that could be delegated, their affection for him became, like the memory
of their native land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a piece of the
immovable furniture of their hearts. The boy, also, after a week or two
of mental disquiet, began to gratify his protectors, by many inadvertent
proofs that he considered them as parents, and their house as home.
Before the winter snows were melted, the persecuted infant, the little
wanderer from a remote and heathen country, seemed native in the New
England cottage, and inseparable from the warmth and security of its
hearth. Under the influence of kind treatment, and in the consciousness
that he was loved, Ilbrahim's demeanor lost a premature manliness which
had resulted from his earlier situation; he became more childlike, and
his natural character displayed itself with freedom. It was in many
respects a beautiful one, yet the disordered imaginations of both his
father and mother had perhaps propagated a certain unhealthiness in the
mind of the boy. In his general state, Ilbrahim would derive enjoyment
from the most trifling events, and from every object about him; he
seemed to discover rich treasures of happiness, by a faculty analogous
to that of the witch-hazel, which points to hidden gold where all is
barren to the eye. His airy gayety, coming to him from a thousand
sources, communicated itself to the family, and Ilbrahim was like a
domesticated sunbeam, brightening moody countenances, and chasing away
the gloom from the dark corners of the cottage.
On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of
pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the boy's prevailing temper
sometimes yielded to moments of deep depression. His sorrows could not
always be followed up to their original source, but most frequently they
appeared to flow, though Ilbrahim was young to be sad for such a cause,
from wounded love. The flightiness of his mirth rendered him often
guilty of offences against the decorum of a Puritan household, and on
these occasions he did not invariably escape rebuke. But the slightest
word of real bitterness, which he was infallible in distinguishing from
pretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and poison all his
enjoyments, till he became sensible that he was entirely forgiven. Of
the malice which generally accompanies a superfluity of sensitiveness,
Ilbrahim was altogether destitute; when trodden upon, he would not turn;
when wounded, he could but die. His mind was wanting in the stamina for
self-support; it was a plant that would twine beautifully round
something stronger than itself, but if repulsed, or torn away, it had no
choice but to wither on the ground. Dorothy's acuteness taught her that
severity would crush the spirit of the child, and she nurtured him with
the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly. Her husband manifested
an equal affection, although it grew daily less productive of familiar
caresses.
The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to the Quaker infant
and his protectors, had not undergone a favorable change, in spite of
the momentary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained over their
sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of which he was the object, were
very grievous to Ilbrahim, especially when any circumstance made him
sensible that the children, his equals in age, partook of the enmity of
their parents. His tender and social nature had already overflowed in
attachments to everything about him, and still there was a residue of
unappropriated love, which he yearned to bestow upon the little ones who
were taught to hate him. As the warm days of spring came on, Ilbrahim
was accustomed to remain for hours silent and inactive within hearing
of the children's voices at their play; yet, with his usual delicacy of
feeling, he avoided their notice, and would flee and hide himself from
the smallest individual among them. Chance, however, at length seemed to
open a medium of communication between his heart and theirs; it was by
means of a boy about two years older than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a
fall from a tree in the vicinity of Pearson's habitation. As the
sufferer's own home was at some distance, Dorothy willingly received him
under her roof, and became his tender and careful nurse.
Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy, and
it would have deterred him, in other circumstances, from attempting to
make a friend of this boy. The countenance of the latter immediately
impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it required some examination to
discover that the cause was a very slight distortion of the mouth, and
the irregular, broken line and near approach of the eyebrows. Analogous,
perhaps, to these trifling deformities was an almost imperceptible twist
of every joint, and the uneven prominence of the breast; forming a body,
regular in its general outline, but faulty in almost all its details.
The disposition of the boy was sullen and reserved, and the village
schoolmaster stigmatized him as obtuse in intellect; although, at a
later period of life, he evinced ambition and very peculiar talents. But
whatever might be his personal or moral irregularities, Ilbrahim's heart
seized upon, and clung to him, from the moment that he was brought
wounded into the cottage; the child of persecution seemed to compare
his own fate with that of the sufferer, and to feel that even different
modes of misfortune had created a sort of relationship between them.
