Chapter III: Youth and Education

About this time, 1801, Major Peaslee Badger contemplated a change in his plans of life, the execution of which removed the subject of this memoir far away from the lovely waters and the romantic hills of his native town in New Hampshire. It also removed him from the various advantages of the better social influence and culture which belong to an older form of society; but it also rewarded him with the freedom, hardihood, and self-reliance of forest life.

Anxious to make farmers of his sons, Major Badger resolved to further this purpose by selling his farm in Gilmanton, and by making a more extensive purchase in a new country. At this early time, when emigration had not directed its course to the valley of the Mississippi, and when the attractions of Iowa and Minnesota lay sealed up for a future development, the mind of Mr. Badger was directed to the fertile woodland region of Lower Canada, which at that time was regarded as the best part of the world. To this region he accordingly made a journey, was much pleased with the country, and, after selling his farm in Gilmanton, which he sold for between four and five thousand dollars, he again visited this section of the king's dominions, in company with his eldest son, where he purchased eight hundred acres of the best of land. Only a few families at this time resided in the town. Leaving his son and several hired men to wage the war of industrious labor on the primeval wilderness around them, he returned home, and recruiting himself with new forces, and taking with him all necessary farming utensils, with several yoke of oxen, hastened to join the company that were already at work in turning the wilderness into a fruitful field. When he had arrived within eighteen miles of his land, a wilderness of wide extent spread out before him. No road was visible. Sending some of his men forward as surveyors, and setting others to work in cutting a road through the woods, he continued slowly his progress; and, finally receiving some assistance from the inhabitants of the town of Stanstead, and augmenting his company with the addition of those who had been laboring on his farm, he went forward with the road with great courage and success, building several bridges across large streams, and conquering every obstacle in the way till an excellent road was completed through the whole distance to his farm. It has since become a highway of great travel, and is known by the name of the Badger Road to this day. This brave pioneer opened the way for the settlement of the town. Building a small cottage for temporary convenience, they prosecuted their work with zeal for several weeks, when they constructed a house for permanent residence, the best that had, at that time, been built in the town. These preparations being made, Major Badger returned to convey his family to their new abode, in the town of Compton, Lower Canada, for which place they set out in February, 1802, in eight sleighs, laden with provisions and furniture, and after nineteen days of slow and expensive journeying, experiencing the alternations of good and evil fortune, they arrived on the 4th or 5th of March at their new home in the woods. Woman is ever the natural conservative, loving her established and long-tried home.

"My mother," says Mr. B., "was much opposed to the new
arrangement, which caused her to leave her kind friends and
neighbors; but such was her fortitude that none discovered
her feelings. In taking leave of our native town and near
relatives, the greatest solemnity filled my heart. Many
wept at our departure, and I could scarcely bear up under
the grief I felt in leaving the place of my birth. As we
arrived at our new habitation, and my mother viewed her
lonely palace, she could no longer suppress her feelings,
but sat down and wept, whilst my sisters were also sad, and
murmured somewhat at the new prospect before them. I
wondered that my father should think of living in the midst
of a forest, but thought that what others could accomplish,
we could certainly do."

The contrast between the cheerful society and scenery of Gilmanton, and the solitude of this woodland region, which was swept by colder winds than the climate of the east had known; the isolation of the place, which required a journey of seventy miles to purchase the necessary grains for seed and family consumption, were calculated to awaken a deep feeling of loneliness, and at the same time to invigorate the spirit with new energy and promptings to personal efforts. But man's nature is flexible, and easily bends to every variety of condition. As soon as the news of their arrival had spread, nearly all the inhabitants of the town came in to greet them in a friendly visit; and soon spring unfolded in all its gayety of woodland gem and costume, whilst all the company became laborers to the extent of their respective abilities. Joseph, now ten years of age, who had known nothing of work, learned his first lessons in the sugar groves of the new farm. Soon they became contented with their situation, and the woody solitudes gave cheering proofs of transition, as extended acres appeared to view, ready to bear the verdure of the meadow, or the harvests of golden grain. On each side of the Coatecook river lay four hundred acres; the eastern swell was called Mount Pleasant, the western, Mount Independence. Here, in a few years, they reaped a large prosperity from the productive earth. In the journal of Mr. B. I find a notice of the total eclipse in 1806, the effects that followed it on the agricultural prospects of that country, and the melancholy thoughtfulness which the day inspired in his own mind. The effect was great, according to his statement; so much so as to be sensibly felt through the seasons. Fourteen acres carefully planted with fruit-trees and grafted with the best of scions, yielded nothing to reward the toil of the laborer.

