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THB NEW YORK PUBUG UBRARY
RBPBRBNCB DEPARTMENT
This book is under no cirenmsUuioes to be taken from the Building
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form 41* |
LIFE
or
WILLIAM CAPERS, D.D.,
OHB or THE BISHOPS Or
THE METHODIST EPISCOPAL CHURCH, SOUTH j
INCLUDING AN
jDt0H0grap|g.
BY
WILLIAM M.^GHTMAN, D.D.
PREEODENT OF WOFFOBD COLLKOI.
Nashvillb, Tenn. :
PuBLXSHiNQ House op the M. E. Church, South.
Barbee & Smith, Aqents.
1902.
^^
THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY
34350 1
tILKN FOUNOATIONt. 1005
r
Contents.
I,
I
m
PasFAOi ^ • ^ 4 ...••• is
AUTOBIOO&APHT •••« 11
CHAPTER I.
Value of autobiography — ^Mr. Gapers appointed Superintendent of a Mission to the Creek Indians — Stationed at MilledgeTiUe, Ga.. 281
CHAPTEB II.
Stationed in Charleston — Editor of the Wesleyan Journal — Appointed Presiding Elder — Defence of Bishop Soule's Sermon — ^Elected Dele- gate to the British Conference ..m.... 248
CHAPTER III.
Embarks in the John Jay — ^Voyage — Reception in England — Estimate of the leading Wesleyan preachers — Resolutions of the British Conference — Visits Dr. Adam Clarke at Hay don Hall — Return ▼oyage 264
CHAPTER IV.
Invitation to go to Baltimore— Missions to the blacks established- Results of these Missions 288
CHAPTER V.
Elected to a Professorship in Franklin College, 0a. — His own humble appreciation of his scholastic abilities — Seyere illness — Castile Sel- by — Stationed in Columbia — Correspondence with Dr. Cooper.- 803
^ CHAPTER VI.
yL Miss Jane A. Faust — Miss Maxwell — An awakening sermon — Rhymes
— Dr. Capers removes to Charleston — General Conference of 18W
f^ --Is offered tiie Presidency of LaGrange College 817
^ (iiij
vr CONTENTS.
CHAPTER VII.
Hospitality — Rev. John Hutchinson — The little mail-carrier and the overcoat — Outlay of benevolence speedily returned, and doubled *. 832
CHAPTER VIII.
Troubles in the Church in Charleston — Transferred to the Georgia Conference, and stationed at Savannah — Lewis Myers — Delivers a eulogy on Lafayette 839
CHAPTER IX.
Removal to Columbia — Accepts the Professorship of Moral and Intel- lectual Philosophy in the South Carolina College — Reasons for an early resignation — Denominational education 852
CHAPTER X.
Lays the corner-stone of the Cokesbury School — George HoUoway — Visits Georgia — Stationed in Charleston — Congregational singing — Appointed Editor of the Southern Christian Advocate — Great fire in Charleston — Collections for rebuilding the churches — Centenary of Methodism 862
CHAPTER XI.
General Conference of 1840 — Conversion of his son William — Ap- pointed Missionary Secretary for the South — Preaches the funeral sermon of Mrs. Andrew 871
CHAPTER XII.
Removes from Oxford to Charleston — Makes the tour of the South- western Conferences — ^Visits his aunt in Kentucky — Incidents of travel — Maum Rachel 888
CHAPTER XIII.
General Conference at New Tork — Debate on Finley's resolntioii^ Incipient measures for a division of the Church 898
CONTENTS.
OHAPTBB XIY.
Bleoted and ordained Bishop— First tour of Episcopal Tisitfttto] TraTels through the border territory of the Virginia Confer- enoe •• • •••• • 418
CHAPTER XV.
Second tour of visitations — The far West — Trayels through the Indian Territory, Arkansas, and Texas 426
CHAPTER XVI.
Dr. Bascom visits South Carolina — His mind and manners — ^Meeting of the Bishops and Commissioners of the Church suit called by Bishop Soule — ^Bishop Capers's third and fourth tours of visita- tions 489
CHAPTER XVII.
General Conference at St Louis — Fifth tour of visitations — ^Writes his Autobiography — Illness at Augusta — Sixth tour — Correspond- ence 451
CHAPTER XVIII.
The Methodist itinerant system — Its suitableness to the expanding population of the country — Statistics — Seventh tour of visita- tions 469
CHAPTER XIX.
Eighth tour of visitations — Failing health — General Conference at Columbus, Ga. — Last tour — Illness and death 482
CHAPTER XX.
Personnel of Bishop Capers — ^Intellectual character — Conversational powers — Religious experience^Style of preaching— Theology of the John Wesley school — Administrative capacity — Family feelings — ^Belief in a special Providence — Disinterestedness — Results of his ministry 492
preface*
Thb writer of the following memoir deems it proper to state that shortly after the death of bis honored and lamented friend, the Rev. Bishop Capers, an application was made to him by the family of the deceased to undertake the prepara- tion of a biography. This application, although it furnished a touching proof of personal attachment and regard, he was at the time constrained to de- cline, under the conviction that the pressure of engagements in a new and important field of labor would not allow him the time and leisure demanded by such an undertaking. The lapse of a couple of years having supplied no biographer, he yielded to a renewed application, and consented to make the attempt. He was encouraged by the consideration that his venerable friend had left a minute account of the early years of his active and varied life, bring- ing the narrative nearly to the point of time at which the writer was favored to form a personal
(vii)
Vlll PREFACE.
acquaintance with him, to enjoy his friendship, and to possess many opportunities, in the in- timacy of daily intercourse, to study the develop- ments of his mind and character. His aim has been to draw the portrait of his friend just as the vivid recollections of thirty years presented him to the mental vision ; aiming at simple exactness and fidelity to truth in the picture. The lessons taught by the life of this eminent, useful, and beloved minister of Christ are of great value to the Church, and should not be lost or forgotten. May this volume, which presents the memorabilia of that life, be the means of perpetuating in the world not only the impression of its excellences, but the living spirit of grace in Christ Jesus, which was the source of all its sanctity and usefulness.
WoFFCAD College, S. G.
LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS, 1).D.
Iluolhctions of Spelf
IN MY PAST LIFE.
f WAS born January 26, 1790, at my father's winter residence, (his plantation,) on Bull-Head Swamp, in the Prrish of St. Thomas, South Caro- lina, some twenty miles from Charleston : a place which at the present time might be accounted no place ; though it was then valuable, and had served to make my forefathers comfortable, and to keep them so for several generations. Indeed, it could have been no mean place at the time of my birth ; for when, some four years afterwards, my father re- moved to Georgetown District, it was with the pro- ceeds of the sale of this Bull-Head plantation, as I have heard him say, that he purchased a planta- tion on the island just by Georgetown, than which there are now no lands in the State more valuable. It is fair to say, however, that the change was then only beginning which transferred the culture of rice from the inland swamps, with their reservoirs of water, to the tide-lands ; where only, for the last
(11)
12 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
half century, this grain has been produced for market.
Our name, Capers, I suppose to be derived from France, and the first of the name in South Caro- lina were Huguenots. Of this, however, I am not certain, nor is it of any consequence. I remember to have heard no more from my father about it than that he had never seen the name in any English catalogue of names. Those of the name in Beau- fort District, South Carolina, who are descended from the same original stock with us, say that the name is French, and that our ancestor was of the Huguenots ; and I dare say they are right.
My father's name was William ; and that of his father and grandfather, Kichard. Of my father's father, I know little more than that he died in middle life, leaving two sons, George Sinclair and William, and no daughter. After his death, his widow, my grandmother, having contracted an un- happy marriage, my father's uncle. Major Gabriel Capers, of Christ Church Parish, became his foster- father, and did nobly for him. He had five (or more) daughters, but no son, and my father became his son in all possible respects. My great-grand- father survived his son many years : a large healthy fat man of peculiar manners ; dressing in osnaburgs and plains, (a kind of coarse woollen,) at home, and in broadcloth and silks, stiffened with excess of gold lace and a powdered wig, when he went abroad. A different kind of man was my father, whose name I cannot mention without emotion,
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 18
after thirty-eight years since I saw him buried. I have studied his character with intense interest, and honor his memory in every feature of it with my whole soul. A chivalrous soldier of the Revo- lution was he, whose ardent patriotism cooled not to the last of life ; and yet, after a few years in the Legislature following the establishment of peace, he held no civil office whatever, and was seldom seen on public occasions, except in his office as Major of Brigade, to muster the troops. He was a military man — the war of the Revolution had made him so — and to muster a brigade seemed his high- est recreation. But no one I ever knew was more a man of peace than my father was. Social and unselfish, generous, kind, and gentle, he loved not war. I dare say his nature was impulsive, but it was the opposite of passionate. Benevolence sup- plied his strongest incentives, and the serving of others seemed to be his favorite mode of serving himself. I never knew him to be involved in a per- sonal difficulty but once ; and then it was on ac- count of a wrong done by an unreasonable neigh- bor to one of his negroes. His education had been interrupted by the Revolutionary war, and was therefore imperfect ; but he had a clear and strong understanding, was fond of Natural Philosophy and Mechanics, wrote with ease aiid perspicuity, and in conversation was eminently engaging. He was born October 13, 1768; just at the right time, he was fond to saj'', that he might have a full share in the war of his country's independence.
14 LIFE OP WILLIAM CAPERS.
And yet, with the Butlers, of South Carolina, (eoni of a worthy sire who did his country good service,) I have to complain that my father's name does not appear in any history of the American Revolution. There is, indeed, a small volume, by the late Chan- cellor James, in which his name is mentioned, and we are told of his giving several thousand dollars* (I think it was) for a blanket, and several hundred for a penknife; and some passing compliment is paid to his courage and devotion to the country ; and besides this I have seen nothing more. And yet I am bound to claim for him that he fought with the bravest and best, first as a lieutenant in the second regiment, when General Moultrie was Colonel, Marion Lieutenant-Colonel, and Horry a Captain ; and afterwards, till the close of the war, as one of General Marion's captains, and his inti- mate friend.
He was one of the defenders of Charleston in the battle of Fort Sullivan, (Fort Moultrie ;) was in the battle of Eutaw; was at the siege of Savannah, where Pulaski fell, and not far from him at that fatal moment; and was at the battle of Rugelj^'s Mills, which happened after his escape from imprison- ment in Charleston, and before he had rejoined Marion. Indeed, he was there in search of Marion, whom he expected to find with General Gates, but found not, as he had gone on an expedition to Fort
* Such was Uie depreciation of what was called ** Continental oMwey."
AUTOBIOGBAPHT. 1£
Motte. At Stono, where the lamented Laurens fell^ he was present and fought like himself; at the siege of Charleston he was one of its defenders, and one of those who accompanied Major Huger on the service, which on their return proved fatal to that gallant officer, by a false alarm, through the inadvertence of a sentinel, whereby many lost their lives by the fire of their own countrymen from their own lines of defence; besides numerous skirmishes which have never found a record in the books, though they contributed no mean quota to the defence of the country.
The silence of the books to the contrary notwith- standing, I might adduce something like proof of Marion's friendship for him, from a conversation with Mrs, Marion herself, the General's widow, in the winter of 1806-7, when in obedience to my father's commands I called at her house, on my way to Charleston, to make his respects and inquire after her health. I might tell how the announce- ment of my name to the servant in waiting brought her venerable person to the door ; how eagerly she asked if I was the son of her valued friend ; how she seized my hand in both of hers with a hearty shake, and " God bless your father !** and how late it was that night before I was dismissed to bed from tales of my father's chivalry and noble heart. And many a time in the course of my earlier life was I honored on my father's account ; and never Mave I met with officer or soldier of Marion's com- nm>ud who was not my friend for my facer's sake
16 LIFE OP WILLIAM CAPERS.
But with respect to his connection with the second regiment, early in the war. If I mistake not, there were two regiments (possibly more) raised by the State of South Carolina at the be- ginning of the war, for the general cause of the Revolution, and not for service within the State only ; and for this reason they were called QmUnen' tal regiments. This one of them, as I have just said, was commanded at first by Moultrie, with Marion and Horry for Lieutenant- Colonel and Major. And it was while these oflicers com- manded, that my father, though not of age, held a commission in it. In proof of this, besides having heard it affirmed repeatedly by both my father and uncle, I happen to have in my possession a note from General Horry to my father in the year 1802, which I deem conclusive. The occasion of the note seems to have been some diflference of opinion on a point of tactics between my father, then Brigade Major, and his General of Brigade, Conway, which had been referred to General Horry; who, after giving his opinion, concludes the note with these express words : ^^If my memory do not fail me, / thiiik mch zoos the itsc^e, or custom, in the second regiment, to which we both belonged in June of our Oontinenial war." Here, then, is explicit testimony from the best pos- sible authority, as to the fact that he belonged to the second regiment; in what capacity is not stated, but it must have been as an officer, for it would have been ridiculous in the General to make iuch an allusion with respect to a private, and we
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. ll
claim for him no higher rank in that regiment than that of Lieutenant. But the Qenerars note serves me for another point. It appears that he and my father both belonged to the second regiment, " m June of our Continental war/' What June must that have been ? The phraseology is peculiar, and can make sense only on the supposition that there was one June unmistakably distinguished from the rest, for there were several Junes during "our Con- tinental war.'* It could have been no other than June, 1776, distinguished above all others of the Revolution, especially to officers of the second regiment, by the battle of Port Moultrie. There was no June for the second regiment before that, for it had not been organized and in service, and that was its first great achievement. Nor could there have been any June after it of which General Horry might say that he and my father did then belong to the second regiment ; for shortly after the battle of Fort Moultrie, Marion becoming a parti- san General, both Horry and my father left that regiment and joined him — one as colonel and the other as captain.
I have been thus particular because of that mor- tifying silence of the books; and because I have even seen a printed list purporting to give the names of all the persons who were engaged in the battle of Fort Moultrie, from which my father's name was omitted. This surprises me more than any thing else, for as to the period of his service as
one of Marion's captains, the peculiar modeof war- 2
18 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
fare adopted by the General made it extremely dif- ficult to gather information of numerous important actions, whilst his army was so often to be found in detachments only, here and there, from the Combahee to the Pee-Dee river. Indeed, I believe that after the fall of Charleston there was a con- siderable period of time in which it was seldom embodied in any great force. And yet there was always ^ galling impracticable foe, hard to be found, and still harder to be got rid of, by British or Tory, It was some one of Marion's captains, trained and qualified by that great commander to play the General on a smaller scale. Much of such service fell to my father's share, and many a thrill- ing incident of his scouting-parties have I heard related by him, which I would like to give, but that, at this distance of time, they are not distinct enough in detail to my recollection to be narrated with accuracy. They appear indistinctly, or, rather, confusedly, so that I cannot be sure that I have all the parts of any event in order, or that parts of one do not belong to another. But I can state with certainty the facts respecting his being once taken prisoner by the Tories ; and of his escape from the prison in Charleston not many weeks afterwards. These are not the incidents I would choose to select, if my memory served me as well for the rest; nevertheless, you may think them worth pre* serving; or, if not, blot them out.
My uncle and father were on furlough for a abort time, and had reached my uncle's residence,
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 19
while the Tories were in force in the neighbor- hood. My uncle's wife was at the point of death, and he would not leave her for the night, notwith- standing the imminent danger of remaining in the house with the Tories so near him. My father would not leave his brother alone in so much danger. They barricaded the house as well as they could, and awaited the issue. As they had feared, the Tories were upon them before it was lights- a full company surrounding the house. Flight was impossible; they must be taken; and they would make terms ; but how ? They affected to be a company themselves^ muttering a mimicry of many voices, moving rapidly about, and by every artifice in their power seeming to be a house- full, and not two persons only. The stratagem suc- ceeded, and the craven foe formally demanded a surrender. They were not quick to answer the demand, but kept up their bustling with all their might. The demand to surrender was repeated; and in answer to it they inquired how many of the assailants there were. A parley ensued, and thej finally surrendered on condition that, on sacred honor, the men should be treated as prisoners of war, and the house should not be molested. This being done with due formality, they marched out, two men of them, to the extreme mortification of the valiant Tory and his command. They were taken to Charleston, delivered to the Commandant, Colonel Balfour, and put in prison. Their apart- ment was in the third story of the jail, with somo
20 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
eight or ten other prisoners. It happened that among the gentlemen of the city and surrounding country, who had taken the protection offered by the British after the fall of Charleston, (and of which they afterwards had so much cause to com- plain,) there was a Mr. Fogartie, an acquaintance of my father and uncle, and of others of the pri- soners, who visited them almost daily, and procui'ed them many comforts. And after some weeks of their imprisonment had passed, this gentleman, who was ever kindly interested for them, brought the appalling tidings of its having been determined to convey them away from the city to the West Indies. He had overheard an order to the effect that a vessel should be got ready for this purpose forthwith, and should sail by the next fair wind. Nothing could have been more abhorrent to them than this information. Their very souls were sick of the accounts they had heard of the prison-ships in that quarter to which they were to be sent^ — their crowded condition, want of food, excessive ^. heat, stench, and vermin, worse than death. What possible attempt might enable if but half of them to escape at the sacrifice of the rest ? And it was presently concluded that Mr. Fogartie should pro- cure a boat and hands to be in readiness at the market wharf that evening, and, if possible, arms and animunition for their use ; and that they would seize the moment when the turnkey came at dusk to see that all was well, to rush forth together, and seizing the arms of the sentry at their door, pro-
AUTOBIOGEAPHY. 21
cipitate themselves on the next and the next along the stairs, killing or being killed, till they had made their way to the street, and thence by flight to the boat. Could half of them hope to survive so desperate an attempt ? Perhaps not, but death on the spot, rather than a West India prison-ship, was their unanimous voice.
