The place where the scene of this story is laid, I have said was a lone
village; it had no communication with other places by means of boats,
although its water privileges were abundant; and between it and
neighbouring towns intervened an extent of country, consisting of
pine-barrens, where no settlements could exist, or at least any that
deserved the name. There were those, however, who dwelt amid its dreary
solitudes, and called it home. Scattered here and there upon an area of
ten to fifteen miles square, might be seen, sometimes alone and
sometimes in clusters of three or four, a few miserable dwellings, made
principally of logs. A door, and one window without glass, were the only
openings to these abodes; and a rude chimney running up against the
outside, formed a receptacle for the pine logs, which blazed often
through the long winter nights, the only light they could afford, as
well as almost their only protection from the searching cold.
Poverty and wretchedness generally make sad havoc with the human frame;
the haggard countenance, the dry and skinny hands, the stoop, the
feeble, tottering gait, we expect and look for, when visiting abodes
that betoken destitution. But miserable as was the appearance of these
dwellings, the aspect of their inhabitants was generally that of health
and sufficiency; their swarthy complexions, and fine athletic forms,
almost compelled the traveller through these lonely regions to believe
that he had alighted upon a tribe of those sons of the forest who once
called our country all their own.
The moral character of this people was in keeping with the aspect of
their dwellings. Having no regular religious instruction, seldom hearing
the voice of a living teacher, with scarce a Bible to be found within
their gloomy houses, they were but little in advance of the heathen as
to religious knowledge, and far too near allied to them in many of their
vicious habits.
They earned their daily bread by laboring amid the lofty and dense
forests, in levelling the majestic pines, cutting them into lengths
suitable for transportation, and conveying them to the outskirts of the
barrens: their hire was but a pittance when considered as a remuneration
for their toil, but it enabled them to live; it procured for them food,
coarse indeed, but enough to satisfy their appetite, and the plain and
simple clothing which necessity demanded, or to which perhaps their
taste aspired.
The owners of these forests lived at some distance, and employed an
agent to attend to all the various labors of preparing the timber and
conveying it to market.
Cross, the individual employed for this business, had grown up amid
these solitudes, and labored with his axe for some years. Gifted by
nature with shrewdness, and not very particular on the score of
morality, he had managed to obtain the post he occupied, and with most
of the proprietors stood on good terms; he was active, prompt, and
efficient, and perhaps, for the business intrusted to him, did as well
as any one could. But he was, beyond measure, grasping and avaricious;
and as he could not well gain undue advantage from those who employed
him, being bound by contracts not easily evaded, he made up such
deficiency by 'grinding the faces' of the poor laborers.
Without any means of gaining a livelihood besides, they had become
entirely dependent on the good-will of Mr. Cross. He fixed their wages,
supplied them from his store with the necessaries of life at his own
price, and in that way managed to bring them, at the close of every
month, either without any surplus, or most generally a trifle in debt.
On the border of these barrens, and near the principal scene of our
story, lived the widow Mary Brown; her husband had been one of the
woodcutters, an intemperate man, who had caused her much trouble while
he lived, and when he died left her with two orphans. She had to
struggle hard to support herself and little ones. But as a light in a
dark place, so was this widow among these outcasts. She was generally
known throughout the region where she lived, and the wildest and most
abandoned never brought against her a railing accusation--they never
spoke lightly of her not her religion; for the garb of piety she wore
was so unassuming, the light that shone around her humble path was so
mild and unobtrusive:--
Like the soft fleecy cloud at the close of day,
That far in the west where the sun's last ray
Rests bright on its bosom--its mellow light
Steals to our heart, as we gaze in delight;
No glare to dazzle, we love to view
Its changing tints and its golden hue.
Having a very humbling view of herself, she felt great pity for the
deluded ones around her; she never chid them for their follies, but
would weep and pray in secret, and when called to watch at their dying
bed, she had such a quiet, happy way of holding up before the weak and
guilty spirit the Saviour in his love and pity, that many a poor
wanderer took courage from her message of mercy, and ere the spirit
fled, it was enabled to look in faith, and go its lone way in peace.
Wherever sorrow or sickness visited, there was she sent for, as one who
carried with her a charm that could neutralize their power.
