The Arena. Volume 4, No. 24, November, 1891

She glanced down the road, dim with the twilight.

“The others are gone on to Dan, to see the moon rise,” she said hesitatingly.

“We will follow them there in a moment,” said Donald. “I have a fancy for telling you that story.”

He laughed, a nervous, mirthless kind of laugh, and slipped his rifle to his other hand.

“She had a lover in the army, you understand. She was waiting here with hundreds of others until ‘the cruel war should cease.’ One day when there had been a great battle, a messenger came to Beersheba, bringing news for her. He brought a letter, and she came across the little court there at Beersheba, and received it from the messenger’s own hand. She tore it open and read the one line written there. Then the white page fluttered to the ground. She placed her hands upon her heart as if the bullet had pierced her. ‘Oh, Shiloh! Shiloh!’ That was all she said or did. The ball from old Shiloh did its work. The next day they buried her up there under the cedars. The letter had but one line: ‘Shot at Shiloh, fatally,’ and signed by the captain of the company who had promised to send news of the battle. Just a line; but enough to break a heart. Hearts break easily, sweetheart.”

She looked at him with her earnest eyes full of tears.

“Do you think hers broke?” she asked. “I do not. She merely went to him.”

“As I should go to you, if you were to die, because I cannot live without you.”

“Hush! I am nothing to you now. Only a friend who loves you, and would help you if she could, but she is powerless.”

“O Alice, do not say that. Do not give me over in that hopeless way to ruin. Do not abandon me now.”

“Donald,” the voice was very low, and sweet, and—strong. “There was a time I thought to help you. I did my best and—failed. It is too late now. I am married. You who could not put aside your passion for the girl whose heart was yours, and whom you loved sincerely, could not, assuredly, put it by for the woman whose love, and life, and duty are pledged to another. Yet, you know I feel for you. You know what it is to be tempted, so alas! do I. Wait! stand back. There is this difference. You know what it is to yield; but I have that little mound back there”—she nodded toward the little flower-decked grave,—“the dead help me, the sleeper underneath is my strength. If I were dead now, I would come to you, and help you. Do that which, living, I failed in doing. Come, now; let us go on and see yon moon rise over Dan. The others have gone long ago.”

They passed out, and the little gate swung to its place. The dead at Beersheba were left alone again. Left to their tranquil slumbers. Tranquil? Aye, it is only the living who are eager and unhappy.

Down the shadowy road they passed, those two whose lives had met, and mingled, and parted again. Those two so necessary to each other, and who, despite the necessity, must touch hands and part.

‘Tis said God makes for every human soul a counterpart, a soul-helper. If this be so, then is it true that every soul must find its counterpart, since God does not work by half, and knows no bungling in His work. That other self is somewhere,—on this earth, or else in some other sphere. The souls are separated, perhaps, by death, or even by some human agency. What of that? Soul will seek soul; will find its counterpart and perform its work, its own half share, though death and vast eternity should roll between.

They passed on, those two wishing for and needing each the other. Wishing until God heard, and made the wish a prayer, and answered it, in His own time and manner.

At the crossing of the roads where one turns off to Dan, the mountain preacher’s little cabin stood before them. Nothing, and yet it had a bearing on their lives. On his, at all events.

Before the door, leaning upon the little low gate, an old man with white hair and beard was watching the gambols of two children playing with a large dog. The cabin, old and weatherworn, the man, the tumbledown appearance of things generally, formed a strange contrast with the magnificence of nature visible all around. To Donald, with his southern ideas of ease and elegance, there was something repulsive in the scene. But the woman was evidently more charitable.

“Good evening, parson,” she called, “we are going over to Dan to watch the moon rise.”

“Yes, yes,” said the old man. “An’ hadn’t ye better leave the gun, sir? There’s no use luggin’ that to Dan. An’ ye’ll find it here ‘ginst you come back.”

“Why, we’re going back another route,” they told him; not dreaming what that route would be.

“You have a goodly country, parson,” said Donald, “and so near heaven one ought to find peace here.”

