 | CHAPTER XII. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts |  |
12. CHAPTER XII.
The infant buds of love,
And tread his glowing fire to earth,
Ere 'tis dark in clouds above.”
Halleck.
The observance of the Sabbath began with
the puritans, as it still does with a great portion
of their descendants, on Saturday night. At the
going down of the sun on Saturday, all temporal
affairs were suspended; and so zealously did our
fathers maintain the letter, as well as the spirit of
the law, that, according to a vulgar tradition in
Connecticut, no beer was brewed in the latter
part of the week, lest it should presume to
work on Sunday.
It must be confessed that the tendency of the
age is to laxity; and so rapidly is the wholesome
strictness of primitive times abating, that, should
some antiquary, fifty years hence, in exploring
his garret rubbish, chance to cast his eye on our
humble pages, he may be surprised to learn, that
even now the Sabbath is observed, in the interior
of New-England, with an almost judaical
severity.
On Saturday afternoon an uncommon bustle is
hurrying to and fro to complete the lagging business
of the week. The good mothers, like Burns'
matron, are plying their needles, making “auld
claes look amaist as weel's the new;” while the
domestics, or help,[1] (we prefer the national descriptive
term) are wielding with might and main,
their brooms, and mops, to make all tidy for the
Sabbath.
As the day declines, the hum of labour dies
away, and after the sun is set, perfect stillness
reigns in every well-ordered household, and not a
foot-fall is heard in the village street. It cannot
be denied, that even the most spiritual, missing
the excitement of their ordinary occupations, anticipate
their usual bed-time. The obvious inference
from this fact, is skilfully avoided by certain
ingenious reasoners, who allege that the constitution
was originally so organised, as to require
an extra quantity of sleep on every seventh night.
We recommend it to the curious, to inquire, how
this peculiarity was adjusted, when the first day
of the week was changed from Saturday to Sunday.
The Sabbath morning is as peaceful as the
first hallowed day. Not a human sound is heard
the herds, the crowing of the cocks, and the
gossipping of the birds, animal life would seem to
be extinct, till, at the bidding of the church-going
bell, the old and young issue from their habitations,
and with solemn demeanor, bend their
measured steps to the meeting-house. The family
of the minister—the squire—the doctor—the merchants—the
modest gentry of the village, and the
mechanic and labourer, all arranged in their best,
all meeting on even ground, and all with that
consciousness of independence and equality,
which breaks down the pride of the rich, and rescues
the poor from servility, envy, and discontent.
If a morning salutation is reciprocated, it is in a
suppressed voice; and if perchance, nature, in
some reckless urchin, burst forth in laughter, “my
dear, you forget it's Sunday!” is the ever ready
reproof.
Though every face wears a solemn aspect, yet
we once chanced to see even a deacon's muscles
relaxed by the wit of a neighbour, and heard him
allege in a half deprecating, half laughing voice,
“the squire is so droll, that a body must laugh,
though it be Sabbath-day.”
The farmer's ample waggon, and the little one-horse
vehicle, bring in all who reside at an inconvenient
walking distance,—that is to say, in our
riding community, half a mile from the church.
It is a pleasing sight to those who love to note
the happy peculiarities of their own land, to see
well-bred, pouring out of these homely coaches,
with their nice white gowns, prunel shoes, leghorn
hats, fans, and parasols, and the spruce young
men with their plaited ruffles, blue coats, and
yellow buttons. The whole community meet
as one religious family, to offer their devotions
at the common altar. If there is an out-law
from the society—a luckless wight, whose
vagrant taste has never been subdued, he may
be seen stealing along the margin of some little
brook, far away from the condemning observation,
and troublesome admonitions of his fellows.
Towards the close of the day, or, (to borrow a
phrase descriptive of his feelings who first used
it) `when the sabbath begins to abate,' the children
cluster about the windows. Their eyes wander
from their catechisms to the western sky,
and though it seems to them as if the sun would
never disappear, his broad disk does slowly sink
behind the mountain; and while his last ray still
lingers on the eastern summits, merry voices break
forth, and the ground resounds with bounding
footsteps. The village-belle arrays herself for
her twilight walk; the boys gather on `the green;'
the lads and girls throng to the `singing-school;'
while some coy maiden lingers at home, awaiting
her expected suitor—and all enter upon the pleasures
of the evening with as keen a relish as if
the day had been a preparatory penance.
