Lights and shadows of forty years

Preface

These little sketches are taken from real life. The names of persons and places are not always given, for obvious reasons. Unlike some who are accustomed to the use of the pen, I am not fond of writing. The manual labor is always more or less irksome. That I have written at all, is due to motives that are wholly my own. The reader does not care to kpow them, and would think neither more nor less of this little book if I should tell him why I have written it,

The Book Editor may, if he chooses to do so, reveal the reason of this publication. There is no profession of literary excellence in these sketches, hut if the indulgent public should honor them with a cordial reception, something on a larger scale may he attempted by

The Author.

EDITOR’S PREFACE.

We do not see it necessary to give any apology for the author. It is needless, for the reader has the book before him. If it is a good book, it will he found out, and appreciated accordingly. If it is dull and uninteresting, no further interest can he given it by any words from The Book Editor.

Nashville, June, 1883.

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Contents

PAGE

The Spectral Bride of Bean’s Station 168

The Ship that is Coming from Oyer the Sea 195

Chapter I

IT was a very warm evening in June, and I had preached, as I supposed, a very dull sermon. The audience looked sleepy, my own mind was heavy, and I closed the service with a saddened feeling, such as those only can appreciate who have felt the conviction of failure settling upon mind and conscience after the labors of the pulpit.

Still there were some cheerful reflections. The subject was a new one, and the sermon literally extemporaneous, for, by some movement of my thoughts which was unaccountable to me, the subject prepared for Sunday night had been laid aside. It had dwindled out of my mind. I know not in what other terms to express it. The new text came to me not ten minutes before the hour for preaching, but it took such firm hold of my thoughts, and so completely displaced the prepared sermon, that I had no choice in the matter. Was this providential? Was there some design of the Spirit in this sudden change of texts? I have learned

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since to recognize the dealings of the Guide in these matters, but then I did not understand them. But now, after several years have passed, I cannot thoroughly understand the experiences of that Sunday night. But I will not venture upon explanations. I had changed my text, and my sermon was a failure. With this conviction, I went home, and, as my custom was, took up a book to divert my thoughts and read myself to sleep.

The next morning I was keenljr sensitive upon the subject of the sermon the night before. The Sunday morning effort was a success. My mind turned to that with a feeling of relief. But ever and anon I found myself traveling over the ground of the miserable failure I had made. It was a fine subject — an important truth — so much might and so much ought to be said by a man of plain common sense on a theme like that! And so much that I had not said!

On my office-table I found a packet of letters, placed there by my sexton. Among these was a note written on paper which bore the name of one of the largest hotels in the city. The writer desired the privilege of an interview with me at any hour of the day that might be convenient to me. A note addressed to J. 0., No. 76 City Hotel, would reach him; and he earnestly requested me to arrange my affairs in some way that we might not be interrupted, and, if it would not be asking too much,

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he would suggest his own room at the hotel, and three o’clock in the afternoon as the time. I had no engagement for that hour, and dispatched a note accordingly by my sexton.

At three o’clock I was at the door of No. 76 City Hotel. In response to my knock I was invited to enter by a young man apparently twenty-seven or twenty-eight years of age. He was dressed rather plainly, but neatly, and wore a very modest gold chain, and no other ornament. His manners were easy and graceful, showing neither an undue restraint on the one hand, nor the freedom of selfconfidence on the other. His face was cleanly shaved, and its expression was that of an ingenuous, candid man; but I noticed, after the first words of introduction, and the usual commonplaces which are indispensable whether among strangers or friends, that a look of anxiety settled upon his countenance.

“ You may think strangely of this, Mr. Heartwell,” said he, looking at me in the most searching manner, as if desirous of reading my thoughts; “but I would not give you unnecessary trouble, and, although I may not justify myself in your estimation for the liberty I am taking, still you are a minister, and in a certain sense everybody’s friend.”

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “ I am never so well pleased as when I find myself able to do a service to my fellow-men. That is my calling. You know a minister is a servant .” .

“True, sir; but it is not to every minister that I would confide what I am about to state to you. But I know you from reputation, although I heard you preach for the first time last evening.”

