Part 12

Was ever a more cheerful gathering? We doubt it. It was a jolly, democratic party. Father Brighthopes was grand-master of the ceremonies. If there was one present more humble than another, he made it his business to take him encouragingly and lovingly by the hand, and lift him up. If it was a sister, how delicately, how tenderly he talked to her, and showed her that bright angel of Hope, his guardian spirit, or genius, and the ready consoler of sorrowing hearts!

Deacon Dustan was there, _without_ his new meeting-house schemes; his quiet wife, and Harry and Jane, who were not so quiet, came in his carriage. The Smiths were present; the deacon and his lady. Benjamin, and Josephine, who was so "ecthethively fond of minithterth," and who was sure she could not "thurvive the loth" of so delightful an old man as Father Brighthopes.

Mr. Corlis came early, and had a long and earnest conversation with his elder brother, to whom he already owed so much for his kindly warnings and wise suggestions. Mark Wheeler was invited, but he did not come, being unused to such society; but there was one, still less accustomed to the ways of the world, who could not excuse himself, when Mr. Royden sent to have him brought by main force.

It was Job, the soldier-shoemaker. He came, with his wooden leg, his subdued voice, his sunny old face, his queer bald pate and prominent ears, and the exhaustless fountain of good humor within his heart.

It was the first honor of the kind Job had ever received at the hands of his neighbors. But of late a good deal of interest had been taken in his family, and some who had laid up money to aid in the new meeting-house project had been induced to invest a little of it in comforts and necessaries for the poor man. He felt as though he could really afford to abandon his bench for that day, and enjoy himself, his only objection being the impossibility of Mrs. Bowen leaving the house and going with him. But she was comfortable now at home, and Job was easy in his mind about her.

We should not forget to mention that the old soldier made his appearance in an entirely new suit of clothes, and with his Sunday leg on. He joked a good deal about these externals, and amused the company by his genial humor. His coat was one presented him by Mr. Corlis; the waistcoat had belonged to Deacon Dustan, and the trousers were a gift from Father Brighthopes. Job acknowledged half a dozen shirts from the fair hands of Miss Sedley, the school-ma'am, Sarah Royden and Julia Keller; one of which he had on his back. The handkerchief he wore was a present from Chester. His boot alone was the product of his own labor.

Job had cut off the trousers to fit his wooden leg, and made a jaunty cap of the fragment. The leg itself was an extra one he had kept by him a long time, using it only on Sunday, Fast Day, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. It was quite a handsome stick, elegantly finished, and "well seasoned," Job declared.

"I am careful of this leg," he said, in his subdued voice, and quiet, cheerful manner, when the old clergyman joked him about it. "I always keep it on the top shelf at home, with a newspaper around it, to protect it from dust and flies. If you had the gout, sir, you couldn't be more careful of your limbs."

This was after dinner. Job was sitting in the easy-chair, out doors, where the shadow of the house sloped across the grassy lawn. The guests were forming a circle around him and the old clergyman, some sitting upon the green sward, others supporting their dignity upon chairs, and a few of the young people lying at their ease along the ground.

Mr. Kerchey, who happened to be standing near, with his arm in a swing, exerted himself to speak, and made a comparison between his useless and painful member and Job's comfortable leg.

"Get a wooden one, get a wooden one," said Job. "But, then, an arm of that sort wouldn't be so convenient as a leg. I don't think I could make shoes with only one hand. Dear me! when I think of it, how thankful I ought to be that only my leg was taken off! Supposing I had lost an arm,--or my head,--and been obliged to get a new one?"

"You wouldn't be the first man to go about with a wooden pate," said Chester. "There are plenty of block-heads in the world."

"I believe I was one when I enlisted," laughed Job.

"At least, your head was turned," quietly observed Father Brighthopes.

Anything the old clergyman said in a facetious vein was sure to raise a laugh. When silence was restored, Job replied,

"Very good! capital!"--in his soft half-whisper, and rubbing his hands. "And I am thankful that, although my head was turned then, only my leg has been turned since. My folly was cut off with my offending member, and my ambition was buried with it."

