Benjamin Jacques

IN an iron-bound valley of the Adirondacks, Ben Jacques was financially ruined in the summer of 1842 by a mining speculation. His ruin did not mean so very much in dollars and cents, perhaps less than his previous failures in the same barren field, but somehow this last failure seemed to mean a great deal to him personally. His open, honest face revealed keen suffering.

Jacques had been very temperate and industrious. He would have gained success if there had been half a chance. But mining in the Adirondack Mountains was hard. So long as a man was

young, and new at the business, he could endure the disappointments after a fashion; but when he was turned of forty years of age, and had learned that mining in the Adirondacks was contending against great commercial odds if not natural laws, he was apt to think that he needed a change. One’s best strength for “fighting the rocks” was likely to be impaired before middle life. Jacques, however, was still strong. It was the check upon earnest purposes and honest hopes that wrung his heart. He had tried so many times, he said, and so fair, and every time a failure.

On this last occasion Jacques’s brown locks were turning to silver, as the assets of his venture were made over to “ the company,” leaving him without a dollar; and he explained to his friends, in his simple, direct way, with tears in his frank, gray eyes, that he was tired.

“More than twelve years ago,” he said, “ I brought a little money and a hopeful heart to these mountains, and you all know whether I have worked faithful. I own I am down now, and my heart is sore. It an’t no use, boys,” he added. “It is a hard country. Them few black holes over there in the hill is all I have to show for my work. And them an’t mine any longer,” he added, struggling with a sob. He said to a friend, privately and with tears, “ It’s all right, George, to talk of settling down, but when a man has had his hopes, and sees it’s too late, and he has nothing to offer, what can he say? ”

Three days after the failure, Ben Jacques started away from the mining settlement alone for a walk among the mountains. He was trying to get a mental view of what else there might be in the world beside iron ore and speculation and heart-ache. It was a July morning, all brightness, and cheered by the birds, he walked along a little road up by a cabin where his newlymarried friend, Nellie, and her husband lived. The little home was a sweet picture. Beyond it were the woods and the dark mountains. To the toiler whose existence had been for so many years a struggle to wrench a fortune from these rocky hills, they seemed implacable and pitiless. What was the serenity of their heights but contempt for his feeble struggles ?

He passed on from the settlement into the woods. There was an old mining road that he knew of. It led many miles into the wilderness. It had been “ cut out ” and speedily abandoned in a mining speculation years ago. He followed this track five miles, to Cherry Lake. The lake was very solitary. A dark, rugged hill clothed with black spruce rose beyond it. Where Jacques was, there was a plain covered with maple and beech trees. He noticed how fine the prospect was, and how wonderfully the blue waters sparkled in the July noon. Then he sat down upon the shore and smoked his pipe, and thought it all over again. When he returned to the settlement that evening, he remarked that he had considered the matter fully, and was sure that he had done with mining forever.

A week later the news was circulated that Ben Jacques had put up a log-cabin away off in the woods at Cherry Lake, and was going to turn hermit. There were diverse comments upon this intelligence. Some reckoned that he had found a new mine out there, others were “ afeard ” that Ben had a soft spot in his head. His own statement of the case to Nellie was plain. He said he was tired. He declared, also, that it was pleasant at the lake, and that he loved to dream there in the silence. “ I remember a world outside of these mountains, Nellie,” said Jacques, “ that you have not seen.” When Nellie said, anxiously, that she feared he was giving way to some secret sorrow, he did not reply.

Jacques’s cabin at the lake was a pleasant place. During the autumn he cleared a little ground, that he might have a garden in the spring, and he improved the old road so that a team could be driven over it. A few weeks’ labor at “ The Works ” supplied him with means to procure the necessaries he required. Then a little furniture and a few books were taken to the cabin, and the toiler settled down to rest.

Jacques was a sensitive man. The isolation of his hermit-life soon had its natural effect upon him. That unseen world that surrounds the living, both when they wake and when they sleep, seemed to him to come nearer and nearer. The strange spirits that woo and win the solitary found him in the wilderness. It was observed that he was becoming quiet and shy, and that the little he saw of society when he visited the settlement oppressed him.

