 | CHAPTER XXV.
EASTER SUNDAY. Oldtown folks |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
EASTER SUNDAY.
FOR a marvel, even in the stormy clime of Boston, our Easter
Sunday was one of those celestial days which seem,
like the New Jerusalem of the Revelations, to come straight
down from God out of heaven, to show us mortals what the
upper world may be like. Our poor old Mother Boston has
now and then such a day given to her, even in the uncertain
spring-time; and when all her bells ring together, and the
old North Church chimes her solemn psalm-tunes, and all
the people in their holiday garments come streaming out towards
the churches of every name which line her streets, it
seems as if the venerable dead on Copps Hill must dream
pleasantly, for “Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord,”
and even to this day, in dear old Boston, their works do follow
them.
At an early hour we were roused, and dressed ourselves with
the most anxious and exemplary care. For the first time in my
life I looked anxiously in the looking-glass, and scanned with
some solicitude, as if it had been a third person, the little being
who called himself “I.” I saw a pair of great brown eyes, a face
rather thin and pale, a high forehead, and a great profusion of
dark curls, — the combing out of which, by the by, was one of
the morning trials of my life. In vain Aunt Lois had cut them
off repeatedly, in the laudable hope that my hair would grow
out straight. It seemed a more inextricable mat at each
shearing; but as Harry's flaxen poll had the same peculiarity,
we consoled each other, while we labored at our morning
toilet.
Down in the sunny parlor, a little before breakfast was on the
table, we walked about softly with our hands behind us, lest
Satan, who we were assured had always some mischief still for
curious articles which we gazed upon now for the first time.
There was the picture of a very handsome young man over the
mantel-piece, and beneath it hung a soldier's sword in a large
loop of black crape, a significant symbol of the last great sorrow
which had overshadowed the household. On one side of the
door, framed and glazed, was a large coat of arms of the Kittery
family, worked in chenille and embroidery, — the labor of Miss
Deborah's hands during the course of her early education. In
other places on the walls hung oil paintings of the deceased master
of the mansion, and of the present venerable mistress, as she
was in the glow of early youth. They were evidently painted
by a not unskilful hand, and their eyes always following us as
we moved about the room gave us the impression of being overlooked,
even while as yet there was nobody else in the apartment.
Conspicuously hung on one side of the room was a copy of one
of the Vandyck portraits of Charles the First, with his lace ruff
and peaked beard. Underneath this was a printed document,
framed and glazed; and I, who was always drawn to read any
thing that could be read, stationed myself opposite to it and be
gan reading aloud: —
“The Twelve Good Rules of the Most Blessed Martyr, King
Charles First, of Blessed Memory.”
I was reading these in a loud, clear voice, when Miss Debby
entered the room. She stopped and listened to me, with a countenance
beaming with approbation.
“Go on, sonny!” she said, coming up behind me, with an approving
nod, when I blushed and stopped on seeing her. “Read
them through; those are good rules for a man to form his life
by.”
I wish I could remember now what these so highly praised
rules were. The few that I can recall are not especially in accordance
with the genius of our modern times. They began: —
“1st. Profane no Divine Ordinances.
“2d. Touch no State Matter.
“3d. Pick no Quarrels.
“4th. Maintain no ill Opinions.”
Here my memory fails me, but I remember that, stimulated
by Miss Deborah's approbation, I did commit the whole of them
to memory at the time, and repeated them with a readiness and
fluency which drew upon me warm commendations from the dear
old lady, and in fact from all in the house, though Ellery Davenport
did shrug his shoulders contumaciously and give a sort of
suppressed whistle of dissent.
“If we had minded those rules,” he said, “we should n't be
where we are now.”
“No, indeed, you would n't; the more 's the pity you did n't,”
said Miss Debby. “If I 'd had the bringing of you up, you
should be learning things like that, instead of trumpery French
and democratic nonsense.”
“Speaking of French,” said Ellery, “I declare I forgot a
package of gloves that I brought over especially for you and
Aunty here, — the very best of Paris kid.”
“You may spare yourself the trouble of bringing them,
cousin,” said Miss Deborah, coldly. “Whatever others may do,
I trust I never shall be left to put a French glove on my hands.
They may be all very fine, no doubt, but English gloves, made
under her Majesty's sanction, will always be good enough for me.”
“O, well, in that case I shall have the honor of presenting
them to Lady Lothrop, unless her principles should be equally
rigid.”
