 | The gentle boy : |  |
THE GENTLE BOY.
In the course of the year 1656, several of the people called
Quakers, led, as they professed, by the inward movement of the spirit,
made their appearance in New England. Their reputation, as holders
of mystic and pernicious principles, having spread before them, the
Puritans early endeavored to banish, and to prevent the further intrusion
of the rising sect. But the measures by which it was intended
to purge the land of heresy, though more than sufficiently vigorous,
were entirely unsuccessful. The Quakers, esteeming persecution as a
divine call to the post of danger, laid claim to a holy courage, unknown
to the Puritans themselves, who had shunned the cross, by providing
for the peaceable exercise of their religion in a distant wilderness.
Though it was the singular fact, that every nation of the earth rejected
the wandering enthusiasts who practised peace towards all men,
the place of greatest uneasiness and peril, and therefore in their eyes
the most eligible, was the province of Massachusetts Bay.
The fines, imprisonments, and stripes, liberally distributed by our
pious forefathers; the popular antipathy, so strong that it endured
nearly a hundred years after actual persecution had ceased, were attractions
as powerful for the Quakers, as peace, honor, and reward,
would have been for the worldly-minded. Every European vessel
brought new cargoes of the sect, eager to testify against the oppression
which they hoped to share; and, when ship-masters were restrained
by heavy fines from affording them passage, they made long and circuitous
journeys through the Indian country, and appeared in the province
as if conveyed by a supernatural power. Their enthusiasm,
heightened almost to madness by the treatment which they received,
produced actions contrary to the rules of decency, as well as of rational
religion, and presented a singular contrast to the calm and staid
deportment of their sectarian successors of the present day. The
command of the spirit, inaudible except to the soul, and not to be
controverted on grounds of human wisdom, was made a plea for most
indecorous exhibitions, which, abstractedly considered, well deserved
the moderate chastisement of the rod. These extravagances, and the
persecution which was at once their cause and consequence, continued
to increase, till, in the year 1659, the governor of Massachusetts Bay
indulged two members of the Quaker sect with the crown of martyrdom.
An indelible stain of blood is upon the hands of all who consented
to this act, but a large share of the awful responsibility must rest
upon the person then at the head of the government. He was a
man of narrow mind and imperfect education, and his uncompromising
bigotry was made hot and mischievous by violent and hasty passions;
he exerted his influence indecorously and unjustifiably to compass the
death of the enthusiasts; and his whole conduct, in respect to them,
was marked by brutal cruelty. The Quakers, whose revengeful feelings
were not less deep because they were inactive, remembered this
man and his associates, in after times. The historian of the sect
affirms that, by the wrath of Heaven, a blight fell upon the land in
the vicinity of the `bloody town' of Boston, so that no wheat would
grow there; and he takes his stand, as it were, among the graves of
the ancient persecutors, and triumphantly recounts the judgments that
overtook them, in old age or at the parting hour. He tells us that
exceed the bitter mockery with which he records the loathsome disease,
and `death by rottenness,' of the fierce and cruel governor.
* * * * * * *
On the evening of the autumn day, that had witnessed the martyrdom
of two men of the Quaker persuasion, a Puritan settler was
returning from the metropolis to the neighboring country town in
which he resided. The air was cool, the sky clear, and the lingering
twilight was made brighter by the rays of a young moon, which had
now nearly reached the verge of the horizon. The traveller, a man
of middle age, wrapped in a grey frieze cloak, quickened his pace
when he had reached the outskirts of the town, for a gloomy extent
of nearly four miles lay between him and his home. The low, straw-thatched
houses were scattered at considerable intervals along the
road, and the country having been settled but about thirty years, the
tracts of original forest still bore no small proportion to the cultivated
ground. The autumn wind wandered among the branches, whirling
away the leaves from all except the pine-trees, and moaning as if it
lamented the desolation of which it was the instrument. The road
had penetrated the mass of woods that lay nearest to the town, and
was just emerging into an open space, when the traveller's ears were
saluted by a sound more mournful than even that of the wind. It was
like the wailing of some one in distress, and it seemed to proceed
from beneath a tall and lonely fir-tree, in the centre of a cleared, but
unenclosed and uncultivated field. The Puritan could not but remember
that this was the very spot, which had been made accursed a few
hours before, by the execution of the Quakers, whose bodies had been
thrown together into one hasty grave, beneath the tree on which they
suffered. He struggled, however, against the superstitious fears
which belonged to the age, and compelled himself to pause and listen.
`The voice is most likely mortal, nor have I cause to tremble if
it be otherwise,' thought he, straining his eyes through the dim moonlight.
`Methinks it is like the wailing of a child; some infant, it
may be, which has strayed from its mother, and chanced upon this
place of death. For the case of mine own conscience, I must search
this matter out.'
He therefore left the path, and walked somewhat fearfully across
the field. Though now so desolate, its soil was pressed down and trampled
by the thousand footsteps of those who had witnessed the spectacle
of that day, all of whom had now retired, leaving the dead to their
loneliness. The traveller at length reached the fir-tree, which from
the middle upward was covered with living branches, although a scaffold
had been erected beneath, and other preparations made for the
work of death. Under this unhappy tree, which in after times was
believed to drop poison with its dew, sat the one solitary mourner for
innocent blood. It was a slender and light-clad little boy, who leaned
his face upon a hillock of fresh-turned and half-frozen earth, and wailed
bitterly, yet in a suppressed tone, as if his grief might receive the
punishment of crime. The Puritan, whose approach had been unperceived,
laid his hand upon the child's shoulder, and addressed him
compassionately.
`You have chosen a dreary lodging, my poor boy, and no wonder
that you weep,' said he. `But dry your eyes, and tell me where your
mother dwells. I promise you, if the journey be not too far, I will
leave you in her arms to-night.'
The boy had bushed his wailing at once, and turned his face
upward to the stranger. It was a pale, bright-eyed countenance,
certainly not more than six years old, but sorrow, fear, and want, had
destroyed much of its infantile expression. The Puritan, seeing the
boy's frightened gaze, and feeling that he trembled under his hand,
endeavored to reassure him.
`Nay, if I intended to do you harm, little lad, the readiest way were
to leave you here. What! you do not fear to sit beneath the gallows
on a new-made grave, and yet you tremble at a friend's touch. Take
heart, child, and tell me what is your name, and where is your home?'
`Friend,' replied the little boy, in a sweet, though faltering voice,
`they call me Ilbrahim, and my home is here.'
The pale, spiritual face, the eyes that seemed to mingle with the
moonlight, the sweet, airy voice, and the outlandish name, almost
had sprung up out of the grave on which he sat. But perceiving that
the apparition stood the test of a short mental prayer, and remembering
that the arm which he had touched was life-like, he adopted a more
rational supposition. `The poor child is stricken in his intellect,'
thought he, `but verily his words are fearful, in a place like this.' He
then spoke soothingly, intending to humor the boy's fantasy.
`Your home will scarce be comfortable, Ilbrahim, this cold autumn
night, and I fear you are ill provided with food. I am hastening
to a warm supper and bed, and if you will go with me, you shall share
them!'
`I thank thee, friend, but though I be hungry and shivering with
cold, thou wilt not give me food nor lodging,' replied the boy, in
the quiet tone which despair had taught him, even so young. `My
father was of the people whom all men hate. They have laid him
under this heap of earth, and here is my home.'