I could not help wincing under this remark, but I have none of that small vanity which cannot afford to acknowledge itself at fault anywhere, and hence I answered, “ I am sorry, Mr. Carson, that you heard me last night, for I assure you the sermon was not a fair specimen of my preaching.”

“ May be not,” he said, with a pleasant smile ; “ and I overheard an opinion to the same effect as I came out of the church. But I assure you that I did not go to your church as a critic, even if I felt myself competent for such a thing. My mind was ill at ease on yesterday, and after listening to a very dry discussion of a very dull theme in the morning, at a church of the same faith as that I am accustomed to attend, it occurred to me that I would go and hear you. I could give no reason for my uneasy feeling — at least I could not have done so then; but now — well, suffer me to turn inquirer for a little while, and let me see if I understood you aright last evening. ”

“ Y ery well, sir,” I answered ; “ upon what point? ”

“Did you say that there was a class of sins that

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men commit that are never pardoned in this world or the next?”

“ Well, I said something very like that.”

“And you affirmed that the divine government to exist at all must exact satisfaction, if not for the sin , yet for the deed, when men transgress the laws of right and honor among themselves.”

“I did make a distinction between sin , in its purely moral character, and the sinful act , as one of the factors in the sum of the divine government; but I am not sure that I made myself very clearly understood, for, to tell you the truth, the words used were entirely extemporaneous, and were not as well chosen, perhaps, as they might have been.”

“Perhaps not, Mr. Heartwell; but this is the particular matter that I wish to inquire about. Do you believe that there is a certain retribution for men in this life? In other words, if I do wrong to one of my neighbors, is it, in your opinion, inevitable that at some period or other some other man will do to me as I have done to others?”

“I think you have caught the drift of my sermon on that point.”

“Well, if a man commits a sin against his neighbor— for example, takes that from him which might be restored — and then repents of his sin, he must restore that which he has taken unrighteously?”

“ Certainly, sir. There can be no doubt upon that

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subject. The law of God is very clear. There is but one thing that can qualify this statement. If it is in the power of the penitent, his ill-gotten gain must be restored. If he cannot do this, the will is taken for the deed. But he must have the will , otherwise there is no hope of his forgiveness.”

“ You do not believe that a man can be a Christian, then, and have such property in his possession.”

“I certainly do not.”

“Alas for the Church, then! If this be true, what will become of nine-tenths of the professors of religion?”

“ I trust you are in error in your estimate of the Church, my friend,” I replied, in a tone which did not conceal a slight sense of displeasure.

“ Perhaps so, Mr. Heart-well. It does not become me to judge. I remember that the Book says, 4 Judge not, lest ye be j udged ;’ but it says also, ‘By their fruits ye shall know them.’ ”

“ There are hypocrites in the Church, my friend,” I answered; “ nobody doubts that. But to say nine-tenths of the Church-members are hypocrites is to make a severe charge, to say the least of it.”

“And you will say that a young man of my limited opportunities ought to be careful about pronouncing a verdict upon a class of people to which he does not belong,” he said, with a smile; “and I

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admit that your opinion is justified by appearances; but permit me to say that I have spent all my life among bank-bills and coins and bonds, and all my waking thoughts, and even my dreams, have been connected with them. From my situation in life I have been associated with what is called ‘business men/ the trading world, and I tell you that if the commercial world is to be judged by the principles of the New Testament,, there is precious little chance of any man among them ever reaching the kingdom of heaven.”

“I cannot say as to that, nor can I tell what the associations of your life have been,” was my reply; and I could not resist an inclination to retaliate upon him, when I remarked: “The company that one keeps is very apt to mold his opinions; and if, as you say, the great majority of professing Christians are cheats and swindlers, your lot in life has certainly fallen in a sphere with which I am unacquainted.”

He colored a little, but replied in a tone of voice that was very different from the one he had used a few minutes before: “ Excuse me, Mr. Heartwell. I am sorry if I have offended you, for it was the very last thing that I could be capable of. I am somewhat impetuous and ardent in my temperament, and if you knew me thoroughly, you would see that I have no evil purpose in what I have said.”

“Allow me, then, to say that I am at a loss to see

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what good can arise from this conversation;” and I made a movement toward the door.

