Having satisfied himself that the wounded man, although still speechless, was capable of comprehending the scene which was about to take place, and seemed to be in a condition to support it, the attorney made a sign for Bonnemain to approach. The galley-slave cast around him a ferocious look, and seemed to be calculating the chances of escape; these appearing hopeless, he resigned himself to his situation, and slowly advancing, remained motionless a few paces from his victim, with head hanging down, face livid and contorted, and his whole frame agitated by a trembling which seemed strongly characteristic of guilt.
'This old fellow is a tough one!' thought he, as he beheld the eyes of Monsieur Gorsay, which he had believed closed for ever, now wide open and glaring upon him.
The crisis anticipated by the physician now took place. At sight of the murderer the old man, in spite of all his efforts to nerve himself, experienced a feeling of terror, the violence of which was manifested by a sudden change in his countenance. Already pale, his face became still more death-like, his eyes closed, and his head sunk upon the pillow, as if the sight of the assassin had completed the work of the poniard. As the doctor hastened to prepare a cordial, Arthur, who with one arm supported the wounded man, bent forward to apply to his nostrils a vial of salts. At this momentMonsieur Gorsay reöpened his eyes, and saw immediately before him the countenance of the man for whom Lucia had betrayed him. He stared at him for some moments with an air of stupefaction, as if contemplating an apparition to which reason will not allow us to give credence; but suddenly a supernatural fire lighted up the features which death seemed already to have stiffened with his icy hand. Hatred, indignation, fury, vengeance, all the deadly passions which since the preceding evening had been busy at his heart, now seemed to flash from his eyes in one appalling glance. Unaided, and by an effort of incredible vehemence, the old man raised himself, and stretching his hand toward Arthur, whom this movement struck with a sort of superstitious awe, he made convulsive efforts to speak, which at length burst the bands by which his tongue had until now been enchained:
'The assassin! the assassin!' cried he, with a voice which seemed to issue from a sepulchre.
A clap of thunder falling in the chamber could not have produced a greater impression than that caused by this terrible and vindictive exclamation. D'Aubian stood speechless and aghast, as if indeed guilty. A sullen smile of malice played on the lips of the galley-slave. The magistrate and physician exchanged a significant glance: the latter, approaching the wounded man, took his arm and felt his pulse.
'Ægri somnia!' said he, addressing the magistrate.
Monsieur Gorsay repulsed the doctor, with an expression of anger. 'No! it is not the dream of a sick man!' said he, in a hoarse but distinct voice; the blood which I have lost has not taken away my reason. I have my senses; I see you all. You are Monsieur Mallet; you, you are Monsieur Carigniez, the king's attorney of Reole; the curate has just left the room with my wife; these are the workmen who work in my garden; and this,' continued he, pointing to Arthur with a furious gesture, 'this is the man who has just attempted to kill me!'
'Your sight, still feeble, deceives you,' said the magistrate, who as well as Monsieur Mallet continued to think that the wounded man was not in full possession of his senses. 'Look this way; do you not recognize this man here on your right as the assassin?'
'No nonsense, Monsieur Magistrate!' cried Bonnemain; 'you see well enough that he recognizes the other one. I call every one here present to witness!'
The old man by a strong effort overcame the horror which the sight of the galley-slave caused him, and gazed on him for an instant with affected composure.
'This man,' said he, 'is called Bonnemain; he is employed by my gardener. It was not he who attempted to assassinate me. It was that one, I tell you; it was Arthur d'Aubian. Do your duty, Monsieur Attorney. I have perhaps but a short time to live; let my declaration be written down. If I die, I adjure you all to repeat to the jury my last words; write——No, give me the pen; I have sufficient strength to write myself.'
'Bravo!' said Bonnemain to himself, drawing a longer breath than he had yet done; 'this will do bravely! If all customers were as plain-spoken, there would be some pleasure in doing business. It seems the old crab has not yet digested the rope-ladder of my tall gentleman here. This does finely!'
D'Aubian had not spoken a single word: the victim of a vengeance whose stroke he could not avert without publicly casting dishonor upon the woman he loved, he enveloped himself in silent resignation and disdain.
'Monsieur!' said the magistrate to him, with an embarrassment to which gentlemen of the legal profession are rarely subject, 'however strange the declaration of Monsieur Gorsay may appear to all of us, it is impossible for me not to include it literally in myprocès verbal.'
'Do your duty, Sir,' replied Arthur, gravely.
At the request of Monsieur Carigniez, the old man recapitulated the details of the attempted assassination, of which he had been the victim; he adhered to the truth in every particular save one. In spite of all the objections which were raised by the interrogator, he invariably substituted the name of the lover of Lucia for that of the real assassin. At the moment he took the pen to sign the declaration which would probably send an innocent man to the scaffold, the priest reëntered the room. At sight of the minister of that religion which enjoins forgiveness of injuries, Monsieur Gorsay experienced a moment's hesitation. Vengeance, however, soon gained the ascendancy; with a hand still steady, he signed theprocès verbal, and immediately fell back on the pillow, exhausted by the tremendous efforts he had just made to assure himself of revenge by committing it to the strong arm of the law.
