In the Fear of the Lord

LET it be made plain, in the beginning, that the dear Lord had nothing to do with it, for the doors of that poor heart were fast closed against him, and the benighted child within trembled, ever trembled, to hear Love’s timid knocking: such, gentle reader, is the teaching of gray seas and a bleak coast, — the voice of thunder is a voice of warning, but the waving of the newblown blossom, where the sunlight falls upon it, is a lure to damnation. It was not the dear Lord: it was the Lord God A’mighty, —a fantastic misconception, the work of the blind minds of men, which has small part with mercy and the high leading of love. Men’s imaginations, being untutored and unconfined, fashion queer gods of the stuff the infinite contains. When they roam afar, — as from bleak places, where no yellow fields, no broad, waving acres, yielding bounteously, make love manifest to the children of men, nor do vaulted forests all reverberant to the wind’s solemn strains inspire souls to deeper longing, — when they roam afar, it may be, the gods they fetch back are terrible gods. In Ragged Harbor, which is a cleft in the Newfoundland upper shore, some men have fashioned a god of rock and tempest and the sea’s rage, —a gigantic, frowning shape, throned in a mist, whereunder black waters curl and hiss, and are cold and without end; and in the right hand of the shape is a flaming rod of chastisement, and on either side of the throne sit grim angels, with inkpots and pens, who jot down the sins of men, relentlessly spying out their innermost hearts; and behind the mist, far back in the night, the flames of pain, which are forked and writhing and lurid, light up the clouds and form an aureole for the shape, and provide him with his halo. No, it was not the dear Lord who had to do with the case of Nazareth Lute of Ragged Harbor, — not the Lord who lives in melting hearts and therefrom compassionately proceeds to the aid and comfort of all the sons of men, even as it is written: it was merely the Lord God A’mighty.

Now, the father of this Lute, old Richard Lute, of the path to Squid Cove, where it rounds the Man-o’-War, called his first - born, Nazareth, and changed his own name to Jesus when he was converted, believing it to be no sin, but, indeed, a public confession of old transgressions and new faith, — a deed of high merit, which might counterbalance even so much as the past unrighteousness of putting more sea water than lobsters in the cans he had traded with Luke Dart, and would so be counted unto him when he stood on the waters at the foot of the throne and the dread account was put in his hand. “If it goas agin them lobsters on the Lord God A’mighty’s bill,” he told the people, “’t will do. If it oan’y goas agin the lobsters, b’y, ” he said to young Solomon Stride, “maybe, — maybe, b’y, — I ’ll have a balance t’ me favor, an’ I ’ll slip through the pearly gate. ’T were a clever thought, b’y, changin’ me name, — iss, ’t were; iss, ’t were! ” Thereafter, Jesus Lute lived righteously, according to the commands of his God; but he died mad: because, as it has been said, and I do verily believe, he dwelt overmuch on those things which are eternal, — wondering, wondering, wondering, in sunlight and mist and night, off shore in the punt, laboring at the splitting table, spreading fish on the flake, everywhere, wondering all the while whither souls took their flight. So much of Richard Lute: and it must be said, too, that the mother of this Nazareth was of a piety exceeding deep. She was famed in seven harbors for her glory fits, — for her visions and prophecies and strange healings, — and from seven harbors folk came for to see, when it was noised abroad that a glory fit was upon her or at hand: to see and to hear, and to interrogate the Lord God A’mighty concerning the time and manner of death, for it was believed that the Lord God A’mighty spoke with her lips at such times.

“But it gets the weather o’ me how that b’y comes by his wickedness,” said old Solomon Stride, when Nazareth had grown to be a man. “It do get the weather o’ me. He ’ve a gun’le load of it — sure he have.”

“They was nar a sinful hair to his mother’s head,” asserted Priscilla, Solomon’s wife.

“Sure, noa, dear,” said Solomon. “Nor yet ar a one to his fawther’s — when he had ar a one, afore he capsized, poor mortal; which he had n’t t’ the madhouse t’ Saint John’s, they says, ’cause he just would tear un out, an’ they was noa such thing as his heavin’ to.”

“ ’T is queer, ” replied Priscilla thoughtfully. “But they be lots o’ things that’s queer — about religion,” she added, with a sigh, and plucking at her apron. “An his mother were oan’y here t’ have a glory fit, us might find out — find out ” —

“What might us find out, dear ? ”

“Sh-h-h! They be things about Heaven ’t is not for we t’ know.”

“’T is true; but the dear Lord is wise — wise an’ kind, noa matter what some poor folk trys t’ make un out.”

“The Lord God’s the Lord God A’mighty,” said Priscilla quickly, speaking in fear.

“I ’low he’m better ’n us thinks,” added Solomon, looking into the depths of the sunset.

“Solomon, b’y,”urged Priscilla, “I fear me you ’ll be a-sittin’ in the seat o’ the scorner afore long.”

