Nearly a mile from the small, straggling village of Chattanooga stood
Aaron Hunt's shop, shaded by a grove of oak and chestnut trees, which
grew upon the knoll, where two roads intersected. Like the majority of
blacksmith's shops at country cross-roads, it was a low, narrow shed,
filled with dust and rubbish, with old wheels and new single-trees,
broken plows and dilapidated wagons awaiting repairs, and at the rear
of the shop stood a smaller shed, where an old gray horse quietly ate
his corn and fodder, waiting to carry the master to his home, two miles
distant, as soon as the sun had set beyond the neighboring mountain.
Early in winter, having an unusual amount of work on hand, Mr. Hunt
hurried away from home one morning, neglecting to take the bucket which
contained his dinner, and Edna was sent to repair the oversight.
Accustomed to ramble about the woods without companionship, she walked
leisurely along the rocky road, swinging the tin bucket in one hand,
and pausing now and then to watch the shy red-birds that flitted like
flame-jets in and out of the trees as she passed. The unbroken repose
of earth and sky, the cold, still atmosphere and peaceful sunshine,
touched her heart with a sense of quiet but pure happiness, and half
unconsciously she began a hymn which her grandfather often sang over
his anvil:
"Lord, in the morning Thou shalt hear
My voice ascending high;
To Thee will I direct my prayer,
To Thee lift up mine eye."
Ere the first verse was ended, the clatter of a horse's hoofs hushed
her song, and she glanced up as a harsh voice asked impatiently:
"Are you stone deaf? I say, is there a blacksmith's shop near?"
The rider reined in his horse, a spirited, beautiful animal, and waited
for an answer.
"Yes, sir. There is a shop about half a mile ahead, on the right hand
side, where the road forks."
He just touched his hat with the end of his gloved fingers and galloped
on. When Edna reached the shop she saw her grandfather examining the
horse's shoes, while the stranger walked up and down the road before
the forge. He was a very tall, strong man, with a gray shawl thrown
over one shoulder, and a black fur hat drawn so far over his face that
only the lower portion was visible; and this, swarthy and harsh, left a
most disagreeable impression on the child's mind as she passed him and
went up to the spot where Mr. Hunt was at work. Putting the bucket
behind her, she stooped, kissed him on his furrowed forehead, and said:
"Grandpa, guess what brought me to see you to-day?"
"I forgot my dinner, and you have trudged over here to bring it. Ain't
I right, Pearl? Stand back, honey, or this Satan of a horse may kick
your brains out. I can hardly manage him."
Here the stranger uttered an oath, and called out, "How much longer do
you intend to keep me waiting?"
"No longer, sir, than I can help, as I like the company of polite
people."
"Oh, grandpa!" whispered Edna, deprecatingly, as she saw the traveller
come rapidly forward and throw his shawl down on the grass. Mr. Hunt
pushed back his old battered woolen hat, and looked steadily at the
master of the horse--saying gravely and resolutely:
"I'll finish the job as soon as I can, and that is as much as any
reasonable man would ask. Now, sir, if that doesn't suit you, you can
take your horse and put out, and swear at somebody else, for I won't
stand it."
"It is a cursed nuisance to be detained here for such a trifle as one
shoe, and you might hurry yourself."
"Your horse is very restless and vicious, and I could shoe two gentle
ones while I am trying to quiet him."
The man muttered something indistinctly, and laying his hand heavily on
the horse's mane, said very sternly a few words, which were utterly
unintelligible to his human listeners, though they certainly exerted a
magical influence over the fiery creature, who, savage as the pampered
pets of Diomedes, soon stood tranquil and contented, rubbing his head
against his master's shoulder. Repelled by the rude harshness of this
man, Edna walked into the shop, and watched the silent group outside,
until the work was finished and Mr. Hunt threw down his tools and wiped
his face.
"What do I owe you?" said the impatient rider, springing to his saddle,
and putting his hand into his vest pocket.
"I charge nothing for 'such trifles' as that."
"But I am in the habit of paying for my work."
"It is not worth talking about. Good day, sir."
Mr. Hunt turned and walked into his shop.
"There is a dollar, it is the only small change I have." He rode up to
the door of the shed, threw the small gold coin toward the blacksmith,
and was riding rapidly away, when Edna darted after him, exclaiming,
"Stop, sir! you have left your shawl!"
