features of which would seem sufficient teachers of the power and the
goodness of God, if, indeed, nature were, as some insist, a sufficient
teacher without revelation. I soon found myself, upon here taking up my
residence, almost the only man who thought it worth his while to study
and admire the beauties which nature, with a lavish hand, had scattered
over the scene. It was a valley, enclosed on all sides with hills, whose
ascents, crowned with verdure, exhibited every variety of tint and shade
of green; for the trees of our country display, more than any other,
those varying colors and gentle yet distinctly marked contrasts which
the painter envies, but strives in vain to transfer to his canvas. There
were only two breaks in the surrounding amphitheatre. One was where a
mountain stream came tumbling and babbling into the valley; the other
where, in a more subdued and quiet current, it found egress. The sinuous
path of this little river, or “run,” across the dale, was marked by a
growth of beautiful trees, among which the straight-leaved willow, with
its silver foliage shivering in the light, was most frequent and
conspicuous; other trees which delight in water diversified the long,
green defile; and a little boat, which belonged to one of my
parishioners, offered me frequent twilight pastime. Some labor, to
which, though unused at first, I soon became accustomed, was required to
force the boat upstream; but the highest “boatable” point once reached,
I had only to turn the shallop’s head and guide it down, letting my
little barque slowly float, and conducting it clear of the shallows and
obstructions. Delightful were the views which the turns in the stream
were continually opening; the overhanging trees, forming a green roof
above, were reflected below; and while I seemed thus suspended between
answering skies and trees, over my head and beneath my feet, to look in
either direction of the stream seemed like peering into a mysterious
fairy grot.
One evening as I paused, looking delighted upon the scene of
enchantment, a new feature was, as if by magic, added to the picture. A
little girl—a child of surpassing loveliness—slipped out from among
the bushes, and, skipping from stone to stone, stood on a high rock,
near the middle of the current—the beau ideal of such a sprite as one
might fancy inhabiting the spot. Her loose tresses floated on the
evening breeze, and her scanty drapery—it was mid-summer—as the wind
pressed it against her form, exhibited a delicacy and grace of contour
which that artist would become immortal who could copy. She did not at
first perceive me; and when the flash of my oar startled her, I almost
expected she would prove herself a vision, by vanishing into the sky
above in a cloud, or dissolving in a foam-wreath in the water which
rippled among the rocks behind her.
But youth and innocence are courageous; and she took no other notice of
my approach than to seat herself, to await my coming, upon the same
stone on which she had been standing. Her artless ease and beauty won my
heart—as men’s hearts are often too easily won, through the eyes. Hers
was grace unaffected and natural. No drawing-room belle, after years of
practice before her mirror, could have vied with this rustic nymph. She
possessed what art can with difficulty imitate, and that never
entirely—perfect and unconscious self-possession; and she was the more
admirable, that in her child-like simplicity she dreamed not of
admiration.
I pushed my shallop up beside the rock, and commenced a conversation
with her. I was grieved and amazed to find her helplessly ignorant upon
the commonest subjects which those who fear God teach their children.
She could not even read, she told me. She was born far away, she
said—in another land, mother used to say—and did not remember that she
ever went to church; but mother had told her that she was carried there
once to be baptized, and her name was Bessie.
“Is your mother dead?” I asked.
“No—not dead—I think not; but father—”
A hoarse voice from the shore now shouted her name; and, unalarmed as
she had been when I approached, her little frame now shook with terror,
and her interesting face was pale and sullen with mingled fear and
anger.
“Is that your father?” I said.
She did not stop to answer, but instantly commenced picking her way back
to the bank. While she did so, her trepidation several times almost
tripped her into the river. I should have watched her every step at any
other time, but my attention was irresistibly drawn to the repulsive
form which had come, like a dark and unwelcome shadow, over this fair
scene. The face was positively one of the most demoniacal in expression
I have ever met. Thick, black hair, unkempt, hung over the low forehead,
and the shaggy dark eye-brows seemed to glower in habitual gloom over a
rough and unshaven face. The expression of the whole was that of a man
whose countenance is saddened into surliness, like a clay image of
Satan, by habitual strong potations. A slovenly disregard to dress
completed the picture of a man who has sold himself to the vilest and
most disgusting habits of intoxication.
While I trembled for the fate of such a child, in such hands, she had
come within his reach, and, stretching forth his arm, he dragged her to
him by the hair, tripping her from her footing into the water, and
pulling her to the shore with more inhuman rudeness than I can
describe—her dress draggled and muddied, and her limbs bleeding from
contact with the sharp stones and pebbles. Blow upon blow the ruffian
inflicted upon her, which I could hear as well as see from where I
stood. Not a sound, not a cry escaped her; and while I was hesitating
whether I ought not to try to reach and rescue her, he ceased beating
her, and turned up a path in the bank-side. She silently and doggedly
followed him; and I sadly took my way home, lamenting that the beauty
and peace of such a place should be so brutally interrupted; and
sorrowing more than all, that frequent ill-usage had so deadened the
child’s sensibilities as to make her, otherwise so natural and
unaffected, thus endure pain with the sullen fortitude of an old
offender. I trembled for the life of a child growing up under such
influences; for I could see in her future nothing but crime, suffering
and degradation.
