 | CHAPTER XV. A New England tale, and Miscellanies |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Commends the ingredients of our poison'd
Chalice, to our own lips.
Macbeth.
David Wilson, not long after the affair of the robbery of his
mother's desk, went to New-York, in order to see his comrades,
who were imprisoned there, and, if possible, to abate
ther demands on his purse. He succeeded in doing this;
but having fallen in (attracted doubtless by natural affinities)
with other companions as wicked, and more desperate,
he soon spent in that city, which affords remarkable facilities
for ridding men of their money, all that remained of the five
hundred dollars. He preyed on others for a little time, as
he had been their prey; and, finally reduced to extreme
want, he joined two of his new associates in an attempt on
the southern mail, which ended in his detection and commitment
to jail in Philadelphia, where he was now awaiting a
capital trial. A particular account of the whole affair, accompanied
with letters from her son, was transmitted to Mrs.
Wilson, who seemed now to be visited on every side with
the natural and terrible retribution of her maternal sins.
After Elvira's departure, with all the profits of her little
aunt's, in order to communicate to her Mr. Lloyd's kind offer
of assistance, and to extend to her any aid or consolation in
her own power.
She found Mrs. Wilson alone, but not in a frame of mind
that indicated any just feelings. She received her niece
coldly. After a silence of a few moments, which Jane wished
but knew not how to break, she inquired of Mrs. Wilson,
whether she had any more information respecting David than
was public?
Her aunt replied, she had not. She understood the particulars
were all in the paper, even to his name; she thought
that might have been omitted; but people always seemed to
delight in publishing every one's misfortunes.
Jane asked if the letters expressed any doubt that David
would be convicted?
“None,” Mrs. Wilson said. “To be sure,” she added,
“I have a letter from David, in which he begs me to employ
counsel for him: so I suppose he thinks it possible that he
might be cleared: but a drowning man catches at straws.”
“Do you know,” inquired Jane, “the names of the eminent
lawyers in Philadelphia? Mr. Lloyd will be best able
to inform you whom to select among them. I will go to him
immediately.”
“No, no, child; I have made up my mind upon that subject.
It would be a great expense. There is no conscience
in city lawyers; they would devour all my substance, and do
me no good after all. No, no—I shall leave David entirely
in the hands of Providence.”
“And can you, aunt,” said Jane, “acquiesce in your son's
being cut off in the spring of life, without an effort to save
and reformation?”
“Do not presume, Jane Elton,” replied Mrs. Wilson, “to
instruct me in my duties. A space for repentance! A day
—an hour—a moment is as good as an eternity for the operations
of the Spirit. Many, at the foot of the gallows, have
repented, and have died exulting in their pardon and new-born
hope.”
“Yes,” replied Jane; “and there have been many who
have thus repented and rejoiced, and then been reprieved;
and have they then shown the only unquestionable proof of
genuine penitence—a renewed spirit? Have they kept the
commandments, for by this shall ye know that they are the
disciples of Christ? No: they have returned to their old
sins, and been tenfold worse than at first.”
“I tell you,” said Mrs. Wilson, impatiently, “you are
ignorant, child; you are still in the bond of iniquity; you
cannot spiritually discern. There is more hope, and that is
the opinion of some of our greatest divines, of an open outrageous
transgressor, than of one of a moral life.”
“Then,” replied Jane, “there is more hope of a harvest
from a hard-bound, neglected field, than from that which the
owner has carefully ploughed and sowed, and prepared for
the sun and the rains of heaven.”
“The kingdom of grace is very different from the kingdom
of nature,” answered Mrs. Wilson. “The natural man
can do nothing towards his own salvation. Every act he
performs, and every prayer he offers, but provokes more and
more the wrath of the Almighty.”
Jane made no reply; but she raised her hands and eyes
as if she deprecated so impious a doctrine, and Mrs. Wilson
went on: “Do not think my children are worse than others;
and daughter of Adam, as he is—all totally depraved—totally
corrupt. You may have been under more restraint, and
not acted out your sins; but no thanks to you;” and she
continued, fixing her large gray eyes steadfastly on Jane,
“there are beside my son who would not seem better, if
they had not friends to keep their secrets for them.” Mrs.
Wilson had, for very good reasons, never before alluded to
the robbery of her desk, since the morning it was committed;
but she was now provoked to foul means to support her
argument, tottering under the assault of facts.
Jane did not condescend to notice the insinuation; she
felt too sincere a pity for the miserable self-deluded woman;
but, still anxious that some effort should be made for
David, she said to Mrs. Wilson, “Is there, then, nothing to
be done for your unhappy son?”
