CHAPTER XIV.
THE SABBATH.—MARGARET GOES TO MEETING FOR THE FIRST
TIME.—HER DREAM OF JESUS.
It was a Sabbath morning, a June Sabbath morning, a June
Sabbath morning in New England. The sun rose over a
hushed, calm world, wrapt like a Madonna in prayer. It was
The Day, as the Bible is The Book. It was an intersection of
the natural course of time, a break in the customary order of
events, and lay between, with its walls of Saturday and Sunday
night on either side, like a chasm, or a dyke, or a mystical
apartment, whatever you would please liken it to. It was such
a Sabbath to the people of Livingston as they used to have
before steam, that arch Antinomian, “annihilated time and
space,” and railroads bridged over all our vallies. Its light,
its air, its warmth, its sound, its sun, the shimmer of the
dawn on the brass Cock of the steeple, the look of the Meeting-house
itself, all things were not as on other days. And now
when those old Sabbaths are almost gone, some latent indefinable
impression of what they were comes over us, and
wrenches us into awe, stillness and regret.
Margaret had never been to Meeting; the family did not
go. If there were no other indisposing causes, Pluck himself
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expressly forbade the practice, and trained his children to other
habits. They did not work on the Sabbath, but idled and
drank. Margaret had no quilling, or carding, or going after
rum to do; she was wont to sally into the woods, clamber up
the Head, tend her flowers; or Chilion played and she sang,
he whittled trellises for her vines, mended her cages, sailed
with her on the Pond. She heard the bell ring in the morning,
she saw Obed and his mother go by to Meeting, and she
had sometimes wished to go, but her father would never consent.
From the private record of Deacon Hadlock we take
the following:
“State vs. Didymus Hart.
“Stafford, ss. Be it remembered, that on the nineteenth
day of August, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-eight,
Didymus Hart of Livingston, in the County of Stafford, shoe-maker
and laborer, is brought before me, Nathan Hadlock,
Esq., a Justice of Peace for and within the aforesaid County,
by Hopestill Cutts, Constable of Livingston aforesaid, by warrant
issued by me, the said Justice on the day aforesaid, against
the said Didymus, for that the said Didymus Hart, at Livingston
aforesaid, on the twelfth day of May last, being the Lord's
day, did walk, recreate and disport himself on the south side
of the Pond lying in the West District, so called, of Livingston
aforesaid; which is contrary to the law of this State, made
and provided in such cases, and against the peace of this State,
all which is to the evil example of all others in like case offending.
“Wherefore,” witnesses being heard, &c., “it doth appear
to me, the said Justice, that the said Didymus Hart sit in the
stocks for two hours.”
Pluck was seated in the manner prescribed, very much to
the entertainment of the boys, who spattered him with eggs,
the disturbance and exasperation of his wife who preferred
that all inflictions her husband received should come from
herself, and resented any interference from others, and his
own chagrin and vexation, especially as the informer in the
case was Otis Joy, father of Zenas, a Breakneck, whose friendship
he did not value, and Cutts, the executive officer, was the
village shoemaker, and no agreeable rival, and the Justice was
Deacon Hadlock. By way of redress, he chose to keep from
Meeting entirely, and suffer none under his control to go. But
Chilion and Nimrod both urged that Margaret might attend
Church at least once in her life, and Pluck consented. This
morning she heard the bell ring; she saw Obed and his mother
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riding by; the latter dressed in a small shining black satin
bonnet, and gown of similar material, with a white inside
handkerchief; the former in sky-blue coat and ruffled
sleeves, white neck-stock, white worsted vest, yellow buck-skin
breeches, white stockings, and silver-plated buckles,
which had all belonged to his father, whose form was both
shorter and thicker than his son's, and whose garments it certainly
showed great filial reverence in Obed to wear without
essential alteration. Obed had an old look, his face was furrowed
as well as freckled, and his mother, to remedy this disproportion,
and graduate her son to that consideration which
naturally attached to his appearance, had adopted the practice
of powdering his hair, and gathering it in a sack behind; and
for his nearsightedness, she provided him with a pair of broad
horn-bowed bridge spectacles. The whole was surmounted
by a large three-cornered hat. Whatever might have been the
effect of his recent whipping, there was nothing apparent.
His mother, unlike Pluck, would not suffer anything of that
kind to disturb the good understanding she ever wished to
retain with the people of Livingston.
But let us, if you are willing, anticipate these persons a little,
and descend to the village. The people are assembling
for Meeting; they come on all the four roads, and by numerous
foot-paths, across the lots, and through the woods. Many
are on horses, more on foot, and a very few in wagons. The
horses' heads are garnished with branches of spruce and
birch, to keep off the flies; most of the boys and some of the
men are barefoot; divers of the latter are in their shirt-sleeves,
carrying their coats on their arms, and their shirts are also visible
between their vests and breeches; some of the young
ladies have in their hands sprigs of roses, pinks, sweet-williams,
and larkspurs; others both old and young have bunches
of fennel, dill, caraway, peppermint, lad's love; some of the
ladies who ride, leap from their horses with the agility of cats,
others make use of the horse-blocks, four or five of which are
stationed about the Green. You would perhaps particularly
notice old Mr. Ravel and his wife from the North Part of the
town, on horseback, the former straight as an arrow, the latter
a little crooked, and both more than eighty years of age. For
sixty years they have come in that way, a distance of seven
miles; for sixty years, every Sabbath morning, have they
heated their oven, and put in an iron pot of beans, and an
earthen dish of Indian pudding, to bake while they are gone,
and be ready for their dinner when they return. To meet
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any exigencies of this sort in the mean time, you will observe
that Mistress Ravel, in common with many other of the women,
carries on her arm a large reddish calico bag filled with nutcakes
and cheese. You will also see coming down the West
Street Mr. Adolphus Hadlock, nephew of the Deacon's, with
his wife and six children, and Mr. Adolphus will contrive in
some way or other to give you the names of all his children
without your asking, even before he reaches the steps of the
Meeting-house; Triandaphilda Ada, Cecilia Rebecca, Purintha
Cappadocia, Aristophanes, Ethelbert, and a little boy he
carries in his arms, Socrates; and you will hear the young
men and boys that are lolloping on the steps repeat these names
as the several parties to whom they belong arrive. Philip
Davis the sexton, who has himself been watching the people,
now strikes the second bell, and those who live immediately
on the Green begin to turn out, and when he commences tolling,
it is a sign Parson Welles has issued from his house,
which lies about a quarter of a mile from the Meeting-house,
on the South road. There are Mr. Stillwater, the tavern-keeper;
Esq. Weeks with twelve of his children, Isabel and
Judah among them; Judge Morgridge, his wife, his daughter
Susan, and her little brother Arthur; Mr. Cutts, the shoemaker;
Mr. Gisborne, the joiner; Lawyer Beach, and his
family; Dr. Spoor; Deacon Penrose, the merchant; Deacon
Hadlock and his wife; Deacon Ramsdill with his lame leg
and wife; Tony, the barber, with his powdered hair and scarlet
coat; Old Dill, a negro servant of Parson Welles, and
formerly a slave; The Widow Luce, a lady who lives near the
Brook, leading her little hunchback son Job; then you see the
Parson and his wife. This venerable couple have nearly attained
the allotted age of man, and are verging towards that
period which is described as one of labor and sorrow; yet on
the whole they seem to be renewing their youth, their forms are
but slightly bent, and the step of the old minister is firm and
elastic. He is dressed in black, the only suit of the color in
town—if we except that of the sexton, which is known to be
an off-cast of the Parson's—kerseymere coat, silk breeches and
stockings, on his head is a three-cornered hat, and voluminous
white wig, and under his chin are plain white bands; he wears
black silk gloves, and leans on a tall ivory-headed cane. His
wife's dress is of black satin, like that of the Widow Wright's.
