There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elder Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular man. David's proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies; and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had honestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment of the stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests very nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative moment.
As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans. There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside, there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches itself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of a trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had accepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul for his son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided on the death-sentence before they left their seats.
And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying it out. It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for any length of time. David was to die at sunset.
Three hours yet remained to the miserable father. He threw aside all pride and all restraint. Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart. But these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had. What confessions of mutual faults were made! What kisses and forgivenesses were exchanged! At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other. Sometimes the Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed. They are of those royal compassions which astonish even the angels.
When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his father. "It is my last request," he said, looking into his face with eyes whose entreaty was pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard as it is."
Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale as ashes when he read the contents.
"I canna, I canna do it," he whispered.
"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you."
The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared to voice it. It was this—
"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all I dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life."
For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he rose and went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberry trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty.
Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim."
But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request would be granted.
Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose. There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the party walked.
Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin: and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was willing to pay the penalty of his crime."
Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father! His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless.
Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though silent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face; perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood.
The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which covered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought his father's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! Now!" As the words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart. He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father's groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of suffering about him which no one thought of resisting.
He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were all fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently they untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of dissent. If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care of man's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is indifferent to all outside itself.
When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at the house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned to him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a companion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid, Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own room and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The dead opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw all that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood what it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing repentance.
In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded. But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy. Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' faces and words. She was quite aware what was in her uncle's lonely room. Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she came to the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter," and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her—David's dying message of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the dead.
At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was an urgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing in the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the slain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy, more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm, the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind them. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth.
When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again, their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air with lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girl was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's unusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as the winter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own consciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kept her room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades, she died.
One night she sent for him. "Uncle," she said, "I am going away very soon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I want your promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?"
He winced visibly, and remained silent.
"There are six boys and two girls—they are poor, ignorant and unhappy. They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake you must see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes this time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?"
"I will do my best, dear."
"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You will need company soon."
"Do you think you are dying, dear?"
"I know I am dying."
"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?"
She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and then closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so exhausted that he could press the question no further. And the next morning she had "gone away"—gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting by her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. The fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been too sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God's doing. What was there for him to say?
The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept—not very cheerfully at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he persevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; they loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave them his own name, and suffered them to call him father.
As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no sign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and that He who could say, "Let there be light," could also say, "Thy sins be forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come to the holy land: for—
"Down in the valley of death
A cross is standing plain;
Where strange and awful the shadows sleep,
And the ground has a deep red stain.
This cross uplifted there
Forbids, with voice Divine,
Our anguished hearts to break for the dead
Who have died and made no sign.
As they turned at length from us,
Dear eyes that were heavy and dim,
May have met his look, who was lifted there,
May be sleeping safe in Him."
THE SEVEN WISE MEN OF PRESTON
Let me introduce to our readers seven of the wisest men of the present century—the seven drafters and signers of the first teetotal pledge.
The movement originated in the mind of Joseph Livesey, and a short consideration of the circumstances and surroundings of his useful career will give us the best insight into the necessities and influences which gave it birth. He was born near Preston, in Lancashire, in the year 1795; the beginning of an era in English history which scarcely has a parallel for national suffering. The excitement of the French Revolution still agitated all classes, and, commercial distress and political animosities made still more terrible the universal scarcity of food and the prostration of the manufacturing business.
His father and mother died early, and he was left to the charge of his grandfather, who, unfortunately, abandoned his farm and became a cotton spinner. Lancashire men had not then been whetted by daily attrition with steam to their present keen and shrewd character, and the elder Livesey lost all he possessed. The records of cotton printing and spinning mention with honor the Messrs. Livesey, of Preston, as the first who put into practice Bell's invention of cylindrical printing of calicoes in 1785; but whether the firms are identical or not I have no certain knowledge. It shows, however, that they were a race inclined to improvements and ready to test an advance movement.
That Joseph Livesey's youth was a hard and bitter one there is no doubt. The price of flour continued for years fabulously high; so much so that wealthy people generally pledged themselves to reduce their use of it one-third, and puddings or cakes were considered on any table, a sinful extravagance. When the government was offering large premiums to farmers for raising extra quantities and detailing soldiers to assist in threshing it, poor bankrupt spinners must have had a hard struggle for a bare existence.
Indeed, education was hardly thought possible, and, though Joseph managed, "by hook or crook," to learn how to read, write and count a little, it was through difficulties and discouragements that would have been fatal to any ordinary intelligence or will.
Until he was twenty-one years of age he worked patiently at his loom, which stood in one corner of a cellar, so cold and damp that its walls were constantly wet. But he was hopeful, and even in those dark days dared to fall in love. On attaining his majority, he received a legacy of £30. Then he married the poor girl who had made brighter his hard apprenticeship, and lived happily with her for fifty years.
