University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Jane entered upon the duties of her new vocation
with more energy and interest than could
have been reasonably expected from a young lady
who had so recently entered into an engagement,
and one which opened upon her the most flattering
prospects. She already felt the benefits resulting
from the severe discipline she had suffered
in her aunt's family. She had a rare habit of putting
self aside: of deferring her own inclinations
to the will, and interests, and inclinations of
others. A superficial survey of the human mind
in all its diversity of conditions, will convince us
that it may be trained to any thing; else, how
shall we account for the proud exultation of a savage
amidst the cruellest tortures his triumphant
enemy can inflict; or for any of the wonderful
phenomena of enterprise, of fortitude, of patience,

in beings whose physical natures are so constituted,
that they instinctively shrink from suffering?

Our fair young readers (if any of that class condescend
to read this unromantic tale) will smile at
the idea that Jane had any further occasion for
the virtues of adversity; but she was far from
being happy; she had not that firm confidence in
the character of her lover that could alone have
inspired the joy of hope, and secured a quiet spirit.
Since her engagement, and even before, and ever
since she had been interested in Erskine, she had
not dared to sound the depths of her heart.
Though quite a novice in the experience of love,
she would have been able to detect its subtleties;
she would have been able to ascertain the nature,
and amount of her affection for Erskine, had she
not been driven by his apparent magnanimity, and
the oppression of her relations, to a sudden decision.
We appeal then once more to our fair young
readers, and trust their justice will award to our
heroine some praise, for her spirited and patient
performance of her duties to her young pupils,
who were very far from imagining that their kind
and gentle teacher had any thing in the world to
trouble her, or to engage her mind, but their
wants and pursuits.

Her disquietude did not escape the quickened
vision of her vigilant friend Mr. Lloyd; he observed
the shadows of anxiety settling on her
usually bright and cheerful countenance, but even
he had no conception of the extent of her busy
apprehensions and secret misgivings.

Week after week passed away, and there seemed
to be no prospect that any thing would occur
to free Jane from the very unpleasant situation in
which her aunt's accusations had placed her.
Erskine became restless and impatient, derided
all Jane's arguments in favour of delaying their
marriage, and finally affected to distrust her affection
for him. If the undefined, and undefinable
sentiment which was compounded in Jane's heart
of youthful preference and gratitude, was not love,
Jane believed it was, and she at last yielded a reluctant
consent, that the marriage should take
place at the end of three months, even though nothing
should occur to release her from her aunt's
power.

It was a few days after this promise had been
given, that as she was one day returning from her
school, Erskine jointed her.—“Your friend Robert
Lloyd,” said he, “has taken a mighty fancy to
me of late, I cannot conceive what is the reason
of it.”

Jane blushed, for she thought he might have
guessed the reason. “I am glad of it,” she replied,
“for he seems to have withdrawn his friendship
from me, and you are the only person, Edward,
to whom I should be resigned to have it
transferred.”

“Ah, Jane! you need not be alarmed; he and
I should never mix, any more than oil and
vinegar.”

“I am sorry for that; but which is the oil, and
which the vinegar?”

“Oh, he is the oil, soft—neutralizing—rather
tasteless; while I, you know, have a character of
my own—am positive—am—but perhaps it
would not be quite modest for me to finish the parallel.
To confess the truth to you, Jane, I have always
had an aversion to Quakers; they are a very
hypocritical sect, depend upon it; pretending,
sly, cheating rogues.”

“That's a harsh judgment,” replied Jane, with
some warmth, “and a prejudice, I think; is not
Mr. Lloyd the only Quaker you know?”

“Why—ye—yes, the only one I know much
of.”

“And does he justify your opinion?”

“I don't know; it takes a great while to find
them out; and even if Lloyd should be what he
would seem, the exception only proves the rule.
I have always disliked Quakers. I remember a
story my father used to tell, when I was a child,
about his being over-reached in a most ingenious,
practised manner, by one of the scoundrels, as he
called the whole race. It was not an affair of any
great moment; but no man likes to be outwitted in
a bargain, and my father used to say it gave him
an antipathy to the very name of a Quaker.”

