and girded 
 about by our beautiful festivals ; some of them 
 exceedingly joyous and gay, others more sedate and 
 reflective. What Herbert says of them, I dare 
 not: — 
 
 * Who loves not you, doth in vain profess 
 That he loves God or heaven or happiness.' 
 
 Yet we do love them ; and that, because we love God 
 and Christ and happiness." 
 
 So also in " Philo," with reference to the same 
 ideally regenerated state of society, he writes : — 
 
 " Their swords 
 To ploughshares, spears to pruning-hooks, they beat; 
 Nor ever blacksmiths gave such lusty blows. 
 They rend the forts, and whoop down citadels. 
 The slaves are frolicking; to-morrow they, 
 With freeman's will, a freeman's work will do. 
 The alcoholic fire in fire goes out; 
 A mob of advocates the gallows touse; 
 See bands of exiles singing to their homes ; 
 Scrimp jails to airy hospitals arise ; 
 Cities exude their poisons as a fog; 
 The mephitism is banished by the winds. 
 The Cumberland road, with many wagon-loads 
 Of reparations for the Indians, 
 
PROGRESS AND REFORMS. 339 
 
 A mirthful rabble crowd. There ia a town 
 
 In phalansterio change ; the houses move. 
 
 As trees of old, to sweet synergic pipes. 
 
 See gardens multiply, and bulbs increase ; 
 
 See tasteful cottages adorn the plains. 
 
 Our senators eventful progress feel, 
 
 And meet to Christianize the Constitution. 
 
 The epoch deepens, wide our God hath rule ; 
 
 Beyond the seas prophetic crises thrill. 
 
 Love balances their power, and soothes their fears; 
 
 Their ships of war convey millennial rapture 
 
 Around the earth ; the serf to burgher mounts ; 
 
 The lazzaroni weave in factories ; 
 
 The Moslem is agape, and opes his mosque 
 
 To gospel -preachers. The glad news spins on 
 
 To Ispahan, and shakes the Chinese wall. 
 
 Enough for one day : let us homeward wend. 
 
 And in our hearts the solemn lessons tend.** 
 
340 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AS AN AUTHOR 
 
 GENERAL CRITICISMS. 
 
 Few authors have probably undergone such dis- 
 cordant criticisms as Mr. Judd. It is not a little 
 amusing to compare the diverse epithets and expres- 
 sions bestowed upon his works. 
 
 In the various observations upon " Margaret," we 
 find, that it is " a real book, the buyer whereof re- 
 ceives something more than paper and printer's ink 
 in exchange for his money," and that it is " sheer 
 nonsense, from beginning to end ; " it is '^ a true 
 poem, though in prose," and " too stupid to waste 
 time upon ; " '^ a true prophetic instinct animates 
 the book," and, again, " it is a weak and silly book ; " 
 '' a full conception of .the essence of Christianity," 
 ^^^rank^lasphemy ; " that it is " no jest, but the 
 sincere utterance of a sincere man," and that "the 
 author is making a joke of his readers ; " it is called 
 " a real presence/^ " transcendental," " a puzzle ; " 
 " full of genius, profound in meaning," " nothing 
 but a dull attempt at joke ; " it is characterized as 
 " 2i remarkable book," '^that strange production," 
 " an extraordinary book," " a wonder of the age," 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 341 
 
 " an evidence that an American literature is pos- 
 sible." 
 
 We find also that " it is a book not likely to be 
 dismissed ; that the author evidently has stuff in 
 him, sterling metal, that rings as well as shines ; " 
 that it is " the only American book that has ever 
 been written ; " that " its descriptions are perfect as 
 the paintings of Claude, the plot full of dramatic 
 interest, the characters drawn with a master's hand ; " 
 that it is " an original book, full of beauty and 
 power, with admirable fidelity to nature, having 
 pages striking as Carlyle, quaint as Lamb, graphic 
 as Washington Irving." 
 
 A friend writes the author in reference to " Mar- 
 garet : " ff The rivers and the forests were made for 
 you ; nature loves you with a peculiar love, and 
 unlocks her golden treasures for your own hand ; 
 the clouds, the streams, the pines, all live in your 
 words ; and, more than all that, I feel in them the 
 beatings of the great heart of humanity. I read it 
 first in the country, where I could hear the murmur 
 of the bees as I read, and the whir of the humming- 
 bird's wing, and the chatter and whistle of birds ; I 
 have read it since in the city by my own fireside ; 
 part I have read in silence, part aloud ; part my 
 wife has read to me, and part I have read to her ; 
 part I have kindled over, part I have wept over, part 
 I have laughed over ; part I have wished blotted 
 out, and part I have wished written in letters of 
 gold." 
 
 A young, unsophisticated girl says : " ^ Margaret ' 
 herself, it seems to me, represents the power of the 
 
 29* 
 
84^ AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 innate virtue, the unborn religion of the soul, in 
 forming a pure and beautiful life. She is a bright, 
 clear rainbow, spanning the volume, — one end 
 planted where, in his death-chamber, ' Gottfried 
 Briickman' heard 'the echoes louder from the sha- 
 dowy shore,' the other resting where the flower- 
 wreathed cross points heavenward from ' Mons 
 Christi.' 
 
 '' ^ Chillion ' is a high-strung, sweet-toned harp, 
 with the ' music frozen ' into the strings, and no 
 earthly breath warm enough to loosen it." 
 
 In regard to " Philo " we find the same_striking 
 contrasts. One says : " We have read this dramatic 
 poem through, giving ourselves up to it, and carried 
 on by it from beginning to end ; and, if we can trust 
 at all the impressions left on our mind, it is a poem 
 of uncommon power and genius. After being wrapt 
 _in it as in a vision, we come away feeling that it has 
 u^ been good for us to be there. There are images of 
 remarkable beauty, on which the soul may feed in 
 its quiet hours, and passages of such boldness, that 
 no writer among us would dare venture upon them, 
 or, daring, would succeed as the author has. Its 
 philanthropy is large, discriminating, and without a 
 sting. The poem is a rich mine for those who love 
 minute criticism, and will, doubtless, shock some 
 good people, as the book of Job would, if it were 
 not one of our sacred books. There is an energy of 
 expression, a Titanic play of humor, a strength, and, 
 with all its roughness, a delicacy of religious feeling 
 and earnestness of purpose, a vigor of imagination, 
 and a reverential, loving, living faith in Christ and 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 his religion^ which may more than compensate for 
 many and great faults." 
 
 From another we have these comments : " "What 
 an Evangeliad is we have not yet learned ; but we 
 suppose it to be something bran new. There may 
 be those who will understand this book : we cannot. 
 The lines have ' ragged edges,' from which we sup- 
 pose it was meant for poetry. Passages which we 
 have lighted upon, in opening the book at random, 
 read like very gross burlesque, though we are not 
 sure the author meant them for such, or whether 
 he meant any thing at all. The work seems to us 
 a crazy jumble of Tom Moore, John Bunyan, Don 
 Quixote, Goethe's Faust, the Westminster Assem- X 
 bly's Shorter Catechism, the law of Moses, Theodore 
 Parker upon stilts, and a Kilby-street auctioneer's 
 catalogue. What- with bad English, broken-backed 
 lines, crazy metaphors, and rhetoric run mad, the 
 whole thing is about as grotesque a Mumbo Jumbo y^ 
 as we have ever seen dressed up for the amusement 
 and amazement of the public. It may be all meant 
 for joke, for aught we know ; but it is certainly very 
 poor fun." 
 
 On the one side we hear said to the author : " Its 
 plan is original, its flow melodious, its scenes graphic, 
 its thoughts often profound ; and the force of genius 
 is felt through it, bearing one up, and hurrying one 
 forward from beginning to end. Your children and 
 your children's children may be proud of it, to the 
 fourth and fifth generation. There are immortal 
 things in it which the world will not let die." On 
 the other it is remarked : " Why the author has seen 
 
S44 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 fit to string together so much commonplace verse 
 we cannot divine. The poem is not only not beau- 
 tiful, nor at all fascinating in any part of it, but is 
 full of violations of good taste, in the verse and the 
 sentiments. We are sorry we have so little to say 
 in commendation." 
 
 So of " Richard Edney." In the judgment of 
 one, "It is written with that power which belongs 
 only to one who has power and intellectual energy 
 the most ample. Through the whole of it, there 
 runs a deep vein of thought, pure as virgin silver, 
 which is brought out with a wealth of illustration 
 in characters, in incidents, in the descriptive, and in 
 the narrative. We read it with the interest with 
 which we read ^ Jane Eyre,' but with a thousand 
 times the more satisfaction. There are delineations 
 of character, almost without number, that are ex- 
 quisite blendings of light and shade in human being. 
 The volume is written in an unostentatious style ; 
 yet it abounds with passages of force and beauty." 
 Another says, ^^We found the reading of it a task, 
 — a very prosy tale, described in a most execrable 
 manner. There are few good things in the book, 
 and innumerable pages of prolixity, commonplace, 
 twaddle, and jargon. ... If it were not for the high 
 moral tone of the work, we should be tempted to 
 think it was written under the inspiration of gin and 
 water." 
 
 But enough of all this contradictory testimony, 
 serving as well for curious specimens of the diver- 
 sity of individual taste, modes of thought, and moral 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 345 
 
 appreciation, as for the purpose of its introduction 
 here. 
 
 In an unpublished review of the poems of Jones 
 Very, written by Mr. Judd before he became an 
 author himself, and while yet in the Theological 
 Seminary, is found the following passage : ^' "We 
 shall terminate these remarks by a single word on 
 the nature of criticism, which is, that it should be 
 akin to the subject of which it treats. What springs 
 from the intellect merely, may be treated by the 
 intellect. What has its origin in the soul must be 
 treated by the soul. A genuine production of the 
 soul, whether it be great or small, deserves a reve- 
 rential consideration. It should be examined by its 
 own standards. It should be judged for what it is, 
 not for what it is not. This, it will be seen, allows 
 little room for comparative criticism, that Procrustes 
 of all authors and artists. A violet is a violet, and 
 should be approved for what it is, not because it is 
 not a rose. This rule of judgment also obliges us 
 to collate and compare both the author and his work. 
 What springs from the soul has a meaning agreeably 
 to that soul. If it be a genuine production, there 
 will be found to exist a correspondence, and a re- 
 flection of lights fi-om one to the other. It is in 
 vain that we seek to detach a work of genius from 
 its author. Its design is alone appreciable through, 
 and it can alone be understood by, knowing what 
 he is. There is, in all minds, an instinctive pro- 
 pensity, an insatiable longing, to trace back a pro- 
 duction to its source. If a man be false to what he 
 
346 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 has written, all voices condemn him, and his work 
 even fades from public estimation." 
 
 And further, he says : " Why should a man who 
 speaks from the impersonal, boundless, authorita- 
 tive depths of his own nature trim and palaver to 
 public taste ? "What is public taste to him ? If there 
 be souls like his own, they will appreciate what he 
 says. If not, how vain the task of accommodation 
 to shallow and partial intellects ! No power of criti- 
 cism can make a piece of clay lustrous as a flower : 
 the flower, though it be but the humblest, shows its 
 own colors, exhales its own fragrance." 
 
 It would seem that these lines might have been 
 penned with a self-justificatory reference to the criti- 
 cisms passed upon his own writings. 
 
 It is not the object of this chapter to go into a 
 critical examination of the literary merits or demerits 
 of Mr. Judd's works. The aim is rather to show 
 his own true stand-point in them ; the heart-prompt- 
 ings from which they originated ; his truth to him- 
 self in them ; and, instead of aspirations for per- 
 sonal fame, the burning purpose of elevating and 
 spiritualizing the race, which inspired him at the 
 outset, and led him on through all. 
 
 Never, from his earliest student-life, had Mr. 
 Judd that inkling, often existing in the youthful 
 brain, of seeing himself in print. His ambition 
 never led at all in the direction of notoriety ; but, 
 on the contrary, his natural sensitiveness and dif- 
 fidence impelled him to shrink from it. He was 
 far from having any tendency to loquacity, either 
 with his lips or with his pen. He always thought 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. S47 
 
 industriously, but uttered comparatively little. He 
 spoke when he had something within to say. He 
 never went through an apprenticeship of newspaper 
 paragraphs and poetry, or of magazine-essays and 
 tales. Any impulse of the kind which he ever felt 
 was stimulated by the sense of a moral or religious 
 demand, or of some irrepressible feeling of his own 
 heart. 
 
 His very first thought of authorship was that of a 
 little volume, prompted, during his early religious 
 experience, by a sense of his own derelictions from 
 duty, and intended as a warning to young Christians 
 to beware of the incipient temptations to worldliness 
 and sin. But this was never carried into eiFect. 
 
 At a later period, when suffering so keenly from 
 mental despondency and nervous wretchedness, he 
 conceived the idea of a tale, chiefly illustrative of 
 " The Philosophy of the Affections," — the deep 
 things of the heart, its yearnings and disappoint- 
 ments, its aspirations and its sufferings. Towards 
 carrying out this plan, he wrote quite a number of 
 pages ; but, on regaining a more healthful tone 
 of feeling, and entering upon the duties and inte- 
 rests of his profession, he abandoned the further 
 execution of it. 
 
 While he continued to appreciate the wants of the 
 individual heart, to take interest in their varying 
 phases, and to sympathize deeply with the suffering 
 spirit, these had taken a minor place in comparison 
 with the great interests, wrongs, and oppressions of 
 humanity in general. There came flooding into his 
 mind an increasing sense of the errors of the day 
 
348 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 of mistaken views of practical religion, arising from 
 falsity of creed; of unchristian practices, supported 
 by legal sanctions ; and of a state of society falling 
 far short of the Christian standard. He had the 
 /pulpit, to be sure, firom which to speak; but the 
 (4s. A ^^^^^^ limits of his own church were to him a 
 \ y \ sphere too limited for urging truths of such univer- 
 sal importance. The fire in his bones must have an 
 qutburst in some way. 
 
 " MARGARET." 
 
 To meet this necessity, he laid the plan of a story, 
 which should exhibit the errors of a false theology, 
 mistaken zeal, narrow-minded religious views, and 
 hypocritical professions ; one that should set forth 
 the evils of intemperance, its causes and cure ; the 
 mischiefs of the war-system ; the unjust treatment of 
 the red men of our country ; one furnishing conside- 
 rations for the more humane treatment of prisoners, 
 the reform of criminals, the abolition of legalized 
 life-taking. He wished to hold up avarice to view in 
 its true guise and its legitimate results. Errors 
 in the training of children he would expose. To 
 nature, with her countless voices, her soothing influ- 
 ence, her pure and holy teachings, her infinity of 
 beauties, to whose inspiration his own soul responded 
 in every variety of joyous note or mournful tone, he 
 would give a large place. Of New England, as it 
 was in olden times,. in its primitive, country simpli- 
 city, its modes of dress and rustic sports, its training- 
 days, its huskings, its Thanksgiving-festivals, its 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 349 
 
 stern. Puritanical faith, and its natural scenery, 
 he would preserve a memoir. To a pure, noble, 
 refined, and gentle affection, he would give place. 
 He would encourage faith in humanity, and confi- 
 dence in its advancement, from its beautiful develop- 
 ments, even under the most unfavorable circum- 
 stances. The omnipotence of goodness he would 
 unfold. The possible improvements in the organi- 
 zation of society he would have believed in. The 
 fond hope of the world of a coming day for the full 
 triumph of Christianity, he would fain have realized. 
 In the chief character herself, he would develop 
 something of his own experience in the spirit's power 
 to solve for itself its own mysteries. The descrip- 
 tive and reflective he would blend in attractive har- 
 mony. " Material enough," as has often been said 
 of his works, '^ to furnish the capital stock of half a 
 dozen respectable volumes." 
 
 His idea, in the outset, undoubtedly was to utter 
 himself, once for all, on these subjects which lay 
 with such importance on his heart. And " Marga- 
 ret, a Tale of the Real and the Ideal," was the 
 result. 
 
 He began with modest self-distrust of his own 
 powers for such a work, and^with the full intention 
 of remaining incognito. He took no one for a model ; 
 for he was so constituted that he must of necessity 
 work out his own. He proceeded industriously and 
 con amove with the work, so far as his other duties 
 would allow him time. He made diligent research 
 into antiquities, overhauling the antiquarian lore of 
 his father, searching old newspapers, and looking 
 
 30 
 
850 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 into old school-books, and the early pamphlets of 
 the country. 
 
 July 4, 1847, he writes to his father: "I want 
 very much that you should get for me any boots 
 
 ! published in this country during the last century, 
 particularly after the close of the war ; school-books, 
 
 \ reading-books, primers, books of devotion, &c. &c. 
 
 - If you cannot get the books, get their names. I 
 want to come at what may be styled an illustration 
 of that period of the country, — 1783-1800. Dress, 
 literature, &c. &c., the general costume of the time, 
 yhat influences were upon it, its architecture, &c. 
 The books that I want are mostly those that have 
 /perished, hence a difficulty. Also, if you could lay 
 hands on any old arms, or bits of dresses, any old 
 furniture, &c. &c." 
 
 He visited Westhampton, his birthplace, revived 
 his early reminiscences of relics of earlier times, and 
 drew what he could from the older inhabitants. Its 
 store, its noon-house, its horse-sheds, and its meeting- 
 house, furnished him material. From its formerly 
 stern sabbath-keeping, he drew somewhat. The 
 church-catechising, and the hurrahing on the setting 
 of the sabbath sun, was the childish experience of 
 himself, his brothers, and playmates. To Norwich 
 " Pond " and " Hollow " he went ; got what infor- 
 mation he could of an old herb-doctress formerly 
 living there ; found some relics of a peculiarly 
 marked people that used to inhabit the place, and 
 took notes of peculiar expressions made use of by 
 them. He questioned his mother and other elder 
 relatives as to all the lore that was handed down to 
 
AS AN AUTHOK. 351 
 
 their early days, — the cut of old garments, with 
 their names, and the kind of stuff of which they were 
 made. 
 
 With nature he held deep communion ; and anew 
 she revealed to him her secrets, resplendent with 
 her own dewy freshness. He made ornithological 
 excursions into ^^ Malta Woods," and took notes 
 from their own mouths of the joyous wild birds that 
 had just returned to tell of their winter retreats, 
 their gladness at revisiting their old haunts, and their 
 hopes for the coming summer-time. Not the hum- 
 blest floweret escaped his notice, and he was on terms 
 of close acq[uaintance with every tree of the forest. 
 
 ^^ Margaret" was begun about 1841, and com- 
 pleted near the close of 1844. The next thing was 
 to obtain a publisher. The manuscript was submit- 
 ted to several publishing-houses in Boston for exa- 
 mination ; but, from its being quite out of the general 
 course of productions of the kind, they were slow to 
 take the risk of bringing it out. At length, Munroe 
 agreed to publish it ; but, before putting it to press, 
 he suffered a loss by fire, which forced him to give 
 it up. Fortunately, the manuscript escaped destruc- 
 tion ; and, soon after, Jordan and Wiley undertook 
 the publication of it, the author being responsible 
 for one-half of the expense. In August, 1845, an 
 edition, in one volume, of a thousand copies, was 
 issued. 
 
 It was published anonymously, without note or 
 preface, and, from its strongly marked chai*acteris- 
 tics, elicited no little comment from the leading jour- 
 nals and magazines of the day. It was reviewed at 
 
S52 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 /length in the " North American E-eview " and the 
 I '^ Southern Quarterly." The " London Athenaeum " 
 devoted its pages to the consideration of it. Through 
 a personal friend of Mary Howitt, the author learned 
 that she was so much pleased with it as to wish to 
 republish it in England. 
 
 The author's incognito did not serve him long. 
 In a familiar letter concerning it, he says : " The 
 secret of the book is somewhat destroyed. It has 
 been tossed about so, and passed from hand to hand, 
 that, like a kitten in a basket, it must needs mew, 
 and make itself known." 
 
 To the stern Calvinist it was offensive from its 
 liberal theology. Those whose hearts had been un- 
 touched by the interests of a common humanity, 
 and who had no sympathy with the movements of 
 reform in any of its branches, found nothing in its 
 spirit to interest ; and to them it was merely dull. 
 Those deaf to nature's voices, and blind to her 
 beauties, in fault of all else, could not find, even in 
 the sweet delineations of her charms, a redeeming 
 element. The regular novel-reader, who looks only 
 for a story of thrilling incident, and who never 
 dreams that an author can have any other aim than 
 to help him to kill time, after culling out the brief 
 story of Gottfried Briickman and Jane Girardeau, 
 threw it aside as too tedious to finish. Readers of 
 sensibilities so fine as to think manner every thing, 
 and matter of little account, were shocked, here and 
 there, with something new and strange to them, and 
 gave it up in disgust. Those but partially acquainted 
 with the riches of their own mother-tongue found 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 353 
 
 the study in getting at the sense a trouble too 
 great to recompense the benefit of perusal. And 
 the professional reviewer, possessing no glimmer- 
 ings of genius himself, or the faculty of perceiving 
 it in others, but well skilled in applying his views 
 to the Procrustes-bed of an established criticism, 
 however little adapted to all times and countries, 
 and however effete some of its rules may have be- 
 come, found his subject exceeding the just limits 
 so much here, and falling short so much there, that 
 he was forced to give it up in despair, as a nonde- 
 script, totally unmanageable. And those who cannot 
 admit that a proper " style is the man himself," but 
 would have it rounded off by other models, till very 
 little force or individuality remains, found it highly 
 unclassical. In short, those inviolably wedded to 
 the old and time-worn, and frightened at the ad- 
 vancement of any thing new, though it were a pre- 
 liminary even of millennial glory; who have no 
 faith in progress, in the regeneration of our race, in 
 the sufficiency of Christianity to effect a final tri- 
 umph to itself, — to all such, the work was a dead 
 letter, a thing with which they could have no sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Mr. Judd's idea of the work will be seen in the 
 passages following, extracted from a letter — 
 
 To THE Rev. E. B. H. 
 
 " AuausTA, July 15, 1845. 
 
 , . . . '* The book designs to promote the cause of 
 liberal Christianity, or, in other words, of a pure 
 Christianity : it would give body and soul to the 
 
354 'i't^" AS AN AUTHOR, 
 
 divine elements of the gospel. It aims to subject 
 bigotry/ cant, pbarisaism, and all intolerance. Its 
 basis is Christ : him it would restore to the church, 
 him it would develop in the soul, him it would en- 
 throne in the world. It designs also, in judicious and 
 healthful ways, to aid the cause of peace, temperance, 
 and universal freedom. In its retrospective aspect, 
 it seeks to preserve some reminiscences of the age 
 of our immediate fathers, thereby describing a pe- 
 riod of which we have no enduring monuments, and 
 one the traces of which are fast evanescing. The 
 book makes a large account of nature, the birds and 
 flowers, for the sake of giving greater individuality 
 to, and bringing into stronger relief, that which the 
 religious mind passes over too loosely and vaguely. 
 It is a New England book, and is designed to em- 
 body the features and improve the character of our 
 own favored region. 
 
 ''But more particularly, let me say, the book 
 seems fitted partially to fill a gap, long left open in 
 Unitarian literature, — that of imaginative writings. 
 The Orthodox enjoy the works of Bunyan, Hannah 
 More, Charlotte Elizabeth, the Abbotts, &c., &c. 
 But what have we in their place ? The original 
 design of the book was almost solely to occupy this 
 niche ; although, I fancy, you may think it has 
 somewhat passed these limits. It seems to me, that 
 this book is fitted for a pretty general Unitarian cir- 
 culation ; that it might be of some use in the hands 
 of the clergy, in our families, Sunday-school libra- 
 ries, &c. My own personal education in, and ac- 
 quaintance with, ' Orthodoxy,' as well as my idea of 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 355 
 
 the prevalent errors of the age, lead me to think 
 such a book is needed. Will your judgment, sir, 
 sustain mine? or am I mistaken? That another 
 should approve the whole of ^Margaret,' is more 
 than its author flatters himself to believe ; yet he 
 hopes there is that in it which will recommend it to 
 a, pretty general perusal. You will read and judge 
 for yourself. The book furnishes rather a hint at 
 important principles, than any distinct statement ^ 
 and, out of what purports to be a history of men 
 and things, it is in the power of the reader to make 
 his own conclusions. The author wishes to hasten 
 what are believed to be the peculiar triumphs of 
 Christianity. 
 
 **With sincere regards, I am yours, &c. 
 
 " Sylvester Judd, Jr." 
 
 The most appreciative review of " Margaret," and 
 that which approached most nearly to Mr. Judd's 
 own idea in it, was the one contained in the " South- 
 ern Quarterly." It was a curious coinqidence, and 
 one of no little interest to Mr. Judd, that this article 
 was written by the Rev. Dexter Clapp, then residing 
 at New Orleans, but a native of the same town with 
 him, and an early schoolmate ; though, at the time 
 the review was written, the author's name was un- 
 known to the reviewer. A few of Mr. Clapp's 
 remarks, containing a general summary of the scope 
 of the work, are subjoined. ^^As a romance," he 
 says, "we regard it as very imperfect, little more 
 than respectable ; but, as a record of great ideas and 
 sentiments, we place it among the few good books 
 of the age. * Margaret ' is a happy illustration of the 
 
S5^ AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 progress of the actual and natural to the ideal and 
 spiritual. The author has a true and open heart, 
 and has felt the power of genuine love. He seems 
 to us a deeply earnest man, really anxious to serve 
 his race. He speaks of Christianity like a Christian, 
 with eloquence, power, and truth. Pious cant, mere 
 ecclesiastical formalities, he treats with the scorn 
 they deserve. He makes them appear the very . de- 
 formities they are, and a real service to religion every 
 man does who exposes any of the forms of hypo- 
 cracy. We believe he will win men to truth and 
 faith, by his beautiful and striking contrast of reli- 
 gious pretensions and pharisaism, with simple and 
 unaffected goodness. He is a teacher of sincerity. 
 He would break down and remove all those forms 
 that tend to oppress, and limit within material 
 bounds, the free and loving human heart. With 
 him, forms of faith are nothing, while faith is every 
 thing. He here strikes at a truth which the world 
 is slow to learn, but one which lies at the centre of 
 all moral progress. He goes deeper than the partial, 
 varying human letter, into the deep and universal 
 spirit of Christ. 
 
 " The work contemplates social advancement and 
 reform. Herein is its immediate and chief practical 
 worth. We recognize a higher truth in it than in 
 any other writings that have come under our notice, 
 which advocate the reorganization of society. He 
 pleads for religion. He looks to it as the only agen- 
 cy existing in the world, great enough to work out 
 its regeneration ; and carefully does he distinguish 
 between the substance and the form, between the 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 357 
 
 dead letter and the living spirit. His faith in Chris- 
 tianity is sincere and deep. He believes in it as a 
 growing, ever-working force. To its keeping he 
 would entrust all human interests." 
 
 James E-ussell Lowell, in his ^' Fable for Critics," 
 paid tribute to it in this wise : — 
 
 " Margaritas, for him you have verified gratis ; 
 What matters his namel Why, it may be Sylvester 
 Judd, Junior or Junius, Ulysses or Nestor, 
 For aught I know or care; 'tis enough that I look 
 On the author of ' Margaret,' the first Yankee hook. 
 With the soul of Down East in't, and things further east. 
 As far as the threshold of morning at least, 
 Where awaits the fair dawn of the simple and true, \ 
 Of the day that comes slowly to make all things new/' 
 
 A very gratifying circumstance to the author 
 was the fact, that Mr. Darley, a young artist, also 
 rcJsiding at the South, who knew nothing of the 
 author's name or residence, was so much struck with 
 the graphic delineations of the book, and their truly 
 American character, that he devoted his pencil, in 
 the spirit of an amateur, to a series of outline illus- 
 trations, which testify alike to the skill of the artist 
 and the genius of the author. 
 
 In 1851, after undergoing a careful revision, 
 " Margaret " was stereotyped ; and a new edition, 
 much improved in external appearance, was pub- 
 lished in two volumes. 
 
 To this edition Mr. Judd prefixed the following 
 '' Note," dated Riverside, Augusta, May 12, 1851 : — 
 
 "It is now more than ten years since ' Margaret 
 was commenced. To-day is the revision of the work 
 ended. Not without sensibility has such a retrospect 
 
S$8 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 been gone through with. Old acquaintances and 
 familiar scenes of the imagination are not less im- 
 pressive than those of the actual world. The author 
 cannot retrace the ground of these pages, without 
 being reminded of some things he would forget, and 
 others that he is too fearful of losing. The book 
 was written out of his heart and hope. Has a 
 decade of years and experience vitiated or overset 
 aught of that heart and hope ? Going over the 
 book at this time is not precisely like a call on old 
 friends : it becomes a species of self-examination. 
 
 ^' In the result, as to the general character and 
 drift of the work, the author finds little to alter. 
 Not that he could write just such a book again : he 
 could not. But he cleaves to the ideas according to 
 which, and the objects for which, this was written. 
 
 " In the revision, sentences have been changed, 
 not sentiments ; and the expunging process has re- 
 spected words more than things. 
 
 " ^ Margaret ' was never designed for railroads : 
 it might peradventure suit a canal-boat. Rather is it 
 like an old-fashioned ride on horseback, where one 
 may be supposed to enjoy leisure for climbing hills, 
 and to possess curiosity for the trifles of the way. 
 
 " It is proper that some answer be given to obser- 
 vations that have been freely, and, it will not be 
 doubted, kindly bestowed on the author and his 
 labors : — 
 
 '' ' He is too minute ; he seems to be making out 
 a ship's manifest, instead of telling a plain story.' — 
 The book was written for the love of the thing ,• and 
 each item has been introduced with a love of it. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 Every bird has been watched, every flower pursued, 
 every foot-path traversed. No author can, indeed, 
 expect the public to share his tastes, or join his 
 recreations : he does solicit a charitable construction 
 of his spirit and purpose. 
 
 " ' He is vulgar.' — A popular tradition declares 
 tastes to be indisputable, and imparts to them an 
 authority which belongs only to revelation. We are 
 inclined to think there is a dispute about them ; and 
 the issue may as well be made up first as last. Is 
 what we call common life, are those who pass for 
 illiterate, uncultivated, ignorant people, their proper- 
 ties and reminiscences, here in New England, to be 
 regarded as vulgar ?-^ using the word in a certain 
 odious sense. To take an instance from the following 
 pages, — and that is where the question is carried, 
 
 — is Obed vulgar ? We aver that he is not. He is 
 an unrefined, rude, simple youth ; but in all his 
 relations to Margaret, — in all the little part he acts 
 in the scene, he is courteous, gentle, delicate, dis- 
 interested, pure. At least, he seems so to us. We 
 may have failed to report him fairly. But, allowing 
 him to be such, are we justified in pronouncing him 
 vulgar ? Is Nimrod to be accounted a vulgar-spoken 
 youth ? 
 
 ^' ^ He is unequal, grotesque, mermaiden, abrupt.' 
 
 — Here are involved the same questions as before. 
 What is vulgar, and what refined ; what noble, what 
 mean ? There are standards of taste valid and need- 
 ful. But is not the range of their application too 
 limited ? May not rough rocks have a place in 
 the fairest landscapes of nature or art ? May not a 
 
360 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 dark pool of water in the forest, with its vegetable 
 and animal adjuncts, mirror the stars ? Have we 
 not seen or heard of a cascade that starts, say, from 
 the blue of the skies, pours down a precipice of 
 rusty rock, and terminates in drift-wood and bog ? 
 Is that water bathetic 1 These are questions we do 
 not care to argue here and now. Are they not 
 worthy of consideration ? Have they no pertinence 
 to the subject in hand ? 
 
 " ' He is no artist.' — If what everybody says be 
 true, and what almost everybody says be almost 
 true, to this iterated charge we ought to gasp out 
 a peccavi, and be silent. But, good friends all, a 
 moment's indulgence. May there not be a moral, 
 as well as a material, plot ? a plot of ideas, as well as 
 of incidents ? * Margaret ' is a tale^ not of outward 
 movement, but of internal development. An obvious 
 part of its plan is the three epochs of the life of its 
 principal personage. Another part is the times in 
 which the scene lies. Rose belongs to the plot of 
 the book ; so does the Indian. Master EUiman has 
 been called a sort of diluted imitation of Dominie 
 Sampson. The plot of the book involved this ; that, 
 while Margaret grew up in, or contiguous to, a reli- 
 gious and civilized community, she should remain, 
 for the most part, unaffected by these influences ; yet 
 that she should not mature in ignorance, but should 
 receive quite an amount of a species of erudition. 
 To effect this, the master is introduced. The man- 
 agement of this part of the tale, it need not be said, 
 was one of the most difficult problems the author 
 had to encounter. To the general thread of the 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 361 
 
 drama a variety of things are attached, not one of 
 which, in the main, is not conceived to be tributary 
 to the gradual evolution of the whole. The purely 
 material accessories of the story, being deemed 
 quite insubordinate, are thrown in corners by them- 
 selves. 
 
 " The book takes our country as it emerges from 
 the Revolution, and does not bring it down to what 
 now is, but carries it up, or a portion of it, to what 
 it is conceived should be ; and the final denouement 
 may be found in the last part. In all this is system, 
 arrangement; precedent, effect, and due relation of 
 things. We have wished herein to be artistical : 
 certainly our feelings are not whimsical, neither is 
 our method governed by any conscious caprice. 
 How far we have succeeded, it is not for us to 
 say. We would thank certain ones, assayers of 
 literature, at least to consider what we have at- 
 tempted to do. 
 
 " To those who have been glad at what the author 
 has written, he extends the hope that they may never 
 regret their gladness. 
 
 " Those who disrelish his publications, he knows, 
 can find things in the book-stores to their liking ; 
 and he is sufficiently generous to wish them joy in 
 whatever line of reading their fancies or feelings 
 may adopt." 
 
 With the author's interpretation of himself just 
 given, we will lay aside "Margaret," and turn to 
 his second intellectual offspring. 
 
 31 
 
362 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 " PHILO/ 
 
 After finishing his first work, Mr. Judd found 
 that he had still certain moral ideas floating in his 
 brain, to which he had not given all the prominence 
 and definiteness he wished. He did not care to put 
 J them forth in the form of essays : he did not wish to 
 l/j discuss them in a formal manner in any way. He 
 ^"^d never accustomed himself to write in verse, 
 and had no ambition to set himself up as a poet. 
 But, in casting about for some mode of utterance for 
 his thoughts, he felt that the laws of verse would 
 offer many facilities, especially in not requiring a set 
 j>' form of discussion, and in allowing a style suffi- 
 ciently desultory to admit the variety of topics he 
 wished to introduce. 
 
