Npf Making. See pai^e 11 JOHN tregenoweth: HIS MARK. BY MARK GUY PEARSE, AUTHOR OF "MISTER HORN AND HIS FRIENDS." SECOND EDITION, REVISED. THREE ILLUSTRATIONS. NEW YORK: NELSON & PHILLIPS, CINCINNATI : HITCHCOCK & WALDEN. 1877. CONTENTS. Chaptkb Paoi I. Old Uncle John 7 II. The Little Maid 14 III. His Wife Betty 22 IV. The Drunken Fiddler 29 V. How He Made His Mark 39 VI. The Quaker's Coat 49 VII. What Came of a Dream 63 VIII. The Donkey and Cart 73 IX. The New Parson 85 Illustrations. Net Making 2 Feeling the Mark 45 Leaving the Beach 75 JOHN TREGENOWETH : HIS MARK. CHAPTER I. OLD UNCLE JOHN. ^^HIS day — August 14, 1871 — Old Uncle John Tregeno- wetJis little Mary was mar- f^ ried to Zacchy Pendray, in the Parish Church at Saint Osyth's. So stands the sentence in T 'W "^ "^y diary. But without some <" further explanation, it will lead to -H no less than three mistakes. For to begin with — in spite of his name — "old Uncle John" was not very 8 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. old ; nor had he moreover a single nephew or niece in the world. The perfectly white hair that fell in rich silvery locks to his shoul- ders, gave him the first part of his title; while custom in that Western Cornwall gave to him the second part. "Uncle" is the famil- iar title by which old men of the working- classes are frequently known. And then as to this " little Mary," she was by no means little. She was a tall, comely Cornish maiden of about twenty-three years' old ; with hair of glossy blackness, and deep blue eyes — deep blue as the sea that lay un- der the mighty cliffs a mile from her father's door. Her face was one that might have been called beautiful, perhaps, only that there was such frankness and such simplicity — such tender, anxious love, that you looked right in at the soul without staying to think what the face was like. Old Uncle John, 9 Then, again, though they were married at church. Uncle John was no Churchman, but a thorough Primitive Methodist, and a " class- leader" too. But for all that, he played the organ up in the little loft at St. Osyth's, that they called the gallery, sitting there Sunday mornings and afternoons, up in the dark (it is never too dark for him), behind the great royal arms, that have been there since the days of good Queen Anne ; playing " for love," poor as he was ; for love of the organ, perhaps, first of all, but for love of the par- son, too, for he has been a rare friend to Uncle John, as little Mary will tell us before we have done. Then on Sunday nights he takes his place in the singing seat at the Primitive Methodist Chapel, and amid flute and fiddle, big and little, and trombone and clarionet, and a great company of singers, he leads the choir there — and a heartier lo John Tregenoweth : his Mark. or better bit of singing it would be a hard matter to find than that which rinsfs within those four white-washed walls. They be- lieved, with David, that it was good to make a joyful noise unto the Lord. And that was in 1871 : — so lately, and yet so long ago ! Ah, things are altered now down at St. Osyth s. " The new parson " came, with whom the little white-washed chapel was schism, and Uncle John was a heretic, and even the fish for Friday's fast was tainted because it was taken on a schis- matic's hook ! And the simple villagers who sung in the parish church in the morning, and crowded the little chapel at night, and who worshiped the same good Lord in each, are now rent and torn with jealousies and bick- erings about " strict Church " and " Dissent." Reader, if you have a heart in you at all, pray God to send again the Spirit of the Old Uncle John. ii Master, when every good man shall give thanks for the telling of Salvation's story, be it in the white-washed barn or in the many- arched cathedral, in Primitive Chapel or Par- ish Church. It was on the evening of this marriage-day that the old man and I sat together listening to the music of the bells coming softly and sweetly across the water. He found it rather a relief to have some one to chat with, and I had long been anxious to get the story that he was disposed to tell. Already I had picked up bits of it from one and another, and patched them together as well as I could ; and one or two incidents I had heard from himself, but only just enough to make me eager to hear the rest. Several times I had tried to get at it, but only failed provokingly. I had often come upon him sitting in the door-way, his fingers busied in net-making, 12 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. the finished meshes lying coiled beside him, his face turned upward to the light, the long silver hair flowing over his shoulders, while he and "little Mary" sang some sweet hymn together — a picture framed by the jessamine- porch about the door-way. And sitting with them, I had tried to lead up to the story of his life ; but Betty was sure to come bustling by us starting some new topic, or Zacchy would come creeping in at the little gate with the talk of the latest news. Somehow or other, it had always failed. At other times as I passed the old church I had stayed and listened, marveling at the rare power and skill with which he could sway the tones, and force them into exquisite harmony, then had felt my way up the old rickety stair-case and stood beside him at the organ. But at such times he had no ear, no thought, for any thing but the music. Old Uncle John. 13 This evening the coast was clear. Betty had gone to see " the little maid " settled at her new home. Uncle John had thought of going too, but Betty had settled that by de- cidedly, but not unkindly, expressing an opin- ion that " men-folks were always best out o' the way ; " to which, as a general principle on a wedding-day, Zacchy might perhaps have ventured to take exception had any one but Betty said it. So early on that summer's evening we sat together, without any fear of disturbance. The sea-breeze swept about us deliciously cool and balmy, and laden with the fragrance of abundant flowers; while over all fell the sweet music of the bells, like a con- stant blessing on that happy day. Uncle John's thoughts were rather disposed to wander into the past, and by putting a question here and there I managed to get the story complete. 14 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE MAID. ^OW long have I been blind, sir? — (the old man began, in an- swer to my question) — Well, sir, I've been so blind as a bat this nineteen year a'most. But 'tis wonderful how I be able to get along ! It do seem to me as if when one thing be took away something else be sure to come in its place. Eyes are things that you would think it wisht^ sure 'nough to be without, but it do come to be * Wisht : A Cornish word for bad, unhappy, unfortunate. It is supposed to linger from the old belief in witchcraft, and their power of evil-wishing. The Little Maid. 15 natural-like, and six days out o' the seven you forget that ever you had any, 'specially if you've got plenty else to think about, as I always had. Then, besides, there's your ears and your finger-tips do come to be un- common good friends. I've heard folks say that you don't know the worth of your mer- cies till they are gone. That is true enough, but so is this — that then you find out the worth d them that be left. 'Tis no good denying that it be a trifle hard sometimes, when there's nothing 'pon my mind. One thing in particular has been making me wish all day that I could look out once more just for five minutes. A foolish thing, I dare say you'll think, for an old chap like me ; but there — we all of us have got a well o' tears in us somewhere, if you only sink down deep enough. The sound o' those blessed bells a-ringin' in my ears, and Betty i6 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. and all of them saying how pretty she looked — it a'most makes me feel a bone o' the old man in me a bit rebellin'. And to think she be gone — though 'tis but a matter of four mile off, and Zacchy is a brave lad, and a pretty singer too. My little maid Mary — ah, there I go again ! Little maid! Why I could feel her shadow fall over me when she'd be standin' by my side three years ago ne, and I know she's so fine a girl as there be in the West Country ; but I can never come to think of her as any other than she was the last time I saw her. " How old was she then.?" I asked, as the old man paused in his story. She was five years, sir — five that very night. Every thing else is half like a dream com- pared with the way I can remember that. The old man stopped, as if unwilling to relate it. The Little Maid. 17 " I have never heard exactly how it hap- pened," I said, by way of encouragement. " Haven't you ? " he asked with surprise. " Why, I thought every body knew all about, it." Then he settled down for the story. I was working up to mine by night that week, and had to start just after supper. The little maid had been sitting on my knee. It was in the winter time, and I can mind how her great frightened eyes looked up at me as she heard the rain pattering against the window, and the wind roaring round the house, and how she put her arms about my neck, and she said, in a sort of lispin', for she couldn't speak plain