Next comes their maiden daughter, known as Miss Amy, and
in near conjunction, the Master. And as if composing a part
of the ministerial train, riding slowly and solemnly behind,
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appears the Widow Wright, who always contrives to arrive at
the Parsonage just as the bell begins to toll. The Parson and
his wife reverently, sedately ascend the steps, the crowd of
men and boys who have been modestly waiting about the
Porch, opens to let them pass, then all fall in behind, and enter
the Church; the bell ceases tolling, and the Green is still
as the grave. This morning considerable sensation was created—
no more indeed than usual on such occasions—by Deacon
Penrose, the clerk of the town, reading the banns of marriage
between Zenas Joy and Delinda Hoag. Leaving these
people, let us go back to the Pond.
Margaret's mother, who took a secret satisfaction in the
good appearance of her child, combed and dressed her hair—
which in its tendency to curl resembled that of Gottfried
Brückmann, while in color it took a shade between that of her
dead and to her unknown parents — put on her white muslin
tunic and pink skirt; she wore also her red beaded moccasins,
and green rush hat. She started away with a dreamy
sense of mystery attaching to the Meeting, like a snow-storm by
moon-light, and a lively feeling of childish curiosity. On the
smooth in front of the house, her little white and yellow chickens
were peeping and dodging under the low mallows with its
bluish rose-colored flowers, the star-tipped hedge-mustard, and
pink-tufted smart-weed, and picking off the blue-and-green flies
that were sunning on the leaves; and they did not seem to
mind her. Hash had taken Bull into the woods, and Chilion
told her she would not need him. Dick her squirrel, and Robin
were disposed to follow, but her mother called them back.
A little yellow-poll, perched in the Butternut, whistled after
her, “Whooee whee whee whee whittiteetee — as soon as I
get this green caterpillar, I will go too.” A rusty wren screamed
out to her, “Os's's' chipper w' w' w' wow wow wow — O
shame Molly, I am going to rob an oriole's nest, I would'nt go
to Meeting.” She entered the Mowing; a bobolink clung tiltering
to the breezy tip of a white birch, and said, “Pee wuh'
wuh' ch' tut tut, tee tee wuh' wuh' wdle wdle pee wee a a
wdle dee dee — now Molly here are red clover, yellow buttercups,
white daisies, and strawberries in the grass; ecod! how
the wind blows! what a grand time we shall have, let us stay
here to-day.” A grass-finch skippered to the top of a stump,
and thrusting up its bill, cried out, “Chee chee chee up chip'
chip' chipperway ouble wee — glad you are going, you'll get
good to-day, don't stop, the bell is tolling.” She thought of
the murderer, and she picked the clover, the buttercups and
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daisies, heads of timothy and fox-tail grass, and some strawberries;
and hurried on; enveloped in the sweet perfume of
the fields. She gathered the large bindweed, that lay on its
back floating over the lot, like pond-lilies, with its red and
white cups turned to the sun and air; and also the beautiful
purple crane's bill, and blue-eyed grass. She came to the
shadows of the woods that skirted the Mowing, where she got
box-berry flowers and fruit, bunch-berry and star-of-Bethlehem
flowers. She entered a cool, grassy, shady close in the forest,
where were beds of purple twin-flower, yellow star-grass, blue
violets, and mosses growing together family-like, under the
stately three-leaved ferns that overhung them like elm-trees,
while above were the birches and walnuts. A black-cap k' d'
chanked, k' d' chanked over her head, and a wood-thrush whoot
whoot whooted, ting a ring tinged in earnest unison. “We are
going to have a meeting here to-day, a little titmouse is coming
to be christened, won't you stop?” But a wood-pecker rapped
and rattled over among the Chesnuts, and on she went. She
crossed the bridge, she decended the ravine, the brook flowed
on towards the village with a winsome glee, and while she
looked at the flies and spiders dancing on the dark water, she
heard a little yellow-throated fly-catcher, mournfully saying,
“Preeo preea preeeeo preeeea—Pray, Margaret, you'll lose
your soul if you don't;” and she saw a wood-pewee up among
the branches, with her dark head bowed over plaintively singing,
“P' p' ee ee ou wee, p' p' ee ee ou wee'—Jesus be true
to you Margaret, I have lost my love, and my heart is sad, a
blue angel come down from the skies, and fold us both in his
soft feathers.” Here she got the white-clustering baneberry,
and the little nodding buff cucumber root. She continued her
way through the woods; she broke off white thorn blossoms
with their red anthers, the beautifully variegated flowers of the
calico bush, large gold-dusted cymes of the pear-leaved viburnum,
and sheep's laurel with its rich rose clusters. The olive-back
fly-catchers answered to one another up among the green
sunny trees. “Whee whoo whee, wee woo woo wee, whee
whoo, whoo whoo wee—God bless the little Margaret! How
glad we are she is going to Meeting at last. She shall have
berries, nutcakes and good preaching. The little Isabel and
Job Luce are there. How do you think she will like Miss
Amy?” The Via Dolorosa became this day to Margaret, a Via
jucundissima. She came to the Pasture, where she again stopped
a moment, and added to her stock of flowers red sorrel blossoms,
beautiful pink azaleas, and sprigs of pennyroyal. Then
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she sorted her collection, tying the different parcels with spears
of grass. The Town was before her silent and motionless,
save the neighing and whinnying of the horses, and squads of
dogs that trolloped to and fro on the Green. The sky was
blue and tender; the clouds in white veils like nuns, worshipped
in the sun-beams; the woods behind murmured their reverence;
and the birds sang their psalms. All these sights,
sounds, odors, suggestions, were not, possibly, distinguished
by Margaret, in their sharp individuality, and full volume of
shade, sense and character. She had not learned to criticise,
she only knew how to feel. A new indefinable sensation of
joy and hope was deepened within her, and a single concentration
of all best influences swelled in her bosom. She took off
her hat and pricked some grass-heads, and blue-bells in the
band, and went on. The intangible presence of God was in
her soul, the inaudible voice of Jesus called her forward. Besides
she was about to penetrate the profoundly interesting mystery
of the Meeting, that for which every seventh day she had
heard the bell ring, that to which Obed and his mother went
so studiously dressed, and that concerning which a whole life's
prohibition had been upon her. And, withal, she remembered
the murderer, and directed her first steps to the Jail.
She tried to enter the Jail House, but Mr. Shooks drove her
away. Then she crept along the fence till she came to a small
hole, through which she saw, on the ground-floor of the Jail,
the grim face of the murderer looking from the small dark
gratings of his cell-window.
“I have brought you some flowers,” said she; “but they
won't let me carry them to you.”
“I know that,” the murderer replied.
“I will fasten a bunch in this hole,” she said, “so you can
see them.”
“I should be glad if I could reach them,” he replied, thrusting
his lean fingers through the bars. “I shall be glad to
look at them. I havn't seen the sun, or heard a pleasant voice
these many months. I am so changed, I don't know as I am
a man. I expect to be hung in a few days, and shall love to
see the flowers before I die. I remember I was a man once,
and had a wife, and a child—I thank you—you are a good girl—
I shall cry again if you stay there any longer.”
She heard the sound of other voices, and she could see the
shadows of faces looking from other cells, and hear voices
where she could see no faces, and the Jail seemed to her to be
full of people, and they cried out to her to bring them flowers.