The Puritan, who had laid hold of little Ilbrahim's hand, relinquished
it as if he were touching a loathsome reptile. But he
possessed a compassionate heart, which not even religious prejudice
could harden into stone.
`God forbid that I should leave this child to perish, though he
comes of the accursed sect,' said he to himself. `Do we not all spring
from an evil root? Are we not all in darkness till the light doth shine
upon us? He shall not perish, neither in body, nor, if prayer and instruction
may avail for him, in soul.' He then spoke aloud and kindly
to Ilbrahim, who had again hid his face in the cold earth of the grave.
`Was every door in the land shut against you, my child, that you have
wandered to this unhallowed spot?'
`They drove me forth from the prison when they took my father
thence,' said the boy, `and I stood afar off, watching the crowd of
people, and when they were gone, I came hither, and found only this
grave. I knew that my father was sleeping here, and I said, this
shall be my home.'
`No, child, no; not while I have a roof over my head, or a morsel
to share with you!' exclaimed the Puritan, whose sympathies
were now fully excited. `Rise up and come with me, and fear not
any harm.'
The boy wept afresh, and clung to the heap of earth, as if the
cold heart beneath it were warmer to him than any in a living breast.
The traveller, however, continued to entreat him tenderly, and
seeming to acquire some degree of confidence, he at length arose.
But his slender limbs tottered with weakness, his little head grew
dizzy, and he leaned against the tree of death for support.
`My poor boy, are you so feeble?' said the Puritan. `When
did you taste food last?'
`I ate of bread and water with my father in the prison,' replied
Ilbrahim, `but they brought him none neither yesterday nor to-day,
saying that he had eaten enough to bear him to his journey's end.
Trouble not thyself for my hunger, kind friend, for I have lacked
food many times ere now.'
The traveller took the child in his arms and wrapped his cloak
about him, while his heart stirred with shame and anger against the
gratuitous cruelty of the instruments in this persecution. In the
awakened warmth of his feelings, he resolved that, at whatever risk,
he would not forsake the poor little defenceless being whom Heaven
had confided to his care. With this determination, he left the accursed
field, and resumed the homeward path from which the wailing of the
boy had called him. The light and motionless burthen scarcely impeded
his progress, and he soon beheld the fire-rays from the windows
of the cottage which he, a native of a distant clime, had built in the
western wilderness. It was surrounded by a considerable extent of
cultivated ground, and the dwelling was situated in the nook of a
wood-covered hill, whither it seemed to have crept for protection.
`Look up, child,' said the Puritan to Ilbrahim, whose faint head
had sunk upon his shoulder; `there is our home.'
At the word `home,' a thrill passed through the child's frame, but
he continued silent. A few moments brought them to the cottage-door,
at which the owner knocked; for at that early period, when
savages were wandering every where among the settlers, bolt and bar
were indispensable to the security of a dwelling. The summons was
humanity, who after ascertaining that his master was the applicant,
undid the door, and held a flaring pine-knot torch to light him in.
Farther back in the passage-way, the red blaze discovered a matronly
woman, but no little crowd of children came bounding forth to greet
their father's return. As the Puritan entered, he thrust aside his
cloak, and displayed Ilbrahim's face to the female.
`Dorothy, here is a little outcast whom Providence hath put into
our hands,' observed he. `Be kind to him, even as if he were of those
dear ones who have departed from us.'
`What pale and bright-eyed little boy is this, Tobias?' she inquired.
`Is he one whom the wilderness folk have ravished from
some christian mother?'
`No, Dorothy, this poor child is no captive from the wilderness,'
he replied. `The heathen savage would have given him to eat of his
scanty morsel, and to drink of his birchen cup; but christian men,
alas! had cast him out to die.'
Then he told her how he had found him beneath the gallows,
upon his father's grave; and how his heart had prompted him, like
the speaking of an inward voice, to take the little outcast home, and
be kind unto him. He acknowledged his resolution to feed and clothe
him, as if he were his own child, and to afford him the instruction
which should counteract the pernicious errors hitherto instilled into
his infant mind. Dorothy was gifted with even a quicker tenderness
than her husband, and she approved of all his doings and intentions.
`Have you a mother, dear child?' she inquired.
The tears burst forth from his full heart, as he attempted to
reply; but Dorothy at length understood that he had a mother, who,
like the rest of her sect, was a persecuted wanderer. She had been
taken from the prison a short time before, carried into the uninhabited
wilderness, and left to perish there by hunger or wild beasts. This
was no uncommon method of disposing of the Quakers, and they
were accustomed to boast, that the inhabitants of the desert were
more hospitable to them than civilized man.
`Fear not, little boy, you shall not need a mother, and a kind
one,' said Dorothy, when she had gathered this information. `Dry
your tears, Ilbrahim, and be my child, as I will be your mother.'
The good woman prepared the little bed, from which her own
children had successively been borne to another resting place.
Before Ilbrahim would consent to occupy it, he knelt down, and as
Dorothy listened to his simple and affecting prayer, she marvelled
how the parents that had taught it to him could have been judged
worthy of death. When the boy had fallen asleep, she bent over his
pale and spiritual countenance, pressed a kiss upon his white brow,
drew the bed-clothes up about his neck, and went away with a pensive
gladness in her heart.
Tobias Pearson was not among the earliest emigrants from the
old country. He had remained in England during the first years of
the civil war, in which he had borne some share as a cornet of
dragoons, under Cromwell. But when the ambitious designs of his
leader began to develope themselves, he quitted the army of the
parliament, and sought a refuge from the strife, which was no longer
holy, among the people of his persuasion in the colony of Massachusetts.
A more worldly consideration had perhaps an influence in
drawing him thither; for New England offered advantages to men of
unprosperous fortunes, as well as to dissatisfied religionists, and
Pearson had hitherto found it difficult to provide for a wife and
increasing family. To this supposed impurity of motive, the more
bigoted Puritans were inclined to impute the removal by death of all
the children, for whose earthly good the father had been over-thoughtful.
They had left their native country blooming like roses,
and like roses they had perished in a foreign soil. Those expounders
of the ways of Providence, who had thus judged their brother, and
attributed his domestic sorrows to his sin, were not more charitable
when they saw him and Dorothy endeavoring to fill up the void in
their hearts, by the adoption of an infant of the accursed sect. Nor
did they fail to communicate their disapprobation to Tobias; but the
latter, in reply, merely pointed at the little quiet, lovely boy, whose
appearance and deportment were indeed as powerful arguments as
could possibly have been adduced in his own favor. Even his beauty,
unfavorable; for the bigots, when the outer surfaces of their
iron hearts had been softened and again grew hard, affirmed that no
merely natural cause could have so worked upon them.
Their antipathy to the poor infant was also increased by the ill
success of divers theological discussions, in which it was attempted to
convince him of the errors of his sect. Ilbrahim, it is true, was not a
skilful controversialist; but the feeling of his religion was strong as
instinct in him, and he could neither be enticed nor driven from the
faith which his father had died for. The odium of this stubbornness
was shared in a great measure by the child's protectors, insomuch
that Tobias and Dorothy very shortly began to experience a most
bitter species of persecution, in the cold regards of many a friend whom
they had valued. The common people manifested their opinions
more openly. Pearson was a man of some consideration, being a
Representative to the General Court, and an approved Lieutenant in
the train-bands, yet within a week after his adoption of Ilbrahim, he
had been both hissed and hooted. Once, also, when walking through
a solitary piece of woods, he heard a loud voice from some invisible
speaker; and it cried, `What shall be done to the backslider? Lo!
the scourge is knotted for him, even the whip of nine cords, and
every cord three knots!' These insults irritated Pearson's temper
for the moment; they entered also into his heart, and became imperceptible
but powerful workers towards an end, which his most secret
thought had not yet whispered.
