“And who is Yorkshire Jack?” I asked, though a suspicion who he might be instantly shot through my mind. My suspicion was correct—for, upon Mr. Mariot’s explanation, I found that he was the very ruffian whose conduct I have been describing. As we passed the house dignified with the title of the “Mariotdale Hotel,” loud voices came through the open windows. Mr. Mariot would have hurried me past, but I laid my hand upon his arm, and in a low but determined tone said, “Wait, sir!”
Sunday after Sunday I had preached—to little purpose—and here was the reason. Several of my usual congregation, upon whose hearts the word of God fell like seed upon a beaten path-way, sat listening, half laughing, half terrified, at the blasphemy of this fiendish fellow—Yorkshire Jack—and half a score more, who never, by any chance, were seen within the church walls, were applauding him at the top of their voices. O, they will have a fearful reckoning who have supplied fools who deny God with words of blasphemy, and with the scoffings of infidelity, through a prostituted press—who have caught the thoughtless with profane wit, and betrayed the daringly wicked with the hardihood of declared infidelity! The worst words of the worst men were rolled from this wretch’s lips, as if they were his own utterance; the shallowest cant of infidel literature came from his mouth as if his own heart had originated what, indeed, it had only harbored. Out of the borrowed abundance of a vile heart, his lips spake; and the applause of his auditory was scarcely less disgusting than his words were.
Women began to gather round the windows of the house—they dared not enter—and to call in hoarse whispers to their husbands, fathers and sons to come out. Children climbed up and looked in, now gazing, open-mouthed, with terrified interest to the drunken maniac’s fury—now laughing, in thoughtless merriment, as his antics became ridiculous. At length, spent with the vanity of a successful orator to a fit audience, filled with drink, and worn out with rage, Yorkshire John sank on a chair. The efforts of his satellites failed to awaken him to new ravings. The joke was worn out—the women coaxed their husbands away, the children walked off, rehearsing, describing, and laughing over what they had heard. The place was soon hushed and still, the monotonous voice of the water only breaking the silence of the night, and Mariot and I took our way homeward—for I lodged with him.
On our way nothing was said. The family, except Mrs. M., had retired; and Mariot seemed as if he would have made that circumstance a pretext for following them in silence. He put a night lamp in my hand, but I placed it on the table, and, sitting down, took up The Book. He sat also—but it was evidently with unwilling politeness. Conscience was at work—and he was desirous to evade, rather than listen to, her warnings. I opened to the twenty-eighth of Isaiah, and he started as I read, “Wo to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim!”
“Edward Mariot,” I said, “God will hold you accountable for the sin which we have this night witnessed!”
He arose—I thought angrily. He commenced to speak, but a look from his wife dissuaded him. How would he defend himself with such facts so fresh? But I knew that there was a coldness in his manner as he returned my “good night,” with a half nod, such as I never before had witnessed from him. I feared that our friendship, and of course my further residence in Mariotdale, was at an end; but I feared more, that it would be written of my generous but business devoted friend, “Ephraim is joined to his idols—let him alone!”
| [1] | The incidents which follow are not offered as from the writer’s own observation. As the simple narrative can be best told in the first person, the reader must consider us both as having listened to the aged clergyman who related it. He was a veteran in the Christian army, and truly adorned his vocation by unaffected dignity and sincere piety. Long experience and close observation had given him power to penetrate character, and to read the very thoughts of those whom he addressed. The listener might often be startled at what seemed abrupt harshness, but the result always showed that he knew in what manner to approach all persons. Sympathy and gentleness he well understood are lost on some natures; and positive words are as widely improper for others. Clergymen are too apt to regard all men but as so many copies of each other. They are taught better as they grow older; but our friend seemed to have an intuitive knowledge of human nature. |
——