“Nothing, child, nothing; he has gone out from me, and
he is not of me; his blood be upon his own head; I am clear
of it; my `foot standeth on an even place.' My case is not
an uncommon one,” she continued, as if she would by this
vain babbling, silence the voice within. “The saints of old
—David, and Samuel, and Eli, were afflicted as I am, with
rebellious children. I have planted and I have watered, and
if it is the Lord's will to withhold the increase, I must
submit.”
“Oh, aunt!” exclaimed Jane, interrupting and advancing
towards her, “do not—do not, for your soul's sake, indulge
any longer this horrible delusion. You have more
children,” she continued, falling on her knees, and taking one
of her aunt's hands in both hers, and looking like a rebuking
messenger from Heaven, “be pitiful to them; be merciful to
others; but God is not mocked.”
Mrs. Wilson was conscience stricken. She sat as motionless
aa a statue; and Jane went on with the courage of
an Apostle to depicture, in their true colours, her character
and conduct. She made her realize, for a few moments at
least, the peril of her soul. She made her feel, that her
sound faith, her prayers, her pretences, her meeting-goings,
were nothing—far worse than nothing in the sight of Him,
who cannot be deceived by the daring hypocrisies, the self-delusions,
the refugies of lies, of his creatures. She described
the spiritual disciple of Jesus; and then presented
to Mrs. Wilson so true an image of her selfishness, her pride,
her domestic tyranny, and her love of money, that she could
not but see that it was her very self. There was that in
Jane's looks, and voice, and words, that was not to be resisted
by the wretched woman; and like the guilty king, when he
saw the record on the wall, her “countenance was changed,
her thoughts were troubled, and her knees smote one against
the other.”
At this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of
Mr. Lloyd. Jane rose, embarrassed for her aunt and herself,
and walked to the window. Mrs. Wilson attempted to
speak, to rise; she could do neither, and she sunk back on
her chair, convulsed with misery and passion. Mr. Lloyd
mistook her agitation for the natural wailings of a mother
and with instinctive benevolence he advanced to her, and
said, “Be composed, I pray; I have intelligence that will
comfort thee.”
“What is it?” inquired Jane, eager to allay the storm
she had raised.
Mrs. Wilson was unable to speak.
“Thy son has escaped, Mrs. Wilson, and is, before this,
beyond the reach of his country's laws. Here is a letter addressed
to thee, which came inclosed in one to me.” Mr.
Lloyd laid the letter on Mrs. Wilson's lap, but she was unable
to open it or even to hold it. Her eyes were fixed, her
hands firmly closed, and she continued to shiver with uncontrollable
emotion. “She is quite unconscious,” he said, “she
does not hear a word I say to her.”
Jane flew to her assistance, spoke to her, entreated her to
answer, bathed her temples and her hands—but all without
effect. “Oh!” she exclaimed, terrified and dismayed, “I
have killed her.”
“Do not be so alarmed,” said Mr. Lloyd, “there is no
occasion for it; the violence of her emotion has overcome
her, it is the voice of nature; let us convey her to her bed.”
Jane called assistance, and they removed her to her own
room, and placed her on her bed.
“See,” whispered Mr. Lloyd to Jane, after a few moments,
“she is becoming composed already; leave her for a
little time with this domestic—I have much to say to
thee.”
Jane followed him to the parlour. He took both her
hands, and said, his face radiant with joy, “Jane, many
daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all.
Nay, do not tremble, unless it be for the sin of having kept
from me so long the blessed intelligence of this morning.”
Poor Jane tried to stammer out an apology for her reserve,
but Mr. Lloyd interrupted her by saying playfully, “I
understand it all; I am too old, too stern, too—Quakerish,
to be a young lady's confidant.”
“Oh, say not so,” exclaimed Jane, gathering courage from
his kindness; “you have been my benefactor, my guardian,
always felt it; perhaps most, when I seemed most insensible.”
