THE LITTLE TIME--HOW IMPROVED--FITNESS FOR REFINED SOCIETY--MORNING
REFLECTIONS--RUTH AND BOAZ--CHARITY AND COURTESY--THE VISIT.
The little time allotted Emma seemed important, not only as it regarded
her duty to others, but also in respect to herself. She desired a
complete fitness for the refined society which she was about to enter.
She wished, above all things, to become meet for an inheritance with
the saints in light; and for this fitness she strove, using with
diligence every means relative to this end which God had placed within
her reach; and, as a valuable means, she availed herself of the
spiritual perception and Christian fidelity of good Dora, who was
always ready to aid her.
"Tell me," she would say, "all that you see or _fear_ that is wrong in
me; help me to examine my motives, emotions, and affections:" and Dora
covenanted with Emma to this effect,--a sacred covenant, and one that
should be oftener made among those who would be made perfect.
It was in accordance with this covenant that Emma had spoken fully of
her feelings and impressions respecting Fanny Brighton; and we have
seen how faithfully this good woman kept her part of this covenant, by
pointing out to Emma the judgment of charity and the judgment of self.
Emma still sat by the open window, upon that fine morning, thinking and
feeling, as she long had done, of the heart's great depth of
deceitfulness, which no man could know, and no human power could reach,
when she saw Mr. Graffam coming along the road.
Poor Graffam, though in his sober senses, had been longer crossing the
plain that morning than usual. Far down in the depths of his beclouded
soul there was a love of the beautiful, and that love on this morning
had been stirred within him. His eyes had been open to see the
glittering dewdrops upon the tall wild flowers and green herbage of the
plain, to see the giant trees stretch their green arms toward the sky;
and his ears had been open to hear a sweet concert upon their topmost
branches. Poor buried soul!--how it struggled for a resurrection; now
leaping with joy at the thought of its own affinity for the pure and
beautiful, and now sinking, sinking, sinking with the one blighting
thought of human scorn richly merited.
Night after night had poor Graffam reeled from side to side of that
grass-tufted road, while the plain seemed to him an interminable lake
of fire, amid whose scalding waves there rolled and tossed poor
wretches like himself; and morning after morning he had returned by the
same road, feeling as though a frost-breath had passed over the lake of
fire, leaving it rough and leaden like a lava-deluged plain. But now,
whence came the wonderful beauty of the widespread landscape? He knew
in part, and brushed his old jacket sleeve across his swollen eyes. He
feared that the vision was fated to pass away, "For my character is
gone," said he; "nobody respects me; they call me 'old Pete,' and I am
doomed." But a new feeling now came over him. He was nearing
Snag-Orchard. The old chimneys were seen among the tree-tops, and
strange to himself, (for years had passed since he had cared for his
personal appearance,) he found his right hand tucking up its brother's
dirty wristband, and adroitly turning the torn part of his old hat-rim
to the side opposite Appledale.
"Good-morning, good-morning, Mr. Graffam," was the cheerful greeting
coming to him from a chamber window.
But lo! he has forgotten the torn rim, and now it is flapping most
gracefully, as the hat descends from the head, and is waved toward the
window.
"Stop, if you please," said Emma; and she ran down the stairway, and
along the garden-walk, toward the gate.
"Why, who is Emma flying to see?" asked Martha, as she saw her sister's
white dress flitting past the window.
One of the visitors looked toward the road, and, unable to speak for
laughter, pointed out poor Graffam, who, standing with his crazy hat in
his hand, and his long shaggy hair falling in tangled masses over his
neck and forehead, was now examining his great red hand, to see if it
was clean enough to shake the delicate little hand cordially offered
him.
"How is your babe this morning?" asked Emma.
"Better, thank you," replied Graffam; and growing warm-hearted in her
sunlight, he told her how the little thing had smiled, and crowed at
him; or _began_ to tell, and then stopped short, fearing that he should
forfeit her respect.
"It is a dear child," said Emma; "and perhaps, Mr. Graffam, it may
please God to restore him to health, and he may grow up to bless the
world."
Graffam started. The idea that a child of his should grow up to bless
the world seemed too marvelous; "and yet," thought he, "I was not made
for a curse."