The seasons came and went with much feverish anxiety, and many baffled enterprises, at the mining settlement. Amid the worry and the failures, Ben Jacques, the hermit, was little cared for, and rarely remembered.

The little settlement did not encroach very rapidly upon the woods. Jacques’s cabin was still miles away in the forest. His acre of garden was a rose in the vast wilderness. In spring the flowers bloomed around his door - way, and the bees from his hives hummed around the tiny clearing. Remote as it was, the robins and the bluebirds found this lonely home. It was one of the picnic journeys in summer, for the young folks to travel the long, unfrequented road through the woods, and visit Jaeques, the hermit. These visits were received as a great honor by the venerable man, and he always gave the visitors honey and flowers. But only Nellie, and her husband and children, knew “ old Mr. Jacques ” as something more than a strange man, or a curiosity. Twice, at least, every summer, a horse and rude wagon were driven by Nellie’s husband or by her own hands over the rough road to Mr. Jacques’s. Almost every month in the year Jacques came to see Nellie and her family. It was the tie that bound him to the outward world.

Nellie used to say to her husband that although she could not imagine what it was, she was sure there was some sad secret in Mr. Jacques’s life. Her eyes grew dim with tears, as she saw that her own little Mary, so timid and shy toward all others, yet found a friend in this lonely and aged man. She wondered at the pretty blush that came to his withered cheeks as the quiet child welcomed and kissed him.

But no one knew the life or the thoughts of Benjamin Jacques. The dreary years, the brightness of summer, and the winter’s dreadful cold, found him dwelling ever alone in the silence of the great woods. As the long decades were passing, the silver of his locks changed to snow.

It came to pass that a message from the years gone by penetrated to his seclusion, reaching his saddened spirit more to wound than to cheer.

It was an August night and was raining. Jacques sat in his cabin, reading a newspaper dated three months back. The light of a candle which he held in his hand fell upon his face, revealing how strangely and sadly it was chastened by his lonely life. The rain beat dull and dreary upon the windowpane. A mouse nibbled in a cupboard and then ran across the floor. A low, moaning sigh came from the forest. Jacques put his candle upon the table, pushed up his spectacles, closed his eyes, and sat thinking. There were strange stories in the newspaper he had been reading, about spirits coming back to this world. He was not surprised by the idea. He had felt his deceased mother near him many times, when he was utterly heart-broken and weeping in his solitary hours. But he did not think it likely that the spirits would make noises and disturb people. He was satisfied that the accounts in the newspaper were not true. Then he wondered again what it was that he had felt coming all day. Perhaps it was nothing. Yet why should he feel it always before people came? He would not have believed such things years ago.

Jacques opened his eyes. Was that a faint lightning-flash upon the window? It was too long and steady for that. He rose and peered out into the blackness of the rainy night. His window overlooked the lake. Across, upon a point of land that projected out from the main shore, a ruddy fire was burning. Its red glare came in a misty, shimmering track across the waves.

“ Some hunters, probably,” thought Jacques. And yet the hunters never came to the lake, and there was no fishing there. “ It must be somebody who has come all the way through the woods on the old mining road,” he said to himself. He tried to believe it was not remarkable; but he did not sleep very soundly that night for thinking of it, although the beat of the rain upon the roof soothed him.

The next morning was clear and beautiful. The green, wet woods were steaming in the warm summer air, and the bees were humming. At eight o’clock Jacques sat reading in his open door-way. A bright, active boy, dressed in a blue suit, and about twelve years of age, came along the lake shore, and to the door of the cabin.

“ Good morning, Mr. Jacques,” said the boy, with a cheery smile; and his clear blue eyes looked kindly and curiously at the long, white hair and grave, sad face of the hermit. Jacques pushed his spectacles back upon his forehead, and turned his dreamy look upon the eager young face before him.

The boy proceeded to tell Jacques that he and his older brother had walked sixty miles along the roads through the woods for a vacation, and were camping over on the point. He said that as it was Sunday, they should stay over until to-morrow. “ They told us back at Smith’s that you lived here, and that your name was Mr. Jacques,” said the boy with juvenile volubility; and turning partly away, the lad commenced biting the green bark from a fresh birch branch in his hand, glancing at the man meanwhile, to discover what impression he was making. When the hermit spoke a few kind words in reply, the boy seemed to judge that it would be safe to develop his policy. “ You see, Mr. Jacques,” he said, “ we want some new potatoes from your garden, and I guess you will hate to let us have any.”

