USA > Connecticut > Litchfield County > Woodbury > History of ancient Woodbury, Connecticut : from the first Indian dead in 1659 to 1872, Vol. II > Part 49
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question seemed as far from being decided as ever, and as difficult of decision as ever.
Some other persons, possibly, who may re?4 these remarks, may have revived in their minds, by means of them, the remembrance of similar struggles, which they themselves have experienced in like circumstances. If so, they will know something of that state of oppressive anxiety in this 'straight between two,' into which the writer's mind was thus thrown. He felt that the question be- fore him was to be, in all probability, the turning point of his own future life. And in addition to this, that the spiritual interest of a respected and beloved people, in their critical position, might be scarcely less affected, the one way or the other, for good or for evil, by the manner in which that question should be disposed of by him.
"It was a pleasant afternoon of a pleasant summer's day, when a venerable elder of the church called at the writer's lodging, and proposed that they should make a visit together, to the hallowed spot already mentioned as a place of resort for prayer. It was the first time the writer had ever been there. And the avowed object of the elder in proposing to the writer to visit this resort was, that he might be his guide in showing him the way to the place. It was so secluded, and so embowered among the mountain shrub- bery, that it could not well be found by a stranger, without a guide. They went together to the spot. At the foot of an over- hanging rock, some thirty or forty feet high, on the brow of which stood an evergreen fir-tree, lay a rough pile of stone, exhibiting evident marks, by their being discolored with smoke and soot, that fires had often been kindled there. Some names also were rudely inscribed on the shelving side of the rock, though mostly effaced by the dripping of water down the rock. The whole scene, in its external aspect, was indescribably wild. At least, it seemed so then, to the eye and feelings of the writer. The air was breathlessly still; scarcely a leaf on the trees moved. The hum of the village, though not a half a mile off, perhaps, was not heard. The inspection of no human eye was feared, or thought of, in that lonely mountain retreat. To an oppressed and some- wha's saddened spirit, and to an imagina.ion beginning to hold some not unwelcome sympathy with the wildness of the scene, it really did seem as if God was in some special sense present there, and as if he might be worshipped there, with a fullness and free- ness of heart and soul, not always experienced elsewhere, in our
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CURTIS
BETHEL ROCK, WOODBURY, CONN,
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HISTORY OF ANCIENT WOODBURY.
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approaches to him. Indeed, the very feeling of the soul itself, seemed like a kind of silent, voiceless worship. And prayer there was all adoration, spontaneous, irrepressible adoration. The rea- son of this was, that the nature of the place strangely suggested to the mind the idea, the great, the awful idea, of a present God, and especially in the more grand and majestic, and terrible attri- butes of His being. On that rude heap of stones, the two visit- ants of this solemn temple of Nature, sat down together; the aged veteran soldier of Christ, almost ready to put off his well -. worn armor, and the young and inexperienced disciple, just put- ting on his harness, and with a fluttering, palpitating heart, half- hoping, half-trembling, in view of the prospect before him, and in painful uncertainty as to the particular direction in which the path of his duty lay. Little was said. Few words became such a place; except that the grey-haired man, long since gone to his rest, gave somne brief history, partly from his own knowledge, and partly from tradition handed down from his fathers, of the char- acter of those good men in the same church, who had gone before him, of the successive pastors of that church, of the first organi- zation of that church, dating as far back as the year 1670, and particularly of the interesting locality itself, where he and his friend (whom he hoped one day to call his minister) were then sit- ting. It need scarcely be added, that the time soon came, after a few recitals of this kind were given, when they fell down together in united supplication, before the Hearer of Prayer. And never, while the writer retains the proper use of his memory, will he forget that prayer of the venerable elder ; and never will the im- pressions made by it be effaced from his mind. It was not loud ; it was not fervent, in the customary sense of that term; it was not pronounced with a choked or broken utterance; it was not accompanied with tears ; nor was it indicative of any such emo- tion as is usually evinced by tears. It was calm. It was solemn. It was eminently scriptural, both in its phraseology and its spirit. It bespoke a mind familiar with Bible truth in Bible language, and at home in urging that truth as an argument before God in prayer, and it was singularly appropriate, as were the prayers of this good man at all times, and in all circumstances. More than a quarter of a century has elapsed since that prayer was offered : and yet many of the thoughts and expressions employed in it, seem, even now, to be trembling on the writer's ear, as if they had scarcely ceased to be heard by him, and as if he had scarcely felt
