Yorkville enquirer. [volume] (Yorkville, S.C.) 1855-2006, August 10, 1871, Image 1
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BY MARY F. WATERBURY.
CHAPTER IX.
We tremble by the harmless bed
? Of one loved and departed,
^ 9nT?ears drop on the lips that said
Last night, (Be stronger-hearted !'
O, God?to clasp those rmjjers close,
And yet to feel so lonely!
To see a light upon such brows,
Which is the day-light only!
Be pitiful, O, God!"
With infinite love and pity, God upheld i
and strengthened his children. ^
The saintly face, though 30 still and white,
had no terror even for the timid little Lawrie.
t* mliA 1 o tliftrfl Thfiv knew that
JH? TTOQ H?V*ffWI niiV 1HJ OMW. J
in all the wide world {here v^s not a heart to
? love them as had that heart which was stilled
forever; that no lips could be so tender, yet
so true;, no hand so strong to labor, so gentle;
n**"", and*
^^^^Sugh it see toed as if the only blessing the j
world contained had been taken from them, |
there was given to them the sweet assurance,;
which Helen repeated over and over in the
midst of her grief and desolation, and which
even the children could understand: "Dear
mother is happy."
There were friends around them through
the hush of the days of preparation?kind
neighbors to take up those common cares that
grate so harshly on the quivering, wounded
hearts, and friends to perform the last sacred
offices for the dead.
Frederic Lee kept the father aroused from
his apathy, and comforted the little boys; and
it was Lizzie who so smoothly arranged the
soft grey hair about the peaceful brow, and
placed a pure white lilly in the sleeper's hand.
Dr. McLeod, too, was there, his grave face i
softened by the honest sympathy shining out.]
of his eyes.
Wolon stolen into the room to take a i
last look at the dear form, before the strangers
should come. Her tears fell fast 4pon
the up-turned face. She recalled the years of
toil and anxiety and privation; the patient
self-sacrifice and unfailing cheerfulness, and
the uncomplaining endurance of Jong weeks
of pain and weariness; and her tears fell
faster as she thought how little she had done
to lighten that burden, and how often she had
grieved that loving heart.
There was a step in the room and a hand
laid gently on her arm. Looking up, she
met Dr. McLeod's pitying eyes.
"My friend!" he said, earnestly ; and then
looking reverently at the coffined form, he
added in his old, protecting manner: "Dear
child, remember you have still a mother.
Death means only perfect peace and joy.
"Not a tear must o'er her fall,
He giveth His beloved sleep.' "
Then he led her away, and the people gathered.
There was the reading of God's promises,
the singing of the funeral hymn, the burial
rites; and through it all Helen went.me~
cbatrically, as one tin a dream. She hnadly ?
knew what strong arm sustained her as/she
stood by the open grave, nor what firm hand
held her back, when she would have thrown
herself upon the coffin.
It was all over. The sun still shone. The
neighbors worked and laughed and gossiped
as before. Nothing was changed; yet everything
was changed.
Helen and Mary had no time for quiet days
of mourning. Too heavy a burden rested
upon them.
Mr. Weston retired at his usual hour the
night after the funeral, and, calling Helen to
him. said:
"I shall never leave this bed until they carry
me out and bury me by your mother."
Helen tried to cheer him, but he said noth- j
ing more, and turned his face toward the wall, j
He lay day after day, never speaking except i
to reply, in monosyllables, to questions ; never j
asking for food or drink, and partaking so i
sparingly of what was set before him that life
was barely sustained.
Drawn together by their common sorrow,
the two girls worked, not knowing what the j
future had in store for them, nor what plans i
to devise for the support of the helpless :
family.
Tired and disheartened, Helen was sitting j
in her little room one evening awkwardly j
trying to patch the ragged little jackets and
pants that had seen such long service.
Juhnny and Lawrie were in bed; she had
just come from the "good-night talk" for which
they pleaded every night. At first, when they
asked her to stay and talk to them, Helen ;
yielded to her weariness and said, "No, she |
was too tired ;" but when Lawrie urged piti-!
fully,
"Won't you please stay, sis ? It's so lone-1
some, and mamma always used to," she could i
not refuse.
While she sat patiently plying her needle, j
r.nd thinking in a hopeless, listless way of the |
work that was crowding on her hands; of her j
father lying alone and dead in lifeof her j
little brothers, with their tattered clothes, that
caused them so much shame among their
' playmates ; of Mary toiling at her needle
from morning until night?as she thought of j
all these daily discouragements and trials, j
some of her mother's parting words were re- j
called.
"It will be a hard way, but God will help
you."
It came with the force of a revelation.
"God will help me" she said, lingering on
each word, as if to gather all its precious
meaning.
She let her work fall listlessly iuto her lap,
and looked out of the window, the words still
in her mind and on her lips.
It had been a stormy March day, but now :
the moon was glinting through silvery clouds,;
and toward the west was a large blue field.
For the first time Helen rightly understood 1
the message which the heavens declare each
night. She felt the infinite power and glory
of God, "and yet," she thought, in deep hu....
?TT -nui L_1
mility, "?ie win neip vie?ueip mc tu ucai
little trials, ray daily burdens, and, Oh ! how
I have gone on blindly all ray life?stumbling
and falling in the darkness, while his strong
hand was ready to help me !"
She kneeled by the window. The clouds
dispersed, and the pure, white light filled the
room.
Of that sacred hour we need not speak,
but to Helen it was the most precious hour of
^ her life. She had found a Friend whose love
A was eternal, whose compassion, infinite, and
T
>lV. With her natural . enthusiasm,
4feobght the joy of that hour would never be
dimmed, that the bitrdens of life would never,
again pre^s heavily. How strong she felt!
How eagarjto do her quiet, home-work faiths,
folly and earnestly !" How tender and patient
with the boys fc How sympathetic and
helpMytoward Mary! and how cheerful and
gentt^ith her father.
In her zeal, she redoubled her efforts to
make, the poor home pleasant ai^doMpibrtable,
aiid^o assist Mary about the.sa^uj^whieh
was their aotesupport, aside froaa,w^^oceeds
of varnus household article which had been
sold afWr her mother's death. But $ier phys- j
ical stfdhgth did not keep pace with her zeal.