“ Please do not leave me,” he said, in a voice that betrayed no little emotion. “ O sir, it was not my intention to wound your feelings, much less to insult you! I should be unworthy the notice of a gentleman if I could do such a thing.”

“Very well, my friend,” I replied, resuming my seat; “ if I can be of any service to you, I am willing to do so, but I am not in the mood to discuss the question toward which our conversation has gravitated. You will see from my looks, sir, that I have known much more of the world than you can possibly know, for my age is nearly double your own; and I think, if I may say so without offense, I am not likely to benefit you by listening to your opinions of the Church and its members.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Heartwell. I have spoken unadvisedly with my lips, and will do so no more.”

“You seem at least,” said I, “ to have much of the language of Scripture upon your tongue. The words you have just spoken are from the word of God.”

“ I know that, sir,” he answered, and a tear glittered in his eyes as he spoke. “ My mother was a Christian, and taught me to hold the Bible in profound respect, and to make it the man of my counsel. This is the very reason I have asked you to visit me.”

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“And yet you have made a wholesale charge against the people to whom your mother belonged! How is this? ”

“ Ho, Mr. Heartwell ; you are wrong. I said nothing against the Church — nothing against the Bible. I believe in the word of God as firmly — I was going to say as you do, but perhaps I ought not to say that; but never since I could remember have I failed to say the prayer that my mother taught me on lying down at night. When I learned it I cannot say, but I could not close my eyes for sleep until those precious words were spoken :

And now I lay me down to sleep,

I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep ;

And if I die before I wake,

I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.”

He uttered these words in a melting tone of mingled reverence and devotion, such as I have seldom heard.

“ She is in heaven, sir, and I promised to meet her there; and for this very cause I have desired to see you. Can you be patient with me?”

“I will do any thing in my power to help you, Mr. Carson. But it is very manifest to you as a man of common sense that this is a very roundabout way to arrive at a subject that seems to interest you. Please give me some idea of the ^rvice I am to perform, and I promise you that

patience shall have her perfect work.”

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“ Thank you, sir,” he said, and walking to the door, he looked out into the hall, then closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. I began to have a vague sense of uneasiness at this singular conduct of my young friend, and my curiosity, which was never a very large factor in my nature, was still sufficiently awakened to put me into the attitude of “an inquirer,” which he doubtless saw, and anticipated me.

“I have some friends here who may take it into their heads to pay me a visit, and I do not wish to be disturbed. If they saw the key in the door, they would insist upon coming in, and I do not intend to see them at present. Now,” he continued, “if you will take your seat by this window, it will enable me to tell you my story in a lower tone, and wTe will not subject ourselves to interruption.”

I took my seat near him, and he began the story which will be found in the next chapter.

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Chapter II

“ I never saw my father. He died when I was only three months old, and my mother died before I was ten years of age. Of my mother’s estate I know nothing, as all her financial affairs were placed in the hands of my uncle, who took charge of me after my mother died, and gave me a good academical education, which was rounded off*, as my uncle calls it, by twelve months of special application in a business college. From this institution, when I was only eighteen years old, I was graduated, and my diploma testified to my proficiency in the sciences that are necessary in mercantile life. My uncle is a banker, and I was taken into his establishment immediately as a clerk, and, when I came of age, was made the cashier of the bank; and this position I hold at the present time. I have no reason to complain of my uncle’s treatment, in some respects at least. I have been a member of his family, and am at the present time. He has treated me with all the kindness of which he is capable; but that may not be saying a great deal for him, for I believe the whole end of his existence is to make money.

“ The bank is known by the firm name of ‘John Brown & Co./ but the company I am inclined to

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believe is a myth, the name being employed for the same reason that Dickens assigned in one of his books: to afford an opportunity to avoid unpleasant responsibilities, whilst Mr. Brown preserves a spotless reputation for charity, liberality, and generosity. The partners, if there are any, are certainly unknown to me, although there is never a day that they are not alluded to in some form or other.

