^ THE ^ O L5SI5AR11S ^3 f - -V LIFE-SKETCHES OP KEY. GEOEGE HEMY CLARK. BY HIS BROTHER. BOSTON: PUBLISHED BY ABEL TOMPKINS. 1852. a^ut"'(( Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by A. TOMPKINS, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. /a^^^E Stereotyped by HOBART & ROBBINS; New England Type and Stereotype Foundery, BOSTON. AUTHOR'S PREFACE If the scenes and incidents sketched in these pages are highly colored, it is because I have written with a sym- pathy carrying the imagination back to earlier years. I have endeavored, however, to avoid all allusion to the private sanctities of life, where such allusion was unneces- sary to the narrative, and where the living might be too delicately involved. Much has been omitted of personal and local interest. In transcribing from the diary and correspondence of the subject of these sketches, I have quoted those portions only which were essential to the whole story, and to the full development of the life and character I attempt to portray. As I have seldom paused to obtrude reflections, the moral must speak for itself. Would delicacy allow, I should here acknowledge the many public and private words of sympathy and encour- agement I have received in the preparation of this volume. But the names of those to whom I am indebted are so numerous, I can neither cite the whole nor make an invidious selection of a favorite few. I dedicate these pages to all who would leam lessons of Christian faith in sorrow and trial. 1# VI PREFACE. While writing, the venerable Balfour, in the ripeness of years, and Soule, in his prime, have joined the early fallen brother. As post after post in the ministry of re- conciliation is thus vacated, solemn mantles fall upon those who remain. With this thought I have written ; and I have been prompted by a love born in childhood, bloom- ing in youth, and strengthening amid the scenes, the aspi- rations, the struggles, of early manhood. And that love is now made more sacred, by the consciousness of a celes- tial guardianship in every hour of meditation, peopling the world with memorials of chastening sorrow and joy. With one whose * In iMemoriam,' through all the labors of this volume, has rung with plaintive sympathy, let me pray the Father — ' Forgive these wild and wandering cries, * Confusions of a wasted youth ; * Forgive them where they fail in truth, * And in thy wisdom make us wise.' U. C. CmcoPEE, Mass., April, 1852. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. PAGE The Bot. — Prophetic Shadow 9 CHAPTER II. FiEST Grief. — No Home. — New Home. — Glee aio) Gloom 14 CHAPTER III. Brothers Part. — Religion. — Adrift in the great City 19 CHAPTER IV. Street Orator. — Diary. — Dawning Gospel. .... 23 CHAPTER V. The New Birth. — Teacher. — Charles and George. . 30 CHAPTER VI. Western Wanderer. — Clinton. — Faith Tried. ... 39 CHAPTER VII. Canandaigua. — School-scenes. — Tremblings 53 Tin , ' CONTENTS. CHAPTER VIII. PAOB Lake Scene. — The Falls. — Lockport. — New Exck LAKD 62 CHAPTER IX. Lawbence. — On, on, on. — Ella. — Life Earnest. . . 76 CHAPTER X. Peemonitobt. — Shadows. — The Mourner's Wail. . . 92 CHAPTER XI. The Martyr of Lone Labors and Sorrows Bowed. . 102 CHAPTER XII. Valedictory.— The "Wandering Invalid. —Last Scene. 117 CHAPTER XIII. Obsequies. — General Analysis. — The Dream Realized .139 CHAPTER I. THE BOY. TROPHETIC SHADOW. As the brow of the lowliest traveller beams with new light while catching a view of the mountain summit up whose steeps he toils, so the humblest life is lighted with moral grandeur by the inspiration of a high purpose. If the story before us shall illustrate this, and add to the hope of those who, with noble aims, are struggling against adverse elements, its designed mission will be fulfilled. We owe our debts of love and praise, not only to those who stand great in the eyes of the world, but to those also who walk in the lowliest spheres of duty. These need encouragement more than they ; and if these are passed with no words of cheer, no efforts to redeem their names from oblivion, many may sink in their own esteem, and droop along their unnoted path. In the borough of Bedford, Westchester county, New York, about two miles north-west of the village bearing the same name, there lies a quiet valley, sheltered on the east and west by sloping woodlands and fields, and watered by a rivulet whose banks wave with luxuriant beauty. This valley bears the uneuphonious name of Sukeybone, yet is one of the loveliest of those numerous rural retreats abounding between the 'rock-ribbed' hills 10 LIFE-SKETCHES OP of Westchester. Here was the birth-place of George Henry Clark , October 31,1821. He was the youngest of four children born to Joseph and Mary Clark. His mother, a Bouton, was one of four sisters, all of whom were happily and respectably settled in .social life. His father descended from two Clark brothers, who, in the early settlement of the country, located in Connecticut, He was the tenth child among thirte^i brothers and sis- ters, most of whom lived and became heads of promising families ; and all connected with the Presbyterian church, except Joseph and one sister, who united with the Meth- odists, Long before age would admit he applied for mem- bership, and was noted for religious seriousness, though he never manifested much of the enthusiasm peculiar to that people in those earlier times. After he became con- nected with the church, he held a responsible position, and his house was ever the home of Methodist preachers while passing around their circuits. The appearance of the preacher's horse in the distance was usually a signal for the boys to commence a race after the plumpest fowl cackling about the premises ; then followed the merci- less decapitation, and the chicken pie. And after the lads had fed the minister's horse, how they used to skulk around, shy of that wonderful man, fearful of some awful question about the soul, and ^mournfully envious to think bow certain he seemed of going to heaven, while they felt themselves nothing but grace- less little sinners, momentarily exposed to the ever- lasting pit ! And they wondered how he could be so kippy, eat so heartily, and talk and laugh just as^ GEORGE HENRY CLARK. II thougli nobody was in danger of the doom they feared. There was a mystery for time alone to elucidate. From early life, the children were under a rigid reli- gious discipline, now known in but few families ; yet it was a discipline dictated by the sincerest parental piety, and was seldom enforced by corporal inflictions. A Christian mother breathed into her infant charges the gentlest spirit of love. She impressed those lessons of the Holy Word which none but a mother can most effectually impress. At night and morning she bent in prayer, and taught each to lisp, ' Our Father in heaven^' In that early home no meal was partaken without reference to the great Giver of mercies; no night came nor morning returned without finding each knee bent at the family altar ; no Sunday passed without its exclusive devotion to reading, to worship, to medita- tion ; and no week-day went by without its examples of parental patience and piety. Under influences like these George Henry Clark passed the first years of childhood. While in his fourth year, his father, with the family, moved to the city of New York. To the young folks it was a long and adventurous journey ; first by land to Tarrytown, and from thence in a sloop down the Hudson. George was in ecstasy, especially when the lumber wagon rose the hill, a short distance from Tarrytown. Sleepy Hollow, of Ichabod Crane memory, lay below ; yonder were the broad waters of Tappan Zee, and far down rolled the majestic stream, walled on the west by the sky-cleaving Palisades. While in the city, the family worshipped and the chil- 12 LIFE-SKETCHES OF drea attended Sunday-scliool at the old Methodist Church in Duane-street. The younger boys went to free school, where both education and the rod were free, and the latter most freely applied. One day, on returning from school, George was menaced by a drunken beggar, who relished the sport of frightening him. Not being able to set up a defence, Gleorge ran from danger. From certain peculiarities in his gait and garments, I have never been able to forget just how he looked while run- ning at that moment. Whenever, in after life, I referred to this race of his, he used to argue it futile to resist whatever danger could not be overcome even- handed, and contended his legs would ever be his best friends, in case of any perilous assault. Though he claimed a fair share of youthful daring, he usually chose a dignified retreat in preference to a fight, even at the risk of gaining the name of coward. In the moral battles of life, however, he knew no retreat. On account of the mother's declining health, in the summer of 1826, George and his elder brother were sent into the country, near their birth-place, to spend the season in the family of a widow lady. The mother was failing fast, when, with quivering lips and silent tears, she bade them go, and uttered her parting benediction. She would soon meet them again. George continually mourned her absence. One warm, sunny day in August, while sporting with his brother on their way from school, he paused sud- denly, and stood in sad and solemn reverie. His head dropped, his eyes were set, and his face wore a vacant aspect. ' Mother is dying I ' said he, at last, breaking GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 1^ the strange spell. Had the loudest thunder broken, and the heavens grown instantly black, in that hour of sunshine, the eflfect would have been no more sudden nor appalling. The brothers had never thought death possible with that matron angel, and had heard nothing alarming with regard to her illness. Soon after, the news came — she had gone ! And her departure was near the time George uttered that mournful presenti- ment, which I have never been able to understand in the light of a material philosophy. 2 14 LIPE-SKETCHES OP CHAPTER II. FIRST GRIEF. — NO HOME. — NEW HOME. — GLEE AND GLOOM. A MOTHER dead ! — no more in the home of child- hood — no home but the world — no maternal smiles, nor tears, nor gentle ministries of love ! George could hardly believe his orphanage real. His grief was wild and inconsolable. He ran from one to another, , questioning and calling in vain. He would not be- lieve it. She had promised to meet him again, and should her promise fail ? He mourned and wept till his heart seemed drained, and then threw himself down, sobbing and sighing into slumber. To him sleep was, indeed, the blessed restorer of nature ; for, during all his life, it came to his eyes in seasons of grief which would have found others restless. I have often envied him the ease with which he could throw himself into its embrace, even in times of trouble. Home was now broken up ; the children were scat- tered ; the father went West ; George, with the elder brother, finding a home with their grandmother Bouton. This venerable matron gave the most patient and pious devotion to her charge. She cultivated their religious na- ture; she told long stories in the evening; and when they GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 1% retired, slie usually sat up alone towards midnight, ply- ing her needles, poring over the sacred page, or singing, with tremulous tones., some old song of devotion. She knew all the whims of childhood, and was ready to amuse as well as instruct One night, just after the boys had turned into their little crib, at the foot of her bed, George was taken with violent hiccoughs. The old lady suddenly stopped her knitting, rose, walked to the side of the crib, brandished one of her needles, and told George to put out his tongue for her to thrust the needle through it George grew pale, — his hiccoughs were frightened away; the old lady smiled, told him her object, patted his head, and then resumed her knitting. In the spring of 1827, the father was married to a widow lady, with one son and a daughter, and the two families settled in a new home in Lewisboro', near the small village of Cross River. Years of peace and pros- perity followed. In 1831, a year before the cholera swept our country, a religious revival, then spreading through the land, visited Cross River. In many house- holds that season was the '■ reign of terror.' At that time I never heard George say a word on the awful theme ; it was too awful and oppressive. But, in after years, he represented that period as one of perpetual horror and suspense. To his mind, the idea of endless punishment was no vague nor ideal theory. It was a living presence, seen in the solemn faces of friends, heard in the tones of the pulpit, read on every page of the Bible, felt as a part of his being, — burn- ing in the sunbeams, flashing in the lightning, and peopling all the universe with symbols of indescribable 16 LIFE-SKETCHES OF terror. He never dared to doubt it. It haunted all his childhood and youth, repressing joys and mirth, and darkening every hour of thought with fears of a frown- ing Godhead, and a hell of souls lost forever ! He knew little of church doctrines, beside that one ever darkening feature. He knew nothing of a vica- rious atonement; but, for the little sins he had com- mitted, fancied endless doom inevitable. And how did he envy those who seemed to have no fears like his ! If he thought of religion, it was only to escape hell. He knew not how to love a God whom he was told to dread as awful with wrath. Yet he enjoyed religious moods, in which these tormenting fears had no part. He and his elder brother would ramble over fields and linger within wood-land shadows on a Sunday morning, listen- ing to the melody of nature, mingling with its gladsome inspirations, and sometimes joining in praise and prayer. Every secluded spot near that old home was dedicated as a 'bower of prayer,' yet devoted not to a God of terror, but to the Father of love, whose smile was in the landscape, and whose voice rose from the altars of creation. Several times during his youth, while reviv- als were going on in the churches, George sought religion as others sought, but to no purpose. It came not, and he feared the day of grace had gone. In vain he sought, wept, prayed with the multitude ; but, retiring to his closet, or to the great temple of nature, he seemed to find a strange peace and joy in throwing himself upon the bosom of a God speaking with a * still small voice.' At one period, he joined a number of mates, headed GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 17 bj his elder brother, and a prayer-meeting was begun, in imitation of adults. The meetings were held in the attic of a neighbor's granary, and prospered several even- ings. Some boys, however, were hard to enlist. One lad resisted every entreaty for a while, but finally came in, after having been convinced that all men mast, at last, die, which he declared he never before knew, though bred in the midst of churches ! While the boys were on their way to the granary, one evening, George wished to stop and labor with a lad who was engaged in cut- ting turnip-tops. George endeavored to arouse the lad from his worldly avocation, and put in the strongest appeals ; to all of which, however, the only answer was, ' Cut turnips, — got to cut turnips ; ' and the lad w^s left to his doom, still cutting the bulbous roots. Tow- ards the close of the meeting, tliat night, an unfortunate embarrassment happened. All had taken their part, except the boy whose mind had been in the dark on death ; and now came his turn. All were on their knees, waiting in siLspense. He began, but had gone over only half a sentence, when he came to a stand. He had no words, and whispered to his neighbor for help. His neighbor suggested the Lord's Prayer. But the boy faltered, was unable to understand, grew more and more embarrassed, and at last created a general giggle among the others. This was more than his religion was prepared to endure. He rose in wrath, and then all the boys roared. The meeting broke up in fun and confusion, but left its lesson against attempting to make men of boys before their time. But George's youth is passing. The summers were 2# 18 LIFE-SKETCHES OF spent on the farm, and tlie winters at common schools, — common, indeed ! Among the teachers he ever re- membered with endearment, were one Mr. Benedict and his daughter Jane, and a Miss Howe, since Mrs. Cable ; the latter of whom left a most genial Christian impres- sion. If George was distinguished for any peculiar trait among liis schoolmates, it was a kind of wild and reckless spirit. He was an indifferent scholar, learning but little till after his sixteenth year. Webster's old Spelling-book, and DaMl's equally old Arithmetic, — both of which he kept as relics, — boanded his studies. In his sports he was headstrong and foremost. He had a bold, frank, dashing air, that dared everything, that commanded the first place among his mates, and ren- dered him incapable of deliberate cunning. If he was wayward, stormy, or stubborn, it was only from impulse, and lasted but a moment. He had no room in his ever- active nature for any perilous stuff like malice. He was always either highly elated or deeply dejected in spirits ; subject to extremes, — in boyhood the cheerful predominating. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 19 CHAPTER III. BROTHERS PART. RELIGION. ADRIFT IN THE GREAT CITY. In the summer of 1835, — George thirteen years old, — his elder brother left home for school, and a corre- spondence began for life. To this early correspondence he acknowledged himself indebted for the highest incen- tives to mental culture. In the autumn of 1836, his elder brother went to New York ; and George, in his loneliness, with the ties of youth sundered, first began to realize the foreshadowings of coming change and trial. In February, 1837, he writes himself lone and friendless, with only o7ie to whom he can go for sym- pathy. He seems happy ; but none read the sadnesses lingering beneath a smiling face! July, 1837, he re- joices at a letter of counsel from his brother ; speaks of a companion who is aspersed for his low birth, but whom he means to defend, in spite of popular opinion ; and then he recounts his small doings on the farm. August, 1837, he mourns over his companionless lot; talks of the beauties of nature, but works too hard to enjoy them, except on Sundays, when he can ramble out alone; regrets the absence of a Sunday-school, and warms with interest in behalf of the Methodist meet- ings he attends. 20 - LIFE-SKETCHES OF Now seventeen years old, January, 1838, he begins to write seriously of life. All is dark and mysterious, and he wonders what his sphere will be. He feels that home is not his place, and that he must soon seek his destiny in the wide world. He has his choice, like the other brothers, — remain at home dependent, or go out on his own responsibility. For a while longer he prefers the paternal roof. May, 1838, he writes with deep emotions, while sitting in the old attic chamber, looking around, recalling memories of other days. Now the only boy at home, he is more lonely than ever ; yet he glories in the freedom he enjoys on the farm. He recalls the sainted mother, and the grandmother just departed, and is animated with hope of joining them, at last, in a better land. But tears fall on his paper, blot- ting the words which strive to utter his emotions. In the early part of this year, with a number of com- panions, he presented himself as a candidate for reli- gious conversion. A long time he sufiered and sought, without experiencing any change. All was mockery and misery to his soul. His church-trained conscience told him of a duty which he knew not how to discharge ; yet he labored on, weeping and pra3dng. He had never doubted the genuineness of the religion he sought, or its doctrines, for he knew of no other. But all his efforts to find it were fruitless. He was told to believe, give up all, and the change would then come. He com- plied as far as possible, but remained the same creature. At last, however, he was persuaded to settle down under the impression tliat the change might have been uncon- sciously wrought, and was announced as converted. He GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 21 was sincere, yet seldom made the subject one of either correspondence or conversation. It seemed unnatural and constraining. It gave no new tone to either his heart or life. In fact, it injured his better nature ; for, while he was restrained in the presence of professors, at other times he suffered the reaction of professional embarrassment. July, 1838, he again alludes to the sainted dead, and blots his paper with tears. This letter is the sixty- fourth written to his elder brother. I pass numerous incidents, of interest only to those who sustained the dearest relations. In August, 1838, he is elated with the prospect of going to school the ensuing winter, and prides himself on elrinking nothing but cold water. In the autumn, his elder brother returns from New York, and a new era begins. The brother is now just break- ing away from old landmarks, and is seeking the better Gospel. They meet first at a Methodist camp-meeting, in Smg Sing;. They go home, and conversation is con- tinually turning on the new Gospel. But George's time had not come, and he escaped the storm then poured upon his brother for professing Universalism. A few weeks pass, and George goes to New York to take a clerkship with his oldest brother, Hosea, — the place vacated by his elder brother. But he found the business uncongenial, though he labored to content himself. Here he joined a class in old Duane-street Methodist church, and was a regular attendant. March, 1839 found him worn out with his situation as retailer of fancy goods, constantly confined to the store ; and he resigned his place, with nothing before him. At first, 22 LIFE-SKETCHES OF he thought of a trade, and spent four days on trial with a watch-maker. It was too close work for him, and he was again adrift, almost penniless. He next entered a grocery, but, after a month, vacated it for a better offer. Just as he was about to begin, his new employer failed, and George was again afloat, low, not only in money, but in spirits. Two weeks were spent wandering through the city, in fruitless search of some honorable employment. But he kept up courage, though hope often seemed a mere mockery. He writes cheerfully, and recounts his trials with Christian philosophy. He turns to his religion as the only source of comfort ; the church as the only ' retreat for his poor body, and troubled spirit.' He becomes newly zealous in Metho- dism, and resolves to stand in its profession. His weary soul knew nothing better to alleviate his sorrows and disappointments. He would join the zealous throng of worshippers, and for a while forget this world in aspirations for a better. In spite of his own condition at this time, he often forgot himself in seeing the woe and crime of the great city around him ; and he took many lessons of sympathy and warning. GEOEGE UEXEY CLARK. 23 CHAPTER lY. STREET ORATOR. DIARY. DAWNING GOSPEL. "While wandering in the great city, but finding a transient home with his last employer, one day he is sent out on an errand, with horse and wagon. While driving along, the old animal he drove — a forlorn sam- ple of his abused species — stumbled, and fell in the street. A crowd soon gathered around, and the animal was raised, but with broken gear and a bruised limb. The damage, however, was directly repaired, and George mounted the wagon to drive on again. But, at this moment, a villanous fellow in the crowd began to swear and blow him about beating the horse. George rose to his feet, and held forth to the multitude in stout denial of the charge. The fellow, however, persisted in his abuse ; and, in addition, having stolen the whip, threat- ened George not only a whipping, but a trial before the police. Refusing to restore the whip, he started towards the police-office, and called on George to follow. George roared, raved, resisted ; but, not knowing what to do with the poor horse, drove after the fellow till the office was reached. The bully entered, and soon re- turned, telling George he was wanted within. But, while the man was gone, George had been brewing fresh 24 LIFE-SKETCHES OF wrath, wMch he now poured out anew, threatening the fellow with a complaint, if the stolen whip was not instantly restored. His long, lank, sapling form, tow- erin« up from the wagon-seat behind the scrawny nag he drove, together with a voice raised to the highest key of indignation, in dwelling on the rights and abuses of humanity, as illustrated in his present case, soon drew around him a sympathetic throng. The bully now saw the tide of popular feeling rising strong against him ; and, taking to his heels, left George to a triumph- ant drive back to his employer. While still wandering unengaged, with no hopeful prospect before him, too independent to seek the aid of friends able and willing, stung by a sense of wrongs untold, May, 1839, he writes : ' I feel that I am born to trouble. Such lonesome * feelings, — feelings of deep sorrow, — such discontent, 'such home-sickness, I have never before known. I ' am a poor wandering boy on the wide earth, destitute ' of friends, and all that can make life dear and happy. ' All is gone. I am wretched, and what makes me so ? ' My eyes water — tears must flow. But Mr. ' is coming in ; I must wipe my eyes.' Unable to smother his grief, he wanders miles out of the city along the eastern bank of the Hudson, reads till dark, and then throws himself to the ground, strug- gling in prayer. And what is the great burden of his heart ? He pants not for ease, nor wealth, nor fame, nor pleasure. He wants merely a living, with sympa- thetic friends and humble means, means for culture and GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 25 lowly usefulness. Yet the world has no place for him, and all is dark ! At last he returns home, and spends a season on the fiirm. June, 1839, he again writes from the old attic chamber to his elder brother, now a remote successor to Ichabod Crane in a school-house near Sleepy Hollow. But home fails to afford him the needed motives to improvement. He deplores his ignorance, and applies himself anew. July 9th, 1839, he commences a diary, never after abandoned while able to write. September, 1839, finds him back to his old place, as clerk, in New York. His correspondence continues. One day, on his return from the post-office, he grew so absorbed in the perusal of a letter from his elder brother, he forgot he was in the street, laughed out loud several times, and walked on, reading, till he had gone half a mile past his place of business, at last to find himself bolting against one of the Battery gates, at the foot of Greenwich- street, surrounded by a score of ragamuffins shouting and giggling over his fancied insanity ! Completing his eighteenth year October, 1839, he writes himself down ' an old fool ;' but is consoled with the reflection that ♦ every family must have its fool.' Yet, while he indulges in regrets over the waste of the past, he has no bitter memory over the sins of city life, too common with youth from the country. He resisted the temptation of vulgar vice, and was proof against ■wild and dreamy passions. At this date, while his letters are cheerful, his diary breathes a tone of s^ness and discontent. His employ- ment is distasteful, though it opens the path of future 3 26 lue-sketches of fortune. He attends his class and worship in the old Duane-street church. He finds but little pleasure in popular amusements, though often taking the liveliest part in social parties. In youthful society, if he took any part, it was always the first and prominent. Yet he writes all down as vanity, and regards his meetings and correspondence among the highest interests of his life. Selections from his diary may here reveal his style of thinking and writing at this date : * Sunday, November 24:th, 1839. — We had an old 'settler for our leader in class this morning — Uncle 'Jimmy Horton. Called on sister Huldah — quite * rainy. Went to Duane-street in the evening ; after 'church, repaired to 171 J Greenwich, the store where ' I sleep, and where, in hours of serious meditation, I ' enjoy more than the prince decked with diadems, or the 'hero crowned with laurels. 2Qth. — After dinner, * met with a serious adventure with some rogues caught * in the act of stealing. December loth. — Evening, ' went to church. Saw the power of God in converting ' sinners ; find it good to meet in his house, and worship ' with his people. December the last, 1839. — It is ' now 11 1 at night, and I am about to take a long fare- 'well of 1839. Those familiar figures will soon be 'forgotten. Yes, the year is now about expiring. ' Methinks I hear the bells tolling out its last fleeting 'moments. Farewell, misspent year! But let me ' spend thy last moment on my knees at the throne of 'grace. January 2Qth, 1840. — Tells about the same ' dull story, — stormy, sad, lonely.