The days, though too short for the much she
had to do, dragged slowly along; the burden
grew heavier and heavier; and the willing
hanila and feet grew listless and weary in
the servicer
One evening, early in April, Mary had
gone to take home some work, and Helen sat
JL17?IT rgfVHTiVr+"1tirr *Wq
i*-1-;*-? ????? ' tnhtoi^ru in wnrk nr tn think, i
aauiiig OUUOVd) UW Ml v?* ? ?
She heard the alickxif IKe large gate-latch,
and, looking down, saw "Miss Nancy" gravely
walking in, drawing the well-known buggy
after her, pausing for Dr. McLeod to get in,
and refusing to go on until he should do so,
though he chirruped repeatedly, and insisted
that he could walk so short a distance.
Helen's heart bounded with joy, and she
ran down to open the door with a little of her
old impetuosity.
"0, Dr. McLeod!" she exclaimed, taking
his great hand in both of hers. "I am so
glad you have come."
"Came to see a patient., or in consultation,
rather. Thought I must drop in a minute
and see how you were getting along." This,
the doctor said, but "Miss Nancy" knew very
well, for he had told her on the way, that he
was "troubled about the poor little girl, who
was working herself to death, and grieving j
herself to death about her mother; and that
some way must be devised to make it easier
for her."
What that way was, the good doctor very
soon unfolded to Helen, watching her face
steadily with his grave eyes, and thinking
"how much like her mother she had grown,
and that many such months would give her
rest from all her troubles."
"Lawrie!" said Helen, looking as though
she hardly comprehended what had been proposed.
"But, doctor, Lawrie was mother's
pet, and she told me I was to watch over him
and see that he had a liberal education."
"I will take good care of him," answered
.r 1 - - - J _V_11 t.
tne uocior, "aiiu nt; snail uuvc an cuummuu.
If he doesn't want to be a doctor, why, he
can be something else; but I guess he will?
I guess he will." And he spoke as if he had
no doubt whatever, for he had talked it over
so many times with himself and "Miss Nancy"
that both thought it "couldn't be otherwise,
to be sure."
"But you are a man," Helen said, still hesitating.
*
f This was incontrovertible, so the doctor
Wde no reply, but looked as if it "must be a j
great pity, and he was sorry he could not help j
it
"He needs a mother or sister," Helen contiuued.
" ?^
"Oh! but Mrs. Kramer is there. She is a
regular mother to every chick and child that
comes along."
"Perhaps it would be better for Lawrie,"
Helen said, as though thinking aloud, "but it
seems almost like giving up my trust"
"It is fulfilling your trust," urged the doctor
; "but I shall call in the morning?must
go to that patient now?and then we will talk
it over."
"Can I see your father this evening or shall
I wait until morning ?"
"I will see," Helen answered, going into the
small bed-room that opened from the living
room. The doctor heard her low tones, but
no reply. She came out looking rather more
anxious than before, and, taking the light, silently
led the way to the bed-side. The sick
man lay with closed eyes, and his face turned
toward the wall ; evidently awake, but desirous
of being thought asleep. The few weeks
of confinement had wrought in him such a
change that even Dr. McLeod was startled.
"Does your father have a physician ?" he
asked, as they went out. "If not I will pre-!
pare him a tonic. It is partly physical weak
ness, and partly, a constitutional tendency to j
morbid melancholy. It would help his mental
depression to a certain extent, if we could
give more tone to his physical system."
"He always refuses the most simple medi- j
cines, but I will try to persuade him," Helen
replied.
"This care is too much for you, Miss Helen,"
said the doctor abruptly. "You need a
tonic. You are out of spirits."
"I am only tired and?"
"And what, little girl ? No, you need not
tell me. I know;" and the good doctor, with
his warm, honest heart, grew so earnest that
he placed Helen in the arm-chair as if she had
ibeen a child, andtthen stood nervously brush-.
ing his old white hat the wrong way. "I
know. I have "known it all along, but didn't
see any way to help it. Now I know of one
way. Give me half the burden." He paused,
stopped brushing his hat, and gravely awaited
a reply. Helen was startled, confused,
and perplexed. She attempted to speak, but
it resulted only in a hysterical sob, and covaa
V* a?? Vton/lo oV* a n on oIaa
Cillig nci muc una uui uauuo, oug uiwuo ottv
had not done for weeks. The doctor looked
troubled, but, resuming his role as physician,
he took a bottle from his medicine case, and
after a patient search, succeeded in finding a
spoon and cup.
"Take this," he said, handing Helen the
mixture. "Tonic and nervine." Then, just
touching the bowed head with his great hand
he said, "Good night. I will see you in the
morning. Think of what I said."
Helen's first thought was not very consola- j
j tory.
I "Oh! dear," she exclaimed, wiping her |
j eyes and trying to be composed. "What a i
I great baby I am ? What will he think of j
me ? It was rude and silly and everything j
j else !" On the impulse of the moment, she \
! ran down stairs, and reached the front door |
I just as "Miss Nancy" was going out of the
j gate. Half repenting of her haste, Helen j
was about to shut the door when the doctor j
looked around. Telling "Miss Nancy" to i
I stand still, he sprang out of the buggy and i
walked back to the house.
"What it it, Miss Helen ? Did you want
me ?" he asked, as quietly as though the small!
figure standing before moonlight!
;were not trembling wflh'fiervousness.
;; h"Yes; t wanted^,^H6t^yoa that Lawrie j
may go, and'tjijiti^hafc je&are very kind,"
'|Selen ;>'8aid,; tr$uv? i.t o.. e m ul a to the doctor's J
go, to$*nd y&ar father, and
eoixteho^for the rest. I am j
older than you?old enough to.be your father,
but I can the better cardftff yon for that
You need Someone to keep'watch of you,
and?"
"Don't say any more, doctor. Please
don't," Helen interrupted, nncertaiti whether
the choking in her thrQat would terminate in
a sob or a laugh. "I can't tell you ho\y much j
I appreciate your kindness, but?"
"But what, Miss Helen f' the doctor asked, j
"It can't be. It isn't best. Lawrie is i
enough. That is more than you ought to do. I
We shall get along?father and the rest of |
us. I was only afraid you wouldn't under
stand?that you would think I didn't realize
how kind you've always been ; but I do, doc- j
eyes, and noted the tremulous raqmh and thifi^
white hand, that held the sh&Tw together
about her throat. All the chivalry of his
strong manhood was aroused. It seemed to
be his duty to help the frail girl who was bearing
her burden alone, but he must"', respect I
her own decision, and not annoy with argu-;
ments and persuasions.