This being their determination, the faithful Fogartie left them, to arrange for his part in the plot — the procurement of arms and a boat at the water-side. There were not many hours for reflec- tion before the fearful point of time when liberation or the bayonet had been fixed on ; and it is not surprising that with the chances so terribly against them, one and another, as the evening came on, showed symptoms of a love of life. The first for the plot were the first to abandon it. For several hours the majority stood firm ; but the minority could not be reclaimed, but finally overcame the majority, who concluded that the chances for escape must be diminished by as much as their number was reduced, and the plot had better be abandoned. N"ot so with my father, whose resolution had been taken too firmly to be reconsidered. His last hope was in his brother ; who, though he would gladly have been one with the rest in the plot, deemed it mad for two only to attempt to escape by such means, and strove earnestly to dissuade him from his avowed purpose of going by himself alone if no one would go with him. The remonstrances of the rest he answered indifferently, or with a gibe,
22 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
but his brother's importunities cost him some trouble ; till almost at the point of the time he turned sharply on him, and said, "Brother, I never thought myself a braver man than you. Now I know it. Make me not a coward." But the time was come. The steps of the turnkey were heard at the door. It was dusk, and w^as growing dark on the stairs. If the turnkey could be deceived, might not the desperate man escape ? They had in the room a great bowl out of which they drank their punch ; and there was a little punch at the bottom of the bowl. This my uncle took, and placing himself next to the door, was ready, the moment it should be opened, to offer it to the willing turur key. It was done. The great bowl hid every thing from him except the punch in the bottom of it, and my father instantly was gone. I learned from my uncle that it was not difficult to engage the attention of the turnkey, who loved punch dearly, long enough to afford my father ample time for his escape. But that escape. Whether in the dusk the sentry at the head of the stairs took him for a visitor, or for the turnkey himself, my father knew not; but they had no dream of his being a prisoner making his escape, and so suffered him to pass without molestation. Just passed them, and having begun to descend the stairs, his foot slipped, and he tumbled down the whole flight of steps to the platform at their turning, where the next sentrj^ was posted. A laugh and sneer from the sentinel, who probably took him to be drunk, was
AUTOBIOGRAPHT. 28
all that came of it. This furnished a hint which he improved ; and after the same seemingly drunken manner he descended to the lower floor, and made his way out of the house. His friend was waiting at the appointed place, but had failed of procuring a boat, on account of extreme bad weather. Not a moment could be lost ; but taking a pistol and a hasty adieu, he was in a trice at the Fish-Market landing. There, luckil}^ he found a negro fisher- man bailing a boat ; and leaping into it and pre- senting his pistol, he ordered him to his paddle and off for Haddreirs Point. The affrighted fisherman promptly obeyed^ only exclaiming that they must be lost : the boat could not possibly live in such a storm. He paddled stoutly — as they well know how to do — and my father found it necessary to be- take himself, for his part, to bailing the boat of the water which dashed in over her bows. But there was another danger impending which he dreaded even more than the agitated waters. The British galleys were lying in the stream, and it was impos- sible to escape their watchfulness. They must see him, would hail him, and what should he do? The best expedient he could think of, and pro- bably the only one which could have availed him, was suggested by the lucky mistake of the sentry on the staircase, taking him to be drunk ; and so he summoned his utmost powers to act the part of a drunken sailor. Long before the expected hail of "What boat's that?" he began singing and huzzaing lustily, now a stanza of some vulgar
21 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
song, then "God save great George our king;" ming- ling it to suit, and interlarding it with all sorts of drunken rhapsody. He was hailed, and returned it by giving himself some common name, claiming to belong to one of the galleys, and stoutly pro- testing he was too drunk and the water too rough ; huzzaing for the king, for the commandant, and almost any British officer whose name he knew; professing to be as brave and true as any of them, but that he had got drunk among the "gals" on shore, and would not come to. Of course, then, he had to pass. He was not worth shooting at, and the next day would bring ^him to condign punishment. And now the jail, the storm, the galleys, all were passed in safety ; and landing at Haddreirs Point, and giving a guinea to the negro whose boat and paddle had been so serviceable to him, he was once more one of Marion's men.
But my honored* father was a Christian. It was on the first introduction of the Methodist ministry into South Carolina that, under the preaching of Henry Willis, of blessed memory, in the year 1786, he was awakened and converted, and became a soldier of the Prince of Peace. His name, and that of my maternal grandfather, John Singeltary, may be seen in the original conveyances for the first two Methodist churches built in Charleston, (Cum- berland Street and Trinity,) of which they were trustees. After his removal to Georgetown, in 1794, he became ^ strong pillar of the infant church in that place, serving as trustee, steward, and
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 2^
leader. A later removal to Waccamaw Neck proved unfavorable to his spirituality, and it was not till 1808, in Sumter District, that he recovered all that he had lost of the life of faith. Thenceforward till his final removal to the life above, December 12, 1812, he was a pattern of piety, an example of pure and undefiled religion, such as for consist- ency, simplicity, and power I have never known excelled. His death was surpassingly triumphant. I witnessed it, and was with him day and night for several months whilst he was passing down into the valley of Jordan. AH was peace, and power, and exultant hope. There was no moment of dark- ness in his final sickness, no thorn in the pillow of his repose, no distrust of the Saviour, no lack of confidence in God, but gloriously the reverse. His light was that of the perfect day, his peace was as a river, he believed with all his heart, and at the time of his extremest pain he would say, with Job, "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him."
My mother was Mary, daughter of John and Sarah Singeltary, of Cain Hoy, in the same Parish of St. Thomas, aforesaid: another place of the olden time, when South Carolina was peopled mainly in the low country, and Wando river, of whose banks Cain Hoy was the most notable place, shared with Ashley river. Cooper river, and Goose creek, in a high reputation for society, hospitality, and all that ; times gone by with the generations whose very tombs are now in ruins. But by on© 2
26 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPBR8.
conversant with those times, (the late Captain Ilibben, of Haddrell's Point,) I have heard my grandfather spoken of as " the patriarch of Cain Hoy." And such I dare say he w^s, albeit a re- cent visitor might entertain some doubt whether the place had ever produced a man. But truly there used to be men, who were men every inch of them, not only on Wando river, but along creeks and swamps not a few, where now a ruined canal, and heaps of crumbling bricks, and clumps or rows of ornamental trees, tell mournfully of death and a blight upon the land.
I have always felt it a pain that I never knew my mother. She died when I was barely over two years old. Often and eagerly have I inquired about her: her person, her spirit, her piety, her general bearing ; any thing that might help to raise an image of her in my mind. In this way I have learned that she was rather below the medium height of women, delicately formed, of fair com- plexion and light hair, with soft laughing blue eyes, gentle but sprightly, affectionate and confid- ing, a favorite with her friends, and my father's idol ; and that her sweet spirit was ennobled by a true Christian faith and purity of heart. I am in possession of a letter from my father to my aunt, the late Mrs. Bennett, of Haddrell's Point, in which are related incidents of her final hours thrilling to contemplate. She died when young, and rich in blessings precious to the heart ; but she was more than ready to obey the summons, "to be absent
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 27
from the body and present with the Lord.*' Her last moments, radiant with the light of heaven before her, were mostly taken up with soothing ex- hortations to her husband, and prayers and bless- ings, for her children. These were four: Sarah, my beloved sister, who was the eldest, Gabriel the second, myself the third, and John Singeltary, (whose birth occasioned her death,) the fourth. She had had a second daughter, Mary Singeltary, who died some time before her.
My second mother, whose name also was Mary, was a daughter of Samuel Wragg, Esq., of George- town ; the same who was the original proprietor of that part of Charleston called Wraggsboro' ; and after whose daughters, Judith, Elizabeth, Ann, Charlotte, Mary, and Henrietta, the streets bearing those names were called. He had also two sons, John and Samuel. My aunts (for my aunts they were) Judith and Elizabeth lived to old age, maiden ladies of uncommon understanding, (parti- cularly Judith,) and distinguished to a high degree for ardent piety and active benevolence. They were Christian ladies, and Methodists of the very first model. Ann married a wealthy gentleman of the name of Ferguson, and lived in Charleston, with their estate on Cooper river. They were Episcopalians ; and she was for many years First Lady Commissioner of the Orphan House, which noble institutian was much indebted to her, and has. becomingly acknowledged it. Charlotte must have died when young, as I have no recollection of
28 LIFE OP WILLIAM CAPJIRS.
her. Henrietta, the youngest of the daughters, married Erasmus Rothmahler, Esq., of an old and honorable family, and a lawyer of high respects, but (unfortunately) an eccentric man. Of all my near friends in childhood and youth, after my father and mother, I loved my Aunt Henrietta best : and to this day I remember her with strong affec- tion, and I might say admiration, a& a pattern of all social excellence. And she too was a thorough Methodist.
In what follows I will be understood always to mean my father's second wife, my second mother, by the appellative mother. I knew no other mother, and I should offend the heart that throbs in my bosom were I to call her stepmother. She was my mother, and in heaven, in the presence of the sainted one who bore me, I will call her mother. Pity on those poor children who, by their father's marriage, have stepmothers only. My early recol- lections mingle sweet images of my mother's love and sympathy with all that concerned me. I was liable to attacks of croup on any exposure to damp weather ; and so on rainv davs I became her house- keeper, carrying a bunch of keys at my side, giving from the pantry breakfast, dinner, and supper, with free use of the barrel of sugar and molasses-candy for my pains — the indulgence, by the way, being itself remedial. By a thousand arts of kind en- dearment she attached me to her so closely, that I scarcely felt it a privation to be shut up with her in the house, while my brothers were pursuing their
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 29
sports in the fields. Those days were invaluable to me. Converse with my mother was communion with my guardian angel, while my good sister's blithesome spirit (for she was always by) contri- buted no little to my happiness.
My father's second marriage was in 1793, and shortly afterwards he disposed of his estate in St. Thomas's Parish, purchased a plantation on the is- land between Waccamaw and Black rivers, and re- moved his residence to Georgetown. While his win- ter residence had been on Bull Head, in St. Thomas's, he passed his summers at a place which he called Capernaum, on the seashore, nearly opposite Ca- pers's Island, in Christ Church Parish. He now desired to find such a seashore place on Waccamaw Neck ; and as he did not like to live in town, and his island plantation was a deep mud-swamp, un- suitable for his residence, he was inclined to locate himself permanently on the Waccamaw seashore. A summer or two were passed at a rented place called La Bruce's, while for the winter and spring he resided in town ; and then he purchased a place some twenty miles from Georgetown, which he called Belle Vue, and at which we lived during the years 1796, '97, and '98. It was beautifully open to the ocean, having the prospect pleasantly dotted with clumps of trees in the marshes, (called hammocks,) and points of uncleared woods on the main land. My recollections go back to the year 1795, at La Bruce's seashore, where I killed a glass snake, the image of which is still fresh to my mind ; and how,
30 LIFE OB* WILLIAM CAPERS.
as I broke it to pieces with a small stick, the pieceS| when broken square oft', wormed themselves about as if alive. There, too, I myself had like to have been killed by a vicious horse; and there we had the sport of smoking off* the sand-flies. Do not laugh. Prince Albert's boys never had a merrier play. But Belle Vue was my childhood's darling home. Here were those spacious old fields, over- grown with dog-fennel, which my brother John and myself used to course with such exquisite glee, mounted on cornstalk horses, with bows and ar- rows, when the dog-fennel served for woods, and a cock-sparrow might be an old buck. Here stood by the side of a purling branch, that grove of tall trees where we found the grape-vine, by which we used to swing so pleasantly. Here we had our traps for catching birds, and caught them plenti- fully; and the damp days found me with my mother and sister and the little ones, all so happy. And here I got that masterly book for little boys, " Sand- ford and Merton;" which, in my mother's hand, proved invaluable to me. .Ai^d, like Harry and Tommy, my brothers and I would build little houses wattled of clapboards and small poles, and exult in our fancied manliness and capacity for independ- ence. But we were sure to have a stronger arm and better understanding than our own in all these achievements of ours ; and without which it might have been more than doubtful whether, after all, we should have proved so competent to our under- takings. Bless my father! Blessed be God that
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 81
he was my father ! What should Belle Vue, with all its play-places, have been without his super- intendence, who seemed to enter into the spirit of our childish entertainments as if he had been a child himself, while still he never seemed below the stature of the noblest man ?
But I must tell an anecdote or two of these early years which savor less of simple, amiable child- hood. My father was exceeding fond of gardens, and had a large one; and we, his sons, fond of doing like him, must also have our gardens. A bed was appropriated to each one of us, (Gabriel, myself, and John,) which we subdivided into tiny beds, with narrow walks between, for the cultiva- tion of just any thing we pleased. Radishes were our favorite vegetable. I had them in my garden full grown, while John's were but lately up. We were together in our gardens, which touched each other, and John wanted one of my radishes. Un- luckily, I was out of humor, and refused him. Unused to this, for generally we were fond to serve each other, he heeded not my refusal, but plucked a radish. This was an invasion of my rights, which, in the mood I happened to be in, I would not per- mit ; and so, instead of laughing at it, as at another time I might have done, I plucked a handful of his little ones in retaliation — reckoning the equivalent (if I reckoned at all) by bulk. This angered him, and he avenged himself by pulling up a quantity of mine, as if reckoning by number for his oom- jilement. A few minutes, and the radishes were
-fp
82 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
destroyed, both mine and his, and we were greatly enraged against each other. At that moment our father, who had been observing us from another part of the garden, interfered ; and, as I was the older, addressed himself first to me. The fault, I insisted, was altogether John's, who had no right to pluck my radishes against my will. He (my father) would let no man serve him so ; and had fought the British for no worse offence. But my logic could not answer. "I must whip you,** said he; "and take your jacket off.'* "Whip m6, sir, for JbAn'5 fault?" "Foryourown fault, not John's." "I declare. Pa, 'tis all John's fault; and I'll pull off my shirt too, if you say so." "Off with it," was the brief rejoinder; and oft' it came, when a smart stroke of a switch across my naked shoulders, (the first I had ever felt,) brought me as by magic to my senses. It was the only stroke of punishment ever inflicted on me bv that honored hand.
My recollection of incidents of this period of my childhood is vivid enough as to facts, but the order of them as to time I cannot so well remember. I date about a year later than the affair of the rad- ishes the following story of the top. Both belong to Belle Vue, and must have happened between the years 1796 and 1799. My brothers and myself had each obtained a top, which neither of us could spin ; and a thought seized me to practice by my- seiiqfi, spinning my top, which, as other boys could do it, 1 niight learri, and by learning it sooner than my br(fl!hers, 'might win some wager of them ; (foi
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 88
each of us had something for his own of almost every kind of property on the place.) In a short time I had spun the top, and, elated with my suc- cess, ran eagerlj'' to find my brothers, that I might make a bet. But they were abroad somewhere in the fields, and a wager must be ventured with my father, (if possibly he might be induced to make one,) or my betting must be postponed to another time. Too eager to allow of postponement, the venture was made in an off-hand manner on the spot. The stake was my heifer against his saddle- horse that I could spin my top. "Done," said my father, and I spun the top. Fantom was mine, and I capered about the room, and would have run to the stable to admire and caress him, but my father sternly stopped me. " Honor even among rogues," said he, " and if you turn gambler, you must do it as they say, honorably. You are not to leave off without giving me a chance to win my horse back." Another trial, and I lost the horse. Another, and another, and yet others ; and bursting into tears I ran out of the room, having lost every thing I called my own except a favorite white pullet. For three days I bewailed my folly with all the bitter- ness of utter bankruptcy; while my brothers were unsparing of their gibes, and my father seemed coolly indifferent to it all. At last, finding me sit- ting moodily alone, he approached with his usual good-humor, and said he wanted to make a bargain with me. "A bargain, sir!" said I, "what have I to bargain with ? You have got all I had from rae 3
34 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPBBS.
And if I had spoken all that I felt, I might have added, that he knew it was wrong to bet, and ought to have whipped me for offering him a wager, and not to have done as he had done. But he insisted that I was quite able to make the bargain he de- sired; and when he had constrained me to ask what it was, he told me that all he had won should be restored to me, and should be mine again just as it formerly was, if I would pledge myself never again to bet the value of a pin ; and on the further condition, that if ever I did bet, I should forfeit to him whatever should be mine at the time of bet- ting. Never was a proposition more eagerly em- braced ; and the final result of this strange inci- dent was, that I became so thoroughly averse from betting as never afterwards to be induced to bet. Long after all fear of the forfeit originally pledged had passed from my mind, and until a better gua- ranty was furnished me in the grace of God, I not only hated betting so as never to lay a wager, but hated it to such a degree that I would break off from any company I chanced to be in, the moment it was proposed to play at any game for money.
But it is time for me to take leave of Belle Vue, When my father, purchased it, he did so with an expectation of its proving healthy. It was incon- veniently distant from his plantation, and we had so few neighbors that to get a school he was obliged to employ a teacher at his own expense. Neverthe- less, for the sake of a pleasant and healthy resi- dence, with the treasures of the sea at hand, these
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 86
inconveniences were not deemed considerable. But the fall of the year 1798 proved extremely sickly to us, and my precious little sister Judith died. On this account, mainly, Belle Vue was given up, and for the year 1799 we resided in Georgetown. Not that this change could have promised exemption from disease, but that in case of sickness we should there have medical aid. Belle Vue had proved sickly; Georgetown might not be more so ; and the latter place brought my father near to his business, my mother near her sis- ters, and all of us near the physician. But we were not to suffer less by this removal ; for the autumn of 1799 was more fatal to our family than the previous one had been. All of us were sick; another younger sister (Elizabeth) died ; I myself escaped death as by miracle ; and the fatal blow was struck which deprived my father of one of the best of wives, and me of my incomparable mother. The following winter my widowed father dismissed his overseer, and the plantation became our home. Dur- ing the year 1800 1 was daily put across the river in a small boat with my brothers, and went to Mr. Harnett's school in Georgetown. We dined with our good aunts, the Misses Wragg, and returned home in the evening as we had come in the morning, a servant always having the boat in readiness for us at the river-bank, in sight of town. My father seldom went to town, nor, indeed, anywhere else ; and yet my young heart knew not that he was unhappy. The next spring (1801) I was sent, with my brother
36 LIFE OF WILLIAM OAPBRS.
Gabriel, to school on Pee-Dee, some thirty miles from Georgetown, where a Mr. Collins was the teacher; but, for some sufficient cause, he suddenly left his charge, and after a month or two we re- turned home.
This period, when the island rice-swamp was my home, introduced me to the use of a gun. It was before the Northern lakes had been much settled, on which bred so many myriads of ducks and wild geese ; and these migrated to our low country rivers and rice-fields for the winters, in prodigious num- bers. From my father's river-bank on the Wacca- maw on one side, or the Black river on the other, innumerable flocks of them might at any time be seen ; and better-flavored birds than several varie- ties of the ducks were, after they had grown fat on the waste rice, I know not. My father taught me the use of the gun with great care : how to handle it, to load it, to shoot with a true aim, and to keep it in good order ; so that before I was twelve years old I believe I was as safe in the use of this dan- gerous implement as I have since been, and nearly or quite as good a marksman. I generally shot ducks in the river ; observing from a distance at what particular points they were nearest to the land, and then creeping after them behind the river-bank, (that is, the embankment raised along the margin of the river for the purpose of keeping off the water at the flood-tide.) A well- trained dog kept close behind me, creeping when he saw me creep, or stopping at a motion of my hand, and instantly
AtlTOBIOGRAPHY. 87
on the firing of the gun springing into the water and fetching out the game. So abundant were they, and easy to be shot, that I would not fire at inferior kinds, but only at the large gray duck, the mallard or English duck, the bullneck, or the deli- cious little teal ; which last was the least common, and was most esteemed, though not more than a third as large as the black or gray duck, or half as large as the mallard.