“It be not plentiful,” said the old man. “An’ man be born to trouble as the sparks go upward. But all be bretherin, by the grace o’ God, an’ bound alike for Canaan.”

They passed on, bearing the old man’s meaning in their hearts. All bound upon one common road for Canaan.

Oh, Israel! Israel! the wandering in the wilderness still goes on. The Promised Land still lies ahead, and wanderers in earth’s wilderness still seek it, panting and dying with none to strike a rock in Horeb.

The Promised Land! what glimpses of that glorious country are vouchsafed, mere glimpses, from those rugged heights, such as were granted him, who, weary with his wanderings, sought Pisgah’s top to die.

Sometimes, when the mists are lifted and the sun shines through the rifted clouds, what dreams, what visions, what communion with those whom the angels met upon the mountain. They thought upon it, those two, as they passed on to Dan.

To Dan, through the broad gate artistically set with palings of green and white. Under the sweet old cedars deep down into the heart of the woods, with the solemn mountains rising, grim and mysterious, in the twilight. Down the great bluff where the tinkle of falling water tells of the spring hidden in the dim wood’s shadowy heart. The golden arrows of sunset are put out one by one by the shadow-hands of the twilight hidden in the haunted hemlocks. One star rises above the tree’s and peeps down to find itself quivering in the dusky pool. A little bird flits by with an evening hymn fluttering in its throat.

They stopped at the foot of the bluff and seated themselves upon a fallen tree, the rifle resting, the stock upon the ground, the muzzle against the tree, between them.

Between them, the loaded rifle. She herself had placed it there. They had scarcely spoken, but words are weak; feeling is strong—and silent. His heart was breaking; could words help that? It was she who spoke at last, nestling closer to him a moment, then quickly drawing back. Her hand had touched the iron muzzle of the gun—it was cold, and it reminded her. She drew her hands together and folded them, palm to palm, between her knees, and held them there, lest the sight of his agony drag them from duty and honor. She could not bear to look at him, she could only speak to him, with her eyes turned away toward the distant mountains.

“Donald,” her voice was low and very steady, “there are so many mistakes made, dear, and my marriage was one of them. But, the blunder having been committed, I must abide by it. And who knows if, after all, it be a mistake? Who can understand, and who dares judge God’s plans? But right cannot grow from wrong. We part. But I shall not leave you, Donald. Here in the heart of the woods—”

“Don’t!” he lifted his face, white with agony. “Your suffering can but increase mine. Go back, dear, and forget. Our paths crossed too late, too late. Go back, and leave me to my lonely struggles. I shall miss you, oh, my beloved,—” the words choked him, “forget, forget—”

“Never!” again she moved toward him, and again drew back. The iron muzzle had touched her shoulder, warningly. She still held her hands fast clasped between her knees. Suddenly she loosed them; opened them, looked at them; so frail, so small, so delicately womanly as they were. He, too, saw them, the dear hands, and made a motion to clasp them, restrained himself, and groaned. She understood, and her whole soul responded. The old calm was gone; the wife forgotten. It was only the woman that spoke as she slipped from her place beside him, to the ground at his feet; and extended the poor hands toward him.

“Donald, O Donald!” she sobbed. “Look at my hands. How frail they are, and weak, and white, and clean. Aye, they are clean, Donald. Take them in your own; hold them fast one moment, for they are worthy. But oh, my beloved, if they falter or go wrong, those little hands, who would pity their polluted owner? Not you, oh, not you. I know the sequel to such madness. Help me to keep them clean. Help me—oh, help me!”

She lifted them pleadingly, the tears raining down her cheeks. She, the strong, the noble, appealing to him. In that moment she became a saint, a being to be worshipped afar off, like God.

“Help me!” She appealed to him, to his manhood which he had supposed dead so long the hollow corpse would scarcely hear the judgment trump.

Her body swayed to and fro with the terrible struggle. Aye, she knew what it was to be tempted. She who would have died for that poor drunkard’s peace. But that little mound—that little child’s grave on the hill—“Help me!” She reeled forward and he sprang to clasp her. The rifle slipped its place against the log; but it was between them still; the iron muzzle pointed at her heart. There was a flash, a sharp report, and she fell, just missing the arms extended to receive her.

