its duties in 1808. On the third of November, 1810, the Rev. J. T. Kirkland was inducted President of Harvard University, and on this occasion Mr. Thacher was appointed to deliver a congratulatory address in Latin. Many then present remember the graceful appearance of the orator, and the praises which his performance received from all lips, for the propriety of its sentiments and the elegance of its Latinity. But the time approached, when he was to leave his employment at Cambridge, for a sphere of higher and more arduous duties. He received a call from the society of the New South Church, in Boston, of which President Kirkland had been the minister, and was ordained May 15. He now lived only for his people, and directed all his exertions to the promotion of their good. But soon a melancholy cloud rose up, and threw its shade over the morning prospect of his usefulness. He was not gifted with a constitution sufficiently vigorous to support him for any length of time, under the manifold labors of his profession, and in the spring of the year after his settlement, he found it necessary to take a journey for the benefit of his declining health. A free use of the waters at Saratoga Springs was so beneficial to him, that, after remaining there some days, he set out on his return to Boston, with renewed strength and hopes. But on arriving at Worcester, he was attacked with raising of blood from the lungs, which immediately reduced him to a state of extreme debility. He gradually recovered, so far as to believe himself able to re-commence his ministerial duties. In the autumn of 1815, he was severely attacked by a return of hemorrhage from the lungs, and in the spring it was determined, by his physicians, that he should take a voyage to Europe. In August, Mr. Thacher once more bade farewell to his home, not as before, for the purpose of watching over the health of a friend, but with the hope of recovering his own. On his arrival in London, he consulted Dr. Baillie, physician to the king, and Dr. Wells. The place selected for his winter's residence was not such an one as his inclinations would have chosen; for though it bore the name of promise, it was far removed, not only from his friends, but from the civilized portions of the world. "I am on the point of embarking," he writes, "for the Cape of Good Hope. I am led to this measure, by finding the opinions of the most eminent physicians here coincide with that of Dr. Jackson and my other medical friends at home. Of course it would have been more pleasing to me to have been recommended to some spot less distant from you all. But as I came abroad, not for pleasure or curiosity, but in order, by God's blessing, to regain the ability of being useful, I am bound to take that course, which shall seem to lead most directly to this object." He arrived at the Cape, January 1, 1817, where he remained, though without deriving much benefit from the climate, till the 5th of April. A boisterous voyage proved highly injurious to his health, and on his arrival in London, the physicians were of opinion that he ought not to return home. He gave up his own wishes to what appeared his duty, and dooming himself to a longer absence from his country and friends, sought out once more a retreat for the winter. He went to Paris in August, and, after a residence of a few weeks, proceeded to Moulins, on account of its great reputation for the mildness and salubrity of its climate. His health declined from the time of his arrival in France; and though he himself had constant hopes of his recovery, and return to America, the friends who had opportunities of seeing him, perceived that, in all probability, the time of his final rest was at hand. He died at Moulins, January 1, 1818. "Mr. Thacher's piety was indeed the most perfect feature of his character. It appeared to control and guide his principles, his actions, his conversation, and his manners. It seemed to take the place of judgement and will, to rule in his mind as it did in his heart. In short, it would be impossible to give an idea of his character, without taking into view this ruling principle; for he was one whose submission to the will of God, sense of dependence on him, and trust in the promises of the gospel, were so constant and ardent, that they gave a peculiar holiness, purity, and sweetness, to all that he said and did." The following extract from a sketch of his character, by the Rev. Dr. Channing, will further exhibit the nature of Mr. Thacher's piety:It was warm, but not heated,-earnest, but tranquil,—a habit, not an impulse; the air which he breathed, not a tempestuous wind, giving occasional violence to his emotions. A constant dew seemed to distil on him from heaven, giving freshness to his devout sensibilities; but it was a gentle influence, seen not in its falling, but in its fruits. His piety appeared chiefly in gratitude and submission, sentiments peculiarly suited to such a mind as his. He felt strongly that God had crowned his life with peculiar goodness; and yet, when his blessings were withdrawn, his acquiescence was as deep and sincere as his thankfulness. His devotional exercises in public, were particularly striking. He came to the mercy-seat as one who was not a stranger there. He seemed to inherit