* * * * * * *
On the second Sabbath after Ilbrahim became a member of their
family, Pearson and his wife deemed it proper that he should appear
with them at public worship. They had anticipated some opposition
to this measure from the boy, but he prepared himself in silence, and
at the appointed hour was clad in the new mourning suit which
Dorothy had wrought for him. As the parish was then, and during
many subsequent years, unprovided with a bell, the signal for the
commencement of religious exercises was the beat of a drum. At
the first sound of that martial call to the place of holy and quiet
thoughts, Tobias and Dorothy set forth, each holding a hand of little
Ilbrahim, like two parents linked together by the infant of their love.
On their path through the leafless woods, they were overtaken by
many persons of their acquaintance, all of whom avoided them, and
passed by on the other side; but a severer trial awaited their constancy
when they had descended the hill and drew near the pine-built and
undecorated house of prayer. Around the door, from which the
drummer still sent forth his thundering summons, was drawn up a
formidable phalanx, including several of the oldest members of the
congregation, many of the middle-aged, and nearly all the younger
males. Pearson found it difficult to sustain their united and disapproving
gaze, but Dorothy, whose mind was differently circumstanced,
merely drew the boy closer to her, and faltered not in her approach.
As they entered the door, they overheard the muttered sentiments of
the assemblage, and when the reviling voices of the little children
smote Ilbrahim's ear, he wept.
The interior aspect of the meeting-house was rude. The low
ceiling, the unplastered walls, the naked wood-work, and the undraperied
pulpit, offered nothing to excite the devotion, which, without
such external aids, often remains latent in the heart. The floor of the
building was occupied by rows of long, cushionless benches, supplying
the place of pews, and the broad-aisle formed a sexual division,
impassable except by children beneath a certain age.
Pearson and Dorothy separated at the door of the meeting-house,
and Ilbrahim, being within the years of infancy, was retained under
the care of the latter. The wrinkled beldams involved themselves in
their rusty cloaks as he passed by; even the mild-featured maidens
seemed to dread contamination; and many a stern old man arose,
and turned his repulsive and unheavenly countenance upon the gentle
boy, as if the sanctuary were polluted by his presence. He was a
sweet infant of the skies, that had strayed away from his home, and
all the inhabitants of this miserable world closed up their impure
hearts against him, drew back their earth-soiled garments from his
touch, and said, `We are holier than thou.'
Ilbrahim, seated by the side of his adopted mother, and retaining
as might befit a person of matured taste and understanding, who
should find himself in a temple dedicated to some worship which he
did not recognise, but felt himself bound to respect. The exercises
had not yet commenced, however, when the boy's attention was arrested
by an event, apparently of trifling interest. A woman, having her
face muffled in a hood, and a cloak drawn completely about her form,
advanced slowly up the broad-aisle and took place upon the foremost
bench. Ilbrahim's faint color varied, his nerves fluttered, he was
unable to turn his eyes from the muffled female.
When the preliminary prayer and hymn were over, the minister
arose, and having turned the hour-glass which stood by the great bible,
commenced his discourse. He was now well stricken in years, a
man of pale, thin countenance, and his grey hairs were closely covered
by a black velvet scull-cap. In his younger days he had practically
learned the meaning of persecution, from Archbishop Laud, and
he was not now disposed to forget the lesson against which he had
murmured then. Introducing the often discussed subject of the
Quakers, he gave a history of that sect, and a description of their
tenets, in which error predominated, and prejudice distorted the aspect
of what was true He adverted to the recent measures in the province,
and cautioned his hearers of weaker parts against calling in
question the just severity, which God-fearing magistrates had at length
been compelled to exercise. He spoke of the danger of pity, in some
cases a commendable and christian virtue, but inapplicable to this
pernicious sect. He observed that such was their devilish obstinacy in
error, that even the little children, the sucking babes, were hardened
and desperate hereties. He affirmed that no man, without Heaven's
especial warrant, should attempt their conversion, lest while he lent
his hand to draw them from the slough, he should himself be precipitated
into its lowest depths.
The sands of the second hour were principally in the lower half
of the glass, when the sermon concluded. An approving murmur
followed, and the clergyman having given out a hymn, took his seat
with much self-congratulation, and ondeavored to read the effect of his
eloquence in the visages of the people. But while voices from all
parts of the house were tuning themselves to sing, a scene occurred,
which, though not very unusual at that period in the province, happened
to be without precedent in this parish.
The muffled female, who had hitherto sat motionless in the front
rank of the audience, now arose, and with slow, stately, and unwavering
step, ascended the pulpit stairs. The quaverings of incipient
harmony were hushed, and the divine sat in speechless and almost
terrified astonishment, while she undid the door, and stood up in the
sacred desk from which his maledictions had just been thundered. She
then divested herself of the cloak and hood, and appeared in a most
singular array. A shapeless robe of sackcloth was girded about her
waist with a knotted cord; her raven hair fell down upon her shoulders,
and its blackness was defiled by pale streaks of ashes, which she
had strewn upon her head. Her eyebrows, dark and strongly defined,
added to the deathly whiteness of a countenance which, emaciated
with want, and wild with enthusiasm and strange sorrows, retained
no trace of earlier beauty. This figure stood gazing earnestly on the
audience, and there was no sound, nor any movement, except a faint
shuddering which every man observed in his neighbor, but was scarcely
conscious of in himself. At length, when her fit of inspiration came,
she spoke, for the first few moments, in a low voice, and not invariably
distinct utterance. Her discourse gave evidence of an imagination
hopelessly entangled with her reason; it was a vague and incomprehensible
rhapsody, which, however, seemed to spread its own atmosphere
round the hearer's soul, and to move his feelings by some
influence unconnected with the words. As she proceeded, beautiful but
shadowy images would sometimes be seen, like bright things moving in
a turbid river; or a strong and singularly shaped idea leapt forth, and
seized at once on the understanding or the heart. But the course of
her unearthly eloquence soon led her to the persecutions of her sect,
and from thence the step was short to her own peculiar sorrows. She
was naturally a woman of mighty passions, and hatred and revenge
speech was changed, her images became distinct though wild, and
her denunciations had an almost hellish bitterness.
`The Governor and his mighty men,' she said, `have gathered
together, taking counsel among themselves and saying, “What shall
we do unto this people—even unto the people that have come into
this land to put our iniquity to blush?” And lo! the devil entereth
into the council-chamber, like a lame man of low stature and gravely
apparelled, with a dark and twisted countenance, and a bright, downcast
eye. And he standeth up among the rulers; yea, he goeth to and
fro, whispering to each; and every man lends his ear, for his word is
“slay, slay!” But I say unto ye, Woe to them that slay! Woe to
them that shed the blood of saints! Woe to them that have slain the
husband, and cast forth the child, the tender infant, to wander homeless,
and hungry, and cold, till he die; and have saved the mother
alive, in the cruelty of their tender mercies! Woe to them in their
life-time, cursed are they in the delight and pleasure of their hearts!
