University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
WANDERINGS.

The day was bright and warm. Birds sang
in the green woods, and cattle roamed lazily
about the sunny fields, or lay down under the
thick branches of trees. A drowsy hum of life
filled the air; yet in meadows and about farm
yards men and boys were briskly at work. It
was in haying time, and the day was the last of
the six days of labor: farmers were busily preparing
for the seventh day — the seventh day — the Sabbath day
of rest.

Across green pastures, where the grass was
closely cropped by the hungry kine and flocks
of thrifty sheep; over meadows which the
farmer's scythe had smoothly shorn; up barren
mountain sides, rock-ribbed, and clothed only
by scanty shrubs, hardy saplings, and vines of
wintergreen and ivy; through pleasant woodlands,
shady and cool, and solitary forests,
dreary, dense, and dark; down the rough faces
of frowning hills, bearded with briers and
crowned by tapering pines; always avoiding

dusty roads, and seeking unfrequented places, a
lonely traveller pursued his way.

It was the vagabond of my first chapter,
the wretched man whom Roger Brance had
driven from his grounds.

Through the greater portion of the night the
vagabond had journeyed on. At first the stars
shone upon his path dimly, but with cheerful
rays; and then uprose in the luminous east the
moon, — waning, yet large and fiery, — and
lighted his lonely way.

In the silence of the night he at length lay
down to repose. He made his bed on the hard
ground, on the confines of a forest, where the
awful voices of gloomy owls awoke, at intervals,
hideous echoes in the dismal woods.
Through opening branches, the moon, no
longer large and red, but pale and shrunken,
and soaring high in the heavens, looked down
coldly upon his face; and there the wanderer
slept.

The owls had gone back into their solitary
holes; the blind bats no longer darted about
in the gloom; the waning moon had declined
westward; the stars had disappeared, flooded
by the tide of day; and far and near, innumerable

arm yards had resounded with the clear
crowing of cocks that awoke to salute the earliest
gleam of morning. The wanderer crept
from his rude bed, and bathed his temples in a
streamlet that trickled down the hillside. A
sudden sound caused him to start and tremble.
It was only a rabbit, that had been
frightened from its bed of leaves. Leaning
upon his staff, he plodded down the declivity,
and recommenced his wanderings.

It was noon. The vagabond had eaten
nothing that morning but a crust, with which
his pockets had been provided. Hunger became
pressing, and he approached a farm
house. Gathered about the curb, near the
door, a band of lusty laborers were washing
their strong hands, brown arms, and sweaty
faces, in water freshly drawn from the cool
depths of the well. At the approach of the
vagabond, the men paused to scrutinize him.
Shrinking from their gaze, he bowed his head,
and drew back, as if in fear.

“What's wanting?” cried a rough voice.

The vagabond took courage, and replied, —

“I am a poor man, and I have a great
ways to travel. I am obliged to depend

upon charity. I would be thankful for a
crust.”

“Well, well, my good fellow,” said the same
rough voice, “you needn't ask twice for something
to eat, in these parts. Sit down under
the shed there, and if you go away hungry, it
will be your own fault.”

The vagabond reclined upon a bench, and
presently a little girl brought him a cup of
milk.

“Thank you! thank you!” murmured the
traveller, after he had quenched his thirst.

“You can come in to dinner soon,”
replied the girl. “The men are eating
now.”

The vagabond was left alone. The shed
under which he reposed joined the house, and
the doors stood open. He could hear the ring
of glasses, and clicking of knives and forks,
and the cheerful conversation of the farmer and
his workmen. American laborers dine with
despatch: the vagabond had not long to wait.
As soon as the men had arisen, the little girl
came again, and invited the poor man to enter.
He sat down at the table, on which there was
an abundance of wholesome food yet left, and

there he ate his fill, while nimble hands were
clearing the cloth around him.

The workmen were reclining at their ease
under shady apple trees that grew near the
house when he took his departure. It was the
nooning time — a happy season among many
farmers, when they enjoy the delicious luxury
of repose, a half hour after dinner.