“From the beginning of my career, I have been informed by my uncle that I had no dependence in this world but my own industry and economy. He drilled me so effectually in this belief that I became at the outset exceedingly careful in regard to my expenses, and I doubt if there is a young man of my age in the country who has moved in the same circles of life at so small an expenditure of money. My allowance for my pocket-change scarcely amounted to five dollars a year until I entered the business college, and then it was barely sufficient to cover my necessary expenses. Of luxuries I knew nothing whatever. I contracted no bad habits. The use of tobacco and liquors I have never known to the present hour. My health, as you see, is excellent, and by my style of dress you may readily perceive that I am not, to say the least of it, extravagant.

46 1 naturally felt for my uncle a warm attachment and a sense of gratitude. Although my intercourse

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with him has been under more or less restraint, I have noticed that his own children are kept in the same state of reserve, and, as far as I can see, he has no particular fondness for them. The entire household is in a state of quiet subordination. His will is the law, and neither wife nor children seem disposed to rebel against this ruler. To do him full justice* I cannot say that he is an unkind master, husband, or father. His qualities in these respects are purely negative. At home — and he spends his leisure hours altogether at home — he is quiet, apparently unexacting, and constantly engaged in his library. His books are few, as to general literature, but in one department there is no lack of authorities. On every subject that relates to making and saving money he is thoroughly posted.

“ The only social intercourse he has with the world is through the Church. This may seem to you a paradox, but it is a truth. He attends the Sunday service twice a day, and the official meeting, of which he is a member, once a week, or as often as it is held. Of his conduct there of course I know nothing, and the amount of his liberality to the cause I can only surmise by the ledger of the bank, in which all moneys paid out in this direction are charged to the 4 Charity Account of John Brown.’ The sum is not large. Indeed, for one of his wealth, it is ridiculously small; but in a

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town like ours there are not many demands of this kind. At least I suppose there are not, as I hear nothing about them.

“ Our bank is the depository for a considerable number of farmers, merchants, some small mechanics, and two or three manufacturing establishments. In a town of two thousand inhabitants, we do all the business for nearly twenty miles of a rich and productive country. Besides myself, there is only one person engaged in the business of the bank as an employe. I am cashier, teller, and book-keeper, and at times undertake the office of collector, when by any chance -we have to send a trusty person to any distance from home. It is on business of this kind that I am here at this time, and have been here arranging a doubtful debt since Friday last.

“Now, Mr. Heartwell, all these particulars may be a little tiresome to you, but they are necessary to a proper understanding of my case. I ought to mention another thing that is very important. My uncle has a daughter three years younger than myself.”

My friend paused, and looked out of the window for nearly a minute before he resumed the thread of his story. My curiosity began to be excited somewhat at this stage of his narrative, for I saw in the expression of his eye a peculiar brightness which I could by no means understand. “ Is he in love with this daughter of his uncle? Are these plans devices

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of escape — a runaway match — and am I to be employed in the case?” This thought took possession of me, as my young friend prolonged his silence, and seemed really inclined to test my patience by provoking me to ask him the question. I was in the act of doing so, when he resumed his narrative.

“ This cousin of mine is a very sprightly girl, I might say, but by no means pretty, nor what is called ‘good-looking.’ She is not ugly; but she is, like her father, a creature of negatives. There is nothing evil, nothing even for a severe critic to condemn, in her conduct or her disposition; but, on the other hand, there is as little that is positively good. She is — — ”

“ You are not in love with her, then ! ” I exclaimed in spite of myself.

“ In love with her! ”

And he turned upon me a glance that was almost fierce in its expression of resentment.

“I should say not, sir; and probably that is one of the difficulties of my situation. I do not know. I cannot tell. The whole set is such an unaccountable collection of strange beings to me, notwithstanding I have lived only twelve months out of their society since I knew any thing of life at all, that I am at a loss what to think. If I were to tell you any single sentence or occasional incident that has come to my knowledge, you wrould think me demented perhaps, and despise the meagerness of my proof. Yet

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I am firmly of the opinion that my uncle and his wife and the girl herself are all determined to make me a son-in-law of John Brown in spite of myself.”

The young man paused, and then rose to his feet, and took a turn or two about the room, as if only a little exercise could give him relief. It occurred to me that a little bantering could do no harm.

