LAST WORDS.
WE know it is fashionable to drop the curtain over a new-married pair
as they recede from the altar, but we cannot but hope our readers may
have by this time enough of interest in our little history to wish for
a few words on the lot of the personages whose acquaintance they have
thereby made.
The conjectures of Miss Prissy in regard to the house which was to be
built for the new-married pair were as speedily as possible realized.
On a beautiful elevation, a little out of the town of Newport, rose a
fair and stately mansion, whose windows overlooked the harbour, and
whose wide cool rooms were adorned by the constant presence of the
sweet face and form which has been the guiding-star of our story.
The fair poetic maiden, the seeress, the saint, has passed into that
appointed shrine for woman, more holy than cloister, more saintly and
pure than church or altar—_a Christian home_. Priestess, wife, and
mother, there she ministers daily in holy works of household peace, and
by faith and prayer and love redeems from grossness and earthliness the
common toils and wants of life.
The gentle guiding force that led James Marvyn from the maxims and
habits and ways of this world to the higher conception of an heroic and
Christ-like manhood was still ever present with him, gently touching
the springs of life, brooding peacefully with dove-like wings over his
soul, and he grew up under it noble in purpose and strong in spirit. He
was one of the most energetic and fearless supporters of the Doctor in
his life-long warfare against an inhumanity which was entrenched in all
the mercantile interest of the day, and which at last fell before the
force of conscience and moral appeal.
Candace, in time, transferred her allegiance to the growing family of
her young master and mistress; and predominated proudly, in gorgeous
raiment and butterfly turban, over a rising race of young Marvyns. All
the cares not needed by them were bestowed on the somewhat garrulous
old age of Cato, whose never-failing cough furnished occupation for all
her spare hours and thought.
As for our friend the Doctor, we trust our readers will appreciate the
magnanimity with which he proved a real and disinterested love, in a
point where so many men experience only the graspings of a selfish one.
A mind so severely trained as his had been brings to a great crisis,
involving severe self-denial, an amount of reserved moral force quite
inexplicable to those less habituated to self-control. He was like a
warrior whose sleep even was in armour, always ready to be roused to
the conflict.
In regard to his feelings for Mary, he made the sacrifice of himself to
her happiness so wholly and thoroughly that there was not a moment of
weak hesitation—no going back over the past—no vain regret. Generous
and brave souls find a support in such actions, because the very
exertion raises them to a higher and purer plane of existence.
His diary records the event only in these very calm and temperate
words:—‘It was a trial to me—a _very great_ trial; but as she did not
deceive me, I shall never lose my friendship for her.’
The Doctor was always a welcome inmate in the house of Mary and James,
as a friend revered and dear. Nor did he want in time a hearthstone of
his own, where a bright and loving face made him daily welcome; for we
find that he married at last a woman of a fair countenance, and that
sons and daughters grew up around him.
In time, also, his theological system was published. In that day it was
customary to dedicate new or important works to the patronage of some
distinguished or powerful individual. The Doctor had no earthly patron.
Four or five simple lines are found in the commencement of his work, in
which, in a spirit reverential and affectionate, he dedicates it to
our Lord Jesus Christ, praying Him to accept the good, and to overrule
the errors to His glory.
Quite unexpectedly to himself the work proved a success, not only in
public acceptance and esteem, but even in a temporal view, bringing
to him at last a modest competence, which he accepted with surprise
and gratitude. To the last of a very long life he was the same steady
undiscouraged worker, the same calm witness against popular sins and
proclaimer of unpopular truths, ever saying and doing what he saw to
be eternally true and right, without the slightest consultation with
worldly expediency or earthly gain, nor did his words cease to work in
New England till the evils he opposed were finally done away.
Colonel Burr leaves the scene of our story to pursue those brilliant
and unscrupulous political intrigues so well known to the historian
of those times, and whose results were so disastrous to himself. His
duel with the ill-fated Hamilton, and the awful retribution of public
opinion that followed—the slow downward course of a doomed life, are
all on record. Chased from society, pointed at everywhere by the finger
of hatred, so accursed in common esteem that even the publican who
lodged him for a night refused to accept his money when he knew his
name, heart-stricken in his domestic relation, his only daughter taken
by pirates, and dying in untold horrors,—one seems to see in a doom so
much above that of other men the power of an avenging Nemesis for sins
beyond those of ordinary humanity.
