such troubled sleep as they could gain amid these horrors; and those who
could, pressed their feverish lips and foreheads to the crevices between
the boards, to court the morning breezes. A lady, with a white brow,
and a lip whose delicate vermilion had not ripened beneath the skies of
India, came with food to her husband. By constant importunity had the
beautiful ministering angel gained this holy privilege. Her coming was
like a gleam of sunlight,—a sudden unfolding of the beauties of this
bright earth to one born blind. She performed her usual tender ministry
and departed.
Day advanced to its meridian; and once more, but now hesitatingly, and as
though he dreaded his task, the Tiger drew near the young Kathayan. But
the sufferer did not shrink from him as before.
“Quick!” he exclaimed greedily,—“quick! give me one hand and the
cord,—just a moment, a single moment,—this hand with the cord in it,—and
you shall be rid of me forever!”
The Tiger burst into a hideous laugh, his habitual cruelty returning at
the sound of his victim’s voice.
“Rid of you! not so fast, my son; not so fast! You will hold out a day
or two yet. Let me see!” passing his hand along the emaciated, feverish
body of the sufferer. “O, yes; two days at least, perhaps three, and
it may be longer. Patience, my son; you are frightfully strong! Now
these joints,—why any other man’s would have separated long ago; but
here they stay just as firmly—” As he spoke with a calculating sort of
deliberation, the monster gave the cord a sudden jerk, then another,
and a third, raising his victim still farther from the floor, and then
adjusting it about the beam, walked unconcernedly away. For several
minutes the prison rung with the most fearful cries. Shriek followed
shriek, agonized, furious, with scarcely a breath between; bellowings,
howlings, gnashings of the teeth, sharp, piercing screams, yells of
savage defiance; cry upon cry, cry upon cry, with wild superhuman
strength, they came; while the prisoners shrank in awe and terror,
trembling in their chains. But this violence soon exhausted itself,
and the paroxysm passed, giving place to low, sad moans, irresistibly
pitiful. This was a day never to be forgotten by the hundred wretched
creatures congregated in the gloomy death-prison. The sun had never
seemed to move so slowly before. Its setting was gladly welcomed, but
yet the night brought no change. Those piteous moans, those agonized
groanings, seemed no nearer an end than ever.
Another day passed,—another night,—again day dawned and drew near its
close; and yet the poor Kathayan clung to life with frightful tenacity.
One of the missionaries, as a peculiar favor, had been allowed to creep
into an old shed, opposite the door of the prison; and here he was joined
by a companion, just as the day was declining towards evening.
“O, will it ever end?” whispered one.
The other only bowed his head between his hands,—“Terrible! terrible!”
“There surely can be nothing worse in the West Prison.”
“Can there be anything worse,—can there be more finished demons in the
pit?”
Suddenly, while this broken conversation was conducted in a low tone,
so as not to draw upon the speakers the indignation of their jailers,
they were struck by the singular stillness of the prison. The clanking
of chains, the murmur and the groan, the heavy breathing of congregated
living beings, the bustle occasioned by the continuous uneasy movement
of the restless sufferers, the ceaseless tread of the Children of the
Prison, and their bullying voices, all were hushed.
“What is it?” in a lower whisper than ever; and a shaking of the head,
and holding their own chains to prevent their rattle, and looks full of
wonder, was all that passed between the two listeners. Their amazement
was interrupted by a dull, heavy sound, as though a bag of dried bones
had been suddenly crushed down by the weight of some powerful foot.
Silently they stole to a crevice in the boards, opposite the open door.
Not a jailer was to be seen; and the prisoners were motionless and
apparently breathless, with the exception of one powerful man, who was
just drawing the wooden mallet in his hand for another blow on the temple
of the suspended Kathayan. It came down with the same dull, hollow,
crushing sound; the body swayed from the point where it was suspended by
wrist and ankle, till it seemed that every joint must be dislocated; but
the flesh scarcely quivered. The blow was repeated, and then another, and
another; but they were not needed. The poor captive Kathayan was dead.