'Have you finished?' asked the doctor of the magistrate; 'you see he is almost lifeless; methinks this should suffice you. Have you not learned all you wished to know?'
'I have learned more than I desired,' replied Monsieur Carigniez, with a troubled air. 'What is your opinion of the situation of Monsieur Gorsay? Do you still believe that the delirium of fever has any thing to do with this strange declaration?'
'Were my life at stake,' answered the physician, 'I could not speak an untruth against my conscience. Monsieur Gorsay is at present free from fever, and knows very well what he says: whether he speaks the truth or not, that I cannot tell.'
'And you, reverend Sir, cannot you aid us with your lights?' said the solicitor to the curate, who on learning the declaration of the old man, remained absorbed in silent consternation.
'A true christian would have forgiven,' replied the old priest, to whom Lucia had made a full and detailed confession of her faults.
'Forgiven what?' demanded the magistrate.
The curate felt that to pronounce a single word more would be to betray the secrets of the confessional.
'Godreads the heart,' answered he in an agitated voice; 'Healone can cause light to descend upon men, whose mission it is todispense justice. He alone can proclaim innocence, and amend the guilty by leading him to repentance.'
'I wish to know your opinion,' said the attorney, still persisting in his inquiry; 'do you believe Monsieur d'Aubian guilty of the crime of which he stands accused?'
'I believe him innocent, Sir;' replied the priest with warmth.
'How then do you explain the conduct of Monsieur Gorsay?'
The priest cast down his eyes and remained silent. Monsieur Carigniez, who was sitting at a writing-table, engaged in the re-perusal of theprocès verbal, leaned his head upon his hands, and remained for some time in an attitude of deep thought.
'It is the attempt at robbery which perplexes me,' said he at length, speaking to himself; 'murders are committed by all classes; but this robbery! this is what seems inexplicable. A man of wealth may become an assassin from jealousy, or revenge, but not from cupidity. Passion engenders murder; need begets theft; in this case passion may perhaps exist as a cause, but where is the plea of poverty? Monsieur d'Aubian is wealthy, is he not?' asked he in a half-voice, addressing the physician.
'He is so reputed, if play has not impaired his means,' replied the latter in the same tone.
'Ah! is he a gambler?' responded the magistrate.
'A gambler not a little ruined, I suspect,' replied Monsieur Mallet; 'he has been seen to lose at Bordeaux twelve thousand francs at a single sitting.'
'This changes the whole aspect of the affair,' said the king's attorney, upon whom the words of the physician seemed to make a deep impression: 'I was saying to myself just now that we cannot imagine an effect without a cause; but play is a cause. You remember the old adage: 'One begins by being a dupe, but ends by becoming a knave.' Sometimes one ends by becoming something worse. We all remember the Count Horn, who assassinated an old money-lender for his gold.'
'You give to words spoken at random an interpretation which was very far from my thoughts,' exclaimed the doctor, with an accent of reproach.
'It is the business of both of us to interpret,' coldly replied Monsieur Carigniez. 'You proceed from symptoms to the disease; I, on my part, go from signs to the crime; from suspicions to proof.'
The attorney here rose, and approaching d'Aubian, who during this scene had preserved a firm and composed demeanor: 'Sir,' said he to him, with grave politeness, 'have you any observations to make upon what you have just heard?'
'None, Sir,' replied the young man, in a tone in which strong emotion, with difficulty repressed, was perceptible. 'It is not for me to discuss the accusation of which I find myself the object, nor to endeavor to remove the error of Monsieur Gorsay. In my declaration I have spoken the truth; it is therefore needless to say more. I deem it beneath me to protest my innocence, which no one here present doubts.'
He cast an expressive look toward the bed of the old man, who only answered this appeal by a smile, in which shone forth the triumph of inextinguishable hatred and implacable revenge.
'He knows all!' said Arthur to himself; 'it is my death he wants; he shall be gratified, if to save my life the sacrifice of Lucia is required.'
At this moment two gen d'armes, who had just arrived from Reole, passed before the window, through which they cast an inquiring look. On seeing them Bonnemain experienced the instinctive terror with which the sight of agents of the law always inspires criminals. D'Aubian knit his brow, and slightly contracted his lips.
'Are these men here to take charge of my person?' inquired he of the king's attorney, with forced irony.
'I can give you a seat in my carriage,' replied the magistrate, whom the haughty countenance of the young accused inspired with a degree of involuntary respect.
'Willtheyaccompany us?' inquired Arthur, more occupied by the ignominy than the danger of his situation.
'Not if you swear to me that you will not attempt flight.'
Arthur smiled disdainfully: 'There are but two kinds of men who fly; the cowardly and the guilty; I am neither of these. You may therefore trust to my word of honor. And now allow me to beg of you one favor.'
'Proceed, Sir,' said the magistrate.
'Let us set forth immediately,' replied Arthur, eager to quit the place; for he dreaded lest Lucia, unexpectedly returning, might become the witness of a scene so fraught with danger to both.
'I am at your service,' replied the king's attorney, who had just closed hisprocès verbal, and whose presence in the house of Monsieur Gorsay was now no longer required. At a sign from the magistrate all present left the apartment. The two gen d'armes waited at the door. Physiognomists by profession, they placed themselves with one accord on each side of Bonnemain, in whose aspect they had simultaneously scented crime.
