THE LANDLORD AND THE COTTAGE MANIAC.
The Cottage--Landlord impressed--Efforts of spirits--Maniac threatens
his family--Landlord advises to send for the minister--Wife wants
a doctor--Iron moved by a spirit--Nobleman and Mary confounded by
the sounds--Attributes the sounds to satan and witches--Becomes
agitated--Boasts of English courage--Gives Mary a half crown--Sends
for a physician--Maniac grows more ill--Tea and sugar bought--The
doctor comes and prescribes--Aid promised--Curate required to pray
at his home--The maniac dies--Grief of Mary--Parental counsel at the
time of her marriage repeated--Her husband buried--The family taken
to the Alms-house--Affecting conversation between the mother and her
son--The overseer questions Mary--Oppression of the poor--Voluntary
and involuntary servitude explained.
There were works which no mind can comprehend, revolving around our
heads, when we left the arch-way. “I am not a medical mind,” said my
guide, “but do you hear that groan of distress?”
I replied in the affirmative.
“To the house of need, then will we go,” said he.
When we reached the cottage, I saw the mind was frantic with despair.
G. Yea; and thou seest the cause.
T. Truly, but who shall believe our report?
G. Thou wilt not say, but do as thou canst to aid.
This cottage stood near the Thames, and about six miles from London.
The mind of the almost distracted man, was writhing in the agony of
death. The family of children were weeping beside the mother, who was
sitting at a little distance from the couch, on which the invalid
rested. I saw no other company present. They were not affluent, but
depended upon their industry for subsistence. Near by, lived a lord
of the heritage, who rode in livery, and fared sumptuously. He was
apprised of the dangerous illness of his servant, and knew the wants
of the dependent family. He came not near, but his wife sent a few
necessaries by another servant, whom we saw leaving the cottage as we
entered.
“There is wretchedness here,” said my companion.
T. Truly; but what can we do to mitigate the evil?
W. We can do what we can, and what we can not do, will not be our
fault. Thou mayest go to the landlord, and impress his mind to come
here speedily.
I went. He was viewing his farm. It was a smiling season. The luxuriant
foliage of nature was never more picturesque. The wild birds were
chanting their melodious sonnets, and the lowing herds were grazing
on the fertile field. When I approached him, he was meditating upon
the probable income of his estate. I was not without hope of making an
impression favorable to humanity. I was aided by a near relative of the
suffering man. We both aimed instantaneously our power to make him feel
a sympathy for the distressed. I saw he was impressed with our wish,
and he turned around as if to go to the cottage; but as he turned, he
said to himself, “Why should I go there; this world is full of misery.
There is yonder city; what could I do to remove the ills of that great
metropolis? It is the misfortune of some to be poor, and what is their
misfortune is not my fault.”
“What can we do?” said my assistant.
“We will still do our duty,” I replied. “If you will act as you can to
impress his mind with sympathy, I will aid his conscientiousness to go
with us.”
“Even so,” said he.
We continued our work till he said, “On one account, I will go and see
him. He has been faithful unto me, in many things, and I will not now
be ungrateful for his services.” So saying, he went to the cottage. On
entering it, he was met by the wife of the frantic man, who said:
“Dear man, I am distracted with trouble. My God! what shall I do? He
is insane, and we have to watch him every moment. Last night he was
determined to kill me. He said we would not receive religion, and God
had commanded him to kill us. Oh! what can we do,” she cried, piteously.
“I think I would send for the minister,” said he; “it is not possible
he can live long in such a state. Perhaps, he might afford him relief
by preparing his soul for death.”
“Would it not be better to get a doctor, my lord?”
“It is of no use to get a physician now; it is too late: To-morrow will
end all his troubles,” replied the landlord.
“Oh, dear me!” sighed the wife; “and I would to God it might end mine;
but here are our dear children; who will care for them when death has
ruined our hopes?”
“Thou hearest that lament,” said my associate.
“I hear. Shall we despair? Never, while human woes require our aid.
Never, until success attend our efforts,” said I.
At my suggestion, my associate made a noise, which attracted the
attention of the nobleman, as he was called. It was made by removing a
piece of wrought iron, resembling a broken knife, which rested over a
window.
“What is that?” said he.
The wife, whose name was Mary, said, “I see nothing.”
The same noise was repeated.
“Do you hear that?” said the nobleman.
“Yes; I hear a rattle of the window,” replied Mary.
“That was not the window,” said he.
Stepping to the window, he placed his hand upon it, and said, “The
window is firm, perhaps it was the old iron.”
When we saw his attention drawn another way, the sound was again
produced.
“It is that iron,” said he; “but what moves it?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary; “it will soon rattle again, perhaps.”
It was not long before he wished to hear again that noise. While
looking steadily upon it, the iron fell to the floor. “There,” said he,
“I knew it was the iron. I wonder what done that!” I stood near him,
and impressed his mind with the conviction that spirits wrought such
things. He was impressed, as we could; and, at length, said he, “if
that old iron was not lifeless, I should believe it could move itself.”