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Mr. Shooks also made himself apparent to her. “What are
you about here, you little varmint?” exclaimed he, rushiing
from his house. “Encouraging rebellion, breaking the
Sabbath, giving flowers to the prisoners!” He tore away the
bunch she had inserted in the wall; she retreated into the
street, and graining a point where she could see the upper cellwindows,
she displayed her flowers in sight of the prisoners,
holding them up to the extent of her arm, and heard the prisoners
shout with joy. “If words won't do, I'll try what vartue
there is in stones,” said Mr. Shooks, who thereupon, suiting
the action to the word, fairly pelted her away. She directed
her steps to the Meeting-house, and entered the square buttresslike,
mysterious porch; she stood at the foot of the broad-aisle,
and looked in, she saw the Minister, in his great wig, and
band, and black gloves, perched in what seemed to her a high
box, and above him was the pyramidal sounding-board, and
on a seat beneath she saw three persons, in powdered hair,
whom she recognized as the Deacons Hadlock, Ramsdill and
Penrose. Through the balustrade that surrounded the high
pews, she could see the tops of men's and women's heads, and
little boys and girls clutching the rounds with their hands, and
looking out at her. The Minister had given out a hymn,
and Deacon Hadlock rising, read the first line. Then in the
gallery over head, she heard the toot of the Master, and his voice
leading off, and she walked farther up the aisle to see what was
going on. A little tiny girl called out to her from one of the
pews, and Philip Davis, the sexton, hearing the noise, came forward
and led her back into the porch. Philip was not by nature
a stern man, he let the boys play on the steps during the
week, and the young men stand about the doors on the Sabbath.
He wore a shredded wig, and black clothes, as we have
said, and was getting old, and had taken care of the Meeting-house
ever since it was built, and although he was opposed to
all disturbance of the worship, he still spoke kindly to Margaret.
“What do you want?” he said.
“I want to go to Meeting,” she replied.
“Why don't you go?”
“I don't know how,” she answered.
“But you musn't bring all your posies here.”
“May'nt they go to Meeting too?”
“I see,” he added, “you are one of the Injins, and they
don't know how to behave Sabber days. But I'm glad you
have come. You don't know what a wicked thing it is to break
the Sabbath.”
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“Mr. Shooks said I broke it when I went to give the murderer
some flowers, and threw stones at me, and you say I break
it now. Can't it be mended again?”
“You should'nt bring these flowers here.”
“I saw the Widow and Obed bring some.”
“Not so many. You've got such a heap on um.”
“I got a bigger bunch one day.”
“Yes, yes, but these flowers are a dreadful wicked thing on
the Lord's day.”
“Then I guess I will go home. It an't wicked there.”
“Wal, wal. You be a good gal, keep still, and you may
sit in that first pew along with me.”
“I don't want to be shut up there.”
“Then you may go softly up the stairs, and sit with the
gals.”
She ascended the stairs, which were within the body of the
house, and in a pew at the head, she saw Beulah Ann Orff,
Grace Joy, Paulina Whiston, and others that she had seen before;
they laughed and snubbed their handkerchiefs to their
noses, and she turned away, and went round the other side,
where the men sat. The boys began to look at her and
laugh, and Zenas Joy, one of the tithing men, came forward,
and seizing her by the arm, led her back to the girl's side, and
told her to go to her seat. She looked for the Master, but he
was hemmed in by several men, and while she was hesitating
what to do, Old Dill, who was sitting in one corner, with Tony
Washington and Cæsar Morgridge, opened her pew door, and
asked her in. So she went and sat down with the negroes.
Parson Welles had commenced his sermon. She could not
understand what he said, and told Old Dill she wanted to go,
and without further ceremony opened the door and slipped
out. She descended the stairs, moving softly in her moccasins,
and turning up the side-aisle, proceeded along under the high
pews till she came to the corner where she could see the minister.
Here she stood gazing steadfastly at him. Deacon
Hadlock, observing her position, motioned her away. Deacon
Ramsdill came directly forward, took her by the arm, opened
the door of the pew where his wife was, and shut her in. Mistress
Ramsdill gave her some caraway and dill, and received in
return some of Margaret's pennyroyal and lamb-kill, and other
flowers. The old lady used her best endeavors to keep Margaret
quiet, and she remained earnestly watching the Preacher
till the end of the service. The congregation being dismissed,
those who lived in the neighborhood went home; of the rest,
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some went to the stoop of the Crown and Bowl, some sat on
the Meeting-house steps, some strolled into the woods in the
rear; several elderly men and women went to what was called
a “Noon House,” a small building near the Schoolhouse,
where they ate their dinner and had a prayer; quite a number
went to Deacon Penrose's. Of the latter, was the Widow
Wright. Mistress Ramsdill, who lived about a half mile
from the Green, offered to take Margaret to her house, but
the Widow interfered, saying it was too long a walk, and all
that, and prevailed with Margaret to go with her. This going
to Deacon Penrose's consisted in having a seat in his kitchen
Sunday noons, and drinking of his nice cool water. Seats
were brought into the room, the floor was duly sanded, the
pewter in the dresser was bright and glistening. His own
family and their particular relations occupied the parlor. To
this place came Mistress Whiston, and Old Mistress Whiston,
Mistresses Joy and Orff, Breaknecks; Mistresses Hoag and
Ravel, from the North Part of the town; Widows Brent and
Tuck, from the Mill; also Grace Joy, Beulah Ann Orff, Paulina
and Mercy Whiston, and others. They ate nutcakes and
cheese, snuffed snuff, talked of the weather, births, deaths,
health, sickness, engagements, marriages, of friends at the Ohio,
of Zenas and Delinda's publishment, and would have talked
about Margaret, save that the Widow protected the child, assured
them of her ignorance, and hoped she would learn better
by and by. Mistress Whiston asked Margaret how she
liked the Meeting. She replied that she liked to hear them
sing. “Sing!” rejoined Paulina Whiston. “I wish we could
have some decent singing. I was up to Brandon last Sunday,
and their music is enough sight better than ours; they have
introduced the new way almost every where but here. We
must drag on forty years behind the whole world.”
“For my part,” said Mistress Orff, “I don't want any
change, our fathers got along in the good old way, and went
to Heaven. The Quakers use notes and the Papists have their
la sol mee's, and Deacon Hadlock says it's a contrivance to
bring all those pests into the land. Then it make such a disturbance
in the meetings; at Dunwich two of the best deacons
could'nt stand it, and got up and went out; and Deacon Hadlock
says he won't stay to hear the heathenish sounds. It's only
your young upstarts, lewd and irregular people, and the like of
that, that wants the new way.”
“If our hearts was only right,” said Mistress Tuck, “we
should'nt want any books; and the next thing we shall know,
they will have unconverted people singing.”
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“We have got some better leaders,” rejoined Paulina,
“than Deacon Hadlock and Master Elliman; their voices are
old and cracked, and they drawl on Sunday after Sunday, the
same old tunes in the same old way.”
“If we once begin to let in new things, there is no knowing
where they will stop,” replied Mistress Orff.
“It is just so,” said the Widow Tuck. “They begun with
wagons and shays, and the horses wan't used to the noise, and
got frightened and run away; and our Eliashib came nigh
spraining his ankle.”
“I remember,” said the elder Mistress Whiston, “when old
Parson Bristead down in Raleigh, used to sprinkle thirty bushels
of sand on his floors every year, and I don't believe Parson
Welles uses five.”
“Yes, yes,” said her daughter-in-law, “great changes, and
nobody can tell where it will end.”
“When I was a gal,” continued the senior lady, “they
didn't think of washing but once a month—”
“And now washing days come round every Monday,” added
Paulina. “If you will let us have some respectable singing,
I will agree to go back to the old plan of washing, Grandma,
ha ha!”
“It's holy time, child,” said her mother.
“I remember,” said the Widow Brent, who was a little
deaf, “milking a cow a whole winter for a half a yard of
ribbin.”