Her dwelling was a log hut like those in that vicinity, but it had an
air of comfort the others had not. Her plain door was white-washed, and
a little curtain hung across the window; and there was a box of flowers
by the step, and every useless thing was removed from around the house,
and the ground swept neatly, and beneath some of the large pines that
afforded a grateful shade to her lonely abode, were rude seats, as
though made for the wayfaring man, on which to rest and be refreshed.
Her children, though helpless little ones when their father died, had
now grown up to an age when each of them, in different ways, could
materially aid her. She felt no longer a dread of want, although often
sighing in secret that her son was compelled to labor with those whose
example could only lead astray, and that her daughter had no brighter
prospect than a residence among these uncultivated foresters. But she
had done what she could. Of worldly wisdom she knew nothing; but she had
a Bible, and could read it. Its requirements and its doctrines were all
plain to her, she loved them, and taught them to her children; they
learned passages from them on the long, still Sabbath days, and as she
sat in the shade of the large pines by her door, they would come and sit
near her, to hear and listen to some story she would tell them of those
whose names have been recorded, and their history handed down for the
benefit of every coming generation. But other influences have now begun
to exert a counteracting power; William is eighteen, a man in size and
strength, a hardy laborer, and much from home. He still brings all he
earns, or nearly all, to the common stock; he still reverences his
mother, and listens to her instructions, and treats with kindness his
only sister; but rumours have reached his home that his chosen
associates were some whose names had become by-words for rude and evil
doings, and any heart but a mother's would have given up his chance for
any future good.
'She had hope for William,' she said, 'although he might be led astray
by evil companions.'
And she had good cause for hoping--for she had fastened to his heart
that golden chain, each link of which a mother's prayers and gentle
teachings and untiring love had formed. He felt its power even in his
hours of revelling, and although he never met with an upbraiding word or
look from her, his conscience had no rest.
The daughter was all that her mother could ask; she had no desire to
depart from the beautiful precepts of the Bible--because she loved them.
Her mind was active, thoughtful, and discerning beyond her years; of
kind and generous disposition, ever ready for any work of love, and
cheerful and happy in the consciousness of good-will to all. Her moral
character was well matched with a beauty of person rarely found, even
under every advantage. Hettie had no ornaments to set off her beauty,
and no graces imparted by culture to heighten the natural ease of her
movements; her complexion, though dark, was brightened by the rich color
which adorned her cheeks, and her jet-black eyes were softened by the
long dark lashes that gave to their expression almost the languor of a
southern clime, while her dark hair dangled in luxuriant curls, very
much to her annoyance, for she often said:--
'She did wish her hair was straight like other girls; it was always
getting into such a tangle.'
As Mrs. Brown--or the Widow Brown, as she was universally called--lived
nearer to the open and more cultivated settlement than any of the other
inhabitants of the barrens, she was well known among the farmers'
families, although intimate with very few. Hettie had some associates
there, which her mother preferred for her to those in her own immediate
vicinity. Of these, the family of the Widow Andrews was one to which
they were peculiarly attached. They could sympathize with each other;
the mothers were both widows, and each had two children of about the
same age. They both loved good things; they could converse bout their
past trials, and present hopes and fears. But while many things in their
circumstances were similar, there were others in which they were very
unlike to each other; for the Widow Andrews was much under the power of
strong natural feelings, easily excited by joy or grief, and her
passions when aroused seemed at times to know no bounds: no sooner was a
chord struck that touched a tender point in her heart, than she would
begin to talk very rapidly and to weep freely; her words flowing faster
and faster, and louder and louder, until, between weeping and talking,
she would finally break into a flood of tears, and all was over.
The Widow Brown was aware of this weakness in her neighbor, and lamented
it, for she knew that at times it did real evil; but there were so many
things that she loved her for, this she considered as a mere weakness,
for which she should be pitied.
In reference to worldly goods, too, there was a dissimilarity. The Widow
Andrews had a much better house, although a very plain one; still it was
called a house, and not a log hut; and she had a few acres of land
attached to it, and a small barn, old and shackling to be sure, and a
few head of cattle, and had been enabled, hitherto, to make out to live
in a very frugal way from her own resources.
Mary, her daughter, was not pretty, like Hettie Brown, nor was she so
intelligent; but she had a kind heart, and was obedient to her mother,
and being about Hettie's age, the two girls became much attached.
