the accident that had nearly deprived him of life, before he was
attacked with a violent fever, which required the greatest care and
attention from his kind friends; indeed, they spared no pains to relieve
his sufferings. Josiah seldom left his bed-side: he gave him his physic,
adjusted his pillows, and cheerfully performed for him every little
service. Mr. Hope came every day to see his son; and expressed the
warmest gratitude to the good Quakers, for their unremitting kindness to
the unconscious sufferer. William always attended his father on these
visits; and the state in which he saw his brother had such an effect on
his mind, that, before he returned to school, he promised his excellent
parent, that he would obey his injunctions for the future, and never
more give him cause to complain.
"Already, my dear Josiah," said Mr. Hope, taking the hand of the young
Quaker, as he stood by the bed-side of his son, "to your goodness I owe
the reformation of one of my children, the life of the other; and, oh!
if it should please God ever to restore this unhappy boy to my prayers,
use your utmost endeavours, my good Josiah, to turn him from his present
forlorn state of mind: and your virtuous endeavours will be repaid by
the blessings of a grateful father."
"Oh, Sir!" returned Josiah, his eyes filling with tears as he spoke, "I
have little doubt of his amendment. A bed of sickness brings an awful
picture before our eyes. When George comes to reflect on his late
providential escape from death, his heart will soften, and he will
remember his past conduct with feelings of painful regret; and such
reflections, I trust, will bring with them a sincere and lasting
repentance."
"God grant that your words may prove true, my excellent young friend,"
said Mr. Hope; "and rest assured, that your noble endeavours to reclaim
an erring fellow-creature (and one who, I am sorry to say, has given
you such just cause of displeasure), will meet with a reward both here
and in another world."
A few days after this conversation, George Hope was declared out of
immediate danger; and, when recollection returned, he found himself
supported in Shirley's arms.
A sense of his situation rushed over his mind. The strange room, the
strange bed, all confirmed the idea that Josiah was his preserver, and
that he was in the house of Mrs. Shirley; his heart, by nature not bad,
though by the force of evil example so sadly perverted, softened into
remorse and gratitude, and, burying his face in Josiah's bosom, he burst
into a flood of tears.
"Is it to you, Josiah Shirley, that I owe my life, whom I have so basely
and cruelly injured. Oh! if you did but know what a worthless wretch it
is you support thus tenderly in your arms, you would fling me from you
with disgust and horror."
"Calm these agitating feelings, my dear George," said Josiah, attempting
to sooth him; and forgetting, whilst he did so, his usual precision. "I
have long ago forgotten and forgiven our foolish dispute in the meadow;
let not the recollection of such trifles discompose thy mind in an hour
like this. Remember the past only as it refers to the improvement of the
future; and believe that Josiah Shirley is thy sincere and lasting
friend."
"God bless you for that word, Josiah!" exclaimed George, in a feeble
voice, as he sank back exhausted on the pillow. "How little have I
deserved this kindness from you. Oh, may I never be tempted to forfeit
your esteem for the future!"
"After this worthy resolution, friend George," said Josiah, playfully
putting his finger on his patient's lips, "I must insist on silence, for
it cannot be very prudent for thee to converse on any subject in thy
present weak state."
George smiled at this restraint on his tongue; but he very patiently
submitted to the young Quaker's request.
Most sincerely did George promise amendment for the future; and Josiah
was not backward in assisting him in the arduous task of
self-improvement.
Whilst watching by his sick pillow, for George was confined to his bed
many weeks, Shirley read to him passages from the best of our moral
works, and daily portions of the divine gospels, whilst, in his simple
language, he set before him the dreadful consequences which generally
followed disobedience to parents, and keeping company with vicious
people.
Every day added to young Hope's mental improvement; but his health
remained in so precarious a state, that a decline was apprehended, and
Mr. Hope granted Josiah's earnest request to let his son remain with
them till he should have gained sufficient strength to return to school.
Indeed, George had grown so fond of Josiah, that he could not feel happy
a moment out of his company. Often, when Shirley was busily employed in
his studies, George would silently watch his mild sweet countenance,
till he felt the tears tremble in his eyes, when he recalled the
unworthy treatment the noble youth had experienced at his hands.
