Part 7

Call up from their graves the departed worthies of their own day, the robed and transfigured memorials of distant times; let the long line of the revered dead pass in imagination before you, and as they pass, read their titles. The difference between a smile and a tear, between martyrdom and a triumph, between a smile of joy and a pang of agony, between a feast and a fast, is not greater than the difference in model and standard of character in those whom we agree in calling religious men. The saint from the dreary caverns of Africa leads the line. His bones start from his attenuated skin; even the skin is worn away from his knees by frequent prayer; his body is wasted by fasting, watching, and scourging: he has been the companion of beasts, the prey of vermin; he has seen it may be for half a century no human face or form. There was the standard of a religious character for him, and for his age. Next in the line is the monk; renouncing what is good, and commanding what is wicked; possessing the virtues of a cloister, and the fancied holiness which has made itself necessary to supply the place of real holiness. And then the monk was accounted worthy. But with his well-kept vows, and the well-worn record of his prayers, the monk retires into shadow with the saint, and a saint of a different aspect fills the eye. He comes as a dignitary of the church, bowed down with gold and jewels; with armies at his command, and holiness for his title. His garments are suffused with the odor of incense; millions fall prostrate and do reverence even to his feet with a kiss. He is anointed in life, and canonized at death. He lived in a gorgeous palace, he sleeps in a costly shrine. But while the pilgrim is on his way to that shrine, another ideal of the religious character passes before the mind; and then there appears before the eye one who is called a pious and godly man. He is the Puritan of ancient days. He comes with sad and austere looks, yet with a kind and tender heart, only we do not see the heart, because he wishes to be known by the face, which his close-cut hair brings into full view. A laugh to him is mockery; luxury is but a feasting of the adversary of souls; amusement is impiety; outward ceremonial is blasphemy. The offices of religion in one perpetual round, cases of conscience, large and little volumes of dry divinity, and rigid family government, are the sacrifices which he offers to God. He leaves his home that he may thus worship. He raises his psalm of deliverance in the wilderness, and at death he rests beside the roots of a forest-tree in a grave not without a memorial. And he was the religious character of his day. And as the shades of the departed fall back into mystery, we find ourselves surrounded by groups of the living, who arrange themselves under the different standards which they recognize for the religious character.

These standards might fitly be inscribed with the mottoes, 'Morality, Ordinances, Faith;' for from the one or the other of these titles come the different models for the religious character. Practical goodness, cheerful, kind and ready sympathy for the suffering, uprightness in dealing, blamelessness in example, these constitute the highest religious character for some. The observance of seasons or rites, the literal fulfilment of the terms of ordinances, is the great essential for the completeness of religious character to others. Then justification by faith, an embrace of doctrinal formularies, a fixed and constant and unresisting submission to a covenant which suspends mercy, is the standard for others. These are the prevailing standards of a religious character now. Of course, if they exist, they are in some quarters insisted upon, and the differences must constantly appear in the various estimates formed by religious persons. These diverse standards have likewise been chosen in the light of experience, of long experience, and in full view of all those ancient models which we have contemplated.

Now from this survey of the strange contrasts presented to us, as exhibiting the ideal of a religious character in different places and generations, and among us now, we might at first judge that there was in reality no true standard, but that it was all a matter of fancy, combined somewhat with the aspects and emergencies of society; that a religious character was no fixed, well-ascertained, and established existence. Yet, after all, this standard has been by no means so diverse as it would seem. For a deeper search proves to us, that the same qualities of heart have been seeking for expression by the most widely different manifestations. Change the skin and drop the body with its worn knees, its sordid or its golden robes, its rigid features, or its gay smiles, and the elements of Christian excellence, if they exist, will appear the same in all, divested of the local peculiarities of age and generation. Indeed, true Christian goodness, excellence of character, is like the water, the emblem of renewal and grace; water, as diffused over the earth, differing every where by elevation and clime. Here it is frozen into mountains of ice, there it issues as boiling vapor from the earth; it is scanty and brackish in the desert, profuse and clear in the green woods; here it is borne along in torrents; there it trickles in dancing rills; here it is buried in deep wells, there it oozes from full fountains; every where it is different, but every where it is water, and every where it is the element of life. Such is goodness, true excellence of character every where, apart from the peculiarities of age and clime.