“I think your father was in fault,” replied
Jane, “so carelessly to implant a prejudice,
which, as it seems to have had very slight ground,
I trust has not taken such deep root that it cannot
be easily eradicated.”

“There is more reason in my judgment than
you give me credit for,” replied Edward pettishly.

“If they are an upright, frank people, why is the
world kept in ignorance of their belief? The
Quakers have no creed; and though I have no
great faith in the professors of any sect, yet they
ought to let you know what they do think: it is
fair and above board. You may depend upon it,
Jane, the Quakers are a jesuitical people.”

“Have you ever read any of their books?” inquired
Jane.

“I read them!” he replied, laughing; “why,
my dear girl, do you take me for a theologian?
No—I never read the books of any sect; and
Quaker books, I believe there are not. Quaker
books!” he continued, still laughing, “no, no—
I shall never addict myself to divinity, till Anne
Ratcliffe writes sermons, and Tom Moore warbles
hymns.”

Jane did not join in his laugh; but replied,
“There is a book, Edward, that contains the creed
of the Quakers; a creed to which they have never
presumed to add any thing, nor have they taken
any thing from it; the only creed to which
they think it right to require the assent of man,
and from which no rational man can dissent—that
book is the Bible! and,” she continued, earnestly,
“their faith in this creed is shown by their works.
My dear Edward, examine their history for their
vindication.”

“That I shall not, while their cause has so fair
a champion.”

“Spare me your sarcasms, Edward, and let me
entreat you to look at the life of their wise and

excellent Penn. See him patiently and firmly
enduring persecution, and calumny, and oppression
at home; giving up his time, his fortune, his
liberty, to the cause of suffering humanity, in every
mode of its appeal to his benevolence. Follow
him with his colony to the wilderness, and
see him the only one of all the colonial leaders (I
grieve that I cannot except our fathers, the pilgrims)
the only one who treated the natives of
the land with justice and mercy. Our fathers,
Edward, refused to acknowledge the image of
God in the poor Indian. They affected to believe
they were the children of the evil one, and
hunted them like beasts of prey, calling them
`worse than Scythian wolves;' while Penn, and
his peaceful people, won their confidence, their
devotion, by treating them with even-handed justice,
with brotherly kindness; and they had their
reward; they lived unharmed among them, without
forts, without a weapon of defence. Is it not
the Friends that have been foremost and most active
in efforts for the abolition of slavery? Among
what people do we find most reformers of the
prisons—guardians of the poor and the oppressed—most
of those who `remember the forgotten,
and attend to the neglected—who dive into the
depths of dungeons, and plunge into the infection
of hospitals'?”

There was a mingled expression of archness and
admiration in Edward's smile as he replied, “My
dear Jane, you are almost fit to speak in meeting.
All that your defence wants in justness, is made

up by the eloquence of your eye and your glowing
cheek. I think friendship is a stronger feeling
in your heart than love, Jane,” he continued,
with a penetrating look that certainly did not abate
the carnation of her cheek. “If I, and all my
ancestors had gone on crusades and pilgrimages,
the spirit would not have moved you to such enthusiasm
in our cause, as you manifest for the
broad-brimmed, straight-coated brethern of friend
Lloyd.”

“Edward, have you yet to learn of me, that I
speak least of what I feel most?”

The gentleness of Jane's manner, and the tenderness
of her voice, soothed her lover; and he
replied, “Forgive me, dear Jane, a little jealousy;
you know jealousy argues love. To confess to
you the honest truth, I felt a little more ticklish
than usual, this evening, on the subject of quakerism.
I had just parted with Mr. Lloyd; and he
has been earnestly recommending to me, to undertake
a reform in our poor-laws, by which, he
thinks, that we should rid ourselves of the burden
of supporting many who are not necessarily dependant
on us, and improve the condition of those
who are. The plan seems to me to be good and
feasible.”

“And what then, Edward, provoked your displeasure?”

“Why, he wished me to take the whole conduct
of it. He preferred the plan should appear to
originate with me; that I should head a petition

to the Legislature; and, if we succeeded, that I
should superintend the execution of the plan.”