After having favoured our readers with this long
We have passed over eight days, which
glided away without supplying any events to the
historian of our heroine's life; though even then
the thread was spinning that was to form the woof
of her destiny.
Intent on verifying the prediction she had made
to Esther, that Everell would soon declare himself
her lover, she promoted the intercourse of the
parties in every way she could, without making
her motive apparent. While she treated Everell
with frank sisterly affection, and was always easy
and animated in his society, which she enjoyed
above all other pleasures, she sedulously sought
to bring Esther's moral and mental graces forth
to the light. In their occasional walks, she took
good care that Everell should be the companion
of her friend, while she permitted Sir Philip Gardiner
to attend her. He was a man of the world,
au fait in all the arts of society, and though he
sometimes offended her by the excess of his flattering
gallantries, yet he often deeply interested
her with his lively descriptions of countries and
manners unknown to her.
It was just at twilight, on Saturday evening,
when the elder Mr. Fletcher coming into Madam
Winthrop's parlour, found his son sitting there
alone, and interrupted a very delightful meditation
on the eloquence of Hope Leslie, who had
just been with him, descanting on the virtues of
her friend Esther. The charms of the fair speaker
thoughts, than the subject of her harangue.
“We have a lecture extraordinary to-night,”
said Mr. Fletcher; “our rulers some time since,
issued an order limiting our regular religious
meetings to one, during the week. Shall you go,
my son?”
“Sir—go to the lecture?” replied Everell, as
if just waking from a dream, and then added, for
then he caught a glimpse of Hope through the
door, with her hat and mantle. “Oh, yes—certainly
sir, I shall go to the lecture.”
He snatched his hat, and would have joined
Miss Leslie; but she saw his intention, and turning
to him, as she passed the threshold of the
door, she said, “You need not go with me, Everell;
I have to call for aunt Grafton, at Mrs. Cotton's.”
“May not I call with you?”
“No; I had rather you would not,” she said
decidedly, and hurried away without any explanation
of her preference.
“What can have disturbed Hope?” asked Mr.
Fletcher, for both he and his son had observed
that her cheek was flushed, and her eye tearful.
“I cannot imagine,” replied Everell; “she left
me not half an hour since, all smiles and gaiety.”
“It is but the April-temper of youth,” said the
father. “Hope is of a feeling make: she often
reminds me of the Delta lands, where the fruits
spring forth before the waters have retired. Smiles
her cheek. But this sensitiveness should be checked;
the dear child's feelings have too long been
indulged.”
“And as long as they are all innocent, Sir, why
should they not be indulged?”
“Because, my son, she must be hardened for
the cross-accidents and unkind events, or, rather
I should say, the wholesome chastisements of life.
She cannot—we can none of us—expect indulgence
from the events of life.” Mr. Fletcher
paused for a moment, looked around, then shut
the door, and returned to his son. “Everell,” he
said, “you have ever been dutiful to me.”
“And ever shall be, my dear father,” replied
Everell with frank confidence, little thinking how
soon the virtue might become difficult.
“Trust not, my son, to thine own strength; it
may soon be put to a test that will make thee feel
it to be but weakness. Everell, thou seest that
Hope loves thee even as she loved thee in thy
childhood. Let her affection remain of this temper,
I charge thee, as thou respectest thy father's,
and thine own honour. And, Everell, it were
well if you fixed your eye on”—
“Stop, sir!—stop, I beseech you, and tell me
—not because I have any thoughts—any intentions,
I mean—any formed purpose, I would say
—but tell me, I entreat you, why this prohibition?”
Everell spoke with such earnestness and ingenuousness,
that his father could not refuse to answer
him: but his reasons seemed even to himself
to lose half their force as they emerged from their
shroud of mystery. He acknowledged, in the
first place, what his most cherished wishes had
been, in relation to Hope, and Everell. He then
communicated the intimations that had been
thrown out, that his views for his son were mercenary.
