University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

David Wilson, not long after the affair of the
robbery of his mother's desk, went to New-York,
in order to see his comrades, who were imprisoned
there, and, if possible, to abate their demands
on his purse. He succeeded in doing this; but
having fallen in (attracted doubtless by natural affinities)
with other companions as wicked, and
more desperate, he soon spent in that city, which
affords remarkable facilities for ridding men of
their money, all that remained of the five hundred
dollars. He preyed on others for a little time, as
he had been their prey; and, finally reduced to
extreme want, he joined two of his new associates
in the attempt on the southern mail, which ended
in his detection and commitment to jail in Philadelphia,
where he was now awaiting a capital trial.
A particular account of the whole affair, accompanied
with letters from her son, was transmitted

to Mrs. Wilson, who seemed now to be visited on
every side with the natural and terrible retribution
of her maternal sins.

After Elvira's departure, with all the profits of
her little school, Jane did not delay another moment
to go to her aunt's, in order to communicate
to her Mr. Lloyd's kind offer of assistance, and
to extend to her any aid or consolation in her
own power.

She found Mrs. Wilson alone, but not in a frame
of mind that indicated any just feelings. She received
her niece coldly. After a silence of a few
moments, which Jane wished but knew not how to
break, she inquired of Mrs. Wilson, whether she
had any more information respecting David than
was public?

Her aunt replied, she had not. She understood
the particulars were all in the paper, even to his
name; she thought that might have been omitted;
but people always seemed to delight in publishing
every one's misfortunes.

Jane asked if the letters expressed any doubt
that David would be convicted?

“None,” Mrs. Wilson said. “To be sure,”
she added, “I have a letter from David, in which
he begs me to employ counsel for him; so I suppose
he thinks it possible that he might be cleared;
but a drowning man catches at straws.”

“Do you know,” inquired Jane, “the names
of the eminent lawyers in Philadelphia? Mr. Lloyd
will be best able to inform you whom to select
among them. I will go to him immediately.”

“No, no, child; I have made up my mind upon
that subject. It would be a great expense. There
is no conscience in city lawyers; they would devour
all my substance, and do me no good after
all. No, no—I shall leave David entirely in the
hands of Providence.”

“And can you, aunt,” said Jane, “acquiesce in
your son's being cut off in the spring of life, without
an effort to save him—without an effort to
procure him a space for repentance and reformation?”

“Do not presume, Jane Elton,” replied Mrs.
Wilson, “to instruct me in my duties. A space
for repentance! A day—an hour—a moment is
as good as an eternity for the operations of the
Spirit. Many, at the foot of the gallows, have
repented, and have died exulting in their pardon
and new-born hope.”

“Yes,” replied Jane; “and there have been
many who have thus repented and rejoiced, and
then been reprieved; and have they then shown
the only unquestionable proof of genuine penitence—a
renewed spirit? Have they kept the
commandments, for by this shall ye know that
they are the disciples of Christ? No; they have
returned to their old sins, and been tenfold worse
than at first.”

“I tell you,” said Mrs. Wilson, impatiently,
“you are ignorant, child; you are still in the bond
of iniquity; you cannot spiritually discern. There
is more hope, and that is the opinion of some of

our greatest divines, of an open outrageous transgressor,
than of one of a moral life.”

“Then,” replied Jane, “there is more hope of
a harvest from a hard bound, neglected field, than
from that which the owner has carefully ploughed
and sowed, and prepared for the sun and the
rains of heaven.”

“The kingdom of grace is very different from
the kingdom of nature,” answered Mrs. Wilson.
“The natural man can do nothing towards his
own salvation. Every act he performs, and every
prayer he offers, but provokes more and more the
wrath of the Almighty.”

