Duty, and that the intellect becomes brighter, keener, clearer, more buoyant, and more efficient, as it feels the freshening vigor infused by her monitions and menaces, and the celestial calm imparted by her soul-satisfying smile. In all the professions and occupations over which Intellect holds dominion, the student will find that there is no grace of character without its corresponding grace of mind. He will find that virtue is an aid to insight; that good and sweet affections will bear a harvest of pure and high thoughts; that patience will make the intellect persistent in plans which benevolence will make beneficent in results; that the austerities of conscience will dictate precision to statements and exactness to arguments; that the same moral sentiments and moral power which regulate the conduct of life will illumine the path and stimulate the purpose of those daring spirits eager to add to the discoveries of truth and the creations of art. And he will also find that this purifying interaction of spiritual and mental forces will give the mind an abiding foundation of joy for its starts of rapture and flights of ecstasy;–a joy, in whose light and warmth languor and discontent and depression and despair will be charmed away;–a joy, which will make the mind large, generous, hopeful, aspiring, in order to make life beautiful and sweet;–a joy, in the words of an old divine, “which will put on a more glorious garment above, and be joy superinvested in glory!”
LOO LOO.
A FEW SCENES FROM A TRUE HISTORY.
SCENE I.
Alfred Noble had grown up to manhood among the rocks and hills of a New England village. A year spent in Mobile, employed in the duties of a clerk, had not accustomed him to the dull routine of commercial life. He longed for the sound of brooks and the fresh air of the hills. It was, therefore, with great pleasure that he received from his employer a message to be conveyed to a gentleman who lived in the pleasantest suburb of the city. It was one of those bright autumnal days when the earth seems to rejoice consciously in the light that gives her beauty.
Leaving behind him the business quarter of the town, he passed through pleasant streets bordered with trees, and almost immediately found himself amid scenes clothed with all the freshness of the country. Handsome mansions here and there dotted the landscape, with pretty little parks, enclosing orange-trees and magnolias, surrounded with hedges of holly, in whose foliage numerous little foraging birds were busy in the sunshine. The young man looked at these dwellings with an exile’s longing at his heart. He imagined groups of parents and children, brothers and sisters, under those sheltering roofs, all strangers to him, an orphan, alone in the world. The pensiveness of his mood gradually gave place to more cheerful thoughts. Visions of prosperous business and a happy home rose before him, as he walked briskly toward the hills south of the city. The intervals between the houses increased in length, and he soon found himself in a little forest of pines. Emerging from this, he came suddenly in sight of an elegant white villa, with colonnaded portico and spacious verandas. He approached it by a path through a grove, the termination of which had grown into the semblance of a Gothic arch, by the interlacing of two trees, one with glossy evergreen leaves, the other yellow with the tints of autumn. Vines had clambered to the top, and hung in light festoons from the branches. The foliage, fluttering in a gentle breeze, caused successive ripples of sun-flecks, which chased each other over trunks and boughs, and joined in wayward dance with the shadows on the ground.
Arrested by this unusual combination of light and shade, color and form, the young man stood still for a moment to gaze upon it. He was thinking to himself that nothing could add to the perfection of its beauty, when suddenly there came dancing under the arch a figure that seemed like the fairy of those woods, a spirit of the mosses and the vines. She was a child, apparently five or six years old, with large brown eyes, and a profusion of dark hair. Her gypsy hat, ornamented with scarlet ribbons and a garland of red holly-berries, had fallen back on her shoulders, and her cheeks were flushed with exercise. A pretty little white dog was with her, leaping up eagerly for a cluster of holly-berries which she playfully shook above his head. She whirled swiftly round and round the frisking animal, her long red ribbons flying on the breeze, and then she paused, all aglow, swaying herself back and forth, like a flower on its stem. A flock of doves, as if attracted toward her, came swooping down from the sky, revolving in graceful curves above her head, their white breasts glistening in the sunshine. The aerial movements of the child were so full of life and joy, she was so in harmony with the golden day, the waving vines, and the circling doves, that the whole scene seemed like an allegro movement in music, and she a charming little melody floating through it all.
Alfred stood like one enchanted. He feared to speak or move, lest the fairy should vanish from mortal presence. So the child and the dog, equally unconscious of a witness, continued their graceful gambols for several minutes. An older man might have inwardly moralized on the folly of the animal, aping humanity in thus earnestly striving after what would yield no nourishment when obtained. But Alfred was too young and too happy to moralize. The present moment was all-sufficient for him, and stood still there in its fulness, unconnected with past or future. This might have lasted long, had not the child been attracted by the dove-shadows, and, looking up to watch the flight of the birds, her eyes encountered the young man. A whole heart full of sunshine was in the smile with which he greeted her. But, with a startled look, she turned quickly and ran away; and the dog, still full of frolic, went bounding by her side. As Alfred tried to pursue them, a bough knocked off his hat. Without stopping to regain it, he sprang over a holly-hedge, and came in view of the veranda of a house, just in time to see the fairy and her dog disappear behind a trellis covered with the evergreen foliage of the Cherokee rose. Conscious of the impropriety of pursuing her farther, he paused to take breath. As he passed his hand through his hair, tossed into masses by running against the wind, he heard a voice from the veranda exclaim,–
“Whither so fast, Loo Loo? Come here, Loo Loo!”
Glancing upward, he saw a patrician-looking gentleman, in a handsome morning-gown, of Oriental fashion, and slippers richly embroidered. He was reclining on a lounge, with wreaths of smoke floating before him; but seeing the stranger, he rose, and taking the amber-tubed cigar from his mouth, he said, half laughing,–
“You seem to be in hot haste, Sir. Pray, what have you been hunting?”
Alfred also laughed, as he replied,–
“I have been chasing a charming little girl, who would not be caught. Perhaps she was your daughter, Sir?”
“She _is_ my daughter,” rejoined the gentleman. “A pretty little witch, is she not? Will you walk in, Sir?”
Alfred thanked him, and said that he was in search of a Mr. Duncan, whose residence was in that neighborhood.
“I am Mr. Duncan,” replied the patrician. “Jack, go and fetch the gentleman’s hat, and bring cigars.”
A negro obeyed his orders, and, after smoking awhile on the veranda, the two gentlemen walked round the grounds.
Once when they approached the house, they heard the pattering of little feet, and Mr. Duncan called out, with tones of fondness,–
“Come here, Loo Loo! Come, darling, and see the gentleman who has been running after you!”
But the shy little fairy ran all the faster, and Alfred saw nothing but the long red ribbons of her gypsy hat, as they floated behind her on the wind.
Declining a polite invitation to dine, he walked back to the city. The impression on his mind had been so vivid, that, as he walked, there rose ever before him a vision of that graceful arch with waving vines, the undulating flight of the silver-breasted doves, and the airy motions of that beautiful child. How would his interest in the scene have deepened, could some sibyl have foretold to him how closely the Fates had interwoven the destinies of himself and that lovely little one!
When he entered the counting-room, he found his employer in close conversation with Mr. Grossman, a wealthy cotton-broker. This man was but little more than thirty years of age, but the predominance of animal propensities was stamped upon his countenance with more distinctness than is usual with sensualists of twice his age. The oil of a thousand hams seemed oozing through his pimpled cheeks; his small gray eyes were set in his head like the eyes of a pig; his mouth had the expression of a satyr; and his nose seemed perpetually sniffing the savory prophecy of food. When the clerk had delivered his message, he slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and said,–
“So you’ve been out to Duncan’s, have you? Pretty nest there at Pine Grove, and they say he’s got a rare bird in it; but he keeps her so close, that I could never catch sight of her. Perhaps you got a peep, eh?”
“I saw a very beautiful child of Mr. Duncan’s,” replied Alfred, “but I did not see his wife.”
“That’s very likely,” rejoined Grossman; “because he never had any wife.”
“He said the little girl was his daughter, and I naturally inferred that he had a wife,” replied Alfred.
“That don’t follow of course, my gosling,” said the cotton-broker. “You’re green, young man! You’re green! I swear, I’d give a good deal to get sight of Duncan’s wench. She must be devilish handsome, or he wouldn’t keep her so close.”
Alfred Noble had always felt an instinctive antipathy to this man, who was often letting fall some remark that jarred harshly with his romantic ideas of women,–something that seemed to insult the memories of a beloved mother and sister gone to the spirit-world. But he had never liked him less than at this moment; for the sly wink of his eye, and the expressive leer that accompanied his coarse words, were very disagreeable things to be associated with that charming vision of the circling doves and the innocent child.
SCENE II.
Time passed away, and with it the average share of changing events. Alfred Noble became junior partner in the counting-house he had entered as clerk, and not long afterward the elder partner died. Left thus to rely upon his own energy and enterprise, the young man gradually extended his business, and seemed in a fair way to realize his favorite dream of making a fortune and returning to the North to marry. The subject of Slavery was then seldom discussed. North and South seemed to have entered into a tacit agreement to ignore the topic completely. Alfred’s experience was like that of most New Englanders in his situation. He was at first annoyed and pained by many of the peculiarities of Southern society, and then became gradually accustomed to them. But his natural sense of justice was very strong; and this, added to the influence of early education, and strengthened by scenes of petty despotism which he was frequently compelled to witness, led him to resolve that he would never hold a slave. The colored people in his employ considered him their friend, because he was always kind and generous to them. He supposed that comprised the whole of duty, and further than that he never reflected upon the subject.
The pretty little picture at Pine Grove, which had made so lively an impression on his imagination, faded the more rapidly, because unconnected with his affections. But a shadowy semblance of it always flitted through his memory, whenever he saw a beautiful child, or observed any unusual combination of trees and vines.
Four years after his interview with Mr. Duncan, business called him to the interior of the State, and for the sake of healthy exercise he chose to make the journey on horseback. His route lay mostly through a monotonous region of sandy plain, covered with pines, here and there varied by patches of cleared land, in which numerous dead trees were prostrate, or standing leafless, waiting their time to fall. Most of the dwellings were log-houses, but now and then the white villa of some wealthy planter might be seen gleaming through the evergreens. Sometimes the sandy soil was intersected by veins of swamp, through which muddy water oozed sluggishly, among bushes and dead logs. In these damp places flourished dark cypresses and holly-trees, draped with gray Spanish moss, twisted around the boughs, and hanging from them like gigantic cobwebs. Now and then, the sombre scene was lighted up with a bit of brilliant color, when a scarlet grosbeak flitted from branch to branch, or a red-headed woodpecker hammered at the trunk of some old tree, to find where the insects had intrenched themselves. But nothing pleased the eye of the traveller so much as the holly-trees, with their glossy evergreen foliage, red berries, and tufts of verdant mistletoe. He had been riding all day, when, late in the afternoon, an uncommonly beautiful holly appeared to terminate the road at the bend where it stood. Its boughs were woven in with a cypress on the other side, by long tangled fringes of Spanish moss. The setting sun shone brightly aslant the mingled foliage, and lighted up the red berries, which glimmered through the thin drapery of moss, like the coral ornaments of a handsome brunette seen through her veil of embroidered lace. It was unlike the woodland picture he had seen at Pine Grove, but it recalled it to his memory more freshly than he had seen it for a long time. He watched the peculiar effects of sunlight, changing as he approached the tree, and the desire grew strong within him to have the fairy-like child and the frolicsome dog make their appearance beneath that swinging canopy of illuminated moss. If his nerves had been in such a state that forms in the mind could have taken outward shape, he would have realized the vision so distinctly painted on his imagination. But he was well and strong; therefore he saw nothing but a blue heron flapping away among the cypresses, and a flock of turkey-buzzards soaring high above the trees, with easy and graceful flight. His thoughts, however, continued busy with the picture that had been so vividly recalled. He recollected having heard, some time before, of Mr. Duncan’s death, and he queried within himself what had become of that beautiful child.
