University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.

Isaiah.

The principal hurt of Mr. Monday was one of those
wounds that usually produce death within eight-and-forty
hours. He had borne the pain with resolution; and, as yet,
had discovered no consciousness of the imminent danger
that was so apparent to all around him. But a film had
suddenly past from before his senses; and, a man of mere
habits, prejudices, and animal enjoyments, he had awakened
at the very termination of his brief existence to something
like a consciousness of his true position in the moral world,
as well as of his real physical condition. Under the first
impulse of such an alarm, John Effingham had been sent
for; and he, as has been seen, ordered Captain Truck to be
summoned. In consequence of the previous understanding,
these two gentlemen and Mr. Leach appeared at the state-room
door at the same instant. The apartment being small,
it was arranged between them that the former should enter
first, having been expressly sent for; and that the others
should be introduced at the pleasure of the wounded man.

“I have brought my Bible, Mr. Leach,” said the captain
when he and the mate were left alone, “for a chapter is
the very least we can give a cabin-passenger, though I am
a little at a loss to know what particular passage will be
the most suitable for the occasion. Something from the
book of Kings would be likely to suit Mr. Monday, as he is
a thorough-going king's man.”

“It is so long since I read that particular book, sir,”
returned the mate, diligently thumbing his watch-key, “that
I should be diffident about expressing an opinion. I think,
however, a little Bible might do him good.”

“It is not an easy matter to hit a conscience exactly between
wind and water. I once thought of producing an
impression on the ship's company by reading the account
of Jonah and the whale as a subject likely to attract their
attention, and to show them the hazards we seamen run;
but, in the end, I discovered that the narration struck them
all aback as a thing not likely to be true. Jack can stand
any thing but a fish story, you know, Leach.”

“It is always better to keep clear of miracles at sea, I
believe, sir, when the people are to be spoken to: I saw
some of the men this evening wince about that ship of St.
Paul's carrying out anchors in a gale.”

“The graceless rascals ought to be thankful they are not
at this very moment trotting through the great desert lashed
to dromedaries' tails! Had I known that, Leach, I would
have read the verse twice! But Mr. Monday is altogether
a different man, and will listen to reason. There is the
story of Absalom, which is quite interesting; and perhaps
the account of the battle might be suitable for one who dies
in consequence of a battle; but, on the whole, I remember
my worthy old father used to say that a sinner ought to be
well shaken up at such a moment.”

“I fancy, sir, Mr. Monday has been a reasonably steady
man as the world goes. Seeing that he is a passenger, I
should try and ease him off handsomely, and without any
of these Methodist surges.”

“You may be right, Leach, you may be right; do as
you would be done by is the golden rule after all. But,
here comes Mr. John Effingham; so I fancy we may
enter.”

The captain was not mistaken, for Mr. Monday had just
taken a restorative, and had expressed a desire to see the
two officers. The state-room was a small, neat, and even
beautifully finished apartment, about seven feet square. It
had originally been fitted with two berths; but, previously
to taking possession of the place, John Effingham had
caused the carpenter to remove the upper, and Mr. Monday
now lay in what had been the lower bed. This situation
placed him below his attendant, and in a position where he
might be the more easily assisted. A shaded lamp lighted
the room, by means of which the captain caught the anxious
expression of the dying man's eye, as he took a seat himself.

“I am grieved to see you in this state, Mr. Monday,”
said the master, “and this all the more since it has happened
in consequence of your bravery in fighting to regain
my ship. By rights this accident ought to have befallen
one of the Montauk's people, or Mr. Leach, here, or even
myself, before it befel you.”

Mr. Monday looked at the speaker as if the intended consolation
had failed of its effect, and the captain began to suspect
that he should find a difficult subject for his new
ministrations. By way of gaining time, he thrust an elbow
into the mate's side as a hint that it was now his turn to offer
something.

“It might have been worse, Mr. Monday,” observed Leach,
shifting his attitude like a man whose moral and physical
action moved pari passu: “it might have been much worse.
I once saw a man shot in the under jaw, and he lived a fortnight
without any sort of nourishment!”

Still Mr. Monday gazed at the mate as if he thought matters
could not be much worse.

“That was a hard case,” put in the captain; “why, the
poor fellow had no opportunity to recover without victuals.”