Yet, though he deeply repented of the past, George could never summon up
courage enough to inform Josiah of his baseness in destroying his trees.
A hundred times a day he was on the point of declaring his guilt; but
false pride always hindered him from confessing so degrading an action.
As the spring advanced, he would rise early in the morning, and work
with Josiah in the garden, and help little Rachel to feed her rabbits,
and plant and tie up the flowers; and these small jobs he did with
greater alacrity, hoping that the earnestness with which he performed
any little office towards the re-embellishment of the garden would, in
some measure, atone for the wanton mischief he had been guilty of in the
summer; but he never entered the garden without a secret sigh, or saw
Josiah labouring to restore it to its former beauty, without bitter
feelings of self-condemnation.
Pat Lary came every day to inquire after the young Squire's health, and
George never shook hands with the honest creature without the keenest
remorse, while Simpson, who had been the author of all his vices, was
heard to say in the village, "that it was a pity young Shirley saved him
from being drowned; for he was a wicked lad, and he was sure he would
never come to a good end."
The spring came, and passed away, with all its flowers and verdure, but
George remained so feeble and dejected, that he was not able to return
to school that quarter. Mr. Hope was greatly alarmed at the increasing
debility of his son, though equally delighted with his mental
improvement; and was not behindhand in making handsome presents to Mrs.
Shirley, for the kind attention she payed to the suffering youth.
He likewise presented Josiah a beautiful pony, and a small library of
choice books, as a testimony of his gratitude and esteem, which the
young Quaker received with unfeigned pleasure; and, as he went to turn
his new favourite into the meadow, Mr. Hope followed him, and, taking
his arm, thus addressed him:--
"In spite of all your pains, my good Josiah, I fear my poor boy is fast
hastening to the grave. Mr. Carter told me this morning he could assign
no reason for his lingering illness; he thought it now rested entirely
on the mind of the patient. You have many opportunities of noticing him,
what is your opinion on the subject?"
"I agree with Mr. Carter, Sir," replied Josiah; "though I cannot
discover the reason of my friend's obstinate grief. I have often
questioned him, but to no purpose, as he only answers me on this head
with tears."
"I fear, my kind lad," said Mr. Hope, sighing heavily as he spoke, "that
it is some bad action he has committed before his illness, that lies
upon his conscience; which, if once removed, would restore his health
and spirits. If you can, my dear Josiah, possibly discover the cause of
his dejection, I shall be greatly obliged to you." Josiah promised to do
his best, and Mr. Hope wished him good morning.
It happened that day, that George was in better spirits than usual; and
Josiah, as he watched the bright glow which at times flushed his pale
cheeks, hoped he was fast improving in health. The evening was
uncommonly beautiful; and, after they returned from their accustomary
walk, Rachel invited them to take a turn in the garden, and eat some
nice ripe strawberries she had gathered in their absence.
They gladly accepted her offer, and retired to a bench at the bottom of
the garden, which was overshadowed by a noble oak, which, in the
language of that delightful poet of nature, Bloomfield--
"Had reached its full meridian height
Before our father's father breathed."
"Hark! how merrily the Reading bells are ringing," said Josiah. "Listen,
Rachel and George, how delightfully the sound, softened by distance,
floats over the woods."
"Yes, they sound very pretty," replied Rachel; "but I wish they were not
ringing, for we shall not hear the nightingale, as we did last night;
and I prefer her sweet melancholy notes to the sound of those jingling
bells."
"I wonder what they are ringing for?" said George, thoughtfully. "I
shall never hear the sound of bells with pleasure again."
"Why not, my dear friend?" asked Josiah, not a little curious to learn
the cause of his dislike.
"Indeed, Josiah, I have not fortitude enough to tell you," returned
George, hiding his face with his hands. "I once heard them ring as
merrily as they do now, on as beautiful and calm an evening as this; but
I have never been happy since, and, whilst the events of _that night_
weigh upon my mind, I shall never be happy again."
"And will not George reveal to his friend the cause of his grief?" said
Josiah, kindly taking his hand. "Whence is this want of confidence and
affection; surely I have deserved neither at thy hands?"