Musing thus, he rode under the fantastic festoons he had been admiring, and saw at his right a long gentle descent, where a small stream of water glided downward over mossy stones. Trees on either side interlaced their boughs over it, and formed a vista, cool, dark, and solemn as the aisle of some old Gothic church. A figure moving upward, by the side of the little brook, attracted his attention, and he checked his horse to inquire whether the people at the nearest house would entertain a stranger for the night. When the figure approached nearer, he saw that it was a slender, barefooted girl, carrying a pail of water. As she emerged from the dim aisle of trees, a gleam of the setting sun shone across her face for an instant, and imparted a luminous glory to her large brown eyes. Shading them with her hand, she paused timidly before the stranger, and answered his inquiries. The modulation of her tones suggested a degree of refinement which be had not expected to meet in that lonely region. He gazed at her so intently, that her eyes sought the ground, and their long, dark fringes rested on blushing cheeks. What was it those eyes recalled? They tantalized and eluded his memory. “My good girl, tell me what is your name,” he said.
“Louisa,” she replied, bashfully, and added, “I will show you the way to the house.”
“Let me carry the water for you,” said the kind-hearted traveller. He dismounted for the purpose, but she resisted his importunities, saying that _she_ would be very angry with her.
“And who is _she_?” he asked. “Is she your mother?”
“Oh, no, indeed!” was the hasty reply. “I am–I–I live there.”
The disclaimer was sudden and earnest, as if the question struck on a wounded nerve. Her eyes swam with tears, and the remainder of her answer was sad and reluctant in its tones. The child was so delicately formed, so shy and sensitive, so very beautiful, that she fascinated him strongly. He led his horse into the lane she had entered, and as he walked by her side he continued to observe her with the most lively interest. Her motions were listless and languid, but flexile as a willow. They puzzled him, as her eyes had done; for they seemed to remind him of something he had seen in a half-forgotten dream.
They soon came in sight of the house, which was built of logs, but larger than most houses of that description; and two or three huts in the rear indicated that the owner possessed slaves. An open porch in front was shaded by the projecting roof, and there two dingy, black-nosed dogs were growling and tousling each other. Pigs were rooting the ground, and among them rolled a black baby, enveloped in a bundle of dirty rags. The traveller waited while Louisa went into the house to inquire whether entertainment could be furnished for himself and his horse. It was some time before the proprietor of the establishment made his appearance. At last he came slowly sauntering round the end of the house, his hat tipped on one side, with a rowdyish air. He was accompanied by a large dog, which rushed in among the pigs, biting their ears, and making them race about, squealing piteously. Then he seized hold of the bundle of rags containing the black baby, and began to drag it over the ground, to the no small astonishment of the baby, who added his screech to the charivari of the pigs. With loud shouts of laughter, Mr. Jackson cheered on the rough animal, and was so much entertained by the scene, that he seemed to have forgotten the traveller entirely. When at last his eye rested upon him, he merely exclaimed, “That’s a hell of a dog!” and began to call, “_Staboy_!” again. The negro woman came and snatched up her babe, casting a furtive glance at her master, as she did so, and making her escape as quickly as possible. Towzer, being engaged with the pigs at that moment, allowed her to depart unmolested; and soon came back to his master, wagging his tail, and looking up, as if expecting praise for his performances.
The traveller availed himself of this season of quiet to renew his inquiries.
“Well,” said Mr. Jackson, “I reckon we can accommodate ye. Whar ar ye from, stranger?”
Mr. Noble having stated “whar” he was from, was required to tell “whar” he was going, whether he owned that “bit of horse-flesh,” and whether he wanted to sell him. Having answered all these interrogatories in a satisfactory manner, he was ushered into the house.
The interior was rude and slovenly, like the exterior. The doors were opened by wooden latches with leather strings, and sagged so much on their wooden hinges, that they were usually left open to avoid the difficulty of shutting them. Guns and fishing-tackle were on the walls, and the seats were wooden benches or leather-bottomed chairs. A tall, lank woman, with red hair, and a severe aspect, was busy mending a garment. When asked if the traveller could be provided with supper, she curtly replied that she “reckoned so”; and, without further parlance, or salute, went out to give orders. Immediately afterward, her shrill voice was heard calling out, “You gal! put the fixens on the table.”
The “gal,” who obeyed the summons, proved to be the sylph-like child that had guided the traveller to the house. To the expression of listlessness and desolation which he had previously noticed, there was now added a look of bewilderment and fear. He thought she might, perhaps, be a step-daughter of Mrs. Jackson; but how could so coarse a man as his host be the father of such gentleness and grace?
While supper was being prepared, Mr. Jackson entered into conversation with his guest about the usual topics in that region,–the prices of cotton and “niggers.” He frankly laid open his own history and prospects, stating that he was “fetched up” in Western Tennessee, where he owned but two “niggers.” A rich uncle had died in Alabama, and he had come in for a portion of his wild land and “niggers”; so he concluded to move South and take possession. Mr. Noble courteously sustained his share of the conversation; but his eyes involuntarily followed the interesting child, as she passed in and out to arrange the supper-table.
“You seem to fancy Leewizzy,” said Mr. Jackson, shaking the ashes from his pipe.
“I have never seen a handsomer child,” replied Mr. Noble. “Is she your daughter?”
“No, Sir; she’s my nigger,” was the brief response.
The young girl reentered the room at that moment, and the statement seemed so incredible, that the traveller eyed her with scrutinizing glance, striving in vain to find some trace of colored ancestry.
“Come here, Leewizzy,” said her master. “What d’ye keep yer eyes on the ground for? You ‘a’n’t got no occasion to be ashamed o’ yer eyes. Hold up yer head, now, and look the gentleman in the face.”
She tried to obey, but native timidity overcame the habit of submission, and, after one shy glance at the stranger, her eyelids lowered, and their long, dark fringes rested on blushing cheeks.
“I reckon ye don’t often see a poottier piece o’ flesh,” said Mr. Jackson.
While he was speaking, his wife had come in from the kitchen, followed by a black woman with a dish of sweet potatoes and some hot corn-cakes. She made her presence manifest by giving “Leewizzy” a violent push, with the exclamation, “What ar ye standing thar for, yer lazy wench? Go and help Dinah bring in the fixens.” Then turning to her husband, she said, “You’ll make a fool o’ that ar gal. It’s high time she was sold. She’s no account here.”
Mr. Jackson gave a knowing wink at his guest, and remarked, “Women-folks are ginerally glad enough to have niggers to wait on ’em; but ever sence that gal come into the house, my old woman’s been in a desperate hurry to have me sell her. But such an article don’t lose nothing by waiting awhile. I’ve some thoughts of taking a tramp to Texas one o’ these days; and I reckon a prime fancy article, like that ar, would bring a fust-rate price in New Orleans.”
The subject of his discourse was listening to what he said; and partly from tremor at the import of his words, and partly from fear that she should not place the dish of bacon and eggs to please her mistress, she tipped it in setting it down, so that some of the fat was spilled upon the table-cloth. Mrs. Jackson seized her and slapped her hard, several times, on both sides of her head. The frightened child tried to escape, as soon as she was released from her grasp, but, being ordered to remain and wait upon table, she stood behind her mistress, carefully suppressing her sobs, though unable to keep back the tears that trickled down her cheeks. The traveller was hungry; but this sight was a damper upon his appetite. He was indignant at seeing such a timid young creature so roughly handled; but he dared not give utterance to his emotions, for fear of increasing the persecution to which she was subjected. Afterward, when his host and hostess were absent from the room, and Louisa was clearing the table, impelled by a feeling of pity, which he could not repress, he laid his hand gently upon her head, and said, “Poor child!”
It was a simple phrase; but his kindly tones produced a mighty effect on that suffering little soul. Her pent-up affections rushed forth like a flood when the gates are opened. She threw herself into his arms, nestled her head upon his breast, and sobbed out, “Oh, I have nobody to love me now!” This outburst of feeling was so unexpected, that the young man felt embarrassed, and knew not what to do. His aversion to disagreeable scenes amounted to a weakness; and be knew, moreover, that, if his hostess should become aware of his sympathy, her victim would fare all the worse for it. Still, it was not in his nature to repel the affection that yearned toward him with so overwhelming an impulse. He placed his hand tenderly on her head, and said, in a soothing voice, “Be quiet now, my little girl. I hear somebody coming; and you know your mistress expects you to clear the table.”
Mrs. Jackson was in fact approaching, and Louisa hastily resumed her duties.
Had Mr. Noble been guilty of some culpable action, he could not have felt more desirous to escape the observation of his hostess. As soon as she entered, he took up his hat hastily, and went out to ascertain whether his horse had been duly cared for.
He saw Louisa no more that night. But as he lay awake, looking at a star that peeped in upon him through an opening in the log wall, he thought of her beautiful eyes, when the sun shone upon them, as she emerged from the shadows. He wished that his mother and sister were living, that they might adopt the attractive child. Then he remembered that she was a slave, reserved for the New Orleans market, and that it was not likely his good mother could obtain her, if she were alive and willing to undertake the charge. Sighing, as he had often done, to think how many painful things there were which he had no power to remedy, he fell asleep and saw a very small girl dancing with a pail of water, while a flock of white doves were wheeling round her. The two pictures had mingled on the floating cloud-canvas of dream-land.
He had paid for his entertainment before going to bed, and had signified his intention to resume his journey as soon as light dawned. All was silent in the house when he went forth; and out of doors nothing was stirring but a dog that roused himself to bark after him, and chanticleer perched on a stump to crow. He was, therefore, surprised to find Louisa at the crib where his horse was feeding. Springing toward him, she exclaimed,–
“Oh, you have come! Do buy me, Sir! I will be _so_ good! I will do everything you tell me! Oh, I am so unhappy! Do buy me, Sir!”
He patted her on the head, and looked down compassionately into the swimming eyes that were fixed so imploringly upon his.
“Buy you, my poor child?” he replied. “I have no house,–I have nothing for you to do.”
“My mother showed me how to sew some, and how to do some embroidery,” she said, coaxingly. “I will learn to do it better, and I can earn enough to buy something to eat. Oh, do buy me, Sir! Do take me with you!”
“I cannot do that,” he replied; “for I must go another day’s journey before I return to Mobile.”
“Do you live in Mobile?” she exclaimed, eagerly. “My father lived in Mobile. Once I tried to run away there, but they set the dogs after me. Oh, do carry me back to Mobile!”
“What is your name?” said he; “and in what part of the city did you live?”
“My name is Louisa Duncan; and my father lived at Pine Grove. It was such a beautiful place! and I was _so_ happy there! Will you take me back to Mobile? _Will_ you?”
Evading the question, he said,–
“Your name is Louisa, but your father called you Loo Loo, didn’t he?”
That pet name brought forth a passionate outburst of tears. Her voice choked, and choked again, as she sobbed out,–
“Nobody has ever called me Loo Loo since my father died.”
He soothed her with gentle words, and she, looking up earnestly, as if stirred by a sudden thought, exclaimed,–
“How did you _know_ my father called me Loo Loo?”