The mallet was placed away from sight, and the daring man hobbled back to
his corner, dangling his heavy chain as though it had been a plaything,
and striving with all his might to look unconscious and unconcerned. An
evident feeling of relief stole over the prisoners; the Children of the
Prison came back to their places, one by one, and all went on as before.
It was some time before any one appeared to discover the death of the
Kathayan. The old Tiger declared it was what he had been expecting, that
his living on in this manner was quite out of rule; but that those hardy
fellows from the hills never would give in, while there was a possibility
of drawing another breath. Then the poor skeleton was unchained, dragged
by the heels into the prison-yard, and thrown into a gutter. It did not
apparently fall properly, for one of the jailers altered the position of
the shoulders by means of his foot; then clutching the long black hair,
jerked the head a little farther on the side. Thus the discolored temple
was hidden; and surely that emaciated form gave sufficient evidence of a
lingering death. Soon after, a party of government officers visited the
prison-yard, touched the corpse with their feet, without raising it, and,
apparently satisfied, turned away, as though it had been a dead dog, that
they cared not to give further attention.
Is it strange that, if one were there, with a human heart within him, not
brutalized by crime or steeled by passive familiarity with suffering, he
should have dragged his heavy chain to the side of the dead, and dropped
upon his sharpened, distorted features the tear, which there was none
who had loved him to shed? Is it strange that tender fingers should
have closed the staring eyes, and touched gently the cold brow, which
throbbed no longer with pain, and smoothed the frayed hair, and composed
the passive limbs decently, though he knew that the next moment rude
hands would destroy the result of his pious labor? And is it strange that
when all which remained of the poor sufferer had been jostled into its
sackcloth shroud, and crammed down into the dark hole dug for it in the
earth, a prayer should have ascended, even from that terrible prison?
Not a prayer for the dead; he had received his doom. But an earnest,
beseeching upheaving of the heart, for those wretched beings that, in the
face of the pure heavens and the smiling earth, confound, by the inherent
blackness of their natures, philosopher, priest, or philanthropist, who
dares to tickle the ears of the multitude with fair theories of “Natural
religion,” and “The dignity of human nature.”
[Illustration]
THE STORY OF LA ROCHE.
BY HENRY MACKENZIE.
More than forty years ago an English philosopher, whose works have since
been read and admired by all Europe, resided at a little town in France.
Some disappointments in his native country had first driven him abroad,
and he was afterward induced to remain there from having found, in this
retreat, where the connections even of nation and language were avoided,
a perfect seclusion and retirement highly favorable to the development of
abstract subjects, in which he excelled all the writers of his time.
Perhaps, in the structure of such a mind as Mr. ——’s, the finer and
more delicate sensibilities are seldom known to have place, or, if
originally implanted there, are in a great measure extinguished by the
exertions of intense study and profound investigation. Hence the idea of
philosophy and unfeelingness being united has become proverbial, and, in
common language, the former word is often used to express the latter.
Our philosopher had been censured by some as deficient in warmth and
feeling; but the mildness of his manners has been allowed by all, and it
is certain that, if he was not easily melted into compassion, it was at
least not difficult to awaken his benevolence.
One morning, while he sat busied in those speculations which afterward
astonished the world, an old female domestic, who served him for a
housekeeper, brought him word that an elderly gentleman and his daughter
had arrived in the village the preceding evening, on their way to some
distant country, and that the father had been suddenly seized in the
night with a dangerous disorder, which the people of the inn where they
lodged feared would prove mortal; that she had been sent for, as having
some knowledge of medicine, the village surgeon being then absent; and
that it was truly piteous to see the good old man, who seemed not so much
afflicted by his own distress as by that which it caused to his daughter.
Her master laid aside the volume in his hand, and broke off the chain of
ideas it had inspired. His nightgown was exchanged for a coat, and he
followed his _gouvernante_ to the sick man’s apartment.