Woe to them in their death-hour, whether it come swiftly with blood
and violence, or after long and lingering pain! Woe, in the dark house,
in the rottenness of the grave, when the children's children shall revile
the ashes of the fathers! Woe, woe, woe, at the judgment, when all
the persecuted and all the slain in this bloody land, and the father, the
mother, and the child, shall await them in a day that they cannot
escape! Seed of the faith, seed of the faith, ye whose hearts are
moving with a power that ye know not, arise, wash your hands of this
innocent blood! Lift your voices, chosen ones, cry aloud, and call
down a woe and a judgment with me!'
Having thus given vent to the flood of malignity which she mistook
for inspiration, the speaker was silent. Her voice was succeeded
by the hysteric shrieks of several women, but the feelings of the
audience generally had not been drawn onward in the current with
her own. They remained stupified, stranded as it were, in the midst
of a torrent, which deafened them by its roaring, but might not move
them by its violence. The clergyman, who could not hitherto have
ejected the usurper of his pulpit otherwise than by bodily force, now
addressed her in the tone of just indignation and legitimate authority.
`Get you down, woman, from the holy place which you profane,'
he said. `Is it to the Lord's house that you come to pour forth the
foulness of your heart, and the inspiration of the devil? Get you
down, and remember that the sentence of death is on you; yea, and
shall be executed, were it but for this day's work?'
`I go, friend, I go, for the voice hath had its utterance,' replied
she, in a depressed and even mild tone. `I have done my mission
unto thee and to thy people. Reward me with stripes, imprisonment,
or death, as ye shall be permitted.'
The weakness of exhausted passion caused her steps to totter as
she descended the pulpit stairs. The people, in the meanwhile, were
stirring to and fro on the floor of the house, whispering among themselves,
and glancing towards the intruder. Many of them now
recognised her as the woman who had assaulted the Governor with
frightful language, as he passed by the window of her prison; they
knew, also, that she was adjudged to suffer death, and had been preserved
only by an involuntary banishment into the wilderness. The
new outrage, by which she had provoked her fate, seemed to render
further lenity impossible; and a gentleman in military dress, with a
stout man of inferior rank, drew towards the door of the meeting-house,
and awaited her approach. Scarcely did her feet press the
floor, however, when an unexpected scene occurred. In that moment
of her peril, when every eye frowned with death, a little timid boy
pressed forth, and threw his arms round his mother.
`I am here, mother, it is I, and I will go with thee to prison,' he
exclaimed.
She gazed at him with a doubtful and almost frightened expression,
for she knew that the boy had been cast out to perish, and she
had not hoped to see his face again. She feared, perhaps, that it was
but one of the happy visions, with which her excited fancy had often
deceived her, in the solitude of the desert, or in prison. But when
she felt his hand warm within her own, and heard his little eloquence
of childish love, she began to know that she was yet a mother.
`Blessed art thou, my son,' she sobbed. `My heart was withered;
yea, dead with thee and with thy father; and now it leaps as in
the first moment when I pressed thee to my bosom.'
She knelt down, and embraced him again and again, while the
joy that could find no words, expressed itself in broken accents, like
the bubbles gushing up to vanish at the surface of a deep fountain.
The sorrows of past years, and the darker peril that was nigh, cast not
a shadow on the brightness of that fleeting moment. Soon, however,
the spectators saw a change upon her face, as the consciousness of her
sad estate returned, and grief supplied the fount of tears which joy
had opened. By the words she uttered, it would seem that the indulgence
of natural love had given her mind a momentary sense of its
errors, and made her know how far she had strayed from duty, in following
the dictates of a wild fanaticism.
`In a doleful hour art thou returned to me, poor boy,' she said,
`for thy mother's path has gone darkening onward, till now the end is
death. Son, son, I have borne thee in my arms when my limbs were
tottering, and I have fed thee with the food that I was fainting for; yet
I have ill performed a mother's part by thee in life, and now I leave
thee no inheritance but woe and shame. Thou wilt go seeking
through the world, and find all hearts closed against thee, and their
sweet affections turned to bitterness for my sake. My child, my
child, how many a pang awaits thy gentle spirit, and I the cause of all!'
She bid her face on Ilbrahim's head, and her long, raven hair,
discolored with the ashes of her mourning, fell down about him like a
veil. A low and interrupted moan was the voice of her heart's anguish,
and it did not fail to move the sympathies of many who mistook their
involuntary virtue for a sin. Sobs were audible in the female section
of the house, and every man who was a father, drew his hand across
his eyes. Tobias Pearson was agitated and uneasy, but a certain feeling
like the consciousness of guilt oppressed him, so that he could not
go forth and offer himself as the protector of the child. Dorothy,
however, had watched her husband's eye. Her mind was free from
the influence that had begun to work on his, and she drew near the
Quaker woman, and addressed her in the hearing of all the congregation.
`Stranger, trust this boy to me, and I will be his mother,' she said,
taking Ilbrahim's hand, `Providence has signally marked out my
husband to protect him, and he has fed at our table and lodged under
our roof, now many days, till our hearts have grown very strongly unto
him. Leave the tender child with us, and be at ease concerning his
welfare.'
The Quaker rose from the ground, but drew the boy closer to
her, while she gazed earnestly in Dorothy's face. Her mild, but saddened
features, and neat, matronly attire, harmonized together, and
were like a verse of fireside poetry. Her very aspect proved that she
was blameless, so far as mortal could be so, in respect to God and
man; while the enthusiast, in her robe of sackcloth and girdle of
knotted cord, had as evidently violated the duties of the present life
and the future, by fixing her attention wholly on the latter. The two
females, as they held each a hand of Ilbrahim, formed a practical allegory;
it was rational piety and unbridled fanaticism, contending for
the empire of a young heart.
`Thou art not of our people,' said the Quaker, mournfully.
`No, we are not of your people,' replied Dorothy, with mildness,
`but we are Christians, looking upward to the same Heaven with you.
Doubt not that your boy shall meet you there, if there be a blessing
on our tender and prayerful guidance of him. Thither, I trust, my
own children have gone before me, for I also have been a mother; I
am no longer so,' she added in a faltering tone, `and your son will
have all my care.'
`But will ye lead him in the path which his parents have trodden?'
demanded the Quaker. `Can ye teach him the enlightened
faith which his father hath died for, and for which, I, even I, am soon
to become an unworthy martyr? The boy has been baptized in blood:
will ye keep the mark fresh and ruddy upon his forehead?'
`I will not deceive you,' answered Dorothy. `If your child
become our child, we must breed him up in the instruction which
Heaven has imparted to us; we must pray for him the prayers of our
own faith; we must do towards him according to the dictates of our
own consciences, and not of your's. Were we to act otherwise, we
should abuse your trust, even in complying with your wishes.'
The mother looked down upon her boy with a troubled countenance,
pray internally, and the contention of her soul was evident.
`Friend,' she said at length to Dorothy, `I doubt not that my
son shall receive all earthly tenderness at thy hands. Nay, I will
believe that even thy imperfect lights may guide him to a better world;
for surely thou art on the path thither. But thou hast spoken of a husband.
Doth he stand here among this multitude of people? Let him
come forth, for I must know to whom I commit this most precious
trust.'