Now by all this we are helped in discerning the elements of a religious character. The common consent of men amounts to little more than an allowance that a religious character must be formed out of a common character by two processes; the one a process of denial, the other a process of culture. And this indeed is the key to our whole subject, the solution of the great question which we have proposed, as to the standard of a religious character. There is an element of denial, and an element of culture, in a religious character; that is, a human character is made religious by renouncing something, and by attaining something. A religious character is to be formed out of a common character with some new materials; it is to part with something of its earthly organization; something of passion, weakness, and low desire, and to endue itself with something of heavenly grace and essence; turned from darkness unto light, from the power of Satan unto God.

Self-denial and culture, renunciation and attainment, are the two great processes by which a religious character is to be formed, and which, when applied, decide its elements. Yet there is a work which precedes and accompanies these processes, and that work is discipline; discipline, the agency which forms a religious character. The first essential then in a religious character is, that it be the subject of discipline; of discipline varying in the intensity of its struggles; in the difficulty, the amount, the protraction of its efforts, according to the natural differences of individuals, but always discipline; self-knowledge and self-control, strong in its formed purpose, resolute in pursuing it. A religious character was never of spontaneous growth, nor acquired unconsciously. It is known to the heart through all its stages. It is based upon spiritual convictions; it crosses many natural wishes; it embraces prospects which lie beyond the grave. These are elements of thought, of action, of life, which never come by chance, or by mere good influences around an individual. They vary in degree and strength in individuals, but are conscious possessions to all who share them. Self-discipline is a work which summons all our faculties, purposes, knowledge, resolutions, and efforts; it has its weary hours; its seasons for starting anew with quickened strength and zeal.

The prominent feature of a religious character is, that it has been the subject of discipline; that it is itself the result of discipline; has been wrought upon, formed, and established by discipline. In such a character we expect that every element shall declare effort and principle. The man or the woman, called religious, must bear about them the proof that they are what they are, as the result of an intention. We expect to see in a religious character distinctions and differences which we do not look for in the common standard of character. Nor only this; we expect also that these differences should appear as the results of a good purpose well-endeavored; a foundation, a life, a growth, consecrated by high intentions to the highest uses and for the highest aims. This is a truth which cannot be too strongly urged or insisted upon. A religious character ought to strike every one as the result of conscious effort; a work begun and in progress; a diamond in the process of being polished in the only way in which it may be polished, by other diamonds. Discipline, visible in its intention and work, this is the first of all essentials. This discipline will be strongly marked by two processes, a process of self-denial, and a process of culture; of renunciation and attainment. Of the fruits of these processes a religious character must largely partake; yet it is scarcely possible to describe in particulars the entire operation as it appears in the result.

The long and almost uniform opinion of men is right in judging that a religious character should present evidence of self-denial and self-restraint; should have renounced something of pleasure and desire; should have mortified some affections, and wrestled with some infirmities. Of the measure of this denial, each honest conscience must judge for itself. The great end of it, the sole reason for its necessity in an individual character is, that the law of the spiritual life may be obeyed, by the right exercise of the highest faculties and aims of the human heart. All indulgence inconsistent with this consecration is sin, and must be restrained. Yet who can decide the measure of this indulgence or restraint for another? A large ecclesiastical body has lately decided that dancing is inconsistent with a religious character. Whether this opinion is true or false, can be decided only by each individual for himself; by his own knowledge whether this or that amusement makes him frivolous and trifling, or whether it is only a momentary relaxation, enjoyed and then forgotten.

Now it is evident that the Almighty does not need nor require at our hands any self-denial or restraint of any kind, considered by itself, independently of its uses. Self-denial is of value only because of its influence on the character. So that we must ask ourselves what is the _reason_ for self-denial in any given case, what is the _nature_ of it, what the _degree_ of it, what the _result_ of it? Then shall we learn that in a religious character there has been a struggle between the lower and the higher nature, and that in all the parts and stages of that struggle, passion and sense have been denied; and denied for what? Not for a sour or morbid sanctimoniousness, but for the sake of a calm and meditative rest of the spirit, that unseen realities, and spiritual convictions, and noble purposes, and heavenly hopes, may have power over the character.