But the troubles that had begun before his birth—and which did not lighten until after the passing of the Reform Bill, in June, 1832—had then attained a proportion which taxed the utmost energies of both private charities and the national government.
The year of Joseph Livesey's marriage saw the passage of the Corn Laws, and the first of those famous mass meetings in Peter's Field, near Manchester, which undoubtedly molded the future temper and status of the English weavers and spinners. From one of these meetings, the following year, thousands of starving men started en masse to London. They were followed by the military and brought back for punishment or died miserably on the road, though 500 of them reached Macclesfield and a smaller number Derby.
But Livesey, though probably suffering as keenly as others, joined no body of rioters. He borrowed a sovereign and bought two cheeses; then cutting them up into small lots, he retailed them on the streets, Saturday afternoons, when the men were released from work. The profit from this small investment exceeding what it was possible for him to make at his loom, he continued the trade, and from this small beginning founded a business, and made a fortune which has enabled him to devote a long life to public usefulness and benevolence.
But his little craft must have needed skillful piloting, for his family increased rapidly during the disastrous years between 1816 and 1832; so disastrous that in 1825-26 the Bank of England was obliged to authorize the Chamber of Commerce to make loans to individuals carrying on large works of from £500 to £10,000. Bankruptcies were enormous, trade was everywhere stagnant, £60,000 were subscribed for meal and peas to feed the starving, and the government issued 40,000 articles of clothing. The quarrels between masters and spinners were more and more bitter, mills were everywhere burnt, and at Ashton in one day 30,000 "hands" turned out.
During these dreadful years every thoughtful person had noticed how much misery and ill-will was caused by the constant thronging to public houses, and temperance societies had been at work among the angry men of the working classes. Joseph Livesey had been actively engaged in this work. But these first efforts of the temperance cause were directed entirely against spirits. The use of wine and ale was considered then a necessity of life. Brewing was in most families as regular and important a duty as baking; the youngest children had their mug of ale; and clergymen were spoken of without reproach as "one," "two" or "three-bottle men."
But Joseph Livesey soon became satisfied that these half measures were doing no good at all, and in 1831 a little circumstance decided him to take a stronger position. He had to go to Blackburn to see a person on business; and, as a matter of course, whiskey was put on the table. Livesey for the first time tasted it, and was very ill in consequence. He had then a large family of boys, and both for their sakes and that of others, he resolved to halt no longer between two opinions.
He spoke at once in all the temperance meetings of the folly of partial reforms, pointed out the hundreds of relapses, and urged upon the association the duty of absolute abstinence. His zeal warmed with his efforts and he insisted that in the matter of drinking "the golden mean" was the very sin for which the Laodicean Church had been cursed.
The disputes were very angry and bitter; far more so than we at this day can believe possible, unless we take into account the universal national habits and its poetic and domestic associations with every phase of English life. But he gradually gained adherents to his views though it was not until the following year he was able to take another step forward.
It was on Thursday, August 23, 1832, that the first solemn pledge of total abstinence was taken. That afternoon Joseph Livesey, pondering the matter in his mind, saw John King pass his shop. He asked him to come in and talk the subject over with him. Before they parted Livesey asked King if he would join him in a pledge to abstain forever from all liquors; and King said he would. Livesey then wrote out a form and, laying it before King, said: "Thee sign it first, lad." King signed it, Livesey followed him, and the two men clasped hands and stood pledged to one of the greatest works humanity has ever undertaken.
A special meeting was then called, and after a stormy debate, the main part of the audience left, a small number remaining to continue the argument. But the end of it was that seven men came forward and drew up and signed the following document, which is still preserved:
"We agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality, whether they be ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as medicine.
"John Gratrex,Edward Dickinson,John Broadbent,Jno. Smith,Joseph Livesey,David Anderton,Jno. King."
All these reformers were virtually working men, though most of them rose to positions of respect and affluence. Still the humility of the origin of the movement was long a source of contempt, and its members, within my own recollection, had the stigma of vulgarity almost in right of their convictions.
But God takes hands with good men's efforts, and the cause prospered just where it was most needed—among the operatives and "the common people." One of these latter, a hawker of fish, called Richard Turner, stood, in a very amusing and unexpected way, sponsor for the society. Richard was fluent of speech, and, if his language was the broadest patois, it was, nevertheless, of the most convincing character. He always spoke well, and, if authorized words failed him, readily coined what he needed. One night while making a very fervent speech, he said: "No half-way measures here. Nothing but the te-te total will do."
Mr. Livesey at once seized the word, and, rising, proposed it as the name of the society. The proposition was received with enthusiastic cheering, and these "root and branch" temperance men were thenceforward known as teetotalers. Richard remained all his life a sturdy advocate of the cause, and when he died, in 1846, I made one of the hundreds and thousands that crowded the streets of the beautiful town of Preston and followed him to his grave. The stone above it chronicles shortly his name and death, and the fact that he was the author of a word known now wherever Christianity and civilization are known.