University of Virginia Library

THE MISSIONARY'S CONVERT.

1. CHAPTER I.

I have always had a peculiar respect for the
Methodists. My grandfather was a rigid member,
and one of the first proselytes in Baltimore. I
have heard it said that he stood within the door of
an humble dwelling, I think in Tripolet's alley,
where he could see what was going on without, as
well as listen to the preacher, in order to give
notice of any contemplated intrusion, while Bishop
Coke, the friend of Wesley, expounded his faith to
his then few followers. He was at that time a man
of ample means; a leading member of the city
council, many of whose ordinances he framed;
charitable and public spirited, and, withal, a local
preacher, for which he received no salary. The
good he strove to do, was performed for its own
sake. He “coveted no man's silver, nor gold, nor
apparel.” One Sabbath, while administering the

sacrament, he was stricken with a paralysis, from
the effects of which he never recovered. I have
often heard him speak of Coke, and the little flock
who then worshipped with him.

We all know what a strong hold the Methodist
faith has on the public mind. I should not, however,
omit to notice one trait in my grandfather's
faith. He was sternly opposed to what are called
“shouting meetings.” He held, however, that
Christianity inculcated, in all its precepts, republicanism;
and that Methodism conformed more
strictly to it than any other Christian creed.
Though not myself a member of any church, I remember
with deep respect and reverence, the manner
in which he would open the “big ha' Bible,”
and say, while the family were all assembled round
him, before retiring for the night, “let us worship
God!”

In “the monumental city” I read law, and
before I was nineteen, was admitted to its practice.
I had some little business, particularly in defending
criminals; and I was wont to exercise my lungs in
crazy declamations at political meetings.

I had not been a “lawyer at law” quite a year,
when ill health compelled me to renounce the profession,
and I became domiciliated at the residence
of my uncle, who rejoiced in a delightful farm a
few miles from town. A kinder spirit never illumined
mortal clay, or left it for a fitter sphere.

But for his attention, and that of a beloved aunt,
“life's fitful fever,” would have ended with me but
a few years after it commenced.

While practising my profession, I defended a
schoolmate of mine under the following circumstances:
His father was a Methodist, a peace-loving
man, who had been converted under the
preaching of my grandfather, for whom he had a
profound respect, and more than a brotherly regard.
The fraternal hand extended beyond this
world, and, I believe, binds them in another and a
better.

This worthy gentleman, who was named Godfrey,
acquired a handsome fortune, and purchased
a large estate a few miles from my uncle's. His
son Adam, who was named after my grandfather,
was a roystering, reckless blade, but his character
was dashed with the noblest impulses, which would
flash forth like the play of the lightning in a
darkening cloud. He had a lovely sister, named
Jane, whom I have always deemed to be one of the
most enchanting women I ever beheld; and it was
not more her peerless beauty, than her angelic
purity, which impressed you. A young lawyer, of
feeble mind, but malignant heart, was assiduously
attentive to her. I knew him slightly before I
knew her; and he was wont to remark to me, in
reply to some jest or other of mine, with regard to
the report of an engagement existing between

them, that he “never could get that far, until he
turned religious, and that he was waiting on the
`anxious seat' of hope, for the first favorable opportunity.”

I did not relish this jest at the religious views of
a sect which I respected; and I told him so, with a
bluntness that ever afterward prevented anything
between us but a salute in passing.

Jane, at first, rather encouraged his attentions;
but certain developments in his character, together
with her father's wishes, caused her to reject him.
Perhaps the advice of Adam influenced her as
much as anything; for he despised my brother
limb, and she loved her brother with a devotedness
I have never seen surpassed. Upon this, the rejected
suitor, in a disguised hand, wrote an infamous
anonymous letter to her father concerning
her. It was shown to Adam, who had then left
school, and was living with his widowed father and
his sister, in the country, where they generally
passed the summer.

Without saying a word, Adam mounted his
horse, repaired to town, and sought the office of
the lawyer, whose door he entered and locked, and
whom, in his rage, he would have beaten to death
with no other weapon than his horsewhip and fist,
in spite of the superior size of his antagonist, and
his liberal use of the chairs and table, if persons
without, attracted by his cries of “murder!” and

“help!” had not rushed in, and with much difficulty
rescued him.

Our lawyer, whose skull was as brainless as that
of his dead brother, whose

was rid of its tenant when Hamlet picked it up in
the graveyard, where they laid Ophelia in the
earth; would, nevertheless, not be knocked about
the sconce, without complaining of his “action of
battery!” Adam was immediately indicted for
the offence. He employed me as his counsel, and
this renewed an old acquaintance. I had no doubt
who wrote the letter, but the point was to prove it,
in mitigation of damages; for although weeks
elapsed before the trial, my brother limb still bore,
on that day, like the veteran of a worthier field,
convincing evidence of stern encounters.

I obtained many of the lawyer's letters, and
several legal instruments which he had drawn up;
but he had so well disguised his hand in this outrageous
communication, that it could not be said
that any similarity existed between them. Butler
remarks, in commenting upon “Junius Identified,”
a work which assumes to prove that Sir
Philip Francis was the author of these celebrated
letters, that the external evidence was sufficient,
he believed, to satisfy a jury of the fact, but that
the internal evidence proved the contrary; that

Sir Philip's mind was not capable of the authorship.
Our evidence was quite the opposite of this
—the internal evidence; the mind and heart of
the party were quite capable of the act; but the
external proof was wanting.