 So he thought, at least, he would try the experi- 
 ment of versifying. And, seated in the kitchen, 
 with his feet upon the stove-hearth, near the close 
 of 1845, his wife discovered him, greatly to her 
 surprise, and with a little fear as to his sanity, per- 
 petrating the first lines of " Philo," in pencil, on a 
 scrap of paper he held in his hand. Thus he made 
 a beginning. And from time to time, when various- 
 ly employed, and sometimes in the most homely 
 ways, he might be seen taking a slip of paper from 
 his pocket, and with pencil writing down lines as 
 they came to mind. But these sibylline leaves at 
 length began to take the form of a systematic work. 
 Several scenes were written. And by and by the 
 author got courage to read them to a few of his 
 closest personal friends, with the consciousness with- 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 in himself that he was not a native-born poet, as 
 expressed in the lines, — 
 
 " Our minister is a new hand at rhymes ; 
 He rolls them off as teamsters bales of cotton; 
 Waits Art's more perfect day for the fine tissue! " 
 
 Many a hearty laugh had the select family-group 
 of listeners at these sittings, in which he himself 
 was not loth to join, as some rude measures or 
 unique expressions fell upon the ear. Yet from 
 them he received encouragement to proceed, and his 
 own power of versification increased as he went on. 
 The work grew to its destined size. It embodied 
 the ideas he wished to send forth on their mission 
 of love. He revised the manuscript with care, and 
 gave it completion in the commencement of 1848. 
 Phillips and Sampson, of Boston, issued it in one 
 volume in a handsome stereotype edition. 
 
 It was noticed by the papers and periodicals, much 
 after the fashion of the criticisms upon " Margaret," 
 — hailed by many as a true Evangeliad ; but b^^ 
 those who did not even understand the meaning of \ 
 the word, or sympathize in the idea which it ex-/ 
 pressed, it was of course condemned. 
 
 At the time this poem was composed, the Mexi- 
 can War was in progress, regrets for and lamenta- 
 tions over which seemed to penetrate the author, 
 even to the marrow of his bones. Among other 
 moral evils that were made the theme of caustic 
 satire and bitter mourning, this was the most promi- 
 nent burden of the song. 
 
 The name of the work, " Philo," was given with 
 reference to its character and mission. The grand 
 
364 AS AN AUTHOE. 
 
 design was, in the spirit of love, to hold up in their 
 true light the glaring inconsistencies between the 
 practices of this professedly Christian country, and 
 the spirit of the gospel of' Christ. It shows this in 
 the want of love among different denominations 
 bearing the Christian name ; in the sufferance of 
 man's enslaving his fellow-man ; in the hideousness 
 and heart-sickening horrors of war, that "hybrid 
 of sin and death ; " in the doctrine of expediency ; 
 in the rejection of the spirit of love, faith, and 
 hope; and other kindred points. It closes with a 
 vision of the general righting of all wrongs, of the 
 spiritual regeneration of the world, and the com- 
 mencement of a reign of peace and blessedness on 
 earth ; an age when seraphs shall chant anew — 
 
 " Glory to God in the highest, 
 On earth peace and good-will to man ! " 
 
 with a chorus of people chiming in, — 
 
 " Ages burst their silent tomb. 
 
 Years of God begin their round; 
 Prophecy fulfils its moans, 
 Earth in Christ transfigured lies.' 
 
 Mr. Judd's own key to the aim of this work will 
 be found in the letter following, — 
 
 To Rev. E. E. H. 
 
 "Augusta, Dec. 21, 1849. 
 
 *' My dear Sir, — Will you accept a copy of 
 ^ Philo,' and a brief claviary ? 
 
 "First, the book is an 'attempt.' __ 
 
 " Second, it is an epical or heroic attempt. 
 "Third, it would see if in liberal and rational 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 365 
 
 Christianity, and there is no other, and that is Uni- 
 tarianism, are epic and heroic elements. 
 
 "Fourth, it_remembers that Calvinism has its 
 ' Course of Time ; ' and it asks if Unitarianism, that 
 is, the innermost of reason and divinity, will have 
 any thing ; or rather, approaching, humbly of course, 
 the altar of Great Thought and Feeling, it would 
 like to know if it would be agreeable to that altar 
 to receive a little gift, a turtle-dove and a small 
 pigeon, of Unitarian faith and hope. ^ 
 
 "FiftTi, and correlatively, it asks if, in this very 
 sensible and sound age of ours, imagination must 
 needs be inactive, and awed by philosophy, utility, 
 steam. 
 
 " Sixth, and more especially, if any of the fore- 
 going points are admitted, the book seeks through 
 the medium of poetry to interpret prophecy. It 
 is conceived that prophecy, the Apocalypse for ex- 
 ample, was once poetry ; and moreover that we shall 
 fail to understand prophecy, until it is recast in its 
 original form. 
 
 " This observation applies particularly to that 
 most interesting, yet most enigmatical matter, the 
 second coming of Christ, &c. &c. 
 
 " What may be the fortune of ' Philo,' I am nei- 
 ther prophet nor poet enough to tell. 
 
 " I am not a beggar of applause, as I would not 
 be the pensioner of dulness. 
 
 *' With sincere regards, I am yours, &c. 
 
 •• Sylvester Judd." 
 
 To another person he writes : — 
 *^ It is not a collection of poems, but a treatment 
 31* 
 
 €) 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 of elevated Christian topics in blank verse. It is 
 designed to be full of hope to mankind ; it looks on 
 the brighter side of nature, man, death ; it is reforma- 
 tory and improving in its spirit ; it is (believed to 
 be) pervaded with love and good-will. 
 
 " I chose this way, rather than prose, because I 
 thought I could better express certain topics, feel- 
 ings, interests, in a poetical form than any other. It 
 belongs to the times. 
 
 " It is a book of liberal and progressive ideas ; it 
 is adapted to all who wish well to their country, the 
 church, or the world." 
 
 Again he writes to the Eev. E. E. H. : — 
 
 "Augusta, Jan. 11, 1860. 
 
 " My dear E. E. H. — I thank you for your let- 
 ter, and for all you say and think and feel about 
 ^ Philo,' and about any thing else, now and ever. 
 
 *^ But to the book : is the drift of it, or of any 
 portions of it, not sufficiently obvious ? Perhaps it 
 is not, and of course I am sorry. What is a lumi- 
 nous road to me may be a heap of odious stumbling- 
 blocks to some others. By dwelling upon certain 
 sentiments, ideas, things, we get far into them, and 
 forget at what a distance we have left the world 
 behind us ; we may even close the entrance after us, 
 and the world has no other notion of our where- 
 abouts than by certain subterranean hoUowings, the 
 precise place of which it is always difficult to iden- 
 tify. We are innocently guilty of a species of intel- 
 lectual ventriloquism. 
 
 "This applies to the topic, scriptural or metrical, 
 of the Advent, or a second coming of Christ. Thanks 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 367 
 
 possibly to Elder Miller, my attention some years 
 since was called to this subject. I examined the 
 New Testament with, care and candor. This is 
 the sum of my conclusions, — that Christ would 
 come into th*e world again, that he expected to come, 
 and promised to come. But how ? In the person of \ 
 his followers : in their virtues his would be repro- 
 duced, in their moral beauty his would be pro- 
 nounced; they would walk in his steps, bear his 
 cross, die his death, illustrate his life, and so per- 
 sonate him. The coming of Christ, and his revelation, 
 are terms used interchangeably by the evangelists, 
 and by the Saviour himself. So we read, 1 Cor. i. 7, 
 
 * Waiting for the coming of our Lord" (m. r. revela- 
 tion, uTTOKalvxpiv). So our Lord, Luke xvii. 30, speak- 
 ing of his coming, alludes to it as the day when the 
 Son of man shall be revealed. 
 
 "This coming, revelation, or advent, is moreover 
 a glorious event. ' He shall come with clouds and 
 great glory.' Here commences T the Orientalism, ( ) 
 or, as we should now say, the poetry, of the thing. 
 
 * The trump shall sound,' — a poetical allusion to 
 the jubilee fanfares of the Jews. * The dead shall 
 be raised; even now,' adds Christ, while he was 
 then speaking, ^they shall come forth from their 
 graves ; ' the dead in sin, the carnally deceased. The 
 theme is taken up by Paul, who expressly says, 
 
 * Christ is revealed in us ; ' Peter energetically echoes 
 the same idea, and speaks of the new heaven and 
 new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness ; and John, 
 in Patmos, finally throws the whole into a sublime 
 poem, prophecy, or what you will. 
 
368 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 " On this subject I have preached ; for this coming 
 I have prayed ; on it I have meditated ; and now, 
 finally, have made it a sort of thread on which to 
 string some pages of a book. 
 
 " Well, all this, this view of Scripture, this matter 
 of hermeneutics, is familiar to you, and to many 
 others. I cannot suppose it is familiar to everybody. 
 How far ought I to suppose it familiar to critics in 
 general ? 
 
 *^ I did think of appending an explanatory note ; 
 , but hoped, after all, that the text of the work would 
 explain itself. I do still think a careful reading will 
 make the thing plain. But ought we to presume on 
 y careful readers among the mass of those to whom 
 Phillips and Sampson may distribute copies ? I 
 know not if there be any danger of mistake ; I only 
 wish my friends, whoever they may be, that shall 
 undertake to review the book, may be set right. . . . 
 
 " I am so little acquainted with the machinery of 
 the literary world, that, on matters of this sort, I 
 hardly know what to say, or what not to say. 
 
 ^^I do not speak of uncandid minds, if there are 
 such, but of candid ; and should be sorry to have 
 such stumble, not perhaps at the threshold, but at 
 the postern, of the book. 
 
 ". * Margaret ' was a Christian consummation in a 
 / single neighborhood ; ' Philo ' is the same for the 
 land at large, and the whole world. It is a sort of 
 Christian estimate of the world ; its ultimate idea is 
 redemption by Christ. It admits of (poetical) super- 
 natural agencies in Gabriel, &c. It looks, from the 
 Christian or Christ's point of view, at men and 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 369 
 
 things in the world. The fancy of ^ the devil ' is 
 designed to drive the theological devil from the 
 world and from the universe. The doctrine of the 
 book is that no foreign, infernal, super-human agency 
 is allowed in the world. It teaches, moreover, that 
 A;he hope of the world lies in itself i in its men and 
 women, its wood and iron, and in the blessed gospel 
 of the Son of God, which also it has. N It alludes to- 
 the evils, and more particularly to that culminating 
 one, war. In Charles is expressed the sceptical, 
 profane, dark side of things, &c. &c. It winds up 
 with a poetical account of that which I believe to be 
 the consummation of the wish, purpose, and plan of 
 Jesus, — the Advent ; that which Christ most lite- 
 rally, truthfully, and earnestly conceived ; which was 
 to his eye the grandest of all visions, and which 
 he — and how could he do otherwise ? — spoke of 
 in terms borrowed from the imagination ; borrowed, 
 too, from the imagination of the sacred books of his 
 people ; borrowed from, and belonging to, the imagi- 
 nation of all times. 
 
 " Is this apparent, or is it closed to the common 
 reader of the book ? 
 
 " You allude to the Arians. Their history ought 
 to be written. Materials, I know, are scant, and 
 difficult of access ; but such a work would be an 
 admirable contribution to our theological literature, 
 to say nothing of the claims which the abused, worthy 
 dead have on the justice of the living. "Wont you 
 bestir yourself in this behalf? 
 
 " Yours, very truly." 
 
 And, with reference to the criticisms passed upon 
 
 
370 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 it, he says, in a letter to a brother: "While the 
 book has been gladly welcomed in some quarters, it 
 has been shamefully abused in others. It has been 
 trivially looked at, and trivially noticed. It has 
 been treated as a joke, while really it is one of the 
 most serious works ever written. Think of what 
 the ' Literary World ' charged upon ^ Philo,' — ^an 
 undisguised infidelity ' ! Compare that with the 
 language of our sainted brother, ' that it was full of 
 Jesus.' Are there no minds, are there not many 
 minds, to whom it might come as a book 'full of 
 Jesus'?" 
 
 " RICHARD EDNEY." 
 
 '^ Richard Edney and the Governor's Family " was 
 written mostly in the interval between the finishing 
 of " Philo " and its publication. A stereotype edi- 
 tion of it, in one volume, was published by Phillips 
 and Sampson, the last part of the same year in which 
 " Philo " was issued, 1850. This work underwent 
 the same general course of remark as the two pre- 
 vious ones ; some giving it a higher place than 
 *' Margaret," others regarding it as falling below that 
 in merit. 
 
 In its general scope and design, this work is kin- 
 dred with the other two, and animated by the same 
 kindling spirit of love for humanity and desires for 
 its elevation. It differs fi-om " Margaret," in repre- 
 senting our own times. ^_prominent aim is to show 
 that a man is what he makes himself; and that he 
 can, by his own inherent energies, make himself what 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 871 
 
 he ch ooses. Its bearing is to elevate the wor*king 
 classes ; to bring together, in kindly intercourse and 
 the interchange of good offices, the rich and the poor ; 
 and to confer on human labor the honor and dignity 
 which is its due. 
 
 Another idea, which entered largely into the con- 
 struction of the work, was to ^^ catch the manners 
 living as they rise ; " or rather, instead of creating 
 characters and scenes purely ideal, to take them 
 ready formed at his hand, as he found them in daily 
 life, in social intercourse, in his walks about town, 
 in his rural excursions. At the time of writing this, 
 his mind dwelt much on the fitness of thus drawing 
 from, the actual and real. Augusta, the bridge across 
 the Kennebec, its dam, its factories, its freshets, were 
 laid largely under contribution in the composition of 
 the work, although any one would do wrong to sup- 
 pose that " Woodylyn " was intended as a represen- 
 tation of that town, or, on the whole, answered to it. 
 So, also, individual families and persons formed the 
 basis of many delineations, though of no one could 
 it be said that he sat for the picture. Still there are 
 hints enough of local bearing and interest to give 
 a peculiar zest to those who are in the secret and 
 acquainted with the place. The truth to nature of 
 the description of the snow-storm with which the 
 book is ushered in, and the graphic portraiture of 
 the Stage-driver, have universally found admirers. 
 The children Memmy and Bebby have secured 
 friends among all the lovers of juveniles. The 
 " hard parting " of friends has received a sigh from 
 every mourner's breast ; to the " Athanatopsis " has 
 
37^ AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 been sent back a heavily tolling knell from the deep 
 recesses of the suffering heart. 
 
 The last chapter, entitled " Parting Words/' giv- 
 ing quite an insight into the genial humor and bene- 
 volent spirit of the book, as well as an intimation 
 of the objects of all the author's works, and his 
 explanation of himself in them, shall have some 
 place here. 
 
 " To those authors," he says, '^ from whom, in the 
 composition of this tale, we have borrowed, we re- 
 turn sincere thanks. If our publishers, who are 
 obliging gentlemen, consent, we would like to for- 
 ward a copy of the book to each of them. If they 
 dislike any thing of theirs in this connection, they 
 will of course withdraw it; should they chance to 
 like any thing of ours, they have full permission 
 to use it. This would seem to be fair. 
 
 ^* Pope Gregory VII. burned the works of Varro, 
 from whom Augustine had largely drawn, that the 
 saint might not be accused of plagiarism. "We have 
 no such extreme intention. First, it would be an 
 endless task. What consternation in the literary 
 world, should even the humblest author undertake 
 such a thing ! And such authors are the ones who 
 would be most inclined to cancel their obligations in 
 this way. We might fire the Cambridge Library ; 
 but, alas ! the assistant librarian, whose pleasant face 
 has beguiled for us so much weary research in those 
 alcoves, and, as it were, illuminated the black letter 
 of so many recondite volumes, — to see him shed- 
 ding tears over their ashes would undo us ! We are 
 weak there. Secondly, it comports at once with 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 373 
 
 manliness and humility to confess one's indebted- 
 ness. Thirdly^ as a matter of expediency, it is bet- 
 ter to avail one's self of a favorable wind and general 
 convoy to fame, than run the risk of being becalmed, 
 and perhaps devoured, on some private and unknown 
 route. But, lastly and chiefly, let it be recorded, 
 there is a social feeling among authors, — they cher- 
 ish convivial sentiments, — they are never envious 
 of a fellow ; there is not probably a great author liv- 
 ing but that, like a certain great king, would gladly 
 throw a chicken or a chicken's wing from his 
 feathered abundance to any poor author, and enjoy 
 its effect in lighting up the countenances of the poor 
 fellow's wife and children. Wherefore is it that 
 plagiarism, after all, is to be considered rather in the 
 light of good cheer and kindly intercourse, than as 
 evidence of meanness of disposition, or paucity of 
 ideas. To the tourist, who, with guide-book in 
 hand, and curious pains-taking, seeks to recover 
 scenes and places, fleetingly commemorated in these 
 pages, we are obliged to say, he will be disappointed. 
 This tale, in the language of art, is a composition, 
 not a sketch. There is no such city as Woodylin ; 
 or, more truly, we might affirm, the materials of it 
 exist throughout the country. Its population and its 
 pursuits are confined to no single locality, but are 
 scattered everywhere. Its elements of good, hope, 
 progress, may be developed everywhere. Would, 
 too, that whatever it contains prejudicial to human 
 weal might be depressed in all regions of the 
 earth ! 
 
 "To the book itself — 
 
 32 
 
37'4 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 ' VADE, LIBER,' 
 (GO, LITTLE BOOK,) 
 
 • Qualis, non ausim dicere, felix.' 
 (What will be your fortune, I cannot toll.) 
 
 * Vade tamen quocunque lubet, quascunque per oras, 
 I blandas inter charites, mystamque saluta 
 Musarum quemvis, si tibi lector erit. 
 
 Rura colas, urbemque.' 
 
 (Yet go wherever you like, — go everywhere, — go among kind people; 
 you may even venture to introduce yourself to the severer sort, if they 
 will admit you. Visit the city and the country.) 
 
 * Si criticus lector, tumidus censorque molestus, 
 Zoilus et Momus, si rabiosa cohors,' — approach, 
 
 * Fac fugias,' — fly. 
 
 * Laeto omnes accipe vultu, 
 
 Quos, quas, vel quales, inde vel unde viros.' 
 
 (Look cheerfully upon all, men and women, and all of every condition.) 
 
 " Go into farm-houses and rustic workshops ; call 
 at the homes of the opulent and the powerful ; visit 
 schools ; say to the minister you have a word for 
 the church. I know you will love the family : you 
 may stay in the kitchen ; and, as you are so neatly 
 dressed, and behave so prettily, they will let you 
 sit in the parlor. Let the hard hand of the laboring 
 classes hold you ; nor need you shrink from the soft 
 hand of fair maiden. Speak pleasantly to the little 
 children ; — I need not fear on that score ; — speak 
 wisely and respectfully to parents ; you may enter 
 the haunts of iniquity, and preach repentance there ; 
 you may show your cheerful face in sordid abodes, 
 and inspire a love for piety and blessedness. Go 
 "West — go South : you need not fear to utter a true 
 word anywhere. Especially, and these are your pri- 
 vate instructions, speak to our young men, and tell 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 375 
 
 them not to be so anxious to exchange the sure 
 results of labor for the shifting promise of calcula- 
 tion ; tell them that the hoe is better than the yard- 
 stick. Instruct them that the farmer's frock and the 
 mechanic's apron are as honorable as the merchant's 
 clerk's paletot, or the student's cap. Show them 
 how to rise in their calling, not out of it ; and that 
 intelligence, industry, and virtue are the only decent 
 way to honor and emolument. Help them to bear 
 sorrow, disappointment, and trial, which are wont to 
 be the lot of humanity. And, more especially, 
 demonstrate to them, and to all, how they may be 
 
 GOOD AND DO GOOD. 
 
 ^' Should inquiries arise touching your parentage 
 and connections, — a natural and laudable curiosity, 
 which, as a stranger in the world, you will be expected 
 to enlighten, — you may say that you are one of 
 three, believed to be a worthy family, comprising two 
 brothers and one sister ; that, a few years since, your 
 author published the history of a young woman, 
 entitled ' Margaret, a Tale of the Eeal and the 
 Ideal ; ' and that at the same time, and as a sort of 
 counterpart and sequel to this, he embraced the 
 design, of writing the history of a young man, and 
 you are the result. The first shows what, in given 
 circumstances, a woman can do ; the last indicates 
 what may be expected of a man : the first is more 
 antique ; the last, modern. Both are local in action, 
 but diffusive in spirit. In the meantime, he has 
 written ' Philo, an Evangeliad ; ' cosmopolitan, oecu- 
 menical, sempiternal, in its scope ; embodying ideas 
 rather than facts, and uniting times and places ; and 
 
376 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 cast in the only form in whicli such subjects could 
 be disposed of, — the allegoric and symbolical ; or, 
 as it is sometimes termed, the poetic. The two first 
 are individual workers ; the last is a representative 
 life. ' Philo ' is as an angel of the everlasting gos- 
 pel ; you and ^ Margaret/ one in the shop, and the 
 other on the farm, are practical Christians. However 
 different your sphere or your manners, you may say 
 you all originate, on the part of your author, in a 
 single desire to glorify God and bless his fellow-men. 
 ' Philo ' has been called prosy ; ' Margaret ' was 
 accounted tedious. You, ^Eichard,' I know, will 
 appear as well as you can, and be what you are, — 
 honest certainly, pleasing if possible. 
 
 " God bless thee, little book, and anoint thee for 
 thy work, and make thee a savor of good to many ! 
 "We shall meet again in other years or worlds. May 
 we meet for good, and not for evil ! If there is any 
 evil in thy heart or thy ways, God purge it from 
 thee." 
 
 Another work of Mr. Judd's, in unpublished 
 manuscript, is denominated " The White Hills, an 
 American Tragedy." Its titlepage bears date, Sept. 
 8, 1851; 3, P.M. Ther. 90^ 
 
 A *' Note " on the first page reads thus : " This 
 Drama contains an allusion to the following passage, 
 which may be found in Sullivan's History of Maine : 
 ^The White Mountains have a singular appearance, 
 when viewed from a distance : their tops are white 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 377 
 
 like snow. There was an early expectation of find- 
 ing a gem, of immense size and value, on this moun- 
 tain : it was conjectured, and it is yet believed by 
 some, that a carbuncle is suspended from a rock over 
 a pond of water there. While many, in the early 
 days of the country's settlement, believed this re- 
 port, each one was afraid that his neighbor should 
 become the fortunate proprietor of the prize, by 
 right of prior possession. To prevent this, credit 
 was given to the tale of the natives, that the place 
 was guarded by an evil spirit, who troubled the 
 waters, and raised a dark mist, on the approach of 
 human footsteps. 
 
 " ' There was another tradition, that three hills of 
 rocks were situated up Saco River, about forty miles 
 from the sea, as full of silver as the mines of Peru. 
 Fully persuaded of this, William Phillips, of Saco, 
 purchased these mountains of Captain Sunday, a 
 Sachem, in the year 1660 ; but he or his posterity 
 have never been able to possess the expected wealth 
 from these hills.' " 
 
 The drama is in five acts. It is written mainly in' 
 blank verse, and is allegorical in character. Its aim, 
 like that of his other works, is chiefly moral; its 
 object being to mirror the consequences of a man's 
 devoting himself to an all-absorbing love of gain, — 
 to the supreme worship of Mammon. The basis of 
 the idea was suggested by the general rage for Cali- 
 fornia gold, which, for a year or two before its com- 
 mencement, had been so rife amongst almost all 
 classes of the community. The Dramatis Personae 
 are^ 
 
 32» 
 
 ^ 
 
378 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 NoRMAND, a student. 
 
 Leirion, the Betrothed of Normand. 
 
 The Mother of Normand. 
 
 Mammon. 
 
 Vafer, the Witch-mother. 
 
 TuRPis, the Witch-daughter. 
 
 ' > The Witch-relatives. 
 Sklerote, 3 
 
 The Giant of the Hills. 
 
 A Child. 
 
 Sundry Casual Persons. 
 
 The Scene — America, Time — The Present Time. 
 
 In Normand, the principal character, is shown 
 how one who makes money-getting the great object 
 of life is led on, step by step, to sacrifice affection, 
 integrity, conscience ; to barter soul and body in the 
 pursuit. He is a young student, of noble mind and 
 aspiring aims, who suffers in his soul a sense of the 
 curse and sting of pinching poverty. He cares not 
 for wealth in itself considered, but for the valuable 
 gratifications which it brings, and the respect and 
 consideration which he regards unattainable without 
 it. He is attached, in fervent love, to Leirion, a 
 pure and heavenly-minded girl; but poverty will 
 not allow him to endow her as he feels she merits. 
 His boyhood's years were near to heaven in their 
 gentleness and love. On him centre the earnest 
 prayers of his blind old mother. He wears a cross, 
 a dying gift of a dear brother. To nature's kind 
 and holy voice, his heart is tenderly attuned. All 
 good influences encircle him around, and sacred 
 associations bind him to the path of duty. But this 
 is the burden of his heart : — 
 
AS AN AUTHOR, 379 
 
 " Alas ! I'm poor. What is it to 
 Be poor ? Is it to lack bread, credit, smiles, 
 Attendance 1 To be hungry, cold ? 'Tis not 
 To want, but not to be. 'Tis that one's wants 
 Become one's being, and his hates his masters. 
 'Tis to feel mean, before some meaner clay 
 That one would spit upon. 'Tis not to suffer, 
 But to be pitied ; it is not to need. 
 But not to dare to ask. 'Tis not that men 
 Neglect me : it is that I shrink from them, 
 Abjure the sun, and hide me from the street, 
 And hesitate at gentle courtesies 
 Of woman. This is to be poor. I could 
 Endure, defy perdition, kiss despair ; 
 But let me be respected. With a proud 
 And lofty mind, I'm no man's peer ; down, down. 
 Abject, dependent. I am not a slave : 
 I wish I were. I hate the poor : of all 
 That God hath made, they are the vilest thing." 
 
 While thus giving way to these maddening 
 thoughts. Mammon, in the guise of a modern gen- 
 tleman, enters, learns his trouble, and leads him to a 
 spot from which the White Hills are visible in the 
 distance. Mammon waves a wand, and bids him look ; 
 and at length gives him a glass, through which he 
 sees the immense size and radiance of the pearl. 
 His soul is fired with the view, and he determines 
 to snatch the prize ; but he is warned by Mammon 
 of the peril of attacking the guarding genius, and 
 the hopelessness of attempting to do it in the condi- 
 tion in which he then was. Mammon, however, 
 directs him to the witch Yafer, who will " rake the 
 peril from his path." He also bids him abjure her 
 
380 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 he loves, and the cross he bears about him ; and 
 Normand, in the wild excitement of the moment, is 
 ready to surrender every thing for the gratification 
 of this one over-mastering passion. He enters into 
 compact with Mammon, commits himself to the 
 clutches of the god of riches. Then come the re- 
 action, the misgivings, the loss of inward peace, the 
 remembrance of his innocent childhood, of his blind 
 mother's prayers, of his beloved Leirion, of his dead 
 brother's pious influences ; and he is wretched. But 
 he is fairly entangled : he has consented that gold 
 shall be his god, and he cannot escape. He is led 
 further and further into a mesh of sin and guilt, 
 from which he has not power to extricate himself. 
 
 But ever and anon return upon him tender me- 
 mories of earlier days, and the gentle influences of 
 nature, from the power of which he cannot escape, 
 and yet to which he will not yield. And thus goes 
 on, through his whole career, a terrible conflict with 
 his better nature; striking contrasts and struggles 
 of feeling, with a fearful apprehensive foreboding as 
 to the final result. The several phases of his state 
 furnish some most striking scenes, in which the 
 light and shade are blended with great effect. 
 
 Vafer, Turpis, Pernix, and Sklerote, the witch- 
 family, are personifications of the qualities their 
 names import ; and the chief thread of the drama is 
 a succession of scenes formed in accomplishing their 
 requirements. The interviews with the witches are 
 managed very much after the Shaksperian manner. 
 All weird elements are made to bear their part in 
 the charm Normand is to weave, by which to palsy 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 381 
 
 the power of the guardian of the pearl, and thus to 
 overcome him. 
 
 The accompanying scenery is varied, rich, and 
 striking, including views of the White Hills, the 
 Notch, the Old Man of the Mountain, the Basin, the 
 Flume ; also of Lake George with its many islands, 
 Saratoga, a city Exchange, the humble cottage of 
 Leirion, &c., &c. 
 
 It will not be attempted here to go into a minute 
 analysis of the whole piece, or to do any thing like 
 justice to its merits. As has been shown, the scenes 
 are laid in spots familiar and endeared to the travel- 
 ler for pleasure ; and, in the preparation of the work, 
 Mr. Judd made successive journeys to the "White 
 Hills, and also visited in person the seat of other 
 scenes, and hence he was able to give to his represen- 
 tations a remarkable freshness and truth of coloring. 
 
 Specimens of the work will be given, in random 
 extracts, here and there. The first which follows is 
 from Normand's strugglings with himself in sight 
 of the hills, the day after entering into compact with 
 Mammon : — 
 
 " Was it some spiritual trance, a scene evoked 
 In fever's fitful change, or history 
 Of natural things ? Bright to the uttermost, 
 It weighs on me like gloomy death, or sigh 
 Disastrous, 'splendent death, auroral grave, 
 Down which, with all my better life, I plunged. 
 Reflection, like a tempest, sweeps my heart 
 Of every trace of pleasure ; sadness reigns. 
 The hills, in their calm fires, — they mock 
 Me not. The sumptuousness of rest is theirs, 
 As holy sabbath-time, white as a bride. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 Behind me, Mammon ; 'neath, above, around, 
 Is God, my better self, my childhood dreams. 
 And ah ! my Leirion. Which most inclines ? 
 What am I ? Changed from what I was, or such 
 Self-questioning had never passed these lips. 
 Conscience is dead, stone dead ; the bent and aim 
 I cherished of a higher good in life, 
 More consonant with virtue, of deserved 
 Renown, and benefit to human kind. 
 If living, burns like a forgotten lamp. I dare 
 Not think of what I was, I am so changed. — 
 Normand ! a voice calls Normand. Normand is 
 Not here. If I look like myself, it is 
 As frozen pippins that keep up the blush 
 And general transcript of a life that's fled. 
 
 The hills gleam, blazing to their crystal core. 
 The pale pearl like a globed rainbow burns ; 
 And my ambition takes a gayer hue. 
 Ambition ? 'Tis revenge and trick 
 Heroic on the temper of the times. 
 That makes of gold a god, and penury 
 A crime. I will be rich : I'll have estates, 
 A seal, blood, quality, and living ; 
 Some right of way along this crowded world ; 
 The smiles of art, and thanks of charity. 
 Had I the means, I'd do extensive good 
 As any man. I'll rise, and so un-god 
 The age, and purge this odium from man. 
 
 Abjure the cross ! The latchet of my dress — 
 A little thing, my brother gave it me, 
 A parting gift, and, with his parting breath, 
 Hoped I would wear it for his sake, not its. 
 One hung on it, and bore our sins. He chid 
 Temptation, and, when Mammon tendered him 
 The pearl, refused it. Empire, glory, all 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. $SB 
 
 The world can offer, more than it contains, 
 
 Were not a flexure in his even course 
 
 Of holiness and truth. The cross this saitii, 
 
 And more than speech, the rhetoric of form 
 
 Uttering a world of things in two straight lines. 
 
 I must away with it, as erst they did 
 
 With him. Why hesitate ? It doth denote 
 
 What I have thought about, and sometimes loved. 
 
 Is that of consequence ? What sediment 
 
 Of pain is at the bottom of my nature, 
 
 And makes me all a turbid deep of woe ? 
 
 I'll none of it. Up, covetous design, 
 
 And dash to earth the cross ! " 
 
 He seeks a parting interview with Leirion. The 
 spot is a cottage, embowered in woodbine and shrub- 
 bery. In a room, with open windows, set with 
 books, a harpsichord, ornaments of rustic art, and 
 furniture of simple use, Leirion is seen embroidering 
 a cross. Normand, undiscovered, looks in at the 
 window, and retires. 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 I cannot enter. Nook of paradise. 
 
 With a bright angel in it ! It is no place 
 
 For me. I'm lost, not callous or malign ; 
 
 And contrast makes me lonely, dreadfully 
 
 Alone. Back of the cottage is the sky. 
 
 And back of this is heaven. And she's in heaven. 
 
 Whose awful azure glories her with heart 
 
 Of maiden innocence and holy peace ; 
 
 While I retreat to what I am, to gaze 
 
 Across a pathless gulf on what I was. 
 
 Leirion, perceiving Normand, calls to him, and 
 he goes into the house. 
 
384 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 Leieion. 
 Art thou well ? Sit here ; let me see thine eye. 
 
 NoRMAND, pacing the room, 
 I love to try the air as swallows do, 
 Where thou hast breathed. 
 
 Leibion. 
 Does thy head ache of work, 
 Or brain of thought, or heart of any thing ? 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 I wish I were a bird, and I would sing 
 To thee ; a brook, and I would babble thee ; 
 A woman, I would be thee ; or a man. 
 And I would wed thee. 
 
 Leirion. 
 
 Thou art a man. 
 
 NOBMAND. 
 
 A poor one. 
 Leieion. 
 That is a circumstance quite out of time ; 
 I would not touch it ; I'll sing thee a song. 
 
 NoEMAND, earnestly. 
 Tell me, why do you love me, Leirion ? 
 
 Leirion, smiling. 
 Because 'tis natural to love. For love 
 Of thee, I love thee. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 Has't no obvious ground 
 Of prudence or reserve, or some delight 
 Of private feeling ? 
 
 Leirion. 
 To tell thee what thou knowest, — 
 That thou weH good and true, and aimed at greatness ; 
 And more, thou wouldst ennoble all thy means ; 
 True honor decked the spring-time of thy deeds ; 
 Thou sparkledst in sincerity as dew ; 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 38$ 
 
 Like youth of Athens, who with torches ran, 
 So thou, nor wouldst in darkness win the race. 
 Does that content thee ? 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 Ay, well, very well. 
 Leibion. 
 But something frets content, and as a moth 
 Ahout the lustre of thy gladness plays. 
 Thy eye is seared as there were drought upon't, 
 Thy look not cheerful as it used to he ; 
 Abstraction seals thy lips, like funeral-time, 
 Or fearfulness, or what they say is sin. 
 Thy hand is cold ; so cold, I should be sad 
 Enough, save that thy heart is warm. Do not 
 Withdraw it ; it will freeze away from me. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 And with thee burn, burn a consuming fire. 
 
 Leirion. 
 Fond, foolish twattler ! 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 'Twill be poor to thee, — 
 Poor as ingratitude, despite, and scorn. 
 
 Leirion. 
 We will be poor together. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 'Twill be accursed. 
 Leirion. 
 I could bear want or any thing with thee. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 And I with thee and for thee ; to thee I'll 
 Not bring the bitter load. 
 
 Leirion. 
 We shall be free 
 With moderate desires, rich from content. 
 And passing happy in each other's love. 
 33 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 NORMA-ND. 
 
 Whence fertile ease, illustrious action whence, 
 The charms of culture, or e'en nature's joys ? 
 
 Leirion. 
 From our good souls, love, worth a mint a year. 
 
 NoRMAND, looking from the window^ agitated. 
 The hills, — e'en here they lift to view, and force 
 This traitorous passion into dread relief. 
 Soft you, my love. Hast note of distant wealth ? 
 
 Leirion. 
 Too far for empire, and too vain for thought. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 A gem-capped mountain, Alpine opulence. 
 