then, " Father," she said, " father, take me with you, 'tis so dark. You know Jesus loves little children, and if I go he must take care of you too, father." " Bless you," I said, " I've got one little angel to love me, anyhow." i8 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. Then I got up to go, and as I opened the door she stood there with the wind a-blowing her hair about, and just as I stooped to kiss her the candle was puffed out. I felt her little arms about me, and her lips on my cheek, and — and — (for a moment the voice faltered ; but quickly recovering itself the old man went on bravely) — there, what an old stupid I be, to be sure, and those blessed bells a-ringin' out their music as if we had good cause to let everybody hear such pure happi- ness as their wedding will make — the little maid and Zacchy. "So it happened that night?" I hinted gently, after another pause. It happened that night, sir, that very night. I felt somehow as if something was going to be wrong. I had a lot of wisht old thoughts come creepin' over me all day ; but I didn't think 'twas going to be that. Me and my The Little Maid. 19 comrade were down in the mine to our work ; we were blasting. We had bored the hole and put in the charge. Then we lit the fuse and went away for the hole to go off. We waited two or three minutes, and then my comrade said that the fuse must have gone out. " Wait a bit," I said, " you can't give it too much time — wait a bit." We waited until both of us thought it must have failed, and then I crept up cautiously toward the hole. All of a sudden there came an awful blaze of light, and a hundred thun- der-peals, and I can't recollect any thing more about it. They tell me that it was four or five days before I began to come to myself The first thing that I can remember is one day feeling a pair of little arms about my neck, and hot tears falling on my face. I couldn't make it 2 20 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. out. At first I thought that I was standing in the door-way, just going to mine, and I said, " Good night, Httle maid." Then I felt the tears fall faster, and as my senses began to come together I knew that I was in bed, and that there was something amiss, but I couldn't make out what it was, so I said, " Light a candle, Mary, dear, 'tis so dark." Bless you, sir, I can feel it now — how her little hand stroked the side of my face, as the tears fell hotter and faster. " What is it, Mary, dear 7 " I said, thinking there was something happened to her. " Where is mother.? and why doesn't she bring a light.? 'tis so dark." Then I heard the little maid whisper to her- self, " Poor, poor father / I .s pose I shall al- ways have to lead hii7i now" Then it all came across me — I was blind / The little maid guessed somehow that I knew it. She began stroking my hand, and kept The Little Maid. 21 saying, " Poor, poor father ! " and I could feel the tears fallingr on it all the time. Then presently she says, " You'll have to take me with you now, father, wherever you go ; and so Jesus must take care of you always now, you know." ***** I can scarcely fancy she's gone, bless her. The little maid has been a'most like an angel to me, sir. But there, I musn't be an old stupid again. 22 John Tregenoweth : iiis Mark. CHAPTER III. HIS WIFE BETTY. ^r^^^f^^DID not get well enough to go about X^_^ again for a good many weeks. g The house had got pretty well strlpt of all that was in it, and that wasn't much, a long time before I could think about trying to pick up 'a bit of a living. My Betty is a real good one, I can tell'e, sir — a real good one and no mistake, or else we should have starved. Betty did come out then — you'd hardly believe all that she went through to keep the place over our head. Any thing that came to hand, it was all the same to her, from a round o' monthly nursing to curin' pil- His Wife Betty. 23 chards, or standin' at a wash-tub from three o'clock in the morning till eight at night. Bless her, sir, she's a right good one. She be a woman that wants a deal o' knowin', does Betty. Nothing ever turns up, but Betty's just as ready for it as if she'd been a-doin' nothing else but thinkin' about it all the days of her life. Why, if I was made king o' En- gland to-morrow, sir, Betty would know 'xact- ly what I ought to do an' say. She may not be what people call an amiable tempered woman, and she don't much like that kind of folk either. Betty be one o' that sort that like nothing so much as to go straight on with her work till it's done, and then to begin something else. And I often think, sir, that the. hard, bony women that can't abide a bit of praise — neither, giving none nor taking none, who do call work work and wages wages, and count every word besides them as 24 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. waste of breath — they're the women to make the world go round. If they're iron for any feelin' that's in them, they're iron too for the work and the wear of them. Then you know, sir, when iron is hot 'tis hot, and when Betty is up she is up, sure 'nough ; and what- ever strikes then will make the sparks fly. Ah, I've vexed and worrited her many a time (and Uncle John sighed,) and she'd bear it all as patient as an angel. She wouldn't say a word o' scoldin' for days an' days, (here Uncle John smiled.) But last of all, she'd fold her arms an' give me a bit of her mind — and a very strong-minded woman you'd have thought her too, sir. Then directly 'twas over, she'd go on with her work again just as if nothing had happened. Not like some folks, who sulk and keep rumblin' round an' round for hours, like the thunderstorms that come and otq with the tide. His Wife Betty. 25 But bless her, it be a long time now since the last storm broke, and I don't reckon that there'll be any more of 'em. I've often told her, that if she'd been one of the smilin', smirkin' sort, who are all tears for your troubles and sunshine for your joys, we should have been dead and buried long ago. I can mind, years since, how the still water was full of lovely reflections — blue sky, and green leaves, and yellow flowers, and pure lilies. But 'tis the water down between the dark walls, hurled and whirled and troubled, as if it had no time to show itself and didn't want any admiration, that turns the mill wheels and grinds corn for the hungry people. There's folks that get all their love and praise now ; and there's folks that will have it by and by, because they can't stop for it till their work is done. I'm one o' the sort, sir, that likes a bit 'pen the way ; it seems for to 26 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. grease the wheels and makes 'em go a deal more comfortabler. But there, 'tis only your slow cart wheels that you can grease while they are going. Your sixteen-mile-an-hour must wait till the journey is done. And that's like Betty. Bless her, when every body gets their due, as they will some day, there wont be many come in for more than Betty will. Though she'll be the last one in the world to believe that there is any thing down to her credit, that she will. I often think, sir, that if there'll be one prize better than any other, I reckon it'll be for bearing up against heaps o' worries and troubles like our Betty has gone through — (again the old man sighed deeply) — and for going steadily along a road choke-full o* dreadful things, and not seemin' to have any way out. If I could have my way I'd say that the best man or woman either was the His Wife Betty. 27 one that kept their heart in the right place whatever comes and whatever goes — and that's our Betty, sir, clean off. The old man stayed a moment, while his face lit up as if his mind were dwelling on some pleasant memory. I've been thinking of it most all day long : and what with the bustle- and the bells, and the words of the marriage service, and one thing and another, it just carried me back to our wedding-day near five-and-twenty years agone. You'd hardly think how pretty she was when I married her. She was the beauty of the parish, sir, and many a young fellow was angered with me, as they tell me they be with Zacchy to-day. But there, it would have been a wisht poor job for me if she hadn't had something more than good looks. 'Tis like what I was telling the little maid once when she was little. " Father," she says, as she was 28 John Tregenoweth: his Mark. a-leadin' the donkey, and looking at the flowers, " I don't think that there's any thing in the world so lovely as the May, is there?" When I'd thought about it for a minute or two, I says, " Yes, little maid, I reckon there is. When the winter comes and all the white blossoms be stript off, and there isn't a leaf left, and every thing is all frozen, I expect the hungry birds think that the red berries that they feed on are a good deal lovelier." Our Betty, sir, bless her, was like the May when I married, sir, but when the winter came, and it was a long, long one, she had something more than dainty blossoms white and pink. Our Betty is a real good one, I can tell'e, sir, or we must have starved then ! The Drunken Fiddler, 29 CHAPTER [y. THE DRUNKEN FIDDLER. ELL, as I said, I began to cast about for a living, and I couldn't think of any thing but my fiddle. You know, sir, I dearly love music. I always feel so thankful that 'tis my eyes that be gone and not my ears, for there's nothing so beau- tiful on earth as the music even a blind man can listen to ; — a bendin' over it, tucked up under your chin, like a thing you do love, 'tis wonderful how a fiddle can come to speak to a man ; if it had a real heart and soul it couldn't be more feeling. Sometimes there 30 John Tregenowetii : his Mark. comes a little moaninof note — that's sorrow ; and sometimes a sharp cry — that's pain. Sometimes 'tis all of a loving whisper, sort of sentimental ; then 'tis all harsh and angry, screamin' with rage, or threatenin' terrible hurt ; and then it comes round all tender and appealin', enough to bring the tears on your cheeks. 