“Still, dear Edward, I see any thing but offence
in all this.”

“Because your eye-sight is a little dimmed by
your partiality. Do you believe, Jane, that any
man would be willing to transfer to another all the
merit and praise of a scheme, which, if it succeeds,
will be a most important benefit to the community;
will be felt, and noticed, and applauded
by every body? No—there is some design lurking
under this specious garb of disinterestedness—
disinterestedness! it only exists in the visions of
poets, or the Utopian dreams of youth; or, perhaps,
embodied in the fine person of a hero of
romance.”

“Oh! my dear Edward, it does exist; it is the
principle, the spirit of the Christian!”

“Par exemple—of your aunt Wilson, and of
sundry other stanch professors I could mention,
who,

“Is it fair,” replied Jane, “to condemn a whole
class because some of its members are faithless and
disloyal? A commander does but decimate a mutinous
corps; and you exclude the whole from your
confidence, because a few are treacherous. I allow,”
continued Jane, “there are few, very few,
who are perfectly disinterested; but every Christian,
in proportion to his fidelity to the teachings

and example of his Master, will be moved and governed
by this principle.”

Perhaps Edward felt a passing conviction of
the truth of Jane's assertions; at any rate, he
made no reply, and afterwards he shunned the
subject; and even Jane seemed to shrink from
it as one upon which they had no common feeling.

The day before entering on the duties of her
second school-term, Jane determined to indulge
herself in a solitary walk to the cottage of old John
of the Mountain. She had purchased some comforts
for the old people, with a part of her small
earnings, and she knew if she carried them herself
she should double their value. She found the
way without difficulty, for her night-walk had indelibly
impressed it on her memory. On her approach
to the cottage, and as she emerged from
the wood, she perceived just on its verge a slight
rising in the form of a grave; a wild rose-bush
grew beside it. Jane paused for a moment, and
plucking one of the flowers, she said, `fragrant and
transient, thou art a fit emblem of the blasted
flower below!' As she turned from the grave, she
perceived that a magical change had been wrought
upon John's hut. Instead of a scarcely habitable
dwelling, of decayed logs, filled in with mud, she
saw a neat little framed house, with a fence
around it, and a small garden annexed to it, enclosed
by the logs of the former building. Jane
hastened forward, and entered the cottage with
the light step of one who goes on an errand of
kindness.

“Who would have thought,” said the good
dame, as she dusted a chair and offered it to Jane,
“of your coming all this way to see whether we
were above ground yet?”

“Ah,” said John, “there are some in this
world, a precious few, who remember those that
every body else forgets.”

“I could not forget you, my good friends,” replied
Jane, “though John does not come any
more to put me in mind of you.”

“Why, Miss Jane,” said John, “I grow old,
and I have been but twice to the village since that
mournful night you was here, and then I was in
such a worrying matter that I did not think even
of you.”

“What have you had to disturb you?” inquired
Jane. “I hoped from finding you in this nice new
house that all had gone well since I saw you.”

“Ah,” replied John, “I have been greatly favoured;
but the storm came before the calm.
Miss Jane, did you never hear of my law-suit?
the whole town was alive with it.”

Jane assured John that she had never heard a
word of it; that she had a little school to take
care of; and that she saw very few persons, and
heard little village news, even when it was so important
as his law-suit.

“Then, Miss Jane,” said John, “if you have
time and patience to hear an old man's story, I
will tell you mine.—It is fifty years since my old
woman and I settled down in these woods. Like
all our fellow-creatures, we have had our portion