 Leirion. 
 I've seen the milkmaids whisper of the tale ; 
 And every one did seem to tread on graves. 
 An evil spirit hath possession there ! 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 Let not thy fears so on thy knowledge tread. 
 And I will body out the simple facts. 
 
 Leirion. 
 And evils every way encompass it ! 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 It can be compassed by this single arm. 
 
 Leirion. 
 Which must endue itself in sorcery ! 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 We need it. 
 
 Leirion. 
 Here's a pretty pattern wrought 
 With my poor cunning. \^Shows the cross.'] 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 That alarum here ! 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 387 
 
 Leibion. 
 Thou usedst to peruse the sacred page ; 
 Let this thy progress tally and thy life ; 
 At turn of every day, make it a Mentor. 
 If e'er temptation seize thy inward thought, 
 Or thy uprightness bend before the stress 
 Of ills that try us all, this thy support. 
 Where is thy brother's gift ? Thou didst forget 
 To wear it. Or if, by accident, 
 'Tis lost, keep this in memory of that. 
 
 NOKMAND. 
 
 I must away. 
 
 Leirion, aside. 
 Ah ! deeper than I deemed 
 Is his distress. His natural faculty 
 Is hurt, and nerves distraught. 
 
 NoRMANi), aside. 
 
 Ne'er of myself 
 Be I the master, if not now. » 
 
 Leirion. 
 My Normand ! [holding the cross to him.'] 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 No more of that. Kiss me, my Leirion ; 
 And fare thee well ! 
 
 Leirion. 
 Going, and so ? No more 
 My Normand ? Nor can I add a fare-thee-well ! 
 
 Normand. 
 Take heart. 
 
 Leibion. 
 This heart bursts on the cross it made. 
 Normand, turning hack as he goes. 
 Dearest, I will return with goodly spoil. 
 To deck reunion, and to crown our love. 
 
388 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 Leirion. 
 This slight is fatal both to him and me. 
 
 NOEMAND. 
 
 One gentle look ! 
 
 Leirion. 
 I ne'er shall see him more. 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 Wilt pray for me ? 
 
 Leirion. 
 He does a prayerless thing. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 O heavenly Leirion ! 
 
 Leirion. 
 Ah, lost, lost Normand ! 
 
 At midnight, in a lonely place of rock, wood, and 
 water, Normand, awaiting the appearance of the 
 witch-mother, Vafer, thus speaks : — 
 
 Stars, glittering sentinels of sleeping space ; 
 Thou moon, whose silver lustre blesses earth ; 
 Ye deep and vaulted mysteries of nature, 
 In hill or glade, that keep your hoarded wealth ; 
 Silence, that hushes up the universe, — 
 Ye are but parts of what I am, or types 
 Of what I shall be. Life and hope exalt 
 My venturous step, and crown the lonesome hour. 
 Ah, Leirion, too timid, too precise, 
 Almost unjust, so exquisitely pure ! 
 Thou wouldst forgive and sympathize in this, 
 And let these joys thrill thy severer heart. 
 f The vapors rise amain, and veil — ah ! yes, 
 Diffusive lustre — veil in brilliancy 
 The dubious moon. So I, in shadows merged. 
 Shall pour on them my light, and through them shine. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. S89 
 
 The fogs increase, and darkness shuts me in ; 
 Yon moon declines ; the sorcerer's moment comes. 
 This humid lowland air is chilly. On ! 
 Good courage ! girt in genial hope, go on. 
 
 An unseen nook breathes sassafras and mint, 
 And scent of fern ; and here are phosphor-sticks, 
 Gleaming like fiery reptiles in my path. 
 I used, a boy, to gather them, and loved 
 The woods, and tangled crevices, and dark 
 And wizard ravines, when others feared. 
 I'll not fear now. Toss a pebble down this chasm ; 
 See if 'twill waken her, and haste my hour. 
 
 The witch-mother, Yafer, rises from the rocks, 
 with hair of bramble-roots, and vesture of skins of 
 earth-worms ; in her hand a piece of punk on fire. 
 
 Hail, powers of earth ! Hail, mother of all craft ! 
 
 Vafer. 
 No time for ceremony ; let us woris. 
 The pearl thy aim ? the giant and the lake 
 Thy dread ? Dost seek our aid ? Wilt do as bid ? 
 Thou art a ready, docile fellow, meet 
 For fortune, fame, and all conceptive good. 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 Most gracious and potential minister ! 
 
 Vafer. 
 First, thou must get thy mother's blessing. 
 
 * NoRMAND. 
 
 My mother ? 
 
 Vafer. 
 Thy mother. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 Her pure and pious hand would light a curse 
 On what I do. 
 
390 AT AN AUTHOR. 
 
 Vafer. 
 Her blessing. Dost thou hear ? 
 What she, but most uncertain dam ? 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 Enough ; 
 I'll kill thee, witch. 
 
 Vafer. 
 Of that most dubious thing, 
 Called Normand, littered chance, another form 
 That might have taken, and been surnamed a dunce. 
 Her blessing get, as thou wert bastarded ; 
 A miser's curse, and put them in a bag ; 
 A cat, wherein a dead man's soul inhabits ; 
 A cricket from the hearth of a burnt house, 
 In whose deserted chimney thou shalt sit 
 The night ; where, o'er a bright and verdant brook, 
 A roofless saw-mill, struck by ruin, hangs. 
 Some dust ; feed cat and cricket with the dust ; 
 In feted beer-shop get a drunkard's penny ; 
 From some good smith one beaded drop of sweat ; 
 A sprig of sorrel from thy brother's grave. 
 Our art is chemical : from wondrous sorts, 
 And test of stubborn things, the charm is wrought. 
 
 A wise word get 
 
 From the old mountain-man ; the flume shall yield 
 A bubble, and the basin's sparkling bed 
 An emerald ; a rainbow fetch that spans 
 The silver cascade ; bring from Echo Pond 
 One cheering note ; on Kearsage's breezy top 
 A willow basket weave, and put therein 
 Seven crow-berries. 
 
 Normand. 
 This spurs attempt. 
 And lures my spirit on. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 391 
 
 Vaper. 
 Thou dost perchance 
 On doting maiden dotingly incline, — 
 A common thing, and, in its way, quite well. 
 
 NOEMAND. 
 
 Too well to be discussed at this late hour. 
 
 . Vafer. 
 As Hagar to that ancient saint, be she 
 To thee ! 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 Thou askest what, if given, were more 
 Ten thousand times than thou canst recompense. 
 
 Vapeb. 
 Our Turpis cheerless waits the happy hour 
 To wed with thee. Pernix and Sklerote, 
 Our cousins twain, will groom the festive scene. 
 
 NOBMAND. 
 
 Is there no second thought ? 
 Vapeb. 
 
 A dozen, so 
 You will. Let them not loiter. 
 
 NoEMAND. 
 
 To thy wish. 
 Mother, and prudent counsel, I'm beholden. 
 
 The scene with his poor, blind, old mother, whom 
 he finds in her lowly farm-house knitting for him, 
 as he goes to seek her blessing, and also that in 
 which he seeks the sorrel on the grass-covered grave 
 of his dead brother, are full of tenderest pathos, 
 mixed with keen remorse. His watching for the 
 cricket in darkness, wind, and storm, in a solitary 
 place, amid the ashes on the hearth-stone of a burnt 
 dwelling, and his musings as he sits, send a shudder 
 
39^ AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 through one's frame. So on he goes, from scene to 
 scene, accomplishing the demands of the witch, 
 which are to form the potent charm. Interesting 
 dialogues, on various themes, ensue between him 
 and those with whom he comes in contact. 
 
 To the Exchange he resorts for the miser's curse. 
 There is a gathering of merchants on the walk ; 
 and at the foot of the columns that form the front 
 of the building, crouched in corners, sit huckster- 
 women. Normand surveys the scene from the plat- 
 form above. 
 
 Normand. 
 My dreams are here transactions ; 
 My choicest fancies reckon dividends. 
 No vulgar sweat, or boorish ruddiness, 
 A richer paleness thrones the countenance, — 
 The color of old gold, of long-enjoyed 
 Inheritance, and undisturbed resource. 
 That man is thin : a railroad has gone out 
 Of him. This, plump — tokay and stalled beef. 
 That snaps his fingers, lightnings bear the hint 
 Away. Here one marks with his cane the pave, 
 New cities rise. Another folds his vacant arms 
 As only wealth knows how. How rich a lip ! 
 It hangs a liquid ruby on the face. 
 The President this style of men consults ; 
 Reporters pet, and empire heeds their words. 
 What wives and daughters, ministers and grounds. 
 What winter operas, what summer tours, 
 Gleam in those eyes, and gladden all routine ! 
 I shall not find the " curse " in such a spot. 
 'Tis blessings mart, and bourse of happiness. 
 But I am poor, and meaner than the dirt 
 The scavenger collects beneath their feet. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 393 
 
 Let me go down, and with the hucksters idle. 
 I'll buy an apple ; dare as much as that 
 Beneath these columns, and before these gods. 
 Haply, the curse is squat behind a stall. 
 
 He talks with a huckstress, who, in reply to a 
 remark of his, answers, — 
 
 The air is well enough, if they would allow a poor 
 woman to raise a screen against the sun. 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 They are generous men. 
 
 The Huckstress. 
 To their dogs and horses. 
 
 NOBMAND. 
 
 How infatuated is poverty ; how unjust ! [^aside,"] They 
 are golden men. 
 
 • The Huckstress. 
 And alack have no coppers for me. 
 
 He goes back, and talks with one of the men on 
 'Change, and finally obtains the " curse," in conse- 
 quence of asking of him a penny which is due the 
 poor woman for the apple he just had. 
 
 A very touching scene occurs between Normand 
 and the young, innocent boy of the smith, from 
 whom he seeks the drop of sweat, and who happens 
 to bear his name, thus reviving tender reminiscences 
 of his own childhood. 
 
 A cavern in a small, wooded island ' in Lake 
 George is the abode of the witches, to which he 
 resorts. In front of the cavern is a portico of skele- 
 tons, garnished with serpents and poisonous skins. 
 Within is a fire of drift-wood, tended by dwarfs. 
 
394 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 The attendants of the witch family are swine, owls, 
 wasps, bull-beggars, Simon Magi, Pick-thanks, Mes- 
 merizers, E-appers, and other strange beings. 
 
 As the marriage-ceremony between Normand and 
 Turpis is about to be performed by Simon Magus, a 
 dimly luminous shadow of Leirion, with the cross, 
 appears, and causes the witch-party to vanish. 
 
 At Saratoga, amid the noise of revelry in the 
 various pavilions, and promenaders walking under 
 the trees, he falls in with Narcissa, a young lady of 
 great wealth, who, tired of gayety and frivolity, is 
 glad to hold earnest discourse with him, although 
 his poverty-stricken appearance makes him the butt 
 of ridicule with others. 
 
 At length, after many adventures, wedded to 
 Turpis, and equipped with the proper charm, he 
 sets out for the hills, strong in belief that the prize 
 is just within his grasp. Overtaken by night in the 
 wilderness, travel-sore and faint, he applies at a 
 solitary house for admittance, but is refused on 
 account of his suspicious appearance. A raven, the 
 metamorphosis of Vafer, alights on a stump near 
 him. He pushes on, the raven flying before, and 
 finally perching on the steps of a rustic church, 
 standing alone by the wayside. The church is 
 lighted, and appears to contain an assembly of peo- 
 ple. He drives the bird from the steps, and sits 
 thereon himself. He hears singing within : — 
 
 Return, my roving heart, return, 
 
 And chase these shadowy forms no more ; 
 
 Look ont some solitude to mourn, 
 And thy forsaken God implore. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. $(^ 
 
 FaeacheB) within. 
 What if you gain the world, and lose your soul, &c. 
 
 This is a highly wrought scene. Finding himself, 
 as he says, — 
 
 " By ingle and by altar equal banned," — 
 
 he rises hastily and departs. A procession of fairies, 
 bearing a dead soul, crosses his path, chanting, — 
 
 Follow we along, 
 Withouten bell or song. 
 Who left it thus to die ? 
 Who sinned so wofuUy ? 
 By the murmuring water's side. 
 Where jBiowery voices glide. 
 
 Bear it gently, 
 
 Bury it tenderly. 
 
 He looks upon this as the obsequies of his own 
 soul. 
 
 In the beginning of the fifth, the last act of the 
 drama. Norm and is found at the White Hills. It is 
 night : he is at the Notch, alone. He gazes upon 
 the towering heights which hem him in, and thus 
 utters his emotion : — 
 
 Ye hills ! ye dumb and rayless attributes 
 And forms of all of the Eterne, we know 
 Or feel of mystery ! that crowd, sublime, 
 My horizon, and my very vision blind, 
 To swell within me pathos, grandeur, awe ! 
 That lift and calm, subdue and aggrandize. 
 That overwhelm, yet as in silent rhythm 
 The soul of darkness giving ; terrible. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 Still down these cheeks distilling sweetest tears. 
 
 How still the mountains ! as if God were all 
 In all ; whose calm and bright beneficence, 
 / / Softly diffused in silvern, silent moon. 
 
 Doth so englory soul and place, and shade 
 
 And height, as we were in eternity. 
 
 And sight were bliss, and consciousness a worship. 
 
 He falls in with various parties of pleasure. Nar- 
 cissa and her companions join him ; and they go on 
 to Echo Lake. He meets a poor artist, who is 
 excited by the grandeur of the scenery, and com- 
 plains that, — 
 
 These days, there is so little love of art, 
 
 That bread stands bailiff at the doors of genius. 
 
 A cannon is fired. They hear the echo, then 
 another. In the boat, Aonida, a favorite artiste, 
 sings : — 
 
 Wake, glorious heart ; wake at our call ! 
 
 Oaoo, oaoo ! 
 A merry band, in rapturous thrall. 
 To joy in Grandeur's silent home. 
 With lyre and song, afar, we come. 
 
 Aha, aha ! 
 Mid fountains, mid the evergreen. 
 In paths that eye hath never seen. 
 With rose-bay crowned, and winds at play, 
 Oh, beautiful, and maiden gay, — 
 
 La la, la la ! 
 
 Scene II. finds Normand on the top of Profile 
 Eock, where sits, as — 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 39T 
 
 In a world 
 Of summer blue, serene as adamant, 
 A tough old man, who thinks Inuch, and says less. 
 
 All that he can draw from him, by his most ear- 
 nest conjurations to speak, are the oracular words, — 
 
 Patience, the sun will rise ; 
 Silence, fate makes no noise ; 
 Courage, the world works well. 
 
 Scene III. is at the Basin, where, on thrusting his 
 arm into the water, the Spirit of the Basin rises, 
 talks with him, finally gives him a chrysoprase, and 
 disappears. The artist approaches, and they again 
 discuss his art. 
 
 Scene IV. At the Saco Notch, Normand engages 
 a guide. They traverse the mountains together ; and 
 Normand seeks from him something of his family 
 history in early times among these mountains, and 
 of the legend of the pearl. Normand proposes he 
 should sell to him the hills. The guide rephes, — 
 
 In all these haunts 
 And pleasant things, yield me the right of way, 
 I should not mind who held the fee. Like trees, 
 We are rooted beings, growing to our birthplace. 
 I've roamed these woods, and clambered every height, 
 The roe-buck tamed, and wrestled with the lynx ; 
 The lowly coons, and mighty dome of rock, 
 That shrubless, wintry, crowns the whole, are dear. 
 There yet are unknown crypts and mystic caves, 
 And nameless things that never saw the light. 
 
 I 
 
 I wake with cascades for my morning psalm ; 
 34 
 
398 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 My sleep is soothed with murmuring forest-winds ; 
 
 And thunder, terrible beyond conceit 
 
 Of lowland dwellers, is my Sunday organ. 
 
 NORMAND. 
 
 Shade of Bach ! what effect ! These ancient towers, 
 
 And long-drawn aisles, and tinted lights, with such 
 
 A pipe to roll cathedral harmonies ! 
 
 To worship here some summer afternoon, 
 
 With maidens holy in the solemn underwood, 
 
 Their hands together pressed, and on their hair 
 
 A glory from the saintly fountain streaming, 
 
 And on their silver cross Go on, good friend ; 
 
 I hang upon thy words as on a brink. 
 
 The GriBE. 
 So I have hung on fancies of my own. 
 I've known the darkness last till afternoon. 
 When all is still, one sometimes hears a moan 
 Running along the ridges ; there are trees 
 That shriek like corporal suffering. Lost men 
 Are wandering, bodiless, for what we know. 
 In the ravines ; a lake, brimful in draught. 
 From yonder Eagle Cliff, discharges, clear 
 And cool, and blue as heaven. What holds it there ? 
 A heavenly force ? Thou art a scholar, tell. 
 Once, on Deception, not a stone's throw off. 
 And ne'er a cloud, I saw a circled rainbow, 
 And in the flaming rim a human face. 
 
 Night overtakes them ; and, beneath the shelter 
 of a rock, they prepare to sleep. But Normand 
 watches : he cannot sleep so near the goal of all his 
 wanderings. The moon lights up the summit of 
 the mountain ; and he sees the giant's profile, the 
 aspect of whose countenance, he says, a week shall 
 change. 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 399 
 
 We next find him traversing the woods ; and he 
 approaches an undiscovered lake in the sides of the 
 mountain, which he thus apostrophizes : — 
 
 Sable and glassy wave, where swan-fleets ride, 
 The beryl goblet of the monarch -bird, 
 Where cougar's harbor and the bittern shrieks, 
 Untouched by sunbeam and by storms o'erpassed ! 
 
 Mountain Tarn ! the pure and amber glass, 
 In secret chambers, dim and holy, where 
 Daughter of God, ideal Beauty, fits 
 
 And renovates immortal radiance, 
 
 Whenas she visits the fond dreams of youth, — 
 
 A sumptuous, drop from nectared urns of heaven, — 
 
 1 drink of it. 
 
 Scene V. With sling in hand, Normand is pur- 
 suing an unfrequented path in the neighborhood of 
 the Glen House. He comes to Glen Ellis Fall, 
 where the artist is sketching, to whom he again 
 addresses himself : — 
 
 Friend, dash thy subject ; fear not to be bold ; 
 Let startled waters down the canvass pitch. 
 
 Take Nature as she is : paint what you see, — 
 The foreground, and the mysterious source ; 
 Retreating, vague, and dreamy distances ; 
 The ever and forever ; and the leaf 
 Upon it ; wonder, tenderness, remorse ; — 
 These are eternal. 
 
 The Artist. 
 Did you say remorse ? 
 I do not find it in these elements. 
 
400 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 NoRMAND, pausing. 
 He said remorse ! [_Loohing at the cascade. "] 
 
 So, arrowy, we fall, 
 In all the bliss of being, rippling on ; 
 And the recoil, with dark and icy eye, 
 And vengeful appetence, doth prey upon 
 The fundamental frame that holds our life. 
 
 A thunder-storm passes over ; lightning strikes 
 the spot, and a rift of rock tumbles into the abyss. 
 
 NoRMAND. 
 
 Paint it, oh ! though it crush the soul of beauty. 
 And unearthed apparitions swarm aghast. 
 
 The artist adjusts himself to the task. 
 
 NoRMAND, walking slowly away. 
 It works ! he dares sublimely, yields to fame ; 
 With me subscribes the golden covenant ; 
 To me devotes his sum of lustihood. 
 The dread resolve of grandeur stirs within. 
 Nor medium flights shall tempt his vigor more. 
 
 Here fell the author's pen : his hand — tvas stilled. 
 
 PROMINENT CHARACTERISTICS OF STYLE. 
 
 In comments upon one of Mr. Judd's works, this 
 remark is found : " Our own spirit must advance, 
 we must plant ourselves on high and holy ground, 
 before we can fully enter into the application and 
 merits of the book." An observation more just and 
 sensible, it is believed, is not to be found in all the 
 criticisms upon his writings. He wrote with an 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 401 
 
 object far beyond the price of his volumes. Pecu- 
 niary advantage, though a thing not to be despised 
 in connection with his small income, was a thing 
 that entered into his calculations only as an inciden- 
 tal accessory. He wrote from the love of it, and 
 from the feeling that he had within him something 
 to say, which he must utter. 
 
 Neither was a desire for fame a prompting motive. 
 At one time, when a friend gently remonstrated with 
 him against continuing a mode of writing which 
 called forth so much severity of criticism, and rather 
 urged his aiming a little more at suiting himself to 
 the public taste, — "I cannot,'' said he. '' It is with 
 me a sacred conviction ; there is to me a truthful- 
 ness which I must follow out ; I am willing to wait 
 for approval." 
 
 One leading_fjeja.tm*e of his writings, the bringing 
 together of the high and the low, — what some 
 haye"Heemed the sublime and the ridiculous, — 
 grew out of that sense, with which his being was 
 permeated, of the unity of all things with all, and of 
 the oneness of all with the Supreme Unity from 
 which they spring. To him, in this light, there 
 was no great, no small ; the one great Father acting 
 through, encircling, vivifying all. Humanity, in 
 its_ many-sided elements, in its every condition, he 
 honored as the creation of God in his own image ; 
 degraded, indeed, from its pristine purity, but still 
 bearing deeply the divine impress, retaining much 
 of the divine likeness. In this view, the workshop 
 and the farm were on a level with the drawing-room 
 and the palace. " The kitchen and the clouds, the 
 
 34* 
 
 4^ 
 
402 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 clouds and the gutter," were not to his mind so 
 incongruous, nor in his groupings did he see such 
 grotesqueness and irrelevancy, as those of his readers 
 who took a less elevated point of view. His stand 
 seemed, indeed, to be on some serene mount of God, 
 far above the mists and vapors which befog the ordi- 
 nary mind ; and one from which, instead of partial, 
 detached parts, he could take in the relations of the 
 whole great system. 
 
 With Wordsworth, he loved to draw illustrations 
 from the common and familiar, the humble and un- 
 pretending. He advocated this on principle. That 
 near at hand and well-known, he contended, if aptly 
 applied, would naturally produce a stronger impres- 
 sion than the far-off and less familiar. He could not 
 see why man and nature, lying in the clear sunlight 
 all around us, should be neglected, and even ex- 
 cluded, for what is dim in the distance and less 
 impressive. The following comparisons based upon 
 this principle, probably no one would object to : 
 Margaret says of Rose, " She has at times a most 
 mysterious spiritual look, like the moon shining 
 through white window -curtains." In " Philo," Char- 
 lotte says to the Spirit of Love : — 
 
 " My habits, as a pot of flowers, I set 
 In the warm rain of thy correction." 
 
 He has been charged with affectation. But he 
 was the last man in the world to whom this would 
 apply. It is that from the least shade of which his 
 natural truthfulness revolted. What might seem 
 like this, was really in him perfect naturalness. He 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 40S 
 
 knew no other modes. He could make use of no 
 other. His mind, from a child, always operated in 
 a way peculiar to itself. ' His own thoughts, com- 
 parisons, and illustrations were natural to himself, 
 when they appeared strange to others ; they were 
 clear and connected, when to another they might 
 seem obscure and abrupt. There was no attempt at 
 originality : it was originality in him. When in a 
 public lecture he caused a smile by the remark, 
 "Never did I understand the great brooding heart 
 of Jesus, till this very summer, when I had a hen 
 of my own, and saw her gather her chickens under 
 her wings," he did not know he was saying any 
 thing to affect the risibles of any one : it was a simple 
 utterance of a perfectly simple feeling, quite natural 
 to his heart. 
 
 When asked, in regard to some of his characters, 
 why he had them do and say so or so, he would reply : 
 " Oh ! well, I don't know any thing about it, only 
 that was their way,^^ in a manner that really seemed 
 as though he had to do with existences out of him- 
 self So in " Margaret," he says : " Seems, we say ; 
 for the compiler of this memoir professes to know 
 no more of the matter than any of its readers." 
 
 The use of uncommon words, which strikes one 
 in his compositions, arose not from a desire to make 
 a show of learning, nor from any oddity or love of 
 a startling novelty. The habit sprung from princi- 
 ple. He considered words as the working instru- 
 ments of thought. He sought those best fitted to 
 express, in the most forcible manner, the very idea. 
 He believed there was great wealth in our language 
 
404 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 unappropriated. He wished to draw from the deep 
 wells of his mother-tongue. He had a strong, an 
 almost sacred, sense of the truth in words ; and it 
 seemed to rest on him with the force of a moral 
 obligation, to use them in their true sense. If he 
 discovered a word more pat to his purpose than 
 any other, he could not see why he should abandon 
 it, because it had been suffered by others to fall into 
 disuse. 
 
 Trenck, in his admirable little work, entitled 
 " The Study of Words," thus justifies the revival of 
 old words. " One of the most legitimate methods ■ 
 by which a language may increase in wealth," says 
 he, " is through the reviving of old words, such as 
 are worthy to be revived ; which yet, through care- 
 lessness or ill-placed fastidiousness, or unacquaint- 
 ance on the part of a later generation with the older 
 worthies of the language, or some other causes, have 
 been suffered to drop." 
 
 In Mr. Judd's lecti^re upon '^Language," deli- 
 vered before a number of lyceums, occurs this pas- 
 sage : " Once no words were vulgar ; all were com- 
 mon, all divine. Now, disagreeable associations 
 belong to some words, and we discard them ; not 
 for any vice in themselves, but because, like the 
 dog in the spelling-book, they are found in bad 
 company. Adam and Eve saw no vulgarity in any 
 thing. The ' London Quarterly,' before quoted, 
 alluding to what are called slang phrases, adds, ^ Let 
 no dainty objector whisper that such words are com- 
 mon, vulgar, familiar, and cannot be poetical. Daisies 
 are common, the sea is common, women and chil- 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 40^ 
 
 dren are exceedingly common ; and yet we believe 
 they are allowed by the best judges to be not 
 only poetical, but the very stuff and matter of all 
 poetry.' " 
 
 He was always a close student of words. It was 
 almost a passion with him. His dictionary, next to ,y 
 his Bible, might be said to be his most familiar 
 acquaintance among* books. 
 
 An author from whom Trenck quotes, in his little 
 work just alluded to, says : " Hardly any original . ♦ 
 thoughts, on mental or moral subjects, ever make 
 their way among mankind, or assume their proper 
 importance in the minds even of their inventors, 
 until aptly-selected words or phrases have, as it 
 were, nailed them down, and held them fast." A 
 similar sense had Mr. Judd of the most fitting use 
 of words. 
 
 He did not feel bound, of necessity, to old forms, 
 to petrified modes, to say things just as everybody 
 else had said them. In his review of Jones Very, 
 before referred to, he says : ^^ Invention, originality, 
 the life, the world, the soul, nature and God, are 
 not yet exhausted. Things have new phases. New 
 minds have new thoughts. All that man hath been , 
 is not all that man may be. Tastes change, fashions 
 wear out, systems decay, modes of thinking and 
 of writing pass away. Yet ever is nature at work ; 
 ever is something. We look for that something to 
 be, now to be. Fancy, imagination, thought, exist. 
 Why should they not work, work for themselves, in 
 their own way ? Nature is ever new. No year is 
 just like another. No spring is just like the present. 
 
406 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 No elm, since the trees were planted in Paradise, 
 is just like the one that overhangs my window. 
 No sun-setting is just like the one we saw last 
 night." 
 
 .... "We have considered these poems simply as 
 an illustration of the soul of man. But it is the soul 
 in one exercise, that of acting upon itself. The great 
 ^poem of our day shall be that which starts from this 
 point, which receives here its baptism and its inspira- 
 * tion, and elevates the soul out of itself, and brings it 
 ^ into connection with what is without, — nature, the 
 world, the universe. All things that constitute pro- 
 per subjects for poetry demand to be re-viewed. . They 
 must be looked at with the soiil. The visions of 
 external things which have so long floated before 
 ; the eyes of poets are Something more than visionsy 
 \ They are charged with an unperceived -meaning ; 
 ,(0^- -z they have relations to the spirit, which the spirit 
 *^ . alone can comprehend and interpret. We are no 
 
 advocates of mysticism, . or ^ airy nothings,' but are 
 assured there are realities which the poetic mind has 
 '-.yet to understand. There are depths into which no 
 plumb has yet descended. There is a fidelity which 
 few are willing to cultivate. The intrinsic difficul- 
 ties of such an undertaking are neither few nor 
 small. Genius, and perhaps a genius of the highest 
 grade, is alone competent to the task. One of the 
 chief difficulties, as we conceive, lies in the relation 
 of words to ideas. Our phraseology is already hack- 
 neyed. If any one, warmed by a fresh impulse, un- 
 dertakes to write poetry, he insensibly, and almost 
 ncessarily, falls into the poetic diction. Garments 
 
AS AN AUTHOR. 40T 
 
 that were worn by the ancients, and have been handed 
 down from generation to generation, he must fit on 
 to his thoughts ; and thought itself appears old. 
 Who will break from these leading-strings ? Who 
 can strike out a new path ? Who will give to the 
 soul what it needs ? " 
 
 In support of the same ideas, we quote again from 
 Trenck. He says : " It is not merely that the old 
 and familiar will become new in the hands of the 
 poet, or man of imagination ; that will give the 
 stamp of allowance, as to him it will be free to do, to 
 words, should he count them worthy, — to words 
 which have hitherto lived only on the lips of the 
 multitude, or been confined to some single dialect or 
 province ; but he will enrich his native tongue with 
 words unknown and non-existent before, — non- 
 existent, that is, save in their elements." And thus 
 Mr. Judd reasoned in regard to the use of words ; 
 upon these principles he practised; and from this 
 followed a prominent feature of his style. 
 
 The question may be asked, '^Was Mr. Judd a 
 man of genius ? " If it is the office of genius to 
 combine and reproduce, as a new creation, forms and 
 characters all its own, from various elements, the 
 common property of all, infusing into them life, and 
 an independent, individual existence, and that, too, 
 with the ease and quietness of accomplishing the 
 most common things of every-day life, then, with 
 great significance, may this be predicated of him. 
 He borrowed from no one. His ideas are his own, 
 except so far as all ideas may, in a sense, be con- 
 sidered public property. He was original in his 
 
408 AS AN AUTHOR. 
 
 plans, original in his combinations and structures. 
 And there was no labor apparent in the production 
 of his literary works, no note of bustle or prepara- 
 tion ; but, seemingly, he simply willed them, and 
 they came forth. 
 
409 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 The history of Mr. Judd's life, already given, shows 
 the general esteem in which he was held as a lec- 
 turer. Among his most popular and most often 
 repeated lectures were "The Beautiful," "The 
 Dramatic Element in the Bible," and " Language." 
 "This chapter will be composed of passages taken 
 from his lectures, which will serve as specimens of 
 this department of his literary efforts. The first 
 which follows is from an address delivered before 
 the Northampton Lyceum, in 1838, entitled — 
 
 " My subject is one not too often introduced into 
 the exercises of literary associations ; yet I can 
 think of none more worthy to engage the interest 
 of this hour. It is a subject at all times about us, 
 yet not noticed, — ever familiar, yet ever forgotten. 
 You, the members of this lyceum ; you, the adult 
 and the aged, have convened this evening for pur- 
 poses of intellectual improvement. But where is 
 the child? What is the child? What you have 
 
 3d 
 
 t^ 
 
410 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 been, the cliild is. What you are, the child shall 
 be, and even already is. What you will be in the 
 lapse of time, or in the revolutions of eternity, that 
 shall also the child be. My subject is ' The Child.' " 
 After depicting, in a graphic manner, the influ- 
 ences for good or ill that the child is constantly 
 receiving from those about him, he says : " I turn to 
 influences from the child. The relation of child- 
 hood to age is a topic deserving our attention. 
 Association is the term that expresses all which 
 interests us here. It is that which connects youth, 
 manhood, and old age. As our associations are 
 through life, so will be our happiness or our misery. 
 Adam lived m. Paradise. Eve, heaven-moulded 
 and heavenly -beautiful, bloomed at his side. The 
 uncursed earth expanded before him with a luxu- 
 riance that regaled every sense. The sun shone out 
 upon him in the undimmed effulgence of its new 
 creation. Yet Adam had no childhood. No associa- 
 tions of childhood came rushing upon his thoughts, 
 and throwing their rapture of emotions over the 
 beautiful world he dwelt in. With Eve, in bright- 
 eyed girlhood, he had never revelled among those 
 flowers, or sauntered on Pison's banks. No father 
 had taught him how to rear the vine. On no mother's 
 lap had he reclined his weary head. No morning 
 sun awakened a thought of his youth. No voices 
 echoed the past, — no images reflected the past. Yet 
 we envy Adam his Paradise. Childhood is every 
 good man's paradise, — a perpetual paradise from 
 which he shall never, be driven, to the entrance of 
 which no swords of fire shall be interposed. Man- 
 
AS A LECTURER. 411 
 
 hood has its cares ; age, its infirmities ; youth blooms 
 ever. Then he Avas happy, then he was free. Dark 
 days intervene between childhood and age ; but no 
 darkness is so great that we do not look over to the 
 sun-lighted spot of boyhood. Ills accumulate and 
 weigh down the spirits ; but no pressure is so over- 
 whelming, that every fibre of our hearts does not 
 thrill at the sounds of childhood." 
 
 He thus refers to the home of his boyhood: 
 " What resources for coming years are the children 
 of our village now treasuring up ? This is the prac- 
 tical consideration to which I invite your attention. 
 Northampton, of all places, is one of the most desi- 
 rable for recollection. As your home, it is the only 
 place to which your thoughts can recur for child- 
 hood's scenes. Hither let them come. Here let 
 them be cherished. It is necessary to give our at- 
 tention to the objects in which we would become 
 interested. President Dwight bluntly charged a 
 young man with whom he was riding in the country, 
 to open his eyes. Not that he was asleep, but that 
 he did not see what he ought to see. How many 
 travel the whole journey from the cradle to the grave 
 asleep ! Strange perversion of the powers within 
 us ! Strange neglect of the objects around us ! Our 
 direction to the child and the youth is, — Open your 
 eyes ! Pick up the next pebble your feet trip upon 
 It is a portion of granite-rock, remote from any 
 granite-formation. How came it where you found 
 it ? What force detached it from its parent-stone ? 
 It is hard, yet round and smooth. In what beating 
 of waters did it receive its abrasions ? The sand 
 
412 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 you tread upon, the soil your ploughshare turns, is 
 all rocks, fragmentary rocks, broken down in un- 
 known ages, when oceans swept over our dry lands, 
 and all that the corn might grow, and the waters 
 run. That pebble is a token of mysterious agencies, 
 a tradition from past generations, a monument of the 
 power and goodness of God. 
 