But farewell to the island and its game, after only one incident of imminent peril to me. It was some time in the summer of 1800 that, as we were sitting in the piazza overlooking the fields, we were startled at seeing the whole gang of negroes, men and women, running as for life towards the house. My father, my brother Gabriel and myself ran out to know the cause, and thought we heard the fore- most ones crying out, "A deer, a deer!" My father took his gun in haste, thinking that a deer chased by hunters on the Waccamaw side of the river had swum across it, and was making for the un- cleared swamp just in our rear, and that he would run probably on the western side of the settlement, where he might get a shot at him. On the eastern side was the barnyard, and mill for pounding rice ; and to prevent his going that way, and to increase the chances for a shot on the other, he bade my brother and me to run in that direction with the dogs. Now, for the special security of the barnyard, there was a much higher embankment thrown up
38 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
around it than around other parts of the settlement^ 80 that we could not see over it what might be run- ning in the fields beyond. With the dogs, then, we made all speed to the barnyard, entered it, were running across it, and at the very point of rising on the farther bank, there met us on the top of it, and just opposite the point we had reached, a great bear. Petrified with horror, we could not, at first, move a peg. The dogs had better command of their legs, and, except Dash, (the dog that fetched the ducks,) they ran away at the top of their speed. 0, that frightful bear! He growled, raised his bristles, champed with his teeth, bent his body like a bow, all before we could do any thing more than stare at him. But Dash delivered us. Quick as was the retreat of the rest, was his advance upon the frightful foe ; and it seemed to be his bark that relaxed our nerves and enabled us to run. We had not so much as a stick in our hands. Dash seized the bear just by the tail, and obliged him to give him his attention. Bruin shook him off* and made at us ; but again Dash had him by the hinder parts. And thus it was between them several minutes, till my father, learning his mistake, came running, and the whole plantation with him, to the rescue. Negroes are famous for their noisiness when ex- cited ; but did ever the same number make such a noise as those then did, as entering the barnyard they saw the danger we were in? At any rate, they scared that bear no less than they gave as
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 89
courage, and he made away as fast as he could, and hid himself under the mill. He was made bacon of afterwards, and I ate some of it.
In September, 1801, my brother Gabriel and my- self were sent to Dr. Roberts's academy, near Statesburg, in Sumter District, and were boarded with a Mrs. Jefferson. And this I reckon an im- portant epoch in my life. Hitherto, whether in Georgetown, at Belle Vue, or at the island planta- tion, I had been accustomed to all the endearments of home, sweet home ; a home where all my wants were anticipated, and not only every comfort was at hand, but the ministries of tender love were ever active for my happiness. The death of my mother was a sore affliction ; but my sister (then just grown) became to me sister and mother both, and what was there lacking to me? Truly, nothing. But how different was it with me now, boarding a hundred miles away with Mrs. Jefferson. To what purpose had my heart been cultivated, when there was no one to sympathize with me, and whom I might love? That I slept on a mattress on the floor, with sheets of osnaburgs, and that my fare consisted of middling bacon and corn-bread, was a secondary matter. I felt a burden of want of another kind, though this also seemed severe. True, my brother Gabriel was with me, but where were my father, my sister, my brother John, and my younger brother and sisters, Samuel, Mary, and Henrietta ? Could my one brother be all these to me? Of necessity I sought to be loved by my
40 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
hostess, and plied every art in my power to induce it, but to no purpose. Nor could I love her any more than I could make her love me. She did, indeed, once compliment me as the best of her boarders ; but the very term boarders^ in the cold, long-drawn utterance she gave it, told me that she (lid not love me. And then when she picked the thorn out of my foot with a coarse needle, she did it so roughly, never pitying me nor seeming to know that she was putting me to pain, though the blood trickled from the wound. The case was hopeless, and I was forced to retire within myself to supply as I might the want, the broad waste want of home. And yet she was a very good woman.
But every day was improving my bodily health and strength. And though I fed on little else than corn-bread, (for I could not brook the middling bacon,) I was far more active and growing faster than ever before. Mv boardinff-house stood on the main road between Statesburg and Camden, just three miles from the former place, and touching the road. The academy was a mile and a half from it, on the summit of a hill ; and this distance was my daily walk to and from school. The mid- day recess was passed at the schoolhouse, to which we carried our dinner of corn-bread and bacon in a large tin bucket. And for dinner, my usual practice was to throw away the bacon, and repair to a neighboring spring of cold pure water, with a pone of bread, and there substituting my hand or
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 41
a hickory^ leaf for a cup, make my meal, right frugally at least. At first I could not possibly make the walk to school without resting by the way; and even to ascend the hill on which the schoolhouse stood put me out of breath; but it was not long before I could even run the whole distance. The truth was, that up to this period I had been but a puny child ; frequently sick, some- times extremely ill ; and but for this great change must probably have grown up, if at all, too delicate of constitution for laborious life. I am so fully of this persuasion, as to regard it providential that my father's business would not allow of his accom- panying us on our way up, and we were committed to the care of a onesided friend of his to be entered at the academy and suitably boarded. Mr. Camp- bell could, but our father could not have subjected us to the extreme privations of such a boarding- house as ours, and the exposure of so long a walk in all kinds of weather: privations and ex- posures, nevertheless, for which I have long since known no regret, but, on the contrary, have felt thankful.
And here both nature and gratitude require me to introduce the name of my father's only brother, Captain George Sinclair Capers, my most kind and truly honored uncle. Some years previously to this time he had removed from St. James's, San tee, to Sumter District, and located himself in what was called Rembert's Settlement, some eight or nine miles from our academy ; and our Saturdays
12 LlPE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
and Sundays were usually passed with him. Hia practice was to send horses for us every Friday evening, and send us back again on Monday morn- ing. Nature, how true is nature ! and a child's heart is nature's own. I could love nothing be- longing to my boarding-house, and had no play- places there; no, not one; unless a wide-spreading oak should be called a play-place, to which I used to withdraw myself and sit among the boughs for hours together in moody reveries of home. But I loved the very horse that carried me to my uncle's door ; and there every thing interested me. I was loved, and was so far happy.
About the close of the year 1801, my father ex- changed his island plantation for one on Wacca- maw river, adjoining the estate of John Tucker, Esq. ; tired, I suppose, of living in a swamp, where his very dwelling-house had to be protected from the overflowing tides by embankments. Home was thus again transferred to Waccamaw, though it was not long to be continued so. The Christmas holidays of 1802, 1803, and 1804, were all I enjoyed of it; the first with boundless satisfac- tion ; and the second and third only less so because of the absence of my sister, now married in Sum- ter District: if I might not also suppose that with less of innocency there is usually less of the pure zest of pleasure at fourteen than eleven.
I have gone over, thus hastily, that period of my life which of all others interests me most. Can it be peculiar to myself that at my time of life I
AtJTOBlOQRAPHY. 48
should delight greatly in recollections of my child- hood ; reenacting, as it were, the scenes and pas- times of the little boy — my own childhood's fond amusements — for th6 entertainment of my gray hairs ? A few years ago I found a habit of indulg- ing such fancies growing on me to such a degree that I thought it proper to restrain myself; and yet to some extent it may not prove amiss, but even wholesome. I love my childhood for its inno- cence, its harmless gayety, its simple gladsome pastimes, its gushing sympathies, its treasures of affection, its unsuspecting confidence, its joyous- ness, its happy world of home. I love it because it was artless and without guile or guilt, free from the curse and blight of carking care, uncorrupted, trustful, self-satisfied. In a word, I love it for its naturalness, and because I was happy in it. Bless- ings on the memory of my honored parents that it was so ! And I say now, let the children be children. Let them have their plays in their own way, and choose them for themselves. We only spoil it by interfering. And I say more : away with all sickly sentimentalism, and the cruelty of unnatural constraint. What a deprivation it would have been to me at Belle Vue to have been refused my traps because it was cruel to catch the birds ! But I had my traps, and never dreamed of any cruelty in the matter. My father made the first one for me, and taught me how to make them, and how to set them, and to choose proper places for them. But he never made a cage for me, nor did
44 LIFE OF WILLIAM GAPERS. •
I ever want him to make one. God had given me the birds to eat, if I could catch them ; but not to shut them up in cages where they could do me no good. No artificial cases of conscience were made for me. I loved the birds. I loved to see their pretty feathers, and to hear them sing ; but I loved to taste of their flesh still better. And I might do so as inoflfensively as a cat, for any thing I was taught. The use gave the measure of right in the case. Such as I could not eat I would not catch. And I hate this day the mawkish philosophy which gives to the birds the sympathy due to the child- ren. Let the children be free and active. Let them have a mind and will. And let them have a parent's gentle, faithful guidance : neither the ill- judging weakness which is ever teasing them with interjections that mean nothing; nor the false re- finement which, while it must have the birds go free to carol in the groves, makes caged birds of the little children ; nor the tyranny of constraining them out of all their simple gleeful nature to be- have like old people.
My father married a third wife early in the year 1803, and began to spend his summers in the neighborhood of Bradford's Springs, in Sumter District. Some time before this, my boarding- house at school had been changed from the place before mentioned to that of my preceptor, hard by the academy. This was a decided improvement; for Mr. Roberts not only furnished better fare, but was himself a man for one to love and honor.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 46
The summers of 1808, 1804, and 1805, were passed pleasantly enough, while the Saturdays and Sun- days were spent at our new summer home, with delightful visits to my honored uncle and beloved sister, then Mrs. Guerry. A summer residence near Bradford's Springs was well enough ; but my father was too active to be content at such a dis- tance from his plantation, and without any positive employment to occupy his time. This change for the summer, therefore, led to a much more im- portant one, which, as things turned out, proved highly detrimental on the score of property. In 1805 he was induced to sell his plantation on Waccamaw river, and purchase a cotton plantation on the Wateree, near Statesburg. He sold also his summer place the following year, and pur- chased a seat for permanent residence on the Hills, some five or six miles from the Wateree plantation, and just three and a half miles from Statesburg, on the road to Darlington. I do not remember the price, and cannot judge of its sufficiency, for the Waccamaw place ; but the price given for the place purchased in its stead was certainly low enough. He gave for it six thousand dollars. And this must have been low; for when five years after- wards he judged it prudent to sell it, and remove to a less valuable place in the Black river portion of the District, it brought him eleven thousand dollars. And when the payment of the last instal- ment of this sum was refused, on the pretext that gome particular portion of the land deemed bettor
46 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
than the rest had fallen short of the quantity sup- posed, Mr. McLauchlan, the next neighbor, and a responsible man, said on his oath in court that he believed it to be worth twenty thousand dollars. This was after the close of the war, and the price of cotton had risen very much ; but eleven thou- sand dollars was the price stipulated during the war, when the price of cotton was at its lowest. And yet my father made a sad bargain in purchas- ing it for that much smaller sum of six thousand dollars, as this purchase involved the sale of his rice lands, and the transfer of his planting interest from rice to cotton, just at the point of time when the value of a rice crop was to be doubled, and that of a cotton crop reduced to almost nothing. Never- theless, God's hand was in it for good. My mother's dying prayers had not yet been answered; nor might they have been on Waccamaw without a miracle. Her daughter was now a mother, and her sons were fast growing up without knowing her God in the light of her faith, or being concerned so to know Him.
I was continued with Dr. Roberts till Decem- ber, 1805, when I was admitted into the South Carolina College. This Dr. John M. Roberts was a minister of the Baptist Church ; a most estim- able man and a good scholar, but an imperfect teacher. In Latin his text-books were Corderius, Erasmus, Cornelius Nepos, Caesar, Sallust, Virgil, Cicero's Orations, and Horace's Odes and Art of Poetry. These I had read, and could translate
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 47
after a fashion, but had little knowledge of the analysis of what was translated. In recitation, our too easy instructor seemed to be more apprehen- sive of detecting the deficiency of his pupils, than we were of being exposed. His manner was that of one who might not expect us to know what we ought to have known; and asking us only ques- tions as to points of obvious construction, he reserved to himself the parsing of all difficult pas- sages. Of Greek, I had read the Gospel by St. John, and one or two of the Epistles, and perhaps a third part of Xenophon's Cyropedia. And* with only this exceeding lame preparation, I was to enter the Sophomore class. It was little better than preposterous ; and yet so did I rely on my teacher's judgment, and so did Dr. Maxcy, the President of the college, rely on it, or on his representations of me, that w^ith no higher pretensions I actually was admitted Sophomore. Dr. Maxcy did indeed tell me that my examination had not been satisfactory, and did not justify my admission, and that he would prefer to have me enter college as Freshman. But I was out for Sophomore ; and Sophomore it was, sadly to my cost. For to say nothing of geometry, and other studies, in which my class- mates were ahead of me; and even overlooking my deficiency in Latin, of which I knew little more than barely to turn it into English, what pos- sibly might I do with the Greek ? Homer was the text-book, when I knew not much of the grammar of the language ; and that little only as it was
48 LIFE OF WILLIAM OAPERS.
required for St. John and Xenophon ; and when I had not the remotest idea of the change of form wrought by the dialects in the language of Homer; and the class having read the book once, and some of them twice through, a hundred lines were given us for a lesson; and when, above all, I was so proud of heart as to be fully determined to hide if possible my ignorance, and ask instruction of no one. The very difficulties in my way were hid- den from me, so that it sometimes cost me an hour's diligent search to find the indicative present of a single verb, changed, I knew not how, nor from what, by some unknown dialect. Pride is always folly, and in this instance it was madness. But I reasoned thus: Though I cannot get the present lesson, yet the getting of what I can will contri- bute something towards the next, and that towards the next, until I shall have got able to accomplish all that is required of me. But the madness of my folly was the obstinacy with which I exacted of myself, in such circumstances, the labor of plodding through my task, if at all, without assist- ance. This I would not have, because I could not get it without a betrayal of my ignorance. My whole time, and much more than my whole time, was therefore devoted to study; which I relaxed not for any fatigue from the hour of three o'clock in the morning to eleven at night — allowing my- self but four hours in bed, and not a moment for any recreation. At three in the morning I sat down to Homer, Schrevelius, and the Greek gram-
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 49
mar, till prayers at six; after which came the dreaded recitation. My other studies employed me till five P. M., bating only meals and recita- tions. At five o'clock prayers and supper inter- rupted me ; and then till eleven, when I went to bed, I resumed the heartless task of Homer and his dialects. Twenty hours out of twenty-four spent in this manner soon worked mischief to my nerves. The little time I was in bed, I could not sleep for nightmare; I grew pale and tremulous, had in- cessant headache, and should probably have driven myself to death, but for an incident which brought my great and good friend, Dr. Maxcy, to my rescue. I told him all, and his noble nature seemed to yearn over me. I must desist from study ; return home for the summer ; (it was then May, 1806 ;) and re- turning in November, join the class which he at first recommended for me. I felt both the wisdom of his advice and the goodness which dictated it, and acted accordingly. But extreme was the mor- tification I experienced in having to abandon the achievement I had undertaken of equalling my superiors, and give up the struggle for a standing in the class of which Harper, Evans, Miller, Reed, and others like them, were members.
I purpose in these recollections to give you what I remember of myself faithfully, though some things, and especially at this period, may not now have my approval. It was early summer in 1806. 1 was at home; at the place called Woodland, late- ly purchased for a residence, on the Hills above 4
60 LIFE OF WILLIAM OAPERS.
Statesburg. And interdicted close study, I was to recover strength and spirits by free exercise of any kind. And a scheme struck me for improving this time towards my advancement in future life. Sum- ter District then, as now, was divided into two elec- tion districts, Cleremont and Clarendon. Clere- mont was mine : of which the population for the most part belonged to Salem and Black river, and were at that period averse from the people of the Hills, as being too aristocratic. At Bradford's Springs, I would have been on the stronger side, but our present residence put me in the minority portion of the district; and the scheme referred to was for the purpose of overcoming this disadvan- tage. For already T was looking with downright ambition (perhaps I should say vanity) to enter the Legislature as soon as I should be of age ; and if I might accomplish this^ I would deem it an equivalent for being retarded in my progress through college. My plan was this : There was a popular academy kept at that time on Black river by a brother of my late preceptor ; and while I had reason to believe that I was favorably known to him, many of his larger pupils had become ac- quainted with me during my visits to my uncle, and attending church in that quarter. Now, then, I proposed to visit this academy, and to make friends of those youngsters, and of their friends through them. I would propose instituting a de- bating society, to meet once a month, or oftener, with honorary meml)ers of the men of influence in
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 51
that quarter ; taking care to provide for an oration on the 4th of July by one of the members. It was successfully managed. An election to the presi- dency of the society was declined, for the alleged reason that the office ought to be held in connec- tion with the school, and I was rather young to be a president ; but more, in fact, because I preferred figuring as a debater, and deemed it politic to ap- pear deferential. But no modesty of youth, or deference to older boys, was suflfered to prevent my acceptance of the appointment as orator for the 4th of July, which I would endeavor to sustain to the best of my poor abilities, and hoping for all due allowance for my youth. I know not how long the society lasted ; but I know that I counted that 4th of July for a day. The oration was long enough, and sufficiently spiced with youthful patriotism, the Black river boys, the pride of the country, and all that. And besides having the whole country around to hear me, there was a great dinner; and at the dinner just such a sort of toast as it tickled my vanity to hear.
Another story of very different import, and yet somewhat connected in its origin with the preced- ing, belongs to this summer of 1806. Towards the latter end of the summer, a camp-meeting was held in liembert's settlement, where the people were mostly Methodists; and my uncle and family at- tending it, made it convenient for me also to attend. Of course this would be agreeable ; for although I was not prepared to use it for the proper spiritual
52 LIFB OF WILLIAM GAPERS.
purposes of such a meeting, and yet had too high a spnse of propriety to go to such a place for the purpose of electioneering, still, as my youth must protect me from any imputation of bad motives, it might be well enough to go just as a friend among friends, and to make more friends. Of this camp- meeting my recollections are about as distinct as of most I have attended of later years. The num- ber of people occupying tents was much greater than it had been at two previous meetings of the same kind, in 1802 and 1803, in that neighborhood ; both of which I had attended with my uncle's fami- ly, and at which wagons and awnings made of coverlets and blankets were mostly relied on, in place of tents. The tents too, (of this meeting in 1806,) though much smaller and less commodious than in later years, were larger and better than at the former meetings. But still, at the tents as well as at the wagons of the camp, there was very little cooking done, but every one fed on cold provisions, or at least cold meats. Compared to those first two camp-meetings, this one differed also in the more important respects of management and the phases of the work of God. At the first one, (1802,) particularly, (which was held on McGirt's branch, below the point where the Statesburg and Darlington road crosses it,) I recollect little that looked like management. There were two stands for preaching, at a distance of about two hundred jrards apart; and sometimes there was preaching at one. sometimes at the other, and sometimes at both
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 58
mmnltaneouslj. This was evidently a bad arrange* ment; fori remember seeing the people running hastily from one place to the other, as some sudden gush of feeling venting itself aloud, and perhaps with strange bodily exercises, called their attention off. As to the times of preaching, I think there were not any stated hours, but it was left to cir- cumstances; sometimes oftener, sometimes more seldom. The whole camp was called up, by blow- ing a horn, at the break of day ; before sunrise it was blown again; and I doubt if after that there were any regular hours for the services of the meeting. But what was most remarkable both at this camp-meeting and the following one, a year afterwards, (1803,) as distinguishing them from the present meeting of 1806, and much more from later camp-meetings, was the strange and unaccountable bodily exercises which prevailed there. In some instances, persons who were not before known to be at all religious, or under any particular concern about it, would suddenly fall to the ground, and become strangely convulsed with what was called the jerks; the head and neck, and sometimes the body also, moving backwards and forwards with spasmodic violence, and so rapidly that the plaited hair of a woman's head might be heard to crack. This exercise was not peculiar to feeble persons, nor to either sex, but, on the contrary, was most frequent to the strong and athletic, whether man or woman. I never knew it among children, nor
54 LIFE OF WILLIAM OAPEBS.
very old persons. In other cases, persons falling down would appear senseless, and almost lifeless, for hours together; lying motionless at full length on the ground, and almost as pale as corpses. And then there was the jumping exercise, which some- times approximated dancing; in which several persons might be seen standing perfectly erect, and springing upward without seeming to bend a joint of their bodies. Such exercises were scarcely, if at all, present among the same people at the camp- meeting of 1806. And yet this camp-meeting was not less remarkable than the former ones, and very much more so than any I have attended in later years, for the suddenness with which sinners of every description were awakened, and the over- whelming force of their convictions ; bearing them instantly down to their knees, if not to the ground, crying for mercy. At this meeting I became clear- ly convinced that there was an actual, veritable power of God*s grace in persons then before me, and who were known to me, by which they were brought to repentance and a new life; and that with respect to the latter, (a state of regeneration and grace,) the evidence of their possessing it was as full and satisfactory as it was that they had been brought to feel the guilt and condemnation of their sins. I did not fall at any time, as I saw others do ; but with the conviction clear to my apprehension as to what was the true character of the work be- fore me, that it was of God, while I feared greatly,
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 55
I could not but desire that I might become a par- taker of the benefit. Still I kept myself aloof, I knew not why.