The son had promised fair to be a support to his mother, and a good
member of society, but a dark cloud had arisen upon all such
prospects--bad company had now begun to have attractions for him. He
neglected his work, disobeyed his mother, lost his ambition, and was in
a fair way to make a wreck of body and soul. His mother had been proud
of her William--of his good behavior, of his efficiency at work, of his
industrious habits; and not a little proud was she of his fine
appearance--it was a mother's weakness; but we will not judge her
harshly. He had, indeed, a very pleasant expression to his countenance;
his lively eye looked so kindly at you; there was such a play of
roguishness and good-nature about his mouth; and when he spoke, a
musical voice brought out the words so soft and clear--all tended to
interest both friends and strangers. But all the love which his mother
bore towards him, and all her pride in him, caused her to be more
violent in her rebukes. She poured out such a torrent of invective at
him, that much as he felt he deserved her displeasure, he could not
stand the violence of it. Every bad feeling of his heart was aroused; he
began to dread his home and his mother's voice, and sought refuge where,
alas! ruin alone could be the end thereof.
He was now eighteen years of age, and as my reader was first introduced
to him at Mr. Grizzle's store, we will follow him as he left that den of
evil. His conscience was troubled; there was something in the appearance
and behavior of Sam Oakum that morning, that revived the memory of what
he himself had once been. We saw how he watched Sam when he left the
store, as far his eye could follow him; how madly he poured down the
offered glass, and rushed from the scene of his shame.
Whither to direct his steps he knew not, but onward he went; he was glad
to be in the open air, it was so much better than the poisonous
atmosphere he had just left. Soon his attention was arrested by the
appearance of a dwelling and its precincts that he was about to pass. It
was a scene of desolation--the house and all its accompaniments; the
windows stuffed with every variety of color and substance to supply the
places of broken panes; the door hung sideways by one hinge, the boards
loose and flapping against the timbers of the house, the roof broken in,
and apparently ready to fall upon the inmates, and the inclosures around
the place lying prostrate or scattered about the grounds. A woman was
outside, picking up what rubbish she could meet with to replenish the
fire; sorrow was plainly marked upon her withered features; and as she
walked into the house with a few faggots in her hand, there was such a
deadness in her step, such a bowing down under the weight of some too
heavy burden--ambition, comfort, hope, all seemed to have departed, and
left her in her misery with a broken spirit.
William halted in his rapid course; he looked upon the scene and
considered it well.
This was the house of one of those whom he had just left; the one most
forward to complain of bad luck, and who joined most heartily in the
laugh which had been excited at his expense. He had been familiar with
this place; often had he seen it, just as it then appeared, but never
had its desolate condition affected him before;--a light from heaven
seemed pouring upon it, and singling it out from all other objects. He
could look at nothing else. 'It was the vineyard of the man void of
understanding, and the field of the slothful; the stone wall thereof was
broken down; it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles covered the
face thereof.'
William looked upon it, and received instruction: slowly and sadly he
passed along.
A little by-road now crossed the public highway. Instinctively almost,
he turned into it; the trees which lined it formed a grateful shade, and
seemed to invite him therein to cool his heated, feverish frame.
Near to this path, and not far from the highway he had left, was a pure,
bright, bubbling spring; it came up through the clean white sand, and
the green turf formed its only curb. On one side it had cleared an
opening, and meandered away through a little bed of fine gravel stones,
which sparkled in the sunbeams as they stole through the branches of the
willows which encircled the fountain. His throat parched with thirst,
and his mind and body in an excited condition, he threw himself upon the
velvet turf, and allayed his thirst from the pure stream. He tried to
think, but his thoughts ran wild into each other; he turned his head
towards the roots of one of the willows, and rested it there. It
throbbed against the cool green turf; its coolness was refreshing to
him, and there he slept.
Hettie Brown had that morning left her home in the barrens to do an
errand for her mother in Mr. Grizzle's store; she stopped at the Widow
Andrews', and found the mother and daughter in tears, and had to listen
to a long tale of William's delinquencies.
'And he's gone off to Grizzle's, now again, I _know_ he has; and there
he'll sit and drink, and he'll come home drunk yet one of these days,
and he'll be a drunkard and a vagabond.'