“Noa, dear,” said Solomon. “Noa, noa! ”

To be sure, the wickedness of Nazareth Lute was of a most lusty, lively character: not a dullard, shiftless wickedness, which contents itself with an unkempt beard, a sleep in the sunshine, and a maggoty punt. It was a wickedness patent to all the folk of Ragged Harbor: so, only the unrighteous, who are wise in a way, and the children, who are all-wise, loved him; and it may be that the little people loved him for one of his sins — the sin of unfailing jollity, in which he was steeped. His beard, which was curly and fair and rooted in rosy flesh, and his voice, which was deep and throbbing, and his blue eye, which flashed fire in the dusk, were, each in its way, all wicked: the hearts of the maids fluttered and told them so when he came near. The poise of his head and his quick, bold glance proclaimed him devilmay-care ; and his saucy wit and irreverence put the matter beyond all doubt. His very gait — his jaunty, piratical roll down the Old Crow Road — was a flouting of the Lord God A’mighty, before whom, as Uncle Simon Luff has it, men should bear themselves as “wrigglin’ worms.” He wickedly gloried in his strength,— in the breadth and height and might of himself: ever forgetting, as Uncle Simon said, that the “grass withereth, an’ the tall trees is laid low.” In boyhood, his ambitions were all wicked; for he longed to live where he could go to the theatre, of the glittering delights of which he had read in a tract, and to win money at cards, of which he had read in another. Later, his long absences and riotous returns were wicked; his hip pocket bulged with wickedness for a week after he came ashore from the mail boat, and for the same week his legs wickedly wabbled, and the air was tainted with wickedness where he breathed. The deeds he did on his cruises were wicked, in truth, — ever more deeply wicked: wicked past conception to the minds of men who do not know the water fronts of cities, nor have imagined the glaring temptations which there lie in wait.

“They ’s a spring o’ sin in the innards o’ that there b’y, ” said Uncle Simon Luff, “an’ ’t will never run dry ’til the fires o’ hell sap un up.”

When Nazareth Lute was thirty-two years old, he came ashore from the mail boat one night in spring, after long absence from Ragged Harbor; and he was sober, and very solemn. He went straight to his father’s house, on the Squid Cove path, where he now lived alone; and there he remained until the evening of the next day, which was the Sabbath. When Sammy Arnold tolled the bell he set out for the meeting-house in his punt, observing which, many people went to church that night. At the after-meeting, for which, curiously, everybody waited, Nazareth stood up, the first of all: whereupon there was a rustle, then a strained hush, which filled the little place, even to the shadows where the rafters were.

“O friends,” he began, in a dry, faltering voice, “I come here, the night, — I come here, where I were barn an’ raised, — t’ this here ha’bor where I warked on me fawther’s flake, as a wee child, an’ kept the head of his punt up t’ the wind many a day on the Grapplin’ Hook grounds, as a lad, an’ jigged squid for his bait many a sunset time after the capelin school was gone off shore, — here, where I were a paddle punt fisherman on me own hook, as a man, — I come here, O friends, the night, ” his voice now rising tremulously, “t’ tell all you folk how my poor soul were saved from the damnation o’ the Lard God A’mighty.” He stopped to wet his lips, and to gulp, for lips and throat were dried out; then he went on, the light of conviction burning ever brighter in his eyes: “O friends, I ’ve been standin’ on the brink o’ hell these many year, all afire o’ the stinkin’ flames o’ sin, as you knows; an’ the warnin’s o’ the Lard God A’mighty, hisself, which he sent me in three wrecks an’ the measles, was like the shadow o’ some small cloud, —like a shadow a-runnin’ over the sea; for the shadow passes quickly, an’ the sea is the same as he were afore. (Amen, an’ Amen, O Lard!) Likewise, O friends, was the warnin’s o’ God A’mighty t’ my poor soul,” he went on, his voice of a sudden charged with the tearful quality of humiliation, “’til Toosday, a week gone, at six o’clock, or thereabouts, in the marnin’. The day afore that, O friends, I were bound out from Saint John’s t’ Twillingate, in ballast o’ salt, along o’ Skipper Peter Alexander Bull, an’ a crew o’ four hands, which is some’at shorthanded for Skipper Peter Alexander’s schooner, as you all knows. (O Lard!) When we was two hours out the skipper he got drunk; an’ the cook, which was Jonathan Bluff, from this here ha’bor, he were drunk a’ready, as I knows, for I lent a hand t’ stow un away when he come aboard; an’ when the skipper he got drunk, an’ the cook he were drunk a’ready, James Thomson and William Cole they got drunk, too, for they was half drunk an’ knowed noa better.” They were now all listening enrapt; and from time to time they broke into exclamations, as they were moved by Nazareth’s dramatic recital. “So I were the oan’y able hand aboard o’ she, ” the man went on, speaking hoarsely, as though again in terror of the thing he did, “an’ I says t’ myself, though I had the wheel, O friends (Lard, Lard!), I said t’ myself, which was sunk in iniquity, an’ knowed not the heaviness o’ sin (Save un, O Lard, save un!), says I, ‘ I might ’s well be drunk, too.’ So I goas down t’ the fo’cas’le, O friends, an’ in the fo’cas’le I gets me dunnybag (O Lard!), an’ from the dunnybag I takes a bottle (O Lard, O Lard!), an’ out o’ the bottle I draws the stopper (O Lard A’mighty!), an’ I raises the bottle t’ me lips (Stop un, O Lard !), an’ — an’ — I gets drunk, then an’ there; so then the schooner she were in the hands o’ the wind, which it were blowin’ so light as a’most nothin’ from the sou’east, an’ we was well off shore.”

