CHAPTER III.
THE LANDLORD AND THE COTTAGE MANIAC.
The Cottage—Landlord impressed—Efforts of spirits—Maniac threatens his family—Landlord advises to send for the minister—Wife wants a doctor—Iron moved by a spirit—Nobleman and Mary confounded by the sounds—Attributes the sounds to satan and witches—Becomes agitated—Boasts of English courage—Gives Mary a half crown—Sends for a physician—Maniac grows more ill—Tea and sugar bought—The doctor comes and prescribes—Aid promised—Curate required to pray at his home—The maniac dies—Grief of Mary—Parental counsel at the time of her marriage repeated—Her husband buried—The family taken to the Alms-house—Affecting conversation between the mother and her son—The overseer questions Mary—Oppression of the poor—Voluntary and involuntary servitude explained.
There were works which no mind can comprehend, revolving around our heads, when we left the arch-way. “I am not a medical mind,” said my guide, “but do you hear that groan of distress?”
I replied in the affirmative.
“To the house of need, then will we go,” said he.
When we reached the cottage, I saw the mind was frantic with despair.
G. Yea; and thou seest the cause.
T. Truly, but who shall believe our report?
G. Thou wilt not say, but do as thou canst to aid.
This cottage stood near the Thames, and about six miles from London. The mind of the almost distracted man, was writhing in the agony of death. The family of children were weeping beside the mother, who was sitting at a little distance from the couch, on which the invalid rested. I saw no other company present. They were not affluent, but depended upon their industry for subsistence. Near by, lived a lord of the heritage, who rode in livery, and fared sumptuously. He was apprised of the dangerous illness of his servant, and knew the wants of the dependent family. He came not near, but his wife sent a few necessaries by another servant, whom we saw leaving the cottage as we entered.
“There is wretchedness here,” said my companion.
T. Truly; but what can we do to mitigate the evil?
W. We can do what we can, and what we can not do, will not be our fault. Thou mayest go to the landlord, and impress his mind to come here speedily.
I went. He was viewing his farm. It was a smiling season. The luxuriant foliage of nature was never more picturesque. The wild birds were chanting their melodious sonnets, and the lowing herds were grazing on the fertile field. When I approached him, he was meditating upon the probable income of his estate. I was not without hope of making an impression favorable to humanity. I was aided by a near relative of the suffering man. We both aimed instantaneously our power to make him feel a sympathy for the distressed. I saw he was impressed with our wish, and he turned around as if to go to the cottage; but as he turned, he said to himself, “Why should I go there; this world is full of misery. There is yonder city; what could I do to remove the ills of that great metropolis? It is the misfortune of some to be poor, and what is their misfortune is not my fault.”
“What can we do?” said my assistant.
“We will still do our duty,” I replied. “If you will act as you can to impress his mind with sympathy, I will aid his conscientiousness to go with us.”
“Even so,” said he.
We continued our work till he said, “On one account, I will go and see him. He has been faithful unto me, in many things, and I will not now be ungrateful for his services.” So saying, he went to the cottage. On entering it, he was met by the wife of the frantic man, who said:
“Dear man, I am distracted with trouble. My God! what shall I do? He is insane, and we have to watch him every moment. Last night he was determined to kill me. He said we would not receive religion, and God had commanded him to kill us. Oh! what can we do,” she cried, piteously.
“I think I would send for the minister,” said he; “it is not possible he can live long in such a state. Perhaps, he might afford him relief by preparing his soul for death.”
“Would it not be better to get a doctor, my lord?”
“It is of no use to get a physician now; it is too late: To-morrow will end all his troubles,” replied the landlord.
“Oh, dear me!” sighed the wife; “and I would to God it might end mine; but here are our dear children; who will care for them when death has ruined our hopes?”
“Thou hearest that lament,” said my associate.
“I hear. Shall we despair? Never, while human woes require our aid. Never, until success attend our efforts,” said I.
At my suggestion, my associate made a noise, which attracted the attention of the nobleman, as he was called. It was made by removing a piece of wrought iron, resembling a broken knife, which rested over a window.
“What is that?” said he.
The wife, whose name was Mary, said, “I see nothing.”
The same noise was repeated.
“Do you hear that?” said the nobleman.
“Yes; I hear a rattle of the window,” replied Mary.
“That was not the window,” said he.
Stepping to the window, he placed his hand upon it, and said, “The window is firm, perhaps it was the old iron.”
When we saw his attention drawn another way, the sound was again produced.
“It is that iron,” said he; “but what moves it?”
“I don’t know,” said Mary; “it will soon rattle again, perhaps.”
