Amongst the many thousand readers of these tales, there are perhaps few
who have not observed that the object of the writers is frequently of a
higher kind than that of merely contributing to their amusement. They
would wish "to point a moral," while they endeavour to "adorn a tale."
It is with this view that I now lay before them the history of a SEEKER.
The first time I remember hearing, or rather of noticing the term, was
in a conversation with a living author respecting the merits of a
popular poet, when, his religious opinions being adverted to, it was
mentioned that, in a letter to a brother poet of equal celebrity, he
described himself as a SEEKER. I was struck with the word and its
application. I had never met with the fool who saith in his heart that
there is no God; and though I had known many deniers of revelation, yet
a SEEKER, in the sense in which the word was applied, appeared a new
character. But, on reflection, I found it an epithet applicable to
thousands, and adopted it as a title to our present story.
Richard Storie was the eldest son of a Dissenting minister, who had the
pastoral charge of a small congregation a few miles from Hawick. His
father was not what the world calls a man of talent, but he possessed
what is far beyond talents--piety and humanity. In his own heart he felt
his Bible to be true--its words were as a lamp within him; and from his
heart he poured forth its doctrines, its hopes, and consolations, to
others, with a fervour and an earnestness which Faith only can inspire.
It is not the thunder of declamation, the pomp of eloquence, the majesty
of rhetoric, the rounded period, and the glow of imagery, which can
chain the listening soul, and melt down the heart of the unbeliever, as
metals yield to the heat of the furnace. Show me the hoary-headed
preacher, who carries sincerity in his very look and in his very tones,
who is animated because faith inspires him, and out of the fulness of
his own heart his mouth speaketh, and there is the man from whose tongue
truth floweth as from the lips of an apostle; and the small still voice
of conscience echoes to his words, while hope burns, and the judgment
becomes convinced. Where faith is not in the preacher, none will be
produced in the hearer. Such a man was the father of Richard Storie. He
had fulfilled his vows, and prayed with and for his children. He set
before them the example of a Christian parent, and he rejoiced to
perceive that that example was not lost upon them.
We pass over the earlier years of Richard Storie, as during that period
he had not become a SEEKER, nor did he differ from other children of his
age. There was indeed a thoughtfulness and sensibility about his
character; but these were by no means so remarkable as to require
particular notice, nor did they mark his boyhood in a peculiar degree.
The truths which from his childhood he had been accustomed to hear from
his father's lips, he had never doubted; but he felt their truth as he
felt his father's love, for both had been imparted to him together. He
had fixed upon the profession of a surgeon, and at the age of eighteen
he was sent to Edinburgh to attend the classes. He was a zealous
student, and his progress realized the fondest wishes and anticipations
of his parent. It was during his second session that Richard was
induced, by some of his fellow collegians, to become a member of a
debating society. It was composed of many bold and ambitious young men,
who, in the confidence of their hearts, rashly dared to meddle with
things too high for them. There were many amongst them who regarded it
as a proof of manliness to avow their scepticism, and who gloried in
scoffing at the eternal truths which had lighted the souls of their
fathers when the darkness of death fell upon their eyelids. It is one of
the besetting sins of youth to appear wise above what is written. There
were many such amongst those with whom Richard Storie now associated.
From them he first heard the truths which had been poured into his
infant ear from his father's lips attacked, and the tongue of the
scoffer rail against them. His first feeling was horror, and he
shuddered at the impiety of his friends. He rose to combat their
objections and refute their arguments, but he withdrew not from the
society of the wicked. Week succeeded week, and he became a leading
member of the club. He was no longer filled with horror at the bold
assertions of the avowed sceptic, nor did he manifest disgust at the
ribald jest. As night silently and imperceptibly creeps through the air,
deepening shade on shade, till the earth lies buried in its darkness, so
had the gloom of _Doubt_ crept over his mind, deepening and darkening,
till his soul was bewildered in the sunless darkness.
The members acted as chairman of the society in rotation, and, in his
turn, the office fell upon Eichard Storie. For the first time, he seemed
to feel conscious of the darkness in which his spirit was enveloped;
conscience haunted him as a hound followeth its prey; and still its
small still voice whispered,
"Who sitteth in the scorner's chair."