Jane made no reply; but she raised her hands
and eyes as if she deprecated so impious a doctrine,
and Mrs. Wilson went on: “Do not think
my children are worse than others; you, Jane,
are as much a child of wrath, and so is every son
and daughter of Adam, as he is—all totally depraved—totally
corrupt. You may have been under
more restraint, and not acted out yours sins;
but no thanks to you;” and she continued, fixing
her large gray eyes stedfastly on Jane, “there are
beside my son who would not seem better, if they
had not friends to keep their secrets for them.”
Mrs. Wilson had, for very good reasons, never before
alluded to the robbery of her desk, since the
morning it was committed; but she was now provoked
to foul means to support her argument, tottering
under the assault of facts.

Jane did not condescend to notice the insinuation;
she felt too sincere a pity for the miserable

self-deluded woman; but, still anxious that some
effort should be made for David, she said to Mrs.
Wilson, “Is there, then, nothing to be done for
your unhappy son?”

“Nothing, child, nothing; he has gone out from
me, and he is not of me; his blood be upon his
own head; I am clear of it. My `foot standeth
on an even place.' My case is not an uncommon
one,” she continued, as if she would by this vain
babbling, silence the voice within. “The saints of
old—David, and Samuel, and Eli, were afflicted
as I am, with rebellious children. I have planted
and I have watered, and if it is the Lord's will to
withhold the increase, I must submit.”

“Oh, aunt!” exclaimed Jane, interrupting and
advancing towards her, “do not—do not, for your
soul's sake, indulge any longer this horrible delusion.
You have more children,” she continued,
falling on her knees, and taking one of her aunt's
hands in both hers, and looking like a rebuking
messenger from Heaven, “be pitiful to them; be
merciful to your own soul. You deceive yourself.
You may deceive others; but God is not
mocked.”

Mrs. Wilson was conscience stricken. She sat
as motionless as a statue; and Jane went on with
the courage of an Apostle to depicture, in their
true colours, her character and conduct. She
made her realize, for a few moments at least, the
peril of her soul. She made her feel, that her
sound faith, her prayers, her pretences, her meeting-goings,
were nothing—far worse than nothing

in his sight, who cannot be deceived by the daring
hypocrisies, the self-delusions, the refuges of lies,
of his creatures. She described the spiritual disciple
of Jesus; and then presented to Mrs. Wilson
so true an image of her selfishness, her pride,
her domestic tyranny, and her love of money, that
she could not but see that it was her very self.
There was that in Jane's looks, and voice, and
words, that was not to be resisted by the wretched
woman; and like the guilty king, when he saw the
record on the wall, her “countenance was changed,
her thoughts were troubled, and her knees smote
one against the other.”

At this moment they were interrupted by the
entrance of Mr. Lloyd. Jane rose, embarrassed
for her aunt and herself, and walked to the window.
Mrs. Wilson attempted to speak, to rise;
she could do neither, and she sunk back on her
chair, convulsed with misery and passion. Mr.
Lloyd mistook her agitation for the natural wailings
of a mother, and with instinctive benevolence
he advanced to her, and kindly taking her hand,
said, “Be composed, I pray; I have intelligence
that will comfort thee.”

“What is it?” inquired Jane, eager to allay the
storm she had raised.

Mrs. Wilson was still unable to speak.

“Thy son has escaped, Mrs. Wilson, and is,
before this, beyond the reach of his country's
laws. Here is a letter addressed to thee, which
came enclosed in one to me.” Mr. Lloyd laid
the letter on Mrs. Wilson's lap, but she was unable

to open it or even to hold it. Her eyes were
fixed, her hands firmly closed, and she continued
to shiver with uncontrollable emotion. “She is
quite unconscious,” he said, “she does not hear a
word I say to her.”

Jane flew to her assistance, spoke to her, entreated
her to answer, bathed her temples and
her hands—but all without effect. “Oh!” she
exclaimed, terrified and dismayed, “I have killed
her.”

“Do not be so alarmed,” said Mr. Lloyd, “there
is no occasion for it; the violence of her emotion
has overcome her, it is the voice of nature; let us
convey her to her bed.”

Jane called assistants, and they removed her to
her own room, and placed her on her bed.