He smiled as he answered, “Then you don’t remember a young man who ran after you one day, when you were playing with a little white dog at Pine Grove? and how your father called to you, ‘Come here, Loo Loo, and see the gentleman’?”
“I don’t remember it,” she replied; “but I remember how my father used to laugh at me about it, long afterward. He said I was very young to have gentlemen running after me.”
“I am that gentleman,” he said. “When I first looked at you, I thought I had seen you before; and now I see plainly that you are Loo Loo.”
That name was associated with so many tender memories, that she seemed to hear her father’s voice once more. She nestled close to her new friend, and repeated, in most persuasive tones, “You _will_ buy me? Won’t you?”
“And your mother? What has become of her?” he asked.
“She died of yellow fever, two days before my father. I am all alone. Nobody cares for me. You _will_ buy me,–won’t you?”
“But tell me how you came here, my poor child,” he said.
She answered, “I don’t know. After my father died, a great many folks came to the house, and they sold everything. They said my father was uncle to Mr. Jackson, and that I belonged to him. But Mrs. Jackson won’t let me call Mr. Duncan my father. She says, if she ever hears of my calling him so again, she’ll whip me. Do let me be _your_ daughter! You _will_ buy me,–won’t you?”
Overcome by her entreaties, and by the pleading expression of those beautiful eyes, he said, “Well, little teaser, I will see whether Mr. Jackson will sell you to me. If he will, I will send for you before long.”
“Oh, don’t _send_ for me!” she exclaimed, moving her hands up and down with nervous rapidity. “Come _yourself_, and come _soon_. They’ll carry me to New Orleans, if _you_ don’t come for me.”
“Well, well, child, be quiet. If I can buy you, I will come for you myself. Meanwhile, be a good girl. I won’t forget you.”
He stooped down, and sealed the promise with a kiss on her forehead. As he raised his head, he became aware that Bill, the horse-boy, was peeping in at the door, with a broad grin upon his black face. He understood the meaning of that grin, and it seemed like an ugly imp driving away a troop of fairies. He was about to speak angrily, but checked himself with the reflection, “They will all think so. Black or white, they will all think so. But what can I do? I _must_ save this child from the fate that awaits her.” To Bill he merely said that he wished to see Mr. Jackson on business, and had, therefore, changed his mind about starting before breakfast.
The bargain was not soon completed; for Mr. Jackson had formed large ideas concerning the price “Leewizzy” would bring in the market; and Bill had told the story of what he witnessed at the crib, with sundry jocose additions, which elicited peals of laughter from his master. But the orphan had won the young man’s heart by the childlike confidence she had manifested toward him, and conscience would not allow him to break the solemn promise he had given her. After a protracted conference, he agreed to pay eight hundred dollars, and to come for Louisa the next week.
The appearance of the sun, after a long, cold storm, never made a greater change than the announcement of this arrangement produced in the countenance and manners of that desolate child. The expression of fear vanished, and listlessness gave place to a springing elasticity of motion. Mr. Noble could ill afford to spare so large a sum for the luxury of benevolence, and he was well aware that the office of protector, which he had taken upon himself, must necessarily prove expensive. But when he witnessed her radiant happiness, he could not regret that he had obeyed the generous impulse of his heart. Now, for the first time, she was completely identified with the vision of that fairy child who had so captivated his fancy four years before. He never forgot the tones of her voice, and the expression of her eyes, when she kissed his hand at parting, and said, “I thank you, Sir, for buying me.”
SCENE III.
In a world like this, it is much easier to plan generous enterprises than to carry them into effect. After Mr. Noble had purchased the child, he knew not how to provide a suitable home for her. At first, he placed her with his colored washerwoman. But if she remained in that situation, though her bodily wants would be well cared for, she must necessarily lose much of the refinement infused into her being by that early environment of elegance, and that atmosphere of love. He did not enter into any analysis of his motives in wishing her to be so far educated as to be a pleasant companion for himself. The only question he asked himself was, How he would like to have his sister treated, if she had been placed in such unhappy circumstances. He knew very well what construction would be put upon his proceedings, in a society where handsome girls of such parentage were marketable; and he had so long tacitly acquiesced in the customs around him, that he might easily have viewed her in that light himself, had she not become invested with a tender and sacred interest from the circumstances in which he had first seen her, and the innocent, confiding manner in which she had implored him to supply the place of her father. She was always presented to his imagination as Mr. Duncan’s beloved daughter, never as Mr. Jackson’s slave. He said to himself, “May God bless me according to my dealings with this orphan! May I never prosper, if I take advantage of her friendless situation!”
As for his _protegee_, she was too ignorant of the world to be disturbed by any such thoughts. “May I call you Papa, as I used to call my father?” said she.
For some reason, undefined to himself, the title was unpleasant to him. It did not seem as if his sixteen years of seniority need place so wide a distance between them. “No,” he replied, “you shall be my sister.” And thenceforth she called him Brother Alfred, and he called her Loo Loo.
His curiosity was naturally excited to learn all he could of her history; and it was not long before he ascertained that her mother was a superbly handsome quadroon, from New Orleans, the daughter of a French merchant, who had given her many advantages of education, but from carelessness had left her to follow the condition of her mother, who was a slave. Mr. Duncan fell in love with her, bought her, and remained strongly attached to her until the day of her death. It had always been his intention to manumit her, but, from inveterate habits of procrastination, he deferred it, till the fatal fever attacked them both; and so _his_ child also was left to “follow the condition of her mother.” Having neglected to make a will, his property was divided among the sons of sisters married at a distance from him, and thus the little daughter, whom he had so fondly cherished, became the property of Mr. Jackson, who valued her as he would a handsome colt likely to bring a high price in the market. She was too young to understand all the degradation to which she would be subjected, but she had once witnessed an auction of slaves, and the idea of being sold filled her with terror. She had endured six months of corroding homesickness and constant fear, when Mr. Noble came to her rescue.
After a few weeks passed with the colored washerwoman, she was placed with an elderly French widow, who was glad to eke out her small income by taking motherly care of her, and giving her instruction in music and French. The caste to which she belonged on the mother’s side was rigorously excluded from schools, therefore it was not easy to obtain for her a good education in the English branches. These Alfred took upon himself; and a large portion of his evenings was devoted to hearing her lessons in geography, arithmetic, and history. Had any one told him, a year before, that hours thus spent would have proved otherwise than tedious, he would not have believed it. But there was a romantic charm about this secret treasure, thus singularly placed at his disposal; and the love and gratitude he inspired gradually became a necessity of his life. Sometimes he felt sad to think that the time must come when she would cease to be a child, and when the quiet, simple relation now existing between them must necessarily change. He said to the old French lady, “By and by, when I can afford it, I will send her to one of the best schools at the North. There she can become a teacher and take care of herself.” Madame Labasse smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and said, “_Nous verrons_.” She did not believe it.
The years glided on, and all went prosperously with the young merchant. Through various conflicts with himself, his honorable resolution remained unbroken. Loo Loo was still his sister. She had become completely entwined with his existence. Life would have been very dull without her affectionate greetings, her pleasant little songs, and the graceful dances she had learned to perform so well. Sometimes, when he had passed a peculiarly happy evening in this fashion, Madame Labasse would look mischievous, and say, “But when do you think you shall send her to that school?” True, she did not often repeat this experiment; for whenever she did it, the light went out of his countenance, as if an extinguisher were placed upon his soul. “I _ought_ to do it,” he said within himself; “but how _can_ I live without her?” The French widow was the only person aware how romantic and how serious was this long episode in his life. Some gentlemen, whom he frequently met in business relations, knew that he had purchased a young slave, whom he had placed with a French woman to be educated; but had he told them the true state of the case, they would have smiled incredulously. Occasionally, they uttered some joke about the fascination which made him so indifferent to cards and horses; but the reserve with which he received such jests checked conversation on the subject, and all, except Mr. Grossman, discontinued such attacks, after one or two experiments.
As Mr. Noble’s wealth increased, the wish grew stronger to place Louisa in the midst of as much elegance as had surrounded her in childhood. When the house at Pine Grove was unoccupied, they often went out there, and it was his delight to see her stand under the Gothic arch of trees, a beautiful _tableau vivant_, framed in vines. It was a place so full of heart-memories to her, that she always lingered there as long as possible, and never left it without a sigh. In one place was a tree her father had planted, in another a rose or a jessamine her mother had trained. But dearest of all was a recess among the pine-trees, on the side of a hill. There was a rustic garden-chair, where her father had often sat with her upon his knee, reading wonderful story-books, bought for her on his summer excursions to New York or Boston. In one of her visits with Alfred, she sat there and read aloud from “Lalla Rookh.” It was a mild winter day. The sunlight came mellowed through the evergreens, a soft carpet of scarlet foliage was thickly strewn beneath their feet, and the air was redolent of the balmy breath of pines. Fresh and happy in the glow of her fifteen summers, how could she otherwise than enjoy the poem? It was like sparkling wine in a jewelled goblet. Never before had she read anything aloud in tones so musically modulated, so full of feeling. And the listener? How worked the wine in _him?_ A voice within said, “Remember your vow, Alfred! this charming Loo Loo is your adopted sister”; and he tried to listen to the warning. She did not notice his tremor, when he rose hastily and said, “The sun is nearly setting. It is time for my sister to go home.”
“Home?” she repeated, with a sigh. “_This_ is my home. I wish I could stay here always. I feel as if the spirits of my father and mother were with us here.” Had she sighed for an ivory palace inlaid with gold, he would have wished to give it to her,–he was so much in love!
A few months afterward, Pine Grove was offered for sale. He resolved to purchase it, and give her a pleasant surprise by restoring her to her old home, on her sixteenth birth-day. Madame Labasse, who greatly delighted in managing mysteries, zealously aided in the preparations. When the day arrived, Alfred proposed a long ride with Loo Loo,–in honor of the anniversary; and during their absence, Madame, accompanied by two household servants, established herself at Pine Grove. When Alfred returned from the drive, he proposed to stop and look at the dear old place, to which his companion joyfully assented. But nothing could exceed her astonishment at finding Madame Labasse there, ready to preside at a table spread with fruit and flowers. Her feelings overpowered her for a moment, when Alfred said, “Dear sister, you said you wished you could live here always; and this shall henceforth be your home.”
“You are too good!” she exclaimed, and was about to burst into tears. But he arrested their course by saying, playfully, “Come, Loo Loo, kiss my hand, and say, ‘Thank you, Sir, for buying me.’ Say it just as you did six years ago, you little witch!”
Her swimming eyes smiled like sunshine through an April shower, and she went through the pantomime, which she had often before performed at his bidding. Madame stepped in with her little jest: “But, Sir, when do you think you shall send her to that _pension?”_
“Never mind,” he replied, abruptly; “Let us be happy!” And he moved to-ward the table to distribute the fruit.
It was an inspiring spring-day, and ended in the loveliest of evenings. The air was filled with the sweet breath of jessamines and orange-blossoms. Madame touched the piano, and, in quick obedience to the circling sound, Alfred and Loo Loo began to waltz. It was long before youth and happiness grew weary of the revolving maze. But when at last she complained of dizziness, he playfully whirled her out upon the piazza, and placed her on a lounge under the Cherokee rose her mother had trained, which was now a mass of blossoms. He seated himself in front of her, and they remained silent for some minutes, watching the vine-shadows play in the moonlight. As Loo Loo leaned on the balustrade, the clustering roses hung over her in festoons, and trailed on her white muslin drapery. Alfred was struck, as he had been many times before, with the unconscious grace of her attitude. In imagination, he recalled his first vision of her in early childhood, the singular circumstance that had united their destinies, and the thousand endearing experiences which day by day had strengthened the tie. As these thoughts passed through his mind, he gazed upon her with devouring earnestness. She was too beautiful, there in the moonlight, crowned with roses!