Everell laughed at the idea. “No one,” he
said, “can so well afford such an imputation as
you, sir, whose whole life has been a practical
refutation of it: and for my own part, I am satisfied
with the consciousness that I would not
marry any woman with a fortune, whom I would
not marry if the case were reversed, or even if
we were both pennyless.”
“I believe this is not an empty boast, my son;
but we have set ourselves up for a mark to the
world, and, as brother Winthrop has said, and
repeated to me, we cannot be too solicitous to
avoid all appearance of evil. There are covetous
souls, who, on the slightest ground, would suspect
us of pursuing our own worldly by-ends.”
“And so, sir, to win the approbation, or rather
the good word of these covetous souls, we are to
degrade ourselves to their level, and act as if we
were capable of their mean passions.”
“Everell! my son, you speak presumptuously;
we are capable of all evil;—but we will waive
must be surrendered to the public good. We
who have undertaken this great work in the wilderness,
must not live to ourselves. We have laid
the foundation of an edifice, and our children
must be so coupled together, as to secure its
progress and stability when the present builders
are laid low.”
“And so, my dear father, a precious gem is to
be mortared in like a common brick, wherever
may best suit the purposes and views of the builders.
You are displeased, Sir. Perhaps I spoke
somewhat hastily. But, once for all, I entreat
you not to dispose of us as if we were mere machines:
we owe you our love and reverence.”
“And obedience, Everell.”
“Yes, sir, as far as it can be manifested by not
doing what you command us not to do.”
“Have I then strained parental authority so
far, that you think it necessary thus to qualify
your duty?”
“No, indeed, my dear father; and it is because
your authority has ever been too gentle to be felt,
that I wince at the galling of a new yoke. You
will admit that my submission has not been less
perfect, for being voluntary. Trust me, then, for
the future; and I promise”—
Everell was perhaps saved from rashly committing
himself, by the entrance of Madam Winthrop,
who inquired if the gentlemen were ready to
attend her to the lecture.
“Come, Mr. Everell,” she said, “here is Esther
to show you the way, than whom there can be no
safer guide.”
Miss Downing stood beside her aunt, but she
shrunk back at Everell's approach, hurt at what
seemed to her a solicitation for his attention. He
perceived her instinctive movement, but without
appearing to notice it, he offered his arm to Madam
Winthrop, saying, “As there is no skill in
guiding one quite willing to be led, I will not impose
the trouble on Miss Downing, if you will
allow me the honour of attending you.”
Madam Winthrop submitted with the best grace
to this cross purpose. The elder Fletcher offered
his arm to Miss Downing, and endeavoured to
draw her into conversation; but she was timid,
downcast, and reserved; and mentally comparing
her with Hope Leslie, he felt how improbable it
was that Everell would ever prefer her. The old,
even when grave and rigid, are said to affect the
young and gay; on the same principle, perhaps,
that a dim eye delights in bright colours.
“Is that Gorton's company?” asked Everell,
pointing towards several prisoners, who, in the
custody of a file of soldiers, appeared to be going
towards the sanctuary.
“Yes,” replied Madam Winthrop; “the governor
and our ruling elders have determined, that
as they are to be tried next week, they shall have
the benefit of all our public teaching in the mean
time.”
“I should fear they would deem this punishment
before trial,” said Everell.
“They did reluct mightily at first; but on being
promised that if they had occasion to speak,
after sermon, they should be permitted, provided
they only spoke the words of sobriety and truth,
they consented to come forth.”
This Gorton, whom Hubbard calls `a prodigious
minter of exorbitant novelties,' had been
brought, with his adherents, from Rhode-Island,
by force of arms, to be tried for certain civil and
ecclesiastical offences, for which, according to the
most learned antiquary of our new world, (Mr.
Savage,) they were not amenable to the magistracy
of Massachusetts.
The prisoners were ushered into the church,
and placed before the ruling elders. The governor
then entered, unattended by his halberd-bearers,—(a
ceremony dispensed with, except on
Sunday)—and, followed by his family, he walked
slowly to his pew, where Miss Leslie was already
seated between Mrs. Grafton, and Sir Philip Gardiner.