In the general picture here presented, the reader may see the theatre of action occupied by the young man who was destined in future years to impress great numbers with his own ideas and sentiments. Doubtless there are in the world some conventional minds, who, hastily deciding all things by local prejudice or capricious fashion, would hold it impossible for genius and power to hail from any but certain favored localities; from college routine, and the aids of walls of books and of titled professors. But this is not the way in which the goddess of force and faculty distributes her gifts and makes her highest elections. She is by no means afraid of mountains and woodland solitudes; nor does she despair of winning her ends when professors and colleges do not wait upon her bidding. She exults rather in natural productions; being able to turn the night-stars, heaven's winds, earth's flowers, and even common events, into teachers; and the same of all experience and inward faculty. She brings a universal power from Stratford to London, from Ayreshire to Edinburgh, from Vosges and Domremi to Orleans and to Rheims. All great men are educated. The only variance resides in the modes and teachers. We like it that a prophet should, in early life, hail from the woodland world, and that the vastness and tranquillity of landscapes should reside in his public discourse; that his words and manners should savor, not of dry scholastic pretension and mannerism, but of songsters' voices, of colossal trees, wild rose and rushing brooks. Mr. B., however, for his time and day, was an educated man; we mean even in the more restricted sense in which the world understands this word; and certainly he was this, in its most important meanings.

"We soon had opportunity," says Mr. Badger, "for education in our new country. This was very pleasing to me, and I felt the necessity of improving every privilege of the kind." And I would say that those who knew him in after life could not but see in him the rare faculty bestowed on some of our race, that of turning a few means to a great account.

Passing on to his fifteenth year, he speaks of a season of illness, occasioned by excessive ambition at manual labor, which kept him from school a part of the time during one summer. "My sickness," he says, "was of pleuritic nature, and at times my life was despaired of. A few Christian people had moved into the place, and during my sickness, some of them conversed with me on the subject of religion. At times I remember to have wept, and supposed that my condition was deplorable. The death of a Christian woman, who had often conversed with me, occurring at this time, made a deep impression on my mind. My reflections, when alone, were melancholy in the extreme. I often wished I had died when young; and frequently did I promise God that if my life was spared I would serve Him." Many paragraphs of this sort, whilst they may wear a tinge of the religious culture common to the age, show deep and unharmonized strivings of soul. To those who knew his great vivacity, the fact of melancholy, which he records in the journal of his youth, may seem strange; but it is natural. In susceptible and thoughtful natures, in natures of deep strivings, there is ever a stratum of seriousness, wearing at times the tinge of sadness. The soul, in such, will often say, "I am in Time an exile. The earth cannot feed me;" and especially will this feeling be active in the early experience, before the wisdom of years has given stability to life, to its aims and emotions.

But a young man like him could not be otherwise than fond of amusement. With young company of his age he frequently met, and was accustomed to spend considerable of the time when together in the favorite pastime of the young--the dance.

His elder brothers settling for themselves in life, threw an increased burden of care upon Joseph, whose health was so far restored as to act his part efficiently. His father about this time entered into the mercantile business, which turned out to his disadvantage; and soon after this, when seven miles from home, he had the misfortune to break his leg, suffering extremely for fifteen days, expecting constantly that amputation would have to take place. Recovering so far as to admit of removal home, after a long time he was restored to health. "After this," says his son, "he twice met the severe misfortune to break his leg, and on the 5th Sept., 1814, it was amputated six inches above the knee. This and several such misfortunes, in part, reduced him from the high station in which he was born and had formerly lived."

