I have always had a peculiar respect for the
Methodists. My grandfather was a rigid member,
and one of the first proselytes in Baltimore. I
have heard it said that he stood within the door of
an humble dwelling, I think in Tripolet's alley,
where he could see what was going on without, as
well as listen to the preacher, in order to give
notice of any contemplated intrusion, while Bishop
Coke, the friend of Wesley, expounded his faith to
his then few followers. He was at that time a man
of ample means; a leading member of the city
council, many of whose ordinances he framed;
charitable and public spirited, and, withal, a local
preacher, for which he received no salary. The
good he strove to do, was performed for its own
sake. He “coveted no man's silver, nor gold, nor
apparel.” One Sabbath, while administering the

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sacrament, he was stricken with a paralysis, from
the effects of which he never recovered. I have
often heard him speak of Coke, and the little flock
who then worshipped with him.

We all know what a strong hold the Methodist
faith has on the public mind. I should not, however,
omit to notice one trait in my grandfather's
faith. He was sternly opposed to what are called
“shouting meetings.” He held, however, that
Christianity inculcated, in all its precepts, republicanism;
and that Methodism conformed more
strictly to it than any other Christian creed.
Though not myself a member of any church, I remember
with deep respect and reverence, the manner
in which he would open the “big ha' Bible,”
and say, while the family were all assembled round
him, before retiring for the night, “let us worship
God!”

In “the monumental city” I read law, and
before I was nineteen, was admitted to its practice.
I had some little business, particularly in defending
criminals; and I was wont to exercise my lungs in
crazy declamations at political meetings.

I had not been a “lawyer at law” quite a year,
when ill health compelled me to renounce the profession,
and I became domiciliated at the residence
of my uncle, who rejoiced in a delightful farm a
few miles from town. A kinder spirit never illumined
mortal clay, or left it for a fitter sphere.

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But for his attention, and that of a beloved aunt,
“life's fitful fever,” would have ended with me but
a few years after it commenced.

While practising my profession, I defended a
schoolmate of mine under the following circumstances:
His father was a Methodist, a peaceloving
man, who had been converted under the
preaching of my grandfather, for whom he had a
profound respect, and more than a brotherly regard.
The fraternal hand extended beyond this
world, and, I believe, binds them in another and a
better.

This worthy gentleman, who was named Godfrey,
acquired a handsome fortune, and purchased
a large estate a few miles from my uncle's. His
son Adam, who was named after my grandfather,
was a roystering, reckless blade, but his character
was dashed with the noblest impulses, which would
flash forth like the play of the lightning in a
darkening cloud. He had a lovely sister, named
Jane, whom I have always deemed to be one of the
most enchanting women I ever beheld; and it was
not more her peerless beauty, than her angelic
purity, which impressed you. A young lawyer, of
feeble mind, but malignant heart, was assiduously
attentive to her. I knew him slightly before I
knew her; and he was wont to remark to me, in
reply to some jest or other of mine, with regard to
the report of an engagement existing between

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them, that he “never could get that far, until he
turned religious, and that he was waiting on the
`anxious seat' of hope, for the first favorable opportunity.”

I did not relish this jest at the religious views of
a sect which I respected; and I told him so, with a
bluntness that ever afterward prevented anything
between us but a salute in passing.

Jane, at first, rather encouraged his attentions;
but certain developments in his character, together
with her father's wishes, caused her to reject him.
Perhaps the advice of Adam influenced her as
much as anything; for he despised my brother
limb, and she loved her brother with a devotedness
I have never seen surpassed. Upon this, the rejected
suitor, in a disguised hand, wrote an infamous
anonymous letter to her father concerning
her. It was shown to Adam, who had then left
school, and was living with his widowed father and
his sister, in the country, where they generally
passed the summer.

Without saying a word, Adam mounted his
horse, repaired to town, and sought the office of
the lawyer, whose door he entered and locked, and
whom, in his rage, he would have beaten to death
with no other weapon than his horsewhip and fist,
in spite of the superior size of his antagonist, and
his liberal use of the chairs and table, if persons
without, attracted by his cries of “murder!” and

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“help!” had not rushed in, and with much difficulty
rescued him.