Food, rest, and the fresh air, for which he languished, were neglected;
he nestled continually by the bedside of the little stranger, and, with
a fond jealousy, endeavored to be the medium of all the cares that were
bestowed upon him. As the boy became convalescent, Ilbrahim contrived
games suitable to his situation, or amused him by a faculty which he had
perhaps breathed in with the air of his barbaric birthplace. It was that
of reciting imaginary adventures, on the spur of the moment, and
apparently in inexhaustible succession. His tales were of course
monstrous, disjointed, and without aim; but they were curious on account
of a vein of human tenderness which ran through them all, and was like a
sweet, familiar face, encountered in the midst of wild and unearthly
scenery. The auditor paid much attention to these romances, and
sometimes interrupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents,
displaying shrewdness above his years, mingled with a moral obliquity
which grated very harshly against Ilbrahim's instinctive rectitude.
Nothing, however, could arrest the progress of the latter's affection,
and there were many proofs that it met with a response from the dark and
stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy's parents at length
removed him, to complete his cure under their own roof.
Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure; but he made
anxious and continual inquiries respecting him, and informed himself of
the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. On a pleasant
summer afternoon, the children of the neighborhood had assembled in the
little forest-crowned amphitheatre behind the meeting-house, and the
recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of a score of
untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy voices, which danced among
the trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men of this weary
world, as they journeyed by the spot, marvelled why life, beginning in
such brightness, should proceed in gloom; and their hearts, or their
imaginations, answered them and said, that the bliss of childhood gushes
from its innocence. But it happened that an unexpected addition was made
to the heavenly little band. It was Ilbrahim, who came toward the
children with a look of sweet confidence on his fair and spiritual face,
as if, having manifested his love to one of them, he had no longer to
fear a repulse from their society. A hush came over their mirth the
moment they beheld him, and they stood whispering to each other while he
drew nigh; but, all at once, the devil of their fathers entered into the
unbreeched fanatics, and sending up a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed
upon the poor Quaker child. In an instant, he was the centre of a brood
of baby-fiends, who lifted sticks against him, pelted him with stones,
and displayed an instinct of destruction far more loathsome than the
blood-thirstiness of manhood.
The invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from the tumult, crying out
with a loud voice, "Fear not, Ilbrahim, come hither and take my hand";
and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After watching the
victim's struggling approach with a calm smile and unabashed eye, the
foul-hearted little villain lifted his staff, and struck Ilbrahim on the
mouth, so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream. The poor child's
arms had been raised to guard his head from the storm of blows; but now
he dropped them at once. His persecutors beat him down, trampled upon
him, dragged him by his long, fair locks, and Ilbrahim was on the point
of becoming as veritable a martyr as ever entered bleeding into heaven.
The uproar, however, attracted the notice of a few neighbors, who put
themselves to the trouble of rescuing the little heretic, and of
conveying him to Pearson's door.
Ilbrahim's bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing
accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was
more serious, though not so visible. Its signs were principally of a
negative character, and to be discovered only by those who had
previously known him. His gait was thenceforth slow, even, and unvaried
by the sudden bursts of sprightlier motion, which had once corresponded
to his overflowing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its former
play of expression, the dance of sunshine reflected from moving water,
was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was attracted
in a far less degree by passing events, and he appeared to find greater
difficulty in comprehending what was new to him, than at a happier
period. A stranger, founding his judgment upon these circumstances,
would have said that the dulness of the child's intellect widely
contradicted the promise of his features; but the secret was in the
direction of Ilbrahim's thoughts, which were brooding within him when
they should naturally have been wandering abroad. An attempt of Dorothy
to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion on which his
quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he burst into
passionate weeping, and ran and hid himself, for his heart had become so
miserably sore that even the hand of kindness tortured it like fire.
Sometimes, at night and probably in his dreams, he was heard to cry,
"Mother! mother!" as if her place, which a stranger had supplied while
Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute in his extreme affliction.
Perhaps, among the many life-weary wretches then upon the earth, there
was not one who combined innocence and misery like this poor,
broken-hearted infant, so soon the victim of his own heavenly nature.
While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, one of an
earlier origin and of different character had come to its perfection in
his adopted father. The incident with which this tale commences found
Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted, and
longing for a more fervid faith than he possessed. The first effect of
his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, and
incipient love for the child's whole sect; but joined to this, and
resulting perhaps from self-suspicion, was a proud and ostentatious
contempt of their tenets and practical extravagances. In the course of
much thought, however, for the subject struggled irresistibly into his
mind, the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and the
points which had particularly offended his reason assumed another
aspect, or vanished entirely away. The work within him appeared to go on
even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt, when he laid down
to rest, would often hold the place of a truth, confirmed by some
forgotten demonstration, when he recalled his thoughts in the morning.
But while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts, his
contempt, in no wise decreasing toward them, grew very fierce against
himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance wore a
sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. Such was his
state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim's misfortune; and the emotions
consequent upon that event completed the change, of which the child had
been the original instrument.