“O my God!” the cry broke from him, a wild shriek, torn from his inmost heart. “O my God! my God! I have killed her. Alice! oh, speak to me! speak to me before my brain goes mad.” He had dropped beside her, on his knees, and drawn the poor face to his bosom. She opened her eyes and nestled there, closer to his heart. There was no iron muzzle between them now. She smiled, and whispered, softly:—

“In the heart of the woods. O Love; O Love!”

And seeing that he understood, she laid her hand upon his bosom, gasped once, and the little hands were safe. They would never “go wrong” now, never. Even love, which tempts the strongest into sin, could never harm them now, those little dead hands.

“In the heart of the woods.” It was there they buried her, beside that broken-hearted one whose life went with the tidings from old Shiloh, in the little mountain graveyard in the woods between Dan and Beersheba.

As for him, her murderer, they said, “the accident quite drove him mad.” Perhaps it did; he thought so, often; only that he never called it by the name of accident.

“It was God’s plan for helping me,” he told himself during those slow hours of torture that followed. There were days and weeks when the very mention of the place would tear his very soul. Then the old craving returned. Drink; he could forget, drown it all if only he could return to the old way of forgetting. But something held him back. What was it? God? No, no. God did not care for such as he, he told himself. He was alone; alone forever now. One night there was a storm, the cedars were lashed and broken, and the windows rattled and shook with the fury of the wind. The rain beat against the roof in torrents. The night was wild, as he was. Oh, he, too, could tear, and howl, and shriek. Tear up the very earth, he thought, if only he let his demon loose.

He arose and threw on his clothes. He wanted whiskey; he was tired of the struggle, the madness, the despair. A mile beyond there was a still, an illicit concern, worked only at night. He meant to find it. His brain was giving way, indeed. Had already given way, he thought, as he listened to the wind calling him, the storm luring him on to destruction. The very lightning beckoned him to “come and be healed.” Healed? Aye, he knew what it was that healed the agonies of mind which physics could not reach. He knew, he knew. He had been a fool to think he would forego this healing.

He laughed as he tore open the door and stepped out into the night. The cool rain struck upon his burning brow as he plunged forward into the arms of the darkness. He had gone but two steps when the fever that had mounted to his brain began to cool. And the wind—he paused. Was it speaking to him, that wild, midnight wind? “‘In the heart of the woods. O Love, O Love!’”

There was a shimmery glister of lightning among the shadowy growth. Was it a figure, a form of a woman beckoning him, guiding him. He turned away from the midnight still, and followed that shimmery light, straight to the little graveyard in the woods, and fell across the little new mound there, and sobbed like a child that has rebelled and yielded. A soft presence breathed among the shadows; a soft presence that crept to his bosom when he opened his arms, his face still pressed against the soft, new sod. A strange, sweet peace came to him, such as he had never felt before, filling him with restful, chastened, and exquisite sadness. The storm passed by after awhile, and the rain fell softly—as the dew falls on flowers. And he arose and went home, with the chastened peace upon him, and the old passionate pain gone forever.

… … …

But as the summers drifted by, year after year, he returned. He became a familiar comer to the humble mountain folk, where summer twilight times they saw him leaning on the parson’s little gate, conversing with the old man of the “Promised Land” toward which, as “brethren,” they were travelling. Sometimes they talked of the blessed dead—the dear, dear dead who are permitted to return to give help to their loved ones.

Aye, he believes it, knows it, for the old temptation assails him no more forever. That is enough to know.

And in the heart of the woods in the dewy twilight, or at the solemn midnight, she comes to meet him, unseen but felt, and walks with him again along the way from Dan to Beersheba. He holds communion with her there, and is satisfied and strengthened.

God knows, God knows if it be true, she meets him there. But life is no longer agony and struggle with him. And often when he starts upon his lonely walks, he hears the wind passing through the ragged cedars with a low, tremulous soughing and bends his ear to listen. “In the heart of the woods, O Love, O Love.”

And he understands at last how to those passed on is vouchsafed a power denied the human helper, and that she who would have been his guide and comforter now gave him better guardianship—a watchful and a holy spirit.