“I dare say Dorothy will take them,” said Miss Deborah.
“When a woman has married a Continental parson, what can
you expect of her? but, for my part, I should feel that I dishonored
the house of the Lord to enter it with gloves on made
by those atheistical French people. The fact is, we must put
a stop to worldly conformities somewhere.”
“And you draw the line at French gloves,” said Ellery.
“No, indeed,” said Miss Deborah; “by no means French
gloves. French novels, French philosophy, and, above all,
French morals, or rather want of morals, — these are what I go
against, Cousin Ellery.”
So saying, Miss Debby led the way to the breakfast-table, with
an air of the most martial and determined moral principle.
I remember only one other incident of that morning before we
went to church. The dear old lady had seemed sensibly affected
by the levity with which Ellery Davenport generally spoke upon
sacred subjects, and disturbed by her daughter's confident assertions
of his infidel sentiments. So she administered to him an
admonition in her own way. A little before church-time she was
sitting on the sofa, reading in her great Bible spread out on the
table before her.
“Ellery,” she said, “come here and sit down by me. I want
you to read me this text.”
“Certainly, Aunty, by all means,” he said, as he seated himself
by her, bent his handsome head over the book, and, following
the lead of her trembling finger, read: —
“And thou, Solomon, my son, know thou the God of thy
fathers, and serve him with a perfect heart and a willing mind.
If thou seek him, he will be found of thee, but if thou forsake
him, he will cast thee off forever.”
“Ellery,” she said, with trembling earnestness, “think of that,
my boy. O Ellery, remember!”
He turned and kissed her hand, and there certainly were tears
in his eyes. “Aunty,” he said, “you must pray for me; I may
be a good boy one of these days, who knows?”
There was no more preaching, and no more said; she only
held his hand, looked lovingly at him, and stroked his forehead.
“There have been a great many good people among your
fathers, Ellery.”
“I know it,” he said.
At this moment Miss Debby came in with the summons to
church. The family carriage came round for the old lady, but
we were better pleased to walk up the street under convoy of
Ellery Davenport, who made himself quite delightful to us.
Tina obstinately refused to take his hand, and insisted upon walking
only with Harry, though from time to time she cast glances
at him over her shoulder, and he called her “a little chip of
mother Eve's block,” — at which she professed to feel great
indignation.
The reader may remember my description of our meeting-house
of the Old North and its solemn-sounding chimes, though
by no means remarkable compared with European churches,
appeared to us a vision of wonder. We gazed with delighted
awe at the chancel and the altar, with their massive draperies
of crimson looped back with heavy gold cord and tassels, and
revealing a cloud of little winged cherubs, whereat Tina's eyes
grew large with awe, as if she had seen a vision. Above this
there was a mystical Hebrew word emblazoned in a golden
halo, while around the galleries of the house were marvellous
little colored statuettes of angels blowing long golden trumpets.
These figures had been taken from a privateer and
presented to the church by a British man-of-war, and no child
that saw them would ever forget them. Then there was the
organ, whose wonderful sounds were heard by me for the first
time in my life. There was also an indefinable impression of
stately people that worshipped there. They all seemed to me
like Lady Lothrop, rustling in silks and brocades; with gentlemen
like Captain Brown, in scarlet cloaks and powdered hair.
Not a crowded house by any means, but a well-ordered and select
few, who performed all the responses and evolutions of the
service with immaculate propriety. I was struck with every one's
kneeling and bowing the head on taking a seat in the church;
even gay Ellery Davenport knelt down and hid his face in
his hat, though what he did it for was a matter of some speculation
with us afterward. Miss Debby took me under her
special supervision. She gave me a prayer-book, found the
places for me, and took me up and down with her through the
whole service, giving her responses in such loud, clear, and energetic
tones as entirely to acquit herself of her share of responsibility
in the matter. The “true Church” received no detriment,
so far as she was concerned. I was most especially edified and
astonished by the deep courtesies which she and several distinguished-looking
ladies made at the name of the Saviour in the
Creed; so much so, that she was obliged to tap me on the head
to indicate to me my own part in that portion of the Church
service.
