Rambles of a Naturalist

Dr. Judson, though religiously instructed when young, having a pious clergyman for his father, and another for his elder brother, had nevertheless long since freed himself from what he called the prejudices of education, the shackles of priestcraft, and was ranging the fields of infidelity. He had acquired wealth and reputation, and was an estimable man in all the domestic relations of life; but the self-denying doctrines of the Saviour were too humbling to his proud spirit, and he could not submit to their influence. At the time he received Dr. Godman's letter, however, he was gloomy and despondent, looking forward with fearful forebodings to the period of his dissolution, which seemed not far distant. He had no confidence but that of the sceptic – no hope but that of ceasing to be. Aware of the fatal nature of the disease under which he had lingered for years, he had long been arming himself to meet the king of terrors with composure, that he might die like a philosopher, "with manly firmness;" but as he drew nearer to the grave, the clouds and darkness thickened around him, and he began to fear that there might be something beyond this narrow prison. His infidelity now began to give way, and he inquired with solicitude: "Is there such a thing as the new birth, and if so, in what does it consist?" He at length consented to make the investigation recommended by Dr. Godman. He took up the New Testament, and read it in the spirit of candid inquiry. A conviction of the truth of its doctrines fastened upon him. The clouds which had so long enveloped him were dissipated, light broke in upon his mind, and he was enabled to lay hold of the promises. The remaining days of his life were devoted to fervent prayer and the constant study of the Scriptures. Through the holy influences of Divine grace, he was enabled to rely with undoubting confidence on the infinite merits of his Redeemer, his soul was filled with heavenly composure, and the last words he uttered were, "Peace, peace." If he did not die with "manly firmness," he "rested in Jesus."

Dr. Godman's views of the authenticity and practical tendency of the gospel, are expressed with singular force and beauty in the following extract from an essay written not long before his death:

"Is proof wanting that these gospels are true? It is only necessary for an honest mind to read them candidly, to be convinced. Every occurrence is stated clearly, simply, and unostentatiously. The narrations are not supported by asseverations of their truth, nor by parade of witnesses: the circumstances described took place in presence of vast multitudes, and are told in that downright, unpretending manner which would have called forth innumerable positive contradictions had they been untrue. Mysteries are stated without attempt at explanation, because explanation is not necessary to establish the existence of facts, however mysterious. Miracles, also, attested by the presence of vast numbers, are stated in the plainest language of narration, in which the slightest working of imagination cannot be traced. This very simplicity, this unaffected sincerity, and quiet affirmation, have more force than a thousand witnesses – more efficacy than volumes of ambitious effort to support truth by dint of argumentation.

What motive could the evangelists have to falsify? The Christian kingdom is not of this world, nor in it. Christianity teaches disregard of its vanities, depreciates its honours and enjoyments, and sternly declares that none can be Christians but those who escape from its vices and allurements. There is no call directed to ambition, no gratification proposed to vanity: the sacrifice of self, the denial of all the propensities which relate to the gratification of passion or pride, with the most humble dependence upon God, are invariably taught and most solemnly enjoined, under penalty of the most awful consequences. Is it, then, wonderful that such a system should find revilers? Is it surprising that sceptics should abound, when the slightest allowance of belief would force them to condemn all their actions? Or is it to be wondered at that a purity of life and conversation so repugnant to human passion, and a humility so offensive to human pride, should be opposed, rejected, and contemned? Such is the true secret of the opposition to religion– such the cause inducing men who lead unchristian lives, to array the frailties, errors, weaknesses, and vices of individuals or sects, against Christianity, hoping to weaken or destroy the system by rendering ridiculous or contemptible those who profess to be governed by its influence, though their conduct shows them to be acting under an opposite spirit.

What is the mode in which this most extraordinary doctrine of Christianity is to be diffused? By force, temporal power, temporal rewards, earthly triumphs? None of these. By earnest persuasion, gentle entreaty, brotherly monition, paternal remonstrance. The dread resort of threatened punishment comes last; exhibited in sorrow, not in anger; told as a fearful truth, not denounced with vindictive exultation; while to the last moment the beamy shield of mercy is ready to be interposed for the saving of the endangered.