'Tis a thing that can sympathize with a man uncommon, is a fiddle. Then there was little Mary; she could sing then a'most as pretty as she can now. So on Saturday nights, when the streets are full of market folks, the little maid used to lead me along and she would sing as I played. It was only little hymns that she knew — hymns that she had learned at Sunday-school ; for though we never went anywhere ourselves, she never missed, wet or fine. Though it was nothing but the same over and over, they loved to hear the little maid, and sometimes The Drunkeii Fiddler. 31 we should get as much as three or four shil- lings of a night. Ah ! it was the worst money that I ever earned. You see, sir, my old comrades were always about at one public house or another, and they would be asking me in for a glass of something to drink, and as I had a little money in my pocket, one generally led to more. There the little maid would sit by my side, in the foul place, hearing their oaths, and frightened at their drunken quarreling. Often and often she has laid her head down on my hand, and I could feel her face wet with tears, and she would say, " Please, father, do come home now." Sometimes I used to swear at her, and often I've been so drunk that I didn't know what I was doing. Some- times I would get angry with her and send her home, and she'd go outside the dreadful place, and be shivering in the cold and rain 32 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. for hours ; and then when I came staggering out she would be sure to be there waiting to take me home — the poor Httle maid hardly able to keep me up. I can't bear to think of it, sir — how the cursed drink hardens a man against those that he would die for when he is sober. Why, 'tis like as if it opened the door for the devil to come in, and he soon drives every thing out that doesn't please him. The wisest man is a driveling fool then, and the kindest man is worse than a brute. O, 'tis dreadful, sir ; how it gets worse and worse. How it grips you like a giant, and drags you down again and again — going on till it must have a dreadful end somehow — and a good thing if that end is not farther off than where hope and mercy can come. I got so used to it, and it got such a hold of me, that I could never go by the public- The Drunken Fiddler. 33 house without going in, and I didn't often go in without coming out drunk, for if I had no money there was the next Saturday's earn- ings to pay up the score. Besides, my old comrades were always willing to stand more drink for me, though their own hungry little ones at home were starving for want of it. And so I came to be a drtmkard. Ah, nobody can tell what that means! 'Tis dreadful to think about it, (and the old man's voice choked with emotion.) Why, I would have given every thing that I had for drink — would have sold my soul for a drop more ! Betty stormed at me every now and then as soon as I came to my senses, and would frighten me a bit sometimes ; but, bless you, it was more than she or any body else, except God, could do to mend me. And the little maid was that, sir, or next door to it. 34 John Tregenoweth : his Mark There was once that I can mind very well when she nearly broke my heart. I've often thought of it since, though I never spoke of it before in my life. 'Tis all so plain before me yet, like as if it was only a week ago. It was on a Sunday morning. I came gropin' my way down stairs long after little Mary had gone to chapel. I felt my way to a chair near the fire-place, and waited for Betty to begin her usual blowin' up. But there wasn't a word spoke. Once I heard her sigh, a great, long, deep, heavy sigh ; and that went through me, stupid as I was, for I knew the reason of it well enough. Betty was standin' with her back to me, I could tell ; and I felt sure that she was lookin' out of the window over the fields, and could see the people going to church. She never moved a bit, and I some- how had her before my mind, not with her arms folded, but hangin' down all helpless by The Drunken Fiddler. 35 her side ; and then, as if she was talking to herself, she says, " I didn't ever think that I should give in ; but if the Lord would be pleased to take the little maid home, the sooner 'tis over with you and me the better." I knew that she was standing there with red eyes, and biting her lips. What a miserable wretch I was ! And to think that she who had done her best all along should put herself down to a level with me, just as miserable and bad as I was, when it was all my doing! O, sir, I could have killed myself. I got up and felt my way out into the field at the back of the house. 'Twas a beautiful morning. I could feel the sun shininor all about me. The bells were rinofino- for church, the birds were singing every-where, the bees were humming round every flower, and the furze from the common was scenting all the still air. 36 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. A drunkard's life is a horrible thing from Monday morning to Saturday night, sir ; but ^tis on a Sunday that it be a hundred times the worst. When every thing else in the world be quiet and happy, for a man to come out in the pure light and into the sweet breath of things and defile it, being all ragged, and dirty, and wretched ! I can't compare it to any thing but like what Cain must have felt when little children ran away from the dread- ful man with the mark on his forehead, and the flowers withered and died wherever he set his foot — only that a drunkard has cursed his wife and children as well as himself, and that is worse than Cain. I was coming in again, and just as I got near to the back door the little maid came home from chapel, and I heard her go up to Betty, and she says, " Don't cry, mother dear; let me help you with the dinner." The Drunken Fiddler. 37 And Betty spoke out sharp — and no won- der either — " Dinner, Mary ! what's the good o' talkin' like that. Your father has drunk the dinner an' every thing else a'most, except the rags from off our backs." And I knew that little Mary came up close alongside of her and laid her head upon Betty's arm. I could tell it somehow by the sound of her voice. " Don't cry, mother," said the little maid, cry- ing her own self, " God can take care of us if we ask him ! I'm sure he can." And the little maid went up stairs, and I could hear the creak- ing steps stop. I knew in a moment that she was praying for me. I could see her quite plain, kneeling down by her little bed, with her hands clasped and all her heart going up to God in her simple way. I felt then somehow as if she would save me. I was sure she would, but 1 little thought how it was to come about 38 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. And the blessed Father did take care of her too, bless him. The wonder is that he did not take her away altogether, with his glorious heaven all ready up there, and his poor little one so hungry and wretched down here. Only it would be like taking away all our hope and our last chance. I felt some- how as if God was near enough for us to pray to so long as ever the little maid was in the place. I often thought o' what she said that night as I lost my eyes, "Jesus loves little children, and if I go with you, father, he must take care of you too, you know." That day I did what I had not done since I was a little lad by my mother's knee — I prayed to the Lord to help me, and I said if the Lord would help I never would touch the drink again as long as I lived. How He Made his Mark. 39 CHAPTER V. HOW HE MADE HIS MARK. 