CHAPTER I.
Then followed that beautiful season,
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the summer of All Saints!
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
Was for a moment consoled.—Longfellow’s Evangeline.
WO years have worn on their slow course, two tedious, weary years, and the first days of December have again arrived. We are now under a sunnier sky than that of England, and on the outskirts of an old, wide-spreading, perhaps, primeval forest, full of giant pines and hemlocks, and the monarch oak, beside which the axe of the back-woodsman has never yet been lifted. It is morning, and the sun gleams on the brilliant, dewy leaves of trees, in detached and scattered groups, each clad like the beloved of Jacob in his coat of many colours. The Indian summer, pleasant and evanescent, is on the wane, and there is a soft murmur of falling leaves, as the morning breeze steals through the rustling foliage, and save for that, and the usual sounds of the forest—the diapason of that natural organ—all is still, and hushed, and silent. We are on the eve of winter, we witness the russet leaves falling before every breath of wind, but yet the grass is as green as ever, and wild flowers and creepers, luxuriant among the tangled under-brush, festoon the branches with their hanging blossoms. Here is one leafy arcade, where sunshine and shadow dance in tremulous alternation on the soft velvety turf beneath; and hark! the silence is broken; there are the sounds of footsteps on the green sward, the crackling of dried twigs which have fallen, and the sounds of some approaching creature. The charm is broken, into this natural temple some one has entered; who can it be, and for what end does he come?
Down this arcade comes the intruder, deeper and deeper into the forest; he seems to have no settled purpose here, but wanders below the drooping branches in meditative silence, communing with his heart, and inhaling as it seems the melancholy tenderness which floats in the shadowy air—melancholy because anticipating the departure of those bright lingerers in summer’s lengthened train; and tender, because remembering how Nature, the universal mother, gathers in beneath her wintry mantle those children of her care, and nourishes them in her genial bosom till spring robes her anew with their verdure and their flowers. He seems no stranger to these gentle sympathies, this solitary wayfarer, but looks upon the gay foliage and clinging flowers as if they were ancient friends. He is young, but there is a shadow on his face which tells of mental suffering and grief, though it seems of grief whose agony and bitterness has past away. His face is thin, worn, and thoughtful, there are deep furrows on his cheek and brow, the traces of some great and long-enduring struggle; his eyes are cast down, and his lips move from time to time, as though they were repeating words of comfort, with which he was striving to strengthen himself, and ever and anon he anxiously raises his earnest eyes to heaven, as if he sought for light to his soul and assurance there; and then again his head is bent down towards the greensward as if in sudden humility, and a sigh of conscious guilt or unworthiness breaks from his labouring breast, and he writhes as if he felt a sudden agonising pang. It is evident that this lonely man seeks for something which he has not, of the lack of which he is fully conscious, and which he desires with all the intensity of a soul’s most ardent and earnest longing to obtain; wealth it cannot be, nor fame, nor honour, for this wild wilderness, this place so solitary and far from the abodes of men, is not where these are either sought or found. On the trunk of a giant pine which lies across the green arcade, a trophy of the last winter’s storms, he seats himself; the gentle gale breathes through the wood in long low sighings, which come to the ear like a prolonged moan; the leaves fall softly with a pleasant plaintive cadence to their mossy grave; the sun looks down from the heavens, veiling his glory with a cloud, as though he feared to gaze too keenly on a scene so fair and solemn; the heart of the lonely meditative man is fairly melted within him; the object he has been searching for, which he has so longed to possess, which has shone upon him hitherto so distant, so far off, beyond the reach of his extended hand, and never been seen save in such transient glimpses of his straining eyes that again and again, and yet again, his doubts and fears have returned in almost their original force, and the despair, which almost engulfed him in the old sad time, seems near at hand to enshroud him once again, is suddenly brought to nearest neighbourhood. A holy presence fills that quiet air; a voice of love, and grace, and mercy steals into that long bereaved and mourning heart; he throws himself down on the dewy grass, and its blades bend beneath heavier and warmer drops than the soft tears of morn and even. Listen! for his voice breaks through the stillness with a tone of unspeakable joy, thrilling in its accents, and its words are “all things;” hark how the wind echoes them among the trees, as though so worthy of diffusion, so full of hopeful confidence, that even it loved to linger on and prolong the sound. “All things are possible—with God.” His trembling form is bent in the hallowed stillness of unuttered prayer; his frame quivers with an emotion for years unfelt. Oh! how different from all his past shakings and tremblings, how different from all that has gone before is this! But who dare lift the veil which covers the deep humility of that supplicating spirit, or break in upon the holy confidence with which it approaches, in this its first communion, its God and Father. It is enough that there is joy in heaven, this blessed morning, over the returned prodigal, the lost and wandering child, “he that was dead is alive again, he that was lost is found,” and Halbert Melville at length is at rest.