Nazareth paused. He raised his right arm, and looked up, as though in supplication. His head dropped over his breast, and he was still silent; so the old parson began this hymn: —

With him all the people sang, from the shrill-voiced young to the quavering, palsied old, — sang with joyful enthusiasm, as they who have escaped great terror.

“In the night,” Nazareth went on, “I hears a noise; so I said, ‘ What’s that?’ The skipper he woke up, an’ says, ‘ ’T is a rat.’ ’T was n’t, though; but I falls asleep once moare, an’ when I wakes up in the marnin’ I be all a-shakin’ and blinded by the liquor, an’ I sees queer streaks o’ green an’ yellow in the air. So I goas on deck, an’ there I sees that the schooner do be rubbin’ her nose fair agin Yellow Rock, by the tickle t’ Seldom Cove; an’ she ’ve wrecked her bowsprit, an’ she’ve like t’ stove a hoale in her port side. But the sea is all ripplin’, an’ they is hardly noa wind; so she pounds easy.” Nazareth looked up to the grimy rafters overhead, and the words following he addressed to the Lord his God, his voice thrilling as his soul’s exaltation increased: “An’ I looked up, an’ I sees you, O Lard God A’mighty, sittin’ on the top o’ Yellow Rock; an’ your cloathes do be spun o’ fog, an’ your face is hid from me. Iss, 0 Lard, you was a-lookin’ down on me; an’ you sings out, O Lard, ‘ Nazareth Lute, ’ you sings out, ‘ repent! ’ But behind the cloud which hid your face, like a veil, O Lard God A’mighty, I knowed you was a-frownin’; an’ I were scared, an’ said nar a word. ‘ Nazareth Lute,’you sings out agin, ‘ repent afore you ’re lost! ’ But I were still scared, O Lard God A’mighty, for the light o’ the cloud went out, an’ it were black, like the first cloud of a great starm.

Nazareth Lute, ’ you says for the third time, ‘repent afore you’re hove into the fires o’ hell! ’ Then the cloud shivered, like when the wind tears un t’ bits; an’ my voice come t’ me, an’ I says, ‘ Iss, Lard, I will.’ ” Turning once more to the people, Nazareth said: “Then I sings out, ‘ All hands on deck! ’ But the crew was drunk an’ did not come; an’ when I looked up again t’ Yellow Rock, the Lard was gone from that place. So I soused the hands with buckets o’ water, O friends; an’ over the head o’ the skipper I slushed three of un, for he were the drunkest of all. So when they was sober agin we set sail, an’ the Lard sent us a fair time, an’ we come safe t’ Twillingate. The fight do be over for me, O friends, — the long, long fight I fought with sin. ’T is over now, — all over; an’ I’ve come t’ peace. For I found the Lard God A’mighty a-sittin’ there on Yellow Rock, by the tickle t’ Seldom Cove, a-frownin’ in a cloud.”

That was the manner of the conversion of Nazareth Lute; and thereafter he lived righteously, even as his father had lived, according to the commands of the Lord God A’mighty, his God, whom he had fashioned of tempest and rock and the sea’s rage, with which his land had abundantly provided him. Thereafter he lived righteously; but his eyes were blinded to all those beauties, both great and small, which the dear Lord has strewn in hearts and places, in love withholding not; and his ears were stopped against the tender whisperings which twilight winds waft with them, from the infinite to the infinite: for it was as though the cloud and flame of the wrath of his God, following after, cast a shadow before him, and filled the whole earth with the thunder and roar and crackling of their pursuit. Thereupon, indeed, he became a fisherman again, and thereafter he lived righteously : for he did thereafter not do many things which he had been used to doing. All the maids with dimpled cheeks and all the children knew that he put the sin of jollity far from him. Also, it is told to this day, when men speak of righteous lives, how that he hung his last clay pipe from a rafter, and looked upon it morning and evening, after prayer, to remind himself that sensual delights, such as are contained in the black, cracked bowls of pipes, are like snares set for the souls of the unwary. Moreover, it can be proved how that once, when he could not take the punt to his nets on a Saturday night, the wind being high, he freed all the fish on Monday morning, freed them all, the quintal upon quintal of gleaming fish in the trap; more, then and there in the nets by chance, than the Lord God A’mighty had granted to his labor all that summer through; but, thereby, he saved himself from the charge of desecrating the Sabbath in permitting his nets to work on that day, which the grim angels were waiting to note down against him, and he gained greatly in humility and in strength against temptation. He lived righteously : for, as he fled the wrath of his God, the cloud and flame were close behind; and at the end of the toilsome path, as upon the crest of a long hill, was set the City of Light and the gates of the City, wherethrough men passed to a shiny splendor.

