University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

We must now leave the party at Eton,
which we hope that our readers will
think has lost its chief interest since the
departure of our heroine, and we shall
exempt them from attending her in her
wearisome progress, since it was diversified
by no danger real or imaginary, to
recall their attention to the sorrows of
the simple amiable little fanatic Emily
Allen.

She returned to her monastic seclusion
with her aunt, or as she called her (according

to the fashion of “the Believers,”
who acknowledge none but primitive
titles and relations,) her `elder sister,'
more from a habit of passive obedience,
than from any distaste to the world.
Our readers may recollect that at parting
with James Lenox, she had received
from him a slip of paper, and succeeded
in hiding it in her bosom. He had
written on it a strong expression of his
love, and an entreaty that she would
abandon her false religion. From the
moment she placed it in her bosom, her
heart fluttered and struggled as an imprisoned
bird when her mate approaches
her cage. She regarded it as a temptation,
but had no strength, hardly a wish
to resist it. All her solitary moments
(they were rare and brief) were devoted
to reading this note over and over again.
She felt herself immured in a dungeon,
and from this the only gleam of light
she could not for a moment turn her
thoughts.

The uniform habits and monotonous
occupations of this singular community
have a strong tendency to check every
irregular feeling, and to intercept every
vagrant desire. But in vain did Emily
try their sedative influence. She was
one of the highest, and even there,
where few distinctions obtain, most
privileged order, called, par excellence,
`the church.' Susan's gifts had advanced
her to the lead, and Emily's
graces were looked upon by the fraternity
as the herald blossoms of like precious
fruit. But since her return from
her fatal visit to the “world's people,”
she had become an object of intense
anxiety to Susan, and of solicitude or
distrust to the rest of the society. Susan
had no suspicion of the real cause of her
discontent; she imputed it to the workings
of her natural affections, the dying
sparks of which, not quite extinguished
by grace, had been rekindled by her late
visit to her kindred.

Little did this stern enthusiast imagine,
as she watched over her young disciple
with maternal tenderness, how much
there was of natural and original feeling
in her own affection for her. She saw
the bright colour, the beautiful signal of
youth and health, fading day by day
from her cheeks, till her face became
almost as white as the snowy cap border
that fringed it. She saw her take her
accustomed place at the formal meal, but
she noticed that her food was often untasted,
and never relished. She observed
her slow step and abstracted look, as she
passed over the broad flagstones to the
offices to perform her daily tasks, and
that though she went through them with
fidelity, her trembling hands and frequent
sighs evinced that her heart and strength
were gone. She uniformly appeared
with the sisters that thronged to the
evening worship, and went forth with
them to `labour in the dance,' but her
movements were heavy and mechanical;

and it was too plain, even to the lenient
judgment of Susan, that the spirit was
not there.

The kind-hearted old women, who
thought she was falling into a weakly
way, consulted with Susan as to the nature
of her complaints. Susan humoured
their conjectures, and allowed them to
believe they had detected some latent
malady. They prepared their simples,
and Susan permitted Emily to swallow
them, because she knew them to be
innocent, and that they possessed that
best recommendation of any drug, viz.
that `if it does no good it can do no
harm.'

Some were of opinion that she had an
incipient consumption, some that it was
only a `drying of the lungs,' some pronounced
it an `inward rheumatism,'
while others sagaciously intimated that
it might be a `palsy of the heart.' In
short the wise sisters discovered many
diseases that have not yet a place in the

nomenclature of the learned faculty;
and poor Emily, without a word of remonstrance
or complaint, listened to
their skilful suggestions and tried all
their remedies, till their materia medica
was exhausted, without effect. She took
bitters fasting and feasting—she swallowed
syrups `nine days' and `three
days,' and `every other day,'—she took
conserves, and `health waters,' and `life
waters,' and every other water that
`with a blessing always cures'—but still
she had the same deadly paleness—the
same sunken eye—the same trembling at
the heart—and all the symptoms of a
mysterious disease, which the most sagacious
deemed nothing short of a `healing
gift' could cure.

The elder brethren, ever strict in their
watch over the young converts, now became
alarmed in their turn. They held
frequent and long consultations, at which
Reuben Harrington had a gift to preside.
Whether these veterans derived

their light from the experience of similar
conflicts cannot be ascertained; but certain
it is that they soon came to the
decision that Emily's disease was a moral
one; and to Reuben was assigned the
task of stilling her natural yearnings
after the world, and of bringing back
her wandering affections to the fold—to
the wolf was committed the guardianship
of the lamb.