Our lawyer, whose skull was as brainless as that
of his dead brother, whose

“Dome of thought and palace of the soul,”

I obtained many of the lawyer's letters, and
several legal instruments which he had drawn up;
but he had so well disguised his hand in this outrageous
communication, that it could not be said
that any similarity existed between them. Butler
remarks, in commenting upon “Junius Identified,”
a work which assumes to prove that Sir
Philip Francis was the author of these celebrated
letters, that the external evidence was sufficient,
he believed, to satisfy a jury of the fact, but that
the internal evidence proved the contrary; that

[figure description] Page 182.[end figure description]

Sir Philip's mind was not capable of the authorship.
Our evidence was quite the opposite of this—
the internal evidence; the mind and heart of
the party were quite capable of the act; but the
external proof was wanting.

I knew, if I were to ask him if he wrote the
letter, the court would not require him to answer
the question, should he or his counsel object to it,
as no one is bound to criminate himself. But, I
thought, from what I knew of his character, that
he would not employ any aid, and I did not believe
that the prosecuting attorney, who knew him well,
would be over anxious to shield him from the inquiry.
I therefore believed that, by suddenly
producing the letter, and asking him the question,
boldly: “Did you write that?” I might extort
the confession from his conscious guilt. It was
optional with my client, either to have a jury trial,
or to submit the case to the court. I advised the
latter. I knew the judge to be a man of sterling
integrity, who from his heart would despise such
an act as I intended to charge upon the prosecuting
witness.

The witnessing lawyer, who was large enough
to have swallowed my little friend Adam, entered
with great minuteness into the aggravations, horrors,
and death-purpose of the assault. He told
how he was seated in his office, busily engaged in
professional business, when my client entered,

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locked the door, and knocked him down, and,
before he was enabled to defend himself, horribly
blackened his eyes. “Ecce signum,” said his
glance at the court, as plainly as ever glance said
it. He was thus prevented, he said, from seeing
anything distinctly that afterwards occurred; my
client, he declared, took advantage of this, and
attacked him with a chair; with the intention of
murdering him.

“It's a lie!” shouted Adam, oblivious of his
whereabout, and advancing toward the witness
with the evident intention of “deepening the
combat” and the “black and blue” of his eye.
His honor ordered silence, looking sternly at
Adam, as if with the purpose of reprimanding
him; when I took advantage of the occasion, and
suddenly opening the letter to the confused gaze
of the witness, demanded, “Did you write that?”
“I must do my duty,” I added, “I have specimens
of your handwriting in court.”

The guilty victim started, and scarcely knowing
what he did, confessed the fact. I asked no more
questions, but handing the letter to the judge,
explained, in a sentence, the relation the witness
had sought to establish for himself in the family
of Mr. Godfrey, and his failure; which, I stated,
I could prove by persons then in court, if the
witness denied it. He replied to me—

[figure description] Page 184.[end figure description]

“I don't deny it, and that will prove that I
meant no harm in writing the letter.”

The judge thought otherwise. I never saw his
countenance assume such an expression of displeasure
as on this occasion, although he was a
stern man, and had long presided in a criminal
court, which had made him familiar with every
species of depravity. He imposed but a nominal
fine upon my client, and seemed to regret that it
was made his duty to impose any; and then read
the lawyer a lecture, which I am persuaded he
will never forget. He said, he had doubts whether
it was not his duty to exclude him altogether from
the bar. This remark operated as an effectual
expulsion, for the letter-writer left the city a few
weeks after; and if he has not materially mended
his ways, he has certainly ere this appeared as a
prisoner, instead of a practitioner.

Shortly after this trial, in midsummer, I repaired
to the country, obtained a Rosinante, and,
as far as my health would permit, amused myself—
when I left my books, which was very often—
with the little incidents and adventures in the
neighborhood, not forgetting an occasional attendance
at the political meetings. My indisposition
spread a gloom over everything. My father's
family had departed for the West. For many
years they had occupied an estate adjoining my
uncle's; and, with a feverish, morbid fondness, I

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delighted to visit the scenes of my boyhood, and
dwell upon every rivulet, and rock, and hill, and
tree that had been familiar to my earliest memory.
How often, in the hush of night, when returning
from town, have I taken a by-way through the
woods, that I might call up old, thick, clustering
associations! With feelings so different from a
child's, when, benighted by the old graveyard, I
have stopped my horse, and tried to recall the
sensations of indescribable awe with which my
schoolmates and myself hurried past, in solemn
silence, when the evening sun had gone down, and
left us lingering in our playful stroll home from
school.