^ His letters, at this date, begin to assume a deeper GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 27 tone of sorrow and dissatisfaction, though he is cheered by some gleams of the brightest hope and trust. Un- settled in regard to his sphere of life, unsatisfied and sick at heart with his business, he indulges the most distracting doubts and dreams. Being only on proba- tion in the Methodist Church, he is perplexed about assuming a full membership and receiving baptism. He owns his lack of knowledge on various points of doctrine, but feels that his religious education has been correct, and invokes Heaven to aid in living the Chris- tian, whatever he may believe. In March, 1840, George gladly gave up his clerk- ship, in New York, to take a public school in Bedford, where his elder brother was engaged in the boarding- school of an uncle, Samuel L. Holmes, Esq. The school was engaged, and a few days were before him to prepare for inspection by the town committee. AVith a hopeful prospect, he applied himself day and night,, and accomplished more than he had been able to do for years. The awful ordeal of his first inspection came, and George failed ! The committee brought in a ver- dict, guilty of incompetence to teach. And no mar- vel ; — the poor fellow was puzzled with questions drawn from a system of teaching long gone by the board. He was asked to spell ''phen-o-men'-on" accent on the third syllable, and confessed himself entirely ignorant of any word thus pronounced. His failure smote him with a terrible blow, and blasted every prospect on which he had been dwelling with fondness. It was a mournful walk home to lodgings that night. He was indigent, comfortless, and almost 28 LIFE-SKETCHES OP despairing. Never shall I forget those bursts of grief and desolation. Alone and adrift again on the wide world, with no star of hope ! He tried to sleep, that night, but rolled, groaned, sighed, bathed his pillow in tears, and was able to sob himself only into fitful slum- bers, before another morning dawned , on his desolate being. Home once more welcomes the unfortunate, and he concludes to spend the summer on the farm, employing leisure hours in preparing to teach, the next winter. It was long before he recovered from the shock of his last bitter disappointment. His trust in Providence, that all was ordered well, never entirely forsook him ; yet he saw no light. He passed among the people around him as ever the most humorous, happy, and light- hearted, even during this season of darkness, opening his bosom to one alone on earth. But the heart aches in dwelling on this season of trial, and I pass over the many touching records found in his letters and diary. ! the mission of youthful suffering is often stern and hard, indeed ! and yet, in it are born the energies of manhood. Never despair, and patient toil and time will bring the harvest whose seed was sown in tears. George now began to apply his mind anew. He started a young men's club, among a few companions, and engaged in those discussions calculated to develop a critical, inquiring spirit. His religious convictions now commenced undergoing a change. He had just arrived at the age of independent thought, and read with avidity all his elder brother wrote or sent. The light was dawning, slowly and faintly, amid the darkness that GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 29 spread on every hand. And yet he trembled at its approach. He faltered and reeled, as he began to feel the foundations of a life-long faith give way ; and he thought of the storm poured on his elder brother for assuming the widely odious name of Universalist. Could he meet the threatening elements, and stand untrembling beneath the doubly darkening storm, while his path was already overshadowed by misfortune ? It was no trivial concern ; and we may wonder not that so many, with the lack of moral nerve, have long hesitated to break from their early religion, with all its associa- tions, and assume an open profession of a despised Gospel, whose principles have not yet entered the depths of their being. After reading the discussion of Ely and Thomas, George first began to write freely. June 9th, 1840, he writes in regard to the change coming over him. Nothing now causes him to hesitate, but the fear of crushing the hearts of venerated friends. There was a terrible struggle between filial duty and the duty he owed his God. But the hour of agony is destined to come. 3* 30 LITE-SKETCHES OF CHAPTEK y. THE NEW BIRTH. TE.4.CHEE. CHAELES iJNT) GEORGE. June 13th, 1S40, was a memorable date. George was at home, and his elder brother was on a short visit. An early evening meiil was passed in sad silence, — a silence at last broken by inquiries in regard to the sentiments imbibed by the brothers. The story was soon told : George, the first time, openly avowed his faith in the better Gospel; and the elder brother repeated his purpose to devote himself to the ministry of that Gt)spel. ^ ^ =^ =^ # ! the memories of that night ! The brothers crossed the threshold of home, leaving a crushed spirit behind. They hurried their steps in silence. The night was silent, and the full moon rolled in clouds. They walked on. The moon suddenly burst forth full-orbed from its mantle, and a loud voice was lifted, vowing, before high Heaven, to devote a life in endeavoring to rend the veil that mantled millions. ' Amen ! ' cried George, with a shout of joy ; and the silent night sent back the echo, 'Amen I ' From that night, a new era is dated in this history. If George's future course is not cleariy defined in his own mind, it is, at least, faintly foreshadowed in the far-off" future. It rose dimly in the distance, with a GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 31 moral grandeur too great and glorious, too solemn and awful, with untried responsibilities, for him to dare a close gaze, or express a hope. But henceforth it was to have an insensible influence in shaping his ambition and in sobering his life. It was the star of his being, though glimmering from afar, and shedding feeble light over many a coming moral battle-field, through which he must yet fight his way with the armor of God. About this time, George became closely attached to a new friend, in Charles H. Bouton, a remote relative and an orphan. He was a youth of sad, silent, sensi- tive, and diffident bearing, solemn and reflective, small in stature, feeble in constitution, embarrassingly ardent in his emotions, and in most respects entirely different from George. He had known the deepest afiiictions of orphanage, and ever seemed to wear the sober air of one who hoped for but little. His companionship exerted a singular influence over George's impulsive nature. George generally spoke and acted from perception; Charles, from reflection. Hence the aid one gave the other, and the harmony that rose from diversity. The light of the better Gospel, at this time, is just break- ing in upon the mind of Charles, and he and George are alone in faith in all that neighborhood. Sunday, June 21st, 1840, they spend in Danbury, Conn., and for the first time hear the message of universal joy. They enter the church whose inscription above the gate reads ' Good will to all men,' and find in these words a new language. The preacher is unknown, and they are strangers ; but their tears flow in gladness as he goes on, 32 LIFE-SKETCHES OF from Psalm 13 : 25, — ' Whom have I in heaven but thee,' portraying the goodness of God in contrast with an opposing view of the divine character. It was just the discourse they needed in that hour of struggle, and such as many inquiring souls may still need. The only minister of the better Gospel at this time known to George was Kev. S. J. Hillyer, of North Salem, who, for many years, every second or fourth week, rode through Cross River, on his appointment at Long Bridge, a distance of near twenty miles. Every- body along the whole line knew Mr. Hillyer ; and, as he rode past in sober silence behind his old ' Dolly,' many used to look upon him as a pitifully deluded emissary of Satan, studying some new oily messages to deceive the people ; the children wondering whether old ' Dolly ' was conscious of her master's delusion, and if so, how the animal should dare convey him on his mischievous errand. Poor old ' Dolly ' at last died, but died under the kind hospitality of Captain Howe; though her master, at this date, still goes the rounds of his mission. Among the incidents illustrating a humane impulse, I remember one at this time, in which George came near losing his life. On a visit to his elder brother at Bedford, he was out on a bathing excursion with the pupils under the charge of the latter. One of the larger boys, unable to swim, agreed with the swimmers to jump into the water where it was some fifteen feet deep, in case they would come to his aid, if he was not able to swim ashore. He took the leap, but found him- self floundering in vain. The swimmers floated around, and made several ineffectual attempts to rescue him. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 33 One little fellow was dragged down three times in suc- cession bj the drowning boy, and found it difficult to extricate himself. Dreading their teacher's displeasure, they deferred calling for his help until there was no hope, and the boy had gone down for the last time. Then they shouted. George heard, and, waiting no longer than to throw his coat aside, ran and plunged in like a madman. He struck the boy's head, and the boy grasped his boot with a vice-like hold, rendering it impossible to save either himself or the boy. He rose to the surface, and shouted for aid. His brother hurried to the spot, waited till the waters calmed, that he might see where the boy was, dove in, and brought the lad ashore, who instantly came to himself, and laughed aloud as though nothing had occurred. In his one hundred and eighteenth letter, July, 1840, he writes, depicting the mournful feelings of friends on account of his religious change. His heart bleeds for them ; but he looks up to a Father whose voice is supreme, and whose arms are open when all others forsake. He now becomes fully conscious of what it is to meet the pitying and mournful look of friends concerned for his eternal weal, and the frown, the scorn, the ignorant abuse, of spiritual foes, fettered in spiritual darkness. ' You will find out your awful delusion, when it is too late.' ' You don't believe what you profess.' 'Your brother has led you astray.' ' You have lost religion, and backslid.' ' Satan has ensnared you.' ' Your conscience tells you of your error.' ' The Bible is a lie, if your doctrine is true.' < Universalists are nothing but a graceless, un- 34 LIFE-SKETCHES OF godly set.' 'The dying hour will test you.' 'The judgment-day will tell;' these, and similar expressions, were of every-day occurrence. The summer passed on the farm with many toils, and little leisure that could be rightly improved. In Au- gust he again repaired to New York, under the false hope of a new opening, and resolved to be dependent on home no more. He remained several days, during which he underwent a severe surgical operation on a tumor in his throat. For the fii*st time he heard the Bev. T. J. Sawyer, in Orchard-street. But he^ was unsuccessful in finding the place he anticipated, and was once more an unfortunate wanderer. With new anxieties, with little means, with a high spirit, with a holy purpose to devote himself aright, with a burning consciousness of his youth's rapid flight, and a soul pant- ing for some noble activity, — whither should he turn ? The only consolation often given him, in this new season of trial, was the assurance that all his troubles were owing to his newly-imbibed errors ! God's judgment was on him. He now resolved to eke out a few dollars, return to Bedford, and spend six weeks at school. He devoted his time faithfully, but with no definite engagement in view. After helping a while at home, visiting New York, and rambling round in quest of some eligible opening, he at last succeeded in engaging himself for the winter as teacher of a public school in Pound Ridge. This time he passed inspection, and was now elated with his prospect. No king ever mounted a throne with more pride than George took possession of his first school, on GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 35 the 2d of November, 1840. But soon another anxiety arose. Now his elder brother was afloat, and was wan- dering in Orange county, in search of a winter engage- ment, preparatory to entering Clinton Liberal Institute. But no place was found, and at last he returned to take a school within a short distance of George's, and the latter was relieved from a long and painful suspense. About this time, the Baptist clergyman of Cross River, a short distance from their respective schools, gave a brief series of discourses against Universalism, which were thought to have been called out by the ex- citement occasioned by the new position of the two brothers. Notes were taken, and the discourses re- viewed by the elder brother in his first efforts at minis- terial labor, George lost no occasion to hear, though he travelled five miles on foot, each evening; and no week passed, during the whole winter, in which he was not found tramping over the rocks and through the snows of Stone Hills, to seek the humble studio of his brother. His soul was on fire with an intensity too fierce with holy zeal to permit a frequent utterance ; but the pages of his diary here glow with the wildest ex- pressions of rapture and enthusiasm. In the midst of those who despised and abhorred the very name he loved as his own life, he was incessantly annoyed by the bit- terest bigotry, and the blankest ignorance. ' 0, could * I but have the privilege of giving vent to my feel- * ings ! ' he exclaims, in his diary. His school began with three scholai^s, but in the end numbered over thirty. During its session he again en- joyed the humble privilege of a rural debating club. In a6 LIFE-SKETCHES OF teaching, he was prosperous and happy beyond all his hopes, though he had but few compliments in regard to the promise of many of his pupils ; and his religious sentiments inclined some of his patrons to throw out occasional threats of withdrawing their patronage. At the close of his school, March, 1841, with no prospect of a summer engagement, he was again a dependent, and thought it his duty to help on the farm. But, as his elder brother, poor in health, concluded to stay home, George was released ; and, uniting his fortunes with his friend Charles, both repair to New York; Charles to engage in a trade barely sufficient for his support, and George to find something else. Through the most marvellous good luck, he soon succeeded in obtaining the place of an assistant teacher in a large select academy, in Broadway. He and his companion found a room to let, engaged it, named it ' Right Hall,' and set up boarding and keeping house on their own responsibility. Having each a chair, a table, a common bunk on the floor, a few homely utensils, and living principally on baker's bread and sugar-house molasses, with an occasional extra lunch down town, their economy enabled them to purchase mental food, and to dress in a manner fit to walk Broadway with gentlemen boarding at the Astor House. No one, see- ing them arm in arm, — Charles scarce reaching the shoulder of George's tall frame, — walking down Broad- way, or strolling at sunset on the Battery, with book in hand, would ever have fancied them living in a diminu- tive room, on about one dollar a week, with a united income of little over two hundred dollars per annum. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 37 Yet they were liale and happy, envious of none, and sanguine with hopes based on toil and sacrifice. George, ever after, considered this the most perilous season in his life. But he passed the ordeal of city allurements, at that dangerous age, sustained by princi- ples of virtue ; though dark hours came on, when his star seemed almost lost, and his spirit bowed with presentiments of some terrible, mysterious evil, of which his heart was wholly guiltless. Although he loved society, and often spent a seemingly happy season of social festivity, and sometimes participated in proper amusements with the keenest relish, yet his highest delight, aside from study and worship, arose from long walks, enjoyed with his companion along the banks of the Hudson, or in the spacious promenades of the city. Added to other privileges, during the summer, he was connected with the Berean Institute, a society of liberal young men, then meeting in the basement of Bev. I. D. Williamson's church, in Elizabeth-street. But, with all, his situatioa was fer from satisfactory. His com- pensation was trifling, and gave no promise of laying aside means for better educational advantages. During a vacation of his school in August, he wavered in regard to remaining another session ; and, in the mean time, making a visit to his country home with Charles, and leaving ' Bight Hall ' desolate. In September, however, he takes his place again at the academy in Broadway, but has no home, till after looking several days for a suitable room, to re-commence on ' Bight Hall ' principles of economy. The room at last chosen was small enough, looking out of a single 4 38 LIFE-SKETCHES OP attic window in the tliird story of a house on Green- wich-street, inhabited by a number of poor but respect- able tenants. But now another interruption ensued. A parent of one of George's pupils, from some gross misunderstanding, made a complaint to the principal of the academy, and George was called to an account. He explained and vindicated himself, till everything seemed satisfactory ; yet the principal, from policy, was induced to remain rather non-committal in his defence in presence of the parent. George indignantly resigned his position. He would beg rather than see himself sold. And once more he is on the world, wronged, blighted anew, the victim of misfortune, yet the child of trust, pouring out bitter tears, and cries to Heaven for help. His diary at this date tells a touching story. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 39 CHAPTEll YI. WESTERN WANDERER. CLINTON. FAITH TRIED. At the next date, he is on the Erie Canal, just past Schenectady, journej^ing west with his elder brother, who is destined to Clinton Liberal Institute. George has started for a school, in the vicinity of an uncle residing in Irondequoit, near Rochester, N. Y. On Friday afternoon, September 24th, 1841, he stood on the rickety promenade deck of the old steamer ' Napo- leon,' at one of the North river piers, New York, and waved a mournful farewell to his friend Charles, stand- ing on the shore ; and, with the heart of a moral Napo- leon, he launched out into the great world where all was new. The old steamer groaned and floundered all night, and towards noon went puffing with its last lunge into the pier at Alban}^ There was little or no sleep that night, travelling past the hills and highland grandeurs of the Hudson. At noon two passengers were packed on board of a line-boat, ready to start, at the rate of one cent and a half per mile, board, lodgings and fare, included. That long, yet too short, three days* journey to Utica, was full of wonders and adventures to the noviciate travellers, who now, the first time, began to realize the size of the continent. But, alas ! 40 LIFE-SKETCHES OP there was a sad hour at its end, when hands were clasped, the last word was spoken, faces were turned to hide the nsing flood of emotion, and the sluggard boat dropped fram her mooring in Utica, and bore George away. Away, away ! — each long mile making the world more lonely, and each moment deepening loneli- ness into a loss, a sorrow, unknown before ! But George soon resumed his cheerful mood, among the social passengers of the canal craft, and became a leader in everything appropriate to making the time pass happily. There was a young man on board, how- ever, who seemed unwilling to be made either social or happy. He took passage at Albany. His time was princijmlly occupied with walking the deck, with a cold, stiff, distant air, sleeping, eating, and smoking a pipe, which never seemed to go out. Preserving a rigid silence, and refusing to hold any sympathy with his co- travellers, George facetiously called him ' Japhet in search of his Father ; ' and was at last appointed by the company to draw him out, if possible. The result proved more than a piece of good humor, as intended ; for the young man motioned towards a pistol in his pocket, and threatened to use it ; when George bluster- ingly lifted his cane, explained the innocence of his motives, and then turned the whole affair off with a laugh ; while the young man with the pipe cooled down, and was left unmolested ' in search of his father.' In the afternoon of October 1st, a cold, raw, muddy, cloudy western New York day, George landed at Kochester, shook hands with the company, paid his fare, packed his baggage, and, with three dollars in his purse, GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 41 started on foot in search of his Uncle Hobbie, with no definite idea in regard to the right course. He walked down the riyer road on the west side of the Genesee for three miles, when he came to a little old tavern, where he was assured no man by the name of Hobbie lived in that vicinity. It was now dark ; and weary, worn out with walk, lonely and depressed in spirits, an almost penniless stranger, hundreds of miles from home and friends, — what was his condition, and what should he do ? He ordered lodgings, and retired, without supper, to refreshing slumber, — that blessed slumber of which the restless world could seldom deprive him, in the hour of need. Morning came late, and awoke him to the dreary consciousness of a wanderer in a strange land. The sky was overcast, the air was damp and chilly, the earth was sodden with mud, dull faces yawned around the miserable tavern, the distant Ontario rolled its blue- black waves against the northern horizon, and all the landscape wore the sombre pall of autumn; but all these seemed only feeble symbols of the gloom gathered around the heart of the lonely exile. Paying twelve and a half cents from his scanty purse for his lodging, he started back, a-foot, on a breakfastless tramp to Rochester. Inquiring at the post-office, before noon he crossed his uncle's threshold, and was greeted with a welcome that soon made him at home, and drove all transient care away. But what were his prospects ? Winter was fast coming, and there could be no delay in seeking a location. He needed a new recruit, but was so low in purse as to be reduced to the necessity of writing his elder brother that correspondence must be 4# 42 LIFE-SKETCHES OF suspended until he was better able to pay postage. He had never come to this before ; and yet would have been indignant had his brother offered to pay postage in advance, under the postal law then existing. He would never allow his poverty to be recognized ; and, in what- ever extremity, would insist on reciprocating the honor- able and the gentlemanly. He was pertinacious in insisting that his destitution should not be made known to friends at home. He gloried in the hard necessity that made him feel dependent on himself alone ; and if he ever received any pecuniary favors, in the end he paid back the last farthing. He hated to be bound by obHgations of this character, and rigidly adopted this rule, even with friends nearest and dearest. His idea of the dignity of honest manhood was too high ever to permit him, even in his lowest estate, to whine, or cringe, or hang his head, merely because there was a vacuum in his purse ; and those who were most inti- mate with him seldom knew the meagerness of his capital. After a few days, George was fortunate in engaging the school in his uncle's district, and but a few rods from his residence, where he could enjoy a pleasant home, and the society of cousins. During the winter, he was a faithful attendant on the ministry of Rev. J. Chase, at Rochester, a distance of four miles ; and this was the highest religious privilege he then enjoyed. He had few books, either theological or literary, and no means to purchase. He found but few to sympathize with him in faith, though his cousins were too liberal ever to GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 43 wound his feelings on that subject, notwithstanding their membership in the Presbyterian church. October 31st, 1841, he writes himself down twenty years old, and is startled to find he is so far from the great ends of life. His very last cent has just gone to pay postage on a letter from home ; and, while he is sadly opening the sheet, a five-dollar bill drops out, and he is rich again. He always trusted in God-sends like these. *A11 is well that ends well,' he repeated a thousand times ; and struggled on, waiting to see how things wmild end. In Irondequoit he started another young men's club ; kept an evening school part of the winter ; and sev- eral times was called out in public to speak on temper- ance. His life began to bustle with new activities. But his troubles grew none the less. He ranked some of his scholars among the greatest rogues and numbskulls he could possibly describe. Disorder at one time threat- ened to break up his school, and complaints poured in upon him. He trembled in fear of being thrown out of employment in mid-winter. He tried to govern his pupils without the rod ; but his culture and age rendered the experiment a failure. Yet his feelings shrank from corporal castigation, and he never adopted it as a rule. But, deeming this the only remedy, in this case, he laid down new rules, cut a fearful rod, walked into the school with a new air, stamped his foot, wielded his sceptre, lifted the voice of command, dusted the panta- loons of several arch rogues, and after that heard no complaint of disorder. Things, however, went on mis- erably, in many respects. Several times, during the winter, no wood was provided for fuel, and the school 44 LIFE-SKETCHES OF was dismissed; while at others he kept on, shivering all day, with no fire, in a house eminently calculated for the freest ventilation. Boarding around among his patrons, he had but little chance for study, and less for retire- ment. Some excellent families he found, and others difficult to endure. At this time, Burchard and Finney, the great revival- ists, were both laboring, in different churches, in Roch- ester ; and George occasionally attended. One morning, on his return from the city, while passing a lonely woodland spot, he was startled by a loud cry, which at first sounded like an awful Indian war-whoop. But he turned, stopped, listened ; he saw a poor man, who on the previous night had been to one of the meetings, and was now a raving maniac, calling on the Almighty to save him from everlasting damnation. George's blood curdled to hear the shrieks of the man, made mad by errors he deemed blasphemous; and with a sickening soul he left the spot, never to forget its associations. On the last of March his school successfully closed with a public entertainment ; and he arranged to spend a term with his elder brother at Clinton, who at this time was endeavoring not only to recite at the Liberal Institute, but to supply the pulpit of the ' Free Church.' It was a glorious journey with his brother from Roch- ester to Clinton, in the last of April ; and a shout went up when the stage-coach from Oneida rose over the hill at Hamilton College, and the charming valley of the Oriskany, with its yonder village spires, came in view. At this time, the Institute was in its lowest condition. It was the last term of the lamented Dr. Clowes, whose GEOEGE HENRY CLARK. 45 name will long remain embalmed in the memory of those students who knew him best, and who smiled mourn- fully over the eccentricities which made his life un- happy. Great and venerable soul ! rest thou from the perturbations of a world that knew thee not! And Professor Bridsall, too ! for he, too, has gone, — gone, with a broken heart, over the early depai'ture of a wife dearer than his own life, leaving behind the remem- brance of many a noble trait. In commencing at Clinton, George began to question himself anew. I quote from his diary : ' April 2^th, 1842. — The question sometimes arises, * What am I at ? For what are all my exertions ? ' what are my intentions henceforth to do ? And here I * am fast. I sometimes think I will follow in the foot- * steps of my brother ; but when I think of my weak and 'foolish head, — my inaptitude, my inability, my dis- * advantages, — a thousand impediments, — I rush back *upon myself. No, you cannot do it! — you are not * qualified, and never will be ! Then again I am driven 'on by an irresistible impulse. And what is it that * nerves me up to action, and tells me to go on ? Will ' Heaven aid me ! May 2W, 1842. — Last night, while ' exercising in a game of ball, who should I see approach- * ing the institute but my old friend and cousin, Charles * H. Bouton ? I leaped in the air three feet^ and grasped ' his hand as though years had separated us ! 3^. — To- * day we take up the old style of " Right Hall" living.' They had a room in the Institute, more plainly fur- nished, if possible, than ' Right Hall ; ' and the aggre- gate cost per week for bread, potatoes, meat, &c., ran 46 LIFE-SKETCHES OF short of one dollar. But this mode of living was then quite common in the Institute, and may be still. I knew a student there who, for a long time, lived on twelve and a half cents per week, expended for potatoes and salt ! He has since become a rich and an eminent physician in Montgomery county, New York. The summer passed swiftly and happily away with George, and the few students then engaged in divinity. A weekly conference-meeting was held among them, and for the first time he took part in public religious exer- cises. A discussion between his elder brother and Pro- fessor Dwight, of Hamilton College, before a professional lyceum in the village, and which continued eighteen nights, afforded him much interest and courage in his. theological reading. ' Diary, May lQ>th. — Am engaged writing a sermon for my own edification.' It was for his ' own edifica- tion,' for he was wise in never using it, though he pre- served it as a warning against the presumption of theological striplings. He wrote merely from an impa- tience to apply the results of his study and experience. There was too much activity, and too little expansive- ness, in his intellect, to afford either time or room for storing away the acquisition of long years devoted to study, without any practical application. Hence, he never boasted of his profundity either as a reader or scholar. He was too restless to let off what little he had, rather than wait for more, either to solidify it or crowd it out. Hence, he was not backward to improve every opportunity that modesty would allow him to accept. The old ' Philotemian Society ' in the Institute GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 47 was eagerly embraced, among other privileges, and his voice was often added to the eloquence which its time- honored boards had echoed from innumerable embryo orators. During his stay at Clinton, George formed one acquaintance which had a genial influence over him for years after. And yet there was something of the melancholy and mysterious mingling with the joys afforded. But I must pass on for time to bring the issue. On Sunday, July 31st, George accompanied one of his fellow-students, now Rev. C. H. Webster, to New Hartford, and offered his first discourse to an audience of about one score souls. His text was, ' It is finished.' His fellow-student offered his first in the afternoon, from Gen. 1:1, 'In the beginning,' &c. The oppositeness of their texts was an accident, and singular enough, too. George professed to make but little advance, during this brief term. His want of means was not among the least of the harassing causes. The term closed with an exhibition, iju which he gave an original address, and took part in a humorous drama of his own planning. The last night came, with its hilarity ; the morning dawned, with its partings, its assumed smiles and sup- pressed tears ; and many a youth of those happy summer hours separated for the last time. There was one with whom George parted with emotions mutually unspoken. Homeward bound once more ! 