“I remember,” said Mistress Ravel, “the Great Hog up in
Dunwich, that hefted nigh twenty score.”
“If you would go up to the Pond, to-day,” said Margaret,
“I guess Chilion would play you a better tune on his fiddle
than they sing at the Meeting.”
“Tush, Tush!” said the Widow Wright.
“There, there! You see what we are coming to;” said
Mistress Orff.” “Booly Ann where was the Parson's text this
forenoon?”
The Widow Wright assumed the charge of Margaret in the
afternoon. She kept quiet, till the prayer, when the noise of
the hinge-seats, or something else, seemed to disconcert her,
and she told her protectress she wanted to go home. The
Widow replied that there was to be a christening, and prevailed
with her to stop, and lifted her on the seat, where she could
witness the ceremony. The Minister descended from the pulpit,
and Mr. Adolphus Hadlock carried forward the babe;
which was enveloped in a long flowing blanket of white tabby
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silk, lined with white satin, and embroidered with ribbon of
the same color. The Minister from a shining pewter basin
sprinkled water in the face of the child, saying, “Urania
Bathsheba, I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and Son,
and Holy Ghost.” Margaret was not alone in the number
of causes that disturbed the serenity of the Meeting that day;
there was an amount of mirth in the minds of the people at
large, respecting Mr. Adolphus Hadlock's children, which as a
matter of course must spend itself on their annual return to the
altar. When the afternoon services were over, Mistress Ramsdill
insisted on Margaret's remaining to the catechising, an
arrangement to which the Widow Wright, who intended to
take the child home, consented. Margaret herself indeed at
first demurred, but Deacon Ramsdill supported the request of
his wife with one of his customary smiles, remarking that,
“Catechising was as good arter the sermon to the children, as
greasing arter shearing, it would keep the ticks off,” which he
said, “were very apt to fly from the old sheep to the lambs.” The
class, comprising most of the youths in town, was arranged in
the broad-aisle, the boys on one side, and the girls on the other,
with the Minister in the pulpit at the head. Mistress Ramsdill
with Margaret, and several of the elderly people, occupied
the neighboring pews.
“What is the chief end of man?” was the first question; to
which a little boy promptly and swiftly gave the appropriate
answer. — “How many persons are there in the Godhead?”
“There are four persons persons in the Godhead” — replied
a little boy in the same tone of confidence that characterized
his predecessor. But before he could give the entire answer,
there was a cry all about, “'Tan't right, 'tan't right.” The
Minister, being a little deaf, did not perceive the error, or at
least did not correct it. Deacon Hadlock at the instance of
Miss Amy intimated to him that there was a mistake. The
boy thus doubly challenged, seemed disposed to make good his
position. “'Tis right,” said he in a whisper loud enough to
be heard over the house, at the same time counting on his
fingers, “Marm said 'twas just like her and Daddy and me that
made three in one family, and now Grandad has come to live
with us it makes four.” The inadvertence being adjusted, the
questioning proceeded. “Wherein consists the sinfulness of
that state wherein man fell?” “The sinfulness of that state
wherein man fell, God having out of his mere good pleasure,
elected some to everlasting life, all mankind by the Fall are
under his wrath and curse, and so made liable to the pains of
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Hell forever,” was the rapid and disjointed answer. The question
stumbling from one to another, was at length righted by
Job Luce, the little hunchback. His voice was low and plaintive,
soft and clear. Margaret looked over the pew to see him.
There were signs of dissatisfaction on the faces of others, but
his own was unruffled as a pebble in a brook. He was
shockingly deformed, his arms were long as an ape's, and he
seemed almost to rest on his hands, while his shoulders rose
high and steep above his head. “That's Job Luce,” whispered
Mistress Ramsdill to Margaret; “and if there ever was a
Christian, I believe he is one, if he is crooked. Don't you see
how he knows the Catechism; he has got the whole Bible eeny
most by heart, and he is only three year old.” Margaret's
eye became riveted on the boy, and the whole Catechism, Effectual
Calling, Justification, Adoption, and Sanctification, were
disposed of, without further attention on her part. When the
children were dismissed, she broke from her kind friend, the
Deaconess, and took Job by the hand, while little Isabel
Weeks joined him on the other side. She looked into his
face, and he turned up his mild timid eye to her as much as to
say, “Who are you that cares for me!” In truth, Job was,
we will not say despised, but for the most part neglected. His
mother was a poor widow, whose husband had been a shoemaker,
and she supported herself and son binding shoes.
The old people treated her kindly, but rather wondered at her
boy; and what was wonder in the parents degenerated into
slight, jest, and almost scorn, in the children; so that Job
numbered but few friends. Then he got his lessons so well,
that the more indolent and duller boys were tempted to envy
him.
“You didn't say the Catechism,” said he to Margaret.
“No,” she replied, “I don't know it; and I guess it isn't
so good as my Bird Book and Mother Goose's Songs.” Their
conversation was suddenly interrupted by an exclamation and
a sigh proceeding from Miss Amy and the Widow Luce, who
were close behind them.
“Oh dear! My poor boy! Woe, woe to a sinful mother!”
was the sigh of the latter.
“Child, child!” exclaimed the former, addressing herself
to Margaret, “don't you like the Catechism?”
“I don't know it,” replied Margaret.
“She an't bad, if they do call her an Injin,” said Isabel.
“I want to tell her about Whippoorwill,” said Job.
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“God's hand lies heavily upon us!” mournfully ejaculated
the Widow.
“Can anything be done in such a sad state of things?”
anxiously asked Miss Amy.
The several parties stopped. Miss Amy took Margaret's
hand, Job's was relinquished to that of his mother; and as
Margaret's course properly lay in a different direction, she
turned up the West Street, and Miss Amy walked on with
her.
“Did you never read the Primer?” asked the latter.
“No, Ma'am,” was the reply.
“Do you know what God is?”
“The little boy said God was a spreeit.”
“Have you never learned how many persons there are in
the Godhead?”
“One of the little boys said there were four, but the others
said there were three.”
“Three, my child, three.”
“How do they all get in? I should love to see it.”
“Oh! Don't talk so, you amaze me. How dare you speak
in that way of the Great Jehovah!”
“The great what?”
“The Great God, I mean.”
“I thought it was a bird.”
“Alas! Can it be there is such benighted heathenism in
our very midst!” said the lady to herself. Her interest in the
state of Margaret was quickened, and she pursued her enquiries
with a most philanthropic assiduity.
“Do you never say your prayers?” she asked.
“No, Ma'am,” replied Margaret. “But I can say the Laplander's
Ode and Mary's Dream.”
“What do you do when you go to bed?”
“I go to sleep, Ma'am, and dream.”
“In what darkness you must be at the Pond!”
“O no, I see the Sun rise every morning, and the snowdrops
don't open till it's light.”
“I mean, my poor child, that I am afraid you are very
wicked there.”
“I try to be good, and Pa is good when he don't get rum at
Deacon Penrose's, and Chilion is good, he was going to mend
my flower bed to-day, to keep the hogs out.”
“What, break the Sabbath! Violate God's holy day! Your
father was once punished in the Stocks for breaking the Sabbath.
God will punish us all if we do so.”
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“Will it put our feet in the Stocks the same as they did
father?”
“No, my child. He will punish us in the lake that burneth
with fire and brimstone.”
“What, the same as Chilion and Obed and I burnt up the
bees?”
“Alas! alas!” ejaculated the lady.
“We were so bad,” continued Margaret, “I thought I
should cry.”
“Deacon Penrose and the rest of us have often spoken of
you at the Pond; and we have thought sometimes of going
up to see you. In what a dreadful condition your father is!”