George flung himself into Shirley's arms, and the long-concealed truth
trembled on his lips, when little Rachel cried out in a joyful tone--
"Oh, here comes Henry West! he will tell us what the bells are ringing
for!"
"And that I will, and give you a fairing to boot, pretty Rachel," said
Henry, as he stooped down to kiss her rosy cheek. "Why, what's the
matter with Josiah and George? I thought I should have seen you both at
the fair."
"Nay, Henry, I am sure such a thought never entered thy head," replied
Shirley, "well knowing my aversion to such places of amusement."
"Well, I will own I did not much expect to see you there, Mr. Prim,"
said Henry, laughing; "but George has no such scruples of conscience, I
dare say."
He turned to young Hope as he finished speaking, but was astonished and
frightened to see the ghastly paleness which had overspread his
countenance. "Josiah! your friend is ill: I think you are very
imprudent to expose him to the evening air."
Josiah started up, and regarded George's varying countenance with
interest and commiseration.
"Oh! no, no! I am not ill," exclaimed George, in a hurried voice; "I
feel much better in the open air:" then, in a mournful tone, he added,
"Are you sure, Master West, that to-day was Reading fair?"
"I am certain," said Henry, smiling, "for I am just come from thence;
Mrs. Wilson took me in her carriage, and I was very well entertained by
all the fine things that were to be seen, which my good friend, Josiah,
will allow to be very babyish in a great fellow like me. But, Joe, to
make my peace, I have brought you two small copies of verses for your
scrap-book; and, as the subjects are serious, perhaps you will edify us
all, by reading them aloud by the light of this glorious moon."
"With all my heart," said Josiah, unfolding the paper, and, hoping to
divert George from his present state of dejection, he read the following
lines:--
Awake, lute and harp, all thy melody pouring--
To heaven with the wild notes of triumph ascend;
While the children of earth, their Creator adoring,
The sweetness of song with their thanksgivings blend.
On the breezes of night, when the anthem is swelling,
With shadowy splendour the air seems to glow,
While fancy could hail each bright star as the dwelling
Of spirits released from their bondage below.
When o'er the raised soul high sensations are stealing,
The glorious spark immortality gave
Seems to lose, in the glow of devotional feeling,
Its portion of suffering, and soar o'er the grave.
To those regions of gladness, eternally glowing,
With the glory of Him who created the spheres,
From the light of whose countenance blessings are flowing,
To wipe from the eyes of the mourner all tears.
Where glorified spirits, each other outvying,
The praise of the Godhead triumphantly sing;
Such strains as might steal on the Saviour when dying,
As angels supported their crucified King.
To those mansions of bliss, for the faithful preparing,
Who the ordeal of suffering undauntedly tried,
With their master and king in his glory are sharing,
And exult that, to live, they in agonies died.
On the soul while such visions of splendour are burning,
It sighs for that peace the world cannot bestow;
Till the shadows of night, on the spirit returning,
Awake it again to its portion of woe.
There was something in these lines that greatly softened the heart of
George Hope; and, turning to Josiah, he said with a deep sigh:--
"Josiah, does God always take vengeance on our crimes?"
"Not if we sincerely repent of them, and faithfully promise to sin no
more;" returned Shirley; "and, should we again fall into temptation, God
knows the weakness of our nature, and is ever more willing to forgive
than we to implore his mercy."
"I have deeply repented of my past errors," said George; "and yet I feel
as if my transgressions were not pardoned."
"You must banish such thoughts as these, my dear George," returned
Henry, "or you will never be happy. I have heard my Father say, that if
we sincerely repent of any crime we have committed, we must not doubt
the mercy of our God. Surely you have every reason to be more cheerful
than you are. Do but contrast your present character with your idle
pursuits last year; and I am sure you will rejoice at the change."
George shuddered, while Henry continued--
"You were universally and justly despised by the whole village; and I
will frankly own, I felt for you the most hearty contempt. Now, every
one mentions you with interest and commendation; and you have gained the
unfeigned love of Josiah and myself. Such a change in your favour should
raise, not depress your spirits."