'OULD you not have thought, sir, that that would have been enough to cure me? and I certainly did go on better for a little while. But I soon fell back into my old ways again, only I became much worse than ever. Though there — why you have, heard it many a time a'ready I dare say, sir. And the blessed bells are rinein' some- thing merrier than my story will be, if I go on. " I have never heard it altogether, only in bits and scraps, you know. Besides, you have 40 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. told me too much now to stop here. It would be cruel not to tell it all, Uncle John." It cost him an effort evidently, but the old man sighed and went on again. It was on a Saturday night. You see folks got to know how I spent my money, and did not care to help me after that, so I never did so well as I used to do. But that Saturday things were wisht, sure 'nough. I couldn't get a single penny-piece. The rain was pour- ing down in torrents, and there was scarcely any body in the streets, and of course I couldn't get any music out of the strings when they were dripping and soaked through — for a fiddle, for all it be a friend, is a good deal like other friends — 'tis best in fine weather. And the little maid, too, was "coughing and shiv- erin' so that she could hardly sing a bit ; and what with one thing and another I was half mazed, and didn't care much what happened. How He Made his Mark. 41 So, all desperate like, I went into a public- house where I knew that I should find a good many of my old comrades. They soon made me sit down alongside of them, and one gave me a glass o' grog. That set me off, for I was weak and cold, and had scarce tasted a morsel for the day. They tried to make little Mary have some, too, but she turned her head away crying. O, why is there a thing like this drink in the world that can turn a man into a devil ! I loved the little maid more, a brave deal more, than my own life, yet I spoke out sharp to her, and gave her a push, quite angry be- cause she wouldn't touch it. Ah, sir, I can mind how she came cowering down by my side — for every thing that happened that evening is like as if it were burnt in with fire in my memory, and can never come out — I can mind her hugging her trembling little 42 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. self against me, and the hot tears falHng down 'pon my hand. You would think, sir, that that would break any body's heart ; but it only vexed me and made me more desperate. (Here the tears fringed his closed eyes, and slowly traced their way down his face.) I was craving for drink, and had no money. Then it was as if the devil had whispered it in my ear, and I jumped up and shouted out, " Hurrah, boys, here's a chance to make your fortune ! Here's the old fiddle, and the highest bidder shall have it. Come, now, who'll start .? 'Tis a real good one." Little Mary moved. Her hand was lifted up till it touched my face, and putting her arm on my neck, she sobbed out " O, father, don't, don't sell it ! " With an oath I told her to be quiet, and pushed her down into her seat, and she shrank away into my side, shivering more than ever. How He Made his Mark. 43 " Now, lads, who'll be the highest bidder?" I hallooed out, half drunk. One of them — the landlord 'twas — bought it for a few shillings, and then I began my fling. I drank glass after glass until I knew nothing. I was never so bad in my life. (Here Uncle John brushed away the tears that came more quickly.) I don't know how it happened to this day, but I s'pose she be- gan to ask me to go home or something, and they tell me that I hit her, sir — hit the little maid ! — and she fell off the seat, and when they picked her up she had a cut in the fore- head, and she was so pale and so still that they thought at first that she was dead. (The old man paused for a minute or two. His voice faltered as he went on again) — Ah, that was a week, sir! The little maid was only stunned, but if I had killed her I couldn't have felt more condemned than I 44 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. did. I crept about where I thought nobody could see me. I hurried away as fast as I could, knockin' myself and stumbling if I heard Betty comin' ; and as for the little maid, I wouldn't have had her see me for the world. Never a man hated himself like I did then, sir. In a few days she — the little maid I mean, sir — was about again, and one afternoon when I was sitting, not knowing that she was near, she crept up and threw her arms about my neck in her loving way and kissed me. I s'pose my eyes filled with tears, and that the little maid saw it, for she said, " Father, don't cry ; it wasn't your fault ! " and she leaned her little head against me. My hand rested just upon the scar of the wound, and it all came back before me — that dreadful Saturday night. "Twasn't your fault, father," she went on; .. •"/// //■■.Vl'l'^'' '/ %H ' 111 -^'//l Feeling the Mark. How He Made his Mark. 47 " don't cry ; it wasn't your fault, you know, it was the drink." The drink! ay, it was all the drink. Could I ever touch it again ? I kept my finger lightly on the little maid's forehead, and lifted my face to heaven, and vowed that I would never touch the murderous thing again as long as I lived, and with a broken heart I prayed the Lord to help me. The little maid must have been watching my lips, and half heard and half guessed my thoughts. " Father, are you going to sign the pledge ?" she asked. " Yes, my dear, for ever and ever, I hope," I said as I pressed her to myself " O, I am so glad ! " said the maid, with a merry laugh. Then in her thoughtful way she stopped and said, " But, father, you will have to do like people who can't write ; they 48 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. have to put a mark, you know ; and that will be, JoJm Tregenoweth : his mark'.' My hand rested upon the scar. " John Tregenoweth : his mark" I repeated to myself, and the wound seemed on fire to my touch. ^^ John Tregenoweth: his mark ! — His mark, sure 'nough, in writing that will never come out." And partly because I wanted to hide my tears, and partly because I loved her so, I stooped and kissed the blessed little maiden. It isn't very large, sir, that mark on her forehead, but it be in my heart, sir — larger and deeper a brave bit. That was how I signed the pledge ; and if ever I was tempted to touch the drink again, it was always enough just to touch the little maiden's forehead, and say to myself: John Tregenoweth : his mark. The Quaker's Coat. 49 CHAPTER YI. THE QUAKER'S COAT. H, sir, what a fight of it I had after that ! Folks got to know all (W^^__ about what I had done, and it wasn't likely that they l^were going to do anything more for such a one as me. We were so poor that very ^^^ti^ often we should not have had bread enough to keep us alive, only the ^ neighbors were sorry for the little maid, and used to send us something now and then for her sake. At last one day I thought I would try once 50 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. more before we quite starved, and see what I could get. I wouldn't have the little maid with me — you see I thought it would mind them of what most people remembered easy- enough without ; so I gave her the slip, and went feelin' my way up the street. My coat was all rags and tatters, for though a man may have signed the pledge, it won't all of a sudden mend the holes that drink has made. I was very weak and hungry, and wondered where I could go for help, and what I should ask them for when I got there. There was only one gentleman that I could think of who was likely to do anything for me, so all of a tremble and flutter I made for his house, and knocked at the door. I could tell from the way he spoke to me at the first that he had heard all about me, and my heart sank down to my shoes. Yet I felt that he was the one man in the world that The Quaker ^s Coat. 51 I could trust, and so I told him all the story, and how I had signed the pledge, and meant to keep it, too. His tone altered then, and he spoke a good deal kinder after that. He asked me what I was going to do for a livin' ; so I said that I'd been thinkin' if I could get a few shillings I might buy back my fiddle. He sat quiet for a long time, and then he said : — " Nay, my friend, the fiddle is gone, and a good thing, too. It would always be a temp- tation to thee, John — always a snare." Well, that seemed to knock my only hope clean out of me ; so, vexed that I had come, I rose to go away. " Sit down, friend, sit down," says he, in his quiet way. I put down my hat and stood by the chair, but I hadn't heart enough to care for any- thing he could say. 52 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. He was quiet again for a long time, and then he began very slowly and quietly, " John, I've been thinkin' if thou hadst a donkey and cart it would help thee. Thy daughter Mary could lead it to the beach, and thou couldst fill it with sand, and go from door to door, selling it to the neighbors." * " Me have a donkey and cart, sir ! " I cried out ; " why, I might as well think about a carriage and pair." "I think we can manage it for thee, friend," says he, so quiet as ever. He got out a paper, and wrote something down that he read to me, and told me to take it round and see what I could get ; and he put down his own name for a'most enough to buy the donkey, and said, moreover, that he should lend me five shillings for the time. * Sand is used very commonly in Cornwall for the floors and passages of the houses. The Quaker's Coat. 53 I couldn't thank him, — my heart was too full ; but I could a'most have worshiped him then and there. I spoke as well as I could, and then was just going out, when he says, — " Friend, just one word more. Dost thou ever go to the house of God ? " I stopped, and putting my hand down over my coat, I felt the rags and holes, and I said, — "There, sir, that is the only coat I have got, and that isn't fit to go to chapel in." " Well, friend, that difficulty is soon got over. I will give thee an