"The first preaching that we heard was by an old gentleman
of the name of Huntington. He was a Universalist, a good
man, I think, but not a great preacher. He addressed the
people for the greater part of one summer generally at my
father's house. I do not remember to have seen anything
like reform among the people. The old gentleman died in a
few years, and I trust has gone to rest. Also Elders[9]
Robinson Smith and A. Moulton, of Hatley, a neighboring
town, favored us with their ministry. We called them
Free-willers, but their preaching was life-awakening, and
it was held in remembrance long after they were gone,
although they saw no immediate fruits of their labors. I
recollect of hearing Mr. Moulton once, the first time I
think I ever saw him. His voice to me was like thunder. For
several days after, it seemed as though I could hear the
sound of it."

This indeed is the proof of God's presence in the mission, that the minister has that to say which the sinner _cannot forget_, that which lingers in his way like an invisible spell. The man who has God's word is not a mere lecturer or essayist in the holy temple. He has words of divine fire to speak, an undying love to utter, a warning of eternity to hold forth. He _commands_ the giddy and the sinful to listen to a voice which, if he repent not, will tingle in his ears even to his dying day. Smooth, elegant composition may be patiently taught, and patiently learned, but God's living word out of heaven to unfaithful man, is another thing. This word has many organs, finds its way far and near, and reaches the heart of the ardent young man whose footsteps are on the classic ground, or in the larger path of nature's wild.

"When about sixteen or seventeen," continues the journal,
"I heard that a young man about my age from Vermont would
preach in our vicinity. There was a great move to hear him,
and I resolved to go. The house was full. He was evidently
one much engaged in God's work. He looked very pale and
much worn out. Mr. Moulton was with him, prayed at the
beginning of the meeting, after which the young man,
Benjamin Putnam, came forward, and in a manner and address
that were engaging, and to me peculiarly pleasing, preached
a sermon from Isaiah 22:22; a text which I shall never
forget. 'And the key of the house of David will I lay upon
his shoulder: so he shall open, and none shall shut; and he
shall shut, and none shall open.' He described Christ as
the Son of God, and the power as being laid upon his
shoulder; he also dwelt on what he had opened both to and
for man, which none could shut, and finally spoke of the
closing of the same door, which none should be able to
open. I thought this discourse more glorious than anything
I had ever heard. I thought him the happiest young man I
ever saw. As soon as meeting was closed he came forward
through the assembly and spoke to my brother, which had a
solemn effect on us both. Many of his expressions I have
ever remembered.

"The Methodist ministers next made their way into our town,
and I have always thought that they came in the name and
spirit of the Highest. They were humble and earnest. As my
father's family seldom attended their meetings, I perhaps
did not become acquainted with the first that came. Hays
and Briggs were the first I heard. While listening to the
farewell sermon of the former I remember to have been
deeply affected, and one evening, while listening to Mr.
Briggs, I felt a strong conviction of my sin, and believed
that I was undone without regeneration. They first formed a
small class in town. Leaving the circuit the next year,
Joseph Dennet and David Blanchard were their successors,
under whose ministry many of the old and the young were
turned to God, whilst even children were made happy in
Christ. I think that the preaching of the latter was the
first that ever brought tears from my eyes. Also, in those
days, we had frequent visits from the missionaries, but I
do not remember that their preaching had much effect on my
own mind or that of any other person.

"In the conflict of good and evil tendencies in the minds
of young men who share largely of the passions and
giddiness which characterize the period of one's youth, it
is interesting to contemplate the skill with which these
influences assail each other, each winning its temporary
victory, and each wrestling at times with great might for
the doubtful mastery. Notwithstanding these solemn emotions
to good, I was quite wild and had several bad habits. In
hearing Mr. H. preach the summer I was eighteen, I was much
aroused to a sense of duty, and though seeing the way of my
life to be death, my determinations as yet were not equal
to the chain of habit that bound me. On the first of August
I looked forward to the 16th, which was my birthday, as the
day in which I should begin to walk in newness of life, and
for several days this occupied my thoughts. But the time
passed, and my resolution with it, whilst my feelings
reacted more strongly than ever toward my former ways. The
Spirit of God righteously strives with sinners; and many
have I seen on languishing beds lamenting their early
resistance to the holy influence, and that they had ever
broken their promise to Him. I had a taste for reading, and
spent much of my time in the perusal of novels and with
vain young company. A young man by the name of Richardson
was my most intimate friend. On the Sabbath and every other
opportunity we were together; we spent the time mostly in
reading; I thought I enjoyed happiness in his society. In
our assemblies for diversion we ever had a good
understanding. His friendship lasted until my conversion,
when something far more glorious opened to my view. It
appeared a great mystery to him, and it caused me much
sorrow to leave him, but the first lesson I learned from
the cross taught me how to relinquish and how to renounce.