"I am perfectly sensible of your goodness, my kind friends," returned
George, "and feel that gratitude towards you which no words can express.
To-morrow I may feel in better spirits; but I cannot conquer the
depression that clouds my mind to-night. But I see Josiah is going to
read something else to us."
"It is a paraphrase on the twenty-ninth psalm," said Josiah; "and,
though the author has failed in conveying the awful grandeur of the
original, I think the verses will please my friends:--
"Ye sons of the mighty, a sacrifice bring
To the footstool of power, and your thanksgivings raise;
For the Lord is your strength, your Creator, and King,
Who demands from his children the tribute of praise.
"Yea, the voice of our God, in its fury, controls
And stills the wild waves of the tempest-swoll'n deep;
When borne on the thunder as slowly it rolls,
We hear midst its terrors Omnipotence speak.
"The voice of our God is a glorious sound:
When it moves on the waters, or speaks through the storm,
The cedars of Lebanus bend to the ground,
And the mountains and hills from their fabric are torn.
"The voice of the Lord, in his wrath, can divide
The red rushing flames, and their fury awake;
When forth on the wings of destruction they ride,
And beneath them the powers of the wilderness shake.
"Yea, the voice of our God is mighty in power
On his bounty the wild tribes of nature depend:
The hind rears her young in the green forest bower;
From his altars the prayers of his children ascend.
"The voice of the Lord, in his glory, shall bring
To his people the fulness and blessings of peace;
The Lord o'er the water-flood reigneth a King,
And his portion, eternity, never shall cease."
Josiah had scarcely concluded the psalm, when Mrs. Shirley came to fetch
the young people from staying out longer in the night air; and Henry,
bidding Josiah good night, and shaking George heartily by the hand,
hoping to see him in better health and spirits the next day, took his
leave.
The sun was scarcely up the following morning, when George tapped at
Shirley's door, and proposed a long walk into the country before
breakfast.
The young Quaker was already dressed, and he accepted the invitation
with pleasure, hoping, by the way, to induce his friend to reveal the
cause of his grief. In the parlour they were joined by little Rachel,
who begged so earnestly to accompany them, that George insisted on her
request being granted.
The morning was delightful, the dews sparkled on the grass, and the
blackbird poured his merry lay from among the high hawthorn hedges that
rose on either side of them.
The spirits of the little party rose in proportion to the beauty of the
morning; and they directed their course down a long, lonely, but very
romantic lane, over-arched with old oaks, that formed a rich canopy
over their heads.
Rachel ran laughing on before, filling a little basket she had in her
hand with flowers; then, having passed a sudden angle in the lane, the
friends were alarmed by her giving a loud scream.
"What can have happened?" cried Josiah, hurrying forward. "I am afraid
she has trod upon a snake among the flowers."
He had scarcely finished speaking, before Rachel came running towards
them, out of breath, and very pale; and, flinging her arms round Josiah,
she sobbed in the most agitated manner.
"Turn back! turn back, Josiah! There is something dreadful in the road."
"Do not be alarmed, Rachel; it shall not hurt thee," said Josiah, still
fancying she had seen a snake.
"Oh no, it is dead! and the ground is all bloody! and it looks as pale
as George did, when they took him out of the pond."
Frightened in his turn, Josiah burst from the hold of the terrified
child; and, bidding her sit down on the bank till he returned, the two
friends, with faces almost as white as Rachel's, proceeded to the spot
she described.
What language can describe the horror they felt, when, on turning the
projection of the lane, they beheld the mangled body of Daniel Simpson,
lying dead across the path.
This wretched young man had stayed drinking late at the fair; and,
returning home in a taxed cart, in a state of intoxication, the horse
took fright, and, turning suddenly down this narrow lane, Simpson lost
his balance, and fell out of the cart, with violence to the ground; and,
the wheel going over his head, he was killed on the spot.
Thus did this wicked young man come to a deplorable end, on the very
night that a twelvemonth before he had so successfully plotted against
the peace of the poor Irishman and Josiah Shirley.
George was so dreadfully agitated at this shocking sight, that Josiah
could scarcely keep him from fainting; and, calling Rachel, he bade her
lead George home, and fetch assistance from the village, whilst he
remained by the body.