He turned in the saddle, and even under the screen of her calico bonnet
she felt the fiery gleam of his eyes, as he stooped to take the shawl
from her hand. Once more his fingers touched his hat, he bowed and said
hastily:
"I thank you, child." Then spurring his horse, he was out of sight in a
moment.
"He is a rude, blasphemous, wicked man," said Mr. Hunt as Edna
reentered the shop, and picked up the coin, which lay glistening amid
the cinders around the anvil.
"Why do you think him wicked?"
"No good man swears as he did, before you came; and didn't you notice
the vicious, wicked expression of his eyes?"
"No, sir, I did not see much of his face, he never looked at me but
once. I should not like to meet him again; I am afraid of him."
"Never fear, Pearl, he is a stranger here, and there's little chance of
your ever setting your eyes on his ugly, savage face again. Keep the
money, dear; I won't have it after all the airs he put on. If, instead
of shoeing his wild brute, I had knocked the fellow down for his
insolence in cursing me, it would have served him right. Politeness is
a cheap thing; and a poor man, if he behaves himself, and does his work
well, is as much entitled to it as the President."
"I will give the dollar to grandma, to buy a new coffee-pot; for she
said to-day the old one was burnt out, and she could not use it any
longer. But what is that yonder on the grass? That man left something
after all."
She picked up from the spot where he had thrown his shawl a handsome
morocco-bound pocket copy of Dante, and opening it to discover the name
of the owner, she saw written on the fly-leaf in a bold and beautiful
hand, "S. E. M., Boboli Gardens, Florence. Lasciate ogni speranza voi
ch' entrate."
"What does this mean, grandpa?"
She held up the book and pointed out the words of the dread inscription.
"Indeed, Pearl, how should I know? It is Greek, or Latin, or Dutch,
like the other outlandish gibberish he talked to that devilish horse.
He must have spent his life among the heathens, to judge from his talk;
for he has neither manner nor religion. Honey, better put the book
there in the furnace; it is not fit for your eyes."
"He may come back for it if he misses it pretty soon."
"Not he. One might almost believe that he was running from the law. He
would not turn back for it if it was bound in gold instead of leather.
It is no account, I'll warrant, or he would not have been reading it,
the ill-mannered heathen!"
Weeks passed, and as the owner was not heard of again, Edna felt that
she might justly claim as her own this most marvellous of books, which,
though beyond her comprehension, furnished a source of endless wonder
and delight. The copy was Gary's translation, with illustrations
designed by Flaxman; and many of the grand, gloomy passages were
underlined by pencil and annotated in the unknown tongue, which so
completely baffled her curiosity. Night and day she pored over this new
treasure; sometimes dreaming of the hideous faces that scowled at her
from the solemn, mournful pages; and anon, when startled from sleep by
these awful visions, she would soothe herself to rest by murmuring the
metrical version of the Lord's Prayer contained in the "Purgatory."
Most emphatically did Mrs. Hunt disapprove of the studious and
contemplative habits of the ambitious child, who she averred was
indulging dreams and aspirations far above her station in life, and
well calculated to dissatisfy her with her humble, unpretending home
and uninviting future. Education, she contended, was useless to poor
people, who could not feed and clothe themselves with "book learning;"
and experience had taught her that those who lounged about with books
in their hands generally came to want, and invariably to harm. It was
in vain that she endeavored to convince her husband of the impropriety
of permitting the girl to spend so much time over her books; he finally
put the matter at rest by declaring that, in his opinion, Edna was a
remarkable child; and if well educated, might even rise to the position
of teacher for the neighborhood, which would confer most honorable
distinction upon the family. Laying his brawny hand fondly on her head,
he said, tenderly:
"Let her alone, wife! let her alone! You will make us proud of you,
won't you, little Pearl, when you are smart enough to teach a school? I
shall be too old to work by that time, and you will take care of me,
won't you, my little mocking-bird?"
"Oh, Grandy; that I will. But do you really think I ever shall have
sense enough to be a teacher? You know I ought to learn everything, and
I have so few books."
"To be sure you will. Remember there is always a way where there's a
will. When I pay off the debt I owe Peter Wood, I will see what we can
do about some new books. Put on your shawl now, Pearl, and hunt up old
Brindle, it is milking time, and she is not in sight."
"Grandpa, are you sure you feel better this evening?" She plunged her
fingers in his thick white hair, and rubbed her round, rosy cheek
softly against his.