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the solemn and glorious audience-chamber of the Most High, when that prayer was offered. It began thus, or in expres sions something like them :- ' Our fathers worshipped in this mountain. But the fathers, where are they ? and the prophets, do they live forever ? We all do fade as the leaf. Thou carriest us away with the flood. We spend our years as a tale that is told. But Thou art the same ; of thy years there is no end. Thou hast been the dwelling place of Thy people in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever Thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God. The moun- tains are Thine, the strength also of the hills is Thine." In this strain of sublime scriptural reference and quotation, did he con- tinue for some time to exalt God, and to sink the creature in the dust before Him, until that mountain might almost seem to one's imagination, as the mountain of Israel seemed to the prophet's servant 'full of chariots of fire, and horsemen of fire.' And then, there followed a few words of entreaty for the Divine guidance in difficulty, and for the resolving of doubts as to the path of duty, and for a heart to do the will of God whenever known, and whithersoever it might lead. There the prayer closed. And from that hour the burden of anxiety on the writer's mind began to roll off. That visit to the mountain Bethel was, proba- bly, the turning point in his life. That prayer seemed to dispel the cloud, and to make the path of duty plainer to him than it · had ever appeared to him before.
" Now step forward a few months from that time. In the suc- ceeding autumn of the same year, the writer became the pastor of that people. And on the afternoon of the day on which he had taken upon himself his ordination vows, and had become the pas- tor of that people, another little company was gathered together at the same spot. It was a part of the ordaining Council by whom he had been consecrated to his work. From the temple made with hands, where the ordination services had been perform- ed, these members of the Council had repaired, with the young pastor, to the mountain-temple already described, and were now lifting up their hearts in thanksgiving and praise to God. 'They shook the depths of the forest's gloom with their hymns of lofty cheer ;' a pleasant sequel to the good elder's prayer, made at the same spot, but a short time before. Some of the words which were sung, and with which the " sounding aisles of the dim woods
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rang," were those sprightly and beautiful lines of Watts ;-
· Let Zion and her sons rejoice, When we are dead ! '
Several of that little company, whose voices were blended in that song of praise, are now resting from their labors. The others will follow at no distant day. And if they are but faithful unto death, is it any matter how soon ? Of the departed ones of that little company, the writer vividly calls to mind the names which fol- low. May he be allowed to pay this passing tribute of esteen and love to their memory. The jndicions and excellent Rev. Mr. Langdon, of Bethlehem ; the warm-hearted and interesting preach- er, the Rev. Mr. Clark, of Southbury ; the beloved and successful pastor, the Rev. Mr. Hart, of Plymouth. Among the still survi- ving members of that little company, were the Rev. Dr. Beecher, now of Cincinnati, Ohio ; the Rev. Dr. Tyler, of South Britain, now at the head of our New England theological institution, and some others. If the eye of any one of these dear brethren should chance to fall upon these humble reminiscences of by-gone days, they will doubtless recollect the scene above referred to, and pos- sibly it may seem to refresh them, like a well-spring in the wilder- ness if, perchance, they ever feel weary in their Master's work. Nearly thirty years have gone by, and yet how beautifully fresh and clear that glad song of praise, from those who loved Zion, and who loved one another, seems now to be going up on the mountain air to Heaven, from under the shadow of that rock in a weary land. Here was prayer too, as well as praise, in that little circle. And such prayer ! The love of Christ constrained them. They were dear to each other for their works' sake. And when they went down from that Mount of Transfiguration, shall we call it, to their respective fields of labor, because, like the primitive disciples in the holy mount, they might not be allowed to build tabernacles there, they were doubtless the better prepared, by the little incident here recorded, for their future trials, and would long remember the refreshing scenes of that day. Such, at least, has been the case with the writer of these 'Pleasant Remem- brances.' Now, such incidents as the foregoing, little in them- selves, and almost unnoticeable, as they may seem to a careless eye to be, are in truth, green spots in the wilderness ; beautiful passages in one's history ; golden threads in life's changeable, many-colored tissue; sweet poetry, blessed music to man's often
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aching heart. They adorn, they soothe, they sweeten our rough and often thorny course to our home. And why should not some of the choicest of these 'Remembrances' be culled from the past and saved from oblivion, for the honor of Him who has provided them for us, and for the comfort of our fellow-travelers on the same journey, towards the same home ?