old coat — wilt thou go then ? " "Yes, sir, thank you, that I will!" I cried with all my heart. He was gone for a minute or two, and then he comes back and puts a bundle in my hands. I couldn't thank him now so well as before. Here was what I had longed for: 4 54 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. now I could go to chapel with the little maid. I had got a good way from the house when all of a sudden it came across me — perhaps he'll want me to go to the Quakers' meeting. I must see to that before I tell her any thing. So I turned back again. " Please, sir," I asked, putting my head in- side the door, " where must I go to ? " " To all the neighbors who will help thee, friend," he says, thinking about the paper. " But I mean, what chapel or church must I go to, sir ?" " O, anywhere, anywhere ! Please thyself about that, friend only go somewhere ! " " May I go to the Primitives with my little maid, please, sir ? " I asked. " The very place for thee, John ; go there, and the Lord bless thee," says he, kinder than he had spoken before. The Quaker^ s Coat. 55 So I came home, wondering what they would all say. Of course Betty was fine and glad to have five shillings once more, and she couldn't stay to hear me out, but must go bustlin' to get something to eat; and there I went on talkin' all about it, about the donkey and cart, and how we should manage, and didn't know but what she was a-listenin', till the little maid came in and found me all by myself. Up she came, running in her happy way, and then I pulled the bundle from under my arm. " Mary," says I, " guess what that's for," and I held up the coat. When I told her she could scarcely live for joy. " When will it be Sunday ? " she kept ask- ing. " Will it be Sunday to-morrow ? " was the first word of each day. Never did hours 56 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. and days seem so long as that week was to the little maid. I was busy enough every day gropin' my way about to the different places, ashamed to let folks see me, and never thinkin' that any one would help me. Many a time I got to the door and lifted my hand to knock, and then all of a sudden it came across me what I had done, and I turned and went away again. I've heard people talk about sin, sir, as only a sort of a trifle that can't make much difference ; but if a man's sin can make him feel like I did, in the eyes of every body, what must it make us look like to Him who knows us through an' through. But I did wonderful well. You see, that start of the Quaker gentleman gave them confidence somehow, for they knew that he would be the last man to throw his money away, for all he was so kind, so they felt that The Quaker ^s Coat. 57 it was safe enough to follow when he had gone first. The next Saturday night I was sittin' at home with Betty, in a nicer feeling than she had been for months, and we could talk of nothing but the donkey and cart, and what it would cost, and what we could make by it, so that it wasn't until I was going to bed that I thought about the fiddle. And then the words came to my mind, " 'Tis gone, friend, and a good thing too ; it would always be a temptation to thee." "He was right," I says to myself, " he was right." They say, you know, sir, that music sounds best on water. I know that that night there were such pretty airs coming and going through my soul as could never sound in a drunkard's ear. It was very different kind of music to what I'd heard for many a Saturday night past, and the echoes of it seemed to 58 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. linger in my dreams, sweet a'most as the little maid's singing. The next day was Sunday. The little maid was full of excitement ; the day had come at last, and off she went to school, telling me to be ready soon, for she should be back in time to fetch me for the service. Ah, that wonderful old coat, sir! It be a'most like magic, all that it did. The first thing it did was to get me nearly a whole new suit. Betty had been trying all the week to make the other things come up to the coat, and that was no easy matter. She managed to patch up an old pair of trousers till they looked quite respectable ; and then — just like her saving ways — she brought out an old waistcoat that I was mar- ried in, and that had scarce seen daylight since — a sort of velveteen, with big flowers all in gay colors, like they used to wear years The Quaker^ s Coat. 59 agone, and with brass buttons. Then she put a yellow handkerchief round my neck, and last of all the coat. I had felt it all over, and knew that it were Quaker-fashion — no collar, and a cutaway tail. I thought Betty would never have done a-tidivatin' me. She walked round and round, a-touchin' here, and a-pullin' there, a brushin' and a pickin' all over, till last of all she stood looking at me for about a minute, and then gave me a smackin' kiss — it must have come out of the waistcoat, it was so long since I'd had one like it. " Bless you, John," she said, " you do look a'most a gentleman again ; upon my word, if I be not quite proud of you. You shall never go in rags again if I have to work away my bones for it." " Now for the hat!" cried Betty, hurrying up stairs. 6o John Tregenoweth : his Mark. "He's hanging up here behind the door!" I cried after her, and I felt my way to it and took it down. I could tell that it was all battered and worn. " That'll take the gilt off the gingerbread," I whispered to myself, feeling more sorry for Betty's sake than my own. But Betty was back in a minute. " I should think so, indeed," she laughed, " why you look like a peacock moultin' with that thing on top of all the rest. Why shouldn't my John have his Sunday hat?" And she flings away the old one and puts on another. How she got it I don't know, I'm sure. It was a very tight fit, I know that. Only then I understood what Betty had been getting up so early for, and coming to bed so late for and working like a slave all the week through. " She has been scrapin' together all she could earn to buy this here," I said The Quaker^ s Coat. 6i to myself, so I waited until she had put it on all right, and had given the last touch to my hair. "You'll do now, I think, John." There she was standing just in front of me I could tell, with her head on one side look- ing so pleased as Punch. " Now, Betty," I cried, " 'tis my turn ;" and I flung my arms around her neck as I hadn't done for many a long day. " Bless you, dear ! " I says ; " you're a dear old wifie as ever lived. Forgive me all that I have been to you. You shall never have an un- kind word from these lips again so long as I live." Betty isn't a woman of many words, sir, and she didn't say any thing — only I fancied she wasn't in a hurry to get away ; but just then we heard somebody at the door, and I expect we blushed both of us like as if we 62 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. were courtin', instead of being a couple of old married folks. " What a wonderful old coat ! " thinks I to myself. What Came of a Dream. 63 CHAPTER YII. WHAT CAME OF A DREAM. UST then little Mary came run- ning home to take me to chapel. It was her turn now. '' Why, father, how nice you do look ! Doesn't he look nice, mother ? '* So of course the little maid had to kiss me ; and then she had to kiss her mother because she looked so happy. If she could she would have kissed her own self for very joy. " I am so glad!" she cried. Some- how, sir, the place that morning was all so full o' sunshine as ever it could be. It was a bright Sunday morning, and it did seem delicious to feel so decent as all the 64 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. folks about me — not like a broken string on the fiddle, with music all about every-where, but none in one's self. To hear the folks with their "Good morning, John," and "A nice morning, John," it was good to feel that all the world wasn't quite ashamed of me. Why- lots o' them actually shook hands with me who hadn't spoken to me for months, until I thought they must have taken me for the Quaker himself. " But you had forgotten that flowery waist- coat, and yellow affair round your neck, Uncle John," I said laughingly. Yes, you see I couldn't think of any thing but the wonderful old coat. Well, when we got to chapel little Mary led me to a corner just inside the door. Directly the minister gave out the hymn, and the people began to sing I felt that the Lord was going to make a new man of me. You see, sir, when I was What Came of a Dream. 