“Yes, Ma'am, sometimes. He rolls his eyes so, and groans,
and shakes, and screams, and nobody can help him. I wish
Deacon Penrose would come and see him, and I think he
would not sell him any more rum.”
“But, my child, don't you know anything of the Great
God who made you and me?”
“Did that make me? I am so glad to know. The little
chickens come out of the shells, the beans grow in the pods,
the dandelions spring up in the grass, and Obed said I came
in an acorn, but the pigs and wild turkeys eat up the acorns,
and I can't find one that has a little girl in it like me.”
“Would you like to come down to Meeting again?”
“I don't know as I like the Meeting. It don't seem so
good as the Turkey Shoot and Ball. Zenas Joy didn't hurt
my arm there, and Beulah Ann Orff and Grace Joy talked
with me at the Ball. To-day they only made faces at me,
and the man at the door told me to throw away my flowers.”
“How deceitful is the human heart, and desperately
wicked!”
“Who is wicked?”
“We are all wicked.”
“Are you wicked? then you do not love me, and I don't
want you to go with me any farther.”
“Ah, my dear child, we go astray speaking lies as soon as
we be born.”
“I never told a lie.”
“The Bible says so, child.”
“Then the Bible is not true.”
“Do not run away. Let me talk with you a little more.”
“I don't like wicked people.”
“Yes, but I want to speak to you about Jesus Christ, do
you know him?”
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“No, Ma'am—Yes Ma'am, I have heard Hash speak about
it when he drinks rum.”
“But did you not hear the Minister speak about him in the
pulpit to-day?”
“Yes, Ma'am,—does he drink rum too?”
“No, no, child, he only drinks brandy and wine.”
“I have heard Hash speak so when he only drank that.”
“The Minister is not wicked like Hash,—he does not get
drunk.”
“Hash wouldn't be wicked if he didn't drink. I wish he
could drink and not be wicked too.”
“O we are all wicked, Hash and the Minister, and you and
I; we are all wicked, and I was going to tell you how Christ
came to save wicked people.”
“What will he do to Hash?”
“He will burn him in hell-fire, my child.”
“Won't he burn the Minister too? I guess I shan't come to
Meeting any more. You and the Minister, and all the people
here are so wicked. Chilion is good, and I will stay at home
with him.”
“The Minister is a holy man, a good man I mean, he is
converted, he repents of his sins. I mean he is very sorry he
is so wicked.”
“Don't he keep a being wicked? You said he was
wicked.”
“Why, yes, he is wicked. We are all totally depraved.
You do not understand. I fear I cannot make you see it as it
is. My dear child, the eyes of the carnal mind are blind, and
they cannot see. I must tell you, though it may make you
feel bad, that young as you are, you are a mournful instance
of the truth of Scripture. But I dare not speak smooth
things to you. If you would read your Bible, and pray to
God, your eyes would be opened so you could see. But I did
want to tell you about Jesus Christ, who was both God and
Man. He came and died for us. He suffered the cruel death
of the cross. The Apostle John says, he came to take away
the sins of the world. If you will believe in Christ he will
save you. The Holy Spirit, that came once in the form of a
dove, will again come, and cleanse your heart. You must
have faith in the blood of Christ. You must take him as
your Atoning Sacrifice. Are you willing to go to Christ, my
child?”
“Yes, Ma'am, if he won't burn up Hash, and I want to go
and see that little crooked boy too.”
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“It's wicked for children to see one another Sundays.”
“I did see him at Meeting.”
“I mean to meet and play and show picture-books, and
that little boy is very apt to play; he catches grasshoppers,
and goes down by the side of the brook, before sundown;—
that is very bad.”
“Are his eyes sore, like Obed's, sometimes, so that the
light hurts him?”
“It is God's day, and he won't let children play.”
“He lets the grasshoppers play.”
“But he will punish children.”
“Won't he punish the grasshoppers too?”
“No.”
“Well, I guess, I an't afraid of God.”
Miss Amy whether that she thought she had done all she
could for the child, or that Margaret seemed anxious to break
company with her, or that she had reached a point in the
road where she could conveniently leave her, at this instant
turned off into Grove Street, and Margaret pursued her course
homeward. She arrived at the Pond a little before sunset;
she fed her chickens, her squirrel and robin; her own supper
she made of strawberries and milk in her wooden bowl and
spoon. She answered as she was best able to all the enquiries
and banterings of the family relative to her new day's adventure.
She might have been tired, but the evening air and
the voices of the birds were inviting, and her own heart was
full of life; and she took a stroll up the Indian's Head.
Along a tangled path, trod by sheep, more by herself, and
somewhat by visiters to the Pond, she wound her way to the
summit. This, as we have said, was nearly one hundred feet
above the level of the Pond; on the top were the venerable
trunk of the Hemlock before referred to, a small cluster of
firs, a few spears of yellow orchard grass, and brown sorrel,
sparse tufts of hare-bells and buttercups, bunches of sweetfern,
and mosses growing on the rocks. From the south front
projected a smooth shelving rock directly over the water,
forming the brow of the so called Head. This elevation commanded
points of extensive and varied interest; the Pond
below, its dark waters dotted with green islands, its forest-skirted
shore, the outlet, the dam, the deep and perpetual gurgle
of the falling water. Beyond the dam was a broken congeries;
the result of wild diluvial force; horrid gulfs, high
rocky pinnacles, trees aslant, green dingles; to the west, the
hills crept along by gentle acclivities, and swelling upwards,
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formed, to an untrained eye, the apparent boundaries of this
nether world. On the north was a continuation of the ridge
of mountains of which the Head itself seemed to be the close,
proceeding indefinitely till they met and melted into the sky.
On the north-west, buried like a cloud in the dimmest distance,
appeared the round, bald, but soft and azure crown of
Old Umkiddin. Beyond the Pond, on the south, extended a
forest without visible break or limitation. Turning to the
east one beheld the River, its meadows, the mountain beyond,
and below you, were portions of the village; to the south,
through the tops of the woods, some of the houses in No. 4
were seen; and on the south-west lay the hamlet, Breakneck.
In every direction, here and there, on side hills, in glades of
the forest, among orchard-groves, appeared the roofs of houses
and barns, dappling the scene, and reflecting in the middle of
the day, a grey silvery light, like mica in granite. To this
place Margaret ascended; here had she often come before,
and here in her future life she often came. She went up
early in the morning to behold the sun rise from the eastern
mountain, and be washed by the fogs that flowed up from the
River; at noon, to lie on the soft grass, under the firs, and
sleep the midtide sleep of all nature; or ponder with a childish
curiosity on the mystery of the blue sky and the blue hills; or
with a childish dread, on that of the deep dark waters below
her. She came up in the Fall to gather thimble, whortle and
rasp-barries that grew on the sides of the hill, and get the
leaves and crimson spires of the sumach for her mother to
color with. She now came up to see the sun go down; she
sat on the grass, with her hands folding her knees. Directly
on the right of the sun-setting, was an apparent jog or break
in the line of the woods and hills, having on one side something
like a cliff or sharp promontory, jutting towards the
heavens, and overlooking what seemed like a calm clear sea
beyond; within this depression lay the top of Umkiddin, before
spoken of; here also, after a storm, appeared the first
clear sky, and here at mid-day the white clouds, in long
ranges of piles, were wont to repose like ships at anchor, and
Margaret loved to look at that point. Nearer at hand, she
could see the roads leading to Dunwich and Brandon, winding,
like unrolled ribbons, through the woods. There were
also pastures covered with grey rocks, looking like sheep; the
green woods in some places were intersected by fields of
brown rye, or soft clover. On the whole, it was a verdant
scene,—Greenness, like a hollow Ocean, spread itself out
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before her; the hills were green, the depths were green, the
trees, grass and weeds were green; and in the forest, on the
south margin of the Pond, the darkness, as the sun went down,
seemed to form itself into caverns, and grottoes, and strange
fantastic shapes, in the solid Greenness. In some instances
she could see the tips of the trees glancing and frolicking in
the light, while the greedy shadows were crawling up from
their roots, as it were out of the ground to devour them.