“Loo Loo, do you love me?” he exclaimed.
The vehemence of his tone startled her, as she sat there in a mood still and dreamy as the landscape.
She sprang up, and, putting her arm about his neck, answered, “Why, Alfred, you _know_ your sister loves you.”
“Not as a brother, not as a brother, dear Loo Loo,” he said, impatiently, as he drew her closely to his breast. “Will you be my love? Will you be my wife?”
In the simplicity of her inexperience, and the confidence induced by long habits of familiar reliance upon him, she replied, “I will be anything you wish.”
No flower was ever more unconscious of a lover’s burning kisses than she was of the struggle in his breast.
His feelings had been purely compassionate in the beginning of their intercourse; his intentions had been purely kind afterward; but he had gone on blindly to the edge of a slippery precipice. Human nature should avoid such dangerous passes.
Reviewing that intoxicating evening in a calmer mood, he was dissatisfied with his conduct. In vain he said to himself that he had but followed a universal custom; that all his acquaintance would have laughed in his face, had he told them of the resolution so bravely kept during six years. The remembrance of his mother’s counsels came freshly to his mind; and the accusing voice of conscience said, “She was a friendless orphan, whom misfortune ought to have rendered sacred. What to you is the sanction of custom? Have you not a higher law within your own breast?”
He tried to silence the monitor by saying, “When I have made a little more money, I will return to the North. I will marry Loo Loo on the way and she shall be acknowledged to the world as my wife, as she now is in my own soul.”
Meanwhile, the orphan lived in her father’s house as her mother had lived before her. She never aided the voice of Alfred’s conscience by pleading with him to make her his wife; for she was completely satisfied with her condition, and had undoubting faith that whatever he did was always the wisest and the best.
[To be continued.]
CHARLEY’S DEATH.
The wind got up moaning, and blew to a breeze; I sat with my face closely pressed on the pane; In a minute or two it began to rain,
And put out the sunset-fire in the trees.
In the clouds’ black faces broke out dismay That ran of a sudden up half the sky,
And the team, cutting ruts in the grass, went by, Heavy and dripping with sweet wet hay.
Clutching the straws out and knitting his brow, Walked Arthur beside it, unsteady of limb; I stood up in wonder, for, following him, Charley was used to be;–where was he now?
“‘Tis like him,” I said, “to be working thus late!”– I said it, but did not believe it was so; He could not have staid in the meadow to mow, With rain coming down at so dismal a rate.
“He’s bringing the cows home.”–I choked at that lie: They were huddled close by in a tumult and fret, Some pawing the dry dust up out of the wet, Some looking afield with their heads lifted high.
O’er the run, o’er the hilltop, and on through the gloom My vision ran quick as the lightning could dart; All at once the blood shocked and stood still in my heart;– He was coming as never till then he had come!
Borne ‘twixt our four work-hands, I saw through the fall Of the rain, and the shadows so thick and so dim, They had taken their coats off and spread them on him, And that he was lying out straight,–that was all!
THE CATACOMBS OF ROME.
[Continued.]
Custodit Dominus emnia ossa eorum.
Ps. xxxiii. 20
III.
Not quite two miles from the city-gate known as the Porta Pia, there stands, on the left hand of the Nomentan Way, the ancient, and, until lately, beautiful, Church of St. Agnes outside the Walls. The chief entrance to it descends by a flight of wide steps; for its pavement is below the level of the ground, in order to afford easy access to the catacombs known as those of St. Agnes, which opened out from it and stretched away in interlacing passages under the neighboring fields. It was a quiet, retired place, with the sacredness that invests every ancient sanctuary, in which the prayers and hymns of many generations have risen. The city was not near enough to disturb the stillness within its walls; little vineyards, and plots of market-garden, divided from each other by hedges of reeds and brambly roses, with wider open fields in the distance, lay around it; a deserted convent stood at its side; its precious marble columns were dulled and the gold ground of its mosaics was dimmed by the dust of centuries; its pavement was deeply worn; and its whole aspect was that of seclusion and venerable age, without desertion and without decay.
The story of St. Agnes is one of those which at the beginning of the fourth century became popular among the Christians and in the Church of Rome. The martyrdom, under most cruel tortures and terrors, of a young girl, who chose to die rather than yield her purity or her faith, and who died with entire serenity and peace, supported by divine consolations, caused her memory to be cherished with an affection and veneration similar to that in which the memory of St. Cecilia was already held,–and very soon after her death, which is said to have taken place in the year 304, she was honored as one of the holiest of the disciples of the Lord. Her story has been a favorite one through all later ages; poetry and painting have illustrated it; and wherever the Roman faith has spread, Saint Agnes has been one of the most beloved saints both of the rich and the poor, of the great and of the humble.
In her Acts[A] it is related that she was buried by her parents in a meadow on the Nomentan Way. Here, it is probable, a cemetery had already for some time existed; and it is most likely that the body of the Saint was laid in one of the common tombs of the catacombs. The Acts go on to tell, that her father and mother constantly watched at night by her grave, and once, while watching, “they saw, in the mid silence of the night, an army of virgins, clothed in woven garments of gold, passing by with a great light. And in the midst of them they beheld the most blessed virgin Agnes, shining in a like dress, and at her right hand a lamb whiter than snow. At this sight, great amazement took possession of her parents and of those who were with them. But the blessed Agnes asked the holy virgins to stay their advance for a moment, when she said to her parents, ‘Behold, weep not for me as for one dead, but rejoice with me and wish me joy; for with all these I have received a shining seat, and I am united in heaven to Him whom while on earth I loved with all my heart.’ And with these words she passed on.” The report of this vision was spread among the Christians of Rome. The pleasing story was received into willing hearts; and the memory of the virgin was so cherished, that her name was soon given to the cemetery where she had been buried, and, becoming a favorite resting-place of the dead, its streets were lengthened by the addition of many graves.
[Footnote A: This is the name given to the accounts of the saints and martyrs composed in early times for the use of the Church.]
Not many years afterwards, Constantia, the daughter of the Emperor Constantine, suffering from a long and painful disease, for which she found no relief, heard of the marvellous vision, and was told of many wonderful cures that had been wrought at the tomb and by the intercession of the youthful Saint. She determined, although a pagan, to seek the aid of which such great things were told; and going to the grave of Agnes at night, she prayed for relief. Falling suddenly into a sweet sleep, the Saint appeared to her, and promised her that she should be made well, if she would believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. She awoke, as the story relates, full of faith, and found herself well. Moved with gratitude, she besought her father to build a church on the spot in honor of Saint Agnes, and in compliance with her wish, and in accordance with his own disposition to erect suitable temples for the services of his new faith, Constantine built the church, which a few centuries later was rebuilt in its present form and adorned with the mosaics that still exist.
Nearly about the same time a circular building was erected hard by the church, designed as a mausoleum for Constantia and other members of the imperial family. The Mausoleum of Hadrian was occupied by the bodies of heathen emperors and empresses, and filled with heathen associations. New tombs were needed for the bodies of those who professed to have revolted from heathenism. The marble pillars of the Mausoleum of Constantia were taken from more ancient and nobler buildings, its walls were lined with mosaics, and her body was laid in a splendid sarcophagus of porphyry. In the thirteenth century, after Constantia had been received into the liberal community of Roman saints, her mausoleum was consecrated as a church and dedicated to her honor. A narrow, unworn path leads to it from the Church of St. Agnes; it has been long left uncared-for and unfrequented, and, stripped of its movable ornaments, it is now in a half-ruinous condition. But its decay is more impressive than the gaudy brightness of more admired and renovated buildings. The weeds that grow in the crevices of its pavement and hang over the capitals of its ancient pillars, the green mould on its walls, the cracks in its mosaics, are better and fuller of suggestion to the imagination than the shiny surface and the elaborate finish of modern restorations. Restoration in these days always implies irreverence and bad taste. But the architecture of this old building and the purpose for which it was originally designed present a marked example of the rapidity of the change in the character of the Christians with the change of their condition at Rome, during the reign of Constantine. The worldliness that follows close on prosperity undermined the spirit of faith; the pomp and luxury of the court and the palace were carried into the forms of worship, into the construction of churches, into the manner of burial. Social distinctions overcame the brotherhood in Christ. Riches paved an easy way into the next world, and power set up guards around it. Imperial remains were not to mingle with common dust, and the mausoleum of the princess rose above the rock-hewn and narrow grave of the martyr and saint.
The present descent into the catacombs that lie near the churches of St. Agnes and St. Constantia is by an entrance in a neighboring field, made, after the time of persecution, to accommodate those who might desire to visit the underground chapels and holy graves. A vast labyrinth of streets spreads in every direction from it. Many chambers have been, cut in the rock at the side of the passages,–some for family burial-places, some for chapels, some for places of instruction for those not yet fully entered into the knowledge of the faith. It is one of the most populous of the subterranean cemeteries, and one of the most interesting, from the great variety in its examples of underground architectural construction, and from the number of the paintings that are found upon its walls. But its peculiar interest is, that it affords at one point a marked example of the connection of an _arenarium_, or pit from which _pozzolana_ was extracted, with the streets of the cemetery itself. At this point, the bed of compact _tufa_, in which the graves are dug, degenerates into friable and loosely compacted volcanic sand,–and it was here, very probably, that the cemetery was begun, at a time when every precaution had to be used by the Christians to prevent the discovery of their burial-places. No other of the catacombs gives a clearer exhibition of the differences in construction resulting from the different objects of excavation. In the Acts known as those of St. Valentine it is related, that in the time of Claudius many Christians were condemned to work in certain sand-pits. Under cover of such opportunities, occasions might be found in which hidden graves could be formed in the neighboring harder soil. In digging out the sand, the object was to take out the greatest quantity consistent with safety, leaving only such supports as were necessary to hold up the superincumbent earth. There are few regular paths, but wide spaces with occasional piers,–the passages being of sufficient width to admit of the entrance of beasts of burden, and even of carts. The soil crumbles so easily, that no row of excavations one above another could be made in it; for the stroke of the pick-axe brings it down in loose masses. The whole aspect of the sand-pit contrasts strikingly with that of the catacombs, with their three-feet wide galleries, their perpendicular walls, and their tier on tier of graves.
The stratum of pozzolana at the Catacombs of St. Agnes overlies a portion of the more solid stratum of tufa, and the entrance to the sand-pit from the cemetery is by steps leading up from the end of a long gallery. Such an entrance could have been easily concealed; and the tufa cut out for the graves, after having been reduced to the condition of pozzolana, might easily at night have been brought up to the floor of the pit. In many of the Acts of the Martyrs it is said that they were buried _in Arenario_, “in the sand-pit,”–an expression which, there seems no good reason for doubting, meant in the catacombs whose entrance was at the sand-pit, they not having yet received a distinctive name.