65 a little lad home to my father's house we used to sing hymns on the Sunday evening, and one of the favorites was that one, — " Come, ye sinners, poor and needy. Weak and wounded, sick and sore." Now so soon as ever the minister opened his mouth, what should he do but give out that very hymn, and they sang it to the old tune too, sir. Ah, it took me right back to the blessed old home till I could see it all — my father with his great bass voice one side, and my mother — little Mary's got her voice, sir, ex- actly, she was a lovely singer — and me on the other, and two or three neighbors that used to drop in. It was like as if I heard them all singin' again. Then the minister prayed, and I felt more than ever. I thought about them all in heaven, and I had been 66 John Tregenoweth: his Mark. a'most to hell ! I thought about what I had done, and all that I was, and all these things came over me like a crushing weight : it broke my heart to think of what I had been — how mad, and how bad, and how miser- able ! Then the minister began to preach. I s'pose it was from being blind that I forgot all but him and myself, and as he began to make me feel that the Lord would help me and forgive my sins, and keep me as his own forever, I turned round and knelt down there and then in the corner, and began to pray. I came home with a broken heart ; I felt as if I could not live, and yet I dared not die. I spent the day in prayer, and went to chapel again in the evening, prayin' all along the way. After the service they had a meeting for prayer, and, of course, I stayed ; and some of What Came of a Dream. 67 them who knew what distress I was in prayed for me and prayed with me, and told me all about the crucified Saviour, but I went home as miserable as ever. How could I rest with a load of sins like mine breaking me down, and hell yawning at my feet ? I knelt that night at my bed, praying and groaning, for hours. At last I was tired out, and fell asleep there on my knees. Ah, sir, I was comin' home from the far country. It was very dark, and I couldn't find the way, and this was how his friendly hand led my poor blind steps into it. May be it was as the parson says, that I mixed up a good many things in my dream — what the preacher had said, and what I had heard in the prayer-meeting, and about the little maid ; but it was the Lord's doings for all that. I dreamt that I was in a dungeon, a con- demned prisoner, with great heavy chains at 68 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. my neck, and at my wrists, and at my ankles ; and I was going to be punished with death. I thought my friends came and looked in at the iron grating, and shook their heads in pity for me and sighed; but they could not help me. Then came horrible grinning faces at the grating, and mocked me. They too passed away, and all was dark and awfully still, like the grave. Then suddenly a faint light shone through the grating, and I looked up. O, I shall know Him again wherever I see Him — a face was there that shone with goodness and piti- ful love, a face so wonderful in its love that its look seemed to save me. He spoke so tenderly and sorrowfully, as if He were very sad for my sake, and said, Follow Me. I was chained, and the dungeon was secured with bolts and bars, and doubly locked ; but I felt What Came of a Dream. 69 as if I could do any thing He told me, and as I tried to get up the chains fell clanking to the ground ; and as I came to the door it fell back before me, and I followed Him forth into a clear light like a starry night, and up a lonely hill. And there suddenly He appeared upon a cross — His hands and His feet and His side were torn with wounds, and a cruel crown of thorns was pressed down upon His forehead. My eyes filled with tears — I fell down before Him, and cried, " Who hath done this ? " O, I never, never shall forget it — how He spoke again, so pitiful, so loving, " Fear not : I have borne thy sins in my own body upon the tree." " My sins," I cried, " my sins, my Lord ! " Then a strange light and peace broke on me, and I woke up with the words upon my lips, John Tregenoweth : his mark. 70 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. Whether you hold with dreams or not, sir, I've been a new man ever since. 'Tis true that verse of the hymn — differing perhaps for different men, but true for all of us — " Thou know'st the way to bring me back, My fallen spirit to restore." I've been in a new world ever since. " I'm not a blind man any more," I said to Betty next day, " but all full of light. Like a house on the moors in a winter's night — dark enough and stortny outside ; a blustering wind, per- haps, and a pitchy darkness outside ; but in- side, bless the Lord, a good fire, and a cheer- ful hearth, and plenty of light." Betty, too, said that she wasn't going to let me go to heaven without her if she could help it. And what our Betty do say, sir, she do generally mean, and there's no turnin' her, either. She began to pray and set about re- What Came of a Dream. 71 liglon in her quiet, earnest way, like she do set about every thing when she has made her mind up to it. Very quiet and very earnest she be still, and may be she's one o' the sort that don't get credit for half as much good- ness as there be in them. 'Tisn't much you can get out of her, sir, in the way o' words, but it be in her life, Sundays and week-days, too, and that's better than all the talk about it that the world ever listened to. Since that time the whole house has been converted. Bless you, sir — you would hardly have known our kitchen — 'twas turned from a little hell to a little heaven ; and for many a year I don't think there's been a happier place on the face of the earth. Not but what we've been pinched a bit now and then, and pinched sharp too, sometimes, but a hymn of praise and a bit of prayer be wonderful things to keep a man happy. It always put me in 72 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. mind of windin' up the parson's musical box — away it goes again, with the music as fresh and as sweet as if it never had run down. The Donkey mid Cart. *]2i CHAPTER VIII. THE DONKEY AND CART. ^E soon got the donkey and lli-h cart, and wonderful set up we were — little Mary an' If mc — she a-leadingf the don- key, an' me at the back of the cart, my hand resting on its back board to guide me in ofoino- down to the sands, or a-comin' home with the load and a-selling it to the neighbors. It was about a fortnight after we'd got it, that one day we were comin' up the hill from the beach — I was walking behind with my face lifted up to the light and warmth of the 74 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. sun, and we were singing a hymn that I'd picked up, sort o' tens and 'levens — " My God, I am thine ; what a comfort divine, What a blessing, to know that my Jesus is mine." All of a sudden the little maid stopped. " Good-morning, sir," says she, and I could tell that she made a pretty courtesy. " Good-morning to thee, my dear, good- morning," says the gentleman — oncommon kindspoken he was. " This is thy little maid Mary that thou wert telling me of, I s'pose John," he says to me. I was going to speak, but before I had -time for a word he began again : — " I see thou hast got a donkey and cart friend." " Ah, sir," I said, " I shall have to bless you all the days o' my life — you and the old coat." Leaving the Beach. The Donkey a7id Cart. jy "Why— did5;t thou find the donkey and cart in the old coat ? " he asked, turning round to little Mary in a merry way. " No, sir, but something a thousand times better than that;" and as I spoke tears o' joy ran down my cheeks. "Why, John, was there bank-notes in the pockets ? " says he, wondering whatever it could be. " Better than bank-notes, sir. I found a new heart in it, and a new life. Aye, sir, Mar}^ an' Betty, an' me have seemed to find a new house in it, an' a new street, an' a new place, an' a new world. Evei^ thing be new, sir ; and as we go a-singing along now, so light and so happy as a bird, I feel that a king 'pon his throne bean't happier than we are. Ah, sir, that was a very wonderful old coat ! " And I told him all about the chapel — about 78 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. the sermon, an' the dream, and all about how I got converted. He didn't say a word for a minute a'most. Then he took my hand — 'twas all sandy you know, sir — and, says he, "God bless thee, John — God bless thee!" and he was gone. Ah, he's been dead years now. When he was ill one day he sent for me. I couldn't make out what he wanted. He was very ill and could scarce speak, but when I was close by his bed he whis- pered — " John," he says, " tell me that story that thou didst tell me once — about thy going to the Primitive Chapel." I began to tell him about the old coat. " Not that, friend, not that," he whispered, " but thy dream — let me hear what it was that He said to thee in thy dream." So I told him all about it till I came to The Donkey and Cart. 79 those words, " Fear not : I have borne thy sins in my own body upon the tree." " That's it," he muttered, quite faint, " that's it ;" and I heard him a-sayin' it over and over, " Fear not, fear not." Then he whispers to me, " Thank thee, friend, thou hast done me good. The Lord bless thee ! We shall meet again, I trust." " Excuse me, sir," I said, " but I should dearly love to have a bit o' prayer with you, sir, if you don't mind." " Thank thee, John, thank thee," he whis- pered. " Go, and when the Spirit moves thee, lift up thy heart for me, John. The Lord bless thee ! " " Ah, sir," I says, as I went toward the door, " the Spirit has moved me hundreds o' times, and I've lifted up my heart for you and my voice too. (There was an abundance of both whenever John prayed.) Many's the time 8o John Tregenoweth : his Mark. that the little maid an* me have prayed for you down under the cliffs." He died next day, sir, very quiet. They thought that he was sleepin'. I often won- dered how he managed about the singing when he woke up in glory. Ah, he was a blessing to me, and I have sung for him ever since, a'most enough for two. The donkey and cart prospered middlin' well. 