'Monsieur Magistrate,' cried out the galley-slave, 'tell these good gentlemen, if you please, that they are mistaken. As it is as plain as that two and two make four that I am innocent of this business, I hope you will set me at liberty at once. I have some work to do in the garden; and I cannot lose all day here like a sluggard.'
'Public opinion accuses you,' replied Monsieur Carigniez, 'and I am obliged to detain you temporarily. Should there be no proofs against you, you will be set at liberty in a few days.'
'Here is fine justice for you!' said the man of the galleys, when he saw d'Aubian enter the carriage and take his seat by the side of the king's attorney; 'the detected assassin rides in the carriage, while the innocent man goes on foot, between two gen d'armes. This is the way the rich always combine to trample upon the people! And you, comrades, have you no blood in your veins, that you let one of your brothers be dragged off to prison in this way?'
'You have neither brothers nor cousins here, hark you, Mister Juggler-of-watches!' cried out Piquet to him, with a knowing air.
'Vive la Republique! down with the Jesuits!' howled Bonnemain, who in his desire to excite a popular movement in his favor threw out in succession the two greatest stimulants he could think of.
No one stirred among the attendants; some hootings even were heard; and the galley-slave, forced to set out on his march under the escort of his two new guardians, became convinced that his fate excited very little sympathy among his old companions.
'Well, well,' said he to himself, with forced resignation, 'it would have been almost too much of a good thing to be let off at once; provided only the old man, who has been such a good fellow thus far, does not change his mind.'
The departure of the two suspected individuals had excited among the assembled peasants a commotion, the noise of which reached the apartment of Lucia. Half terrified at the outcries, she approached the window, and saw Arthur at the moment he ascended the carriage of the king's attorney.
'Where is Monsieur d'Aubian going?' asked she involuntarily of the physician who had rejoined her.
'To prison, probably,' replied Monsieur Mallet, fixing his eyes steadily upon her.
'To prison!' almost shrieked Lucia.
'Are you then ignorant that it was he who attempted the life of Monsieur Gorsay? Your husband has formally accused him.'
The poor wife, instead of making reply, gazed around her with an air of bewilderment; suddenly turning deadly pale, she closed her eyes, and fell backward into the arms of the doctor, who seemed prepared for this crisis; for without being discomposed, he laid her upon a sofa, and afforded her the succor her situation required.
'Curate,' said he to the old priest who at this moment entered the room, 'this young woman has now two confessors.'
PART TWO IN OUR NEXT.
Oh! ask not whither my heart hath flown,Nor who to that heart is dear;Though sweet the scenes that meet my view,My heart, oh! my heart is not here!Though friends surround, and fortune smile,And love e'en the prospect cheer;Though pleasure's roses strew my path,Yet my heart, oh! my heart is not here!But far o'er the blue wave's crested foam,Where the heather blooms so fair,And berries hang on the holly-bush,My heart, oh! my heart is there!
Oh! ask not whither my heart hath flown,Nor who to that heart is dear;Though sweet the scenes that meet my view,My heart, oh! my heart is not here!
Though friends surround, and fortune smile,And love e'en the prospect cheer;Though pleasure's roses strew my path,Yet my heart, oh! my heart is not here!
But far o'er the blue wave's crested foam,Where the heather blooms so fair,And berries hang on the holly-bush,My heart, oh! my heart is there!
A PHANTASY: INSCRIBED TO B. T. D.
'Nowis done thy long day's work;Fold thy palms across thy breast,Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.Let them rave!Shadows of the silver birkSweep the green that folds thy grave,Let them rave!'
'Nowis done thy long day's work;Fold thy palms across thy breast,Fold thine arms, turn to thy rest.Let them rave!Shadows of the silver birkSweep the green that folds thy grave,Let them rave!'
Tennyson.