It is difficult to convey to a distant reader even a small share of the interest with which one sees on the spot evidences of the reality of the precautions with which, in those early centuries, the Christians of Rome were forced to guard themselves against a persecution which extended to their very burial-places,–or even of the interest with which one walks through the unchanged paths dug out of the rock by this _tenebrosa et lucifugax natio_. In the midst of the obscurity of history and the fog of fable, here is the solid earth giving evidence of truth. Here one sees where, by the light of his dim candle, the solitary digger hollowed out the grave of one of the near followers of the apostles; and here one reads in hasty and ill-spelt inscriptions something of the affection and of the faith of those who buried their dead in the sepulchre dug in the rock. The Christian Rome underground is a rebuke to the Papal Rome above it; and, from the worldly pomp, the tedious forms, the trickeries, the mistakes, the false claims and falser assertions, the empty architecture that reveals the infidelity of its builders, the gross materialism, and the crass superstition of the Roman Church, one turns with relief of heart and eyes to the poverty and bareness of the dark and narrow catacombs, and to the simple piety of the words found upon their graves. In them is at once the exhibition and the promise of a purer Christianity. In them, indeed, one may see only too plainly the evidences of ignorance, the beginnings of superstitions, the first, traces of the corruption of the truth, the proofs of false zeal and of foolish martyrdoms,–but with these are also to be plainly seen the purity and the spirituality of elevated Christian faith.
In the service of the Roman Church used at the removal of the bodies of the holy martyrs from their graves in the catacombs is a prayer in which are the words,–“Thou hast set the bodies of thy soldiers as guards around the walls of this thy beloved Jerusalem”;–and as one passes from catacomb to catacomb, it is, indeed, as if he passed from station to station of the encircling camp of the great army of the martyrs. Leaving the burial-place of St. Agnes, we continue along the Nomentan Way to the seventh milestone from Rome. Here the Campagna stretches on either side in broad, unsheltered sweeps. Now and then a rough wall crosses the fields, marking the boundaries of one of the great farms into which the land is divided. On the left stands a low farm-house, with its outlying buildings, and at a distance on each side the eye falls on low square brick towers of the Middle Ages, and on the ruinous heaps of more ancient tombs. The Sabine mountains push their feet far down upon the plain, covered with a gray-green garment of olive-woods. Few scenes in the Campagna are more striking, from the mingling of barrenness and beauty, from the absence of imposing monumental ruins and the presence of old associations. The turf of the wide fields was cropped in the winter by the herds driven down at that season from the recesses of the Neapolitan mountains, and the irregular surface of the soil afforded no special indications of treasures buried beneath it. But the Campagna is full of hidden graves and secreted buildings.
In the Acts of the Martyrdom of St. Alexander, who, according to the story of the Church, was the sixth successor of St. Peter, and who was put to death in the persecution of Trajan, in the year 117, it was said that his body was buried by a Roman lady, Severina, “on her farm, at the seventh milestone from Rome on the Nomentan Way.” These Acts, however, were regarded as apocryphal, and their statement had drawn but little attention to the locality. In the spring of 1855, a Roman archaeologist, Signore Guidi, obtained permission from the Propaganda, by whom the land was now held, as a legacy from the last of the Stuarts, the Cardinal York, to make excavations upon it. Beginning at a short distance from the road, on the right hand, and proceeding carefully, he soon struck upon a flight of steps formed of pieces of broken marble, which, at about fifteen feet below the surface of the ground, ended upon a floor paved with bits of marble, tombstones, and mosaics. As the work proceeded, it disclosed the walls of an irregular church, that had been constructed, like that of St. Agnes, partially beneath the soil, for the purpose of affording an entrance into adjoining catacombs. Remains of the altar were found, and portions of the open-work marble screen which had stood before it over the crypt in which the bodies of St. Alexander and one of his fellow-martyrs had been placed. A part of the inscription on its border was preserved, and read as follows: ET ALEXANDRO DEDICATUS VOTUM POSUIT CONSECRANTE URSO EPISCOPO,–“Dedicatus placed this in fulfilment of a vow to —- and Alexander, the Bishop Ursus consecrating it.” The Acts supply the missing name of Eventius,–an aged priest, who, it was said, had conversed with some of the apostles themselves. His greater age had at that early and simple time given him the place of honor in the inscription and in men’s memory before the youthful, so-called, Pope Alexander. Probably this little church had been built in the fourth century, and here a bishop had been appointed to perform the rites within it.
It was a strange and touching discovery, that of this long-buried, rude country-church,–the very existence of which had been forgotten for more than a thousand years. On the 3d of May, 1855, the day set apart in the calendar to the honor of the saints to whom it was consecrated, the holy services were once more performed upon the ancient altar of the roofless sanctuary. The voices of priest and choir sounded through the long silent chapels, while the larks sang their hymns of gladness over the fields above. On the rough floor, inscriptions, upon which, in the early centuries, the faithful had knelt, were again read by kneeling worshippers. On one broken slab of marble was the word MARTYR; on another, the two words, SPARAGINA FIDELIS; on another, POST VARIAS CURAS, POST LONGE MONITA VITAE.
The catacombs opening from the church have not been entered to a great distance, and though more rudely excavated than most of those nearer the city, as if intended for the burial-places of a poorer population, they are of peculiar interest because many of their graves remain in their original state, and here and there, in the mortar that fastens their tiled fronts, portions of the vessel of glass or pottery that held the collected blood of the martyr laid within are still undisturbed. No pictures of any size or beauty adorn the uneven walls, and no chapels are hollowed out within them. Most of the few inscriptions are scratched upon the mortar,–_Spiritus tuus in bono quiescat_,–but now and then a bit of marble, once used for a heathen bears on its other side some Christian words. None of the inscriptions within the church which bear a date are later than the end of the fifth century, and it seems likely that shortly after this time this church of the Campagna was deserted, and its roof falling in, it was soon concealed under a mass of rubbish and of earth, and the grass closed it with its soft and growing protection.
During two years, the uncovered church, with its broken pillars, its cracked altar, its imperfect mosaics, its worn pavement, remained open to the sky, in the midst of solitude. But how could anything with such simple and solemn associations long escape desecration at Rome? How could such an opportunity for _restoration_ be passed over? How could so sacred and venerable a locality be protected from modern superstition and ecclesiastical zeal? In the spring of 1837, preparations were being made for building upon the ground, and a Carthusian convent, it was said, was to be erected, which would enclose within its lifeless walls the remains of the ancient church. Once more, then, it is to be shut out of the sky; and now it is not Nature that asserts her predominance, protecting while she conceals, and throwing her mantle over the martyrs; graves to keep them from sacrilege,–but she is driven away by the builders of the papal court, and all precious old associations are incongruous with those of modern Roman architecture and Roman conventual discipline.
One morning, in the spring of 1855, shortly after the discovery had been made, the Pope went out to visit the Church of St. Alexander. On his return, he stopped to rest in the unoccupied convent adjoining the Church of St. Agnes. Here there was a considerable assemblage of those who had accompanied him, and others who were admitted at this place to join his suite. They were in the second story of the building, and the Pope was in the act of addressing them, when suddenly the old floor, unable to support the unaccustomed weight, gave way, and most of the company fell with it to the floor below. The Pope was thrown down, but did not fall through. The moment was one of great confusion and alarm, the etiquette of the court was disturbed, but no person was killed and no one dangerously hurt. In common language and in Roman belief, it was a miraculous escape. The Pope, attributing his safety to the protection of the Virgin and of St. Agnes, determined at once that the convent should be rebuilt and reoccupied, and the church restored. The work is now complete, and all the ancient charm of time and use, all the venerable look of age and quiet, have been laboriously destroyed, and gaudy, inharmonious color, gilding and polish have been substituted in their place.
The debased taste and the unfeeling ignorance of restorers have been employed, as so often in Italy, to spoil and desecrate the memorials of the past; and the munificence of Pius, _Munificentia Pii IX._, is placarded on the inner walls. One is too frequently reminded at Rome of the old and new lamps in the story of Aladdin.
We turn reluctantly from the Nomentan Way, and passing through Rome, we go out of the gate which opens on the Appian. About a mile from the present wall, just where the road divides before coming to the Catacombs of St. Callixtus, a little, ugly, white church, of the deformed architecture of the seventeenth century, recalls, by its name of _Domine quo vadis?_ “O Lord, whither goest thou?” one of the most impressive, one of the earliest and simplest, of the many legends of the legendary religious annals of Rome. It relates, that, at the time of the persecution of Nero, St. Peter, being then in Rome, was persuaded to fly secretly from the city, in the hope of escaping from the near peril. Just as he reached this place, trembling, we may well believe, not more with fear than with doubt, while past scenes rose vividly before him, and the last words heard from his Master’s lips came with a flood of self-reproach into his heart,–as he hurried silently along, with head bowed down, in the gray twilight, he became suddenly aware of a presence before him, and, looking up, beheld the form of that beloved Master whom he was now a second time denying. He beheld him, moreover, in the act of bearing his cross. Peter, with his old ardor, did not wait to be addressed, but said, _Domine, quo vadis?_–“O Lord, whither goest thou?” The Saviour, looking at him as he had looked but once before, replied, _Venio Romam iterum crucifigi_,–“I come to Rome to be crucified a second time”; and thereupon disappeared. Peter turned, reentered the gate, and shortly after was crucified for his Lord’s sake. His body, it is said, was laid away in a grave on the Vatican Hill, where his great church was afterwards built.
And here we come upon another legend, which takes us out again on the Appian Way, to the place where now stands the Church of St. Sebastian. St. Gregory the Great relates in one of his letters, that, not long after St. Peter and St. Paul had suffered martyrdom, some Christians came from the East to Rome to find the bodies of these their countrymen, which they desired to carry back with them to their own land. They so far succeeded as to gain possession of the bodies, and to carry them as far as the second milestone on the Appian Way. Here they paused, and when they attempted to carry the bodies farther, so great a storm of thunder and lightning arose, that they were terrified, and did not venture to repeat their attempt. By this time, also, the Romans had become aware of the carrying off of the sacred bodies, and, coming out from the city, recovered possession of them. One of the old pictures on the wall of the portico of the ancient basilica of St. Peter’s preserved a somewhat different version of the legend, representing the Romans as falling violently upon the Oriental robbers, and compelling them, with a storm of blows, to yield up the possession of the relics they were carrying away by stealth.
But the legend went on further to state, that, on the spot where they thus had regained the bodies of their saints, the Romans made a deep hole in the ground, and laid them away within it very secretly. Here for some time they rested, but at length were restored to their original tombs, the one on the Ostian Way, the other on the Vatican. But St. Peter was again to be laid in this secret chamber in the earth on the Appian Way. In the episcopate of the saint and scoundrel Callixtus, the Emperor Elagabalus, with characteristic extravagance and caprice, resolved to make a circus on the Vatican, wide enough for courses of chariots drawn by four elephants abreast. All the older buildings in the way were to be destroyed, to gratify this imperial whim; and Callixtus, fearing lest the Christian cemetery, and especially the tomb of the prince of the apostles might be discovered and profaned, removed the body of St. Peter once more to the Appian Way. Here it lay for forty years, and round it and near it an underground cemetery was gradually formed; and it was to this burial-place, first of all, that the name Catacomb,[B] now used to denote all the underground cemeteries, was applied.
[Footnote B: A word, the derivation of which is not yet determined. The first instance of its use is in the letter of Gregory from which we derive the legend. This letter was written A.D. 594.]