“See,” whispered Mr. Lloyd to Jane, after a
few moments, “she is becoming composed already;
leave her for a little time with this domestic—I
have much to say to thee.”

Jane followed him to the parlour. He took
both her hands, and said, his face radiant with joy,
“Jane, many daughters have done virtuously, but
thou excellest them all. Nay, do not tremble,
unless it be for the sin of having kept from me so
long the blessed intelligence of this morning.”

Poor Jane tried to stammer out an apology for
her reserve, but Mr. Lloyd interrupted her by
saying playfully, “I understand it all; I am too
old, too rigid, too—quakerish, to be a young lady's
confidant.”

“Oh, say not so,” exclaimed Jane, gathering
courage from his kindness; “you have been my
benefactor, my guardian, my kindest friend; forgive
my silence—I fell it all—I have always felt
it; perhaps most, when I seemed most insensible,
most reckless. Mr. Lloyd looked gratified beyond
expression; it cost him an effort to interrupt
her, for there is perhaps nothing more delightful
than the merited praises of those we love. But
he said, “Nay, my sweet friend, it will be my
turn next, if thou dost not stop, and we shall indeed
be, as the French name my brethren, a
house of Trembleurs. I have a great deal to tell
thee; our joys have clustered. What sayest thou
Jane, to another walk to old John's, with as
strange, and a more welcome guide, than your
fitful night wanderer? I have no time to lose in
enigmas; our despatches were brought by a sailor,
a fine good-natured, hardy looking fellow, who
came to my house this morning. I was wondering
what he could be doing so far from his element,
when Mary, who returned to us yesterday,
opened the door for him, and exclaimed, with a
ludicrous mixture of terror and joy, “The Lord
have mercy on us! is it you, or your ghost,
Jemmy?” The sailor gave her a truly professional,
and most unghostly, smack, and replied between
crying and laughing, “I am no ghost, Mary,
as you may see; but excuse me, Mary, (for Mary
had stepped back, a little embarrassed by the involuntary
freedom of her friend) I was so glad, I
could not help it. No, no, Mary, I am no ghost,

but a prodigal that's come back, thanks to the
Lord! a little better than I went.” James, who
is indeed the long lost son of our good friend John
of the Mountain, went on to detail his experiences
to Mary, who by turns raised her hands and eyes
in wonder and devout thankfulness. The amount
of it is, for their joy overflowed all barriers of reserve,
he left here ten years ago in despair, because
Mary would not marry him, and sailed to
the Mediterranean; the poor fellow was taken by
the Algerines, and after suffering almost incredibly
for six years, he was so happy as to procure his
freedom along with some English captives. After
his release, he said he could not endure the thought
of coming to his father and mother quite destitute;
for, as he said to Mary, though he was a wild lad,
and had a fancy to follow the sea, her cruelty
would not have driven him to leave them, if he
had not hoped to get something to comfort their
old age with. He wrote them an account of his
sufferings, and of an engagement he had made to
go to Calcutta in the service of an English merchantman.
The letters it seems never reached
here. He went to India; many circumstances
occurred to advance him in the favour of his employer;
his integrity, which, he said, the tears
streaming from his eyes, was “all owing to the
teachings and examples of his good old parents,”
and his intelligence, “thanks to his country, which
took care to give the poor man learning,” occasioned
his being employed in the company's service,
and sent with some others into the interior of India
on business of great hazard and importance,
the success of which his employers attributed to
him, and rewarded him most liberally. All these
facts came out inevitably in the course of his narrative,
for he spoke not boastfully, but with simplicity
and gratitude. He has returned with enough
to purchase a farm, and give to his parents all that
they want of this world; and, what our friend
Mary thinks best of all, he has come home a
Methodist, having been made one by a missionary
of that zealous sect in India. If I have not misinterpreted
Mary's glistening eye, this fact will
cost me my housekeeper.”