In the meantime, neither the fierceness of the persecutors, nor the
infatuation of their victims, had decreased. The dungeons were never
empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with a lash; the
life of a woman, whose mild and Christian spirit no cruelty could
imbitter, had been sacrificed; and more innocent blood was yet to
pollute the hands that were so often raised in prayer. Early after the
Restoration, the English Quakers represented to Charles II. that a "vein
of blood was open in his dominions"; but though the displeasure of the
voluptuous king was roused, his interference was not prompt. And now the
tale must stride forward over many months, leaving Pearson to encounter
ignominy and misfortune; his wife to a firm endurance of a thousand
sorrows; poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop like a cankered rosebud; his
mother to wander on a mistaken errand, neglectful of the holiest trust
which can be committed to a woman.
* * * * *
A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson's
habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from his
broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and a
ruddy light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, lay ready
to be cast upon the embers. But the apartment was saddened in its aspect
by the absence of much of the homely wealth which had once adorned it;
for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own neglect of temporal
affairs, had greatly impoverished the owner. And with the furniture of
peace, the implements of war had likewise disappeared; the sword was
broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away forever; the soldier had
done with battles, and might not lift so much as his naked hand to guard
his head. But the Holy Book remained, and the table on which it rested
was drawn before the fire, while two of the persecuted sect sought
comfort from its pages.
He who listened, while the other read, was the master of the house, now
emaciated in form, and altered as to the expression and healthiness of
his countenance; for his mind had dwelt too long among visionary
thoughts, and his body had been worn by imprisonment and stripes. The
hale and weather-beaten old man, who sat beside him, had sustained less
injury from a far longer course of the same mode of life. In person he
was tall and dignified, and, which alone would have made him hateful to
the Puritans, his gray locks fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat,
and rested on his shoulders. As the old man read the sacred page, the
snow drifted against the windows, or eddied in at the crevices of the
door, while a blast kept laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped
fiercely up to seek it. And sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at
a certain angle, and swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain,
its voice was the most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the
Past were speaking, as if the Dead had contributed each a whisper, as if
the Desolation of Ages were breathed in that one lamenting sound.
The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining however his hand between
the pages which he had been reading, while he looked steadfastly at
Pearson. The attitude and features of the latter might have indicated
the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead on his hands, his
teeth were firmly closed, and his frame was tremulous at intervals with
a nervous agitation.
"Friend Tobias," inquired the old man, compassionately, "hast thou found
no comfort in these many blessed passages of Scripture?"
"Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct,"
replied Pearson, without lifting his eyes. "Yea, and when I have
hearkened carefully, the words seemed cold and lifeless, and intended
for another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the book," he added, in
a tone of sullen bitterness. "I have no part in its consolations, and
they do but fret my sorrow the more."
"Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never known the light,"
said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. "Art thou he that
wouldst be content to give all, and endure all, for conscience' sake;
desiring even peculiar trials, that thy faith might be purified, and thy
heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt thou sink beneath an
affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion here
below, and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint not, for thy
burden is yet light."
"It is heavy! It is heavier than I can bear!" exclaimed Pearson, with
the impatience of a variable spirit. "From my youth upward I have been a
man marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day after day, I have
endured sorrows, such as others know not in their lifetime. And now I
speak not of the love that has been turned to hatred, the honor to
ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things to danger, want, and
nakedness. All this I could have borne, and counted myself blessed. But
when my heart was desolate with many losses, I fixed it upon the child
of a stranger, and he became dearer to me than all my buried ones; and
now he too must die, as if my love were poison. Verily, I am an
accursed man, and I will lay me down in the dust, and lift up my head no
more."
"Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee; for I also
have had my hours of darkness, wherein I have murmured against the
cross," said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the hope of
distracting his companion's thoughts from his own sorrows. "Even of late
was the light obscured within me, when the men of blood had banished me
on pain of death, and the constables led me onward from village to
village, toward the wilderness. A strong and cruel hand was wielding the
knotted cords; they sunk deep into the flesh, and thou mightst have
tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps by the blood that
followed. As we went on--"
"Have I not borne all this; and have I murmured?" interrupted Pearson,
impatiently.