Though at length St. Peter was restored to the Vatican, from which he has never since been removed, and where his grave is now hidden by his church, the place where he had lain so long was still esteemed sacred. The story of St. Sebastian relates how, after his martyred body had been thrown into the Cloaca Maxima, that his friends might not have the last satisfaction of giving it burial, he appeared in a vision to Lucina, a Roman lady, told her where his body might be found, and bade her lay it in a grave near that in which the apostles had rested. This was done, and less than a century afterward a church rose to mark the place of his burial, and connected with it, Pope Damasus, the first great restorer and adorner of the catacombs, [A.D. 266-285,] caused the chamber that was formed below the surface of the ground around the grave of the apostles to be lined with wide slabs of marble, and to be consecrated as a subterranean chapel. It is curious enough that this pious work should have been performed, as is learned from an inscription set up here by Damasus himself, in fulfilment of a vow, on the extinction among the Roman clergy of the party of Ursicinus, his rival. This custom of propitiating the favor of the saints by fair promises was thus early established. It was soon found out that it was well to have a friend at court with whom a bargain could be struck. If the adorning of this chapel was all that Damasus had to pay for the getting rid of his rival’s party, the bargain was an easy one for him. There had been terrible and bloody fights in the Roman streets between the parties of the contending aspirants for the papal seat. Ursicinus had been driven from Rome, but Damasus had had trouble with the priests of his faction. Some of them had been rescued, as he was hurrying them off to prison, and had taken refuge with their followers in the Basilica of St. Maria Maggiore. Damasus, with a mob of charioteers, gladiators, and others of the scum of Rome, broke into the church, and slew a hundred and sixty men and women who had been shut up within it. Ursicinus, however, returned to the city; there were fresh disturbances, and a new massacre, on this occasion, in the Church of St. Agnes; and years passed before Damasus was established as undisputed ruler of the Church.
It was then, in fulfilment of the vow he had made during his troubles, that _Saint_ Damasus (for he became a saint long since, success being a great sanctifier) adorned the underground chapel of the apostles. The entrance to it is through the modern basilica of St. Sebastian. It is a low, semicircular chamber, with irregular walls, in which a row of arched graves (_arcosolia_) has been formed, which once were occupied, probably, by bodies of saints or martyrs. Near the middle of the chapel is the well, about seven feet square, within which are the two graves, lined with marble, where the bodies of the apostles are said to have lain hid. Fragments of painting still remain on the walls of this pit, and three faint and shadowy figures may be traced, which seem to represent the Saviour between St. Peter and St. Paul. Over the mouth of the well stands an ancient altar. However little credence may be given to the old legends concerning the place, it is impossible not to look with interest upon it. For fifteen hundred years worshippers have knelt there as upon ground made holy by the presence of the two apostles. The memory of their lives and of their teachings has, indeed, consecrated the place; and though superstition has often turned the light of that memory into darkness, yet here, too, has faith been strengthened, and courage become steadfast, and penitence been confirmed into holiness, by the remembrance of the zeal, the denial of Peter, and the forgiveness of his Master, by the remembrance of the conversion, the long service, the exhortations, and the death of Paul.
The catacombs proper, to which entrance may be had from the Basilica of St. Sebastian, are of little importance in themselves, and have lost, by frequent alteration and by the erection of works of masonry for their support, much that was characteristic of their original construction. During a long period, while most of the other subterranean cemeteries were abandoned, this remained open, and was visited by numerous pilgrims. It led visitors to the church, and the guardians of the church found it for their interest to keep it in good repair. Thus, though its value as one of the early burial-places of the Christians was diminished, another interest attached to it through the character of some of those visitors who were accustomed to frequent its dark paths. Saint Bridget found some of that wild mixture of materialism and mysticism, (a not uncommon mingling,) which passes under the name of her Revelations, in the solitude of these streets of the dead. Here St. Philip Neri, the Apostle of Rome, the wise and liberal founder of the Oratorians, the still beloved saint of the Romans, was accustomed to spend whole nights in prayer and meditation. Demons, say his biographers, and evil spirits assailed him on his way, trying to terrify him and turn him back; but he overcame them all. Year after year he kept up this practice, and gained strength, in the solitude and darkness, and in the presence of the dead, to resist fiercer demons than any that had power to attack him from without. And it is related, that, when St. Charles Borromeo, his friend, the narrow, but pure-minded reformer of the Church, came to Rome, from time to time, he, too, used to go at night to this cemetery, and watch through the long hours in penitence and prayer. Such associations as these give interest to the cemetery of St. Sebastian’s Church.
The preeminence which the Appian Way, _regina viarum_, held among the great streets leading from Rome,–not only as the road to the South and to the fairest provinces, but also because it was bordered along its course by the monumental tombs of the greatest Roman families,–was retained by it, as we have seen, as the street on which lay the chief Christian cemeteries. The tombs of the Horatii, the Metelli, the Scipios, were succeeded by the graves of a new, less famous, but not less noble race of heroes. On the edge of the height that rises just beyond the Church of St. Sebastian stand the familiar and beautiful ruins of the tomb of Cecilia Metella. Of her who was buried in this splendid mausoleum nothing is known but what the three lines of the inscription still remaining on it tell us,–
CAECILIAE Q. CRETICI F. METELLAE CRASSI.
She was the daughter of Quintus, surnamed the Cretan, and the wife of Crassus. But her tomb overlooks the ground beneath which, in a narrow grave, was buried a more glorious Cecilia.[C] The contrast between the ostentation and the pride of the tombs of the heathen Romans, and the poor graves, hollowed out in the rock, of the Christians, is full of impressive suggestions. The very closeness of their neighborhood to each other brings out with vivid effect the broad gulf of separation that lay between them in association, in affection, and in hopes.
[Footnote C: Gueranger, _Histoire de St. Cecile_. p. 45.]
Coming out from the dark passages of the’ Catacombs of St. Callixtus, in the clear twilight of a winter’s evening, one sees rising against the red glow of the sky the broken masses of the ancient tombs. One city of the dead lies beneath the feet, another stretches before the eyes far out of sight. The crowded history of Rome is condensed into one mighty spectacle. The ambitions, the hates, the valor, the passions, the religions, the life and death of a thousand years are there; and, in the dimness of the dusky evening, troops of the dead rise before the imagination and advance in slow procession by opposite ways along the silent road.
[To be continued]
* * * * *
THE PURE PEARL OF DIVER’S BAY.
[Concluded.]
V
Did she talk of flesh and blood, when she said that she would find him?–The summer passed away; and when autumn came, it could not be said that search for the bodies of these fishermen was quite abandoned. But no fragment of boat, nor body of father or son, ever came, by rumor or otherwise, to the knowledge of the people of the Bay.
The voyage was long to Clarice. Marvellous strength and acuteness of vision come to the eyes of those who watch. Keen grow the ears that listen. The soldier’s wife in the land of Nena Sahib inspires despairing ranks: “Dinna ye hear the pibroch? Hark! ‘The Campbells are coming!'”–and at length, when the hope she lighted has gone out in sullen darkness, and they bitterly resent the joy she gave them,–lo, the bagpipes, banners, regiment! The pibroch sounds, “The Campbells are coming!” The Highlanders are in sight!–But, oh, the voyage was long,–and Clarice could see no sail, could hear no oar!
Clarice ceased to say that she must find the voyagers. She ceased to talk of them. She lived in these days a life so silent, and, as it seemed, so remote from other lives, that it quite passed the understanding of those who witnessed it. Tears seldom fell from her eyes, complaints never;–but her interest was aroused by no temporal matter; she seemed, in her thoughts and her desires, as far removed as a spirit from the influences of the external world.
This state of being no person who lives by bread alone could have understood, or endured patiently, in one with whom in the affairs of daily life he was associated.
The Revelator was an exile in Patmos.
Dame Briton was convinced that Clarice was losing her wits. Bondo Emmins yielded to the force of some inexplicable law, and found her fairer day by day. To his view, she was like a vision moving through a dream, rather than like any actual woman; and though the drift of the vision seemed not towards him, he was more anxious to compel it than to accomplish any other purpose ever entertained. The actual nearness, the apparent unattainableness, of that he coveted, excited in him such desires of conquest and possession as he would seek to appease in one way alone. To win her would have been to the mind of any other inhabitant of Diver’s Bay a feat as impracticable as the capture of the noble ghost of Hamlet’s father, as he stands exorcized by Mrs. Kemble.
And yet, while her sorrow made her the pity and the wonder of the people, it did not keep her sacred from the reach of gossip. Observing, the frequency with which Bondo Emmins visited Old Briton’s cabin, it was profanely said by some that the pale girl would ere long avert her eyes from the dead and fix them on the living.
Emmins had frequent opportunities for making manifest his good-will towards the family of Briton. The old man fell on the ice one day and broke his thigh, and was constrained to lie in bed for many a day, and to walk with the help of crutches when he rose again. Then was the young man’s time to serve him like a son. He brought a surgeon from the Port,–and the inefficiency of the man was not his fault, surely. Through tedious days and nights Emmins sat by the old man’s bedside, soothing pain, enlivening weariness, endeavoring to banish the gloomy elements that combined to make the cabin the abode of darkness. He would have his own way, and no one could prevent him. When Old Briton’s money failed, his supplies did not. Even Clarice was compelled to accept his service thankfully, and to acknowledge that she knew not how they could have managed without him in this strait.
The accident, unfortunate as it might be deemed, nevertheless exercised a most favorable influence over the poor girl’s life. It brought her soul back to her body, and spoke to her of wants and their supply,–of debts, of creditors,–of fish, and sea-weed, and the market,–of bread, and doctor’s bills,–of her poor old father, and of her mother. She came back to earth. Now, henceforth, the support of the household was with her. Bondo Emmins might serve her father,–she had no desire to prevent what was so welcome to the wretched old man,–but for herself, her mother, the house, no favor from him!
And thus Clarice rose up to rival Bondo in her ready courage. When her father, at last careful, at last anxious, thoughtful of the future, began to express his fear, he met the ready assurance of his daughter that she should be able to provide all they should ever want; let him not be troubled; when the spring came, she would show him.
The spring came, and Clarice set to work as never in her industrious life before. Day after day she gathered sea-weed, dried it, and carried it to town. She went out with her mother in the fishing-boat, and the two women were equal in strength and courage to almost any two men of the Bay. She filled the empty fish-barrels,–and promised to double the usual number. She dried wagon-loads of finny treasure, and she made good bargains with the traders. No one was so active, no one bade fair to turn the summer to such profit as Clarice. She had come back to flesh and blood.–John came back from Patmos.
Her face grew brown with tan; it was not lovely as a fair ghost’s, any longer; it was ruddy,–and her limbs grew strong. Bondo Emmins marked these symptoms, and took courage. People generally said, “She is well over her grief, and has set her heart on getting rich. There is that much of her mother in her.” Others considered that Emmins was in the secret, and at the bottom of her serenity and diligence.
Dame Briton and her spouse were not one whit wiser than their neighbors. They could not see that any half-work was impossible with Clarice,–that, if she had resolved, for their sake, to live as people must, who have bodies to respect and God-originated wants to supply, she must live by a ceaseless activity. Because she had ascended far beyond tears, lamentation, helplessness, they thought she had forgotten.
Yes, they came to this conclusion, though now and then, not often, generally on some pleasant Sunday, when all her work was done, Clarice would go down to the Point and take her Sabbath rest there. No danger of disturbance there!–of all bleak and desert places known to the people of Diver’s Bay, that point was bleakest and most deserted.