I was surprised to observe that Harry appeared perfectly
familiar with the ceremony; and Lady Lothrop, who had him
under her particular surveillance, looked on with wonder and
approbation, as he quietly opened his prayer-book and went
through the service with perfect regularity. Tina, who stood
between Ellery Davenport and the old lady, seemed, to tell the
truth, much too conscious of the amused attention with which
he was regarding her little movements, notwithstanding the
kindly efforts of her venerable guardian to guide her through
the service. She resolutely refused to allow him to assist her,
half-turning her back upon him, but slyly watching him from
under her long eyelashes, in a way that afforded him great
amusement.
The sermon which followed the prayers was of the most droning
and sleepy kind. But as it was dispensed by a regularly
ordained successor of the Apostles, Miss Deborah, though
ordinarily the shrewdest and sharpest of womankind, and certainly
capable of preaching a sermon far more to the point
herself, sat bolt upright and listened to all those slumberous
platitudes with the most reverential attention.
It yet remains a mystery to my mind, how a church which retains
such a stimulating and inspiring liturgy could have such
drowsy preaching, — how men could go through with the “Te
Deum,” and the “Gloria in Excelsis,” without one thrill of in
spiration, or one lift above the dust of earth, and, after uttering
words which one would think might warm the frozen heart of
the very dead, settle sleepily down into the quietest commonplace.
Such, however, has been the sin of ritualism in all days, principally
because human nature is, above all things, lazy, and
needs to be thorned and goaded up those heights where it ought
to fly.
Harry and I both had a very nice little nap during sermon-time,
while Ellery Davenport made a rabbit of his pocket-handkerchief
by way of paying his court to Tina, who sat shyly
giggling and looking at him.
After the services came the Easter dinner, to which, as a great
privilege, we were admitted from first to last; although children
came in with the nuts and raisins. I remember Ellery Davenport
seemed to be the life of the table, and kept everybody
laughing. He seemed particularly fond of rousing up Miss
Debby to those rigorous and energetic statements concerning
Church and King which she delivered with such freedom.
“I don't know how we are any of us to get to heaven now,”
he said to Miss Debby. “Supposing I wanted to be confirmed,
there is n't a bishop in America.”
“Well, don't you think they will send one over?” said Lady
Widgery, with a face of great solicitude.
“Two, madam; it would take two in order to start the succession
in America. The apostolic electricity cannot come down
through one.”
“I heard that Dr. Franklin was negotiating with the Archbishop
of Canterbury,” said Lady Lothrop.
“Yes, but they are not in the best humor toward us over
there,” said Ellery. “You know what Franklin wrote back,
don't you?”
“No,” said Lady Widgery; “what was it?”
“Well, you see, he found Canterbury & Co. rather huffy, and
somewhat on the high-and-mighty order with him, and, being a
democratic American, he did n't like it. So he wrote over that
he did n't see, for his part, why anybody that wanted to preach
the Gospel could n't preach it, without sending a thousand miles
across the water to ask leave of a cross old gentleman at Canterbury.”
A shocked expression went round the table, and Miss Debby
drew herself up. “That 's what I call a profane remark, Ellery
Davenport,” she said.
“I did n't make it, you understand.”
“No, dear, you did n't,” said the old lady. “Of course you
would n't say such a thing.”
“Of course I should n't, Aunty, — O no. I 'm only concerned
to know how I shall be confirmed, if ever I want to be. Do
you think there really is no other way to heaven, Miss Debby?
Now, if the Archbishop of Canterbury won't repent, and I do, —
you think now the Church might open the door a little crack
for me?”
“Why, of course, Ellery,” said Lady Lothrop. “We believe
that many good people will be saved out of the Church.”
“My dear madam, that 's because you married a Congregational
parson; you are getting illogical.”
“Ellery, you know better,” said Miss Debby, vigorously.
“You know we hold that many good persons out of the Church
are saved, though they are saved by uncovenanted mercies.
There are no direct promises to any but those in the Church;
they have no authorized ministry or sacraments.”
“What a dreadful condition these American colonies are in!”
said Ellery; “it 's a result of our Revolution which never struck
me before.”
“You can sneer as much as you please, it 's a solemn fact,
Ellery; it 's the chief mischief of this dreadful rebellion.”
“Come, come, children,” said the old lady; “let 's talk
about something else. We 've been to the communion, and
heard about `peace on earth and good-will to men.' I always
think of our blessed King George every time I take the communion
wine out of those cups that he gave to our church.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Debby; “it will be a long time before
you get the American Congress to giving communion services,
like our good, pious King George.”