“No, sir, nor any drink. He never swallowed a mouthful
of liquor of any sort from the time he was hit, until he
took the plunge when we threw him overboard.”

Perhaps there is truth in the saying that “misery loves
company,” for the eye of Mr. Monday turned towards the
table on which the bottle of cordial still stood, and from
which John Effingham had just before helped him to a swallow,

under the impression that it was of no moment what he
took. The captain understood the appeal, and influenced by
the same opinion concerning the hopelessness of the patient's
condition, besides being kindly anxious to console him, he
poured out a small glass, all of which he permitted the other
to drink. The effect was instantaneous, for it would seem
this treacherous friend is ever to produce a momentary pleasure
as a poor compensation for its lasting pains.

“I don't feel so bad, gentlemen,” returned the wounded
man with a force of voice that startled his visitors. “I feel
better — much better, and am very glad to see you. Captain
Truck, I have the honour to drink your health.”

The captain looked at the mate as if he thought their visit
was twenty-four hours too soon, for live, all felt sure, Mr.
Monday could not. But Leach, better placed to observe the
countenance of the patient, whispered his commander that
it was merely a “a catspaw, and will not stand.”

“I am very glad to see you both, gentlemen,” continued
Mr. Monday, “and beg you to help yourselves.”

The captain changed his tactics. Finding his patient so
strong and cheerful, he thought consolation would be more
easily received just at that moment, than it might be even
half an hour later.

“We are all mortal, Mr. Monday —”

“Yes, sir; all very mortal.”

“And even the strongest and boldest ought occasionally
to think of their end.”

“Quite true, sir; quite true. The strongest and boldest.
When do you think we shall get in, gentlemen?”

Captain Truck afterwards affirmed that he was “never
before taken so flat aback by a question as by this.” Still
he extricated himself from the dilemma with dexterity, the
spirit of proselytism apparently arising within him in proportion
as the other manifested indifference to his offices.

“There is a port to which we are all steering, my dear
sir,” he said; “and of which we ought always to bear in
mind the landmarks and beacons, and that port is Heaven.”

“Yes,” added Mr. Leach, “a port that, sooner or latter,
will fetch us all up.”

Mr. Monday gazed from one to the other, and something

like the state of feeling, from which he had been aroused by
the cordial, began to return.

“Do you think me so bad, gentlemen?” he inquired, with
a little of the eagerness of a startled man.

“As bad as one bound direct to so good a place as I hope
and trust is the case with you, can be,” returned the captain,
determined to follow up the advantage he had gained.
“Your wound, we fear, is mortal, and people seldom remain
long in this wicked world with such sort of hurts.”

“If he stands that,” thought the captain, “I shall turn
him over, at once, to Mr. Effingham.”

Mr. Monday did not stand it. The illusion produced by
the liquor, although the latter still sustained his pulses, had
begun to evaporate, and the melancholy truth resumed its
power.

“I believe, indeed, that I am near my end, gentlemen,”
he said faintly; “and am thankful—for—for this consolation.”

“Now will be a good time to throw in the chapter,”
whispered Leach; “he seems quite conscious, and very
contrite.”

Captain Truck, in pure despair, and conscious of his own
want of judgment, had determined to leave the question of
the selection of this chapter to be decided by chance. Perhaps
a little of that mysterious dependence on Providence,
which renders all men more or less superstitious, influenced
him; and that he hoped a wisdom surpassing his own might
direct him to a choice. Fortunately, the book of Psalms is
near the middle of the sacred volume, and a better disposition
of this sublime repository of pious praise and spiritual
wisdom could not have been made; for the chance-directed
peruser of the Bible will perhaps oftener open among its
pages than at any other place.

If we should say that Mr. Monday felt any very profound
spiritual relief from the reading of Captain Truck, we should
both overrate the manner of the honest sailor, and the intel
ligence of the dying man. Still the solemn language of
praise and admonition had an effect, and, for the first time
since childhood, the soul of the latter was moved. God and
judgment passed before his imagination, and he gasped for

breath in a way that induced the two seamen to suppose the
fatal moment had come, even sooner than they expected.
The cold sweat stood upon the forehead of the patient, and
his eyes glared wildly from one to the other. The paroxysm,
however, was transient, and he soon settled down
into a state of comparative calmness, pushing away the glass
that Captain Truck offered, in mistaken kindness, with a
manner of loathing.