"I hope that he may live," said the poor man sincerely; and wondered
how that hope came, for formerly the child's life had been a matter of
utter indifference to him.
"If it please God," added Emma.
"It has pleased God," said Graffam, "to lay three of my children
beneath the sod, and perhaps it were better if they were all there, for
we are----"
"Are what, sir?"
"Poor and despised, miss."
"God does not despise the poor," said Emma. "When his Son came to live
among men, the poor of this world were his chosen friends and
companions."
"Perhaps so," the poor man said, and turned his head mournfully away:
"if poverty were all----"
"He does not despise the _sinner_ either," said Emma, softly; "so far
from that, he delivered his only Son unto death for their sake."
Graffam lifted his eyes from the ground, and looked seriously into her
face.
"There was a time, miss," said he, "when that was a precious thought to
me. Then to know that God was my friend, was enough, and I was happy;
but that time is passed. I parted with his friendship to gain that of
the world, and now I have lost, hopelessly lost all--all!"
This was said in a tone of deep despair: so deep and sad, that it
called tears of pity to Emma's eyes, as she earnestly replied,--
"O do not say that _his_ friendship is hopelessly lost, Mr. Graffam;
for you know, sir, that he does not hate what the world hates. He hates
nothing but sin, and even from that his great mercy separates the
sinner, and makes him an object of love. Jesus, Mr. Graffam, is the
_sinner's friend_."
"Yes, miss," replied the poor man; though Emma saw that the faith of
this great truth did not enter his heart. There was no room as yet for
so pure a faith. The soul's great idol, whatever it be,--the "man of
sin" sitting in the place of God,--must be dethroned before the Holy
will enter in. Yet Emma's words stirred still more those powers of the
soul which Graffam had felt that morning struggling franticly with
their chains. There was a strange mixture of hope and despair in the
expression of his countenance, as he turned away, bidding her a sad
"good-morning."
"O," thought Emma, as she looked after him, "is there none to help?
Poor Mr. Graffam might become a good and useful man: his family might
live out among people, and be happy. I pity them from my very heart;"
and thinking over the matter, Emma walked out into the road, wandering
down the hill, across the bridge, beneath which the bright waters
glided very soberly that morning. Here she paused awhile, looking over
the wooden railing at the reflection of her own thin figure and pale
face. "O Emma," she said, "what thou doest, do quickly; for there is
neither work, knowledge, nor device in the grave, to which thou art
hastening."
Slowly, and somewhat wearily, she ascended the opposite bank, and then
away in his field, working busily, she saw friend Sliver. She knew him
by the broad-brimmed hat, which now and then bobbed up above the wall
as the old man picked up the stones, and then resumed his hoe.
Intent upon his work, he hoed long with his eyes upon the ground: but
at last he paused, and holding the hoe in one hand, drew a checkered
handkerchief from his pocket, and wiped the perspiration from his face;
in doing this, he glanced toward the road, and saw Emma leaning over
the wall, apparently inspecting his work.
"Good-morning, Mr. Sliver," said Emma.
[Illustration: EMMA AND THE QUAKER.]
"Ah, how does thee do?" replied the good man, with evident pleasure. "I
was not looking for thee in the potato field."
"I suppose not," replied Emma, smiling. "I am like Ruth, the Moabitess,
who went to glean in the fields of Boaz: only she wanted grain, and I
want counsel."
Friend Sliver laid down his hoe, and coming up to the wall, asked,
"What is it, child?"
"You know Mr. Graffam, sir?"
"Thee means Peter, who lives upon the plains?"
"Yes, sir."
"O yes, I have known him some years; given to drink, Emma."
"I know it," replied Emma; "but need he be lost, sir? He has a wife and
four pretty children; can't he be saved?"
"I see but one way," replied the old gentleman; "and that is to get him
employment away from the mills. Motley keeps spirit for his hands. I
have tried to help Peter by employing him myself, but he is very sullen
when not in drink."
"I will tell you the reason of that," said Emma; "the poor man has
naturally great self-esteem, and people irritate and crush him by
showing him no respect."
"People can't show what they have not," replied friend Sliver, with a
slight twinkle in his bright gray eye. "Can thee respect a drunkard,
Emma?"