0, home, blessed refuge for the wandering! Several days are spent around its hallowed shrines. But life and duty call. What now is before him whose course we are following ? 48 LIFE-SKETCHES OP He knows not. While applying himself to the old farm, he is continually turning here and there for some prospect. But none opens, and his heart sinks down into lonely dejection. He murmurs like an offcast child, yet looks up and trusts. He questions Heaven, to know the direction of duty ; and waits for the answer, for it comes not now. Shall he abandon the higher hope of life, and pass down the tide of time in ease at home ? The thought is like death. Again his face is towards New York, for the country around home prom- ises nothing. The brand of a heretic is on his brow, to preclude the probability of his securing a school. On his way to New York he visits friends in Bedford, and stops a day at Sing Sing camp-meeting. For two weeks he is again a wanderer in the gi^eat city, but finds nothing save a place in his oldest brother's store and home. He cannot abide. And what now awaits the oft-defeated unfortunate ? In this critical hour, he is again left alone. His elder brother, on whose sympathy and counsel he leaned with the fondest confidence, has taken his departure to Canandaigua. October 2nd, 1842, he writes, * It was with a bleeding heart that I ' took a last look of the boat that bore you far away ' from my society. I lingered around till she was off, ' and saw her ploughing her way towards Albany. I ' was sick, lonely, and tired at heart. I felt, for a mo- * ment, as though life contained for me more misery than ' happiness. I believe a tear fell from my eyes, as I * paced my way back. I thought of the past, and tried ' to look into the future ; but all was dark. No ray of * hope shone to light my pathway. Ah, yes, there is a GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 49 * light. It Is that of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, <' that * lighteth every man that cometh into the world." ' But, before this letter is concluded, he writes like one who never knew care or sorrow. No place but home ; and home again welcomes him. He pulls off his coat, and goes at labor on the farm. In the same letter, he writes about visiting a large party in the neighborhood of home, where, among thirty or forty, he finds no soul with whom he can converse on any topic save that of pleasure. He tries one and another, just for an experiment. Plays begin, and he takes no relish in participating, but assumes a seat in a corner, intro- ducing an experimental conversation with a charming young lady, on various of the most profound subjects imaginable. After listening for a few moments, the young lady starts up, and says she ' don't understand the dead languages ' ! His triumph is complete, and he explodes with pedantic laughter. Wine is passed, and he is the only one who declines it. While all are sip- ping in silence, he has the coolness to give a sound lecture on total abstinence, to the offence of some, but to the shame of the majority. But he cares for neither, and answers with a broad good humor. It was his way to speak out, come what would. Had his tongue been more oily, he would have slid through the world with much less trouble. But winter is now approaching, and he must provide himself. The prospect is dreary around him. He has offers in Virginia and the west ; but no means for travel- ling, and no face to borrow. So he commences rambling over Westchester county. Several days in succession, 5 50 LIFE-SKETCHES OF he travels, sometimes on foot^ till he has gone round over a hundred miles ; but each day brings no success. And what is the leading cause? In three several places he found good schools open, and commenced a negotiation ; in one instance, had made a bargain ; but, on giving his name, and revealing the fact that he was one of the two Clark boys, who had espoused the arch heresy of Universalism, all negotiation was at an end ! This is no tale of the dark ages, ye who talk of a millennial era, as though liberal Christianity had done its work of battling down dogmatic bigotry ! * But,' he writes, October 7th, ' I glory in it. I rejoice •in being despised, scorned, and rejected. 'Tis welL * I seek no more employ in Westchester. My last re- * sort is the west, the west ! Shall I come ? Can I ' live there this winter, and earn my bread as teacher, * clerk, laborer, anything respectable ? Say come, and * I am off. He who governs worlds is my Friend, Pro- * tector ; to Him I look, not for bread, but for comfort * without it. Though I am despised and rejected for * his truth, yet his truth will I bear in triumph over * error and superstition. With the cry of glad tidings * on my tongue, I will go through the world, trampling ' the dogmas of men beneath my feet. I grow fii-mer * every day, — my faith stronger, my hope higher, my * path brighter, my love greater ! ' A few days after this, George took a walk some twelve miles north, into the border of Putnam county, to visit a friend (since Rev. R. W. Keeler, a liberal clergyman among the Methodists), and to lecture on temperance. The morning after the lecture, he strolled GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 51 out about two miles further north, deeply dejected, in meditation, and soon came to a neat red school-house, that seemed closed. Seeing two men in a field close by, he approached them to inquire, and found one of the men a trustee. Another man soon came up, who proved to be another trustee. In five minutes a bargain was made, and he * let himself for the enormous sum of twelve dollars per month.' October 24th he began with two scholars, but before the term closed had about fifty. He anticipated a dreary winter. It was in a neigh- borhood of honest people, deep in religious darkness. The name of Universalism was a horror. The first man with whom George boarded assumed that he was a Methodist, and insisted upon it. Others did the same. He could draw them into no controversies, nor give them any hints to make them understand his peculiar belief. He talked and prayed Universalism in their families, and in their meetings, and on every possible occasion, and passed for an * evangelical ;' but the name would have shot a thunder-bolt in their midst. The winter passed with unusual interest and enjoyment, not- withstanding his gloomy forebodings, and a most desolate dearth in finances, again cutting ofi" even postage-money. He succeeds in securing a school for his friend Charles near by ; and has for a neighbor, in the same capacity, his friend, Keeler. They raise a club, called the * Society of Rhetorical Brethren ;' rouse the vicinity, go out lecturing on temperance, debating in various rural lyceums, taking part in religious meetings, and making themselves the wonder of all, save critics. Jan. 11th, 1843, George writes that he has had so much &S5 LEFE-SKETCHES OP on hand as to keep him from sleep four nights in suc- cession, closing his letter along towards morning, while in his school-room, with the prospect of getting a few snatches of slumber on one of the benches. But he always could sleep anywhere, when he had time. The friendship at this time rising between George and Mr. R. W. Keeler was never after broken. They held a long controversial correspondence on the distinct- ive doctrines each proclaimed in a different ministry ; and George hoped so much from the liberality of his friend, that, to the last, he believed Mr. Keeler would one day embrace and preach the better Gospel. GEORGE HENEY CLARK. CHAPTER VII. CANANDAIGUA. — SCHOOL-SCENES. — TREMBLINGS. In the last of March, 1843, George suddenly closed his school in Putnam, to rejoin his elder brother in Canandaigua. His friend Charles arranged to accom- pany him, but was left at New York. The reiinion of brothers was happy; but George was disappointed in regard to an opening. In his elder brother's absence to Buffalo, to supply the desk there, George preaches for the second time, filling the desk in Canandaigua. He writes deeply mortified with some little blunders he made ; and among other things states that, ' While * coming down out of the town-house (where the meet- * ings were held in C), what was my surprise to see my ' old friend Charles standing at the bottom of the stairs I * I sprang nearly from the top to the bottom, caught * him by the hand, and like to have shaken his dear * little heart out of his dear little body. Charles is ' moneyless, and you know I am not much better ofi^. ' But give yourself no uneasiness on our account. As ' in former days, we will endeavor to ride the stormy * sea, clear of shoals and breakers. We find comfort in * faith and hope, though the mind is often struggling * under fiscal oppression. At times we soar aloft in con- 5=^ 54 LIFE-SKETCHES OP ' templation of the Gospel we profess, and find a joy of ' which to drink and never thirst.' Disappointed in regard to a public school, he now endeavors to start a private one : ' Diary, April 8th, 1843. — No prospect of school, — ' no room yet. lOtk. — Looking round for school. ' No prospect, — feel sad. 11th. — Looks little ' brighter for school, — not much. Engaged to preach ' in two weeks ; write sermons, — lonesome. Charles ' don't say much. 12th. — Room in view, — getting ' scholars. Get ^aone, or only three or four, — all dark. ' l^th. — All dark, — no school, — all light. Ibth. — *Hire fine room for school, — fixing it. 17 th. — * Opened select school, — twelve scholars. So far, good ; ' look out for worse. 24cth. — School increases some, ' — not much. Prospect not very fair.' The school, however, was successful. A showy sign, with ^Select Academy, — Clark and Bouton,' was hoisted ; editorials and advertisements appeared in the village papers, and about thirty pupils were soon obtained. Several branches were taught which George had never either studied or taught before, such as Physiology, Chemistry, Natural Philosophy, Astronomy, French, &c. ; but confidence carried everything along smoothly. ^ April 2^th. — Preached to-day in brother's desk, * third and fourth times. 3Iay 13M. — Rode twenty-four * miles to Branchport, to j^reach for brother, to-morrow. * Ibth. — School increases, — most thirty. Pretty fair 'prospect, — very well, — 'twill do. Hope large, — * building desks, — work hard. GEORGE HENUT CLARK. 55 *May l^th, — "I love to steal a while away < From every cumbering care, ' And spend the hour of closing day * In silent, solemn prayer." • * 2Qth. — Took a fine sail, with Br. U. and Charles, on * Canandaigua Lake. 0, the misfortunes of being poor ! * Am run ashore, — grounded, — penniless.' June 3d points a simple illustration of physical perseverance. A sail on the lake was projected, and his elder brother started ahead in one row-boat, to leave George and a friend to follow in another. The friend was obliged to return, and left George to row on alone, after the first boat, which by this time had gone from sight, near the eastern shore. Supposing it had gone on the western shore, George rowed on in pursuit. He rowed till he had gone eight or ten miles, determined not to abandon the pursuit; but at last he became exhausted. Hauling his craft ashore, he threw himself down on the green bank, slept an hour, was refreshed, and then rowed back home, glorying in having pulled all day only to show he was not easily stopped. That long, strong and lonely tug was something like the tug of his whole life, — rowing, rowing, rowing, in spite of wind and tide. This was a summer of happy companionship. If there were cares, they were sweetened by the joys of frater- nal confidence and counsel. George sometimes accom- panied his elder brother on long rides, over Ontario and Yates counties, to meet distant appointments ; and the scenery of that region will long remain sacred with endearing associations. Yet George was so harassed 56 LIFE^SKETCHES OF by small debts he was unable to meet, and by incessant toils in behalf of his school, he was able to make little or no progress in theological studies. Just as the * Select Academy ' had become established, he left it in the care of Charles, to accept an excellent offer in one of the largest public schools of the village. And now his star is in the ascendant. For the first time, he receives a living income ; yet this is divided with his companion Charles, in paying past expenses incurred in fitting up the ' Academy,' and in leasing it. Had he been alone, he might have been independent ; but, for more than a year, he allowed himself to be burdened with responsibilities not his own, in order that he might favor one whose society seemed indispensable to his hap- piness, and for whom he was almost willing to lay down his life. Theirs was a strange fellowship, and was never broken, but once, till death. And the cause that once broke fellowship was known to none but themselves. A week passed, during which neither spoke to the other. It was a sad week. They ate, roomed, slept together^ yet no word passed. It was an age of mutual agony and remorse. At last, it was too much for George. He yielded, — owned himself in the wrong, — apologized ; tears were shed, vows renewed, and never broken. During the season, and through all his stay in Canandaigua, George occasionally preached at Bristol, Hopewell, Geneva, and several neighboring places^ although he acknowledged himself wholly unfitted for the duty. Often he grew almost disheartened with the prospect of ever making a successful minister of the Gospeh He had neither time nor means to prepare. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 57 and had pledged himself never to commence without being entirely free from debt, and able to go on success- fully and unembarrassed. * Oct. 2\st. — Awful thought ! — twenty- two years old to-day ! ' And at this thought he breaks out on a long train of reflections, some of the most mournful and others of the most hopeful character. ' Nov. 12>th. * — 0, what a task I have in school ! — sixty scholars. * Dec. l^th. — The world does not know me.' A struggle about this time rose in his mind in regard to a correspondence held with the one whose acquaint- ance began at Clinton. He felt it his duty to pause, lest the sympathy naturally rising might lead to responsibil- ities he was unprepared to meet. But what course should he pursue ? He thought less of himself, he cared less, than for another ; and that other was one whom he feared was more than a friend, and whose youthful loveliness wove round him a hallowing charm. «U. •4£. -U. .Uo •Vf" "TV- -TV* 'T?' 1844 opened with new anxiety. His elder brother, in ill health, left Canandaigua for an itinerant tour south. In the spring of 1842, George had gone to Clinton, and in 1843 to Canandaigua, mainly for the purpose of enjoying his brother's presence ; and now, the second time, he had taken his departure, and under the most painful circumstances. For weeks he was unable to communicate his address. George's loneliness, agony and suspense, were beyond lx)unds, and he con- jured up the most horrible fate for the wandering inva- lid. But he was at last relieved, by a letter from Phil- adelphia, whither the brother had gone, and found a 58 LIFE-SKETCHES OF transient hospitable home in the house of Rev. Asher Moore. ' April 4.th. — To-day am square with the world, — owe no man a dollar.' Writing to his brother, April 28th, he says, ' We are now alone ; since you are gone, * no one appears to care for us. The best friends I find * are in the little children of my school, who seem to ' appreciate my kindness and labors.' About this time, the ' Select Academy ' closes its career, and Charles is taken into one of the departments of George's school ; then, for a while, follows the old ' Right Hall ' mode of living, for adopting which they are exposed to all manner of town talk. 'May 14:th. — 0, that I knew myself! ' In a letter. May 31st, he wrote about preaching in Bristol : * Never did I so fully realize the deep responsibility * of standing before the people to proclaim the Gospel * as I did on that occasion. In the afternoon, the church * was full. My subject was faith. As I paused, after ' finishing a long sentence on the beautiful and sublime * theme, I gazed around upon the audience, whose every * eye was fixed with a piercing look, while all was still * as death ; and a solemn thought stole over me, calling * my mind to the place I then occupied. And, 0, who * can tell what I felt in that moment ? I, a poor, illit- * erate stripling, — a poor, ignorant boy of yesterday, — ' holding forth the solemn truths of God in the sacred ' desk, and to a large, intelligent audience ! My God ! * my soul shrank from that fixed and serious gaze, as I ' thought of my own heart, and all my imperfections ; GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 59 * and I almost sank to my seat. Never shall I forget * the feeling I then experienced, and such as I had never * had before. But I did not lose the command neces- * sary for me to go through the discourse. But, ' 0, Uriah, I cannot preach ! I am not fit. I am ' not right ; my temperament, constitution, qualifica- ' tion, all, are at war with the very principles which * should direct the sacred office of the ministry. It * seems almost impossible for me to go on. Yet I ' must. It is all for which I live, and have long lived. ' It has been uppermost in my mind for years, — and * shall I now give it up ? ' Although such were his humiliating emotions, he was often called to speak, and seldom declined. On several occasions he officiated before the Ontario Association of Fourierists, a body flourishing for a short time in the vicinity of Canandaigua, and then scattering to the four winds of community. His school continued laborious and engrossing, yet afforded him many sources of pride and enjoyment. On the morning of July 4th, 1844, he was aroused from sleep by a loud shout under his window, and on jising, found a great crowd of pupils giving him an Independence salute, preparatory to a celebration he had arranged for the day. Such applause he regarded more honorable and encouraging than applause coming from the adult multitude. At this time, George's correspondence was limited to his elder brother, now an invalid at home, and to one whom he was about to visit and see for the last time. He went, — he saw ; hours passed swiftly amid old scenes and new emotions; and again he parted, but not soon to 60 LITE-SKETCHES OF forget one face, beaming with a sweet smile, wMch miglit never more shine on his path. Yet the end was not here. At this time, no worship of his choice was held in Canandaigua, and he occasionally attended other churches, where he > was cordially welcomed. A Sab- bath's service, conducted by a minister of his own faith, was hailed with joy ; and, on one occasion, he speaks with rapture of having enjoyed hearing Rev. G. W. Gage, who preached in the town hall, while home on a visit to his father's, near the village. The summer passes, with cares unabated, but rather increasing ; and, at times, George seems to have lost all patience with the pupils of his charge, though he indulges no maledic- tions on paper, except those of a humorous kind. In December, he commences his relation with Odd Fellowship, and stops not till he has passed into the grand lodge, occupying many of the most responsible positions. His initiation into this order leads, at last, to his connection with the Masons, the Sons and the Cadets of Temperance, in all of which he strove to render himself active and useful, though they consumed much of his time, and he had often resolved to drop some of their responsibilities. But, having begun, it was seldom his to stop short of doing his utmost. His elder brother had now recovered health, and settled at Lockport, N. Y. George visited him ; and, while there, had his hopes for the ministry again dampened. Lead- ing in prayer at a funeral-service with his brother, he became embarrassed, and made a failure, — at least, in his own judgment. This event so oppressed him that he GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 61 solemnly requested it should never after be mentioned. ' Another failure like that,' said he, ' would drive me mad.' Though, while on this visit, he preached at Lockport, to redeem himself, he felt but little encour- aged. The old year closed, and the new began, with but few new hopes. His Charles is ill, his toils are hard, his time rolls fast, he mourns the trivial manner in which it slides, he rebukes himself for an irrepressi- ble mirthfulness of his nature, and prays for a more solemn realization of his mission. He regards his mirthfulness an impediment to his ministry, and face- tiously suggests some grave employment for a while, like Mark Tapley, to effect a cure. 6 LIFE-SKETCHES OF CHAPTER YIII. LA.KE SCENE. — THE FALLS. LOCKPORT. — NEW ENGLAND. The year 1845 must now pass, with only a glance. It begins with the illness of Charles, leaving George with over a hundred pupils in charge, — a charge that almost wearies out his life. Yet he is engaged in vari- ous public services besides, like lecturing on temperance, laboring in fraternal societies, occasionally preaching, holding oral discussions on various questions, attending and often speaking before a new association of teachers, sometimes contributing articles for the press, and pre- paring his school for celebrations. His progress in divinity, however, was slow. He enjoyed no available advantages either for study or worship. Occasionally he heard and assisted Rev. Wm. Queal, then in Bristol. He speaks of a ministerial visit from Rev. Mr. Strick- land, as a God-send. His spiritual nature is not left wholly uncultivated. Devotional exercises are intro- duced in the retirement of his room, and he unites with his companion in many hours of holy communion. But now another cloud comes over his life. For three years he has enjoyed an uninterrupted communion with one far away, and one who has held over him an influ- GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 63 ence of the most genial character. But the dream is past, with all its radiant roseate hues, so long rendering life a mysterious charm, and painting the landscape of the future. And thus, 0, ever thus, fades many a dear vision of youthful years, leaving the Alpine streams of love to flow back over the heart, more cold and desolate in aching remembrance of the world's bursting bubbles. ^ ^ ^ But, with a soul resigned, though bleeding, he exclaims, ' Farewell to all that dream ! I awake to find it but a dream.' On the fifth of July, 1845, as the summer sun is sinking behind the hills that rise on the western bank of Canandaigua Lake, and throwing its beams over the blue summit that surmounts the eastern marge, two young men are lingering along the shore of that beauti- ful sheet of water, musing in serene meditation amid the entrancing scenes and associations of God's glorious world. They are there in fulfilment of a solemn vow to Heaven. Their thoughts wander back through cen- turies, — they cross ocean and desert, till, at last, they stand side by side with Jesus and John, on the green sward of Jordan's bank. The placid lake before them is their baptismal font. As the sun declines, and stars come out, reposing in beauty upon the clear lake, hand in hand they pass down the marble-white sand of the shore, and stand in the limpid pool that symbolizes the holy water of everlasting life. Each in turn lifts a serene prayer with heavenward brow, and each is im- mersed beneath the tide in the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit. No pageant throng gazed upon the scene, — no eye but Heaven's! It was George and 64 LIFE-SKETCHES OF Charles, alone with their God, consecrating themselves to the mission of Him who stood with John by the stream of Jordan. And when, arm in arm, they rose in silence to the green bank of the lake, and sat down listening to the melody of nature around, with the stars above, heard they not that heavenly benison that fell mingling with the rippling murmur of Jordan ? A brief minute in George's diary is all that tells of this impressive scene. Neither he nor Charles ever named it to another. During the summer, a memorable journey was made to Niagara Falls and vicinity. Riding along the steep banks of Niagara, — now bathing in its waters, then standing on the ramparts of the old fort that guards the Canadian frontier at the mouth of the river, — next, at foot of Brock's monument, straining the eyes over a magnificent scene of lake, and stream, and woodland ; now, awed in the presence of the great cataract ; then, plunging into its awful caverns, beneath foaming sheets of thunder ; and next, seeking for slumber at night amid the majestic lullaby of roaring waters ! Sleep soon came to George; but not to Charles and the elder brother. So they sallied forth to seek it on Goat Isl- and, at midnight. After rambling and apostrophizing for a while, they sought the retreat of an old shed, and, throwing themselves down on a board bench, invited Somnus to do his best, with the aid of the cataract. Charles rose several times, after making inefifectual effort, and seemed sleepless, with a nervous con- sciousness of his nearness to the great wonder of waters. Its eternal roar thrilled every fibre of his being, and GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 65 filled him with solemn ' thoughts of God and eternity, and thoughts which he strove to^ pour forth upon the night in strains of surpassing eloquence. Towards morning the fitful sleepers on Goat Island awoke, finding themselves drenched by a shower well calculated to dampen their romance, and drive them to the shelter of Gen. Whitney's Cataract House. Towards the close of 1845, George commences a series of sketches for the Ontario Repository, which continue for several months, eliciting some sharp criti- cism, though passing quite popular with the mass of readers, being of a local character, and called, ' Rambles about town.' In these ' Rambles,' he is unsparing on every place of inebriation, whether high or low ; and, though menaced with a robe of * tar and feathers,' he is relentless. In the spring of 1846, he closed his third year in Canandaigua. He dismissed his school, with tears on the part of teachers and pupils, and felt pride in his humble success. And now his mind was more seriously turned towards the ministry. But the time was not yet. His means were inadequate. He could save but little, without living on the ' Right Hall ' sys- tem; and that he had been compelled to abandon for a boarding-place which would be considered respectable in a community of aristocratic distinctions. Yet here he seems less concerned for himself than for his poor, feeble friend, Charles, who, though he has just made his first and successful appearance as a public speaker, is now more ill, out of employment, and deeply in debt. He struggles to sustain him, but finds it impossible ; yet resolves not to abandon him, come what will. 6* 66 LIFE-SKETCHES OF What is his duty ? This now is the great question. Shall he abandon a sure dependence, and, with all his want, his weakness, and uncertain success, before him, throw himself on the mercies of the world, as a herald of Christ? He ponders, prays, weeps, hesitates, calls on his elder brother to command, — trembles, and dares not presume on beginning yet ; and so he resumes his school for the summer. A change here takes place in the social relations of his elder brother, in the festivities of which George cheerfully participates, but describes himself as half jealous in tolerating it. Added to this, he is now alone in Canandaigua. Charles has gone to New York, as an invalid, with no hope of returning. George is desolate, and feels most in remembering how that dear compan- ion of so many years of mutual struggle may suffer and pine in illness, pinched with poverty, and oppressed by creditors who little know his heart. During his absence, George pleads for him, softens his creditors, takes his case before the fraternities of which both are members, repels all disreputable intimations, and at last, in triumph, sends his friend abundant pecuniary relief. Among the many incidents revealing the heart of him whose history I write are those relating to the death of his pupils. His diary records many, but none more touching than this : — ' And what a scene was ' here ! Her father is a man of noble mind and deep * feeling. The little girl now dead was six years old, 'handsome, affectionate, intelligent, and fondly doted 'upon. The mother is an invalid, and the father was 'seated by her side. We bore the corse before them. