The seeds of virtue should be sown;
God will protect their growth.
Circumstances intervened to prevent the continuation of the “Tale” for
a short time but, on the evening of the Sabbath day, Herbert read a
sacred poem upon the subject of Christ’s restoring the sight of the
blind.
Land of a chosen race, the gift of God,
Whose soil the feet of holy patriarchs trod,
Thy fertile valleys, bright in summer’s glow,
Thy cloudless skies, illumining all below,
Thy mountains, snowy with their thousand flocks,
And sweetest honey flowing from thy rocks,
Call for the grateful praise, the adoring thanks
Of Him who highest in creation ranks.
Say: has that being life, who views this scene
With dull, cold eye, and an unaltered mien?
Turn, proud descendant of a cherished line!
Mark the rich gifts, and bless the Power divine;
Let thine eye rest on fields of waving grain,
In bright luxuriance, waving o’er the plain,
On groves of olives, round the green hill’s side,
And clustering vineyards stretching far and wide,
On splendid palaces, the city’s boast,
And cottages, ’midst sheltering foliage lost,
Shaded from noon-tide’s radiant burning beam,
The seats of calm and deep repose they seem;
Then, on that suffering object cast your eye,
Who sits, dejected, ’neath yon glowing sky;
’Midst all this beauty, all this calm repose,
No soothing joy the lonely blind man knows;
Dark, dark, to him, this smiling scene appears,
Gloomy and sad the livery nature wears;
The brightening smile of love can never meet
His answering glance; the sun will rise and set,
But its bright beams can never meet his sight,
Clouded by one long, dark and dreary night.
Spring, with its opening green, its fragrant flowers,
Its rich luxuriance, and its rosy bowers,
Blooms not for him; a blank of shadowy gloom
O’er past and future marks a saddened doom.
Is there no ray of hope to cheer his way?
No gleam of light, foretelling future day?
Through the proud streets of Jericho there ran
A rumor of a strange and godlike man,
Who, sprung from David’s ancient honored line,
His birth foretold by prophecy and sign,
By his whole life, holy and just and pure,
By mighty skill, deadly disease to cure,
By wonders wrought, unknown to mortal power,
Had forced even haughty sceptics to adore.
Would not this wondrous stranger lend his aid
To the poor, lowly blind man in his need?
Mark but his attitude of listening hope!
His anxious face turned toward that distant group,
Whose noisy murmurs strike upon his ear
Like sounds of soothing joy and welcome cheer;
Nearer and nearer yet the tumult pours,
And like the dashing wave of ocean roars;
Did not the blind man’s heart beat high with joy
When told, “Jesus of Nazareth passeth by”?
At that all-powerful name, long, dreary years
And days of misery and nights of tears
Are like a dismal dream, and a bright dawn
Seems rising o’er his heart, a rapturous morn;
His blood, long chilled by wretchedness and pain,
Flows with a warmer current through each vein,
And, by unwonted strength impelled, his voice
Rose clear and loud above the mingled noise;
“Thou, Son of David, mercy;” and the prayer,
“Have mercy on me,” echoed through the air.
Ah! who could see that sightless being stand,
Wretched and poor, without one helping hand;
And, with cold-hearted selfishness forbid
That cry for mercy in his suffering need.
But ’twere as easy to impede the course
Of the swol’n current, or control its force
As check the overpowering prayer of faith,
While still the suppliant has the power of breath,
Still rose that prayer, still gathering strength it rose,
“Have mercy on me,” its unvarying close.
That prayer was not unheard, for He, whose ear
Is ever open, now, Himself, drew near.
Now, now, Bartimeus, rise; He calleth thee;
“Be of good comfort, even thou mayst see;”
Quick, through the parting crowd, they guide his way
Till, suppliant, at the Saviour’s feet he lay,
On whose calm brow a shade of pity spread.
“What wouldst thou I should do for thee?” he said.
Riches and honors, what would they avail?
Health and long life? alas! such gifts would fail
To cast one beam of joy o’er the sad doom
Of him, condemned to live in endless gloom;
“Lord, that I might receive my sight,” he cried.
“Thy faith hath made thee whole,” Jesus replied.
Moment of blissful joy! resplendent light
Breaks through the dark, thick film of dreary night,
The sunbeams, sparkling on the clear blue stream,
The brightening sky, and summer’s vivid green,
The face of man, all meet his wondering sight,
And fill his thankful heart with new delight.
Nor words nor thoughts can picture what he feels,
As, with full heart, at Jesus’s feet he kneels.
Almighty Savior! thou art ever near,
The fainting soul to comfort and to cheer;
Give us the blind man’s joy, the blind man’s faith,
Trust in our lives, and brightening hope in death.
“How deserted are now those scenes of such great and mighty interest!