"Oh! yes, I am better. Hurry back, Pearl, I want you to read to me."
It was a bright day in January, and the old man sat in a large
rocking-chair on the porch, smoking his pipe, and sunning himself in
the last rays of the sinking sun. He had complained all day of not
feeling well, and failed to go to his work as usual; and now, as his
grandchild tied her pink calico bonnet under her chin, and wrapped
herself in her faded plaid shawl, he watched her with a tender, loving
light in his keen gray eyes. She kissed him, buttoned his shirt collar,
which had become unfastened, drew his homespun coat closer to his
throat, and springing down the steps bounded away in search of the cow,
who often strayed so far off that she was dispatched to drive her home.
In the grand, peaceful, solemn woods, through which the wintry wind now
sighed in a soothing monotone, the child's spirit reached an exaltation
which, had she lived two thousand years earlier, and roamed amid the
vales and fastnesses of classic Arcadia, would have vented itself in
dithyrambics to the great "Lord of the Hyle," the Greek "All," the
horned and hoofed god, Pan. In every age, and among all people--from
the Parsee devotees and the Gosains of India to the Pantheism of Bruno,
Spinoza, and New England's "Illuminati"--nature has been apotheosized;
and the heart of the blacksmith's untutored darling stirred with the
same emotions of awe and adoration which thrilled the worshipers of
Hertha, when the veiled chariot stood in Helgeland, and which made the
groves and grottoes of Phrygia sacred to Dindymene. Edna loved trees
and flowers, stars and clouds, with a warm, clinging affection, as she
loved those of her own race; and that solace and amusement which most
children find in the society of children and the sports of childhood
this girl derived from the solitude and serenity of nature. To her
woods and fields were indeed vocal, and every flitting bird and
gurgling brook, every passing cloud and whispering breeze, brought
messages of God's eternal love and wisdom, and drew her tender,
yearning heart more closely to Jehovah, the Lord God Omnipotent.
To-day, in the boundless reverence and religious enthusiasm of her
character, she directed her steps to a large spreading oak, now
leafless, where in summer she often came to read and pray; and here
falling on her knees she thanked God for the blessings showered upon
her. Entirely free from discontent and querulousness, she was
thoroughly happy in her poor humble home, and over all, like a
consecration, shone the devoted love for her grandfather, which more
than compensated for any want of which she might otherwise have been
conscious. Accustomed always to ask special favor for him, his name now
passed her lips in earnest supplication, and she fervently thanked the
Father that his threatened illness had been arrested without serious
consequences. The sun had gone down when she rose and hurried on in
search of the cow. The shadows of a winter evening gathered in the
forest and climbed like trooping spirits up the rocky mountain side,
and as she plunged deeper and deeper into the woods, the child began a
wild cattle call that she was wont to use on such occasions. The echoes
rang out a weird Brocken chorus, and at last, when she was growing
impatient of the fruitless search, she paused to listen, and heard the
welcome sound of the familiar lowing, by which the old cow recognized
her summons. Following the sound, Edna soon saw the missing favorite
coming slowly toward her, and ere many moments both were running
homeward. As she approached the house, driving Brindle before her, and
merrily singing her rude 'Ranz des vaches', the moon rose full and
round, and threw a flood of light over the porch where the blacksmith
still sat. Edna took off her bonnet and waved it at him, but he did not
seem to notice the signal, and driving the cow into the yard, she
called out as she latched the gate:
"Grandy, dear, why don't you go in to the fire? Are you waiting for me,
out here in the cold? I think Brindle certainly must have been cropping
grass around the old walls of Jericho, as that is the farthest off of
any place I know. If she is half as tired and hungry as I am, she ought
to be glad to get home." He did not answer, and running up the steps
she thought he had fallen asleep. The old woolen hat shaded his face,
but when she crept on tiptoe to the chair, stooped, put her arms around
him, and kissed his wrinkled cheek, she started back in terror. The
eyes stared at the moon, the stiff fingers clutched the pipe from which
the ashes had not been shaken, and the face was cold and rigid. Aaron
Hunt had indeed fallen asleep, to wake no more amid the storms and woes
and tears of time.
Edna fell on her knees and grasped the icy hands. "Grandpa! wake up!