Near by was our parting place; and well do I
remember the echoing shout, or the whistle dying
away in the woods, with which the lonely little
wayfarers beguiled their fears, as they took their
separate paths to their homes. More than one
bonny face was in the group, from which I was
here wont to part, the black or blue-eyed daughters
of our neighbors around. They are mothers
now; and most of them have seen, ere this, the
grave inclose their gray-headed sires, who were
wont to pat me on the head, and promise to vote
for me, if I took the right side in politics, when I
grew to be a man. They are resting in that old
graveyard; and although it is not many years ago,
more than one of their fair-haired daughters are

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sleeping their last sleep beside them—stem and
flower together! Twice, with my frail literary
attempts, have I sought the shrine of the autocrats
of literature in the East; the publishers, who
drink their wine, it is said, out of the skulls of
authors; but wide and far, I turned from the monumental
city; for well I knew, I could not bear to
call up old associations to sunder them again. The
final leave-taking, if I die away from these haunts,
cannot give me half the sorrow; I must wait until
the ice grows a little harder around my heart,
before I revisit the home of my childhood. It
will be hard, indeed, even then, if it be not melted
by the memory of “auld lang syne” in the scenes
“where memory first began.”

A day or two after I had settled myself in the
country, my friend Adam, who had been amusing
himself in travelling from village to village with
an itinerant juggler, returned, and called to see
me.

I observed, with deep regret, that he had not
only fallen into the habit of occasional wild intoxication,
but he had also acquired a passion for
gaming, which had already lost him large sums of
money. While he was absent, I had visited his
family frequently, and was delighted with the
beauty, intelligence, and almost angelic purity of
his sister.

With the good old gentleman, I was wont to

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hold long discourses upon freewill, predestination,
Wesley, Summerfield, Bascom, and Adam Clarke's
Commentaries. I ventured to remonstrate frequently
with Adam upon his habits; but he always
turned it off with a laugh or joke, or left me without
saying a word. I saw he deeply distressed his
father and sister.

After this, I seldom accompanied him anywhere,
or knew much of what he did, except from a common
friend, whom I shall call Harry, who was attached
to his sister, and who was doing everything
in his power to reclaim her brother and his friend.
I began to fear his efforts were hopeless.

One day Harry came from the city, where they
had been together for a week, and told me that
Adam was with a nest of gamblers; that he had
raised every cent he could control, and lent it to
him; but that he had no doubt he would lose it all.
“They are cheating him foully!” said Harry. “I
told him if he would suffer himself to be made a
dupe of in that way, I would not stand by and see
it, and so I left him.”

That night Adam returned home. He was silent
and sad. A camp-meeting was to commence next
day, and an eloquent and aged missionary, a celebrated
minister, was to deliver a discourse. I had
been all the evening talking with him. His silver
locks parted over his high, calm forehead; his fine
features, the simplicity of his dress and manners;

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the naturalness of his conversation, and his gushing,
heartfelt piety, impressed me with feelings of
profound respect. It was a beautiful summer
moonlight night, when the family were all called
together to prayers. Adam was seated moodily
apart, on the porch, and entered the room doggedly.
The missionary addressed us upon the
joys of home, and the homely virtues; told us how
they solaced the cares of life, and prepared us, in
our contemplation of them, for the “home of
homes.” The pathetic tenderness of his language
and manners stole over the heart like the strains
of some touching melody, which the affections seem
to recognize, yet wonder over.

It was like a song of home, heard in a far land;
a memory of the past, which something undefinable
has linked, by an electric chain, with the future.
It was, in fact, the piety of a better world, calling
down blessings, like sunlight, upon the rugged
pathway and weary wanderer of this; cheering
him, the while, to lift his moral eye above the
mists that enshroud him here, to the light that
would lead him to its holy home. He concluded
with a prayer as impressive as his remarks, and
bade us good-night.

As we left the room, Adam said, with an oath,
“that's a good man; don't you think so?”

“I do,” I replied, emphatically.

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