The words seemed burning on his memory. He tried to forget them, to
chase them away--to speak of, to listen to other things; but he could
not. "_Who sitteth in the scorner's chair_" rose upon his mind as if
printed before him--as if he heard the words from his father's
tongue--as though they would rise to his own lips. He was troubled--his
conscience smote him--the darkness in which his soul was shrouded was
made visible. He left his companions--he hastened to his lodgings, and
wept. But his tears brought not back the light which had been
extinguished within him, nor restored the hopes which the pride and the
rashness of reason had destroyed. He had become the willing prisoner of
_Doubt_, and it now held him in its cold and iron grasp, struggling in
despair.
Reason, or rather the self-sufficient arrogance of fancied talent which
frequently assumes its name, endeavoured to suppress the whisperings of
conscience in his breast; and in such a state of mind was Richard
Storie, when he was summoned to attend the death-bed of his father. It
was winter, and the snow lay deep on the ground, and there was no
conveyance to Hawick until the following day; but, ere the morrow came,
eternity might be between him and his parent. He had wandered from the
doctrines that parent had taught, but no blight had yet fallen on the
affections of his heart. He hurried forth on foot; and having travelled
all night in sorrow and anxiety, before daybreak he arrived at the home
of his infancy. Two of the elders of the congregation stood before the
door.
"Ye are just in time, Mr. Richard," said one of them mournfully, "for
he'll no be lang now; and he has prayed earnestly that he might only be
spared till ye arrived."
Richard wept aloud.
"Oh, try and compose yoursel', dear sir," said the elder. "Your distress
may break the peace with which he's like to pass away. It's a sair
trial, nae doubt--a visitation to us a'; but ye ken, Richard, we must
not mourn as those who have no hope."
"Hope!" groaned the agonized son as he entered the house. He went
towards the room where his father lay; his mother and his brethren sat
weeping around the bed.
"Richard!" said his afflicted mother as she rose and flung her arms
around his neck. The dying man heard the name of his first-born, his
languid eyes brightened, he endeavoured to raise himself upon his
pillow, he stretched forth his feeble hand. "Richard!--my own Richard!"
he exclaimed; "ye hae come, my son; my prayer is heard, and I can die in
peace! I longed to see ye, for my spirit was troubled upon yer
account--sore and sadly troubled; for there were expressions in yer last
letter that made me tremble--that made me fear that the pride o' human
learning was lifting up the heart o' my bairn, and leading his judgment
into the dark paths o' error and unbelief; but oh! these tears are not
the tears of an unbeliever!"
He sank back exhausted. Richard trembled. He again raised his head.
"Get the books," said he feebly, "and Richard will make worship. It is
the last time we shall all join together in praise on this earth, and it
will be the last time I shall hear the voice o' my bairn in prayer, and
it is long since I heard it. Sing the hymn,
'The hour of my departure's come,'
and read the twenty-third psalm."
Richard did as his dying parent requested; and as he knelt by the
bedside, and lifted up his voice in prayer, his conscience smote him,
agony pierced his soul, and his tongue faltered. He now became a Seeker,
seeking mercy and truth at the same moment; and, in the agitation of his
spirit, his secret thoughts were revealed, his doubts were manifested! A
deep groan issued from the dying-bed. The voice of the supplicant failed
him--his _amen_ died upon his lips; he started to his feet in confusion.
"My son! my son!" feebly cried the dying man, "ye hae lifted yer eyes to
the mountains o' vanity, and the pride o' reason has darkened yer heart,
but, as yet, it has not hardened it. Oh Richard! remember the last words
o' yer dying faither: 'Seek, and ye shall find.' Pray with an humble and
a contrite heart, and in yer last hour ye will hae, as I hae now, a
licht to guide ye through the dark valley of the shadow of death."
He called his wife and his other children around him--he blessed
them--he strove to comfort them--he committed them to his care who is
the Husband of the widow and the Father of the fatherless. The lustre
that lighted up his eyes for a moment, as he besought a blessing on
them, vanished away, his head sank back upon his pillow, a low moan was
heard, and his spirit passed into peace.