"I understand," he said, "but I am sorry 11
cannot help you. Some other way may be j
provided?a better way for you. As for me, |
it doesn't matter. If I can make a good doctor
of Lawrie, we three will jog on quietly,
and, at the end, it will be as well as if we had
had a little brighter, pleasanter way."
"And for me," added Helen.
"And for you, dear child," said the doctor, j
"After all our planning and hoping and fear- j
ing, our lives are in God's hands.
'Though we make false reckonings,
Out of His deeps of love, we cannot be.' "
"Yes; and I have been very happy since 1
believed that," Helen said, earnestly. "I am
happy, doctor, only sometimes I am so tired I
forget everything but the troubles."
"Just take the troubles to God. Tell him
you are grieved and burdened. Remember
' ' A ' A ~ ?* " ' WAtl rinn/l
inat come UJULU llie. mai UJUI jruu. uvuu |
night. God bless you!" and the doctor was !
gone.
Helen watched him until "Miss Nancy"
had trotted out of sight, but he did not turn
his head. He must forget the pale, earnest
face in the moonlight, and bring his thoughts
to the duty before him.
Helen went to Lawrie and Johnny who
were lying close together in their trundle-bed.
Their little faces, so prone to tan and freckle
and get soiled, and their chubby brown hands,
and tangled hair, never had seemed so dear
to her before. She kissed them and cried
over them, until Lawrie awoke.
"Why, sis, is it you ?" he said, sleepily rubbing
his eyes. "I thought at first, for just a
minute, that it was mother. She used to do
just so." I J .
"No, Lawrie jdear mother ia happy noqy1
Slle will never <*y agpjn. Poqarffulhcr V' Tj
"Then what makes you say, 'poor mother,1
sis ? Seems to Ae it's badder for us. It's so
lonesone," and Lawrie's lip began to quiver.
"I ought not to say 'poor mother,' dear.
She is happy and we must try to be happy
too. We'll do just as she would wish us to
do if she were here, and that will make it
easier for us to be without her."
"Yes, sis," Lawrie said, crying quietly;
"and I'm so sorry I didn't always mind ; and j
Johnny and me run away sometimes, and
made mother feel bad, and now we can never
see her again."
"Don't cry," Helen said, soothingly. "Dear
mother did not remember it. I will tell you,
Lawrie, what she said the day she died. She
wanted you to study, and if ever there was an
opportunity for you to get a liberal education
I promised that you should do it."
Lawrie listened wonderingly, having but a
vague idea of what a "liberal education'
might be.
"Dr. McLeod wants you to come and live
with him and learn to be a doctor," Helen
continued. "Wouldn't you like to go ?"
"Go and leave you and Johnny 1" Lawrie
exclaimed, quite sure that a "liberal education,"
at such a price, was not at all desirable.
"You will not be very far from us; then it
will be doing what mother would wish. Think
of that, Lawrie."
"Yes," Lawrie said slowly ; and summoning
all his childish courage, he threw his arms
around his sister's neck, and said, "I will go, j
sis, because it would please mother; but don't
let Johnny get lonesome. He wont have no
body to play with him. Oh! dear, I wish he
could go, too, and you, and father, and cousin
Mary!"
"You are a dear, brave boy," Helen said,
kissing the quivering mouth and tearful eyes. \
"Now go to sleep."
When Helen returned to the sitting-room, i
she found Mary there sewing. They discus- j
sed Dr. McLeod's proposal, and mended and j
brushed Lawrie's one suit of 'clothes, and retired
at a late bour. Helen was all excitement.
Sleep was impossible. She tried to
pray ; but her thoughts, instead of rising to j
the upper calm of faith, whirled and eddied
about the thickly strewn trials that lay in her
path.
While she lay restlessly thinking, hoping,
and planning,
'Tossod about with many a conflict, many a doubt,'
she heard a low, tremulous voice singing. It
was her father's. She was filled with surprise
and awe. It was as though one had risen
from the grave. Mary slept calmly by her
side, and the house was hushed in breathless
silence, save as this faint, quavering voice
stole out into the silence and darkness. Scarcely
daring to move for fear of losing one word,
Helen lay listening silently until the last tri-;
umphant stanza had been sung :
"There will I bathe my weary soul
In seas of heavenly rest,
And not a wave of trouble roll
Across my peaceful breast."
Trembling with excitement and fear, she i
arose and went softly into her father's room, j
In the dim light she could see that his eyes j
were open and his hands folded as if in pray-;
er.
"Father," she said, in a low tone, and kneel- ]
ing by the bed. "Father, pray for me."
The old man laid his trembling hand on
the bowed head, and said :
"May the Lord bless ray child ! May she
have strength to do all of her appointed work,
and not lay down the cross until she takes up j
the crown." i
"0, father!" Helen said, eag^ly: "God J
has blessed me in malfogvyou better."
"I am only waiting," he haid, wearily.
"But you will get iwttser now; you seem j
so natural?soli ke oar xywn dear fathor."
"The Lord has' talightme to be patieutJHe
has lifted me out of despair, and now I w
am just resting in his arms till the change
shall come." He turned over and closed his
eyes. ?:
"Can't I do something for.you?" Helen
asked, anxiously. 1 ' *
"Sing'Rock of Ages'?mother's hymn"?he i<
answered, without unclosing His eyes. j
Helen began to sing her mother's favorite
hymn, with aching heart and faltering voice,
but at the lasfbeautiful prayer, a strength
not her own, swelled her tones to a triumphs
ant clearness, and she made the petition her j
own:
"While I draw this fleeting breath, L
When mine eyelids close in death;
When I rise to worlds unknown, *\ g
And behold.tliee on thy throne, . i
* Rock or Agea, clert ror me, v
Let me hide myself in thee." ' ^ 7?f
^She leaned ovfcr the
HpTeTwas aileepT Geift^toucmngtn^vnrte
nair and kissing the sunken*,fctieek, she went
quietly out of the room. It was nearly morning,
but she lay down and soon fell into a
quiet slumber, repeating:
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in thee."
In the morning Helen's palefaceand heavy {
eyes bore testimony to the night's agitations,
and she was so nervous that the lightest duty
was a burden.