Mr. Lloyd looked gratified beyond expression; it cost him an
effort to interrupt her. But he said, “Nay, my sweet friend,
it will be my turn next, if thou dost not stop, and I too shall
be, as the French name my brethren, a Trembleur. I have
a great deal to tell thee; our joys have clustered. What
sayest thou, Jane, to another walk to old John's, with as
strange, and a more welcome guide, than crazy Bet. I have
no time to lose in enigmas: our dispatches were brought by
a sailor, a fine good-natured, hardy-looking fellow, who came
to my house this morning. I was wondering what he could
be doing so far from his element, when Mary, who returned
to us yesterday, opened the door for him, and exclaimed, with
a ludicrous mixture of terror and joy, `The Lord have mercy
on us! is it you, or your ghost, Jemmy?' The sailor gave
her a truly professional, and most unghostly, smack, and replied
between crying and laughing, `I am no ghost, Mary, as
you may see; but excuse me, Mary, (for Mary had stepped
back, a little embarrassed by the involuntary freedom of her
friend,) I was so glad, I could not help it. No, no, Mary, I
am no ghost, but a prodigal that's come back, thanks to the
Lord! a little better than I went.' James, who is indeed
the long lost son of our good friend John of the Mountain,
went on to detail his experiences to Mary, who by turns raised
her hands and eyes in wonder and devout thankfulness. The
amount of it is, for their joy overflowed all barriers of reserve,
he left this place ten years ago in despair, because Mary would
not marry him, and sailed to the Mediterranean; the poor
fellow was taken by the Algerines, and after suffering almost
incredibly for six years, he was so happy as to procure his
freedom along with some English captives. After his release,
father and mother quite destitute; for, as he said to Mary,
though he was a wild lad, and had a fancy to follow the sea,
her cruelty would not have driven him to leave them, if he
had not hoped to get something to comfort their old age with.
He wrote them an account of his sufferings, and of an engagement
he had made to go to Calcutta in the service of an English
merchantman. The letters it seems never reached them.
He went to India; many circumstances occurred to advance
him in the favour of his employer; his integrity, which, he
said, the tears streaming from his eyes, was `all owing to the
teachings and examples of his good old parents;' and his intelligence,
`thanks to his country, which took care to give the
poor man learning,' occasioned his being employed in the Company's
service, and sent with some others into the interior of
India on business of great hazard and importance, the success
of which his employers attributed to him, and rewarded him
most liberally. All these facts came out inevitably in the
course of his narrative, for he spoke not boastfully, but with
simplicity and gratitude. He has returned with enough to
purchase a farm, and give to his parents all that they want
of this world; and, what our friend Mary thinks best of all,
he has come home a Methodist, having been made one by a
missionary of that zealous sect in India. If I have not misinterpreted
Mary's glistening eye, this fact will cost me my
housekeeper.”
“Dear, dear Mary!” exclaimed Jane, brushing away the
tears of sympathy and joy that Mr. Lloyd's narrative had
brought to her eyes, “and John, and old Sarah. Oh, it is as
beautiful a conclusion of their lives, as if it had been conjured
up by a poet.”
“Ah, Jane,” replied Mr. Lloyd, “there are realities in the
dream of; and there are virtues in real life,” he continued,
smiling, “that might lend a persuasive grace to the page of a
moralist; it is of those I must now speak.”
“Not now,” said Jane, hastily rising, “I must go to my
aunt.”
“At least then, take these letters with thee; the levity of
one will give thee some pain; in the other, the wretched Wilson
has done thee late justice. Now go, my blessed friend, to
thy aunt; would that thou couldst minister to her mind, distracted
by these terrible events. Oh, that power might be
given to thy voice to awaken her conscience from its deep,
oblivious sleep!”
It was a remarkable proof of Mr. Lloyd's habitual grace,
that he did not forget, at this moment, that Jane could not
work miracles without supernatural assistance.
There is not a happier moment of existence than that
which a benevolent being enjoys, when he knows that the object
of his solicitude and love has passed safely through trial,
is victorious over temptation, and has overcome the world.
This was the joy that now a thousand fold required Mr. Lloyd
for all his sufferings in the cause of our heroine. Would Mr.
Lloyd have been equally happy in the proved virtue of his
favourite, if hope had not brightened his dim future with her
sweetest visions? Certainly not. He who hath wonderfully
made us, hath, in wisdom, implanted the principle of self-love
in our bosoms; and let the enthusiast rave as he will, it is
neither the work of grace nor of discipline to eradicate it;
but it may, and if we would be good, it must be modified, controlled,
and made subservient to the benefit and happiness of
others.
Mr. Lloyd had no very definite plans for the future; but
vanity or presumption, he trusted all would be well.
Jane returned to her aunt's apartment, and found her in
a sullen stupor. She did not seem to notice; at any rate,
she made no reply to Jane's kind inquiries, and she, after
drawing the curtains and dismissing the attendant, sat down
to the perusal of the letters Mr. Lloyd had given to her. The
first she read was from Erskine to Mr. Lloyd, and as it was
not long, and was rather characteristic, we shall take the
liberty to transcribe it for the benefit of our readers.