of storms and sunshine: it has pleased the Lord to
lop off all our branches, to cut down the little saplings
that grew up at our feet, and leave us two
lonely and bare trunks, to feel, and resist the
winds of heaven as we may: two old evergreens,”
he continued, with a melancholy smile, “that
flourish when every thing has faded about them.
Yes, fifty years I have seen the sun come over
that mountain every morning; and there is not a
tree in all these thick woods but it seems like an
old friend to me. Here my sons and daughters
have been born to me, and here I have buried
them, all but poor Jem, who you know was lost
at sea. They died when they were but little
children, and nobody remembers them but us; but
they are as fresh in our minds as if it was but yesterday
they were playing about us, with their
laughing eyes and rosy cheeks. This has not
much to do with my law-suit,” continued John,
after a pause, and clearing his voice, “only that
I shall want some excuse for loving the old rookery
so well before I get through with my story. I
hired this bit of land of a man that's been dead
twenty years, and it has changed hands many a
time since, but I have always been able to satisfy
for the rent; it was but a trifle, for no one but I
would fancy the place. Lately it's come into the
hands of the two young Woodhulls, by the death
of the Deacon their father. They are two hard-favoured,
hard-hearted, wild young chaps, Miss
Jane, that think all the world was made for them,
and their pleasure. If my memory serves me, it
was just one week after you was here, that they
were hunting up in these woods with young Squire
Erskine. John, the oldest, took aim at a robin
that was singing on the tree just before my door:
it had built its nest there early in the summer;
we had fed it with crumbs from our table, and it
was as tame as a chicken. I told this to them, and
begged the little innocent's life so earnestly, that
the boys laughed, but Erskine said, “Let the old
fool have his way.” They said it was nonsense to
give up to my whims, and told me to take away
my hand, (for I had raised it up to protect the
nest) or they would fire through it. I did take it
away, and the nest with it, and brought it into the
house. They came swearing in, and demanded
the bird. I refused to give it up; they grew more
and more angry: may be Erskine might have
brought them to reason, but he had walked away.
They said it was their land, and their bird, and
they would not be thwarted by me; and they
called me, and my wife too, many a name that
was too bad for a decent person's ear. They
worked themselves up to a fury, and then warned
me off the ground. I made no reply; for I thought
when they got over their passion they'd forget it.
But they returned the next day with handspikes,
and threatened to pull the house down on our
heads, if we did not come out of it. I have had
a proud spirit in my day, Miss Jane, but old age
and weakness have tamed it. I begged them to
spare us our little dwelling, with tears in my eyes;
and my poor old woman prayed she might bring
out the few goods we had; but oh! `a fool in his
folly is like a bear robbed of her whelps.' They
said they would dust our goods for us; and so we
came out and turned away our faces; but we heard
the old house that had sheltered us so long crumble
to pieces, as you'd crush an egg-shell in your
hand; yes, and we heard their loud deriding laugh;
but thank the Lord, we were too far off, to hear
the jokes they passed between every peal of
laughter. Ah, there is more hope of any thing
than of a hard heart in a young body.”

“Can it be possible,” interrupted Jane, “that
for so slight a cause the Woodhulls could do you
such an injury?”

“It is even so,” replied John; “youth is head-strong,
and will not bear crossing.”

“But where did you find a shelter?”

“I led my wife down the other side of the
mountain, to one Billy Downie's, a soft feeling
creature, who has more goodness in his heart than
wit in his head, and he made us kindly welcome.
I left my wife there, and the next day I came over
to the village, to see if the law would give me
justice of those that had no mercy. I should have
gone to Squire Erskine with my case, for I knew
he was called a fine pleader, though he is too wordy
to suit me—but he was a friend of the Woodhulls,
and so I applied to the stranger that's lately moved
in: he proved a raw hand. The trial was appointed
for the next Saturday. The day came; and all
the men in the village were collected at the tavern,

for Erskine was to plead for the Woodhulls,
and every body likes to hear his silver tongue.”

“Erskine plead for the Woodhulls!” exclaimed
Jane.

“Oh yes, Miss Jane; for, as I told you, they
are very thick. My attorney was a kind of a 'prentice-workman
at the law; he was afraid of Erskine
too; and he stammered, and said one thing
and meant another, and made such a jingle of it,
I could not wonder the justice and the people did
not think I had a good claim for damages. But
still, the plain story was so much against the
Woodhulls, and the people of the village are so
friendly-like to me, that it is rather my belief, I
should have been righted if Erskine had not poured
out such a power of words, that he seemed to
take away people's senses. He started with what
he called a proverb of the law, and repeated it so
many times, I think I can never forget it, for it
seemed to be the hook he hung all his argufying
upon. It was `cujus est solum, ejus est usque ad cœlum,
(we have taken the liberty slightly to correct
the old man's quotation of the Latin); which, if
I rightly understood, it means, that whoever owns
the soil, owns all above it to the sky; and though
it stands to reason it can't be so, yet Erskine's fine
oration put reason quite out of the question; and
so the justice decided that the Woodhulls had a
right to do what seemed good in their own eyes
with my furniture; and then he gave me a bit of
an exhortation, and told me I should never make
out well in the world, if I did not know more of