"In the autumn of 1810 we had many vain assemblies for
dancing and other recreations. Never had I before gone so
far in wickedness as at this time. But, in the midst of our
gayety, events of Providence compelled our thoughts to
serious objects, as death, through the agency of a fatal
fever, spread over the town its sorrow and sadness, cutting
off the old and the young indiscriminately. On the 10th of
January, 1811, I commenced a journey to New Hampshire, to
visit my friends, whom I had not seen since 1802. When I
arrived at Stanstead, I passed several days with a cousin
of mine who was engaged in teaching the art of dancing. He
was an agreeable gentleman, and of great talents; but it
was a grief to his friends that he had taken to this
employment. I was much pleased with the instructions he
gave me, as I was anxious to attain perfection in the art.

"With several young men I proceeded on my way to New
Hampshire, and making the journey merry with rudeness and
laughter, we prosecuted it till I arrived at Gilmanton.
Here I found that my honored grandsire no longer occupied
his place on earth. His companion, who had watched over my
childhood for two years, and had made the voice of prayer
familiar to my lips, still survived. Several other
relatives had also gone to their long home, and though
these things made little impression on my heart, owing to
the state of my mind, I could not but solemnly reflect on
the hand that had so long upheld me, when I visited my
early home, the place of my birth, and recalled the many
scenes of my childhood freshly to mind. We have in life but
one childhood, and no hours of retrospect put us into such
unison with nature as when we live it over in the revival
of its scenes.

"I passed several weeks in Gilmanton, attending school a
part of the time, and freely enjoyed the company of my
young friends. My sister Mary, the wife of General
Cogswell, occasionally rebuked me for my lightness, and
though I made light of her admonitions at the time, they
made much impression on my mind. But most of all I dreaded
that my uncle, Mr. Smith, who had been the minister of the
place for thirty years, should talk to me about religion. I
was very loth to visit him at all, but I stayed with him
the last night I remained in town, and to my happy
disappointment escaped the drilling I had so much feared,
as he did not once mention the subject. In company with my
cousin, Joseph Smith, I set out the next day for home, and
by evening arrived at Judge William Badger's, a cousin of
mine, with whom we had an excellent visit. The next day,
when passing through Meredith, we saw a young man standing
in the door of a house with a multitude around him. The
building appeared to be full of people, to whom he was
preaching. We arrived that evening at Camptown, and though
I was nearly sick and my spirits depressed by some
influence I could not define, and my mind uninterested by
surrounding objects, I yielded to the persuasion of my
cousin to go on. Nothing was able to interest me. After
some time we started for the place since so much
celebrated, the Notch of the White Mountains.

