University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
A RARE INTRUDER.

THIRTY years ago, or longer, one bright day in
August, the church missionary, the Reverend Arthur
Wellon, was walking down the harbor, with
strong step, and swinging his cane; a stoutly-built Englishman,
of good height, not very handsome, but open,
kindly, intelligent, and reverend-looking; in dress just
grave enough and just enough unlike other gentlemen to
mark his office to those who would not know it from his
face. He is the central person, though not the chief
actor, in our story.

He was a frank and kindly man; straightforward,
honest, and, in a rather homely way, a little humorous.
He had seen something of the world, in living thirty
years, and to good purpose; had a mind large enough
(because it opened into his heart) to take in more things
than the mere habits of his order or his social rank; and
while he loved, heartily, the faith and services of his
church, he had that common sense without which the
Reformers would never have got and kept our Common
Prayer. He was a good scholar, too, as well as a good
parish priest.

This was the man then that had just left his house,
(a comely white one, with two little wings,) and was walking

down the harbor-road, breaking forth, now and then,
when the way was clear, into a cheery snatch of sacred
(or not profane) song.

The first turn in the road brought him in sight of two
persons walking in company in advance of him,—a gentleman
of about his own age, and looking like a clergyman,
and a tall, large, strongly-moulded fisherman of some
sixty years. The former seemed to be listening, rather
than talking, while his companion spoke earnestly, as
appeared from his homely gestures.

On the hill-top, near Beachy Cove, (named from its
strip of sand and shingle edging the shore,) they stood
still; and the Minister, who was not far behind them,
could scarcely help hearing what was said. The fisherman
still spoke; his voice and manner having the gentleness
and modesty almost of a child. One arm passed
through a coil of small rope; and in his hand he held,
with a carefulness that never forsook him, a bright-colored
seaweed. The gentleman listened to him as if he
had the honeyed speech of Nestor. It was some story of
the sea, apparently, that he was telling, or commenting
upon.

The Minister looked curiously toward the group, as
they stood, not noticing him; and then, after a momentary
hesitation, went across a little open green, entered the
enclosure of a plain, modest-looking house, about which
creepers and shrubs and flowers, here and there, showed
taste and will more than common. His dog, a noble
great black fellow, “Epictetus,” who had loitered somewhere
upon the road, came to his master, here, and waited
at his side, as he stood before the door, after knocking.

The parting words of the stranger, thanking his companion
for his society in their walk, and of the stout fisher

man turning meekly back the thanks, came through the
still air, across from where they stood.

“It was very good of 'ee, sir,” said the latter, “to come
along wi' me,” and hear my poor talk.—I wish 'ee a very
good mornin, sir, an' I 'll carry this bit of a thing to my
maid,[1] please God. One o' the nighbors sen'd it. She
makes a many bright things o' such.”

When he had done speaking, his strong steps were
heard as he went on his way, alone; for the whole scene
was as it had been for hours, still and quiet, as if, in going
to their fishing, the people had left no life behind them.
There had been scarce a moving thing, (if the eye sought
one,) save a light reek from a chimney, (a fairer thing, as
it floated over the poor man's dwelling, than ducal or
royal banner,) and a lone white summer-cloud, low over
the earth; where the wind, taking holiday elsewhere, left
it to itself.

Finding that Mrs. Barrè, for whom he asked, had
walked down the harbor, the Minister went forth again,
toward the road.

At the top of the hill, where he had stood with the
fisherman, the stranger was still standing; now gazing
over the water, toward the hills in the far southwest; a
very striking and interesting looking person he was. It
was impossible for the Minister to pass him without salutation,
and the dog loitered, as if he was confident of some
intercourse between them. The stranger returned Mr.
Wellon's silent greeting, gracefully, and came forward to
meet him.

“This atmosphere becomes the scene extremely,” said
he, beginning a conversation.

The Minister turned and cast his eyes over the landscape.

The summer weather, as, at its best it is there, was
beautiful. The eye did not seek shade, as in other countries;
and it seemed, almost, as if the air were so bright
that shadows did not fall. The waves came slowly breaking
on the beach, or in great cool dashes against the rocks.
One little clump of trees, spruces and firs, tame captives
from the woods, stood on the rising ground, not far off.
Rocks showed themselves on every side, breaking out
through the soil, sometimes as ridges, sometimes in single
masses; and beyond the low woods which could be seen a
mile or two inland, great, bald, rounded, strange-looking
heads of mountain-rocks.

“Yes, our rough country has its beauties,” said Mr.
Wellon.—“We've as good an ocean as anybody, and I
think we could make a pretty good show of rocks.”

“There are some very handsome ones, certainly,” said
the stranger, going on with the conversation, when begun:
“those over on the other side of the bay, for example,
with their strong red, and green, and white, as if all the
colors of grass, and foliage, and flowers, had been laid on
a huge stone pallet before painting the earth with them.”