But we who have learned of Christ may humbly hope that these crushing
miseries in this life came not because he was a sinner above others,
not in wrath alone, but that the prayers of the sweet saint who
gave him to God even before his birth brought to him those friendly
adversities that thus might be slain in his soul the evil demon of
pride, which had been the opposing force to all that was noble within
him. Nothing is more affecting than the account of the last hours
of this man, whom a woman took in and cherished in his poverty and
weakness with that same heroic enthusiasm with which it was his lot to
inspire so many women. This humble keeper of lodgings was told that if
she retained Aaron Burr all her other lodgers would leave—‘Let them do
it then,’ she said, ‘but he shall remain.’ In the same uncomplaining
and inscrutable silence in which he had borne the reverses and miseries
of his life did this singular being pass through the shades of the
dark valley. The New Testament was always under his pillow, and when
alone he was often found reading it attentively, but of the result of
that communion with higher powers he said nothing. Patient, gentle,
and grateful he was, as to all his inner history, entirely silent
and impenetrable. He died with the request, which has a touching
significance, that he might be buried at the feet of those parents
whose sainted lives had finished so differently from his own.
‘No farther seek his errors to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode.’
Shortly after Mary’s marriage Madame de Frontignac sailed with her
husband to France, where they lived in a very retired way on a large
estate in the south of France. A close correspondence was kept up
between her and Mary for many years, from which we shall give our
readers a few extracts. The first is dated shortly after their return
to France.
* * * * *
‘At last, my sweet Marie, you behold us in peace after our wanderings.
I wish you could see our lovely nest in the hills, which overlooks
the Mediterranean, whose blue waters remind me of Newport harbour and
our old days there. Ah, my sweet saint, blessed was the day I first
learned to know you! for it was you more than anything else that kept
me back from sin and misery. I call you my Sibyl, dearest, because the
Sibyl was a prophetess of divine things out of the church; and so are
you. The Abbé says that all true, devout persons in all persuasions
belong to the true Catholic Apostolic Church, and will in the end be
enlightened to know it; what do you think of that, _ma belle_? I fancy
I see you look at me with your grave, innocent eyes, just as you used
to; but you say nothing.
‘I am far happier, _ma_ Marie, than I ever thought I could be. I took
your advice, and told my husband all I had felt and suffered. It was a
very hard thing to do; but I felt how true it was, as you said, there
could be no real friendship without perfect truth at bottom; so I told
him all, and he was very good, and noble, and helpful to me; and since
then he has been so gentle, and patient, and thoughtful, that no mother
could be kinder, and I should be a very bad woman if I did not love him
truly and dearly—I do.
‘I must confess that there is still a weak, bleeding place in my heart
that aches yet, but I try to bear it bravely; and when I am tempted
to think myself very miserable, I remember how patiently you used
to go about your housework and spinning in those sad days when you
thought your heart was drowned in the sea; and I try to do like you.
I have many duties to my servants and tenants, and mean to be a good
châtelaine; and I find when I nurse the sick and comfort the poor that
my sorrows seem lighter. For after all, Mary, I have lost nothing that
ever was mine—only my foolish heart has grown to something that it
should not, and bleeds at being torn away. Nobody but Christ and His
dear mother can tell what this sorrow is; but they know, and that is
enough.’
The next letter is dated some three years after.
‘You see me now, my Marie, a proud and happy woman. I was truly envious
when you wrote me of the birth of your little son; but now the dear
good God has sent a sweet little angel to me, to comfort my sorrows
and lie close to my heart; and since he came all pain is gone. Ah, if
you could see him! he has black eyes and lashes like silk, and such
little hands!—even his finger-nails are all perfect, like little gems;
and when he puts his little hand on my bosom I tremble with joy. Since
he came I pray always, and the good God seems very near to me. Now I
realize as I never did before the sublime thought that God revealed
himself in the infant Jesus; and I bow before the manger of Bethlehem
where the Holy Babe was laid. What comfort, what adorable condescension
for us mothers in that scene! My husband is so moved he can scarce stay
an hour from the cradle! He seems to look at me with a sort of awe,
because I know how to care for this precious treasure that he adores
without daring to touch. We are going to call him Henri, which is my
husband’s name and that of his ancestors for many generations back. I
vow for him an eternal friendship with the son of my little Marie; and
I shall try and train him up to be a brave man and a true Christian.