"But nature, which to me was ever welcome, did not attract
me as usual. A spirit, over which I had not control, seemed
to work within me to the extreme of solemn conviction.
People, road, trees, rivers--all seemed gloomy, and I
appeared to myself as a monument spared to unite with them
in mourning. We finally passed the gloomy Notch, and as I
drank in its lonely influence, I felt, unavoidably, its
likeness to the mood of my own spirit. At Franconia, many
new prospects and objects appeared to view. The manufactory
of iron was at that time and there a great curiosity. At
Littleton, further on in our journey, we rode on the river,
as it was hardly frozen. I disguised my feelings, and as we
were riding along, several in number, I fell in the rear
that I might enjoy the meditations in which my mind was
absorbed. At this time, an old gentleman, whose silver
locks and grave appearance attracted my attention, appeared
near me, coming from his house to the river to draw water.
My eyes were fixed upon him. 'How far,' said he, 'is your
company journeying?' To the province of Lower Canada, I
answered. 'Do you live there?' said he. I answered that I
did. Then in a solemn tone the old patriarch inquired, 'Is
there any religion in that part of the world?' I was
surprised to hear this subject introduced by a stranger. I
told him there were some in our country who professed
religion. He then burst into a flood of tears, and exhorted
me with a warm-hearted pathos to seek salvation, and,
though I disclosed none of my feelings to him, I was most
deeply moved, and the image of the venerable old man was
continually before my eyes through the day. I could
scarcely refrain from weeping; and whatever others may
think of such apparently accidental events, I am free to
confess, that from that time until now, I have firmly
believed that this old gentleman was a God-sent prophet
unto me. The impressions he made continued till I enjoyed
the sweet religion that inspired his look and his voice. I
have often wished that I might see him and humble myself in
thankfulness before him, a thing not to be expected in this
life.

"When we arrived at Stewardstown, near the head of the
Connecticut river, I parted with my cousin, whose
destination was different from my own. Crossing the line,
I passed the night with Dr. Ladd, a friend of my father,
who was a Christian and a man of extended knowledge. I
treasured up many of his observations. I was then only
twenty miles from home, and heard the sad news of the
ravages sickness had made during my absence, which greatly
disturbed me with the thought that I should never again see
all my friends. On the 10th of March, however, I arrived,
and though fearful to inquire for my relatives, found, to
my joy, that they were all well. In company I sought to be
cheerful, but in solitude the keenest sensations of sadness
were active.

"Having business with my cousin at Stanstead, I made him a
visit, where I heard a missionary preach and attended as a
pall-bearer at a funeral, to which my feelings were much
averse. On my return, when I had proceeded as far as
Barnston, for some cause I returned a mile and a half, and
taking a lantern started on foot through the woods, when
suddenly a storm exhibited its signs of dark and angry
violence. When about half through the forest, the winds,
thunder and lightning were terrific. The rain fell in
torrents, my light was soon extinguished, and nothing was
left to guide me through the swamp except the lurid flashes
of the lightning that made the gloom more terrible. Several
trees were struck and fell near me across the road; some
branches fell from the tree I had chosen for my shelter, as
the tempest mingled with darkness, raged in madness; and
never was I so deeply impressed with the might of Him who
rules the world and sways the elements. Here I gained a
fresh idea of the awful power and mercy of God. I was
nearly induced to kneel upon the earth, and there, in the
storm, make a covenant with my Maker.

"At length the storm ceased and I arrived in safety at the
house of a friend. The next day I reached home, and though
met by cheerful faces, through the state of my mind, the
music of their tones were as mournful sounds. The company
in which I had found delight, could no longer entertain me;
my home was dressed in mourning, my pillow wet with tears,
and the bright prospects which had cheered me had vanished
from my sky. I had no heart for business, no relish for
pleasure. O how tiresome was every place! I read the Bible
in private; often left my father's table in tears; often
retired to the grove whose trees, more than those around
me, seemed to know my heart, that I might relieve my soul
in weeping. None knew the cause of this love of
solitariness. Some said 'he suffers the influence of
disappointment;' others, that 'he is plotting something for
advantage:' none supposed that within me a deep striving
was separating me from the world and leading me to the
Fountain of Salvation. This period was a severe trial.
Every power, it would seem, combined to test my spirit.
Sometimes, from the conflict within, whilst darkness held
its temporary victory, I was almost tempted to be angry
with the Powers above, and with the whole creation; and
once, I remember to have so far fallen under the evil
power, as to swear at the existing order of things. It was
continual trouble. I strove to labor what I could, and to
fulfil my station in the family, using all the fortitude I
could command. Here many things occurred that I shall not
particularize; some things between my father and myself,
which I once thought I should mention in every respect, but
which the delicacy of the subject and the tenderness of our
relation prevent. I can only say that my father was of
deistical opinions, and at that time did not possess the
degree of friendship and tenderness for the cause of
religion which I could have wished him to, and which he
indeed possessed some months after.