'TwasSabbath eve: on couch of rose-leaves lying,With all her undimmed loveliness around her,Silent, yet fast, a radiantOnewas dying;Fading most like the flowery wreaths that bound herWith fragrance, vainly wasted. There had beenA fitful dirge upon the cool air borne,That spake of parting. Sadly sweet was seenA hectic bloom upon the cheek of morn,That told of tears to be ere day was done.Dark pall-like clouds swept by till set of sun,Then folded their broad pinions, and reclinedIn sullen grandeur o'er the distant West,Like spectral forms in slumber. Every windHad wailed itself to stillness, and a restVoiceless and deep stole down upon the world.TheStorm-fiendslowly turned his sombre car,With drooping wing, and lurid banner furled,Toward his own rugged North, while from afarThere came a sudden gleam, a golden ray,A strange, rich light, as from a young moon's birth,And shone o'erOne, there passing fast awayFrom the soft sky, and green, rejoicing earth!Many a presence, dim and fair,Pale gleaming shapes of things, divine and rare,With tearful eyes and broken sounds of weeping,Beside that couch a mournful watch were keepingIn that hushed eve. Gay Zephyr pensive stood,With plumes enfolded like a stricken flower's;And Echo from her cave in dark wild woodHeld whisperings faint with groups of gentle hours,Making the silence yet more sad and still;And glowing sighs that dwell in rustling grass,And guardian spirits of each singing rill,Murmurs from vine-clad vale and sunny hill,Odors that from the rose's deep heart pass,When kissed by breeze of even, gathered there,Where that clear radiance quivered on the air,Melting to farewell showers. And there seemedA gush of music, dying far away,Soft, exquisite, and low, like that is dreamedBy one who slumbereth at the close of dayOn Ocean's golden wave. A liquid tone,Like fall of distant waters, deep and lone,A silvery strain of many voices blending,Fell on my soul; and, thrilling cadence sendingFar thro' the coming night, did float along,Profoundly sorrowful, this brief, wild parting song:Farethee well!We have heard the solemn chime,Pealing forth the flight ofTime.Sternly tolls its passing bellFor thy latest funeral knell.From Earth's griefs, unquiet fears,Mournful memories, lingering tears,Mortal ill, and mortal wo,Thou art soon about to go!Fare thee well!Brightness marked thy pathway here;Stars, and skies, far, blue, and clear,Gorgeous clouds and silvery hazeFloating in the streaming rays;Love, and hope, and joyous mirth,Such as in young hearts have birth;Soon will be a lasting close!Come not breathings of repose?Fare thee well!Fades the thronging dream of lifeThrough the mist of mortal strife;Rends the veil that shrouds the realFrom the vast and lone ideal;Spectres wild, and quaint, and strange,Flitting gleam in hurried changeO'er the Future's magic glass;They are passing—Thou wilt pass!Fare thee well!Paler grows thy lustrous eye,As the light of sunset sky,Death-damps chill are on thy brow,White and cold as moon-lit snow.As a bird with wounded wing,Now thy heart is fluttering;Soon 't will rest, to beat no more—Pang and thrill alike be o'er!Fare thee well!In the shadowy dome of dreamsMournful light of Memory streamsO'er the voiceless forms and stillThat the busy Past did fill.Far from wreck of wo and weeping,They in stormless peace are sleeping;There thy sisters long have gone,Thitherthouwilt soon be flown—Fare thee well!Music that ends not in tears,Love that knows no boding fears,Tones that falter not in sighs,Hearts in which no sorrow lies,Flowers, unfading, sweet, and fair,Sister! all await thee there!We shall miss thee; but away!Wearied one, no longer stay!Fare thee well!'T was gone! That radiant train melted awayLike last love-whispers of the broken-hearted;And with the purple gleam of closing dayThe gentleSpirit of the Monthdeparted!
'TwasSabbath eve: on couch of rose-leaves lying,With all her undimmed loveliness around her,Silent, yet fast, a radiantOnewas dying;Fading most like the flowery wreaths that bound herWith fragrance, vainly wasted. There had beenA fitful dirge upon the cool air borne,That spake of parting. Sadly sweet was seenA hectic bloom upon the cheek of morn,That told of tears to be ere day was done.Dark pall-like clouds swept by till set of sun,Then folded their broad pinions, and reclinedIn sullen grandeur o'er the distant West,Like spectral forms in slumber. Every windHad wailed itself to stillness, and a restVoiceless and deep stole down upon the world.TheStorm-fiendslowly turned his sombre car,With drooping wing, and lurid banner furled,Toward his own rugged North, while from afarThere came a sudden gleam, a golden ray,A strange, rich light, as from a young moon's birth,And shone o'erOne, there passing fast awayFrom the soft sky, and green, rejoicing earth!
Many a presence, dim and fair,Pale gleaming shapes of things, divine and rare,With tearful eyes and broken sounds of weeping,Beside that couch a mournful watch were keepingIn that hushed eve. Gay Zephyr pensive stood,With plumes enfolded like a stricken flower's;And Echo from her cave in dark wild woodHeld whisperings faint with groups of gentle hours,Making the silence yet more sad and still;And glowing sighs that dwell in rustling grass,And guardian spirits of each singing rill,Murmurs from vine-clad vale and sunny hill,Odors that from the rose's deep heart pass,When kissed by breeze of even, gathered there,Where that clear radiance quivered on the air,Melting to farewell showers. And there seemedA gush of music, dying far away,Soft, exquisite, and low, like that is dreamedBy one who slumbereth at the close of dayOn Ocean's golden wave. A liquid tone,Like fall of distant waters, deep and lone,A silvery strain of many voices blending,Fell on my soul; and, thrilling cadence sendingFar thro' the coming night, did float along,Profoundly sorrowful, this brief, wild parting song:
Farethee well!We have heard the solemn chime,Pealing forth the flight ofTime.Sternly tolls its passing bellFor thy latest funeral knell.From Earth's griefs, unquiet fears,Mournful memories, lingering tears,Mortal ill, and mortal wo,Thou art soon about to go!Fare thee well!
Brightness marked thy pathway here;Stars, and skies, far, blue, and clear,Gorgeous clouds and silvery hazeFloating in the streaming rays;Love, and hope, and joyous mirth,Such as in young hearts have birth;Soon will be a lasting close!Come not breathings of repose?Fare thee well!