She rose, and contrived to exchange her
location for one next Miss Downing. “Look,
Esther,” she said in a whisper to her friend, “at
that lad who stands in the corner of the gallery,
just beside the lamp.”
“I see him; but what of him?”
“Why, just observe how he gazes at me: his
eye is like a burning-glass—it really scorches me.
will be long?”
“It may be long, but I trust not tedious,” replied
Esther, with a gravity which was the harshest
rebuke she could ever command.
“Oh, it will be both!” said Hope, in a despairing
tone; “for there is Mr. Wheeler in the pulpit,
and he always talks of eternity till he forgets
time.”
“My dear Hope!” said Esther, in a voice of
mingled surprise and reproof.
The service presently began, and Hope endeavoured
dutifully to assume a decorous demeanour,
and join Esther in singing the psalm; but her
mind was soon abstracted, and her voice died
away.
The preacher had not proceeded far in his discourse,
before all her patience was exhausted.
Even those who are the most strenuous advocates
for the passive duties of the sanctuary, might have
bestowed their pity on our heroine, who had really
serious cause for her feverish impatience; obliged
to sit, while a young man, accounted a `universal
scholar,' seemed determined, like many unfledged
preachers, to tell all he knew in that one discourse,
which was then called a prophesying—an
extempore effusion. He was bent, not only on
making `root and branch work' of poor Gorton's
heresies, but on eradicating every tare from the
spiritual field. To Hope, he appeared to maintain
one even pace straight forward, like the mortal in
a boundless plain.
“Do, Esther, look at the candles,” she whispered;
“don't you think it must be nine o'clock?”
“Oh hush!—no, not yet eight.”
Hope sighed audibly, and once more resumed
a listening attitude. All human labours have their
end, and therefore had the preacher's. But, alas
for our heroine! when he had finished, Gorton,
whose face for the last hour had expressed that
he felt much like a criminal condemned to be
scourged before he is hung—Gorton rose, and,
smarting under a sense of wrongs, he repeated all
the points of the discourse, and made points where
there were none; refuted and attacked, and proved
(to his own satisfaction), `that all ordinances,
ministers, sacraments, &c. were but men's inventions—silver
shrines of Diana.'
While this self-styled `professor of mysteries'
spoke, Hope was so much interested in his genuine
enthusiasm and mysticism, (for he was the
Swedenborg of his day,) that she forgot her own
secret subject of anxiety: but when he had finished,
and half a dozen of the ruling elders rose at
the same moment to prove the weapons of orthodoxy
upon the arch heretic, she whispered to
Esther, “I can never bear this;—I must make
an apology to Madam Winthrop, and go home.”
“Stay,” said Esther; “do you not see Mr.
Cotton is getting up?”
Mr. Cotton, the regular pastor, rose to remind
should be very sparing in their questions and
observations after public sermons;” and to say,
that he should postpone any farther discussion of
the precious points before them, as it was near
nine o'clock—after which it was not suitable for
any christian family to be unnecessarily abroad.
Hope now, and many others instinctively rose,
in anticipation of the dismissing benediction; but
Mr. Cotton waved his hand for them to sit down,
till he could communicate to the congregation the
decision to which the ruling elders and himself
had come, on the subject of the last Sabbath sermon.
`He would not repeat what he had before
said upon that lust of costly apparel, which was
fast gaining ground, and had already, as was well
known, crept into godly families. He was pleased
that there were among them gracious women,
ready to turn at a rebuke, as was manifested in
many veils being left at home, that were floating
over the congregation like so many butterflies'
wings in the morning. Economy, he justly observed,
was, as well as simplicity, a christian
grace; and therefore the rulers had determined,
that those persons who had run into the excess of
immoderate veils and sleeves, embroidered caps,
and gold and silver lace, should be permitted to
wear them out, but new ones should be forfeited.'
This sumptuary regulation announced, the
meeting was dismissed.
Madam Winthrop whispered to Everell that
sick neighbour, and would thank him to see her
niece home. Everell stole a glance at Hope, and
dutifully offered his arm to Miss Downing.