“Not many of them have ever been laid upon the
land,” said the parson smiling, “they seem all to have
staid upon the pallet. You know an Indian tradition was,
that this island was the heap of rubbish which the great
Maker threw into the sea, when He had finished the
neighboring continent.”

The stranger spoke like one familiar with these things,
and fond of them:—

“With sea and rock alone,” said he, “especially such
rocks, there is plenty of beauty; but with woods beside,

and sunshine and shadow, and passing clouds, and twilight
and night, it's inexhaustible; and (you remember) as you
look along those cliffs on the other shore, how many a
little bay turns in and is lost behind the great wall, like
Virgil's
They make the very heart yearn after them, as if it might
find sweet peace in those far little retreats.”

There was a tone of reality, without the least affectation,
in what he said. The glow that came with a part
of this speech, and the slight melancholy which touched
the last part of the sentence, made it far more interesting
to the hearer than it may have been to the reader. The
speaker's manner was very taking, and the near view confirmed
the impression of him made at a little distance.
His complexion was a clear and fresh one; his eyes were
blue and of full proportions, deeply-lighted, and having
that quick, broad glance which is the outward faculty of
genius. His features, indeed, were all handsome and expressive,
even his auburn hair.

The Minister did not immediately speak. After a little
pause, he said:—

“You've a better eye than mine. I go about here, up
hill and down, into the coves, and across the water,
without thinking much more of the sea and the rocks,
than as places for catching or drying cod.”

“I can't think that,” the stranger answered. “Who
can look at those great mountains yonder, without being
startled, if he knows that one can float over their counterparts,
off Wadham Islands, standing up thousands of
feet in sea, as these do in air, and can look down their

great rugged sides, just as he can look up these?—I don't
think you're quite insensible,” he added, smiling; “and
some of these days people will be coming long distances
to see the scenery of Newfoundland.”

“You're no stranger to the country, sir, I see,” said
the Parson. “Do you know, at the first glance, I took
you for a stray church-clergyman; only I couldn't account
for your having got beyond my house?”

The stranger, who was certainly both a very English
and a very clerical-looking man, appeared slightly embarrassed.

“No, I am not,” said he; “but I ought to know something
of the country, for a good deal of my life was
passed in it.”

The Parson, as if involuntarily, cast a more searching
glance at the stranger. He hastened to apologize.

“Pray, excuse me,” said he; “I've been here long
enough to know that black cassocks are not so plenty as
`white-coats,'[2] or capelin, or cod; and I jump at what
looks like a parson. If you'll pardon my saying so, it's
hard to take you for any thing else.”

The other colored again slightly, but answered with
the same readiness as before,

“I ought rather to apologize for looking so much like
one of you; I am a parson, after my own sort.—I was
walking, a few minutes ago,” he added, changing the
subject, “with a man that interested me strongly. Perhaps
if I describe him, sir, you could tell me who he
is.”

“I saw him,” said Mr. Wellon,—“George Barbury, or
Skipper George, as we call him.”

“I thought so!” said the other, with more emphasis

than seemed to belong to an interest created by a few
minutes' conversation.

“You know something of our people, too?” said the
English clergyman. The other explained:—

“I had heard of him and his family before I came.—
It was only in connection with another family that I've
reason to be interested in.”

If some suspicion of this intrusive (and very engaging)
clergyman had made its way into the heart of the
retired pastor, it would not have been strange; but Mr.
Wellon's manner showed no jealousy or apprehension;
and, whether from heartiness of disposition, or owing to
his isolation from the society of educated men, he seemed
more socially inclined than some of his countrymen, and
of his reverend brethren.

“If you intend making any stay among us,” he said,
“I shall hope for the pleasure of seeing you in my house
another time. You must give me a chance to make a
churchman of you, you know, if you come to `molest my
ancient, solitary reign.'—At any rate,” said he, correcting
this abrupt and summary reference to conversion, “to
make a friend of you, whatever else you may be.”

“Thank you,” said the stranger clergyman, bowing;
“neighbors we are likely to be, I believe; and if you
feel as kindly when you know more of me,” (this was
emphasized slightly,) “it will give me great pleasure to
cultivate the acquaintance;—but I've been detaining you
too long. You were going down: may I walk with you
as far as our ways lie together? I am going to `the
Backside,' wherever that is.”

“I know every sheep and goat track,” answered the
Peterport Parson; “and I won't scruple to make you
free of the place for the pleasure of your company.”

This hospitable speech the stranger accepted cordially.

“That fisherman,” he continued as they went, “has a
very touching way of telling a story, and draws a moral
wonderfully.”

“Yes,” said the fisherman's pastor, “and he's a true
man.”