Fades the thronging dream of lifeThrough the mist of mortal strife;Rends the veil that shrouds the realFrom the vast and lone ideal;Spectres wild, and quaint, and strange,Flitting gleam in hurried changeO'er the Future's magic glass;They are passing—Thou wilt pass!Fare thee well!
Paler grows thy lustrous eye,As the light of sunset sky,Death-damps chill are on thy brow,White and cold as moon-lit snow.As a bird with wounded wing,Now thy heart is fluttering;Soon 't will rest, to beat no more—Pang and thrill alike be o'er!Fare thee well!
In the shadowy dome of dreamsMournful light of Memory streamsO'er the voiceless forms and stillThat the busy Past did fill.Far from wreck of wo and weeping,They in stormless peace are sleeping;There thy sisters long have gone,Thitherthouwilt soon be flown—Fare thee well!
Music that ends not in tears,Love that knows no boding fears,Tones that falter not in sighs,Hearts in which no sorrow lies,Flowers, unfading, sweet, and fair,Sister! all await thee there!We shall miss thee; but away!Wearied one, no longer stay!Fare thee well!
'T was gone! That radiant train melted awayLike last love-whispers of the broken-hearted;And with the purple gleam of closing dayThe gentleSpirit of the Monthdeparted!
BY THE 'HERMIT OF THE PRAIRIES.'
Itis strange that men should prefer to live in cities. If there were any pleasantness conceivable in the perpetual clamor and strife of tongues, or in sharpening one's face by frequent contact with the crowd, or in receiving a thousand ideas daily of which only one can be retained, the preference would not be so unaccountable. But much communion with men does not tend to soften the heart; and a multitude of ideas, like a surfeit of food, will not digest. How much more delightful to pass one's life in the country, where the multifarious noises and confusion of the town die away before they reach half way to him, and only the higher voices, the voices of the higher men, fall on his ear! At intervals, to continue the figure, one of these voices utters a thought which the heavens, or the earth, or the human mind has been ransacked to find; and he sits down in quiet to incorporate it with his own brain, without having his nerves jarred with the same thought repeated in an hundred different tones, and with a thousand modifications. All is tranquillity around him and within him. He is not hourly jostled by hardening avarice, or ambition, or self-idolatry, in any of its forms. He converses with himself, and the nobler spirits that have lived, or that do live; and if he is not a happier, and does not die a better man than the denizen of the metropolis, it must be that there is something radically defective in his nature. This thought is naturally suggested by the country through which I am passing. I don't know that interminable woods are a necessary accompaniment of rural life; but if they were, and when they are, it would be and is so much the better for those whose tastes, like mine, incline that way. Not exactly that I would liveinthe woods, either, but yet not sofarfrom them that I could not sometimes lose myself in them.
Ohio, the State of 'the Beautiful River,' has as yet woodland enough to satisfy the most extravagant desire. I have been travelling many days along this untrodden highway; the giant trees almost constantly interlocking their branches over head, except when the enclosed ten-acre lot of stumps, and the block-house dwelling of some hardy emigrant break the monotony. And I expect it will be the same for several weeks to come, until I emerge into daylight on the borders of some prairie. I hope those weeks will be many; for it is really pleasant, plodding along with no company but these tall beeches and maples, and no conversation save such as the birds and I, each in our own language, hold with one another. I have learned some new movements in music too; for when the little choristers do me the honor to stop and examine my physicalappearance, and when they express their surprise, or pleasure, or indignation, by interrogatory trills, or by angry chromatic passages of unimaginable rapidity, always accompanied by appropriate gesticulation, it would be exceedingly impolitic in me not to answer in numbers and melody. I am afraid they do not understand me; or else they doubt my word, when I assure them of the kindest treatment, if they will indulge me with a nearer view of their wings and eyes.
The mind is bewildered when it tries to think of the solitude that has reigned here; how in winter and summer, year after year, farther back than the imagination can reach, these trees have grown, wrestled with the whirlwind, and fallen; how those clouds have given their rain, the sun his light, and the flowers their fragrance,alone! Forms, colors, and sounds of beauty and sweetness have sprung up and lived here, when there was no eye or ear to receive them, and be made happy. Nature has put on her robe of grace; has breathed her pleasant odors on every breeze; has tenderly cherished her delicate plants; and has most beautifully decked herself, as though for the embrace of man. Truly may we ask, 'For whom were all these things made? If for man, why was this waste?' It cannot be; and certainly not for any inferior being. If it is mortifying to think that all things were not made to minister unto us; that we are but a part of the great machine, a principal, though not an indispensable one; that the happiness of birds and all animals is as important in the view of the Giver of Happiness, as ours; it is nevertheless pleasant to feel that we are connected with the lower orders of existences by a kind of fellow-feeling, in that we both partake of common pleasures, and that no bounty which has been given to one has not also been given to the other.