“It 's a pity pious folks are so apt to be pig-headed,” said
Ellery, in a tone just loud enough to stir up Miss Debby, but
not to catch the ear of the old lady.
“I suppose there never was such a pious family as our royal
family,” said Lady Widgery. “I have been told that Queen
Charlotte reads prayers with her maids regularly every night,
and we all know how our blessed King read prayers beside a
dying cottager.”
“I do not know what the reason is,” said Ellery Davenport,
reflectively, “but political tyrants as a general thing are very
pious men. The worse their political actions are, the more they
pray. Perhaps it is on the principle of compensation, just as
way have some corresponding organ in another direction.”
“I agree with you that kings are generally religious,” said
Lady Widgery, “and you must admit that, if monarchy makes
men religious, it is an argument in its favor, because there is
nothing so important as religion, you know.”
“The argument, madam, is a profound one, and does credit to
your discernment; but the question now is, since it has pleased
Providence to prosper rebellion, and allow a community to be
founded without any true church, or any means of getting at true
ordinances and sacraments, what young fellows like us are to do
about it.”
“I 'll tell you, Ellery,” said the old lady, laying hold of his
arm. “`Know the God of thy fathers, and serve him with a perfect
heart and willing mind,' and everything will come right.”
“But, even then, I could n't belong to `the true Church,'”
said Ellery.
“You 'd belong to the church of all good people,” said the old
lady, “and that 's the main thing.”
“Aunty, you are always right,” he said.
Now I listened with the sharpest attention to all this conversation,
which was as bewildering to me as all the rest of the scenery
and surroundings of this extraordinary visit had been.
Miss Debby's martial and declaratory air, the vigorous faith in
her statements which she appeared to have, were quite a match,
it seemed to me, for similar statements of a contrary nature
which I had heard from my respected grandmother; and I could
n't help wondering in my own mind what strange concussions of
the elementary powers would result if ever these two should be
brought together. To use a modern figure, it would be like the
meeting of two full-charged railroad engines, from opposite directions,
on the same track.
After dinner, in the evening, instead of the usual service of
family prayers, Miss Debby catechised her family in a vigorous
and determined manner. We children went and stood up with
the row of men and maid servants, and Harry proved to have
a very good knowledge of the catechism, but Tina and I only
she applied herself to teaching us as if this were the only opportunity
of getting the truth we were ever to have in our lives.
In fact, Miss Debby made a current of electricity that, for the
time being, carried me completely away, and I exerted myself to
the utmost to appear well before her, especially as I had gathered
from Aunt Lois and Aunt Keziah's conversations, that whatever
went on in this mansion belonged strictly to upper circles of
society, dimly known and revered. American democracy had not
in those days become a practical thing, so as to outgrow the
result of generations of reverence for the upper classes. And
the man-servant and the maid-servants seemed so humble, and
Miss Debby so victorious and dominant, that I could n't help feeling
what a grand thing the true Church must be, and find growing
in myself the desires of a submissive catechumen.
As to the catechism itself, I don't recollect that I thought one
moment what a word of it meant, I was so absorbed and busy
in the mere effort of repeating it after Miss Debby's rapid dictation.
The only comparison I remember to have made with that
which I had been accustomed to recite in school every Saturday
respected the superior case of answering the first question; which
required me, instead of relating in metaphysical terms what
“man's chief end” was in time and eternity, to give a plain
statement of what my own name was on this mortal earth.
This first question, as being easiest, was put to Tina, who dimpled
and colored and flashed out of her eyes, as she usually did
when addressed, looked shyly across at Ellery Davenport, who
sat with an air of negligent amusement contemplating the scene,
and then answered with sufficient precision and distinctness,
“Eglantine Percival.”
He gave a little start, as if some sudden train of recollection
had been awakened, and looked at her with intense attention;
and when Ellery Davenport fixed his attention upon anybody,
there was so much fire and electricity in his eyes that they
seemed to be felt, even at a distance; and I saw that Tina constantly
colored and giggled, and seemed so excited that she
this, turned sharp round upon him, and said, “Ellery
Davenport, if you have n't any religion yourself, I wish you
would n't interrupt my instructions.”
“Bless my soul, cousin! what was I doing? I have been sitting
here still as a mouse; but I 'll turn my back, and read a
good book”; — and round he turned, accordingly, till the catechising
was finished.