“I been thinkin’, b’y,” he said to Solomon Stride, at the time of one blood-red sunset, when their punts were side by side coming in from the Mad Mull grounds, “that I doan’t know as I’ll want one o’ they golden harps.”

“Sure, an’ why not, b’y? ” Solomon called over the purpling water.

“I doan’t know as I will, ” said Nazareth, “ for I were never much of a hand at the jew’s-harp. ’T will be gran’ for you, b’y. You was always a wonderful hand at that, an’ the harp o’ gold ’ll come easy t’ l’arn. Sure, you ’ll pick un up in a day. But with me ’t is different. I — I — can’t so much ’s whistle a hymn, Solomon. Noa, b’y, I doan’t know as I ’ll want one o’ they harps; but if they ’s a sea there, b’y, they’s fish in it; an’ if the sea’s gold, the fish ’s gold; an’ ’t is like, b’y, they’ll be hooks as well as harps, an’ maybe a trap an’ a seine or two. An’ if they’s ” —

“You is all wrong about Heaven,” said Solomon. “They’s noa eatin’, there, Nazareth.”

“’T is true, b’y, maybe — iss, maybe ’t is,” said Nazareth, in all humility admitting the possibility of error. “’T would be hard eatin’, whatever. But, maybe,” with a reflective frown, “they ’s a queer kind o’ teeth comes with the new body. Oh, well, whatever, ” with a sigh, “I doan’t know what I ’ll do when I gets there — sure an’ I doan’t.”

“You ’ll take a grip on a harp, b’y, ” Solomon cried enthusiastically, “an’ you ’ll swing your flipper over the golden strings, an’ ” —

“Noa, noa! ’T would be a sinful waste o’ good harps for the Lard God A’mighty t’ put one in my hands. I’d break un sure.”

“But he ’ve a great heap o’ them, an’ he ’d ” —

“Noa, noa! ”

“But he’d l’arn you, b’y; he’d l’arn you t’ ” —

“Noa, b’y— noa. ’T would be too tough a job, an’ I would n’t put the Lard God A’mighty t’ the trouble o’ that. Noa, noa; if they’s noa fish in that there sea, I doan’t know what I ’ll do when I gets there. I doan’t know what I ’ll do, Solomon. I doan’t know what I ’ll do — all the time.”

Nazareth Lute thought that a man should either search diligently for things to do in the last light of day, or be cast down when there was no work about the cottage, the punt, or the flake. He should look to the condition of the capelin in the loft, or gather soil for a new potato patch: in his sight the sin of idleness was like a clog to the neck of one who traveled the road to the City of Light — the idleness of half-hours after sunset, it may be, when the fish were split, and the unrighteous rested, and the wicked had their way. One winter, when he had mended his cod trap and knitted a herring seine and a new salmon net, he set out to whittle the model of a schooner, thinking to sell it to Manuel of Burnt Arm, who builded five schooners every year, and give the money to the church, to the end that, at last. Ragged Harbor might be in a fair way toward having a parson all to herself. So he whittled, and whittled, and whittled away; and while the wood took form under his fingers, even as he, himself, directed, yielding to his veriest whims, and gave promise of that grace and strength which he, alone of all the world, had conceived, a new, flooding joy came to him, — such happiness as he had not hoped for on earth or in heaven. He whittled the drear days through, and, in the night, while the wind swept the hills and flung snow against the panes, he sat long in the leaping firelight, whittling still, bending ever closer over the forming thing in his hands, creeping ever nearer to the expiring blaze, and dreaming great dreams all the while. In this work his soul found vent; even, it may be said, a touch of the tiny hull — a soft, lingering touch in the night — gave a comfort which neither prayer nor fasting, nor any other thing, could bring to his unrest; and, soon, his last waking thought was not of the Lord God A’mighty, his God, as it had been, nor yet of a yawning hell, but of the thing which his hands were forming. And when the model was polished and mounted, which was in that spring when old Simon Luff’s last grandson was born, he did not sell it to Manuel of Burnt Arm; for he wanted to know of his own knowledge, when he saw the craft afloat, that the builder had brought her promise to its perfect fulfillment. So he determined to build her himself. She would be, he told himself, the work of his own hands: and the work would be good. In the summer he toiled hard at the fishing, and in the winter following he cut timber in the inland woods, and hauled it out with the dogs; and in three years he had the keel laid and two of the ribs set in place.

“Solomon, b’y,” he confided to Solomon Stride, in a dark whisper, once, “she ’ll be the best sixty-tonner ever sailed these seas — once I get her done.”

“She’ll be overlong in buildin’, I be thinkin’,” said Solomon.

“Oh, I doan’t know ’s she will,” Nazareth made reply. “ ’T will be a matter o’ twelve year, maybe. But once I get she done, Solomon — once I get she out o’ the tickle in a switch from the nor’east — once I doos, b’y, she’ll be a cracker t’ goa! Iss, an’ she will.”