It was not long before he wished to hear again that noise. While looking steadily upon it, the iron fell to the floor. “There,” said he, “I knew it was the iron. I wonder what done that!” I stood near him, and impressed his mind with the conviction that spirits wrought such things. He was impressed, as we could; and, at length, said he, “if that old iron was not lifeless, I should believe it could move itself.”
M. Oh, my worthy lord; do not—I shall be afraid of seeing ghosts, when I am alone.
L. Pshaw; a ghost never made that noise.
M. What then?
It was not more than a second before the iron was uplifted about a foot, and fell on the floor.
“Well: who knows what all this can mean?” said he. “The devil must be amusing himself. I wish he would come, and heal this dying man.”
“You do not suppose the devil will do good?” said Mary.
L. No; but, when I was not more than eleven years old, I recollect my mother said, “a good fountain can not send forth bitter water, nor a bitter fountain good water.”
When we had aroused his mind on the subject of spirits, we wished to avail something which would be serviceable to the mind, writhing in distress. Accordingly, we worked so as to make a manifestation near the bed. He was now excited, and verily thought these sounds were premonitions of some awful visitation of Providence.
L. It may not be doubted that there is some meaning to these sounds. If I were a believer in witchcraft, I would say that witches had something to do with these noises. Perhaps, it will appear that my days are numbered. If so, will another noise be made?
My associate now responded by a sound, as before. The nobleman was horror-struck. “The devil is in this,” said he. “If my days are numbered, will that rattle of the iron be repeated?”
The rattle was heard again. But gathering a little more courage, he said, mentally, “a coward is worse than a traitor. I am an Englishman. Never let it be said, that an Englishman is afraid of ghosts.” My guide then impressed his mind to ask, “do you want any thing of me?”
The well known rattle responded.
“Perhaps,” said he, “it will be well to call the doctor.”
“Rattle, rattle,” was the response.
“Now, there must be intelligence some where to produce these noises,” said he. “I do not know what may be the result. But do not be alarmed. I will send a man after my physician, and when he comes back, I will return. In the mean time, Mary, you may remember that ghosts never murdered any one. Have you wanted a little tea and sugar for John? It will not do him harm,—and you may take this half crown, and get what it will buy.”
The unfortunate man was worse. He had heard what they had said about his dying. In a half conscious state of mind, he said, “Mary, what did he want? He need not be vexed about rent—he will not ask again where I am.”
“No, no: He wanted to see you, and he gave me this half crown to get some tea and sugar for you, and besides he has sent for his doctor—all very kind. He is a kind man in sickness. It is not every landlord you know, who would even come to visit a servant in sickness, much less offer them aid; I hope he will get the doctor, and you will get around again.”
The little boy was dispatched to a shop, where he bought a half crown in value of tea and sugar. He returned with bounding feet, and said; “Mother, Sam ax me where I got my money to buy tea and sugar.”
“Hush, my child! you will disturb your father. He must have rest before the doctor comes.”
In about an hour, the landlord and the physician came. The physician was a profound man in the science of medicine, and experienced in his profession. He graduated from the University at Edinburg, in the year 1791. He received his diploma, and was reputed a successful practitioner of medicine in the hospital of London, for many years. As he advanced toward the bedside, or rather couch of the sufferer, he was met by the wild rolling eye of the patient. Taking his hand, he said, “He is somewhat feverish, and there is a degree of inflammation on the brain. I would recommend mustard, applied to the feet, and cold, wet cloths to the neck and forehead. You must not,” said he, “agitate his mind about dying; for he wearies himself too much now about his prospects. Let him have some nourishment, as his appetite may crave, when he is sane; but do not urge him to eat or drink any thing. It is possible he may not want any thing, but you will need some one who will aid you to watch with him to-night.”
“I will send one of his comrades,” said the nobleman.
Doctor. Then I will write down the prescription.
L. That will be unnecessary, because he can not read.
D. And can not this woman read?
M. No, sir; my parents were poor, and I was not sent to school.
“It is important,” said the doctor “that this prescription be strictly adhered to. The least deviation may prove fatal to his recovery.”
“I can remember all,” replied Mary.
When the doctor was about to leave, Mary and the nobleman accompanied him to the yard. She said, “do you think John will get well, doctor?”
D. It is possible; but the chances are against him. The brain is very restless, and besides there is a predisposition to monopolize the entire control of his whole system. I have never known so aggravated a disease to be overcome without the greatest care. If he should live till morning, I will see him again.
M. Would it not be well to ask the curate to pray?
D. The curate will not aid his recovery, and I would recommend that he should not visit you till John is better; but, if you really desire his aid, you will ask him to pray for your husband at home.
M. Not at home!
D. Yes; at home, God will answer, as here.
The landlord and the physician went away. The evening was still, and no comrade came to watch with the suffering patient. The lone night wasted away, until near two o’clock in the morning, when John was released from his mortal body, and we received him, as we had been received.