It was the best in the inn where they lay, but a paltry one
notwithstanding. Mr. —— was obliged to stoop as he entered it. It was
floored with earth, and above were the joists not plastered, and hung
with cobwebs. On a flock-bed, at one end, lay the old man he came to
visit; at the foot of it sat his daughter. She was dressed in a clean
white bedgown; her dark locks hung loosely over it as she bent forward,
watching the languid looks of her father. Mr. —— and his housekeeper had
stood some moments in the room without the young lady’s being sensible of
their entering it.
“Mademoiselle!” said the old woman at last, in a soft tone.
She turned and showed one of the finest faces in the world. It was
touched, not spoiled, with sorrow; and when she perceived a stranger,
whom the old woman now introduced to her, a blush at first, and then the
gentle ceremonial of native politeness, which the affliction of the time
tempered but did not extinguish, crossed it for a moment and changed its
expression. It was sweetness all, however, and our philosopher felt it
strongly. It was not a time for words; he offered his services in a few
sincere ones.
“Monsieur lies miserably ill here,” said the _gouvernante_; “if he could
possibly be moved anywhere.”
“If he could be moved to our house,” said her master. He had a spare
bed for a friend, and there was a garret room unoccupied, next to the
_gouvernante’s_.
It was contrived accordingly. The scruples of the stranger, who could
look scruples though he could not speak them, were overcome, and the
bashful reluctance of his daughter gave way to her belief of its use to
her father. The sick man was wrapped in blankets, and carried across the
street to the English gentleman’s. The old woman helped his daughter
to nurse him there. The surgeon, who arrived soon after, prescribed a
little, and nature did much for him; in a week he was able to thank his
benefactor.
By that time his host had learned the name and character of his guest. He
was a Protestant clergyman of Switzerland, called La Roche, a widower,
who had lately buried his wife, after a long and lingering illness, for
which travelling had been prescribed, and was now returning home, after
an ineffectual and melancholy journey, with his only child, the daughter
we have mentioned.
He was a devout man, as became his profession. He possessed devotion in
all its warmth, but with none of its asperity,—I mean that asperity which
men, called devout, sometimes indulge in.
Mr. ——, though he felt no devotion, never quarrelled with it in others.
His _gouvernante_ joined the old man and his daughter in the prayers
and thanksgivings which they put up on his recovery; for she too was
a heretic, in the phrase of the village. The philosopher walked out,
with his long staff and his dog, and left them to their prayers and
thanksgivings.
“My master,” said the old woman, “alas! he is not a Christian; but he is
the best of unbelievers.”
“Not a Christian!” exclaimed Mademoiselle La Roche, “yet he saved my
father! Heaven bless him for it! I would he were a Christian.”
“There is a pride in human knowledge, my child,” said her father, “which
often blinds men to the sublime truths of revelation; hence opposers of
Christianity are found among men of virtuous lives, as well as among
those of dissipated and licentious characters. Nay, sometimes I have
known the latter more easily converted to the true faith than the former,
because the fume of passion is more easily dissipated than the mist of
false theory and delusive speculation.”
“But Mr. ——,” said his daughter, “alas! my father, he shall be a
Christian before he dies.” She was interrupted by the arrival of their
landlord. He took her hand with an air of kindness. She drew it away from
him in silence, threw down her eyes to the ground, and left the room.
“I have been thanking God,” said the good La Roche, “for my recovery.”
“That is right,” replied his landlord.
“I would not wish,” continued the old man hesitatingly, “to think
otherwise. Did I not look up with gratitude to that Being, I should
barely be satisfied with my recovery as a continuation of life, which,
it may be, is not a real good. Alas! I may live to wish I had died,
that you had left me to die, sir, instead of kindly relieving me,”—he
clasped Mr ——’s hand,—“but, when I look on this renovated being as the
gift of the Almighty, I feel a far different sentiment; my heart dilates
with gratitude and love to him; it is prepared for doing his will, not
as a duty, but as a pleasure, and regards every breach of it, not with
disapprobation, but with horror.”