“Iss, an’ I hope so,” said Solomon. “ But her keel ’ ll rot afore this time twelve year.”

“Iss, maybe, ” said Nazareth. “I be ’lowin’ for a rotten keel. Iss, I be ’lowin’ t’ use up two keels on this here craft. ”

One day, old Uncle Simon Luff, rowing in from the grounds with but two fish to show for the day’s jigging, turned his punt into the little cove where Nazareth was at work, and came ashore.

“They tells me,” said he, “that you be goain’ t’ use galvanized nails for she, ” with a side nod toward the schooner.

Nazareth’s adze fell twice upon the timber he was dubbing. “Iss, ” said he. “I be goain’ t’ use galvanized nails. ’T is true.”

“They tells me ’t will cost a wonderful sight moare.”

“I calc’late $76.80 for nails, b’y,” said Nazareth, as his adze fell again, “ which is — ugh ! — as you says — ugh! — a wonderful sight moare ’n — ugh! — wrought nails. ”

Uncle Simon sat down on the keel. “What do you ’low for your spars, b’y ? ” he asked.

Nazareth spat on his hands, and answered while he rubbed the horny palms together. “Well, b’y, I can’t cut the spars single-handed, an’ they’s noa good timber in these parts,” he said. “But I can get un t’ Burnt Arm, an’ I can tow un up with the punt: which it is but a matter o’ twenty mile, as you knows. I ’low $150 for a set, an’ $12 for a main boom, an’ $4 for three gaffs an’ a topmast if I doan’t cut un meself. But ’t is a long time ’til I needs un.”

“Nazareth,” said Uncle Simon, “what do you ’low this schooner ’ll cost you ? ”

Nazareth suspended the dubbing, and put a foot on the keel. “I be goain’ t’ make she a good schooner, Uncle Simon,” he said solemnly. “So good a schooner as ever sailed out of a ha’bor. She ’ll have twenty-five ribs to her body frame, which is five moare ’n Manuel’s Duchess have; an’ I be goain’t’ brace her bows with oak for the ice. I be goain’ t’ give she four sets o’ clamps, an’ juniper top-sides, an’ two an’ a quarter inch ceiling planking; an’ I ’ll put a bolt where they’s call for a bolt. She ’ll have her suit o’ sails from Saint John’s, an’ I ’ll serve her standin’ riggin’, an’ when it comes t’ caulking I ’ll horse her. Uncle Simon, b’y, I ’low $767 for her timber, an’ I ’low $550 for iron an’ nails an’ oakum an’ windlass an’ harse pipes an’ all they things; an’ ’t will cost me $1200 t’ fit she out, ’lowin’ I can get three anchors an’ some likely chain for $250, an’ rope enough for $80, an’ a set o’ blocks for $100, an’ the suit o’ sails I wants for $400. Maybe, Simon, countin’ in me own labor an’ what little I hire at $900, an’ gettin’ me smithy wark done t’ Burnt Arm for $250, she ’ll cost me $3500 afore I take she out o’ the tickle for t’ try she. Simon,” he concluded, his voice a-thrill with deep purpose, “she ’ll be the best sixty-tonner what ever sailed these seas! ”

“Nazareth,” said Simon, “can you do it, b’y? ”

“Iss, Simon, if the Lard God A’mighty sends the seals in the spring an’ a reasonable sign o’ fish in season, I ’ll do it. If the Lard God A’mighty leaves me take $200 out o’ the sea each year—if he oan’y doos that — I’ll sail she this spring come twelve year.”

“ ’T is a deal t’ expect,” urged Simon. shaking his head. “S’pose the Lard cuts you down t’ $150? ”

Nazareth scratched his head in a perplexed way. “I’d sail she, I s’pose,” he said, “this spring come eighteen year.”

“ Maybe, ” said Simon, for he had looked back through the years he had lived. “A man can do a good spell o’ wark — in a life. But you ’re lookin’ poor an’ lean, b’y,” he added. “Eat moare,” now rising to go to his punt, “an’ you ’ll get a wonderful sight moare wark out o’ yourself.”

“Doos you think so? ” asked Nazareth, looking up quickly, as though the suggestion were new and most striking.

“I knows it,” said Uncle Simon.

“Maybe, now, you ’re right,” added Nazareth. “I ’ll try it.”