Oh, grandpa! speak to me, your little Pearl! Wake up! dear Grandy! I
have come back! My grandpa! Oh!--"
A wild, despairing cry rent the still evening air, and shrieked
dismally back from the distant hills and the gray, ghostly
mountain--and the child fell on her face at the dead man's feet.
Throughout that dreary night of agony, Edna lay on the bed where her
grandfather's body had been placed, holding one of the stiffened hands
folded in both hers, and pressed against her lips. She neither wept nor
moaned, the shock was too terrible to admit of noisy grief; but
completely stunned, she lay mute and desolate.
For the first time in her life she could not pray; she wanted to turn
away from the thought of God and heaven, for it seemed that she had
nothing left to pray for. That silver-haired, wrinkled old man was the
only father she had ever known; he had cradled her in his sinewy arms,
and slept clasping her to his heart; had taught her to walk, and
surrounded her with his warm, pitying love, making a home of peace and
blessedness for her young life. Giving him, in return, the whole wealth
of her affection, he had become the centre of all her hopes, joys and
aspirations; now what remained? Bitter, rebellious feelings hardened
her heart when she remembered that even while she was kneeling,
thanking God for his preservation from illness, he had already passed
away; nay, his sanctified spirit probably poised its wings close to the
Eternal Throne, and listened to the prayer which she sent up to God for
his welfare and happiness and protection while on earth. The souls of
our dead need not the aid of Sandalphon to interpret the whispers that
rise tremulously from the world of sin and wrestling, that float up
among the stars, through the gates of pearl, down the golden streets of
the New Jerusalem. So we all trust, and prate of our faith, and deceive
ourselves with the fond hope that we are resigned to the Heavenly Will;
and we go on with a show of Christian reliance, while the morning sun
smiles in gladness and plenty, and the hymn of happy days and the dear
voices of our loved ones make music in our ears; and lo! God puts us in
the crucible. The light of life--the hope of all future years is
blotted out; clouds of despair and the grim night of an unbroken and
unlifting desolation fall like a pall on heart and brain; we dare not
look heavenward, dreading another blow; our anchor drags, we drift out
into a hideous Dead Sea, where our idol has gone down forever--and
boasted faith and trust and patience are swept like straws from our
grasp in the tempest of woe; while our human love cries wolfishly for
its lost darling. Ah! we build grand and gloomy mausoleums for our
precious dead hopes, but, like Artemisia, we refuse to sepulchre--we
devour the bitter ashes of the lost, and grimly and audaciously
challenge Jehovah to take the worthless, mutilated life that his wisdom
reserves for other aims and future toils. Job's wife is immortal and
ubiquitous, haunting the sorrow-shrouded chamber of every stricken
human soul, and fiendishly prompting the bleeding, crushed spirit to
"curse God and die." Edna had never contemplated the possibility of her
grandfather's death--it was a horror she had never forced herself to
front; and now that he was cut down in an instant, without even the
mournful consolation of parting words and farewell kisses, she asked
herself again and again: "What have I done, that God should punish me
so? I thought I was grateful, I thought I was doing my duty; but oh!
what dreadful sin have I committed, to deserve this awful affliction?"
During the long, ghostly watches of that winter night, she recalled her
past life, gilded by the old man's love, and could remember no
happiness with which he was not intimately connected, and no sorrow
that his hand had not soothed and lightened. The future was now a
blank, crossed by no projected paths, lit with no ray of hope; and at
daylight, when the cold, pale morning showed the stony face of the
corpse at her side, her unnatural composure broke up in a storm of
passionate woe, and she sprang to her feet, almost frantic with the
sense of her loss:
"All alone! nobody to love me; nothing to look forward to! Oh. grandpa!
did you hear me praying for you yesterday? Dear Grandy--my own dear
Grandy! I did pray for you while you were dying--here alone! Oh, my
God! what have I done, that you should take him away from me? Was not I
on my knees when he died? Oh! what will become of me now? Nobody to
care for Edna now! Oh, grandpa! grandpa! beg Jesus to ask God to take
me too!" And throwing up her clasped hands, she sank back insensible on
the shrouded form of the dead.
"When some beloved voice that was to you
Both sound and sweetness, faileth suddenly,
And silence against which you dare not cry,
Aches round you like a strong disease and new--
What hope? what help? what music will undo
That silence to your senses? Not friendship's sigh,
Not reason's subtle count. Nay, none of these!
Speak Thou, availing Christ! and fill this pause."