" And now a word, at parting, to any who may cast an eye over these humble, unpretending 'remembrances.' Since the incidents above recorded, respecting these blessed seasons of prayer took place, the frosts of age have begun to descend upon the writer's head, and he is admonished that the remainder of his term of ac- tive service for the good of the only people whom, as a pastor, he has ever loved and served, cannot now be very long. The shad- ows of evening will soon be closed, and he himself will go to join his beloved brethren, who have been called away from their work before him. Let him record it, then, as one of the deepest con- victions which his experience has furnished him, that a quiet and persevering waiting upon God in prayer, under any and all trying or doubtful phases of his Providence concerning us, is the only safe and only rational course of conduct for us to pursue. Let him say to his junior brethren in the ministry, or looking forward to the ministry ; let him say to the youthful disciples of Christ in any situation of life; let him say to any and to all who may read these remarks; confide your difficulties to God; ask counsel from Him ; believe in his word; and thus wait for light in your dark- ness ; and you, too, shall have, as the consequence, many a bright passage in your life to record, and many a pleasant recollection, to gladden the past, when you shall be called to look back upon it from a point nearer to the grave."
At length, Mr. Andrew's much loved deacon passed away, at the ripe age of 83 years. He preached a special sermon on the occasion of his funeral, dedicated and presented it to the deacon's children. The following extract from that sermon, is the pastor's estimate of his life and character ;-
"Deacon Matthew Minor was born the 11th of Feb., 1752, and died July 20th, 1825, being in the 83d year of his age. He was the youngest and, at the time of his death, the only surviving child of Capt. Matthew Minor, by the side of whose grave he lies buried, and for whose memory he is known to have cherished a large share of filial reverence. His great-grandfather migrated to
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this country from Great Britain in the early settlement of New England. His Baptism is recorded in the hand-writing of the Rev. Mr. Stoddard, the then pastor of this church, as having taken place on the same day with his birth, Feb. 11th, 1752. Thus early in life was he devoted to God, in that affecting ordinance of the New Testament church, by which (at whatever age administered) we are reminded of the corruption of our nature and our conse- quent need ' of the washing of regeneration and the renewing of the Holy Ghost.' He had the happiness to commence life under the care of Christian parents, and was from the first a child of many prayers. He was brought up strictly, according to the piety of that day, being taught to ' fear God ' and to ' honor his father and mother.' In quite early life (as he has told me) he was the subject of serious impressions of mind, from time to time. Possessing naturally a thoughtful, meditative turn of mind, he was often made to feel, deeply and strongly, his need of personal religion. This was more especially true from about fifteen or six- teen years of age, till he was eighteen or nineteen. At this pe- riod in his life he became the subject of pungent and distressing convictions of sin, insomuch (as he has been heard to say) that his sinfulness appeared to him so great, and the justice of God in his condemnation so plain, that it seemed to him, at times, almost as if the earth would open and swallow him up, and as if there was no mercy for him. At other times he would experience a transient respite from such painful convictions, and then again he would harden his heart against God, and seek for happiness and safety in a legal way of justification before' him. Occasionally, while in this state of mind, he would have short seasons of what he would afterwards think to be a false peace and comfort to his soul ; once, in particular, (as he told me,) while he was in great darkness and distress of mind, and striving to make himself bet- ter by means of many prayers and tears, it seemed to be forcibly suggested to him that he might now dismiss his fears, and cease to feel further trouble, inasmuch as God had heard his prayers and seen his tears, and was now at peace with him. This suggestion was made to him in the following words of Scripture, which made it the more plausible and the more dangerous. 'Go thy way, eat thy bread with joy, and drink thy wine with a merry heart, for God now accepteth thy works.' But he knew that his heart was still unchanged. His spirit was 'not subdued and broken for sin, as he knew it must be, and he felt no reliance on Christ, such as