I knew, if I were to ask him if he wrote the
letter, the court would not require him to answer
the question, should he or his counsel object to it,
as no one is bound to criminate himself. But, I
thought, from what I knew of his character, that
he would not employ any aid, and I did not believe
that the prosecuting attorney, who knew him well,
would be over anxious to shield him from the inquiry.
I therefore believed that, by suddenly
producing the letter, and asking him the question,
boldly: “Did you write that?” I might extort
the confession from his conscious guilt. It was
optional with my client, either to have a jury trial,
or to submit the case to the court. I advised the
latter. I knew the judge to be a man of sterling
integrity, who from his heart would despise such
an act as I intended to charge upon the prosecuting
witness.

The witnessing lawyer, who was large enough
to have swallowed my little friend Adam, entered
with great minuteness into the aggravations, horrors,
and death-purpose of the assault. He told
how he was seated in his office, busily engaged in
professional business, when my client entered,

locked the door, and knocked him down, and,
before he was enabled to defend himself, horribly
blackened his eyes. “Ecce signum,” said his
glance at the court, as plainly as ever glance said
it. He was thus prevented, he said, from seeing
anything distinctly that afterwards occurred; my
client, he declared, took advantage of this, and
attacked him with a chair; with the intention of
murdering him.

“It's a lie!” shouted Adam, oblivious of his
whereabout, and advancing toward the witness
with the evident intention of “deepening the
combat” and the “black and blue” of his eye.
His honor ordered silence, looking sternly at
Adam, as if with the purpose of reprimanding
him; when I took advantage of the occasion, and
suddenly opening the letter to the confused gaze
of the witness, demanded, “Did you write that?”
“I must do my duty,” I added, “I have specimens
of your handwriting in court.”

The guilty victim started, and scarcely knowing
what he did, confessed the fact. I asked no more
questions, but handing the letter to the judge,
explained, in a sentence, the relation the witness
had sought to establish for himself in the family
of Mr. Godfrey, and his failure; which, I stated,
I could prove by persons then in court, if the
witness denied it. He replied to me—

“I don't deny it, and that will prove that I
meant no harm in writing the letter.”

The judge thought otherwise. I never saw his
countenance assume such an expression of displeasure
as on this occasion, although he was a
stern man, and had long presided in a criminal
court, which had made him familiar with every
species of depravity. He imposed but a nominal
fine upon my client, and seemed to regret that it
was made his duty to impose any; and then read
the lawyer a lecture, which I am persuaded he
will never forget. He said, he had doubts whether
it was not his duty to exclude him altogether from
the bar. This remark operated as an effectual
expulsion, for the letter-writer left the city a few
weeks after; and if he has not materially mended
his ways, he has certainly ere this appeared as a
prisoner, instead of a practitioner.

Shortly after this trial, in midsummer, I repaired
to the country, obtained a Rosinante, and,
as far as my health would permit, amused myself
—when I left my books, which was very often—
with the little incidents and adventures in the
neighborhood, not forgetting an occasional attendance
at the political meetings. My indisposition
spread a gloom over everything. My father's
family had departed for the West. For many
years they had occupied an estate adjoining my
uncle's; and, with a feverish, morbid fondness, I

delighted to visit the scenes of my boyhood, and
dwell upon every rivulet, and rock, and hill, and
tree that had been familiar to my earliest memory.
How often, in the hush of night, when returning
from town, have I taken a by-way through the
woods, that I might call up old, thick, clustering
associations! With feelings so different from a
child's, when, benighted by the old graveyard, I
have stopped my horse, and tried to recall the
sensations of indescribable awe with which my
schoolmates and myself hurried past, in solemn
silence, when the evening sun had gone down, and
left us lingering in our playful stroll home from
school.

Near by was our parting place; and well do I
remember the echoing shout, or the whistle dying
away in the woods, with which the lonely little
wayfarers beguiled their fears, as they took their
separate paths to their homes. More than one
bonny face was in the group, from which I was
here wont to part, the black or blue-eyed daughters
of our neighbors around. They are mothers
now; and most of them have seen, ere this, the
grave inclose their gray-headed sires, who were
wont to pat me on the head, and promise to vote
for me, if I took the right side in politics, when I
grew to be a man. They are resting in that old
graveyard; and although it is not many years ago,
more than one of their fair-haired daughters are

sleeping their last sleep beside them—stem and
flower together! Twice, with my frail literary
attempts, have I sought the shrine of the autocrats
of literature in the East; the publishers, who
drink their wine, it is said, out of the skulls of
authors; but wide and far, I turned from the monumental
city; for well I knew, I could not bear to
call up old associations to sunder them again. The
final leave-taking, if I die away from these haunts,
cannot give me half the sorrow; I must wait until
the ice grows a little harder around my heart,
before I revisit the home of my childhood. It
will be hard, indeed, even then, if it be not melted
by the memory of “auld lang syne” in the scenes
“where memory first began.”

A day or two after I had settled myself in the
country, my friend Adam, who had been amusing
himself in travelling from village to village with
an itinerant juggler, returned, and called to see
me.