When it was all over, and the servants had gone out, we
grouped ourselves around the fire, and Ellery Davenport began:
“Cousin Debby, I 'm going to come down handsomely to you.
I admit that your catechism is much better for children than the
one I was brought up on. I was well drilled in the formulas of
the celebrated Assembly of dryvines of Westminster, and dry
enough I found it. Now it 's a true proverb, `Call a man a thief,
and he 'll steal'; `give a dog a bad name, and he 'll bite you';
tell a child that he is `a member of Christ, a child of God, and
an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven,' and he feels, to say the
least, civilly disposed towards religion; tell him `he is under
God's wrath and curse, and so made liable to all the miseries of
this life, to death itself, and the pains of hell forever,' because
somebody ate an apple five thousand years ago, and his religious
associations are not so agreeable, — especially if he has the answers
whipped into him, or has to go to bed without his supper
for not learning them.”
“You poor dear!” said the old lady; “did they send you to
bed without your supper? They ought to have been whipped
themselves, every one of them.”
“Well, you see, I was a little fellow when my parents died,
and brought up under brother Jonathan, who was the bluest kind
of blue; and he was so afraid that I should mistake my naturally
sweet temper for religion, that he instructed me daily that I was
a child of wrath, and could n't, and did n't, and never should do
one right thing till I was regenerated, and when that would happen
no mortal knew; so I thought, as my account was going to
be scored off at that time, it was no matter if I did run up a
pretty long one; so I lied and stole whenever it came handy.”
“O Ellery, I hope not!” said the old lady; “certainly you
never stole anything!”
“Have, though, my blessed aunt, — robbed orchards and
watermelon patches; but then St. Augustine did that very thing
himself, and he did n't turn about till he was thirty years old,
and I 'm a good deal short of that yet; so you see there is a
great chance for me.”
“Ellery, why don't you come into the true Church?” said Miss
Debby. “That 's what you need.”
“Well,” said Ellery, “I must confess that I like the idea of a
nice old motherly Church, that sings to us, and talks to us, and
prays with us, and takes us in her lap and coddles us when we
are sick and says, —
`Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber.'
but the mischief of a Calvinistic education is, it wakes up your
reason, and it never will go to sleep again, and you can't take a
pleasant humbug if you would. Now, in this life, where nobody
knows anything about anything, a capacity for humbugs would
be a splendid thing to have. I wish to my heart I 'd been
brought up a Roman Catholic! but I have not, — I 've been
brought up a Calvinist, and so here I am.”
“But if you 'd try to come into the Church and believe,” said
Miss Debby, energetically, “grace would be given you. You 've
been baptized, and the Church admits your baptism. Now just
assume your position.”
Miss Debby spoke with such zeal and earnestness, that I,
whom she was holding in her lap, looked straight across with the
expectation of hearing Ellery Davenport declare his immediate
conversion then and there. I shall never forget the expression
of his face. There was first a flash of amusement, as he looked
at Miss Debby's strong, sincere face, and then it faded into something
between admiration and pity; and then he said to himself
in a musing tone: “I a `member of Christ, a child of God, and
an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven.'” And then a strange,
sarcastic expression broke over his face, as he added: “Could n't
much of a credit to any church, and whichever catches me would
be apt to find a shark in the net. You see,” he added, jumping
up and walking about rapidly, “I have the misfortune to have
an extremely exacting nature, and, if I set out to be religious
at all, it would oblige me to carry the thing to as great lengths
as did my grandfather Jonathan Edwards. I should have to
take up the cross and all that, and I don't want to, and don't
mean to; and as to all these pleasant, comfortable churches,
where a fellow can get to heaven without it, I have the misfortune
of not being able to believe in them; so there you see
precisely my situation.”
“These horrid old Calvinistic doctrines,” said Miss Debby,
“are the ruin of children.”