The traveller pursued his journey. At the
next farm he passed the laborers had just gone
into the fields; farther on they were briskly
working. It was a busy afternoon. The hay
was to be secured, for the Sabbath might bring
rain. Scythes were hung in the branches of
the trees, or left lying in the swath; and rakes
and pitchforks gathered up the hay. Strong men
rolled up heavy winrows, which were either left
in neatly-trimmed cocks, or pitched upon capacious
racks; and wagons, groaning with their
bulky loads, rolled off to stack and barn. Men
heaved up the masses of hay, lads shaped the
loads, and boys followed the teams with rakes
to gather up scattering locks. Play was not
thought of even by the youngest; the boys
were too busy for fun: snakes glided through
the grass with whole tails, and mice escaped
unharmed.

These scenes of busy life and happy industry
awoke strange sensations in the vagabond's
bosom; and at evening, when he saw the
weary farmers leave the fields, and with cheerful
faces go home to enjoy the night and the
Sabbath of rest, the wretched man shed tears
of remorse and anguish.

The sun went down; the cows returned
from moist pastures with their treasures of
milk; the shades of evening gathered, and
thickened into night; and silence and repose
followed the hum and business of the day.
The vagabond slept in a barn, amid the sweet
odors of the freshly-gathered hay.

The dawn of the Sabbath day! How different
from the dawn of the other six — the
days of toil and worldly strife! A holy quiet
fills the world; the air is heavy with repose;
the singing of birds, the crowing of cocks, alone
break the silence of the Sabbath morning.
The only labor performed is the milking of
cows, the regulating of the farm yard, the preparations
for church. The inhabitants of the
country rise late, and luxuriate in the leisure
which they enjoy but once a week. Youths
and maidens saunter about the orchards and

fields, or read pleasant volumes, sitting upon
the soft grass under cool shadows; boys seek
out retired places, where they can pursue silent
sports, unseen by pious parents; old men read
ponderous Bibles in doorways or under porches;
and the maids, with fewer jests than usual, provide
the breakfast, clear away the table, and
prepare the children for church.

The vagabond arose betimes, and in the
midst of such scenes as these pursued his
lonely pilgrimage. With eyes dim with tears,
he saw the happy people of a happy land enjoying
the fruits of noble industry, and the
repose which only useful labor brings. In the
midst of so much rest and peace, he alone of
all the world seemed oppressed with trouble
and toil.

On the evening previous, the wanderer had
supped at a farm house, and now hospitality
provided his morning meal. He sat down at a
table from which a peaceful family had just
arisen, and with a grateful heart appeased his
hunger with the fragments of the bountiful
breakfast; while in the adjoining room, the
door of which was open, an old man read
aloud a chapter in the Bible to his wife and
children gathered around him.

When the old man had finished reading, he
talked long and feelingly to his family on pious
subjects, and concluded with an earnest prayer.
The vagabond listened. The peaceful, pious
scene brought back upon his weary heart the
memory of his youth, of the holy lessons learned
in childhood and forgotten in age, of a happy
home, and of friends dearly beloved; and when,
at the close of the old man's prayer, the solemn
Sabbath bells pealed forth, his bosom heaved,
his breath came thick and hot, and down his
pallid, care-worn cheeks coursed sorrowful, bitter
tears.

The wretched man hurried from the house.
Even on that solemn, quiet day, he toiled on
his journey. While the Sabbath-school bells,
which he himself had once cheerfully obeyed,
were ringing clear and loud, and youthful
bands walked soberly to church, the vagabond
plodded onward, onward still.

An hour passed, and a scene of peaceful life,
such as the world never witnesses save on the
Sabbath, greeted him. Clouds of dust began
to rise over the hills in the direction of the road,
and then vehicles of nearly every fashion, appearing
one by one, rolled leisurely past, and

disappeared. Stately carriages, drawn by sleek
and spirited spans; buggies, carrying two
grown persons and perhaps a child; family
wagons, packed with boys and girls of all ages
and sizes, were driven in one direction — towards
the distant pealing of the bell. Foot
passengers, too, were going the same way; and
occasionally a man, or a man and woman, rode
by on horseback.

Apart from the sober, church-going people,
lonely and sad, the vagabond journeyed on;
and in the midst of so much peaceful life, he
alone of all the world seemed oppressed with
trouble and toil.