I observed, with deep regret, that he had not
only fallen into the habit of occasional wild intoxication,
but he had also acquired a passion for
gaming, which had already lost him large sums of
money. While he was absent, I had visited his
family frequently, and was delighted with the
beauty, intelligence, and almost angelic purity of
his sister.

With the good old gentleman, I was wont to

hold long discourses upon freewill, predestination,
Wesley, Summerfield, Bascom, and Adam Clarke's
Commentaries. I ventured to remonstrate frequently
with Adam upon his habits; but he always
turned it off with a laugh or joke, or left me without
saying a word. I saw he deeply distressed his
father and sister.

After this, I seldom accompanied him anywhere,
or knew much of what he did, except from a common
friend, whom I shall call Harry, who was attached
to his sister, and who was doing everything
in his power to reclaim her brother and his friend.
I began to fear his efforts were hopeless.

One day Harry came from the city, where they
had been together for a week, and told me that
Adam was with a nest of gamblers; that he had
raised every cent he could control, and lent it to
him; but that he had no doubt he would lose it all.
“They are cheating him foully!” said Harry. “I
told him if he would suffer himself to be made a
dupe of in that way, I would not stand by and see
it, and so I left him.”

That night Adam returned home. He was silent
and sad. A camp-meeting was to commence next
day, and an eloquent and aged missionary, a celebrated
minister, was to deliver a discourse. I had
been all the evening talking with him. His silver
locks parted over his high, calm forehead; his fine
features, the simplicity of his dress and manners;

the naturalness of his conversation, and his gushing,
heartfelt piety, impressed me with feelings of
profound respect. It was a beautiful summer
moonlight night, when the family were all called
together to prayers. Adam was seated moodily
apart, on the porch, and entered the room doggedly.
The missionary addressed us upon the
joys of home, and the homely virtues; told us how
they solaced the cares of life, and prepared us, in
our contemplation of them, for the “home of
homes.” The pathetic tenderness of his language
and manners stole over the heart like the strains
of some touching melody, which the affections seem
to recognize, yet wonder over.

It was like a song of home, heard in a far land;
a memory of the past, which something undefinable
has linked, by an electric chain, with the future.
It was, in fact, the piety of a better world, calling
down blessings, like sunlight, upon the rugged
pathway and weary wanderer of this; cheering
him, the while, to lift his moral eye above the
mists that enshroud him here, to the light that
would lead him to its holy home. He concluded
with a prayer as impressive as his remarks, and
bade us good-night.

As we left the room, Adam said, with an oath,
“that's a good man; don't you think so?”

“I do,” I replied, emphatically.

2. CHAPTER II.

We all took a seat at the end of the porch in
silence, which was interrupted by my inquiry of
Adam “as to how he came on with those fellows?”

“Badly, in their opinion,” replied Adam. “I
knew they were cheating me, and I waited to catch
them at it. I was alone with them, and presently
saw one plainly hide a card. There were three in
the room. I had no friend by, but I was desperate.
I sprang to the door, locked it, drew my pistols,
and told them that I had detected them in the act
of cheating; that I knew there was a combination
among them for that purpose; and,” said I, presenting
my pistols, “you must refund every cent
I ever lost to you, or take your chances! Two of
you I can kill instantly, and the other must take
it `rough and tumble' with a desperate man!”
You know them—Bowling, Jackson, and Sharp.
They tried to laugh it off, but I stood on the
other side of the table, and, drawing out my
watch, gave them just one minute. Bowling
blustered, and swore he'd have the law on me;
but asked me, nevertheless, how much I claimed?

“Fifteen hundred and fifty dollars,” said I.
He's the leader, you know, and he shelled it out.

I pocketed my watch and my money, opened the
door, and left the room. As I passed, I heard
Bowling whisper to the others: “Let's follow him
out, brain him, and get back the money?” as he
said this, all three followed me out. I warned
them to return; they would not, and I fired at the
foremost.”

“Did you kill him?” we all exclaimed at once.

“No; I may have hit him, though I believe
they all returned to their room, and I left the house
unmolested. I am told they mean to get me indicted
for shooting with intent to kill. I don't
care for myself; but the disgrace, let such a trial
end as it may, to the old gentleman and Jane!
Bradshaw, what do you say about it?”

“Why,” said I, plainly, “to tell you the truth,
if you had not been associating with these men so
much lately, your character, and the respectability
of your family, would bear you through with a
grand-jury, and prevent them from finding a bill.
As it is, though they should indict you upon the
false swearing of these men (for from your statement
there would be no grounds), they could not,
in my opinion, possibly obtain a conviction. Did
any one overhear Bowling's remark, about braining
you?”

“Yes; Whelan, the bar-keeper, was in the next
room. It is separated only by a thin board partition,
full of chinks, from the other, and he overheard

it. I have done him some favors; and as I
was leaving the house, we talked the matter over,
and he told me what he had heard. But his testimony
is no better than theirs; he's a gambler,
himself, and they are three to one.”

“I think,” said I, “I can manage it, if they
have not gone too far to retreat. I'll ride in to-morrow.”