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 67 *The mother was calm, but a look of unutterable agony «rose on the father's face. He stooped down, kissed * the cold lips and forehead of his dead child ; and for a * moment, so deep was his anguish, reason wavered, and * he stood before us a ma7iiac, " don't, don't take her i away ! — speak once more, Georgia ! — speak to your * papa, speak ! — don't take her away yet ! "— and he 'buried his face, bathed in tears of woe. 0, God! it ' was too much ! He begged, sobbed, groaned, till we * bore her from his sight ; and then he sank back in the * arms of a brother, wild and uncontrollable. At last, * being assured that we were all good brothers, 0. F.'s, * he seemed more calm, and followed us as we moved off, < saying, " Carry her softly, my good brothers ! Will * she not speak to me once more ? yes, she will, — I * know she will ! " The coffin was lowered, and the un- * dertaker stood ready to cover it up. The father beck- * oned to me,, and said, " My good brother, don't let that *man throw the dirt upon her, — be so kind as to do it *for me." I seized a spade, — we soon raised a mound * over her who was almost the life of a father, and we « walked away ; bifit 0, never to forget that scene ! — « Spent the night at the house of the afflicted family.' From the day Charles left him, Canandaigua was no longer his home. He was unable to drive away his loneliness, or find one to fill the place left vacant. Yet he was daily rising in favor with the public, and was so far honored as to receive an invitation to deliver the oration at the citizens' celebration of the 4th of July, 1846. He was at first overwhelmed with surprise and gratitude, and staggered at the thought of accepting a 68 LIFE-SKETCHES OP place hitherto occupied by some of the first orators in western New York. But he prepared, and the glo- rious day came ; — a day of which his wildest ambition had never dreamed. The services were held in the large Congregational church of Canandaigua ; and George rose before an audience numbering nearly fifteen hun- dred, acquitting himself with repeated applause. It was an hour of triumph that rewarded him for years of toil and suffering. Then came the dinner festivities, of which he says, ' I ate but little. After the dessert> * came the Bacchanalian mirth, with toasts and cheers. * The compliments of great men were presented me in a * glass of wine J but drank by myself in good cold water, ' If this is high life, I want no more of it.' After dinner he mingles with the crowd, enjoys the enthusiasm of the day, and is flattered in hearing many commendations of his oration. He was urged to publish the effort, but wisely declined, as he never wrote either sermons or lectures for other than the pui'pose of delivery. He was sensible, as many others should be, of the vast difference between a discourse when spoken and when printed, and especially when spoken by one of a commanding voice and presence. At this time, though in his twenty-fifth year, George had just at- tained his lull height of person, and possessed a strength and vigor of early manhood which he enjoyed only for a short time afterwards. Here we have the record of another death among his. pupils, — a boy in his teens ; and the mother is in de- spair over the fear her son may have gone to a world of woe. Her cries and wailings rend his heart with GEORGE HENRY CLARK. W lanntterable anguish ; and while he labors to soothe her fears with the Gospel hope of illimitable grace, he is more solemnly impressed with the duty of going forth to the ministry of that Gospel, if by any means he can be the agent of saving some from the bondage of error. Now, with the close of summer, 1846, farewell to Canandaigua ; to its school of many toils and joys ; to its scenes of social companionship ; to its three years and a half of struggle and success ; to its broad street of splendid mansions and shaded walks ; to its beautiful lake, and the blue summit from which hope has oft as- cended to Heaven ; — all farewell ! and, joining his elder brother, in a few hours the home hills and dales of old Westchester are hailed with joy. But time flies; and, after a few days of brief greetings and partings at home, again to the wide world! Returning by New York, George is taken ill, and writes in his diary, September 13th, 1846, ' 0, how bad I feel ! — head aches, stomach * heaves. Spend the day on bed, — strange for me to be Vso sick! Br. U. practises hydropathy on me. 0, * horrid ! lAih. — All that is left of me, from the bloody * mosquitoes, &c, , feels better. Well, — go about my busi- * ness.' The United States Convention of Universalists at Troy was taken on the journey, and the season was one of high spiritual enjoyment. For the first time he list- ened to Rev. Eo H. Chapin, and was bewildered with admiration of the masterly discourse of that well-known pulpit orator. At the close of the meeting he took cars for Lockport, to supply a few Sundays for his brother. His old friend Charles accompanied him as &i as Canandaigua, where he was to remain. At Roch- 70 LIFE-SKETCHES OF ester he stopped to spend a season with his friend E-ev. Almon Gage, and met his esteemed brother Eev. D. K. Lee. Having received letters of fellowship from the On- tario Association, and given up all else, his ministry was now begun, though with little satisfaction to himself. Supplying for his brother at Lockport till hisTeturn, his design was to remain as student for a while, and depend on transient engagements for a support. During an illness of Rev. J. Chase, of Middleport, he supplied for him a few weeks ; and in the interim applied himself with assiduity, though often depressed with the dark- ness before him, and suffering some from the ennui of being released from the incessant activity of the school- room. But now another change. He had come to Lockport for the purj^ose of being with his elder brother, as before he had gone to Clinton and Canandaigua. And now his brother had set his face eastward. In January, 1847, he engaged with the First Society in Lowell, Massachusetts, and George was left to take his place at Lockport. He shrank from the responsibility, but there was no release ; and he went to work, prepar- ing and preaching three discoui^ses, almost every Sun- day, durmg the winter, besides engaging in other public capacities. ^ Diary, January 11th, 1847. — This is indeed an ' eventful era in my life. I begin to realize the respons- 'ibility of my calling. 0, how shall I express myself? ' God Almighty, aid me in discharging the new duties ' devolving upon me ! February 12th. — Feel well and * strong i health good, appetite good, sleep good, all good.* GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 71 A corxiplimentary visit was made liim during the winter, yielding a gift of near one hundred dollars, with "which he felt rich ; yet expresses himself rather enihar- rassed in taking it, as it came so easy, and unlike the little pittance for which he had long been toiling. Pie was not without some annoyance in the way of fault- finding among his parishioners ; and, would delicacy allow, one illustration, of an extraordinary character, might be given, when he was recj[uested to model his preaching after the style of a volume of sermons handed him, which he describes as having been ' preached some ' time before the fall of Adam ; as blue as the smoke of * the fabulous pit, — sermons as long as Exodus, and as * false as Sinbad the sailor ' ! This case of honest yet misjudged counsel taught him the duty of preaching his own convictions. Though the winter was one of hard labor and uncertain success for the future, it passed in unusual cheerfulness ; and his correspondence was never more free or joyous. When spring came, he had ten written sermons ahead. He had read more than for years together, and found it necessary to apply his reading. He had also labored to cultivate his devotional nature. He suffered most for the want of counsel, and mourned the absence of friend Bouton. While in Lockport, however, for a while, he enjoyed the society of Rev. E. Case, Jr., who had just entered the ministry; and a sympathy arose between them, continuing through life. The allusion of Mr. Case himself, in a letter to the author, may express more than words of my own : — ' My more particular * acquaintance with George was after you left him to 72 LIFE-SKETCHES OF * supply your place in Lockport. I seem to be sitting ' in the same old room in the American where I used to * sit with you, and whose windows look out upon the ' long reaches of dark old forest-land that spread away ' in the dim distance towards the shores of Ontario. I ' seem to sit with him again on that green and flowei-y ' bank, whither he and I, as you and I, used to wander, ' overlooking the lower village, and commanding a fine * view of the country that swept away, interspersed with ' farms and openings, to the same great inland sea. I ' hear that same familiar voice, always so interesting in ' converse, still sounding in my ears ; I behold that same ' glad smile, — the same lineaments of feature, — all, ' all as fresh as of yesterday ; and can never forget them. 'Who could, that has known George as I have known 'him?' Worn down by the labors of his first settlement, anxious for the presence and counsel of his elder brother, in June he obtains leave of absence from Lock- port, and, pronouncing a discourse half valedictory in tone, starts for Lowell, with a presentiment of returning to western New York no more. He felt that his labors in Lockport had been premature, though well received, and thought it his duty to begin anew. Stop- ping a season at Canandaigua, to see old friends, and among them Charles, he reaches Albany at night, and retires to his hotel, with a promise from the landlord to be waked up for the first train east in the morning. At eight in the morning, he wakes, and grows indignant at the negligent landlord, who has allowed him to sleep an hour after the train has gone ; but satisfies himself ia GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 73 expressing his indignation, and waiting eleven hours for another train. Strange feelings come over him, as he dashes on over the rattling rails, and nears the great metropolis of New England. His wonder is soon abated. His heart is made warm by the greetings of his friend A. T , and he is soon put in communication with the fraternal spirits of Cornhill. But the first news of Cornhill is dampening. It is that the society by which he had been invited, and was engaged to preach as candidate, had just settled a pas- tor? The bitter disappointment with which he was thus met, on his introduction to New England, did not, however, dishearten him, and was alleviated as soon as he found himself in the new home of his brother, in Lowell, where he concluded for a time to remain. On the two Sundays following, he supplied at Dover, N. H., pleased with his visit, and the hospitality of his friends. Dr. Smith and Mr. Cheever. With New Eng- land, as a whole, he was highly gratified, though disap- pointed, as many are, in regard to some things peculiar to its social atmosphere. The summer passes happily. George resigns at Lockport, and endeavors to study at Lowell, in com- pany with his young friend, J. S. Tuttle, whose cir- cumstances soon render it necessary for him to abandon the ministerial profession, for other and secular pur- suits. But George studies with a poor heart, with- out some definite prospect ; and so he continues to look around at his leisure, and supply on Sundays as favorable opportunities offer. He preaches at Lynn, "West Cambridge, Bridgewater, Hingham, Newmarket, 7 74 LIFE-SKETCHES OF Lowell, and Salem; at some of whicli places, there are vacancies lie is unable to fill ; at others, he looks with hope, but is defeated, and one or two invitations are extended, but declined. His visit at West Cambridge was enhanced by meeting Miss L. M. Barker, and her nieces, friends of other days in Clinton, — Miss Barker, at that time, being principal of the young ladies' semi- nary, in Whittemore Hall. Yet this social greeting was saddened by associations of another, whose acquaint- ance was made at Clinton, and whom he had long striven to forget. Many sunny days passed in Salem, with his brother Lee, and others whom he had reasons to remember with joy, — and yet, a joy tinged with melancholy, and a melancholy half rising from self-regret, and half from emotions too mysterious to define. Wandering over the haunted ground of ancient witchcraft legends, sailing on the waters that environ Salem, or sitting on the shore washed by the inroUing waves of the Atlantic, those hours were among the most gladsome of his early so- journ in New England. But they left remembrances over which hung a shadowy veil, like many of the fairest scenes of early endearments. 0, time, time ! thy changes were melancholy, indeed, with no light from the star of eternity ! While in Salem, George visited a Miss Purbeck, who, for seventeen years, had been confined to her couch daily, and almost hourly, subject to indescribable agonies. ' God, God ! ' he exclaimed, ' I cannot describe her.' While he stood by her bed-side, once every few moments she was thrown into spasms and GEORGE HENIir CLARK. 75 convulsions, which sent her bounding backward and for- ward, as though every bone was snapping, and every fibre stretching with the keenest torture ; and yet she talked calmly and patiently of the mercy of Heaven. He turned from the scene, faint, sick, trembling, with a grateful heart, resolving to struggle henceforth against murmuring at whatever his lot might be. 76 LIFE-SKETCHES OF CHAPTER IX. LAWRENCE. ON, ON, WESTWARD. ELLA. LIFE EARNEST. Attending the United States Convention, in New York, September, 1847, George again visited his home in Cross River; and, after supplying two Sundays in Danbury, Conn., where a humble offer was made, he returns to Lowell, with another effort to study a while, without seeking a settlement. ' Diary, October 11th. — Meditate on the mutations ' of life, and try to catch a glimpse of the future. No * use trying, — dark. lAth. — Contentment is becom- *ing with me more than a matter of necessity, and ' I am disposed to avail myself of all its virtues and ' advantages. October 21th. — Have learned a few 'lessons on patience; find nothing is gained by fret- ' ting, and I am done.' These are bright autumn days, during whose hours of release from study, many a delightful ramble, with book in hand, is had along the banks of the Merrimack, musing in social and spiritual communion amid its now gorgeous scenes, and listening to the melody of its waters. Two Sundays are spent in worship with his elder brother ; one in supplying at Nashua, one for the GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 77 Third Society in Lowell ; and the great era of his life then begins. On Sunday, October 31st, 1847, his twenty-sixth birth-day, he ofl&ciates, the first time, for the little band of believers in the new town of Lawrence, then called ' the New City,' located on the Merrimack, eight miles below Lowell. The village was then about two years old, and embraced a population of near four thousand, many of whom were temporary residents. The first divine service held under Universalist ministration was in the spring of 1847, and was conducted by Rev. T. Whittemore, the pioneer of many other new fields. At the time of George's visit, no regular service was held, no organization existed. The little band was feeble and transient ; and though there was some heroic zeal, no very hopeful prospect was before them. But Mr. W. D. Joplin assumed the responsibility of an arrange- ment for this Sunday ; an encouraging meeting was held, and George engaged for another Sunday. His reflec- tions, on this, his twenty-sixth birth-day, seem to take a prophetic turn : 'Where is she who bore me, nursed me, smiled * upon me, loved me in infancy ? 0, where is she gone ? < — gone, ere manhood came, or my brow was wrinkled ' with care ? Gone, gone to God ! 0, had she lived till i Qow ! — but she did not ! I think of her, and ask. Is 'her spirit hovering around, and watching over her 'child? 0, land of the dead! send her back, if she * now sees not her boy ! — send her back, that she may ' breathe into his soul her spirit of wisdom, courage, and * love ! I. have taken but one step on the great ladder 7^ 78 LIFE-SKEiCHES OF ' of usefulness ; and I must climb, climb. Let me date ' my labors in the great cause from this day. Here let ' me consecrate myself anew, and start with new impulse. * 0, how should I pray for strength, and the righteous ' spirit of my Master ! ' During this week, he attended the session of the Boston Association, held at Lynn, and which opened a discussion on what has been termed the rationalistic question, at that time creating no little agitation. He was a faith- ful attendant upon the discussion, not only at this ses- sion, but at an adjourned session, held a month subse- quent, at Cambridgeport ; at the close of which his name was recorded with the very large majority of delegates, who deemed it their duty to stand on the supernal basis of the Gospels, and disclaim allegiance with what they regarded a subtile scepticism. ' Diary November 1th. — Lawrence. Preach three ' times to-day, and am wanted again. Who knows but ' my destiny is fixed in this new place ? Things look fair, ' and friends sanguine, ^th. — Proceed to work, look- * ing up those who profess Universalism. No permanent 'stopping place. lO^A. — Call on number of families, ' from all parts of the country, — strangers. New thing ' to introduce myself to those whom I never before saw ' or knew, but go about it with pleasure. Wth. — Still ' looking them up, and find them. All seem anxious to 'build up a society. Ibth. — This evening, the friends ' organize a society ; a vote is passed to retain me, if pos- ' sible, — prospect fair. IQth. — Ride to Lowell ; pre- ' pare for removal to Lawrence. Brother pleased with * my success. We are again near each other, — a long- GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 79 * desired privilege. 19tk. — Take up quarters at Mr. *Hanlej's. Sunday, 2\st. — Our place of worship a 'large school-house, very hard for speaking. Mostly 'filled, during the day, — evening, crowded. Society- * meeting held, — encouraging. Sunday, December btk. ' — House full, — made three efforts. Good singing, — ' organized a Sunday-school.' Having become settled, his society requested the rite of ordination and installation ; and a council of the Bos- ton Association was convened, for that purpose, on the 22nd of December. The examination was satisfactory, and the services were deeply impressive to the candi- date, solemnly forcing upon his mind a realization of the great duties of his mission. In the midst of a new population like that of Lawrence, he now found a broad field of parochial labor. Many of his spare hours were spent in ' looking them up,' as he termed it. His parish- book and pencil were ever in hand, to take every name or address that afforded any chance for enlisting volun- teers for the new Zion. Shops, stores, factories, streets, ofl&ces and depots, were searched, with all the vigilance of a consul in some foreign port, searching for emigrants from his native land. His own figurative remark, refer- ring to this period, was, that he ' often used to follow wagons as they came in town, to see if they dropped anybody he could pick up ! ' Added to parochial duties, he was immediately called to assume arduous responsibili- ties in the benevolent fraternities of the place. He could here have access to those who might otherwise remain beyond his reach, and aid in what he believed a good work. Only a few days passed before he was called to 80 LIFE-SKETCHES OF address the Odd Fellows on a funeral occasion. And a similar occasion called for an address before the Sons of Temperance ; but, on appearing, after having labored hard in preparation, he was politely informed that ob- jections were made from a certain quarter, which ren- dered the services of a TJniversalist obnoxious. Put- ting his address in his pocket with the insult, he waited patiently for redress ; and on the following Simday even- ing, the Sons, in defiance of bigotry, gave him a crowded hall, to hear the ' rejected address.' The year 1848 opened with promise. It was a new era in his social and affectional life. A ladies' circle was formed in his society, and offered many weekly attrac- tions, besides becoming an efiicient auxiliary in spiritual interests. About this time his attention was drawn to Miss Ellen M. Tyler, eldest daughter of Frederick and Maria L. Tyler, formerly of Bangor. She was a young lady, scarce eighteen ; full and proportioned in height ; a brunette in beauty ; amiable, lovely, and gentle in dis- position, with a sweet smile and modest bearing ; frank and confiding in her affections, though rather retiring in her habits : a teacher in the Sunday-school, and a mem- ber of the choir, with a highly cultivated and natural talent for vocal and instrumental melody. Against all his platonic professions and experiences, George was won as he had never been before. That heart which had so often tasted the bitterness of griefs he had never told, so often laid bare and bleeding to the storms and delu- sions of a world he had fondly trusted, so often left almost dying with despair over hopes gone out forever, now became quickened into new life, and sought new GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 81 hopes in the love of one he could trust as the ideal of his early dreams. But with joys came new sorrows. Two lovely little boys, the only children of Mr. William Goodwin, of his society, are drowned, and the whole town is agitated with sympathy. Three days and nights passed in sus- pense, during most of which time, in the bitter cold of winter, men were engaged dragging the Spicket in search of the bodies. George's sympathy with the bereaved parents rose to agony, and rendered him almost power- less in administering consolations ; and when the bodies were found, and the immense crowd assembled at the funeral obsequies, his soul seemed to pour itself all out in child-like bursts of eloquent grief; and when all was over, he retired to his room like a faint and weary child, drooping with sorrow. Added to this sorrow, he now received news of the mortal illness of his friend Charles Bouton, at Canandaigua. He was fast declining with the consumption ; and it was impossible for George to remain happy and contented five hundred miles away, while he thought of the poor invalid brother pining and dying among strangers, or those who had never known the struggles of the past. ' Poor Bouton comes up * before me, pale, sickly, dying ! 0, God ! spare me this * blow to so many of my hopes ! But thy will be done, ' though it is hard to lose him. If he must die, I should * stand by his side, and close his eyes ! ' Though his professional labors are crowned with suc- cess, he is not without drawbacks. Their place of meeting is small, and frequently unable to hold the audience. A new place is selected, but little larger or 82 LIIE-SKETCHES OF better ; and the society, though, strong in numbers, is too feeble in means to build, or to meet all its fiscal respons- ibilities with the promptitude of older and permanent societies. George suffered severely from this, even to the close of his labors ; though he seldom complained, except in a dignified manner, and then made an earnest appeal, which always drew a noble response from his friends. On several occasions, he was nearly destitute ; but large donations, or just dues, readily came to his relief, to strengthen his faith in the people of his choice. His destiny was now with Miss Tyler. Repudiating all sickly sentimentalization, he is, however, compelled to own the soft impeachment of a love that is reciprocated as freely as it is given. Henceforth, life has new color- ings and new aims. Taking rooms at the residence of his intended parents-in-law, he makes an ominous minute in his diary, the prophecy of which time alone must elucidate : 'March 20fh, 1848.— I feel myself housed for life, ' — for a single life, at least. How this may be, I cannot ' tell. Strange things may happen. Once in a while, a ' dark presentiment comes over me. It may be all fancy, ' and no foreshadowing of coming events. God forefend ! ' These days pass among the happiest, however far off or near the foreshadowing cloud seems to hang. One cloud proves near at hand. It is some time since he has heard from Bouton ; yet he writes in his diary : * April 4,1/1. — My Bouton is dying ; I feel it, — I * know it ; and must it be so ? From the far-off west ' comes a spirit-voice, and speaks, It is so. God ! and ' must he die ? My poor, poor sick friend I 11th. — GEORGE HENRY CLARK. OD « What tidings will come next from my poor Charles ? * I dread it, fear it, expect it, — doleful, of dying *and death! Of going away, — away on cars, on 'wings, on a bier! God! God, this suspense! * 12th. — My watch goes on as kind and faithful as *ever; no change, no failing, no stopping, — tick, < tick, — hours, days, months, years; and the sun goes * on. 0, that men were as faithful to each other and < their God! IStk. —Yes, yes, — here it is: — * " If you wish to see Charles alive, come, and come * quick ! " writes my old friend Finley, and he knows. * I must go ! — and yet how can I, poor as I am ? It is * a long way ; many, many weary miles. But I must * go ; yet can't till after Sunday. Then it may be too * late. 0, the thought is agony ! I will trust God. * XUh. — " Come quick ! " &c., writes friend Bates ; < — but I must wait. l^th. — Feel I am doing ' wrong to delay. Shall never see my poor Charles ' again, — so something tells me ; but must wait till Mon- < day,— then I '11 fly. l^th.—KW day and all night feel < that I should be going. Vltk. — Now I go, by way of < Lowell. Brother U. thinks better hurry. I go, I * go ! but still I am too late, — I feel it, dream it, fear * it, dread it ! Leave Boston, four, p. m., and on, on ! * Stopped by a freight-train, — run afoul of a rock, and * stacked. Stay over night at Springfield. l%th. — * Eight, A. M. On, on, on, — past rocks, hills, dales, < mountains, — over bridges, and under ! On, on we * fly ! At Albany, — O, delay ! In the cars, and on, * on, through a dark, stormy night, the cars rattling, * the wind howling, the lightning flashing, the thunder 84 LIFE-SKETCHES OP ' rolling ; but away, away, we go ! Sleep ? — Yes, sit- ' ting ; but to dream, — dream of home ! Where is my * home ? — Where Ellen is ! To dream of Charles, — ' and where is he ? — Dying? or in heaven ! 0, that * I knew ! To di-eam of rattling, confusion, stopping, ' going on, on, — and I awake ; but still going on, on, ' on ! 19th. — Breakfast and go on, — on, nearing my ' old western home. On, past scenes familiar, — on ' towards Canandaigua, now in sight ; over whose hills ' I have oft rambled with Charles. — Charles ! a world * of emotion rushes on me, — on ! 0, the moments of * agony and suspense ! 'T is half-past two, p. m, — we ' stop, — I leap from the cars. Brothers Almon Gage 'and Franklin are waiting for me. I am expected. * Does he live ? No ! no ! O, God! — dead, dead ? It ' cannot be ! Will he speak no more ? Will he not * take me by the hand, and say, " George, you have come ' a long way to see me ; I thank you, — I am glad to ' see you"? 0, no I he is dead. My friend, my com- ' panion, my brother, is gone, gone forever ! Yes ! — * there he lies, cold, silent ! 'T is Charles ! 0, if he ' would only speak, and say one word ! How poor, ' pale, — and yet 't is Charles ! No ; 't is the poor body. ' Charles is away, away with his God, — the God he ' loved, trusted, adored ! And I am alone, — all alone ! ' The people gather around me, — they were gathered for ' burial when I came, — Odd Fellows and Sons. Tears ' are shed. Here are his old scholars, and mine ; and ' they come to look upon their old teacher. 0, what a ' scene ! I follow to the grave. 'T is a narrow place for * the body that once held so great a soul as my friend GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 85 * Charles', and cold and dreary ! But they put it down, * and the evergreens fall on his cofl&n. We turn away, * — the scene is over. 0, that I should be called to * behold it ! But so it is. I cannot realize he is gone. * He died almost the hour I left LaivrenceJ And here, for the solution of spiritual philosophers, it may be added, before he left Lowell, he gave his brother solemn assurance of his conviction that he should arrive in Canandaigua too late, and that he should find the company waiting for him to join in the last sad office ; events prov- ing too literal for mere coincidences. And now he dis- charges the mournful duty of collecting Charles' effects, and settling his affairs. Mr. Bouton left many papers of a valuable and suggestive character, together with a life of many painful lessons. A brief memoir of him appeared in the Christian Freeman at the time of his exit ; but it gave only a glance at that brief career of his, which is seldom paralleled even in romance. He seemed but half born for this world, so abortive were his deeds, compared with his noble aims. Feeble in form and health, timid and shrinking in all his intercourses, yet strong and grasping in intellect, — keenly delicate and intense in all his emotions and aspirations, — he was like a helpless bird, fluttering between heaven and earth, with no place to rest amid the contending elements. For a long time previous to his death, he held correspondence with an amiable and gifted young lady ; but seldom, if ever, dared to think of more than a friendly intellectual relation, while bowed to the dust with an agonizing consciousness of his unfitness for conjugal responsibility. Among his papers were numerous scraps, discourses, essays, maxims, 8 86 LIFE-SKETCHES OP and patches of poetry, most of which were left unfin- ished, like his temporal life. He had no strength to execute a thousand things he projected. His purposes were continually broken ofif by unconquerable weakness. He was truly great in soul, — greater than many who have risen high in popular esteem ; but small in mate- rial achievement. The annals of obscure and humble worth have seldom perpetuated the memory of one more noble in mind and heart ; yet he went to his long home unhonored, and unknown to all the world, save George. And he went so calmly, so hopefully, so full of faith in another life, and with such a child-like trust, that he knew no pang. He laid himself down in the morning, to take a short sleep, after cheerful converse, and awoke no more. And thus closed a life of broken purposes and unfulfilled hopes, so efequent with prophecy of a celestial life, whose hopes and purposes shall ripen into everlasting fruition. Having discharged his last duty to Charles, George wandered through Canandaigua, at every step mourning the absence of him whose presence in years gone had hallowed every scene. After visiting friends, and preaching on Sunday in the Baptist chuix-h, at the invi- tation of the liberal pastor, Mr. Whitney, — since a lib- eral preacher, — he returned to Lawrence, by way of New York, where he found the only brother and sister of Charles, and to whom he communicated the last sad news. Time hurries us along, with little to elicit interest. In May George suffers some from difficulty of the lungs ; but the water-cure affords speedy relief. GEORGE HExNRY CLARK. 