She turned her face upon the male auditors, and after a momentary
delay, Tobias Pearson came forth from among them. The
Quaker saw the dress which marked his military rank, and shook her
head; but then she noted the hesitating air, the eyes that struggled
with her own, and were vanquished; the color that went and came,
and could find no resting place. As she gazed, an unmirthful smile
spread over her features, like sunshine that grows melancholy in some
desolate spot. Her lips moved inaudibly, but at length she spake.
`I hear it, I hear it. The voice speaketh within me and saith,
“Leave thy child, Catharine, for his place is here, and go hence, for I
have other work for thee. Break the bonds of natural affection,
martyr thy love, and know that in all these things eternal wisdom
hath its ends.” I go, friends, I go. Take ye my boy, my precious
jewel. I go hence, trusting that all shall be well, and that even for
his infant hands there is a labor in the vineyard.'
She knelt down and whispered to Ilbrahim, who at first struggled
and clung to his mother, with sobs and tears, but remained passive
when she had kissed his cheek and arisen from the ground. Having
held her hands over his head in mental prayer, she was ready to
depart.
`Farewell, friends in mine extremity,' she said to Pearson and
his wife; `the good deed ye have done me is a treasure laid up in
heaven, to be returned a thousandfold hereafter. And farewell ye,
mine enemies, to whom it is not permitted to harm so much as a
hair of my head, nor to stay my footsteps even for a moment. The
day is coming, when ye shall call upon me to witness for ye to this one
sin uncommitted, and I will rise up and answer.'
She turned her steps towards the door, and the men who had stationed
themselves to guard it, withdrew, and suffered her to pass.
A general sentiment of pity overcame the virulence of religious hatred.
Sanctified by her love, and her affliction, she went forth, and all the
people gazed after her till she had journeyed up the hill, and was lost
behind its brow. She went, the apostle of her own unquiet heart, to
renew the wanderings of past years. For her voice had been already
heard in many lands of Christendom; and she had pined in the cells
of a Catholic Inquisition, before she felt the lash, and lay in the dungeons
of the Puritans. Her mission had extended also to the followers
of the Prophet, and from them she had received the courtesy and
kindness, which all the contending sects of our purer religion united to
deny her. Her husband and herself had resided many months in
Turkey, where even the Sultan's countenance was gracious to them;
in that pagan land, too, was Ilbrahim's birthplace, and his oriental
name was a mark of gratitude for the good deeds of an unbeliever.
* * * * * * *
When Pearson and his wife had thus acquired all the rights over
Ilbrahim that could be delegated, their affection for him became, like
the memory of their native land, or their mild sorrow for the dead, a
piece of the immovable furniture of their hearts. The boy, also, after
a week or two of mental disquiet, began to gratify his protectors, by
many inadvertent proofs that he considered them as parents, and their
house as home. Before the winter snows were melted, the persecuted
infant, the little wanderer from a remote and heathen country, seemed
native in the New England cottage, and inseparable from the warmth
and security of its hearth. Under the influence of a kind treatment,
and the consciousness that he was loved, Ilbrahim's demeanor lost a
premature manliness, which had resulted from his earlier situation; he
became more childlike, and his natural character displayed itself with
freedom. It was in many respects a beautiful one, yet the disordered
imaginations of both his father and mother had perhaps propagated a
certain unhealthiness in the mind of the boy. In his general state,
Ilbrahim would derive enjoyment from the most trifling events, and
from every object about him; he seemed to discover rich treasures of
happiness, by a faculty analogous to that of the witchhazel, which
coming to him from a thousand sources, communicated itself to the
family, and Ilbrahim was like a domesticated sunbeam, brightening
moody countenances, and chasing away the gloom from the dark
corners of the cottage.
On the other hand, as the susceptibility of pleasure is also that of
pain, the exuberant cheerfulness of the boy's prevailing temper sometimes
yielded to moments of deep depression. His sorrows could not
always be followed up to their original source, but most frequently
they appeared to flow, though Ilbrahim was young to be sad for such
a cause, from wounded love. The flightiness of his mirth rendered him
often guilty of offences against the decorum of a Puritan household, and
on these occasions he did not invariably escape rebuke. But the
slightest word of real bitterness, which he was infallible in distinguishing
from pretended anger, seemed to sink into his heart and
poison all his enjoyments, till he became sensible that he was entirely
forgiven. Of the malice, which generally accompanies a superfluity
of sensitiveness, Ilbrahim was altogether destitute, when trodden upon,
he would not turn; when wounded, he could but die. His mind was
wanting in the stamina for self-support; it was a plant that would twine
beautifully round something stronger than itself, but if repulsed, or
torn away, it had no choice but to wither on the ground. Dorothy's
acuteness taught her that severity would crush the spirit of the child,
and she nurtured him with the gentle care of one who handles a butterfly.
Her husband manifested an equal affection, although it grew
daily less productive of familiar caresses.
The feelings of the neighboring people, in regard to the Quaker
infant and his protectors, had not undergone a favorable change, in
spite of the momentary triumph which the desolate mother had obtained
over their sympathies. The scorn and bitterness, of which he was
the object, were very grievous to Ilbrahim, especially when any circumstance
made him sensible that the children, his equals in age,
partook of the enmity of their parents. His tender and social nature
had already overflowed in attachments to every thing about him, and
still there was a residue of unappropriated love, which he yearned to
bestow upon the little ones who were taught to hate him. As the
warm days of spring came on, Ilbrahim was accustomed to remain for
hours, silent and inactive, within hearing of the children's voices at their
play; yet, with his usual delicacy of feeling, he avoided their notice,
and would flee and hide himself from the smallest individual among
them. Chance, however, at length seemed to open a medium of communication
between his heart and theirs; it was by means of a boy
about two years older than Ilbrahim, who was injured by a fall from a
tree in the vicinity of Pearson's habitation. As the sufferer's own
home was at some distance, Dorothy willingly received him under her
roof, and became his tender and careful nurse.
Ilbrahim was the unconscious possessor of much skill in physiognomy,
and it would have deterred him, in other circumstances, from
attempting to make a friend of this boy. The countenance of the
latter immediately impressed a beholder disagreeably, but it required
some examination to discover that the cause was a very slight distortion
of the mouth, and the irregular, broken line, and near approach
of the eyebrows. Analogous, perhaps, to these trifling deformities,
was an almost imperceptible twist of every joint, and the uneven
prominence of the breast; forming a body, regular in its general
outline, but faulty in almost all its details. The disposition of the
boy was sullen and reserved, and the village schoolmaster stigmatised
him as obtuse in intellect; although, at a later period of life, he evinced
ambition and very peculiar talents. But whatever might be his personal
or moral irregularities, Ilbrahim's heart seized upon, and clung
to him, from the moment that he was brought wounded into the cottage;
the child of persecution seemed to compare his own fate with that of
the sufferer, and to feel that even different modes of misfortune had
created a sort of relationship between them. Food, rest, and the fresh
air, for which he languished, were neglected; he nestled continually
by the bed-side of the little stranger, and, with a fond jealousy, endeavored
to be the medium of all the cares that were bestowed upon him.
As the boy became convalescent, Ilbrahim contrived games suitable to
his situation, or amused him by a faculty which he had perhaps breathed
in with the air of his barbaric birth-place It was that of reciting
inexhaustible succession. His tales were of course monstrous, disjointed,
and without aim; but they were curious on account of a vein
of human tenderness, which ran through them all, and was like a sweet,
familiar face, encountered in the midst of wild and unearthly scenery.