“We must comfort him, Leach,” whispered the captain;
“for I see he is fetching up in the old way, as was duly
laid down by our ancestors in the platform. First, groanings
and views of the devil, and then consolation and hope.
We have got him into the first category, and we ought now,
in justice, to bring-to, and heave a strain to help him
through it.”

“They generally give 'em prayer, in the river, in this
stage of the attack,” said Leach. “If you can remember
a short prayer, sir, it might ease him off.”

Captain Truck and his mate, notwithstanding the quaintness
of their thoughts and language, were themselves solemnly
impressed with the scene, and actuated by the kindest
motives. Nothing of levity mingled with their notions, but
they felt the responsibility of officers of a packet, besides entertaining
a generous interest in the fate of a stranger who
had fallen, fighting manfully at their side. The old man
looked awkwardly about him, turned the key of the door,
wiped his eyes, gazed wistfully at the patient, gave his mate
a nudge with his elbow to follow his example, and knelt
down with a heart momentarily as devout as is often the
case with those who minister at the altar. He retained the
words of the Lord's prayer, and these he repeated aloud,
distinctly, and with fervour, though not with a literal conformity
to the text. Once Mr. Leach had to help him to
the word. When he rose, the perspiration stood on his
forehead, as if he had been engaged in severe toil.

Perhaps nothing could have occurred more likely to
strike the imagination of Mr. Monday than to see one, of
the known character and habits of Captain Truck, thus
wrestling with the Lord in his own behalf. Always obtuse
and dull of thought, the first impression was that of wonder;

awe and contrition followed. Even the mate was
touched, and he afterwards told his companion on deck,
that “the hardest day's work he had ever done, was lending
a hand to rouse the captain through that prayer.”

“I thank you, sir,” gasped Mr. Monday, “I thank you
—Mr. John Effingham—now, let me see Mr. John Effingham.
I have no time to lose, and wish to see him.”

The captain rose to comply, with the feelings of a man
who had done his duty, and, from that moment, he had a
secret satisfaction at having so manfully acquitted himself.
Indeed, it has been remarked by those who have listened
to his whole narrative of the passage, that he invariably
lays more stress on the scene in the state-room, than on
the readiness and skill with which he repaired the damages
sustained by his own ship, through the means obtained
from the Dane, or the spirit with which he retook her from
the Arabs.

John Effingham appeared in the state-room, where the
captain and Mr. Leach left him alone with the patient.
Like all strong-minded men, who are conscious of their
superiority over the rest of their fellow creatures, this gentleman
felt disposed to concede most to those who were
the least able to contend with him. Habitually sarcastic
and stern, and sometimes forbidding, he was now mild and
discreet. He saw, at a glance, that Mr. Monday's mind
was alive to novel feelings, and aware that the approach of
death frequently removes moral clouds that have concealed
the powers of the spirit while the animal part of the being
was in full vigour, he was surprised at observing the sudden
change that was so apparent in the countenance of the
dying man.

“I believe, sir, I have been a great sinner,” commenced
Mr. Monday, who spoke more feebly as the influence of
the cordial evaporated, and in short and broken sentences.

“In that you share the lot of all,” returned John Effingham.
“We are taught that no man of himself, no unaided
soul, is competent to its own salvation. Christians look to
the Redeemer for succour.”

“I believe I understand you, but I am a business man,
sir, and have been taught that reparation is the best atonement
for a wrong.”

“It certainly should be the first.”

“Yes, indeed it should, sir. I am but the son of poor
parents, and may have been tempted to some things that
are improper. My mother, too, I was her only support.
Well, the Lord will pardon it, if it were wrong, as I dare
say it might have been. I think I should have drunk less
and thought more, but for this affair—perhaps it is not yet
too late.”

John Effingham listened with surprise, but with the coolness
and sagacity that marked his character. He saw the
necessity, or at least the prudence, of there being another
witness present. Taking advantage of the exhaustion of
the speaker, he stepped to the door of Eve's cabin, and
signed Paul to follow him. They entered the state-room
together, when John Effingham took Mr. Monday soothingly
by the hand, offering him a nourishment less exciting
than the cordial, but which had the effect to revive him.