“Well, Mr. Carson, from your own account of your cousin, it does not seem to me that the fate designed for you would be so very awful after all, unless ”

“ What, Mr. Ileartwell! Is it not an awful thing in the presence of the living God to make a vow of love and fidelity to a woman whom you do not love? Is life, then, simply a piece of mechanism, and human hearts and hopes and destinies like so many cogs, to correspond with the cogs of other wheels, to turn the machinery that grinds out money — dollars and dimes? And you ”

“Hold, Mr. Carson,” I answered calmly. “You would not let me complete the sentence. I meant to say, unless your affections were elsewhere centered. If you do love another, why, the affair takes altogether another shape.”

“N o, sir,” he said, resuming his seat; “I do not love another. The fact is, my life has been such a mechanical affair that I am not able to say that I love anybody or any thing. I have been in a strait-

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jacket all my life. I had no playmates when I was a hoy — was not allowed to have any, unless I got one by stealth; and I chanced to be exceedingly unfortunate in my child-friendships. Then, since I grew to be a man, I have had no time for any thing but business. It is standing at the teller’s window, or making up the accounts, all the day, and posting the books and writing up the correspondence at night. Sir, I have known so little of society that I am unable to provide for the amusement of the yearly holidays. The fact is, Mr. Heartwell, I am a machine, and nothing more, and a machine whose whole labor and product swell the fortunes of the owner, my uncle. I am a slave, a bondman, and if there is any thing lower, I am that!’7

“Be calm, Mr. Carson; be calm,” I remarked, for his words were spoken with a terrible energy. “There is a remedy for all this. Your case is not half so desperate as you fancy.”

“But hear me out, Mr. Heartwell. It is now nearly twelve months since I made a singular, I may say a wonderful, discovery. I told you that my mother was a pious woman. She was not demonstrative in her disposition, but she loved me with all the ardor of a true woman and a fond mother. On her death-bed she gave me a book — a Bible. It was bound, as I have recently discovered, in morocco, with a flexible back; and one of the sin-

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gular things about it was that at the time she gave it to me she covered the book with some kind of strong cloth — a mixture of silk and wool — I do not know the name of it; and she told me that the cover would keep the book from being injured, for she wished me to read it every day, and never to undertake any journey without that book. And, true to my promise, I have it with me to-day. 55

He brought from his portmanteau a small volume, the “ English Polyglott ” Bible, and handed it to me.

“As you see, sir, it is again covered. But about twelve months ago the covering had worn so that I concluded to take it oft' and have another put on. Whilst examining the binding, which I now saw for the first time, I observed that there was a thin slip of writing-paper between the body of the back and the binding, and that this slip of paper was kept in its place by two or three stitches running into the binder’s thread. On drawing out this paper I found it was a letter from my mother.”

He opened his pocket-book, and drew from it a small sheet of paper, much worn in the places where it had been folded, but otherwise in perfect preservation. The writing was in a cramped and nervous hand, indicating seldom use of the pen, but the orthography was faultless:

My Dear James : I am watched — I am sure of it, but I cannot tell you why. Perhaps I am wrong, for they have all been ex-

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ceedingly kind to me, and I have never lacked for any tiling that could promote my comfort. But, my dear child, this is no more than their duty, for my money, or your father’s rather, has been the making of their fortune. Your uncle is a strange man. I do not understand him. He has done every thing that I have asked him to do, and given every assurance that I could demand for the security of the estate and your interest in it, and yet my heart tells me that you are going to have trouble with him. My disease has gone so far that there is no hope now of ever meeting your uncle Thomas, and I do not know that he is awTare of my sickness even. But if you should ever find this slip of paper, and it becomes necessary to do so, look in the same place in the book called the Pilgrim’s Progress, and you will find a paper that will help you out of all your difficulties. Your affectionate mother, Hattie Carson.

The young man watched me very closely whilst I read this odd paper, and when I had finished he asked, “ Well, what do you think of it?”

“ It is a very strange affair, Mr. Carson. Did you look for the book after you found this paper — I mean the Pilgrim’s Progress?”

“ Of course I did, sir; and I found such a book, with my mother’s name in it, but there was nothing in the shape of a paper there.”