Human doctrines are wavering and mutable; the doctrines of the blessed and adorable Jesus, our Saviour, are fixed and immutable. The traditions of men are dissimilar and inconsistent; the declarations of the gospel are harmonious, not only with each other, but with the acknowledged attributes of the Deity, and the well-known condition of human nature.

What do sceptics propose to give us in exchange for this system of Christianity, with its 'hidden mysteries,' 'miracles,' 'signs and wonders?' Doubt, confusion, obscurity, annihilation! Life, without higher motive than selfishness; death, without hope! Is it for this that their zeal is so warmly displayed in proselyting? Is such the gain to accrue for the relinquishment of our souls? In very deed, this is the utmost they have to propose; and we can only account for their rancorous efforts to render others like themselves, by reflecting that misery loves company."

His intellect was strong and undimmed to the last, and almost the only change that could be observed in his mind was that which belongs to a being on the verge, of eternity, in whose estimate the concerns of this life are sinking in comparison with the greater interests of that to which he is approaching. His principal delight was in the promises and consolations of the Bible, which was his constant companion. On one occasion, a few days before his death, while reading aloud from the New Testament to his family, his voice faltered, and he was desired to read no longer, as it appeared to oppress him. "It is not that," replied he; "but I feel so in the immediate presence of my Maker, that I cannot control my emotion!" In a manuscript volume which he sent to a friend, and which he intended to fill with original pieces of his own composition, he wrote as follows: "Did I not in all things feel most thoroughly convinced that the overruling of our plans by an all-wise Providence is always for good, I might regret that a part of my plan cannot be executed. This was to relate a few curious incidents from among the events of my most singularly guided life, which, in addition to mere novelty or peculiarity of character, could not have failed practically to illustrate the importance of inculcating correct religious and moral principles, and imbuing the mind therewith from the very earliest dawn of intellect, from the very moment that the utter imbecility of infancy begins to disappear. May His holy will be done, who can raise up abler advocates to support the truth." "This is my first attempt to write in my Token; why may it not be the last? Oh! should it be, believe me, that the will of God will be most acceptable. Notwithstanding the life of neglect, sinfulness, and perversion of heart which I so long led, before it pleased Him to dash all my idols in the dust, I feel a humble hope in the boundless mercy of our blessed Lord and Saviour, who alone can save the soul from merited condemnation. May it be in the power of those who chance to read these lines, to say, Into thy hands I commit my spirit, for Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord! thou God of Truth!"

A reliance on the mercies of God through Jesus Christ became indeed the habitual frame of his mind, and imparted to the closing scenes of his life a solemnity and a calmness, a sweet serenity and a holy resignation, which robbed death of its sting and the grave of its victory. The following extracts from some of his letters afford additional evidence of the great and glorious change which he had been permitted to experience.

"Philadelphia, Feb. 17th, 1829.

"My dear Friend, – Since my last to you my health has suffered various and most afflicting changes." – "But thanks to the mercies of Him who is alone able to save, the valley and shadow of death were stripped of their terrors, and the descent to the grave was smoothed before me. Relying on the mercies and infinite merits of the Saviour, had it pleased God to call me then, I believe I should have died in a peaceful, humble confidence. But I have been restored to a state of comparative health, perhaps nearly to the condition in which I was when I wrote to Dr. Judson; and I am again allowed to think of the education of my children and the support of my family."

In reply to a letter from Professor Sewall, giving an account of the last moments of his friend Dr. Judson, he responds in the following feeling manner:

"Germantown, May 21st, 1829.