Long and fearfully has he struggled since that fearful night in hoary Edinburgh; been tossed in Atlantic storms, seen the wonders of the Lord on the great deep, in the thunder, and the lightning, and the tempest, and experienced His goodness in being brought to land in safety once again. For years since then, on every wall, his tearless eyes have seen, as though written by an unseen hand, those terrible words, “It is impossible,” and a voice heard by no mortal but himself, has rung again and again in sad reiteration into his despairing ears, “It is impossible,” like an “anathema maranatha,” ever binding and irreversible. But to-day the whole has changed, the cloud has been dissipated and the sun shines forth once more; another voice sweeter than that harp of sweetest sound has brought to him joy for mourning, and blotted out from his mental horizon his fancied doom, with that one word of gracious omnipotence, “All things are possible with God.” It has told him of the might that can save to the uttermost, of the grace that casts away no contrite heart, and of the love to sinners which passeth all knowledge; and in the day of recovered hope, and in faith which has already the highest seal, the spirit’s testimony ennobling its meek humility, Halbert Melville arises from beneath these witness trees, from that altar in a cathedral of Nature’s own fashioning for its Maker’s worship, more grand and noble than the highest conception of man could conceive or his highest art embellish, with a change wrought upon his enfranchised spirit, which makes him truly blessed. In his despair and hopelessness he had pronounced this “impossible,” and he stands now rejoicing in the glorious words of one of old, “Return unto thy rest, oh, my soul! for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee.” The summer was nearly past, the winter had nearly come, but Halbert Melville was saved.
But Halbert must go home; alas, he has no home in this wide continent. In all the multitude of breathing mortals here, there is not one whose eye grows brighter or heart warmer at his approach. He is, on the contrary, regarded curiously and with wonder; sometimes indeed with pity, but he is still the stranger, though nearly two years have passed since first he received that name. His home, such as it is, is in a great bustling town, at a distance from this quiet solitude, to which long ago—there are places near it famed in the catalogue of vulgar wonders,—a sudden impulse drew him, a yearning to look on nature’s sunny face again, as he had done of old in his days of peace and happiness, or a desire, it might be, to attain even a deeper solitude than he, stranger though he was, could find amid the haunts of men. But now he must return to his distasteful toil, and solitary room. Ah! Halbert, how different from the solitary room in old Edinburgh, the books, congenial studies, and pleasant recreations before the tempter came! but it is with a light step and a contented heart for all that, that Halbert Melville retraces his steps along the lonely way. Now there is hope in the sparkle of his brightened eye, and a glow of his own old home affections at his heart, as he catches the wide sweep of the distant sea, and the white sails swelling already in the pleasant breeze, that will bear them home. Home! what magic in the word! it has regained all its gladdening power, that hallowed syllable, and Halbert is dreaming already of Christian’s tearful welcome, and little Mary’s joy; when a chill strikes to his heart. Is he sure that the letter of the prodigal, who has brought such agony and grief upon them, will be received so warmly? No, he is not, he doubts and fears still, for all the peace that is in his heart, and Halbert’s first resolution is changed; he dare not write; but his fare shall be plain, his lodging mean, his apparel scanty, till he has the means of going home, of seeking pardon with his own lips, of looking on their reconciled faces with his own rejoicing eye; or of bidding them an adieu for evermore.