"At times, everything seemed to unite in tormenting me, in
causing me trouble; again, all things in nature, when my
clouds were partially dispersed, had a voice for the
Creator's praise. I alone was untuned. The very winds, as
they passed, spoke of His power. The stars, ever calm,
looked down in love, seeming faithfully to perform the will
of their Ordainer; and the flowers of the earth, which
bloomed in beauty, sending forth their fragrance to His
honor; and the songs of birds, whose notes were full of the
primeval innocence, all combined to administer reproof. The
following lines would then have spoken my feelings, as the
full-blown spring-time lay unfolded around me:

"'Ye warblers of the vernal shade
Whose artless music charms my ear,
Your loveliness my heart upbraids--
My languid heart, how insincere!
While all your little powers collected, raise
A tribute to your great Creator's praise.

"'Ye lovely offsprings of the ground,
Flowers of a thousand beauteous dyes,
You spread your Maker's glory round,
And breathe your odor to the skies:
Unsullied you display your lively bloom,
Unmingled you present your sweet perfume.

"'Ye winds that waft the fragrant spring,
You, whispering, spread His name abroad,
Or shake the air with sounding wing,
And speak the awful power of God:
His will, with swift obedience, you perform,
Or in the gentle gale or dreadful storm.

"'Ye radiant orbs that guide the day
Or deck the sable veil of night,
His wondrous glory you display,
Whose hand imparts your useful light:
Your constant task, unwearied, you pursue,
Nor deviate from the path your Maker drew.

"'O Lord! thy grace my languid heart can raise,
These dissipated powers unite,
Can bid me pay my debt of praise
With love sincere and true delight:
Oh! let thy power inspire my heart and tongue,
Then will I, grateful, join Creation's song.'

"Leaving company almost entirely, and not going into
society except on certain occasions, to please my friends
or escape reproach, I gave myself up to solitary meditation
and to the inward and undefined strivings of my being. In
this state of spiritual disquietude, I felt no impulse to
attend a church. I was most at home when alone. I heard
divine voices where there was no man to act as medium or
interpreter. At a funeral, I recollect having assisted in
singing, and to have heard from Elder Moulton a sermon that
impressed me, he being a man of considerable spiritual
power, and one for whom I had particular respect. I heard
him also a second time after this, when he most deeply
affected my mind. I sometimes repaired to the forest for
the express purpose of coming to God in prayer, but for
some time was restrained from speaking aloud or kneeling on
the earth. My heart was often eased in weeping; and though
I had no _form_ of prayer, I believe I prayed as really, as
acceptably, as ever I did. Is it not a strange doctrine, so
generally promulgated, that sinners, previous to
conversion, ought not to pray? To me it is a dark doctrine.
The Scriptures do not intimate it. My experience, the
divine command, and common sense oppose the dogma. The fact
that men are morally weak and sinful, is itself a
sufficient occasion for prayer.

"One Sunday, without the knowledge of our family, I went
about two miles to attend a Methodist meeting, in which
several spoke, and spoke well. Mrs. John Gilson, a little,
delicate woman, with much diffidence arose to speak. Her
wisdom and manner won my heart, and her message, which was
particularly to me, seemed to carry the evidence that it
was from God. I could never forget it. I knew she was my
friend, and believed that she spoke for my good, and I
would have rendered her my thanks at the close, but for the
restraining power of a sentiment common to me, which was,
an unwillingness to disclose to any one my deepest
emotions. We had been taught by some, that before we could
attain salvation, we should be willing to be damned and
lost. I never had this willingness. But, in candor, I must
say that my sense of guilt was so deep that I felt I had
merited the sentence to be finally uttered against the
impenitent."

The reader will perceive that the thread of this journal is drawn from such portions of Mr. Badger's early life as seem most directly to express its various moral phases. From other points of experience, it is natural to suppose, much was omitted, the main purpose being that of tracing the moral history of his mind through the years of his youth. I think I never opened a journal that contained throughout a plainer natural impress of truth and reality.