from his venerable father the gift of prayer. His acts of adoration discovered a mind penetrated by the majesty of God; but his sublime conceptions of these attributes were always tempered and softened by a sense of the divine benignity. The paternal character of God was not only his belief, but had become a part of his mind. He never forgot that he worshiped the Father: his firm conviction of the strict and proper unity of the divine nature taught him to unite and concentrate, in his conception of the Father, all that is lovely and attractive, as well as all that is solemn and venerable; and the general effect of his prayers was to diffuse a devout calmness, a filial confidence, over the minds of his pious hearers. His deportment in private and social life was remarkably gentle and engaging, and, at the same time, dignified. They who were led by his mildness and affability to think that he might be too nearly or familiarly approached, were sure to be deceived. There was a line drawn about him, unseen, but not to be passed over, which repelled rudeness or levity. He won, without effort, the affection of friendship, and made himself the object of respectful attachment, both at home and abroad. His temper was calm and even; for his heart was the dwelling of piety and peace. His ashes repose in a foreign land. His friends are deprived of the melancholy gratification of paying their frequent visits to his tomb. The peasant of France passes carelessly by it, and knows not how cherished and excellent he was, whose remains it covers. The weeds may grow round it, and the long grass may wave over it, for there is none to pluck them away. But his memory is sacredly kept in many a heart, and there stands a monument to his name more lasting than marble, in the good which he effected while living, and in the example which he has left behind him. The foregoing is an abstract of an interesting memoir prefixed to a volume of Mr. Thacher's sermons. ANTHONY THACHER was a brother of the Rev. Peter Thacher, of Sarum, England, and came over with his nephew, Thomas Thacher, June 4, 1635. In August of the same year, he embarked with his family on board a barque bound from Ipswich to Marblehead, and was overtaken by a tremendous storm in the night, and shipwrecked on an island in Salem harbor, in which his four children were drowned, and his cousin, the Rev. John Avery, his wife, and six children, perished in the waves. Mr. Thacher and his wife were the only persons saved, while twenty-one were drowned. This very tragical event is noticed in Cotton Mather's Magnalia, and in Governor Winthrop's Journal, where it is said, that "the General Court gave Mr. Thacher £26 13 4 towards his losses, and divers good people gave him besides." Mr. Thacher, after his shipwreck, made a temporary residence at Marshfield, and in January, 1638-9, being one of three grantees of land at Yarmouth, he located himself in that town, where he spent the remainder of his days. He died in 1668, aged about eighty, and was buried on his own land, near the marsh, and as supposed, not far from a button pear-tree, which was standing a few years since; but it is singular that no monumental stone has been erected to his memory. His house was situated in a meadow, always known by the name of Green Hill, near which is a small rivulet or brook, running east from a swamp. A little to the north-west of the house, in the bank, was a famous spring of most excellent water, never freezing in winter, nor warm in summer. This spring is held in great veneration by the descendants of Mr. Thacher. The subject of this memoir was a respectable and substantial yeoman, of pious and exemplary life and conversation. He was employed in various public offices, and found faithful. He represented the town of Yarmouth in the General Court, at Plymouth, in 1643, and in ten subsequent years. In an essay, for the recording of Illustrious Providences, by Increase Mather, teacher of a church at Boston, in New-England, and published in that town in the year 1684, he says, We shall begin with that memorable sea deliverance which Mr. Anthony Thacher did experience at his first coming to New-England. A full and true relation whereof I find in a letter directed to his brother, Mr. Peter Thacher, then a faithful minister of Christ in Sarum, in England, (he was father to my worthy dear friend, Mr. Thomas Thacher, late pastor of one of the churches in Boston.) This letter of Mr. Anthony Thacher's, to his brother, being written within a few days after that eminent providence happened unto him, matters were then fresh in his memory; I shall, therefore, here insert his narrative in his own words, who expresseth himself as followeth : "I must turn my drowned pen and shaking hand to indite the story of such sad news as never before this happened in New-England. There was a league of perpetual friendship between my cousin Avery (note that this Mr. Avery was a precious holy minister who came out of England with Mr. Anthony Thacher) and myself, never to forsake each other to the death, but to be partakers of each other's misery or welfare as also of habitation in the same place. Now, upon our arrival in New-England, there was an offer made unto us. My cousin Avery was invited to Marblehead to be