The loud and clamorous ringing of the bell
had ceased when he came in sight of the old-fashioned,
weather-beaten church, and saw the
latest worshippers enter the broad, quaint doorway.
Deep, monotonous, solemn peals swelled
from the roaring belfry, vibrating on the air,
and falling heavily upon the heart, and then
all was hushed; and around the sacred portal
gathered a more solemn atmosphere of
awe.

The vagabond hurried from this impressive
scene, which loaded his heart with so many

painful memories, and peopled his soul with
the ghosts of the buried past.

He now seemed in the midst of an uninhabited
country. The churches had gathered
within their sacred walls the population of the
land. Farm houses basked in the quiet sunshine,
cattle roamed the fields, the implements
of labor lay about barns and sheds, and not a
human face was to be seen. Occasionally, it
is true, the profane report of a gun, fired by
some ungodly hunter, awoke strange echoes in
the solemn woods; but the unnatural sound
served but to give to the succeeding stillness
more awful impressiveness.

Leaving such scenes behind, the vagabond
entered a village. The shops were closed, the
streets deserted; and the only sounds which
greeted his ears were the deep tones of the
organ and the chanted hymn, which swelled
along the aisles of the village church.

Near the house of God was the tavern,
where the evil-inclined seek the communion of
the wicked on the Sabbath; and the vagabond
found the bar room peopled with sinners, who
spent the day in unseemly merriment, and
jested even while the concluding hymn of the

morning service could be heard from the neighboring
church.

The conversation of the assembled Sabbath
breakers awoke a singular interest in the
bosom of the wanderer. They were talking
about a horrid murder which had taken place
in Verfield; and he listened with strained
ears.

“It'll go hard with Corrinton,” said one.

“He was a cussed fool to throw away the
pistol he shot him with,” observed a dissipated
youth, who sat near the door, smoking a dingy
clay pipe.

“D'ye s'pose he throwed it away?” demanded
a fat sinner, who sat in a chair tipped
against the doorpost. “No sich thing. He
dropped it; men are narvous when they do
sich jobs.”

“Col. Jones is right,” said a fourth. “Corrinton
had spunk enough to shoot him; but
his stomach turned, prob'ly, the minute young
Brance tumbled off his horse.”

“Corrinton 'll have to swing, and he desarves
it,” remarked Mr. Jones. “If young
Brance did call him a coward, it was carrying
things a little too fur to plump a bullet into his

neck. If he'd only gouged out one of his eyes,
or bit his nose off, I wouldn't say a cussed
word; sarve him right; but murder's murder.”

The blood rushed to the brain of the wretched
wanderer, and his senses reeled. Staggering
forward, he sunk upon a chair, and his head
fell upon his breast.

“How are ye, stranger?” said the young
man with the dingy pipe. “Did you come
from Verfield?”

“From that direction,” replied the agitated
man.

“Considerable excitement 'bout the murder,
ain't there?”

“What murder?” asked the vagabond.

“What murder! why, the murder of Brance,
night afore last.”

“In Verfield?”

“Yes.”

“I heard nothing about it until this moment,”
said the traveller. “But I left Verfield Friday.
Do — do you say the name was — Brance?”

“Yes — Appleton Brance. The Verfield
paper is out with an extra, giving all the particulars.
Jones here has been to Verfield hundreds
o' times; says young Brance was the

only son of a rich old cuss, who deserved shooting
fifty times, if Appleton did once.”

Again the vagabond's head sank upon his
breast, and his face was deadly pale.

“Let me see the paper!” he said — or rather
gasped — a moment after. “Who — who did
the — the murder?”

“A doctor — Corrinton. This tells all
about it.”

The vagabond grasped the paper eagerly,
and glanced his eye at the black column headed
“Horrid Murder!”

“Here! you confounded lump of stupidity,”
exclaimed the owner of the extra, “you're
tearing the paper! Don't you know how to
use another man's property?”

The vagabond dropped the paper, which his
trembling hands had rumpled convulsively,
staggered to his feet, and hurriedly left the
tavern.

The morning service was concluded, and the
church was pouring forth a motley multitude,
which swept slowly along the streets in every
direction. Old and young were side by side;
the sober deacon preceded the gay youngster;
solemn matrons followed smiling girls; flashy

vests and foppish hats contrasted with the
plainest suits — all mixed together; and while
thoughtful age looked grave in the contemplation
of the impressive morning sermon, warm-hearted
youth made love by looks and signs.