M. Oh, my worthy lord; do not--I shall be afraid of seeing ghosts, when
I am alone.
L. Pshaw; a ghost never made that noise.
M. What then?
It was not more than a second before the iron was uplifted about a
foot, and fell on the floor.
“Well: who knows what all this can mean?” said he. “The devil must be
amusing himself. I wish he would come, and heal this dying man.”
“You do not suppose the devil will do good?” said Mary.
L. No; but, when I was not more than eleven years old, I recollect my
mother said, “a good fountain can not send forth bitter water, nor a
bitter fountain good water.”
When we had aroused his mind on the subject of spirits, we wished to
avail something which would be serviceable to the mind, writhing in
distress. Accordingly, we worked so as to make a manifestation near
the bed. He was now excited, and verily thought these sounds were
premonitions of some awful visitation of Providence.
L. It may not be doubted that there is some meaning to these sounds. If
I were a believer in witchcraft, I would say that witches had something
to do with these noises. Perhaps, it will appear that my days are
numbered. If so, will another noise be made?
My associate now responded by a sound, as before. The nobleman was
horror-struck. “The devil is in this,” said he. “If my days are
numbered, will that rattle of the iron be repeated?”
The rattle was heard again. But gathering a little more courage, he
said, mentally, “a coward is worse than a traitor. I am an Englishman.
Never let it be said, that an Englishman is afraid of ghosts.” My guide
then impressed his mind to ask, “do you want any thing of me?”
The well known rattle responded.
“Perhaps,” said he, “it will be well to call the doctor.”
“Rattle, rattle,” was the response.
“Now, there must be intelligence some where to produce these noises,”
said he. “I do not know what may be the result. But do not be alarmed.
I will send a man after my physician, and when he comes back, I will
return. In the mean time, Mary, you may remember that ghosts never
murdered any one. Have you wanted a little tea and sugar for John? It
will not do him harm,--and you may take this half crown, and get what
it will buy.”
The unfortunate man was worse. He had heard what they had said about
his dying. In a half conscious state of mind, he said, “Mary, what did
he want? He need not be vexed about rent--he will not ask again where I
am.”
“No, no: He wanted to see you, and he gave me this half crown to get
some tea and sugar for you, and besides he has sent for his doctor--all
very kind. He is a kind man in sickness. It is not every landlord you
know, who would even come to visit a servant in sickness, much less
offer them aid; I hope he will get the doctor, and you will get around
again.”
The little boy was dispatched to a shop, where he bought a half crown
in value of tea and sugar. He returned with bounding feet, and said;
“Mother, Sam ax me where I got my money to buy tea and sugar.”
“Hush, my child! you will disturb your father. He must have rest before
the doctor comes.”
In about an hour, the landlord and the physician came. The physician
was a profound man in the science of medicine, and experienced in
his profession. He graduated from the University at Edinburg, in the
year 1791. He received his diploma, and was reputed a successful
practitioner of medicine in the hospital of London, for many years. As
he advanced toward the bedside, or rather couch of the sufferer, he
was met by the wild rolling eye of the patient. Taking his hand, he
said, “He is somewhat feverish, and there is a degree of inflammation
on the brain. I would recommend mustard, applied to the feet, and cold,
wet cloths to the neck and forehead. You must not,” said he, “agitate
his mind about dying; for he wearies himself too much now about his
prospects. Let him have some nourishment, as his appetite may crave,
when he is sane; but do not urge him to eat or drink any thing. It is
possible he may not want any thing, but you will need some one who will
aid you to watch with him to-night.”
“I will send one of his comrades,” said the nobleman.
DOCTOR. Then I will write down the prescription.
L. That will be unnecessary, because he can not read.
D. And can not this woman read?
M. No, sir; my parents were poor, and I was not sent to school.
“It is important,” said the doctor “that this prescription be strictly
adhered to. The least deviation may prove fatal to his recovery.”
“I can remember all,” replied Mary.
When the doctor was about to leave, Mary and the nobleman accompanied
him to the yard. She said, “do you think John will get well, doctor?”
D. It is possible; but the chances are against him. The brain is very
restless, and besides there is a predisposition to monopolize the
entire control of his whole system. I have never known so aggravated
a disease to be overcome without the greatest care. If he should live
till morning, I will see him again.
M. Would it not be well to ask the curate to pray?
D. The curate will not aid his recovery, and I would recommend that he
should not visit you till John is better; but, if you really desire his
aid, you will ask him to pray for your husband at home.
M. Not at home!
D. Yes; at home, God will answer, as here.
The landlord and the physician went away. The evening was still, and no
comrade came to watch with the suffering patient. The lone night wasted
away, until near two o’clock in the morning, when John was released
from his mortal body, and we received him, as we had been received.