EDITORIAL NOTES

PHARISAISM IN PUBLIC LIFE

The poisonous and corrupting influence of Pharisaism is noticeable in every strata of society, as vicious and odious to-day as when the great Galilean, with the supreme contempt of a pure and genuine soul, denounced in such withering terms those who pretended to be what they were not. Evil and repulsive as hypocrisy must ever appear, it assumes colossal proportions as a moral crime, when it masquerades in the robes of official authority, for nothing so surely undermines all respect for law in the mind of the masses as exhibitions of insincerity, inconsistency, and Pharisaism by those invested with power. The people are not so slow witted as the few who take pride in their superior brilliancy imagine. They quickly detect insincerity or hypocrisy; but unfortunately, they frequently do not discriminate between the offender and the office in the nation or the communion which he disgraces. Pharisaism within the Church, far more than assaults from without, has destroyed the old-time influence of theology over the popular mind; while the same results are clearly manifest in our political fabric. In the latter sphere, hypocrisy is doubly odious, in that while undermining the confidence of the people in law, justice, and government, it places far greater power in the hands of pretentious individuals than would be tolerated were it not for their profession of superior virtue, and thus enables persons who are of small moral stature, or who through defective training and unfortunate environment are thoroughly narrow and bigoted, to wield despotic power, often bringing swift and severe punishment on those far less guilty in the eye of the moral law than themselves. Believing as I do that Pharisaism is to-day one of the greatest evils which menace the stability of our government and the continued advance of civilization along the highway of enlightened progress, I feel it an urgent duty to frankly and freely discuss some notable recent illustrations which to unprejudiced minds take on the cast of Pharisaism, and are symptomatic of a condition which presages the moral decline of a nation. For if history teaches one lesson more impressively than another, it is that in which she emphasizes the fact that when Pharisaism becomes enthroned in power, when hypocrisy mantles insincerity and depravity, the soul of a people goes out; and though the form or shadow of former greatness may remain for a time, like the oak which remains standing after the tap-root has been eaten out, vitality, growth, and life have vanished.

The first case which calls for attention is that of Joseph A. Britton, and it impressively illustrates the evils which will sooner or later come to any people who permit the Pharisaical element to arrogate authority, or who legalize the infringement of liberty by authorizing the establishment of a censorship of morals, especially when power is lodged in the hands of persons who have a penchant for delving in moral sewers, and are not hedged about with restrictions which make them legally responsible for wrong doing. Mr. Britton, it will be remembered, was long Mr. Comstock’s closest counselor and most efficient aid. In the course of time, however, he withdrew from his former commander in order to establish an association somewhat similar to that presided over by Mr. Comstock. Such societies will naturally ever prove very alluring to men of a certain class, owing to the unwarranted power given to individuals, by which they are enabled to persecute those in no way guilty of crime, and who, after innocence is established, have no redress for the great expense and wrongs inflicted by the irresponsible censorship. The new organization was styled “The Society for the Enforcement of Criminal Law,” and Mr. Britton has been from its inception its leading spirit. About a year ago, exercising a power, which, if permitted at all, should always be confined to a responsible judiciary, he caused the arrest of the president of the American News Company, for selling some of the works of Count Tolstoi and Balzac.2

The courts promptly dismissed the case, but Mr. Farrelly had no redress for the expense, the harassment, and lost time incident to this unjust arrest. Since then Mr. Britton has had much trouble with the courts and officers of law, who thoroughly distrust the man.3 He, however, has been posing as a virtuous martyr, declaring that the police and judiciary are all subsidized: that it is impossible for him to suppress the crimes of gamblers, saloon keepers, and the proprietors of disorderly houses on account of the officers being in collusion with the offenders. It is proper to state also that counter-charges have been freely made in the daily press, and this gentleman who assumes the role of one peculiarly fitted to unearth and punish sinners, has been charged with using his office for blackmailing purposes. Of the truth or falsity of the charges I know nothing, but the latest revelation relating to Mr. Britton’s career certainly gives color to some of the charges which have been made against him. It seems that while sincere and innocent persons who mistakenly support these mischievous organizations by freely giving hard earned dollars to such persons as the gentleman in question, vainly hoping that their contribution will aid in exterminating gambling, Mr. Britton has been recklessly indulging in gambling himself. For a time fortune favored him. He won, and drew the money, but later, luck deserted him and our pseudo-reformer lost quite heavily. 4Being pressed for the amount of his gambling debts, aggregating $1,085, he gave a check which his creditor, Mr. Robt. G. Irving, alleges was returned as worthless. He then gave notes, the first two of which have come due but have not been paid; consequently his creditor now seeks redress in the courts. Mr. Britton, probably feeling that his usefulness as a censor of morals will be seriously impaired by this unfeeling revelation, displays considerable indignation while admitting his guilt. He says in the column of one of the New York dailies:—