“You say right, my dear sir,” replied the philosopher, “but you are
not yet re-established enough to talk much; you must take care of your
health, and neither study nor preach for some time. I have been thinking
over a scheme that struck me to-day when you mentioned your intended
departure. I never was in Switzerland. I have a great mind to accompany
your daughter and you into that country. I will help to take care of you
by the road; for as I was your first physician, I hold myself responsible
for your cure.”
La Roche’s eyes glistened at the proposal. His daughter was called in and
told of it. She was equally pleased with her father, for they really
loved their landlord,—not perhaps the less for his infidelity; at least,
that circumstance mixed a sort of pity with their regard for him,—their
souls were not of a mould for harsher feelings; hatred never dwelt in
them.
They travelled by short stages; for the philosopher was as good as his
word in taking care that the old man should not be fatigued. The party
had time to be well acquainted with each other, and their friendship
was increased by acquaintance. La Roche found a degree of simplicity
and gentleness in his companion which is not always annexed to the
character of a learned or a wise man. His daughter, who was prepared to
be afraid of him, was equally undeceived. She found in him nothing of
that self-importance which superior parts, or great cultivation of them,
is apt to confer. He talked of everything but philosophy and religion; he
seemed to enjoy every pleasure and amusement of ordinary life, and to be
interested in the most common topics of discourse; when his knowledge of
learning at any time appeared, it was delivered with the utmost plainness
and without the least shadow of dogmatism.
On his part, he was charmed with the society of the good clergyman
and his lovely daughter. He found in them the guileless manner of the
earliest times, with the culture and accomplishment of the most refined
ones; every better feeling warm and vivid, every ungentle one repressed
or overcome. He was not addicted to love; but he felt himself happy in
being the friend of Mademoiselle La Roche, and sometimes envied her
father the possession of such a child.
After a journey of eleven days, they arrived at the dwelling of La
Roche. It was situated in one of those valleys of the canton of Berne,
where Nature seems to repose, as it were, in quiet, and has enclosed her
retreat with mountains inaccessible. A stream, that spent its fury in
the hills above, ran in front of the house, and a broken waterfall was
seen through the wood that covered its sides; below it circled round a
tufted plain, and formed a little lake in front of a village, at the end
of which appeared the spire of La Roche’s church, rising above a clump of
beeches.
Mr. —— enjoyed the beauty of the scene; but to his companions it recalled
the memory of a wife and parent they had lost. The old man’s sorrow was
silent; his daughter sobbed and wept. Her father took her hand, kissed it
twice, pressed it to his bosom, threw up his eyes to heaven, and, having
wiped off a tear that was just about to drop from each, began to point
out to his guest some of the most striking objects which the prospect
afforded. The philosopher interpreted all this, and he could but slightly
censure the creed from which it arose.
They had not been long arrived when a number of La Roche’s parishioners,
who had heard of his return, came to the house to see and welcome him.
The honest folks were awkward, but sincere, in their professions of
regard. They made some attempts at condolence; it was too delicate for
their handling, but La Roche took it in good part. “It has pleased God,”
said he; and they saw he had settled the matter with himself. Philosophy
could not have done so much with a thousand words.
It was now evening, and the good peasants were about to depart, when
a clock was heard to strike seven, and the hour was followed by a
particular chime. The country folks, who had come to welcome their
pastor, turned their looks toward him at the sound. He explained their
meaning to his guest.
“That is the signal,” said he, “for our evening exercise. This is one of
the nights of the week in which some of my parishioners are wont to join
in it; a little rustic saloon serves for the chapel of our family and
such of the good people as are with us. If you choose rather to walk out,
I will furnish you with an attendant; or here are a few old books that
may afford you some entertainment within.”
“By no means,” answered the philosopher; “I will attend Mademoiselle at
her devotions.”
“She is our organist,” said La Roche. “Our neighborhood is the country of
musical mechanism, and I have a small organ fitted up for the purpose of
assisting our singing.”
“’Tis an additional inducement,” replied the other; and they walked into
the room together.