“Dear, dear Mary!” exclaimed Jane, brushing
away the tears of sympathy and joy that Mr.
Lloyd's narrative had brought to her eyes, “and
John, and old Sarah. Oh, it is as beautiful a conclusion
of their lives, as if it had been conjured up
by a poet.”

“Ah, Jane,” replied Mr. Lloyd, “there are
realities in the kind dispositions of Providence
more blessed than a poet can dream of; and there
are virtues in real life,” he continued, smiling,
“that might lend a persuasive grace to the page
of a moralist, it is of those I must now speak.”

“Not now,” said Jane, hastily rising, “I must
go to my aunt.”

“At least then, take these letters with thee,
the levity of one will give thee some pain; in the
other, the wretched Wilson has done thee late
justice. Now go, my blessed friend, to thy aunt;
would that thou couldst minister to her mind,

distracted by these terrible events. Oh that
power might be given to thy voice to awaken her
conscience from its deep, oblivious, sleep!”

It was a remarkable proof of Mr. Lloyd's habitual
grace, that he did not forget, at this moment,
that Jane could not work miracles without
supernatural assistance.

There is not a happier moment of existence
than that which a benevolent being enjoys, when
he knows that the object of his solicitude and love
has passed safely through trial, is victorious over
temptation, and has overcome the world. This
was the joy that now a thousand fold requited Mr.
Lloyd for all his sufferings in the cause of our heroine.
Would Mr. Lloyd have been equally happy
in the proved virtue of his favourite, if hope
had not brightened his dim future with her sweetest
visions? Certainly not. He who hath wonderfully
made us, has, in wisdom, implanted the
principle of self-love in our bosoms; and let the
enthusiast rave as he will, it is neither the work
of grace nor of discipline to eradicate it; but it
may, and if we would be good, it must be modified,
controlled, and made subservient to the benefit
and happiness of others.

Mr. Lloyd had no very definite plans for the
future; but his horizon was brightening with a
coming day; and, without vanity or presumption,
he trusted all would be well.

Jane returned to her aunt's apartment, and
found her in a sullen stupor. She did not seem to
notice; at any rate, she made no reply to Jane's

kind inquiries, and she, after drawing the curtains
and dismissing the attendant, sat down to the perusal
of the letters Mr. Lloyd had given to her.
The first she read was from Erskine to Mr. Lloyd,
and as it was not long, and was rather characteristic,
we shall take the liberty to transcribe it for
the benefit of our readers.

“Dear Sir,

“In returning to my lodgings, late last evening,
I was accosted by a man, muffled in a cloak. I
recognised his voice at once. It was our unfortunate
townsman, Wilson. He has succeeded à
merveille in an ingenious plan of escape from durance,
and sails in the morning for one of the West
India islands, where he will, no doubt, make his
debût as pirate, or in some other character for
which his training has equally qualified him. A
precious rascal he is indeed; but, allow me a
phrase of your fraternity, Sir, I had no light to
give him up to justice, after he had trusted to me;
and more than that, for he informs me, that he
had, since his confinement, written to the Woodhulls
to engage me as counsel, and through them
he learnt the fact of my being in this city. This
bound me, in some sort, to look upon the poor devil
as my client; and, as it would have been my
duty to get him out of the clutches of the law, it
would have been most ungracious to have put him
into them you know, since his own cleverness, instead
of mine, has extricated him. He has explained
to me, and he informs me has communicated

to you, (for he says he cannot trust his mother
to make them public,) the particulars of the
sequestration of the old woman's money. I think
Miss Elton never imparted to you the event that
led to the sudden engagement, from which she
has chosen to absolve me; and you have yet to
learn, that there is generosity, disinterestedness in
the world, that may rival the virtue which reposes
under the shadow of the broad-brim. But, your
pardon. I have wiped out all scores. The reception
I have met with in this finest of cities, has
been such as to make me look upon the incidents
of an obscure village as mere bagatelles, not worthy
of a sigh from one who can bask in the broad
sunshine of ladies favour and fortune's gifts.
One word more, en passant, of Wilson's explanation.
I rejoice in it sincerely, on Miss Elton's
account. She deserved to have suffered a little
for her childishness in holding herself bound by an
exacted promise, for having put herself in a situation
in which her guilt would have seemed apparent
to any one but a poor dog whom love had
hood-winked—pro tempore. She is too young
and too beautiful a victim for the altar of conscience.
However, I forgive her, her scruples,
her fanaticism, and her cruelties; and wish her all
happiness in this world and the next, advising her
not to turn anchorite here, for the sake of advancement
there.