"I must be careful to-day," she thought,
"or I shall be irritable." She explained to
Johnny that he was to lose* his little brother,
and answered his thousand and one questions
patiently, and assured both boys again and
again, that they should see each other once
in a while, all the time busy about her household
cares. Her father met the proposal withT
indifference, but with none of the stolidity he !
had previously shown.
"Just as you think," he said ; "I am only j
waiting."
Lawrie, though sorry to go, was excited by
the novelty, and wearied Helen with questions
about Newtown, and if he should drive the
horse, and ride every day, and if there were
any little boys there, with sundry other important
items.
Helen had carried in her father's breakfast,
and was vainly trying to persuade the boys
that buckwheat cakes were just as good with}*
molasses as with butter, when Dr. McLeod
came.
"My boy ready?" he asked, cheerily, but
taking in at a glance the confused state of
things, and Helen's pale, tired face. "All
but his breakfast, I suppose. Hungry, little
man ?"
"We want butter," said Johnny, frankly,
and looking at his plate with a dissatisfied
air.
"No, you don't, my boy. Butter isn't
healthy. Sister knows," and the doctor looked
so positive that Johnny thought he must
benight, and attacked his breakfast with new ^
Interest. ' *4
Helen took the doctor into the sitting-room. I
She felt that Hie must give him%>me furthe3f
charges about Lawrie.
The doctor listened attentively.
"I will be just as careful of him as if he
were ray child," he said, with grave earnestness.
"And now," he continued, "will you promise
me that you will take better care of your
health ? You are too excitable. Try to take
things calmly. Don't worry. That's the
friction that wears out the human machine."
"But, doctor, everything worries me. I'm
either very happy or very miserable, and the
more I try to be happy, the farther I am from
it."
"Don't try to be happy. My dear Miss
Helen, if you could only understand that your.
place is to do whatever your hands find to do,
and that among the most imperative of your
duties is the care of your health ; and trust
God to bring everything out right in the
end?why you would be- happy without trying
to be."
- ? ? 11 r 1 J) TT.l _
"?Hlt 1 (10 ail 1 can, doctor, xitjieu saiu a
little reproachfully.
"I know. You do more than you ought to.
But you do it excitedly, and you worry about
everything, and wonder you are not happy.
My dear child," and the voice grew gentle,
"there is nothing I would not do to make
your life happy, but no one can do it for you.
The Lord does not send one burden too many.
Bear them quietly and look to Him for
strength. The cross that looks so heavy, He *
can make lighter than air. You cannot make
your happiness. It's source is God, and it
flows all around you in a thousand little rills
of daily duties."
Helen said nothing. Just then happiness
seemed as far away as Heaven. The room
was chilly. She could not see the morning:
sun. Lawrie was going, and one by one they
must be scattered. Life seemed like one long,
cold, rainy day at a wayside inn, where one
must wait alone and friendless to be taken another
stage of the journey. .
"Rejoice alway," said the doctor. .'(MlJj
^oor'little girl! I know it is hard, btBFfrb*^
our duty. 'Rejoice alway.' "
Bravely keeping back her tears, Helen
said : "I will try. God is good to me." Then
she told him of her father's improved symptoms,
and they went in to see him.
"I am only waiting," was still the old man's
patient answer to the doctor's questions.
"Will father get well now ?" Helen asked,
eagerly, after they had left the room.
"I cannot tell you," the doctor answered,
gravely. He is better in mind. We will
hope for the best, but he must have that tonic
nP T onnlra A nrl if tip VijLQ Tint, lnnpf
U1 I1UJUI JL OJJUttU Q ,
to wait, should you mourn for that? He j
looks forward to a release from wearisome
days and nights, from pain and all anxiety."
"I know," Helen said, faintly, "but it seems
as if I couldn't bear another such trial. 0,
doctor, what a terrible thing life is!
"What a glorious thing is life ! It takes
root in the darkness of earth but blossoms
forever in the glory of Heayen !
"But I must go. God bless you, my child,
and help you to bear your heavy burdens." j
The doctor went out, and soon Lawrie came {
in to kiss her "good-bye."
She held him in a close embrace and kissed ?
him, trying to look cheerful, and saying all
the hopeful, cheery words she could think, I
and keeping back her tears until she saw |
them driving away and Lawrie looking wist-1
fully back to Johnny, who sat on the gate-'
post, disconsolate.
[conclusion next week.]
miscellaneous Reading.:
Prom the Miner*' Magazine.
^TJIE GUNPOWDER PLOT.
r The stories of history make long strides in
theij-onward movement. Often the opening
cWSpters introduce you to characters, not one
offcho m will figure in the grand denouement j
fcfcn hhitory men are often nothing but puppets, ;
the power that moves them first is transferred, ,
ia its coupe of growth, from generation to i
Operation, and perhaps, works out its trage- ]
dies in their children. ,
~LA full'exhibit of the events which led to
that most extraordinary crime known as the ,
gunpowder plot, would involve a long history ,
the religious wars which raged in the six- ,
ieenth and seventeenth centuries. In the j
gliTod and on the scene of the gunpowder l
fydt, the oppressors wore the colors of Protest- ,
We will go back no further, in giv- <
Kg the 8tort of the gunpowder plot, than to |
Lhe year 1587i which beneld the execution of j
tfoecveniu^ of the 7th of February, ,
tie, mEn^r-a'beautil'ul woman "of forty- i
five, whose face bore traces of careend suffer- f
1 tig,"for herlife had been no holiday journey (
through the years. Her solitude was broken |
by the entrance of two noblemen, who saluted (
the captive queen with the respect belonging (
to her exalted rank, though they were the ]
bearers of cruel tidings. They were the earls <
of Kent and Shrewsbury. Without unneces- ,
sary delay they informed Mary that they had {
been commissioned to inform her that her life ^
would end on the scaffold on the following (
morning at eight o'clock. The intelligence
came most unexpectedly, and the poor lady ]
showed her surprise in her countenance; but j
she did not turn pale, nor exhibit terror. On (
the contrary, she said to her visitors, with a t
sweet, but plaintive smile, that she was pre- (
pared to die. "I could not believe," she said, ?