 " Our village in its character is rural, but the 
 ideal of rural life is hardly realized here. As in 
 the Switzer's home, no young men and maidens, no 
 old men and matrons, collect on our greensward, 
 to join the circles of the dance, to merry-make or 
 crown the queen of May. We retire into our houses 
 from the rich landscapes around us, that we may 
 look upon them from our windows. We talk of 
 them to the stranger, rather than enjoy them our- 
 selves. Yet the elements of the beautiful and pic- 
 turesque are here. E-ivers and rivulets, hills and 
 hillocks, slopes and levels, woodland and lawn, elm- 
 trees and rose-bushes, are grouped, contrasted, va- 
 riegated, in forms and colors that captivate every 
 beholder. But nature, inanimate nature, is never 
 superlatively beautiful. It is man, living man, that 
 makes all God's works beautiful. Here you are, 
 and here is your youthful home ! Here are your 
 play-grounds, your fishing-streams, and your skat- 
 ing-ponds ! A winter evening's party, with its cakes 
 and plums, with its nicety of dress and manner, is 
 not half so well fitted to your nature as a summer's 
 Saturday afternoon, when the blithe air calls you 
 forth, and with baskets for berries and nuts, in groups 
 of two and three and four, you turn your footsteps 
 
AS A LECTURER. 418 
 
 and hearts to the greenwood and the plains. Our 
 young girls are forbidden the free sports that are the 
 delight and health of boys. They practise callisthe- 
 nic gesticulations for exercise. Nature, methinks, 
 would lead them into the open sunshine, send them 
 for nosegays on the hill-side, and teach them to sport 
 freely on the healthful bosom of the earth. 
 
 " Independence-day comes, and brings with it 
 something of rural life, in its lawn festivities, with 
 their green arbors, flower-wreaths, and tree-shaded 
 seats. There are smiles of the beautiful, and there 
 is intercourse of the friendly. But childhood pours 
 not its full heart into those scenes. Day after Inde- 
 pendence comes ; and you may see, or might see (I 
 hope the practice is continued), companies of boys 
 and girls toiling, or rather, I should say, sporting, 
 their way up the steep path that conducts to the 
 summit of our Holyoke. Holyoke, — what subterra- 
 nean fires threw up that observatory ? What unseen 
 power rolled back the hills, and spread out this 
 beautiful valley ? What river-nymph, with her 
 white waters, lingers in these meadows, embalming 
 the scene in beauty, and pouring fertility over the 
 soil ? Holyoke is our own and our loved. Gaze, 
 my boy, upon the scene at your feet. You may 
 never behold a fairer. Look at your own town, 
 with its straggling streets and pretty houses. Let 
 your eye follow the declivity that comes from the 
 far western clouds, and terminates by the river's 
 margin. You see the villages and the woodland. 
 You know what hearts are there, and what homes. 
 Let your eye travel to the northward and the south- 
 
 35* 
 
414 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 ward. Treasure up the objects you witness. They 
 are the pride of New England ; they are scenes 
 of your home. In the far south, the Connecticut 
 seems to have mounted upwards towards the skies ; 
 and there it rests in the light of the sun, pure and 
 white as the rivers of heaven. Angels might step 
 down and float in pastime on that surface. Recollect, 
 ^y t)oy, our spirits must tend upward, upward, till, 
 in the full illumination of heaven, they shine spotless 
 and pure. On the verge of the rock that forms the 
 precipitous part of the mountain, you will find a 
 little flower, — the blue-bell. Examine it. Re- 
 member its shaping and its hue. It is a simple, blue 
 flower. But in coming years, in zones and meridians 
 far removed from hence, you may meet that same 
 blue-bell. I need not tell you it will be pleasant 
 then to have brought to your mind the view from 
 Holyoke, the valley of the Connecticut, and the 
 home of your childhood." 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE LECTURE ENTITLED 
 "the BEAUTIFUL." 
 
 " I will instance this, the light of day, as that 
 which is beautiful to everybody. Take this in the 
 bland. Madonna-like blush of morning, the unfa- 
 thomable blue of noon, with its islands of opal and 
 snow, and at sunset, when the sky thrills with color 
 and flame ; take it as it appears on the plains of the 
 tropics, where it inspires the traveller with a certain 
 majestic tranquillity, and where it seems to wrap all 
 objects in a harmonious and dream-like vapor ; take 
 
AS A LECTURER. 415 
 
 it nearer the poles, where its oblique rays, striking 
 across the inequalities of glacier-land, portray castles 
 and caves, and where, with fairy power, it weaves 
 above the spectator crowns of glory and splendor ; 
 take it in its Attican softness or Italian purity ; take it 
 as it is refracted in the rainbow, or concentrated in the 
 dew-drop ; take it as it beams in the eye of health, or 
 as it reposes on the face of the dead, — take it where 
 you will, and it is beautiful ; and all acknowledge it 
 to be so. As it touches the wretched kraal of the 
 Hottentot, his susceptibility kindles to it ; the Green- 
 lander, from his subterranean abode, amid lubber 
 and foulness, blesses it ; the North American Indian, 
 whose fashion was paint, whose art was a bow, whose 
 pride has ever been the rejection of what we call 
 civilization and refinement, hailed its glimmer in the 
 greenwood ; the Turkish female, notwithstanding 
 the unpardonable mistake she has made in her trow- 
 sers, never mistakes the beauty of sunlight. 
 
 "Furthermore, God, the God and Father of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ, has sought to make that same 
 Jesus, our Saviour, beautiful, pleasing, attractive to 
 the human mind. How did Christ appear ? Was 
 there any thing in him fitted to arouse repugnance, 
 suggest suspicion ; any thing to displease or affront 
 a rational being ? He says, ' I am come a light into 
 the world,' and again, ^ I am the light of the world,' 
 — morning, noontide, the clearing off* of night and 
 storm, the blue-break into the sin and sorrow that 
 were as clouds over our anxious day ; light, the 
 light of the world, blended, confluent, choir-like, 
 sun, moon, and stars, that Christ was. 
 
416 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 " Moreover, Christ would commend Lis person 
 and mission to mankind by this superadded enrich- 
 ment of beautiful ideas. He calls himself a vine, a 
 shepherd, a well of water, — • touching images of the 
 East. He is not merely a shepherd, but a good, 
 KaMg, the beautiful shepherd. Sylvan pictures ap- 
 pear in his teachings : a marriage-festival adds a 
 certain liveliness to the sacred drama ; he embroiders. 
 if I may so say, the lily on his great ideas ; birds 
 spring up from the ground where he treads, and 
 carol his faith and love. Never did I understand 
 the great, brooding heart of Jesus, or the tenderness 
 of his tears, till this very summer, when I had a 
 hen of my own, and saw her gather her chickens 
 under her wings ; nor shall we ever understand the 
 glory, the beauty, the loveliness of his second coming, 
 till we study more the glory, beauty, and loveliness 
 of the clouds in which that coming is symbolized. 
 
 " There must be beauty in religion, or we cannot 
 cordially embrace it; in prayer, or we cannot take 
 pleasure in it ; in repentance, or we shall never sin- 
 cerely exercise it ; in duty, or we shall not cheerfully 
 go forward in it. 
 
 " There is beauty in consistency of character, and 
 for this we admire it ; beauty in a well-spent life, 
 coming in like a shock of corn fully ripe, and for 
 this it awes us; beauty in well-regulated domestic 
 affairs, and therefore we rejoice in it. There must 
 be beauty in our own deepest being, or there will be 
 none to love us. 
 
 " There is beauty even in sadness and sorrow, in 
 tears and grief; beauty in the memory that inurns 
 
AS A LECTURER. 417 
 
 the dead ; in the fidelity that bears flowers to the 
 grave-side ; in the vigils that bereavement keeps 
 through the long night of its anguish. 
 
 " There is in the human mind, I think, an undying 
 desire for the beautiful. It is an unquenchable 
 thirst, an innate instinct. The slovenliness and bru- 
 tality of the ages have not wholly stifled it. Like 
 the good and the true, so is it an aspiration. It is a 
 species of rest to the soul, as it is a consummation 
 of endeavor. No character, no deed, no work, ever 
 yet satisfied us, that did not rise above mere utility 
 into those harmonies and unities and sweetnesses 
 that we call the beautiful. No smirched iron-worker 
 ever yet drove a rivet, that did not, after the useful 
 was done, add a few more blows for the beautiful. 
 There is no word that so expresses the whole of 
 deepest human feeling, that so outshadows what can 
 only be felt, and not expressed, as beautiful. 
 
 " While we cannot define the nature of the beau- 
 tiful, nor enumerate all its types, it may be we have 
 some clear glimpse of its final cause. Why did 
 God make all things beautiful ? Out of the exceed- 
 ing beauty of his own nature. Out of the beauty 
 of his own nature, he would that all his offspring, 
 the animate and inanimate world, rational intelli- 
 gences, and the busy spheres, should be beautiful 
 too. Every thing of God's that we look upon, — 
 the stellary worlds, the feathered tribes, the floral 
 realms, snow and rain ; so also patience, heroism, 
 faith, love, — all reflect the brightness of the glory, 
 and bear marks of the express image of the person, 
 of the Almighty. 
 
418 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 " I have read of a temple of alabaster so clear as 
 to be always full of light, without doors or windows. 
 We are in such a temple, the universe, ever shining 
 with the light of the beautiful. Darkness is beau- 
 tiful, so is the storm ; winter is beautiful in its high 
 brilliancy, its wavy drifts, its starry flakes, in the 
 moonlight flooding down the enamelled slopes, — - 
 beautiful in this, that, as a robe of ermine, the snow 
 warms and cherishes the bosom of our mother-earth, 
 with all her fountains and streams, all her seeds and 
 roots. 
 
 " By all that God hath made, — by the glittering 
 dew, by the soft gliding of water, by the notes of 
 birds, by the curved line, by Corinthian proportions, 
 by the endless purposes of utility, by the tenacious 
 charm of association, by the vine that shall festoon 
 the communion of nations, by the firmamental bright- 
 ness of wisdom, by the resplendent immensity of his 
 own attributes, by his own glorious image seen in 
 Jesus, by the fathomless depths of human sentiment, 
 — God is calling us to adoration and to duty, to 
 repentance and to love. 
 
 ^^And heaven itself — what is it but the starry 
 dome that overhangs our little faith and hope here ; 
 the bud and blossom of these germinant, terrestrial 
 years ; the Infinite, with white arms and golden 
 crowns, welcoming the finite to a higher birth, into 
 still higher realms of truth, goodness, and beauty ? " 
 
AS A LECTURER. 419 
 
 FROM THE LECTURE ENTITLED 
 " LANGUAGE." 
 
 In this lecture, Mr. Judd maintains the position 
 that language was of divine origin, and thus he dis- 
 courses : — 
 
 "The original, divine words filled the great reser- 
 voir of human speech, which has been flowing down 
 all the mountains and through all the valleys of 
 human society ; now throwing itself off in beautiful, 
 many -tinted, belles-lettres vapor ; here taught by 
 the poet to leap in jets, or pour in cascades ; some- 
 times distilled by philosophers, sometimes muddied 
 by boys ; and in which, at last, Christianity itself is 
 embodied, and descends as the dew and the rain 
 upon the earth. 
 
 " There. is-something sublime, perhaps awful, in 
 wordsj^ The eTrea TTTtpoevra, the winged words, the 
 utterances of the fireside and the market-place, 
 the confidential whisper, the fleeting gossip, the elo- 
 quence of the forum, the talk of the table, go up, on 
 the one hand, to the judgment-seat ; they go down, 
 on the other, to the creation; they connect us with 
 men and ages past, they connect us with God, the 
 infinite Father of 'all ; the original, indestructible 
 media of human intercourse, descending from gene- 
 ration to generation, passing through the lips of this 
 present time, and surviving to the latest period of 
 man's existence on the earth. . . . 
 
 " Time was when there were no words ; when 
 the universe, the sun and the stars, the shadowy 
 grove, the whistling wind, the glancing brook, the 
 
420 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 playful fawn, the swift- winged bird, had no name ; 
 when all things were, in a sense, blank, devoid of 
 interest ; when, too, man, with all his powers, was, 
 as I think, utterly impotent to bestow these names. 
 Divine love interposes, and not only sets man out 
 on his journey of life, but gives him wherewithal to 
 make the journey pleasant and prosperous. . . . 
 
 " Language is, in a sense, eternal. It survived 
 the first pair to whom it was communicated ; it sur- 
 vives the generations through whom it is transmitted ; 
 it survives the vicissitudes of empire and the decline 
 of nations ; it lives on when marble columns and 
 brazen statues crumble. How could such a thing be 
 left to the mere winds of chance to blow together ? 
 It must, in the nature of things, have possessed con- 
 siderable perfection, even in it^ incipiency and primi- 
 tive use. Man could not invent it ; God alone could 
 give it. . . . 
 
 "What marks of a divine hand, what glorious 
 traces of an Almighty, benign interference, what 
 beams of supernatural light, cluster about the first 
 epoch of our world ! Is it not almost literally true, 
 that the morning stars sang together, and all the 
 sons of God shouted for joy ? Then, when man 
 required still further the guiding care of heaven, 
 God spake to the fathers by the prophets, and now 
 speaks to us by his Son. Oh ! I can believe it all : I 
 can feel it. One is led to exclaim, Oh the height, 
 the depth, of the goodness of God ! " 
 
AS A LECTURER. ' 4^1 
 
 In this address Mr. Judd shows the leading ideas 
 of our country, in contrast with existiilg facts. He 
 closes as follows : — 
 
 , " "We have great and goodly ideas. To these I 
 would recur ; in the light of these, I would this 
 brief moment might be passed. God only knows 
 what is before us ; yet God has put it in our power 
 to make every thing bright along our way. 
 
 ^' Like shadows on our hill-sides, the spirits of 
 past ages assemble around us ; they unfold the dread 
 panorama of history ; they say. Read and learn, pon- 
 der and be wise. The Genius of America, too, rises 
 to view, youthful but collected, fair and sad ; the 
 words of all time beat his sunny locks ; his foot stands 
 on a mountain, the verdure of which is the decay of 
 dynasties and the dissolution of empires. Around 
 him are empty mausolea, crumbling arches ; temples, 
 once gorgeous in worship, peopled by moles and 
 bats ; palaces, once fraught with luxury and hum- 
 ming with gladness, buried in the sand ; commerce, 
 such as your promising town never dreamed of, 
 stranded on black and silent shores ; on the stream 
 of years that rushes by, float the wrecks of upturned 
 grandeur, and a turbid medley of art, wealth, and 
 power. Battle-fields and conflagrations pour lurid 
 horror on the sky, whithersoever he turns. 'Great 
 God ! ' methinks I hear him say, * What is the hope 
 of my country ? ' From the upper heavens, clear and 
 blue, a voice replies, — a voice as of the Son of God, 
 * Let Americans love one another, let them be at 
 
 36 
 
422 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 peace with all men ; if their enemy hunger, feed 
 him ; fling away the sword, arm yourselves in virtue, 
 firee the slave, affiliate the Indian, enact the highest 
 laws, negociate by eternal rectitude, conquer by 
 kindness, annex by sympathy, obey God, and he will 
 dwell with you, and ye shall be his people.' 
 
 *^ Bright-winged cherubim ta^e the Genius to a 
 still higher mountain, and show him a far and glb- 
 rious futurity, where are pleasant vales and limpid 
 streams, and many a goodly village, and many a 
 forest-city, and railroads, and mills, and spires of 
 churches, and cupolas of school-houses, and white 
 pennons streaming, and bands of music playing ; 
 and, above all, is the dome of the sanctuary where 
 everlasting love abides, — and that is America." 
 
 A few passages follow from Mr. Judd's lecture on 
 
 "THE PURITANS." 
 
 " Their (the Puritans') vision in some respects was 
 very distinct, in others obscure. That the privilege 
 of sinning could be purchased by money, that kings 
 were the appropriate head of the church, that any 
 sanctity lay in the color of a gown, were things 
 which they saw to be enormities. Yet they believed 
 in witches, in portents, in apparitions. Still, when 
 I reflect on the myriad superstitions of all sorts and 
 on all subjects that prevailed in the old world, I am 
 rather astonished that our fathers brought so few of 
 them to the new. They left behind, not only holy- 
 days, but hosts of unlucky days. In England, the 
 clergy were wont to repeat the creed, looking to'svards 
 
AS A LECTURER. 423 
 
 the East : the Puritans thought holy aspirations 
 could be uttered towards any point of the compass. 
 
 " They were earnest men, with souls in their 
 bosoms, and desires which nothing but an eternal 
 life could satisfy. They were earnest in their reli- 
 gion ; they wanted to be near to God, and have God 
 near to them ; kneeling, vestments, neat and proper 
 as they may be, the rites that had accumulated in the 
 church, were all dark bodies between them and 
 the sun, a constraint on their spirits. For myself, I 
 must say, I love to turn my mind towards them, 
 though perhaps I should not enjoy being among 
 them. They seem to me stern and awful men, like 
 those described by Isaiah, who thresh the mountains 
 and beat them small, and make the hills of vanity as 
 chaff. Their heavy tread is as the tramp of doom 
 to innumerable vices and follies of the world. They 
 appear to me rather just than loving men ; more 
 inflexible than comprehensive : few smiles play 
 among the perpetual rigors of their faces. Their 
 justice seems not always to have been tempered with 
 mercy or with wisdom. They would make admira- 
 ble groups of statuary : they are not such men as the 
 women of our time would be apt to choose in mar- 
 riage. The epithet blue has been applied to them 
 and their doings ; not blue, I should say, but rather 
 bronze. 
 
 " The most interesting light in which I can view 
 the Puritans of New England is their progressive 
 character. They were, in the providence of God, 
 the ordained missionaries of progress to the world. 
 That they fully realized the extent of their charge, 
 
4^4 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 cannot be asserted ; yet they had some most palpable 
 consciousness of what they were to accomplish. In 
 the covenant I read, this appears : they promise obe- 
 dience to whatever truth they had, and to all that 
 should he made Tcnown to them. They could not shut 
 themselves in articles and confessions ; they did not 
 feel that they possessed all truth ; they would rever- 
 ently wait on those divine oracles that are ever utter- 
 ing their voice to mankind. . . . 
 
 "Puritanism, or, as I might say, Congregational- 
 ism in New England, has made progress, and been 
 the means of progress, — in science, in religion, in 
 liberty, both at home and abroad, far beyond any 
 other system that has existed. Other systems have 
 flourished under its shadow, or attached themselves, 
 misletoe-like, to its trunk ; but this is the mighty 
 tree that sustains the whole. In their own simple 
 language, they were " stepping-stones unto others ; " 
 lowlily, resolutely bending, that, as it were, from 
 their necks the genius of America might mount to 
 its sublime elevation. To quote their own words, 
 they 'broke the ice for others.^ They were needed 
 men, with their coarse iron shoes, to break the ice of 
 usurpation and nonsense, beneath which lay the floods 
 of everlasting beauty. . . . 
 
 " Their principles were better than their practice. 
 Their principles, which recognized God and his word 
 as the supreme arbiter, and men as equals, must 
 needs lead to great issues ; their principles were 
 regenerative and progressive ; they were higher than 
 they were, and rose like the sun upon their own 
 mists and darkness, and dispersed them. . . . 
 
AS A LECTURER. 425 
 
 "With some trembling anticipations, with some 
 flutter of hope, I think they saw what was before 
 them ; their eyes, penetrating the forests and the 
 gloom in which they were embayed, got some 
 glimpses of the illustrious future that lay in the 
 distance. They would not always preach under a 
 great tree, nor send to England for peas and oat- 
 meal; nor would Boston be always infested with 
 wolves and rattlesnakes. That their vista embraced 
 what now meets the eye of the beholder, this em- 
 pire, these states, cities, towns, may hardly be 
 imagined." 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE LECTURE DENOMINATED "THE 
 DRAMATIC ELEMENT IN THE BIBLE." 
 
 "In the commencement of the Old Testament, 
 after a brief prologue, ' the curtain rises, and we, as 
 spectators, look in upon a process of interlocution. 
 The scene is the sunny garden of Eden. The dra 
 matisjperwna, are three individuals, Adam, Eve, and 
 the.. Serpent. There are the mysterious tree, with 
 its wonderful fruit; the beautiful but inquisitive 
 woman ; the thoughtful but too compliant man ; and 
 the insinuating reptile. The plot thickens, the 
 passions are displayed, and the tragedy hastens to its 
 sorrowful end. The voice of the Lord God, walking 
 in the garden in the cool of the day, is heard ; the 
 impersonal presence of Jehovah is, as it were, felt in 
 the passing breeze, and a shadow like an eclipse falls 
 upon the earth. 
 
 " But, leaving these scenes, let us turn to others 
 
 36* 
 
/" 
 
 426 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 more grateful. In the light of our subject, we will 
 approach the New Testament. How different do all 
 things appear ! We seem to stand on some new 
 realm of being. 
 
 " Through the tempest and storm, the brutality 
 and lust of the Greek tragedians, and even of the 
 barbarous times on which Shakspeare builds many 
 of his plays ; through the night of Judaical back- 
 sliding, idolatry, and carnal commandments, we pa- 
 tiently wait, and gladly hail the morning of the Sun 
 of Righteousness. The New Testament is a green, 
 calm island in this heaving, fearful ocean of dramatic 
 interest. 
 
 " But how shall we describe what is before us ? 
 The events open, if we may draw a term from our 
 subject, with a prologue spoken by angels, — ' Peace 
 on earth, and good-will among men.' There had 
 been Jezebels and Lady Macbeths enough ; the me- 
 mory of David still smelt of blood; the Roman 
 eagles were gorging their beaks on human flesh ; and 
 the Samaritan everywhere felt the gnawing, shud- 
 dering sense of hatred and scorn. No chorus appears 
 answering to chorus, praising the God of battles, or 
 exulting in the achievement of arms ; but the sym- 
 pathies of Him who was touched with the feeling of 
 our infirmities answer to the wants and woes of the 
 race, and every thoughtful mind ecstatically encores. 
 The inexorable fate of the Greeks does not appear ; 
 but a good Providence interferes, and Heaven smiles 
 graciously upon the scene. There is passion indeed, 
 grief and sorow, sin and suffering ; but the Tempest- 
 stiller is here, who breathes tranquillity upon the 
 
AS A LECTURER. 427 
 
 waters, and pours serenity into the troubled deep. 
 The Niobe of humanity, stiif and speechless, with 
 her enmarbled children, that used sometimes to be 
 introduced on the Athenian stage for purposes of 
 terror or pity, is here restored to life ; and she ren- 
 ders thanks for her deliverance, and participates in 
 the general joy to which the peace gives birth. No 
 murderers of the prophets are hewn in pieces before 
 the Lord ; but, from the agonies of the cross and the 
 depths of a preternatural darkness, on behalf of the 
 murderers of the Son of God, the tender cry is heard, 
 ' Father, forgive them : they know not what they do.' 
 No Alcestis is exhibited, doomed to destruction, 
 to save the life of her husband ; but One appears, 
 moving cheerfully, voluntarily forwards, to what 
 may be termed the funeral-pile of the world ; from 
 which, phoenix -like, he rises and gloriously ascends, 
 drawing after him the hearts, the love, the worship 
 of millions of spectators. 
 
 '^ The key to the whole piece is redemption : the 
 spirit that actuates it is love. The chief actors, 
 indeed, are Christ and man ; but innumerable sub- V 
 sidiary personages are the charities. The element* 
 of a spiritualized existence act their part. Humanity 
 is not changed in its substance, but, in its tendencies, 
 the sensibilities exist, but under a divine culture. 
 Stephen is as heroic as Agamemnon ; Mary, as ener- 
 getic as Medea. Little children are no longer dashed 
 in pieces : they are embraced and blessed. 
 
 " But I wish to select for your attention, and for 
 a conclusion to these remarks, a particular scene. 
 It shall be from Luke. This evangelist has been 
 
428 AS A LECTURER, 
 
 fabled a painter ; and, in the apotheosis of the old 
 church, he was made the tutelar patron of that form 
 of art. If the individuality of his conceptions, the 
 skill of his groupings, and the graphicness of his 
 touch, gave rise to such an idea, it would seem to 
 have its foundation as well in nature as in super- 
 stition. ... 
 
 " The event is Christ's dining at the house of 
 Simon the Pharisee, and, while they were reclining 
 at meat, the entrance of a woman, which was a 
 sinner, who bathes the feet of Jesus with tears, and 
 wipes them with the hair of her head. The place 
 is the city of Nain ; the hour, noon. The dramatis 
 personce are three, — Jesus, Simon, and the woman ; 
 and, if we choose to add, the other guests, who are 
 silent spectators of what transpires. 
 
 " Let us consider, first, the woman. ' She was a 
 sinner.' This is all, in fact, we know of her ; but 
 this is enough. The poetry of sin and shame calls 
 her the Magdalen ; and there may be a convenience 
 in permitting this name to stand. 
 
 " She was condemned to wear a dress different 
 from other people ; she was liable, at any moment, 
 to be stoned for her conduct ; she was one whom it 
 was a ritual impurity to touch. 
 
 " She was wretched beyond measure ; but, while 
 so corrupt, she was not utterly hardened. Incapable 
 of virtue, she was not incapable of gratitude. Wel- 
 tering in grossness, she could still be touched by the 
 sight of purity. 
 
 " The vision of Je^s had alighted upon her. She 
 had seen KmTspeeding on his errands of mercy ; she 
 
AS A LECTURER. 4^9 
 
 hung about the crowd that followed his steps ; his 
 tender look of pity may have sometimes gleamed 
 into her soul. Stricken, smitten, confounded, her 
 yearnings for peace gush forth afresh. 
 
 " But how shall she see Jesus ? Wherewithal 
 shall she approach him ? 'She. has nothing to pay.' 
 She has tears enough, and sorrows enough ; but 
 these are derided by the vain, and suspected by the 
 wise. She has an alabaster-box of ointment, which, 
 shut out as she is from honorable gain, must be the 
 product and the concomitant of her guilt. But with 
 this she must go. We see her threading her lonely 
 way through the streets, learning by hints, since she 
 would not dare to learn by questions, where Jesus 
 is ; and she stops before the vestibule of the elegant 
 mansion of Simon the Pharisee. Who was Simon 
 the Pharisee ? He could not have been an unprin- 
 cipled, villainous man, or he would never have 
 tendered to Jesus the hospitalities of his house. He 
 was probably a rich man, which might appear from 
 the generous entertainment he made. He was a 
 respectable man. The sect to which he belonged 
 was the most celebrated and influential among the 
 Jews. He had some interest in Christ, either in his 
 mission or his character, — an interest beyond mere 
 curiosity, — or he would not have desired him to 
 dine with him. He betrays a sincere friendliness 
 also in his apprehension lest Christ should suffer any 
 religious contamination. 
 
 " The third person in the scene is Ohrist, vbo, to 
 speak of him, not as theology has interpreted him 
 to us, but as he appeared to the eyes of his contem- 
 
430 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 poraries, was the reputed son of Joseph and Mary, 
 the Bethlehemites ; who, by his words and deeds, 
 had attracted much attention, and made some con- 
 verts ; now accused of breaking the Jewish sabbath, 
 now of plotting against the Roman sovereignty ; one 
 who, in his own person, had felt the full power of 
 temptation, and who had been raised to the grandeur 
 of a transfiguration ; so tender, he would not bruise 
 the broken reed ; so gentle, his yoke was rest ; ray- 
 ing out with compassion and love wherever he went ; 
 healing alike the pangs of grief and the languor of 
 disease ; whom some believed to be the Messiah, 
 and others thought a prophet ; whom the masses 
 followed, and the priests feared. This is the third 
 member of the company. 
 
 " The two last, with the other guests, are engaged 
 at their meal, and in conversation. 
 
 " The door is darkened by a strange figure ; all 
 eyes are riveted on the apparition; the Magdalen 
 enters with long dishevelled hair. She has no intro- 
 duction, she says nothing ; indeed, in all this remark- 
 able scene, she never speaks ; her silence is as 
 significant as it is profound. She goes behind the 
 couch where Jesus, according to .Oriental custom, is 
 reclining. She drops at his feet; then her tears 
 stream ; then the speechless agony of her soul 
 bursts. 
 
 " Observe the workings of the moment. See how 
 those people are affected. Surprise on the part of 
 Simon and his friends turns to scorn, and this shades 
 into indignation. Jesus is calm, collected, and in- 
 tently thoughtful. The woman is overwhelmed by 
 
AS A LECTURER. 431 
 
 her situation. The lip of Simon curls, his eye 
 flashes with fire of outraged virtue ; Jesus meets his 
 gaze with equal fire, but it is all of pure heavenly 
 feeling. Simon moves to have the vagabond ex- 
 pelled; Christ interrupts the attempt. But the 
 honor of the house is insulted. Yes, but the undying 
 interests of the soul are at stake. But the breath of 
 the woman is poison, and her touch will bring down 
 the curses of the law. But the look of Christ indi- 
 cates that depth of spirituality, before which the 
 institutions of Moses flee away as chaff* before the 
 wind. Simon has some esteem for Jesus, and in this 
 juncture his sensations take a turn of pity, spiced, 
 perhaps, with a little contempt ; and he says with 
 himself, ^ Surely this man cannot be a prophet, as is 
 pretended, or he would know who and what sort of 
 woman it is that touches him ; for she is a sinner, she 
 is unclean and reprobate.' 'Simon!' says Jesus, 
 with a tone that pierced to the worthy host's heart, 
 and arrested the force of his pious alarm, — ^ Simon ! ' 
 ' Sir, say on,' is the reply of the Pharisee, who is 
 awed by this appeal into a humble listener. Where- 
 upon Jesus relates the story of the two debtors, and, 
 with irresistible strength of illustration and delicacy 
 of application, breaks the prejudice and wins the 
 composure of the Jew. ' If then,' he continues, ^ he 
 loves much to whom much is forgiven, what shall 
 we say of one who loves so much ? See,' he goes 
 on, pointing to the woman, — * see this woman, this 
 wretch : I entered thine house, thou gavest me no 
 water for my feet ; but she has washed my feet with 
 her tecCrs, and wiped them with her hair. She kisses 
 
432 AS A LECTURER. 
 
 my feet, she anoints them with ointment. "Where- 
 fore, I say unto thee, her sins, which are many, are 
 forgiven ; for she loved much.' 
 
 " This scene, however inadequately it may be set 
 / forth, contains all that is sublime in tragedy, terrible 
 \ in guilt, or intense in pathos. The woman repre- 
 "^sents humanity, or the soul of human nature ; Simon, 
 the world, or worldly wisdom; Christ, divinity, 
 / or the divine purposes of good to us-ward. Simon 
 IS an incarnation of what St. Paul calls the beggarly 
 elements ; Christ, of spirituality ; the woman, of sin. 
 It is not the woman alone, but in her there cluster 
 upon the stage all want and woe, all calamity and 
 disappointment, all shame and guilt ; in Christ, there 
 come forward to meet her, love, hope, truth, light, 
 salvation ; in Simon are acted out, doting conserva- 
 tism, mean expediency, purblind calculation, carnal 
 insensibility. Generosity, in this scene, is con- 
 fronted with meanness in the attempt to shelter 
 misfortune. The woman is a tragedy herself, such 
 as ^schylus never dreamed of. The scourging Fu- 
 ries, dread Fate, and burning Hell, unite in her ; and, 
 borne on by the new impulse of the new dispensation, 
 they come towards the light; they ask for peace; 
 they throng to the heaven that opens in Jesus. Si- 
 mon embodies that vast array of influences that stand 
 between humanity and its redemption. He is a very 
 excellent, a very estimable man ; but he is not 
 shocked at intemperance ; he would not have slavery 
 disturbed ; he sees a necessity for war. Does Christ 
 know who, and what sort of a woman, it is that 
 touches him ? Will he degrade himself by such a 
 
AS A LECTURER. 433 
 
 contact? Can he; expect to accomplish any thing 
 by familiarity with such a person ? Why is he. not 
 satisfied with a good dinner ? ' Simon ! ' ^ Simon ! ' 
 
 " The woman could not speak, and so she wept, 
 like the raw, chilling, hard atmosphere, which is only 
 relieved by a shower of snow. How could she 
 speak, guilty, remorseful wretch, without excuse, 
 without extenuation, in the presence of divine vir- 
 tue, at the tribunal of judgment ! She could only 
 weep ; she could only love. But, blessed be Jesus, 
 he can forgive her, — he can forgive all ! 
 
 " The woman departs in peace ; Simon is satisfied ; 
 Jesus triumphs. We almost hear the applauses with 
 which the ages and generations of earth greet the 
 closing scene. From the serene, celestial immensity 
 that opens above the spot, we can distinguish a voice 
 saying, 'This is my beloved Son, hear ye him.' 
 
 *' I speak of those things as dramatic; but, after 
 all, they are the only great realities. Every thing 
 else is mimetic, phantasmal, tinkling. Deeply do the 
 masters of the drama move us ; but the gospel 
 cleaves, inworks, regenerates. In the theatre, the 
 leading characters go off in death and despair, or with 
 empty conceits and a forced frivolity ; in the gospel, 
 tranquilly, grandly, they are dismised to a serener 
 life and a nobler probation. Who has not pitied the 
 ravings of Lear, and the agonies of Othello ? The 
 gospel pities ; but; by a magnificence of plot alto- 
 gether its own, — by preserving, if I may so say, 
 the unities of heaven and earth, — it also saves. 
 
 " Of all common tragedy, we may exclaim in the 
 words of the old play, — 
 37 
 
434 ■ AS A LECTURER. 
 
 « How like a silent stream shaded with night, 
 And gliding softly, with our windy sighs, 
 Moves the whole frame of this solemnity! ' 
 
 The gospel moves by, as a pure river of water of life, 
 clear as crystal, from out the throne of God and the 
 Lamb ; on its surface play the sunbeams of hope ; in 
 its valleys rise the trees of life, beneath the shadows 
 of which the weary years of human passion repose, 
 and from the leaves of the branches of which is 
 exhaled to the passing breeze, healing for the na- 
 
435 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HABITS- OF STUDY. 
 
 While yet a little boy, Mr. Judd gave evidence of 
 possessing an active, inquiring mind, and great faci- 
 lity in the acquisition of knowledge. His early 
 unconquerable desire for a student's life has been 
 already portrayed. He always had a habit of con- 
 stantly adding to his stock of information, one scarcely 
 knew how. He was always thinking, even when he 
 seemed only to be amusing himself; and had a way 
 of educing, by some alchemy best known to himself, 
 something valuable in thought from the most trifling 
 and insignificant things. There was scarcely any 
 thing he looked upon that did not furnish some hint, 
 some suggestion that he found means of turning to 
 good account. 
 
 An early habit of his was making use of little 
 note-books, or a piece of paper folded up small, which 
 he had always about him, on which he jotted down, 
 as it came before his mind, any thing he wished par- 
 ticularly to retain. It was one of the most common 
 things, day by day, to see him quietly take from his 
 pocket one of these bits of paper, and, with pencil, 
 briefly note down some talismanic words, as it 
 seemed ; for rarely any eye but his own ever lighted 
 
436 HABITS OF STUDY. 
 
 on these scraps of thought or items of knowledge. 
 From some little specimens, it appears that they 
 were sometimes pithy remarks of individuals, put 
 down verbatim ; sometimes a peculiar development 
 of human nature, or something illustrating the phi- 
 losophy of mind ; sometimes a broad truth, uttered 
 by his father; often something by way of self-in- 
 spection ; perhaps an unusual word that he chanced 
 to hear ; a valuable reflection upon something that 
 had fallen under his notice ; a question for considera- 
 tion ; an historical fact ; critical distinctions ; or an 
 expression of wit or humor. 
 