And the good woman went off into another hard crying spell. Hettie made
no reply; she was not in the habit of talking much, nor did she shed any
tears--she was not given to that either. A few expressions of sympathy
she dropped as she parted from Mary, telling her to hope for the best,
and making a short call, went on her way to the store.
She was anxious to see William, and therefore she hastened her steps.
She seemed to feel a consciousness of power to lead him away from the
path of ruin. He had been her playmate when a little child; nor had he
ever, by word or deed, done aught to offend her. The intimacy of
childhood had indeed passed away--her wise mother had cautioned her on
matters referring especially to William, and of late she had seldom seen
him; but she felt that she possessed an influence over him, and she
meant now to exert it.
As she crossed the by-path we have already mentioned, she thought of the
little spring, and how refreshing it would be to drink of its cool
water. She turned, and followed the path towards the willows which
marked the spot.
When William Andrews awoke, it was from a troubled dream, and the quiet
which surrounded him was grateful to his spirits. He arose and drank
freely from the spring--the birds were singing sweetly in the hedges and
on the trees; there was no sound beside, but the rippling of the little
rill that stole gently away from the fountain where he had slaked his
thirst. His feelings, late so hurried and disturbed, were calm--the
storm had lulled, a dark and dreadful gulf seemed to have been passed,
and now he was upon a path where all above and around him combined to
make it light and pleasant. This change, however, was but the effect of
that rest which sleep had given to his frame; 'twas the pure fresh
feeling which the soul enjoys when waked by morning's dawn, before the
hopes and fears, the business and the cares of life, have time to urge
their claims. Scarce had he quenched his thirst, and fully awaked to a
consciousness of his situation, ere the scenes of the morning rushed
back upon him. As the tumult of his thoughts arose, he stood and leaned
against one of the willows, and cast his eye down at the little
fountain, bubbling up so incessantly and with so little disturbance,
that it came to the surface with no alloy of earth about it; and he saw
how fresh and rank was the greensward all along its course--it not only
gave from its little receptacle a full supply for all who needed, but
virtue seemed to emanate throughout its meanderings, and to bless
wherever it flowed.
'This spring,' said he, 'is like the life of one that is good--pure at
the fountain, and the whole life a blessing, making things better and
happier all around him; but _my_ life--oh, what has it been?' And his
cheek flushed, and tears of anguish fell fast, while with hands firmly
clasped, and still leaning against the tree, he looked down at the
bubbling water.
'Why William!'
He started at the well-knows voice.
'Oh, Hettie, is this _you_? how glad I am to see you.'
She extended her hand towards him, but there was something in the sight
of Hettie that caused the cup, already full, to overflow; he did not
take the offered hand, but covering his face, gave way to a passionate
burst of weeping.
Hettie was much surprised, but she attempted not to interfere; nor did
she weep with him, but waited silently until the violence of the storm
had passed, and he was sufficiently composed to address her.
'I am very unhappy, Hettie, and have been so for a long time.'
'I have thought so, William, and I am very glad of an opportunity to say
something to you about it. I was certain that you must be unhappy. There
can be no peace for us when we have left the path of duty, until we
return from our crooked ways: it would not be best for us that we should
be happy when our doings are not right.'
'Well, mine are not right, and I am afraid they will never be any
better.'
'Why not, William? are you willing still to be unhappy, and to break
your mother's heart, and fill the minds of all your friends with
sorrow?'
'I have been far astray, Hettie. I have sunk myself very low, and have
struggled hard at times to break the charm that was leading me to ruin;
but I feel now as I have not felt before; and if you will only not
despise me, if you will let me hope that a new course of life may yet
gain your respect, it will be a helper to me--a great helper to me. And
oh! Hettie, you cannot tell how much I need your aid.'
Hettie was wise perhaps beyond her years. She felt much interest for the
youth who had grown with her from childhood.
'I fear, William, that the struggle you will be compelled to encounter
will need help greater than a creature can give. You must look to Him
who made you, and relying on his strength, resolve to do your duty, cost
what it may. All that I can promise is my feeble prayer; and whenever I
offer it for myself, I will offer it for you too, William. And now I
must leave you, for I have an errand to the store, and mother will be
uneasy at my absence.'
And the happy girl, smiling a pleasant good-by, went on her way. William
watched her until she turned into the public road, and then, with one
strong cry to Heaven for help, turned towards his home, a happier person
than he had been for many long months.
_He had resolved to do right._