Pat Lary, with some working hands, immediately ran to the spot, and,
raising the mangled remains of Simpson on a hurdle, they were conveyed
to the next house, there to remain till the Coroner's inquest could be
held on the body.
When Josiah returned home, he found George leaning against the window in
the parlour, pale and in tears. Knowing his unfortunate association with
the deceased, Josiah was not surprised, that the untimely death of this
unfortunate young man should deeply affect his friend; and, kindly
taking his hand, the amiable boy strove to comfort him.
"George! dear George! pray dry these tears: they really distress me.
Though Simpson merited his death, remember that God is merciful, and
all-sufficient to save."
"Oh, Josiah! I, too, have merited death!" exclaimed the agitated George,
burying his face in Shirley's bosom, and giving way to a fresh burst of
grief.
"We are all liable to err, George, and merit death every hour in the
day, if it were only for our vile ingratitude to that great and
munificent Being from whom we received the principles of our existence,
and upon whose bounty we depend from day to day. We cannot be saved by
our own righteousness; did not we read together last night, in the
Psalms--That God did not find one perfect amongst the children of men.
Then dry these unavailing tears, and return thanks to that divine
Providence that has saved thee from a similar fate."
George returned no answer to this speech for some minutes, but seemed to
be struggling with intense and overpowering feelings; at length, turning
toward Josiah, with a face burning with conscious shame, he said--
"Yes, Josiah, God has indeed called me to a sense of my past wickedness;
and I will no longer withhold from you the base cruelty with which I
suffered an innocent fellow-creature to bear the disgrace of my own
infamous conduct."
Then casting his eyes to the ground, in faltering accents, he
continued--
"Josiah, you suspected that poor Irishman of having broken your trees.
The dear, honest creature is innocent. I was the perpetrator, in
conjunction with that wretched Simpson."
Josiah started back, whilst the surprise he felt was strongly marked on
his countenance.
"Thee, George Hope! Oh, poor Lary, how basely I have injured him."
"Oh, do not--do not say so!" cried George, weeping bitterly. "I only am
to blame. Ah, Josiah! dear good Josiah! I fear you will never love me,
or call me friend or brother, after this disgraceful disclosure. Yet do
forgive me? and I will never act so unworthily again." He would have
thrown himself at his feet, but the noble boy prevented him, by raising
him in his arms.
"Indeed, George, I did not suspect thee of such a crime; but I forgive
thee, from my very heart. But poor Lary! I cannot pardon myself for
having suspected him, without being certain of his guilt; and then the
circumstance of the hatchet being found in the garden, and Rachel's
rabbits being in his son's possession--how could all that come about?"
"Oh, Josiah!" replied George, "the more I reveal of this dreadful
business, the more shocking it will appear; but, as I have commenced the
narration, I will continue it to the end."
He then faithfully informed the young Quaker of the whole transaction,
not sparing himself at all in the relation. Josiah was shocked and
astonished at the depravity of heart, and the depth of dissimulation,
that had been shown throughout this disgraceful affair; and, when George
finished speaking, he grasped his hand firmly, and said:--
"Bless the hour, George, when the waters ingulfed thee, and the long and
lingering illness which bowed down thy exhausted frame, if they were
the means of snatching thee from guilt like this."
"And, above all," cried George, pressing Josiah's hand to his heart,
"the kind friend who not only forgave the injuries I had so undeservedly
heaped upon his head, but saved my worthless life, at the peril of his
own, and, by his unremitting care and advice, has brought me to a full
conviction of my past guilt."
"Say no more, George; I have only one request to make, which will
sufficiently repay me for all my trouble. Let us go instantly to poor
Lary and state the case to him; I cannot be happy till I have asked his
pardon for the unjust suspicion which I have attached to his name. I
know the honest creature so well that I am sure we shall never have any
reason to repent trusting to his generosity."
This George willingly consented to do; and he felt so much happier since
he had opened his mind to his friend, that he no longer dreaded the
interview with Lary; and, after breakfast, the two friends stepped
across to Lary's cottage.