''that my sister Elizabeth, Queen of England, {
had consented to my death, or would execute .
sentence upon one who is not subject to the j
laws and iurisdiction of England. Neverthe- j
less, since this is her will, I am content. Death j
will put an end to all my miseries, and I wel- ^
come its coming. That soul would be un- .
worthy the felicities of Heaven, which could f
not support the body under the horrors of the (
last passage to those realms of bliss. I have {
onfyihis request to make now : that you will {
permit toy last moments to be consoled by the j
presence of my confessor." ^
To her great distress, the queen was told j
that this request could notiie complied with; ,
that no Catholic priest could be permitted to
affefoach her; but that she should be attended
by a Protestant divine, Dr. Fletcher,
the Dean of Peterborough. She refused to
listen to this proposal, for she knew the character
of this minister, and considered the proposal
an insult to her faith. The Earl of
Kent, with a brutality worthy of severe condemnation,
upbraided the defenceless woman,
pronouncing her a child of Satan, and declaring
that he was glad she was doomed to death.
"Your life would have been the death of
our religion," said he, with the coarseness of
a thorough bigot; "your death will be its life."
The two earls took their leave; and, from
that hour till the hour of her departure for
the scaffold, the next morning, Mary occu-f
Lied hejself in the preparations for death,
fijamaajber continued cheerful to the
^HHner servants\about her, she pledgecN
H^Hggprity in a'-tlass of -twine, and Hheyi
aL^^Kd^wn and pledged h*r in return. A
tejHpind tearful leave-taking was undergone;and
the servants left her to her lonely
vigils. When morning came, she dressed herself
in a rich robe of silk and velvet, remarking
that she must not forget the respect due
to her station. The sheriff, entering her room,
bade her follow him, which she did, with a
guard at each arm. A scene of the most affecting
description took place in the hall
through which she passed, where her servants
and adherents were gathered to bid her farewell.
She addressed language of comfort and
cheer to them, herself calm and composed,
thotigh sobs and lamentations filed the hall. ,
Wishing to have some of her servants attend
her to the scaffold, she was shocked by the
further brutality of the Earl of Kent, who
gxnressed a fear that they would perform
somBflS&perstitious rite above her body, and
dijMheir handkerchiefs in her bloo^. Mary's
indignation was awakened, and she turned a
withering glance upon the earl. "I am cousin
to your queen," she cried, "and descended
from the blood royal of Henry VII. and a
married queen of Scotland." This outburst
of royal pride secured her wish, and four of
liar man and turn nf liar maids ananmnaniad I ?
her into another hall, where a black scaffold
had been erected and the grim executioners
confronted her. The hall was crowded with
spectators. Here at the moment when the
executioners were preparing to take hold of
her, the bigoted Dean of Peterborough insultedjjer
by coming forward and reading her a
lecture on her heresy, in spite of her prostestations,
saying, in substance, unless she abjured
the Catholic faith, then and there, she
would in a few moments fall into hell. Mary
frequently interrupted his harangue, saying,
"I was born in this religion, I have lived in
this religion, and in this religion I am resolved
to die." The Earl of Kent also put in his
wo$d, on observing her clasping a crucifix lovingly
in her hands. At last this disgraceful
scene was ended. Mary disrobed herself,
smiling gently, and remarking that she was
unaccustomed to undress before so large a
company. Her servants burst into tears and
lamentations, but she placed her finger on
her lips, and enjoined them to be silent; gave
them her blessing and asked their prayers,
omf-riien laid quietly down and placed her
h^d^n the block. A handkerchief was
jMMtffer her face, and the executioner
stnHRier on the skull, inflicting a ghastly
^>5na, but without shaking her brave spirit.
Two fierce blows of the ax severed her head
from her body; and the executioner, seizing
the head by the hair, held it aloft, dripping
blond, the face still in agonizing convulsions.
xhus did the oppressive spirit of the bigotry
of that day make its victim of a beautiful,
accomplished, and singularly amiable woman.
The question of her guilt or innocence of complicity
in certain crimes charged against her,
is to this day a theme of discussion ; but there
is no question of the fact that she really was
executed because she was a Catholic. The
memory of her sufferings was not likely to allay
the fever of the Catholic's hatred toward
the tyranny that oppressed them in England,
aOtTThe rankling of this bitter wound added
strength to the fury of the hour and the bad
passion of the period.
.Seventeen years passed. The Protestant
queen who occupied the throne of England i
when Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded, \
was now dead, and she had been succeeded by c
James I. son of the Catholic queen whose ex- s
ecution we have briefly described. The r
Catholics still were chafing under the grind- t
ing .laws enacted during Elizabeth's reign, 1
and they hoped that James, the son of Mary \
Stuart, would exert his influence to soften the 1
fiains under which they travailed. By these t
aws any person over sixteen years of age, j
who refused for four successive weeks to at- i
tend a Protestant place of worship, was com- c
raitted to prison. If, thereafter, he persisted t
in "this evil course" for three months, he was t
banished from the country. If he refused to ?
depart, or if he returned after banishment, he ^
was put to death. Under these laws, and t
others of like severity, great numbers of Catholics
were murdered, and others driven from
their native land, while those who remained
were compelled to practice an unwilling hypocrisy
to save themselves from these dreadful
punishments. The infamous Star-Chamber
Court was also under full sway in the
realm?a body of men appointed by the reigning
monarch, and possessing the unlimited
powers of punishment by fines, imprisonment
and the whipping poet Another court, still
more monstrous in its character, was known
as the Court of High Commission. It had
jurisdiction of the crime of heresy?a crime
so indefinable in character that scarcely any
one was safe. And in that day, he who came
under the suspicion of treason, as hundreds
did on the slightest pretext was executed in
cold blood without even the barest formalities
of trial, while hundreds of others languished
in prison. In one period of Elisabeth's reign,
martiallaw even hung numerous men in London
who were not so much as suspected of
treason, but were guilty of no greater offence
than that disorderly conduct in the streets
which we in our day should call "rowdyism."
Besides these three cojxrts, there was still
imothenurbitraxy .body/which laid no claim
^ tm mn^. if "hltiWl T^+pft1*! nnr*i
inflictedno penalties, nut which seized mem
wherever it chose, and threw them into jail on
suspicion?in many cases loading them with
chains and confining them in dungeons, where
they suffered greatly. Sometimes the jails?
cf which there were many?were literally
crowded with "prisoners of state." The horrible
rack very commonly was employed to
extort confessions. In short, the life of an
jnorthodox person was full of terrors, and the
irbitrary executions of the French Revolution
itself hardly more frightful in their license.
James I. having ascended the throne of
England, therefore, at the death of Elizabeth,
the Catholics entertained hopes that their liberties
would be in some measure restored to
them, and Elizabeth's iniquitous laws annulled.
The memory of Mary's execution was
itill fresh in their minds, and they hoped that
the son, remembering his motfier, might escouse
the cause of that religion which had
ceen assaulted through her. They knew that
the son was-a Protestant, as his father had
ceen, but they believed him tolerant toward
l>a PofVinlin foitli Tn til in t.llAV WPTfl difi&t>
pointed; and it may be imagined with what
iespair they heard the new King express his
ietermination to rigidly enforce all the laws
bat had been enacted against them. Their
mger turned fiercely against James; for some
listorians declare that he had encouraged
bese hopes in the Catholics, before coming
nto possession of his crown. Be this as it
nay, the proiect of assassinating him was now
mtertained by certain Catholics, and there
vas little about his character to turn away
;he dagger. He possessed none of those amiajilities
and excellences which we have por;rayed
as belonging to the good Prince of
Drange, which ought to have disarmed all
lersonal hatred. He was a very learned
nan, but a swaggering pedant, that most offentive
of characters in literature. In his habits
le was grossly intemperate, and with all his
latred of Catholic superstition, he was himlelf
degradingly superstitious, and stood in
nortal terror of witches. His appearance
>vas burly and unprepossessing, and he was a
yrant and a coward to the depths of his na;ure.
The gunpowder plot was the diabolical indention
of a CathoKyiobleman named Obtes^
jy. One day in tbflniring of 160%, he was
iQnversing with of his kiml, named
Percy, a des^endantfl an illustrious house,
jn the persecutions toflphich those of their reigion
were still subjected, and Percy boldly
proposed that they should at once set about
effecting the assassination of King James.
But Catesby informed him that he had a
grander scheme in his mind.
"What good effect would result from hjs aslassination
?" Catesbv inquired. "Do you
lot know that one of bis children would ironediatelv
assume his place, and perpetuate
bese evils ? Even if the whole royal family
vere swept away, it would not serve us. The
lobility and the parliament are linked in one
)ond; they would raise another family to the
krone who would persecute us still, and seek
evenge besides for the death of these. Percy,
ve must destroy not only the royal family,
)ut the lords and the commons at one blow."
"But how is this possible?" asked Percy,
?ger]y- nwr a .
"Listen! The first meeting of pan .amen t
vill soon occur. There the whole number of
>ur foes will be met together. We must take
nto our confidence some few staunch Catholic
gentlemen like ourselves, and run a mine beleath
the hall in which our enemies are as
iembled. Seizing upon the moment when the
cing is addressing the two branches of parlianent,
we will explode the mine and blow them
ill into a thousand fragments at the same intant?even
while they may be meditating
resh persecutions against the followers of the
rue religion. Thus we shall make our triimph
complete."
*'It is a noble plan of vengeance, Cateeby,"
eplied Percy, delighted. "I am wjth you
leart and hand."
They immediately set about the selection
>i their fellow-conspirators, each of whom
hey bound to secrey by solemn oaths, superidding
thereto that most sacred of their rites,
he communion service. The first whom they
idmitted to their confidence was Thomas
tVinter. Him they despatched to Flanders,
o secure the service of one Guy Fawkes, an
Englishman by birth, but so devout a Cathoic
that he could not live in England. Fawkes
vas at that time serving in the Spanish army,
vhich the Catholic tyrant Phillip still main- J
ained in that province of the Netherlands
vhich had of late given him so much trouble
n his efforts to do precisely what the Protestints
in England were now dping?namely, to
lo away 'with religious freedom. , Fawkes enered
eagerly into ihe plot, when Winter
iroached it to him, and the two made haste to
eturn to England. The conspirators knew
heir man before-hand. Fawkes was a pernn
r\f mnaffnrhiddlTlcr ftRnflfit--Jean andSCOwl
ng?but one who had proved the quality of
lis courage in previous adventures, and whose ,
;eal was beyond all question.
The spring and summer went by, and late
n the autumn the conspirators began to put
heir plans into action. Percy hired a house,
idjoining the Parliament House, and caused
i> larged quantity of provisions to be put into
t. About Christmas,, one by one tne conpirators
gathered, and then the house was
hut up, the shutters closed and the doors fasened,
to give the passers-by the impression
hat there was nobody within. Spades, pickixes,
etc., had also been provide, together
vith arms with which to defendthemselves in
:aseof a surprse. They were ready for death,
f need be; animated by a belief that they
vere serving the cause of religion, were full
>f the highest enthusiasm. Guy Fawkes
done remained on the watch, in the upper
>art of the house; the others, seven in num>er,
descended to the cellar to commence their
abors. The wall which they had to pierce
vas nine feet thick, and of a mason-work so
lard and old that it was almost as impregnate
as solid stone. They divided into two
jangs, And while one gang worked the other
ested, to eat or to sleep. They had in the
:ellar an ample store of baked meats and wine, ind
their enthusiasm continued unabated
hrough the six weeks in which they picked
iway at the flinty wall. Gentlemen as they
vere, and all unusued to work of _this sort,
hey toiled like common laborers, though the
A
sweat poured from their faces, and tneir nana
were blistered with the unwonted exertion
yet, though they scarcely rested day or night
they made no greater progress than a foot j
week. The rubbish they putin bags and car
ried carefully out of a back-door in the dark
ness of midnight, and digging deep holes u
the soil of the garden, buned the contents o
the bags where no eye could see.
Candlemas came?time of the thurch-feas
so dear to the Catholics, but whose oelebra
tionwasat that period prohibited in Eng
land. But five days now before the time a
which parliament was to meet, and the wal
scarcely more than half pierced! Despai
began to creep upon the inspirators. I
seemed impossible that they should ge
through the wall in time; but tney labored on
"Hark!" whispered Percy, breaking tne si
lence in which they were pursuing their toil
He bent forward m a listening attitude, hi
hand raised to enjoin silence upon his com
nnninnfl. "What is that noise ?
r?? ?
All listened intently. It seemed to com
from the opposite side of the wall on whicl
they were at work,, but what it meant ther
were at a lose to khoW. In some trepidation
they ceased their labors, and one of* their nutn
vault underneath the Souse ^^ords was be
ins emptied of its stores, the/owner having re
solved to sell off, and rent the vault to th
highest bidder. Returning to his compan
ions, he laid this fact before them, and the;
immediately resolved to rent the vault fo
their own purpose. But, unexpectedly, pax
liament was prorogued to the following Octo
ber. This news was received with great jo;
by the conspirators, for now they would hav<
ample time in which to perfect their arrange
ment.
They hired the vault, and with great cau
tion and at intervals, conveyed thither thirty
six barrels of gunpowder?enough to tear th<
building to its very foundation, and leav<
"no stone upon another." This formidabh
magazine was then covered with fagots anc
billets of wood, in such manner as to conve)
the impression that the vault contained noth
ing else. Guy Fawkes was placed to watcl
over the vault, under the pretense of beinf
the servant of Percy, who was supposed U
own all this wood. The doors were throwi
open boldly, and people allowed to enter free
ly if they chose, no one suspecting the fearfu
secret of that great honest-looking pile.
The long-waited time at last arew near
The conspirators, secure in their preparations
gave themselves no concern as to the fata
cellar; they knew it was in the hands of i
zealous dare-devil, who would not fail to fin
the mine when the proper moment came
But they learned that there would be one o
the royal family absent, at the opening o
parliament, namely, the young duke, whos
tender years kept him away. Therefore, j
teas nrrancwvl t.Hftf. Pernv should murder him
or kidnap liim, simultaneously with the burst
ing of the mine.
But this plot, which embraced so wide i
sweep of revenge involved also the lives o
some good Catholics, who, ignorant of the ap
proacning catastrophe, would be present a
spectators, or attendants on the king, or a
peers of the realm occupying seats in th<
house. This prospect, appalling as it was
had been softened by the specious assurance
of Jesuit priests who had been admitted int<
the secret, and who showed the conspirator
that the interests of religion demanded th<
'sacrifice fit a few innocent lives, in order tha
the guilty should be'punished. The conspir
ators," who now nnmbcrad twenty
deterraincdTto keep) their secref inviolable
and calmly*behold the destruction of their co
religionists.
Among these seemingly doomed Catholic
was Lord Monteagle, a gentleman much be
loved. Ten days before the expected meeting
of parliament, a person in disguise put int(
the hand of a servant of this lord a letter
which the servant delivered to his master
"My lord," this letter said, "out of the love 1
bear to some of your friends, I have a care o:
your preservation. Therefore, I would ad
vise you, as you tender your life, to devis<
some excuse to shift off your attendance al
this parliament For God and man have con
curred to punish the wickedness of this time
And think not slightly of this advertisement
but retire yourself into your country, when
you may expect the event in safety. Foi
though there be no appearance of any stir,
yet, I say, they will receive a terrible blow
this parliament and yet they shall not see
who hurts them. This counsel is not to be
contemned, because it may do you good, and
can do you no barm; for the danger is past a*
soon as you have burned the letter. And 1
hope God will give you the grace to make
good use of it, into whose holy protection ]
commend you."
Monteagle perused this singular epistle
more than once, in his inability to comprehend
its hidden meaning. Had he been al
once a coward and a rogue, he would have
taken fright at its dreadful insinuations, leaving
the scheme to be carried out m all ita
original horror. But fortunately for those
who were to have been the victims, and fortunatelv
for that nacre of historv which would
have been blackened by the record of thu
monstrous crime, he was not frightened; he
half believed the writer to be some knave
who sought to hold him up to ridicule. At
all events, he took the letter at once to Lord
Salisbury, Secretary of State, who, in his turn,
took it to the king. The result was, that it
was resolved to inspect all the vaults beneath
the houses of parliament
On the day preceding that on which parliament
was to meet the Earl of Suffolk, then
lord chamberlain, commenced the search,
with little serious thought that he should discover
anything. Nevertheless, he did his
duty thoroughly. Pausing before the vault
in which the barrels of gunpowder were conjcealed,
he ran his. eye over the pile of wood
and fagots. Guy Fawkes, with his hat
slouched over his eyes, stood ill a dark corner
and the chamberlain accosted him:
"Who are you, sirrah?" he asked.
"I am the servant of Master Percy, nry
lord," said Fawkes.
"I like not your countenance, I promise
you," said the chamberlain. "What name
do you bear?"
"My name is Johnsen, my lord," answered
Fawkes.
"What doth Percy with suoh a quantity oi
fuel as this ?" pursued the chamberlain. "He
lives little in town. Nay, keep your answer,"
and he turned away with his suspicions fully
confirmed.
That night, as the hour of twelve sounded, Sir
Thomas Knevet, a justice of the peace, with
several stalwart attendants, suddenly made
his appearance, and seized Fawkes at the
I door of the vault. He made a fierce resist'
ance, but to no purpose; he was bound and
taken to prison. The wood was torn aside,
' ? 1 i . * - J-- J*-- J J it
ana ine oarreis 01 powaer louna unuerueuiu.
In Fawkes' pocket were found the matches
and torch-wood with which he was to have
fired the train leading to the mine.
Finding that all was discovered, Fawkes
made no effort to shield himself from punishment,
but loudly lamented that he had not
had a moment's warning, so that he could have
fired the powder and perished with his enemies.
When brought before the council, his
manner was firm, and even scornfuL He had
only words of regret for his failure to carry
out the plot, and made no appeals for mercy.
He stubbornly refused to disclose the names
of the conspirators. He was told that unless
he yielded, a death more horrible than that oi
8 tne aststuiiuu ui tt uuou v.* ?v~,?,
; his fete. # $
, "I can bear it as well as he," said Fawkes.
i He was threatened with the most frightful
- tortures.
"I will suffer a thousand deaths before I
i will betray my companions," was his response,
f He was put in prison, loaded with chains,
and left in darkness and solitude for three
t days and nights, at the end of which time he
was brought out for torture! His fierce spirit
?. had been broken by his confinement, and
t when the dreadful rack was shown to him, he
1 yielded, and made a full confession. His felr
low-conspirators had taken flight, but were
t pursued, and those who were taken alive were
it executed. Thomas Winter was one of these;
i. but Percy and CSateeby were shot and killed
i- while fighting, they having, together with
L several adherents, banded themselves together
s in arms, and made a desperate resistance to
- ttoeir pursuers.