The auditor paid much attention to these romances, and sometimes
interrupted them by brief remarks upon the incidents, displaying
shrewdness above his years, mingled with a moral obliquity which
grated very harshly against Ilbrahim's instinctive rectitude. Nothing,
however, could arrest the progress of the latter's affection, and there
were many proofs that it met with a response from the dark and
stubborn nature on which it was lavished. The boy's parents at length
removed him, to complete his cure under their own roof.
Ilbrahim did not visit his new friend after his departure; but he
made anxious and continual inquiries respecting him, and informed himself
of the day when he was to reappear among his playmates. On a
pleasant summer afternoon, the children of the neighborhood had assembled
in the little forest-crowned amphitheatre behind the meetinghouse,
and the recovering invalid was there, leaning on a staff. The glee of a
score of untainted bosoms was heard in light and airy voices, which
danced among the trees like sunshine become audible; the grown men
of this weary world, as they journeyed by the spot, marvelled why
life, beginning in such brightness, should proceed in gloom; and their
hearts, or their imaginations, answered them and said, that the bliss of
childhood gushes from its innocence. But it happened that an unexpected
addition was made to the heavenly little band. It was Ilbrahim,
who came towards the children, with a look of sweet confidence on
his fair and spiritual face, as if, having manifested his love to one of
them, he had no longer to fear a repulse from their society. A hush
came over their mirth, the moment they beheld him, and they stood
whispering to each other while be drew nigh; but, all at once, the
devil of their fathers entered into the unbreeched fanatics, and, sending
up a fierce, shrill cry, they rushed upon the poor Quaker child. In
an instant, he was the centre of a brood of baby-fiends, who lifted
sticks against him, pelted him with stones, and displayed an instinct
of destruction, far more loathsome than the blood-thirstiness of manhood.
The invalid, in the meanwhile, stood apart from the tumult,
crying out with a loud voice, `Fear not, Ilbrahim, come hither and
take my hand;' and his unhappy friend endeavored to obey him. After
watching the victim's struggling approach, with a calm smile and
unabashed eye, the foul-hearted little villain lifted his staff, and struck
Ilbrahim on the mouth, so forcibly that the blood issued in a stream.
The poor child's arms had been raised to guard his head from the
storm of blows; but now he dropped them at once. His persecutors
beat him down, trampled upon him, dragged him by his long, fair
locks, and Ilbrahim was on the point of becoming as veritable a martyr
as ever entered bleeding into heaven. The uproar, however, attracted
the notice of a few neighbors, who put themselves to the trouble of
rescuing the little heretic, and of conveying him to Pearson's door.
Ilbrahim's bodily harm was severe, but long and careful nursing
accomplished his recovery; the injury done to his sensitive spirit was
more serious, though not so visible. Its signs were principally of a
negative character, and to be discovered only by those who had previously
known him. His gait was thenceforth slow, even, and unvaried
by the sudden bursts of sprightlier motion, which had once corresponded
to his overflowing gladness; his countenance was heavier, and its
former play of expression, the dance of sunshine reflected from moving
water, was destroyed by the cloud over his existence; his notice was
attracted in a far less degree by passing events, and he appeared to
find greater difficulty in comprehending what was new to him, than at
a happier period. A stranger, founding his judgment upon these circumstances,
would have said that the dulness of the child's intellect
widely contradicted the promise of his features; but the secret was in
the direction of Ilbrahim's thoughts, which were brooding within him
when they should naturally have been wandering abroad. An attempt
of Dorothy to revive his former sportiveness was the single occasion,
on which his quiet demeanor yielded to a violent display of grief; he
burst into passionate weeping, and ran and hid himself, for his heart
had become so miserably sore, that even the hand of kindness tortured
it like fire. Sometimes, at night, and probably in his dreams, he was
heard to cry, `Mother! Mother!' as if her place, which a stranger
had supplied while Ilbrahim was happy, admitted of no substitute, in
his extreme affliction. Perhaps, among the many life-weary wretches
misery like this poor, broken-hearted infant, so soon the victim of his
own heavenly nature.
While this melancholy change had taken place in Ilbrahim, one of
an earlier origin and of different character had come to its perfection
in his adopted father. The incident with which this tale commences
found Pearson in a state of religious dulness, yet mentally disquieted,
and longing for a more fervid faith than he possessed. The first effect
of his kindness to Ilbrahim was to produce a softened feeling, an incipient
love for the child's whole sect; but joined to this, and resulting
perhaps from self-suspicion, was a proud and ostentatious contempt of
their tenets and practical extravagances. In the course of much
thought, however, for the subject struggled irresistibly into his mind,
the foolishness of the doctrine began to be less evident, and the points
which had particularly offended his reason assumed another aspect, or
vanished entirely away. The work within him appeared to go on
even while he slept, and that which had been a doubt, when he laid
down to rest, would often hold the place of a truth, confirmed by some
forgotten demonstration, when he recalled his thoughts in the morning.
But while he was thus becoming assimilated to the enthusiasts,
his contempt, in nowise decreasing towards them, grew very fierce
against himself; he imagined, also, that every face of his acquaintance
wore a sneer, and that every word addressed to him was a gibe. Such
was his state of mind at the period of Ilbrahim's misfortune; and the
emotions consequent upon that event completed the change, of which
the child had been the original instrument.
In the mean time neither the fierceness of the persecutors, nor
the infatuation of their victims, had decreased. The dungeons were
never empty; the streets of almost every village echoed daily with
the lash; the life of a woman, whose mild and Christian spirit no cruelty
could embitter, had been sacrificed; and more innocent blood was
yet to pollute the hands, that were so often raised in prayer. Early
after the Restoration, the English Quakers represented to Charles II.
that a `vein of blood was open in his dominions;' but though the
displeasure of the voluptuous king was roused, his interference was
not prompt. And now the tale must stride forward over many months,
leaving Pearson to encounter ignominy and misfortune; his wife to a
firm endurance of a thousand sorrows; poor Ilbrahim to pine and droop
like a cankered rose-bud; his mother to wander on a mistaken errand
neglectful of the holiest trust which can be committed to a woman.
* * * * * * *
A winter evening, a night of storm, had darkened over Pearson's
habitation, and there were no cheerful faces to drive the gloom from
his broad hearth. The fire, it is true, sent forth a glowing heat and
a ruddy light, and large logs, dripping with half-melted snow, lay
ready to be cast upon the embers. But the apartment was saddened
in its aspect by the absence of much of the homely wealth which had
once adorned it; for the exaction of repeated fines, and his own
neglect of temporal affairs, had greatly impoverished the owner. And
with the furniture of peace, the implements of war had likewise disappeared;
the sword was broken, the helm and cuirass were cast away
for ever; the soldier had done with battles, and might not lift so much
as his naked hand to guard his head. But the Holy Book remained,
and the table on which it rested was drawn before the fire, while two
of the persecuted sect sought comfort from its pages.
He who listened, while the other read, was the master of the
house, now emaciated in form, and altered as to the expression and
healthiness of his countenance; for his mind had dwelt too long
among visionary thoughts, and his body had been worn by imprisonment
and stripes. The hale and weather-beaten old man who sat
beside him, had sustained less injury from a far longer course of the
same mode of life. In person he was tall and dignified, and, which
alone would have made him hateful to the Puritans, his grey locks
fell from beneath the broad-brimmed hat, and rested on his shoulders.