“I know not when I shall return to village life:
stale, flat, and unprofitable. This gay metropolis
has cured me of my rural tastes; and, as I flatter

myself, fashion's cannie hand has quite effaced my
rusticity.

“By a lucky chance I met the son of your protegè,
John, yesterday. The poor dog's `hair-breadth
'scapes' will make the villagers stare, all
unused as they are to the marvellous. I told him,
by way of a welcome to his country, I should pay
his expenses home. This I hope you, Sir, will
accept in expiation of all my sins against the old
basket-maker.

“With many wishes that you may find a new and
more pliant subject for your mentor genius, I remain,
Sir, your most obedient,

“humble servant,
“E. Erskine.

“N. B. My regards to Miss Elton. Tell her I
look at the windows of our print shops every day,
in the expectation of seeing, among their gay show,
her lovely figure chosen by one of the sons of Apollo,
to personate the stern lady, Justice, (whom
few seek and none love) poising her scales in solitary
dignity.”

“And is this the man,” thought Jane, as she
folded the letter, “that I have loved—that I fancied
loved me?”—and her heart rose in devout thankfulness
for the escape she had made from an utter
wreck of her happiness.

She next read Wilson's letter to Mr. Lloyd. It
began with the particulars of his late escape,
which seemed to possess his mind more than any
thing else. He then said, that being about to enter

on a new voyage, he wished to lighten his soul
of as much of its present cargo of sin as possible.
He stated, and we believe with sincerity, that he
had intended, if it ever became necessary, to assert
Jane's innocence; but that, as long as no one
believed her guilty, he had thought it fair to slip
his neck out of the yoke; and now, that every
body might know how good she was, he wished
Mr. Lloyd to make known all the particulars of the
transaction. He then went on to detail as much as
he knew of her visit to the mountain, which had
led to her subsequent involvement. He expressed
no remorse for the past, no hope of the future.
His wish to exculpate Jane had arisen from a deep
feeling of her excellence, and seemed to be the
last ray of just or kindly feeling that his dark,
guilty spirit emitted.

Jane had scarcely finished reading the letters,
when her attention was called to her aunt, who
had been thrown into a state of agitation almost
amounting to frenzy, by the perusal of her son's
farewell letter to herself, which Mr. Lloyd had
placed on the pillow beside her, believing that it
merely contained such account of David's escape
and plans, as would have a tendency to allay the
anguish of her mind, which he still supposed arose
solely from her apprehensions for her son's life.
But Mr. Lloyd was too good even to conceive of
the bitterness of a malignant exasperated spirit,
wrought to madness, as Wilson's was, by his mother's
absolute refusal to make any effort to save
his life.

The letter was filled with execrations. “If I
have a soul,” he said, “eternity will be spent in
cursing her who has ruined it;” but he did not
fear the future—hell was a bugbear to frighten
children. “You,” he continued, “neither fear
it, nor believe it; for if you did, your religion
would be something besides a cloak to hide your
hard, cruel heart. Religion! what is it but a
dream, a pretence? I might have believed it, if I
had seen more like Jane Elton—whom you have
trodden on, wrongfully accused, when you knew
her innocent. Mother, mother! oh, that I must
call you so!—as I do it, I howl a curse with every
breath—you have destroyed me. You, it was,
that taught me, when I scarcely knew my right
hand from my left, that there was no difference between
doing right and doing wrong, in the sight of
the God you worship; you taught me, that I could
do nothing acceptable to him. If you taught me
truly, I have only acted out the nature totally
depraved, (your own words,) that he gave to me,
and I am not to blame for it. I could do nothing
to save my own soul; and according to your own
doctrine, I stand now a better chance than my moral
cousin, Jane. If you have taught me falsely; I
was not to blame; the peril be on your own soul.
My mind was a blank, and you put your own impressions
on it; God (if there be a God) reward
you according to your deeds!”