The meeting over, I stopped for a day or two at my uncle's. The day that I left it, as I dwelt on its scenes, with the sounds belonging to those scenes still lingering on my ear, and my spirit confidently approving, I felt a lively satisfaction in the contem- plation of what appeared to me to be the greatest possible discovery, which was, that a sinner could be forgiven his sins ; could be reconciled to God ; could have peace with God, witnessed by the Holy Spirit, through faith in our Lord Jesus Christ. Yet I was conscious of no painful conviction of sin ; no working of a godly sorrow ; no extraordinary sense of guilt; no action of repentance. Indeed, my feel- ings seemed absorbed in this sense of satisfaction that beyond all doubt I had learned so great a les- son. For though I had not experienced it in my own soul, I was satisfied of the verity of it by the consent of my consciousness as to what I had wit- nessed in others ; something which I myself had also felt serving to demonstrate the truth of the whole, as piece and part of that whole. But as I was going to bed that night, I found myself strong- ly arrested with the thought of my responsibility for the use I should make of the light afforded me. Ought I not instantly to pray? I was a sinner, and repentance and forgiveness of sins was offered me. Must it not turn fearfully to my condemnation If T did not forthwith seek it ? I fell on my knees
56 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
and continued all night in prayer to God. Returning home, I occupied myself, for several weeks, with noth- ing else but devotion. My whole time was giv^n to reading the Scriptures, meditation, and prayer. And yet while I never distrusted the certainty of the great truths just stated, and although my purpose to pursue after them knew no abatement, there was no one point of time at which I was enabled to re- alize their fulfilment in my own case, so as to be assured that I myself had passed from death to life by the blood of Josus. I still felt, at the best, that I was but a servant, not a son. Thus it was with me when, on one of my fast-days, having taken my Bible with me into the woods with a purpose of spending the day there in devotion, and having continued a long time on my knees, I became so much exhausted as to fall asleep. I cannot describe — it can scarcely be imagined — in what terror I awoke. Asleep at prayer! Fasting and praying with the Bible open before me, and asleep ! I seemed to myself a monster of profanity, who had mocked God to his face, and must surely have committed the unpardonable sin. What was I to do ? And there appeared nothing, nothing ! And I was ready to condemn myself as a trifler from the beginning, whose want of reverence had thus betrayed itself in what seemed to be the most presumptuous form of sinning. Alas for me, a darkness as of death shrouded my spirit ; and how I might penetrate it, I knew not.
The Hills in the neighborhood of Statesburg fur-
AUTOBIOGRAPHT. 57
iiish beautiful seats for residence ; and in my youth, and more recently, (if not at the present time,) there was no part of South Carolina more remarkable than that neighborhood for elegance and fashion. At the time of our date, (1806,) we had within a compass of a few miles, Judge Waties, the May- rants, General and Colonel Sumter, Mr. (afterwards «Judge) Richardson, Dr. Brown field, and others, who were permanent residents, besides still others of the elite of the low country, who passed their summers there. Balls were frequent; and the season for them was just commencing at the time of the un- happy incident just mentioned. And as if the malice and subtlety of my mortal foe had been con- centrated on that fatal hour, there met me, as I returned to the house from that melancholy scene of the wood, a well-known card, " To tea, and spend THE EVENING.'* It was an invitation to a ball. The bare coincidence of such an invitation at such a moment seemed to tell me that I was doomed, and there was nothing better left for me. But could I so suddenly give up all hope of the better things I had been seeking ? Was it impossible for me to become a spiritual Christian ? And was tlie world my only heritage ; and must I return to it in de- spair of ever inheriting the better world above? Wliat an hour was that ! First, there was the incu- bus of an undefined condemnation for the monstros- ity of falling asleep on my knees. Then, I was not a Methodist ; and now, probably, never could be. My religious feelings had been known to no
58 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
one out of my immediate faijiily ; and in the pro- sent state of things had better not become known, as I could not hope to be a Christian. True, I could no longer find any enjoyment in the pleasures of the gay world; but situated as I was, it would be useless to give offence, and break with my formei associates.
Surely no one ever went to meet associates in a ballroom in so sad a mood. I was going to a ball as to an antechamber of the pit below ; and yet I ^as going. I felt a loathing of it, as of a cup which had intoxicated me in time past, but which was now presented with its wine turned into gall, and yet I was going to taste of that loathsome cup. On the way I would have turned back and gone home ; but no, the invitation had been accepted, and must be complied with. If I did not go, what should I answer when I might be asked for the reason of it ? And might it not even serve as a rebuke of dancing for me to go and then decline dancing, of which I had been known to be exceed- ing fond? But enough of this unpleasant story. I went. And having gone, I danced. The hour was late when I got home and to bed — to bed without prayer! But the flurry of my spirits and bodily fatigue, after such a day and so much of such a night, made it easier for me to go to bed without prayer than I was to find it in the morning to go away from my bed without praj^er. Then I was calm and recollected ; and may God save you from ever suflfering any thing like the sinking of
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 59
heart, and that hopelessness with which, that morn - ing, I left that bedside without daring so much as to bow my knees. I felt as one wandering along some dark labyrinthian way, who had been given a light and had extinguished it. First, the scene of the wood the day before, and then the ball at night, and my light was out. No mitigating cir- cumstances could avail to comfort me, and I gave up all for lost.
But there was one thing which I could not be tempted to give up. It was graven as with the point of a diamond on the tablet of my heart, and planted as with the finger of God deep and abiding in the consciousness of my nature. I would never give up the recollection of the past few weeks. • And that recollection, mournful as it was, proved invaluable to me. It fixed and riveted in my mind a conviction of the truth of the gospel and spiritual religion so firmly, that no plausibility of infidel reasoning could ever afterwards shake it. And when, (as you shall see,) after so long a time, the phantasm of the unpardonable iniquity of the incident just recited had been dispelled, and I was again to be found calling upon God, no temptation ever prevailed to beat me oft' from the sinner's only hope, the cross of Christ and prayer.
In the winter I returned to college, fully equal to my studies as they then were, and in no great danger of excessive diligence. Still, I had a pride of associating with those whom I had so vainly striven to overtake, and to rank above my years in
60 LIFE OF WILLIAM OAPERH.
the society hall if I might not in the class-FOom, Among the seniors of that year (1807) were Wil- liam T. Brantly, the late lamented President of the college at Charleston, John Murphy, late Governor of the State of Alabama, and James Gregg, who has been for many years an honor to the bar of South Carolina, and one of her ablest senators. Of the juniors I have already mentioned William Harper, since Chancellor and a senator of the United States, Josiah J. Evans, one of the judges of South Carolina, Stephen D. Miller, late Governor of that State, and others. To my own class, as it now was, belonged William J. Grayson, since col- lector of the port of Charleston, Col. Wade Hamp- ton, and others, who, if not as eminently distin- guished in after-life, were nevertheless worthy.
Mr. Brantly was already a preacher, and Mr. Murphy and Mr. Gregg were patterns of pure morals and gentlemanly bearing. To these gentle- men I owed the kindest obligations, and it was probably owing, in a great measure, to their influ- ence over me, that my indiscretions this year, what- ever they may have been, partook not of the na- ture of gross immorality. But there was another influence which kept me, without the intervention of means of any kind, from a still more dangerous exposure. This exposure was the prevalence oi Deism, against which I carried in myself an evi- dence too strong and conchisive to admit for a moment its half-reasoning unbelief. I had proved Christianity to be true in a way that Deism could
AUTOBTOORAPHY. 61
aot reach ; and as well might it have been under- taken to reason away from me my consciousness of being, as my conviction of its truth. This might be called (as it often was called) superstition, in- fatuation, or what not, but it made no difference to me, my consciousness was still victor, and I gloried in the truth of Christianity. "Gentlemen,'* 1 would say, (when pressed to read Tom Paine, or Hume, or any other such author,) "gentlemen, I am as you are ; I am not a Christian, but a sinner; but sinner as I am, I dare not seek to evade respon- sibility by denying what I know to be truth. I know in myself that I am a sinner, and I know in the siame manner that the Bible is the word of God, and Jesus Christ is his Son. Call not him by vile epithets whom I know to be the Son of God as certainly as I know that the light shines or the wind blows. Unbelief may make us worse, but can make us no better.*' But I was a paradox to myself. Naturally gay and vivacious, I engaged freely in the pastimes of the hours for recreation ; and in company with those of like dispositions seemed as happy as the rest. But behind all this there slumbered a feeling of remorse, which would sometimes be aroused into a loathing of myself, and extreme sadness — a secret wound, hidden from the light of day, which the solitude of night re- vealed as a running sore. Yes, I might be merry in the day, when the night was to be dark witli self-reproach. Alas, what is light without love? This was the consciousness which made me argue
62 LIFE OF WILLIAM GAPBRS.
for the Christian faith, while it had no power to make me a Christian. It seemed impossible foi me to maintain the watchfulness proper to a serious self-restraint when all was gay about me; and equally so for me to pass the night without calling painfully to mind my sinful wanderings from God. And yet I was restrained from grosser immorali- ties. Why not more, may be told in a word : I did not pray. Solitude at night shut me up to the con- templation of a scene in which the incidents of the previous summer seemed pencilled before me : how I had had the truth of spiritual religion demon- strated to me ; had been graciously drawn to seek it ; and had (as still it appeared to me) profanely cast it all away. But it was that last spectacle ot the scene which held me back as by a spell from prayer, though I would have given any thing to feel myself at liberty to pray. And so fully had this spectral idea got possession of my mind, that I was shut out from prayer, that I seemed incapable of so much as even to call it in question.
You will wonder, perhaps, at my dwelling so long on this unwelcome theme, but I cannot dis- miss it hastily, for I deem it to have been of no little consequence. I mean not that it was benefi- cial for me to have fallen asleep at prayer, nor to have fallen under the tormenting misconceptions of the character of that act, which prevented me from attempting to pray afterwards, and in despair of becoming a Christian induced my return to former associations. And much less do I mean
AUTOBIOaRAPHT. 68
Qiat it was well for me to have gone to the ball that night, and to continue in habits of pleasurable amusement, and to live after the gay and giddy manner that I did, against my conscience, awak« ened as it had been to the discovery of spiritual truth. Nothing of the sort. But I mean that my wretchedness taught me understanding; and although I had not the knowledge which should have inspired courage to pray, I saw an infinite value in the privilege of access to God through the great Mediator ; and by as much as I was hopeless of any good without it, and felt that the pleasures of sin were but apples of Sodom, by so much was I still held to the belief of spiritual truth as demon- strated in my present consciousness no loss than in my former better experience. The present com- pared to the past involved a sense of destitution, not only implying a consciousness of want, but that the thing wanted had been possessed. A smoking wick compared to the lighted candle might be its emblem. And the thing wanted was that influence of the all-quickening Spirit which should renew the flame. To be a sinner under condemnation for his sins, but calling upon God in expectation of forgiveness through the blood of the cross, seemed a hopeful and desirable condition in comparison to mine, in which the great pain and plague was that I feared to pray, deeming it pre- sumptuous for me to do so, and therefore not at- tempting it. Such a hag may a mistaken coil' science be.
64 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
But why did I not correct my error by the Scrip- tures ? Ah, why did I not ! Why, unhappily, be- cause, having left oft' to pray, I had left off also the reading of the Scriptures, as not being likely to profit me without prayer; whereas, if I had searched the Scriptures with proper care, it would probably have been blessed both to the correction of my error, and my recovery from this snare of the devil. It was not long before I came to the conclusion that I could not get better as things were ; and that the only hope for me was in some such extraordinary impulse of the Holy Spirit as that which moved me so mightily on the evening after the camp-meeting; which only could assure me that I might pray with acceptance, and, with the encouragement to pray, enable me to live as a Christian ought ; and that until I should be thus favored, if ever, it was needless for me to afllict myself for what I could not help ; but that I would keep myself from any thing grossly im- moral, and maintain steadfastly my belief in the truth of Christianity, if haply the needful visita- tion might be afforded me : another hurtful error. With regard to matters of the college, things went with me in the usual way, and I went with them after the same manner. There was nothing worthy of remark. The vacation was spent at home ; (Woodland, on the Hills, in Sumter District;) and of this also I have little to say. Its incidents were not remarkable. Usually my mornings were occu- pied with some sort of reading, and my evenings
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 65
with the ladies ; of whom there were not a few in our neighborhood, nor a few belles among them. Once or twice a week I spent a day with my brother Gabriel at the plantation; but I was not fond of hunting deer or of fishing ; and a week at a time might be spent on a visit to my excellent brother and sister Guerry, and my much-loved uncle, who still seemed a sort of second father to me. But there was one circumstance which per- haps [ should advert to, as it had some influence subsequently on my conduct. My worthy brother- in-law was very sick, and was so for a long time, 30 that his life was thought to be in danger; and this sickness was made the means of his awaken- ing and conversion. I was much with him to- wards the latter part of the vacation ; and if I could have had any misgivings before as to the truth of a spiritual religion, they must have been dissipated by what I saw in him. I said his sick- ness was the means of his conversion, not meaning that he was already converted in an evangelical sense of that word, but that he was awakened, and it led to his conversion. He conversed freely with me, as I also did with him ; and in one of these conversations, speaking of my feelings a year be- fore, he expressed the opinion that if I had joined the Church I would not have suflfered the loss which I was then deploring. I had long been of the same opinion, and expressed, in reply to what he said, a settled purpose to do so whenever I should feel again as I had then felt the quickening
66 LIFE OF WILI.IAM CAFSES.
power of the Holy Spirit. I mention this heE% -- tm I nhall have occasion to adrert to it hereafter.
Xotwith«tanding this year (1807) was barren of incidents of any note, its secret history was strwigly influential on my future course of life. It began^ as the last had closed^ with intense agitation : the buoyancy of young life bearisg me away with my associates to an extreme of levity by- day, and my tronbled conscience lashing meas with ^whips of fire by night. It had passed to its seventh month, ^ with only the change of a sort of compromise: with , conscience ; by which I should allow myself just . any* thing that circumstances made coni^enient,< . Hhort of gross immorality^ and a disbelief, of the Hcriptures and. spiritual reli^on ; and I was, .more* < over, to> be ev'er forward to- avow and< defetid the truth of Qod's word; which lastitem.in the^truoe- with conscience cost me. some little tre^uble.. But during the vacation, I was not only withdrawn « from thenstrife -of tongues, but. also from ..thein cxcitemont of college . recreations.. My recreations y now wore of a difterent sort. Indeed,. I took none, and desired none, except the evronings. in female - Hocietyi This was not exciting, but soothing y, not » a whirligig* of giddy '-passions,* but .a refining,/ elevating entertainments ( Such, out of the bail»n **oom, I had always found female? society to .be ;l , for, thank 'God^ I never associated withtan5' ivhom ^v I did: not h(hior as ladies indeed* In^a wordy theQ,'V my mind was becoming more; settled-i-less frrrol- • 0 \xw,< and • losi delponding ; and^ though^ ^I had* no^«.«
AUT'OBIOGRAPiHYi. 67Ju
courage, to 1 betake- myself to prayer or avow a re*-.*^ ligious life, the hoped-fbr visitation whi6b should.' give jne confidence began to be looked to not only • as deeirable. but very possible; and the resolution was fully formed which should make such a visita- ' tion the occasion of an instant public avowal 4>n my ^ part, by joining the Church.
In this state of mind my return to college in October was^not anticipated with pl^sure, but rather as an undesirable necessity. There was an-* other consideration also which began to gain some importance with me. My profession was fixed fi^r the law; and at that time the statute required three years* study with a lawyer, in order to admission at the bar. I was ambitious of attaining to thia poei^ tion at the earliest allowable age ; and the securing. . of it would not admit of my continuing in college to the time of graduation. Perhaps it was unfor- . tunate for me that, with a sanguine temperament which might incline me to overreach myself in any • circumstances, I had grown up rapidly »in* the- last five years, and was already at my fulLheight^« five feet, eight and a half inches* Nor can I dei>y» ^ that I was ambitious, and. that « my vanity was tat »- least equ^.to my understanding. I had frequ^nt conversations, with my.father. as .to? the prppa^iety'/ of 'gi]i?ing up. my text-books..at. college, in»favo^of . Blaekstene; in which I undervalued tha^tudicfitof ■■* the,«eB4or. year, as being mainly a review ' of Mthc, pr^eeding, ^and- was inclined .to. the » ©pinion tha^^f after the middle of my next term,J[ had. ^beMievv
68 LIFE OF WILLIAM GAPERS.
commence the study of law. My father was re- luctant, and preferred that I should graduate, but waived a decision for the present time.
I should deem it most unfortunate that I had gotten this kink into my head about leaving col- lege and commencing the study of law, were it not for the state of my mind with respect to religion. In view only of the present life aud dis- tinction at the bar, it was a great error ; for so far from its being true that any portion of a college course might be dispensed with by one seeking a pi'ofession, it is to be regretted that this so fre- quent haste of the boys to become men before the time, should find the allowance which it does in the present too brief course of studies, which had better be extended. But in view of the whole case from the present point of time, with the lights of experience to guide me, I believe that this also was of God. My situation in college was, to say the least, very trying, and I felt it to be so. That compromise still appeared to be the best in my power there; and I was any thing but what I would choose to be in the midst of my associates, not a few of whom mocked at religion as a super- stition, though in other respects they were high- minded, estimable young men. It was a hazardous experiment to be intimate with them in all their pastimes, on the principle of maintaining that one might be as gay and believe the Bible as he could be in the disbelief of it ; and my nature was social^ to a fault.
Autobiography. 69
But the vacation over, I returned to college, and resumed my studies with considerable spirit; which was not diminished by the growing purpose I in- dulged of making that my last term. In other respects, I know not that any thing transpired worthy of remark.
Early the next year, (1808,) my father having yielded his consent, I took a final leave of the college, and entered myself a student at law in the office of that estimable man and eminent jurist, Mr. John S, Richardson ; afterwards, for a long course of years, a judge of the courts of law of South Carolina. Mr. Richardson's office was in Statesburg; and it was agreed that my studies should be pursued for the most part at home ; only arranging for so much time to be spent in the office as might be deemed desirable from time to time. Woodland was now home, emphatically, as I lived there ; but I was no longer a child. A study was built for me at a pleasant spot, and I set zealously at work to make myself a lawyer. A horse was appropriated to my use, though I seldom rode ex- cept to the office, to church on Sundays, and occa- sionally to spend an .evening with the ladies, which I was always fond to do. And now that phantom, the honor that cometh of man only, appeared in glory, as a thing ta be worshipped, the chief idol of all, whose service should be honored with a high reward. What a mistake ! And how common it is with other ardent young men, who no more sus- pect it than I myself did. Those succeed in the
*'*70 LIFB 0^ WlLLOtAM CAPBRS.