My dear Friend, – I feel very grateful for your attention in sending me an account of our dear Judson's last moments. After all his doubts, difficulties, and mental conflicts, to know that the Father of mercies was pleased to open his eyes to the truth, and shed abroad in his heart the love and, salvation offered through the Redeemer, is to me a source of the purest gratification, and a cause of the most sincere rejoicing. The bare possibility of my having been even slightly instrumental in effecting the blessed change of mind he experienced, excites in me emotions of gratitude to the Source of all good which words cannot express." – "My health has been in a very poor condition since my last to you. The warm weather now appears to have set in, and possibly I may improve a little, otherwise it will not be long before I follow our lately departed friend. Let me participate in the prayers you offer for the sick and afflicted, and may God grant me strength to die to His honour and glory, in the hopes and constancy derived from the merits and atonement of the blessed Saviour."

"Philadelphia, Oct. 6th, 1829.

My dear Friend, – My health is, as for a considerable time past, in a very tolerable condition; that is, I can sit up a great part of the day, writing or reading, without much injury. My emaciation is great, and, though not very rapid, is steady, so that the change in my strength takes place almost imperceptibly. On the whole, though I suffer greatly, compared with persons in health, yet so gently have the chastenings of the Lord fallen upon me, that I am hourly called upon for thankfulness and gratitude for His unfailing mercies. Equal cause have I had for rejoicing, that I have learned to put my whole trust in Him, as He has raised me up help and friends in circumstances which seemed to render even hope impossible, and has blessed me and mine with peace and content in the midst of all afflictions, trials, and adversity."

In his last letter to Dr. Best, of Cincinnati, with whom he had long maintained an affectionate correspondence, he writes:

"It gives me great happiness to learn that you have been taught, as well as myself, to fly to the Rock of Ages for shelter against the afflictions of this life, and for hopes of eternal salvation. But for the hopes afforded me by an humble reliance on the all-sufficient atonement of our blessed Redeemer, I should have been the most wretched of men. But I trust that the afflictions I have endured have been sanctified to my awakening, and to the regeneration of my heart and life. May we, my dear friend, persist to cling to the only sure support against all that is evil in life and all that is fearful in death!"

Dr. Best's circumstances were in several respects similar to those of his friend Godman: like him, he had been a disbeliever in the Christian religion, and like him had been brought by a careful examination of its evidences to a perception and an acknowledgment of the truth. He too was at this time languishing in consumption, which brought him to the grave a few months after Dr. Godman; and like him he was supported and animated by the precious faith of the gospel, and yielded up his spirit in hope and peace.

Professor Sewall,1 from whose account much of this memoir has been derived, remarks: "In the last letter which I ever received from him, he observes: 'I have just concluded the publication of the translation of Levasseur's account of Lafayette's progress through the United States, which will appear next week. My health has for the last week or two been very good, for me, since, notwithstanding my rather excessive application during this time, I continue to do well. My cough and expectoration are sufficiently troublesome; but by light diet, and avoiding all irritation, I have but very little trouble from night sweats, and generally sleep tolerably well. To-morrow I must resume my pen to complete some articles of zoology for the Encyclopedia Americana, now preparing in Boston. It shall be my constant endeavour to husband my strength to the last; and, by doing as much as is consistent with safety for the good of my fellow-creatures, endeavour to discharge a mite of the immense debt I owe for the never-failing bounties of Providence.'"

He did husband his strength, and he toiled with his pen almost to the last hours of his life; and by thus doing has furnished us with a singular evidence of the possibility of uniting the highest attainments in science, and the most ardent devotion to letters, with the firmest belief and the purest practice of the Christian. But the period of his dissolution was not distant: the summons arrived; and conscious that the messenger, who had been long in waiting, could not be bribed to tarry, he commended his little family in a fervent prayer to Him who has promised to be the 'Father of the fatherless, and the widow's God,' and then, with uplifted eyes and hands, and a face beaming with joy and confidence, resigned his spirit into the arms of his Redeemer, on the morning of the 17th of Fourth month, 1830.