"I can respect a _soul_, sir," replied Emma, warmly,--"a soul made in
the image of God, though it were sunk in the very depths of pollution
and wretchedness; and so can the 'Great and Holy One,' Mr. Sliver, or
he never would have sent his Son to redeem the world."
The sly twinkle vanished from the good Quaker's eye, and he looked
seriously, earnestly, into the face of that dear girl. "Emma," said he,
"what would thee do for Peter and his family? Can I aid thee in any
way?"
"You have done so already," said she, "by speaking of the temptations
to which he is exposed. I think that I can persuade mother to employ
him; and Mr. Sliver, as you are acquainted with the people here, you
may do Mr. Graffam a good service, by persuading your neighbors to feel
and to manifest some interest in himself and his family; ask them not
to allow their children to call him 'Old Pete,' 'Old toper,' &c., and
twit him of riding a high horse."
"I will," replied friend Sliver, "and I will do anything else in my
power to help thee."
"Thank you," said Emma, smiling, and sliding from the fence; "I am
greatly obliged to you; good-by, Mr. Sliver."
"Farewell!" replied the old man, as he once more watched her descending
the hill, and thought of what Sarah had said about her "ripening for
glory."
It was on the afternoon of that day that Dora and Emma set out for a
visit to the plains. "I think," said the former, "that we had better
ride around by 'Snow-Hill,' and inquire at Mr. Cotting's respecting
this family." Mr. Cotting was the minister, and his wife was considered
a very active woman, and such in truth she was. Sewing circles,
Sunday-school exhibitions, donation parties, &c., had been quite
unknown to that community until Mrs. Cotting came. It was said, too,
that she had visited all the poor families around, and fitted out their
children for Sabbath school.
"If," said Dora, "we succeed in getting this poor family of the plains
to mingle with their fellows, Mrs. Cotting's help will be needed; she
is directress of the sewing circle, and from that can obtain clothing
for the children."
"Dear Dora," replied Emma, "don't propose any such thing, either to Mr.
Graffam or his wife, now. It won't do--not yet. We will call and see
Mrs. Cotting, if you please. She may know this family, and may be able
to tell us how to manage. Here is the road which goes around by
Snow-Hill: but stop a moment; there is Willie Graffam and his little
sister, just coming from the plain.
"How do you do, Willie?" continued Emma, as the children, each carrying
a basket of berries, drew nearer.
"Very well, thank you," said Willie, taking off his hat; and the little
girl courtesied, without lifting her eyes from the ground.
"We are going over to see your mother," said Emma.
"Mother will be very glad to see _you_," replied the little boy; at the
same time looking inquiringly at the horse's head which was turned
toward Snow-Hill.
Dora smiled at the emphasis bestowed upon _you_, and asked Willie "if
his mother would not be glad to see her."
"I guess so," was the reply; "but----"
"But what, Willie?" asked Emma.
The little fellow hung his head, and answered in a lower tone, "Mother
don't want to see the minister's wife, for she has been at our house
once."
"I am afraid," said Dora, as they passed on, "that this family is one
whom it will be difficult to benefit."
"You will excuse me for keeping you in waiting so long," said Mrs.
Cotting, as she entered the room where Dora and Emma had been seated
for nearly an hour; "I understood the maid that it was Mrs. Lindsay
herself, and I was in _dishabille_. My duties are so numerous and so
pressing," continued Mrs. Cotting. "One might think that the cares of a
family were sufficient for a wife and mother; but added to this, to
have a whole parish upon one's hands." Here she paused and sighed.
"Your situation," replied Dora, "is indeed one of earnest duty and
responsibility; but the abundant grace provided for our utmost need is
found, I trust, sufficient for you."
Mrs. Cotting bowed, and Dora continued: "We will not take your time,
madam, which must be fully occupied. We called to inquire respecting a
family called Graffam, living upon the plain."
"I know them," said Mrs. Cotting, "as indeed I do every other poor
family in town. These Graffams are very strange people. I called there
with Mrs. Jefferson Motley, the wealthiest lady at the mills. Graffam
had a child at that time lying at the point of death. He was at home,
and, what is a rare thing, was sober; but neither he nor his wife
seemed at all grateful for this attention from myself and Mrs. Motley.