 He read much, and his reading embraced an 
 extensive range ; yet he thought more than he read. 
 He digested well whatever he perused. He never 
 read for mere amusement, but as a study. He never 
 perused books literatim; but had the power, by 
 glances here and there, of catching at the contents, 
 pausing on the points material to his purpose sufli- 
 ciently to make them his own. Truth was always 
 to him the great thing sought after, '^ the pearl of 
 great price." He wished to find out the views 
 of others, and their arguments for them ; but he 
 made up his conclusions independently, according 
 to the dictates of his own reason and conscience. 
 
 He commenced a private journal on his eighteenth 
 birthday, July 2S, 1831, which he continued for 
 about seventeen years ; his last date being August, 
 1848. In this, he did not write daily, as a matter 
 of form ; but from the spontaneity of his feelings, 
 whenever they prompted. This was sometimes every 
 day, sometimes at longer intervals ; but so frequent 
 
HABITS OF STUDY. ' 437 
 
 as to leave no important gaps. It was not a record 
 of events, but of emotions ; not of outward occur- 
 rences, but of his inner life, — bis heart, his soul, 
 religiously and emotively. With deep sensibility, 
 he regarded this as a sacred deposit, a duplicate self, 
 the inner temple of his own spirit, into whose secret 
 chambers none might enter. Scarcely a passage was 
 ever looked upon by any eye but his own, until he 
 found his spirit's mate, to whose inspection and 
 keeping this, together with his whole being, was 
 entrusted. From this source, it is found that the 
 journal contains his early religious experience, while 
 receiving the doctrines of Calvinism ; the commence- 
 ment of his difficulties regarding adherence to that 
 faith ; the distressing doubts and almost confirmed 
 infidelity to which they led ; the depression of his 
 troubled spirit during those years of nervous de- 
 bility, of darkness and loneliness, which ensued; 
 and the record of domestic life, the last few years 
 the journal was continued. As they are of a nature 
 so private, and abundant material on all-important 
 points has been found elsewhere, these records have 
 been drawn from but very sparingly in the prepara- 
 tion of this history. 
 
 His first child he made a close study, and watched 
 all her unfoldings in the spirit and purpose of syste- / 
 matic investigation. As an aid in this, and also as 
 furnishing memoranda of interest to her in after- 
 years, he immediately commenced a journal of the 
 child, which contains much curious matter relating to 
 her babyhood, her incipient mental development, and 
 her moral emotions. The same course, though in a 
 
 37* 
 
r 
 
 438 HABITS OF STUDY. 
 
 less minute degree, he pursued with, his second child ; 
 and, as soon as they were abl« to use a pen, he 
 endeavored to lead them to journalize for them- 
 selves. 
 
 Mr. Judd's study of his dictionary is well worthy 
 of notice here. In 183^, he obtained a copy of 
 Webster's royal octavo dictionary. In a little time, 
 there were observed to be, here and there, numerals 
 placed in the margin against a word. These went 
 on increasing from time to time, and at length 
 amounted to some thousands, attracting the attention 
 of any one who chanced to look into the volume, 
 though they were as mystical as Egyptian hiero- 
 glyphics to any eye but his own. After nearly 
 twenty years' use, and the great multiplication of 
 these figures, in 1850 he had this dictionary re- 
 bound in two volumes, with the insertion of blank 
 leaves alternating with the printed ones. On these 
 blank leaves began to appear, opposite some par- 
 ticular word, a succession of synonyms, or words of 
 similar import, of every sort and kind, found either 
 (/' on other pages of the dictionary, or gathered up 
 fi:om some occasional sources. On a careful exami- 
 nation of this dictionary within the last few months, 
 for he ever kept the clew to its apparent mysteries 
 in his own hand, it has been discovered that the 
 figures referred to were made to subserve a kindred 
 purpose with the blank leaves, — that of collating 
 and comparing words of like meaning, by indicating 
 the pages on which they were to be found. Thus 
 did Mr. Judd commence the critical and systematic 
 study of his own language with his regular college 
 
HABITS OF STUDY. 439 
 
 pursuits ; a rare instance, as it is believed, of a stu- 
 dent's feeling the supreme importance, among the 
 acquisition of various arts and sciences, and many 
 other languages, ancient and modern, of making 
 himself perfect master of his own tongue. 
 
 To this course of study may be attributed Mr. 
 Judd's power over language, the richness and variety 
 of his expressions, and his use of so many terms, to 
 him familiar as household words, though to many of 
 his readers unknown and seemingly strange and far- 
 fetched. 
 
 This plan of introducing blank pages was rather 
 a favorite one with him. He had a copy of the first 
 edition of " Margaret " and of " Philo " rebound in 
 this way for revision. In his sermons and lectures, 
 not only pages, but leaves, were often left blank, for 
 the purpose of additions and the rewriting of pas- 
 sages ; and on these pages may be found sometimes 
 a scrap of newspaper pinned on, containing an item 
 bearing upon a given point, or some additional illus- 
 tration, reference, or argument, — all showing that 
 the discourse was not written to subserve a par- 
 ticular temporary purpose, and then to be thrown 
 aside as a thing he had no more concern about, but 
 that it was based on truths and principles which were 
 his constant study, and in regard to which his mind 
 was perpetually advancing. 
 
 Of the " Index Rerum " he availed himself ; and 
 two volumes — the first commenced in 1834, and the 
 second in 1845 — are found filled with important 
 matter, references, and so forth. 
 
 Mr. Judd's study exhibits striking evidence of the 
 
440 - HABITS OF STUDY. 
 
 intellectual progress lie was continually making, of 
 the multitude ofjdiverse materials he was garnering 
 up for future use. From newspapers, of which he 
 took a great many, he cut out items of every descrip- 
 tion, dates, speeches, statistics, various matters of 
 fact, which he would paste into a large scrap-book 
 prepared for the, purpose, under their appropriate 
 departments, so that they were easily referred to as 
 occasion required. He had a large, folio blank- 
 book, into which thin, impermanent sheet-maps were 
 pasted. 
 
 In a blank-book, bearing date so late as Dec. 20, 
 1852, there is a commencement of copious references 
 to Scripture on a great diversity of subjects, with an 
 index, by means of which any one set of references 
 could be turned to at once. For instance, there is 
 the heading, " Nature : its goodness, beauty, and 
 that it is to be enjoyed, — Gen. i. 29, 30 ; ii. 9, 16 ; 
 ix. 1 — 3, 7 ; xxvii. 28." " Recreation, — Gen. ii. 9." 
 "Music, — Gen. iv. 21." "Art, — Gen. iv. 22." 
 "Agriculture, — Gen. ii. 5, 8, 15 ; iv. 2, 20; ix. 20." 
 " Prayer, — Gen. xxiv. 63." Other subjects, with 
 references in the same manner, are, " Universal 
 Brotherhood," " The Church," " The Family," " La- 
 bor," " Providence " " Wealth/' " Festivals/' " That 
 we must obey God, even if we displease man," 
 "That we must do our duty, and leave the conse- 
 quences to God," &c. Almost all the references 
 are in the book of Genesis ; and it would seem that 
 he had begun to take the Bible in the order of its 
 contents, and thus form an index to all topics of 
 prominent importance to his own mind. 
 
HABITS OF STUDY. 441 
 
 Mr. Judd's immediate surroundings were of great 
 consequence to him in his writing and studies. In 
 fitting up his first study after commencing house- 
 keeping in Augusta, the location affording nothing 
 of particular interest to look out upon, he felt it a 
 need that his windows should be hung with white 
 drapery ; and in its folds and curves, with a little 
 patch of blue sky for a background, he found some- 
 thing of the harmonizing influence essential to a 
 ready flow of his thought. When he came to plan 
 a dwelling of his own, the study was the starting- 
 point. It occupies the whole southern wing of his 
 cottage, having a large bay-window on the south ; a 
 window to the floor, opening upon a vine-covered 
 veranda, on the west ; and, opposite this, another 
 window, looking towards the sun-rising and his 
 garden. It commands many fine views, including a 
 sight of the smoothly-flowing Kennebec just below 
 his dwelling on the west, and again stretching off and 
 disappearing towards the south. But this apartment, 
 the most pleasant in the house, was not appropriated 
 to himself exclusively. He never studied alone. It 
 was another essential point in facilitating his intel- 
 lectual piursuits, that he should have his wife and 
 children about him ; and therefore the study was 
 also the sitting-room for the family. 
 
 He was always adding to his library as far as he 
 was able. He accumulated quite a large number of 
 well-chosen volumes, on a great variety of subjects, 
 many of them rare and very valuable. In the strict 
 economy he was obliged to observe in the increase 
 of his library, he often resorted to stalls of old books, 
 
44^ HABITS OF STUDY. 
 
 where, at reduced prices, he could find works essen- 
 tial to his purposes. In consequence of this, his 
 library, to a considerable extent, presents an old and 
 well-worn look. 
 
 A little compartment in one of the sets of book- 
 cases was allotted to the children as a sort of baby- 
 house and gathering-place for toys. The study -table 
 was a unique contrivance of his own ingenuity, con- 
 structed with many curious little conveniences to 
 suit his peculiar fancy. 
 
 He would gladly have adorned his study with 
 busts, paintings, and statuary, and felt it a great 
 deprivation that he had not the power to do so. 
 A few handsomely bound and illustrated volumes 
 and books of engravings, with here and there, 
 on the walls, a framed engraving, a cross of moss, 
 or a few plaster casts, was all the luxury with which 
 he could indulge his taste. The study was a de- 
 lightful place of resort, with its beautiful out-look- 
 ings in summer, its bay-window plants and sunniness 
 in winter, together with the bright wood-fire upon 
 the hearth, which was kindled chiefiy for the pleasure 
 of its cheerfulness. 
 
 Mr. Judd never was accustomed to study late at 
 night, neither was he an early riser. And yet his 
 nights were often sleepless ; and in summer he 
 always depended on getting a nap after dinner. He 
 took exercise, more or less, every day, working 
 in his garden and about his grounds, or walking to 
 different places about the town. He had a habit at 
 one time of feeling that he could write only in his 
 shirt-sleeves, without any sort of over-garment, even 
 
HABITS OF STUDY. 443 
 
 in winter ; but this he at length gave up, and disci- 
 plined himself to wear a study -gown. 
 
 In the preparation of his literary works, he made 
 great use of little note-books, devoted exclusively to 
 the purpose, in which he put down any thing that 
 came under his observation, having a bearing upon 
 his object. In one of these, the vocabulary of the 
 saw-mill, for " Richard Edney," is taken down as 
 the workmen actually used it ; many of the little 
 doings of Memmy and Bebby, such as " taking off 
 stockings, and running about with their feet in their 
 mittens," " each with a chicken's leg in each hand, 
 drumming on the tin oven," &c. 
 
 In fragmentary notes, apparently for the construc- 
 tion of the lecture on the r Dramatic Element in the 
 Bible^' the references are exceeding copious, embra- 
 cing the " Edinburgh Eeview," the " North Ameri- 
 can Review," Home, Aristotle, Hazlitt, Jameson, 
 Hudson, Heeren, Terence, Noyes, Calmet, Pathi, 
 Johnson, Lamb, Gillie, &c. &c., implying a wide 
 range of research. 
 
 In notes for the "White Hills," there stand, 
 under date. Lake George, Aug. 19, 1850, entries 
 like the following : " Shadow of a mountain by 
 moonlight in a lake, dark, cloudlike, dim ; " " Steamer 
 John Jay in the white mist like a snow-field." And 
 again, in notes for this work : " Dead hemlocks, 
 covered with moss ; " " Chimney standing, of a house 
 that had decayed years before ; " " Deserted saw- 
 mill on a green brook ; " " Sand-piper on the mar- 
 gin of Lake George, feeding from the waves, follow- 
 ing, retreating ; " " Little tow-headed boy makes a 
 
444 HABITS OF STUDY. 
 
 bow ; " " The basin, water emerald-green, green 
 pebbles at the bottom ; " " Silver cascade ; sounds ; 
 deep, hollow gurgle; also a sound down the cas- 
 cade as of rain, a sprinkling sound. Three dead, 
 spectral hemlocks above it." " The Notch ; streak 
 of moonlight in streaks." "Mount Washington; 
 smoke rising like vapor, blue and pink tinted, white 
 at the bottom. Black shadows, grey and blue, ^- 
 clouds in long bars, — smoke rises and droops like 
 an elm-tree, purplish tinge." " Church in a pine- 
 grove, near Bethel." " Glen Ellis, — parts of moun- 
 tains casting a distinct shadow ; parts in distinct, well- 
 defined shadow. Hollows in light, peaks in shade, 
 long ridge in shade," &c. &c. Thus were these little 
 note-books filled up, showing Mr. Judd Jhe closest 
 student of all the varied phenomena of nature. They 
 also contain lists of the plants indigenous to the 
 place, of the birds and other animals; and obser- 
 vations on the spot of every sort and kind, showing 
 his principle of truthfulness to nature and to New 
 England in all his works. In the same connection 
 also are copious references to histories, traditions, 
 travels, and the like, proving with all the rest, that 
 he was no off-hand writer, throwing before the pub- 
 lic crude impressions of the moment ; but that every 
 thing was well studied and matured in his own 
 thought before being sent abroad. And it is believed 
 that all this pains and research gives to his writings 
 a value unperceived by the cursory reader ; but 
 which, as time passes on, will cause them to be more 
 and more appreciated by the discriminating student 
 of nature and lover of truth. 
 
HABITS OF STUDY. 445 
 
 Thus, witH Mr. Judd, was intellectual, as well as 
 moral and religious progress, an element in which 
 he lived ; at all times adding to his mental stores, 
 and taking in knowledge with a readiness, an ease 
 and quietness, that showed the capacity of his mind, 
 and the breadth of his general culture. 
 
 38 
 
446 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 TEMPERAMENT AND GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 Mr. Judd's physical organization was of quite a 
 delicate texture, with very slight development of 
 muscle. His temperament would class under the 
 nervous-sanguine. His figure was well set, and of 
 the middle size ; his face between the oval and the 
 round. His complexion was florid and clear ; his 
 eyes blue ; his hair sandy. His head was propor- 
 tionably very large ; the forehead high and remarka- 
 bly prominent, rather overshadowing the eyes. He 
 had a highly intellectual and kindly expression; 
 and, in various states of emotion and excitement, 
 when his soul diffused itself over his countenance, it 
 was radiant with a refined and spiritual beauty. The 
 engraving represents his face in a state of thought 
 and repose, and is more stern than his usual look. 
 In conversation he had very great play of the fea- 
 tures. He was never disposed to put forth much 
 physical exertion: indeed, it appeared an almost 
 painful effort for him to do so, and he had not much 
 power of endurance. If even a slight illness assailed 
 him, he seemed to have very little force of resist- 
 ance, and experienced universal prostration from 
 it. Yet his general health was always good, and 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 447 
 
 there appeared to be no disease lurking in his sys- 
 tem. 
 
 His feelings were enthusiastic, ardent, deep, strong ; 
 his susceptibilities quick and tender. He never felt 
 any thing by halves, but with him almost every emo- 
 tion was a passion. From this constitutional tem- 
 perament, he was fitted for experiencing the most 
 lively enjoyment and the keenest suffering. A ner- 
 vous system so sensitive is very much at the mercy 
 of outward circumstances. Feelings, that with those 
 of a more phlegmatic temperament are calm and 
 gentle, seizing upon delicately wrought nerves in 
 an easily excitable state, become pangs and daggers, 
 and fearful are the inward crucifixions from which 
 the victim cannot escape. And then, to add to the 
 intensity and poignancy of the sufferings of one so 
 constituted, is the consciousness of the fact, that, by 
 those around him who, have never experienced the 
 like susceptibility, he is misunderstood and mis- 
 judged; that being attributed to ill-humor or bad 
 temper which is as purely physical and beyond con- 
 trol as the electric shock consequent upon seizing the 
 poles of a voltaic battery. 
 
 This nervous phenomenon, Mr. Judd began to 
 experience at an early age. The first very promi- 
 nent exhibition of it arose from the crossing of his 
 strong desire to go steadily on in a regular course of 
 study. Then came his pecuniary embarrassments in 
 the prosecution of his education ; and last, and most 
 weightily, the wearing conflict i n his theolog ical 
 opinions, which for a long time alternated between 
 Carv4magi_andrTnfidelily7 a nd w a s e ver"attended by 
 
448 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 the anguished thought of the disappointed hopes and 
 pious sorrow which the prospective termination of 
 the contest would bring on those his heart most 
 fondly cherished. The painful result of all this on 
 his nervous system has been detailed. And although, 
 after his settlement at Augusta, the effects, in a great 
 measure, subsided, yet still not only did the original 
 susceptibility . remain, but the torture which the 
 nerves had undergone so left its impress, that they 
 ever readily suffered an excitement and irritation 
 that was beyond his control. The diverse manifesta- 
 tions arising from this source were not generally 
 understood or rightly appreciated even by his nearest 
 friends, and much less by those who knew him not 
 intimately. 
 
 One thing that added to the difficulty, not only 
 so far as others were concerned, but with himself 
 also, was his great_n5iJiral^a'eserve. This was a 
 strongly marked family-trait, which his father and 
 grandfather had before him. He could not explain 
 himself; he could not even put into the hands of 
 others the key of interpretation to outward appear- 
 ances, which he knew were totally misunderstood 
 and wrongly judged. He never spoke of his ner- 
 vous excitability, or the sufferings attending it, unless 
 it was wrung from him by very peculiar circum- 
 stances. From various incidental remarks in his 
 note-books and jourtial, it is evident he understood 
 what in himself seemed to his friends peculiarities, 
 much better than they were aware. He says in one 
 instance : " I have often been desirous to speak to a 
 person generally on some subject that interested me. 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 449 
 
 yet I could not for my life." Again : *^ If I ebb 
 and flow, my deep internal essence is ever the same." 
 But, whatever were the ebbings and flowings within, 
 his_aatural- tendency was to keep the tossings and 
 heavings concealed in the depths of his own heart, 
 and present to others only a tranquil, equable exte 
 
 rior. This, however, was often beyond his power ; 
 aiid some unexpected and unaccountable phase would 
 present itself, that rendered him an un^olvable 
 enigma, or called forth condemnatory remarks, ac- 
 cording as the observer failed to have been somewhat 
 initiated into the intricacies of human nature, or 
 was uncharitably disposed. Not that Mr. Judd was 
 in the way of manifesting that pettishness which is 
 often an attendant on such a physical state, or that 
 he exhibited ill temper except very rarely and in an 
 excessively excitable condition. It was rather those 
 appearances which are called odd, queer, strange, 
 peculiar. 
 
 His disposition was kind and sympathizing. He 
 wished to see all about him in a happy state of feeling. 
 All deep Aear^emotions were his familiar acquaint- 
 ance ; and with a penetrating sympathy he could 
 instinctively detect and enter into all sorrows per- 
 taining to the afiections. In *' Richard Edney " he 
 speaks from personal experience when he says : 
 " There is no trial so severe as that of the heart. 
 There is no furnace of affliction so hot as that enkin- 
 dled in the sensibilities. There is no temptation 
 from which a man had better pray for quick deli- 
 verance than that addressed to the affections and 
 
 38* 
 
 ; 
 
450 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 For old acquaintances whom he had not met for 
 years, and with whom he never enjoyed any particu- 
 lar intimacy, he entertained kindly feelings, though 
 perhaps passed from their remembrance, and would 
 gladly give them a genial greeting. An instance 
 of the kind is that in *^ Richard Edney/' where, 
 humorously speaking of destroying the works from 
 which he had borrowed, he refers so pleasantly to 
 " the assistant-librarian." A similar reference is 
 made in the same work to his '^ respected college 
 rhetorical professor." 
 
 In his expansive benevolence, country, color, rank, 
 all melted away into one universal brotherhood, with 
 one loving God and Father over all. Yet, with this 
 full tide of feeling, by some he was considered selfish 
 in details ; and it must be allowed, that to the obser- 
 ver who did not know him well, or who had not the 
 philosophy to unravel the complicated secret motives 
 of action, there were sometimes exhibitions that 
 might bear such a construction. But, as the matter 
 lay in his own heart, it is believed there was no 
 ground for such an imputation. 
 
 He was a man of a remarkably cheerful temper. 
 He inclined to look on the bright side of things ; 
 and, even if darkness seemed to close around, he 
 would always, here and there, discover the illumi- 
 nated, the silver lining of the clouds of life. In one 
 of his letters occurs this remark : " I have often told 
 you I am never disappointed. I am not in common 
 things." His meaning was, not that things always 
 turned out as he might wish or expect, but that he 
 was not overconfident in his expectation, and cheer- 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 451 
 
 fully acquiesced in results. He had a lively sense 
 of the ludicrous, and often discovered its elements 
 where nothing of the kind was perceived by others. 
 A vein of humor constantly made itself felt in his 
 conversation and writings. His ideas often took a 
 remarkable juxtaposition, producing unexpected re- 
 semblances quite exciting to the risibles of his 
 hearers, when he himself had no intention of the 
 kind. He often introduced the keenest satire j but 
 it was generally with a gravity that showed his 
 lamentation over the evil, rather than ill-will towards 
 the perpetrator. 
 
 He was exceedingly hopeful, both as to indivi- 
 duals and to the race. He had great confidence in 
 human nature, and believed the better elements pre- 
 vailed by far over the unworthy ones. He always 
 expected good, and not evil, from men ; and, in 
 regard to those who had been guilty of any wrong 
 to himself or to others, he was ready to find excuse 
 for it, — was lenient and forgiving to the last degree. 
 Many and many a time, with a peculiar meekness of 
 demeanor, has he been heard to say, in reference to 
 some one from whom he had suffered an injury or a 
 disadvantage, '^ Oh ! well, he did not mean it, he did 
 not intend to do any harm," or something to this 
 effect. In some of his writings this passage is found, 
 — speaking of man in general : " If there be an 
 element of hope in his case, I catch at it ; if I know 
 nothing about him, I would still hope for him ; if 
 there be positively no ground for encouragement, I 
 can but shut my eyes to the dark catastrophe. I 
 know, too, how often in this world that passes for sin 
 
452 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 which is no sin, and otherwise." These expressions 
 are a most faithful transcript of his practice, and his 
 sense of the dignity of human nature, as partaking 
 of the divine. He would he cut to the heart at any- 
 seeming unkindness from his near friends, or those 
 he loved ; but he never harbored ill-will, and was 
 anxious to have it passed over and forgotten, as 
 though nothing had happened, as soon as possible ; 
 and it pained him to have allusion made to any 
 unpleasantness that had occurred. He had a great 
 aversion to fault-finding, and could not bear to see 
 people take pleasure in discussing the imperfections 
 of others, or in retailing scandal. 
 
 Extreme simplicity was a decided characteristic 
 of Mr. Judd ; a trait which, perhaps, to those not 
 in habits of familiarity with him, was one of his 
 most striking features. This element was deeply 
 inwrought in his nature ; and, even in his mature 
 years, he continued remarkab ly childli ke and unso- 
 phisticated. Many of the conventionalities of life 
 he could not understand ; in many more he could 
 see no fitness or propriety ; and, in either case, he 
 could not adopt them. The guilelessness of his 
 own heart led him to suspect none in others. He 
 was upright, straightforward, plain, sincere, well- 
 intentioned ; and he took others to be so too. If 
 he had feelings that were right, in themselves con- 
 sidered, he saw no necessity for concealing them, or 
 of suppressing actions that were based on good and 
 honest motives. Indeed, it never occurred to him 
 to do so. He never thought of it. It did not dawn 
 upon his mind that it was important to govern him- 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 453 
 
 self by fatjtitious rules ; to accord with, established 
 usages, by putting on appearances contrary to the. 
 reality of things. Truthfulness lay so deep in his 
 nature, that he could not see that many of the forms 
 of society, which in the letter were untrue, were not 
 so in reality, because nobody was deceived, but all 
 received them for just what they were worth. He 
 had no art ; he detested policy ; he could not admit 
 expediency as a rule of action ; he possessed not 
 what is understood by tact. Consequently, in his 
 intercourse with society, to those who did not under- 
 stand him he sometimes gave offence when least 
 suspecting it. Persons would perhaps consider 
 themselves neglected, ill used, or possibly insulted, 
 when he had no feelings but those of perfect cor- 
 diality and kindness. By some the developments 
 to which this led were considered unaccountable 
 strangeness. And thus, while, if sifted to the bot- 
 tom, this feature would have been found to grow out 
 of one of the most beautiful elements of his moral 
 constitution, it often operated very unfavorably upon 
 others, and was the cause of much mortification and 
 chagrin to himself from the misunderstandings and 
 wrong judgments to which it exposed him. It must 
 be acknowledged, however, that Mr. Judd had 
 a marked individuality of character, which was ap- 
 parent in all he said and did, and which often gave 
 the impression of oddness and eccentricity. But, 
 by whatever term it may be designated, it certainly 
 grew out of the greatest fidelity to himself, and did 
 not arise from any desire, or even any consciousness, 
 of being singular. It was full of a sweetness, sim- 
 
454 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 plicity, and naivete, that gave interest and pungency 
 to his whole demeanor. 
 
 While very social in his feelings^ he was rather 
 averse to mingling in general society. His usual 
 range of thought was upon subjects of an elevated 
 rank ; and he had not that agreeable fund of small 
 talk which finds the best currency in mixed com- 
 panies. His extreme sensitiveness and nervous 
 excitability were attended by their usual concomi- 
 tants, — diffidence and want of self-possession. So 
 that, take him all in all, he was quite the antipodes 
 of what is generally understood by a man of the 
 world. He did not possess the ready power of 
 adapting himself at will to any circumstances in 
 which he might be thrown. He writes in his Jour- 
 nal : " I can never be of the world. I must undo 
 my nature first." 
 
 His circle of acquaintance with the literary world 
 was much more limited than that of most persons 
 who hold as high a rank in it as he did. This was 
 partly due to his residing away from the prominent 
 centres of literary reunion, without adequate time 
 or means for seeking them ; and partly from the 
 naturally independent action of his own mind, which 
 found abundant stimulus and food within itself. 
 Yet no one better than he enjoyed free conversation 
 in private with one whose views, feelings, mental 
 calibre and attainments, corresponded with his own. 
 Then, with his mind animated on some subject of 
 interest, the rich imagery of his conversation, the 
 fire and force of his far-reaching thought, his natural 
 quaintness of manner, all mingled with the full tide 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 455 
 
 of human kindness, — the ether in which floated all 
 his most brilliant intellectual riches, — often charmed 
 those of the favored circle. In many conversations 
 of this kind, in his own house, with some visitor of 
 high culture and refined taste, groups of willing lis- 
 teners have thought it a privilege to sit by in silence ; 
 or perhaps felt justified, in an unobtrusive way, in 
 playing something of the eavesdropper in passages 
 or veranda in connection with the apartment of con- 
 versation. His table-talk, under similar circum- 
 stances, would, it is believed, not suffer in compari- 
 son with some of the best of this kind that has been 
 given to the world. 
 
 A travelling companion of Mr. Judd, on his return 
 from the Baltimore Convention, writes : ^* It was 
 our privilege to listen to his rich discourse for an 
 hour or two ; and the memory of his racy talk, with 
 its brilliant and apt illustrations, tender and loving 
 spirit, engrossing sincerity, is like the memory of 
 some scene full of fresh novelty, radiant with light, 
 and vocal with wild, sweet music. There was a 
 union of the JLdeal and the practical, the play of 
 a poetic injaginatioii over the solidity of good sense, 
 the enthusiasm of r the lofty-souled visionary) flashing 
 out 'amidst the sober counsels of a useful every-day j 
 wisdom, that made his conversation, on that calm, ! 
 serene night, exceedingly beautiful, winning, and 
 suggestive." ' 
 
 In his intellectual capacities, he had great quick- 
 ness of perception, and a readiness and ease in 
 receiving knowledge. He could take in a long 
 range of thought without confusion ; and at unfami- 
 
456 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 liar or strange ideas he was not frightened. Though 
 to others it seemed that his memory was faithful and 
 ready, he himself complained that it did not serve 
 him well. His associations were apt to be based 
 upon delicate resemblances, unnoticed and unthought 
 of by the common observer. Imagination in him 
 was bold and strong, altogether prevailing over 
 fancy. To him, almost every thing he looked upon 
 was endowed with life ; and his use of figurative 
 language was abundant. Though often exercising 
 wit, humor in general had the ascendancy. 
 
 He might be said to have equally exercised the 
 subjective and objective powers of his mind. He 
 was accustomed to much introversion. His private 
 writings show close self-inspection. He grew from 
 within, outward ; and also, by the reverse process, 
 from without, inward. If his observation was nice 
 and continual, his self-reflection kept pace with it. 
 
 To him, the outer as well as his inner world 
 was a living presence. Nature was to him the reve- 
 lation and embodiment of Divinity itself. In her 
 motherly arms she seemed to enfold him. On her 
 kind bosom he could throw himself for solace and 
 refreshment. If he was sick, she was his tender 
 nurse ; if saddened, her pure and gentle mini- 
 stries would gladden and restore him to himself. 
 He walked with her as with a friend ; he wooed her 
 as a lover ; and no phase of her appearance, no fea- 
 ture of her forms, escaped his attention. Her many- 
 tinted hues, her polyphonian voices, were all familiar 
 to his eye and hear. He also studied nature as a 
 science. But here he did not stop. This was not 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 457 
 
 an end, but only a means of introducing him into the 
 secrets of the natural world, revealing more fully its 
 latent beauties, and thus preparing him for those 
 minute, truthful, graphic descriptions for which he 
 was remarkable. 
 
 His own soul was delicately sensitive to the 
 beautiful; and, among its infinite forms in nature, 
 few escaped his notice. He discovered it in rich 
 abundance, where the ordinary observer perceived 
 nothing but simple form and color. "Something," 
 he says, " like what we are pleased to term infinite 
 moment, hangs on this thing, — the beautiful. I 
 can say, happy indeed are they who have loved the 
 beautiful from childhood, clung to it with a devoted 
 will through after-life, and who prize it as a talis- 
 manic gem wherewith to open the gates of truth; 
 prize it, too, as a serene light from heaven on their 
 earthly pilgrimage." His mind naturally tended to 
 make each object accordant with its surroundings; 
 and thus, in his writings, he would group in harmo- 
 nious blendings to his own eye, what, to another, 
 would sometimes seem harsh and incongruous. 
 Unable to see ugliness and deformity in the natural, 
 to him the picturesque was easily attainable. Re- 
 semblances and relations, far from obvious to the 
 common mind, were to him readily suggested. The 
 wintry appearance of the dark, leafless boughs and 
 twigs of the tall trees look to him " like bold, deli- 
 cate netting or linear embroidery on the blue sky ; or 
 as if the trees, interrupted in their usual method of 
 growth, were taking root in mid-winter up among the 
 warm transparent heavens." Every thing with him 
 
 39 
 
458 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 was sentient. The snow " fell soft and even upon 
 shrubs and flowers in the woods, as if it were tenderly 
 burying its dead." The influences of nature seemed 
 almost essential to his devotional feelings. He said 
 of himself, when walking in the city at a certain 
 time, under a hot sun, upon scorching pavements, 
 brick walls on either side, and no tree or spire of 
 grass for the eye to rest upon, that he " felt as though 
 he had lost his religion," and must needs go out to 
 Haerlem to see the grass and hear the birds. 
 
 To the readers of his works, and to those who have 
 listened to his public discourses or his conversa- 
 tions, it is not necessary to enlarge on this element of 
 his character. The balmy breath of nature is emit- 
 ted from almost every page of his writings. The 
 woods and wild flowers contribute their fragrance. 
 Bu'ds blend their carols with the joyous spring-notes 
 of softly -murmuring streams and gurgling brooklets. 
 Soft, snowy clouds move in still grandeur and 
 beauty over the serene blue above, Kke convoys of 
 the blest, in watchful guardianship over each human 
 soul. And, to crown all, the great and good Father 
 of the whole universe lives and reveals himself in 
 every thing his power produces, the least as well 
 as the most immense ; in the humblest flower and 
 tiniest insect, as well as in the vast worlds and sys- 
 tems which gem and solemnize the skies of night. 
 
 He was fond of contemplating Christ as conversant 
 and identified with nature ; as symbolizing himself 
 and his cause under figures such as the vine and the 
 mustard-seed j drawing his illustrations from the 
 lilies of the field, the birds of the air^ fields ready for 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 459 
 
 harvest, serpents, doves, water, stars, and light. A 
 beautiful illustration of his view of Christ in connec- 
 tion with nature is found in a sermon upon the sub- 
 ject, from the text, " Consider the lilies of the field." 
 In concluding the discourse he says : " Christ was, S,^ 
 love r of nat ure ; he entered into its spirit, he repro- 
 duced its forms, he spoke in its language. There is 
 no department he overlooked ; vegetables, animals, 
 minerals, the wind and rains, lightning, the orbs 
 above us, — into every domain of creation he e»-^ 
 tered. 
 
 " And how did he do this ? Not as an economist, 
 or a speculator or surveyor ; but as a child of the 
 infinite Father, communing with the works of his 
 hand, in the love of beauty and the spirit of faith. 
 He walked by the sea-side, he traversed woods, to 
 derive lessons for the souls he was to save, and a 
 method for that kingdom he came to establish." 
 
 Art, as well as nature, was to Mr. Judd a study 
 and delight ; and the relations of the one to the 
 other he loved to trace. " Trees," he says, in 
 " Richard Edney," " considered as an avenue for 
 the eye to traverse, enhance the beauty of objects at 
 the end of it. The reader has looked through trees 
 at water or the sky, and witnessed this effect. Na- 
 ture, like art, seems to require a border in order to 
 be finished. The dressmaker hems and rufiles ; the 
 carpenter has his beads and pilasters ; the painter 
 never rests till his piece is framed. ... If we should 
 say nature loves a bordering, as it used to be said 
 she abhorred a vacuum, we might state the whole 
 truth. An uninterrupted plane ; a continuity of 
 
460 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 similar surface, vast, monotonous, silent, — is into- 
 lerable. So a column must have its cap, and a house 
 its cornice ; so along the highway spring innumerable 
 flowers, and on its margin the forest is lavish of its 
 foliage ; so the sea is terminated by the sky ; and 
 we look at the sky through vistas of embanked 
 and woofy cloud. Were you ever in a fine grove of 
 a bright moonlight night? How different from 
 standing upon a .mountain at such a time ! We 
 recommend to any on an eminence to go back from 
 the brink thereof, and stand in the forest, and look 
 out through the breaks and crevices. A moss-rose 
 is an instance in point, beautiful because it is bor- 
 dered: it is a landscape seen through trees. A 
 house in the midst of shrubbery is an instance ; so 
 are islands in a pond; a view through half-raised 
 window-curtains, and distant scenery through a long 
 suite of rooms ; so are light on foregrounds, and 
 shadows on backgrounds, in all pictures. Glens, 
 valleys, a flower in the grass, a star in the sky, belong 
 to the same category. So did Memmy and Bebby, 
 at this present speaking ; they were bordered by 
 trees ; cedars and birches were about them, like 
 curls on the face of fair maiden. . . . Then, in this 
 casC; the children were on the go, while the border- 
 ing kept still; they were the picture, dancing up 
 and down in its frame; they were the blue sky, 
 crisping and rippling behind the clouds. 
 