-racfe for distinction who are in. love with tto. means *' of 'success-^the mastery of their profession j; and •'not those who, too eager of the- goal, ./have> not • -patience to approach it step by. step. . I was not, •♦after all, in love with the few, but enamored: only of the charms of a fancied glorification to be ♦ 'obtained as a lawyer. The law itself was mere • ' labor — 'dry, plodding study ; and that I did not love it for its own sake, an anecdote ;of the early ' summer will suffice to show. General Sumter had just returned home from Congress, when I was one day surprised by an invitation to dine with him; '* with the words written at the bottom of the note, ' "None but gentlemen are invited." Arriving at '.hia mansion, I found the interpretation of these enigmatic words, in the fact that the company con- - sisted of some twenty bachelors, of whoni I was *' the youngest. And as soon as the cloth was re- moved, atid Mrs. Sumter had withdrawn, the object of this unusual collection of young men to dine ' with the old veteran was made known in a long tiddress^ in which he told us all about our difficult •'ties with England; the certainty. of a war, and • -of its being a long one ; the occasion it musrtjjfur- r'nish for glorious deeds <and immortal hooor; the "•great 'advantages for promotion to those who took ' 'bfficein that first enlistment which Congress had -Ordered; and that he wasiauthoriaed -^by^the Pre- *'sident to promise commissions to any of«u8.thoD present; whose fortune8"mustv»be.in:ade'.by accept- ing them. And what "Wad* become oifimyilovero^'
. AUTOBIOGRAPHY. ,71
•"f^th^^law whe» we rose from that table? - My idol >'«was i^ratksferred; ta • another temple, a^d not as a ' lawyer, bu4 a chivalrous soldier, rising rapidly to . eminence { and feme, was I to seek my destiny. '.'But how were my young wings clipped^ and my ? fancied certainty of a noble elevation by deeds to •^ deserve it brought to the ground! * My father ' would not hear to it; and when I expressed sur- prise,* and alluded to his own services, in the Re- ' volutionary war as justifying, the step Is proposed, he really seemed almost angry. " What !" said he, ^'^^did I ever fight for -myself? 'Was it not for the ' = liberties of my country ? But you would fight for pay, aiid ta> make yourself a name.' Our liberties are not in danger^ atid the government' is strong enoiigh to take care of' itself And so I had to* smooth down my feathers, and return to Black- stone.
Early in July of this year (1808) there was another camp-meeting in Rembert's settlement. But I did tiot attend itj having an engagement of business for my father in ' Georgetown at the time of its ' ^ being held. • My brother-in-law,' Major Guerry, and my sister attended it, and with the happiest eonse- ' quenees. I have mentiotfed his illness the previous . autumn, and that it had been blessed to the awaken- ing of both 'of them to a deep concern for th^ir " fealvation. They had now joined the Church, and 'at this camp^meeting were converted. On my re- turn home it affected me to hear it; and I was '*- nifeditating a visit to them, whett they eame -to see
72 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
US. I used to admire my brother-in-law for a bear- ing of personal dignity which distinguished him above other well-bred men of my acquaintance, and which, together with his being a very large man, rendered his presence peculiarly imposing. He was unexceptionably kind and amiable, but his look would inspire reverence more than love ; it was rather austere than gentle. So I had been accustomed to see him. But there now stood before me that same noble form, with a countenance as soft as love itself, and a bearing that might seem the very expression of meekness. Several times during the afternoon and early evening I saw a tear in the eye which I had not thought capable of a tear, and a suffusion on the cheek which might not have been suspected of any thing so tender. As to my sister, her dear bright eyes would laugh in tears, and she seemed the happiest of mortals. And for myself, I had in me the interpretation of it all. Here was the religion of the Spirit of grace, which I had contemplated before in faces as truth- ful, but not so dear to me as those of the present witnesses. How poor might the world be to pur- chase it ! What should the world be to mortal man in comparison to it ? This it was which more than twenty months before I had been so earnestly seeking, the consciousness of which had preserved me since from Deism ; but which, whether or not I might ever hope to obtain it, was, alas, how fear- fully uncertain !
It grew night; supper was over; it was warm,
AtIl:OBIOGRAPnY. TS
and we were sitting in a piazza open to the south- west breeze which fans our summer evenings. My sister was singing with a soft, clear voice some of the songs of the camp-meeting ; and as she paused, my father touched my shoulder with his hand and slowly walked away. I followed him till he had reached the farthest end of the piazza on another side of the house, when turning to me he expressed himself in a few brief words, to the eftect that he felt himself to have been for a long time in a back- slidden state, and that he must forthwith acknow- ledge the grace of God in bis children, or perish. His words were few, but they were enough, and strong enough. I sank to my knees and burst into tears at the utterance of them, while for a moment he stood trembling by me, and then bade me get the books. The Bible was put on the table ; the family came together; he read the 103d Psalm, and then he kneeled down and prayed as if he felt indeed that life or death, heaven or hell, depended on the issue. That was the hour of grace and mercy — grace restored to my father as in times of my infancy, and mercy to me in breaking the snare of the fowler that my soul might escape. That most truly solemn and overwhelming service of the family over, I took occasion to remind my brother- in-law of our conversation the year before, when I had expressed a purpose of joining the Church without delay if ever I should be favored to feel again as I had formerly felt. This great visitation I was now conscious had been granted me, and I
'74 LIFE .OF WILLIAM C A FEES.
I. iwistied under the inflmeiice of it to bind myself to
'1. the. fulfilment of that purpose, which I. promised to
' do the next time the circuit-preacher came to Rem-
bert's meeting-house.
I did not consider my feelings on this occasion
: >to imply conversion, any more than those of the
. night after the camp^meeting in 1806. My fiaith
V ^embraced not so much. But I knew them to-be
iiifrom God^ as I bad. known it om that former ooca-
• sion^ and this alone was half a world to me. I '\ wient to- bed, and bowed my knees to the God and
Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, with a heart suf- fused with adoring gratitude. The next morning,
' as I awoke Calm and refreshed from sleep, it was suggested to my mind that I may have beeii hasty
« in the promise I had made. What if I should not find those strong emotions under which I made it renewed again? What if possibly all that had transpired should prove to be a mere matter of
' sympathy^ and not of God at all ? I trembled at the bare suggestion^ but a moment on my knees taught me whence it came, and reassured my eon- fidence. ' God had visited me indeed. The flinty
• rock had been smitten, and gave forth water ; and ' I, even I, had access to a throne of mercy for- the
Redeemer's sake. Blackstone was Idid aside, and
' the Bible became again my one book. ^ And now
I longed with intense desire for the time to arrive
•when, by joining the Church, I should formally
I brtefc with the world, and -identify- myself- with
» 'those '»who, (at least then-, and in= that part ' of the
. AUTOBIO^EA^HY. '^'76
vMeountry,)fQr being.the most spiiritual and k&st world-
1 ly, were regarded the most, enthusiltstic and least
rational of all the sects of Christians. * My great.want
* was to know- God as they knew him, in. the for-
: igiveness of sins, and to serve him as they served him,
< not. as servants only, but as sons, having.the>8pirit
.»! of adoption, crying^ Abba, Father. (Rom. viii, 15.)
;i It.wasione.oft the Sabbath days between. thB^first
'. . . and middle of the month > of . August that : this
. event. of my joining the Methodist Church took
: place. And < to ishow the. unqualified simplicity? and
I .hearty confidence with which it was done, I will
give an anecdote, which, of itself, should not seem
worth relating : . The meeting oveir, I accompanied
my brother-in-law and sister to the house of i an old
•Methodist gentleman, (a very prototype of true
Christian simplicity,) with whom they were to dine
outheir way home. I was dressed with more than
usual care: my clothes ini the point of the. fashion,
with a deep frill of linen cambric and a full-sized
breastpin, at my bosom; (bad tswte certainly, for
one's dress should be agreeable to one's company.)
And as we sat at table, my old? friend said to me :
"•Well, yo lit. have joined the i Methodists, and now
' you must lay aside your breastpin and ruffles."
*.' Why ; should I,, sir?" I asked ; ,<andt ^he only
, ain&wered, '^If you? don't pull them bfi^, youxmust
; 'button your waistcoat over tkem and hide^them;
% you mustn't let the preacher see them." ■ And there
♦ : ended the colloquy. But it was food for thought.
*' HHide them !"i He. said. that eva8ivelv;«hejdid aot
76 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
mean for me to hide them, but that I should take them off. But for what possible reason should I take them off? And I could think of none. I had heard of none, and was profoundly puzzled. Still there must be some reason for it ; and what could it be ? Why, the reason he had told me. I had joined the Methodists, and that was the reason. The Methodists did not wear superfluous orna- ments, did they ? And I could not call to mind one of them who did. Well then, thought I, the question is settled. When did I ever change the fashion of my dress for any better reason than that the fashion had changed, and I must be in the fashion ? Henceforth the Methodist fashion shall be mine ; and done as I am with the world, I will follow the lead of this godly people in every thing. Arrived at my brother-in-law's, my first act was to rip off the frill from my bosom, which my sister kept, as a memorial of those simple-hearted times, for many years.
That day I consider the most eventful of my life — the pivot of the rest. In the evening, that most godly man and best of ministers, the Rev. William Qassaway, favored us with his company, and passed the night, (having an appointment for the next day at Clark's meeting-house, a few miles below my brother-in-law's residence, which we purposed at- tending;) and fresh to my heart is the remembrance of that evening. After considerable conversation and prayer, with myself alone in his chamber, he proposed to me to meet him at Camden, some three
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 77
weeks to come, and accompany him around on his circuit. Brother Kennedy, his junior colleague, would he with him for part of the round, and he thought I would find it both pleasant and profita- ble. I thought so too, and gladly accepted his pro- posal if my father should have no objection to it. The meeting the next day was one to be remem- bered ; and what with that, the godly counsel of my reverend friend, and the cheering influence of the joyful faith of my brother and sister, I felt con- firmed in every pious resolution.
At the time, which I had been eagerly anticipat- ing, I was in Camden ; and soon found that there was much more in my being there than I had dreamed of. What was it, to my apprehension, more than a mere journey, which I was to make with my reverend friend, for the benefit of his guidance in seeking the grace of God, and that I might attend the meetings daily ? And not know- ing any one in Camden, nor where Mr. Gassaway might lodge ; nor even thinking that if I did know, it might be proper for me to obtrude myself on strangers, I had stopped at the door of a house of entertainment, and was just alighting from my horse, when our venerated patriarch of Rembert's church, and Rembert*s settlement, passing by, ar- rested me with, "You mustn't stop here. Haven't you come to ride with brother Gassaway ? Go with me to brother Smith's." (It was that brother Smith whose praise was in all the churches, and whose memory is still precious, as one of the purest
78**t LIFE OP- WILLLiisM fXIAPBRS.
anidkbest of Methodist preach^exs ;« who many yi^airs^^ before hadvinarried a relation of &ther Rembert's, % aiid was. now located in Camden.) And right wrllr > ingly I went; not understanding, however, why- riding with brother Gassaway should confer on mei ' such consequence, nor dreaming of any technical meaning which '^riding'' with him might have. But' - how great was my amazement at the Jiour of family prayer that. night, when the books were handed me. by brother Smith, and I was asked to have prayers * for them. Could it be right ? And could I possibly . perform it ? But it struck me that I was not a judge. If dt seemed wrong for me to offer prayers for those . who were so much wiser^and better than myself , that could not make it right for me to seem to know . better than they by refusing to do it. So I took the books ; though the extreme agitation I was under scarcely admitted of' reading, and much less pray-, ing* The sanctuary, next day, was refreshing to me, ^s/morning, afternoon and evening I heard the - go^pel which I beUeveds Monday was spent by my « excellent friends Gassaway and Kenoaedy in visiting y their flock. They took me with them, and ealled . on me several times to pr^iy ;. whi<^ I did with no- little perturbation, doubting its propriety. But the < nextrday (September 12) taxed my simple subBfti*- ^ siveness still more 'Severely* We left£!amdea forv- thei^ooiint^y appointmentsi, whiclii began ithis^ day %ato. a me^ting-htxude in tberjHne-woods toward Lynche's: < crads^ then taUed^^Smitii's^ (afterwards^ MadrahalK s^)?-. * aiM»gi.|a ^'erj^.vpoo])^vpeopl$^HS^ BiaDtheJc^eiMuedji^i.:^
AVTOBIOGKAPHY. . 79fp
preached ; wlyle I was deated agianst the walL of • th&^hoase remote from the polpit, (not knowiugyet the meaning of the phrase . '^ riding with, brother Grassaway/' nor dreaming that it had the least oon*> nection with any thing official on my pigrt $) aad>the . sermon over, he beckoned me to the pqlpi(; It was > a sort of coarse box open at one end, and elevated a single step above the rest of the. floor. • Brother- • Gassaway was sitting in it/ and reaching- ^out his hand as I advanced, <s£dd- to me^ ^' Exhorts *•' He said \ no more, but, as I seemed to helaitate, repeated the^ same word ^^^xhartj" with- a sligh); movement of his hand, as if to induce me to come into^ the .pulpit, . the^bench of which was suffieieii^tly taken up ]ivith : hifnself and his colleague It was probably ^6 first tinie I had heard' the word ; > and . -certainly the first > of my hearing it as a technieal.word..- "Exhort?** thought I. That is from *^exoro** or "exhortor;** but what am I to make of it? What would he have >• me do? "Exhort,** repeated my reverend- friend,, unconscious of using a hard word which might not be understood. And at the second. or. third- repetti-i tidn of the word, with only the interpretation of a -. slight pull of my hand, which Jie-was holding, I hit on his meaning) And. dteppipg into the. bois be^^ gan to exhort, if I ijnayicaU it so* The word served .. me for a text— "earnestly to beseech,** " to pr^v4lilv ^ by ,en treaty;*/ and so^ I made^aneffort to -beseeeb ^^ the people to ^ believe aadido as they, had bea«r,,. taught by the preacher. But that aftcornoon and<>'^ eviemagi wa€MiBorf4j^/tro)i}^ .Mf.
80 LIFE OF WILLIAM GAPBR8.
reverence for holy things was oflfended at my nn- worihiness to such a degree that it seemed impos- sible for me to be reconciled to myself. True, I was not capable of judging for myself in such mat- ters, and had acted by the direction of my spiritual guides, whose competency I could not question ; but then they did not know me as I knew myself, and might be misled by excess of charity. "O, brother Gassaway," said I, "I am in a wilderness. Every thing is dark about me, and I know not what to do. Surely I ought not to keep on with you, and to go back from you I am afraid.*' " Well, my son,** said the dear old gentleman, " God has brought you thus far ; lean not to your own understanding, but be humble still, and he will guide you through.*' To brother Kennedy, whose comparative youth made him more familiar, (or at least made me more familiar with him,) I expressed myself more at length. I was not a preacher ; never to be a preach- er ; never could be made a preacher; and how could it be right for me to stand up in a pulpit, or any- where else, to exhort? That I was not a preacher was certain ; but he held that my exhorting did not imply that I was one, nor even that I was to become one. Every Christian man, and every one seeking with an awakened conscience to become a Christian, was at liberty to recommend religion to others, and ought in duty to do so ; and my ex- hortation was no more than the doing of this in a formal manner. The next day, at the house of an old gentleman
■^ ••<«.■. fi., .^
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 81
by the nam^ of Parrish, on Lynchers creek, I WBfl again told to exhort ; and again the day following at a meeting-house called Lizzenby's ; and on both these occasions I attempted to comply with the re- quisition. On Friday, Saturday, and Sunday we attended a Quarterly Meeting, which was conducted as a camp-meeting, at Knight's meeting-house, on Fork creek. " Work for life, as well as from life,'* was now the word ; and while I had no need of teaching as to the worthlessness of works of any kind for the procurement of grace meritoriously, I was taught to look for the witness of adoption in denying my will, and taking up my xjross as a means which God might bless. And it was not in the stand (pulpit) only, nor at stated hours, but wherever and as often as occasion served I was exhorting. At this meeting I found that unspeakable blessing which I had been so earnestly seeking, " the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father;'* the Spirit itself bearing witness with my spirit that I was a child of God. A love-feast was held on Sun- day morning at 9 o'clock. I had never attended one, and happened never to have made any inqui- ries about them ; so that going into this one I knew not how it was to be conducted, nor of what the service should consist. I first found myself strongly affected on seeing one and another refused ad- mission by the preacher at the door ; a vivid repre- sentation being made to my mind of the character of the meeting, in which, as I supposed, none but approved persons could be present, and others wero
6
82 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
rejected. At first I felt as if I too had" no right tc be there. It was a meeting for Christians only, and without the witness of adoption I could not claim that title. Was it partiality, or lack of infor- mation, which had let me in while others were ex- cluded? I might not hope to be admitted into heaven thus, for God himself would be the Judge. And what should it avail me to be in the Church, and gathered in communion with its members in holy services, if at last the door of heaven should be shut against me ? But I was not suffered to pur- sue this train of thought ; but my mind was sud- denly and intensely taken up with an opposite one. Was there any thing lacking to me which Christ could not give ? Had he not bought me with the price of his own blood, which had pledged his will- ingness with his power to save ? And why was I so long without the witness of adoption, except only for my unbelief? Faith that should trust him to bestow his grace, would honor him more than the unbelief that doubted of his doing so much. All this and much more was presented to my mind in an instant, and I felt an indescribable yearning after faith. Yes, I felt much more : there came with it such a prevailing apprehension (or should I not call it manifestation ?) of Christ as a present Saviour, my 'present Saviour^ that to believe seemed to imply no effort. I could not but believe. I saw it, as it were, and I felt it, and knew it, that Christ was mine, that I had received of the Spirit through hina, and was become a child of God.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 83
This gracious change was attended with new views as to my calling in life. I could no longer say, nor think, that I was never to he a preacher ; but, on the contrary, it appeared to me, and the conviction grew stronger and stronger, that I was called to preach. The round on the circuit was made without any more such feelings as those I had complained of at the beginning of it ; while I was daily concluding meetings for brother Gassa- way, and generally with exhortation. At the close of the round I returned home for a week, while he was visiting his family. My father was satisfied that I should follow the course which I now thought my duty ; the study of law was abandoned, and my law-books returned ; and it was fully arranged for me to continue with brother Gassaway as long as he thought proper, or should remain on that circuit. I was now '* riding*' with him in earnest; exhorting almost as often as he preached, and employing the time at my command betwe3n services in studying the Scriptures. But I might not get on thus smoothly without molestation. I think it was during my second round that I began to be worried with the lameness of my exhortations ; which appeared to me insufferably^ weak; and took up an idea that to make a preacher at all, I must pursue a different course from the one I was engaged in. What ap- peared to me desirable, and even necessary for my success, was a regular course of divinity studies, which I should pursue without interruption for several years, till I had acquired a sufficient fund
84 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
of tsfaomiedge Ibr pveaohrng. The bmef methodise 6owPBe*of brother Gassaway waa, to study and ^each, and preach and study, from day to day. It was several weeks before I could be brought to acquiesoe ia bis opinion ; and for most of that time, so clearly peasouable and proper did it appear to me to desist froTnall public exercises till I should have qualified myself to pei'fbrm them in a manner worthy of the sacred office, ^nd it was a point so closely concern- mg conscience, that I must have caused m}^ excel- lent friend some uneasiness. However, his patient spirit WAS sufficient to the trial, and most kindly and affiBctionately did he still argue on. One point which he made, and a capital one, I thought he carried against one. I had supposed two yaare to be necessary for the study of divinity before 1 should exercise at ^11 in public ; and that the quali- fication gained for more effective service in future by these two years of close study, would more than compensate for the loss of time from such imperfect efforts as I mi^t essay in the mean time on his plan of studying and preaching, and preaching and studying. And the point he made wa.s, as to the qualification to be gained for future usefuln^ess at the lapse of two or more years, by the one course or by the other; holding it probable that a student on his plan would become a better preacher at the end of a term of y^ars than he would on mine. He admitted that ^on my plan he might learn more theology, And be able to compose a better thesis, Wt Insisted he would not make a better preacher.