But at the end of twelve years, which was the time when Uncle Simon’s last grandson was made a hand in the trapskiff, the schooner was still on the stocks, though Nazareth Lute had near worn out his life with pinching and cruel work: for they were hard years, and the Lord God A’mighty, his God, had not generously rewarded the toil of men. Uncle Simon Luff, who was now surpassing old and gray, and, like a prophet, stood upon the holiness of past years, called upon the people to repent of their sins, that the Lord God A’mighty might be persuaded to withdraw his anger from them. “Yea, even,” cried Uncle Simon, in one ecstasy at the meeting-house, “hunt out the Jonah among you, an’ heave un out o’ this here ha’bor! ” Now, Nazareth Lute, believing that Uncle Simon had come to that holy age when the mouth may utter wisdom which the mind conceiveth not, searched his heart for sin, but found none: whereupon, he was greatly distressed, for he thought to appease the wrath of the Lord God A’mighty with repentance, that the Lord, his God, might grant the means to make the schooner ready for launching. Nevertheless, being exceeding anxious to purge his heart of such sins as may lurk in hearts all unsuspected, he put ashes on his head for three nights, when his fire went out; for with his whole heart he longed for the Lord God A’mighty to restore his favor, that the schooner might some day be finished. And when, for three more years, the Lord God still frowned upon Ragged Harbor, he put no blame upon the Lord God A’mighty, his God, for scorning his poor propitiation, but, rather, blamed himself for having no sackcloth at hand with which to array himself.

“They ’s a good sign o’ fish t’ Round Ha’bor, ” said Solomon Stride to Nazareth, in the beginning of that season, when the news first came down. “ ’T is like they ’ll strike here. ’T will be a gran’ cotch o’ fish this year, I’m thinkin’.”

“Doos you think so, b’y ? ” said Nazareth, his face lighting up. “Solomon, b’y, if I can oan’y get me schooner done, — if I can oan’y get she done afore I dies, — I ’ll not be much afeard t’ face the Lard God A’mighty when I stands afore the throne.”

“Noa, noa, lad — sure noa! ”

“Solomon, when the Lard God A’mighty says t’ me, ' Nazareth Lute, what has you got t’ show for the life I give you? ’ I ’ll say, ' O Lard God A’mighty,’ I ’ll say, ' I built the fastest sixty-tonner what ever sailed these seas.’ An’ he ’ll say, ' Good an’ faithful sarvent, ’ he ’ll say, ' enter into thy reward, for you done well along o’ that there schooner.’ An’ I been thinkin’, o’ late, Solomon,” Nazareth went on, letting his voice fall to a confidential whisper, " that he ’ll say a ward or two moare ’n that. Maybe,” with a sweet, radiant smile, “he ’ll say, ' Nazareth Lute, ’ he ’ll say afore all the angels, ' I’m proud o’ you, b’y, —I ’m fair proud o’ you.’ ”

“Iss, an’ he will,” said Solomon gently, for he perceived that the strain of toil and longing had somewhat weakened Nazareth for the time. " Sure, he ’ll say them very words. I knows it.”

“Maybe,” said Nazareth; then, with a wise wag of his head: “’T is hard t’ tell for sure, though, just what the Lard God A’mighty will do. ’T is wonderful hard, I’m thinkin’.”

“Iss, wonderful, ” said Solomon; “but ’t is sure t’ be done right.”

When Uncle Simon Luff’s last grandson had learned to loiter at the Needle Rock to make eyes at the maids as they passed, which was two years after the season of plenty, Nazareth Lute launched his schooner ; and with prayer and psalm-singing and a pot of blackberry jam she was christened the Heavenly Hope. The days of tribulation, when the great fear of the wrath of the Lord God A’mighty descended upon Ragged Harbor, were over: again, with his whole heart, Nazareth Lute longed to lay a guiding hand upon the helm of the craft he had made, — to feel the thrill of her eager response to the touch of his finger. Day-dreams haunted him while he worked, — dreams of singing winds and a wake of froth, of a pitching, heeling flight over great waves, of swelling sails and of foam at the rail, of squalls escaped, and of gales weathered in the night. In these long, sunny days, when all the rocks of the harbor cheerily echoed the noise of hammer and saw, and the smell of oakum and paint and new wood was in the air to delight in, he was happy: for the cloud and flame of the wrath of the Lord God A’mighty, his God, were unperceived and forgotten. In these days, too, Uncle Simon Luff puttered about the deck, a querulous, flighty, tottering old child : and sometimes he fancied he was the master-builder of the schooner, and gave orders, which Nazareth pretended to obey ; and sometimes he fancied she was at sea in a gale, and roared commands, at which times it was hard to soothe him to quiet. But Nazareth Lute delighted in the company and in the prattle, from sunny day to sunny day, while he rigged the boat: for he did not know that a revelation impended and might come by the lips of old Simon Luff, — the inevitable, crushing revelation of his idolatrous departure from the one path of escape.

“Nazareth,” said Uncle Simon crossly one day when Nazareth was caulking the forward deck planks, “I told you t’ horse them planks, an’ you is n’t doin’ it.”

“Iss, I is, Uncle Simon, b’y,” said Nazareth, looking up with a smile. “I be drivin’ the oakum in thick an’ tight.”

“Noa, you isn’t!” said Uncle Simon in a rage.

“Iss, b’y, sure” —

Uncle Simon sprung away. He straightened himself to his full stature and lifted up his right hand. His long white hair fell over his shoulders: his white beard quivered, and his eyes flashed, as the eyes of some indignant prophet might.

