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Who Was He?
by
“Old trapper, have you ever known remorse?”
“I can’t say I ever did,” answered the trapper; “though I’ve felt a leetle oneasy arter dealin’ with the thievin’ vagabonds whose tracks I’ve found on the line of my traps. It has seemed to me, sometimes, in the evenin’, in thinkin’ the matter over, that perhaps a leetle less bullet and a leetle more scriptur’ might have did jest as well. But a man is apt to be a leetle ha’sh in his anger; but I have an idee that the Lord makes some allowance for a man’s doin’s when he’s a good deal r’iled. That’s where the marcy comes in. Yis, that’s where the marcy comes in; isn’t it, boy?” and the old man looked at Herbert.
“There is certainly where we need the mercy to come in,” answered Herbert; “but it were better that we acted so that mercy need not be shown.”
The man listened to Herbert’s reply with an expression of strong assent on his countenance, then he turned to the trapper.
“You say, old man, that you never knew remorse. Happy has your life been because of it; and happy shall your life be to its close. I have known remorse. It is a fearful knowledge,–as fearful as the knowledge of hell. Woe to the man that does an evil deed. That instant he is doomed; doomed to anguish. His divinity punishes him. Within his bosom the great tribunal is instantly set up. The judge takes his seat. The witnesses are summoned; and the whole universe swarms to the trial. His memory is a torment; and all the forces of his mind suddenly concentrate in memory,–the memory of one deed, or of many deeds, even as his sin has been sole or manifold. What torment, old man, is like the torment of one whose memory is confined wholly to his evil deeds!”
No one made any reply. The anguish of the man’s speech made response impossible.
“Before I did the deed,” he continued, after a pause, “my memory took knowledge of all sweet things; of all dear faces I have ever seen; of all generous and blessed deeds I had ever done. But after that I could remember but one thing,–the murderer; only one face,–the face of him I killed, and all my life, and the glory of it, was thrown into black eclipse by that one terrible act. Before I did the deed Nature was a joy to me, but now in every star I see his countenance looking down upon me. In every flower I see his still, cold face. The winds bear to me his voice. The water of those rapids”–and the man stretched his hand out towards the flowing river–“sounds to me like the rattle in his throat as he lay dying. How shall I find release, old man? How quit myself of this terrible curse?” and the man’s words ended in a groan.
“The mercy of the Lord be great,” replied the trapper; “greater than any deed of guilt did by mortal; great enough to cover you, friend, and your misdoin’, as a mother covers the error of her child with her forgiveness.”
“I know the mercy of the Lord is great,” answered the man, “I know His forgiveness covers all; but the old law–old as the world, old as guilt and justice–the law of life for life and blood for blood,–has never been repealed. And this is the one comfort left for the noble: that however great the guilt, however wicked the deed, the atonement can be as great as the sin. He who dies pays all debts. He who has sent one to the grave and goes to the grave voluntarily, goes into the arms of mercy. I know not where else, with all his searching, man may surely find it.”
Again there was silence. Above, the stars shone warmly through the dusky gloom. The rapids roared, falling hoarsely through the darkness. A moaning ran along the pine-tops; the firelight flamed and flickered, and the flames flashed the four faces into sight that were grouped around the brands. At length the trapper said: