THE JURYMAN.
Soften his hard, cold heart! and show
The power which in forbearance lies,
And let him feel that mercy now
Is better than old sacrifice!
J. G. Whittier.
Peter Barker belonged to that numerous class, who are neither better nor worse than other men. Left an orphan in his infancy, the paths of life were rough and lonely at the outset. He had a violent temper and a good heart. The first was often roused into activity, and punished with energy kindred to its own; the last remained almost undeveloped, for want of genial circumstances and reciprocated affection. One softening gleam fell upon his early path, and he loved it like the sunshine, without comprehending the great law of attraction that made it so very pleasant. When he attended school in the winter months, he always walked home with a little girl named Mary Williams. On the play-ground he was with her, always ready to do battle with anybody who disobliged her. Their comrades laughed, and called him Mary’s beau; and they blushed and felt awkward, though they had no idea what courting meant. Things had arrived at this state of half-revealed consciousness, he being fourteen years old, and Mary twelve, when her friends removed to the West, and the warm, bright influence passed out of his life. He never rightly knew whether he was in love with Mary; but years afterwards, when people talked to him about marrying, he thought of her, wondering where she was, and whether she remembered him. When he drove his cows home from pasture, the blackberry bushes on the way brought up visions of his favourite school-mate, with her clean cape-bonnet thrown back, her glossy brown hair playing with the winds, and her innocent face smiling upon him with friendly greeting. “She was the best and prettiest child I ever saw,” he often said to himself; “I wonder whether she would be as pleasant now.” Sometimes he thought of going to the West and seeking her out. But he knew not where to find her; his funds were small, and his courage fell at the thought; “Oh, it is many years ago since we were children together. Perhaps I should find her married.” Gradually this one ray of poetry faded out of his soul, and all his thoughts fell into the common prosaic mould. His lot was cast with rough people, who required much work, and gave little sympathy. The image of his little mate floated farther and farther away, and more and more seldom her clear blue eyes smiled upon him through the rainbow-mists of the past, or from the air-castles of the future. In process of time, he married, after the same fashion that a large proportion of men do; because it was convenient to have a wife, and there was a woman of good character in the neighbourhood, willing to marry whoever first offered her a respectable home. Her character bore the stamp of harmless mediocrity. She was industrious and patient, but ignorant, dull, and quietly obstinate. The neighbours said she was well suited to him, he was so rough and passionate; and in the main he thought so himself; though her imperturbable calmness sometimes fretted him, as a rock chafes the lashing ocean into foam. The child that was born to them, they both loved better than they had ever loved; and according to their light, they sincerely strove to do their duty. His bodily wants were well supplied, often at the cost of great weariness and self-sacrifice; but their own rude training had given them few good ideas concerning the culture of an immortal soul. The infant did more for them, than they for him. Angelic influences, unseen and unheard amid the hard struggles of their outward life, became visible and audible through the unconscious innocence of their little one. For the second time in his life, a vision of beauty and love gleamed across the rugged path of that honest, laborious man. Vague impressions of beauty he had constantly received from the great panorama of the universe. His heart sometimes welcomed a bright flower in the sunshine, or a cluster of lilies on the stream; he marvelled at the splendor of the rainbow, and sometimes gazed reverently at the sun sinking to rest in his rich drapery of purple and gold. But these were glimpses of the Infinite; their beauty did not seem to appertain to him; it did not enter like a magic charm into the sphere of his own existence, as did the vision of Mary Williams and his own little Joe. The dormant tenderness there was in him leaped up at the smile of his babe, and every pressure of the little fingers made a dimple in the father’s heart. Like the outbursts of spring, after a long cold winter, was this revelation of infancy to him. When he plodded home, after a hard day’s work, it rested him body and soul to have the little one spring into his arms for a kiss, or come toddling along, tilting his little porringer of milk, in eagerness to eat his supper on father’s knee.