It was later than my usual time of return when I reached the landing,
and there were already lights in the few houses which stood there. I
might have mentioned before—but that I hate to acknowledge the
fact—that the utilitarian habits of our era had converted my romantic
streamlet into a “power” to turn a mill-wheel. It is not a grist-mill,
which is a proper appendage to rural scenery, but a woolen manufactory,
which, with its unromantic surroundings, caused me many a joke from my
friend, the owner of the boat and of the mill. When I excepted to such
things as stretching frames, as a blot on the beauty of the landscape,
and to the dirty wool and dye-stuff as ruining its romance, he would
tell me that if these valleys and rocks had never heard the clatter of
his machinery, neither would the “sound of the church-going bell” have
disturbed their echoes. There was no answering this, because it was
perfectly true, and I could therefore only “humph” and be silent. Though
wrong in some points of his course, Mr. Mariot, our “owner,” was a
liberal man and well disposed—would there were more such! He built the
little church in which I officiated, and he, in effect, supported the
rector. If he had not done so, there could have been neither church nor
service. And he found his account in the superior order of his
establishment; and would have done still more if, beside building the
church, he had abated or forbidden a nuisance which sadly impeded my
usefulness.
Mr. Mariot stood at the landing, and as I stepped ashore said, “I came
down to meet you, Doctor, for Yorkshire Jack is in one of his furious
fits, and vows he will beat you—priest or no priest.”
“And who is Yorkshire Jack?” I asked, though a suspicion who he might be
instantly shot through my mind. My suspicion was correct—for, upon Mr.
Mariot’s explanation, I found that he was the very ruffian whose conduct
I have been describing. As we passed the house dignified with the title
of the “Mariotdale Hotel,” loud voices came through the open windows.
Mr. Mariot would have hurried me past, but I laid my hand upon his arm,
and in a low but determined tone said, “Wait, sir!”
Sunday after Sunday I had preached—to little purpose—and here was the
reason. Several of my usual congregation, upon whose hearts the word of
God fell like seed upon a beaten path-way, sat listening, half laughing,
half terrified, at the blasphemy of this fiendish fellow—Yorkshire
Jack—and half a score more, who never, by any chance, were seen within
the church walls, were applauding him at the top of their voices. O,
they will have a fearful reckoning who have supplied fools who deny God
with words of blasphemy, and with the scoffings of infidelity, through a
prostituted press—who have caught the thoughtless with profane wit, and
betrayed the daringly wicked with the hardihood of declared infidelity!
The worst words of the worst men were rolled from this wretch’s lips, as
if they were his own utterance; the shallowest cant of infidel
literature came from his mouth as if his own heart had originated what,
indeed, it had only harbored. Out of the borrowed abundance of a vile
heart, his lips spake; and the applause of his auditory was scarcely
less disgusting than his words were.
Women began to gather round the windows of the house—they dared not
enter—and to call in hoarse whispers to their husbands, fathers and
sons to come out. Children climbed up and looked in, now gazing,
open-mouthed, with terrified interest to the drunken maniac’s fury—now
laughing, in thoughtless merriment, as his antics became ridiculous. At
length, spent with the vanity of a successful orator to a fit audience,
filled with drink, and worn out with rage, Yorkshire John sank on a
chair. The efforts of his satellites failed to awaken him to new
ravings. The joke was worn out—the women coaxed their husbands away,
the children walked off, rehearsing, describing, and laughing over what
they had heard. The place was soon hushed and still, the monotonous
voice of the water only breaking the silence of the night, and Mariot
and I took our way homeward—for I lodged with him.
On our way nothing was said. The family, except Mrs. M., had retired;
and Mariot seemed as if he would have made that circumstance a pretext
for following them in silence. He put a night lamp in my hand, but I
placed it on the table, and, sitting down, took up THE BOOK. He sat
also—but it was evidently with unwilling politeness. Conscience was at
work—and he was desirous to evade, rather than listen to, her warnings.
I opened to the twenty-eighth of Isaiah, and he started as I read, “Wo
to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim!”
“Edward Mariot,” I said, “God will hold _you_ accountable for the sin
which we have this night witnessed!”
He arose—I thought angrily. He commenced to speak, but a look from his
wife dissuaded him. How would he defend himself with such facts so
fresh? But I knew that there was a coldness in his manner as he returned
my “good night,” with a half nod, such as I never before had witnessed
from him. I feared that our friendship, and of course my further
residence in Mariotdale, was at an end; but I feared more, that it would
be written of my generous but business devoted friend, “Ephraim is
joined to his idols—let him alone!”