This horrible letter, of which we have given a
brief and comparatively mild specimen; and subtracted
from that the curses that pointed every

sentence, seemed for a little while to swell the
clamours of Mrs. Wilson's newly awakened conscience.
But, alas! the impression was transient;
the chains of systematic delusion were too firmly
rivetted—the habits of self-deception too strong,
to be overcome.

Jane, fearful that the violence of her aunt's
passion would over destroy her reason, sought only,
for the remainder of the day and the following
night, to sooth and quiet her. She remained
by her bedside, and silently watched, and prayed.
Mrs. Wilson's sleep was disturbed, but she awoke
somewhat refreshed, and quite composed. Her
first action was to tear David's letter into a thousand
fragments. She was never known afterwards
to allude to its contents, nor to her conversation
with Jane. There was a restlessness through the
remainder of her life, which betrayed the secret
gnawings of conscience. Still it is believed, she
quelled her convictions as Cromwell is reported
to have done, when, as his historian says, he asked
Goodwin, one of his preachers, if the doctrine
were true, that the elect should never fall,
nor suffer a final reprobation?—“Nothing more
certain,” replied the preacher. “Then I am safe,”
said the protector; “for I am sure I was once in
a state of grace.”

Mrs. Wilson survived these events but a few
years. She was finally carried off by the scrofula, a
disease from which she had suffered all her life,
and which had probably increased the natural asperity
of her temper; as all evils, physical as well

as moral, certainly make us worse, if they do not
make us better. Elvira was summoned to her
death-bed; but she arrived too late to receive either
the reproaches or forgiveness of her mother.
Jane faithfully attended her through her last illness,
and most kindly ministered to the diseases of
her body. Her mind no human comfort could
reach; no earthly skill touch its secret springs.
The disease was attended with delirium; and she
had no rational communication with any one from
the beginning of her illness. This Jane afterwards
sincerely deplored to Mr. Lloyd, who replied,
“I would not sit like the Egyptians in judgment
on the dead. Thy aunt has gone with her
record to Him who alone knows the secrets of the
heart, and therefore is alone qualified to judge
His creatures; but for our own benefit, Jane, and
for the sake of those whose probation is not past,
let us ever remember the wise saying of William
Penn, `a man cannot be the better for that religion
for which his neighbour is the worse.' I have
no doubt thy aunt has suffered some natural compunctions
for her gross failure in the performance
of her duties; but she felt safe in a sound faith.
It is reported, that one of the Popes said of himself,
that `as Eneas Sylvius he was a damnable
heretic, but as Pius II. an orthodox Pope.' ”

“Then you believe,” replied Jane, “that my
unhappy aunt deceived herself by her clamorous
profession?”

“Undoubtedly. Ought we to wonder that she
effected that imposition on herself, by the aid of

self-love, (of all love the most blinding,) since we
have heard, in her funeral sermon, her religious
experiences detailed as the triumphs of a saint;
her strict attention on religious ordinances commended,
as if they were the end and not the means
of a religious life; since we (who cannot remember
a single gracious act of humility in her whole
life) have been told, as a proof of her gracious
state, that the last rational words she pronounced
were, that she `was of sinners the chief?” There
seems to be a curious spiritual alchymy in the utterance
of these words; for we cannot say, that
those who use them mean to `palter in a double
sense,' but they are too often spoken and received
as the evidence of a hopeful state. Professions
and declarations have crept in among the protestants,
to take the place of the mortifications and
penances of the ancient church; so prone are
men to find some easier way to heaven than the
toilsome path of obedience.”