Deep in those woods the black-cap and thrush still whooted
and clang unweariedly; she heard also the cawing of crows,
and the scream of the loon; the tinkle of bells, the lowing of
cows, and the bleating of sheep were distinctly audible. Her
own Robin, on the Butternut below, began his long, sweet,
many-toned carol; the tree-toad chimed in with its loud trilling
chirrup; and frogs, from the Pond and Mill Brook,
crooled, chubbed and croaked. Swallows skimmered over
her, and plunged into the depths below; swarms of flies in circular
squadrons skirmished in the sunbeams before her eye;
and at her side, in the grass, crickets sung their lullabies to
the departing day; a rich, fresh smell from the water, the
woods, the wild-flowers, the grass-lots, floating up over the
hill, regaled her senses. The surface of the Pond, as the
sun receded, broke into gold-ripples, deepening gradually into
carmine and vermillion; suspended between her eye and the
horizon was a table-like form of illuminated mist, a bridge of
visible sun-beams shored on pointed shining piers reaching to
the ground. Margaret sat, we say, attentive to all this; what
were her feelings we know not now, we may know hereafter;
and clouds that had spent the Sabbath in their own way, came
with her to behold the sun-setting; some in long tapering
bands, some in flocky rosettes, others in broad, many-folded
collops. In that light they showed all colors, rose, pink,
violet and crimson, and the sky in a large circumference
about the sun weltered in ruddiness, while the opposite side
of the heavens threw back a purple glow. There were
clouds, to her eye, like fishes, the horned-pout, with its pearly
iridine breast, and iron-brown back; floating after it was a
shiner with its bright golden armory; she saw the blood-red
fins of the yellow-perch, the long snout of the pickerel with
its glancing black eye, and the gaudy tail of the trout. She
saw the sun sink half below the horizon, then all his round
red face go down; and the light on the Pond withdraw, the
bridge of light disappear, and the hollows grow darker and
darker. A stronger and better defined glow streamed for a
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moment from the depths of the sun, into the sky, and flashed
through the atmosphere. The little rose-colored clouds
melted away in their evening joy, and went to rest up in the
dark unfathomable chambers of the heavens. The fishes
swam away with the sun, and plunged down the cataract of
light that falls over the other side of the earth; and the broad
massive clouds grew darker and grimmer, and extended themselves,
like huge-breasted lions couchant which the Master
had told her about, to watch all night near the gate of the
sun. She sat there alone, with no eye but God's to look upon
her; he alone saw her face, her expression, in that still, warm,
golden sun-setting; she sat as if for her the sun had gone
down, and the sky unloosed its glory; she sat mute and undisturbed,
as if she were the child-queen of this great pageant
of Nature.
While at the Pond, the birds were closing their strains, and
Margaret was taking her parting look of the sky, in the village
at the same moment, broke forth the first song of the day, and
was indulged the first unembarrassed vision. When the last
shimmer of blue light vanished from the top of the mountain
beyond the River, whither tenscore eyes were turned, there
exploded the long twenty-four hours pent up, and swollen
emotion of tenscore hearts and voices. “Sun's down!”
“sun's down!” was the first unrestrained voice the children
had uttered since the previous afternoon. This rang out in
every family, was echoed from house to house. The spell
was broken, the tether was cut, doors and gates flew open,
and out the children broke into the streets, to breathe a fresh
feeling, clutch at a tantalizing and fast receding enjoyment,
and give a minute's free play to hands, feet and tongues. An
avalanche of exuberant life seemed to have fallen from the
glacier summits of the Sabbath, and scattered itself over the
Green. The boys leaped and whooped towards the Meeting-house,
flung their hats into the air, chased one another in a
sort of stampede, and called for games with all possible vociferation.
Little Job Luce alone seems to have no share in the
general revel. He has been sitting by the Brook under a
willow, and as the boys come trooping by, he shrinks into the
house; his mother holds him awhile in her lap at the window,
when he, as the grasshoppers have already done, goes to bed.
The villagers, Abel Wilcox and Martha Madeline Gisborne,
Hancock Welles and Hester Penrose, Deacon Ramsdill and
his wife, Deacon Hadlock, Dr. Spoor and his wife, Esq.
Beach, his wife and children, appear in the streets, they walk
up the different roads, and visit from house to house.
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The Indian's Head, meanwhiles, sinks into shadows and
silence, and Margaret is hushed as the sky above her; the
cool fresh evening wind blows upon her, trills through her
brown curls and passes on. Her mother appeared on the top
of the hill, and without words or noise sat down beside her.
She folded her arm about Margaret's neck, and with one hand
grasped and fingered that of her child, and with the other
dallied with the locks of her hair;—but abstractedly, and with
her eye fixed on the darkening expanse. Her own grizzled
hair was swept by the wind, and her bared swarthy bosom
seemed to drink in life from the twilight world. In calm
sternness, in mute brownness she sat, and apparently thoughtful,
and as it were unconsciously she pressed Margaret hard to
her breast. Was it an old memory, some old hope, some
recollection of her own childhood, some revival of her own
mother's image—was it some feeling of despair, some selfish
calculation, a dim glimpse into eternity, an impulse of repenting
sin, a visitation of God's spirit—was it a moment of unavowed
tenderness? Presently Chilion came up with his viol,
and going to the projecting rock, sat with his feet dangling
over the precipice. Margaret leaving her mother went to her
brother, stood leaning on his shoulder, and looked down into
the mysterious depth below. Her brother began to play, and
as if he had imbibed the dizziness, dread and profundity of
that abyss, played accordingly, and she shuddered and started,
and then relieving the impression, he played the soft, starry,
eternal repose of the heavens, and chased away that abyssmusic
from her soul. Then her father came up, his red face
glistening even in the shadows, with a bottle of rum, which he
drank, and laughed, and repeated over to her many passages
of the Bible, and imitated the tones, expressions and manners
of all the religious persons whom Margaret had seen in the
village; and then making a papoose of her, he carried her
down the hill.
That night Margaret dreamed a dream, and in this wise
dreamed she. She was in a forest, and the sun was going
down among the trees. Its round red disk changed to yellow,
as she looked, and then to white; then it seemed to advance
towards her, and the woods became magically luminous. She
beheld her old familiar birds flying among the branches with a
singularly lustrous plumage, the wild-flowers glowed under her
feet, and the shrubbery glittered about her. The ball of light
came forward to a knoll or rise of ground, about a dozen rods
before her, and stopped. A gradual metamorphosis was seen
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to go on in it, till at last it came out in the form of a man, like
a marble statue, dressed not as Margaret had been accustomed
to see, but in a simple robe that descended to his feet, and he
leaned upon a milk-white cross. Near this appeared another
form of a man, clothed in a similar manner, but smaller in size,
and perched on his hand was a milk-white dove. Margaret
looked at these men, or forms of men, in silent wonder. Presently
she saw a suffusion and outflowing of animal life in
them. The face of the first was pale but very fair, and a
hidden under-tinge of color seemed to show through an almost
transparent skin, as she had seen the blush of the white goose-foot
shining through a dew drop. In the preternatural light
that filled the place, Margaret saw that his eyes were dark-blue,
and his hair, parted on the crown, flowed in dark-brown
curls down his neck. The appearance of the other was
similar, only the glow on his cheeks seemed to be more superficial,
and his look was more youthful. The cross on which
the elder leaned, Margaret now saw set in the ground, where
it grew like a tree, budded and bore green leaves and white
flowers, and the milk-white dove, becoming also endowed with
life, flew and lit upon the top of it. She then saw the younger
of the two men pick flowers from the blooming cross-tree, and
give them to the other, who seemed pleased with their beauty
and fragrance. She found herself moving towards these two
persons, who had so singularly appeared to her, and when she
saw one of them pick off the flowers, she was secretly impelled
to gather some. She proceeded to collect such as grew near
her, calico bush, Solomon's seal, lambkill and others similar to
those she found in the woods on her way to the Meeting, which
she tied with a grass string. Then she got a large bunch of
checker, partridge and strawberries. She carried her flowers
in one hand and her berries in the other. All at once the
milk-white dove flew from the green cross-tree and alighted
upon her shoulder, thus seeming to establish a communication
between herself and these two persons, and as she moved on,
all the birds in the woods, the same as she had heard in the
morning, sung out right merrily. When she stopped, they
ceased to sing, and when she started, they began again. As
she was going on, suddenly issuing from behind a tree, appeared
to her in her dream, the same lady who had talked with
her after meeting, Miss Amy.
