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The Adventures of Timothy Peacock, Esquire; or, Freemasonry
Practically Illustrated
CHAPTER XVII
Daniel P. Thompson
Amoto quaeramus seria ludo. —Horace.
Our tale, gentle reader, must now assume a more serious aspect. From the more
light, and often somewhat ludicrous incidents through which we have passed to
this stage of our narrative—incidents from which more gifted pens than ours
might have plentifully drawn the shafts of effective satire, or the food for
merry laughter—we now reluctantly turn to scenes calculated to cause other
reflections— to awaken other and more painful emotions.
About ten days subsequent to the events recorded in our last chapter, William
Botherworth, whose frolicsome exhibitions of masonry improved occupied a
conspicuous place in the first or introductory part of these remarkable
adventures, received from a commercial acquaintance of the neighboring port the
following letter:—
"Wm. Botherworth,
Sir,—As war is now declared, and a fleet of the enemy's forces said to be
hovering round the coast, we are fearful that they will reach this place, in
which case our property would be exposed to destruction. The quantity of hops
which you left in store with us might be removed into the interior without much
trouble or expense; and I am very anxious that you should come to town
immediately to devise measures respecting them. I wish you to come tomorrow, as
after that I may be absent several days. Do not fail of being here by to-morrow
evening.
Yours, &c.
S. RODGERS."
"Pshaw!" said Botherworth to himself—"pshaw, man! your wits must surely be
wool-gathering. In the first place the British will never get there; and if they
should, they will doubtless respect all private property. They must be wanton
fiends indeed to destroy my few hundreds of hops. However, Rodgers may know more
than he tells, and perhaps, on the whole, I had better ride down to-morrow and
see for myself."
Such were the passing thoughts of Botherworth as he run over for a second
time this brief epistle, so artfully calculated to arrest the attention of the
person to whom it was addressed. And, putting up the letter with the conclusion
that he should obey the summons, as unnecessary and even singular as it appeared
to him, proceeded to make such little arrangements about his farm as he
considered his intended absence for a day or two would require.
Botherworth, although by nature a person of great buoyancy of spirits and
cheerfulness of disposition, qualities which he still in a good measure
retained, had yet of late years manifested much less inclination for convivial
companionship, or for mingling with society at large, than formerly. And
becoming of consequence more domestic, he had supplied himself with a good
selection of books with which to furnish that recreation and employment of his
leisure at home which the excess of his social feelings had formerly led him to
seek too much perhaps abroad in the usual routine of profitless amusements. From
these, together with the early advantages which he had enjoyed of seeing the
world and becoming acquainted with mankind, he had by this time acquired a stock
of general knowledge much more extensive than is commonly to be met with among
men in his sphere of life; while at the same time, aided by a mind naturally
acute and discriminating he had formed original views and settled opinions upon
almost all subjects connected with the different classes and organizations of
society and its various institutions. The circumstance of his expulsion from the
masonic lodge for causes growing out of the prevailing characteristic of his
more youthful years, as before intimated, creating probably some degree of
acrimony and sensitiveness of feeling towards the fraternity, had led him to
bestow much study and reflection on the nature and principles of that peculiar
institution. The result of all of which was to establish in his mind the honest,
though at that period, the singular, conviction that the whole system was
founded on principles radically wrong, and unjust and unequal in their
operations towards the rest of society; and, to say nothing of its ceremonies
and lofty pretensions which he had always felt disposed to ridicule, that its
oaths and obligations could not be either legally or morally binding upon those
who had taken them. And it was with these views and impressions that he had
ventured, a few months previous to the time of which we are speaking, upon the
act of which the reader has been already apprised, that of imparting to a young
friend, in a confidential way, all the essential secrets of Freemasonry—little
dreaming, at the time, as he had formerly made partial experiments of the kind
with impunity, that consequences so melancholy to himself were so soon to
follow, and even now wholly unconscious that he had been betrayed to the
infuriated, but cautious and darkdoing brotherhood.