AUTOBIOGRA P H^Y. 85
Ibj tltis: argument he insisted much' on the practieal character of preaching: that to reach ita endv. it must be more than a well-composed sermon, or an elbquent discourse, or able dissertation. It. must have to do witli men as a shot at a mark; in which not only the ammunition should be good, but the aimt true. The preacher must be familiar with man to* re&ch him with eftect. And the force of preach- ing must largely depend, under the blessing of God^ on the naturalness and truthfulness of the preach«- er's postulates; arguing to the sinner from what he knows^ of him, the necessities of his condition^ appealing to his conscience^ and recommending the grace of God. But he quite overcame me with this Hdial remark. Dt was as we were riding along that dreary sand-hill road in Chesterfield District leading &om the Gourt-house toward Sumtervillcj and' I seemed more than usually earnest in my objections^ lliat, after quite a speech on my side of the question, he thus answered me : " Well, Billy, it is only sup- position^ £^ter all. And. if you are called to preaoh, and sinners are daily fiiUing into hell^ take care lest the blood of some of them be found on your skirts." Sure enough^.it was only "supposition*** The true question w^as as to usefulness) not eminence ; and -with nespeet to thai matter, at least, I could only suppose^, s^nd could not certainly know, that it mi^t he better for me to desist fronimy present aourse and adoptr. another. Here then ended that difficulty abai}ii Hie e:solusive study of divinity. I inataatlj^
86 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
gave it up, and thanked my friend for his pains and patience with me.
The San tee Circuit at that time extended from a meeting-house called Ganey's, some four miles aboT3 Chesterfield, which was its highest appoint- ment, to Tawcaw, near Santee river, which was its lowest. And it was on this my second round with brother Gassaway, (October, 1808,) that we attended a camp-meeting at Tawcaw; where it pleased God to give me the encouragement of making my very imperfect exhortations instrumen- tal of good among the people. Tn particular, that estimable and engaging young man, Joseph Gallu- chat, afterward for many years so well known and much beloved in Charleston for his abilities and spotless character as a preacher, acknowledged so humble an instrumentality as this, the means of his awakening and conversion. And this circum- stance tended no little to confirm me in the pur- pose I had formed, (I trusted, under the influence of the Holy Spirit,) to devote myself to the work of preaching the gospel of Christ.
During my third and last round of riding with brother Gassaway, and as late in the season as past the middle of November, a camp-meeting was held at Rembert's; (the second one at the same place that year.) And this being also the occasion of the last Quarterly Meeting for the circuit, at the advice of brother Gassaway, (Bishop Asburj also approving,) I was licensed to preach, and waa
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 87
recommended to the Annual Conference to be ad- mitted on trial in the itinerancy. This was done, first the license and then the recommendation, on the 25th of November, 1808. A camp-meeting was held at so late a period in the season because the people were in the spirit of it ; and for the special reason that the Bishops, Asbury and McKendree, had appointed to meet on official business, which would occupy them several days, at that time, at the house of their old friend, (the Gains of those days,) James Rembert, immediately in the neigh- borhood, and they would attend the meeting. The weather was very cold, colder than November usually is ; but the camp-meeting was one of the best I have ever known. Different from those of former years as to the preparations made for per- sonal comfort, a large area of several acres was enclosed with lines of well-built tents furnished with fire-places; so that the cold, though incon- venient, did us no harm. At this meeting it was arranged that I should continue on the circuit till after the Annual Conference, which the preachers were shortly to attend. Brother Gassaway had already concluded bis work, and I was to keep up a round of appointments in his place. But I can- not quite so briefly dismiss the meeting at which my brothers Gabriel and John were brought to the knowledge of God, and I first saw Bishop Asbury, and witnessed his first meeting with my father since the former days when he used to find a home with him at Bull-Head.
88 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
But let me here drop the thread of my narrativei, for a few sentences, to connect this meeting with Bishop Asbury with those former days when my father's house was one of his favorite homes. It may serve a purpose later in my story, when I shall have occasion to mention his regard for me ; which I would by no means have you appropriate to my own separate merits. I have already men- tioned the fact that my father was one of the first race of Methodists in South Carolina, and a de- cided and influential one; and intimated, farther on, that he had declined from his spirituality some time after his removal to Georgetown District ; and that it was not till the present year (1808) that he recovered it. You will remember that on Dr. Coke* s visit to America in* 1791, he was accom- panied from the West Indies to Charleston by Mr. William Hammett, who remained there on account of his health ; and that this Mr. Hammett, choos- ing to remain for life in Charleston, found some occasion to object to Mr. Asbury and the American preachers, as if they had done him a wrong on ac- count of his devotion to Mr. Weslev ; Mr. Asburv being (as he represented) ambitious of supplant- ing Mr. Wesley with the American people. What I shall say of it is derived from my father^ and a parcel of letters between Mr. Hammett and Mr. Wesley^ — which came into my possession from. A son of Mr. Hammett, as a token of his regard. I set it down succinctly from these authorities. Mn Hammett' s representation to Mr. Wesley by letter
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 80
was folly and strongly to the above effect; and Mr. Wesley's answers to Mr. Hammett showed that he believed it. Similar representations mad^ by Mr. Hammett at the same time to the principal Methodist gentlemen in Charieston and the Par- ishes, were thus confirmed by Mr. Wesley's letters; from which it might appear that since the Ra- volutionary war, which carried Mr. Eankin back to England, Mr. Wesley had had no such con- fidential son in America as he deemed Mr. Ham- mett to be. Those letters were to the date of the year 1791, in which Mr. Wesley died. Mr. Hamr mett therefore had the confidence of Mr. Wesley (by what means does not appear) to the last of his life ; and on that foundation he raised his society of Primitive Methodists, both in Charleston and Georgetown. And when we consider that there were then no Methodist books published in Ame- rica, and the people knew little of Methodism, or of the action of the Conferences, but what they got verbally from the preachers ; and that Mr. Ham*- mett had been introduced by Dr. Coke as one of the most godly as well as the most gifted of the preachers, the wonder is not that he should have drawn off to himself, under a banner inscribed "Wesley against Asbury,*' some of the most influr ential of the people, but we might wonder rather that he did not seduce them all ; and tlje more, as he was unquestionably an eloquent and able man, of fine person and engaging manners^ and at first vastly popular. But his work did not. prosj^i^.
90 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
He had estranged his adherents, of whom my father was one, from the rest of the Methodists, whom they called "the Asbury Methodists," for no good result either to himself or them. But to return.
I was introduced to Bishop Asbury immediately on his first coming to the camp-meeting, as I hap- pened to be in the preachers* tent at the time of his arrival. I approached him timidly, you may be sure, and with a feeling of profound veneration ; but "Ah,'' said he, "this is the baby; come and let me hug you :" meaning that I was the baby when he was last at my father's house. On my father's entering the tent, he rose hastily from his seat and met him with his arms extended, and they embraced each other with mutual emotion. It had been some seventeen years since they had seen each other ; and yet the Bishop asked after Sally and Gabriel, as if it had been but a few months, and repeated gleefully, "I have got the baby!" It was evident that no common friendship had sub- sisted between them ; and how much happier had those years of estrangement been to my honored father if they had been passed in the fellowship which he had been seduced to leave ! I hate schism, I abhor it as the very track and trail of him who " as a roaring lion walketh about seeking whom he may devour."
The camp-meeting over, I betook myself to the circuit, as had been agreed upon ; not with the fatherly sympathies and wise and godly counsels
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 91
of my friend Gassaway to sustain me, but to act alone ; and that not as an exhorter only, but as a preacher, filling daily appointments to preach. To say that I felt incompetent, would not express a moiety of my self-distrust. It was an incom- petency in which a lack of every qualification ex- cept a sense of duty and a desire to fulfil it seemed to be present. But the good people of the circuit were kind and affectionate, so that I was not per- mitted to know if ever they considered me less than acceptable. A few days only at home after this round on Santee Circuit, and I got intelligence of my appointment fpr the ensuing year, from Con- ference. That Conference had been held at Liberty Chapel, in Greene county, Georgia, the 26th of December, 1808 ; and was attended by both of tlje Bishops, Asbury and McKendree. I heard sub- sequently that my admission had been objected to by several of the preachers, on the ground that not having yet been six months on trial, and by con- sequence not in full connection with the member- ship of the Church, I was ineligible ; but that the objection was overruled by the Bishops; Bishop Asbury deciding that in the absence pf any express prohibition, though the inference by analogy was against it, the Conference was free to act, and admit me, if they deemed it proper, on the merits of the case. I have known so many mistakes about episcopal decisions, (and when, too, the reporters seemed very positive,) that I will not un- dertake to say that the reasons of the decision in
BS LIFE OS WtLLtA^M CAPERS.
tiusr case w-ere as I was told they were. But it in certainly and exactly true beyond doubt or dispute, that the objection above stated was made and urged eamestiy, particularly by my venerable friend, tiien in his prime, Lewis Myers ; and that the Bishops (or Bishop Asbury, Bishop McKendree beingpresent and not dissenting) did decide against it ; and that I was then admitted, when I had been but about five months on trial as a member of the Ghupeh; And it is equally true that the Bishop was not complained of for his decision ; and that no subsequent General Conference deemed it pro- per to take any exception to his administration, nor provide against the like in future, as I have known done in a recent case.
s I was appointed to the Wateree Circuit, which at that time extended from Twenty-five-mile creek, on the west side of the Wateree river, to Lann'&Ford on. the Catawba ; and on the east side, from: the neighborhood of Camden to within twelve miles of Charlotte. Within this broad range there were twenty-four preaching-places, and the time of a round was four weeks, the distance about three hundred mile^, the membership of the circuit four hundred and ninety-eight whites and one hundred and twenty-four colored^ And yet I was alone, th« scarcity of preachers not allowing me a colleague. K I felt my insufficiency on the round which 1 had ju«t concluded in Santee Circuit, where no- things more was required but to preach and- meet tiOLd eldsses, how much more now, when, with so
AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
wide m :fieM before ane, aod ao numerous •& micm- bership to serve, the whole pastoral care devolved on me without a helper. I had not dreamed that (me so yotttig as I was might be put in charge at ftU. Bat so it was. Nevertheless, I had not done it; and should only have to answer for the manner in which my duties might be performed. Thus with fear and itrembling, but not without the cour- age wbich a sense of duty and an upright purpose inspires, I^s6t out to my circuit. I was in time for the first appointment on the plan, at Sawn-ey's OFBek meetiing-hottse, January 7, 1809. Here lived tfaict most remar^kable man, J. J*, whose goodness n© <ane evea* doubted, but "whose zeal was always br^andishing in the temple a scourge of not very small cords, as if for fear that some one anight be pi^sent W5h© did not love the temple well enough to ttfkke a-BCGurging for i t, and who ought therefore to be driven out ; and in full faith that the more men were baatem the better for them, as it would make them more humble and less worldly-minded. His was the -rfirst house I entered in my new field of labor ; 4aid, if I might have been driven oft' by the fi:r8t 'discouragement, he might have made my first my Jast appearance in that quarter. I seemed to be younger, greener, and a poorer prospect for a preacher in his estimate than even in my own; and he was an old preacher, and withal a famous one. That first introduction to the responsibliti«« 0f my a>ew charge was after this sort :
94 LIFE OF WILLIAM OAPEBS.
" Well, have they sent you to us for « ^ preacher?*'
"Yes, sir."
" What, you^ and the egg-shell not dropped off of you yet ! Lord, have mercy upon us ! And who have they sent in charge ?**
"No one, sir, but myself.**
"What! yoUj by yourself? You in charge of the circuit ? Why, what is to become of the circuit ? The Bishop had just as well have sent nobody. What can you do in charge of the circuit?**
"Very poorly, I fear, sir, but I dare say the Bishop thought that you would advise me about the Discipline, and I am sure he could not have sent one who would follow your advice more will- ingly, brother J., than I will.**
" So, so. I suppose then I am to take charge of the circuit for you, and you are just to do what I tell you?**
"I would be very glad, sir, to have you take the charge of the circuit.**
"Did ever! What, I, a local preacher, take charge of the circuit? And is that what you have come here for? Why, man, you know nothing about your business. How can / take charge of the circuit? No, no ; but I can see that you do it, such a charge as it will be ; and if / don't, nobody else will, for these days the Discipline goes for nothing.** And he groaned deeply.
Such was the colloquy as well as I can rehearse
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 96
it; and you may be sure it made an impression deep enough to remain with me.
But how could I endure all this ? In the first place, I recognized my censor as one of the fathers of the Church, whose character I had heard of as alike remarkable for goodness and severity ; a holy man, and zealous above his fellows, who always carried a rod as well as a staft*; and deeply feeling, as I did, the evil which oppressed him, I was prepared to attribute his severity to its proper cause, and not to any personal unkindness. And then there sat before me his saintly wife.; one of the meekest, gentlest, and best of her sex, whom, at first sight, I had taken for a mother ; and if sister J. would love me, my old brother might talk on. I knew that there was cause of trouble to his spirit in the unprovided state of the circuit, and thought that he was only venting his troubled feeliiigs, without meaning me any wrong. And this very con- versation served to tell me that my motherly sister did love me. I saw it in every muscle of her face, while her sympathies were stirred too intensely for concealment. Ah, thought I, woman for ever I You may be no better than your husband, but you are incomparably more lovely.
The next day I was to preach ; and I felt some- what hopeful at night, on perceiving that he was not disposed to renew his severities, and that, w^ith all his austerity, he was evidently pleased with the interest which his wife took in me, even making a suggestion to her occasionally, which seemed to
96 LIFEOF WILLIAM CAPERS.
mean that she might use her balsam freely. But his remarks were ill-judged, and did me harm. As for the matter of personal offence, it was nothing. I took no offence at it. But after I had left* his house, and was gone on my work, that lashing, scorching colloquy would recur, as if a prophet had told me from the Lord that I was out of my place on that circuit.
My second appointment, after leaving brother J.'s, brought me to a place called Granny's Quarter, (the name of a creek some twelve miles above Camden,) of which I give another sort of anecdote: My mind was intensely occupied with the study of the Discipline, particularly the section on the duties of preachers who have the charge of circuits. And it happened that the eighth item of the answer to question two of that section, which made it my duty "to recommend everywhere decency and cleanliness," had arrested my attention. It was Discipline, and must be obeyed ; but how extreme- ly delicate, thought I, must the duty sometimes be ! But there was a case just at hand. The house at which I stopped was exceeding dirty, so that clean- liness was out of the question, and even decency put to the blush. But it was the house of a brother and sister. Cleanliness was next to godliness ; the Discipline required of Methodists to be cleanly, and of me to recommend it everywhere. If I neglected my duty under the Discipline, the people might neglect theirs ; and if this particular one, then any <rther as they liked. The case was clear ; my duty
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 97
plain ; but how to go to work in such a matter was the question. Something must be done, and that directly to the point. I must recommend cleanli- ness to the sisterly housekeeper, or neglect my duty and seem to wink at her uncleanliness. How was I to do it? This question was uppermost in my mind all the evening ; but to no purpose, for not a word could I find to say. The next morning my thoughts were still on my new and difficult task, how to recommend cleanliness to my sister so as to induce her to keep her house clean ; and still it seemed a thing past my accomplishment. Break- fast was brought in, and no expedient could I think of, till, turning up my plate, which was of pewter, and observing the color of it to be of that dingy cast which it contracts from being used without, rubbing, I began pretty much as follows :
" Where did you get your plates, sister ? They are excellent for use at a distance from town, where the breakage of crockery is often inconvenient, and I wonder that I don't meet with such oftener."
"Got them at Mr. *s, in Camden. They
are mighty good for not breaking, but they don't look as pretty as queensware does, is the reason, I reckon, why people don't have them.'*
" Well, but if they are clean, you know, their looking dark don't make any odds. Cleanliness, to be sure, is next to godliness; but then it may be with that as with most other things which may not be just as they look. I have seen things that looked clean when they were not clean, and these 7
98 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
plates are clean, I am sure, though they look ratber darker than you would like to see them."
Her countenance here showed that she took the hint, and, I thought, took it well ; so I proceeded, and told of a sister whon) I loved very much for her Christian qualities and her neat housekeeping, who cleaned her pewter by rubbing it briskly with fine sand on a piece of coarse woollen, just as I had seen it done with brickdust, which I thought bet- ter. This served for the pewter plates. Knives and forks required the same sort of rubbing, as they also contracted a dirty look by only washing and wiping them, no matter how clean. I did not like, though, the way I had sometimes seen some little negroes doing it, by jobbing them into the ground. It was better to rub the knives briskly across a soft piece of plank on which brickdust or dry ashes had been laid. And thus I proceeded to the end of the chapter ; relieving it as best I could, and watching closely the countenaliee of my pupil, lest I should offend her. My work was done, and, judging of the cause by the effect, it was well done; for I never afterwards found that a dirty house. The pewter plates and knives and forks were not only cleaned, but made to look clean; and my sister became one of the kindest and most affectionate of my sisters. I stopped with tiiem every round I made, and found myself always a welcome guest and in comfortable quarters.
The general feeling of discouragement which was apt to follow a recoUeetion of the strong terms
AUTOBIoiaRAPHY. 89
in which brother J. had expressed his disappoint- ment at my being sent to the circuit and in charge, began early on this first round to work temptation. Startled aa he appeared to be at the unsuitableness of the appointment, perhaps others might not credit it at all. The country was strange, though it was not far from home ; no one knew me, nor had ever heard of me, and I might be rejected as an impostor. Riding up to my preachiug-places, the stare of the people seemed to say, " It is im- possible; this boy cannot be the man.'' If, as I passed through the company going into the meet- ing-house, any one accosted me, the impression was, I am suspected and shall be asked for my cre- dentials. And this was the more annoying as I had not with me a single line to certify my appointment, nor that I was a preacher at all. It was on my second or third round, that, coming to brother J,% he asked me in his usual earnest manner how many members I had turned out at H. meeting-house. "None, sir.'* "What, do you let the people get drunk, run for the bottle and turn up jack, and keep them in the Church?'* "My dear sir, I hope nobody does so at H. I am sure I never heard of it." "A pretty piece of business," rejoined he; " why, at Polly H.'s wedding a whole parcel of them ran for the bottle, and old J. A. held it, and got drunk into the bargain. And now you, the preacher m chaar^y come here and tell me that you never heard of it, though I can hear of it forty miles ofi^" This was a poser for me. I had not a word to say.