As the old man read the sacred page, the snow drifted against the
windows, or eddied in at the crevices of the door, while a blast kept
laughing in the chimney, and the blaze leaped fiercely up to seek it.
And sometimes, when the wind struck the hill at a certain angle, and
swept down by the cottage across the wintry plain, its voice was the
most doleful that can be conceived; it came as if the Dead had contributed
each a whisper, as if the Desolation of Ages were breathed
in that one lamenting sound.
The Quaker at length closed the book, retaining however his
hand between the pages which he had been reading, while he looked
have indicated the endurance of bodily pain; he leaned his forehead
on his hands, his teeth were firmly closed, and his frame was tremulous
at intervals with a nervous agitation.
`Friend Tobias,' inquired the old man, compassionately, `hast
thou found no comfort in these many blessed passages of scripture?'
`Thy voice has fallen on my ear like a sound afar off and indistinct,'
replied Pearson without lifting his eyes. `Yea, and when I
have harkened carefully, the words seemed cold and lifeless, and
intended for another and a lesser grief than mine. Remove the book,'
he added, in a tone of sullen bitterness. `I have no part in its consolations,
and they do but fret my sorrow the more.'
`Nay, feeble brother, be not as one who hath never known the
light,' said the elder Quaker, earnestly, but with mildness. `Art thou
he that wouldst be content to give all, and endure all, for conscience'
sake; desiring even peculiar trials, that thy faith might be purified,
and thy heart weaned from worldly desires? And wilt thou sink
beneath an affliction which happens alike to them that have their portion
here below, and to them that lay up treasure in heaven? Faint
not, for thy burthen is yet light.'
`It is heavy! It is heavier than I can hear!' exclaimed Pearson,
with the impatience of a variable spirit. `From my youth upward I
have been a man marked out for wrath; and year by year, yea, day
after day, I have endured sorrows such as others know not in their
life-time. And now I speak not of the love that has been turned to
hatred, the honor to ignominy, the ease and plentifulness of all things
to danger, want, and nakedness. All this I could have borne, and
counted myself blessed. But when my heart was desolate with many
losses, I fixed it upon the child of a stranger, and he became dearer
to me than all my buried ones; and now he too must die, as if my
love were poison. Verily, I am an accursed man, and I will lay me
down in the dust, and lift up my head no more.'
`Thou sinnest, brother, but it is not for me to rebuke thee; for
I also have had my hours of darkness, wherein I have murmured
against the cross,' said the old Quaker. He continued, perhaps in the
hope of distracting his companion's thoughts from his own sorrows,
`Even of late was the light obscured within me, when the men of
blood had banished me on pain of death, and the constables led me
onward from village to village, towards the wilderness. A strong and
cruel hand was wielding the knotted cords; they sunk deep into the
flesh, and thou mightest have tracked every reel and totter of my footsteps
by the blood that followed. As we went on'—
`Have I not borne all this; and have I murmured?' interrupted
Pearson, impatiently.
`Nay, friend, but hear me,' continued the other. `As we journeyed
on, night darkened on our path, so that no man could see the
rage of the persecutors, or the constancy of my endurance, though
Heaven forbid that I should glory therein. The lights began to
glimmer in the cottage windows, and I could discern the inmates as they
gathered, in comfort and security, every man with his wife and children
by their own evening hearth. At length we came to a tract of fertile
land; in the dim light, the forest was not visible around it; and behold!
there was a straw thatched dwelling, which bore the very aspect of
my home, far over the wild ocean, far in our own England. Then
came bitter thoughts upon me; yea, remembrances that were like
death to my soul. The happiness of my early days was painted to
me; the disquiet of my manhood, the altered faith of my declining
years. I remembered how I had been moved to go forth a wanderer,
when my daughter, the youngest, the dearest of my flock, lay on her
dying bed, and'—
`Couldst thou obey the command at such a moment?' exclaimed
Pearson, shuddering.
`Yea, yea,' replied the old man, hurriedly. `I was kneeling by
her bed-side when the voice spoke loud within me; but immediately
I rose, and took my staff, and gat me gone. Oh! that it were permitted
me to forget her woeful look, when I thus withdrew my arm,
and left her journeying through the dark valley alone! for her soul
was faint, and she had leaned upon my prayers. Now in that night
of horror I was assailed by the thought that I had been an erring
christian, and a cruel parent; yea, even my daughter, with her pale,
dying features, seemed to stand by me and whisper, “Father, you are
deceived; go home and shelter your grey head.” Oh! thou, to whom
I have looked in my farthest wanderings,' continued the Quaker, raising
his agitated eyes to heaven, `inflict not upon the bloodiest of our
all I had done and suffered for Thee was at the instigation of a mocking
fiend! But I yielded not; I knelt down and wrestled with the
tempter, while the scourge bit more fiercely into the flesh. My prayer
was heard, and I went on in peace and joy towards the wilderness.'
The old man, though his fanaticism had generally all the calmness
of reason, was deeply moved while reciting this tale; and his unwonted
emotion seemed to rebuke and keep down that of his companion.
They sat in silence, with their faces to the fire, imagining, perhaps, in
its red embers, new scenes of persecution yet to be encountered. The
snow still drifted hard against the windows, and sometimes, as the
blaze of the logs had gradually sunk, came down the spacious chimney
and hissed upon the hearth. A cautious footstep might now and then
be heard in a neighboring apartment, and the sound invariably drew
the eyes of both Quakers to the door which led thither. When a
fierce and riotous gust of wind had led his thoughts, by a natural association,
to homeless travellers on such a night, Pearson resumed the
conversation.
`I have well nigh sunk under my own share of this trial,' observed
he, sighing heavily; yet I would that it might be doubled to me, if
so the child's mother could be spared. Her wounds have been deep
and many, but this will be the sorest of all.'
`Fear not for Catharine,' replied the old Quaker; `for I know
that valiant woman, and have seen how she can bear the cross. A
mother's heart, indeed, is strong in her, and may seem to contend
mightily with her faith; but soon she will stand up and give thanks
that her son has been thus early an accepted sacrifice. The boy hath
done his work, and she will feel that he is taken hence in kindness
both to him and her. Blessed, blessed are they, that with so little
suffering can enter into peace!'
The fitful rush of the wind was now disturbed by a portentous
sound; it was a quick and heavy knocking at the outer door. Pearson's
wan countenance grew paler, for many a visit of persecution had
taught him what to dread; the old man, on the other hand, stood up
erect, and his glance was firm as that of the tried soldier, who awaits
his enemy.
`The men of blood have come to seek me,' he observed, with
calmness. `They have heard how I was moved to return from banishment;
and now am I to be led to prison, and thence to death. It
is an end I have long looked for. I will open unto them, lest they
say, “Lo, he feareth!” '
`Nay, I will present myself before them,' said Pearson, with
recovered fortitude. `It may be that they seek me alone, and know
not that thou abidest with me.'
`Let us go boldly, both one and the other,' rejoined his companion.
`It is not fitting that thou or I should shrink.'
They therefore proceeded through the entry to the door, which
they opened, bidding the applicant `Come in, in God's name!' A
furious blast of wind drove the storm into their faces, and extinguished
the lamp; they had barely time to discern a figure, so white from
head to foot with the drifted snow, that it seemed like Winter's self,
come in human shape to seek refuge from its own desolation.