During the last convulsive throes of agony, his wife besought God, imploringly, to have mercy on his soul. Never went up to heaven a more sincere and fervent supplication for aid, than this dejected and despairing wife offered for the companion of her youth. Alas! what wife could do more, when mind is torn from mind, and no appearance of reuniting again. The whole heart was given to her husband, and he honored the marriage vow with a constant integrity, which made even the cottage to smile with the warm affection of true hearts. “I was well satisfied,” said she, “with my poverty, with my union to make me happy; but now, oh, my God! what shall I do? Oh, dear, what can I do in this unfriendly world?” Then she sighed, and sighed from the soul; but her sighs were aggravated by the mournful despondency of her dear children. She was heard to say: “When my father consented to our marriage,” he said, “Mary, you must not think this beautiful world is all sunshine and summer. There will come clouds of sorrow, nights of gloom, and days of adversity. You will remember my saying, Mary, when the winter of bereavement howls its angry blast around your dwelling, and no voice of kindness gladdens the solitude of your weary hours. But now you have consented to marry the man you love; be faithful, even unto death.”
Such were the silent meditations of a soul, surcharged with grief, as we witnessed at the cottage of a laborer.
Two days afterwards, I saw the body conveyed to the Potter’s Field, and the wife and children to the alms-house. During this period, no landlord came near the cottage. The widow mourned without hope, and the three children clung to her with unusual affection. The boy who was the oldest of the children, seemed to realize the calamity. He said:
“Mother, what shall we do now, my dear father is put in the ground?”
“I suppose,” she replied, “we shall be separated. Oh, my child, you distress me. You will see your kind father no more. They have buried him in the cold earth.”
J. Will he never come home again?
M. No; he can not come back here, James.
J. Will he stay there in the earth, mother?
M. His body will stay there, but his spirit will appear before the bar of God, at the great day of judgment. All will appear before the throne of God to receive their reward; so you must be a good boy, James, that you may go to heaven.
J. Has father gone to heaven?
M. I don’t know, my child; he was not a member of any church; but he never wronged any body, as I know of. He will wait till he receives the sentence of God, and then all will know.
J. How long will he wait, mother?
M. I don’t know, my son.
J. Where will he wait?
M. You must not ask such questions. The Bible does not tell us any thing about it, and we must not ask for things which are not revealed.
When two days had passed, the wife and children were conveyed to the alms house. The overseer said to Mary:
O. Is your father living?
M. No, sir, he has been dead about three years.
O. Did he leave any property?
M. I was not at home when he died, but I heard he died in the hospital.
O. In what hospital?
M. Well, they called it a hospital, such as they have in the army. I heard my mother say he was wounded, and brought home to England, and he never got well again.
O. At what battle was he wounded?
M. I never knew the place, but it seems to me more like Waterloo than any other name.
During this investigation, my mind was impressed to work a reform. I saw the injustice of oppression in all its naked deformity. The lords of the soil had monopolized all that could afford subsistence by cultivation, and then demanded the service of the landless at their own apprisal. “What better is this,” said I to William, “than chattels in slavery?”
W. Thou wilt see a difference. A voluntary servitude is willing bondage, but involuntary service is unwilling subjection to the will of a master. A willing service is the result of conditions; but an unwilling bondage is the result of cruelty. It is oppression without acquiescence, or reward for labor, by contract.
Not receiving a clear solution of my inquiry, I asked, “What is the difference between voluntary and involuntary slavery.”
W. Voluntary slavery is to do what is required by a contract. The doer voluntarily assents on condition of receiving a stipulated compensation. Involuntary slavery is to do what the mind would not do unless coerced by compulsory measures. It does not contract to do any thing, but is forced to do what the master requires.
T. But do not the circumstances of the poor in Europe, coerce them to contract for service, which other conditions would not approve?
W. Thou wilt remember, Thomas, that other conditions coerce the master to hire and pay them for their services. The compulsion is, therefore, mutual, and whatever is mutual is equitable. But when a mind is compelled to do service without the assent of the doer, there is no mutual necessity, nor equity in the arrangement.
T. There is no necessity, I trust, then, which would justify the misery that results from the oppression of the poor, in neglecting the means essential for their comfort.
W. Thou hast well judged. Had avarice the wisdom of truth to control its treasures, the folly of oppression would find no habitation among men. But what thou seest is generosity, when compared with the injustice thou wilt behold in thy pilgrimage.
T. Spare me, then, the sight!
W. Hast thou not a heart to do good? And wilt thou shrink from its performance, because the sight is unwelcome?
T. I will not shrink from my duty; for where duty calls, there is my pleasure, my bliss, my heaven.
W. Then, follow me.