In the evening following the day which brought him the letter above quoted,
Botherworth came into his house with looks so uncommonly pensive and dejected as
to attract the notice of the family; for still a bachelor, though now upwards of
forty, he had living with him at this time, in capacity of house-keeper, a
quaker lady whose husband followed the sea, with her two children, both fine
boys, to all of whom Botherworth was much attached. Taking a seat at an open
window, he long sat gazing out, in thoughtful silence, on the surrounding
landscape, that lay spread in tranquil beauty before him. The stars were
beginning to twinkle through the gathering curtains of night; and the full orbed
moon, majestically mounting the deep cerulean vault of the orient heavens, and
brightening each moment into more glorious effulgence, as the twilight, streak
after streak, slowly faded in the west, threw her silvery beams, with increasing
splendor, over the broad and diversified landscape, now glimmering on the placid
stream, now kindling in refracted brightness and beauty on the cascade, and now
shedding a varied and sombre glory over hill and dale, town and woodland, as far
as the eye could reach, round the adjacent country, all quiet and noisless as
the repose of sleeping infancy, except when the voice of the plaintive
whippoorwill, responding to his mate on the distant hill, at measured intervals,
broke sweetly in upon the silence of the scene.
"Miriam," said he at length, partially rousing himself from his long reverie,
and addressing the quakeress who sat knitting in quiet cheerfulness near him,
"Miriam, what a beautiful evening!—or rather," he continued after a pause,
"beautiful, and happifying it seems to me it should be, with all these bright
and glorious objects before us."
`And why is it not so, friend William,' said the person addressed.
"I know not," replied the other, "but every thing to-night to me appears to
wear a singularly gloomy aspect. Even this scene, with all its brightness, which
ever before as I remember, looked pleasant and delightful, now appears strangely
mournful and deathly. And why is it? Can it be that nature ever sympathises with
our feelings, or rather is it, that the state of our feelings produces this
effect? What are those favorite lines of yours, Miriam, which I have often heard
you singing, containing, I think, some sentiments on this subject?"
`It is not according to my people's creed to sing,' meekly replied the
quakeress, `yet not deeming the forbearance essential, I sometimes transgress,
perhaps wrongfully; but does thee wish me to sing the lines now?'
Botherworth replying in the affirmative, the lady, who, though untutored by
art, was yet one of those whom nature has often gifted with powers of minstrelsy
more exquisite and effective than any thing which the highest acquirements in
musical science alone can bestow, now commencing in a low, soft, melodious
voice, sang the following stanzas:—
When the pulse of joy beats high, And
pleasure weaves her fairy dreams, O, how delightful to the eye— How gladsome all
around us seems! Fountain, streamlet, garden, grove, All, all, in semblant
brightness drest, And breathing melody and love, Reflect the sunshine of the
breast. But when sorrow's clouds arise, And settle on the mind in gloom, How
quickly every bright hue dies Of all that joyousness and bloom! Earth and skies
with mingled light, The vocal grove, the streamlet's flow, Now seem to sicken on
the sight, Or murmur back the sufferer's wo. Thus forever—dark or fair, As our
own breasts, life's path we find; And gloom or brightness gathers there, As
mirror'd from the changeful mind.
"Miriam," said Botherworth, again apparently awakening from the moody
abstraction into which he had relapsed when the quakeress had ceased, "Miriam,
do you believe we shall have an existence in another world?"
`Surely, friend William,' said she, in evident surprise at the question,
`surely thee cannot doubt the scriptures?'
"No, I do not," replied the other—"on them my only hope of a hereafter is
grounded, for, but for them I should be forced into the fearful conviction, that
with the body the soul perished. Human pride I know flatters itself with the
thought of immortality, and in the wish, the strong hope, believes it, calling
this belief, which grows only out of the desire, as I have often thought, a
proof of the soul's future existence. But is there any thing in nature— in
reason, that sufficiently indicates it? The soul and body comparatively begin
their existence together— are in maturity at the same time, and at the same time
decay, and apparently terminate their existence. When the oil in the lamp is
consumed, the light goes out, and is seemingly extinguished for ever. But the
thought—the bare thought of annihilation, how dark, how dreadful!"
`What makes thee talk so,' again soothingly asked the quakeress, `and appear
so gloomy to-night. Thee art generally jocose, and I sometimes think too vain
and light in thy conversation—but now. Thee art well, friend Wiliam? '
"Yes, I am well, Miriam," said he, mournfully, "but it seems to me as if this
pleasant evening was to be the last I shall ever behold. But what matters it,
should it in reality be so? I have no wife or children, no relations indeed, but
the most distant, to mourn for me. The world in which I once delighted to
mingle, will move on without me, unconcious of its loss. The gay will still be
merry and laugh, as I have done; the mercenary will still traffic and contrive,
absorbed in their own interests, and the ambitious will still go on, pursuing
the objects of their aim, and thinking only of their own advancement. The little
vacancy in the ranks of society which my absence may occasion, will quickly be
filled by others, probably more deserving. And who will miss me?"