The company let Job talk in this way a good while. It was refreshing to hear him; and he delighted to be garrulous. There was not a happier heart present than his; and its simple philosophy and genial humor flowed out and mingled in such a sunny, babbling brook, that no one desired it should be checked.

But at length Job himself refused to talk any more.

"I'm pumped dry," said he. "If you want anything more from me, Father Brighthopes will have to _prime_ me. I haven't another joke that isn't musty; and now, I say, we'll have a regular-built speech from the old patriarch. Silence!" cried Job, tapping his wooden leg; "attention, every one! Father Brighthopes, we wait to hear from you."

The old clergyman, having sat down upon the grass, was so tangled up in the children, who clung to his neck and arms, that he could not arise to respond.

"Georgie," said Mrs. Royden, in a tone of gentle reproach, "you shouldn't lie upon Father Brighthopes. Get down, Willie. Lizzie, you are too big to be hanging around his neck."

"She is crowning him with a wreath of flowers," murmured Hepsy, who was comfortably seated in the midst of the group.

The poor girl's health was much improved; there was a faint flush on her cheeks; but, although in good spirits, she had scarcely spoken before since dinner, having been absorbed in weaving the wreath for the old man's venerable and beloved head.

At length he was crowned, the children released him, and he got up, radiant and beautiful, with his young and hopeful spirit shining through his glorious old face.

We wish there had been a reporter on the spot. That speech would well be worth preserving, word for word. But we are able to give only a meager outline of it, very imperfect, and without regard to the order in which the sentiments--like so many waves of liquid light--rippled upon the hearts of his hearers.

XXX.

THE OLD CLERGYMAN'S FAREWELL.

The speaker was about to bid farewell, he said, to all those kind friends. (Sensation.) He would leave them, and be soon forgotten. (Cries of "No, no! never!" from old and young. Job smites his wooden leg, and exclaims, with enthusiasm, "Not that, by a long thread!")

"Well," continues Father Brighthopes, with suffused features, "I thank you. I hope you will remember me, as I shall remember you. God has been very good to me, in giving me friends, all my life long."

"You deserve them, if anybody does," whispers Job, loud enough to be heard by the entire audience.

He rubs his hands as if he meant it.

"Let me give you a little hint about getting and keeping friends," adds the clergyman, smiling around upon the old people in the chairs, and the young people on the grass or standing up. "I thank Brother Job for suggesting the thought."

"Hear, hear!" says Mr. Royden, pulling Willie away from the speaker's legs, and silencing Georgie, who is inclined to blow his grass "squawker."

"My friends have generally been of the right kind," proceeds the old man. "If you wish to have your friends of the right kind,"--glancing at the younger portion of the audience,--"I'll tell you how to go to work.

"Be always ready to lend a helping hand to those who need assistance. Do so with a hearty good will, not feeling as though you were throwing something away; for, although you get no material return,--which should be the last thing to expect,--you will find in the end that you have been exercising your own capacities for happiness, which grow with their use. Do good for the sake of good, and you will see that the bread thus cast upon the waters comes right back to feed your own hungry souls.

"Be ready to sacrifice all externals to friendship, but maintain your integrity. Give the glittering bubbles of the stream and the current will still be yours, clear and strong as ever. What I mean is, abandon circumstances and outside comforts for the sake of those you love, but never desert a principle to follow any man or set of men. If you do, few friends will be obtained, and they will not be firmly attached; while many who would soon have come round to you will be lost forever. But plant yourself on the rock of principle; and, however men may shun it at first, it shall in the end prove a magnet to draw all true souls to your standard. Royal hearts shall then be yours. They can rely on you, and you on them; so there will be no falling off, when the wind shifts to the northeast. Truth is the sun which holds friends in their orbits, like revolving planets, by the power of its magnetism. If the sun forsake its place in the heavens, and go chasing after the bright tail of some gay comet, what will become of the planets? Let the sun be true to itself, and even the comet comes around in time."

The old man looks at Chester with a smile which asks, "Is it not so?"