-----
[1] The incidents which follow are not offered as from the writer’s own
observation. As the simple narrative can be best told in the first
person, the reader must consider us both as having listened to the aged
clergyman who related it. He was a veteran in the Christian army, and
truly adorned his vocation by unaffected dignity and sincere piety. Long
experience and close observation had given him power to penetrate
character, and to read the very thoughts of those whom he addressed. The
listener might often be startled at what seemed abrupt harshness, but
the result always showed that he knew in what manner to approach all
persons. Sympathy and gentleness he well understood are lost on some
natures; and positive words are as widely improper for others. Clergymen
are too apt to regard all men but as so many copies of each other. They
are taught better as they grow older; but our friend seemed to have an
intuitive knowledge of human nature.
II.—THE PEST HOUSE.
There was an air of uncomfortable constraint over our little family at
the breakfast table on the morrow. All thoughts were full of the same
thing, but none liked to broach it. Edward Mariot’s manner seemed to
say, “I am disposed to forget, if you will be silent.” But I was
determined, at any cost to myself, to insist upon Mariot’s doing his
duty in relation to the disorderly house upon his premises—or, failing
in that, to leave the parish. I felt that my usefulness was at an end if
I hesitated to do what Mariot, as well as I, knew was incumbent upon me;
for a clergyman who compromises his conscience to keep his parish, is
not only an unfaithful servant but an ally to the enemy. Events,
however, were so ordered that I retained my friend, and was spared the
pain of giving him further reproof. I was informed that Yorkshire John
was at the door, and desired to see me.
I rose instantly and went out. Mariot followed, fearing violence—a
danger which did not once occur to me; for there are few—very few—so
base and cowardly as to make an attack upon a clergyman. The man could
not look me in the face. He was abashed and evidently afflicted, and,
merely muttering that Bessie was “very bad,” and _wanted me_, turned and
strode hastily away.
Mariot accompanied me down to the little village, and, as we walked,
gave me some particulars of the life and character of this singular
being, Yorkshire Jack. He had only the one child, and its mother was
still living, but had been forced to leave her husband, on account of
his cruel treatment. Nobody knew precisely where she lived, or in what
manner she supported herself; but she was occasionally seen hovering
about the dale, with the intention of seeing or carrying away her
daughter. The father detained the child in the hope that the love of a
mother would bring her back to him; for, in the years that she had been
absent, with a drunkard’s inconsistency, he had earnestly desired her
return, and vehemently promised amendment. In these professions, which
had reached her through a mutual acquaintance, she put no faith. She had
been compelled to fly more than once before; and having, on those
occasions returned only to discover the hollowness of his promises, and
to receive new abuse, she had resolved to trust him no further. She
heard, moreover, through common fame, of all his wild and wicked
proceedings; and learning what her child suffered, was the more firmly
resolved not only never herself to return, but to take away Bessie if
possible. This made John but the more cruel, especially when in drink;
and he was at all times mad with suspicion that some one would aid her
in the abduction. Hence his rage against his daughter and against me;
for as he never conversed even with his own child, he could conceive of
no purpose but a sinister one, in my accidental interview with little
Bessie. I was tempted to chide Mariot for suffering this state of things
without interfering; but judged it discreet to be silent.
John’s house—or rather his room—was the picture of neglect and
desolation. He had converted it into a sort of fortification, so that
none but a most expert burglar could get in without his permission.
Neither could the child get away when once the premises were locked.
During the day he had been in the habit, often, of fastening her in, and
when she went abroad it was with him. It was shocking to hear that the
poor infant had been the forced auditor of her father’s violence on the
night before, till, spent with fatigue, she fell on the floor and slept.
No wonder, you are ready to exclaim, that she was ill.
But her disease was evidently something more than mere exhaustion. Now
feverish and languid, she would anon become chilled. Pains in the head
and back, redness of eyes, a husky voice, and sore throat, and a
loathing rejection of food, with other symptoms, which I will not expose
my medical ignorance by attempting to describe, marked her affection as
one of no light character. A hint sent the father for a physician—for
remorse often hastens those whom affection cannot influence. Upon his
arrival he confirmed my surmises, and pronounced the case one of decided
small-pox, and of a very dangerous and malignant type.
The father was frantic, and raved like a madman. He denied stoutly that
such could be the case—called us fools and idiots, and ordered all—the
physician, Mariot and myself—to leave his house. I looked at my friend,
and saw tokens of the indecision and lack of resolution, which was his
infirmity. Then turning to the father, I said, “We will not leave this
sweet child to perish in your hands; and unless you desist from
violence, if Mr. Mariot will not act, I will cause you to be committed
as a disturber of the peace!” The man was in a frenzy, and absolutely
foamed at the mouth; but the physician and Mariot supported me, and
taking advantage of his temporary absence, we turned his own
fortifications against him and barred him out, while we should consult
what to do in the emergency.