`Why!—thou dost indeed surprise me!' said the agitated listener, laying down
her knitting work with increasing emotion—`It pains me, friend William, to hear
thee talk so. Why does thee expect to die now more than any other time?'
"I have no reason for thinking so," relied Botherworth, in the same
desponding tone, "none that would generally be considered as one, I presume; but
as I before intimated, there is a dark and fearful cloud upon my soul. For
several hours past, I have felt some unaccountable influence acting on my
feelings under which they seem to labor in troubled agony as if they, and not my
reason, were instinctively sensible that some danger, some hidden evil was
impending over me—the whole operating upon me, in spite of all my endeavors to
shake it off, like what the sailors used to call the death-spell which sometimes
seized the victim doomed soon to perish by battle or storm. But what it is, or
when, or where, the bolt is to fall, I know not. To-morrow I am going to town to
be absent perhaps several days. If any thing should happen to me, you will find
my will in my desk which you may deliver to the person to whom it is directed,
and in proper time you will learn what I have done for you and your
children."
So saying, he bid the quakeress a tender good night, and leaving her with
tears standing in her eyes, retired to rest.
Among all the various branches of the reputed supernatural, as enchantment,
witchcraft, second-sight visions, prophetic dreams, apparitions, signs, warnings
&c., which have successively been in vogue in different countries, and in
different ages of the world, but which are now mostly exploded as discovered to
have been but the tricks and inventions of the artful and designing, or
accounted for on natural principles, there is no one that has received less
attention from intelligent and philosophical writers than that which is
generally known by the term of presentiments. And, yet, it appears to me
there is no one of them all, that is so well entitled to consideration, as
regards the many and authenticated facts which can be cited in support of its
real existence, and at the same time so difficult of solution when that
existence is established. History, biography and the records of travellers and
journalists furnish numerous instances of men having experienced deep
forebodings of the fate which soon awaited them, but which no human foresight
could then reasonably have predicted. Men too, whose character for intelligence
and courage, exempted them from the presumption that they might have been under
the influence of imagination or superstitious fears. Among these, for example,
may be instanced the brave Baron De Kalb, who fell at the south in the American
Revolution, and the gallant Pike, a victim of the last war, both of whom,
previous to the battles in which they respectively perished, felt an unwavering
conviction that their earthly career would be terminated in the approaching
contest. The conflagration of Richmond theatre furnished also one or two most
striking examples of this kind. If these and the like instances are not
attributable to sheer chance, which, it appears to me we are hardly warranted in
presuming, then it follows that the doctrine of presentiments is established as
having a foundation in fact, and is not the less entitled to credit because it
has a particular and not a general application. But once admitting the existence
of this mysterious principle, where is the human philosophy that can explain its
operation or fathom its causes? If I rightly understand the history of these
cases, and I have heard some of them from the lips of those who described from
actual experience, the operation seems to be instinctive, and chiefly confined
to the feelings or animal sensibilities, and apparently originating with them,
while the impression on the mind is vague and undefined, suggesting no distinct
ideas, and seemingly putting it in action only for the purpose of contriving or
providing escape from the boded danger. Indeed the intellect appears to have but
little to do with these impressions—and often, while the mind rejects them and
seems to convince itself that they arise from assignable causes, the same dark,
boding, irrepulsible feeling, in spite of all the suggestions of reason, again
and again returns to haunt the agitated bosom. To what then is this principle to
be assigned? To instinct, like that which is said to forewarn the feathered
tribe of approaching convulsions of nature? Or is it a direct communication from
higher spiritual beings made to the animal, not the intellectual part of our
existence? But this last supposition would involve the proposition that
spiritual, can communicate with animal existence without the intervention of
mind—a proposition never yet admitted among the settled principles of
philosophy—it would open the door to a new and unexplored field in the doctrine
of pneumatology. Whence then shall we turn for a solution of this inextricable
subject? Where are the enterprising Locks and Stewarts of the age, that they
pass the subject unnoticed? If a vulgar superstition, is it not prevalent enough
to require a refutation?— and if not, why do they shrink from the investigation,
and the attempt of solving the mystery?
The next morning, Botherworth arose lively and cheerful. The cloud had
evidently passed from his brow; and taking his breakfast in his usual serenity
of mind, and sociability of manner, and without the slightest allusion to the
events of the preceding evening, set forward on foot to where he expected to
intersect a public stage, which before night would land him at his place of
destination.
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