87 Exchanging with Rev. Mr. Stevens, of Exeter, on his return home, he visits Boston, enjoys the services at the installation of Rev. A. A. Miner as pastor of School- street church, and a session of the New England Univer- salist Reform Association ; the annual report of which, by Rev. H. Bacon, he calls a * great production, pungent, instructive and pathetic' He went home * stronger, and encouraged to labor on.' As the day of his marriage approaches, he indulges in various reflections appropriate to the event. He goes back to childhood, youth, and recalls early hopes long deferred; dreams unfulfilled, prospects blasted, ambi- tious aims defeated ; but all these are more than com- pensated in the realization of the present, — in the pos- session of a companion to share in all his joys and sor- rows, and light the world with new hopes. On Sunday afternoon, June 4th, 1848, at the close of service with his own people in Lawrence, he rose, with his bride, and, with a firm purpose, took that solemn marriage-vow which he ever held most sacred in every thought and deed. * The ceremony was short,' he writes, ' but good ; * the prayer went to every heart, and the benediction * swept over my soul like the sweet breath of angel-love.' It was a bright, auspicious day ; and, as the happy pair rode to Lowell, the sun shone never more lovely, nor over a more lovely landscape, along the banks of the Merrimack. From Lowell they pass to Taunton, during the week, and attend the Massachusetts State Conven- tion. One sermon alone is heard, and that from Rev. O. A. Skinner. The discussions of the council inter- ested him but little, and he passed some strictures. In 88 LIFE-SKETCHES OF these ecclesiastical bodies neither his age nor ability ever allowed him to take part ; but, had he taken part, it would have been in the spirit of a John Randolph. He lacked patience to sit long in deliberative councils, or to listen to long speeches aimed at points to which he fancied he could leap at once. Whenever he took part in business meetings at home, whether in his society or with other associations in which he was engaged, he usually had a brief, fi-ank way of being humorous, sarcastic and biting, — sometimes giving unde- signed offence, sometimes clenching the point without discussion, and at others bringing down the house with a roar ; while his own long, lean, Roman-nosed visage remained fixed w'ith imperturbable gravity, as though he never dreamed of ludicrous perpetrations. ^ Diary, Sunday, June Wth. — "Well, here we are ' again ; I in my little desk, and Ella in the choir. My * voice is strong ; feel well, — meetings full, — all seem ' pleased and prosperous. Call on our long sick sister ' Hanly, my former landlady. Thinks she shall die ; ' but talked cheerfully, and said, " Brother C, I want ' you to begin that funeral sermon of mine, and you ' must put in some of your best thoughts." I bade her ' not talk so ; but she insisted. Well, well ; it may be ' I shall be called on to fulfil her wishes.' He was ; and the sermon was so well received that the ladies of his society drew the MS. from him, and pub- lished it in pamphlet form, much against his better judgment. It was the only sermon he ever allowed published. Here he records a terrible season of summer com- GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 89 plaint, which keeps him some time ' on his back,' indulging in interjections that sound very unlike a sick man. But the Fourth of July brings him on his feet, and out to marshal his Cadets of Temperance for the celebration. He joins the citizens, and at the table is called out ; at which he launches forth against slavery, indifferent in regard to the manner in which his speech is received by those who dodge that great evil while dealing in Fourth of July gasconade. About this time he comes In contact with a sectarian spirit in one of the fraternities of his choice, and which involved men occupying high positions. It called out George, and compelled him to administer blistering rebukes, and rebukes before which the offenders fairly squirmed, though he was warmly sustained in his course. During July he is sent for to preach as candidate for one of the smaller churches in Boston. He thinks, however, it will be very difficult to get him from Lawrence ; and returns home better satisfied to remain where he Is, whether he has an invitation from Boston or otherwise. He is now cheered with a visit from his brother Hosea, of New York, whom he calls a 'noble brother, of whom he feels proud.' Then Ella is unwell, and he has some anxiety, though no alarm. Now he spends an afternoon rambling with his Sunday-school In the woods, and takes juvenile delight. Then the weather is so hot he feels himself ' melting by inches.' Now he speaks of his kindly brother, Be v. 0. H. Tillotson, his nearest neighbor, at Methuen. Then he attends Grand Lodge at Boston. Now he anticipates a visit, with the whole family, at his old home, In Cross Blver ; 8* so LIFE-SKETCHES OP and of his elder brother's journey west. He is happy with Ella. * Aug. 11 tk. — Time rolls on ; my labors still come. * Railroads are in full speed ; men work, dig, and suffer ; * people continue to die, and the grave-yard is filling.' He forms a Bible-class ; begins to prepare sermons with more care ; has had no dejection since marriage. A hearer comes up to him, at the close of service, on a Sunday afternoon, shakes hands, and drops a dollar in his palm. He is rich in emotions. Now sad news comes from his elder brother, that ' dear little Paul has gone with the angels.' George sermonizes, but his thoughts are tinged with sympathy for those who mourn the departed angel-boy. The long-anticipated family visit at the old home is deferred ; alas ! deferred till the great family gathering in the Father's house of many mansions. Now the memory of poor Bouton comes afresh : ' I cannot learn to forget him, nor would I. His ' memory is sweet to my soul. 0, that his spirit would * greet me from the spirit-land ! But I shall see him * only as I go hence from this body. Yet, Charles ! * did you not promise to come down to earth, and tell ' me of eternity ? — tell me what it is to die, — to be * dead ; God ! to sleep, — to go, we know not where ! ' Yes, yes, go back to God, — Amen.' During the autumn, he entertained serious thoughts of another location, his circumstances were so embarrass- ing in Lawrence. He took much encouragement in regard to receiving some favorable invitation. Animat- ing words were often heard from those whom he GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 91 believed incapable of flattering. While supplying a Sunday for his brother in Lowell, he was introduced to Mrs. L. J. B. Case, who gave him a delicate compli- ment he remembered with hope and gratitude. Blessed is the remembrance of such words dropped on the ear of those who are trembling at the mercy of popular ele- ments ! But Providence seems against his leaving Lawrence, and he is content. An extra efibrt is made by the zealous flock, and all embarrassment is removed. At the opening of 1849, a large new hall is opened for worship, but George is unable to dedicate it. He is alarmed with signs of pulmonary disease, but which proved, in the end, to be nothing serious. Yet he was pained on not being able to take his place at such an interesting period, and engaged Rev. G. Hastings to supply. During most of the winter he sufiered some alarm, and labored under a difficulty of the throat and lungs ; and, in addition, his eye met with an acci- dent, which for a while compelled him to desist from all study and writing, so that Saturday, February 19th, the first time during his ministry, found him without pre- paration for Sunday. 92 LIFE-SKETCHES OF CHAPTER X. PREMONITORY. SHADOWS. THE MOURNER's WAIL. The harsh, hoarse winds of March, 1849, whistle mournfully, indeed, to the young husband, whose ears are now daily pained with an ominous cough from Ella. ^ He calls it ' an ugly cough,' and ' does not like to hear it.' A cold has settled on her lungs, but bright hopes are entertained of spring and summer. Yet the warm days, with soft airs, birds and flowers, seem forever coming to George, as he hears that cough, and sees a sweet face paling and fading. May-day arrives, yet with no warm sunshine, nor bland airs. Ella is no better. He asks, ' Where, where will it end ? She looks pale and emaciated. My soul ! ' Now the Merrimack River Ministerial Circle meets with him. It is in its palmiest day. Alas! what changes has time wrought in that band of brothers ! A reengagement is made with his society. He receives a happy visit from his friend, Rev. E. Case, Jr., who locates in Marblehead. He is now often called to the sick bed, but feels his weakness, — feels it almost impossible to offer a word of comfort, he is so easily moved to tears of sympathy. Cold east winds prevail for several weeks, and every blast goes to his heart, as GEORGE HENRY CLARK. yd he thinks of Ella. Now he is made happy with a visit from his venerated father and step-mother. But ' Ella, * Ella is sick. What shall I do for her ? She coughs, ' coughs ! ' Death is at work in his society among children, and he preaches a sermon of general adapta- tion. Life grows more solemn, and thickens with ear- nest realities. Ella is no better; but he exclaims, * Hope, hope, thou anchor of the soul ! ' He stands trembling at the bed-side of a dying young man, and almost sinks with deep convictions of his solemn duty in such a place. He ' feels in the presence of God, and 'as though the departing spirit would soon carry to * Heaven the story of his feeble stewardship.' Now he is blessed with a Sunday's aid and visit from his com- panion, Rev. Geo. Hill, then a fellow-student with George's elder brother, at Lowell. The anniversary of his marriage comes ; and what memories, what contrasts, as he sees before him the beloved Ella, one year since fresh in bridal bloom, but now fading, fading, yet still sweet, serene, smiling, unmurmuring! The happiness of that brief year seemed too dear to last. In June, the State Convention meets at Sdlem. George hears the venerable Rev. Hosea Ballon the first time, and feels impressed with the honor of being invited by the patriarch to assist in the opening services. He enjoys a good meeting, and goes home refreshed. But Ella is worse for the journey, having taken new cold. He preaches two series of discourses ; one on the attributes, and another on the history of endless retri- bution. His parish increases, and duties are enlarged. Nearly half of his audiences are strangers, many of 94 LIFE-SKETCHES OF whom are transient, hearing but a few times, and then going out of the place to carry the germs of liberal truth. In mid-summer, a journey with Ella is projected to New Hampshire. George returns alone, and is lone- some indeed. But he could better bear to have her away, did he know she was not weak and pining. He rebukes himself for the love-sickness he feels, yet can- not cure it till he starts after her. He meets her. ' No better, no better,' is the half-despairing exclama- tion of his diary. She is now almost too feeble either to sing or play, and all seems like a summer world, with no song from warbling minstrels. He struggles to pre- pare for the worst, but still hopes for the best. The name of death is never mentioned between him and her who he fears may soon fall before its shaft ; but long, solemn silences have a mournful language each can in- terpret, as they sit side by side, in melancholy musing, exchanging smiles and glances that penetrate each heart with sad forebodings. Sometimes he sits alone, hour after hour, lost in reverie ; and then starts as from a dream, but a dream, he fears, too prophetic of coming reality. If he ever breathes a complaining prayer, he prays, ' God, forgive my murmuring soul ! — hush, George ! ' Autumn brings no brighter change. He exchanges with Rev. J. W. Putnam, of Danvers; enjoys a happy season with Dr. Robinson and others, in Salem ; but Ella is not there, and something is lacking. His Sun- day-school has an excursion to Hackett's Lake, — a joy- ous season ; but Ella is not there. Winter is dreaded, as dark and dreary. * 0, my soul, trust in God, thy GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 95 * strength and shield ! God, God, God ! — to see her ' suffering, day after day, so patient, so hopefiil, — and * yet she says, " We are happy, and will be, if I am * sick." ' Now another crisis comes in his society. But a strong appeal is made ; the faithful band respond nobly, and the crisis is past. Dr. Jacobs, Ella's physician, from Bangor, visits her, and some encouragement is felt. George preaches a brief series of discourses on the reunion of friends in heaven, in which he becomes in- tensely interested. His labors and anxieties now have a material effect upon his health ; but he cannot rest. In November, he attends the Boston Association, at Beverly, and is invited to offer the first discourse, an honor he little expected. Now he is requested to preach two Sundays, as a candidate, for the Fifth Society, in New York. He hesitates. Ella is failing fast, and he fears leaving her. But she urges him to think nothing of her, and go. He consents, reluctantly. He takes the mournful adieu, and starts ; but, on turning back a moment, and seeing Ella in tears, he almost resolves to stay. But duty calls, and he is away. He goes not alone, ' Anxiety is his constant companion,' he says. * It rides by him, — it sits down by his side at table, — ' it crowds into his berth, — it bears him company in 'the great city, ever whispering of home and poor 'Ella.' He preaches two Sundays for the Fifth Society; sup- plies half a day for Eev. C. H. Fay, of Orchard-street Church; visits his old home in Cross River; spends dreary days, and dark nights of anxiety, made more 96 LIFE-SKETCHES OP desolate by tlie winds of winter ; and on the morning of December 4th, finds bimself back to Lawrence. But, alas, what a change in Ella ! He is smitten with grief at having left her so long. She has grown more wan, more pale, more feeble, and can raise her voice scarce above a whisper. Yet she is still alive, he thanks God, — still walks, smiles, is serene and radiant with hope. He will never leave her again. And now he can do little or nothing, but sit down and think, and look at that pale, sweet face, faster and faster fading before his anxious gaze, and listen to that low, melodious voice, which sounds more and more like the mild whis- per of angels. Late at night, he watches at her couch, and then retires to his now lonely room, but retires only to dream amid slumbers disturbed by visions of the wan sufierer. But hope yet lingers. About this period, the new magnificent town hall is opened, and dedicated by the citizens of Lawrence. All the clergy are invited, except George. As he enters the hall, the inviting ofiicial meets him, and apologizes for forgetting him ! The fact is soon whispered through the audience ; and, glorying in the insult, in the end he makes it tell in behalf of liberal sentiments. He had grown accustomed to such indignities, and always re- ceived them in a manner best designed to rebuke the offenders, and show a dignified assertion of his rights. But other events are now more absorbing. ^ Diary, December Vdth, 1849. — The record of each * day in my life is now all told in a few words : brood- * ing in anxiety in my study, and over the sick couch * of my fading wife. She still sits up some part of each GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 97 *day, but less and less every day. 2^th. — Go no- * where, — write nothing, — read nothing, — but think * and dream, and 0, what dreams ! ^Ist. — No winter *'ever seemed so dreary and desolate. Every howl of ' the wind seems like a blast of desolation. And yet, * there is a God, — my Father, our Father, — and 'all may be well, all shall be well, in his hands. ^22nd, — 0, my poor Ella! — how she suffers! I ' can give her but little m.edicine, — it seems to do her * no good. She sits up some to-day, and is cheerful as ' usual. Yet I feel there is a change in the tone of her ' mind. Does she feel she is going to die ? Does she * feel she must leave all she loves, and who love her ? * She wishes to say but little about it. I cannot talk * with her on a theme upon which I am unable to think * without bursting with grief. 0, no, no ! — not yet ! * Her physician still gives encouragement. Yet, God's 'will be done. Sunday, 23d. — A fine winter Sab- * bath. I have no evening service, on account of Ella. ' A crisis has come. We watch and wait, most of the * time, — do not leave her a moment. Is she failing ? ' Her breath comes more difficult. I sit up with her * late, and then seek rest, but find little. 24:th. — " 0, * I wish my chest was longer," says Ella, " so that I 'could breathe easier." Her father told her to-day he ' thought she could not stay a week. She said but lit- ' tie. She fails, and is near her end. Yet she wishes * nothing said to those who love her, lest their hearts * bleed for her. " Don't tell George," she says, — sweet ' angel ! as though I could not bear to know. Her * mother and myself are with her all day, and most all 9 98 LIFE-SKETCHES OP * night. She sits up some. She called us to her bed-side, ' and wanted a kiss. " 0, my poor, dear husband ! " she * said. I felt it might be the last time. I sit up and * write to friends, hoping still, — hope till all is gone, " How often baTe I hoped thus, till the last ray ha» * faded, and the clouds have come over me ! The cloud * is hovering over me now^ and nearly all is dark. It * may be darker to-morrow. ' Christmas, December 25?A, 1849. — " my God I * my God I why hast thou forsaken me ? " Ella, my * own dear Ella I the idol of my soul, the hope of my * lifcy the day-star of my being, the enshrined, the only * loved and only loving, the darling God-given bride of ' my hearty the sharer of my joys and sorrows and toils I ' — is dead, dead \ 0, my God ! my God I she has gone, ' gone forever ! Lord, forgive rny rebellious heart ! — * forgive, if I murmur at thy decrees, if I refuse the bit- ' ter cup ! Crushed, broken, bleeding heart, be still I * Groan and throb in thine anguish ! Dead, dead, Ellen * dead, dead ! Why does the sun shine ? — why does ' nature go on ? — why ? ! ! ! I am alone, alone, * alone! Let me out with my gi'iefl Too bad, too ' bad ! Our love was enough to make death unwelcome I ' But on earth it is all over. It may live in Heaven, * and become immortal ! It will, it is, — only I am here, ' she there. 0, we loved too well ! God ! God ! why * hast thou afficted us ? 0, why ? Come, faith, and teach * me why ! She died to-day, — I saw her die ! I stood * by, — I held her hand, and felt her last pulse. I wiped *the death-foam from her lips. Her large, dark, full * eyes beamed upon me, as she lay down to die ! Did she GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 99 'see me? — Yes, till the film closed over them forever! *Poor Ella! But it was soon over, — no gi'oan, no * struggle. Slowly, calmly, came and went her breath, * till all was gone. I saw it all. Her mother, father, * brother and sister, stood around, and wept. Did I ? 0, * had I not wept^ I, too, should have died ! The flood- * gates were opened, and the tide gushed forth. But * I grew calm, and then bowed me beside the cold corse, * and prayed to God, — prayed for strength, hope, endur- * ance. There she lay, — no, no ! not she, but her silent * form ! She went on the birth-day of Jesus ! — went to * Him. I did not see her spirit pass ; but it left for her * long home. Night comes, — a night of grief. 0, my ' widowed couch ! — my bird has flown. But we may * yet lie down together, in the last sleep. "Why should I ' live now ? 0, God ! teach me to know and feel thy * will ! Sorrow of soul closes over the death-day of poor * Ella ; but she lives in my heart, and shall live. Fare- * well, then, my loved one ! I 'm lonely now. Thou wilt * never come back, save in spirit ; but I shall go to thee, * perhaps soon, and thou wilt greet me. Farewell, then, * for a while. I '11 struggle on, I '11 toil, I '11 work for * God and humanity, — I need work no more for thee. * 2Qth. — My Ella slept well, last night. I kept think- ' ing she would lie cold, for the night was bitter cold, and * they laid her out with only a sheet for coverins;. No * pain, last night, — no hard breathing ; — all was calm * around thy couch. Why do I press those pale lips, and *that cold brow? They feel not now. The tear I * dropped upon thy pale face was not wiped away. She ' died with consumption of the lungs. Dark and desolate 100 LIFE-SKETCHES OF ' the world without. Kind friends flock around, — ar- ' rangements made for the funeral. Brother U. comes — ' to-morrow I lose sight of the form I loved. Why do I ' still cling to it, now that the soul is gone? — Because I ' knew her soul only through its form. Night again, — ' alone, alone ! '^Tlth. — Shroud, cofl&n, hearse, grave, 'funeral, desolation, — all, all! All is ready. There ' she lies, — is not her spirit looking on ? Childish as it * is, I'place a scroll in her hand breathing my soul. 0, ' Ella ! how can I bear to see thee so ? Here is the ' scene. I thought I was calm, and could bear the rest. ' But to put thy form away in the cold earth ! — I would ' have thy coffin a soft couch, to rest thee easy in thy ' grave. The hour comes, — prepare, prepare ! — for " dust ' thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return ! " Prayer at ' the house by Rev. Mr. Harrington, Unitarian. We ' follow to our well-filled place of worship. Sermon by ' Rev. I. D. Williamson. Yes, the Gospel is good in ' this hour, — the text, " Death shall be swallowed up in ' victory," &c. I forgot all sorrow for a while, listening. * Tlie closing address was replete with words of sweetest ' consolation, and fell like balm upon my wounded and ' bleeding heart. I found relief in tears. And then the ' music, — 0, that singing, up there, in the same choir ' where Ella used to sing ! They sang the favorite piece ' Ella and I used so often to sing, " When shall we all meet ' again ? " And now the last look, — God ! I shall never ' see her more ! Weep, poor bereaved heart ! How could * I leave ? My brother U whispers in my ear, as I 'stand gazing and weeping, — "'Tis but the shell, — ' come ! " and I know it ; but it was a shell that once held GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 101 * the purest, sweetest, dearest soul that ever loved a sin- *ful man. I leave, — the lid closes, they carry her * away ! We follow to a beautiful spot I have selected * in the city of the dead ; and there we laid her down, and * left her alone. I wish we could have laid her beside * mj own mother ; but she sleeps far away. By the side * of Ella there is a spot I have selected for myself. When * I am dead, let me be laid there ! The day is clear and * cold, — the night is one of winter's loveliest. The full * moon shines down upon Ella's grave. We spend the * evening seeking to comfort our broken spirits. God * Almighty, to thee I fly ! sleep sadly.' .Af, -5J, .if, -^ Af, .iP ^ lUf •??■ -7^ •}?■ ^ ' That vision died, in troops of woe, * In blotting drops, dissolving slow ; * Now, toiling day and sorrowing night, * Another vision fills my sight. ' A cold mound in the winter snow ; * A colder heart at rest below ; * A life in utter loneness hurled, 'And darkness over all the world. * My heart, a bird with broken wing, * Deserted by its mate of spring, * Droops, shivering, while the chill winds blow, * And fill the nest of love with snow.' B. Taylor. 9=^ 102 LIFE-SKETCHES OF CHAPTER XL THE MAKTYR OF LONE LABORS AND SORROWS BOWED. 0, YE of stoic philosophy, mock not the sacred griefs of a strong man bowed to the dust ! The Divine Man himself knew sorrows, that wrung his eyes with tears and his soul with agony. With all the light of Heaven on his path, the world anon grew dark before Him with unutterable woes ! He saw a terrible reality in disease and death, which neither the brightest hope of immor- tality nor the subtlest worldly philosophy could entirely elude ; and he poured out his oWn soul, not only in sym- pathy, but in actual suffering. The stoic or the philoso- pher who attempts to wink out of sight the actuality of griefs and sorrows, — who professes that the pangs of disease, the death-scene, the shroud, the pall, the grave, the desolate home, are nothing, — betrays not only a want of deep experience, but of that Christian faith and hope which can dare to meet the stern realities of suffer- ing, and sometimes bow before even the mysterious will of the Father in the hour of impenetrable gloom. The long watchings, the painful anxieties, and at last the great bereavement of George, left him low in health and spirits. He is thin, weak and coughing; and knows not where it will end. ' But no matter,' he says. ' I can die now when Heaven pleases. Ella GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 103 has taught me how to die ! ' He now receives a letter of invitation from the society to which he preached in New York. But he cannot leave Lawrence. It has too manj binding associations. The following Sunday finds him poorly prepared for duty ; but he goes through as usual. The next day he tries to collect his scattered senses for labor ; but fails, and flies to his elder brother, in Lowell. The new ;^ear 1850 opens, but with no hopes, save to live for usefulness and duty. The past he can hardly think of, the future he dares not dream of, but leaves all with God. He has learned to hope for nothing selfish or sensuous. His affliction has thrown him oa the bosom of Ood. * I can now feel,' he says, * what I have only spoken before, that He is mj * Father i ' The matter of leaving Lawrence for New York is now laid before his society, and is decided for Lawrence. It is an hour of joy ; but, alas ! Ella cannot share it with him, and that saddens him. He must labor now as he has never done before. Labor alone can save him from the intensity of grief, though it wears him away to a shadow. His Sunday-school must give a public enter- tainment; and, the responsibility falling upon him, he writes and drills, day and night, for weeks. Many new interests engage his mind. The lyceum lectures of Lawrence afford him rich enjoyment, and especially one from the young and brilliant Rev. "^ * =^, of Bos- ton. For an hour his soul forgot its sorrows, and soared away in spiritual entrancement. The material world lost its dull shadows, and was permeated with an ethe- real glow of life and beauty, thrilling all his being with 104 LIFE-SKETCHES OF the divinest aspirations. And when the hour was past, he went home to weep with joj, and yet to mourn over himself. His pen trembled, and all his own thoughts seemed dwarfed into insignificance, compared with what he had just heard. But nothing can drive Ella from his lonely heart. He can command no language to express the desolation he sometimes feels. It drives' him continually to the Great Throne, and there he finds peace. His thoughts wander out to that lone new-made grave ; from thence to heaven; then back around him, that he may en- deavor to realize the angel-spirit hovering near. If the winter wind blows cold about, he remembers how it swept away the frail form of Ella. If he goes to his night-rest, Ella is not there. If he longs for spring again, he remembers that Ella can no more feel its warm breath, nor mingle her voice with its songs. If he list- ens to the Sunday songs of worship, Ella is not there, as in days gone ; ' Hushed is her lute-string, and vacant her chair ! ' And where is she ? He would visit her grave, but waits. He waits till he can train himself to feel that she is above him, not down cold below ; not in the grave, but in heaven, and often with him in spirit. ' Diary y February 22^, 1850. — My heart loses but 'little of its sadness. I can but feel I am alone. ' Jan. 24:th. — Crowded houses, — more seats needed, — ' still they come. 2btL — Nothing to break the monot- ' ony of my lonely life, but to toil on. 2Stk. — I bid a ' glad farewell to winter. Let the warm sunshine come ' again, and the birds sing. But my bird has gone, ' Poor soul, sing thyself alone I GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 105 ' March Wth. — I am elected a member of the school- * committee. I did not expect this. I care not for the ' office, only as it renders me more useful as a herald of * truth. Sunday^ 11 th. — Preach in exchange with ' Rev. J. H. Moore, at South Reading. Hours of lei- ' sure pass away heavily from home. Then I feel my ' condition ; and, as I see others happy in their homes ' and with their companions, O, my rebel soul I 2Stk. ' — Engaged with school-committee in examining candi- ' date teachers. About a dozen young ladies present ; * many of them come a long way. This is a hard task ; * for we need only two or three, and most of them must ' go away disappointed. I bleed for them, for I once * suffered thus. ' April, 2nd. — Darkness, darkness ! 