Hope, intent only on one object, was hurrying
out of the pew, intending, in the jostling of the
crowd, to escape alone; but she was arrested by
Madam Winthrop's saying, “Miss Leslie, Sir
Philip offers you his arm;” and at the same moment
her aunt stooped forward, to beg her to wait
a moment till she could send a message to Deacon
Knowles' wife, that she might wear her new
gown with the Turkish sleeves the next day.
“Oh martyrdom!” thought Hope, with indeed
little of the spirit of a martyr. She dared not
speak aloud, but she continued to whisper to Mrs.
Grafton—“For pity's sake, do leave Mrs. Knowles
to take care of herself; I am tired to death with
staying here.”
“No wonder,” replied her aunt, in the same
low tone, “it is enough to tire Job himself;—but
just have a minute's patience, dearie; it is but
doing as a body would be done by, to let Mistress
Knowles know she may come out in her new
gown to-morrow.”
“Well, just as you please, ma'am; but I will
go along with Sir Philip, and you can follow with
Mr. Cradock. Mr. Cradock, you will wait for
Mrs. Grafton?”
“Surely, surely,” said the good man eagerly;
“there is nothing you could ask me, Miss Hope,
that I would not do.”
“Thank you for nothing, Mr. Cradock,” said
the testy dame, with a toss of her head; “you
are over civil, I think, to-night. It is very well,
Miss Hope, it is very well;—you may go;—you
know Cradock at best is purblind at night;—but
it is very well;—you can go—I can get home
alone. It is very peculiar of you, Mr. Cradock.”
Poor Cradock saw he had offended, but how,
he knew not; and he looked imploringly to Hope
to extricate him; but she was too anxious about
her own affairs, to lend her usual benevolent care
to his embarrassment.
“My dear aunt,” said she, “I will not go without
you, if you prefer to go with me; only do
let us go.”
Mrs. Grafton now acquiesced, for in her flurry
she had lost sight of the messenger whom she
intended to entrust with the important errand.
Sir Philip arranged her hood and cloak; with
a grace that she afterwards said “was so like
her dear deceased,” and in a few moments, the
party was in the street, and really moving homeward.
Mrs. Grafton prided herself on a slow, measured
step, which she fancied was the true gait of
dignity. Hope, on the contrary, always moved,
as the spirit moved her; and now she felt an irresistible
impulse to hurry forward.
“My dear,” said her aunt, “how can you fly
you walk, they would think you had been brought
up here to chase the deer in the woods.”
Hope dared not confess her anxiety to get forward,
and she could no longer check it.
“It is very undignified, and very unladylike,
and very unbecoming, Hope; and I must say, it
is untoward and unfroward of you, to hurry me
along so. Don't you think it is very peculiar of
Hope, Sir Philip?”
The knight suspected that Miss Leslie's haste
was merely impatience of his society; and he
could scarcely curb his chagrin, while he said,
that “the young lady undoubtedly moved with
uncommon celerity;—indeed he had before suspected
she had invisible wings.”
“Thank you for your hint, Sir Philip,” exclaimed
Hope. “It is a night,” she continued, looking
up at the bright moon, “to make one long to soar
—so I will just spread my wings, and leave you
to crawl on the earth.” She withdrew her arm
from Sir Philip's, and tripping on before them,
she soon turned a corner, and was out of sight.
We must leave the knight, biting his lips with
vexation, and feeling much like a merchant obliged
to pay a heavy duty on a lost article. However,
to do him justice, he did not make an entire
loss of it, but so adroitly improved the opportunity
to win the aunt's favour, that she afterwards
said to Hope, that if she must see her wedded to
a puritan, she trusted it would be Sir Philip, for
he had nothing of the puritan but the outside.
Hope had not proceeded far, when she heard
a quick step behind her, and looking back, she
saw the young man whose gaze had disturbed her
at the lecture. She had an indefinite womanly
feeling of fear; but a second thought told her she
had best conceal it, and she slackened her pace.
Her pursuer approached till he was parallel to
her, and slackened his also. He looked at her
without speaking; and as Hope glanced her eye
at him, she was struck with an expression of
wretchedness and passion that seemed unnatural,
on a countenance so young and beautiful. “Any
thing is better than this strange silence,” thought
Hope; so she stopped, looked the stranger full in
the face, and said inquiringly, “You have perhaps
lost your way?”