“My dear, they are all in the Thirty-nine Articles as strong
as in the Cambridge platform, and all the other platforms, for the
good reason that John Calvin himself had the overlooking of
them. And, what is worse, there is an abominable sight of truth
in them. Nature herself is a high Calvinist, old jade; and there
never was a man of energy enough to feel the force of the
world he deals with that was n't a predestinarian, from the time
of the Greek Tragedians down to the time of Oliver Cromwell,
and ever since. The hardest doctrines are the things that a fellow
sees with his own eyes going on in the world around him. If
you had been in England, as I have, where the true Church
prevails, you 'd see that pretty much the whole of the lower
classes there are predestinated to be conceived and born in sin, and
shapen in iniquity; and come into the world in such circumstances
that to expect even decent morality of them is expecting what
is contrary to all reason. This is your Christian country, after
eighteen hundred years' experiment of Christianity. The elect,
by whom I mean the bishops and clergy and upper classes, have
attained to a position in which a decent and religious life is practicable,
and where there is leisure from the claims of the body
to attend to those of the soul. These, however, to a large extent
are smothering in their own fat, or, as your service to-day had it,
`Their heart is fat as brawn'; and so they don't, to any great
heathen countries, they are a peg below those of Christianity.
Taking the mass of human beings in the world at this hour, they
are in such circumstances, that, so far from it 's being reasonable to
expect the morals of Christianity of them, they are not within
sight of ordinary human decencies. Talk of purity of heart to a
Malay or Hottentot! Why, the doctrine of a clean shirt is an
uncomprehended mystery to more than half the human race at
this moment. That 's what I call visible election and reprobation,
get rid of it as we may or can.”
“Positively, Ellery, I am not going to have you talk so before
these children,” said Miss Debby, getting up and ringing the bell
energetically. “This all comes of the vile democratic idea
that people are to have opinions on all subjects, instead of believing
what the Church tells them; and, as you say, it 's Calvinism
that starts people out to be always reasoning and discussing and
having opinions. I hate folks who are always speculating and
thinking, and having new doctrines; all I want to know is my
duty, and to do it. I want to know what my part is, and it 's
none of my business whether the bishops and the kings and the
nobility do theirs or not, if I only do mine. `To do my duty in
that state of life in which it has pleased God to call me,' is all I
want, and I think it is all anybody need want.”
“Amen!” said Ellery Davenport, “and so be it.”
Here Mrs. Margery appeared with the candles to take us to
bed.
In bidding our adieus for the night, it was customary for good
children to kiss all round; but Tina, in performing this ceremony
both this night and the night before, resolutely ignored Ellery
Davenport, notwithstanding his earnest petitions; and, while she
would kiss with ostentatious affection those on each side of him,
she hung her head and drew back whenever he attempted the
familiarity, yet, by way of reparation, turned back at the door
as she was going out, and made him a parting salutation with the
air of a princess; and I heard him say, “Upon my word, how
she does it!”
After we left the room (this being a particular which, like
turned to Lady Lothrop and said: “Did I understand that she
said her name was Eglantine Percival, and that she is a sort of
foundling?”
“Certainly,” said Lady Lothrop; “both these children are
orphans, left on the parish by a poor woman who died in a neighboring
town. They appear to be of good blood and breeding,
but we have no means of knowing who they are.”
“Well,” said Ellery Davenport, “I knew a young English
officer by the name of Percival, who was rather a graceless
fellow. He once visited me at my country-seat, with several
others. When he went away, being, as he often was, not very fit
to take care of himself, he dropped and left a pocket-book, so some
of the servants told me, which was thrown into one of the
drawers, and for aught I know may be there now: it's just
barely possible that it may be, and that there may be some
papers in it which will shed light on these children's parentage.
If I recollect rightly, he was said to be connected with a good
English family, and it might be possible, if we were properly informed,
to shame him, or frighten him into doing something for
these children. I will look into the matter myself, when I am in
England next winter, where I shall have some business; that is to
say, if we can get any clew. The probability is that the children
are illegitimate.”
“O, I hope not,” said Lady Lothrop; “they appear to have
been so beautifully educated.”
“Well,” said Ellery Davenport, “he may have seduced his
curate's daughter; that's a very simple supposition. At any rate,
he never produced her in society, never spoke of her, kept her in
cheap, poor lodgings in the country, and the general supposition
was that she was his mistress, not his wife.”
“No,” said a little voice near his elbow, which startled every
one in the room,— “no, Mr. Davenport, my mother was my
father's wife.”
The fire had burnt low, and the candles had not been brought
in, and Harry, who had been sent back by Mrs. Margery to give
a message as to the night arrangements, had entered the room
came forward, and stood trembling with agitation, pale yet bold.
Of course all were very much shocked as he went on: “They
took my mother's wedding-ring, and sold it to pay for her coffin;
but she always wore it and often told me when it was put on.