'Twas a bit rough and wet sometimes 'pon the sands in winter, and coming over the downs; but many a happy hour the little maid and me has had down there. After we had filled the cart with sand we used to rest for a bit, and that bit o' rest was wonderful. When the tide was out we used to sit in a cave — how pretty the singing would sound in there, sure 'nough — and the echoes : and the low swell of the sea coming always in tune with it. Sometimes, when it The Do7ikey and Cart. 8 1 was high water, we sat 'pon the rocks. The little maid would read a chapter out o' the Bible, specially out o' Revelation — it be all full of the sound of the sea, and music, and glory. Then she would teach me a new hymn, or we'd sing an old favorite together, an' finish up with a bit o' prayer. And the little maid — why I could a'most see it all with her eyes, for she loved to tell me about the look of the sea, an' the sky, an' the cliffs. I could see the rocks shinin' wet as the tide went out — their sides all shaggy like with yellow and brown sea-weed, or the little pools in them full of red an' pink an' golden weed — and shells and dartin' fish, and the blue sky reflected ever so deep down. Or sometimes she'd tell me about the cliff — how it hung over us high up a'most against the sky — or how a great piece had fallen, and swept a place right down to the beach, and 82 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. lay piled in great rocks — or where it seemed to spread out " like a lady's lap," as little Mary called it ; an' there were the green burrows, where the rabbits lived — how the little maid used to laugh at their twinklin' tails. She would tell me about it till I could see it quite plain. How on a stormy day she would shout with joy as the wind came whist- lin' about us, and the waves came sweepin' in. " O, father, here's a great one comin' ! " she used to say, holdin' my hand so tight ; " the wind is blowin' back his white hair — how high he rises above the rest ! now he's curlin' him- self over — here he comes — here he comes ! What a rage he is in ! Hark, father ! " And I heard the thunder of his fall and tne hissing as the waves spread out and up the beach, and little Mary ran to let its foam catch her if it could ; an' then would take my hand again, as with deepenin' roar and rattle of the The Donkey and Cart, 83 shingle, the waters flowed out again, to be caught and curled and thundered back by an- other wave. I don't wonder, sir, that John was sent to Patmos to know about heaven. I reckon that there's more of it in the sea than in any thing else in the world — such grand music always, and like heaven, because the waves are never tired and never still — they praise Him day and night in his holy temple. And then to hear the little maid tell of the sunset. I think she loved that most of all. One day she sat by me quite still, looking at it for a long time. " Father," she said, as if she was afraid to speak too loud, " 'tis like the King of Glory in his palace. There's a gold- en street leading right across the waters up to it. You know what it says. The street of the city was pure gold. And there is the great King himself all in his purple robes, and 84 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. all his palace is lit up with splendor." Then she was quiet again for a long time, and by and by she says — " Father, don't you think that must be the way to heaven over there ? " The New Parson. 85 CHAPTER IX. THE NEW PARSON. O we went on pretty middlin* you know, sir, until the new parson came. I knew the old man was ^ dead, for the bell was tolled s"^!:ti|l all day — but he lived in the ^^^^ south o' France, or some outlandish place or other, and had a sort o' curate to preach 'pon Sunday mornings, and to come over here for the buryin's and wed- din's — leastways that be all that I could ever make out. When we heard that the new man was coming we were curious to know what he 86 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. was like. Well, one day — we hadn't heard that he'd come — little Mary and me was sit- ting singing in the cave, after we'd filled the cart with sand — we'd just finished the last verse, when a voice came out of the end of the cave. . " Thank you, good friends, thank you." Little Mary jumped up, and clinging to me she looked into the end o' the cave ; but I s'pose it was all dark, and she couldn't see nothing. " Father ! " she says, quite solemn, " did you hear that ! Is it the dev — ? " " No, no," laughed the gentleman, comin* nearer. " I didn't mean to frighten you " — and I heard him come clamberin' over the rocks. " I do believe it be the new parson " — the little maid whispered, all of a tremble still. " I didn't mean to frighten you," he says, The New Parson. 87 coming close to us, " I was curious to know how far this cave went back, and while I was away in the end of it I was startled by the sound of your voices, almost as much as you were startled by mine. This little mermaid of yours has a very sweet voice." " She be a pretty singer, sir," I says, takin' a fancy to the man at the very first. " You don't know who I am 1 " he said to me. I told him that I didn't know, cepts it was the new parson. " So you're expecting a new parson, are you," says he, like as if he didn't know any thing about it. " We heard tell that the old gentleman was dead, sir," said the little maid. " But you've got nothing for a parson to do in these parts, have you ? The folks are all Methodists — old Methodists, or Primitives, or Brianites, or New Connection Methodists, or 88 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. Teetotal Methodists. There's nothing for a parson but to marry and bury them." " Well, sir," I says, " that depends what kind of a man he be. There's plenty o' work always for folks that'll do it." " That's true — that's true," said he. " Now, suppose I begin with you. Here's a job to hand already. I might teach you to read." " Please, sir, father be blind — I have to read to him, sir," an' the little maid put her hand round my neck as she said it. " Blessings on your kindly little face," says the parson, so as quite won my heart. " But if he could read for himself it would do no harm, would it .?" The tears filled my eyes. I should never see another book until the books were opened ; and I often prayed that I might read my name there — written in the Lamb's Book of Life. " Ah, sir," I explained with a sigh, " I think The New Parsott. 89 you don't understand. I be blind, sir — quite blind." " But I belong to an association for teach- ing the blind to read," says the parson* "The blind!" cried little Mary. "To read, sir!" I said, shakin* my head, as much as to say — that'll never be. He told us all about the raised type, and how the finger-tips felt the words. " Father, that will be nice," whispered little Mary ; and then turning to the gentleman, she asked him, " But please, sir, will there be «//the Bible? will there be Revelation? Be- cause father loves Revelation — he says there be so much music in it." " I will get him Revelation," and the parson * A quiet but most useful little ort^anization in Cornwall — " Itinerant Teaching of the Blind to Read the Sacred Scriptures, and to Write ; " which reports no less than one hundred and eighty-two persons thus taughf. (See Report for 1872.) 90 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. laughed. " Likes music, does he ? " he went on. " Can you play, my friend ?" " Please, sir, father has sold his fiddle," said the little mafd, a-takin' hold of my hand. " Likes music, and sold his fiddle — that's strange !" and I could tell that he sat himself down alongside of us, and waited for us to tell how it. happened. Well, I thought, it was part of my punishment, when the little maid gave me a kiss, and says she, " We never want it at all, sir ; we can sing prettier now than we could then, can't we father.^" So without a word more about it, he turns round to the little maid, " Now, if I do this for your father, what will you do for me ? Will you come and sing in my choir?" " Please, sir, we do sing up to our chapel," says little Mary. " She do mean the Primitives, sir," says I, wonderin' what he'd think of that. The New Parson. 