their pastor in due time; there being no church planted there as yet, but a town appointed to set up the trade of fishing. Because many there (the most being fishermen,) were something loose and remiss, in their behavior, my cousin Avery was unwilling to go thither, and so refusing we went to Newbury, intending there to sit down. But being solicited so often, both by the men of the place, and by the magistrates, and by Mr. Cotton, and most of the ministers, who alleged what a benefit we might be to the people there and also to the country and commonwealth, at length we embraced it, and thither consented to go. They of Marblehead forthwith sent a pinnace for us and our goods. We embarked at Ipswich, August 11, 1635, with our families and substance, bound for Marblehead, we being in all twenty-three souls, viz. eleven in my cousin's family, seven in mine, and one Mr. William Elliot, sometimes of New-Sarum, and four mariners. The next morning, having commended ourselves to God with cheerful hearts, we hoisted sail, but the Lord suddenly turned our cheerfulness into mourning and lamentations. For, on the fourteenth of this August, 1635, about ten at night, having a fresh gale of wind, our sails being old and done were split. The mariners, because that it was night, would not put to her new sails, but resolved to cast anchor till the morning. But before daylight it pleased the Lord to send so mighty a storm, as the like was never known in New-England since the English came, nor in the memory of any of the Indians. It was so furious that our anchor came home. Whereupon the mariners let out more cable, which slipt away. Then our sailors knew not what to do, but we were driven before the wind and waves. My cousin and I perceived our danger, solemnly recommended ourselves to God, the Lord both of earth and seas, expecting with every wave to be swallowed up and drenched in the deep. And as my cousin, his wife, and my tender babes sat comforting and cheering one the other in the Lord against ghastly death, which every moment stared us in the face, and sat triumphing upon each one's forehead, we were, by the violence of the waves and the fury of the winds, (by the Lord's permission) lifted upon a rock between two high rocks, yet all was one rock, but it raged with the stroke which came into the pinnace, so as we were piesently up to our middles in water as we sat. The waves came furiously and violently over us, and against us, but by reason of the rock's proportion could not lift us off, but beat her all to pieces. Now look with me upon our distress and consider of my misery, who beheld the ship broken, the water in her, and violently overwhelming us, my goods and provisions swimming in the seas. My friends almost drowned, and mine own poor children so untimely (if I may so term it without offence) before mine eyes drowned and ready to be swallowed up and dashed to pieces against the rocks by the merciless waves, and myself ready to accompany them. But I must go on to an end of this woful relation. In the same room whereat he sat, the master of the pinnace not knowing what to do, our fore mast was cut down, our main mast broken in three pieces, the fore part of the pinnace beat away, our goods swimming about the seas, my children bewailing me, as not pitying themselves, and myself bemoaning them, poor souls, whom I had occasioned to such an end in their tender years. Whereas they could scarce be sensible of death. And so likewise my cousin, his wife, and his children, and both of us bewailing each other, in our Lord and only Savior Jesus Christ, in whom only we had comfort and cheerfulness, inasmuch that from the greatest to the least of us there was not one screech or outcry made, but all as silent sheep were contentedly resolved to die together lovingly, as since our acquaintance we had lived together friendly. Now as I was sitting in the cabin room door with my body in the room, when lo, one of the sailors by a wave being washed out of the pinnacs was gotten in again, and coming into the cabin room over my back, cried out, We are all cast away, the Lord have mercy upon us. I have been washed overboard into the sea, and am gotten in again. His speeches made me look forth, and looking towards the sea, and seeing how we were, I turned myself to my cousin and the rest and spake these words, O cousin, it hath pleased God to cast us here between two rocks, the shore not far off from us, for I saw the tops of trees when I looked forth. Whereupon the master of the pinnace looking up to the scuttle hole of the quarter deck, went out at it, but I never saw him afterwards. Then he that had been in the sea, went out again by me and leapt overboard towards the rocks, whom afterwards also I could not see. Now none were left in the Barque that I knew or saw, but my cousin, his wife and children, myself and mine, and his maid servant. But my cousin thought I VOL. VII. 2 would have fled from him, and said unto me, O cousin, leave us not, let us die together, and reached forth his hand unto me. Then I, letting go my son Peter's hand, took him by the hand and said, Cousin I purpose it not, whither shall I go? I am willing and ready here to die with you and my poor children. God be merciful to us and receive us to himself, adding