the laws of the land! and concluded with saying,
I ought to be very thankful I had so little to be
destroyed. I said nothing; but I thought it was
late in the day for me to study the laws of the
land; and my mite was as much to me as his abundance
to him. When the trial was over, Erskine
and the Woodhulls invited the justice and the
company into the bar-room to treat them; and
through the open door I heard Erskine propose a
bumper to those who knew how to maintain their
rights. “No,” Woodhull said, “it should be to
him who knew how to defend a friend”—right or
wrong, thought I. But,” said John, pausing, “my
story is too long for you, Miss Jane.”

Jane had turned away her head; she now assured
John, she was listening to every word he said,
and begged him to go on.

“Well, Miss, I thought I was alone in the room,
and I just let out my heart, as you know a body
will when he thinks there is no eye, but His that's
above, sees him. I saw nothing before Sarah and
I, but to go upon the town, and that's what I always
had a dread of; for, though I have been a
poor man all my life, Miss Jane, what I had was
my own. I have been but weakly since I was a
boy, but my woman and I have been sober and industrious.
We have always had a shelter for ourselves;
and sometimes, too, for a poor houseless
creature that had not a better; and we wanted
but little, and we were independent: and then
you know, what the town gives is neither given
nor taken with a good will. Well, as I said, I

thought I was alone in the room; but I heard a
slight noise behind me, and there was one who
had not followed the multitude; he had a clear
open face, and that look—I can't justly describe
it, Miss Jane, but it seems as if it was
the light of good deeds sent back again; or,
may be, the seal the Lord puts upon his own
children—and pity and kindness seemed writ in
every line of his face. Do you know who I
mean?”

“Mr. Lloyd,” she replied, in a scarcely audible
voice.

“Yes, yes—any body that had ever seen
him would guess. He beckoned to me to shut
the door, and asked me if I had any particular
attachment to this spot; and I owned to him,
as I have to you, my childishness about it; and
he smiled, and said, he was afraid I was too
old to be cured of it; and then asked, if I believed
I could persuade the young men to sell as
much of the land as I should want. I was sure I
could, for I know they are wasteful and ravenous
for money, and besides they had had their
will, and the land was of no use to them. And
then he told me, Miss Jane, that he would give
me the money for the land, if I could make a
bargain with the Woodhulls, and enough besides
to build me a comfortable little house. I
could not thank him—I tried, but I could not; and
so he just squeezed my hand, and said, he understood
me—and charged me to keep it a secret
where I got help; and I have minded

him till this day, but I could not keep it from
you.”

“You'd better stop now, John,” said the old
woman, “for the long walk, and the long story,
have quite overdone Miss Jane; she has had the
flushes this half hour.”

Jane was obliged to own she did not feel well;
but after drinking some water, she made an effort
to compose herself, and asked the old man, “What
reason he had to think the Woodhulls and Erskine
were intimate friends?”

“Why, did you never hear, Miss, that it was
Erskine that got John Woodhull clear when Betsy
Davis sued him for breach of promise? I was
summoned to court as a witness. It was a terrible
black business; but Erskine made it all smooth;
and after the trial was past, I overheard these
chaps flattering Erskine till they made him believe
he was more than mortal. At any rate, they put
such a mist before his eyes, that he could not see
to choose good from evil, else he never would
have chosen them for his companions; he never
would have been led to spend night after night with
them at the gambling club.”

“At the gambling club, John!—where—what
do you mean?” and poor Jane clasped her hands
together, and looked at him with an expression
of such wretchedness, that the old man turned his
eyes from her to his wife and back again to Jane,
as if he would, but dared not, inquire the reason
of her emotion.