“Nazareth Lute,” he cried, “you loves this here schooner moare ’n you loves the Lard God A’mighty! ”

Nazareth’s mallet clattered harshly on the deck. It had fallen from his grasp, for the strength had gone out of his hands. He rose, trembling.

“Take them wards back, Simon,” he said hoarsely. “Take un back, b’y,” he pleaded. “They isn’t true.”

“Iss, an’ they is true, ” Simon grumbled. “This here schooner’s your golden calf. The Lard God A’mighty ’ll punish you for lovin’ she moare ’n you love him.”

The cloud and flame of the wrath of the Lord God A’mighty seemed very near to Nazareth. In a dazed way he watched old Simon totter to the side and climb into his punt: watched him row out from the ship.

“Simon,” he called earnestly, “say ’t is n’t true — what you said.”

“ ’T is, an’ ’t is, an’ can’t be ’t iser, ” said Simon.

Nazareth was struck a mortal blow.

When the light failed, that night, and there remained but the wan light of the stars to guide the work of his hands, Nazareth Lute put aside his mallet and his oakum; and he stretched himself out on the forward deck, with his face upturned, that he might ponder again, in the night’s silence, the words of Simon Luff: for Simon was old, very old and white-haired; and he had lived a long life without sin, as men knew, and had at last come to those days wherein strange inspirations and communications are vouchsafed to holy men. And Nazareth fell asleep — while from the stars to the shimmering water, and from the sea’s misty rim to the first shrubs and shadows of the wilderness, the infinite hymned the praises of great works, he fell asleep; and while star and shadow and misty water still joined with the wilderness and great rocks in the enravishing strain, he dreamed a dream: a dream of the Lord God A’mighty, who appeared in a glowing cloud above him. Now, the words of the Lord God A’mighty, his God, whom he had made in his blindness of tempest and naked rock and the sea’s hard wrath, I here, in all compassion for Nazareth Lute, set down as they were told by him to one who told them to me.

“Nazareth Lute!” said the Lord God A’mighty.

“Here I be, O Lard, ” said Nazareth Lute.

The glowing cloud was a cloud of changing colors, — of gold and purple and gray and all sunset tints: and, of a sudden, it melted from gold to gray.

“Nazareth Lute!” said the Lord God A’mighty.

Now, Nazareth Lute trembled exceedingly, for he knew that the Lord God A’mighty, his God, had come in wrath to reprove him for his idolatry; and he was afraid.

“Here I be, O Lard,” he made answer.

But the Lord withheld his voice for a time, and Nazareth knew that he was frowning in the gray cloud.

“Nazareth Lute!” said the Lord God A’mighty, for the third time.

“Iss, Lard,” said Nazareth Lute. “ ’T is Nazareth a-speakin’. Doos you not know me, Lard ? ”

“Oh, I knows you, never fear,” said the Lord God A’mighty.

“Sure, you doos, O Lard,” said Nazareth. “I been sarvin’ you ever since that day I seen you sittin’ on Yellow Rock, by the tickle t’ Seldom Cove. You knows me, Lard.”

Then a drear silence : and roundabout was deep night, but the light of the crimson cloud fell upon the shrouds, and upon the thrice-dubbed planks of the deck, and upon the mallet near by; so the man knew that he was yet upon the deck of his own schooner, and he was comforted.

“Scuttle this here fore-an’-after,” said the Lord God A’mighty.

Now, for a time, Nazareth Lute had no voice to plead against the command of the Lord God A’mighty, for he knew that the words of the Lord stand forever.

“ O Lard, ” he cried out, at last, “leave me sail she once — just once, O Lard God A’mighty! ”

The cloud of changing colors hung in its place; but no words fell upon the waiting ears of Nazareth Lute.

“ O Lard, ” he cried, “ leave me put her sails on, an’ sell she, an’ give the money t’ the church! ”

But the cloud of changing colors made no answer: yet the very silence was an answer.

“O Lard,” said Nazareth Lute, braving the anger of the Lord, “leave me keep she. Leave me let she ride at anchor an’ rot — but leave me keep she by me.”

Still the cloud of changing colors kept silence.

“O Lard,” said Nazareth Lute, for his heart was breaking, and he no longer feared the wrath of the Lord God A’mighity, “’t isn’t fair — sure, ’t isn’t fair. She’ve been well builded, O Lard. She ’d be the best sixtytonner in these parts. Why, O Lard, must I scuttle ” —

“Nazareth Lute, does you hear me ? ”

“Iss, Lard; but ” —

“Nazareth Lute,” cried the Lord God A’mighty from the depths of the black cloud, “stop your prate! ’T is not for wrigglin’ worms t’ know the mysteries o’ the heaven an’ o’ the earth. An you doan’t scuttle this here focean’-after, she ’ll wreck on her first v’y’ge, an’ all hands ’ll loss themselves. Mind that, Nazareth Lute! ”

Whereupon, the cloud of changing colors vanished : and all things were as they had been when the daylight failed — from the stars to the shimmering water, and from the sea’s misty rim to the first shrubs and shadows of the wilderness. But the hymn in praise of great works fell upon the ears of a numb soul.