“Mariot,” I said, after he and the physician had proposed and rejected
as impracticable several expedients, “there is a _pest house_ ready to
your hand. Take that.”
“The tenant will not suffer it,” said he.
“Leave that to us.” And, with the doctor, I went directly to the tavern,
and without circumlocution informed the landlord that we were about to
bring a small pox patient to his house, and desired a room!
He, too, stormed and threatened, but we insisted. The terror among the
residents had now grown intense, for the rumor had spread; and they
having collected, with one voice demanded that the house should be
taken. It stood apart from the rest, and was in all respects eligible
for the purpose.
“If you do bring the child here,” said he, “I will leave.”
“Do so before, if you choose,” I answered, “for in one hour she will be
here.” And I further informed him that upon his future quietness and
good behavior it would depend whether he should be proceeded against for
the sale of spirits to minors and his other misdeeds.
A new cause of alarm was now discovered. The mother of the child lay
sick in another house; and investigation into the nature of her illness
developed the fact that, in a stolen interview with poor little Bessie,
it was she who had communicated to the child the infection. Both mother
and daughter were removed to the tavern, a nurse was provided, and all
proper steps were taken for their comfort. Yorkshire John, having become
subdued by these events, was suffered to be their attendant. The
landlord, having received Mariot’s assurance that his reasonable charges
should be met, sullenly acquiesced, and did not carry out the threat of
removal. The customers, however, fortunately for themselves, avoided the
“Pest House,” and his business was reduced completely to that of an
infirmary. Thus, what fear of moral contagion could not accomplish, was
effected by the dread of physical infection.
III.—THE VISION.
Pass over a couple of years, and behold me, the energetic actor—perhaps
almost unclerical—in the events of the preceding narrative, now
domiciled permanently in the “Mariotdale Hotel.” The old landlord—a
good weaver—has resumed his place in the works, and frequently avows
his satisfaction at the change which circumstances compelled him to make
in his pursuits. Yorkshire John, his very self, is my landlord—and a
quieter dwelling there is not in the country. Perhaps much of this is
due to the good management of his wife—for she, after all, is the man
of the house.
And Bessie?
Poor Bessie! We laid her down to rest in the churchyard two years since,
for the illness she had was unto death. It was this shock which recalled
the father to his senses; and rest assured I did not spare him. He was
not a man who could _bear consolation_, for it seemed as if he could
almost strike the person who offered it. He rebelled against the blow,
but found that he was in the hands of a God who will reach those by
affliction who refuse to be persuaded by mercy.
Poor Bessie—did I say? Blessed child! If the dead can look on earth,
she knows that her father and mother have been reformed and reconciled
through her death; that father and mother have learned to believe that
the early lost are early saved.
And Mariot, my warmer friend than before, admits that my counsel was
sound—that the souls as well as the bodies of his people are in some
sense in his charge, and that he who neglects his duty in regard to the
first cannot atone for that neglect by care of the last.
I often float in the evening down to Bessie’s rock, and seldom fail to
see in the twilight, THE VISION. Nor does it now prove to be of the
earth, earthly, as once it did—for I know that she is in Heaven.
* * * * *
SORROW.
BY ALFRED B. STREET.
I saw at sunrise, in the East, a cloud—
A form upon the sky; at first it seemed
Gloomy and threatening, but at length it beamed
Into a glow of tender light endowed
By the soft rising light. How mild and sweet
It shone! how full of holy tenderness!
How like some hovering Angel did it greet
My heart until I almost kneeled to bless!
It brightened more and more, but less and less
It melted, leading further still my gaze
Into the heavens; with lovelier, lovelier dress
It shrunk, until it vanished in a blaze.
Thus sorrow, kindled by Religion’s light;
Turns to a tender joy, pointing toward heaven our sight.
* * * * *
SONNET.—MORAL STRENGTH.
BY MRS. E. C. KINNEY.
The spirit that in conscious right is strong,
By Treachery or Rage may be assailed;
But over single-handed RIGHT, hath WRONG
Never by art or multitude prevailed;
As Samson, shaking off the withes that failed
To hold the Titan, rose all free among
The weak Philistines that before him quailed,
And bade defiance to the coward-throng!
So the Titanic soul through moral power
Rending the toils of Calumny, doth tower—
A host within itself—sublimely free,
Above the foes that in their weakness cower.
Shorn of its strength the human soul must be,
Ere overcome by truth’s worst enemy.
* * * * *
TAMAQUE.
A TALE OF INDIAN CIVILIZATION.
BY HENRY C. MOORHEAD.