"Your philosophy is excellent for men of courage, like yourself," says Chester. "But few can bear to be hated all their lives by the mass of their fellow-men, as many have been, for the sake of the truth."

"Those men who do bear that cross are martyrs of the noblest sort," returns Father Brighthopes. "They are not only men of true courage, but men of fortitude, which is a sort of enduring and perpetual courage. To them the truth, and the few who see and love that truth,--if only a handful of poor fishermen and three or four pious women,--will be more precious than all the kingdoms of the earth. If the devil of ambition whispers that by forsaking the former the latter may be gained, they can resist the temptation; for they know the value of internal convictions of right, and the worthlessness of external shows and shadows and happiness.

"Great truths, when first revealed to mankind, need such martyrs. Opposition assists in the development of principles, as alternate frosts and heats in spring heave and loosen the soil. New truths, like sheaves of grain, must be well threshed by the flail of persecution, and winnowed by the wind of criticism, to separate the pure wheat from the straw and chaff.

"But to none of us, I am confident, will be given the crown of martyrdom. Mankind is too enlightened to make many martyrs now-a-days. We gravitate to truth, and we crucify no more the prophet who reveals it to our sight. This is an age in which principles may be demonstrated, and will always be respected. Then let us embrace them, and have that ballast to steady us in the stormy voyage of life."

"Men of principle, even to-day," Chester replies, "are accused of fickleness and inconsistency, and all sorts of unworthy motives, by those who do not understand them."

"Very well; I can bear to be misunderstood for a little while," says the old man. "Those who are not established on the same ground of truth imagine that I waver, while it is themselves who are continually shifting. It took the earth a great while to learn that the sun and stars did not revolve around it every twenty-four hours. What cared the eternal sun? A ledge upreared in the midst of a swift river seems to be swimming up-stream; but it is only the water moving. Look up at the moon on a windy night when a storm is breaking away, and she appears to be flying wildly across the floor of heaven. It is the clouds that hurry, and the moon feels nothing of the optical delusion. Let us take example of the stars, the sun, the moon and the planets, in order that the true astronomers of the heart may know how to measure our distances and compute our orbits."

"That's my idea, well expressed," says Job, who rubs his hands, feeling that the right kind of friends have finally come around to him; "and that's what I've always told my good woman."

The old man pats Job on the shoulder, and says some pleasant word, which makes everybody laugh. He then proceeds with his speech. He goes from the great principle of integrity to the exercise of the minor domestic virtues. He dwells upon the happiness of the home in which love and contentment dwell, contrasting it with the raw atmosphere which pervades houses of the opposite stamp. How plainly his philosophy demonstrates the necessity of an even temper and a sweet disposition!

"You can keep house without silver spoons, but not without these," he says. "Charity and kindness are the soft music which regulates the march of life, and cheers the hearts of the soldiers."

This allusion to his old profession reminds Job of his wooden leg, which he pats affectionately whistling _Yankee Doodle_ very softly.

The old clergyman goes on. He has a good deal to say to the young folks about the active life upon which they are just entering,--its perils and temptations. He warns them against selfishness, and tells them how it narrows and shrivels the soul. But his favorite theme is LOVE; and he dwells much upon the beauty of its offspring, kindness, contentment, cheerfulness. His language is so simple that even Willie can understand all he says.

"Well," he remarks, in conclusion, "I am talking too long."

"Not a bit of it! I defy you!" cries Job Bowen.

"Go on! go on!" exclaim a dozen voices.

"I must take leave of you soon; and we can spend the little time that remains to us more pleasantly than in speechifying, or listening to a speech. It is doubtful if I ever meet you again. I am growing old," says Father Brighthopes, with a serene smile. "I have but a little while to stay here on earth. I am going home. Our Father has given me my work to do, and it is almost done. Oh, would I could tell you how joyfully I shall put off corruption for incorruption, and exchange mortality for immortality!

"But I shall see you all again, even though we meet here no more. Let us hope so. Let us so live that it shall be so. The Saviour's loving arms are outstretched to receive us all in his embrace."