And as to the second process, of which a religious character is to show the visible results, the process of culture: this may appear in many traits, and graces, and actions, so as to distinguish a religious character from a common character. The elements of that culture are affections and duties, motives and convictions. The same strife between the higher and the lower nature which is begun in self-denial, is pursued in spiritual culture. The heart searcheth after the means of improvement and progress: and they are found near to us; in the lowly duties of common life, in the opportunities of a day, in the necessity which our uniform experience presents, for acting from principle if we would act aright. Self-culture, in all its highest and most comprehensive processes, is the condition by which Christian elements of character are to be acquired. Of course, virtues and graces, tastes and affections, are to be valued and preferred in proportion to their relative excellence. Piety and love, which express the applications of the two great commandments, are to be cherished, cultivated, and manifested. He who is truly and earnestly pursuing these two processes of renunciation and attainment, will acquire through his own experience a better knowledge of the elements of a Christian character than any creed or covenant can teach him. The opposing systems, the controverted dogmas, the various usages and ceremonies of Christian sects, will have but little importance for him; and he will feel that there are two parties which he is to satisfy--GOD and his own soul.

GEORGE WASHINGTON.

I.

SING of her heroes' deeds, ye harps That long in Erin's halls have hung! Give to the world their mighty names-- Give to their glorious deeds a tongue!

II.

Clime of the South! whose seven hills Uphold the fount of Genius, where To drink large draughts, from every land The votaries of art repair:

III.

Thou hast a list of time-tried names; Some truly great were born of thee: Some with their iron heel stamped out The last sad spark of liberty.

IV.

One land the Grecian madman boasts, Another claims the conquering Swede; One, echoing back the name of TELL, Holds up her hands from fetters freed!

V.

Yet brightest on the lists of fame, Bright with the glory Virtue gives, Enshrined within a nation's heart, Our PATER PATRIÆ ever lives!

VI.

No tear-stained laurels bind his brow, No bleeding land has cursed his birth; A _world's_ proud meed hath given him place Above the honored names of earth.

HORACE.

SKETCHES OF EAST-FLORIDA.

NUMBER TWO.

MY LAST NIGHT ON GUARD.

I WAS flat on my back, trying to count a small group of stars in the zenith of that part of heaven which overhangs St. Augustine, taking my observation by the camp-fire, from a pine board, with the 'stub-shot' for a pillow; the six feet of Bravo were disposed of in the same manner; and Boag and a few Spaniards were radiating in the zodiacal circle, of which the fire was the centre. The duties of our profession had not been so severe that day as to forbid our sitting up; but then it was much easier to lie down, at least so thought the Spaniards, who take every thing the easiest way possible; and Boag was deep in the invention of a new whirling contrivance for the making of egg-nogg, and chose to give himself up exclusively to the concentration of mind necessary for that purpose. Some one had thrown out, rather lazily, that it was 'very warm,' and he reckoned 'the alligators would stick their noses out to-night;' and another had remarked, with considerable effort, that 'alligators or not, it was just right and couldn't be better;' and this seemed so much the sense of the majority, that no one cared to heat himself with any argument upon the subject; and each one wandered off on his own private speculation.

It was that kind of night that seals up the lips like twilight. Warm, perhaps to a fault, and yet a change of two degrees would have drawn our cloaks over us, and we should have complained of the cold. The fire was a mere companion, that could talk to us without the effort of conversation; and in the absence of French perfumery, the smell of the pitch kindling was quite passable, and that of the orange-wood pretty much like any other. But the night was _not_ like any other; common enough there, but not within the scope of any imagination that dates north of thirty-five degrees. The air was nowhere in particular, unless you might suppose, from the solemn tone of the pine woods, that the sea-breeze which went out in the morning was on its way back; but a feather thrown up would probably have wandered about for a while, and then balanced itself upon my nose, and I should merely have seen a strange star in the heavens; olden philosophers have done worse. But I didn't throw up a feather; too much trouble. Overhead, all was bright and still; no shooting-stars, nor any thing of a quarrelsome nature; and not a cloud to be seen, in a sky that has no clouds for mere shading purposes; and though a stranger, standing on the sea-wall, would have guessed a storm, from a flash seen occasionally in the haze lying on the eastern horizon, there was no storm to be; merely the playfulness of the Gulf Stream that is sometimes seen from that coast.