“Where are you going?” said the lady.
“I am going to see those men, and give that beautiful one
these flowers and berries,” replied Margaret.
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“That is Jesus Christ that I told you about this afternoon,
and the other is the Apostle John,” rejoined the lady.
“Is it?” said Margaret, “then I think he won't want my
flowers.”
“No,” added the lady. “He is God, the second person in
the Godhead. He does not want flowers.”
“Is he?” asked Margaret. “One of those things you told
me about in the Catechism? I am so sorry.”
“He is the same in substance with the Father, equal in
power and glory. He does not want your flowers, he wants
you to believe in him; you must have faith in that cross.”
“What shall I do?” responded Margaret. “I was going
to carry him some flowers, I saw him smell of some. He looks
as if he would love me.”
“Love you?” rejoined the lady. “What does the Primer
say, that you deserve everlasting destruction in hell, that you
have not prayed to God, and have broken his Holy Sabbaths.”
While they were talking, the birds ceased to sing, and the
dove leaving Margaret's shoulder, flew back to the cross. She
started impulsively and said, “I will go.” As she proceeded
slowly along, in the variegated phenomena of the dream,
Deacon Hadlock stood before her, and asked her where she
was going, to whom she made the same reply as before.
“You cannot go,” said he, “unless you are effectually
called. You are wholly disabled by reason of sin.”
“It is only a little ways,” replied she, “and I went clear
down to the village to-day alone. He looks as if he wanted
me to come.”
“Yes,” rejoined the Deacon, “if you were in a right frame
of mind, if you were duly humbled. You are vain, proud,
deceitful, selfish and wholly depraved.”
“No, I am not,” replied she.
“Even there you show the blindness of the carnal mind.”
“He is beckoning to me,” said Margaret.
“If he should appear to you as he truly is, a just God, who
hates sin, and should gird on his sword, then your rebellious
heart would show itself, then you would hate him.”
While Deacon Hadlock detained Margaret, the Widow
Luce went by leading her crooked boy Job, Mistress Adolphus
Hadlock and her son Socrates, Mistress Whiston and her
youngest daughter Joan, Mistress Hatch and her little boy
Isaiah, and Helen Weeks with her brother and sister Judah
and Isabel, and several elderly people, men and women.
“He an't a hanging on the cross as he is in the Primer,” said
Isaiah Hatch.
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“Where is the tub, Ma?” asked Joan Whiston. “I
thought you said we were going to be washed in his blood.”
“Blessed Saviour! by faith I behold thee!” exclaimed
Mistress Palmer, coming through the woods.
“I guess he don't want you,” said Judah Weeks to Job
Luce.
“I shall have as many raisins as I can eat when I get to
heaven,” said Socrates Hadlock.
“I thought he was coming to judgment, in clouds and flaming
fire, taking vengeance on them that know not God,” said the
Camp-Preacher looking from behind a tree.
John the disciple and companion of Jesus was now seen
approaching. “Welcome to Jesus!” he said, as he came
near to the people. “The good shepherd welcomes his flock!
as saith the old Prophet, `He will take the lambs in his bosom
and gently lead those that are with young.' He is the Eternal
Life now manifested unto you; come to him that he may give
you some of his life; he is the truth, he will impart to you that
truth; approach him that his own divine image may be reflected
in you; love him, and so become possessed of his
spirit.” The crowd drew back, or rather within itself, as the
holy Apostle approached speaking. Children snuggled to their
parents, and the elderly people seemed disconcerted. “Christ
bids me say,” continued the Apostle, “Suffer the little
children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of
heaven.”
“I know not how many of us may be included in this invitation,”
said Deacon Hadlock, as the senior officer of the
church, and more prominent man, speaking on behalf of the
company.
“Whosoever thirsts,” replied the Apostle, “let him come.
Whoever would have the true life, like a well of water springing
up in his soul, let him come to the living source.”
“It is to be hoped that some of us have been made worthy
partakers of the efficacy of Christ's death,” said Deacon
Penrose.
“Whosoever doeth not righteousness,” rejoined the Apostle,
“is not of God, neither he that loveth not his brother; every
one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.”
“I want he should take me in his arms and bless me, as he
did the little children in the Bible,” said Isabel Weeks to her
sister.
“He looks so beautiful and good,” said Helen. “I should
rejoice to go near him. It seems as if my heart had for a
great while longed to meet such gentleness and purity.”
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“Alas!” exclaimed Deacon Hadlock, “that you should apply
again that unction to your lips! You think your natural
amiability will commend you to Christ. You believe there is
something good in your nature.—“When,” added he turning to
the Apostle, “when will this young gal see herself as she is, feel
her own sinfulness, her utter helplessness by nature, and throw
herself on the mere mercy of God?”
“Hold!” said the Apostle. “She is in the way of salvation.
Her natural amiability is pleasing to Christ. He was
amiable in his youth before God and man. No human being
is sinful by nature. If she have deep love in her soul, that will
remove all traces of the carnal mind. Her love, I see it now,
flows out to Jesus, and his love ever flows out to her, and all
the children of men, and in this union of feeling and spirit will
she become perfect in holiness.”
By this time, little Job Luce, as it seemed in the dream,
forgotten and neglected by the crowd, slipping away unobserved,
and creeping through the bushes and trees, had gone round
and come out near the cross, under which he stood, and began
playing with the Dove, that offered itself very familiarly to him.
When Margaret saw this, she said she would go too, and
Helen and Isabel said they would go. “He's God!” cried
Isaiah Hatch, and run away. “He's all bloody!” said Socrates
Hadlock, and started back. Jesus, having taken Job by
the hand, was now seen leading him towards them. The little
crumpled boy appeared to have become cured of his deformity,
he walked erect, the hump had sunk from his back, and his
hands no longer touched the ground.
“We read that the crooked shall be made straight,” said Deacon
Ramsdill, with one of his very natural smiles.
“I don't care who or what he is,” spake out Mistress Palmer,
“I do love him, and if Rhody was here, she would love him,
and give right up to him now.”
“Wal, for my part,” responded Mistress Hatch, “I'm greatly
disappinted. It an't what I expected. He an't no more God
than anything. I shan't trust my soul to a man. Come Isaiah,
we'll go home.”
The Cause of this large company, and these varied sensations
now appeared distinctly approaching; Jesus himself
drew near. The tree-cross, green and flowering, moved along
with him; the birds in the woods renewed their song, and even
the milk-white dove flew from tree to tree, as it were to give
good cheer to some of the more timid little birds. Some of
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the people retreated and stood afar off behind the trees, others
clustered about Deacon Hadlock.