343501
100 LIFE OF WILLIAM GAPERS.
Can he be mistaken, thought I ? Surely not, or he would not speak so positively. And then he gives me names. But how could such monstrous wrong- doing have been perpetrated without my getting at least some inkling of it? I had not confidence enough to ask him any questions, but sat con- founded under a second flagellation, the wordy strokes of which, however, were of little conse- quence compared to the facts stated, that such immoralities had been practiced, and that the perpetrators had not been brought to trial. But this was to be the last of my trials from brother J. that year. With feelings too sad for society, I took the earliest hour for retirement. My bed was in an upper room, the floor of which was made of loose plank, without ceiling of any kind at the lower edges of the joists, which might have ob- structed the passage of sounds from the room below. And I had not been long in bed before I heard my kind-hearted sister say, "0, Mr. J., you don't know how much you have grieved me." "Grieved you, Betsey,*' replied he; "how in the world can I have grieved you ?'' " By the way you have talked to brother Capers. I am afraid he will never come here again. How can you talk to him so?" "Why, Betsey, child,*' returned he, "don't you reckon I love Billy as well as you do? I talk to him so because I love him. He'll find people enough to honey him without my doing it ; and he has got to learn to stand trials, that's all." Sister J. seemed not to be satisfied, but wished to
AtJTOBtOGRAPHT. 101
extort a promise that he would not talk so roughly to me any more. But his conscience was concerned in that, and he would not promise it. " You may honey him,** said h^, "as much as you please, but I go for making him a Methodist preacher.** Well then, thought I, it is a pity, my old friend, that you should spoil your work by not tightening your floor. You might as well have promised it, for I will take care that you shall not make any thing by the refusal. The next morning it was not long before something fetched up the unpleasant theme, and as he was warming into the smiting spirit, I looked in his face and smiled. " What !** said he, " do you laugh at it?** "As well laugh as cry, brother J.,** I returned ; " did you not tell sister J. last night that you loved me as well as she did, and only wanted to make a Methodist preacher of me ? I am sure you would not have me cry for any thing that is to do me so much good.** It was all over : he joined in the laugh, and threw away his seeming ill-humor. But as for the matter of the immorali- ties at H., it turned out to be all a hoax. Some wag, knowing how much such a circumstance would trouble him, probably originated the tale just for that purpose.
But I could not so easily divest myself of the impression made on my mind by that first conversa- tion with him. " What was to become of the cir- cuit?*' and, "The Bishop had as well have sent no- body,*' were words I could not digest. Surely, I thought, they must express his judgment as to my
102 LIFB OF WILLIAM OAPBRS.
anfitnede for my work, "the egg-ehell not dropped off of me yet." That judgment being against me, i» the foundation of all this harshness after all ; and perhaps I had as well give up the circuit and return home. My mind became cloudy and uncomforta- ble, and I was next tempted to doubt my being called to preach ; so that before the first Quarterly Meeting I was in great perplexity and sore trouble. Indeed, I would have left the circuit, but for the consideration that I was bound by contract with the Conference to the contrary ; for such appeared to me to be the nature of the transaction in which I had offered myself for the itinerancy, had been accepted, and was appointed to the circuit. At the Quarterly Meeting, however, I would see the presid- ing elder who represented the Conference, state the whole case to him, and get myself discharged. In the mean time I proposed to relax nothing in the way of official duty; as, at the worst, I might be no worse than the Scribes sitting in Moses* seat, and the people had better hear the gospel from my lips, and have the Discipline administered by me, than be left wholly to themselves ; especially as I was exceeding nice to avoid all speculation, and stick closely to the books. But at the Quarterly Meeting no opportunity presented for such a conversation with the presiding elder as I wished, before preach- ing on Saturday. He preached, and the sermon seemed to have been formed for me. I was greatly comforted and relieved ; so that the whole time of his presence in the circuit passed without my saying
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 108
a word of what had beea intended. And yet he wdn Bcarcely gone before the temptation returned with redoubled violence, and I became unhappy. There were several excellent men, local preachers, in the circuit, (that father in Israel, Robert Hancock, for one,) to whom I might have opened my mind to great advantage, but Satan hindered me. The pre- vailing suggestions for secrecy were, that even as things were I might scarcely hope to do any good, but to let it be known that I was not called to preach, and yet was preaching, would turn the peo- ple away from their duty altogether; and that if I advised with any but brother J., whose judgment I had already, the delicacy of the subject and kind- ness of their feelings would get the better of their judgment, and mislead me. To give up the work I could not for the reason stated ; and to continue in it under such extreme embarrassment, seemed scarcely to be a smaller evil.
It W€t8 in such circumstances that, attending an appointment at Carter's meeting-house, in Chester District, I had the painful duty to perform of ex- pelling one of the members on a charge of crim. eon. It was a female. Her father-in-law, and the connections on that side generally, believed her guilty ; her husband held her to be innocent, and was partially deranged on account of the afikir; and all the society and most of the people of the neighborhood were intensely enlisted for or against the accused. The trial was conducted with exact aojiformity to Discipline, and her triers found her
104 LIFE OP WILLIAM CAPERS.
guilty. But on declaring the judgment of the triers, and pronouncing her expulsion, a riot ensued and considerable violence. Coming out of the meeting-house, I heard of the " egg-shell** from this quarter, a woman exclaiming at the top of her voice, *' He had better go home and suck his mammy.** Several were fighting, and among the rest was the poor crazy husband fighting his father. I recog- nized several members of the Church among those who if not actually fighting were ready for it, and profanely boisterous. And this sad aftair helped me much. The "egg-shell,** and "sucking my mammy,*' from the lips of a vulgar woman, changed entirely the character of my fancied disqualifi- cation for the work I was engaged in ; while I knew that in that instance, at least, my duty had been well and rightfully done ; and that the imputation came from none of the Lord's prophets, but one of those who were of the synagogue of Satan. It served me also another purpose. It roused me from a constant brooding over my unworthiness ; as it furnished a new subject for my mind to act on, of sufficient interest to engage it fully. What was to be done, when I should come to Carter's meeting- house on my next round, to reduce this confusion to the order of the gospel, became the question, instead of what I was to do with myself. At the time, there was a very large congregation assem- bled as if for some uncommon cause ; but I preached on the truth and necessity of conversion, as if nothing unusual had taken place. After sermon, I
AUTOBIOQRAl>flY. 106
made the usual appointment to meet the society apart from the congregation, and told them that I felt a special solicitude to have every one remain for the society meeting whose name had been left in the church-book at my last appointment. I knew, and it was known to them, that some unhappy things had transpired. Several weeks had since passed, there had been time for reflection, and I earnestly begged them all to remain. They all did remain ; and after opening the meeting with singing and prayer, I took the class-paper, and calling the first name on the list, instead of addressing the individual, as usual, with some question about the state of his soul, I asked of the rest if there was any thing against him ; telling them, at the same time, that, in view of what had passed among them four weeks before, and possibly other things since, I was deeply concerned to have them in peace in order to the blessing of God upon them. Peace we must have, or, in the absence of it, a curse from the Lord instead of a blessing. And I adjured them, if any one knew aught against the brother named, he or she should make it known. They need not state what was the objection just then ; we would inquire about it afterwards ; but only say there is something against him. If there was nothing against him, they might keep their peace. I should proceed to' call the whole list in the same manner, for the same purpose, that it might be known who was without blame among them ; and I warned them that if at any time there should arise any strife or quarrel
6*
106 LIFE 09 WILLIAM CAPEKS.
between any of them on account of any thing which had then transpired, and of which complaint being then called for none was made, the person originating it should be held guilty of disturbing the peace of the Church, and be accordingly brought to trial. If either of them knew aught against a brother or sister to interrupt their peace and fel- lowship, they should then make it known, by only saying one word : that was, there is something (no matter what) against that brother or sister. At that moment I felt that, for once, the boy was a man. I had the bull by the horns and was able to manage him. God had heard my prayers, directed my mind aright, and given me strength and courage. Having gone through the list, I had gotten a com- mittee of persons to whom no one might object, for the trial of all the rest ; and before the sun went down we had finished our work, with the expulsion of not more than two persons.
There are and ought to be exceptions to any gen- eral rule. The evil is, (and it is a great abuse of a just principle,) when the exception is plead as a precedent, and put in the place of the rule itself for an ordinary or not so extraordinary a case. I had seen at the time referred to, a member of the Church, and a clever man, with his coat thrown ofl as if for a fight; and he did fight; and yet we did not expel him. The melee in which he saw his brother fighting his father, had surprised him into the transgression; from which he quickly withdrew, and betook himself in agony to prayer. And the
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. lOT
testimony was, that for more than two days and nights he neither ate nor drank, but upbraided him- self as one of the worst of offenders. He then found peace, and at the time of this general trial was exceeding happy, saying, " Expel me, brethren, for the sake of the cause, but let me join again.** And what would it have been to have expelled him, and then taken him back again ? Or would it have been right to treat him as another ought to have been treated ?
Some time before this I had taken a new place into the circuit, on the eastern side of it, called Shaffner's; at which my preaching was much blessed, and a society raised, among a plain but very worthy people who had never before heard Methodist preaching. And about the same time the large and well-established society at McWhor- ter*s meeting-house, in Mecklenburg county, N. C, began to be favored with refreshing seasons, and an increase of members. At several other places, also, good was evidently done ; so that by the time of my second Quarterly Meeting, I was enabled to discover that my extreme discouragement was owing to temptation, and not that I had obtruded myself uncalled into the ministry. Afterwards to the close of the year, there was no place where my ministry was more favored than at Carter's meeting-house, and, except perhaps McWhorter's, none where I had larger or more attentive congregations.
In July of this year, (I think it was,) we had an- other camp-meeting, at Rembert's in Santee Cir-
108 LIFE OK WILLIAM CAPERS.
cuit; and I was permitted to attend it. It waa held at the same place as those of the previous year, and was of the same character, both for the great numbers of people, white and colored, who attended it, and the powerful influence of the gospel among them. Perhaps there is no spot in Carolina, if in any other State, so remarkable for the number of persons converted at its camp- meetings as this one. It was on the land of that old disciple, Henry Young, and I remember hear- ing him say that he had known of more than five hundred persons converted there, from 1808 to 1815, inclusive. But I mentioned this camp- meeting for a recollection that on my return from it to my circuit, I lost the only appointment which I ever did lose on any circuit on account of incle- ment weather. I was at my uncle's, and fond as I was to be there, I suffered myself to be persuaded to remain a day ; as by setting out the next morn- ing at daylight I might reach the place of preach- ing by riding twenty-five miles before the hour. My good aunt had my breakfast ready before it was day, but it was raining extremely hard, and "waif* became the word. I waited till past any practicable hour for the ride, and the weather was still no better ; but then it cleared off, and my con- gregation went to meeting without finding me. Many a time afterwards the recollection of this in- cident decided me to go when there was little or no prospect of finding any one to preach to ; as I never found any weather so uncomfortable as I
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 109
had been taught in this instance my feelings must be if I disappointed a congregation. And having written this desultory paragraph, I will add an- other, which may serve for a comparison of the past with the present with respect to an important point embraced in the bounds of my circuit, though not then a preaching-place.
A young lawyer of my acquaintance had settled himself (though it proved not to be permanent) at Lancaster Court-house, and came to my appointment at Camp creek, to get me to take the village into my round. An appointment was made for preach- ing there, and on the day appointed I was early at the village. But it happened to be sale-day ; the court-house yard was well feathered with carts re- tailing cakes and cider, and probably peach-brandy and whisky, and the customers were too much engrossed with these good things to allow of any thing better. Preaching was postponed till night, when it was thought the sober ones would attend, and the drunken ones be gone home. The text was, (N"um. xxii. 38,) ."And Balaam said unto Balak, Lo, I am come unto thee : have I now any power at all to say any thing ? The word that God putteth in my mouth, that shall I speak.** And as I was saying something about Balaam and Balak which I thought suitable, some one rose up in the congre- gation, and stepping a little forward, cursed me with a loud, angry voice, and bade me quit that gibberish and go to my text. Nobody clapped him, and nobody reproved him, but it excited a
110 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
general titter. I did as I was bidden, but to no better purpose ; he came a little nearer, and swore that he could preach better than that himself, say- ing, " Now, Mr., jist give me them thar books, and you'll see.*' This appeared exceeding funny, and of course the titter was renewed with increase. And a third time he swore lustily that he could beat me a preaching all hollow, and if he were in my place he would go home and never try again. I did, however, try it once more, and only once more at that place. And then, as a set-off to the previous outrage, the sheriff of the district fixed a dancing-party for the night, in special honor, as I was told, of the young preacher ; and I was invited, (in earnest,) to attend it. That was the Lancaster Court-house of 1809; and as I was to go by the Discipline in every thing, I gave it up under the rule of section xiv., answer to question 1. I had no lack of preaching-places.
The latter part of the year passed off without any thing remarkable more than is usually met with. My old friend J., whose unfortunate auster- ity had been at first so injurious to me, had become one of my kindest friends, and the most reliable of my advisers in all cases of difliculty. Every- where I was treated with affection; and at most places I had brothers and sisters whom I loved as if I had been born with them. And these were the great means of my deliverance from the sore temptations of the past time: the fruit which it pleased God to give me of my labors, the
AUTOBIO^RAPHT. Ill
affectionate confidence of the people, and mj love for them.
At the close of the year, Bishop Asbury passed through ray circuit on his way to Conference ; and it was arranged for me to meet him at Waxaws, (General Jackson's birthplace,) and attend him along a somewhat circuitous route to Camden. I met him at the house of that most estimable man and worthy local preacher, Robert Han- cock, who had been more than a friend to me, even a father, from the beginning. The Bishop was then accompanied by the Rev. Henry Boehm as his travelling companion; so long afterwards known in the Philadelphia Conference as one of the purest and best of Methodist ministers^ and whose society I found to be as " the dew of Her- mon." This was the last of my itinerant year on Wateree Circuit ; and as I have had quite enough of the disagreeable in my account of it, I will end the chapter (perhaps more to your liking) with an anecdote of my first night and last night on this trip with the Bishop. I met him when a heavy snow had just fallen, and the north-west wind blowing hard made it extremely cold. The snow had not been expected, and our host was out of wood ; so that we had to use what had been picked up from under the snow, and was damp and in- combustible. Our bed-room was a loft, with a fire- place to it and plenty of wood ; but how to make the wood burn was the question. I had beei» at work blowing axkd blowing, long before bedtiuM^
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till, to my mortification, the aged Bishop came up, and there was still no fire to warm him. "0 Billy, sugar,*' said he, as he approached the fire- place, "never mind it; give it up: we will get warm in bed.'* And then stepping to his bed, as if to ascertain the certainty of it, and lifting the bedclothes, he continued, " Yes, yes, give it up, sugar, blankets a plenty." So I gave it up, think- ing the play of my pretty strong lungs might dis- turb his devotions, for he was instantly on his knees. Well, thought I, this is too bad. But how for the morning ? Bishop Asbury rises at four — two hours before day — and what shall I do for a fire then ? No lightwood, and nothing dry. But it occurred to me that the coals put in the m.dst of the simmering wood might dry it sufliciently to keep fire and prepare it for kindling in the morn- ing; so I gave it up. But then, how might- 1 be sure of waking early enough to kindle a fire at four o'clock ? My usual hour had been six. And to meet this difliculty, I concluded to wrap myself in my overcoat, and lie on the bed without using the bedclothes. In this predicament I was not likely to oversleep myself on so cold a night ; but there might be danger of my not knowing what hour it was when I happened to awake. Nap after nap was dreamed away, as I lay shivering in the cold, till I thought it must be four o'clock; and then creeping softly to the chimney and applying the breath of my live bellows, as I held my watch to the reluctant coals to see the hour, I had just made
AUTOBIOaRAPHY. 118
it out, when the same soft accents saluted me, " Go to bed, sugar, it is hardly three o'clock yet.*' This may do for that first night ; and the last was as follows : It had rained heavily through the night, and we slept near enough the shingles for the bene- fi.t of the composing power of its pattering upon them. It was past four o'clock, and the Bishop was awake, but "Billy sugar" lay fast asleep. So he whispered to Brother Boehm not to disturb me, and the fire was made, they were dressed, had had their devotions, and were at their books, be- fore I was awake. This seemed shockingly out of order ; and my confusion was complete, as, waking and springing out of bed, I saw them sitting be- fore a blazing fire. I could scarcely say good morning, and the Bishop, as if he might have been ojffended at my neglect, affected not to hear it. Boehm, who knew him better, smiled pleasantly, as I whispered in his ear. Why didn't you wake me ? The Bishop seemed to hear this, and closing his book, and turning to me with a look of down- right mischief, had an anecdote for me. " I was travelling," said he, "quite lately, and came to a circuit where we had one of our good boys. 0, he was so good! and the weather was as cold as it was the other night at brother Hancock's ; and as I was Bishop Asbury, he got up in the bitter cold at three o'clock to make a fire for me. And what do you think? He\8lept last night till six." And he tickled at it as if he might have been a boy himself. And this was that Bishop Asbury whom 8
114 LIFE OF WILLIAM OAPBRS.
I have heard called austere: a man, confessedly, who never shed tears, and who seldom laughed, but whose sympathies were, nevertheless, as soft as a sanctified spirit might possess.
The time of Conference (December, 1809) was spent at home, and in visiting my sister and uncle, with great satisfaction. And at the first intelli- gence I was ready to be off to my next circuit, which was Pee Dee, (comprehending the present Black River and Darlington Circuits,) stretching from the neighborhood of Georgetown upward through Wil- liamsburg and a part of Sumter District, to a point on Lynche's creek about opposite to Darlington Court-house, thence across that creek to a short distance above a smaller one called the Gully, and downward by Darlington Court-house and Jeffers*8 creek, so as to include all of that part of the country lying on the west side of Pee Dee river and the route .just described. On this circuit I had for my colleague the Rev. Thomas D. Glenn, who was in charge. My recollections supply little concerning myself for the six months that I was continued on it, more than the common routine of travelling, preaching, and meeting the classes. It was in this circuit, however, that my first wife lived, then fifteen years old, but looking younger than her age. And, although I entertained not the most distant idea of marriage, and she was by no means grown, T was conscious of an attachment to her which must have overcome my prudence (with her con- sent) had she been a little older. I say prudence^
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for in those days of long rides and little quarterage, with no allowance for family expenses, it was deemed vastly imprudent for a young preacher to marry, should he even get an angel for his wife. Riding, and preaching, and meeting class, then, I went round the circuit till the second Quar- terly Meeting, after such a common fashion as to furnish nothing for remark, except a dry story about a witch, and perhaps one about losing my suspenders. No, it was here that I learned by ex- perience that it was improper for a preacher on such a circuit to prescribe to himself certain stated, days weekly to be kept as fast-days. I had pro- posed to myself to observe strictly every Friday as a fast-day, eating nothing till near night, and every Wednesday as a day of abstinence, eating lightly only of vegetables. On one Wednesday I had to take this light breakfast of a bit of bread and a cup of coffee at the house of my well-remembered old friend, the Rev. Thomas Humphries, on Jeffers*s creek, and ride twenty-two miles to preach and meet the class, and afterwards twelve miles farther to my 'stopping-place, without food. Thursday 1 rode not quite so far, preached and met class. And Friday, my absolute fast-day, I rode from fifteen to seventeen miles to my daily work, and fourteen miles afterwards. This was repeated but a few times before I became satisfied that it was wrong, and that the duty of fasting ceased to be a duty when one could not rest. I fear that I may have erred much oftener since on the other extreme,
116 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
and excused myself from fasting when it ought not to have been neglected. And I will venture the remark as a general one concerning this duty aa observed by the Methodists then and now : if we were then too strict, have we not since become too lax?