But,” he added, “she told me, the night she died, that I had no
father but God.”
“And he is Father enough!” said the old lady, who, entirely
broken down and overcome, clasped the little boy in her arms.
“Never you mind it, dear, God certainly will take care of you.”
“I know he will,” said the boy, with solemn simplicity; “but
I want you all to believe the truth about my mother.”
It was characteristic of that intense inwardness and delicacy
which were so peculiar in Harry's character, that, when he
came back from this agitating scene, he did not tell me a word
of what had occurred, nor did I learn it till years afterwards.
I was very much in the habit of lying awake nights, long after
he had sunk into untroubled slumbers, and this night I remember
that he lay long but silently awake, so very still and quiet, that
it was some time before I discovered that he was not sleeping.
The next day Ellery Davenport left us, but we remained to
see the wonders of Boston. I remembered my grandmother's
orders, and went on to Copps Hill, and to the old Granary burying-ground,
to see the graves of the saints, and read the inscriptions.
I had a curious passion for this sort of mortuary literature,
even as a child, — a sort of nameless, weird, strange delight, —
so that I accomplished this part of my grandmother's wishes con
amore.
Boston in those days had not even arrived at being a city, but,
as the reader may learn from contemporary magazines, was
known as the Town of Boston. In some respects, however, it
was even more attractive in those days for private residences than
it is at present. As is the case now in some of our large rural
towns, it had many stately old houses, which stood surrounded by
gardens and grounds, where fruits and flowers were tended with
scrupulous care. It was sometimes called “the garden town.”
The house of Madam Kittery stood on a high eminence overlooking
which, just at the time of year I speak of, was gay with the first
crocuses and snowdrops.
In the eyes of the New England people, it was always a sort
of mother-town, — a sacred city, the shrine of that religious enthusiasm
which founded the States of New England. There
were the graves of her prophets and her martyrs, — those who
had given their lives through the hardships of that enterprise in
so ungenial a climate.
On Easter Monday Lady Lothrop proposed to take us all to
see the shops and sights of Boston, with the bountiful intention
of purchasing some few additions to the children's wardrobes.
I was invited to accompany the expedition, and all parties
appeared not a little surprised, and somewhat amused, that I preferred,
instead of this lively tour among the living, to spend my
time in a lonely ramble in the Copps Hill burying-ground.
I returned home after an hour or two spent in this way, and
found the parlor deserted by all except dear old Madam Kittery.
I remember, even now, the aspect of that sunny room, and the
perfect picture of peace and love that she seemed to me, as she
sat on the sofa with a table full of books drawn up to her,
placidly reading.
She called me to her as soon as I came in, and would have me
get on the sofa by her. She stroked my head, and looked lovingly
at me, and called me “Sonny,” till my whole heart opened
toward her as a flower opens toward the sunshine.
Among all the loves that man has to woman, there is none so
sacred and saint-like as that toward these dear, white-haired angels,
who seem to form the connecting link between heaven and
earth, who have lived to get the victory over every sin and every
sorrow, and live perpetually on the banks of the dark river, in
that bright, calm land of Beulah, where angels daily walk to and
fro, and sounds of celestial music are heard across the water.
Such have no longer personal cares, or griefs, or sorrows.
The tears of life have all been shed, and therefore they have
hearts at leisure to attend to every one else. Even the sweet,
guileless childishness that comes on in this period has a sacred
whosoever shall not receive as a little child, shall not enter
therein.
Madam Kittery, with all her apparent simplicity, had a sort
of simple shrewdness. She delighted in reading, and some of
the best classical literature was always lying on her table.
She began questioning me about my reading, and asking me
to read to her, and seemed quite surprised at the intelligence and
expression with which I did it.
I remember, in the course of the reading, coming across a very
simple Latin quotation, at which she stopped me. “There,” said
she, “is one of those Latin streaks that always trouble me in
books, because I can't tell what they mean. When George was
alive, he used to read them to me.”
Now, as this was very simple, I felt myself quite adequate to
its interpretation, and gave it with a readiness which pleased her.
“Why! how came you to know Latin?” she said.
Then my heart opened, and I told her all my story, and how
my poor father had always longed to go to college, “and died
without the sight,” and how he had begun to teach me Latin;
but how he was dead, and my mother was poor, and grandpapa
could only afford to keep Uncle Bill in college, and there was no
way for me to go, and Aunt Lois wanted to bind me out to a
shoemaker. And then I began to cry, as I always did when
I thought of this.