The boy found little difficulty in arranging with kind-hearted Mr. Jacques. The hermit was ready to do more than was asked of him. He urged that the lads should come and stay at his cottage.

The boy departed, and soon returned with his comrade. They brought a knapsack full of trout, and a rifle. The elder hoy was also dressed in blue; he was grave and sedate.

The young talkers made it lively at the cottage. Jacques had not heard such music there for many a dreary day, — not since the picnic, three years before.

The boys looked at the bees and the flowers, and the younger one explored all the surroundings of the place. Will, the elder, sat with Jacques and conversed quietly of the news of the day. The conversation turned upon books. The boy was well-informed.

“ You are a student,” said Jacques. “When I was young, I too had some schooling; in my solitude I still find in reading my chief enjoyment and solace.” And then Jacques produced a worn volume of Milton’s Poems, and read, in a slow, measured manner, a part of the poem beginning at man’s first disobedience, that brought death into our world and all our woe.

The old man became confidential with the sober, scholarly lad. “ I know a little,” said Jacques, humbly, “of the great world in which you live, and of literary men and fame; my grandfather was a writer for the press in France.” And then Jacques, with diffidence and embarrassment, confessed that in the long, silent hours, just to amuse his thoughts, he had himself composed a few lines, and had them in memory. They were not much, he said, but they gave him something to think about, and imparted to his solitary hours a certain pleasure.

“I am not skilled in punctuation,” he remarked, in his unaffected way, “ and so I have never written them down.” As the two became more acquainted, the old man, blushing a little, repeated a poem of his own, and the young student jotted it down in cipher in his note - book. The hermit was greatly pleased at this, and smiled with a simple, honest pride, as his words were read back to him to see that all was right. Jacques was correct in saying that the lines were not very much. They were evidently inspired by Milton’s Paradise Lost, and treated of the same great theme. With all their rudeness, however, they revealed the native grandeur of his soul, and I would fain believe that they reflected in some degree the light of the great epic that inspired them.

As the sun was going down, the boys and Jacques sat in the cottage door.

“ You call each other Will and George,” said Jacques, “ but if I may ask, what are your full names? ”

The boys gave their names and the name of their father.

What was it that made Jacques tremble and then remain so still? The boys noticed the agitation and the silence, but knew no cause. By degrees the conversation was resumed. A half-hour passed away.

Jacques said to Will, as if casually, “ Your father is the missionary-pastor that has recently come to this region and visits the settlement sometimes? ”

Will replied in the affirmative. The conversation turned again to other matters. An hour later Jacques said to Will, “ You favor your father in your looks, I suppose.”

“ Yes, so they say,” replied Will, smiling at the old man’s curiosity.

“ But he is not like your father,” said Jacques, pointing to George.

“ No,” said Will, unconsciously, “he is like mother, they say.”

Why was the old man so quiet? Why did his voice tremble when he spoke? The hoys noticed how humble and sad and subdued he seemed that evening, and wondered why he consulted every wish of theirs so anxiously, and seemed to strive so hard to serve them.

In spite of their expostulations the hermit gave up his one bed to the boys. The brothers sat by their bed before retiring. They were whispering a moment together. What was it? Jacques heard the words, “ George, mother said we always must,” and then the two knelt silently at the bedside. When they rose they saw that Jacques was also kneeling, and a low sound like a sob came from the dim corner where he was, as he rose from his knees. There were kind good nights said, and wishes for a bright to-morrow, and the lads slept.

The wishes for a bright morning were realized, and the youthful travelers prepared to resume their journey. Before they went away Jacques said, “ I was acquainted with your parents many years ago ; that is,” he continued, with a strange faltering, “I do not know as I was acquainted with your father — You might tell them,” he added, “ that Mr. Jacques sends his respects, — if they should remember me.”