these words, the Lord is able to help and deliver us. He replied, saying, truth cousin, but what his pleasure is we know not; I fear we have been too unthankful for former deliverances, but he hath promised to deliver us from sin and condemnation and to bring us safe to heaven, through the all-sufficient satisfaction of Jesus Christ, this therefore we may challenge of him. To which I replying, said that all the deliverance I now desire and expect, which words I had no sooner said, but by a mighty wave I was with the piece of the Barque washed out upon part of the rock, where the wave left me almost drowned, but recovering my feet I saw above me on the rock my daughter Mary, to whom I had no sooner gotten, but my cousin Avery, and his eldest son came to us, being all four of us washed out by one and the same wave. We went all into a small hole on the top of the rock whence we called to those in the pinnace to come unto us supposing we had been in more safety than they were in. My wife seeing us there was crept up into the scuttle of the quarter deck to come unto us, but presently came another wave and dashing the pinnace all to pieces carried my wife away in the scuttle as she was, with the greater part of the quarter deck unto the shore, where she was cast safely, but her legs were something bruised, and much timber of the vessel being there also cast she was sometime before she could get away being washed with the waves. All the rest that were in the barque were drowned in the merciless seas. We four by that wave were clean swept away from off the rock also into the sea, the Lord in one instant of time disposing of fifteen souls of us according to his good pleasure and will. His pleasure and wonderful great mercy to me was thus. Standing on the rock as before you heard with my eldest daughter, my cousin and his eldest son, looking upon and talking to them in the Barque, whereas we were by that merciless wave washed off the rock as before you heard, God in his mercy caused me to fall by the stroke of the wave flat on my face, for my face was toward the sea, insomuch that I was sliding off the rock into the sea, the Lord directed my toes into a joint of the rock's side, as also the tops of some of my fingers with my right hand, by means whereof, the wave leaving me I remained so, having in the rock only ny head above the water. When on the left hand I espied a board or plank of the pinnace. And as I was reaching out my left hand to lay hold on it, by another coming over the top of the rock I was washed away from the rock, and by the violence of the waves was driven hither and thither in the seas a great while, and had many dashes against the rocks. At length past hopes of life and wearied in body and in spirits, I even gave over to nature, and being ready to receive in the waters of death I lifted up both my heart and hands to the God of Heaven. For note, I had my senses remaining perfect with me all the time that I was under and in the water, who at that instant lifted my head above the top of the water that so I might breathe without any hindrance by the waters. I stood bolt upright as if I had stood upon my foot, but I felt no bottom, nor had any footing for to stand upon, but the waters. While I was thus above the waters I saw by me a piece of the mast, as I suppose about three foot long, which I labored to catch into my arms. But suddenly I was overwhelmed with water and driven to and fro again, and at last I felt the ground with my right foot, when immediately whilst I was thus groveling on my face, I presently recovering my feet, was in the water to my breast, and through God's great mercy had my face unto the shore, and not to the sea. I made haste to get out, but was thrown down on my hands with the waves and so with safety crept to the dry shore. Where, blessing God, I turned about to look for my children and friends, but saw neither, nor any part of the pinnace where I left them as I supposed. But I saw my wife about a butt length from me getting herself forth from amongst the timber of the broken Barque. But before I could get unto her she was gotten to the shore. I was in the water after I was washed from the rock before I came to the shore a quarter of an hour at least. When we were come each to the other, we went and sat down the bank. But fear of the seas roaring, and our coldness, would not suffer us there to remain. But we went up into the land and sat down under a cedar tree which the wind had thrown down, where we sat about an hour almost dead with cold, but now the storm was broken up, and the wind was calm, but the sea remained rough and fearful to us. My legs were much bruised, and so was my head, other hurt I had none, neither had I taken in much quantity of water, but my heart would not allow me to sit still any longer, but I would go to see if any more were gotten to the land in safety, especially hoping to have met with some of my own poor children, but I could find none, neither dead nor yet living. You condole me my miseries who now begin to consider of my losses. Now came to my remembrance the time and manner how and when I last saw and left my children and friends. One was severed from me sitting on the rock at my feet, the other three in the pinnace. My little