Reuben was aware that nothing could
be effected without the consent and concurrence
of Susan; and to obtain that
to the mode of operation which he had
proposed to himself, he knew was no
easy matter, now that her natural sagacity
was stimulated by strong affection
and deep anxiety.

After the brethren had closed their
deliberations, Reuben proposed calling
the elder sister to the conference, to
advise with her as to the best means of
pursuing their righteous end. Susan
came at his bidding; but she was cautious

and reserved in her communications,
till one of the brethren roused her
by saying, (after a long low groan,) “It
is evident the girl is given over to the
sifting of Satan,”—Susan raised her
eyes, and fixed them on the speaker—
“and,” he continued, “according to my
light, she should stand before the congregation
of the people on the coming
Lord's day, and, in the presence of the
chosen vessels, receive an open rebuke
for sin.”

“What sin, Obadiah?” inquired Susan
with a trembling voice.

“Sin of the heart—doth not all sin
proceed from the heart, woman?”

“Verily it doth, Obadiah—but who
hath seen the sin proceeding from the
heart of this afflicted child?—and who
hath given you authority to discern the
thoughts and intents of the heart?—
would you treat the young lambs like
the fat calves of the stall?”—

“Nay, sister, this is unprofitable,”

interposed Reuben. “It is too true
that the fine gold has become dim, and
we must seek for a gift to restore its
brightness. Let us each labour for it in
the evening worship, and he or she to
whom it may be given shall forthwith
undertake the cure of this precious
soul.”

Susan did not venture to withhold her
assent to this proposition, regarded as it
evidently was by the brethren as a direct
inspiration, but her spirit still hovered
over the child of her affection as a bird
fluttereth over her nest. “My light has
been,” she said, “to leave Emily to the
work of time and grace—but it may be
that seeking, brethren, ye may find a
quicker cure—it is a duty to remember
that in months past the testimony of the
child's life against all sin has been very
clear. The enemy has taken advantage
of her late visit to her kindred, and
has carried her back to the path of natural
affection, out of which she had travelled

far—and seeing nature reviving,
and grace sleeping, he hath taken that
moment to bind her again with carnal
bonds.”

“You have ever been gifted, sister,”
replied Reuben, “with that hidden wisdom
that quickly discerneth. It may be
you see the true evil; but even now I
can comfort you with a prophecy that
the young woman will awake as from
sleep, and break these carnal bonds like
thread—her conflict is sore, but great
will be her victory—for I predict of her
as Christian Love, the holy martyr of
Cromwell's time, predicted of our mother
Anne, that this our young sister
shall yet shine out, `a bright star, whose
light and power shall make the heavens
to quake and knock under.”'

“Amen,” exclaimed Susan, devoutly
clasping her hands; and “amen” responded
all the veteran counsellors in
one voice, animated by that vaunted

“spontaneous spirit of union which flows
through the whole body”—when governed
by a master spirit.

Susan, on issuing from the brethren's
apartment, passed through a narrow passage
to the common entry from whence
all the passages diverge, and in the centre
of which is placed a large clock, the
work of one of the ingenious brethren.
Emily stood at the foot of the staircase,
her face so much averted from Susan,
that she did not notice her approach,—
her footsteps she could not hear, for it
is the law of the society which carries
its war with the flesh into the most minute
particulars, that every one shall
tread softly, and shall shut the doors
with the least possible sound—to these
laws such due observance is paid, that a
stranger ignorant of their habits, would
imagine their houses were untenanted.
Emily had paused at the staircase from
extreme weakness; the loud ticking of
the clock had arrested her attention;

this sound, always the same, seems like
the natural voice of this monotonous solitude.
“Oh,” said Emily, unconsciously
uttering audibly her thoughts, “to
what purpose is time measured here?
there is no pleasure to come—there is
none past that I dare to remember.”

“Do you ask to what purpose?” said
Susan, in a voice of unwonted austerity
that startled Emily, “and are you then
so far relapsed into nature!—Oh, have
you already forgotten when every stroke
of that clock was as a holy monitor to
you, arousing you to redeem the time?
—have you forgotten, Emily, when you
wrestled with vain thoughts, and sinful
thoughts, and overcame them?—have you
forgotten, or do you tremble to remember
when the stroke of every hour carried
with it the record of your innocence.”