“Do, Bradshaw,” said he, grasping my hand;
“and you will do me a service I shall never forget.
I do not care for myself, but the old gentleman
and Jane! He paid a large debt for me, yesterday,
and this, this! That old missionary,” said
he, abruptly interrupting himself, “prayed with
great feeling.”

“Yes, he did!” I replied.

“Adam,” exclaimed Harry, “with not half the
feeling of a prayer I heard this morning. I
walked leisurely out, and arrived here before
breakfast. When it was over, your father and
sister followed me out of the room, and asked for
you. I told them I believed you were in town.
Your sister burst into tears, but said not a word.
I was tired, and going into the front room, I
threw myself on the sofa, behind the folding-doors.
I was lost in thought, and don't know how long it
was before your sister entered the back room,
alone. She kneeled down and prayed aloud; thinking
that no one heard her but the Being to whom

her supplication was addressed. I wish you could
have heard her. She was praying for you.”

Adam sprung to his feet, struck his clenched
hand against his brow, and, rushing from the
porch, passed into an adjacent grove.

I stayed all night, but saw no more of Adam
until the next morning, when he made his appearance
at the breakfast-table, and announced his
intention of accompanying his sister to the camp-meeting.

I mounted my horse, rode into the city, and
proceeded directly to the hotel at which I knew
the gamblers, at least Bowling, stopped. Though
gaming is not among my vices, since I never
played for a cent in my life, yet I knew Bowling
well. We agreed in politics, and he was a great
better on elections; one who gained his point by
indirection, and who, though not so depraved as he
was thought to be, was more vicious than bold.
Once, when he was indicted for gambling, I defended
him.

I asked for him, and was told he was in his
room. Not being disposed to stand upon ceremony,
save when it is required, I asked the number,
and forthwith proceeded thither. I rapped.
A husky voice called, “come in!” I entered. The
gambler had evidently just arisen, late as it was,
for his bed was unmade; and with his coat off,
and in his stocking feet, he was gathering into a

pack a number of cards that were scattered on the
table and floor. On the table, also, were a couple
of empty decanters, and several half-filled glasses,
from the different colored contents of which it was
evident that, though the gamblers might have
agreed as to their game, they had that variety
which is the spice of life in their choice of liquors.
The ends of cigars, which had been thrown, with
an unsteady hand, toward the fireplace, were scattered
around. Bowling appeared a little confused
when he recognized his visitor, but he immediately
rallied. His brow was flushed, and he threw upon
me an inquiring glance, as he said—

“Walk in, Mr. Bradshaw; I am glad to see
you. Anything stirring?”

“Nothing remarkable, that I know of, Bowling;
how is it with you?”

“I am glad to see you, Squire. I was asking,
just now, after you. I have been robbed, sir, of
three thousand dollars?”

“Ah!” said I.

“I'll tell you; you havn t quit the practice,
have you? They told me you were living in the
country. I want your advice. Yes, sir, take a
seat; robbed of three thousand dollars. That infernal
blackleg, Adam Godfrey; I won some
money from him; he drew a pistol on me, swore
he'd kill me, if I did'nt give him three thousand.
I can prove it, both by Jackson and Sharp. Not

only that, but after I paid him the money, as I
was leaving the room, he shot at me. There, sir,
look at that hat; that bullet-hole tells the story.
I'll go the whole law against him. I want you to
go with me to the magistrate's; I must have out a
writ. Nothing less than an attempt to murder!
Simbo'll cool him! You must resist bail, save the
highest. There, sir, that bullet-hole tells the
tale.”

I thought it would have been well, could Adam
have escaped, if the bullet had gone a little
lower.

On discovering what his feelings were, I thought
myself justified, in defending Adam, to practice a
little artifice, for I knew that they would swear
anything against him; this was sufficiently evident,
indeed, from what I now heard; I therefore remarked—

“Bowling, it is proper that I should tell you,
that I am employed by Godfrey against yourself,
Jackson, and Sharp.”

“Against me! for what?”

“Why, he says that you, and the rest, cheated
him out of fifteen hundred dollars, which he made
you refund; that after he left the room, you followed
him out, agreeing to beset him, `brain him,'
and take back the money.”

“Ha! can he prove it?—can he prove it?”

“Yes; he says that a person in the next room, I

believe, through a thin partition, overheard you, as
well as himself; and that on your following him
out, to put your threat into execution, he fired to
defend himself. I shall be sorry to appear against
you, but a lawyer must go for his client. The
truth is, you are well known to be gamblers; and
with this proof, if he should bind you over, the
court would require enormous security. Besides, I
should not be surprised if he could prove that you,
together with Jackson and Sharp, were overheard
conspiring to cheat him, and boasting afterward
that you had succeeded.”

Bowling looked exceedingly black at this. Oh,
what an advantage innocence has over guilt!

“Squire,” said he, in an altered tone, approaching
close to me, “as you say, the hounds are
always after us. If ever there were persecuted
men, we are. Thunder! I'll tell you—”

“Stop, Bowling; remember I am, in this case,
Mr. Godfrey's counsel. Don't tell me anything
against yourself; for I should be sorry to be compelled
to use it.”

“You're right. He's combining with a set of
rascals to put us down; that's it. He knows that
the court and jury will be against us, and after he
has obtained, by threatening our lives, money we
won fairly from him, he wants more; I suppose to
try his luck somewhere else. How much more does
he claim, Squire?”