During the last convulsive throes of agony, his wife besought God,
imploringly, to have mercy on his soul. Never went up to heaven a
more sincere and fervent supplication for aid, than this dejected and
despairing wife offered for the companion of her youth. Alas! what
wife could do more, when mind is torn from mind, and no appearance
of reuniting again. The whole heart was given to her husband, and he
honored the marriage vow with a constant integrity, which made even the
cottage to smile with the warm affection of true hearts. “I was well
satisfied,” said she, “with my poverty, with my union to make me happy;
but now, oh, my God! what shall I do? Oh, dear, what can I do in this
unfriendly world?” Then she sighed, and sighed from the soul; but her
sighs were aggravated by the mournful despondency of her dear children.
She was heard to say: “When my father consented to our marriage,” he
said, “Mary, you must not think this beautiful world is all sunshine
and summer. There will come clouds of sorrow, nights of gloom, and days
of adversity. You will remember my saying, Mary, when the winter of
bereavement howls its angry blast around your dwelling, and no voice of
kindness gladdens the solitude of your weary hours. But now you have
consented to marry the man you love; be faithful, even unto death.”
Such were the silent meditations of a soul, surcharged with grief, as
we witnessed at the cottage of a laborer.
Two days afterwards, I saw the body conveyed to the Potter’s Field,
and the wife and children to the alms-house. During this period, no
landlord came near the cottage. The widow mourned without hope, and the
three children clung to her with unusual affection. The boy who was the
oldest of the children, seemed to realize the calamity. He said:
“Mother, what shall we do now, my dear father is put in the ground?”
“I suppose,” she replied, “we shall be separated. Oh, my child, you
distress me. You will see your kind father no more. They have buried
him in the cold earth.”
J. Will he never come home again?
M. No; he can not come back here, James.
J. Will he stay there in the earth, mother?
M. His body will stay there, but his spirit will appear before the bar
of God, at the great day of judgment. All will appear before the throne
of God to receive their reward; so you must be a good boy, James, that
you may go to heaven.
J. Has father gone to heaven?
M. I don’t know, my child; he was not a member of any church; but he
never wronged any body, as I know of. He will wait till he receives the
sentence of God, and then all will know.
J. How long will he wait, mother?
M. I don’t know, my son.
J. Where will he wait?
M. You must not ask such questions. The Bible does not tell us any
thing about it, and we must not ask for things which are not revealed.
When two days had passed, the wife and children were conveyed to the
alms house. The overseer said to Mary:
O. Is your father living?
M. No, sir, he has been dead about three years.
O. Did he leave any property?
M. I was not at home when he died, but I heard he died in the hospital.
O. In what hospital?
M. Well, they called it a hospital, such as they have in the army. I
heard my mother say he was wounded, and brought home to England, and he
never got well again.
O. At what battle was he wounded?
M. I never knew the place, but it seems to me more like Waterloo than
any other name.
During this investigation, my mind was impressed to work a reform. I
saw the injustice of oppression in all its naked deformity. The lords
of the soil had monopolized all that could afford subsistence by
cultivation, and then demanded the service of the landless at their own
apprisal. “What better is this,” said I to William, “than chattels in
slavery?”
W. Thou wilt see a difference. A voluntary servitude is willing
bondage, but involuntary service is unwilling subjection to the will
of a master. A willing service is the result of conditions; but an
unwilling bondage is the result of cruelty. It is oppression without
acquiescence, or reward for labor, by contract.
Not receiving a clear solution of my inquiry, I asked, “What is the
difference between voluntary and involuntary slavery.”
W. Voluntary slavery is to do what is required by a contract. The
doer voluntarily assents on condition of receiving a stipulated
compensation. Involuntary slavery is to do what the mind would not do
unless coerced by compulsory measures. It does not contract to do any
thing, but is forced to do what the master requires.
T. But do not the circumstances of the poor in Europe, coerce them to
contract for service, which other conditions would not approve?
W. Thou wilt remember, Thomas, that other conditions coerce the master
to hire and pay them for their services. The compulsion is, therefore,
mutual, and whatever is mutual is equitable. But when a mind is
compelled to do service without the assent of the doer, there is no
mutual necessity, nor equity in the arrangement.
T. There is no necessity, I trust, then, which would justify the misery
that results from the oppression of the poor, in neglecting the means
essential for their comfort.
W. Thou hast well judged. Had avarice the wisdom of truth to control
its treasures, the folly of oppression would find no habitation
among men. But what thou seest is generosity, when compared with the
injustice thou wilt behold in thy pilgrimage.
T. Spare me, then, the sight!
W. Hast thou not a heart to do good? And wilt thou shrink from its
performance, because the sight is unwelcome?
T. I will not shrink from my duty; for where duty calls, there is my
pleasure, my bliss, my heaven.
W. Then, follow me.