Now, Nazareth Lute told no man what the Lord God A’mighty, his God, had commanded him to do: and, from year to year, continuing, he toiled early and late, as he had done before, that his schooner might be a great and perfect work before he died; but he dreamed no more dreams of swelling sails and a wake of froth. On the night when Uncle Simon Luff’s last grandson’s first child was born, which was long after Uncle Simon’s feet had grown used to the streets of the City of Light, as men said, Nazareth went to Solomon Stride’s cottage, under the Man-o’-War, to talk a while; for old Solomon lay ill abed, and Nazareth’s work was done. The shadows were then stealing out of the wilderness upon the heels of the sun’s red glory: and behind lurked the dusk and a clammy mist.

“Draw the curtains back, b’y, ” said Solomon. “Leave us see the sun sink in the sea. ’T is a gran’ sight.”

The rim of the sea was a flaring red and gold: a great, solemn glory filled all the sky.

“They tells me,” said Solomon, after a time, “that you got the suit o’ sails from Saint John’s by the last mail boat.”

“Iss, b’y,” said Nazareth. “I fitted un on, a week gone Toosday. Me wark’s done,b’y. The schooner’s finished. She’ve been lyin’ off Mad Mull for five days — over fifteen fathom o’ water at low tide.”

“She’ve been well builded, Nazareth. She’ve been well builded.”

“Iss — the best sixty-tonner in these parts. I made she that, Solomon, as I said I would.”

“Looks like us ’ll have a switch from the nor’east the morrow,” said Solomon, turning from the sunset. “’T is like you ’ll try she then.”

“Noa, Solomon.”

“ ’T will be a gran’ wind, I’m thinkin’, b’y.” _

But, while the gloaming shadows gathered over the harbor water, Nazareth told Solomon Stride of the vision in which the Lord God A’mighty, his God, had appeared to him: and when he was done, the dusk had driven the flush of pink in upon the sun and was pressing upon the red and gold at the edge of the world.

“’T were not the Lard a-speakin’! ” Solomon cried. “’T were not, b’y — ’t were not! ”

“ Doos you think not, Solomon ? ” said Nazareth softly. “But you forgets about the sacrifice an’ propitiation for sin.”

“’T were n’t the Lard,” said Solomon.

“You forgets, Solomon,” said Nazareth, in all simplicity, “that I seed the Lard once afore, a-sittin there on Yellow Rock. Iss, b’y, I seed un once afore, an’ now I knows un when I sees un. ’T were he, b’y — iss, ’t were.”

“ ’ T were not the Lard said them wards,” said Solomon.

“You forgets, Solomon,” said Nazareth, “that the Lard God A’mighty sung out t’ Abraham, one day, an’ told un t’ offer up Isaac as a burnt offerin’. T’ offer up his son, Solomon — t’ offer up his son. He’ve oan’y asked a schooner o’ me.”

“Iss, Nazareth, he done that, ” said Solomon. “But he sent an angel in time t’ save that poor lad’s life: which were what he intended t’ do, all the time.”

“Iss, ” said Nazareth, as in a dream, “he sent an angel.”

The night, advancing swiftly, thrust the last sunset color over the rim of the sea; and it was dark.

“Solomon,” said Nazareth, “for four nights I been on the deck o’ that there schooner, watchin’ for the angel o’ the Lard, but none come. Solomon,” he faltered, “I been waitin’, an’ waitin’, an’ waitin’, but the Lard God A’mighty sends noa angel — t’ me.”

“Did the new day come ? ” said Solomon earnestly, lifting himself on his elbow.

“Iss, the new day come.”

“Seems t’ me, Nazareth,” said Solomon, “that the dear Lard peeps out o’ every dawn t’ bless us poor folk.”

“Noa, noa, ” Nazareth groaned; “the Lard God A’mighty was not in them dawns, nor yet the angel o’ the Lard; for I kep’ a sharp lookout, an’ I’d ’a’ seed un if they was there. Noa, noa, b’y,” he went on, speaking with rising firmness, “he’ve asked a sacrifice o’ me, an’ he means t’ have me make it. She’ve been fitted out with all the things she needs — to her cask-dipper, b’y, an’ her buzzie an’ anchor-light. I’ve painted her sides, an’ swabbed down her deck, an’ made she all neat an’ trim an’ shipshape. She ’s all ready t’ be offered up — all ready, now. I ’m fair sad t’ think — but — I’m goain’ t’ ” —

“What do it all matter? ” said Solomon, falling back on his pillow, wearied out. “What do it matter so ’s a man trys t’ please the dear Lard in all he doos ? ”

“Iss, Solomon,” said Nazareth, “what do it all matter, so ’s a man oan’y saves his soul from the fires o’ hell ? ”

And Nazareth went out: and in that night he scuttled his schooner, even as he believed the Lord God A’mighty, his God, had commanded him to do.

Norman Duncan.