Jericho, once the stronghold of the ancient Canaanites, then a populous
and probably magnificent city of the Jews, is now a small and mean
village, the abode of a few Arabs, and its once beautiful plains,
through which flows the sacred river of Jordan, are almost as dead and
inanimate as the waters of the sea in its vicinity, where the proud and
guilty cities of former days were buried. “Sin, in its varied forms,”
said Mrs. Wilson, has brought this desolation on this chosen land,
this land, more blessed and favored than all others, not only in its
natural advantages, but as the land which God had selected to display
His omnipotent power, and where the Savior of the world passed the
short but eventful years of his life upon earth. Let our prayers, my
children, ascend to the Giver of all good, that He will check, in our
hearts, ever, the slightest indication to evil, for the consequences
are always misery.” “What a misfortune, to be blind,” said Susan. “I
can scarcely imagine a more desolate condition than that of a person
totally blind.” “It is not always so,” returned Elizabeth, “I have
heard it said that blind people were frequently more contented, more
uniformly placid in their dispositions than many who can see. Is it
so, mother?” “I knew a blind man,” said Mrs. Wilson, “the whole tenor
of whose life would justify us in that belief. He was always quiet and
calm, of a pleasant countenance, and there was an habitual smile about
his mouth which would seem to express the sunshine of his heart. He
would sometimes ramble about, without any guide but his cane, feeling
his way by the walls and fences, but never attempting to leave these
way-marks without some helping hand, frequently claiming the assistance
of the children of the village, which was never refused. His home
was a happy one, consisting of his aged father, his brother, and a
relative of the family, who acted as housekeeper, but was, in reality,
considered as daughter and sister, and whose kindly heart led her to
make the life of poor Joseph as happy as it was possible to render it.
In his solitude, when confined to the house by the inclemency of the
weather, he would dictate verses for some one to write, and, however
they might be wanting in smoothness, or correct diction, although
even the sense might be doubtful, yet there was a strain of piety and
reliance on God which showed a heart resigned to His will. The peaceful
grave has closed over him and his death was calm and gentle as his
life. And now, with grateful thanks to God for all his goodness, we
will retire to rest.”
* * * * *
The day was clear and bright, the sky without a cloud, and the pure
white snow covered with a glittering crust, which did not fail beneath
the weight when Herbert proposed a short walk, to which the younger
part of the little community readily assented. The air was keen and
bracing, but they were well defended from it, and the sunbeams were
warm and pleasant. Charles was full of life and glee, and bounding
forward was ready to point to any object which he thought worthy of
notice. “And do you know, Susan,” said he, “Uncle Bill says the worst
of the winter weather is over, and that there are many signs that we
shall have an early spring?” “I am in no hurry to have the winter
pass away,” replied Susan, “and am in a good mind to be sorry for the
signs of spring, but, Herbert, you have not yet given us any clue to
the history of Uncle Bill, and if you will but remember, you promised
it, menacing me, at the same time, with some terrible illustration of
female caprice.” “You shall hear it, my dear Susan, and remember though
it may have been the subject of some sport to us, the consequences have
been almost death to him. His youth was prosperous and happy; though
not possessed of brilliant talents, his powers of mind were good,
and he united to them an activity and enterprise which soon placed
him in a situation of trust and profit, in the city of Philadelphia.
His relations were all of the Society of Friends; he was patronized
and esteemed by the members of that wealthy and respectable sect
in that city, and, by his intercourse with refined society, both in
England and America, for the business in which he was engaged required
frequent voyages across the Atlantic, his manners became polished,
which, added to his naturally graceful and unaffected demeanor,
rendered him an universal favorite. He became attached and offered
himself to a beautiful girl, a daughter of one of the wealthy and
influential citizens of the place; with the sanction of her friends,
his suit was encouraged; and, as much happiness as this world can give
dawned upon his prospects. His bright hope of bliss was overclouded,
for, after a year of assiduous affection on his part, and apparent
kindness and complacency upon her own, a change came over the ‘dream
of his hope,’ and, without assigning any reason for her inconstancy or
fickleness, she no longer received his attentions with pleasure, and
with cruel indifference to his feelings, required their discontinuance.
Thunderstruck at this blow to his dearest hopes, he attempted to avert
it, but her cold adherence to her determination, and the bitter scorn
with which she treated his remonstrances, convinced him that she had
never possessed any true affection for him. Quick and sensitive as
he was he felt in every pore her unkind treatment, it undermined his
health, destroyed the energy of his mind and, when he found, some
months afterward, that her marriage with another was to be celebrated,
the total overthrow of every hope completed the prostration of his
mind and body. A severe illness followed; after a long period, his
naturally good constitution triumphed, and he regained health, but
the vigor and activity of his mental faculties were gone forever.
He returned to his business, but, wholly unfitted for the necessary
application to its duties, he allowed himself to fall into habits of
carelessness and inattention, which resulted in a heavy pecuniary loss
to the establishment with which he was connected. Mortification and the
fear of disgrace were now added to the feelings of wretchedness which
oppressed him, and he sought relief in dissipation. This was the climax
of his fate; from that time he sank lower and lower, though, struggling
with his ruin, he would, at times, forswear the intoxicating wine
cup, and the debasing gaming house, yet, the energy of his character,
never firm, was lost. His connections in business were dissolved, and
his friends, to save the remnant of his fortune, removed him from the
scene, alike of his happiness and misery, and brought him back to his
early home. Still, all efforts to restore his mind were vain, and,
though in time, he lost some sense of his unhappiness and blasted
hopes, he was but the wreck of his former self. He wanders about like
a child, amusing himself with childish pleasures; attaching himself
warmly to those who are kind and gentle to him, but feeling, with the
most distressing sensibility, any imaginary slight. This, then, Susan,
is the melancholy history of ‘Uncle Bill,’ as he is now universally
called.” “Oh! I shall never laugh again, when I see him; poor, poor,
Uncle Bill.” “But what,” said Mary, “was the fate of the thoughtless
wicked girl, who was the cause of this ruin?” “I know nothing of her
after life, but that it was not long.” “I think,” said Elizabeth, “that
he must have possessed a weak intellect, or it would not have yielded
so easily to such base treatment. I think, Herbert, that indignation
would have triumphed in your heart, over every other emotion.” “I do
not know, my sister, but I most sincerely hope that I may never bestow
an affection of my heart upon so heartless a being.” With an unanimous
assent to this hope, they now bent their steps home.