His father's death threw a blight upon the prospects of Richard. He no
longer possessed the means of prosecuting his studies; and in order to
support himself and assist his mother, he engaged himself as tutor in
the family of a gentleman in East Lothian. But there his doubts followed
him, and melancholy sat upon his breast. He had thoughtlessly, almost
imperceptibly, stepped into the gloomy paths of unbelief, and anxiously
he groped to retrace his steps; but it was as a blind man stumbles; and
in wading through the maze of controversy for a guide, his way became
more intricate, and the darkness of his mind more intense. He repented
that he had ever listened to the words of the scoffer, or sat in the
chair of the scorner; but he had permitted the cold mists of scepticism
to gather round his mind, till even the affections of his heart became
blighted by their influence. He was now a solitary man, shunning
society; and at those hours when his pupils were not under his charge,
he would wander alone in the wood or by the river, brooding over
unutterable thoughts, and communing with despair; for he sought not, as
is the manner of many, to instil the poison that had destroyed his own
peace into the minds of others. He carried his punishment in his soul,
and was silent--in the soul that was doubting its own existence! Of all
hypochondriacs, to me the unbeliever seems the most absurd. For can
matter think? can it reason, can it doubt? Is it not the thing that
doubts which distrusts its own being? Often when he so wandered, the
last words of his father--"Seek, and ye shall find"--were whispered in
his heart, as though the spirit of the departed breathed them over him.
Then would he raise his hands in agony, and his prayer rose from the
solitude of the woods.
After acting about two years as tutor, he returned to Edinburgh and
completed his studies. Having with difficulty, from the scantiness of
his means, obtained his diplomas, he commenced practice in his native
village. His brothers and his sisters had arrived at manhood and
womanhood, and his mother enjoyed a small annuity. Almost from boyhood
he had been deeply attached to Agnes Brown, the daughter of a
neighbouring farmer; and about three years after he had commenced
practice, she bestowed on him her hand. She was all that his heart could
wish--meek, gentle, and affectionate; and her anxious love threw a
gleam of sunshine over the melancholy that had settled upon his soul.
Often, when he fondly gazed in her eyes, where affection beamed, the
hope of immortality would flash through his bosom; for one so good, so
made of all that renders virtue dear, but to be born to die and to be no
more, he deemed impossible. They had been married about nine years, and
Agnes had become the mother of five fair children, when in one day death
entered their dwelling, and robbed them of two of their little ones. The
neighbours had gathered together to comfort them, and the mother in
silent anguish wept over her babes; but the father stood tearless and
stricken with grief, as though his hopes were sealed up in the coffin of
his children. In his agony he uttered words of strange meaning. The
doubts of the Seeker burst forth in the accents of despair. The
neighbours gazed at each other. They had before had doubts of the
religious principles of Dr. Storie; now those doubts were confirmed.
Many began to regard him as an unsafe man to visit a death-bed, where he
might attempt to rob the dying of the everlasting hope which enables
them to triumph over the last enemy. His practice fell off, and the
wants of his family increased. He was no longer able to maintain an
appearance of respectability. His circumstances aggravated the gloom of
his mind; and for a time he became, not a Seeker, but one who abandoned
himself to callousness and despair. Even the affection of his
wife--which knew no change, but rather increased as affliction and
misfortune came upon them--with the smiles and affection of his
children, became irksome. Their love increased his misery. His own house
was all but forsaken, and the blacksmith's shop became his consulting
room, the village alehouse his laboratory. Misery and contempt
heightened the "shadows, clouds, and darkness" which rested on his
mind. To his anguish and excitement he had now added habits of
intemperance; his health became a wreck, and he sank upon his bed, a
miserable and a ruined man. The shadow of death seemed lowering over
him, and he lay trembling, shrinking from its approach, shuddering and
brooding over the cheerless, the horrible thought--_annihilation_! But,
even then, his poor Agnes watched over him with a love stronger than
death. She strove to cheer him with the thought that he would still
live--that they would again be happy. "Oh my husband!" cried she fondly,
"yield not to despair; _seek, and ye shall find_!"
"Oh heavens, Agnes!" exclaimed he, "I have sought!--I have sought! I
have been a SEEKER until now; but Truth flees from me, Hope mocks me,
and the terrors of Death only find me!"
"Kneel with me, my children," she cried; "let us pray for mercy and
peace of mind for your poor father!" And the fond wife and her offspring
knelt around the bed where her husband lay. A gleam of joy passed over
the sick man's countenance, as the voice of her supplication rose upon
his ear, and a ray of hope fell upon his heart. "_Amen_!" he uttered as
she arose; and "_Amen_!" responded their children.
On the bed of sickness his heart had been humbled; he had, as it were,
seen death face to face; and the nearer it approached, the stronger
assurances did he feel of the immortality he had dared to doubt. He
arose from his bed a new man; hope illumined, and faith began to glow in
his bosom. His doubts were vanquished, his fears dispelled. He had
sought, and at length found the hopes of the Christian.