 " Lo ! now Bebby stands between, and partly 
 screened by, two little cedars, about as tall as she ; 
 and how beautiful she is! She is a moss-rose; a 
 rose mossed, bordered. Bebby runs away. Bebby 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 461 
 
 is the same Bebby ; the trees are the same trees ; 
 but how different apart ! The rose has lost its moss, 
 the view its border. Run back, little additament ! 
 Throw yourself into the middle of the picture, or 
 what will be a picture when you get there ! Consent 
 to be bordered. Those happy blue eyes, those floc- 
 culent, foamy locks, — were they ever so pretty ? 
 The pea-green, crinkly little cedars, — what enchant- 
 ment they suddenly assume ! How the beauty flashes 
 from one to the other, and centres in the whole I 
 How it vanishes when Bebby quits ! " 
 
 For paintings and sculpture, Mr. Judd had great 
 taste and appreciation, and a very well-cultivated 
 judgment. He would study by the hour a single 
 piece of real merit, and his criticisms were highly 
 discriminating. In the tragedy of the " "White Hills," 
 before quoted from, among other remarks upon art, 
 in conversation with the artist, he makes Normand 
 say: — 
 
 " If spirit shrinks, as from a hand profane. 
 Paint depth, with breadth and distance too, the forms 
 Of universal, omnipresent life. 
 Nor wall up surfaces. Why ever work 
 In side-views, as if nature had no front. 
 And man were only lateral-jointed, like 
 A dancing-jackl Canst thou not handle night, 
 And shades as black as night, that lie 
 Along the wooded margin of a lakel 
 Or space project, and pebbles sink in waterl 
 Ye study attitude, geometry. 
 The starts of tragedy, what warm, what cold; 
 You ilk have murdered men to see them die; 
 Spurning Dione smiling through the trees. 
 Hast seen the spirit, — make it felt 
 In what thou dost, the visible, invisible." 
 39* 
 
J^ 
 
 462 TEMPERAMENT AND 
 
 He sometimes tried his own hand at modelling, in 
 the clay about his house, grotesque busts for the 
 amusement of his children. He had great sympathy 
 with artists, and wished that, in this country, they 
 might find more appreciation and encouragement. 
 It was a matter of regret to him, that our Puritan 
 ( fathers, in their zeal to do away^witK existing abuses, 
 so entirely rejected all art, and laid no foundation 
 for its cultivation in this country; — ' — " "^ ^ 
 
 He sought as much as possible to encourage art 
 among his people. In the construction of his own 
 house, and the embellishing of his grounds, in which 
 every tree was set with regard to effect, his own 
 sense of beauty and art is embodied as far as his 
 means would allow. 
 
 In mechanical operations he had considerable 
 skill, and had a great fondness for getting up pe- 
 culiar little contrivances that nobody else would 
 think of. 
 
 For music Mr. Judd had a great love. He was 
 very sensitive to its power. It affected him deeply. 
 Yet he was unable to produce it himself. Musical 
 tones coursed through him like wind through the 
 trees ; or, rather, his frame vibrated under their in- 
 fluence. It seemed to be pure musical tone mostly 
 that affected him ; for he did not always definitely 
 distinguish one air from another. In a letter to his 
 wife, dated October, 1852, he writes : " As to music, 
 'tis not all ^ association,' 'tis partly the severe requisi- 
 tions of my own mind, 'tis the despotism of a fine 
 art within me, that moves me." Much of the soul 
 of music is shadowed forth in Chilion, and the moral 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 463 
 
 influence of his violin^ with which also the poor boy- 
 said he had done all his praying. 
 
 Among all Mr. Judd's prominent characteristics, 
 his religious tendencjf was the most striking. Reli- 
 gion was^to-^rifii the first thing and the last ; it 
 pervaded his whole life ; it was to him all in all. A 
 sense of duty, a sense of right, was ever his govern- 
 ing motive. So strong was this feeling, he never 
 seemed to have any temptation even to make com- 
 promises with his conscience ; and conscience was 
 the ever-ready arbiter in his decisions. His principle 
 was to obey God at all earthly hazards ; to perform 
 duty, and leave the consequences to God. In the 
 language of another, ''The struggle of his heart 
 was not to embrace heaven and earth by turns, and 
 thus turn both to the ashes. of despair ; but, wherever 
 earthly love came in conflict with the heavenly, the 
 former was always sacrificed to the latter. He sought 
 rather to heavenize earthly love ; to make it a part 
 oFtHe spiritual perfection and joy of man's earthly 
 state. Most touching was the sad music of his 
 "spirit, when the triumphing of the heavenly claim 
 upon its powers was heard simultaneously with 
 broken-hearted love and expiring passion." In the 
 preceding narrative, there has often been occasion to 
 refer to his reverence for truth, and his own corre- 
 sponding truthfulness of character. Love to God 
 and to man, as has often appeared in these pages, 
 was the key-note of his being ; it was the sum and 
 substance, the foundation-stone, of his religion. He 
 labored for the happiness, the elevation, the moral 
 purity, of the race. This benevolent principle in 
 
464 TEMPERAMENT AND * 
 
 him had no bounds. To the sorrowing and afflicted 
 he had words of cheer, even when his own heart 
 was sinking under some oppression. 
 
 Great earnestness was a quality for which he was 
 conspicuous. It was seen in the prosecution of 
 whatever he undertook ; especially was it developed 
 in carrying out his fond idea of the birthright 
 church. At the association in Belfast, when that 
 subject was under consideration, something was said 
 about a want of earnestness in the ministry ; he said 
 he acknowledged no such want; and, as one who 
 heard him says, " in a manner that took from his 
 words all appearance of presumption," he added, 
 " I have as much earnestness as I want ; as much 
 as I can carry." There was in him a constant 
 vitality of thought, and a firmness and independence 
 in acting up to his honest convictions. 
 
 He had great humility of mind ; never manifested 
 an undue estimate of himself, or made others feel 
 that he claimed superiority over them, but, on the 
 contrary, was exceedingly unpretending, unassuming, 
 and innately modest in the highest degree. In a 
 letter previously given, referring to his part in the 
 movements of the Unitarian Church in Maine, and 
 urging others to go forward, he says, " I am tired of 
 so much personality." 
 
 His resignation under trial, the quiet submission 
 with which he bowed to the dispensations of Provi- 
 dence, was one of the strongest and most beautifully 
 marked features of his religious character. Christ 
 was ever his pattern and guide ; to be like Christ, 
 the standard from which there was no appeal. His 
 
GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 465 
 
 life was far above the range of trivial, earthly things : 
 it seems not too much to say, with the apostle, that 
 it was " hid with Christ in God." Not that it is 
 claimed that he was perfect, or free from faults ; yet 
 no one who comprehended him fully, or knew him 
 intimately, could fail to see that his governing prin- 
 ciples were high and holy, and that they permeated 
 every department of life and of human interest. 
 He acted from principle in all things, even to the 
 patronizing of home-mechanics and artisans, though 
 perhaps a little at the expense of appearance. Those 
 who knew him best, — his family-friends, the wit- 
 nesses of his most unreserved daily life, — while by 
 no means blind to his imperfections, could not fail 
 to venerate the moral purity of his character ; to 
 feel that it was indeed Christ-like. 
 
 He lived near to God in the communion of his 
 spirit. God was to him a loving Father, an ever- 
 present Friend. Devotion was the habit of his 
 mind, the repose of his spirit. It was deeper than 
 words ; it was higher than outward forms ; it was 
 not governed by times and seasons. God was in 
 connection with all his thoughts. As he walked by 
 the way, he worshipped. He once let fall the re- 
 mark to a young friend, on walking across the lot 
 from his house to that of his father-in-law, — " This 
 is my prayer-ground : there is Malta Woods on one 
 side, the river on the other, the heavens above." 
 He had not that high, ecstatic religious enjoyment 
 which some have experienced. It was not so much 
 rejoicing as great inward trust, submission, peace. 
 
466 GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 It was, in short, the feeling of at-one-ment of him- 
 self with God. 
 
 Such are some of the salient points of Mr. Judd's 
 character. But, as manifest in him, they were so 
 mixed and blended as to produce an indescribable 
 uniqueness, which no one could fail to perceive 
 from the briefest acquaintance with the man or his 
 writings. With the most profound seriousness of 
 thought was an easy play of natural humor. In his 
 extreme rectitude of principle, there was nothing 
 stern : his Christian graces melted into the common- 
 est affairs of daily life. Firm and independent, he 
 was neither self-consequent nor overbearing. Ever 
 genial in his feelings, he was often reserved in out- 
 ward manner. Refined in taste, and keenly alive 
 to the beautiful, there was often something of gro- 
 tesqueness in his combinations. Self-reliant, he was 
 not presumptive. He did not display the different 
 features of his character by turns, but, as it were, 
 was each and all at the same moment; bringing, 
 by some secret sense of unity best understood by 
 himself, seeming discrepancies to meet in the same 
 thought and action. The lights and shades blended 
 and flickered, and were lost in each other in in- 
 tangibility in his actual existence ; yet every thing 
 held its own, went on, attained its end. And thus 
 naive, unique, he stood out in bold relief in his own 
 individuality, — himself, and no one else. 
 
467 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 In the current history of Mr. Judd's life, which 
 has akeady been given, much has appeared illustra- 
 tive of his general tendencies of a domestic kind. 
 But home, its relations, its affections, its manifold 
 interests, held a place so vital in his heart, and had 
 so much to do with the very essence of his life, that 
 justice to the subject seems to require it should 
 receive a separate notice. 
 
 The family-state held so high a place in his esti- 
 mation as to prompt the following expression in one 
 of his sermons : " I believe it is a greater sin to 
 neglect the family than to neglect the church. Much 
 as I love the church, and there are none who love it 
 more, if either institution must, firom any sad neces- 
 sity suffer, let the blow fall upon the church rather 
 than the family." 
 
 The homes of his childhood and youth were pre- 
 cious to him, even in their localities. The old place 
 in Westhampton he always loved to revisit; and 
 his fond childhood's associations invested even its 
 barren hills with beauty and attractiveness. North- 
 ampton, his later home, had ever with him some- 
 thing paradisiacal in its charms ; and a sight of its 
 
468 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 old, familiar objects never failed to swell his heart 
 almost with rapture. 
 
 All along through his life at college and the divi- 
 nity-school, home was the centre of his thoughts, 
 and there his affections were garnered up. He 
 looked forward to his vacations with longing desire 
 to find himself again encircled by his own kindred. 
 His letters were frequent in the intervals of separa- 
 tion, and were mostly addressed to his mother, who, 
 though her health was always poor, was yet, by her 
 energy and resolution, the secret spring and life of 
 the family-arrangements and comforts. "With the 
 children, in their later as well as earlier years, no- 
 thing was deemed impossible with " mother." If the 
 problem was to renovate the wardrobe, it was she 
 who could make the " auld claes look amaist as weel's 
 the new ; " if to make the most of a little, she it was 
 who could do it. No one was so untiring as she, 
 in season and out of season, in attending to the needs 
 of her children, and administering to their pleasure. 
 Her taste and refinement of feeling were ever a 
 stimulus to them to aspire after the best things. 
 They were always sure of her disinterestedness and 
 self-sacrifice in contributing to their happiness. They 
 confided in her as a friend ; they revered her as a 
 mother ; they venerated her as a Christian. 
 
 In no one of her children were these sentiments 
 stronger than in Sylvester. They were indeed at- 
 tended with a peculiar glow in his breast, and were 
 connected with all that was most tender in his na- 
 ture. 
 
 His father was always social, loving to discuss all 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 469 
 
 sorts of matters with his children. His study into 
 men and things had been extensive ; his judgments 
 were usually well founded ; and from his fund of 
 knowledge and experience, useful and interesting 
 lessons were always to be learned. And, on his 
 part, he was glad to draw out from his children 
 whatever they had acquired from study and observa- 
 tion in their wanderings from the paternal roof. For 
 him his children entertained great respect and an 
 honest pride ; and between him and them existed a 
 deep affection. 
 
 The children were bound to each other by the 
 strongest ties. In the drama of the " "White Hills," 
 Sylvester says : — 
 
 " It sometimes seems as all the milk 
 Of human kindness went to brotherhood.^^ 
 
 And no one but those who knew him intimately can 
 understand how truly these lines express his own 
 heart, his own experience. In 1838 he writes : 
 *^ Every day adds to the strong interest that attaches 
 me to my brothers." And in his Journal, March, 
 1840, stands this record : " A letter from brother 
 C. P. How precious are ye to me, my brothers, one 
 and all ! May Heaven keep us holy ! " Yet there 
 were no peculiar outward demonstrations of affection, 
 unless particular occasions drew them forth ; and a 
 stranger might not readily have detected any great 
 warmth of fraternal sentiment. 
 
 Such were the elements which made up the home 
 of Sylvester's younger years and his early manhood. 
 It was in these home-gatherings that he always 
 
 40 
 
470 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 longed to be one, when he was away pursuing his 
 studies. It was hither his frequent epistles were 
 sent. It was to those dwelling here that the injunc- 
 tion was so often penned, " Write, " " Write soon ! " 
 And, after completing his professional studies, the 
 prominent objection to settling in Augusta was its 
 remoteness from his kindred. Established there, 
 and taking his place in the world as a man on his 
 own footing, as a child he sighed for a place at 
 his mother's table, on occasion of the time-honored 
 and tenderly associated festival of Thanksgiving, and 
 had the secret feeling that it was hard to stay and 
 make Thanksgiving for other people, and have none 
 himself; that is, none that anwered to his old, fond 
 ideas of a Thanksgiving, which are so well pictured 
 in the letter which follows, addressed — 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 '• Cambeidge Theological Seminary, Nov. 28, 1837. 
 
 " Dear Mother, — This letter will find you in the 
 midst of the festivities of Thanksgiving. I send it, 
 and it is all I can send. I wish I could be at home 
 myself to participate in the delights of this, our 
 most joyful anniversary. But I must be content to 
 remain here alone. Yes, alone ; for almost all of 
 our students are going to their respective homes. 
 Our halls will be deserted ; and my joys will return 
 upon me in pain, and my thanks, I fear, will be 
 mingled with something of discontent. 
 
 ''A. introduces quite a luscious break in A. H.'s 
 last letter, and presents a tempting account of new 
 cider, pumpkin-pies, &c. She came upon the stage 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 471 
 
 before it was a sin to quaff the pure juice of the 
 apple. The man who invented the sin of a cider- 
 draught ought to be compelled to drink and feed on 
 bran-bread and water all his days. "Who will write 
 the history of New England's cider ? — or the tale 
 of the last cider-drinker ? Thanksgiving was always 
 a favored time. Freegiving would be a better name. 
 Great times we used to have at Grandpa Judd's at 
 Thanksgiving. There were good eating, and good 
 drinking, and good feeling. There was the mug of 
 flip too. I remember it well. Father thinks I am 
 a little beset with a spiritual nature. Yet those 
 were glorious times. They are gone. Their vision 
 glimmers among the things that were. A. and 
 
 H i and P ^n have no remembrances of this 
 
 sort. Their recollections will only cluster about 
 their own father's festive board. May these ever 
 be to them cherished, sweet, pure, holy ! . . . . A. H. 
 says the old carpet is on the parlor-floor. I would 
 give a thousand times more to see it next Thursday, 
 with the table full of papers, and the old trunk, 
 than to see the finest Brussels and the nicest maho- 
 gany of Boston. Home is home, you know, though 
 ever so homely. My home is decidedly character- 
 ized as respects its exterior. Yet I love you nor it 
 nojie the less. 
 
 "I want to be with you. Think a little of the 
 absent ones. C. P. and I must take our meals in 
 somewhat of sadness. Say a good word for us ; 
 wish us well. Say you wish C. P. could have such 
 a piece at dinner, and I such a bit, and how you 
 wish we were there, and 'twill do us good. 
 
47J3 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 " You will be thankful for blessings received, and 
 ills prevented. I have hurried through this sheet 
 at a galloping rate, which must account for incohe- 
 rence. I felt as if I must say something. 'Twas 
 * like a fire shut up in my bones.' I feel as if it 
 was almost a sin not to be at home Thanksgiving. 
 But I must make the best of it. You know that I 
 have not kept it at home but once for five years." 
 
 To a friend, about this time, he remarked that he 
 trembled all over, every letter he got from home, 
 and hardly dared to break the seal, lest it brought 
 the news that to his father, his mother, or some one 
 of the family, evil had happened. After he had a 
 family of his own, the same fond desire for the 
 parental home continued. Visits to it were looked 
 forward to as a consummated happiness, and were 
 repeated as frequently as circumstances would allow. 
 In a Thanksgiving sermon, of which the subject 
 is " Home," this passage occurs : — " We can be 
 free there. We can throw off the dress of the 
 street and the manners of society. A man is not 
 obliged to conceal his headache, and he can give 
 vent to his own feelings, when he enters his house. 
 One is not a merchant or a doctor or a lawyer at 
 home. There i^ one place in the world where e^en 
 a clergyman can be a boy again ; and that is his 
 father's house. His father calls him by his first 
 name, and his mother asks him to bring in an arm- 
 ful of wood. There is throwing off of care, and 
 rejection of conventionality, at home, and yielding 
 one's self to nature, and slippers, and loose gown." 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 473 
 
 The first severing of the tie which bound Sylves- 
 ter so closely with each and all the members of his 
 father's family was the removal from tangible inter- 
 course, in the year 1850, of his brother H 1, 
 
 a man in the - prime of life, of the greatest purity 
 of character, of a singularly devout life, the utmost 
 resignation to the will of Heaven, and with faith 
 in the Father above, which may be said to have been 
 lost in sight. He had, for many years, been an 
 invalid ; and his duties had confined him very much 
 to his own little family. Sylvester had long been 
 planning and wishing to secure a' visit from him, 
 and had counted largely on the pleasure it would 
 afford, and the improvement it might effect in his 
 health, to spend some time at the Augusta Parsonage. 
 But, as the months drew near when he hoped to 
 realize this long-cherished wish, this brother began 
 to decline more and more. Hopes of his rallying 
 grew less and less strong. The feared and dreaded 
 message at last arrived, that he had approached the 
 confines of the spirit-world. Sylvester's efforts to 
 reach him in season for one more earthly interview, 
 one parting exchange of the deep love of their 
 hearts, were firuitless.^ Ere he arrived, with familiar 
 discourse upon the subject, with the calmness of 
 preparation for a short journey, ' and with sweet, 
 child-like trust and composure, expressing a willing- 
 ness at any moment to leave the world, his spirit had 
 passed away : his body, as if in gentle sleep, alone 
 remained. Sylvester's grief at this rending of the 
 brotherly tie shall be given in his own words, in a 
 letter addressed — 
 
 40* 
 
474 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 To HIS Wipe and Sister. 
 
 " NoETHAMPTOX, Feb. 27, 1850. 
 
 " My heart bleeds. Last night, I went into the 
 parlor, where the body lay, and shut the doors to be 
 alone. I must needs give way to the sadness of my 
 
 feelings. Poor, dear, good H 1 ! poor, dear, 
 
 good H 1 ! I kissed his forehead for myself, 
 
 and for you all. Calm, composed, he looked ; his 
 forehead fair, smooth, beautiful, as ever. But dead, 
 dead ! "Where was his accustomed sweet smile ? 
 where his gentle welcome ? where some response to 
 the bursting agony of my spirit ? 
 
 '^ No voice, no eye, no cheerful interest ! My 
 brother, my best brother, dead ! I sat down in 
 silence, in deepest sorrow. 
 
 ^' There are the old pines in the neighborhood of 
 his house, once enlivened by his presence ; there are 
 the fruit-trees that he took such interest in ; there 
 are the firs I had talked with him so much about. 
 To-day I saw some old stalks of corn that he left, 
 and, too, the neighbors' hens that used to perplex 
 him so, and that he drove off in so quiet a way, — 
 all things full of his sweet image. His old, living, 
 good form comes up continually in all this deso- 
 lation. 
 
 " So it is : he is gone for this world ; but the 
 other world gains a noble inhabitant. The other 
 world must be enriched to our eyes and heart by a 
 new interest. God prepare us all for our last end ! " 
 
 In relation to the same bereavement are the fol- 
 lowing extracts : — 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 475 
 
 To HIS Brother J. W. 
 
 "Augusta, MarA 9, 1860. 
 
 " I cannot, I need not, express all that I, all that 
 
 we all, feel about our great loss. H 1 was a 
 
 very dear brother to me : the thought of him was 
 dear ; the idea of visiting him was dear ; the expec- 
 tation that he would visit us was dear. What a 
 melancholy reigned about his house, and over his 
 garden, and under those green pines, and must for 
 ever reign ! The maples and firs and peach-trees 
 he set out, and watched so carefully, and watered so 
 industriously, — they all seemed to be in mourning 
 for him. Think, too, of his dear wife, who mourns 
 him because she knew him so well, and of the little 
 children, who will never mourn him because they 
 never knew him. To me it was, as you may sup- 
 pose, a sad office to be called to perform the funeral- 
 service. 
 
 " But his end was serene, hopeful, bright ; and 
 his consummation is now glorious. Our sorrows are 
 softened ; the very gloom of our hearts is uplifted 
 to the light and the joy of heaven. Dear spirit of 
 our departed brother, we know thou art blest. God 
 prepare all of us to meet thee in peace ! Thy 
 memory will ever be about us to cheer, admonish, 
 guide, and save." 
 
 To HIS Father. 
 
 " Augusta, March 10, 1850. 
 
 " Dear Father, — I think a great deal about the 
 dear departed. His miniature is now open on my 
 table. His gentle eye, his tender feeling, ai'e all 
 
476 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 there. His sudden decline deprived us of a deeply 
 clierished hope, that he would visit us this summer, 
 recreate his strength, see our houses, and enjoy a 
 portion of our life. How lonely and sad must F. be ! 
 how seemingly unsheltered are the two orphans ! 
 But God's will be done ! " 
 
 To HIS Sister-in-law, F. J. 
 
 "Augusta, March 24, 1850. 
 
 '' Dear Sister, — P. writes that you are going to 
 leave your house. It must be sad parting with the 
 house, even as it was with him who was the life of 
 it. I think a great deal of my dear brother. His 
 daguerreotype stands continually open before me 
 upon my desk. His pure spirit in the heavenly 
 world blesses me. Yet I did wish — oh, how I 
 wished ! — to see him in the flesh a little longer. 
 His death weighs upon my heart, yet without dis- 
 turbing my faith. 
 
 " That house is endeared to you ; the garden, the 
 shrubbery, the fruit-trees, even to the kitchen and 
 the shed. How he watered those trees ! how inter- 
 ested he was in their growth ! what a variety of little 
 plans he had for the future ! All gone, all gone ! 
 God's blessed will be done ! 
 
 '^How we did calculate on a visit, a long visit, 
 
 from H 1 this summer, and hoped to give him 
 
 that leisure and recreation which would favor his 
 health ! 
 
 "We are looking forward to a pleasant summer. 
 
 I too have a garden and trees, — which H ^1 will 
 
 never see. 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 477 
 
 '* God's love, and good promises, and sustaining 
 spirit, be in your heart ! " 
 
 To his sister P., April 7, 1850, he says : " Dear 
 face, we shall see it no more. The blessedness of 
 
 H 1, his virtues, his meekness, his quaint, good 
 
 ways, — it makes me sigh every day when I think 
 that, as to this world, they are lost to us for ever. 
 I still see, in my mind's eye, his homely, benevolent 
 form walking under those shadowy pines. Shall I 
 greet it no more ? " 
 
 In a blank-book, apparently with the intention of 
 writing a memorial of this dear brother, stands only 
 this simple record : " Died, my dear, blessed brother 
 Hall, Feb. 26, 1850." 
 
 The sermon on the " Affection of Brothers," 
 which this event called forth, has been referred to. 
 
 Sylvester had great influence with his brothers 
 and sisters, and was intellectually and spiritually a 
 leading member of the band. In all their good 
 fortune he participated ; and for their sorrows his 
 sympathy was ever ready. To his brother J. W., 
 who was mourning the loss of a dear little boy, he 
 thus writes : — 
 
 " Oct. 23, 1845. 
 
 " My dear Brother, — I have been wishing to 
 write you ever since I received yours, announcing 
 the sickness of Channing, ' the sweet little one,' 
 but have hardly found one collected moment ; and 
 even now, just after getting your very full account 
 of his death, and when I could most wish to write, 
 I have hardly a spare moment. We do all most 
 
478 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 deeply sympathize with you and E., as we did all 
 most deeply love the little boy. Channing's sweet 
 smile, his soft voice, his winsome ways, his gentle 
 spirit, we can never forget. It must have been a 
 melancholy errand, that of going with him to H., 
 and shutting the remains of so much innocence, so 
 much loveliness, so much beauty, in the silent grave. 
 God only knows the bitterness, the anguish, of your 
 hearts ; and may he sustain you in this severe 
 trial! 
 
 " I preach that children go to heaven, that he who 
 blessed them on earth blesses them there, that the 
 dead little ones are treasures laid up in heaven ; and 
 what is preached, we would all practically believe. 
 There is a reunion. There comes a time when we 
 shall go to the loved and lost, — when parents shall 
 meet again their children. Angels have charge over 
 their pure souls, and will keep them until we go for 
 them. In this hope let us rest ; in this bright 
 prospect let our tears be dry, and our afflicted hearts 
 find repose. In the earth rests his body : let our 
 souls rise with his to the skies. I will pray for 
 
 you." 
 
 In November, 1845, he wrote as follows to his 
 
 brother H 1 and wife, who were then under like 
 
 circumstances of bereavement : — 
 
 " My dear Brother and Sister, — We have re- 
 ceived tidings of the death of your little boy. I 
 know your hearts are pained by this sad event ; that 
 a strong parental hope is crushed, and a portion of 
 your daily life, as it were, blotted out for ever. I 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 479 
 
 » 
 
 believe you are sustained by those reflections that 
 flow from our holy religion ; that you call to mind 
 Jesus, the bosom-friend of little children ; that you 
 anticipate a reunion with the loved and lost ; and 
 that you acquiesce in the will of your heavenly 
 Father. 
 
 " Notwithstanding our religion, our philosophy, 
 our stoicism even, it is a sad thing to bury a child ; 
 to shut it away from our arms, our sight, and our 
 love, and consign it to the silent grave. To part 
 with its voice, its face, its sweet eyes, its plays, 
 afilicts us sorely. But its memory will abide in your 
 soul ; and the prospect of again meeting it will 
 brighten your lonely pilgrimage. W. too has been 
 called to mourn : his Channing, mild, spiritual boy, 
 is no more. Let us feel that we are all children of 
 the universal Father, and that our children are his 
 also ; and, when he calls them to himself, we will 
 resign them without doubt or complaint. 
 
 " Our hold on things of earth is frail : let us 
 therefore use them well ; let us love, and do good 
 to, our children, and they will be better fitted to go, 
 and we to spare them. Presently it must come our 
 own turn to die. If any children are left to bury 
 us, may it be with the feeling that we were good 
 fathers, good mothers. 
 
 " Your brother very affectionately, 
 
 " Sylvester." 
 
 More deeply still was he affected by the loss of 
 "Arthur Willie," as the little fellow called himself, 
 the only child of his sister A. This endeared boy, 
 of high promise, was doubly his nephew, and almost 
 
480 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 twin in age with his own little girl. The two chil- 
 dren had been associated together from their birth, 
 and, as they advanced in age, had been almost daily 
 together, sharing the same playthings, the same 
 attentions. The father and uncle had watched with 
 equal interest the developments of the two, marked 
 their contrasts, idiosyncracies, and intimations of 
 future character. The two households, indeed, were 
 somewhat one ; and the children seemed to be 
 shared almost in common. The blight of that noble 
 little form, the transit beyond the reach of sense of 
 that winning spirit, touched his heart with the most 
 tender grief, and drew forth unwonted sobs and 
 tearc. In a little Journal in which he kept the 
 record of the childish sayings and doings of his little 
 girl, he writes : — 
 
 " Dec, 15, 1846. — Little Arthur died. At one 
 sudden stroke is thus swept away much attractive- 
 ness, the fairest promise of youth, and the strongest 
 joy of many. Arthur had a light complexion, blue 
 eyes, blond hair, red cheeks ; was agile, energetic, 
 talkative ; his limbs were hard, fat, and round ; his 
 step firm, his manner enthusiastic. He was develop- 
 ing fast, and that in a way that made each but the 
 presage of some still more beautiful attitude. He 
 won the good opinion of all, and retained the interest 
 of old friends. He was two years and four months 
 old ; two months older than Lizzie. These two chil- 
 dren, contemporaneous and juxtaposed, seemed fitted 
 to grow up together, and were mutually intertwined 
 about the same parental hearts. They are separated, 
 and these hearts bleed." 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 481 
 
 " Dec. 18. — Arthur was buried. It snowed all 
 night, rained all day. But four of us went with 
 him to the tomb. His grandfather carried the coffin 
 in his arms, from the house to the carriage. "We 
 laid him in silence to his last rest. God have mercy 
 upon us ! " 
 
 He writes his parents and family-friends at North- 
 ampton, announcing this sorrow : — 
 
 " Dec. 16, 1846. 
 
 " You have heard of the sickness of little Arthur, 
 and I have now to communicate the sad intelligence 
 of his decease. This morning he lies in his little 
 crib, near the bed, as he used to sleep. He is fair 
 and lovely in death. At the head of the crib I have 
 placed those two little plaster-casts, representing 
 youth and innocence. A. has placed her little 
 ' Samuel ' in the same room. Some flowers are on 
 his breast. 
 
 " I need not say that We are greatly, very greatly 
 afflicted, nor ask for your sympathies, which will 
 flow so freely towards us. It seems as if J, as well 
 as they, had lost a child, — as if half of our little one 
 was gone. Arthur had grown exceedingly strong, 
 active, and promising. He was full of life and 
 spirits, and conveyed the gladdest impressions to all 
 who beheld him. His healthful form is extended 
 in death ; the ruddiness of his cheek, the brilliancy 
 of his eye, have fled; his sweet, exhilarating voice 
 we shall hear no more. How great the blow! 
 Arthur has been a blessing to us, and we will not 
 complain that that blessing is now restored to its 
 Author, and to our Father in heaven." 
 
 41 
 
482 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 And, under the same date, to his brother J. W. : — 
 '' You, my dear brother, can sympathize with us in 
 this affliction ; you, who have had your fair and pro- 
 mising children cut down, can tell what is the deep 
 and bitter anguish of such a bereavement. You 
 know how Arthur had grown ; you have seen how 
 promising he was, and you can well understand how, 
 not only his parents, but all of us, had become 
 strongly attached to him. But he has gone ; a dark 
 veil has suddenly been drawn over all his bright 
 future ; into the heart of affection sinks an irrepres- 
 sible anguish. 
 
 " We would not murmur at God's dealings ; we 
 would that all chastisement may work for our good." 
 
 Again, when the infant son of his brother H 1, 
 
 and the sole supporter of his name, followed that 
 sainted father to the skies, he thus wrote the be- 
 reaved wife and mother, — ■ 
 
 His Sister-in-law F. J. 
 
 "AuauSTA, Nov. 17, 1851. 
 
 " Dear F. — We were not surprised to hear of 
 the death of your little boy. He has been a great 
 sufferer, and death is to him a release. To you it 
 is a sadness and bereavement. The good God sup- 
 port you under your manifold trials ! Though he 
 cause grief, yet will he have compassion according 
 to the multitude of his mercies. I do not presume 
 to penetrate all the mysteries of Divine Providence ; 
 but only of this am I assured, that Infinite and 
 unchanging Love rules the universe, and directs our 
 
 I 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 483 
 
 lot. On this will I rest ; to this will I come ; before 
 this will I humbly and meekly bow. Let me be the 
 child of this love ; and my children, and all I love 
 are its too. 
 
 '' I was very sorry not to see you last summer. I 
 
 rode by ' H I's ; ' saw the great pines where he 
 
 used to come up, the maples and peaches he watered, 
 the garden he hoed, the house he built, — he was 
 not there. Yet sweetly, serenely, his memory and 
 the shadow of his spirit rest on all. He cannot 
 come to us ; we shall go to him." 
 
 Sylvester never let a very long period pass with- 
 out writing his mother. Even when most pressed 
 with the duties of his profession and his literary 
 labors, with accustomed filial love and duty, he 
 would fi'om time to time jot down for her eye a 
 few brief items connected with his daily life ; a few 
 words of affectionate remembrance. These letters 
 were generally interspersed, here and there, with a 
 little merry humor, to cheer and enliven the some- 
 what solitary old home, left nearly childless by the 
 establishment of one after another of its early in- 
 mates, in business or households of their own. He 
 often contrived to get up a little amusement at the 
 expense of his youngest sister, the only child re- 
 maining with the parents. A few specimens of these 
 familiar home-letters are here given : — 
 
 To HIS Sister P- 
 
 " Augusta, April 7, 1850. 
 
 " Dear P n, — The days pass off without 
 
 much that is novel or interesting. The ice has left 
 
484 DOMESTIC RELATIOI^S. 
 
 the river ; and last night a beautiful little steamboat 
 came up to our wharves. I have set some new trees, 
 and reset some old ones. We have had the window 
 leading from the parlor to the veranda changed to a 
 door. I have some early peas sprouted, which I 
 shall sow to-morrow. J.'s roses and other flowers 
 in the bay-window are looking splendidly. The 
 children play about the house, jam their noses, bring 
 in mud, run oif to Mr. F.'s, &c., &c. Birds are 
 beginning to be quite merry in the morning. A. 
 was here to tea ; J. at his mother's ; J. C. has sent 
 me a patent bee-house, and I think some of purchas- 
 ing some inmates for it. 
 
 " We rest in the strong hope of seeing you all 
 here this summer. 
 
 " With much love," 
 
 To HIS Mother. 
 
 « Augusta, Dec. 21, 1851. 
 
 " Dear Mother, — I preached yesterday on ^ Pov- 
 erty : its various remedies.' I conclude that industry 
 is the only effectual cure. 
 
 '' I have no great confidence in our liquor-law. 
 
 " We have had pretty cold weather. — 1^^, how- 
 ever, is, I think, our lowest. 
 
 "F. and K. seem to enjoy themselves pretty 
 well. 
 
 " Gravel-cars run on our railroad daily. It will 
 open for passengers next Monday. 
 
 /^ I go to Bangor next Saturday ; preach, and lec- 
 ture on Monday. 
 
 " J.'s hens do not begin to lay. 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 485 
 
 " Apples here are tolerably good and plenty. We 
 get them for about fifty cents a bushel. 
 
 " The Cony Academy has twelve scholars. 
 
 "Our study is warm, sunny, and pleasant. I 
 wish you could be here. 
 