“I don't know,” I replied, “that he is entirely
certain how much you got from him; but I speak
candidly to you—”

“Do, do; I don't think you have any cause for
being an enemy of mine.”

“None whatever. I appeared for Godfrey once,
when he was charged with an assault and battery.
He nearly beat a doctor to death.”

“He'll die with his shoes on, yet,” interrupted
Bowling.

“I defended him, as I said, since then; I have
known him well, and his family, who have wealth,
and are of the first respectability. On their account,
I don't think, when his temper cools, he will
be very anxious to appear in this business; for if
he should, it would be evident to all that he had
been gambling himself.”

“That's a fact! Gambling?—he's always gambling;
he's one of the biggest blacklegs I ever
knew.”

“His father, I am sure, would object to anything
of the kind, on his part; and I think I have
some influence with the old man.”

“Then, Squire, let's have it hushed up. You
shan't lose by it. But that Godfrey is a perfect
devil! Nobody can do anything with him. He
was once near throwing Jackson, big as he is, out
of a third story window. Do you think he'll cool
off?”

“He wouldn't, if it were not for the exposure.
I'll advise with him.”

“Do—do! Stop, won't you take something to
drink?”

“No, I thank you.”

“When shall I see you, Squire?”

“In a day or two; in the mean time, keep
dark.”

“I will—depend on me; I'll go immediately
and see Jackson and Sharp,” said he, hurrying on
his coat. “Squire, I may depend on you now?”
he continued, offering me his hand.

Taking the proffer, I replied: “The matter
shall be hushed up, Bowling, or it will be your
fault. Forthwith see Jackson and Sharp.”

So saying, I departed, leaving Mr. Bowling in
quite a ruminating mood.

The camp-meeting, which we were about to attend,
was not more than five miles from the residence
of Mr. Godfrey. He did not, therefore,
pitch a tent on the ground, but, accompanied by
the missionary and his daughter, rode over every
day, and as it was moonlight, stayed until after the
evening service. The first day, in consequence of
my visit to Bowling, the blackleg, I did not attend
the camp, but met the family, together with Adam,
who had been with them, at night. I communicated
to the latter what had occurred between Bowling
and myself, at which he was greatly relieved. I

never heard a word more on the subject, except
from the gamblers themselves in their anxious inquiries
to know whether it would be hushed up?
Such a coward is guilt!

That evening we kept our steps from bedward
until much after the usual hour for retiring, employing
the time in agreeable conversation. Adam
sat by, an attentive listener. The missionary rehearsed
to us many scenes in the far West, in which
he had been an actor, of deep interest. He
regretted much that he had never heard Summerfield.

It so happened that I was the only one present
who had heard him; and notwithstanding I told
the venerable minister I was but a child at the
time, yet such was his admiration for that most
eloquent and apostolic man, that he questioned me
over and over again touching my impressions of
him; and I seemed to gain an interest in his eyes,
from the fact that I had looked upon and listened
to that gentle spirit of his church, now “inheriting
the promises.”

The missionary had known my grandfather, and
he spoke of him in terms that greatly gratified me.
“My son,” said he, “your grandfather was a
truly good man. I was with him when he died;
and though it is many years ago, the scene lives in
my heart and memory more vividly than the events
of the hour that have just passed. I was kneeling

by his bedside, and I knew the hour had come, for
I have witnessed many such an hour, my children;
and, O, it is a fearful one to him who is not prepared!
He was perfectly conscious, but the lamp
of life was flickering fast. As he closed his eyes,
apparently in prayer, I said to him: `Brother, tell
me at this earthly parting, are you convinced of
the great principles of our faith?' He opened his
eyes and looked upward, with the calmness and
trust with which a child, when resting in its
mother's arms, will look up into her face, as slumber
steals over it, and said: `I know that my Redeemer
liveth!' It was his last breath that uttered
these words, but his spirit passed away so gently,
that I was not convinced it had departed until I
felt his hand grow cold in mine. I said, then, my
children, to the bystanders, and after long experience
of the world, I say now to you, that I would
rather have been that humble Christian, on his
lowly bed of death, than Napoleon at the head of
his devoted and victorious legions, the conqueror
of the world. The true Christian is a greater conqueror;
he conquers himself. The greatest eulogy
that was ever pronounced on Washington, was
made by his biographer, Ramsay, who in speaking
of the strength of his passions, says: `With them
was his first contest, and over them his first victory.'
This, his first victory, saved our country;
for it enabled him to curb, like an obedient child,
that ambition which, in another heart, might have
gained a giant's strength and prompted its possessor
to grasp at empire. It was this, his first
victory, that illustrated, in his last moments, the
lines of the poet:—
It enabled him calmly, on his death-bed, to review
the great events of his varied existence, and to say
to his physician, who stood beside him: `Doctor,
I am not afraid to die.' How beautiful! There
is in such a scene a philosophy beyond the stoic's,
for it expresses a hope beyond the grave. How
different the earthly parting of Napoleon, chained
on his ocean-washed rock, with a mind as wild as
the waves dying in the hour of the storm, and
mistaking the war of the elements for the thunders
of the battle-field. `Head of the army!' he exclaimed,
in that mad moment, with his last breath,
and his soul took its flight to meet, at the dread
tribunal, the hundreds of thousands whom he had
hurried to their long account, unconscious, unrepentant,
unredeemed.”