But though this new influence seemed to have an almost miraculous power over his nature, it could not quite subdue the force of temperament and habit. As the darling babe grew into boyhood, he was sometimes cherished with injudicious fondness, and sometimes repelled by bursts of passion, that made him run and hide himself from the over-indulgent father. Mr. Barker had himself been educated under the dispensation of punishment, rather than attraction, and he believed in it most firmly. If his son committed a fault, he thought of no other cure than severity. If a neighbour did him an ill turn, he would observe, in presence of the boy, “I will watch my chance to pay him for it.” If the dog stole their dinner, when they were at work in the woods, he would say, “Run after him, Joe, and give the rascal a sound beating.” When he saw the child fighting with some larger lad, who had offended him, he would praise his strength and courage, and tell him never to put up with an insult. He was not aware that all these things were education, and doing far more to form his son’s character than any thing he learned at school. He did not know it, because his thoughts had never been directed toward it. The only moral instruction he had ever received, had been from the minister of the parish; and he usually preached about the hardheartedness of Jews two thousand years ago, rather than the errors and temptations of men and boys, who sat before him.
Once he received an admonition from his neighbour Goodwin, which, being novel and unexpected, offended him, as an impertinent interference with his rights. He was riding home with Joe, then a lad of thirteen, when the horse took fright at a piece of white paper, that the wind blew across the road. Mr. Barker was previously in an ill humor, because a sudden squall of rain had wet some fine hay, all ready for the barn. Pursuing the system on which he had himself been educated, he sprang to the ground and cudgelled the poor beast unmercifully. Mr. Goodwin, who was passing by, inquired the cause of so much severity, and remonstrated against it; assuring him that a horse was never cured of bad habits by violence. He spoke mildly, but Mr. Barker was irritated, and having told him to mind his own business, he continued to whip the poor frightened animal. The humane neighbour turned away, saying, “That is a bad lesson for your son, Mr. Barker.”
“If you say much more, I will flog you, instead of the horse,” muttered the angry man. “It is’nt his horse. What business is it to him?” he added, turning to his son.
He did not reflect in what a narrow circuit he was nailing up the sympathies of his child, by such words as those. But when he was reseated in the wagon, he did not feel altogether pleased with himself, and his inward uneasiness was expended on the horse. The poor bewildered animal, covered with foam, and breathing short and hard, tried his utmost to do his master’s will, as far as he could understand it. But, nervous and terrified, constantly in expectation of the whip, he started at every sound. If he went too fast, he was reined in with a sudden jerk, that tore the corners of his mouth; if he went too slow, the cruel crack of the whip made him tear over the ground, to be again restrained by the violent jerk.
The sun was setting, and threw a radiant glow on every tree and little shrub, jewelled by the recent shower. Cows grazed peacefully in verdant hollows; birds sang; a little brook rippled cosily by the wayside; winds played gently with the flowers, and kissed the raindrops from their faces. But all this loveliness passed unheeded by those human hearts, because they had at the moment no inward beauty to harmonize with nature. Perhaps the familiar landscape seemed quite otherwise to the poor horse, than it would have done, had he travelled along those pleasant paths guided by a wise and gentle hand.
Had Joseph continued to be little Joe, his eager welcome and loving prattle might soon have tamed the evil spirit in his father’s soul that night. But he was a tall lad, who had learned to double up his fists, and tell other boys they had better let him alone, if they knew what was good for themselves. He still loved his father better than any thing else in the world, but the charm and the power of infancy were gone. He reflected back the vexed spirit, like a too faithful mirror. He was no longer a transparent, unconscious medium for the influence of angels.
Indeed, paternal affection gradually became a hardening, rather than a softening influence. Ambition for his son increased the love of accumulation; and the gratification of this propensity narrowed his sympathies more and more. Joseph had within him the unexpanded germs of some noble qualities; but he inherited his father’s passionate temperament with his mother’s obstinacy; and the education of such circumstances as I have described turned his energies and feelings into wrong channels. The remark, “It is’nt his horse; what business is it to him?” heard in his boyhood, expressed the views and habits of his later years. But his mental growth, such as it was, pleased his father, who often said exultingly, “There is no danger of Joe. He knows how to fight his own way through the world.”