“Oh, spare me, spare me!” interrupted
the poor girl, grasping the elder

sister's arm, and clinging to it, “I am
sick—very sick.”

Susan's heart melted within her at
this appeal, and hearing the brethren
approaching, she instinctively drew, or
rather carried Emily away from their
observation, to her own apartment, the
door of which she closed, and turned a
button that secured her from intrusion.
She seated herself, and would have
placed Emily beside her, but she, as if
desperate now the veil had fallen, sunk
into Susan's lap, and folding her arms
around her, sobbed on her bosom.

This was the language of nature; and
the elder sister was surprised into what
she deemed an amazing sin. She wept
too freely and audibly, but

and could command her voice, she said,
“I thought all these natural affections
were rooted out—and they were, Emily;
but since you came among us the enemy
hath sown tares among the wheat. Poor
child! I see where your temptation lies
—the world—the world calls you; but
be not discouraged, if you overcome the
temptation you will be stronger than one
that hath never been tempted. This is
not the first time that the serpent has
entered our garden. Long after I joined
myself to the people, my soul thirsted
after the world, as the hart panteth for
the water courses.

“Emily, I have never told you my
trials, for I thought the world was as a
strange country to you; now you shall
know them all, and the Lord grant they
may prove a beacon to you!”

Susan paused for a few moments, to
nerve her mind to the recollection and
detail of long past sorrows; and then
began in a calm subdued tone, while
Emily continued with her face hidden
on her bosom, sobbing at intervals like a
child that cannot forget its griefs.

“Emily, I was the youngest of your
grandmother's seven children. My natural
father was a good man, living up
to the light he had, till our mother Anne,
having had a safe path made for her
through the waters, came a swift witness
to this new world, which being, as it
were, born out of due time, was accounted
worthy of her ministry, having been,
under Providence, discovered and civilized
to become the inheritance of the
believers. My father, as you have often
heard, was one of the first fruits of the
work: he and my natural brothers and
sisters were among the first that joined
the people, and set out for the Lord. I
was left alone with your grandmother,
and she in possession of all her husband's
property—a handsome farm on the other
side of the mountain. Emily, I had
wicked thoughts then. I believed my
family were led away by a deceiver, and
an antichrist. I listened eagerly to the
stories of those that reviled our mother's

name. Some said that she and her elders
were the offscourings of the English jails;
others seeing that her work far transcended
natural power, accused her of
witchcraft; some insisted that she was a
man in woman's apparel; and although
she predicted the independence of this
favoured land, and could not act against
her own testimony, there were some who
charged her with treasonable practices,
and threw her into jail. I was willing
to believe all that the voice of the slanderer
uttered; and when my father came
to take me to her, in obedience to him I
went, but blinded by my prepossessions.
It was then that mother and William Lee
and our ancients were gathering the believers
at Niskeyuna, and there your
grandfather carried me.

“We arrived at the close of a November
day; the sun had just set in clouds
—the sky was dark and foreboding. I
had been chilled and wearied with our
long ride and fasting; but when we

turned from the high road into a woody
path, and my father pointing to a smoke
that curled upward from a deep wood,
said, “there dwells the bright star,” I
forgot all the weakness and the wants of
the flesh. The adversary put forth all
his strength to secure his dominion in
my weak and troubled mind;—a trembling
seized me—it seemed to me that I
was hurried on to a precipice, and I had
no power to resist the cruel force that
pressed me onward. I tried to pray, but
my spirit died away within me. The
low murmurs of the little stream along
which we rode—the wind that sighed
through the naked branches of the trees
—the rustling of the fallen leaves over
which we passed, all seemed to speak a
voice of warning to my fearful spirit.

“I was always a feeling and a thoughtful
girl, Emily, and it had long been
borne in upon my mind that great things
awaited me: still I hated the way that
was opened, and joyfully would I have

turned my back upon the light that was
ready to dawn on me.

“As we approached the house the
believers were closing the afternoon
worship; I caught the sound of the evening
hymn: it was so ordered, that I did
not then, nor till long after, witness the
going forth in the dance. My faith was
not yet strong enough for it, and for a
long time, the Lord forgive me! it was
a cross to me.