But this does not answer the question: 'Whatwereflowers, and trees, and running brooks made for?' It will not do to say, for the sole behoof of man; for then I might reiterate: 'Why this waste of centuries in profitless vegetation? The Greeks would give an answer without hesitation; and so would the poet. And since we have not even a conjecture to make, I am sure we cannot do better than to adopt a pleasant hypothesis, and firmly believe in the Spirit of Poetry; that trees were no more designed merely to live, prepare the way for their successors, and die, than man was to propagatehisspecies and die; but that flowers, trees, and all plants are in themselves, as possessing some sort of vitality, of sufficient importance in the scale of existences to render it supposable that a world might be made for, and inhabited only by plants, and that a world so inhabited would not be altogether useless, either. If this thought ever entered the heads of our pioneers and wood-cutters, habit has lamentably blunted their susceptibilities.
I have been building a pretty extensive castle in the air in these woods; such a castle as it seems to me I should like to live in. The embellishments of course are supplied by fancy, but the materials and situation are furnished by the condition of this pleasant family, who with the heartiest welcome have thrown open their door tome, while for an hour I repose in the shade. It seems to be averypleasant family. The head of it is a young man, perhaps a year or two older than myself, with the sparkle of health and contentment in his eye; a noble, manly form; and a face constantly full of exultation. He seems proud of his own strength, of his victory over thousands of mighty trees; proud of himself, and most of all, of his young wife. These two, together with a matron, who may be his mother, form the group. Their history is the history of thousands of families with whose rude tenements this vast Valley is sparsely dotted. They were born and fitted by early education for their situation in life, in the State of New York. They were betrothed three years ago, and have been married but half of one. After much consultation between the lovers, it was determined that he should seek a home in the wilds of the West. So he set out, not knowing whither he should go, and not following the guidance of any particular star; and he stopped by accident, he says, on this, the best tract of land between the Alleghany and Rocky Mountains; which is as much as to say, 'the best the sun shines on.' Having settled the boundaries of the farm to suit himself, he erected a shanty of bark, provided himself with a few of the most indispensable articles of food, and went whistling to work.
In the course of a few months, a space of several acres was cleared from the timber, which was burned as fast as cut down; a crop of wheat was put into the ground; and the walls of a house built up of hewn logs, so substantial as to be, if not bomb-proof, at least wind and age-proof. When winter came on, he left his new-founded city to take care of itself; marked the trees as he went out, that he might be able to find his way in again; cut down one here and there, so as to make the passage of a wagon imaginable; and departed for home. In the spring he was married; and with as many implements and necessaries of household and farm use as could be compressed into a reasonably small space, and stored away in their caravansary, and with as many domestic animals as could be expected, from their known peculiarities of disposition, to submit to be driven or led without opposition, he started on his 'move,' and introduced his mother and fair bride to their new home. Not 'fair' bride, exactly, but lovely. With a perfect form, one which in another sphere of life would have been admired as voluptuous; with the hue of health on her cheek, the light of innocence in her eye, and the smile of youth on her lips; the lovely bride, leaning on the strong arm of her husband, passed mile after mile through the shades of the forest, without casting 'one longing look behind;' entered into the house which had been constructed with more strength than skill for her; and set herself to work with a woman's tact to adorn the bare walls, and scatter over the barn-like dwelling the charms and comforts ofhome. She has succeeded in all her labors, and her husband has succeeded in all his. But after all, are not their position and prospects dreary enough? And is it not strange that both should be so happy, dwelling here, out of reach of the eyes and sympathies of the rest of the world?
It is strange; and so I sit myself down by the side of the young wife, look in the same direction that she looks, and try to make objects appear the same to my eyes that they do to her's. How great a difference in the picture is made by a little alteration in the position of the inspector! It is not strangenowthat she should be happy; for her future is as bright as is ever set before mortal eyes. The harsh features of the landscape are covered with a soft and verdant carpet; golden wealth and peace smile in the distance; the inequalities and roughness of the road are as nothing, for her feet are strong and light; and if there are but two of them to journey together, those two hearts will be only the more closely knit to each other. It is on the whole such a prospect, that I do not wonder at her for being perfectly happy. And yet I was ready to exclaim, 'How preposterous to suppose thatshecan be contented!' Or, if I was not ready to say so, it was only speculatively, and without exactly understanding how, that I admitted the possibility.
Now, speaking in grave, deliberate terms, whatdowe mean by contentment? For my part, I cannot tell, precisely. But that particular prospect, to use the old figure, which is set before me, and becomes my future, is, Heaven knows, sufficiently cheerless and uninteresting. And yet, if I were asked to exchange it for any other in the world, I should be compelled to answer,no. Still, I am far from being contented. Not but that the present is well enough, because it receives its character from the future; but with the future itself I am dissatisfied. Dreary as my circumstances are, I would not alter them, nor the past; I would not undo any thing that has been done; but show me some road by which I can regain the position which I once occupied, or by which I can gain another position which I desire, and I despise the past and present, and am contented. That is to say, contentment has respect mainly to the future. This is a bungling and circuitous way of coming at a simple idea; but this truth explains to my mind some things concerning happiness; and among the rest, how it is that this beautiful young woman can be contented, perfectly satisfied, with her lot, in these forests. And how it is (which I have often wondered at) that men whose views are bounded by the limits of their own farm, can be as happy as those who take in at one glance a whole kingdom. And a blessed thing it is, much as those of the latter class may be disposed to sneer, that a few small objects, to the eye accustomed to look at them, can grow into sufficient magnitude and importance to becometheobjects of life. And I would ask these scorners if they are not afraid that some higher class still will scornthemtoo? for their pursuits and means of happiness, though large in their own eyes, may be as small to the sight of some being whose glance takes in the world, as the poor man's is to theirs. I am sure I don't know, if I could have my choice, whose lot I would prefer.