A pause; silence and tears. Mrs. Royden endeavors to conceal emotion by arranging Hepsy's cape. Others resort to their handkerchiefs. The speaker's voice is choked, and there are shining drops gliding down his aged cheeks. To fill up the pause, he lifts Willie in his arms, as that young gentleman is tying long grass around his feet, and murmuring something about keeping him always; kisses him, and presses him to his heart.

"What are you crying for?" asks the boy, breaking the silence.

With his little brown hand he touches a straw to one of the crystal drops on the old man's face, and strings it off upon it like a bead.

"Thus may all our tears become bright gems!" says Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly upon the child. "But you cannot realize this, my darling. You teach us a lesson quite unconsciously to your young heart. You show us how hope is born of affliction, and how joy springs from the dark soil of distress. My friends, let us look up. Never look down. Remember what an eternity opens above us, beyond all the clouds of this life. And may the good God bless you all!"

XXXI.

THE DEPARTURE.

It was evening when the company dispersed. Father Brighthopes took affectionate leave of each individual, and had a kind and hopeful word for every one. They seemed to be bidding farewell to some beloved old patriarch, who had lived all his days amongst them.

The clergyman was left alone with his friends, the Roydens. The evening was spent in sober, sweet communion. In the morning the family was up early; for the old man was to be off at eight o'clock.

"Oh, we cannot express how much we owe to you, good Father!" exclaimed Mrs. Royden, with tears of thankfulness in her eyes, on meeting him in the parlor. "My husband seems a different man since you have been with us. And you have taught me a lesson I shall endeavor to profit by. It is hard to overcome fixed habits, and I know I shall often and often--as I do now every day--yield to the dictates of my harsh temper; but I trust I shall come off conqueror in the end!"

"We are all weak, of ourselves," said the old man, affectionately. "But there is One who giveth strength."

Father Brighthopes found an opportunity to have a farewell talk with poor Hepsy. She could not bear the thought of his going away. This was now her only sorrow; for he had filled her soul with immortal hopes, and taught her to endure patiently all the ills of life. But she feared lest she might go back into the dark, when he was no longer near to reflect the light from above upon her spirit. Had he not promised to write to her, she would hardly have been consoled for his loss; as it was, it seemed as if the sun was going into a dense, cold mist.

At length the breakfast was out of the way; the old man had offered up his morning prayer in presence of the family, as, by request of the parents, he had been accustomed to do, of late; his trunks were packed and ready, and the time had come to say the last farewells.

James brought the horse to the door, at sight of which Willie just began to comprehend that the old man was really going.

"I want to go too!" he cried, clinging to his knees.

Father Brighthopes stooped to kiss his plump brown cheek.

"Oh, let me go!" exclaimed Georgie, who had not thought of such an arrangement before.

"Would you go and leave your father and mother, and Chester and James, and all?" asked the clergyman.

"You show me how to do my sums better than they do; and you give me story-books," replied Georgie, bashfully.

"And they do a thousand times more for you," said the old man, embracing the boy. "They give you clothes, and food, and send you to school, and do more things for you than anybody can think of."

"Oh, you will come again next summer, won't you, Father?" cried Lizzie, kissing him impulsively, when his head was down.

"I am too old and feeble to make any promise for another year," replied Father Brighthopes, smiling tenderly. "But I shall come and see you all again, if Providence grant me that indulgence. Be this as it may, I shall always remember you and love you."

How gently then he kissed the affectionate girl! He turned and gave his hand to Sarah, whose eyes filled with tears as she received his blessing.

Mr. Royden took the old man's arm, and led him to the wagon.

"But where is Samuel? I must not neglect him," said Father Brighthopes.

At that moment a groaning was heard behind the shed, under the tree where the grindstone stood.

"Is that Sam?" asked Mr. Royden.

"Yes, sir," replied James. "Something is the matter with him; I don't know what it is. He was taken sick when we were harnessing."

"What is the matter, my son?" asked the old man, cheerily, looking over the gate.

Sam lay upon the turf, with his head on his arm, for a pillow.