“I understand you, sir,” continued Mr. Monday, looking
at Paul; “it is all very proper; but I have little to
say—the papers will explain it all. Those keys, sir—the
upper drawer of the bureau, and the red morocco case—
take it all—this is the key. I have kept everything together,
from a misgiving that an hour would come. In
New York you will have time—it is not yet too late.”

As the wounded man spoke at intervals, and with difficulty,
John Effingham had complied with his directions
before he ceased. He found the red morocco case, took the
key from the ring, and showed both to Mr. Monday, who
smiled and nodded approbation. The bureau contained
paper, wax, and all the other appliances of writing. John
Effingham inclosed the case in a strong envelope, and affixed
to it three seals, which he impressed with his own arms;
he then asked Paul for his watch, that the same might be
done with the seal of his companion. After this precaution,
he wrote a brief declaration that the contents had been delivered
to the two, for the purpose of examination, and for
the benefit of the parties concerned, whoever they might be,
and signed it. Paul did the same, and the paper was handed
to Mr. Monday, who had still strength to add his own signature.

“Men do not usually trifle at such moments,” said John
Effingham, “and this case may contain matter of moment
to wronged and innocent persons. The world little knows
the extent of the enormities that are thus committed. Take
the case, Mr. Powis, and lock it up with your effects, until
the moment for the examination shall come.”

Mr. Monday was certainly much relieved after this consignment
of the case into safe hands, trifles satisfying the
compunctions of the obtuse. For more than an hour he
slumbered. During this interval of rest, Captain Truck
appeared at the door of the state-room to inquire into the
condition of the patient, and, hearing a report so favourable,
in common with all whose duty did not require them to
watch, he retired to rest. Paul had also returned, and
offered his services, as indeed did most of the gentlemen;
but John Effingham dismissed his own servant even, and
declared it was his intention not to quit the place that night.
Mr. Monday had reposed confidence in him, appeared to be
gratified by his attentions and presence, and he felt it to be
a sort of duty, under such circumstances, not to desert a
fellow-creature in his extremity. Anything beyond some
slight alleviation of the sufferer's pains was hopeless; but
this, he rightly believed, he was as capable of administering
as another.

Death is appalling to those of the most iron nerves, when
it comes quietly and in the stillness and solitude of night.
John Effingham was such a man; but he felt all the peculiarity
of his situation as he sat alone in the state-room by
the side of Mr. Monday, listening to the washing of the
waters that the ship shoved aside, and to the unquiet breathing
of his patient. Several times he felt a disposition to
steal away for a few minutes, and to refresh himself by
exercise in the pure air of the ocean; but as often was the
inclination checked by jealous glances from the glazed eye
of the dying man, who appeared to cherish his presence as
his own last hope of life. When John Effingham wetted
the feverish lips, the look he received spoke of gratitude
and thanks, and once or twice these feelings were audible
in whispers. He could not desert a being so helpless, so
dependent; and, although conscious that he was of no material

service beyond sustaining his patient by his presence,
he felt that this was sufficient to exact much heavier sacrifices.

During one of the troubled slumbers of the dying man,
his attendant sat watching the struggles of his countenance,
which seemed to betray the workings of the soul that was
about to quit its tenement, and he mused on the character
and fate of the being whose departure for the world of
spirits he himself was so singularly called on to witness!

“Of his origin I know nothing,” thought John Effingham,
“except by his own passing declarations, and the evident
fact that, as regards station, it can scarcely have reached
mediocrity. He is one of those who appear to live for the
most vulgar motives that are admissible among men of any
culture, and whose refinement, such as it is, is purely of the
conventional class of habits. Ignorant, beyond the current
opinions of a set; prejudiced in all that relates to nations,
religions, and characters; wily, with an air of blustering
honesty; credulous and intolerant; bold in denunciations
and critical remarks, without a spark of discrimination, or
any knowledge but that which has been acquired under a
designing dictation; as incapable of generalizing as he is
obstinate in trifles; good-humoured by nature, and yet
querulous from imitation:—for what purposes was such a
creature brought into existence to be hurried out of it in
this eventful manner?” The conversation of the evening
recurred to John Effingham, and he inwardly said, “If
there exist such varieties of the human race among nations,
there are certainly as many species, in a moral sense, in
civilized life itself. This man has his counterpart in a
particular feature in the every-day American absorbed in
the pursuit of gain; and yet how widely different are the
two in the minor points of character! While the other
allows himself no rest, no relaxation, no mitigation of the
eternal gnawing of the vulture rapacity, this man has made
self-indulgence the constant companion of his toil; while
the other has centered all his pleasures in gain, this Englishman,
with the same object in view, but obedient to national
usages, has fancied he has been alleviating his labours by
sensual enjoyments. In what will their ends differ? From