From ao old and extremely rare pdmphlet
B of thirteen leaves?"London, imprinted for
Ij Jeffrey Charlton; and to be sold at hir shop
y ?t the meat north dore of Powle'a, HMto??
if we make the following extract, descriptive of
the execution of Guy Fawkee : "Last of all
Ok ?uae thereat I^crril^of- Jtlh...clia*y
Vohrmn, fobo should have put fire to the powi.
der; his body being weak with torture and
sickness, he was scarcely able to go up the
e ladder, bat yet, with much ado, by the help
of the hangman, went hie enough to break
y his neak with the fall, who made no long
r speecHjmut after a short seeming to be sorrie
i. for his offense, asked a kind of forgiveness of
the King and the State for his bloodie intent,
y with his crosses and his idle ceremonies made
e his end upon the gallows and the block to
h the great joy of the beholders."
Thus perished the man who, had he been
. successful, would have lived in history as the
. most stupendous assassin in the world ever
3 knew. It by no means/ appears that be was
3 of a specially blood-thirsty nature. Ifyra
3 among the qniet scenes of a Yorkshire rumi
I neighborhood, he was a Catholic of the devoutest
sort, and it was through his great de.
votion to his religion that he became a soldier
, under the banner of Phillip of Spain, who in
P his day was looked upon as the firmest ally of
^ the Pope. Like nearly all the assassins of
I history, Fawkes was a fanatic in the service
. of a faction; and it by no means follows that
I he was indeed "the great Devill of all," merely
on account of his Ming the head.of the body
of men whom he worked with. The burning
in effigy of Fawkes, on the 5th of November
IAMM A vA/Mllai*
I UJ COVU JCAi) WOO lUiig tUClQOil^i a
x practice in England, and was formerly a^egal
3 holiday in that country, though it is no longer
L such. In our own New England, the custom
f was also for some years common; and there
f are few whose ears are not familiar with
B the verses commencing a song that the boys
I were in the habit of singing as they bore the
effigy through the street:
' "Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
The gunpowder treason and plot."
As is almost invariably the case where as*
sassination steps in to work out certain purpo*
ses, the gunpowder-plot reacted upon its projectors;
ana, so far from the penal laws
3 against Catholics being ameliorated, their rig3
or was increased. Even had the plot been
3 successful, there is no reason whatever to be?
lieve that it would have served the purposes
3 of the Catholics. The Protestant people
} would almost inevitably have arisen in a
3 vengeful fury, and a general massacre of Cath3
olics throughout the Kingdom would have enV
sued? \
1 ?Justice will not permit us to ?aa by the
3 other adfegt'ill lUh?flUi?'IUia UWWIf llHTgtlf
'> of aasassiSon Fawkes alone of all^the con*
" spiratora Certainly to Catesby, Percy and ^
Winter, if not to Rookwood, Digby, and oth- ;
3 era, we must in equity apply the same infa- (
mousname. They were no less fanatics, also,
> than Fawkes, and there had been nothing in
} the previous tenor of their lives to lead us to
> expect that such men would plunge themselves
: into the hideous gulf of crime. They were
men of fortune, and much respected by those
' who knew them. Catesby, it seems, was a
man of such general excellence of character
1 as to have attached Rookwood and Digby to
k him so strongly that they declared they
would lay down their lives for him in any
; cause. Their trust in the integrity of his pur:
poses and the soundness of his judgment was
[ so complete that they needed no persuasion
to enter into any project that he recommen;
ded to them. Uf the other conspirators, similar
good word* could be said; and Digby,
' nothwithstanding his Catholic belief, was high
! in favor with the Protestant Queen- Elizabeth,
' so recently dead. %
! The lesson which is borne home to us with
; stronger force, the more thoroughly we fomii:
iarize ourselves with these dark passages in
history, is clear and emphatic. We learn
that freedom, the basis of our republican 'ia>
stitutions, is but an infernal delusion when it ~
' is not sanctified by religion. We learn that
; religion, the safeguard of our social system,
- becomes robbed of its purity and beauty,
' when it is no longer wedded to freedom. Free'
dom, with no religious principles as its base,
' was the monster that raged and slaughtered
" its gory path through the French people in
' that revolution which the breath of a Murat
1 helped to kindle; and such freedom was
1 worse than any mere individual tyranny
> could ever be. Religion, without the grand
> principle of freedom for the rock of its foun'
aation, was the fiend that wreaked its fury
> upon its opponents in the sixteenth century;
; and, now rrotestant, now Catholic, perpetra1
ted the most frightful murders, and counted its
victims at the stake, on the scaffold and the
' gallows, by thousands.
i , t ,
> Negro Suffrage.?The South gains in
' political weight in Congress by colored suf1
frage, and some of these days the Radicals
; will wish they had let it alone. Under the
' Constitution as it was before slavery was
' abolished* three-fifths of the negroes in the
: slave States were reckoned in the basis of
i representation. Now all of them are counted
in. There are about 4,200,000 blacks in the
old slave States, and, of course, two-fifths of
these, or 1,680,000, must be taken as the clear
gain of the South in the number of its Con!
gressional basis. If the House of Represen1
tatives consists of 280 members, the ratio of
population would be 136,000, and at this rate
' the South would gain twelve members. The
result of this will be, that whereas, by the
: eensus and apportionment of 1860 the South
) had then more than one-third of the whole
number of Representatives, she will now have
ten and perhaps twelve more than a third.
This is an important gain, particularly as it
' is, in many of the reconstructed States, likely
to enure to the benefit of the Democratic .
> party.
i ?
1?^ What can be more foolish than to think
that all this rare fabric of heaven and earth
could come bv chance, when all the skill of
art is. not able to make an oyster! To see
1 rare effects, and no cause; a motion, without
a mover; a circle, without a center; a time
without an eternity; a second, without a first ;
these are things so against philosophy and
natural reason, that he must be a beast in his
> understanding who can believe in them. The
thing formed, says that nothing formed it, and
that which is made, is, while that which made
it, is not. This folly is infinite.?Jeremy Taylor.
JWTThe conduct of the husband who beats
i his wife beats anything; but that of a man
i who slams the door in the face of his wife's
; relations bangs all,