“In returning to my lodgings, late last evening, I was
accosted by a man, muffled in a cloak. I recognised his voice
at once. It was our unfortunate townsman, Wilson. He has
succeeded à merveille in an ingenious plan of escape from durance,
and sails in the morning for one of the West India
islands, where he will, no doubt, make his debut as pirate, or
in some other character, for which his training has equally
qualified him. A precious rascal he is indeed; but, allow me
a phrase of your fraternity, sir, I had no light to give him up
to justice, after he had trusted to me; and more than that,
for he informs me, that he had, since his confinement, written
to the Woodhulls to engage me as counsel, and through them
he learnt the fact of my being in this city. This bound me,
in some sort, to look upon the poor devil as my client; and,
as it would have been my duty to get him out of the clutches
of the law, it would have been most ungracious to have put
him into them, you know, since his own cleverness, instead of
mine, has extricated him. He has explained to me, and he
informs me has communicated to you, (for he says he cannot
trust his mother to make them public,) the particulars of the
never imparted to you the event that led to the sudden engagement,
from which she has chosen to absolve me; and you
have yet to learn, that there is generosity, disinterestedness
in the world, that may rival the virtue which reposes under
the shadow of the broad-brim. But, your pardon. I have
wiped out all scores. The reception I have met with in this
finest of cities, has been such as to make me look upon the
incidents of an obscure village as mere bagatelles, not worthy
of a sigh from one who can bask in the broad sunshine of ladies'
favour and fortune's gifts. One word more, en passant,
of Wilson's explanations. I rejoice in it sincerely, on Miss
Elton's account. She deserved to have suffered a little for
her childishness in holding herself bound by an exacted promise,
for having put herself in a situation in which her guilt
would have seemed apparent to any one but a poor dog whom
love had hoodwinked—pro tempore. She is too young and
too beautiful a victim for the altar of conscience. However,
I forgive her, her scruples, her fanaticism, and her cruelties;
and wish her all happiness in this world and the next, advising
her not to turn anchorite here, for the sake of advancement
there.
“I know not when I shall return to the village life: stale,
flat, and unprofitable. This gay metropolis has cured me of
my rural tastes; and, as I flatter myself, fashion's hand has
quite effaced my rusticity.
“By a lucky chance I met the son of your protegé, John,
yesterday. The poor dog's `hairbreadth 'scapes' will make
the villagers stare, all unused as they are to the marvellous.
I told him, by way of a welcome to his country, I should pay
his expenses home. This I hope you, sir, will accept in expiation
of all my sins against the old basket-maker.
“With many wishes that you may find a new and more
pliant subject for your Mentor genius, I remain, sir, your
most obedient,
the windows of our print shops every day, in the expectation
of seeing, among their gay show, her lovely figure chosen by
one of the sons of Apollo, to personate the stern lady, Justice,
(whom few seek and none love) poising her scales in solitary
dignity.”
“And is this the man,” thought Jane, as she folded the
letter, “that I have loved—that I fancied loved me?”—and
her heart rose in devout thankfulness for the escape she had
made from an utter wreck of her happiness.
She next read Wilson's letter to Mr. Lloyd. It began
with the particulars of his late escape, which seemed to possess
his mind more than any thing else. He then said, that
being about to enter on a new voyage, he wished to lighten
his soul of as much of its present cargo as possible. He stated,
and we believe with sincerity, that he had intended, if it ever
became necessary, to assert Jane's innocence; but that, as
long as no one believed her guilty, he had thought it fair to
slip his neck out of the yoke; and now, that every body might
know how good she was, he wished Mr. Lloyd to make known
all the particulars of the transaction. He then went on to
detail as much as he knew of her visit to the mountain, which
had led to her subsequent involvement. He expressed no
remorse for the past, no hope of the future. His wish to exculpate
Jane had arisen from a deep feeling of her excellence,
his dark, guilty spirit emitted.
Jane had scarcely finished reading the letters, when her
attention was called to her aunt, who had been thrown into a
state of agitation almost amounting to frenzy, by the perusal
of her son's farewell letter to herself, which Mr. Lloyd had
placed on the pillow beside her, believing that it merely contained
such account of David's escape and plans, as would
have a tendency to allay the anguish of her mind, which he
still supposed arose solely from her apprehensions for her
son's life. But Mr. Lloyd was too good even to conceive of
the bitterness of a malignant, exasperated spirit, wrought to
madness, as Wilson's was, by his mother's absolute refusal to
make any effort to save his life.