A friend who was his constant companion during his sickness, and witnessed his last moments, writes thus:

"You ask me to give you an account of his last moments: they were such as have robbed me of all terror of death, and will afford me lasting comfort through life. The same self-composure and entire resignation which were so remarkable through his whole sickness, supported him to the end. Oh! it was not death; it was a release from mortal misery to everlasting happiness. Such calmness, when he prayed for us all – such a heavenly composure, even till the breath left him, you would have thought he was going only a short journey. During the day, his sufferings had been almost beyond enduring. Frequently did he pray that the Lord would give him patience to endure all till the end, knowing that it could not be many hours; and truly his prayers were heard. 'Lord Jesus, receive my soul,' were the last words he uttered, and his countenance appeared as if he had a foretaste of heaven even before his spirit left this world."

The fine imagination and deep enthusiasm of Dr. Godman occasionally burst forth in impassioned poetry. He wrote verse and prose with almost equal facility, and had he lived and enjoyed leisure to prune the exuberance of his style, and to bestow the last polish upon his labours, he would have ranked as one of the great masters of our language, both in regard to the curious felicity and the strength and clearness of his diction. The following specimens of his poetical compositions are selected less for their intrinsic excellence, than for the picture which they furnish of his private meditations.

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION"'Tis midnight's solemn hour! now wide unfurledDarkness expands her mantle o'er the world;The fire-fly's lamp has ceased its fitful gleam;The cricket's chirp is hushed; the boding screamOf the gray owl is stilled; the lofty treesScarce wave their summits to the failing breeze;All nature is at rest, or seems to sleep;'Tis thine alone, O man! to watch and weep!Thine 'tis to feel thy system's sad decay,As flares the taper of thy life awayBeneath the influence of fell disease:Thine 'tis to know the want of mental easeSpringing from memory of time misspent,Of slighted blessings, deepest discontentAnd riotous rebellion 'gainst the lawsOf health, truth, heaven, to win the world's applause!– Such was thy course, Eugenio; such thy hardened heart,Till mercy spoke, and death unsheathed the dart,Twanged his unerring bow, and drove the steelToo deep to be withdrawn, too wide the wound to heal,Yet left of life a feebly glimmering ray,Slowly to sink and gently ebb away.– And yet, how blest am I!While myriad others lieIn agony of fever or of pain,With parching tongue and burning eye,Or fiercely throbbing brain;My feeble frame, though spoiled of rest,Is not of comfort dispossest.My mind awake, looks up to Thee,Father of mercy! whose blest hand I seeIn all things acting for our good,Howe'er thy mercies be misunderstood.– See where the waning moonSlowly surmounts yon dark tree-tops,Her light increases steadily, and soonThe solemn night her stole of darkness drops:Thus to my sinking soul, in hours of gloom,The cheering beams of hope resplendent come,Thus the thick clouds which sin and sorrow rearAre changed to brightness, or swift disappear.Hark! that shrill note proclaims approaching day;The distant east is streaked with lines of gray;Faint warblings from the neighbouring groves arise,The tuneful tribes salute the brightening skies,Peace breathes around; dim visions o'er me creep,The weary night outwatched, thank God! I too may sleep.LINES WRITTEN UNDER A FEELING OF THE IMMEDIATE APPROACH OF DEATHThe damps of death are on my brow,The chill is in my heart,My blood has almost ceased to flow,My hopes of life depart;The valley and the shadow before me open wide,But thou, O Lord! even there wilt be my guardian and my guide,For what is pain, if Thou art nigh its bitterness to quell?And where death's boasted victory, his last triumphant spell?O Saviour! in that hour when mortal strength is nought,When nature's agony comes on, and every anguished thoughtSprings in the breaking heart a source of darkest woe,Be nigh unto my soul, nor permit the floods o'erflow.To Thee, to Thee alone! dare I raise my dying eyes;Thou didst for all atone, by Thy wondrous sacrifice;Oh! in Thy mercy's richness, extend Thy smiles on me,And let my soul outspeak Thy praise, throughout eternity!"