`Enter, friend, and do thy errand, be it what it may,' said Pearson.
`It must needs be pressing, since thou comest on such a bitter
night.'
`Peace be with this household,' said the stranger, when they
stood on the floor of the inner apartment.
Pearson started, the elder Quaker stirred the slumbering embers
of the fire, till they sent up a clear and lofty blaze; it was a female
voice that had spoken; it was a female form that shone out, cold and
wintry, in that comfortable light.
`Catharine, blessed woman,' exclaimed the old man, `art thou
come to this darkened land again! Art thou come to bear a valiant
testimony as in former years? The scourge hath not prevailed
against thee, and from the dungeon hast thou come forth triumphant;
but strengthen, strengthen now thy heart, Catharine, for Heaven will
prove thee yet this once, ere thou go to thy reward.'
`Rejoice, friends!' she replied. `Thou who hast long been
of our people, and thou whom a little child hath led to us, rejoice! Lo!
I come, the messenger of glad tidings, for the day of persecution is
overpast. The heart of the king, even Charles, hath been moved in
gentleness towards us, and he hath sent forth his letters to stay the
hands of the men of blood. A ship's company of our friends hath
arrived at yonder town, and I also sailed joyfully among them.'
As Catharine spoke, her eyes were roaming about the room, in
search of him for whose sake security was dear to her. Pearson
made a silent appeal to the old man, nor did the latter shrink from the
painful task assigned him.
`Sister,' he began, in a softened yet perfectly calm tone, `thou
tellest us of His love, manifested in temporal good; and now must
we speak to thee of that self-same love, displayed in chastenings.
Hitherto, Catherine, thou hast been as one journeying in a darksome
and difficult path, and leading an infant by the hand; fain wouldst
thou have looked heavenward continually, but still the cares of that
little child have drawn thine eyes, and thy affections, to the earth.
Sister! go on rejoicing, for his tottering footsteps shall impede thine
own no more.'
But the unhappy mother was not thus to be consoled; she shook
like a leaf, she turned white as the very snow that hung drifted into
her hair. The firm old man extended his hand and held her up, keeping
his eye upon her's, as if to repress any outbreak of passion.
`I am a woman, I am but a woman; will He try me above my
strength?' said Catharine, very quickly, and almost in a whisper.
`I have been wounded sore; I have suffered much; many things in
the body, many in the mind; crucified in myself, and in them that
were dearest to me. Surely,' added she, with a long shudder, `He
hath spared me in this one thing.' She broke forth with sudden and
irrepressible violence. `Tell me, man of cold heart, what has God
done to me? Hath He cast me down never to rise again? Hath he
crushed my very heart in his hand? And thou, to whom I committed
my child, how hast thou fulfilled thy trust? Give me back the boy,
well, sound, alive, alive; or earth and heaven shall avenge me!'
The agonized shriek of Catharine was answered by the faint,
the very faint voice of a child.
On this day it had become evident to Pearson, to his aged guest,
and to Dorothy, that Ilbrahim's brief and troubled pilgrimage drew
near its close. The two former would willingly have remained by
him, to make use of the prayers and pious discourses which they
deemed appropriate to the time, and which, if they be impotent as to
the departing traveller's reception in the world whither he goes, may
at least sustain him in bidding adieu to earth. But though Ilbrahim
uttered no complaint, he was disturbed by the faces that looked upon
him; so that Dorothy's entreaties, and their own conviction that the
child's feet might tread heaven's pavement and not soil it, had induced
the two Quakers to remove. Ilbrahim then closed his eyes and grew
calm, and except for now and then, a kind and low word to his nurse,
might have been thought to slumber. As night-fall came on, however,
and the storm began to rise, something seemed to trouble the repose
of the boy's mind, and to render his sense of hearing active and acute.
If a passing wind lingered to shake the casement, he strove to turn
his head towards it; if the door jarred to and fro upon its hinges,
he looked long and anxiously thitherward; if the heavy voice of the
old man, as he read the scriptures, rose but a little higher, the child
almost held his dying breath to listen; if a snow-drift swept by the
cottage, with a sound like the trailing of a garment, Ilbrahim seemed
to watch that some visitant should enter.
But, after a little time, he relinquished whatever secret hope had
agitated him, and, with one low, complaining whisper, turned his cheek
upon the pillow. He then addressed Dorothy with his usual sweetness,
and besought her to draw near him; she did so, and Ilbrahim
took her hand in both of his, grasping it with a gentle pressure, as if
to assure himself that he retained it. At intervals, and without disturbing
the repose of his countenance, a very faint trembling passed
over him from head to foot, as if a mild but somewhat cool wind had
breathed upon him, and made him shiver. As the boy thus led her
by the hand, in his quiet progress over the borders of eternity, Dorothy
almost imagined that she could discern the near, though dim delightfulness,
of the home he was about to reach; she would not have
enticed the little wanderer back, though she bemoaned herself that
she must leave him and return. But just when Ilbrahim's feet were
pressing on the soil of Paradise, he heard a voice behind him, and it
recalled him a few, few paces of the weary path which he had travelled.
As Dorothy looked upon his features, she perceived that their placid
expression was again disturbed; her own thoughts had been so wrapt
in him, that all sounds of the storm, and of human speech, were lost
to her; but when Catharine's shriek pierced through the room, the
boy strove to raise himself.
`Friend, she is come! Open unto her!' cried he.
In a moment, his mother was kneeling by the bed-side; she
drew Ilbrahim to her bosom, and he nestled there, with no violence of
joy, but contentedly as if he were hushing himself to sleep. He
looked into her face, and reading its agony, said, with feeble earnestness;
`Mourn not, dearest mother. I am happy now.' And with these
words, the gentle boy was dead.
* * * * * * *
The king's mandate to stay the New England persecutors was
effectual in preventing further martyrdoms; but the colonial authorities,
trusting in the remoteness of their situation, and perhaps in the
supposed instability of the royal government, shortly renewed their
severities in all other respects. Catharine's fanaticism had become
wilder by the sundering of all human ties; and wherever a scourge
was lifted, there was she to receive the blow; and whenever a dungeon
was unbarred, thither she came, to cast herself upon the floor.
But in process of time, a more christian spirit—a spirit of forbearanes;
though not of cordiality or approbation, began to pervade the land in
regard to the persecuted sect. And then, when the rigid old Pilgrims
eyed her rather in pity than in wrath; when the matrons fed her with
the fragments of their children's food, and offered her a lodging on a
hard and lowly bed; when no little crowd of school-boys left their
sports to cast stones after the roving enthusiast; then did Catharine
return to Pearson's dwelling, and made that her home.
As if Ilbrahim's sweetness yet lingered round his ashes; as if
his gentle spirit came down from heaven to teach his parent a true
religion, her fierce and vindictive nature was softened by the same
griefs which had once irritated it. When the course of years had
made the features of the unobtrusive mourner familiar in the settlement,
she became a subject of not deep, but general interest; a being
on whom the otherwise superfluous sympathies of all might be bestowed.
Every one spoke of her with that degree of pity which it is pleasant
to experience; every one was ready to do her the little kindnesses,
which are not costly, yet manifest good will; and when at last she
died, a long train of her once bitter persecutors followed her, with
decent sadness and tears that were not painful, to her place by Ilbrahim's
green and sunken grave.
| The gentle boy : | |