But I am no sneerer, my gentle hostess. If I could, I would contract my roving vision and desires; like yourself, make my most desired object of attainment,comfort, and rustic health; confine mythoughts to my own neighborhood; study and fall in love with Nature; grow wise in that wisdom which is from within—and be happy. I have beentryingto do so; but there is something in me that rebels. It cannot be, and I must go restlessly and sorrowfully wandering on. And when I am gone, and you forget the wayfarer, he will not forget you, nor the heart-felt benediction, 'May it remain with you forever!' which he leaves with your household.
'A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOR EVER.'—Keats.
Spiritof Beauty! thou whose glanceDoth fill the universe with lightWhich is the shadow of thy might,Whose fair, immortal countenanceTranscends all human sight! O where,Within what calm and blessed sphereOf earth, or air, or heaven, doth dwellThe glory of thy presence? NowAll things repose beneath thy spell.Bright essence, pure, invisible,Blest spirit! where art thou?Beyond stern Boreas' crystal throneDost hold thy court with meteors dancing,And phantom gleams mid shadows wan,Like thought from earth to heaven glancing?Art sphered in light within the glorious SunWhen upward on his burning course he hies,Or in the golden west when day is done,Weaving his gorgeous robe of thousand dyes?Hast thou thy home far in yon silvery star,Aye twinkling silently,As fondly struggling to revealThe secret of its mystery;Whose radiance floating from afar,Like music o'er the heart doth steal,Making the listening soul to bePart of its own deep melody?Dost dwell in the trembling moonbeam's smile,When, wakened by the midnight spell,Light fairies trip through each silent dell,Their dewy ringlets dancing, whileBeneath the shadowy mountain's baseThe vales lie steeped in loveliness,And the breathing lawns afar do seemThe soft creation of a dream?Thy spell is abroad on the Ocean's breastWhen the Sun awakes from his dreamless rest,And the crimsoned waves leap exultinglyBeneath the glance of his golden eye.Thou reignest in the glowing hazeOf noontide, like a presence broodingAbove the fields in radiance dressed,When amber gleams the woods are flooding,And insects sport mid the quivering rays;And the flowers their trembling zones unbindTo the soft caress of the wooing wind.Thou com'st on airy footsteps, blestWith a spirit-power in the twilight hour,When the dreaming lake lies hushed below,And the heavens above with looks of loveKeep watch as the shadows come and go.All hours, all worlds, thy spell obey;Yet not alone within the circling paleOf universal Nature's wide domainExtends thy sovereign reign;The Soul hath beauty of her ownWhich oft doth penetrate the mortal veilThat shrouds the spirit's viewless throne,Winning to something of celestial rayThe charms that blossom only to decay.It lives in all the nameless graceOf wreathed line and shifting hue,(That speak the pent soul shining through,)It sleeps in the unruffled faceOf holy, smiling infancy,Wherein, as in a lake of blue,Lies mirrored heaven's own purity.But most in Woman's soul-lit eye,Within whose depths lies eternity!And in those smiles that gleam and trembleThrough the veil that seems to shroudTheir full effulgence, and resembleLightnings hovering in a cloud;And in the light serene and clearOf her own vestal purity,Which surrounds her like an atmosphere.Spirit of Beauty! here confessThy divinest dwelling-place!Yet not the kindling dawn,Nor breathless summer noon, nor soft declineOf eve, nor stars, nor moon-lit lawn,Nor 'human face divine,'Nor aught that greets our earthly sightOf most surpassing loveliness,Thy full divinity express;These are but symbols of thy might.High throned above all mortal state,Enrapt, serene, owning nor death nor change,Nor time, nor place, thou hast thy seatIn that calm world wherein the Soul doth range,Where Thought and Wisdom do abide,Beside immortal Truth, thy sister and thy bride!Supreme immunities are thine,Eternal Beauty! glorious giverOf light, and joy, and blessedness!And they are blest who on thy face divineGaze and repose for ever.Such guerdon high do those possess,The star-like souls, who dwell apart,[A]Above our dim and common dayShining serene. To these thou artImmortal light and strength, and theyBy virtue led, and contemplation high,Partake with thee thine own eternity!
Spiritof Beauty! thou whose glanceDoth fill the universe with lightWhich is the shadow of thy might,Whose fair, immortal countenanceTranscends all human sight! O where,Within what calm and blessed sphereOf earth, or air, or heaven, doth dwellThe glory of thy presence? NowAll things repose beneath thy spell.Bright essence, pure, invisible,Blest spirit! where art thou?