the eyes of the American the veil will be torn aside when
it is too late, perhaps, and the object of his earthly pursuit
will be made the instrument of his punishment, as he sees
himself compelled to quit it all for the dark uncertainty of
the grave; while the blusterer and the bottle-companion
sinks into a forced and appalled repentance, as the animal
that has hitherto upheld him loses its ascendency.”

A groan from Mr. Monday, who now opened his glassy
eyes, interrupted these musings. The patient signed for the
nourishment, and he revived a little.

“What is the day of the week?” he asked, with an
anxiety that surprised his kind attendant.

“It is, or rather it was, Monday; for we are now past
midnight.”

“I am glad of it, sir—very glad of it.”

“Why should the day of the week be of consequence to
you now?”

“There is a saying, sir—I have faith in sayings—they
told me I was born of a Monday, and should die of a Monday.”

The other was shocked at this evidence of a lingering
and abject superstition in one who could not probably survive
many hours, and he spoke to him of the Saviour, and
of his mediation for man. All this could John Effingham
do at need; and he could do it well, too, for few had clearer
perceptions of this state of probation than himself. His
weak point was in the pride and strength of his character;
qualities that indisposed him in his own practice to rely on
any but himself, under the very circumstances which would
impress on others the necessity of relying solely on God.
The dying man heard him attentively, and the words made
a momentary impression.

“I do not wish to die, sir,” Mr. Monday said suddenly,
after a long pause.

“It is the general fate; when the moment arrives, we
ought to prepare ourselves to meet it.”

“I am no coward, Mr. Effingham.”

“In one sense I know you are not, for I have seen you
proved. I hope you will not be one in any sense. You
are now in a situation in which manhood will avail you nothing:

your dependence should be placed altogether on
God.”

“I know it, sir—I try to feel thus; but I do not wish to
die.”

“The love of Christ is illimitable,” said John Effingham,
powerfully affected by the other's hopeless misery.

“I know it—I hope it—I wish to believe it. Have you a
mother, Mr. Effingham?”

“She has been dead many years.”

“A wife?”

John Effingham gasped for breath, and one might have
mistaken him, at the moment, for the sufferer.

“None: I am without parent, brother, sister, wife, or
child. My nearest relatives are in this ship.”

“I am of little value; but, such as I am, my mother will
miss me. We can have but one mother, sir.”

“This is very true. If you have any commission or
message for your mother, Mr. Monday, I shall have great
satisfaction in attending to your wishes.”

“I thank you, sir; I know of none. She has her notions
on religion, and—I think it would lessen her sorrow to hear
that I had a Christian burial.”

“Set your heart at rest on that subject: all that our situation
will allow, shall be done.”

“Of what account will it all be, Mr. Effingham? I wish
I had drunk less, and thought more.”

John Effingham could say nothing to a compunction that
was so necessary, though so tardy.

“I fear we think too little of this moment in our health
and strength, sir.”

“The greater the necessity, Mr. Monday, of turning our
thoughts towards that divine mediation which alone can avail
us, while there is yet opportunity.”

But Mr. Monday was startled by the near approach of
death, rather than repentant. He had indurated his feelings
by the long and continued practice of a deadening self-in-dulgence,
and he was now like a man who unexpectedly
finds himself in the presence of an imminent and overwhelming
danger, without any visible means of mitigation or escape.
He groaned and looked around him, as if he sought

something to cling to, the spirit he had shown in the pride
of his strength availing nothing. All these, however, were
but passing emotions, and the natural obtusity of the man
returned.

“I do not think, sir,” he said, gazing intently at John
Effingham, “that I have been a very great sinner.”

“I hope not, my good friend; yet none of us are so free
from spot as not to require the aid of God to fit us for his
holy presence.”

“Very true, sir—very true, sir. I was duly baptized and
properly confirmed.”

“Offices which are but pledges that we are expected to
redeem.”

“By a regular priest and bishop, sir;—orthodox and dignified
clergymen!”