91 "Ah, Methodists again — all Methodists," and he spoke as pleasant as ever. " But are you there all day ? " " Well, there be Sunday-school first of all," the little maid told him, "then preachin' in the mornin' sometimes, or else in the afternoon — then always preachin' in the evening, and a prayer-meetin' after." The parson laughed again, " Not much time left for me, then — that's clear. But if you understand music, we shall manage it." And he wished us good mornin'. "He be a nice man," says the little maid, when he was gone. And so he be still, sir, bless him — the same as ever. That was our first meetin' — I've minded him of it scores of times. And he were as good as his word and a hundred times better. Ah, it was wonderful — wonderful — that read- in'! When I'd learnt to know the words, and 92 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. knew them well enough to think about the meanin' — wonderful ! I've very often thought about Thomas, sir, as his trembling fingers were put into the nail-prints, and as he felt the spear-wound, and cried out, " My Lord and my God !" That be just how my fingers seem to go along the ridges of the letters, a feeliri the truth. You can take hold of it all so certain sure, and it is my Lord and my God all the way through ; and I shut up the Book with my heart so full o' glory as ever it can hold But that was only the beginning of his kindness. He paid a man to teach me how to make nets, so that the little maid an' me could stay home on wet days, an' do just so well as with the donkey an' cart ; specially when we got clever at it, an' could get on fast enough. Bless him — as I've often told him, he was a'most so good as another old coat. The New Parson. 93 An' then, like as if to make me so that I couldn't wish for any thing more, came that blessed organ. You know, sir, there had been one in the old parson's time, but nobody ever touched it. 'Twas all rotten an' damp, an' no good at all, they said ; and there it might have been till now, only the new parson had it all down, and made it over again ; then one day he says to the little maid an' me — " You told me one day, John, that you un- derstood something about music." " I do dearly love it, sir," I said ; " an' love goes furthest in makin' folks understand any- thing, I do reckon." " That's not far wrong, certainly," and he turned to little Mary in his laughin' way — she was about seventeen, sir — " So, for that reason, I s'pose, your Mary here understands all about Zacchy Pendray." 94 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. I could tell that the little maid blushed, as we both laughed ; for you see, sir, they always was mighty fond of each other. " But I dare say that Mary is wondering what such impertinent questions can have to do with music," he said directly. " Well, you know, John, that I have finished the organ, and now I must find a player. I've been looking about, and can think of nobody but you, John." " Me, sir," I cried ; " me play the organ ! " and it fairly took my breath away to think of it. " O, father ! O, sir, you are very, very kind ! " cried the little maid, bewildered think- in' about it. " Well, come to-morrow to the church, and let me give you your first lessons," he said, as he went away. So he taught me how to play. As I've The New Parson. 95 told him, he was eyes to the blind before, but now he let heaven in at my ears too. Do you reckon, sir, that there be any thing else in the world like it ? The sea is fine — but then you can only listen to it — you can't make it storm an' ripple an' toss as you like. And the wind, sir — that be very grand, when you get one of our sou'-westers a-roarin' an' moanin' an' playin' his great swell notes 'pon the sea. But those be God's organ that nobody can play only himself But next to them, isn't it wonderful to sit down and make such glorious music — now to have the sea, an' the thunder, an' the wild wind, just as you like — then to make it all so soft an' gentle, it might be an angel a-whisperin' to a little dyin' child, an' tellin' it not to be afraid ; and then burstin' forth in such rapture as if the host of heaven sang triumphant welcome to some old warrior who had got safely home. 96 John Tregenoweth : his Mark. I often think that they will have a grand one up in heaven. Ah, what choruses we shall have — leastways, if there isn't, it must be be- cause some of us would be lovin' it too much, an' forgettin' the King of Glory ! And now my little Mary be gone. Well, there, 'tis only a matter of four miles off, and Zacchy is a brave lad, and a good singer, too. And he has got a treasure anyhow. Ah, sir, she was a'most an angel born, was my little Mary! w W 7P w w Here the old man paused. The bells had ceased. The glow that lingered in the west- ern sky had passed from radiant gold and red to deep-toned purple, and now was sinking into calm blue depths all brilliant with the silvery sparkling of the stars. The sea was rippling to the shore with gentle melody, breaking into crests and curves of light. It The New Parson. 97 seemed like a fair finish to the old man's story. With such a restful calm he was pass- ing on toward heaven, singing as he went, until his soul should break into light and music on the eternal shore. BY THE SAME AUTHOR, John Ti^genoweth: HIS MARK. A CORNISH STORY. SQUARE t2M0. " Very touching, and told with great pathos and power. The history of the hero powerfully enforces the great lesson of temper- ance. It is a capital book for our young folk." — Methodist Tem- perance Magazine. " This is a most touching story, admirably told, and worthy to rank with 'Jessica's First Prayer,' 'Little May,' and other books which will always be favorites." — Children's Advocate. ll 16ino. Sixtietli Thonsand. Paper, 3 cents. Tk Stoi] of Billf Uraj. 16mo. Paper, -I cents. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. [norm, and His Religious Notions. Twentieth Thousand.! 2mo. IVumeroiis Ilhistrationa, Clotli Extra, QI. Paper, 16mo., 50 ceuts. " There is a reality and freshness about the book that will be sure to render it a favorite wherever it is known." — Christian Age. " Rich in Cornish anecdotes and passages from the simple an- nals of the poor, Mr. Pearse's book must be popular, and being full of Gospel truth cannot fail to be useful." — Sword and Trowel. " ' Daniel Quorm ' is a worthy companion to ' Mister Horn.' Indeed, we should say it is the best production of the author's pen." — Methodist New-Connection Magazine. "'Daniel QuoiTn' is a most wonderful character. . . . His ' re- ligious notions' are so just and of such intrinsic value, and withal expressed in so quaint, and shrewd, and practical a manner, that we should like for all our readers, at least for a time, to become members of ' Brother Dan'el's' class. This book has our heartiest recommendation." — Bible- Christian Magazine. " Mr. Pearse writes with a sure pen, with a keen appreciation of humor, and a wide knowledge of human nature. . . . Hand- somely got up, well illustrated. His characters, when elaborated, are not mere shadows, but stand bolJly out as people who live, move, and talk. . . . Bright sketches well calculated to serve Methodism wherever known." — IVatchmaji. " This book is worthy of the special notice of the Class-leaders of Methodism, while all devout Christians may find in it, amid beauty, humor, and pathos, words profitable for direction and in- struction." — Methodist Recorder. " We warmly commend it as of the most bright, sparkling, racy books that we have seen for many a day. Mr. Pearse has rare power in sketching character. Some of the touches in this book could hardly be exceeded." — Irish Evangelist. " The readers of this Magazine have no need to be told how well worth knowing is ' Daniel Quorm,' and how full of shrewd- ness, pith, and point are his 'religious notions.'" — City-Road Magazine. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. Hister I|orn and His Friends; or, Givers and GIVING. 12mo. IVumeroua Illustrations. Cloth Extra, Price, gl. Paper, 16ino., 50 cents. Uniform with " Daniel Qiiorm." " This is a spicy book on giving, and is written with admirable point, humor, and pungency. It is the very best thing of its class we have ever seen, including two or three of no ordinary power by our American cousins. If you know a stingy professor, who wants enlargement of mind and of heart, send him a copy of this book. If it does not prove an effective cure, you may give him up as absolutely hopeless. This book deserves a wide circula- tion." — Irish Evangelist. " It has seldom fallen to our lot to read a little book so fresh, so vigorous, so racy. We do not kjiow whether to admire most its combined humor and pathos, the perfect naturalness of the narrative, or its sound and wholesome moral. For pungent, pithy plainness of speech, it is quite equal to Mr. Spurgeon's most pop- ular work, 'John Plowman's Talk..' The book is written to enforce and illustrate tlie maxim, A man ought to think as much about giving as al)out getting. It would be difficult to name a volume so likely to make men of this opinion as ' Mister Horn and His Friends.' " — Christian Miscellany. " This is a vigorous, spicy book, and has a sound moral. The blessedness of giving is forcibly illustrated. Its humor is admi- rable. The book is a splendid medicine for stingy people, and will do every body good." — Btiffalo Christian Advocate. " This is so curious a book as to be almost puzzling. It is writ- ten in a dry and quaint style, and comes from the pen of a prac- ticed writer. The characters are well and clearly drawn, and their good and bad qualities are forcibly, and sometimes humor- ously, described. The central figure, Mister Horn, is something of an oddity ; but the reader gets to enjoy his doings pretty well, and to appreciate the oddly put morals of the story. The vignette il- lustrations are clever, and really illustrate the book." — Sunday- School Times. »1