It was seven o’clock, and the sun was shining very brightly, when the rosyfaced boys left Jacques’s cabin, and with kind words of “ good-by ” started along the road out toward the mining settlement. As they passed into the woods they turned and looked back once more at the garden and the flowers, and they waved one more adieu with their caps to the hermit. As they did so Jacques stood by the road-side, leaning upon his staff and weeping bitterly.

“ That is a very strange old man,” said George.

“ So he is,” said Will; I think he was crying all last night.” And the two, so young and inexperienced in the voyage of life, passed on, not knowing what message they had brought to this shipwrecked mariner, upon his lonely rock in the vast, mysterious ocean.

Jacques’s health declined. Nellie thought it was not safe for the old man to live alone. She urged upon her husband the propriety of bringing their friend to their own house. But Jacques when invited said, no, he could not leave lus home. In the winter following, Nellie’s husband visited Jacques several times, making the journey upon snowshoes. But he always found the hermit in about his usual health, and able, he said, to visit the settlement whenever he desired it.

It was spring again. Robins and bluebirds came; and Jacques’s garden hummed with the bees and bloomed with flowers. There came a bright, warm day, when the fire-pulsed, leafy June was glowing with the life of a new summer. Nellie and little Mary went in their wagon to visit “ old Mr. Jacques,” at the lake. They came to the cottage. The timid little maiden sprang out of the wagon and went forward through the gate, while her mother remained to tie the old gray horse to a post. Mary went close up to the cottage. The door was open and she stepped in. Then she called back to her mother that Jacques was asleep. Nellie felt the presentiment. She entered the cabin, and there upon the bed was the weary traveler, forever at rest.

It was plain that the great conqueror had surprised him. Jacques was dressed with his usual neatness and care. His Milton had fallen from his hand and was lying upon the bed by his side. The clock was ticking upon the shelf, and the flowers upon the little table at the bedside were still fresh with the morning dew. The little window toward the lake was open, and the light summer air stirred the white muslin curtain that shaded it. Nellie and little Mary stood for a while awe-stricken in the great hush and stillness of the presence of death. Then Nellie closed the house, and her tears fell as she realized that she was doing the last service she could render her friend. Then she and little Mary returned to the settlement, and suitable aid was secured and sent to the cabin.

It was proposed that Jacques should be brought out to the common buryingground; but it turned out that he had strictly charged Nellie that his grave should be at his home. The place lie had chosen was where the flowers grew, anti the bees and the birds and the sunshine came first in spring.

The hermit’s wishes in regard to his last resting-place were complied with. The funeral was upon the Sabbath; and a service at the settlement was omitted, in order that the people might assemble at the hermitage. It was esteemed fortunate that the missionary - pastor was making his round, traveling with his wife in the bright, summer weather, along the roads to the settlements in the wilderness. They came to the meeting that bright Sabbath, at the little clearing in the woods.

The missionary-pastor was a venerable man, who had seen service in the cause of his Master in many fields. His wife was a tall, quiet woman, bearing well the dignity of age. The silver was thickening in her hair, but her features were still symmetrically molded and she retained her queenly tread.

The pastor spoke from the door of the cabin, while the women were within, and a congregation of men was upon the outside.

Why did the pastor’s wife manifest so much interest in the cabin and the things there? She observed the hermit’s furniture and his books. After the sermon, when there was a little stir in arranging before burial, she ventured to lift a worn copy of Milton’s Poems from the table at her side. What was it upon the flyleaf that brought a little flush to her face? Only these faded words, written in an unformed, girlish hand, “ Happy New Year to Mr. Jacques, 1829.”

Soon the arrangements were made, and the people, according to the country custom, passed in file, by the coffin and looked their last. It was noticed that the pastor’s wife wept, and placed a flower from the garden upon the breast of the aged sleeper.

The services were over. The body of Benjamin Jacques had been committed to its kindred dust. The pastor observed that his wife trembled as he aided her to get into the stout buggy which was his traveling carriage. As the line of wagons filed along the road under the trees, the pastor said in his kindest tone, “ My dear, you were very much affected by the services, to-day.” The wife placed her hand tenderly upon her husband’s arm and replied, ”It is the same man, Joseph; I was acquainted with Mr. Jacques when I was a young girl in Salem.”

P. Deming.