Beneath the above stanzas, in the manuscript alluded to, is the following note: "Rather more than a year has elapsed since the above was first written. Death is now certainly nearer at hand; but my sentiments remain unchanged, except that my reliance on the Saviour is stronger."

It was a melancholy sight to witness the premature extinction of such a spirit; yet the dying couch on which genius, and virtue, and learning thus lay prostrated, beamed with more hallowed lustre, and taught a more salutary lesson, than could have been imparted by the proudest triumphs of intellect. The memory of Dr. Godman, his blighted promise and his unfinished labours, will long continue to call forth the vain regrets of men of science and learning. There are those who treasure, up in their hearts, as a more precious recollection, his humble faith and his triumphant death, and who can meet with an eye of pity the scornful glance of the scoffer and the infidel, at being told that if Dr. Godman was a philosopher, he was also a Christian.

No. I

From early youth devoted to the study of nature, it has always been my habit to embrace every opportunity of increasing my knowledge and pleasures by actual observation, and have ever found ample means of gratifying this disposition, wherever my place has been allotted by Providence. When an inhabitant of the country, it was sufficient to go a few steps from the door, to be in the midst of numerous interesting objects; when a resident of the crowded city, a healthful walk of half an hour placed me where my favourite enjoyment was offered in abundance; and now, when no longer able to seek in fields and woods and running streams for that knowledge which cannot readily be elsewhere obtained, the recollection of my former rambles is productive of a satisfaction which past pleasures but seldom bestow. Perhaps a statement of the manner in which my studies were pursued, may prove interesting to those who love the works of nature, and may not be aware how great a field for original observation is within their reach, or how vast a variety of instructive objects are easily accessible, even to the occupants of a bustling metropolis. To me it will be a source of great delight to spread these resources before the reader, and enable him so cheaply to participate in the pleasures I have enjoyed, as well as place him in the way of enlarging the general stock of knowledge, by communicating the results of his original observations.