The place was hers, then. In this solitude she could follow her thoughts, and be led by them down to the ocean, or away to heavenly depths. It was good for her to go there in quietness,–to rest in recollection. Strength comes ever to the strong. This pure heart had nothing to fear of sorrow. Sorrow can only give the best it has to such as she. Grief may weaken the selfish and the weak; it may make children of the foolish and drivellers; by grief the inefficient may come to the fulness of their inefficiency;–but out of the bitter cup the strong take strength, though it may be with shuddering.
One Sunday morning Clarice lingered longer about the house than usual, and Emmins, who had resolved, that, if she went that day to the Point, he would follow her, found her with her father and mother, talking merely for their pleasure,–if the languid tones of her voice and the absent look of her eyes were to be trusted.
Emmins thought that this moment was favorable to him. He was sure of Dame Briton and the old man, and he almost believed that he was sure of Clarice. Finding her now with her father and mother at home on this bright Sunday morning, one glance at her face surprised him and, almost before he was aware, he had spoken what he had hitherto so patiently refrained from speaking.
But the answer of Clarice still more surprised him. With her eyes gazing out on the sea, she stood, the image of silence, while Bondo warily set forth his hopes. Old Briton and the dame looked on and deemed the symptoms favorable. But Clarice said,–
“Heart and hand I gave to him. I am the wife of Luke;–how can I marry another?”
Bondo seemed eager to answer that question, for he hastily waved his hand toward Dame Briton, who began to speak.
“Luke will never come back,” said he, gently expostulating.
“But I shall go to him,” was the quiet reply.
Then the old people, whose hearts were in the wooing, broke out together,–and by their voices, if one should argue with them, strife was not far off. Clarice staid one moment, as if to take in the burden of each eager voice; then she shook her head:–
“I am married already,” she said; “I gave him my heart and my hand. You would not rob Luke Merlyn?”
When she had so spoken, calmly, firmly, as if it were impossible that she should be moved or agitated by such speech as this she had heard, Clarice walked away to the beach, unmoored her father’s boat, and rowed out into the Bay.
Bondo Emmins stood with the old people and gazed after her.
“Odd fish!” he muttered.
“Never mind,” said Old Briton, hobbling up and down the sand; “it’s the first time she’s been spoke to. She’ll Come round. I know Clarice.”
“You know Clarice?” broke in Dame Briton. “You don’t know her! She isn’t Clarice,–she’s somebody else. Who, I don’t know.”
“Hush!” said Bondo, who had no desire that the couple should fall into a quarrel. “I know who she is. Don’t plague her. It will all come out right yet. I’ll wait. But don’t say anything to her about it. Let me speak when the time comes.–Where’s my pipe, Dame Briton?”
Emmins spent a good part of the day with the old people, and did not allow the conversation once to turn upon himself and Clarice. But he talked of the improvements he should like to make in the old cabin, and they discussed the market, and entertained each other with recollections of past times, and with strange stories made up of odd imaginations and still more uncouth facts. Supernatural influences were dwelt upon, and many a belief in superstitions belonging to childhood was confessed in peaceful unconsciousness of the fact that it was Clarice who had turned all their thoughts to-day from the great prosaic highway where plain facts have their endless procession.
VI.
Clarice went out alone in her fishing-boat, as during all the past week she had purposed to do when this day came, if it should prove favorable. She wished to approach the Point thus,–and her purpose in so doing was such as no mortal could have suspected. And yet, as in the fulfilment of this purpose she went, hastened from her delaying by the address of Bondo Emmins, it seemed to her as if her secret must be read by the three upon the beach.
She wore upon her neck, as she had worn since the days of her betrothal to Luke, the cord to which the pearl ring was attached. The ring had never been removed; but now, as Clarice came near to the Point, she laid the oars aside, and with trembling hands untied the black cord and disengaged the ring, and drew it on her finger, that trembled like a leaf. She was doing now what Luke had bidden her do,–and for his sake. Until now she had always looked upon it as a ring of betrothal; henceforth it was her wedding-ring,–the evidence of her true marriage with Luke Merlyn.
O unseen husband, didst thou see her as anew she gave herself to love, to constancy, to duty?
She was floating toward the Point, when she knelt in the fishing-boat and plunged the hand that wore the ring under the bright cold water. How bright, how cold it was! It chilled Clarice; she shuddered; was she the bride of Death? But she did not rise from her knees, neither withdraw her hand, until her vow, the vow she was there to speak, was spoken. There she knelt alone in the great universe, with God and Luke Merlyn.
When at last she stood upon the Point, she had strength to meet her destiny, and patience to wait while it was being developed. She knew her marriage covenant was blest, and filial duty was divested of every thought or notion that could tempt or deceive her. Treading thus fearlessly among the high places of imagination, no prescience of mortal trouble could lurk among the mysterious shadows. By her faith in the eternity of love she was greatly more than conqueror.
The day passed, and night drew near. It was the purpose of Clarice to row home with the tide. But a strange thing happened to her ere she set out to return. As she stood looking out upon the sea, watching the waves as they rolled and broke upon the beach, a new token came to her from the deep.
Almost as she might have waited for Luke, she stood watching the onward drift; calculating the spot at which the waves would deposit their burden, she stood there when the plank was borne inland, to save it, if possible, from being dashed with violence on the rocks.
To this plank a child was bound,–a little creature that might be three years old. At the sight of this form, and this helplessness, the heart of the woman seemed to break into sudden living flame. She carried the plank down to a level spot with an energy that would have made light of a burden even ten times as great; she stooped upon the sand; she unbound the body; and she thought, “The child is dead!” Nevertheless she took him in her arms; she dried his limbs with her apron; she wiped his face, and rubbed his hair;–but he gave no sign of life. Then she wrapped him in her shawl, and laid him in the boat, and rowed home.
There was no one in the cabin when Clarice went in. When Dame Briton came home, she found her daughter with a ring upon her finger, bending over the body of a child that lay upon her bed.
The dame was quickly brought into service, and there was no reason to fear that she would desist from her labors until she had received some evidence of death or life. She and Clarice worked all night over the body of the child, and towards morning were rewarded by the result. The boy’s eyes opened, and he tried to speak. By noon of that day he was lying in the arms of Clarice, deathly pallor on his little face; but he could speak, and his pretty eyes were open.
All those hours of mutual sympathy and striving, Dame Briton had been thinking to say, “Clarice, what’s the ring for?” But she had not said it, when, in the afternoon, Bondo Emmins came into the cabin, and saw Clarice with a beautiful boy in her arms, wrapped in her shawl, while before the fire some rags of infant garments were drying.
They talked over the boy’s fortune and the night’s work, the dame taking the chief conduct of the story; and Bondo was so much interested, and praised the child so much, and spoke with so much concern of the solitary, awful voyage the little one must have made, that, when he subsequently offered to take the child in his arms, Clarice let him go, and explained, when the young man began to talk to the boy, that he could not understand a word, neither could she make out the meaning of his speech.
Emmins heard Clarice say that she must go to the Port the next day and learn what vessel had been lost, and if any passengers were saved; and by daybreak he set out on that errand. He returned early in the morning with the news that a merchantman, the “Gabriel,” had gone down, and that cargo and crew were lost. While he was telling this to Clarice he observed the ring upon her finger, and he coupled the appearing of that token with the serenity of the girl’s face, and hailed his conclusion as one who hoped everything from change and nothing from constancy.
Clarice had found the boy in the place where she had looked for Luke that night when his cap was washed to her feet. Over and over again she had said this to her father and mother while they busied themselves about the unconscious child; now she said it again to Bondo Emmins, as if there were some special significance in the fact, as indeed to her there was. He was her child, and he should be her care, and she would call him Gabriel.
People could understand the burden imposed upon the laborious life of Clarice by this new, strange care. But they did not see the exceeding great reward, nor how the love that lingered about a mere memory seemed blessed to the poor girl with a blessing of divine significance.
To make the child her own by some special act that should establish her right became the wish of Clarice. It was not enough for her that she should toil for him while others slept, that she should stint herself in order to clothe him in a becoming manner, that she should suffer anxiety for him in the manifold forms best known to those who have endured it. She had given herself to Luke, so that she feared no more from any man’s solicitation. She would fain assert her claim to this young life which Providence had given her. But this desire was suggested by external influence, as her marriage covenant had been.
Now and then a missionary came down to Diver’s Bay, and preached in the open air, or, if the weather disappointed him, in the great shed built for the protection of fish-barrels and for the drying of fish. No surprising results had ever attended his preaching; the meetings were never large, though sometimes tolerably well attended; the preacher was almost a stranger to the people; and the wonder would have been a notable one, had there been any harvest to speak of in return for the seed he scattered. The seed was good; but the fowls of the air were free to carry it away; the thorns might choke it, if they would; it was not protected from any wind that blew.
A few Sundays after Gabriel became the charge of Clarice, the missionary came and preached to the people about Baptism. Though burdened with a multitude of cares which he had no right to assume, which kept him busy day and night in efforts lacking only the concentration that would have made them effective, the man was earnest in his labor and his speech, and it chanced now and then that a soul was ready for the truth he brought.
On this occasion he addressed the parents in their own behalf and that of their children. The bright day, the magnificent view his eyes commanded from the place where he stood to address the handful of people, the truth, with whose importance he was impressed, made him eloquent. He spoke with power, and Clarice Briton, holding the hand of little Gabriel, listened as she had never listened before.
“Death unto sin,” this baptism signified, he said. She looked at the child’s bright face; she recalled the experience through which she had passed, by which she was able to comprehend these words. She had passed through death; she had risen to life; for Luke was dead, and was alive again,–therefore she lived also. Tears came into the girl’s eyes, unexpected, abundant, as she listened to the missionary’s pleading with these parents, to give their little ones to their Heavenly Father, and themselves to lives of holiness.
He would set the mark of the cross on their foreheads, he said, to show that they were Christ’s servants;–and then he preached of Christ, seeking to soften the tough souls about him with the story of a divine childhood; and he verily talked to them as one should do who felt that in all his speaking their human hearts anticipated him. It was not within the compass of his voice to reach that savage note which in brutal ignorance condemns, where loving justice never could condemn. He had an apprehension of the vital truth that belief in the world’s Saviour was not belief in a name, but the reception of that which Jesus embodied. He came down to Diver’s Bay, expecting to find human nature there, and the only pity was that he had not time to perform what he attempted. Let us, however, thank him for his honest endeavor; and be glad, that, for one, Clarice was there to hear him,–she heard him so gladly.
To take a vow for Gabriel, to give him to God, to confirm him in possession of the name she had bestowed, became the desire of Clarice. One day when she had some business to transact in the market, she dressed Gabriel in a new frock she had made for him, and took him with her to the Port, carrying him in her arms half the way. She did not find the minister, but she had tested the sincerity of her desire. When he came down again to the Bay, as he did the next Sunday, she was waiting to give him the first fruits of his labors there.
He arrived early in the morning, that he might forestall the fishermen and their families in whatever arrangements they might be making for the day. When Clarice first saw him, her heart for a moment failed her,–she wished he had not come, or that she had gone off to spend the day before she knew of his coming. But, in the very midst of her regrets, she caught up Gabriel and walked forth to meet the preacher.
The missionary recognized Clarice, and he had already heard the story of the child. He was the first to speak, and a few moments’ talk, which seemed to her endless, though it was about Gabriel, passed before she could tell him how she had sought him in his own home on account of the boy, and what her wish was concerning him.