We were at that time hunting up children for the Sabbath school; and in
our charitable work were not unwilling to visit the most degraded. We
told Graffam and his wife so; and told them, moreover, that we were
desirous to rescue their children from ignorance and infamy. I had a
bundle of clothes for the children, which I offered to Mrs. Graffam, on
condition that she would keep them clean; never allowing them to be
worn in their own dirty hut, but saved expressly for the Sabbath
school. Then I talked to her faithfully of her own evil ways, (for I
had heard that she picked berries upon the Sabbath;) and what do you
suppose the poor wretch did? Why she turned from the dying bed of her
child, and looked Mrs. Motley and myself in the face, as though we were
common acquaintances. 'Madam,' said she, 'your religion is not to my
taste. I prefer our present ignorance, and even infamy, to what you
have offered this morning. As for picking berries upon the Sabbath, I
must refer that to Him of whom, I must confess, I know too little; but
my parents taught me that God is just, and I believe that he will
justly judge between the rich who pay their laborers in that which is
neither money nor bread, and the mother who, for lack of bread, must
break the Sabbath.' Think what an impudent thrust at Mrs. Motley!--her
husband allows Graffam to take up the most of his wages in rum, I
suppose. It was evident that this Mrs. Graffam was no subject for
charity--she was too ungrateful and too insolent; so we came away,
bringing the things with us. The child died, and they would not have
Mr. Cotting to attend the funeral. Graffam went for old Mr. Sliver, who
sat in silence with the family for about half an hour, and then was
'moved upon' to pray. The sexton said that Graffam and his wife sobbed
aloud; but I have never ventured there again."
Dora and Emma now rose to depart, and in going away met Mr. Cotting at
the door. Emma felt herself indebted to her minister, and, with the
cordiality of true Christian friendship, returned his greeting.
"We are going to visit the family upon the plain," said she, as Mr.
Cotting unfastened their horse, and was about to turn him the other
way.
"Are you?" inquired he, "that is what I have not done myself, as yet;
Mrs. Cotting received so ungracious a reception, that it rather
discouraged me; if you are upon a visit of charity I hope that you will
be better received."
"_Charity_ ought to be kindly received everywhere," replied Emma,
"since she is long-suffering and kind herself, not easily provoked, and
certainly not provoking, because she never behaves herself unseemly."
"No," replied the minister, thoughtfully; "it is strange that true
charity should be distasteful to any one." Then offering his hand, as
he bade them good-by, he said to Emma, "I hope, my dear, that this
charity abounds in you."
"O no," she replied, "it does not _abound_--although, I trust, it has a
home in my poor heart."
Emma found the door of poor Graffam's hut open, and the mother sitting
beside the cradle where lay the sick babe asleep.
"Walk in," said Mrs. Graffam, smiling as she advanced toward the door.
Dora was surprised at the ease of her manner, and the pleasant
expression of her countenance, as she handed them chairs, and seemed
really glad to see them.
"The babe is better," said she, as Emma advanced toward the cradle; and
at that moment the little one awoke.
The good motherly Dora took the "wee bit" into her arms, and talked
with Mrs. Graffam about the best course to be pursued with a feeble
child like that, while Emma unpacked the stores which they brought,
among which were many things not intended for baby, but which she
delicately classed with the rest, calling the whole "medicine."
Mrs. Graffam was at first somewhat reserved; but as Dora talked to her
as a friend and sister, the frost of her spirit melted away, and she
spoke of her mother now dead, of brothers and sisters, some dead and
some far away: and as she grew thus communicative, and the tears of
fond recollection trembled in her eyes, Dora talked of Him, the dear
unfailing friend, who sticketh closer than a brother; who, in all the
afflictions of his people, is afflicted, and the angel of whose
presence is with them to comfort and to bless.
Then poor Mrs. Graffam wept much, saying that she needed just such a
friend. And when they went away, she wrapped the babe in a shawl, and,
taking it in her arms, went with them to the road where they had left
their horse.
"You will come and see me again, won't you?" she asked.
And Emma replied, "Yes, Mrs. Graffam; _I_ will come as long as I am
able, and when I am not, you must come and see me."
"I will," was the warm reply; "I would walk miles to see you, if you
were sick."