At the end stood the organ mentioned by La Roche; before it was a
curtain, which his daughter drew aside, and, placing herself on a seat
within and drawing the curtain close so as to save her the awkwardness
of an exhibition, began a voluntary, solemn and beautiful in the highest
degree. Mr. —— was no musician, but he was not altogether insensible
to music; and this fastened on his mind more strongly from its beauty
being unexpected. The solemn prelude introduced a hymn, in which such of
the audience as could sing immediately joined. The words were mostly
taken from holy writ; it spoke the praises of God, and his care of good
men. Something was said of the death of the just, of such as die in the
Lord. The organ was touched with a hand less firm; it paused; it ceased;
and the sobbing of Mademoiselle La Roche was heard in its stead. Her
father gave a sign for stopping the psalmody, and rose to pray. He was
discomposed at first, and his voice faltered as he spoke; but his heart
was in his words, and its warmth overcame his embarrassment. He addressed
a Being whom he loved, and he spoke for those he loved. His parishioners
caught the ardor of the good old man; even the philosopher felt himself
moved, and forgot, for a moment, to think why he should not.
La Roche’s religion was that of sentiment, not theory, and his guest
was averse from disputation; their discourse, therefore, did not lead
to questions concerning the belief of either; yet would the old man
sometimes speak of his, from the fulness of a heart impressed with its
force and wishing to spread the pleasure he enjoyed in it. The ideas of
a God and a Saviour were so congenial to his mind, that every emotion
of it naturally awakened them. A philosopher might have called him an
enthusiast; but, if he possessed the fervor of enthusiasts, he was
guiltless of their bigotry. “Our Father, which art in heaven!” might the
good man say, for he felt it, and all mankind were his brethren.
“You regret, my friend,” said he to Mr. ——, “when my daughter and I
talk of the exquisite pleasure derived from music,—you regret your want
of musical powers and musical feelings; it is a department of soul,
you say, which nature has almost denied you, which, from the effects
you see it have on others, you are sure must be highly delightful. Why
should not the same thing be said of religion? Trust me, I feel it in
the same way,—an energy, an inspiration, which I would not lose for all
the blessings of sense, or enjoyments of the world; yet, so far from
lessening my relish of the pleasures of life, methinks I feel it heighten
them all. The thought of receiving it from God adds the blessing of
sentiment to that of sensation in every good thing I possess; and when
calamities overtake me,—and I have had my share,—it confers a dignity on
my affliction, so lifts me above the world. Man, I know, is but a worm;
yet, methinks, I am then allied to God!”
It would have been inhuman in our philosopher to have clouded, even with
a doubt, the sunshine of this belief. His discourse, indeed, was very
remote from metaphysical disquisition or religious controversy. Of all
men I ever knew, his ordinary conversation was the least tinctured with
pedantry, or liable to dissertation. With La Roche and his daughter,
it was perfectly familiar. The country round them, the manners of the
villagers, the comparison of both with those of England, remarks on
the works of favorite authors, on the sentiments they conveyed and the
passions they excited, with many other topics in which there was an
equality or alternate advantage among the speakers, were the subjects
they talked on. Their hours, too, of riding and walking were many,
in which Mr. ——, as a stranger, was shown the remarkable scenes and
curiosities of the country. They would sometimes make little expeditions
to contemplate, in different attitudes, those astonishing mountains, the
cliffs of which, covered with eternal snows, and sometimes shooting into
fantastic shapes, form the termination of most of the Swiss prospects.
Our philosopher asked many questions as to their natural history and
productions. La Roche observed the sublimity of the ideas which the view
of their stupendous summits, inaccessible to mortal foot, was calculated
to inspire, which naturally, said he, leads the mind to that Being by
whom their foundations were laid.
“They are not seen in Flanders,” said Mademoiselle with a sigh.
“That’s an odd remark,” said Mr. ——, smiling.
She blushed, and he inquired no further.
It was with regret he left a society in which he found himself so happy;
but he settled with La Roche and his daughter a plan of correspondence,
and they took his promise that, if ever he came within fifty leagues of
their dwelling, he should travel those fifty leagues to visit them.