0, how, at times, ' it mantles my soul ! Weep ! no, no, I can't ! If I ' could, my poor, lonely heart would find some relief. I ' pray to God. 1th. — Address the Sons of Temperance, * in the Methodist church, after funeral services are per- ' formed by the pastor. I was denied a seat in the pul- 'pit, — another instance of bigotry destined to make ' some stir. Let it work, — I like it. %th. — [Speak- ' ing of slow and poor pay.] Very well. I have no wife, 'no family, •:— none but myself. I '11 be patient, and 'wait. Things will come right. \^th. — Visit the ' death-bed of an aged lady, who has been a Methodist ' most of her life, but finds she needs a better faith in ' the dying hour. Talked and prayed with her. Wth. ' — Enjoy a fine social visit from Brother E. C, of ' Marblehead, reading and communing. VJth. — My ' brother U to leave Lowell ! What ! are we to 106 LIFE-SKETCHES OP ' be separated again ? It weighs heavily on my mind. 'A strong link that binds me to Lawrence will be * broken. We have rejoiced in being near each other. * l^th. — Brother U. goes to Providence, R. I. Well, * now we are to be separated ; but God's will be done ! ' May 2nd. — Visiting and adorning the grave of * Ella. Sacred retreat ! though I have learned to think * of her in heaven, — above, around, in the spirit world. * 6M. — How Ella sighed for this warm sun, while she ' suffered during the dark storms of December ! But ' her spring is in immortality, more glorious than this, ' and where no winds nor storms shall beat. 22?z^. — * Taking census of children of the town, — duty of the 'school-committee. 0, the poverty, squalidness and * filth, I meet ! — abominable to civilization. Sad scenes, * but they have lessons. June \st. — [Closing the ' eleventh year of his diary.] A year of trial ; but * ! have I not been blessed ? Why do I murmur ? * It must not be. The hand of God was in it, and my ' poor heart has been schooled for new toils and trials. * Let me bow, cease to murmur, learn more to trust my * God, and hush these sad strains ! But I close. What * is, is ! God has controlled the past. I have recorded * my thoughts and labors. Who shall ' read them ? * Will any one ever drop a tear over the mournful * record ? 0, reader ! my soul has been sad and siek, ' and I have suffered — so have you, — that 's all. To * whom shall I dedicate this volume ? I '11 leave it now.' Sunday, June 4th, opens the twelfth and the last volume of his diary. Among other reflections, running through all of which is that same solemn strain of GEGEGE HENRY CLARK. 107 chastening sorrow, he writes, ' time, time ! when wilt * thou ease this aching heart ? — when will this desola- * tion be gone ? Not till life closes, — not till I can * forget the hopes blasted. Mj God, to thee, to thee * must I fl J ! ' The next day, in company with his friend, Rev. A. Gage, he attends the State Convention, at Milford, Mass., and is appointed clerk. On Sunday, 9th, he preached, in exchange with Rev. AV. Hooper, at Tyngsboro, taking a chaise alone from Lowell. ' All around me,' he writes, ' was still and lonely. * Yet I was sad in my glorious ride, — sad, because I * was alone ; and I went back to the time when there * was one who cheered me in all my journeyings. * Alone I rode on in the beautiful June morning. Na- ture smiled, flowers bloomed, sweet odors arose from * field and foliage, birds sang to me ; yet I was sad, * because I was alone. Alone I rode back, in my glory. * Had I overtaken a beggar, I should have asked him to * ride, I was so lonely and sad. Ah, me ! — what is 'life!' Yet, while on this visit, in Lowell, he never seemed more cheerful, more humorous or happy ; and spent a season afibrding social delight to some young friends he met. His cheerfulness, however, was not as in other days, when he used to rebuke himself for being so light at heart. ' June \Zth. — The world goes busily on. It has a ' fever at times, and then its chills and agues. The * great pulse of life now beats quick and hard. 21^^; — ' A day of shadows and realities, facts and fictions, 108 LIFE-SKETCHES OF * joy and sadness. Sunday, 2^rd. — Rains all day, — ' audiences small, and my preaching corresponds.' In July, a happy journey is enjoyed, with Mrs. Tyler, to Maine, the place of Ella's nativity. He supplies two Sundays at Bangor ; travels into the interior ; is far from extravagant in compliments to some parts of the country ; admires some of the scenery, however, yet mourns the absence of Ella ; meets many new friends with pleasure ; takes his first and last ocean ride ; indulges in numerous reflections on the majesty and grandeur of the great deep, and returns home rather happier. He now preaches two Sundays to an eligible society in search of a pastor. They ne- gotiate with him, raise expectations, conclude to call him, are ready to vote; and then some suggest hearing more candidates. George is contented; he is used to such things, and takes them with a phi- losophy which tells him to know his place, and never fret against the rough sides of the world. A lovely Sunday evening in August finds him again standing over the grave of Ella. But no tears now ; all is calm. He has come to feel she is in heaven, and not there. Immortality has grown into a living presence. If now he feels faint, and his mission feeble, he grasps for another life, and grows strong with great thoughts of a mission celestial and never-ending. Now he enjoys a happy season with his elder brother in Providence, in exchange with Kev. H. Bacon; then with his friend E. C. and lady, at Marble- head, along the sea-shore, and amid the surrounding grandeurs of old ocean, whose voices come to him, at GRORGB HENRY CLARK. 109 this time, solemn and sacred, yet lulling and serene, as from afar, far oflf from that land whose bounds seem like the ocean-washed horizon. Now autumn comes, and he dreads the nearing winter, with its winds with- out and its labors within. He fears his health; and yet, in the event of its failure, he leaps with the hope of rejoining one gone before him. The brother nearest his heart, about this time, involved in afflictions, writes to George for sympathy. George's answer is in a tone none but a brother could feel, and feel coming from a heart laden with its own griefs, yet straining with agony to lift the load from another, and pour out its very blood in sympathy. Heaven forgive the call made upon that loaded spirit, as Heaven now blesses its sacri- fice ! A little later, he writes : ' I can imagine your ' fearful and intense emotions, magnified by a thousand * bugbear imaginations. I know by experience. A few ' nights since, I lay down, and imagined myself feeling * remarkably queer. And the more I thought of it, the ' more I felt so, till I did feel queer, indeed, — and such ' a queerness ! All my blood seemed rushing to one '-spot — my heart. It became a reality. My pulse * beat with tremendous velocity. I kept feeling queerer ' and queerer, and my heart thumped louder and louder. * All at once, I thought I might be undergoing some * great physical change, or even dying. I sprang from ' the bed, walked the floor a moment, and all was over. ' I retired, and slept sweet as ever. I have often had ' such feelings, and they are awful. I could tell you ' many a sad tale of creating realities out of fancies, — * dreadful realities ; of blackness and horror hatched 10 110 LIFE-SKETCHES OF * from a weary and disordered brain, — the world all * growing black, and crumbling beneath me. But ' enough. We are living a strange life, — it is strange ' and wonderful, — and eternity, 0, eternity ! — but * some day, some glorious day, we shall know all. Yes, ' God is our hope and refuge. Our faith, — how sweet ' and glorious ! Why, I know nothing of doubt, now, ' for years, — my soul is so full of faith in God and the ' Gospel. If clouds have been over me, and I have 'murmured and groaned, I have also prayed, and 'trusted, and toiled on.' Exchanging with Rev. C. H. Leonard, of Chelsea, in October, he passed an evening at one of Jenny Lind's sacred concerts. It was a divine era in his life. He sat listening and thrilled, till every fibre of his frame seemed a charmed ear. The chords of a soul long send- ing forth strains of earth-born sorrow, now touched by a mistress' hand, vibrated with a melody born of heaven, and eloquent with angel voices, calling and carrying him away, away on viewless pinions, amid celestial scenes. And in that melody he seemed to hear the voice of Ella herself, and mingle with her. All night long he floated away in dreams of the lingering song. Had the song- stress herself known what raptures she was pouring into that poor, suffering heart, 't would have been worth more than all the thunders of applause from the multi- tude. A merry journey, with his young sister-in-law, Fran- ces, is now taken to New Hampshire. In November he makes a pleasant visit two Sundays with the society in Springfield, Mass., enjoying the hospitality of Mr. E. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. Ill Trask. Some negotiation was advanced in regard to settling here ; but it ended in his staying in Lawrence, contented with the impression that Providence had there fixed his destiny. ' Diary, November 2Gtk. — Write till I am almost 'blind and dying. 2Sth. — My poor head! — weak. ' SOth. — Ready for three services to-morrow. Decern,' ' ber \2th. — Drag a sermon from my brain. There * it is, on paper. IZth. — My health is feeble, — I grow * poor. 0, these bleak, biting winds and storms ! ' Writing to his elder brother, he says he has grown so transparent he is ' scarce able to cast a shadow,' and thinks there is prospect of his soon being able to defy the ' law of gravitation and attraction ! ' But he takes it seriously, too. The interest in his society is unusual ; houses full ; three services a Sunday are driving him ; a course of doctrinal lectures in the evening, in which he labors with excessive zeal and hope for good results, is tearing on brain and lungs, — he knows it ; but toil or death is his motto. The anniversary of Ella's death- day comes, with its mournful memories ; and he cries out, at the close of his reflections, ' Be still, poor bleed- ing heart ! My turn will soon come.' Duties multi- ply, and he toils on with an enthusiasm careless of how ' soon his turn may come.' On Sunday evening, Decem- ber 29th, during a third discourse appropriate to the birth-day of the Saviour, his pulse rose to a fever height, his whole system blazed, his brain reeled, and he sank back in his seat. The Rev. C. Marston was with him, and closed the meeting ; when he hurried home, and soon recovered, but was left deeply mortified and de- 112 LIFE-SKETCHES OF pressed. ' I fear I must abandon preaching. Why live, ' if my labors must cease ? January 1st, 1851. — I * dream that life with me is short ; perchance this is my 'last New Year's day on earth. But, 0, there is an ' eternity where days and years are lost, where toils and ' tears are no more ! Srd. — Must prepare my Sunday- ' school for an exhibition ; go at it. Sunday, bth. — Get ' through the day well, but hard time in the evening ; — ' was sick, and came near dropping down. ^th. — A ' letter from home, — from father ; the old man writes ' feelingly and religiously. Grod bless him, and all of ' them ! IQth. — Sermonizing goes hard, but must be 'done; at it. I'^th. — I sit brooding over my feeble 'condition, till I sometimes border on despair. But ' there is no use. I can do no more than die ; and ' what is it to die ? — to be released, and go where this ' weary soul may find rest. 0, to die ! — to be reii- ' nited to my angel-wife ! — it would be more sweet ' than bitter.' Evening lectures are now dropped, and the next Sun- day finds him barely able to labor through two services ; the next, still less able, and he is relieved by a visit from Rev. W. G. Cambridge. Now his society's festival comes off, yielding handsome results, but leaving him worn out. His exhibition is on his mind, and his duties as town school-committee. His heart is fearfully pal- pitating under the load of responsibility. He brings himself down to a strict regimen, and seeks exertion in the open air. But the next Sunday finds him too weak for service, and he blessed the kind aid of his friend, Rev. W. Spaulding. He also blesses his society for GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 113 volunteering three Sundays of gratuitous rest. Three weeks ! — it seems a long time for him to rest. He visits his brother in Providence, accompanied by Mrs. Dr. Manly, a motherly friend of Canandaigua acquaintance. But his stay is short ; he is restless, and pines for his own favorite room at home. His people enjoy the ser- vice of Rev. Dr. H. Bailou, 2nd, one Sunday, and George finds high solace in his revered company. Rev. E. W. Reynolds supplies another Sunday ; the three weeks have passed, and now for work once more. An essay is prepared and read before the M. R. M. Circle, at Lowell ; health seems renewing. Winter departs ; and the first Sunday in March again finds him in his desk, though relieved half a day by his brother. Rev. W. H. Waggoner, of Methuen. Next Sunday, he works all day easily ; on the following, he says, ' Providence sends him Rev. G. H. Emerson to help.' Now near sick, and shivering in the March wind, he sighs for spring and summer. 0, how worn and world-weary ! Another Sunday comes, and he has the help of a new preacher, who breaks down and tears George's nerves with mortification. And now an exchange with his neighbor, Rev. L. B. Mason, of Haverhill. Next at home, and in the evening his Sunday-school exhibition. 0, that exhibition! — on his mind for weeks, with nearly all the labor of writing, arranging, and rehearsing again and again, — alas ! it was grinding out his life. And then, it must be repeated. As I now run over his diary at this date, and then glance at the printed programme of exercises, I read a sad tale of sickening energies, consuming with anxiety and toil, to train those 10=^ 114 LIFE-SKETCHES OF little lambs of his flock to appear upon a stage he might soon vacate ; and, to prepare them for this, he seemed willing to lay his own life, in hope that his spirit, in after time, might reappear in them to bless the world. 0, ye of the sceptic school ! say not the spirit of mar- tyrdom died out with the fire of ancient fagots, while many a servant of Christ is thus wearing himself away in the lowly duties of his mission ! Three Sundays of feeble labor now pass at home, and then, ' Sunday, May Wth. — Preach my annual sermon. ' Something tells me this will be my last annual ser- ' mon. Three ^^ears and a half I have labored in Law- ' rence ; and shall I continue another year, or be in an- ' other " country, from whose bourn no traveller re- ' turns " ? Well, as God wills.' At this time, the hopes of his society were never brighter, and the building of a new church is again ear- nestly entertained. All is encouraging, except his health. He engages a garden-plot, to employ leisure hours in cultivating it. But he soon fails in strength for manual labor. The discipline of sickness and sorrow has wrought great moral changes in him. Writing to his elder brother, he wonders at the change, and says, ' I have conquered the flesh ; I defy the devil ; but I have not yet entirely relinquished the world.' Then he relates a happy dream of Ella, conjured by reading Mrs. Crowe's ' Night Side of Nature.' Now receiving an invitation to preach in Newark, N. J., and anxious to visit New York, he journeys thither, stopping a while at Providence, on the way. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 115 A solemn, lonely, moonlighted night's ride, on the Sound, Lands him at New York in the morning, and the Sunday finds him in Newark, to preach for the First Society, but unfit for labor. He struggles through the morning service, and the friends expostulate against his attempting another. Eut yes, he must, though feeble enough, had he been at home, to take his bed. He went through another service, with labors like battling against death itself, and was left so prostrate as to call a physician. The good friends in the society, and the family of Mr. Jaques, did all they could to lift his spirits, and to have him stay another Sunday. But no, no. He was weary, worn, broken down in heart, and would go to his old home in Cross River. He hurried to his oldest brother's, in Jersey City, and spent Mon- day night, with the design of starting for Cross River the next morning. But the cars leave him, and Tues- day night he starts for Providence, where he meets with the Rhode Island State Convention. On Wednesday evening he contributed an impressive part to a general conference ; and on Thursday morning preached one of his favorite discourses, — ' The religion of the head and of the heart.' His voice was feeble, yet earnest and full of soul, — 0, hov7 full to one who had often heard, but now for the last time, from the sacred desk ! Long shall its tremulous echoes linger, playing, with serene and solemn melody, amid the deep vibrating heart-chords of a brother's love ! And had those who then heard known it was the last time but one that voice should be lifted on earth with the message of God, what holy thrills would have passed over every listening soul ! To 116 LIFE-SKETCHES OP the invalid evangelist that last meeting in conventiou with his brethren was among the richest in spiritual emotions. ^ Diary, May 2Srd, 1851. — Reach home again in ' Lawrence, just at night, — a weary journey. Glad to 'greet loved ones who gather around me. 24:th. — "Worn, weary, and reduced by my journey. Know ' not how I shall get through duties to-morrow ; yet have * engaged no help, and expect none, save from God, * which may he grant me ! ' Sunday, May 2bth, 1851. — Tis past, and I am ' done ! Attempted to preach, this morning ; succeeded ' in getting through, and that is all. Dare not try * again, this afternoon. Send for Br. Waggoner, and *beg him to come. He comes. This will probably * close my ministry for the present. I shall not attempt 'again. And must it be? 0, my soul! must I cease ' preaching ? Yes, yes ! — it is my Father's will, and I ' obey. But, 0, it causes me a struggle, when I think * it is inevitable. And yet I submit. God knows best, ' and ordereth all things ! ' Thus ends his diary. The blank leaves that fol- low are there ; — but the record his trembling hand could no longer write there is written deep on the tablet of his soul, to be read only in the light of Heaven. GEOEGE HENEY CLAEK. 117 CHAPTER XII. HIS VALEDICTORY. THE WANDERING INVALID. LAST SCENE. Now that I can no longer refer to a diary whicli has aided my memory through twelve years of the life before us, I am nearly lost, and dependent solely upon a feeble correspondence, and upon memories too keen to be revived, without causing some pangs of grief, which I would fain hold too sacred for revelation to those who cannot sympathize. Reader, pardon me now, if some- times I forget the biographer in the brother, and draw nearer to him who is fiist receding from all things earthly ! May 26th, the day after his failure, he writes with a spirit more buoyant than his condition would seem to promise. He attributes his aggravated indisposition to the unsuitable food he was compelled to partake, while on his late journey. He complains most of a palpitation and sinking of the heart, arising from a derangement that affects the lungs, and causes the deepest mental depression. His malady was probably induced by an early abuse of appetite, confinement to writing, the ex- citements of duty, and grief of heart. He writes for advice in regard to his course, suggests closing his min- 118 LIFE-SKETCHES OP istry, invokes the heartiest good cheer, and faeetiouslj proposes raising ^me worldly scheme, to see if he may not regain his health, and keep in the world awhile longer. There is a solemn jollity in his tone, sounding strange, indeed, to those who know not his nature. His next letter, June 4th, speaks more forebodingly ; but he does not alarm himself. He puts himself on a lower regimen, and threatens to ' starve the enemy out.' He is perplexed in regaixi to his relation with his society. His father writes him to come home to Cross River, offering anything he chooses to help him. 'The old ' gentleman says I can have a horse and carriage ; or, if I ' want exercise, I can assist on the farm or in the store.' ' Jmie 12th. — You will get but few words, this time. ' Your advice may be good, yet it is another thing for a 'sick man to practise it. I have been on diet three * years, and what is the result ? As for the prescrip- ' tions of elderly ladies, I have never tried them, but am ' sometimes tempted so to do. You make light of my ' projecting an auction sale ; — but I tell you I have ' many things, besides my professionals, I need to dis- 'pose of. When I take up here, I know not when or ' where I shall settle again ; — perhaps in another and * better world. I shall be adrift once more, and your ' home will be mine. If I have a surplus from my sale, ' I will call on you to help keep it ; for money was ' always a great trouble to me, in case I ever had a few ' dollars more than I wanted for use. Change burns my ' purse, and creates such an unpleasant sensation, that ' when my hand touches it, it adheres, and out it ' comes. That is the way my money goes.' At the GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 119 close of his letter, he describes himself waiting in the attitude of Mr. Micawber, for * something to turn up.' * June 2bth. — What did Brother S. mean by say- * ing you looked poor, miserable and haggard ? Look * wise, or you will be where I am. I have grown so * mortal poor that I have now given up trying to cast a ' shadow. The sun seems to shine right through me, ' and the strongest blasts of wind whistle b}-, meeting '■ little or no obstruction in me. My present business is ' to ride. I have an old horse lent me, and I keep him *^ going, going. I 'm the " Flying Dutchman " of Law- * rence, seen everywhere and nowhere. The burning * of our hall of worship, and all our books, together * with my sickness and going away, makes our people * feel almost discouraged ; and I have no strength to * animate them. The Lord bless them, my long-loved ' friends, with whom I have labored, suffered and sym- * pathized, it seems an age, and yet it is not quite four * years ! But, 0, I have lived fast, and all the rest of * my life is as nothing compared. Here, in Lawrence, ' have risen all my greatest hopes and struggles, and * here they have fallen ; and on one of its hill-sides, ' beneath the shady tree, where I laid the remains of '■ the loved one, I have a cherished spot, where I wish ' my bones to rest, when I too am fallen.' This is a sad season to the long-tried baud of believ- ers in Lawrence; but they hold steadfast. For sup- plies, George and his people are grateful to Revs. A. R. Abbott, S. Cobb, V. Lincoln, and W. H. Waggoner, till Sunday, July 6th, when his resignation takes effect, and the mournful valedictory is given. Mr. Waggoner 120 LIFE-SKETCHES OP came from Methuen, carried him to the place of wor- sliip, conducted the service, and preached for him ; at the conclusion of which he arose, and, with a * voice as clear and pleasant ' as he ever commanded, — so writes Mr. W., — he gave his last message : * Brethren and Sisters : In dissolving the rela- ' tion which has long existed between us as pastor and ' people, it would seem proper that I should ofiPer a fare- ' well discourse. Did my health permit, I should ' esteem it both a privilege and duty thus to close my ' labors ; but, as I am denied that favor, I can do no ' less than offer a few remarks. Of course, all that I ' say will be based on the supposition that the resigna- ' tion I am about to tender will be accepted. I need ' say nothing of the seeming decree of Providence, ren- ' dering this step not only expedient, but imperative. ' That I am sick and cannot preach, you all know ' well. That it is inevitable I must, for a short or long ' time, lay down my professional cares and responsibili- ' ties, and attend to my poor, weak body, is not only * evident to you, but is forced home to myself with * startling convictions of duty. But no one can know ' the struggle it has cost me to bring my mind to take * this step, nor the deep feelings of regret which agitate ' me as I proceed to take it. I have been so long in ' Lawrence, so identified with all its interests, so entered * into the spirit and enterprise of its citizens, that I ' have looked upon this place as my home. It has ' seemed that a portion of it belonged to me ; and as I ' have, with all the pride of citizenship, pointed the ' stranger to this or that public work, I have felt as ' though it was in part mine. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 121 * But, more than all, I have identified myself with ' the interests of my own people and society. Your * prosperity has been mine, and I have rejoiced with * you. Your sorrows and misfortunes have been mine, * and I have felt heaviness of soul over them. In * all my joys and sorrows, .1 have received your kind ' sympathy ; and around me is woven a spell which, ' till recently, I little dreamed was so soon to be ' broken. The familiar faces of many old friends seem ' like my own family ; and as long as earthly impres- * sions linger on my mind, those faces will remain indel- * ibly stamped on my soul. But I have no strength or ' desire to review the past. And, besides, it is too * replete with interests and incidents of sacred remem- * brance, to justify the attempt to speak of it at this * eventful hour. To recall them would be to arouse the ' sad reflection that they are gone, — gone forever, — * and that I may no more participate in scenes of a * kindred character. Let memory hold its treasures. * To me it is a dearly valued book, though on its pages * I read the story of loss and misfortune, of bereave- * ment and withered hopes, of years of trials and strug- ' gles ; and its leaves are blotted with tears of sorrow ' and woe ; yet it reveals the smile of gladness, and the ' sunshine of blessings long beaming upon us. ' The future belongs to God and eternity, and expe- * rience alone can unfold its realities. There is, for this * world, no future with me ; to-day is all ; what to- * morrow will bring I leave with my Creator. The * present misfortunes of our society are too bitter and * disheartening for me to notice with that coolness which 11 122 LIFE-SKETCHES OP * would enable me to lay before you any plan for action. ' Your own judgment will no doubt dictate for the best. * A shade has sometimes come over me, as I feared ' many might grow weary, disheartened, and withdraw ' themselves from worship, thereby impairing the * strength of the society. I pray God this may not be ! * and I beseech you, brethren, sisters and friends, ' " Hold fast ! — fight the good fight of faith," — our ' faith, — ^^ the faith once delivered to the saints," and ' God will give you the crown and victory ! You have ' toiled too long and sacrificed too much, in the cause of ' truth, now to withdraw from its support, or suffer the ' ministry of Jesus to be enfeebled for the want of means. ' The storm has now swept over us, it is true ; but it is * not the fii-st time we have felt its blast. Brave hearts ' will not shrink. Stand firm, united, and you can out- * live any misfortune. All these trials are but tests of ' your faith and endurance. I trust you will stand ' firm, and in a short time that my heart may be glad- * dened with tidings that the First Universalist Society ' in Lawrence is again rejoicing in the full tide of pros- ' perity. May God grant it ! And I beg you will look ' after the Sunday-school. Those dear ones of our care ' must not be neglected. They must meet regularly, * even though you should suspend worship for the want ' of a place or pastor. Keep thriving and green this ' nursery of truth. 0, how many hours of care and * anxiety have I spent in studying the interests of the ' lambs of my flock ! and yet those hours have been * sweetened with the richest rewards. True, their * noble and well-selected library, the product of their GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 123 ' own labor, is in ashes ; yet a school, with faithful * superintendents and teachers, may be sustained , with * interest and profit, even without a library. ' But I hasten to close. I have no words to express * the gratitude I feel towards, not only the society, ' but members of the congregation, for all the kindness ' and consideration shown me. I can but say, I thank ' you, from the depths of my heart. I thank you for ' your tokens of good will and affection ; for your ' indulgence of my youth and weakness ; for the kind * words spoken to me and for me ; for your encourage- * ment while pursuing my arduous labors, and while ' endeavoring to speak the truth in the feaj- of God and ' love of my Master ; and many a word of encourage- * ment do I remember falling upon my desponding and ' despairing soul, like dew from heaven, to revive my * faltering energies into new life and activity. I thank * you for the kind hospitality ever extended as I have ' entered your doors on my rounds of pastoral duty, ' and the warm grasp of your hands. And, finally, I ' thank you for all the sympathy and condolence I ' received during those severest trials, those darkest * days, when it pleased my Father long to affiict my ' beloved companion, and at last to call her away, leav- ' ing me to a lone pilgrimage ; and not only during that ' dark period, but when, as now, the hand of disease ' was laid upon myself, rendering me powerless and ' useless. God bless you, and reward you all, and give ' you every need and comfort in life, and a crown of ' glory, when, with a redeemed world, he shall gather us ' all to Himself ! 