“When we were about to enter the
door, my father perceived that my limbs
were sinking under me, and he led, or
rather dragged me into the room. Oh
Emily, I shall never forget that moment.

“The apartment, though in a loghouse,
was a large one, the brethren
having in their early gathering removed
all the partitions to give space for the
labour worship. There was a bright fire
on the hearth from some pine knots, but
no other light in the room. The brethren,
with their broad-brimmed hats slouched,

and casting a deep shadow over their
faces, were sitting on one side of the
room, as is their custom—the sisters on
the other; their arms were folded, and
their eyes all cast down; and exhausted
by the evening labour they were pale as
spectres. Our mother stood in the centre
of the apartment alone—her arms also
folded across her breast. I looked fearfully
around—I saw my natural brothers
and sisters, as the flame burned brightly
and shone upon their faces, but none of
them regarded me. It seemed to me
that I had come into an assembly of the
dead. I turned to beg my father to lead
me away, but he had quitted my side,
and taken his place among the brethren.
My head grew giddy, and I thought
myself sinking to the earth.

“At this moment our mother advanced
to me; `and is this,' she said, `the one
stray lamb that I have so longed to get
into the fold?' My bonnet had fallen
back—she laid her hand upon my head

—her hand and arm were bare, and
white and smooth as if they had been
rounded out of the purest marble. My
hair was dressed after the fashion of the
world. `You must forsake these vanities,
Susan,' said she:—she did not speak
sharply, though she could sometimes
sharply rebuke sin:—she made a short
pause, and then fixing her clear piercing
blue eye steadfastly on me, as if she
penetrated to the depths of my soul, she
added, in a low solemn tone, `Susan, I
bear a message to you—the Master saith,
`forsake all and follow me, and ye shall
have in this world an hundred fold, and
in the world to come, life everlasting.”'

“Emily, there was a celestial melody
in mother's voice in the gift of speaking,
and a weight in all her words, and
though I gave no outward sign, they
sunk deeply into my heart. She said no
more to me at that time—she was never
forward to speak. In her looks there
was a boldness and an innocence that

seemed, as it were, like the truth and the
gentleness of the gospel she preached,
written for a testimony in every line of
her face.

“Ah! she had,” continued the enthusiast,
her eyes kindling and her face
brightening, while her imagination magnified
the graces of the leader who had
captivated her youthful affection. “Ah,
she had all the sweet qualities of woman,
and yet Emily, for a season I turned my
back on her. I returned to my natural
mother—to the world—to—yes it is fitting
you should know all my temptations
—to one to whom I was deeply bound
in my affections.”

Susan paused—and Emily's sobbing,
which had continued at intervals till this
moment, ceased. She raised her face,
now gleaming with faint streaks of red,
from Susan's bosom, and fixing her eye
on the speaker, who after some effort
continued,

“William Harwood was a pleasant

lad: we had been mates from our infancy,
and had loved one another (loving
no one else) with that faith which is the
boast of the world's people: little did I
think till the gospel was opened to me,
that that love was the fruit of a depraved
nature—that, if I would not perish eternally,
it must be plucked off and cast
from me. William pleaded for it, and
my own heart pleaded more stoutly—
Oh, Emily! you know not how the
natural man can talk—and oh, my innocent
child, be thankful; you know not
how the unregenerate heart goes forth
in what the world calls love; how the
breath of the body and the life of the
soul seem bound up in the life and
breath of another; how cheap the sacrifice
of earth—yea heaven, to the idol
seems—”

“Oh, stop, stop,” exclaimed Emily,
falling on her knees, and clasping her
hands in agony, “do not say any more
to me, I cannot bear it.”