Stirred by the tones of the old man, but not
catching his spirit, I exclaimed.

He smiled at my enthusiasm, and then said,
gravely—

“But what were his last hopes?”

“True,” said I:—

“God's mercy is boundless,” said the missionary.
“He is merciful, not only to his dutiful and lovely
child, but the mightiest, the most rebellious, and
the most sinful.”

We had a touching prayer from the missionary,
before we separated. I took a seat on the porch,
and Adam, after pacing to and fro for some time,
at last paused before me, and said—

“`A high-heeled Shoe for a Limping Christian;'
`Hooks and Eyes for Unbelievers' Breeches.' Confound
those books! I read them in my boyhood,
and they gave me a disrespect for the Methodists,
which I never could surmount, until I heard this
good old missionary. I ought to have reflected
that my father and sister at least try to practice
what I believe he both practices and preaches.”

3. CHAPTER III.

When we left the room, after the missionary,
who had gone up stairs, I heard Adam order his
horse. I asked him if he was going to town.

“No,” said he, “a black boy has come over to
say, that Mr. Jones, who has been ill for some
time, is worse. The missionary is going to see
him to-night, and I think I ought to accompany
him, and not leave him to the guidance of the
negro.”

In a few moments the good old man came out,
the horses were brought, and they departed together.
It was after midnight when he and Adam
returned. They reported that Jones died about
an hour after they arrived.

The next day we all proceeded together to the
camp-meeting. I was surprised when Adam again
expressed his determination to attend. We all
rode on horseback. My friend Harry, and I, by
the side of the gentle Jane, and Adam —it was a
little singular—on one side of the missionary, and
his father on the other. The suspicion crossed
my mind more than once, that he was meditating
some mad prank or other.

“No,” thought I, “it cannot be, after such an

occurrence as has just happened, and in the presence
of his father and the clergyman.”

The morning was beautiful. Not a cloud appeared
in the heavens, although the early warmth
threatened a noon of sultriness. We rode up
the turnpike about a mile, and then struck off
into what was called an “old field,” an uninclosed
place, where tobacco had been tilled, until the soil
was exhausted. This was bounded on one side by
a deep ravine, which was bridged over, in which
flowed a stream called Mad Run. A comparatively
slight rain would swell it to a great depth
and wideness, owing to the fact that the country
immediately around its source, and for a long way
beside it, was very hilly, and fed it, particularly
during a rain, with innumerable torrents. As we
were crossing the bridge, I could not but observe
that it was a very slight one, and I lingered behind
my companions, to admire the wild channel,
which the perpetual wear of the waters had made
through the very hills. About twelve or fifteen
feet below the bridge, the waters splashed over a
rocky bed, and, chafed like human beings by resistance,
rushed on like them to the goal.

A pleasant ride over hill and dale, from this
spot, brought us to a place where a hill, covered
with the highest and most luxurious trees, gently
sloped down a crystal brook that wound round its
base, and then meandered on to the Mad Run.

On the side of the hill was the camp-meeting.
Curving up from the brook, the tents were pitched
in the form of a half moon, extending about half-way
up the side of the hill. Midway, between
the extreme tents, under the clump of noble trees,
a temporary pulpit, or rostrum, was erected, from
which the preacher addressed the multitude.

The missionary preached, and most movingly.
As I glanced at a group of fashionable loiterers,
who had been sauntering through the camp, with
easy indifference, uttering witless jests upon the
scene, listening to him with attention, I thought
of the line of the poet:—

He spoke of the sustained contentment of the
good man, amid all the ills of life, because of the
heavenward hope, and contrasted his feelings with
that of the wrong-doer, who, however well situated,
in a worldly point of view, doubts and yet fears
the great results beyond the grave. In speaking
of the immortality of the soul, and the shrinking
which it feels on leaving its earthly tenement, he
employed an illustration which it strikes me I
have heard before, but certainly never so impressively
expressed.

He compared the soul, about to take its upward
flight, to an eagle, which, after long confinement,
finds its prison-door open. “How fearfully,” he

said, in a faint voice—and he seemed to fear to
raise his hand above the pulpit—“how fearfully
it looks forth at first, and then shrinks back!
How, when it ventures forth, it gazes round and
round with a dazzled eye, and casts a wondering
glance upon the day-god above!” Here the
speaker looked timidly at the sun, which, through
the trees, threw a tremulous ray upon him.
“How feebly it essays a little circle, with wing
but half expanded; then it feels its strength of
pinion, and takes a broader sweep, yet casts a longing,
lingering look upon its earthly tabernacle.
Then,” continued he, while the wave of his arm
waxed eloquent, and his tones heart-stirring, “it
circles wider and wider, farther and farther, higher
and higher; its impulses lose their earthliness; it
bathes and gladdens its outstretched wing in the
refulgent beam; it feels the glory more and more,
and its strength is renovated beyond the might of
its prime, until, fixing its unwinking eye on the
glorious orb, it darts upward to the sources of
everlasting light.” As he said this, he advanced,
with upturned hands and eyes, while the rays of
the sun, through an opening in the trees, flashed
upon his long and silvery locks, and threw a halo
around him, that made the man, like the sentiment,
sublime. Methought I saw the heavens open,
and the winged messenger pass the everlasting
skies. The speaker had scarcely concluded, when
the sultriness, which had succeeded the warmth of
the morning, became intense. For some minutes,
not a breath of air stirred, not a leaf moved.
Then the heavens became suddenly overcast; the
clouds floated together in dark masses, like the
gathering of armies; and now and then a fierce
flash broke forth; but, as yet, though through the
trees we could see the clouds moving, the leaves
were motionless, and not a drop of rain fell.