Halbert has reached the noisy town again, and is threading his way through its busy streets, among as it seems the self-same crowd he traversed on his departure; but how differently he looks on it now; then he noticed none but the poor, the aged, the diseased; and thought in the selfishness of engrossing care, that the burdens which they bore were light in comparison with that which weighed him down. Now he embraces them all in the wide arms of his new-born and sympathetic philanthropy, and is as ready in the fulness of his heart to rejoice with them that do rejoice, as to weep with those that weep. His was a true, an early love, which flies to make its master’s presence known to those who are out of the way; who see him not, or seeing understand not; and laden with its own exceeding joy, yearns to share it with all who stand in need of such peace and rest as he himself has found.
But now he has entered his own dwelling, just as the sudden gloom of the American night, unsoftened by gentle twilight, falls thick and dark around. It is a place where many like himself in years, station, and occupations, engaged in the counting-houses of that great commercial city, have their abode. Young men gay and careless, with little thought among them for anything beyond the business or amusement of the passing hour. A knot of such are gathered together in the common sitting-room when Halbert enters; but they scarcely interrupt their conversation to greet him: he has kept apart from all of them, and almost eschewed their society or companionship. The night is cold, it has grown chilly with the lengthening shadows, and a glowing fire of logs burns brightly and cheerfully upon the hearth, and Halbert, wearied and cold, seats himself beside it. The conversation goes on, it flags not because the stranger is an auditor; one young man there is in this company, a merry scoffer, whose witty sallies are received with bursts of laughter, the rather because just now, and indeed usually, they are directed against Scripture and holy things. There is another who inveighs against the fanaticism and bigotry of some portion of the Church, which is, according to his foolish notion, righteous over much, and therefore, in his clear and conclusive logic, the Church universal is only a piece of humbug; and there is a third whom Halbert has long marked, a cold argumentative heartless sceptic, who, emboldened by the profane mirth of the other young men around him, has begun to broach his infidel opinions, and for them finds a favourable auditory. Look at Halbert’s face now, how it beams in the fire-light, as he hears the cold-blooded insinuations, and words of blasphemy, the dead negations, the poison of his own heedless youth, from which he has suffered so sorely, again propounded in the identical guise and semblance which bewitched himself of old. See him! how his dark eyes sparkle with righteous fire; how his bent form grows erect and stately, and his features expand in unconscious nobility, as though there was inspiration within his heart, because of which he must interfere, must speak to these youths, should he perish.
The solitary man bends over the cheerful blaze no longer. See him among these wondering youths, with the light of earnest truth beaming from every noble line of his prophet face. Listen to his solemn tone, his words of weighty import. Hear what he says to them, amazed and confounded that the stranger has at last found a voice. What does he say? he tells the story of his own grievous shipwreck; he tells them how he was tempted and how he fell; tells them of all the wiles and stratagems by which he was overcome, and how he found out only at the very last, how hollow, false, and vain they were; bids them remember the miserable man bowed down by secret sorrow, that they have all along known him, and his voice trembles with solemn earnestness, as he warns them as they love their lives—as they love the gladness which God has given them, the heritage of their youth—to refuse and reject the insinuations of the tempter, and to oppose themselves to the serpent-cunning of the blasphemer, refusing even to listen to his specious arguments and hollow one-sided logic, if they wish it to be well with them. The air of the room has grown suddenly too hot for the discomfited sceptic, the scoffer has forgotten his gibe, the grumbler his grievance, and their companions their responsive laughter. Halbert’s words of sad and stern experience, spoken in solemn warning, sink into their hearts with much effect, at least for the time. Perhaps the impression will not last, but at this moment, these thoughtless youths are startled into seriousness, and whatever the effect may be ultimately, the recollection of that thrilling appeal will linger, and that for long, in their memories.
Sweet slumber and pleasant dreams has Halbert Melville this night. He lies in that fair chamber, whose windows open to the rising sun, where rested after his great fight of afflictions that happy dreamer of old, where peace is, and no visions of terror can enter, and Halbert Melville, whatever his future fate may be, whether calm or tempest, fair or foul weather, has like the pilgrim found rest.
