185G.] Some Pasmges in the Life of Beacon Goodman. 145 



an armful of wood, and told his son to take another. All was put in 

 the wagon ; he not forgetting six candles and a paper of matches. 

 Deacon Goodman needed no secondary motive to Christian duty ; yet 

 historical truth demands the concession, that the wife of the poor drunk- 

 ard was his first love. She jilted him ; or as we Yankees say, "gave 

 him the mitten," in favor of the abject wretch who was now become her 

 tyrant. And this was the way he " fed fat the ancient grudge " he 

 owed her ! The truth is, Deacon Goodman knew nothing about grudges, 

 ancient or modern. The old Adam would occasionally flare up, but he 

 always got him under hefore sun-down. 



All was ready, and in five minutes the Deacon was " exposed to the 

 peltings of the pitiless storm." But what did he care for the storm? I 

 am going on God's errand," said he to himself. " I am going to visit the 

 worse than widow and fatherless." The next thing he said was, •' Oh, 

 get out." That he meant for the promptings of his own proud heart. 



Misery, misery, indeed did he find in that most miserable dwelling. 

 The poor wretch himself was dead-drunk on the floor. The poor pale 

 woman was sobbing her very heart out. The children were clamorous ; 

 and but few were the words of their clamor. "I am cold," — "lam 

 hungry," — and that was aU. The Deacon brought in the wood ; made 

 up a fire ; lighted a candle ; and emptied the bag and basket. The poor 

 pale woman wept and sobbed her thanks. " Oh, you varmint," said the 

 Deacon, as he looked at the husband and father, and broke ofi" a piece 

 of bread for each of the children. The general commotion aroused the 

 poor wretch from his drunken stupor. 



"Hallo, old music," said he, "are you here? give us a stave, old 

 nightingale. Sing as 3'ou do in meeting. Sing and scare the rats away." 

 "Why, what on earth does the critter mean ? " said the Deacon. The 

 poor, pale, grateful woman smiled through her tears. She could not 

 help it. She had been a singer in her better days ; she had also heard 

 the Deacon sing. 



I do not record these incidents merely because they are honorable to 

 Deacon Goodman, but because they are particularly connected with my 

 story. In this errand of mercy the good Deacon caught a very serious 

 cold ; it affected his throat, and his nose, and even his lungs ; and gave 

 to his voice a tone not unlike to that of the lowest note of a cracked 

 bass- veil alternating with the shriek of a clarionet powerfully but un- 

 skillfully blown. On Saturday evening he soaked his feet in hot water ; 

 drank copiously of hot balm tea ; went to bed and said he felt com- 

 fortable. " Xow Deacon," said Mrs. Goodman, " you are dreadful 

 hoarse ; — ^you won't sing to-morrow, will you ? " " Singing is praying — 



VOL. I., NO. III. — 10. 