In the lower part of the city, a dog was howling out some unimaginable irritation, perhaps only to indicate that something should be said upon such an occasion; or perhaps the hoot of a porpoise disturbed him; or more likely, it was _too_ still for him; he couldn't bear it. If I had fallen asleep, I should have dreamed of being outside some ruined city, and the cry of that dog sounding up through the narrow streets, like a man talking through a trumpet, would have been the howl of a hyena or jackal; and with fallen columns and moonlight, it would have sounded very well in a 'letter from our foreign correspondent.' But in Augustine, it was only a dog, and just like any other dog, that sometimes fancies itself very unhappy, and howls out its inspired misery in baying the moon. Beyond all doubt, dogs may be poetical. There are all varieties of dog; and it would be strange if in such a mixed breed there were not a poet-species, in a race that takes madness so easily. The dog excepted, one would have called it very still at first thought, but on listening, there was a great deal of varied music going on; one voice after another coming to the ear from the innumerable land and water fowl, making up a kind of opera, in which each one appeared to speak very much at random; and that, I take it, is the peculiar beauty of operas. Amid a great variety of short interjections, queries and answers, some were talking entirely to themselves, as it seemed, and others appeared to have a domestic, 'keep away' kind of expression in their remarks, arising probably from some member of the family's being too assiduous in his attentions; or perhaps they had dined badly, and so got up a quarrel to improve their digestion. No doubt there are unknown griefs, as well as unwritten poetry, in all animal life. Whatever the cause, there was an irritability and a nervous restlessness in the waters and salt-grass, that larger animals of two legs, who dine when they please and as they please, understand much better than I can tell.

Over all these inconsistences of a night so beautiful, swept like a minute-gun the sound of the third wave breaking on Anastasia Island; and on the other side, the forest, as aforesaid, which had hundreds of miles of even tree-tops on which to get up its 'voice of the night,' answered back in the same earnest and solemn manner. No fingering, or tugging at the bellows, in all this organ-izing, which was quite as good as could be made to order.

All this (and if any one wonders what it has to do with the incident to follow, he has read novels in vain,) all this had 'come and gone' through my mind, unconsciously, like a glass of congress-water elsewhere; and I turned to the stars as usual, before shutting up for the night. 'Very tolerable,' said I to myself, thinking of the night, 'and not to be sneezed at.' (No taking cold in that climate.) 'One, two, three; the sides of an equilateral triangle, and the square of the hypothenuse bisected in the middle,' and so forth. Q. E. D.; there we are, the fourteenth; that is, the very 'particular star.' We had agreed that she--that is, that we--would look at the same star, and not to blunder upon different stars, which would be very awkward, and, a thousand miles distant from each other, could not be connected without some waste of sentiment on the passage. We had selected one in a group which had to be theorized geometrically before the bright particular one could be identified. The idea of her looking miscellaneously at the north pole and I at the south, and each expecting the requisite titillation of sympathy! We were not to be duped into any such latitudinal delusion!

I had found my star, and was looking very hard at it through the tube of one hand, while the other was brushing off musquitoes, when a gun reported itself about two miles distant; and directly another, and another; after which the enemy appeared to be entirely used up, and the engagement over.

The guard were asleep, and coming gradually to my elbow, I intimated to Bravo that there was a disturbance at the North Post. He gave the alarm to his comrades, who, one by one, came very slowly to the consciousness of an Indian alarm. Then of a sudden muskets glittered in the moon-light, belts were strapped, primings looked to, and the sentries received orders to fire at any, the least whisper, that was not perfectly intelligible and satisfactory. Bravo started for the city; and now we began to hear the tramp of the horse as they clattered up to the point of alarm. There were five hundred Charleston volunteers in the city, ready for the first show of fight or frolic; and in half an hour every man in town who had a musket or rifle, was on his way to do battle against--nobody knew what. There was much tramping, and shouting of 'Where are the rascals?' 'Which way?' 'Clear the track for the big gun!' 'Down with the red devils!' etc.; all which passed over, after a little, and the people went back again, with a keen relish for hot suppers, and a highly exhilarating sense of their increased importance. It was not, however, so trifling a matter; and upon more than one occasion during the war, the feeble and aged repaired to the fort for security. Indians had been seen near the town only a few days previous; several bold murders had been committed on the Picolata road; and the tracks of parties almost daily seen by the escort sent out between the two places. But this, if I remember aright, was the first experience of the town in this new kind of excitement.