The vagabond was lost in the throng which
surrounded him; yet he saw nothing, heard
nothing; but as if a wall of burning, intense
thought, such as makes men mad, shut up his
reeling senses from the outer world, he stared
vacantly at the crowd he saw not, and staggered
on alone.

Overwhelmed by suffocating clouds of dust
which marked the track of vehicles returning
from church, he turned from the road, and lay
down, gasping for breath, among bushes which
grew thick in corners of the fence.

Two hours after, the weary man crept forth,
and resumed his journey. On — on — on he
went, at a more rapid pace than before, and
paused not, until hunger brought him to his
senses. At the door of a quiet, shady cottage,
he asked for bread. Two children who were
in the house ran away in affright at sight of
the beggar's haggard face and unshaven beard.
He sat down on the doorstep, and waited

patiently for their return. Presently the elder
of the children, a boy of some ten years, came
timidly back, followed by his younger sister at
a distance.

“What do you want?” asked the boy.

“Any thing — a crust of bread — a cup of
milk,” replied the vagabond.

“Our folks have gone to meeting,” said the
boy; “and they told us, if any beggars came
along, to send 'em away.”

The vagabond raised his sorrowful eyes to
the frank, innocent face of the boy, and heaved
a sigh.

“I will go,” he muttered. “You are a good
boy. Do as your parents direct.”

And he wandered away, while the children
watched him in wonder and pity, standing side
by side in the doorway of the cottage.

The vagabond stopped at the next house by
the road, and found the doors locked; at the
next, and was told by a sour-faced matron that
he should not travel on the Sabbath; but at
length he was hospitably received by a poor
laborer, who gave him the best his house could
afford.

Thus the Sabbath passed, and the vagabond,

accustomed to the toil of the road, travelled
far; and at night he slept on a bed of straw,
for which he was indebted to a wealthy farmer,
who allowed him the hospitality of his barn.
The farmer was not unkind, but he was cautious,
and to prevent the vagabond from walking
away with a pitchfork, a bag of grain, or a
fanning mill, he made the poor man's shelter
his prison, by locking the barn door.

Early on the following morning, after the
farmer had searched the vagabond's pockets
for hammers, wedges, wagon wheels, or any
thing he might have stolen, regaled him with
an excellent breakfast of new milk, substantial
meat and bread, sweet butter, and fresh eggs,
and given him a shilling, and a warning never
to stop at his house again, the poor man recommenced
his wanderings.

It was a busy day. Stout mowers went
early into the fields, whetted their ringing
scythes, and having deposited their jackets on
the nearest haycock, commenced shaving the
face of the meadows. Boys followed after,
shaking the dew out of the heavy green swath,
and spreading the fresh-cut grass over the
ground, to wilt and dry in the hot sun. At

the same time, the women were not idle.
With their white arms bare, and their hands
foaming with snowy suds, fair girls were seen
laboring over washtubs of clothes, sometimes
under a porch, but most frequently under the
cool shadows of branching fruit trees growing
near the kitchen doors. All was life and stir
throughout the country; for the Sabbath was
over, and the six days of labor begun.

Still the vagabond pursued his journey:
stage coaches overtook him, and left him toiling
behind; steam carriages on their iron
tracks flew past him with the speed of the
wind; and carriages, with their clouds of dust,
rolled by him; and still he journeyed on.

Every where people were talking about a
murder; and whenever the event was mentioned
within the hearing of the vagabond, he shuddered
and grew pale.

Day after day, the wretched man kept on.
Sometimes he was harshly repulsed when he
asked for food; sometimes he was driven from
the doors of the rich by dogs; sometimes his
bed was the hard earth, and his only shelter the
wet boughs of trees; sometimes the rain beat
upon him, and cold dews chilled him; and

sometimes the burning sun fevered his blood;
always stared at rudely by the curious, scorned
by the proud, mocked by the profane; the
vagabond, in the face of sufferings which few
could bear and live, pursued his long and
weary journey, with enduring patience and an
unwavering purpose.