“Lost my way?” replied the youth, in a half
articulate voice: “Yes, lady—I have lost my
way.”
The melancholy tone and mysterious look of
the stranger, led Hope to suspect that he meant
to convey more than the natural import of his
words; but without seeming to understand more,
she said, “I perceive, by your foreign accent, that
you are a stranger here. If you will tell me where
you wish to go, I will direct you.”
“And who will guide you, lady?” responded
the stranger, in a thrilling tone. “The lost may
warn, but cannot guide.”
“I need no guidance,” said Hope hastily, still
persisting in understanding him literally: “I am
to you, must bid you good night.”
“Stop one moment!” exclaimed the stranger,
laying his hand on Hope's arm, with an imploring
look: “You look so good—so kind—you may be
of service to me;” and then bursting into a passionate
flood of tears, he added—“Oh, mon
Dieu!—No, no—there is no help for me!”
Hope now lost all thought for herself, in concern
for the unhappy being before her. “Who—
or what are you?” she asked.
“I!—what am I?” he replied in a bitter tone:
“Sir Philip Gardiner's slave—or servant—or
page—or—whatever he is pleased to call me.
Nay, lady, look not so piteously on me!—I love
my master—at least, I did love him;—but I
think innocence is the breath of love!—Heaven's
mercy, lady! you will make me weep again, if you
look at me thus.”
“Nay, do not weep; but tell me,” said Hope,
“what I can do for you: I cannot remain here
longer.”
“Oh! you can do nothing for me—no one can
do any thing for me. But, lady—take care for
thyself.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Hope, in a
tone of mingled alarm and impatience: “do you
mean any thing?”
The boy looked apprehensively about him, and
approaching his lips close to Hope's ear, he said
master. Do not believe him, though he pledge
the word of a true knight always to love you;—
though he swear it on the holy crucifix, do not
believe it!”
Hope now began to think that the youth's senses
were impaired; and, more impatient than ever
to escape from him, she said—“Oh, I can promise
all that, and as much more in the same way,
as you will ask of me. But leave me now, and
come to me again, when you want a much more
difficult service.”
“I never shall want any thing else, lady,” he
replied, shaking his head sorrowfully: “I want
nothing else, but that you would pity me! You
may, for angels pity; and I am sure you look like
one. Pity me!—never speak of me, and forget
me.” He dropped on his knee—pressed her hand
to his lips—rose to his feet, and left her so hastily,
that she was scarcely conscious of his departure
till he was beyond her sight.
Whatever matter for future reflection this interview
might have afforded her, Hope had now no
time to dwell on it; and she hastened forward,
and surmounting a fence at the south-eastern
extremity of the burial ground, she entered the
enclosure, now the church-yard of the stone chapel.
The moon was high in the heavens; masses
of black clouds were driven by a spring gale over
her bright disk, producing startling changes, from
light to darkness, and from darkness to that
to moonlight its dominion over the imagination.
At another time, Hope Leslie would have
shrunk from going alone, so late at night, to this
region of silence and sad thoughts; and her fancy
might have embodied the shadows that flitted
over the little mounds of earth, but she was now
so engrossed by one absorbing, anxious expectation,
that she scarcely thought of the place where
it was to be attained—and she pressed on, as if
she was passing over common clods. Once, indeed,
she paused, as the moon shot forth a bright
ray—stooped down before a little hillock—pressed
her brow to the green turf, and then raising
her eyes to heaven, and clasping her hands, she
exclaimed, “Oh, my mother! if ever thy presence
is permitted to me, be with me now!”—
After this solemn adjuration, she again rose to
her feet, and looked anxiously around her for
some expected object. “But I cannot know,”
she said, “till I have passed the thicket of evergreens;—that
was the appointed spot.”
She passed the thicket—and at that moment
the intensity of her feelings spread a mist before
her eyes. She faltered, and leaned on one of the
grave-stones for support;—and there we must
leave her for the present, to the secresy she
sought.
| CHAPTER XII. Hope Leslie, or, Early times in the Massachusetts | |