124 LIFE-SKETCHES OP ' I am done. I now resign my office as pastor of this * society, to which I was unanimously elected three years ' ago last May. And may the Lord send you another * who will try to do his duty as faithfully as I have ' tried to do mine ; who will love and labor for you and ' our cause as I have loved and labored ; yet one who * will prove more eminently successful in all things * than I have been. Farewell I ' It was only with an effort almost superhuman that he finished this brief address ; but he went through calmly and firmly ; and then, with choking emotions, he sank down, amid the loud sobs and streaming faces of a crowded audience, whose every heart seemed touched, melted and broken, with unutterable grief and sympathy. A few days after this, he writes with more than usual cheer. His library, with a case and secre- tary, in which he had taken great pride, is packed, labelled and stored, to be used again, he knows not where or when, if ever. All is squared with the world, and he is now ready for his old home. But friends plead with him in Lawrence ; proffer their favors and sympathies, overcome him with kindness, and it is hard to leave ; especially to leave the loved home of his parents-in-law, where everything was done to supply all his wants, and his wishes were anticipated with a watchful love equal to that of an own fiither and mother. Moreover, he was too feeble to journey. After the delay of a few days, however, he starts, accompanied by Mrs. Tyler, as far as Providence, where he remains a week. The heat of the season is excessive, but he enjoys it well, though extremely sensitive in GEORGE UENRY CLARK. 125 regard to every little annoyance. He is able to walk but little, and requires constant attendance, giving notice to everybody not to expect anything of him, but be ready to move at his call, or take an ebullition of bis humor. All who knew the peculiarities of his malady, mental and physical, merely smiled, and made the largest allowance for the ludicrously extravagant expressions in which he sometimes indulged. At the end of a week, his father and brother Hosea met him at Providence, and the former accompanied him to Cross River. July 28th he writes : ' I arrived ' home Saturday evening, but considerably worn down. ' After a Sunday's rest, with the invigorating air of ' these old hills, I feel stronger and better, though I ' still " move like a ghost." ' Soon, however, he grew discontented. The old homestead had been leased, dur- ing the season, for a new house in the village, half a mile off, and nothing seemed like home. He rode up past the old farm and old home, and was heart-sick to linger there and rest his weary soul amid the scenes and associations of childhood. To see strange faces peering through the windows of the old domicile, and strange forms walking in fhll possession of the paths of old scenes, made him feel not only melancholy, but almost indignant. . He longed to roam and muse over the hills, the fields, the woodlands, of happier years ; and lie down in those chamber windows, from which stretched the landscape of ear^y love, and rose the blue dome of a heaven filled with the light of brightest hopes and dreams, now fading from the world, — now rising, now receding towards the dome of a heaven eternal in 11* 126 LIFE-SKETCHES OF fruition. And he sighed for the song of those same birds, singing from the same trees as thej used to sing when life was airy and sweet with the melody of a joy- ous heart. The cause of his sadness here was lamented by the father and friends, and everything possible was done to render him reconciled. But he was unhappy. He longed for the society of friends who had known him in the sorrows and labors of manhood. Faces around him, dear and familiar in childhood, had changed, and he had changed, and all had changed; and new and strange faces, known, perhaps, in infancy, peered at him with glances of curiosity which made him feel he was a stranger and alone, even amid the loved haunts of other years. Moreover, he required certain food found in no inland village in summer. He grew tired of his fare, though every possible variety was provided. To a plain, kind-hearted neighbor, named Addis, noted for eccentric generosities, George owned himself peculiarly grateful. Addis would often go out a fishing, and, on his return, dress some of the finest of his luck, slyly send in the piscatory dish to the invalid, positively re- fusing the coin offered as pay, unless George managed to slip it into his hand as a gift to his excellent wife. Another inconvenience arose from the remoteness of medical attendants of hisj choice. At this time he was under the homoeopathic treatment of Dr. McKnight, of Providence; and was encouraged with his success, be- lieving that no other treatment could help him. For a while at home he enjoyed the visit of Mrs. Lydia A. Clark, lady of his brother, from Jersey city, GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 127 and was comparatively contented. Then, for a few days, followed our last visit together amid native scenes. To him it was an era of new life. Once more, and for the last time, day after day, we thridded old paths ; we bathed in the same stream along whose banks we had often lingered in the sunny days of childhood; we listened to the same wild minstrel songs whose melody floated into all our dreams of love, and hope, and ambition; we tramped over the same sands and fields we had trod with lighter step, though with bared and blistering feet; we reclined on the same banks and beneath the same shadowing foliage where we used to lie, soft and sweet, when life had few thorns for our pillows, and was all foliage and flowers ; we lived over the early years gone forever, and recounted the unnum- bered toils and trials, joys and hopes, which had left so little, after all, that could slake the eternal aspirations of the soul; we walked the same woodlands which had once oft heard our voices echoing sighs and songs, shouts of joy and bursts of grief, loud peals of laughter, and deep groans of agony in prayer to a then dreadful Deity ; we clambered over the same hills and sat down together upon the same mossed rocks from which we gazed enraptured upon the grand old landscape, rolling afar on every hand, and stretching away, away to the blue Highlands of the Hudson, till sight is lost in the dim, hazy horizon, now symbolizing dreams, hopes, all, all of earth fading, rising, receding into the infinite ! 0, solemn and serene the fraternal commune of those hours, those scenes ! — blessed prophecy and prelude of that home where no bonds shall be broken, and the earth- 128 LIFE-SKETCHES OF born jojs and hopes of our infant life sKall bloom in everlasting youth I On my return to Providence, August 18th, he writes that he is unable to stay home much longer. ' How ' long, 0, how long must I " live at this poor dying ' rate I " What is before me ? — 0, that is the question ! ' To live ? to die ? Well, well, — peace, peace, and take ' it as it comes. I am good for nothing as I now am, ' and my imagination does not extend forward to the day *when I shall be. I dare not anticipate.' This, how- ever, is the only sad strain in the whole sheet, which he spices with much blunt and grotesque common sense. He now spends a few days with his sister Huldah, in New York ; and then makes a home at his brother's, in Jersey city, where every kindness and indulgence are granted. August 28th, he writes with usual spirit. Speaking of hospitality he says, ' I suppose I am dealt ' with better than I deserve, being nothing but a fault- * finding, growling, grumbling dyspeptic. But my friends ' must bear with me, and pity my infirmities.' At the next date, September 1st, he writes in about the same spirit. September 18th, dates from the old home again. He has found an old mutual friend, Mr. T, W. Bull, who affords much social cheer, and talks of travelling with him. But he has 'sorry times,' and says the ' excessive heat has been frying him nearly all away.' Now, farewell to the old home, with its dear scenes and friends, — forever ! A hard journey brings him to Providence. He confers with Dr. McKnight, who tries to encourage him, as we all do, but with no impression on him for the better. His hopes are fast looking GEORGE HENllY CLARK. 129 beyond mortal ills, and he grows more solemnly silent with thoughts that roll on towards eternity. Yet he has seasons of social cheer, and enjoys a dangerous ap- petite. But now he is for Lawrence again, the well- tried home of later years. October 3d, he writes, ' Home * again, — and I tell you I am glad to be here. I was ' expected, welcomed with open hands and warm hearts, * — room all ready, and hosts of friends soon poured in ' to see me. Lawrence is the place for me.' Some of his friends at this time entertained sanguine hopes of his convalescence, and the Boston Trumpet contained a notice to this effect ; but George's hopes were looking more and more beyond all mortal ills, not- withstanding certain improvements. His society was now prospering again, and had just settled the Rev. H. Jewell as pastor, a successor in whom George found a brother ever respondent with service and sympathy, as also in Rev. Mr. W^aggoner, of Methuen. Before a society-meeting of the Lawrence friends, Mr. W. made a touching appeal in behalf of their late but now in- valid pastor, and told them he had come home to die in their midst. In October we enjoyed a long visit in Lawrence. Now the foliage was colored in the gorgeous hues of autumn, the leaves were fast falling, and sad moaning winds sounded the requiem of solemn change. From his window he could look out upon the fading woodland, and sighed in wondering whether he should ever again see it clothed in verdure, and hear the melody of spring- time in its boughs. And as the autumn moan deepened, he shivered, and shrank closer to the warm fire, thinking 130 LIFE-SKETCHES OP of a clime of celestial song and perennial springs. He could now neither walk out nor ride but little. We rode once to Methuen, and spent the day with Rev. Mr. Waggoner and his lady, but he was fatigued. We passed near the ' city of the dead ' where slept Ella's remains, and he pointed towards its shadowy retreat with a serene yet ominous smile. Hour after hour, day and night, we sat in his room, with long intervals of silence, but now and then broken with cheerful converse upon topics of an ordinary nature. Sometimes he would arouse himself with new life, as I rallied his spirits, and would talk of the future like a man of the world. But it was only to please others ; and then he would relapse into silence, rolling his thoughts beyond the world. Much of the time he passed in quiet, half-dreaming slumbers upon his couch, calm as a pillowed child. Sometimes, when friends called, he was again himself in social cheer ; at others, he was silent. The few flies that lingered in his warm room seemed nervously annoying, and he often addressed them in most uncomplimentary apostrophes. Children had become an innocent offence, and he often regretted the annoyance he felt in their presence, and his own uninviting appearance to them. * See those little youngsters run,' said he, one morn- ing, as he pointed to two small boys who were trotting by his window with no laggard pace, casting terrific glances behind. * What makes them ? ' I inquired. ' I don't know,' he replied, with a half-rebuking, half- pitiful smile, 'unless they are afraid of me, which I ' suspect is the case. For, one morning, while they ' were going by to school, as they stopped to stare at me GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 131 * through the window, just in sport, I made up a comic * face, and spoke ; at which they took to their heels, in * fright. I expect, as somebody may have told them I * was sick and dying, they think I am a mere ghost, or * some such awfully mysterious thing ; and so, ever since * that morning, on their way to school, they run by the * house, hand in hand, cantering away at full speed, never * daring to look up.' He was now able to read but little, and to write less. He wrote, however, to his father, and spoke with usual interest in regard to himself, his friends, and affairs in Cross River, and especially in counsel relating to his half-brothers Lewis and Joseph. His last letter to the correspondent of his youth dates November 23d. He congratulatas him on his removal and settlement at Chicopee, and wishes he could spend Thanksgiving day with him. His health is about the same, and he is under the homoeopathic care of Dr. French, He has received warm encouragement to join his friend, Rev. A. Gage, in Florida ; and, if able, does not know but he may start with a physician who contemplates going south. Alluding to a dear young friend who had just died in Providence, ho closes his last letter with the exclamation, ^ Poor Foot ! He was a strong, noble fel- low. Yours, Geo.' And now no more shall I break the seal that clasps the message signed by that bold and brotherly hand ! 'Tis the last message winged over the earthly railway ! — the last link of that golden chain, which reaches back to childhood, festooned with a thousand flowery memories, and glittering along the whole line of life with a radiance 132 LIFE-SKETCHES OF undimmed by clouds and storms ! Tis broken ! Nay, nay ! — for one may soon ascend to starry worlds, and, clasping his end of that golden chain around the throne of the Father, aloiig the telegraphic line of spirit realms waft celestial messages of love to the dweller below ! For several weeks George remained with no material change. He spent a number of days with Rev. W. Spaulding, at West Haverhill ; occasionally went out by imitation, and enjoyed a hearty dinner with friends, till, on the 12th of December, he was prostrated with new and violent symptoms of his malady. While I was in the room of an invalid, after a month's confinement, on the 17th, an alarming line came to Chicopee, from Rev. H. Jewell. But G-eorge had insisted upon adding a postscript, to lessen the alarm. I answered in a full sheet to George, endeavoring to smooth his solemn journey, promising to be with him as early as possible, and requested Mr. Jewell to write daily, and ply the telegraph in case of emergency. Sleep, that night, was filled with shadows and di^eams of one afar off, who might now be seeking sleep in vain, and lie rolling in anguish. The next day brought the telegraphic sum- mons, ' Come quick ." As I flew over the iron track at midnight, cutting the shrill air of a withering winter, rattling, dashing on, on with the silent, ghostly crew crowding the dimly lighted car, I thought of another journey, and of one flying over the same iron track, ♦ on, on, on,' to the far west, towards the lone friend Charles, lying dead in a distant land ! — and I trembled lest I also might be too late, — till, on Saturday morning, GEORGE nENRT CLARK. 133 the 20tli, I tread the threshold he shall walk no more, and he still lives I He smiles, and is now ready to die. He reaches out that thin hand, whose grasp is still warm and strong. He stretches forth his arm, — * See there, — is that my * arm ? — Take hold of it, — it won't hurt you. I * shall be thinner yet. I did not expect you till Mon- *day, — did not know Jewell had telegraphed, — did * not want him to do it ; — but I 'm glad you 've come. * Sit down there ; I can't talk much, nor above a whis- * per. No, you needn't telegraph to father nor Hosea; * the journey may be too much for the old man. Should * be glad to see them ; but they can do me no good, — * everything is done for me. You find me down low, * now, — a very sick man. Before this, it was only dis- * tress ; but, since I have been down this time, it is pain, * pain, — keen, cutting, racking, savage, life-destroying * pain ! ' said he, compressing his lips with a struggle to bear it without a murmur. After I had been with him awhile, and we were alone, ' Say, Uriah,' said he, * I * want to be with you alone, about an hour. Fasten both * of thc^e doors, — admit no one. — Yes, I want that * fastened too, — you '11 find a nail there. Sit down * here, close ; — give me time, now, for I have lit- *tle strength.' And then he communicated his last wishes. He desired some little token to be left each of his relatives. He spoke with an overflowing heart of the many unwearying kindnesses and labors of Mr. Tylers family ; — how dear little sister Frank was the image of his Ella ; how ready brother Fred was to serve him ; how father Tyler had gone on calmly and 12 134 LIFE-SKETCHES OF patiently doing everything; how mother Tyler had been a second mother, watching and weeping and wear- ing herself out for him ; how devoted her sister, Mrs. Wingate, had been ; and he wanted them all thanked and richly rewai^ied. And many others, too, he could not forget ; — his society, the Sons of Temperance, especially the Odd Fellows, who watched over him, and the Masons, with whose ancient rites he wished to be buried. But he was too weak, he said, either to re- member or specify all he wanted to say. He woidd leave all to the discretion of one whom he had ever trusted. I bade him make no efibrt to talk. He would not, could not. I spoke of the Gospel faith which had borne him through years of toil and trial, and told him I sup- posed his mind so well settled that he wished all to understand he remained unchanged, without being ques- tioned. ' Yes, yes,' he replied, ' yon know. I have '■ not put that off to this hour ; everybody ought to know, * without my repeating it now. I am not able. My * mind was made up, a long time ago ; I have thought it * all over and over, and am the same. I don't want any- * body to ask me, as though there was a chance to doubt. ' I can't answer merely for the sake of having it to tell, * — no strength. I may think of something else I want ' to say, if I am able, — that 's all, now. You may go ' out now, or stay here.* Thi-ough this interview, and even to the last, George retained a tone of mind peculiar to himself, and some- times surprising to strangers. Sometimes he was taken with humorous conceits., I was speaking of certain GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 135 fancies I had, during late sickness, when George, smil- ing, replied they were just like some of his. ' I have * often said to one of my lungs, now, if you will only take * care of yourself, I will look to the other, and risk it.* On the day before, he held a pleasant conversation, as far as able, with his physician, Dr. French, of the Bap- tist communion. He remarked that he had many friends he loved here on earth, and some in heaven; and it was immaterial with him which he joined, if God's will were done. Dr. French was impressed with the happy calmnass of his spirit. As he was unable to talk, on Saturday evening I sug- gested reading to him. He acceded with pleasure ; and, after I had read an extract from John Foster, on death, he requested me to read a favorite chapter of his on the same subject, though taken from an author whose phi- losophy, in general, he questioned. I read half the chapter at one sitting, at the end of which he exclaimed, * Glorious ! glorious ! ' I then spoke a few moments on the theme, and he gave smiling responses. I read the remainder of the chapter, and he whispered, ' Beautiful ! beautiful ! ' Now I proposed to read from Mountford's * Euthanasy,' a book he had kept close by him ever since the death of Ella ; but he was too feeble. It now being very near the time of Ella's departure, two years before, Mrs. Tyler reminded him of it. His face lighted up with a faint smile, and he replied, * I shall go about the same time, but perhaps a little before.' During Saturday night, his rest was better, and his pains were easier. But Sunday morning found him fiiiling fast. The worship of his people, that day, was made more 136 LIFE-SKETCHES OF solemn and impressive from the shadow that seemed hovering around. Many friends poured in to see him, with muflSed tread and mournful face, to gaze upon their wan pastor, so calm and uncomplaining in the hour of suffering nature. But he can speak to only a few, and then faintly. With me, however, he seems better able to talk than with others. In the afternoon, while his friends Ilerrick, Goodwin, and some others, are passing out without his having been able to speak to them, he called me to his side, and said, ' Bid those gentlemen, ' and all who come, farewell, for me ; tell them they Lave ' my warmest feelings and affections ; bid them, for me, 'an affectionate farewell for this world;' and then he di'opped his head, exhausted. Towards evening, he is revived with a call from his long cherished friend. Dr. Kelley, of Worcester, who, together with Mi's. Dr. Manly, is to watch through the night. And now, as Sunday evening deepens into the silence of midnight, the scene deepens with the solemnities of death. Will another morning dawn upon him there on that couch of suffering, or upon a soul }?athed in the light of an everlasting day ? An hour after midnight, as I was about retiring, a messenger came quick, saying George had called. I hurried to his side. He had no message, but wanted to feel my presence. I took his hand ; it was growing cold. Now and then his agonies were intense, and he sent forth a long, loud, deep groan of prayer, — ' 0, God ! ' and that was all. It was enough. It told all he suffered, all he trusted, all he prayed for, all he hoped ! Anon he looked around upon those who stood by, as though imploring help to breathe, GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 137 to bear, to suffer, to hope ; but, finding himself alone, alone with the Father, in that awful hour, he would then turn his eyes heavenward, with clasped hands, repeat- ing, ' 0, God ! ' I asked him if he desired me to say to his father, brothers, and all his friends, that he held strong-, to the end, in the same faith and hope he had preached ; and he answered, * Yes, yes ! ' Soon after, he raised his arms from the bed, and, in his natural, earnest tone, said, ' I tell you what, those hands are growing cold, without joking ! ' He spoke as though it seemed more odd than alarming. I told him to let his hands go, and try to think nothing of his crumbling body, but feel, with Paul, that, though the earthly tab- ernacle were dissolved, there was a building of God, eternal in the heavens ; to remember that He who tasted death for. us all, who was made perfect through suffering, who calmly commended his spirit to the Father, was there with him, and ready to welcome him home, where all would soon be reconciled. ' 0, yes, yes ! ' he replied, with a beaming face. Then stretching out his long, transparent arms, and rolling his eyes to heaven, as though catching a ray of celestial light and hope, he cried out, ' God, I am soon going home ! ' Shortly after this, he wished to be turned over ; and Mrs. Tyler and Manly began, stopping to give him rest, as he was over only half way. Wondering why they stopped, he looked up, and coolly inquired, ' Well, have you given it up ? ' He would be himself to the last. But now the hour is hastening, and consciousness of the last great change is fast stealing over him. He calls the family group around him. Mother and sister 12# 138 LIFE-SKETCHES OF Tyler, Mrs. Wingate, Mrs. Manly, one by one, he takes by the hand, with his arms round their necks, draws them near, and seals the solemn farewell, with his now trembling lips. And then the hand of father and Frederick Tyler, and the last adieu. He and I had oft parted, during our wanderings through the world, and oft parted in silence, — parted to meet not, perhaps, for mouths, or years, — parted with no grasp of hands, no moui'nful farewells, no words to mock the emotions of the soul, no forms to express what heart spoke to heart in silence. And thus we part now, — in silence, the silence of death! We all stand in the solemn presence of the last Messenger ; but his bow seems broken, his barb blunted, his victory despoiled. All is still, save bosoms beating with anguish over the serene sufferer, whose soul has now lost all consciousness of a receding world, is fast ebbing from that perishable fabric, and pouring itself out into the immeasurable realms of eternity. He heeds not the loved circle, that stands watching and weeping around; for his visions are of the beatified in heaven, who hover over, on angels' wings, to waft him home. And hark ! hear we not their melody, mingling with the fluting tones of the long-loved Ella ! No ; it is but the low, soft breath of the departing spirit. And now it comes more gently, softly and low. Wait, wait, thou child of suffering years, and soon thy chastened life shall suffer no more ! No more, no more ! for, even now, without groan or murmur, the travail of thy celestial birth is over ! GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 139 CHAPTER XIII. OBSEQUIES. GENERAL ANALYSIS. — THE DREAM REAL- IZED. And now we would say of him, as he said of Ella, — ' He slept well last night ! ' On his pale, cold face, comes back the smile of happier years, — that smile which the death-angel seems to have painted there, as a symbol of the happier world, whither he has gone. It was ten minutes past three, in the morning of Decem- ber 22d, 1851, he died to mortality, rejoining his companion within three days from the date of her departure, and at the age of thirty years, one month, twenty-two days. His final malady was tubercular phthisis. But the funeral hour draws near, and the bier stands at the door, to be followed by a long procession of faithful brothers, Masons, Odd Fellows, Sons, Cadets, and members of his society, led by a band, playing a mournful march. Snow-drifts are gathering deep and fast, and the storm beats down bitter with cold, and blinding with flakes ; but warm hearts heed it not, and he no more feels the biting blasts he once dreaded, and the blasts that swept away his beloved. The large Cal- vin Baptist church seats the subdued audience ; the Throne is addressed by Bev. Mr. Harrington, the Uni- 140 LIFE-SKETCnES OP tarian pastor, and a co-laboring brother and friend of the departed; the gladsome theme of a better life, through the risen Redeemer, is eloquently discoursed on by Rev. T. B. Thayer, of Lowell ; home-sent ad- dresses to the bereaved are appropriately proffered by Rev. H. Jewell ; the fraternities and friends are touch- ingly thanked by Rev. Mr. Harrington ; the moving funeral prayer is made by Rev. W. H, Waggoner ; the choir lifts its solemn anthem ; the Sons pay their last rites to their brother; the long train moves towards the ' city of the dead ; ' the Masons discharge their final duty ; ' dust to dust ' beneath that shady tree, now bend- ing with snow-blooms, where the marble tells of the loved Ella ; the evergreens drop gently upon the frame of a soul gone to blossom in a perennial land ; the long train returns ; ' the mourners go about the streets,' and then retire to their warm homes, thinking of the fresh- made graves up there in the lone woods, over which the winds may sweep, the storms break, the thunders roll, and the sun shine, but to call back the reunited pair no more. But the funeral forms are over, business is de- spatched, and I am home,' unpacking the stored treas- ures of toiling years. All is before me. That little purse of golden coin he earned with his blood, and which he knew not how or where to keep in his sick- ness ; those files of bills, letters, scraps, notes, running far back ; those large packages of sermons ; those gar- ments he wore, and that regalia of ofiice ; those well- balanced ledgers, leaving him square with the world, and memoranda of labors, marriages, discourses ; those GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 141 thousands of pages of diar j, embracing the memories of twelve long years of incessant change ; those volumes of his choice ; those memorials of Charles, now trans- mitted again ; those numerous little things, trivial, but dear; that staff upon which he leaned towards the grave ; this secretary of his pride, over which he bent till ' the silver cord was broken ; ' — all, all is here ! And now, reader, for a moment suffer me to pause amid the rush of overwhelming emotions. But no, no ! 0, heart, be still, and let me on with my task ! Hence- forth be this life like the bosom of a clear, calm stream, ever reflecting that new star, added to the constellations of Heaven. In the life and character of George Henry Clark, we have an illustration of the moral force of a true Christianity, in contrast with opposing creeds. While in boyhood and youth, and even while in membership with the Methodist church, there were certain wild and wayward tendencies in his nature, which the better Gos- pel at last overcame. There was one period, however, — a period dangerous to all, — during his transition from the old to the new religion, when a great moral conflict was endured. It was some time before he could throw off the old motive of fear, and feel that love, duty, prin- ciple, virtue, were their own motive and reward, with- out the dread of a frightful doom, or the hope of a self- ish heaven. But he passed the ordeal, and became transformed in the new image of Christ. As a student, he found ' sermons in stones, books in the running brooks, and good in everything.' He was too active and practical to become a voluminous reader. 