“Nay, my child,” replied Susan, recovering
her calm tone and self-command
which had for a moment given way before
the rush of natural feeling. “Nay,
be quiet and listen, for grace obtained
the victory. The conflict lasted for
many months. I saw that I could in no
way be justified but by obeying the gospel
and setting out with the believers.
Your grandmother hated the faith then
as she does now. I could answer all she
said, but when William told me with
despairing looks that he should be a
ruined man if I forsook him, my heart
sunk within me. My flesh consumed
on my bones as if there had been a curse
upon me, and often, often between the
setting and the rising of the sun my
eyelids have not met, and in the morning
I could wring from my handkerchief
the tears that had poured from my eyes
like rain in the night. But finally grace
triumphed over nature: the strong man
was bound, and I joined myself to the

people. It is now thirty years since I
believed, and,” added she, raising her
hands and eyes, and speaking with more
energy than she had yet spoken, “I say
the truth before God, and lie not: I
have not repented for a moment; I have
been heartily thankful that I have borne
my testimony—I have purchased a peace
that cannot be taken away, and cheaply
purchased it.”

“Then I am lost,” exclaimed Emily.

“Nay, do not mistake me, child—I
mean that having put my hand to the
plough, I never turned back; but I had
many heavy dragging hours, much hungering
after forsaken joys. It could not
be otherwise, but again I say I never
repented. You know already that when
tribulation came, many fell away. Our
mother was carried to prison. My
father, your father, all my natural kindred
left her—I alone remained to abide
our day of wasteness and desolation.”

“And did you ever again see William
Harwood?” inquired Emily.

“Yea, yea, child, that was my chiefest
sorrow; he never gave me up—he would
not believe that I would persevere in a
celibious life and after our family removed
hither he came every month and
sometimes every week to see me. He
once came into our worshipping assembly,
but the moment that I went forth
in the dance, he fainted and fell to the
floor. After that I saw him but seldom.”

Susan paused, and Emily asked, “if
he never married?”

“Nay,” replied Susan.

“And is he dead?” inquired Emily.

“Wait a moment, child, and ye shall
hear it all—yea all. She pressed her
hands on her forehead—“My head is
giddy, and these thoughts have kindled
strange fire in my heart.” She remained
silent for a few moments, and then,
resuming her usual deliberate manner,

she said, “William was an only, and
an indulged child. His parents had
never crossed him in any thing; and
though he had a kind and a tender disposition,
he could not brook a disappointment.
He fell into a weakly way, and
then he took to ruinous habits. His poor
old parents died, I fear, of a wounded
spirit; for they laid his misfortunes sadly
to heart. After their death his worldly
affairs went fast to destruction, and he
became a miserable vagrant. He would
come here and sit for hours on the doorstep;
at these times I kept to my room,
for I could do nothing for him; and if
he chanced to see me in his fits of intoxication,
he would either upbraid me bitterly,
or cry like a child—and both were
trying to me.

“It is ten years ago the tenth day of
last January; it had stormed for three
days, and the roads were blocked with
the drifted snows; and it had been a
cruel cold night; and in the morning—

a Sabbath morning too—when we had
risen and kindled a fire, one of the brethren
opened the outer door, and there
was lying a poor wretch across the doorstone—frozen
to death; we all gathered
round him; and O Emily, child, it
was”—

“William?”

“Yea—yea—it was William himself.”

“Oh misery! misery!” exclaimed
Emily, with a burst of sympathy which
she could not repress.

“Yea, it was misery. I forgot myself
—forgot all that stood about me. I saw
not his tattered dirty garments, nor his
bloated face, but I saw him as in the
days of our youth and our love, and I
fell on his neck and wept—I could not
help it; but thanks be rendered,” she
added, raising her eyes, “it was the last
struggle of nature, and it has been forgiven.”

“And have you suffered thus?” asked
Emily, after a moment's pause.

“Do not so speak, child,” replied
Susan; “rather be grateful that I have
been accounted worthy thus to suffer.”

Susan's raised feelings did not permit
her to add any thing farther. She
became silent and abstracted; and
Emily, exhausted with her emotions,
laid her head in her elder sister's lap,
and like a child wept herself to sleep.

Susan's narrative had not precisely the
effect on the mind of her disciple that
she had designed and anticipated.
Emily's excited imagination was deeply
impressed by Harwood's death, and the
instinctive conclusion of her feelings
was perhaps as just as if it had been a
logical deduction from a process of reasoning.
She felt that the faith which
exacted such sacrifices, and produced
such effects, was stern in its requisitions,
and cruel in its consequences. Her
fidelity to this strange religion hung, as
it were, by a hair—its vibration at the
mercy of every passing influence,—unlike

Susan, whose strong feelings being
set one way by some powerful impetus,
were as little liable as a tide of the
ocean, to fluctuate from human interposition.