The missionary came to our little group, for we
were all together, and observed:—

“Brother Godfrey, as I am to officiate at the
funeral of Mr. Jones, and as you mean to attend,
had we not better depart? I fear we shall have a
storm.”

We accordingly mounted our horses, and left
the camp. When we were clear of the woods, and
while we were ascending an eminence which commanded
the prospect, the missionary asked Mr. Godfrey
if they were subject to violent storms in that
region? Being informed that we were not, he said
that he had known a storm to force its way with
such violence through a wood, as not to leave a tree
standing in its path. “If you were subject to such
storms here,” he continued, “I should say, from
my experience, that we should have one now. God
grant that it come not over the camp.”

He had scarcely spoken, when the rain began
to fall in big drops, and the roar of the winds, afar

off, could be distinctly heard, as if they were muttering
their wrath, and gathering strength. He
looked around, and said:—

“We must ride fast; there is not air enough stirring
here to give an indication of the way the storm
will sweep; but I believe it will be on this side of
the run. We must on.”

We accordingly put spurs to our horses, and
rode rapidly toward the bridge. The dropping of
the rain now ceased for awhile, but the heavens
grew fearfully dark, and the air began to stir. Our
horses threw back their ears, and seemed, like their
riders, to observe the sky. At this moment, a bolt
that seemed to rend the hills made our path lurid
with light; while our horses trembled, like ourselves,
at the awful peal which accompanied it.
The rain now burst forth; and in an instant the
blast was down upon us, sweeping the valley with
resistless violence. We cast our eyes anxiously to
the camp. We could see indistinctly the white
tents through the trees, but nothing more. Yet
the fury of the storm seemed to be there, for the
air grew thick above it with leaves and the sundered
branches of trees; and presently the horses,
having broken from their fastenings, came dashing
madly past us.

“We are in the hands of God, children!” said
the missionary, calmly. “We must press for the

bridge. The fury of the storm is not here, but this
is dangerous.”

We urged our steeds at the admonition, and an
intervening hill soon hid the camp from our sight;
but the frightened horses of the worshippers still
came dashing on. A tree not fifty yards to our
right, as we turned to the left, was prostrated with
a terrible crash. We reached the stream in safety.
The storm was not so furious there, but the mad
waters came leaping down the ravine, and throwing
their waves towards the bridge, as if anxious to
sweep it away. Several horses from the camp
stood by the bridge, evidently desirous to cross,
but, apparently, kept back by an instinctive sense
of danger.

“Will it not be hazardous to cross the bridge?”
asked Mr. Godfrey.

“I think not,” replied the missionary. “Let
us pass one at a time. I see your horses are
frightened—mine is not. I'll lead the way.”

“No,” said Adam, dismounting and giving to
Harry the bridle of his horse, “let me lead yours
over. You can walk; it will be safer.”

But the missionary said there was no danger,
and spurred his horse toward the bridge.

The well-trained animal drew back for a moment,
and then passed on. The bridge was about
ten yards long. We held back our horses, that
now seemed to have no sense of danger, as their

fellow had none. Those from the camp obeyed
the same impulse, and, being unrestrained, sprang
on the bridge after the missionary's. The frail
structure shook from end to end.

“Father in heaven, be merciful!” ejaculated
Jane, as the missionary, on discovering his peril,
dismounted from his horse. His foot had scarcely
touched the plank, when, with a tremendous crash,
the bridge gave way, and rider and horse were precipitated
into the foaming waves. That wild utterance
which Cooper has so powerfully described
in the “Last of the Mohicans,” as proceeding from
the horse when in distress, and which startled the
brave Hawkeye and the intrepid Indians with a
superstitious dread, now broke forth from the poor
animals, and added, if possible, to the horrors of
the scene.

“He's lost!” exclaimed Mr. Godfrey, in despair.

“Not if I can save him!” exclaimed Adam,
throwing off his coat, and springing to the edge of
the stream.

“My brother, he's a good man; God is with him!
Die not as you are!” exclaimed Jane, in a tone of
intense agony.

“My life is worthless, Jane,” said Adam, with
a calmness so strange, that it struck me, even at
that awful moment.