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he knew he ought to feel. Thus 'he escaped the snare of the fowler,' in which there is reason to fear, so many are taken. Then again, his convictions returned upon him with angmented force. and the deep waters went over his soul. In this troubled state of mind, with occasional alterations of less solicitude and less intensi- ty of exertion to make himself fit for the kingdom of God, he continued for a considerable length of time; till, at last, he came to feel that, in and of himself, he was completely lost ; all hope forsook him. He had done what he could, and it was to no pur- pose, and he now felt himself to be (to use his own figure of' speech) like a twig of a tree that had been broken off from the old parent stock, where it always had been living, and before it was grafted into the new and better stock into which it was about to be inserted, and where it was to blossom and grow and bear fruit, by having a new and better life supplied to. it, derived from its new and better stock It was in such a state of mind, broken. off, as it were, from the ' old Covenant of works,' as a method of life and salvation, and ahnost despairing of any relief that would meet his case, and not yet ' grafted into Christ,' by a true and liv- ing faith ; as he was one day sitting by himself, in a retired apart- ment to which he was accustomed to resort, and reading the Ist Epistle of John, he came (slowly and sadly and despairingly) to the words of our text and read them. 'These things have I writ- ten unto you that believe on the name of the Son of God, that ye may know that ye have eternal life, and that ye may believe on the name of the Son of God.'. It was enough. The mystery was ended. The dark puzzle was cleared up. Light broke in upon his mind. He saw the way clearly. He felt himself grafted, an underserving worthless branch, into Christ, prepared to derive all his hope and comfort from Him. From that time his new life, as a Christian, commenced. To that portion of Scripture he often referred, in after life, as the 'word' upon which he had been led to hope, and from thenceforth he dated his singularly close and exemplary walk with God. This took place when he was some- where between eighteen and twenty years of age. His hope, as thus commenced, he continued to cherish, up to the time of his death, through a period of more than sixty years. Nat- urally cautious, shrinking and self-distrustful, especially in regard te the all important question of his own piety and personal accept- anee before God as he was, he never gave up this hope to the last. In the affections which he was called to experience, (and he had
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some severe trials to pass through,) this hope never forsook him, and often it was to him, in times of trouble and sorrow, like 'an anchor to the soul, both sure and steadfast, entering into that within the veil.' He had, it is true, at times, some remaining doubts and fears about his own religious state and character, and perhaps was never wholly free from these, yet, upon the whole, his trust in the Redeemer, his habitual communion with God in prayer, and his hopes and consolations from the Gospel, were such as kept his mind in peace. He never appeared to have any doubts, even the smallest, about the way of salvation, however he might feel occasionally as to the question whether he was himself inte- rested in that way so as to be saved by it. And on this latter point, though (as I have said) unusually cantious and self-distrust- ful beyond most other men whom I have known, he had, in the main, a settled and firm trust that he had built on the 'sure foun- dation' and that he should therefore, through grace, be accepted and saved at last, among the innumerable blood-washed company before the Throne. With this sweet and blessed 'hope,' appa- rently strong and abiding within him, he went slowly and gradu- ally down into the dark valley, till death removed him from our view. May I be permitted to add, that during his last illness, un- til by slight attacks of paralysis, his mental powers became some- what impaired, his conversations with myself (which, by his bed- side, were many) on the great subjects of doctrinal and experi- montal Christianity, and especially on the way of acceptance by Christ, were of the most strengthening and delightful character. His religion, as now exhibited in these interviews, was anything but gloomy. His soul now dwelt in a region too elevated, pure, etherial, to be habitually or often clouded with gloom. True in- deed, his views of sin as committed against a Holy God, and in vi- olation of His Law of infinite authority and rectitude, were now, as they always had been before through life, deep and awful. It would make you almost shudder to hear him talk on that theme- But, at the same time, his views of the atonement by the blood of Christ-his views of the Gospel method of a sinner's acceptance and justification before God, as to its sufficiency and fitness to the sinner's case, were so much above and beyond his views of the sinner's guilt, (great as that guilt is) that when he came to speak of the way of salvation by faith in Christ, it was always in terms full of hope and joy, and sometimes even of triumph.
