WHEN AT THE LOWEST SPOKE OF FORTUNE'S WHEEL, ONE IS SURE TO RISE AS IT
TURNS ROUND--I RECOVER MY SENSES, AND FIND MYSELF AMONGST FRIENDS.
I think some people shook me by the hand, and others shouted as I walked
in the open air, but I recollect no more. I afterwards was informed
that I had been reprieved, that I had been sent for, and a long
exhortation delivered to me, for it was considered that my life must
have been one of error, or I should have applied to my friends, and have
given my name. My not answering was attributed to shame and confusion--
my glassy eye had not been noticed--my tottering step when led in by the
gaolers attributed to other causes; and the magistrates shook their
heads as I was led out of their presence. The gaoler had asked me
several times where I intended to go. At last, I had told him, _to seek
my father_, and darting away from him I had run like a madman down the
street. Of course he had no longer any power over me: but he muttered
as I fled from him, "I've a notion he'll soon be locked up again, poor
fellow! it's turned his brain for certain."
As I tottered along, my unsteady step naturally attracted the attention
of the passers-by; but they attributed it to intoxication. Thus was I
allowed to wander away in a state of madness, and before night I was far
from the town. What passed, and whither I had bent my steps, I cannot
tell. All I know is, that after running like a maniac, seizing
everybody by the arm that I met, staring at them with wild and flashing
eyes; and sometimes in a solemn voice, at others, in a loud, threatening
tone, startling them with the interrogatory, "Are you my father?" and
then darting away, or sobbing like a child, as the humour took me, I had
crossed the country; and three days afterwards I was picked up at the
door of a house in the town of Reading, exhausted with fatigue and
exposure, and nearly dead. When I recovered, I found myself in bed, my
head shaved, my arm bound up, after repeated bleedings, and a female
figure sitting by me.
"God in heaven! where am I?" exclaimed I faintly.
"Thou hast called often upon thy earthly father during the time of thy
illness, friend," replied a soft voice. "It rejoiceth me much to hear
thee call upon thy Father which is in heaven. Be comforted, thou art in
the hands of those who will be mindful of thee. Offer up thy thanks in
one short prayer, for thy return to reason, and then sink again into
repose, for thou must need it much."
I opened my eyes wide, and perceived that a young person in a Quaker's
dress was sitting by the bed working with her needle; an open Bible was
on a little table before her. I perceived also a cup, and parched with
thirst, I merely said, "Give me to drink." She arose, and put a
teaspoon to my lips; but I raised my hand, took the cup from her and
emptied it. O how delightful was that draught! I sank down on my
pillow, for even that slight exertion had overpowered me, and muttering,
"God, I thank thee!" I was immediately in a sound sleep, from which I
did not awake for many hours. When I did, it was not daylight. A lamp
was on the table, and an old man in a Quaker's dress was snoring very
comfortably in the arm-chair. I felt quite refreshed with my long
sleep, and was now able to recall what had passed. I remembered the
condemned cell and the mattress upon which I lay, but all after was in a
state of confusion. Here and there a fact or supposition was strong in
my memory; but the intervals between were total blanks. I was, at all
events, free, that I felt convinced of, and that I was in the hands of
the sect who denominate themselves Quakers: but where was I? and how did
I come here? I remained thinking on the past, and wondering, until the
day broke, and with the daylight roused up my watchful attendant. He
yawned, stretched his arms, and rising from the chair, came to the side
of my bed. I looked him in the face. "Hast thou slept well, friend?"
said he.
"I have slept as much as I wish, and would not disturb you," replied I,
"for I wanted nothing."
"Peradventure I did sleep," replied the man; "watching long agreeth not
with the flesh, although the spirit is most willing. Requirest thou
anything?"
"Yes," replied I, "I wish to know where I am?"
"Verily, thou art in the town of Reading, in Berkshire, and in the house
of Pheneas Cophagus."
"Cophagus!" exclaimed I; "Mr Cophagus, the surgeon and apothecary?"
"Pheneas Cophagus is his name; he hath been admitted into our sect, and
hath married a daughter of our persuasion. He hath attended thee in thy
fever and thy frenzy, without calling in the aid of the physician,
therefore do I believe that he must be the man of whom thou speakest;
yet doth he not follow up the healing art for the lucre of gain."
"And the young person who was at my bedside, is she his wife?"
"Nay, friend, she is half-sister to the wife of Pheneas Cophagus by a
second marriage, and a maiden, who was named Susannah Temple at the
baptismal font; but I will go to Pheneas Cophagus and acquaint him of
your waking, for such were his directions."