“I have done wrong,” he stammered out, “old
fool that I was. Erskine is your friend, Miss Jane.
The Lord forgive me,” he added, rising and
walking to the door. Jane had risen also, and
with a trembling hand was tying on her hat. “And
the Lord help thee, child,” he continued, turning
again towards her, “and keep thee from every
snare. Well, well!—I never should have
thought it.”

Jane felt humbled by the old man's sympathy;
and yet it was too sincere, too kindly felt, to
be repressed. She was hastening away, when
Sarah said, “You have forgotten your bundle,
Miss.”

“It is for you, my good friend,” she replied;
and, without awaiting their thanks, she bade them
farewell, and was soon out of sight of the old
man, whose eye followed her quick footsteps till
she was hid by the adjoining wood. He then
turned from the door, and raised his hands and
his faded eyes, glistening with the gathering
tears, to Heaven—“Oh Lord!” he exclaimed,
“have mercy on thy young servant. Suffer not
this child of light to be yoked to a child of darkness.”

We believe that, in all classes and conditions,
women are more inclined to look on the bright side
of matrimony than men. In this case Sarah, after
a little consideration, said, “I'm a thinking, John,
you take on too much; you are a borrowing trouble
for Miss Jane. She is a wise, discreet young
body, and she may cure Mr. Erskine of his faults.

Besides, he may have his vagaries, and that's no
uncommon thing for a young man; but then he
is not wicked and hard-hearted like the Woodhulls.”

“No, no, Sarah, he an't so bad as the Woodhulls,
but he has been a wilful spoilt child from the
beginning: he is a comely man to look to, and he
has a glib tongue in his head; but he is all for self
—all for self, Sarah. You might as well undertake
to make the stiff branches of that old oak tender
and pliable as the sprouts of the sapling that grows
beside it, as to expect Miss Jane can alter Erskine.
No—he alone can do it with whom all
things are possible. We have no right to expect
a miracle. She has no call to walk upon the sea,
and we cannot hope a hand will be stretched out
to keep her from sinking. It is the girl's beauty
has caught him; and when that is gone, and it is a
quickly fading flower, she will have no hold whatever
on him.”

We know not how long the old man indulged in
his reflections, for he was not again interrupted by
Sarah, whose deference for her husband's superior
sagacity seems to have been more habitual than
even her namesake's of old.

Our unhappy heroine pursued her way home, her
mind filled with `thick-coming' and bitter fancies,
revolving over and over again the circumstances
of John's narrative. He had thrown a new light
on the character of her lover; and she blamed
herself, that faults had seemed so dim to her, which
were now so glaring. She was not far from coming

to the result, which, we trust, our readers have
expected from the integrity and purity of her character.
“If I had remained ignorant of his faults,”
she thought, “I should have had some excuse; I
might then have hoped for assistance and blessing
in my attempts to reform him. It would be presumption
to trust, now, in any efforts I could
make; and what right have I, with my eyes open,
to rush into a situation where my own weak virtues
may be subdued by trials—must be assailed by
temptation? Oh! when I heard him speak lightly
of religion, how could I hope he would submit
to its requisitions and restraints? I started at the
first thought, that he was unprincipled; and yet I
have always known there was no immoveable basis
for principle, but religion. Selfish—vain—
how could I love him! And yet—and she looked
at the other side of the picture—his preference of
me was purely disinterested—an orphan—destitute—almost
an outcast—liable to degradation—
and he has exposed himself to all the obloquy I may
suffer—and does he not deserve the devotion of
my life?” A moment before, she would have answered
her self-interrogation in the negative; but
now she seemed losing herself in a labyrinth of
opposing duties. She thought that she ought not
to place implicit reliance in John's statements.
He might have exaggerated Erskine's faults. In
his situation, it was natural he should; but he had
such a calm, sober way with him, every word bore
the impress of truth. The story of the gambling
club had turned the scale; but John might have
been misinformed.

Thus, after all her deliberations, Jane re-entered
her home, without having come to any decision.
Though we believe the opinion of a
great moralist is against us, we doubt if “decision
of character” belongs to the most scrupulously
virtuous.