 ''I hope P n will have a good time in S. 
 
 She need not visit the Armory unless she wishes to. 
 
 "Tell her the latest fashions are red and blue 
 folly, laced with corn-colored nonsense. She will 
 see plenty of it in the street every day. Face ex- 
 posed, nose a good deal stuck out, and, if it is cold, 
 crimson. Legs surrounded by mud and taffeta. 
 "Your son, affectionately, 
 
 ** Sylvester." 
 
 If, in P n's letters to her sister in Augusta, 
 
 Sylvester chanced to discover any little references 
 to dress or fashions, he was very likely to take the 
 matter up in a letter to his mother, and discuss it, as 
 in this wise : " She asks, * How do you dress your 
 hair ? ' Now, ' dress ' implies clothing, something 
 put on ; and she would not say, how do you clothe 
 your hair? To be sure, we sometimes speak of 
 dressing down a horse, or giving a boy a good dress- 
 ing, that is, thrashing ; we dress flax, that is, break it 
 in pieces, get out the chives. But you would not 
 apply this to a lady's hair. It would be proper to 
 say. How do you fix, or comb, or curl, or frizz, or 
 fantasticate your hair ? " 
 
 Again : " There were some things in P n's 
 
 letter I could not understand. Is she losing her 
 mind? There was a whole page about patterns 
 and turning in (one turns in when he takes his 
 
 41* 
 
486 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 berth in a steamboat), and edges, and Julias, and 
 what not ! " 
 
 And to P n herself: "Yon ask about ^ tight 
 
 waists.' They are the worst things in the world, 
 stop the breathing, crook the ribs, deform the shape, 
 and bring on death or a premature old age. I would 
 not have one." 
 
 A frequent close of his letters to his family- 
 fi-iends was like the following to his brother C. P. : 
 " God keep us alive in his own good love. It will 
 be a long time before we all shall meet. Let us 
 hold together, by pen and ink at least ; and may the 
 great God bless and watch over us in all our ways ! " 
 And to his mother : " Warmer days will come, and 
 softer airs. The good God have us all in his keep- 
 ing, summer and winter, for time and eternity ! " 
 
 Thus were Sylvester's relations to the home of his 
 youth. Strong and tender were his affections for 
 his parents, his brothers and sisters. 
 
 But with a nature so sensitive, with a soul crav- 
 ing for continual and perfect sympathy, it may well 
 be supposed that some still deeper, more exclusive 
 individual love was necessary to satisfy his needs. 
 And, without intruding too far into the secret cham- 
 bers of his heart, much, it is believed, may be 
 revealed of what to him was the light of life, the 
 holiest of his earthly relations. 
 
 In a letter to a friend, written in 1840, he says : 
 " The secret, the weakness, the essential self of my 
 character, is a desire of sympathy. These are my 
 Sampson's locks. Strange that I should confess it 
 to you. But you have it. On this point I am- 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 487 
 
 weak, weak as water. This gate entered, you are 
 sure of the citadel. Only take care in falling it 
 does not crush you. When I came to Augusta, it 
 was with the fixed determination to repair, to wall 
 up, this weak spot ; to destroy this tendency of my 
 heart ; to make war upon myself, till this part of 
 myself was subdued and extinguished. Alas, how 
 foolish are ourselves, are we ! How impotent the 
 arm we lift against our natures ! My desire of 
 sympathy, or rather, I should say, the compass of 
 my being, has a threefold aspect, — sentiment, phi- 
 losophy, religion. In each of these I live ; in each 
 I have suffered: each is by turns or together the 
 sunlight or the shade of my existence." 
 
 The entire fulfilment and consummation of this 
 desire of sympathy Was not^ enjoyed until after Mr. 
 Judd's entrance upon professional life. To her with 
 whom this long and earnestly desired spirit-alliance 
 was at length formed, delicacy forbids any thing 
 more than the indirect allusions which occur in un- 
 folding whatever of this part of his nature may be 
 developed. 
 
 Sacred as are the precincts to which we now ap- 
 proach, it seems almost a duty somewhat to draw 
 aside the veil, and reveal his pure, beautiful ideal of 
 the wedding of souls ; the fresh coloring it gave 
 to the tissue of his existence, and its blendings with 
 what was most sacred to him in time and for ever. 
 
 And here especially must he be allowed to speak 
 for himself. In his Journal he writes : — 
 
 "Augusta, Feb. 11, 1841. — My new life takes 
 its date. I am born to-day. I may well open a 
 
488 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 new book, adopt a new caption, write a new style, 
 indulge a new strain. Time is past. Eternity com- 
 mences. My probation is over ; my reward imposed. 
 My travels are at an end ; my home is readied. My 
 half-soul has found its mate. My tomb-life is bro- 
 ken ; my real life enjoyed. My heart is happy ; my 
 purposes free ; my future certain ; my aspirations 
 are at rest. I am tranquil now. I fret not ; I for- 
 bode nothing. Chiefly, ever, and for ever, I thank 
 thee, my God ! Every good and perfect gift 
 cometh from thee ; and J. thou hast given me. I 
 give to thee my supreme gratitude, my overflowing 
 thankfulness. I consecrate my love, myself, my 
 all, to thee. From thee I received her, to thee I 
 give her. Erom thee I received my heart, to thee 
 I give it. All is thine ! ,all is Inine ! Erom thee I 
 would not for a moment be separated. In thee 
 I would be united with all I love. Take us to 
 thyself, to thy own bosom, to thy own love, un- 
 worthy, weak, and sinful as we are. , In thee alone 
 are we holy. "Without thee we are lost. In thee 
 alone do we dare to live. With thee our love is a 
 holy flame. Bless us, we pray thee, now and ever- 
 more." 
 
 Thus did this great epoch of his life serve to 
 restore him more perfectly to himself, to reinstate 
 his integrity of being, and to make him more entirely 
 one with God, with nature, with humanity. It was 
 to him a new existence, a fresh birth of his soul. 
 The tide of affection flowed forth higher than before 
 towards his ever-cherished family -friends. All things 
 seemed goo'd to him. His love he felt to be a holy 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. ^ 489 
 
 thing, that he could carry up to heaven, that would 
 bear the light of eternity. 
 
 In communicating this intelligence to his mother, 
 he writes : " This does not take me from you, my 
 dear mother, and from all my own dear home. It 
 multiplies my happiness, without dividing it. I 
 shall love you all more and more. Do write me 
 soon, my dear mother. Give me a mother's bless- 
 ing, congratulations, prayers. You know I must 
 be happy. You know I have needed some one to 
 love me. . . . Write soon, my dear ■ father, and con- 
 firm my own step by giving me a father's blessing 
 and hopes. Give J. the seal of your adoption." 
 
 To a sister-in-law he says : ^^ I have to write you 
 this morning from a new life, in a new world, and 
 yet one from which you have often wished to hear 
 firom me. It is the region of the affections, of the 
 heart, and happiness. Do send me your congratula- 
 tions. Send me a sister's blessing. Send to her 
 a sister's love. AH this also to your dear husband, 
 to my, to our, dear brother." 
 
 And to his brother H i : " In your letter of 
 
 October 15, you say, ^The next thing to be done 
 will be to take to yourself a wife from among the 
 many daughters of earth.' Such a prospect is now 
 fairly before me. What seemed to me a hint of the 
 impossible becomes a prophecy of the true. I know 
 you will share my happiness on this event, and I 
 am pleased immediately to apprise you of it. Write 
 me immediately ; write to us, and welcome your new 
 sister to the household and to your own heart." 
 
 The interval before marriage, to use his own 
 
490 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 words, lie " passed in new soul-enjoyments, tranquil 
 progressions, serene anticipations." 
 
 April 15, liis Journal says : " She read my book, 
 took a glance at my former self. Quam mutatus ah 
 illo ! I can say in the best sense. The stream that 
 rustled and maddened down the mountain sleeps, 
 with a quiet surface, a serene depth, at the bottom." 
 To A. H. he writes, Aug. 28, just on the eve of 
 marriage : " We have few fears, few trepidations, few 
 movings of the spirit in any way. We are already 
 upon the sea. 'Tis only passing from latitude to 
 latitude. We sail on as goodly as possible. Heaven 
 bless us ! Our friends pray for us. We glide into 
 all things so naturally, so easily, we hardly feel the 
 change. God is good to us. Our own souls strive 
 for virtue and holiness. We can but be trustful." 
 
 On the evening of Aug. 31, 1841, Mr. Judd was 
 married. The usual ceremony on such occasions 
 seeming to him altogether inadequate to his own 
 idea of the true marriage, he prepared for the purpose, 
 as the only medium of expression that could satisfy 
 his needs, the following form of words : — 
 
 *^You, Sylvester Judd, jun., take Jane Elizabeth 
 Williams to be your lawful and wedded wife ; you, 
 Jane Elizabeth Williams, take Sylvester Judd, jun., 
 to be your lawful and wedded husband, — a union 
 of the finite with the finite soul, unde;r the embrace, 
 protection, presence, and love of the Infinite Soul ; 
 in deep humility of spirit, in solemn sense of respon- 
 sibleness, in supreme devotion to virtue and to 
 truth, to Christ and to God, in earnest prayer for 
 divine illumination and aid ; feeling in your own 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 491 
 
 consciousness an identity and affiliation of sentiment, 
 faith, and purpose ; pledging the strength and con- 
 stancy, the assiduity and ministries, of your love ; 
 engaging to one another a mutual and reciprocal 
 submissiveness and authority, deference and honor ; 
 subordinating each motive and wish, each action and 
 feeling, to your common happiness and sustenance ; 
 resting your hopes for the future upon the good pro- 
 vidence of God, and the sacred interests of your 
 own hearts ; — so you are, so you effect, so you 
 covenant, so you are espoused for ever." 
 
 In the fulness of his happiness, on taking his 
 wife to the old home, he thus puts forth his feelings 
 in his Journal : — 
 
 ^^Northampton, Sept. 4, 1841. — J. is where I 
 have been, walks my walks, sits my seats, sees my 
 sights. How changed does it make me ! or rather it 
 brings me to myself." 
 
 " Sept. 8. — Last evening we went over Round 
 Hill, through groves and scent and density of pines. 
 How strange it seems to me to have one with me in 
 these old scenes ! To-day we have been upon Mount 
 Holyoke. The river, the beauty, is there. I am 
 changed. I am happier. I have a soul with me. 
 Another being blends with mine. Another love 
 loves with me. How I loved to see her moving on 
 the road, under the trees, through the sunlight, in 
 the scenes, a part of the beauty ! I was so calm, so 
 joyful. The world seemed fixed in beauty: the 
 heavens were stable over my head. A shower of 
 gentle influence came from the sky into my heart. 
 I was almost afraid of my happiness. The big 
 
4:92 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 mountains, the broad vision, tlie white river, the 
 meadows, the sweet love, the eternal God." 
 
 " Sejpt. 12. — At "Westhampton, went over to the 
 graveyard. * Saw the monuments of our family. 
 Old scenes, familiar hills and trees, and solitude and 
 quietness. Some old crickets, some sand in the 
 roads. Showed J. the room where I was born. 
 Showed her the school-house where I learned my 
 letters, the store where I tended, the meeting-house 
 where I heard the old minister, &c. 
 
 '^ Westhampton is greatly changed in all save its 
 hills and its solitude. The people are changed. 
 The boys and girls whom I knew are gone, some 
 dead. S. J. is dead. I recited in philosophy with 
 her. . . . My brothers are good. Perhaps I am not 
 open enough to them. I will try to be more so." 
 
 He writes, during this visit, — 
 
 To HIS Mother-in-law. 
 
 " NOETHAMPTON, Sept. 10, 1841. 
 
 ^' Our dear Mother, — You have heard of our 
 journey, our arrival, our health and happiness. "We 
 are happy in ourselves, happy in our circumstances. 
 Our friends are well, and happy in our being with 
 them. God has blessed us in all our ways. We 
 are joyful in his presence ; we are grateful for his 
 mercies. We trust in his goodness ; we repose on 
 the everlasting arms. We were sorry to anticipate 
 the arrival of our father Williams, and glad to anti- 
 cipate the departure of our father Judd. May God 
 bless and love both our dear parents, and supply 
 to them all that realization of hope, that fruition of 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 493 
 
 labor, that reward of interest, which a parent has, 
 does, and feels for a child ! We are not insensible 
 of our obligations or their claims. Whatever aflfects 
 their happiness in the least penetrates our own hearts 
 most deeply. My own father's hairs are white, 
 white as your father Cony's. We are both reminded 
 of the scriptural injunction to honor the hoary 
 head. 
 
 " I think my mother likes her new daughter very 
 well. Would that her son might make in all ways 
 his new mother as happy! ... J. is glad I have 
 brought her to so beautiful a place. God is indeed 
 good to us ; good in creating such a world as this, 
 good in giving us hearts to enjoy it. To his name 
 be all the glory. We are not proud, if we are 
 happy. We hope not to forget God, even if we 
 are full ourselves. We should be very sinful, if 
 we were not happy. Our trust is still in God. It 
 is his providence that brought J. and me together. 
 It is in his love that we have loved ; it is in a con- 
 sciousness of his approval that we are married. Our 
 own happiness is complete only in the blessing of 
 God. That we have sought ; that we still seek ; 
 on that is our rest for ever. We have given our- 
 selves to Christ and the church. Christ is God 
 manifest in the flesh to us. He is our life, our 
 light, the substance and the inspiration of our souls. 
 Christ's first miracle was done at a marriage. We 
 believe he was present at our espousals. We believe 
 he, as an elder brother, loves us, a brother and sister 
 in the Lord. His promise and his blessing are ours ; 
 and why should we fear ? Life, indeed, is before us ; 
 
 42 
 
494 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 its duties, its trials, its hours of darkness, its scenes 
 of adversity, sickness, and death. But there is no 
 death to the righteous ; there is no insupportable 
 affliction to the pure in heart. Let us be righteous, 
 let us be pure, and God will take care of us. . . . To 
 our friends also we commend ourselves ; to the kind- 
 ness and love of our dear parents, our dear brothers 
 and sisters, we commend ourselves. Our happiness 
 and theirs is inseparably linked. We would be 
 dutiful, and love for ever. May the good love of 
 God protect and bless us all. For myself and J., 
 
 " Your affectionate Son." 
 
 The planning and building of his cottage-resi- 
 dence, and the embellishment of his small grounds, 
 was to Mr. Judd a very pleasant thing. But it was 
 the idea of a home, — one constructed according to 
 his own taste and convenience ; one around which 
 should cluster fondest memories, dearest associations, 
 and which should become a cherished spot to his 
 children, — it was this which gave him the chief 
 delight. It was to him a very interesting problem, 
 with given means and essential comforts, to produce 
 the most pleasing effects. 
 
 The site of the cottage is an acclivity on the 
 eastern bank of the Kennebec, forming a grassy 
 slope in front. From its proximity to the river, 
 the view of whose waters was to him an abiding 
 pleasure, he adopted the name Riverside, as the 
 family and social designation of his residence ; 
 while, in relation to his church, he always called it 
 Chiist Church Parsonage. All the interior house- 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 495 
 
 hold appointments are cheerful, commodious, and 
 tasteful. Its pointed roof with cross-sealed gable, 
 its dormar windows and light verandas, together 
 with the abundant foliage and vines of its summer 
 costume, give it a very charming though modest 
 appearance. It seems to nestle in greenery, cool- 
 ness, and quiet. Almost every species of forest-tree 
 is here represented ; and every shade-tree, vine, or 
 fruit-tree around, was planted, if not by Mr. Judd's 
 own hand, at least under his particular supervision. 
 All were arranged with regard to pleasant effect, and 
 so as not to obstruct, when grown, any important 
 view. Here is a little clump of maples or arbor 
 vitae ; there, a solitary elm or pine. The avenue of 
 entrance is formed of evergreens mixed with de- 
 ciduous trees. On one side is a little arbor for the 
 children's play-house, constituted of white birches 
 set closely in a circle, their branches making the 
 canopy ; and on the other are young trees of all 
 sorts, blended in native wildness, encircling a large, 
 decaying, old red maple, and leaving quite an area 
 around the central tree. 
 
 The house commands an unbroken view of the 
 Kennebec for the distance of a mile in a southerly 
 direction. The principal part of the town of Au- 
 gusta lies in full view, amphitheatre-like, on the 
 opposite or western side of the river, its various 
 church-spires pointing upwards to the same heavens. 
 There, too, are seen, on one hand, the capitol, and, 
 on the other, the marble tablets of the cemetery for 
 the dead ; and, crowning all, the sun-setting horizon, 
 with its undulating outline and woody summits. 
 
496 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 And this was the home which to Mr. Judd was 
 so precious, to which he sent letters almost daily 
 when absent, and of which he says : " My heart 
 turns to it with eagerness, and fondly settles on the 
 objects of my love there, — my wife and my chil- 
 dren. ... I shall leave for home, — blessed, longed- 
 for home, — to-morrow morning." It is this which 
 he looks out from, and, with as much truth as 
 beauty, paints in " Eichard Edney," where he says : 
 '' A tale is like this June morning when I am now 
 writing. I hear from my open windows the singing 
 of birds, the rumble of a stage-coach, and a black- 
 smith's anvil. The water glides prettily through 
 elms and willows. There are deep shadows in my 
 landscape ; and yonder hill-side, with its blossoming 
 apple-trees, glows in the sunlight, as if it belonged 
 to some other realm of being. On the right of my 
 house is a deep gorge, wet, weedy, where are toads 
 and snakes ; and fringing this, and growing up in * 
 the midst of it, are all sorts of fresh, green shrubs, 
 and the flickering, glossy leaves of white birches. 
 Superb rock-maples overhang the roof of an iron- 
 foundery, down under the hill at my feet. The 
 dew, early this morning, covered the world with 
 topazes and rainbows, and my child got her feet wet 
 in the midst of the glory. Through gully and or- 
 chard, basement-windows and oriels, shade and sheen, 
 vibrates a delicious breeze. Over all hangs the sun ; 
 down upon the village looks that eye of infinite bless- 
 edness, and into the scene, that urn of exhaustless 
 beauty, pours beauty. The smoke from the foun- 
 dery, and the darkness of the gorge, are beautiful ; 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 497 
 
 COWS feeding in my neighbor's paddock are pleasant 
 to look upon ; Paddy, with pickaxe on his shoulder, 
 is happy ; Rusticus, in the cornfield, is a picture ; 
 and the granite, through the verdure of a distant 
 mountain-side, gleams out like silver. This morn- 
 ing's sun idealizes every thing. Nature is not 
 shocked at toads." 
 
 As may well be supposed, Mr. Judd was an ex- 
 ceedingly domestic man, seeking his happiness, no 
 less than the performance of his duties, at home. 
 He was always there, unless called away by impor- 
 tant duties ; and then, whether out of town or at a 
 social tea-drinking in his own neighborhood, his 
 arrangements were to return as soon as possible. 
 
 His sabbaths at home were always peculiarly serene 
 and happy, whatever might exist calculated to dis- 
 turb the tranquillity of his mind. 
 
 His impressions on becoming a father were of the 
 deepest order. He regarded the new-born one as a 
 fresh creation from the hand of God ; and, from the 
 first moment, it became his earnest study to discover 
 what new revelations it might make to his mind of 
 nature, of spirit. The day succeeding the birth 
 of his first child, he writes in his Journal : — 
 
 " I hold it, and watch the expressions of its face. 
 All passions and emotions are muscularly developed, 
 — anger, derision, hope, fear, love, joy. It smiles, 
 it weeps ; it looks old, it looks young ; it pouts its 
 lips in derision, it contracts them most sagely ; and 
 all owing to wind in the stomach ! Can that be ? Is 
 life a forgetting ? . . . I notice the child, in crying, 
 
 42* 
 
498 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 very distinctly pronounces the syllable, Ma. It 
 commences with bringing its lips together, and then 
 suddenly parting them." 
 
 And again, a few days after : " I brought the 
 baby into the study this, afternoon, and lay down 
 with her upon the sofa. Is she wholly insensible 
 of a father's love, of his arms about her ? Why 
 gazes she so fixedly, so sharply, so dully ? How 
 interesting these first few days ! She will soon awake 
 from them. She will return no more to them. She 
 will come to her consciousness ; she will laugh ; she 
 will understand. I would see what she is of now, 
 so I love to hold her." Again: "I set it upon a 
 pillow, where it can look out of the window. "What 
 sees it ? It looks fixedly." 
 
 The extracts below, from a sermon on the Death 
 of Children, reveals still farther his own expe- 
 rience : — 
 
 " The birth of a child is an epoch in a family. It 
 is the Annus Domini of every mother's chronicles. 
 She adjusts all dates by that event. That nativity 
 has a creative power : it is genius incarnated in 
 infancy. It moulds us into new forms, and directs 
 us into a new activity. Every child resembles Jesus 
 in this, that his birth is an advent to the household ; 
 in every room a new light shines, and all give glory 
 to God, as the shepherds did. Even the maid-ser- 
 vant smiles, as she meets you-at the door. A woman 
 is not herself, and knows not what she is, until she 
 becomes a mother. One feels that his own life is 
 more valuable after the birth of his child : his honesty, 
 his industry, his piety, directly rise in his estima- 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 499 
 
 tion, while his vices assume a corresponding aspect 
 of disgust. There is something, if it be not wholly 
 a solecism so to say, something awful in a child. 
 The child invests life with a new interest. In 
 meteorology is the dew-point, that at which dew 
 begins to be formed. The advent of the child is the 
 dew-point of the world : a new crystal drop attaches 
 to all things we look upon. It is as if colored stars 
 and bright rays appeared on the chairs and tables. 
 Whatever is beautiful appears more beautiful ; what- 
 ever is lovely, more lovely. Work is less hard, 
 fatigue less oppressing, to one who is a parent than 
 to one who is not. A child is never heavy to its 
 parents. One tends his flowers or tills his garden 
 with greater interest, when children are growing up 
 to enjoy them. . . . Children create a strong senti- 
 ment of home. Men hasten to their homes where 
 their children are. Many cords are upon men in 
 the street ; but there is one cord stronger than all, 
 that which draws them to their children and their 
 homes. . . . The simple enjoyment of a child it is a 
 luxury to behold. It attracts everybody's eyes. To 
 see little children at play is a psalm of thanksgiving. 
 It is God's way of showing us what happiness is, 
 and we distinguish something of divinity in it. It 
 is the chord on which great nature harps to us, and 
 our hearts respond as to sweet music. . . . The first 
 articulation of a child, the objects that arrest its atten- 
 tion, how it creeps, how it gets down stairs, what 
 axe its attractions and what its repulsions, whom it 
 most loves, the way it uses its hands, all engage us 
 sensibly. We never tire waiting for the unfolding 
 
500 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 of that hidden spirit ; we are often surprised at un- 
 expected disclosures." 
 
 And such a study were Mr. Judd's own children 
 to him ; so carefully did he watch all their develop- 
 ments. To educate them rightly, to render their 
 physical constitutions healthy, and to secure their 
 minds from prejudices, false ideas, and unworthy 
 conventionalities, was the subject of his morning, 
 noon-day, and evening thoughts. In their govern- 
 ment, he never used force, never suifered any cor- 
 poral punishment to be inflicted on them. In this, 
 as in other things, he believed in the final tri- 
 umph of the omnipotent power of love. Though 
 leniency might, for the existing time, be attended 
 with some disadvantages, he believed in the end its 
 evils were far less than those of severity. One part 
 of his plan was, by furnishing his children with 
 healthful recreations and pleasant employments, to 
 promote their happiness, and thus prevent the risings 
 of ill-temper. He would, as far as possible, leave 
 them to their own will, even at the expense of a lit- 
 tle trouble ; and many of the scenes of ^' Memmy 
 and Bebby," at the bowl of Indian meal and other- 
 wise, as well as the description of their persons, 
 stood very well for the portraiture of his real children. 
 He entered with them into their plays, encouraged 
 out-door sports, and got up many little devices for 
 their amusement. In their play-arbor, he prepared 
 a rude table, seats, and cupboard, and encouraged 
 them in going through the routine of childish 
 entertainments, washing their little dishes, and the 
 like. He was not willing his children should, while 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 501 
 
 yet in their tender years, suffer the confinement of 
 school, or apply their minds to the study of books. 
 He thought it enough that they should continually 
 drink in knowledge from their observations upon 
 nature and every thing around them. He would 
 not that into their young minds should be thrust any 
 theological dogmas, but only that they should imbibe 
 the pure milk of gospel simplicity. Of the folly and 
 sin of inculcating in the minds of children a passion 
 for dress, a love of finery and fashion, or of fitting 
 their garments in a manner prejudicial to health, he 
 had a strong sense, and conscientiously insisted upon 
 a severe simplicity, both as to cut and material. He 
 wished there should be nothing in their clothes that 
 should particularly attract their attention, or lead 
 them to transfer a sense of the prettiness of their 
 dress to themselves. 
 
 When from home, the father's heart was with his 
 children ; and, before they were able to read a word, 
 he commenced addressing them letters. 
 
 To HIS Eldest Daughter, when Three Years Old. 
 
 " Boston, Sept. 21, 1847. 
 
 " My dear Daughter, — How do you do this 
 morning ? and how is little Lullaboo ? Do you not 
 wish to see papa? and would you not like to kiss 
 him ? He wishes to see you, and go out in the gar- 
 den with you, and get some potatoes. Tell Becca 
 she must not let the horse eat papa's corn. You 
 must go to bed at eleven o'clock, because mamma 
 wishes you to. Little Charlie is well ; he drives 
 about the street at a great rate. Do you not wish 
 
502 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 papa would come home, so you could see him in 
 the bed in the morning ? Kiss mamma and Lulla- 
 boo twenty times for papa. Papa misses you very 
 much. Papa will come home by and by, and bring 
 his little hsibee some candee. 
 
 "Your affectionate Father, 
 
 " s. judd, jun." 
 
 Other Letters to his Children. 
 
 " New Yoek, July 11, 1851. 
 
 " My dear little Children, L. and P., — Your 
 mother will show you on the map where New York 
 is. It is a great city, and full of people, and full of 
 nice things for children, which, if I had money, I 
 should like to buy for you. But you must remem- 
 ber papa has not much money. You must be good 
 children, and be kind to each other. L. must not 
 speak sharp. P. must do what her mother wishes. 
 L. must take good care of the hens, feed and water 
 them." 
 
 " Beookltn, July 19, 1851. 
 
 " My dear little L. and P., — Papa has great love 
 for you, and thinks much about you. He wants you 
 to be very nice children, and be very kind to your 
 mother, and not trouble H. [the servant]. You 
 must love one another very much, and let each 
 other have your playthings. 
 
 " I shall not bring you home any thing but books. 
 I have two or three little ones for you to read in. 
 You must not expect any toys. How is ^ Jenny 
 Lind ' ? Are her chickens alive, and doing well ? 
 How is the turkey ? Does it grow any ? 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 503 
 
 " The little children here have no green grass to 
 play on, as you have ; and no gardens, no hens, no 
 wheelbarrows. Your affectionate Papa, 
 
 "Sylvester Judd." 
 
 " NoETHAMPTON, July 24, 1851. 
 
 " My dear little Children, — How much I wish 
 you were here with papa, to see grandpa and grand- 
 ma, to walk in the garden, and see the plum-trees, 
 and the peach-trees, and the pear-trees ! Then there 
 are chickens bigger than yours. Grandpa said, at 
 dinner to-day, how glad he should be to see J. and 
 L. and F. ; and grandma said so too. 
 
 '' The trees and grounds and roads and walks and 
 mountains and meadows in Northampton are very 
 beautiful. Mamma will show you where the town 
 is on the map. You are three hundred miles firom 
 papa ; yet he loves you very much, and longs to see 
 you and kiss you, and longs to have you good 
 children, and very kind to your mother, and very 
 gentle to each other." 
 
 '« Belfast, Aug. 3, 1852. 
 
 " My dear Children, — I arrived here after a ride 
 of ten hours. I saw bunch-berries and raspberries 
 upon the road. Mr. P., at whose house I am stay- 
 ing, has four nice children. 
 
 " You will love one another, and not contradict, 
 or dispute, or lay your hands quick on each other. 
 Feed the hens twice a day, and water them once. 
 Do not trouble Laura [the servant] ; help her all 
 
 you can. Show uncle H i where you keep the 
 
 matches. You must do what aunt A. bids you. 
 Look after that chicken of ^Norma's.' Say your 
 
504 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 Pater-noster with Laura and aunt A. every morn- 
 ing. 
 
 ^^With great love, and God to bless you, I am 
 
 your loving father, 
 
 " Sylvester Judd." 
 
 " New York, Oct. 18, 1852. 
 
 " Dear L., — Papa wants you to be a nice, good 
 girl. Do what mamma wants you to do. Be very 
 helpful, now papa is away. You were a very good 
 girl in Northampton. Aunt A. was very sorry you 
 did not come to Brooklyn. Dear little P., too, 
 papa often thinks of you, his bright-eyed little 
 wogin. He wants to see both of his darlings very 
 much. Cousin C. has a little black puppy, that 
 sleeps with him. You must both be kind to your 
 mother, and kind to Laura. Give papa's remem- 
 brances to Laura. Papa should be glad if his chil- 
 dren would write to him about the chickens, or any 
 thing else. Uncle W.'s ^Beppo ' is better." 
 
 A few passages, culled here and there from other 
 letters, despatched, when absent, to his home, will 
 close this chapter : — 
 
 "Boston, Dec. 5, 1849. 
 
 " Dear J., — .... Tell the children there was a 
 little boy in the cars, who, as night came on, began 
 to cry, ' Boo hoo, want some supper ; boo hoo, want 
 a drink of water, boo hoo.' And he kept this up 
 mile after mile. I gave him one of those lozenges 
 that F. put in my pocket Sunday afternoon. Another 
 little boy chimed in, and cried, ' Boo hoo, want to 
 see the baby, boo hoo, want to see the baby.' I 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 605 
 
 gave this one a lozenge, that quieted him. I thought 
 of our own dear little ones ; and these little ones 
 pulled away at my heart-strings quite lustily, and 
 rung the chords of feeling in a smart way. 
 
 " Is it cold at E,iverside ? Do you miss anybody ? 
 Would you be happier if this noon somebody sat 
 opposite you at the table, and cut up the children's 
 meat? 
 
 '^ Give a thousand of loves to the children, all you 
 can spare from yourself. Tell L. papa wishes her 
 to be very good, not to dispute with C, not to trou- 
 ble F., always to mind her mother. Tell F. papa is 
 in Boston, will be home pretty soon, wants to see 
 his little children." 
 
 " Bath, June 5, 1848. — There is a little girl here 
 who reminds me of L. ; not that the resemblance is 
 striking, but, in the absence of any thing of the sort, 
 I am glad to take up with this. Ask L. if ' she is 
 capable of judging ' what this means. 
 
 " I went by a candy-store, and saw great bunches 
 of red, blue, and white candy at the windows, and 
 all sorts of sugar things in glasses. Could I help 
 thinking about my children? could I help buying 
 .some for them ? "What single mitigation is there to 
 absence, if one may not, in imagination, be affording 
 those little pleasures to his family, and thinking how 
 the little ones will come round him- when he gets 
 home, looking so wistful, and L. at length venturing 
 to Speak, and F. so moving in her dumbness, and 
 the dear wife even willing io eat some 1 well, well." 
 
 "New York, July, 1851. — .... I hope you will 
 have health and heart. There is no place to me like 
 
 43 
 
506 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 home. There are no persons whom I value as my 
 wife and little ones." 
 
 " The Parsonage, Aug. 1%, 1852. — I have writ- 
 ten you three letters, one to Niagara, two to Sara- 
 toga, not one of which I suppose you will get ; and 
 now to sit down, and, as it were, re-write what I 
 have written, is not the best way of doing the thing. 
 Now in your letter dated last Sunday at Niagara, 
 you say, direct to the Revere House, where you may 
 be. Heaven knows when. So I must write, not to 
 you, but to space and time and vague emptiness. 
 And you will be almost home when you get there. 
 What will you care then about the chickens or 
 flowers ; or of what use to tell you the children 
 to-day are well, which is the fact nevertheless ? What 
 may happen between this and that time, I cannot 
 tell. 
 
 *' I suppose you are to-day in — Heaven knows 
 where. I hope you enjoy yourself very much, — 
 Montreal, Saratoga, Lake George, or whatever it be. 
 At least, it is where I am not, but where I would 
 like to be. . . . You will come home fresh and warm. 
 There is no need of growing old. If we keep our 
 hearts right, we are always fresh, always in summer- 
 time. Our years will have a perpetual verdure. . . . 
 
 " The children have been good, quiet, docile, 
 busy, happy. They have been so because I have let 
 them alone. I would be about my children as a gen- 
 tle influence, not as a special governor. 
 
 " Whether it shall ever be mine to see what you 
 have seen, and to go any where without feeling each 
 cent I spend, God only knows." 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 507 
 
 " Northampton, Oct, 4, 1852. — ... This is North- 
 ampton, my old home. I have sat in the south-east 
 chamber ; the mountains, the trees, the luxuriance 
 and beauty, spread before me as of old. There I 
 had my dreams of youth ; there this warm, aspiring 
 heart indulged its early visions. These old dreams 
 and visions come clustering round me now, seeming 
 to ask, ^ How is it with you ? ' My heart swells 
 within me. My soul is pervaded with the tenderest 
 emotion. Each tree-top waves a strange and almost 
 melancholy consonance to me. I wish you were 
 here. Into what was my world of the future, you 
 have come. You have flown down as the sweet 
 spirit that was to be the sister of my heait, and 
 sharer of my life. Many kisses to F. Her tears, 
 that ran when we left, long flowed in my soul. 
 She did not want to have us go. She is happy now." 
 
 " Oct. 5, 1852. — ... The tendency of domestic 
 harmony is to make all other things harmonious. 
 The family is a certain root and source of all that 
 we are in this world. 'Tis the foundation, in an 
 important sense, of the church, of the state, and of 
 all right being. . . . We are one, not two ; one in 
 life, one in emotion, one in property, one in our 
 children, one in God. There may be variety in unity, 
 individuality in communion. The idea advanced by 
 some, that marriage is only a mode in which man 
 and woman are to develop their individuality, and 
 confirm their independence, — that is, make them- 
 selves both as detached and independent of each 
 other as possible, — seems to me not right. 
 
 " I cannot look upon a landscape without wishing 
 
508 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 you to look too, or sit at the Lord's table without 
 wishing you to sit too, or eat a peach without wish- 
 ing you to eat too, or take a ride without wishing 
 you to ride. This is my nature ; a social one, and 
 most social in what I feel most. Being at North- 
 ampton reminds me of the solitary years of my 
 being ; of deep, consuming loneliness, and too of a 
 solitariness that became a pleasure, my food and 
 drink almost. You were the one who, as I said 
 yesterday, alighted on my path, — flew, as it seemed, 
 from heaven into my soul. There continue still. 
 There, dearest one, abide ever. God bless and keep 
 you, and F., and the unborn." 
 