I shall never forget the overflowing, motherly sympathy which
had made it easy for me to tell all this to one who, but a few
hours before, had been a stranger; nor how she comforted me,
and cheered me, and insisted upon it that I should immediately
eat a piece of cake, and begged me not to trouble myself about
it, and she would talk to Debby, and something should be done.
Now I had not the slightest idea of what Madam Kittery
could do in the situation, but I was exceedingly strengthened
and consoled, and felt sure that there had come a favorable
turn in my fortunes; and the dear old lady and myself forthwith
entered into a league of friendship.
I was thus emboldened, now that we were all alone, and Miss
doubts, raised by the conflict of my past education with the
things I had been hearing for the last day or two.
“If King George was such a good man, what made him oppress
the Colonies so?” said I.
“Why, dear, he did n't,” she said, earnestly. “That 's all a
great mistake. Our King is a dear, pious, good man, and wished
us all well, and was doing just the best for us he knew how.”
“Then was it because he did n't know how to govern us?”
said I.
“My dear, you know the King can do no wrong; it was his
ministers, if anybody. I don't know exactly how it was, but
they got into a brangle, and everything went wrong; and then
there was so much evil feeling and fighting and killing, and `there
was confusion, and every evil work.' There 's my poor boy,”
she said, pointing to the picture with a trembling hand, and to
the sword hanging in its crape loop, — “he died for his King, doing
his duty in that state of life in which it pleased God to call
him. I must n't be sorry for that, but O, I wish there had n't
been any war, and we could have had it all peaceful, and George
could have stayed with us. I don't see, either, the use of all
these new-fangled notions, but then I try to love everybody,
and hope for the best.”
So spoke my dear old friend; and has there ever been a step
in human progress that has not been taken against the prayers
of some good soul, and been washed by tears, sincerely and despondently
shed? But, for all this, is there not a true unity of
the faith in all good hearts? and when they have risen a little
above the mists of earth, may not both sides — the conqueror
and the conquered — agree that God hath given them the victory
in advancing the cause of truth and goodness?
Only one other conversation that I heard during this memorable
visit fixed itself very strongly in my mind. On the evening
of this same day, we three children were stationed at a table to
look at a volume of engravings of beautiful birds, while Miss
Debby, Lady Widgery and Madam Kittery sat by the fire. I
heard them talking of Ellery Davenport, and, though I had been
elders were talking among themselves, yet it really was not possible
to avoid hearing what Miss Debby said, because all her words
were delivered with such a sharp and determinate emphasis.
As it appeared, Lady Widgery had been relating to them some
of the trials and sorrows of Ellery Davenport's domestic life.
And then there followed a buzz of some kind of story which
Lady Widgery seemed relating with great minuteness. At last
I heard Miss Deborah exclaim earnestly: “If I had a daughter,
catch me letting her be intimate with Ellery Davenport! I tell
you that man has n't read French for nothing.”
“I do assure you, his conduct has been marked with perfect
decorum,” said lady Widgery.
“So are your French novels,” said Miss Deborah; “they are
always talking about decorum; they are full of decorum and
piety! why, the kingdom of heaven is nothing to them! but
somehow they all end in adultery.”
“Debby,” said the old lady, “I can't bear to hear you talk so.
I think your cousin's heart is in the right place, after all; and
he 's a good, kind boy as ever was.”
“But, mother, he 's a liar! that 's just what he is.”
“Debby, Debby! how can you talk so?”
“Well, mother, people have different names for different
things. I hear a great deal about Ellery Davenport's tact and
knowledge of the world, and all that; but he does a great deal
of what I call lying, — so there! Now there are some folks who
lie blunderingly, and unskilfully, but I 'll say for Ellery Davenport
that he can lie as innocently and sweetly and prettily as a
French woman, and I can't say any more. And if a woman
does n't want to believe him, she just must n't listen to him, that 's
all. I always believe him when he is around, but when he 's away
and I think him over, I know just what he is, and see just what
an old fool he has made of me.”
These words dropped into my childish mind as if you should
accidentally drop a ring into a deep well. I did not think of
them much at the time, but there came a day in my life when the
ring was fished up out of the well, good as new.
| CHAPTER XXV.
EASTER SUNDAY. Oldtown folks | |