“Behold him!” outspoke the Apostle John, “the fairest
among the sons of men; our elder Brother; he took upon himself
our nature, and is not ashamed to call us Brethren. He
hath loved us, and given himself for us, as the good Paul said,
an offering and a sacrifice to God for a sweet smelling savor.”
The voice of Jesus himself was heard at last sounding heavenly
sweet and tenderly free among the bewildered people.
“Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I
will give you rest. Learn of me, for I am meek and lowly of
heart.” “The bruised reed he will not break,” added John,
“nor quench the smoking flax.”
“I am not come to condemn you,” was still the voice of
Jesus, “but that by me you may be saved. I give myself for
your life. Through my holiness ye shall sin no more.”
“Yes,” exclaimed Helen Weeks earnestly, “we will go to
him! Come Isabel, come Margaret.”
These three interlocked, Margaret still retaining her berries
and flowers, the kind Apostle led forward, and Jesus smiled upon
them as they approached, and took each of them by the hand,
and spake some comforting and assuring words to them, and they
looked with a reverential pleasure into his face. Margaret,
who from her own ignorance of the person she addressed
felt less fear of him than the others, was the first who spoke to
him. “Do you love flowers?” said she, at the same time extending
the bunch she had in her hand. Christ took them,
and replied, “Yes, I do. God bless you, my dear child.”
“Can he bless and love me?” said Helen, addressing herself
directly to Jesus, but adopting the customary third person.
“Yes,” replied he; “I love those that love me, keep your
heart pure, for out of it are the issues of life, and I and the
Father will come and dwell with you.”
“Can he have mercy on a poor sinner like me?” asked Mistress
Palmer. “I forgive you, Daughter,” he replied; “Go
and sin no more.”
“Are you God?” asked Margaret. “No, child,” he answered,
“I am not God. But love me, and you will love God.”
“Is he not the second Person in the Godhead?” enquired
Miss Amy, in a humble voice. “No,” said Jesus.
“It an't God!—The Primer is'nt right!” was whispered
among the children.
“There is some mistake here,” said Deacon Hadlock, as if
he was afraid Christ had not fully explained himself.
“There is no mistake,” replied St. John.
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“But are we not saved by the Atoning Sacrifice, and can
that be made except by an infinite being, and is not that being
God?” added the Deacon.
“We are only saved by a Divine Union with God and
Christ. He that dwelleth in Love dwelleth in God and God
in him. This Inter-dwelling is our salvation, and this is the
Atonement.
“That's nater,” said Deacon Ramsdill, “I understand that.
I am afeered some of us are resting upon a sandy foundation.”
“I was a poor sinner,” continued the Apostle, “till I came
into this oneness with Christ. I feel safe and happy now, my
soul is elevated and purified. To be with him is like being
with God; to possess his spirit, is to bear the virtues of heaven;
to be formed in his image is the blessed privilege of humanity.
To effect such a change is the object for which he came into
the world, and that which I have seen and heard, and handled
and enjoyed, I declare unto you, that you, beloved friends,
may have fellowship with me; and truly my fellowship is with
the Father, and with his Son Jesus Christ.”
“We are emptied of all self-righteousness,” said Deacon
Hadlock, “we are altogether become filthy.”
“Have you no love, joy, peace, long-suffering, goodness,
faith?” asked the Apostle.
“Alas, none,” replied the Deacon.
“Say not so,” rejoined the Apostle. “A single look of his
will pierce you through and through.”
“What the gentleman says may be true,” interposed Deacon
Penrose; “but I think it highly inexpedient to speak of
these things. We might adjourn, a few of us, to my counting-room,
or to the Parson's study, and confer upon the matter;
but to talk in this way before all the people is the worst policy
that could have been adopted. It is an imprudence to which I
shall not commit myself; nor can I sanction it any longer with
my presence.” So saying he disappeared.
“Look at these children,” continued St. John, “the very
flowers and berries they bring are the affectionate tribute of
their hearts to the Infinite Goodness and Divine Beauty that
appear in Christ; it is the out-flowing of a pure love; it is
the earnest and fore-shadowing of the salvation that has already
begun in their souls. That young lady's yearning after the
love of Jesus is a sign that the Regeneration has commenced
within her, and by it a communication is opened between her
soul and his, which is the Atonement, and so also she becomes
united to God, who is manifested and resident in Christ.”
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“But what will become of her past sins?” asked Miss Amy
anxiously.
“I forgive them,” said Christ. “All power, Daughter, is
given unto me, and that of complete and eternal pardon.”
“What have we been about all our lives, that we know not
so much of the Gospel as these children!” exclaimed Deacon
Hadlock mournfully and yet resistingly. Whereupon it came
to pass that the crowd withdrew or melted away like a mist,
and Margaret with Helen Weeks, her sister Isabel, her
brother Judah, and Job Luce were left alone with Jesus and
John. Helen fell at the feet of Jesus, and overpowered by her
emotions, wept with a calm deep weeping; Margaret looked
into his face, and tears came into her eyes also.
“Will you forgive me, Job,” said Judah to the little boy,
“for all that I have done to you?”
“Yes;” replied Job.
“Be good children and love one another,” said Jesus to them,
and the two boys disappeared.
“Weep not, child of my love,” said he to Helen, “confide in
me, dwell near my heart, obey the Gospel; I will be the life of
your life, the well-spring of your soul, and in purity shall Heaven
be revealed in you. The little Isabel, she shall be blest
too, I will carry the lamb in my bosom.” When he had said
this, they two vanished from the dream.
“You ask me who is God, child,” said he turning to Margaret,
who now alone remained; “God is Love. Be pure in
heart, and you shall see God. Love much, and he shall be
manifest to you. Your flowers are fair, your spirit is fairer;
I am well pleased with their fragrance, the breath of your
love is sweeter to me.—Margaret!” he continued, “to you
it shall be given to know the mysteries of Heaven. But the
end is not yet. Man shall rise against his fellow and many
shall perish. The Church has fallen. The Eve of Religion
has again eaten the forbidden fruit. You shall be a co-worker
with me in its second redemption. I speak to you in parables,
you understand not. You shall understand at another day.
You are young, but you may advance in knowledge and goodness.
You must be tempted, blessed if you can endure temptation.
Be patient, and earnest, hopeful and loving. I too was
a child like you, and it is that you must be a child like me.
Through the morning shadows of childhood you shall pass to
the perfect day. I unconsciously grew in favor with God and
man, so shall you. This Cross is the burden of life, which
all must bear. Bear it well, and it shall bring forth flowers and
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fruit to you. This Dove stands for the innocency and virtue,
strength and support, that flow from God to all. In a dream
have all these things passed before you. Forget not your
dream. There is much evil in the world, sin not. You must
be afflicted, faint not. Let me kiss you, my sweet child.”
Thus spake Jesus, and the dream again changed. The two
persons were seen to return to marble-like forms, and these
forms became a round ball of light, which, receding through
the forest, stood on the distant mountains like the setting sun,
and Margaret awoke. The morning light appeared in her chamber,
and as she looked from her window, she saw the golden
sun coming up over the green woods, and the birds were pealing
their songs through the air. Margaret went down with
bright feelings, light-hearted and free; she brought water from
the cistern for her mother to wash, spread the clothes on the
bushes, and guarded some yarn from the birds.
Judd, Sylvester, 1813-1853 [1845], Margaret: a tale of the real and ideal, blight and bloom; including sketches of a place not before described, called Mons christi (Jordan and Wiley, Boston) [word count] [eaf234].