“No doubt: England wants none of the forms of religion.
But the contrite heart, Mr. Monday, will be sure to meet
with mercy.”

“I feel contrite, sir; very contrite.”

A pause of half an hour succeeded, and John Effingham
thought at first that his patient had again slumbered; but,
looking more closely at his situation, he perceived that his
eyes often opened and wandered over objects near him. Unwilling
to disturb this apparent tranquillity, the minutes were
permitted to pass away uninterrupted, until Mr. Monday
spoke again of his own accord.

“Mr. Effingham—sir—Mr. Effingham,” said the dying
man.

“I am near you, Mr. Monday, and will not leave the
room.”

“Bless you, bless you, do not you desert me!”

“I shall remain: set your heart at rest, and let me know
your wants.”

“I want life, sir!”

“That is the gift of God, and its possession depends
solely on his pleasure. Ask pardon for your sins, and remember
the mercy and love of the blessed Redeemer.”

“I try, sir. I do not think I have been a very great sinner.”

“I hope not: but God can pardon the penitent, however
great their offences.”

“Yes, sir, I know it—I know it. This affair has been
so unexpected. I have even been at the communion-table,
sir: yes, my mother made me commune. Nothing was neglected,
sir.”

John Effingham was often proud and self-willed in his
communications with men, the inferiority of most of his fellow-creatures
to himself, in principles as well as mind, being
too plainly apparent not to influence the opinions of one who
did not not too closely study his own failings; but, as respects
God, he was habitually reverent and meek. Spiritual
pride formed no part of his character, for he felt his own
deficiency in the Christian qualities, the main defect arising
more from a habit of regarding the infirmities of others than
from dwelling too much on his own merits. In comparing
himself with perfection, no one could be more humble; but
in limiting the comparison to those around him, few were
prouder, or few more justly so, were it permitted to make
such a comparison at all. Prayer with him was not habitual,
or always well ordered, but he was not ashamed to pray;
and when he did bow down his spirit in this manner, it was
with the force, comprehensiveness, and energy of his character.
He was now moved by the feeble and common-place
consolations that Mr. Monday endeavoured to extract
from his situation. He saw the peculiarly deluding and
cruel substitution of forms for the substance of piety that
distinguishes the policy of all established churches, though,
unlike many of his own countrymen, his mind was superior
to those narrow exaggerations that, on the other hand, too
often convert innocence into sin, and puff up the votary with
the conceit of a sectarian and his self-righteousness.

“I will pray with you, Mr. Monday,” he said, kneeling at
the side of the dying man's bed: “we will ask mercy of God
together, and he may lessen these doubts.”

Mr. Monday made a sign of eager assent, and John Effingham
prayed in a voice that was distinctly audible to the
other. The petition was short, beautiful, and even lofty
in language, without a particle of Scripture jargon, or of
the cant of professed devotees; but it was a fervent, direct,
comprehensive, and humble appeal to the Deity for mercy
on the being who now found himself in extremity. A child

might have understood it, while the heart of a man would
have melted with its affecting and meek sincerity. It is to
be hoped that the Great Being, whose Spirit pervades the
universe, and whose clemency is commensurate with his
power, also admitted the force of the petition, for Mr. Monday
smiled with pleasure when John Effingham arose.

“Thank you, sir—a thousand thanks,” muttered the dying
man, pressing the hand of the other. “This is better
than all.”

After this Mr. Monday was easier, and hours passed away
in nearly a continued silence. John Effingham was now
convinced that his patient slumbered, and he allowed himself
to fall into a doze. It was after the morning watch was
called, that he was aroused by a movement in the berth. Believing
his patient required nourishment, or some fluid to
moisten his lips, John Effingham offered both, but they were
declined. Mr. Monday had clasped his hands on his breast,
with the fingers uppermost, as painters and sculptors are apt
to delineate them when they represent saints in the act of
addressing the Deity, and his lips moved, though the words
were whispered. John Effingham kneeled, and placed his
ear so close as to catch the sounds. His patient was uttering
the simple but beautiful petition transmitted by Christ himself
to man, as the model of all prayer.

As soon as the other had done, John Effingham repeated
the same prayer fervently and aloud himself, and when he
opened his eyes, after this solemn homage to God, Mr. Monday
was dead.