Adam stood watching for the appearance of the

missionary. The bridge had caught edgewise between
two rocks, on the other side of the stream.
The horses from the camp, that were on the bridge,
appeared first above the water, and were all borne
down, except one that succeeded, by swimming, in
gaining the bank near us, which was not more
than two feet above the flood. On the other side,
just below the spot where the bridge had rested,
part of the rock which held it projected perpendicularly
up several feet. It seemed that the missionary
and his horse were both caught by the
bridge. In a moment more, his horse, which was
a noble animal, arose with his head up stream and
high out of water, while his master was seen
clinging to the bridle. On observing this, Adam
hurried above us, plunged in, and, in spite of the
angry element, by his great skill as a swimmer,
succeeded in gaining precisely what he aimed at,
the bridle of the horse. In an instant he raised
the missionary from the waves. Both were evidently
supported by the bridge, as was the horse.
Quick as lightning Adam placed the upper end of
the stirrup-strap in the missionary's grasp, and
then holding with one hand the horse's head out of
water, with the other he struck out for the shore.
The animal seemed to know that a master spirit
guided him, for he plunged bravely toward us.
Wildly the waves broke over them, and the horse
in vain attempted to breast their fury. The steed
seemed stationary for a moment, and then yielded
to the force of the element. Adam, however, still
continued to keep his head in a proper position.
When they got below the point where the concentrated
rush of the stream from the obstruction of
the bridge had nearly overwhelmed them, Adam
made another effort, a desperate one, to gain the
shore. Here we saw the missionary distinctly;
his head arose above the back of his horse. I see
the holy faith, then on his countenance, now; it is
a picture on my brain, more distinct than that on
the wall before me. As Jane said, “God was with
him.” In much less time than I have taken to tell
it, master and horse, with their brave deliverer,
stood safely upon the shore. Poor Jane swooned
when she saw that her brother was safe.

The storm abated as rapidly as it arose. By a
bridge some miles above, which had withstood the
violence of the waves, we arrived safely at Mr.
Godfrey's. As the missionary was preparing,
though it was then nearly dark, to go to the house
of mourning to perform the rites of sepulture, a
messenger arrived to tell him that, in consequence
of the storm having inundated the graveyard, the
funeral would not take place until the next day, as
another spot was to be selected for the repose of
the dead.

Never shall I forget the holy evening which we
spent after that awful storm. Uninjured in health,

and with spirits gratefully and religiously calm
and pure, the missionary joined the family circle.
Jane looked the personification of pious gratitude,
in its loveliest form—a religious woman. Harry
gazed on her with reverence, while Mr. Godfrey,
for the first time in many years, beheld with pleasure
both his children. But the most remarkable
feature of the group was Adam. That expression
of desperate recklessness, which once possessed his
countenance, had fled. I wondered, as I observed
with what respectful earnestness he listened to the
missionary, if it ever had been there. How kindly he
answered his sister, and without a jest upon her
piety! His very dog, that used to avoid him, because
of the tricks he played him, went wagging
his tail to his master, and laid his head upon his
knee, the picture of faithfulness, as Adam placed
his hand upon it.

But the prayer of that “old man eloquent” that
night! I have heard the great ones of our land, in
the pulpit, at the bar, and in the Senate, in the
palmiest moments of ther oratorical power; but
theirs could no more compare with the heart-touching
pathos of this plain servant of God, than
would the strut and stare of a fashionable tragedian
compare with the simple majesty of Paul before Festus.
He prayed for us all, for the father and for the
children, and for their friend and for myself; and
I have felt from that hour to this, however wayward

my mood and imaginings, that in heaven's
high chancery, I too had a claim and an advocate.
Especially he prayed for Adam. “Let, O Lord!”
he said, in tones that left no eye unmoistened, and
no heart untouched, “the blessings of all the good
I may hereafter be permitted to do, under thy providence,
light upon his head, and be all the evil
mine, as thou has vouchsafed to make him this day
the instrument of thy mercy for the salvation of
thy creature from the wrath to come! And when
thy seventh and last angel, in the last war of the
elements, shall pour forth the vials of thy wrath,
and thy mighty voice shall proclaim unto all the
nations of the earth, `It is done!' forget not this
little household! Shadow them under thy brooding
and protecting wings! Let there be no wanderer
from the flock, but let them all, a family in
heaven, rejoice together in the light of thy everlasting
love.”

When the prayer was concluded, and we arose
from our knees, Adam took a seat by his sister,
and unable, iron-nerved as he was, to control the
emotions that had been swelling in his heart for
days, he laid his head upon her bosom, and “wept,
and was forgiven.”

After all, there is no love less selfish than a
sister's.

So spake the wayward Childe to his sister; and
when wife and daughter were deaf to his fame, and
spoke not his name in their household, and Fanaticism
refused his remains a resting-place among
England's illustrious departed, where sleeps none
worthier, his sister, his “sweet sister,” gave them
consecration, and built over them the monument
which now guards them from the desecration of
those who should have claimed to be nearer and
dearer. And “she, proud Austria's mournful
flower,” where was her mournfulness, when they
gave the hero of the world's history, and her lord,
to the “vulture and the rock?” Cold, selfish, and
sensual, she pursued the routine of courtly patrician
observances, or hastened from them to common
plebeian abandonment; while Pauline, not the
less sensual, but the sister, was anxious to forsake,
for that lonely rock, the voluptuousness of the soft
clime she so loved, to whose glorious statuary her
glowing form had given beauty, that she might
share the exile, and solace the sorrow, and soothe
the loneliness, of that forsaken husband, who was
still to her the man of destiny; still to her a beloved
brother; whose blood was her blood; who
had given her renown and empire, and to whom,
world-forsaken, she could give what is worth the
world, a sister's unchanging love!