“I have one weakness. Even the very strongest minded men will bet on horses. I do it. I admit it. But why do they pick on me? Nobody notices the corruption of officials, but when the Agent for the Enforcement of Criminal Law bets on horse races and defaults on his debts, everybody sets up a howl.”

And this is a specimen of the men which a Christian people are supporting and encouraging, owing to their loud and pharisaical protestations of superior virtue. The words spoken by the great Nazarene teacher, and which ring down the corridor of the ages, apply to-day as aptly as when in old Judea he said, “Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones and of all uncleanness. Even so ye outwardly appear righteous, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.”

Another instance of the evil of clothing Pharisaism with power was forcibly illustrated in the recent prosecution of the Rev. J. B. Caldwell, editor of Christian Life. This noteworthy case illustrates most painfully the fact that an innocent and noble-minded man, who has committed no crime, is liable to be arrested as a common felon and placed at great expense, though perfectly innocent, as was the case in this instance. Yet in spite of this great crime the wronged man has no redress, while the real criminals, they who caused the persecution of the innocent, are in no way amenable to the law. This case also emphasizes the danger flowing from Pharisaism, in its liability to persecute those who criticise it. The possibilities of evil from this source cannot be over-estimated, for it looks toward the suppression of free thought and an untrammeled press and the establishing of a moral, political, and religious despotism. Briefly stated, the facts in the case of the Chicago editor are as follows: In November of 1889, Mr. Caldwell published an earnest plea for Marital Purity, by Rev. C. E. Walker, a Congregational minister of good standing. The paper was not coarse or repulsive, but an earnest plea for one of the most vital and noble reforms imaginable. No notice was taken of this publication by either Mr. Comstock’s agent in Chicago, by Mr. Comstock, or the postal authorities. Month after month passed, yet no notice was taken; at last more than six months after the publication of Rev. C. E. Walker’s paper, the editor of Christian Life criticised the action of the anti-vice society and the postal department in the case of Mr. Harman. After this, however, the publication of Mr. Walker’s paper seemed to assume in the eyes of our censors of public morals criminal proportions, and Mr. Caldwell was arrested, one of the chief charges being the circulation of the paper on “Marital Purity,” published in November, 1889. He was arrested in October, 1890, almost a year after the publication of the paper objected to by the censors. Now there are two points emphasized in this case which are worthy the serious consideration of thoughtful people. If the post-office inspector at Chicago, or Mr. Comstock, or if the postal department at Washington regarded this paper published in November, 1889, as obscene and believed it came within the limits of the law, why did these three argus-eyed censors of public morals wink at the offence for eleven months and take no step against the editor, until after he had condemned the post-office department and the anti-vice society? If they were right in taking action, almost a year after the offence, were they not guilty of culpable neglect in paying no attention to it for ten months, or until after they had been criticised by Mr. Caldwell? From the Christian Life I clip a few lines which are important as bearing upon this point:—

(1.) The Attorney-General at Washington advised, after reading the Harman criticism, to place the case in the hands of the District Attorney. (2.) The case was known to the Postmaster-General and to Mr. Comstock, and these men were appealed to in vain to stop the prosecution. (3.) Mr. Comstock, in a letter to the Woman’s Journal, characterized the mailing of Christian Life as violation of the law, and this before the trial occurred.