One of my favourite walks was through Turner's Lane, which is about a quarter of a mile long, and not much wider than an ordinary street, being closely fenced in on both sides; yet my reader may feel surprised when informed that I found ample employment for all my leisure, during six weeks, within and about its precincts. On entering the lane from the Ridge road, I observed a gentle elevation of the turf beneath the lower rails of the fence, which appeared to be uninterruptedly continuous; and when I had cut through the verdant roof with my knife, it proved to be a regularly arched gallery or subterranean road, along which the inhabitants could securely travel at all hours, without fear of discovery. The sides and bottom of this arched way were smooth and clean, as if much used; and the raised superior portion had long been firmly consolidated by the grass roots, intermixed with tenacious clay. At irregular and frequently distant intervals, a side path diverged into the neighbouring fields, and, by its superficial situation, irregularity, and frequent openings, showed that its purpose was temporary, or had been only opened for the sake of procuring food. Occasionally I found a little gallery diverging from the main route beneath the fence, towards the road, and finally opening on the grass, as if the inmate had come out in the morning to breathe the early air, or to drink of the crystal dew which daily gemmed the close-cropped verdure. How I longed to detect the animal which tenanted these galleries, in the performance of his labours! Farther on, upon the top of a high bank, which prevented the pathway from continuing near the fence, appeared another evidence of the industry of my yet unknown miner. Half-a-dozen hillocks of loose, almost pulverised earth were thrown up, at irregular distances, communicating with the main gallery by side passages. Opening one of these carefully, it appeared to differ little from the common gallery in size, but it was very difficult to ascertain where the loose earth came from, nor have I ever been able to tell, since I never witnessed the formation of these hillocks, and conjectures are forbidden, where nothing but observation is requisite to the decision. My farther progress was now interrupted by a delightful brook which sparkled across the road, over a clear sandy bed; and here my little galleries turned into the field, coursing along at a moderate distance from the stream. I crept through the fence into the meadow on the west side, intending to discover, if possible, the animal whose works had first fixed my attention, but as I approached the bank of the rivulet, something suddenly retreated towards the grass, seeming to vanish almost unaccountably from sight. Very carefully examining the point at which it disappeared, I found the entrance of another gallery or burrow, but of very different construction from that first observed. This new one was formed in the grass, near and among whose roots and lower stems a small but regular covered way was practised. Endless, however, would have been the attempt to follow this, as it opened in various directions, and ran irregularly into the field, and towards the brook, by a great variety of passages. It evidently belonged to an animal totally different from the owner of the subterranean passage, as I subsequently discovered, and may hereafter relate. Tired of my unavailing pursuit, I now returned to the little brook, and seating myself on a stone, remained for some time unconsciously gazing on the fluid which gushed along in unsullied brightness over its pebbly bed. Opposite to my seat was an irregular hole in the bed of the stream, into which, in an idle mood, I pushed a small pebble with the end of my stick. What was my surprise, in a few seconds afterwards, to observe the water in this hole in motion, and the pebble I had pushed into it gently approaching the surface. Such was the fact: the hole was the dwelling of a stout little crayfish, or fresh-water lobster, who did not choose to be incommoded by the pebble, though doubtless he attributed its sudden arrival to the usual accidents of the stream, and not to my thoughtless movements. He had thrust his broad lobster-like claws under the stone, and then drawn them near to his mouth, thus making a kind of shelf; and, as he reached the edge of the hole, he suddenly extended his claws, and rejected the incumbrance from the lower side, or down stream. Delighted to have found a living object with whose habits I was unacquainted, I should have repeated my experiment, but the crayfish presently returned with what might be called an armful of rubbish, and threw it over the side of his cell, and down the stream, as before. Having watched him for some time while thus engaged, my attention was caught by the considerable number of similar holes along the margin and in the bed of the stream. One of these I explored with a small rod, and found it to be eight or ten inches deep, and widened below into a considerable chamber, in which the little lobster found a comfortable abode. Like all of his tribe, the crayfish makes considerable opposition to being removed from his dwelling, and bit smartly at the stick with his claws: as my present object was only to gain acquaintance with his dwelling, he was speedily permitted to return to it in peace. Under the end of a stone lying in the bed of the stream, something was floating in the pure current, which at first seemed like the tail of a fish; and being desirous to obtain a better view, I gently raised the stone on its edge, and was rewarded by a very beautiful sight. The object first observed was the tail of a beautiful salamander, whose sides were of a pale straw colour, flecked with circlets of the richest crimson. Its long lizard-like body seemed to be semi-transparent, and its slender limbs appeared like mere productions of the skin. Not far distant, and near where the upper end of the stone had been, lay crouched, as if asleep, one of the most beautifully-coloured frogs I had ever beheld. Its body was slender compared with most frogs, and its skin covered with stripes of bright reddish-brown and grayish-green, in such a manner as to recall the beautiful markings of the tiger's hide; and, since the time alluded to, it has received the name of Tigrina from Leconte, its first scientific describer. How long I should have been content to gaze at these beautiful animals, as they lay basking in the living water, I know not, had not the intense heat made me feel the necessity of seeking a shade. It was now past twelve o'clock: I began to retrace my steps towards the city; and, without any particular object, moved along by the little galleries examined in the morning. I had advanced but a short distance, when I found the last place where I had broken open the gallery was repaired. The earth was perfectly fresh, and I had lost the chance of discovering the miner, while watching my new acquaintances in the stream. Hurrying onward, the same circumstance uniformly presented; the injuries were all efficiently repaired, and had evidently been very recently completed. Here was one point gained: it was ascertained that these galleries were still inhabited, and I hoped soon to become acquainted with the inmates. But at this time it appeared fruitless to delay longer, and I returned home, filled with anticipations of pleasure from the success of my future researches. These I shall relate on another occasion, if such narrations as the present be thought of sufficient interest to justify their presentation to the reader.