"Nay, friend, but hear me," continued the other. "As we journeyed on,
night darkened on our path, so that no man could see the rage of the
persecutors, or the constancy of my endurance, though Heaven forbid that
I should glory therein. The lights began to glimmer in the cottage
windows, and I could discern the inmates as they gathered in comfort and
security, every man with his wife and children by their own evening
hearth. At length we came to a tract of fertile land; in the dim light,
the forest was not visible around it; and behold! there was a
straw-thatched dwelling, which bore the very aspect of my home, far over
the wild ocean, far in our own England. Then came bitter thoughts upon
me; yea, remembrances that were like death to my soul. The happiness of
my early days was painted to me; the disquiet of my manhood, the altered
faith of my declining years. I remembered how I had been moved to go
forth a wanderer, when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of my
flock, lay on her dying bed, and--"
"Couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?" exclaimed Pearson,
shuddering.
"Yea, yea," replied the old man, hurriedly. "I was kneeling by her
bedside when the voice spoke loud within me; but immediately I rose, and
took my staff, and gat me gone. O, that it were permitted me to forget
her woful look, when I thus withdrew my arm, and left her journeying
through the dark valley alone! for her soul was faint, and she had
leaned upon my prayers. Now in that night of horror I was assailed by
the thought that I had been an erring Christian, and a cruel parent;
yea, even my daughter, with her pale, dying features, seemed to stand by
me and whisper, 'Father, you are deceived; go home and shelter your gray
head.' O Thou, to whom I have looked in my furthest wanderings,"
continued the Quaker, raising his agitated eyes to Heaven, "inflict not
upon the bloodiest of our persecutors the unmitigated agony of my soul,
when I believed that all I had done and suffered for thee was at the
instigation of a mocking fiend! But I yielded not; I knelt down and
wrestled with the tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely into the
flesh. My prayer was heard, and I went on in peace and joy toward the
wilderness."
The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness of
reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale; and his unwonted
emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion. They sat
in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining perhaps, in its red
embers, new scenes of persecution yet to be encountered. The snow still
drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the blaze of the
logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney and hissed upon
the hearth. A cautious footstep might now and then be heard in a
neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew the eyes of both
Quakers to the door which led thither. When a fierce and riotous gust of
wind had led his thoughts, by a natural association, to homeless
travellers on such a night, Pearson resumed the conversation.
"I have well-nigh sunk under my own share of this trial," observed he,
sighing heavily; "yet I would that it might be doubled to me, if so the
child's mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep and many, but
this will be the sorest of all."
"Fear not for Catharine," replied the old Quaker, "for I know that
valiant woman, and have seen how she can bear the cross. A mother's
heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend mightily with
her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks that her son has
been thus early an accepted sacrifice. The boy hath done his work, and
she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness both to him and her.
Blessed, blessed are they that with so little suffering can enter into
peace!"
The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous sound; it
was a quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. Pearson's wan
countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had taught him
what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up erect, and his
glance was firm as that of the tried soldier who awaits his enemy.
"The men of blood have come to seek me," he observed, with calmness.
"They have heard how I was moved to return from banishment; and now am I
to be led to prison, and thence to death. It is an end I have long
looked for. I will open unto them, lest they say, 'Lo, he feareth!'"
"Nay, I will present myself before them," said Pearson, with recovered
fortitude. "It may be that they seek me alone, and know not that thou
abidest with me."
"Let us go boldly, both one and the other," rejoined his companion. "It
is not fitting that thou or I should shrink."
They therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which they
opened, bidding the applicant, "Come in, in God's name!" A furious blast
of wind drove the storm into their faces, and extinguished the lamp;
they had barely time to discern a figure, so white from head to foot
with the drifted snow, that it seemed like Winter's self, come in human
shape to seek refuge from its own desolation.
"Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may," said Pearson. "It
must needs be pressing, since thou comest on such a bitter night."
"Peace be with this household," said the stranger, when they stood on
the floor of the inner apartment.
Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slumbering embers of the
fire, till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze; it was a female voice
that had spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and wintry,
in that comfortable light.
"Catharine, blessed woman," exclaimed the old man, "art thou come to
this darkened land again? art thou come to bear a valiant testimony as
in former years? The scourge hath not prevailed against thee, and from
the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant; but strengthen, strengthen
now thy heart, Catharine, for Heaven will prove thee yet this once, ere
thou go to thy reward."
"Rejoice, friends!" she replied. "Thou who hast long been of our people,
and thou whom a little child hath led to us, rejoice! Lo! I come, the
messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is overpast. The
heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved in gentleness toward
us, and he hath sent forth his letters to stay the hands of the men of
blood. A ship's company of our friends hath arrived at yonder town, and
I also sailed joyfully among them."