142 LIPE-SKETCHES OP Yet, whatever he attempted was readily mustered into his service. As a teacher, he ventured into whatever branches his pupils desired to study, whether science, philosophy, higher mathematics, or the languages, and was seldom staggered. His ' Select Academy ' affords an example of his pedantic daring, rising as it did in the midst of a large, intelligent village, and along side of Canandaigua Academy. Yet he carried it through, and finally took a high place in Canandaigua. Before he finished teaching, he received nine certificates of commendation, and in several educational associations he was called to take active parts, and assume eligible positions. His favorite books were the Bible and Shakspeare, copies of which were usually by his side, at home and abroad. He was charmed ^-ith the bard of Avon, and was able to give some striking delineations of his char- acters. I remember an occasion, in a private circle, when he enacted the tent-scene in Richard III., in a manner to move even a dramatic author and student who were present. Since his departure, a dear friend, who often used ' To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn,' has sent, begging of me, as a memorial, that favorite old copy of Shakspeare George always had by his side. He seldom labored through large works of dry, dogmatic theology, his library in this department extending but little beyond Dr. Clarke, and a few reference books. The publications of his own denomination, however, GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 143 were readily digested, the best of which always stood next to the Bible, while he was thirsting for more read- ing like that afforded by the Universalist Quarterly. Among the favorite authors on his humble shelf were Channing, Dewey, Mountford, Macaulay, Dickens, Cer- vantes, Burns, Hudson on Shakspeare, Mrs. Child, Tup- per's Proverbial Philosophy, Giles, Hume, Lacon and Goldsmith. Byron he loved with a kind of hateful shudder. He read Consuelo with intense interest ; yet he questioned .its tendency on his own mind, notwith- standing the high tone breathing through the whole. He attempted to peruse two of Sue's largest works ; but, in the end, grew vexed both with Sue and himself In hours of relaxation, and while in the cars, he sometimes glanced over cheap novellette literature, but found little to satisfy him. Towards the last, he tried to balance his mind by reading lighter works, seemingly calculated to excite his sickly and cooling senses, and bring him down to the world. But all was of no avail ; his spiritual nature, chastened and elevated by suffering, refused to come down, but clove to the skies. As a writer, he published but little, except what appeared prematurely. His fourteen ' Rambles about Town,' in Canandaigua, signed 'Peter Peregrin,' em- braced some pithy points, and called out some close poetic sparring between ' Peter ' and an anonymous writer, signed ' Sally Ann ; ' but, in after years, he made no boast of them ; neither of nine ' Scraps,' signed * Jicks,' published at Lockport. Among effusions early printed, are several in verse, entitled, * Death of a Sister,' 'To my Father,' 'Death of a Pupil,' 'A 144 LIFE-SKETCHES OF Mother's Care,' sliowing more heart than hand for poetry. Like many other well-meaning boys and men, who never left their names on the scroll of poetic fame, he was sometimes seized with a rhyming fever. In an early scrap-book, he speaks of his first and his subsequent attempts at poetizing in no very compliment- ary strain. Yet he filled a large volume with those rhyming effusions, which are so common to youthful minds, with efiervescent imagination, longing to pour out their innermost emotions, but seeking in vain for suitable expression. He often wrote with a heart sur- charged too intensely for suppression. In after years he became so deeply conscious of his impotence in endeavor- ing to give a full and true utterance to his soul, he would rather have destroyed every fragment of his early efforts than allowed any of them to pass into other hands, especially fragments dignified with the name of poetry. This gives an idea of the estimation in which he held his poetic genius, and may likewise speak for many others in the same line. Among the miscellaneous manuscripts of any merit, reaching back to his earliest appearance in public, are the ' Yankee and Duellist,' a comedy, played at Clinton, and thought by seme to have equalled any- thing produced there during the season, even by Hamil- ton College; ' Slavery,' in verse; ' Sublime and Kidicu- lous,' and ' My Mother,' papers read before the ' Society of Rhetorical Brethren ;' ' Human Life,' an address at Clinton ; five lectures before dijGFerent associations, lit- erary and reformatory ; one Fourth of July Oration ; one lecture to Cadets and eight lectures to the Sons of GEORGE UEXRY CLARK. 145 Temperance ; one to Odd Fellows ; and one rhythmical address at the dedication of a Sons of Temperance Hall, at Lawrence, January, 1851, — a paper that cost him some of his last days. His first sermon was written in Clinton, July, 1843; and his last, an annual sermon, in Lawrence, May, 1851. During the five years previous to his settlement in Lockport, he was able to write but little, — his ser- mons not exceeding a dozen. He was actively engaged in the ministry only four years and a half, six months of which were spent in Lockjwrt, and nearly four years in Lawrence. During his entire ministry, he solem- nized sixty-two marriages, wrote out in full two hundred and ninety-three sermons, left undestroyed about two hundred and fifty ; preached five hundred and thirty- two times, in forty-nine difierent places, in seven States of the Union, and travelled nine thousand eight hundred miles. Among his favorite sermons were those on ' Love and Obedience,' ' Immortality,' < Faith Dead without Works,' ' Lessons of the Storm,' ' A Merry Heart,' ' Inseparable Love of God,' ' Reiinion of Friends,' ' Mission of Trials,' ' Eleventh Command- ment,' ' Head and Heart,' ' Going to Heaven without Friends,' and, nearly the last he wrote, ' God all in all.' The great body of sermons he left shows him to have been a rapid writer, usually finishing an ordinary ser- mon a day. Latterly, however, he was more slow and cautious, growing ashamed of his hasty efforts. He almost literally wrote himself to death, constantly impairing the powers of speech, as in the case of most 13 146 LIFE-SKETCHES OP clergymen confined to manuscript. Nature gave him all the elements of an orator : a tall, commanding personage ; a sharp, detective eye ; an active, enthusiastic tempera- ment ; a warm heart, ever with the people ; an inde- pendent spirit ; a quick imagination ; a ready percep- tion of the grand, the solemn, the ludicrous, the pathetic ; a deep, tremulous voice, capable of touching every chord in humanity ; and, had he enjoyed early aiDpropriate culture, trained himself to extempore efibrts, and retained his native strength, his success might have been eminent. But he was constantly enfeebled, crip- pled, embarrassed, by the arts, the drudgeries, the criti- cisms and conventionalities, of professional life; and, though he reached a mark once far beyond the dreams of his ambition, though he received the grateful plaudits of many admiring friends, though he left behind him a rich harvest-field sown amid toils and tears, yet he fell in his prime, leaving a name neither great nor yet inglorious to those who knew him nearest. As a minister of the Gospel, his reverence for the Bible was uncompromising, though he interpreted it in the light of a liberal school. He forsook its solemn and authoritative sanctions in search of no superior revelations ; for he believed Christianity, with its great doctrines and miracles, an epitome of all that man needed to guide him in faith, hope and duty. His ser- mons were usually less dogmatic than practical, less logical than declamatory, less argumentative than aphoristic and home-thrust. He never became lost in the regions of speculation. If he ever soared, it was on the wings of imagination, — wings sometimes in GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 147 danger of carr3ring him and his hearers to heights of uncomfortable, and perhaps questionable grandeur. He often rambled wild in the fields of illustration ; and, as might have been expected, occasionally mistook plain weeds for flowers, though not always. He had but little patience with long logical processes, but preferred leaping to conclusions, though sometimes in danger of leaping amiss. His sentences were often long, verbose, and filled with adjectives, as well as tautologies ; while at others they were remarkably short, sententious, pun- gent, expressive, and ending with a sharp snap. When he felt most, he used the fewest words to express him- self, as seen in extracts from his diary. He seldom preached a sermon without having some keen strokes, that came directly to the point, and made the hearer feel that the matter was disposed of without further words. He was pointedly practical in his preaching; now scourging sin till its victims fairly smarted, — then pour- ing on the oil of merey ; now heating and hammering the conscience, till fiery points sparkled and burned with remorse, — then cooling it in the river of life ; now whipping the souls of laggard saints till they grew almost aghast at their delinquencies, — then cheering them on with new hopes ; now unbarring the gates of a fabu- lous hell, till the flames seemed singing the very seats, — then quenching them with streams of overflowing grace. He never compromised the dignity of the pulpit by indulging in any conscious witticisms. While standing in the sacred desk, he felt himself environed by sancti- ties the most solemn and sublime. He preached more to the heart than the intellect. Whatever defects a 148 LIFE-SKETCHES OF cold intellectual criticism might detect in his efforts were more than compensated by the warm and earnest gushings of tho frank and feeling heart he poured out in grateful confidence. His expanding soul embraced all before him^ and he wanted to tell them how much he felty loved, thought, and labored for them. He would go home from his pulpit, and sit down and think over what he had preached, and how eager all were in hearing, and what the result might be ; then, feeling how poor and weak he was, would weep and pray, — and, with all that touching scene before him, begin another sermon, and writ^, write, write on, tiU it was done, till his brow burned, his limbs ached and trembled. Then, while that scene was still before him, and the people all sat waiting, he would start again, and again stand before them, trying to pour out his heart. And from what a heart did he preach ! It was stored with the memories, the joys, the sorrows, the trials, the Lopes, the fears, of an experience going far back, through innumerable scenes, to the time when a dear mother died, and left him sobbing over the orphanage of a lone world. He knew not how to conceal or compromise the dis- tinguishing principles of Universalism, in contrast with opposing creeds. No hearer sat long under his minis- try without learning that he had an earnest dislike of limitarian theology in all its forms, and a more earnest love for the Gospel of illimitable mercy, though he sel- dom touched upon either in a manner to offend or repel conviction. He labored less at the direct demolition of opposing dogmas, than he did in asserting, in a positive GEOEGE HENRY CLARK. 149 manner, the claims of Christianity as a constructive religion, designed to quicken the heart with piety, and adorn the life with deeds of love and duty. As a reformer, he was mild and conservative, never handling venerated prejudices with offensive roughness, nor yet passing them over in silence ; never dealing in mere abstractions, yet applying the principles of a benevolence broad enough to embrace both the offending and the offended, the oppressor and the oppressed, the wronger and the wronged. The sermons he left behind cover over all the ground of Christianity, — doctrinal, practi- cal, spiritual, progressive, consolatory, — embodying a range of thought and labor sufficient for the mission of a longer life than was his. His labors in Lawrence, iike his life, were cut off in their prime, ere either he or his people had reaped their richest reward, and just as the harvest-field seemed most ripe for the reapers. He grew up with the society, and with tbe town itself, till Lawrence swelled to a population exceeding ten thou- sand, adorned with numerous magnificent buildings, pri- vate and public, among the latter of which he had long labored to see one temple reared to the impartial Father. As a friend and companion, George was warm, gen- ial, free, frank, cheerful, and confiding. There was a home-like and fiimiliar atmosphere around him, which made those who sought his society feel at ease, and as though they were in the presence of one whom they eould trust, and who trusted them. There was no sly, cold, critical or suspicious side glance ; but a straight- forward look, — an open^ speaking face, — a warm 13=^ 150 LIFE-SKETCHES OF shake of the hand, — a smile which spoke of beneyo* lence and confidence, and a hearty how-do-you-do, which had the air of the friend and gentleman combined. Once in sympathy with him, you soon forgot his faults ; and if he saw youi's, you had no fear of having them passed over to your face, and then babbled as soon as your back was tui^ned, for he told you right out in your presence ; and, though his bluntness was half startling and half offensive, at first, somehow you soon got over it, and laughed at his humorous impudence. If you wished him to divert you, to join you in a laugh or an anecdote, or even to weep with you, he was ready; but he had no long tale of woe about himself to harrow you' with. He told that tale in his diary, and to his God. If he walked into yom* house, he was at home, whether be wanted a seat, a cup of water, or a crust ; and he seemed so cool and self-possessed, you fancied him a gentlemanly son of your own family. He was too frank and impolitic to be without some enemies, but he had enough warm friends to compensate ; and his friends, he believed, were no half-way folks, but whole- souled, and a little better than any that could be found elsewhere, so fond and confiding were his conceits. And such friends he claimed among his own people at Law- rence. I rememl)er more than a score of dear names which grew familiar only from hearing him so often repeat them. So strong were liis attachments to Law- renc-e, that he felt this was the only place in which he could die in peace. Here he could lean upon those whom he had tried and trusted for years, and on their bosoms close his eyes serenely. How touching was the GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 151 confidence he poured out, and how keen the sympathy- awakened in those who saw him, day after day, droop- ing around, pining, suffering, and sometimes groaning with distresses he could never describe, yet bearing all with trust in God and in those he loved ! Those who saw him in their homes, during his last days, will long remember how he drooped around, like a sick and weary child, — 0, how weary ! and calling for whatever little comfort he needed, with no thought of over being denied, and yet ever murmuring the gratitude of a plaintive heart, too full to express all he felt. In circles of ministering brethren he was usually silent and reserved, unless on familiar terms with most who were present. If he spoke, his words were few, but apt. He preferred to take no secondary part in deliberations he was willing to trust to seniors and superiors. Though he enjoyed a friendly relation with many of the large circle of Christian brethren in east- ern New England, yet he kept his counsels with a few chosen spirits, who were all in all, and whose names have already appeared in these pages. Fuller says of Ben Jonson, that while in the com- pany of superior minds, he usually sat silent, observing and studious. This may suggest a striking trait in the life and character sketched in these pages. However active and efficient he might be where duty called or propriety allowed, however commanding and officious, he was seldom guilty of thrusting himself forward with an air of personal consequence. He knew his own sphere, and never immodestly sought to palm himself off as though belonging to a higher and greater. He 152 LIFE-SKETCHES OF was too independent to renounce his own individuality in playing a game of policy and pretence ; and he held in hearty contempt everything that savored, in the least, of such a course. His self-confidence, and his capacity to read human character, were such, however humble his sphere, while in the society of leading minds he usually remained in the backgi'ound, — unostentatious, quietly composed, unenvious, and sometimes, perhaps, indulging in criticisms, of a humorous or sarcastic na- ture, on the vanity of those who seemed more than they really icere. He was generally a model of an unobtru- sive young clergyman, to follow which, some young men might improve their manners, and add to their merit in the estimation of acute observers. In the professional gatherings of Cornhil], he was seldom seen elbowing his way, with important aire, to become identified with those who held the first rank ; and seldom heard recount- ing any wonderful achievements he had made. Yet, however quiet or unobtrusive, his presence was felt as congenial ; and the few words he spoke, accompanied with a deep, subdued tone of voice, an open smile, a strong gi'asp of the hand, and a certciin dignified bland- ness of mannei*s, were well calculated to leave an im- pression of the man lasting beyond the passing hour. His bearing was similar at denominational associations and conventions. If he was ever seen or heard in front, it was because he was called out, and not because he had put himself in the way. Neither in the council nor conference was he the man to be always ready to spring to his feet, whenever an opportunity offered, whether he stood in the way of others who could better GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 153 fill the place or not. It was never his either to stride his way forward to the most conspicuous part of the congregation, bowing, and smiling, and speaking, to every third person, as he went, to make a display of his extensive acquaintance before the whole congregation ; or, when forward, to molest the passing services by attempting to exhibit his critical sagacity, in making smiles and afl&rmative nods to his neighbors. And whenever he saw any of these things in brethren of his own age, he wanted the opportunity of expressing his insidted sentiments, and of administering the deserved rebuke where it belonged. In ministerial exchanges, he always preserved the dignity of his office, and never grew importunate with invitations to brethren of higher standing, under the pretence that his people were very earnest to hear them, ambitiously longing to display himself in their popular pulpits. Yet his exchanges were numerous, and some of them with brethren of the first repute. I cannot forbear alluding here, in brief, to the many memorials of public and private esteem received since his departure. The resolutions passed by the Lawrence society, and some of the beneficent fraternities of which he was a member, speak in warm appreciation of his labors and sacrifices in their behalf, and in sacred mem- ory of his name. A long roll of names he obtained to the Cadets' pledge of temperance, as well as to private pledges, may embrace names which shall hereafter rise to be enrolled in blessed remembrance of his reformatory spirit. Numerous letters of condolence from profes- •sional brethren, together with notices taken from the 154 LIFE-SKETCHES OF press, now before me, contain expressions of sympathy and commendation, some of which I cannot withhold, though, in quoting, I may invade the sanctities of pri- vate personal correspondence. ' Deeply do I sympathize with you, and much do I ' feel afflicted myself, in the loss of one who stood so ' high in my esteem, and whom I had placed on the list * of my most valued friends.' ' I loved George.' * Of your brother, what can I say ? I bid him joy ' on his reunion with the gentle Ella, angel that she ' now is. I have loved him for his noble qualities, and * shall remember him with emotions calm and deep. He ' has been like a brother to one who, since her child- ' hood, has known not a brother's love. I shall feel his * spirit near in every hour I need sympathy. Give ' him a sister's blessing, and bid him, if permitted, carry ' a message of love to Ella, and my angel-boy ; tell him ' we shall still be one family, though part are here and ' part in heaven. We shall look up to them, and they ' down upon us. Their spirits shall descend and ascend * the angel-ladder of Jacob, anon whispering messages of ' peace and joy to the struggling souls below.' ' I saw him only a few times, but saw much to love ' and admire ; and had he lived, we should have been * friends.' ' One of the richest treats of my life was to enjoy his ' society. He made every place pleasant and happy, and * one could not be with him once without longing to meet * him again, and feeling sorrow at parting. Plain, simple, * unaffected in his manners ; generous and warm-hearted, GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 155 * to a degree seldom equalled ; noble, upright, [.urc, none * could know him without loving. But what are words, ' descriptions, compared with what is felt in the presence ' of one who seemed to fill with endearing associations ' every scene in which he mingled ! The heart, 0, the ' heart, — if that could speak ! But, farewell, dear ' George ! " Whom the gods love, die young." Thy * companionship has beguiled me of many hours. Thou ' hast made some spots of earth lovely, and ever to be ' remembered. I have no right to reclaim thee from ' the skies. Another has there waited for thee, and * now thou art joined again as once on earth. But, 0, ' forget not to linger near, with thy guardian spirit, to ' pilgrims whose journey is not yet ended ! ' * I was strongly attached to him. Pie had those free, * frank, genial qualities, which rendered his presence * attractive, and won the love of all who sought his * sphere. I admired his devotion to our great faith, his ' spirit of self-sacrifice, and his willingness to accept what- ' ever place in which he could serve his Master's will ; ' and I fear he may have labored so much in this spirit, ' as to fall an early martyr, worn down in mental and * physical strength.' ' He has been a successful preacher, ever since he ' entered the ministry ; and his life has been an * unbroken series of acts which reflect honor on his mem- ' ory, and on the denomination of Christians to which he * belonged.' These extracts may sufiice. His domestic bereavement changed the tone of his whole life. Left a childless widower, after but eighteen months of conjugal joys, broken by no household cares 156 LIFE-SKETCHES OF nor crosses, all his way grew dark and desolate. His sorrow entered his soul, and seemed too sacred to be exorcised. He had no remorseful memories in connec- tion with Ella, — nothing but love, and that sweet, beautiful presence, now no more around him. There was nothing he could forget, nothing he wished to forget, save her last sufferings, and that she was gone. If he- ever thought of another to take her place, it was with no heart, and the thought was soon dismissed. There was none but her whom he still saw in every- thing about him ; and if he ever struggled to forget his grief, it was only that he might live for duty. He did struggle to soften it. He covered her name written on the fly-leaf of several books he had given her, but the books were there still. He sealed up a pack of printed visiting cards which bore their names joined, but their names were still joined in his heart ; and, as he thought of this, he wrote on the package, ^0,0'.^ He asso- ciated her memory with everytbing joyous and lovely, and endeavored to live over the happiness he had lost. As music was the passion of her heart, he took melan- choly delight in humming over those familiar songs they had sung together, fancying her still joining, though in celestial melody. Time after time, he would sit alone at the piano, or melodeon, playing in slow and soft measure snatches of tunes once favorite with both ; now and then pausing, as though listening to hear the voice he once heard, or musing amid memories which the sad strain awakened while thrilling upon heart-chords that never ceased to vibrate with the mournful music of his grief. GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 157 In his two subsequent annual sermons, he could not avoid some touching allusion to the departed. In the last sermon he wrote, Ella ^Yas still there ; but she was there as an angel lifting her song in that band whose melody he was soon to drink in forevermore. He felt it no crime to mourn, while he mourned not without hope. His grief took such deep hold on his heart, he cared less how soon he wore out his life for Grod and human- ity. And then, when his own bodily ills came on, his grief deepened into hours of awful gloom, — hours that seemed to grudge him the long-hoped release, — hours anon filled with appalling images of doubt, of fear, and almost despair. But * He faced the spectres of his mind. And laid them.' The battle he fought, in those long, darkening hours, was polishing his armor bright for heaven, — was work- ing out a faith and hope which should at last vanquish the final enemy. And so divinely had he been trained through long seasons of sickness and sorrow, that one who had often seen him expressed the whole, when he said, ' George seemed thoroughly schooled for dying.' One scene more. Years ago, on the night after he had come out a disciple of the despised faith, and the first storm had been poured upon him as an alien, he slept. He dreamed he was a sad, lone wanderer, driven from home and friends, because of that faith. He fled from door to door, pelted with scorn and contempt. Now he stands at the threshold of some old familiar companion, and knocks and waits. But he finds no 14 158 LIFE-SKETCHES OP welcome while that faith is seen in every lineament of his face. He is driven on with curses, — away, away, from house to house, meeting nothing but cold looks, curled lips, and withering anathemas. Now the storm howls over his path, and then the sun beats down with scathing beams upon the lone wanderer of the world, with no home, no friend. He is faint, weary, famish- ing ; and is there no refuge ? He flies afar to one long known as standing before the world, a herald of his own scorned faith. But, alas, that herald has shaken in trust, — has joined the jeering multitude in apostasy to Heaven ; and he, too, drives the wanderer from his door. He flies, jaded and weary, over the earth, in search of one, if only one, who holds fast the faith for which he suiFers. Over seas, deserts, mountains, continents, from city to city, he flies ; but finds none, — no, not one ! The once feeble few have all fallen in awful apostasy. Now, for the first time, the wanderer thinks of the brother who, alone with him, once came out from the darkness ; and, wondering why he had not thought before, he flies to seek his presence. He stands before him. But, alas ! he, too, has joined the throng, and holds that faith no more. He, too, pours curses upon the wanderer's head. And now, merciful God! he is alone, — alone, indeed! He stops and thinks. The careless, unbelieving throng, on one hand, holds out a thousand transient charms ; and, on the other, is a lone, stormy world. Shall he join the throng, and repeat the denial of Peter ; or go on to Cal- vary ? Shall he sell that divine faith which alone can lift the song of joy even amid toils and trials, and endless travels over the wide wildernesses of earth ? No, no ! GEORGE HENRY CLARK. 159 He liad once tasted the dregs of wo drank from the poisoned chalice of council-made creeds. He had once known the agony, the horror, the despair. He strug- gled, groaned, prayed ; and at last dashed the tempter at his feet. He triumphed in his faith. And now again he goes on in his lone pilgrimage ; but he goes rejoicing anew in the armor made strong and bright from victorious battle. He awoke from the dream. And he awoke rejoicing that his faith had not wavered, even in all those wild and despairing wanderings of the night. He thanked God, and took coui'age. Years after, and after he had long gone over the world a poor, lone wanderer, he stood before his flock, and repeated that tale of the night. Tears streamed down the faces of the listening band, and hearts were made stronger in a faith thus unshaken through the terrible ordeals of time, as, with a voice loud and tremulous, he closed, exclaiming, * My soul has 'been steadfast, and ever shall be! When old death ' comes to call me away, with my hold still strong, I ' hope to triumph ; and I pray God my last words, while ' leaving the world, may be, with Paul, I have finished ' my course, I have kept the Faith ! The solemn hour that closed his earthly career, to the silent, sobbing group standing around his death-couch, brought an answer to that earnest prayer. The faith he had kept through years of incessant struggle, and which had borne him on his course with unfaltering purpose, was still the great solace of his soul, while hov- ering on the borders of the invisible world ; and ere the last flickering flame went out from the lamp of life, 160 GEORGE HENRY CLARK. bright-winged Hope joined hand in hand with Faith in bearing the disenthralled spirit home to God in triumph. Soldier of the cross, and of many a moral battle-field, now rest thou from thy labors below ! But thine armor shall long hang bright in the halls of memory, within whose walls is heard the serene voice and muffled tread of depart- ed spirits, reminding the Christian warrior of one who bled and suffered with noble heroism, and who fell in his prime, still valiant to the last for the Captain of the great salvation. Nay ; thou hast not fallen, but risen to join the innumerable throng of celestial witnesses hover- ing over this terrestrial encampment, whose ' white tents shall soon be struck for the morning march ' of eternity. Thy course, here finished, has just commenced its glo- rious campaign on the plains of immortal being ; and with loved ones lingering by the side, with saints, mar- tyrs, angels and just men made perfect in heaven, lift- ing the everlasting song, thou shalt go on in fields for- ever opening anew, amid waving palms of victory. J L COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY LIBRARIES 0021137986