 " Northampton, Oct. 8, 1852. — ... I wish you 
 and F. were here ; the walks are so pleasant, and all 
 things so beautiful. I tell L., * Here I used to live 
 when a little boy ; there is a tree I got chestnuts 
 under,' &c. &c. The atmosphere is almost oppres- 
 sive with memories and sentiments, and the spirit of 
 our earlier life sings in all the trees. . . . 
 
 " Shall I not have a letter this afternoon ? How 
 is it about the Parsonage ? Is the place a holy one 
 to you? If sentiment and love ever went into a 
 place, they have gone into that. The walks, the 
 trees, each outlook, each of what artists call ' effect,' 
 are all results of our own hearts and minds. There 
 is feeling everywhere. Even the little open space 
 from our bedroom north-window has a meaning : it 
 was that we might look over to your mother's, and 
 she look on us. ... I think of the Parsonage and its 
 inhabitants, of the church and its members, with 
 gratitude, love, and prayer. May our earthly life. 
 
DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 509 
 
 in all its forms, fit us for tlie heavenly ! May sadness 
 and sorrow be the ministers of our peace, of deep, 
 eternal, mutual, and joyful reunion, embrace, har- 
 mony, love ! " 
 
 '^Northampton, Oct. 9, 1852. — I got your letter 
 yesterday afternoon ; went up into that chamber to 
 read it. I took a cigar, sat and smoked; looked 
 out upon the luxuriant world ' about me, — golden 
 maples, elms lifting their majesty to the sun, apple- 
 trees studded with high-colored fruit ; all things 
 soft, warm, deep, beautiful, soothing. I only wished, 
 instead of your letter, I had yourself." 
 
 " New York, Oct. 15, 1852. — ... I am no monk, 
 no ascetic, no solitaire ; my being thrives and grows 
 in the atmosphere of a most sympathetic love. . . . 
 Got one or two little French and German primers for 
 L. and F. . . . This will reach you, I hope, to-mor- 
 row afternoon. May it find you well, and be pleasant 
 to your heart ! You cannot imagine, or rather you 
 can imagine, how much I think of you in this long 
 absence. Every night I ejaculate a prayer to God 
 for you and for the dear children. I think of you 
 as the dear guardian angel, in my absence, of what 
 is to me the most beautiful spot on earth, the Par- 
 sonage ; as one who in spirit sympathizes with all 
 I here see and enjoy." 
 
 ''New York, Oct. 19, 1852. — ... I do not won- 
 der at J. C.'s sadness. With none to love us, and 
 care forvus^nd do for us, we are the wretchedest of 
 beings. ( Religibn cannot, and never was designed 
 to, cure all the ills of life, — I mean, independently 
 of life. It was designed to make us lead a good 
 
 43^ 
 
510 DOMESTIC RELATIONS. 
 
 ^(feu-aud SO cure the ills we are subject to. It 
 is a part of religion, that we love one another, 
 and make one another happy. So I have always 
 believed; so I have always preached. "We have 
 not any religion, so to say, when we neglect one 
 another. This is the cardinal mistake of all the 
 sects, as I view it : it makes of religion one thing, 
 and life wholly another thing. We are most reli- 
 gious when we love one another most. "We are 
 most religious, in every sense of the word, both as 
 to God and as to man, when we love one another 
 most." 
 
 f' Baltimore, Oct 24, 1852. — .... Though I am 
 a minister and a traveller, I can never forget that I 
 am a man, a lover, a husband. The sen timental 
 part of my nature is jdeep, strongs j>g.ry.asiye. It is 
 to nie almost religion. . . . Never did I feel more 
 tharikfiil than at the idea of being on my return 
 home. What is there in the wide world like our 
 little cot, our simple home, our children, ourselves, 
 our love ! — Your doting and devoted Husband, 
 
 " Sylvester." 
 
511 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 In the passing history of Mr. Judd's life, we left 
 him, after his then recent return jfrom the Baltimore 
 Convention to the home so doated on, with high 
 hope and vigor making successful efforts in carrying 
 forward among his people his plan of the church ; 
 with a long list of lyceum-engagements for the win- 
 ter and spring of 1853 ; and, in the full tide of 
 life and activity, on the eve of departure for Boston 
 to present at the Thursday Lecture his idea of the 
 '^Birthright Church." 
 
 But, ah! spontaneously float back upon us in 
 mournful, chilling echoes, the prophetic tones of 
 his own last lines in verse : — 
 
 " So, arrowy, we Ml, 
 In all the bliss of being, rippling on ; 
 
 Nor medium flights shall tempt his vigor more ! " 
 
 And brief the record that remains. 
 
 On the evening of Monday, January 3, 1853, 
 after having been almost incessantly engaged during 
 the day in condensing his cherished views into the 
 Discourse to be delivered in Boston on the 6th, he 
 
51^ DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 left his home between eight and nine o'clock for an 
 hotel near the railroad depot from which he was to 
 take the cars very early the next morning. On 
 arriving, he sat an hour or so in the private parlor 
 of the proprietor, who was one of his parish- 
 ioners, chatting pleasantly and appearing quite well. 
 About ten he retii-ed, without complaining of indis- 
 position. 
 
 But the weather was severe, his room not so 
 warm as the one to which he was accustomed, 
 and his bed extremely cold. The nervous energy 
 of his system was very much exhausted by his 
 long-continued mental excitement. At tea with his 
 family that evening, his mind seemed abstracted, 
 and his taking of food quite mechanical. His wife, 
 on parting with him, noticed looks of paleness and 
 fatigue that left on her heart an impression of deep 
 sadness. His physical system had never possessed 
 much power of resistance against attacks tending to 
 disorder it. Being thus in a condition which placed 
 his bodily well-being at the mercy of any adverse 
 circumstances on which he might chance to fall, 
 immediately on going to bed he was seized with 
 severe chills which precluded sleep, but which he 
 endured until about three o'clock in the morning, 
 when he was also attacked with violent pain. At 
 five o'clock a physician was called, who considered 
 his symptoms as indicating a slight inflammation of 
 the bowels. The morning found him in a state of so 
 great exhaustion as hardly to be able to open his eyes 
 or utter a word. The most he could say to his wife, 
 as she came in haste to see him, was, that he had 
 
DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 513 
 
 "had a dreadful night." "Poor papa, poor papa! " 
 was all he could say to his little girl ; and to his 
 sister, he simply said, "I am so disappointed,*' 
 And this disappointment, of going on to deliver his 
 sermon in Boston, and his lyceum-lectures in Salem 
 and Gloucester, seemed, in the first hours of his 
 illness, more bitter than the distress of body he 
 suffered. Sick as he was, he could not give up the 
 idea that the next day he might be able to proceed. 
 He undoubtedly felt the detention all the more, as 
 the winter previous he had been prevented, by an 
 injury received from a fall, from meeting an en- 
 gagement to lecture in Worcester. 
 
 The remedies applied that day and the following 
 one gave him no particular rehef. On Thursday, a 
 second physician was called, who agreed with the 
 first in thinking the attack one from which he would 
 in a few days recover. Yet, on this and the next 
 day, he had a recurrence of terrible chills, followed 
 by stupor and profuse perspiration ; and his own 
 impression was that his disease was very deeply 
 seated. 
 
 But on Saturday, Jan. 8, although his symptoms 
 were not essentially better, the weather being mild 
 and favorable, he was warmly enveloped, placed in 
 a close carriage, and removed to his home. While 
 being borne from the hotel, he was heard by an 
 attendant lowly murmuring kindly adieus to the 
 room he had occupied, and to his hospitable host 
 and hostess, who had made many personal sacrifices 
 for his accommodation, and rendered him every care 
 and attention in their power. His pleasant study 
 
514 DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 had been fitted up for the reception of the poor 
 sufferer, with every comfort and convenience that 
 the most solicitous affection could devise. Changed, 
 indeed, was he from the condition in which he quitted 
 that spot a few days before ; but, looking around on 
 the old, fond, familiar objects, his countenance bright- 
 ened up with an expression of delight. The care 
 of his people was forcibly brought to mind. He 
 requested that the church should be opened the 
 next day, and gave some directions as to the sabbath- 
 school. From this removal, which had been under- 
 taken with much anxiety as to the result, he did not 
 apparently suffer any detriment. 
 
 The early part of the second week of his illness, 
 his physicians thought the crisis of his disease was 
 past, and used measures to restore his strength. 
 But, as day followed day, there was no decided 
 amendment. His system seemed to possess no re- 
 cuperative power. The dreaded chills frequently 
 returned ; and his prostration was excessive. In 
 sleep, the natural fertility of his imagination dis- 
 played itself in revels amid the most charming scenes , 
 of physical and spiritual beauty. Those ^^ visions, '''^^ | 
 as he called them, left a deep impression xinJiie^ 
 waking hours, which he sometimes strove to de- 
 scribe. At one time, he said he was introduced by 
 *l a man in the eastern country,'^') as he expressed it, 
 into all the glowing richness of oriental splendor ,^ 
 but he told him " all he wanted was rest.'* A sister- 
 in-law thus records what he said to her of these 
 dreamy fiincies : " ^ O F. ! I have had such wonder- 
 ful visitations since I have been sick, such glorious. 
 
DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 515 
 
 such transcendent visions, I have almost become a 
 believer in spiritual communications in a moment. 
 Do you know anybody that understands the philoso- 
 phy of these things ? ' I told him no, and asked 
 what was the form of his visions ; if he saw persons. 
 ^ No ; not persons, but states of being. They seem 
 to be sub-local. I have been on the tops of the 
 mountains before ; but now I have been under the 
 mountains. Oh ! I would be willing to be sick a 
 month for one such night as I have had.' " He 
 seemed to labor in vain to set before the mind of 
 another the pictures impressed upon his own ; and, 
 not only in this, but in other connections, it was not 
 a little amusing, while at the same time sad, to see 
 him in his weakness, and injthe paucity of language 
 at his cjoMtol* attempt, !xy words new-coined and 
 newly, combined, to body forth his thought. 
 
 Frequently a little of his natural humor would 
 appear, as in addressing, in somewhat of a singing 
 tone, one or two young ladies, his relatives, who 
 were attending him, as '^ sweet sisters of charity,'* 
 and another friend as *^ aunt Good-one." He often 
 spoke jocosely to his physicians about their bad 
 treatment of him ; and one morning, when one of 
 them told him he looked better, he said, " I am like 
 the dog which the boys beat, and then said he 
 looked better." 
 
 He frequently took pains to send kind messages 
 to his neighbors. He was very grateful for atten- 
 tions, and considerate of the convenience of others. 
 The barber came one time when he did not feel as 
 though he could just then receive his services ; but, 
 
516 DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 on being told lie could wait, Mr. Judd replied, 
 " Oh ! no ; he has so much to do ; he is so busy." 
 He said to his wife, one day, " I shall have a great 
 deal to tell you when I get well, but cannot now, I 
 am so weak, — how our whole Hfe has been repro- 
 duced in such beautiful forms, the elm-trees, &c." 
 She told him aunt H. thought he was better. He 
 replied, " It is only because I am submissive now, 
 and yesterday I was not. I'll tell you when I get 
 
 well." His allusions to his brother H 1 were 
 
 frequent, and always with deep feeling. 
 
 One evening he asked to have something read 
 from Dante or Milton ; then a hymn from "Watts, 
 and the twenty-third Psalm, both of which he enjoyed 
 extremely, and frequently uttered ejaculations while 
 hearing them. 
 
 The first part of the third week brought no mate- 
 rial change, and his physicians did not consider his 
 situation alarming. Yet he could take no nourish- 
 ment ; his chills were again and again repeated ; his 
 sleep was disturbed, and his mind sometimes a little 
 wandered on waking. His excessive weakness con- 
 tinued ; nothing raised him, nothing made him any 
 better. In reply to the remark that he looked tired, 
 *'Yes," said he, "that is it, tired to death.'' He 
 said also, '^ I can hardly pray ; but there is one pas- 
 sage of Scripture I think of a great deal, — ' Ye shall 
 neither at this mountain nor yet at Jerusalem wor- 
 ship the Father ; . . . but the true worshippers shall 
 worship him in spirit and in truth.' " The last of 
 the week, more unfavorable symptoms appeared. 
 
 On sabbath, January 23, he expressed regret that 
 
DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 617 
 
 he was not able to take his accustomed seat at " his 
 sister's tea-table on that day. He conversed with a 
 friend who called in the afternoon, and said many 
 rational and many incoherent things. He had seemed 
 all through his illness to study the probabilities of 
 its termination, and to have many thoughts of his 
 departure, but had not directly alluded to it. Ee- 
 ferring to the subject at this time, he said : " It is 
 not that I am afraid of death and the solemn here- 
 after ; it is that life has so much for us to do. Peo- 
 ple tell me I have been doing too much ; but you 
 know how it is, there is no such thing as stopping." 
 His friend, Mr. "Waterston, who had supplied his 
 desk that day, called in the evening ; but he was too 
 weak to see him. ^^ It is one of the miseries of my 
 condition," said he, *Hhat I am not able to see 
 my brother-minister." 
 
 On Monday, the 24th, his strength somewhat 
 revived, and he seemed more like himself. He sat 
 up in bed for an hour, desired the window-blinds to 
 be opened that he might look out, and expressed 
 something of his usual interest about the coming in 
 of the railroad-cars. He also saw Mr. Waterston for 
 a moment this forenoon ; he took his hand, looked 
 up in his eyes earnestly, and said, " I am sorry I 
 cannot say much to you ; you see how it is ; but 
 next summer you must come again, and go to 
 Moosehead. I am very sick, but hope I shall be 
 better." He was very much agitated by this inter- 
 view. The latter part of the day, his bad symptoms 
 returned, and continued, with no abatement, through 
 the night. 
 
 4A 
 
518 DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 Tuesday morning, the 25th, found him in a very- 
 alarming condition ; his breathing labored, his fea- 
 tures sharpened, and he scarcely recognizing his 
 most familiar friends. He, however, awoke to more 
 consciousness in the course of the forenoon, and 
 seemed himself very solicitous concerning his state. 
 About noon, he sent an urgent request to his father- 
 in-law, that he would come to him directly ; and on 
 his arrival, with difficulty of articulation, but great 
 earnestness of manner, he said, "Did you ever know 
 any one as low as I am to get well ? I want some 
 one candidly to tell me how I am. It is not that I 
 am afraid to die. I bow in perfect submission to the 
 Infinite Will." On Mr. W.'s replying he had 
 known persons as ill recover, but did not know how 
 it would be with him, " Oh ! I understand it," said 
 he : " if I can get well, I shall be glad ; but if not, 
 why, let it go." He spoke tenderly of his wife and 
 little children ; and seemed happy that he could say, 
 in regard to the latter, that he had " never struck 
 them a blow." In the afternoon, he asked for the 
 little orphan-daughter of his brother ; and she, with 
 his own little girls, all rosy and fresh, came and stood 
 by his bedside. He looked at them a few moments 
 with satisfaction ; said, '* Healthy children, nice little 
 children ; " and, too weak to bear their presence but 
 a few moments, soon added, "Now you may run 
 out." 
 
 Knowing that Mr. F., one of his church, was in 
 the house, he expressed the wish that he should 
 come into his room, and pray with him ; but implied 
 that he was too weak to speak with him. As Mr. 
 
DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 519 
 
 F. knelt by his side in devout supplication, he joined 
 in it with manifest feeling and satisfaction, ejaculat- 
 ing "amen." Through the night, he slept some; 
 and his mind was in a natural state, though it was 
 diiEcult for him to speak, and he said but little. 
 
 And now, all that remains to tell may be given in 
 the words of one who watched these last night-hours 
 beside him. *' I sat a little while," she writes, " in 
 the rocking-chair, by the parlor-fire, and heard sweet 
 sounds like music in the distance. Probably this 
 was the wind ; yet I could not but connect it with 
 the music of heaven, feeling how near we were to 
 the spiritual world. When daylight came, the 
 morning of the 26th, we saw that our dear brother 
 was evidently very near his spirit's home. I felt 
 that he could not stay with us through the day ; yet 
 was he quite unconscious of it. Mrs. J. had tried 
 to lead him to speak of his feelings, and asked 
 whether he was resigned to his departure. He 
 replied ^yes,' but said nothing more. How she 
 longed for some parting words ! how much he would 
 have had to say to her, if strength had been given 
 him in those last hours ! She wished him to know 
 he was going to leave this, his earthly abode, and 
 requested a physician to communicate to him dis- 
 tinctly the intelligence. It came upon him, at that 
 moment, like an unexpected, an overpowering stroke, 
 rudely sundering all his tenderest ties to earth, and 
 causing the death-struggle of his aiFection's heart. 
 Bound as he was by deathless love to the particular 
 objects of his attachment, and enlisted as was his 
 soul in carrying out his great idea for making more 
 
5^0 DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 life-giving and extensive the holy principles of a 
 true Christianity, it was indeed to him ^ hard part- 
 ing.' He broke out in piercing tones of anguish, 
 ' Oh, my God ! I love thee, — I love heaven, — I 
 love its glories ! — but my dear brothers and sisters, 
 — my parents, — my wife and children, — J love 
 you, — how can I! how can J/' But he soon 
 became quiet, as he had been before the announce- 
 ment, although much exhausted by his emotions 
 and his efforts to speak. I sang ^ Majestic sweetness 
 sits enthroned,' and ^AU is well.' J. read passages 
 from the New Testament. His children were re- 
 ferred to; but, too much overcome to bear more 
 then, he said, ' Let the dear children come to-mor- 
 row, — little children come to-morrow,' evidently 
 not thinking his hour so near. He said to us who 
 were about him, ' Cover me up warm, keep my 
 utterance clear.' He afterwards Sidded., ' Pm doing 
 well,' — and, in a few moments, with but a slight 
 indication of the transition, his spirit passed away." 
 And who shall say that convoys of loving spirits 
 had not been circling that couch with heavenly 
 music, while waiting the moment of his release ; 
 and were at hand to receive a kindred spirit, and 
 conduct it to a realm of fresh existence, where all 
 its powers might unfold and bloom for ever under 
 the full light of Infinite Love, — that Love on 
 which it had ever fed, and to which it was so fully 
 assimilated ; to that heaven it had ever contemplated 
 as so glorious, and to which its highest aspirations 
 had ever risen ? And, though lost to human sight, 
 who shall affirm, that, with the eye of the spirit 
 
DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 521 
 
 unsealed, we might not behold our dear departed 
 ones hovering round us on ministries of love, and, 
 with tranquil look, gently soothing our grief, as their 
 enlarged vision descries the final blessed issue, even 
 to ourselves, of the afflictive blow; and perceives 
 that " what to us, at the moment, seems nothing but 
 privation will, somewhat later, assume the aspect of 
 a guide or genius ; " that " we only let our angels 
 go, that archangels may come in " ? 
 
 Although weakness and suffering did not allow 
 Mr. Judd to speak much of this great era of exist- 
 ence when upon its immediate confines, it was a 
 theme on which his mind had ever dwelt with fami- 
 liarity, through all the years of his earthly life. His 
 sermons were full of allusions to it, and always of a 
 kind to cheer the mourning heart, and light up the 
 apparent darkness. To his own removal, he often 
 adverted in them. In one he says : "I am not pre- 
 tending to conceal the fact, that often, in dying, there 
 is something painful, and even mournful; I only 
 wish to lighten the mind in respect of that apprehen- 
 sion. I think I am in the way of duty, if I seek 
 to disarm even the physical part of death of as much 
 of its terror as I can. I would pronounce, if it may 
 be, a benedicite on all this grief and gloom. I 
 know, among other things, it is sad to think of dying, 
 when we feel that we have so much to live for. I 
 experience this sensation as strongly as any one of 
 you. I feel sometimes as if I had hardly begun to 
 live. Duties and accomplishments dilate before my 
 eye like new universes. Yet when I think how 
 many have died, just at this stage of things, I see 
 
 44* 
 
6ft2 DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 that I am not alone. Warren died at the first battle 
 of the Eevolution. Summerfield died in the midst 
 of souls, whom, so to say, he had just begun to con- 
 vert." He often referred to this great change in 
 his letters, and for it his mind always seemed in 
 habitual preparation. In a state of illness, he made 
 the following entry in his Journal : — 
 
 ''May 13, 1838. — This may be my last record 
 here. I fear not death, — can cheerfully commend 
 my soul to God. World, — I can bid it farewell. 
 The beautiful in it, I can behold for the last time. 
 Friends, I meet you in a better world. My soul 
 is at peace. God is good to me." 
 
 And it was in the very last discourse he ever 
 preached, that occur these words, so remarkable in 
 their coincidence : '' Will it be you that shall next 
 perform the last sad duties to the cold remains of 
 your pastor ? " — words whose resonance still seemed 
 to linger among the Christmas evergreens that first 
 received them, when, a few brief days afterwards, 
 mingled with mourning weeds, was verified a sad 
 response. 
 
 The Pastor, in " Philo," too, utters the poet's own 
 heart-felt words, in saying : — 
 
 « Above the gloomy grave our hope ascends. 
 E'en as the moon above the silent mountains. 
 These partings are reunions in the skies; 
 To that great company of holy ones 
 
 We go; 
 
 In shadowy void, betwixt two worlds, we stand; 
 The distant All-Light opes its wicker gate. 
 The future beams auroral, flesh expires. 
 The soul begins its perfect day." 
 
DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 623 
 
 But earth was now left behind. Tender friends 
 arranged for its last rest the cherished form that 
 alone remained, and placed it in apparent comfort 
 upon his couch, as if in quiet, natural slumber. A 
 winter rose lay by his side ; a simple circlet, twined 
 by loving hands from his own fresh evergreens and 
 house-geraniums, was the symbol of his pillow. No 
 sound of preparation of funeral weeds disturbed the 
 quiet scene ; no air of gloominess and dread was 
 thrown around. Freely as when their father was 
 ever ready to greet their entrance to that study with 
 a welcome smile, the children passed in and out, 
 but with a wistful gaze, a chastened cheerfulness, 
 and tender foot-fall, that told their little hearts had 
 saddened comprehension of the change. Mourning 
 parishioners came in groups to look on that dear 
 pastor's tranquil face, — on that pale brow, still 
 noble in its amplitude. 
 
 "When the hour arrived to prepare for burial that 
 lifeless form, no stranger-hands were permitted to 
 share the service ; but only those to whom in life 
 it had been dearest now took part in this last sad 
 office. With tenderest care, they wrapped it in the 
 folds of that same silken robe in which he always 
 stood before his people, now, alas ! in preparation 
 for that silent service in which he was to appear 
 before them. Placed in easy guise upon a simple 
 lounge, the burial-case received within its snowy- 
 folds that gentle form. Sympathizing friends from 
 his own and distant cities sent fresh, fragrant flowers 
 he loved so well ; and these were placed upon his 
 breast and pillow. And there he lay, well-nigh 
 
5^ DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 as lovely and attractive as in life. The children, as 
 they came around, involuntarily exclaimed, "How 
 beautifully father looks ! " 
 
 And thus was carried out his own idea, that, even 
 in the house of deepest mourning, cheering symbols 
 should bear witness that life goes not out in eternal 
 darkness. 
 
 One by one, there gathered to this scene of sor- 
 row — but all too late for even a parting recognition 
 — each living member of his childhood's home, 
 save the devoted mother, whose feeble health pre- 
 cluded so long a journey at that inclement season. 
 
 The time fixed for the solemn obsequies was the 
 sabbath morning, the hour on which he was always 
 seen quitting his home, and so meekly wending his 
 way to minister to his people. But now, after brief, 
 fitting service, that unconscious form was borne 
 along the avenue of pines and cedars which had 
 grown up amid his companionship, adown the gravel 
 walk familiar with his footstep, and through the gate 
 of that tasteful, rustic fence enclosing his domicil, — 
 the last work for its improvement he ever planned. 
 The most ethereal of snow-flakes, at this moment, 
 began slowly and solemnly to fall, on all its way to 
 the house of God, curtaining around that funeral 
 carriage with an emblem of heaven's own purity. 
 At church, the profusion of Christmas greens still 
 lent their decoration in strange yet pleasing contrast 
 with the black drapery that had everjnvhere been 
 blended. In front of that hallowed desk there hung 
 a cedarn cross, that favorite sign ; and the commu- 
 nion-table beneath received its precious burden. 
 
DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 525 
 
 Immediately around were grouped the children of 
 the sabbath-school. The church was densely filled, 
 all denominations testifying to the value of the 
 man, the citizen; and the stillness felt telling how 
 deep the sense of loss. In touching tones, and with 
 tender manner, the Rev. Mr. Waterston performed 
 the funeral service, and, in beautiful yet discrimi- 
 nating remarks, showed forth his appreciation of his 
 early friend. The choir chanted in plaintive notes 
 those stanzas sung by the children in " Philo : " — 
 
 "A SONG THEIR PASTOR TEACHES THEM. 
 
 " Love of God ! we seek to dwell 
 In love and God and thee ; 
 The end of woes, the end of sins, 
 Shall love's perfection be. 
 
 '" Crucified ! we share thy cross; 
 Thy passion, too, sustain; 
 We die thy death, to live thy life, 
 And rise with thee again. 
 
 «* Glorified ! thy glory breaks; 
 Our new-bom spirits sing; 
 Salvation cometh with the morn; 
 Hope spreads an heavenward wing." 
 
 And then, with bearers from the different churches 
 of the city, the mournful train, augmented by a long 
 procession, recrossed the river beneath the arches of 
 that old bridge so humorously set forth in " Richard 
 Edney," and moved onward to that beautifully se- 
 cluded family-tomb to which the pale sleeper's first 
 rural excursion on the eastern bank of the river 
 had been made. Gathered beneath the funereal firs 
 around, the mourning congregation and afflicted re- 
 latives took their last, sad, parting look at that dear 
 
526 DEPARTURE FROM EARTH. 
 
 face. At that moment, the clouds, which all day 
 till then had shrouded the heavens, suddenly parted, 
 and bright rays of sunlight, penetrating that open 
 vault, illuminated its dark, mouldering depths ; 
 or, — to close this history, penned with love, de- 
 light, and sorrow, mingled in varying hues, in his 
 own beautiful words, descriptive of a like occasion, 
 and striking in'^^heir coincidence with the present 
 scene, — 
 
 '^As the relics were conveyed into the tomb, the 
 clouds broke away in the heavens ; a bland light 
 diffused itself over the severities of the season ; there 
 seemed something of bloom, or warmth of coloring, 
 in that blue break of the skies. How fair an induc- 
 tion to the final rest ! " 
 
527 
 
 It may be of interest to some readers to know what was 
 the fate, among Mr. Judd's own people, of those cherished 
 views for which he so earnestly labored during the last 
 two or three years of his sojourn with them, and to which, 
 it may almost be said, he sacrificed his earthly life. 
 
 On the afternoon of the sabbath whose morning hours 
 had been consecrated to the performance of the last sad 
 duties to their lamented pastor, his bereaved people again 
 gathered in sorrow to that church whose walls were 
 never again to resound to his living voice, but which was 
 still alive with the echoes of his fervent teachings mingled 
 with those of the mournful service which had there just 
 taken place. The following account of the doings of this 
 meeting was prepared by its chairman, Mr. J. Burton : — 
 
 " On the afternoon of Sunday, January 30, a meeting of the 
 Society of Christ Church, Augusta, was held at the chiirch, for 
 the purpose of mutual condolence and Christian sympathy, under 
 their heavy affliction, in the loss of their beloved pastor, Rev. Syl- 
 vester Judd. Devotional exercises were conducted by Rev. Mr. 
 Waterston, of Boston, who had, with such appropriate eloquence, 
 truthfulness, and justice to the character of the deceased, so accept- 
 ably officiated at the funeral ceremonies in the forenoon. Remarks 
 of a deeply touching and solemn character were made by Mr. 
 Waterston, and several gentlemen of the Society. 
 
 "The following preamble and resolutions were presented by a 
 committee previously appointed, and unanimously adopted; and 
 
628 SUPPLEMENTAL. 
 
 copies directed to be transmitted to Mrs. Judd, and furnished for 
 publication in our city papers, and in the ** Christian Register," 
 Boston, and " Christian Inquirer," New York. 
 
 «' * Whereas, in the mysterious providence of God, we have been 
 called upon to mourn the loss of our beloved pastor and friend, in 
 the prime of his life and in the midst of his usefulness, — we, the 
 members of his society, deeply sensible of our loss, and living wit- 
 nesses of his worth, of his untiring devotion to the great interests 
 of Christianity, and of his benevolent exertions for the welfare of his 
 race, being desirous of giving a public expression to oui- feelings, 
 and a living form to our sentiments, that those who come after us 
 may learn to appreciate his real character, — 
 
 " « Therefore^ unanimously Resolved, That, in the decease of the 
 Rev. Sylvester Judd, his society have lost an able and faithful 
 teacher, an exemplary Christian, a warm and devoted friend, an 
 upright citizen, and a good man. 
 
 " * Resolved, That his idea of a Christian church, as recently pro- 
 mulgated, and for the establishment of which his best energies were 
 expended, is, in our opinion, the embodiment of one of the vital 
 principles of Christianity, and, as such, demands our serious con- 
 sideration. 
 
 " * Resolved, That we ought, as the best testimony we can give of 
 our appreciation of the labors and teachings of our lamented pastor, 
 to carry out the plans which he had matured for our spiritual good ; 
 and, to this end, we will cause the paper lately drawn up by him, 
 embodying what he regarded as the true idea of a Christian church, 
 to be recorded according to his expressed intention, and that the 
 names of his parishioners be subscribed thereto. 
 
 «' * Resolved, That we tender our heartfelt sympathy to the v^adow 
 and other relatives of the deceased, in this hour of their deep afflic- 
 tion, and recommend the religion which he preached, as their only 
 effectual source of consolation and support under this great bereave- 
 ment.' 
 
 ** Some lines offered by a lady of the church were read with much 
 feeling by Mr. Waterston, and the occasion was one of deep and 
 solemn interest. 
 
 ** The work which it was the ardent wish of his soul to consum- 
 mate is now being perfected by us according to his desire, and an 
 answer is thus accorded to his many prayers to that effect. 
 
 *• Attest, J. Burton." 
 
SUPPLEMENTAL. 529 
 
 In the blank-book selected by Mr. Judd for the pur- 
 pose, was recorded, as above resolved, the Declaration 
 embracing his idea of a true Christian church, which, 
 before his illness, he had had printed on single sheets, 
 and circulated among all his people. This was now 
 oflfered to them for signature ; and it was affecting to see 
 them, almost without exception, come up by families, and 
 enroll their names, parents and children, as born under 
 that " new covenant " established by Christ, alike subject 
 to its obligations and entitled to all its privileges ; a scene 
 on which that beatified pastor might look down from his 
 glorified sphere of new existence with ecstatic delight. 
 Great warmth of Christian feeling has since prevailed in 
 Christ Church ; and active energy has been displayed, 
 not only in establishing Mr. Judd's views among them- 
 selves, but in making their value, as witnessed by their 
 own experience, known and appreciated by the entire 
 Unitarian body. Together with his more immediately 
 responsible family-friends, they have felt it a sacred trust 
 left in their hands to see that views deemed by him of so 
 vital importance to the welfare, if not, indeed, to the 
 permanence, of the Christian church, should be submitted 
 to the consideration of the public ; an end which has been 
 secured by the efficient exertions of Joseph H. Williams, 
 Esq., a parishioner and brother-in-law of Mr. Judd, in the 
 publication, under the title of " The Birthright Church," 
 of the discourse prepared for the Thursday Lecture, and 
 also of a volume of sermons relating to the same subject, 
 entitled "The Church." Not only have they testified 
 their conviction of the worth of Mr. Judd's teachings, but 
 they have also evinced their high appreciation of his 
 genius as a preacher, by the fact, that, a great part of the 
 time since his removal, they have desired nothing better, 
 in their public sabbath services, than to listen to the 
 reading of manuscript sermons which he had perhaps 
 
 45 
 
530 SUPPLEMENTAL. 
 
 more than once delivered in their hearing ; a rare in- 
 stance, it is believed, of the life-giving elements embodied 
 in the common round of weekly discourses. 
 
 It may, perhaps, not improperly be added, that the 
 sense of loss occasioned by Mr. Judd's removal was not 
 limited to his own people and his own particular friends. 
 It drew forth expressions of regret extensively from the 
 public prints ; and several discourses with reference to it 
 were delivered the following sabbath. The Eev. Dr. 
 Gannett, in a sermon preached in Bangor, alluding to the 
 event, paid the following kindly tribute to Mr. Judd : " If 
 the loss were confined to that sister-church in Augusta, it 
 would be a fit occasion for us to remember the counsel 
 which directs us ' to weep with those that weep.' But the 
 church to which our friend sustained the relation of pastor 
 are not the only mourners who feel a sense of personal 
 bereavement. From one and another I hear the excla- 
 mation, ' His death is a loss to the whole State.' Let me 
 give to the conviction that prompts these words a still 
 wider reach. His death is a loss to the whole country ; 
 for, by his writings and his character, he has made 
 himself known far beyond the sphere of his personal 
 influence. Even in European countries, an American 
 literature would be incomplete which did not notice his 
 works." 
 
 On the May-day succeeding Mr. Judd's departure, the 
 lambs of the church, as they had been for so many years 
 in the habit of doing, assembled in the morning around 
 Christ Church Parsonage ; but the accustomed shepherd 
 was not there to conduct them forth over the green hills, 
 and amid the forest-shade. Yet did another kind leader 
 attend them ; and, in their ramble, they twined green 
 wreaths, with which they approached the pastor's resting- 
 place, and garlanded his tomb with these fit emblems 
 of immortality ; thus unconsciously responding to these 
 
SUPPLEMENTAL.' 531 
 
 words, incidentally let fall in one of his earlier discoursei 
 to his people : — 
 
 " I sometimes ask myself the question, If I were to die 
 to-day, should I, too, be forgotten to-morrow? Am I 
 enriching no soul with those treasures of goodness which 
 form the only desirable memorial ? Am I leading no one 
 in the path to heaven, so that my guiding hand will not 
 be missed when I am gone ? Am I creating life and joy, 
 beauty and purity, in no one's heart and life, so that no 
 one would regret my absence ? Shall the summer air 
 visit my grave, and will not you ? " 
 
 It was ever a matter of sentiment with Mr. Judd, that 
 our mother-earth should receive into her very bosom the 
 remnant of mortality left behind, so that, above the che- 
 rished form so closely connected with our identity, the 
 grass might green, flowers bloom and diffuse their fra- 
 grance on the gentle breeze ; that birds might warble forth 
 their gushing songs from waving, impendent branches ; 
 that all the kindly and suggestive ministries of nature 
 might serve to soothe and cheer fond friends who should 
 gather there, and divest of gloom the little mound of earth 
 indicating that hencieforth the " corruptible has put on 
 incorruption." Particular circumstances have as yet pre- 
 vented such sepulture ; but it is designed that, at an early 
 day, this pleasing idea shall be consummated, and that a 
 symbolic monument, bearing appropriate emblems, shall 
 mark the spot. 
 
I 
 
I 
 
\/Jjt 'Mir^'i'SOi Jv 
 
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