" At the age of twenty years, March 1, 1772, he made a public
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profession of religion, and joined the Church. Nov. 25, 1793, he was chosen a deacon in this church, in which office he continued till his death, discharging its duties with fidelity and great accept- ance, to both the church and the people for some forty years.
" Thrice he was elected to represent this town in the General Assembly of the State-though few men have ever so instinctively shrunk from notoriety and intercourse with the world in public political life. He was very often chosen a member of this Conso- ciation, and his prayers and counsels in that body were always welcome; in times of difficulty, they were especially desired and valued. In his system of Family Government he was strict and thorough, and he had the privilege of living to see most of his children, and many of his grand-children, hopefully converted and members of the church. Among the circle of his relatives generally there is an uncommonly large proportion who are the professed followers of Christ.
"His own communion with God in secret, and his acquaintance with the Scriptures, were almost without a parallel. Of the latter only can I now speak. About the time of his conversion he be- gan the practice, which he followed through life, of reading the Bible through by course once a year. This was in addition to all his other and occasional reading of it-which was, probably, far more. Thus, by course, (once every year,) he had read it all through more than sixty times, and his knowledge of that Book was very minute and accurate, and his ability to quote it in prayer singularly happy.
" But time admonishes me to desist ; suffice it only to add, in giving this sketch of his life and character, that he was a man of sonnd judgment, and practical wisdom, of few words, of a modest, unassuming deportment, slow and cautious in forming his opinion 3, but firm and unwavering in maintaining them. In his manners, there was a happy mixture of Christian dignity and relf-respect, on the one hand, and of Christian simplicity and humility on the other. One trait in his religious character was quite remarkable. He looked upon death and the things which lie beyond death, with a kind of trembling awe and solemnity. He used to speak of himself as having been ' all his life-time subject to bondage through fear of death.' Yet when he came to die, that dread of death which he had been accustomed to feel, even to a morbid degree, perhaps, seemed to be taken away, and his end was peace. Thus lived and died one of the best of men with whom it has been my lot to be acquainted."
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On the 10th of October, 1860, the descendants of this good man held a family re-union at the house of Mr. Erastus Minor who occupied the homestead of his father, Deacon Minor, which is situated a few rods north of the location of the house occupied by Capt. John Minor, at the founding of the town, long since de- molished. The deacon's descendants, by blood and marriage, numbered, at this time, 125. The occasion was one of great in- terest and enjoyment to the family. There was an address of welcome, a historical family address, reading of the Scriptures from the old Bible read so many years by the deacon, a sermon, refreshments, "after dinner " speeches, songs, closing with the following ode, written by one of the grand-daughters :-
" Beautiful, bright, are the October days ; Gorgeous in their golden haze ; Gladly we welcome their presence here, Solemn, sacred, best of the year. More glorious still is this union sweet, Where kindred friends together meet, To honor the sire, himself a host, Long gone before, but still not lost.
" As we meet here with filial tread, Retrace the footsteps of the dead, And wake the silent echoes, where Long dwelt the sainted man of prayer, We seem to see his noble form, His reverend brow, his accents watm, His arm,chair in its wonted place, His Bible, too, that gift of grace.
Hail mighty spirit of the dead, Upon our hearts thine influence shed. While here we meet with filial love, Smile on thy children from above. A heavenly token let us see, Which to thy seed shall ever be, As on we tread life's devious ways. A benediction all our days.
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