Ah, Marie, this gives me something to live for. My heart is full—a
whole new life opens before me!’
Somewhat later, another letter announces the birth of a daughter, and
later still, that of another son; but we shall only add one more,
written some years after, on hearing of the great reverse of popular
feeling towards Burr, subsequently to his duel with the ill-fated
Hamilton.
‘_Ma chère Marie_—Your letter has filled me with grief. My noble Henri,
who already begins to talk of himself as my protector (these boys feel
their manhood so soon, _ma Marie_), saw by my face when I read your
letter that something pained me, and he would not rest till I told
him something about it. Ah, Marie, how thankful I then felt that I
had nothing to blush for before my son! how thankful for those dear
children whose little hands had healed all the morbid places of my
heart, so that I could think of all the past without a pang! I told
Henri that the letter brought bad news of an old friend, but that it
pained me to speak of it; and you would have thought by the grave and
tender way he talked to his mamma that the boy was an experienced man
of forty, to say the least.
‘But Marie, how unjust is the world; how unjust both in praise and
blame! Poor Burr was the petted child of society: yesterday she doted
on him, flattered him, smiled on his faults, and let him do what he
would without reproof; to-day she flouts, and scorns, and scoffs him,
and refuses to see the least good in him. I know that man, Mary, and I
know that sinful as he may be before Infinite Purity, he is not so much
worse than all the other men of his time. Have I not been in America?
I know Jefferson; I knew poor Hamilton—peace be with the dead! Neither
of them had lives that could bear the sort of trial to which Burr’s is
subjected. When every secret fault, failing, and sin is dragged out and
held up without mercy, what man can stand?
‘But I know what irritates the world is that proud, disdainful calm
which will neither give sigh nor tear. It was not that he killed poor
Hamilton, but that he never seemed to care! Ah, there is that evil
demon of his life!—that cold, stoical pride, which haunts him like a
fate. But I know he _does_ feel; I know he is _not_ as hard at heart
as he tries to be; I have seen too many real acts of pity to the
unfortunate, of tenderness to the weak, of real love to his friends to
believe that. Great have been his sins against our sex, and God forbid
that the mother of children should speak lightly of them; but is not
so susceptible a temperament, and so singular a power to charm as he
possessed, to be taken into account in estimating his temptations?
Because he is a sinning man, it does not follow that he is a demon. If
any should have cause to think bitterly of him, I should. He trifled
inexcusably with my deepest feelings; he caused me years of conflict
and anguish, such as he little knows. I was almost shipwrecked; yet
I will still say to the last that what I loved in him was a better
self—something really noble and good, however concealed and perverted
by pride, ambition, and self-will. Though all the world reject him, I
still have faith in this better nature, and prayers that he may be led
right at last. There is at least one heart that will always intercede
with God for him.’
* * * * *
It is well known that for many years after Burr’s death the odium
that covered his name was so great that no monument was erected, lest
it should become a mark for popular violence. Subsequently, however,
in a mysterious manner a plain granite slab marked his grave; by
whom erected has been never known. It was placed in the night by
some friendly, unknown hand. A labourer in the vicinity, who first
discovered it, found lying near the spot a small porte-monnaie, which
had perhaps been used in paying for the workmanship. It contained no
papers that could throw any light on the subject, except the fragment
of the address of a letter, on which was written ‘Henri de Frontignac.’
THE END.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired. “Ain’t” is printed both with and
without the apostrophe. It’s also at times printed as “a’n’t”. This was
retained.
Text uses both Olladine and Ollodine for the spelling of Ms. Hocum’s
first name.
Page 52, “bacherlorhood” changed to “bachelorhood” (a late bachelorhood)
Page 109, the hyphen after “whole” was retained in “A
whole-woman’s-rights’ convention” as it was confirmed to be printed
that way in other editions of the same text.
Page 266, illustration “Eugenie” should be “Virginie”
Page 320, “rock” changed to “Rock” (just at Savin Rock)
Page 339, actual reference for “They looked unto Him, and were likened”
is “They looked unto Him, and were lightened” from Psalm 34:5.
Page 340, “mullens” changed to “mulleins” (clump of yellow mulleins)
End of Project Gutenberg's The Minister's Wooing, by Harriet Beecher Stowe