"Nothing," he muttered, in a ghastly tone, without looking up.

"Come, I am going away. I want to bid you good-bye."

Sam groaned again; but endeavoring to conquer his malady, he sat up, and raised his swimming eyes. Mr. Royden took him by the shoulder, and helped him to his feet.

"What is the matter?" he demanded.

"Nothing, sir," said Sam. "I'm a little sick, that's all. I shall have to set down again."

He sank upon the turf, and groaned, with his face in the grass.

Father Brighthopes was expressing a great deal of sympathy for him, when Chester came and explained the mystery.

"He has been chewing tobacco," said he, with a cruel laugh. "I told him it would make him sick."

"You foolish fellow!" exclaimed Mr. Royden; "what did you do that for?"

"I only jest wanted to learn how," moaned Sam.

"Learn how!"

"'Cos all the men chew," added the boy, sitting up again, and burying his face in his hands, as the deathly feeling came over him once more.

"Well, well," said the old man, in an encouraging tone, "let this experience be a lesson to you. Let alone the weed. You can be a man without it, if you try. Good-by, good-by, my son!"

He got into the wagon, leaving the unhappy lad still moaning and writhing with anguish on the green-sward.

Mark Wheeler arrived at the gate, having come to take leave of Father Brighthopes, just as Chester and his father were driving away with their aged friend.

The jockey rode the one-eyed colt, which he still retained in his possession,--a perpetual remembrancer of a memorable day in his rugged and uneven life.

He dismounted, and shook hands with the old man. Mark was much affected by his kind wishes and gentle admonitions; but the presence of Mr. Royden and Chester embarrassed him, and he could not express his feelings.

"Come," said Mr. Royden, observing the state of affairs, "I suppose we have not much time to lose."

"I will ride along with you," replied Mark, throwing himself upon the back of the one-eyed colt.

Mrs. Royden, Hepsy and the children, watched the little party as they rode away, Chester driving, while his father sat with the gray-haired clergyman on the seat behind him, and Mark trotted his colt along on the road-side, at their right hand; and they who were left at home felt strange emotions of loneliness steal over their hearts, at the thought that the venerable and beloved form then vanishing from sight might never more repose beneath that roof.

There was no quarreling nor loud words among the children, that morning, as they set out for school; but their faces were expressive of unusual soberness, and their young hearts quite sad; until the bright birds singing by the way-side, the breezes playing in their hair, and the sunshine flooding all the earth, dispelled their gloom, and led them to forget that the gentle old man they loved was riding on his journey, to his field of labor far away.

XXXII.

REUNION.

A little more than two years had passed away. It was in "peach-time." There was a merry group of young people in Mr. Royden's orchard, one mild September afternoon.

There was Chester, proud, happy, overflowing with wit. He was just married, and had come home, to pass a few days, with his fair bride.

She was a perfect doll; beautiful to look upon, with her soft eyes, fair cheeks, ringlets and symmetrical form; but there was not much character in her face. Her love for Chester was of the romantic kind. Although they had been a week married, she could not relish a peach unless he gave it her with a smile, having taken out the stone and tasted it himself first.

Sarah was there, too,--now Mrs. Kerchey. Let not the reader be surprised. Having broken that gentleman's arm, she could not make up her mind to break his heart also, when he came to woo. He had qualities which she was bound to respect; and at length she saw that, casting all prejudice and false pride aside, she could bestow upon him a large portion of love. Yet she never would have married him, had it not been for her mother's persuasion.

Parents like to see their children well situated in life. Mrs. Royden could not rest until she heard Sarah addressed as Mrs. Kerchey. This amiable young couple had been married eighteen months; they were very comfortable, and quite happy; Mr. Kerchey had greatly improved in personal appearance; and the sweet little baby, that Lizzie seemed to carry forever in her arms, and devour with kisses, was their property.

Lizzie was a "great girl." But she was very ladylike in her manners. She gave promise of becoming a noble woman. Already she was beginning to have beaux, but she was sensible enough not to care much for them. She was an insatiable reader, and a superior scholar.