“He was giving me an account of the wreck of one
James Emerson, which you, very likely, know all about:
(I can't tell it as he told it me, but) `the man was going
to run his boat into a passage between a reef and the
shore, where nothing could save him scarcely from destruction;
all his worldly wealth was in her, and his son;
the people on land shouted and shrieked to him through
the gale, that he'd be lost (and he knew the danger as
well as they did); suddenly he changed his mind and
went about, just grazing upon the very edge of ruin, and
got safe off;—then, when all was plain sailing, ran his
boat upon a rock, made a total wreck of her and all that
was in her, and he and his son were barely rescued and
brought to life.' After telling that, with the simplest
touches of language, this was his moral, in his own
words: `'Ee see, sir, 'e tempted God, agoun out o' the
plain, right w'y; an' so, when 'e'd agot back to the
w'y, agen, an' thowt 'twas all easy, then God let un go
down, and brought un up again, athout e'er a thing
belonging to un but 'e's life and 'e's son's.'—That moral
was wonderfully drawn!”

While he was speaking and Mr. Wellon listening, they
had stopped in their walk. As they moved on again,
the latter said:—

“Skipper George puts things together that belong
together, as principle and practice, like one that knows
we must lay out our best wisdom on our life.”

His companion spoke again, earnestly:—

“Few men would have drawn that moral, though all
its wisdom is only seeing simply; indeed, most men
would never have drawn any; but undoubtedly, Skipper
George's interpretation is the true one, `God let him go
down,' and not for coming back, but for having gone
astray.—He saved his life. It was not easy to draw that
moral: it would have been easy to say that the man had
better have kept on, while he was about it.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wellon, “that repentance, coming
across, would throw common minds off the scent; George
Barbury isn't so easily turned aside.”

The stranger continued, with the same earnestness as
before.

“It was the Fate of the old Drama; and he followed
it as unerringly as the Greek tragedist. It needs a clear
eye to see how it comes continually into our lives.”

“Skipper George would never think of any Fate but
the Will of God,” said his pastor, a little drily, on his
behalf.

“I mean no other,” said his companion. The Fate of
the Tragedists—seen and interpreted by a Christian—is
Skipper George's moral. There might have been a more
tragical illustration; but the rule of interpretation is the
same. Emerson's wreck was a special providence; but
who will try to wrench apart the link of iron that this
downright reasoner has welded between it and the wilfulness
that went before? The experience of paganism
and the Revelation of God speak to the same purpose.
Horace's

and the Psalmist's words (in the English translation),
Evil shall hunt the wicked person, to overthrow him,'
come very near together. To see the illustration clearly,
in a special case; to assign the consequence, as in this
case, to its true antecedent—not the near, but the remote
—is rare wisdom!”

“Oh! yes,” said Mr. Wellon, “only I keep to the old
terms: `providences,' `special providence,' `visitation,'
and so on. It's good that Skipper George isn't a man to
be jealous of, or your admiration might move me.”

The stranger smiled. As there was often to be noticed
in his voice something like an habitual sadness, and as
there lay sadness, or something very like it, in his eye, so
his smile was not quite without it.

Not answering, unless by the smile, he asked,

“Is his daughter like him?”

“She's a marvel; only, one who knows her does not
marvel: every thing seems natural and easy to her. I
ought to inquire whether you've any designs upon the
family?”

“Not of proselyting. Oh! no: none of any sort whatever.
I had heard of them from one who did not like
them, and now I'm correcting the impression.”

As they passed the church, in their walk, the stranger-clergyman
bestowed upon it a sufficient degree of polite
attention to satisfy all reasonable requirements (for a
parson with his church is like a sailor with his ship);
and they went on, talking together.

Often, as the conversation grew animated, they stood
still, and sometimes were interrupted by a passing colloquy
between the minister and members of his flock.
They talked of many things and lands; and the stranger's
language made the readiest and most fitting dress for his
thoughts. If he spoke of woods,—such as bristle this
land, or overhang the sultry tropics,—his words seemed

to rustle with leaves, or to smell of the freshness of the
forest, or to flicker in light, and fleck the earth with glowing
shade. The waves swelled and sparkled in his
speech, and there was such a wealth of illustration, that
the figures with which he set off what was thought and
spoken of seemed to light down in bright plumage to his
hand continually, as he wanted them. Imagination, which
is the power of embodying things of spirit, and spiritualizing
and giving life to material things, he was full of.
The slight sadness, and a slight now-and-then withdrawal
of manner, implied that he was not altogether taken up
in what he spoke or heard.

They passed, without remembering, the first and chief
path leading to the Backside, and then, lower down, the
second; and, when they recalled the oversight, the Minister
turned back with his companion and put him in the
best way, and they parted with mutual pleasant words.
Epictetus put himself forward for a share in this demonstration,
and was caressed in turn.

“This old fellow is friendly,” said his new acquaintance;
“perhaps we shall know one another better, some
day.”