The man then quitted the room, leaving me quite astonished with the
information he had imparted. Cophagus turned Quaker! and attending me
in the town of Reading. In a short time Mr Cophagus himself entered in
his dressing-gown.
"Japhet!" said he, seizing my hand with eagerness, and then, as if
recollecting, he checked himself, and commenced in a slow tone, "Japhet
Newland--truly glad am I--hum--verily do I rejoice--you, Ephraim--get
out of the room--and so on."
"Yea, I will depart, since it is thy bidding," replied the man, quitting
the room.
Mr Cophagus then greeted me in his usual way--told me that he had found
me insensible at the door of a house a little way off, and had
immediately recognised me. He had brought me to his own home, but
without much hope of my recovery. He then begged to know by what
strange chance I had been found in such a desolate condition. I
replied, "that although I was able to listen, I did not feel myself
equal to the exertion of telling so long a story, and that I should
infinitely prefer that he should narrate to me what had passed since we
had parted at Dublin, and how it was that I now found that he had joined
the sect of Quakers."
"Peradventure--long word that--um--queer people--very good--and so on,"
commenced Mr Cophagus, but as the reader will not understand his
phraseology quite so well as I did, I shall give Mr Cophagus's history
in my own version.
Mr Cophagus had returned to the small town at which he resided, and, on
his arrival, he had been called upon by a gentleman who was of the
Society of Friends, requesting that he would prescribe for a niece of
his, who was on a visit at his house, and had been taken dangerously
ill. Cophagus with his usual kindness of heart, immediately consented,
and found that Mr Temple's report was true. For six weeks he attended
the young Quakeress, and recovered her from an imminent and painful
disease, in which she showed such fortitude and resignation, and such
unconquerable good temper, that when Mr Cophagus returned to his
bachelor's establishment, he could not help reflecting upon what an
invaluable wife she would make, and how much more cheerful his house
would be with such a domestic partner.
In short, Mr Cophagus fell in love, and like all elderly gentlemen who
have so long bottled up their affections, he became most desperately
enamoured; and if he loved Miss Judith Temple when he witnessed her
patience and resignation under suffering, how much more did he love her
when he found that she was playful, merry, and cheerful, without being
boisterous, when restored to her health. Mr Cophagus's attentions
could not be misunderstood. He told her uncle that he had thought
seriously of wedding cake--white favours--marriage--family--and so on;
and to the young lady he had put his cane up to his nose and prescribed,
"A dose of matrimony--to be taken immediately." To Mr Cophagus there
was no objection raised by the lady, who was not in her teens, or by the
uncle, who had always respected him as a worthy man, and a good
Christian; but to marry one who was not of her persuasion, was not to be
thought of. Her friends would not consent to it. Mr Cophagus was
therefore dismissed, with a full assurance that the only objection which
offered was that he was not of their society.
Mr Cophagus walked home discomforted. He sat down on his easy chair,
and found it excessively uneasy--he sat down to his solitary meal, and
found that his own company was unbearable--he went to bed, but found
that it was impossible to go to sleep. The next morning, therefore, Mr
Cophagus returned to Mr Temple, and stated his wish to be made
acquainted with the difference between the tenets of the Quaker
persuasion and those of the Established Church. Mr Temple gave him an
outline, which appeared to Mr Cophagus to be very satisfactory, and
then referred him to his niece for fuller particulars. When a man
enters into an argument with a full desire to be convinced, and with his
future happiness perhaps depending upon that conviction; and when,
further, those arguments are brought forward by one of the prettiest
voices, and backed by the sweetest of smiles, it is not to be wondered
at his soon becoming a proselyte. Thus it was with Mr Cophagus, who in
a week discovered that the peace, humility, and good-will, upon which
the Quaker tenets are founded, were much more congenial to the true
spirit of the Christian revelation than the Athanasian Creed, to be sung
or said in our Established Churches; and with this conviction, Mr
Cophagus requested admission into the fraternity; and shortly after his
admission, it was thought advisable by the Friends that his faith should
be confirmed and strengthened by his espousal of Miss Judith Temple,
with whom, at her request--and he could refuse her nothing--he had
repaired to the town of Reading, in which her relations all resided; and
Pheneas Cophagus, of the Society of Friends, declared himself to be as
happy as a man could be. "Good people, Japhet--um--honest people,
Japhet--don't fight--little stiff--spirit moves--and so on," said Mr
Cophagus, as he concluded his narrative, and then shaking me by the
hand, retired to shave and dress.