The letter was filled with execrations. “If I have a
soul,” he said, “eternity will be spent in cursing her who has
ruined it;” but he did not fear the future—hell was a bug-dear
to frighten children. “You,” he continued, “neither
fear it, nor believe it; for if you did, your religion would be
something besides a cloak to hide your hard, cruel heart.
Religion! what is it but a dream, a pretence? I might have
believed it, if I had seen more like Jane Elton—whom you
have trodden on, wrongfully accused, when you knew her innocent.
Mother, mother! oh, that I must call you so!—as I
do it, I howl a curse with every breath—you have destroyed
me. You it was that taught me, when I scarcely knew my
right hand from my left, that there was no difference between
doing right and doing wrong, in the sight of the God you
worship; you taught me, that I could do nothing acceptable
to him. If you taught me truly, I have only acted out the
nature totally depraved, (your own words,) that he gave to
me, and I am not to blame for it. I could do nothing to
stand now a better chance than my moral cousin, Jane. If
you have taught me falsely, I was not to blame; the peril be
on your own soul. My mind was a blank, and you put your
own impressions on it; God (if there be a God) reward you
according to your deeds!”
This horrible letter, of which we have given a brief specimen;
and subtracted from that the curses that pointed every
sentence, seemed for a little while to swell the clamours of
Mrs. Wilson's newly awakened conscience. But, alas! the
impression was transient; the chains of systematic delusion
were too firmly riveted—the habits of self-deception too strong,
to be overcome.
Jane, fearful that the violence of her aunt's passion would
destroy her reason, sought only, for the remainder of the day
and the following night, to soothe and quiet her. She remained
by her bedside, and silently watched, and prayed.
Mrs. Wilson's sleep was disturbed, but she awoke somewhat
refreshed, and quite composed. Her first action was to tear
David's letter into a thousand fragments. She was never
known afterwards to allude to its contents, nor to her conversation
with Jane. There was a restlessness through the remainder
of her life, which betrayed the secret gnawings of
conscience. Still it is believed, she quelled her convictions
as Cromwell is reported to have done, when, as his historian
says, he asked Goodwin, one of his preachers, if the doctrine
were true, that the elect should never fall, nor suffer a final
reprobation?—“Nothing more certain,” replied the preacher.
“Then I am safe,” said the Protector; “for I am sure I was
once in a state of grace.”
Mrs. Wilson survived these events but a few years. She
was finally carried off by scrofula, a disease from which she
the natural asperity of her temper; as all evils, physical as
well as moral, certainly make us worse, if they do not make
us better. Elvira was summoned to her death-bed; but she
arrived too late to receive either the reproaches or forgiveness
of her mother. Jane faithfully attended her through her last
illness, and most kindly ministered to the diseases of her
body. Her mind no human comfort could reach; no earthly
skill touch is secret springs. The disease was attended with
delirium; and she had no rational communication with any
one from the beginning of her illness. This Jane afterwards
sincerely deplored to Mr. Lloyd, who replied, “I would not
sit like the Egyptians in judgment on the dead. Thy aunt
has gone with her record to Him who alone knows the secrets
of the heart, and therefore is alone qualified to judge His
creatures; but for our own benefit, Jane, and for the sake of
those whose probation is not past, let us ever remember the
wise saying of William Penn, `a man cannot be the better
for that religion for which his neighbour is the worse.' I have
no doubt thy aunt has suffered some natural compunctions
for her gross failure in the performance of her duties; but
she felt safe in a sound faith. It is reported, that one of the
Popes said of himself, that `as Eneas Sylvius, he was a damnable
heretic, but as Pius II. an orthodox Pope.”'
“Then you believe,” replied Jane, “that my unhappy
aunt deceived herself by her clamorous profession?”
“Undoubtedly. Ought we to wonder that she effected
that imposition on herself, by the aid of self-love, (of all love
the most blinding,) since we have heard, in her funeral sermon,
her religious experiences detailed as the triumphs of a saint;
her strict attention on religious ordinances commended, as if
they were the end and not the means of a religious life; since
in her whole life) have been told, as a proof of her gracious
state, that the last rational words she pronounced were, that
she `was of sinners the chief?' There seems to be a curious
spiritual alchymy in the utterance of these words; for we
cannot say, that those who use them mean to `palter in a
double sense,' but they are too often spoken and received as
the evidence of a hopeful state. Professions and declarations
have crept in among the Protestants, to take the place of the
mortifications and penances of the ancient church; so prone
are men to find some easier way to heaven than the toilsome
path of obedience.”
| CHAPTER XV. A New England tale, and Miscellanies | |