babe-ah poor Peter, setting in his sister Edith's arms, who to the uttermost of her power sheltered him from the waters. My poor William standing close unto them all three of them looking ruefully on me, on the rocks, their very countenances calling unto me to help them, whom I could not go unto, neither could they come at me, neither would the merciless waves afford ine space of time to use any means at all either to help them or myself. Oh I yet see them, poor silent lambs, pleading pity and help at my hands. Then on the other side to con⚫sider the loss of my dear friends, with the spoiling and loss of all our goods and provisions, myself cast upon an unknown land in a wilderness, I knew not where, nor how to get thence. Then it came to my mind how I had occasioned the death of my children, who caused them to leave their native land, who might have left them there, yea, and might have sent some back again and cost me nothing; these and such like thoughts do press down my heavy heart very much. But I must let this pass and will proceed on in the relation of God's goodness unto me in that desolate island, on which I was cast. I and my wife were almost naked both of us and wet and cold even unto death. I found a knapsack cast on the shore in which I had a steel and flint and powder horn. Going further I found a drowned goat, then I found a hat and my son William's coat, both which I put on. My wife found one of her petticoats which she put on. I found also two cheeses and some butter driven ashore. Thus the Lord sent us some clothes to put on and food to sustain our new lives, which we had lately given unto us, and means also to make fire, for in an horn I had some gunpowder, which to my own (and since to other men's) admiration was dry. So taking a piece of my wife's neck cloth which I dried in the sun, I struck fire, and so dried and warmed our wet bodies, and then skinned the goat, and having found a small brass pot, we boiled some of her. Our drink was brackish water. Bread we had none. There we remained until the Monday following, when about three of the clock in the afternoon, in a boat that came that way, we went off that desolate island which I named after my name, Thacher's Woe,' and the rock Avery his fall to the end that their fall and loss and mine own might be had in perpetual remembrance. In the isle lieth buried the body of my cousin's eldest daughter whom I found dead on the shore. On the Tuesday following in the afternoon we arrived at Marblehead." Thus far is Mr. Thacher's relation of this memorable providence. A cradle coverlet of scarlet broadcloth and some articles of clothing said to have been saved from the shipwreck, are now in the possession of Mr. Peter Thacher, and such is the veneration for these relics, that every child of Thacher families that has been baptized in Yarmouth, has been carried to the baptismal font enwrapped in them. Tradition states that Anthony Thacher was married to Elizabeth Jones, about six weeks before he left England, and that all his children by his first wife were drowned. He left two sons and one daughter, born after the disastrous shipwreck,-John, Judah, and Bethiah. JOHN THACHER, the eldest son of Anthony, was born March 17, 1639. He was, at an early age, appointed an officer in the militia, and for more than twenty years served as one of the selectmen of the town of Plymouth. In the year 1668 he was chosen a representative for the town to the General Court, and was elected to that station annually to the year 1683, except the year 1672. He was in the year 1681 chosen one of the council of war, and continued to serve several years, and was, for about five years, one of the assistants of the governor. Immediately on the union of Plymouth colony with the province of Massachusetts Bay, under the charter of William and Mary, in 1692, Mr. Thacher was elected a member of the provincial council, and continued to serve in that capacity near twenty years. He died at Yarmouth, May 8, 1713, aged seventy-five years. Mr. Thacher married Rebecca Winslow, of Marshfield, in 1661, and family tradition furnishes a singular anecdote. On his return to Yarmouth with his bride and company, they stopped at the house of Colonel Gorham, at Barnstable. In the merry conversation with the newly married couple, an infant was introduced, about three weeks old, and it was observed to Mr. Thacher that she was born on such a night; he replied that it was the very night he was married; and, taking the child in his arms, presented it to his bride, saying "Here, my dear, is a little lady born on the same night we were married-I wish you would kiss it, as I intend to have her for my second wife." "I will, my dear," she replied, "to please you, but I hope it will be a long time before you will have that pleasure!" So taking the babe, she pressed it to her lips, and gave it a kiss. This jesting prediction was eventually verified. Mr. Thacher's wife died, and the child, Lydia Gorham, arriving at mature age, actually became his second wife, January 1, 1684, O. S. The following epitaph is copied from the original paper : An Anagramatick Epitaph upon The Honorable JOHN THACHER ESQR. Deceased May 8th, 1713. John Thacher Anagr. Rich One hath.. Some Great Rich Men are never satisfy'd |