A naturalist, walking along that beach and discovering some long-sought specimen, at a moment when he least looked and hoped for it, would have understood the feeling and the manner of the missionary just then. Surprise came before gladness, and then followed much investigation, whereby the minister would persuade himself, even as the naturalist under similar circumstances would do, of the genuineness of what was before him;–he must ascertain all the attending circumstances.
It was a simple story that his questioning drew forth. The missionary learned something in the interview, as well as Clarice. He learned what confidence there is in a noble spirit of resignation; that it need not be the submission of helplessness. He saw anew, what he had learned for himself under different circumstances, the satisfaction arising from industry that is based on duty, and involves skill in craft, judgment in affairs, and that integrity which keeps one to his oath, though it be not to his profit. He heard the voice of a tender, pitiful, loving womanhood, strongly manifesting its right to protect helplessness, by the utterance of its convictions concerning that helplessness. He knew that to such a woman the Master would have spoken not one word of reproach, but many of encouragement and sympathy. So he spoke to her of courage, and shared her hopes, by directing them with a generous confidence in her. He was the man for his vocation, for in every strait he looked to his human heart for direction,–and in his heart were not only sympathy and gentleness, but justice and judgment.
While he talked to Clarice, the idea which had taken cognizance of Gabriel alone enlarged,–it involved herself.
“What doth hinder me to be baptized?” she asked, in the words of Philip.
“If thou believest, thou mayest.”
Accordingly, at the conclusion of the morning prayer, when the preacher said, “Those persons to be baptized may now come forward,” Clarice Briton, leading little Gabriel by the hand, rose from her seat and walked up before the congregation, and stood in the presence of all.
Not an eye was turned from her during the ceremony. When she lifted Gabriel, and held him in her arms, and promised the solemn promises for him as well as for herself, the souls that witnessed it thought that they had lost Clarice. The tears rolled down Old Briton’s cheeks when he looked upon the girl. What he saw he did not half understand, but there was an awful solemnity about the transaction, that overpowered him. He and Dame Briton had come to the meeting because Clarice urged them to do so;–she had said she was going to make a public promise about Gabriel, and that was all she told them; for, beside that there was little time for explanation in the hurry of preparing Gabriel and herself, Clarice’s heart was too deeply stirred to admit of speech. After she had obtained the promise of her parents, she said no more to them; they did not hear her speak again until her firm “I will” broke on their ears.
Dame Briton was not half pleased at what she saw and heard, during this service. She looked at Bondo Emmins to see what he was thinking,–but little she learned from his solemn face. When the sign of the cross was laid on the forehead of Clarice, and on the forehead of Gabriel, a frown for an instant was seen on his own; but it was succeeded by an expression of feature such as made the dame look quickly away, for in that same instant his eyes were upon her.
Enough of surprise and gaping wonder would Dame Briton have discovered in other directions, had she sought the evidences; but from Bondo Emmins she looked down at her “old man,” and she saw his tears. Then came Clarice, and before she knew it she was holding the little Christian Gabriel in her stern old arms, and kissing away the drops of hallowed water that flashed upon his eye-lids.
A sermon followed, the like of which, for poetry or wonder, was never heard among these people. The preacher seemed to think this an occasion for all his eloquence; nay, for the sake of justice, I will say, his heart was full of rejoicing, for now he believed a church was grafted here, a Branch which the Root would nourish. His words served to deepen the impression made by the ceremonial. Clarice Briton and little Gabriel shone in white raiment that day; and, thanks to him, when he went on to prove the Kingdom of Heaven upon earth one with that mysterious majesty on high, a single leap took Clarice Briton over the boundaries of faith.
VII.
But if to others Clarice seemed to have passed the boundary line of their dominion, to herself the bond of neighborhood was strengthened. The missionary told her all he had a right to expect of her now, as a fellow-worker, and pointed out to her the ways in which she might second his labors at the Bay. It was but a new form of the old work to which she had been accustomed her life long. Never, except in the dark summer months when all her life was eclipsed, had Clarice lived unmindful of the old and sick and helpless, or of the little children. Her kindliness of heart could surprise no one; her generosity was nothing strange; her caution, her industry, her courage, her gentleness, were not traits to which her character had been a stranger hitherto. But now they had a brighter manifestation. She became more than ever diligent in her service; the Sunday-school was the result of old sentiments in a new and intelligent combination; and the neighbors, who had always trusted Clarice, did not doubt her now. Novelty is always pleasing to simple souls among whom innovation has not first taken the pains to excite suspicion of itself.
For a long time, more than usual uncertainty seemed to attend the chances of Gabriel’s life. In the close watching and constant care required of Clarice, the child became so dear to her, that doubtless there was some truth in the word repeated in her hearing with intent to darken any moment of special tenderness and joy, that this stranger was dearer to her than her “born relations.”
As much as was possible by gentle firmness and constant oversight, Clarice kept him from hurtful influences. He was never mixed up in the quarrels of ungoverned children; he never became the victim of their rude sport or cruelty. She would preserve him peaceful, gentle, pure; and in a measure her aim was accomplished. She was the defender, companion, playmate of the child. She told him pretty tales, the creations of her fancy, and strove by them to throw a soft illusion around the rough facts of their daily life. The mystery surrounding him furnished her not meagrely with material for her imagination; she could invent nothing that seemed to herself incredible; her fairy tales were not more wonderful than facts as she beheld them. She taught the boy songs; she gave him language. The clothes he wore, bought with her own money, fashioned by her own hands, were such as became the beauty of the child, and the pure taste and the little purse of Clarice.
Never had a childhood so radiant in beauty, so wonderful in every manifestation, developed before the eyes of the folk of Diver’s Bay. He became a wonder to the old and young. His sayings were repeated. Enchantment seemed added to mystery;–anything might have been believed of Gabriel.
Sometimes, when she had dressed him in his Sunday suit, and they were alone together, Clarice would put upon his finger the pearl ring,–her marriage ring. But she kept to herself the name of Luke Merlyn till the time should come when, a child no longer, he should listen to the story; and she would not make that story grievous for his gentle heart, but sweet and full of hope. Well she knew how he would listen as none other could,–how serious his young face would look when the sacred dawn of a celestial knowledge should begin to break; then a new day would rise on Gabriel, and nothing should separate them then.
But, lurking near her joy, and near her perfect satisfaction, even in the days when some result much toiled for seemed to give assurance that she was doing well and justly, was the shadow of a doubt. One day the shadow deepened, and the doubt appeared. Clarice was sitting in the doorway, busy at some work for Gabriel. The boy was playing with Old Briton, who could amuse him by the hour, drawing figures in the sand. Dame Briton was busy performing some household labor, when Bondo Emmins came rowing in to shore. Gabriel, at the sound of the oars, ran to meet the fisherman, who had been out all day; the fisherman took the child in his arms, kissed him, then placed in his hands a toy which he had brought for him from the Point, and bade him run and show it to Clarice. Gabriel set out with shouts, and Emmins went back smiling to look after his boatload.
“He’s a good runner,” said Old Briton, watching the child with laughter in his eyes. Dame Briton, drawn to the door by the unusual noise, looked out to see the little fellow flying into Clarice’s arms, and she said, softly, “Pretty creature!” while she strode back to her toil.
Presently, the little flutter of his joy having subsided, Gabriel sat on the doorstep beside Clarice, his eyes seriously peering into the undiscoverable mystery of the toy. Then Bondo came up, and the toy was forgotten, the child darting away again to meet him. Emmins joined the group with Gabriel in his arms, looking well satisfied.
“Gabriel is as happy as if this was his home in earnest,” said he. He dropped the words to try the group.
“His home!” cried Dame Briton, quickly. “Well, ain’t it? Where then? I wonder.”
The sharp tone of her voice told that the dame was not well pleased with Bondo’s remark; for the child had found his way into her heart, and she would have ruined him by her indulgence, had it not been for Clarice’s constant vigilance. And this was not the least of the difficulties the girl had to contend with. For Dame Briton, you may be sure, though she might be compelled to yield to her daughter’s better sense, could never be constrained by her own child to hold her tongue, and the arguments with which she abandoned many of her foolish purposes were almost as fatal to Clarice’s attempts at good government as the perfect accomplishment of these purposes would have been.
Bondo answered her quick interrogatory, and the troubled wonder in the eyes of Clarice, with a confused, “Of course it is his home; only I was thinking, that, to be sure, they must have come from some place, and maybe left friends behind them.”
Now it seemed as if this answer were not given with malicious purpose, but in proper self-defence; and by the time Clarice looked at him, and made him thus speak, Bondo perhaps supposed that he had not intended to trouble the poor soul. But he could not avoid perceiving that a deep shadow fell upon the face of Clarice; and the conviction of her displeasure was not removed when she arose and led the child away. But Clarice was not displeased. She was only troubled sorely. She asked her surprised self a dreary question: If anywhere on earth the child had a living parent, or if he had any near of kin to whom his life was precious, what right to Gabriel had she? Providence had sent him to her, she had often said, with deep thankfulness; but now she asked, Had he sent the child that she might restore him not only to life, but to others, whom, but for her, death had forever robbed of him?
From the day that the shadow of this thought fell across her way, the composure and deep content of the life of Clarice were disturbed. Not merely the presence of Emmins became a trouble and annoyance, but the praise that her neighbors were prompt to lavish on Gabriel, whenever she went among them, became grievous to her ears. The shadow which had swept before her eyes deepened and darkened till it obscured all the future. She was experiencing all the trouble and difficulty of one who seeks to evade the weight of a truth which has nevertheless surrounded and will inevitably capture her.
Nothing of this escaped the eyes of the young fisherman. Time should work for him, he said; he had shot an arrow; it had hit the mark; now he would heal the wound. He might easily have persuaded himself that the wound was accidental, and so have escaped the conviction of injury wrought with intention. All would have been immediately well with him and Clarice, had it not been for Clarice! There are persons, their name is Legion, who are as wanton in offence as Bondo Emmins,–whose souls are black with murderous records of hopes they have destroyed; yet they will condole with the mourners!
To this doubt as to her duty, this evasion of knowledge concerning it, this silence in regard to what chiefly occupied her conscience, was added a new trouble. As Gabriel grew older, a restless, adventurous spirit began to manifest itself in him. From a distance regarding the daring feats of other children, his impulse was to follow and imitate them. At times, in ungovernable outbreaks of merriment, he would escape from the side of Clarice, with fleet, daring steps which seemed to set her pleasure at defiance; and when, after his first exploit, which filled her with astonishment, she prepared to join him in his sport, and did follow, laughing, a wilfulness, which made her tremble, roused to resist her, and gave an almost tragic ending to the play.
One day she missed the lad. Searching for him, she found that he had gone out in a boat with other children, among whom he sat like a little king, giving his orders, which the rest were obeying with shouted repetitions. When Clarice called to him, and begged the children to return, he followed their example, took off his cap, and waved it at her, in defiance, with the rest.
Clarice sat down on the shore in despair. Bitter tears ran down her cheeks.
Bondo Emmins passed by, and saw what was going on. “Ho! ho! Clarice needs some one to help her hold the rein,” said he to himself; and going to the water’s edge, he raised his voice, and beckoned the children ashore. He enforced the gesture by a word,–“Come home!”
The little rebels did not wait a second summons, but obeyed the strong