But the story of the witch : I had preached and held class at the Gully, (I dare say the witches have all disappeared from there long ago,) and was come to a brother's house to pass the night, when I asked him who that singular-looking old lady was who sat just before the pulpit during class, and had not her name on the class-paper. "0,'' said he, "she is the old witch!** "Witch? And if she is a witch, why do you suffer her to stay in class?*' " Suffer her! why, we are afraid of her, and if you knew how much mischief she had done, you would be afraid of her too.** And he went on to tell of the poor women*s cows she had shot with hair-balls, and how with a single hair-ball, or a great many of them fired at once^ she had killed in a moment every fowl in the yard of some poor woman whom she had a grudge against. The story was long enough to allow me time to recollect myself, and I only answered that she must be too bad to stay in class, at any rate. On my next round, seeing the same person on the same seat, after preaching I repeated the rule, "At every other meeting of the class in every place, let no stranger be admitted;" an^ remarked that as no such restriction had been observed on my last round, I should observe it then.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY. IM
BTo stranger, meaning no one not a member of th6 Church, could be allowed to stay in during the class-meeting which we were then going to hold, and that if there might be any one present who wished to join the Church, and so secure the right of being present at all our meetings, such person would please come forward and join the Church. The old woman looked as if she might have been struck with her hair-ball herself, and dropped her head, as if to conceal her face behind the frontis- piece of her long black bonnet. "Ma'am,** I asked her, "are you a member of our Church?" But she did not notice the question. "You, ma'am,'* I repeated, "are you a member of the Church ? Please tell me, for if you are not, you have to join or go out." There was no mistaking as to who was meant, and she shook herself with a strange wriggling motion, not unlike a turkey in the sand, muttering something like boo,ji.boo, boo, woo, woo, woo. " You won't be offended with me, ma'am, for I must do my duty, and if you won't go out I must lead you out." The wriggle seemed almost a spasm, and the boo, boo, woo, woo, rumbled in her throat as if she might be strangling* " Shall I have to lead you out, ma'am, and you a lady too?" Boo, boo, woo, woo, and up she got and was off, shaking and tossing herself, as she went, most ridiculously. But I had spoiled our class-meeting. The terror of her anger was upcm us, and what would she not do, poor old woman ? My good but weak brother told me that evening he
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thought me very bold for such a young man. "Bold, because I would not let a poor befooled old woman scare me?" "But she was a witch!*' "Then let her shoot my horse/* "Ah,'* said he, "I don't know if you will ever get him round here again.** "I dare say,** said I, " she would kill him if she could, but she can*t, and if she don*t kill him she is no witch.**
But about the suspenders : It was not far from the Gully (I think some eight or ten miles) that I lost my suspenders. And the way of it was this : Brother D., a weak but eminently pious man, had conducted me home with him from a very refresh- ing meeting; and having retired to a room for secret prayer, as he came out with a beaming coun- tenance, exceeding happy, "0, Brother Capers,** he exclaimed, " how I love you ! I love to hear you preach, I love to hear you meet class, T love you anyhow, but 0, them gallowses ! Won*t you pull them off?** "Pull them off, my brother, for what?** "O,** said he, "they make you look so worldly; and I know you ain*t worldly neither, but do pull them off.** So I pulled them off, and it was several years before I put them on again.
At our second Quarterly Meeting, which was early in June, (1810,) I was removed from this cir- cuit to the town of Fayetteville, North Carolina. The case was urgent, and my removal sudden ; so that I went immediately after the Quarterly Meeting, and on the 13th day of the month was in my new charge. What had been my chief concern the year
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before in Wateree Circuit, was now become a secondary matter, and not how to administer the Discipline, but how to serve the people from the pulpit, was now the point of principal importance. For the administration of Discipline, as it concerned my office as preacher in charge, the rules were few and plain ; and if in any thing I might be doubtful, I was sure to have reliable advisers. But how was I to preach four sermons a week to the same con- gregation without repetition? And how could I expect to keep a congregation who should be served with repetitions of the same matter, which, at the first hearing, might be only tolerable ? The first thing that struck me as necessary was, that I should keep strictly to the text, and never bring in matter which did not directly spring from it. There must be matter enough in any text I should take to make a sermon, and when I had delivered that, and such exhortation as it naturally furnished, I must be done. Then I must be always mindful that I had to preach, and conduct my reading and thinking so as to be on the alert to find preaching-matter. But still I found myself worried with the appre- hension of repeating the same thing over again, as it seemed impossible to recollect at any one time , all that I had been preaching previously. And it struck me that, like the promiscuous passing of carriages along a street where no one ever thinks of keeping or avoiding tracks, compared to the market roads, which, though less travelled, are much more rutted, I might probably gain my ob-
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ject more easily by forgetting than by remembering previous discourses, if, indeed, I might gain it at all. And I determined to try, in addition to the two preceding rules, the effect it might have for me to put out the tracks as soon as I should make them, by not recollecting any thing I had preached, but preaching each time as if I had not done so before. I mention this, not to recommend it to others, but because of its influence over my own practice ; and the more, as the rule adopted then has generally governed me since. But I am sure by experience that the third can only be allow- able in connection with the first and second rule. For although while preaching was my sole business I never doubted that my plan was the best for me, I have not been so confident of it since I have been charged with other duties to a degree which has much diverted my attention from it. To be an off- at-hand preacher requires indispensably for one to keep his work always in mind, and so actively as to press into his service for the pulpit whatever may be desirable for it. And if one would have new matter in every discourse, he must look for it in what has come under his observation in books, in men, in every thing he has met with since he preached last. But, above all things else, it is by studying the Scriptures with an active preaching mind, that we may bring forth to effect things new and old in all our pulpit efforts.
For the performance of pastoral duty, I visited each family of my charge once a week, appropriat-
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mg the time from 9 o'clock A. M. to 1 P. M. for live days of the week to this purpose, and allowing a half-hour to each house I visited. The names of the families were appropriated to each day, and with which one to begin and end for the day, so that each family knew within a few minutes when to expect me. I considered these stated visits as so many appointments which I might not disap- point^ and was seldom absent at the time when I was looked for.
In this pleasant town, with such people as the Blakes, Coburn, Lumsden, Saltonstall, McDonald, Thomas, Eccles, Price, and others, I was most agreeably situated. But what contributed most to my happiness as regards society, was the uncom- mon attachment to each other which subsisted between that most pure-hearted and intelligent man, the Rev. John H. Pearce, and myself. He was generally considered eccentric and enthusiastic. But I knew him as he knew himself, and I never discovered any eccentricity in him, but this : that, being a bachelor, he wore a coarse wool hat as long as he could keep ij; whole, brogan shoes, and clothes at the lowest price, that he might save every penny in his power for the poor ; for whom, whoever they might be of virtuous reputation, he felt a more lively and intense sympathy than any other person whom I have ever known. He was enthusiastic, as a matter of course ; for he loved the Lord his Qod with all his heart, and his neighbor as him- self; which the world and half-fashioned Christians
6
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have ever held to be the height of enthusiasm. I never found him wanting of a reason of the hope that was in him, nor of his conduct in any matter, which those who blamed his enthusiasm and eccen- tricity might answer from the Scriptures. Love seemed to be his universal element, gentleness and meekness the forms of its manifestation. He was originally from Rhode Island, had been w^ell bred, and at this time had two brothers, Oliver. and Na- thanael, who occupied first places in the community as to wealth and worldly respects. John had been brought up to the profession of physic, embraced deism in his youth, and adopted the Epicurean morals ; but he had now been for some years con- verted to God, and was such an example of unlim- ited self-devotion as I doubt if T have ever known exceeded, if equalled. And what made him parti- cularly interesting to me was his continually happy spirit, which kept his countenance ever upward, ever bright. With him, it was impossible for me to suffer a moment's discouragement about any thing ; and such was our mutual attachment, that we were never apart when it was consistent with duty for us to be together.
With such names as I have mentioned above, it should seem that there must have been abun- dant means for the support of the ministr3\ No doubt there was; and no doubt, too, that if the Church had been well organized as regards fiscal affairs, there would have been ample accommoda- tions for the preacher, without having him to board
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from house to house among his people. But the general policy of the Church was, to have an un- married ministry to suit the long rides to the scat- tered appointments of circuits a hundred miles through ; the towns were not yet considered as requiring any thing materially different from the circuits ; and except the parsonage-houSe in George- town, built for Mr. Hammett and at his instance, and a poor hull of a house in Wilmington, built by Mr. Meredith for his use, the only parsonage-house in the three States of North and South Carolina and Georgia was in Charleston : that famous old yellow coop which stood in Bethel churchyard; in which, when that very great man, soul and body. Dr. Olin, was stationed there, he could not stand upright in his chamber. But why build parsonage- houses for single men, either in town or country ? In the present case, it would have been regarded a downright evil ; and the incumbent now to be pro- vided for out of the question, there were too many homes for the preacher, and too much interest felt at each of them to have him there, for a thought to be entertained of building a preacher's-house. Were they not all his houses, and the best of their accommodations at his service ? For the six months of my pastorate in Fayetteville, I lodged successively with brothers Price, Blake, Coburn, and Lumsdeu: four instead of one, (their places being convenient,) on the circuit principle of alter- nating with the people ; because, if the preacher was a blessing, they should share it, and if a bur-
tSU LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPERS.
den, they should bear it among them severalh I was put under the kindest obligations to them, the remembrance of which is more than pleasant; particularly those most excellent men and theii saintly wives, Isham Blake and John Ooburn : fathers and mothers were they indeed to me.
But the most remarkable man in Fayetteville when I went there, and who died during my stay, was a negro, by the name of Henry Evans. I say the most remarkable in view of his class ; and I call him negro, with unfeigned respect. He was a negro : that is, he was of that race, without any admixture of another. The name simply designates the race, and it is vulgar to regard it with opprobrium. I have known and loved and honored not a few negroes in my life, who were probably as pure of heart as Evans, or anybody else. Such were my old friends, Castile Selby and John Boquet, of Charleston, Will Campbell and Harry Myrick, of Wilmington, York ColJen, of Savannah, and others I might name. These I might call remarkable for their goodness. But I use the word in a broader sense for Her\ry Evans, who was confessedly the father of the Methodist Church, white and black, in Fayetteville, and the best preacher of his time in that quarter ; and who was so rernarkable, as to have become the greatest curiosity of the town; insomuch that distinguished visitors hardly felt that they might pass a Sunday in Fayetteville without hearing him preach. Evans was inmi Vbginia ; a shoemaker by trade, and, I think, wa®
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IxHrn free. He became a Christian and a Methodist quite young, and was licensed to preach in Virginia. While yet a young man, he determined to remove to Charleston, S. C, thinking he might succeed best there at his trade. But having reached Fay- etteville on his way to Charleston, and something detaining him for a few days, his spirit was stirred at perceiving that the people of his race in that town were wholly given to profanity and lewdness, ftever hearing preaching of any denomination, and living emphatically without hope and without God in the world. This determined him to stop in Fayetteville ; and he began to preach to the negroes, with great effect. The town council interfered, and nothing in his power could prevail with them to permit him to preach. He then withdrew to the saiid-hiUs, out of town, and held meetings in the woods, changing his appointments from place to place. No law was violated, while the council was effectually eluded ; and so the opposition passed into the hands of the mob. These he worried out by changing his appointments, so that when they went to work their will upon him, he was preaching somewhere else. Meanwhile, whatever the most honeet purpose of a simple heart could do to recon- cile his enemies, was employed by him for that end. He eluded no one in private, but sought opportu- lities to explain himself; avowed the purity of his intentions ; and even begged to be subjected to the scrutiny of any surveillance that might be thought proper to prove his inoffensiveness ; any thing, so
126 LIFE OF WILLIAM 0APBR8.
that he might but be allowed to preach. Happily for him and the cause of religion, his honest coun- tenance and earnest pleadings were soon powerfully seconded by the fruits of his labors. One after another began to suspect their servants of attend- ing his preaching, not because they were made worse, but wonderfully better. The eftect on the public morals of the negroes, too, began to be seen, particularly as regarded their habits on Sunday, and drunkenness. And it was not long before the mob was called oft' by a change in the current of opinion, and JEv^ns was allowed to preach in town. At that time there was not a single church edifice in town, and but one congregation, (Presbyterian,) who worshipped in what was called the State-house, under which was the market ; and it was plainly Evans or nobody to preach to the negroes. Now, too, of the mistresses there were not a few, and some masters, who were brought to think that the preaching which had proved so beneficial to their servants might be good for them also ; and the famous negro preacher had some whites as well as blacks to hear him. Among others, and who were the first fruits, were my old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Lumsden, Mrs. Bowen, (for many years Preceptress of the Female Academy,) Mrs. Malsby, and, I think, Mr. and Mrs. Blake. From these the gracious influ- ence spread to others, and a meeting-house was built. It was a frame of wood, weatherboarded only on the outside without plastering, about fifty feet long by thirty feet wide. Seats, distinctly
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separated, were at liret appropriated to the whites, near the pulpit. But Evans had already become famous, and these seats were insufficient. Indeed, the negroes seemed likely to lose their preacher, negro though he was, while the whites, crowded out of their appropriate seats, took possession of those in the rear. Meanwhile Evans had repre- sented to the preacher of Bladen Circuit how things were going, and induced him to take his meeting- house into the circuit, and constitute a church there. And now, there was no longer room for the negroes in the house when Evans preached ; and for the accommodation of both classes, the weather- boards were knocked off and sheds were added to the house on either side ; the whites occupying the whole of the original building, and the negroes those sheds as a part of the same house. Evans's dwelling was a shed at the pulpit end of the church. And that was the identical state of the case when I was pastor. Often was I in that shed, and much to my edification. I have known not many preachers who appeared more conversant with Scripture than Evans, or whose conversa- tion was more instructive as to the things of God. He seemed always deeply impressed with the re- sponsibility of his position ; and not even our old friend Castile was more remarkable for his humble and deferential deportment towards the whites than Evans was. Ifor would he allow any partiality of his friends to induce him to varv in the least degree the line of conduct or the bearing which
128 LIFE OF WILLIAM CAPEftS.
he had prescribed to himself iu this respect ; uevet speaking to a white man but with his hat under his arm ; never allowing himself to be seated in their houses ; and even confining himself to the kind and manner of dress proper for negroes in general, except his plain black coat for the pulpit. "The whites are kind to me, and come to hear me preach," he would say, "but I belong to my own sort, and must not spoil them." And yet Henry Evans was a Boanerges; and in his duty feared not the face of man,
I have said that he died during my stay in Fay- etteville this year, (1810.) The death of such a man could not but be triumphant, and his was dis- tinguishingly so. I did not witness it, but was with him just before he died ; and as he appeared to me, triumph should express but partially the character of his feelings, as the woixi imports exultation at a victory, or at most the victory and exultation to- gether. It seemed to me as if the victory he had won was no longer an object, but rather as if his spirit, past the contemplation of triumphs on earth, were al- ready in communion with heaven. Yet his last breath was drawn in the act of pronouncing 1 Cor. xv. 57 : " Thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." It was my practice to hold a meeting with the blacks in the church directly after morning preaching every Sunday. And on the Sunday before his death, during this meeting, the little door between his humble shed and the chancel where I stood was
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opened, and the dying man entered for a last fare- well to his people. He was almost too feeble to stand at all, but supporting himself by the railing of the chancel, he said : "I have come to say my last word to you. It is this: None but Christ. Three times I have had my life in jeopardy for preaching the gospel to you. Three times I have broken the ice on the edge of the water and swum across the Cape Fear to preach the gospel to you. And now, if in my last hour I could trust to that, or to any thing else but Christ crucified, for my salvation, all should be lost, and my soul perish for ever.*' A noble testimony! Worthy, not of Evans only, but St. Paul. His funeral at the church was attended by a greater concourse of persons than had been seen on any funeral occasion before. The whole community appeared to mourn his death, and the universal feeling seemed to be that in honoring the memory of Henry Evans we were paying a tribute to virtue and religion. He was buried under the chancel of the church of which he had been in so remarkable a manner the founder.
Looking back on my past life, I know no single duty which I might suppose myself to have dis- charged in measure and manner as I ought to have done ; and if some bright spots appear in the gen- eral shade, and there were instances of devotion seeming to answer somewhat to my obligations, they may not be relied on for my justification, but 9
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show rather by contrast how much more has been neglected than discharged.
** Jesus, thy blood and righteousness My beauty are, my glorious dress."
I have often been struck with the force of that particular obligation which is stated in the office of the ordination of deacons : "And furthermore, it is his office to search for the sick, poor, and im- potent, that they may be visited and relieved," and have felt painfully how deficient I have been, how much less than my duty I have done. The winter was coming on with uncommon severity, and brother Pearce, who seemed to live for the poor, suggested that we might do something in their behalf, several persons whom he knew being with- out sufficient clothing or blankets to keep them comfortable, or even more than preserve them from freezing in the coming cold weather. And it was agreed on between us that we would ask our friends for some trifle to assist us in this charity. I pro- posed to beg the money if he would appropriate it, but he would by no means take for his share of the service the luxury of applying what we might ob- tain, and so we went together both in the getting and the giving. The money in hand, what should we buy with it? And he advised to divide it equally to blankets and coarse woollens. These were purchased; and the next thing, of course, was to distribute them. They were large bundles, requiring the shoulder; especially the blankets;
^AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 181
and lie shouldering the larger, showed me an ex- ample with respect tq the smaller. I clutched it under my arm, and off we went. . And why have I not since spent many such a happy day as that ? I remember that at one place, the house of an ap- proved sister, where we left a pair of large Duffel blankets and several yards of the woollen cloth, there was but one whole blanket in the house, which was employed as a wrapper for the poor man, who, after destroyinghimself by intemperance, had now been for several years hopelessly a paralytic, requiring more of his wife's attention than a child might ; while for their subsistence, and that of two clever little boys of eight and ten years old, she took in washing, having to bring her fuel on her head, with the assistance of the little boys, a mile and a half from the woods. But how could a worthy member of the Church be suffered to en- dure such distressing poverty? I. presume just because she was so worthy as to prefer suffering to complaining ; and as she was always looking decent at church and at class, and those who should have relieved her (and would have done so had they known) were occupied with their own business, her wretchedness was not suspected. Brother Pearce himself had no idea of the extremity of the case, though often in the house, till that day. Yes, ^Hhe sickj poor, and impotent'' — those very individ- uals of them who have most need of assistance and have the best claims for it — ^may live near by us and we do nothing for them, only because we do not
iL$2 LIFE OF WILLIAM GAPERS.
^s^areh'' for them, and they are backward to com- plain.
Few half years of my life have been spent more