Beyond stern Boreas' crystal throneDost hold thy court with meteors dancing,And phantom gleams mid shadows wan,Like thought from earth to heaven glancing?Art sphered in light within the glorious SunWhen upward on his burning course he hies,Or in the golden west when day is done,Weaving his gorgeous robe of thousand dyes?Hast thou thy home far in yon silvery star,Aye twinkling silently,As fondly struggling to revealThe secret of its mystery;Whose radiance floating from afar,Like music o'er the heart doth steal,Making the listening soul to bePart of its own deep melody?Dost dwell in the trembling moonbeam's smile,When, wakened by the midnight spell,Light fairies trip through each silent dell,Their dewy ringlets dancing, whileBeneath the shadowy mountain's baseThe vales lie steeped in loveliness,And the breathing lawns afar do seemThe soft creation of a dream?
Thy spell is abroad on the Ocean's breastWhen the Sun awakes from his dreamless rest,And the crimsoned waves leap exultinglyBeneath the glance of his golden eye.Thou reignest in the glowing hazeOf noontide, like a presence broodingAbove the fields in radiance dressed,When amber gleams the woods are flooding,And insects sport mid the quivering rays;And the flowers their trembling zones unbindTo the soft caress of the wooing wind.Thou com'st on airy footsteps, blestWith a spirit-power in the twilight hour,When the dreaming lake lies hushed below,And the heavens above with looks of loveKeep watch as the shadows come and go.
All hours, all worlds, thy spell obey;Yet not alone within the circling paleOf universal Nature's wide domainExtends thy sovereign reign;The Soul hath beauty of her ownWhich oft doth penetrate the mortal veilThat shrouds the spirit's viewless throne,Winning to something of celestial rayThe charms that blossom only to decay.It lives in all the nameless graceOf wreathed line and shifting hue,(That speak the pent soul shining through,)It sleeps in the unruffled faceOf holy, smiling infancy,Wherein, as in a lake of blue,Lies mirrored heaven's own purity.
But most in Woman's soul-lit eye,Within whose depths lies eternity!And in those smiles that gleam and trembleThrough the veil that seems to shroudTheir full effulgence, and resembleLightnings hovering in a cloud;And in the light serene and clearOf her own vestal purity,Which surrounds her like an atmosphere.Spirit of Beauty! here confessThy divinest dwelling-place!
Yet not the kindling dawn,Nor breathless summer noon, nor soft declineOf eve, nor stars, nor moon-lit lawn,Nor 'human face divine,'Nor aught that greets our earthly sightOf most surpassing loveliness,Thy full divinity express;These are but symbols of thy might.High throned above all mortal state,Enrapt, serene, owning nor death nor change,Nor time, nor place, thou hast thy seatIn that calm world wherein the Soul doth range,Where Thought and Wisdom do abide,Beside immortal Truth, thy sister and thy bride!
Supreme immunities are thine,Eternal Beauty! glorious giverOf light, and joy, and blessedness!And they are blest who on thy face divineGaze and repose for ever.Such guerdon high do those possess,The star-like souls, who dwell apart,[A]Above our dim and common dayShining serene. To these thou artImmortal light and strength, and theyBy virtue led, and contemplation high,Partake with thee thine own eternity!
H. M. G.
BY THE AUTHOR OF 'EDWARD ALFORD AND HIS PLAYFELLOW.'
'Becausethere dwellsIn the inner temple of the holy heartThe presence of the spirit from above:There are His tabernacles; there His rites.'
'Becausethere dwellsIn the inner temple of the holy heartThe presence of the spirit from above:There are His tabernacles; there His rites.'
School of the Heart.
Thenext day after the events narrated in our last chapter, was the Sabbath. 'How shall it be employed?' No preconcerted plan of worship had been agreed upon; this Rufus chose to leave to the inspiration of the moment. In this small number of persons there were various religious impressions; that is, they had been brought up under different denominations. The widow Stewart and her sons called themselves Baptists; Rufus Gilbert and his wife were Unitarians; Philip and his mother were Calvinists; but no one of all these could be said to have opinions upon religion. Chance, accident, had determined their position; and if any one had been asked why he bore this or that name, he would have said, because I go to this or that church, rather than give any reason for his presumed faith.
With Rufus the case was rather different. An ignorant person in talking with him would have said he was inclined to infidelity; for he had no faith in the saving power of the church, and did not believe that church-membership was necessary to salvation; he maintained that virtue was the key to Heaven, and obedience to conscience the sure passport to eternal happiness; that worship and all the ordinances of religion were the means of cultivating the virtue and obedience, and so far they were sacred.
Philip Wilton had been educated a Calvinist. The splendid intellectual system of orthodoxy had blinded him to the fundamental errors upon which that noble superstructure rests; for grant their premises, and what scheme of faith is so consistent? Of an ardent temperament, he loved to lose himself in religious agitation; and surrounding himself with gloom, and picturing the despair of hell, the agony of the lost, the terrors of the law, to pass in imagination to the foot of the cross and feel his sins forgiven, his stains washed out, by the cleansing blood dripping from the body of the Lord. Then would he mount to Heaven, a purified saint, and veil his face before the ineffable glory of the Father, to thank him, to praise him forever.
Such was the action of his early piety, exhausting, fruitless, and delusive; for every thing was to be done for him, and by simply believing certain facts he was to be entitled to this blissful state. Time has sobered his views, as he felt the power of reason in hismind, and his experience of life had banished this physical form of worship, and substituted a more spiritual religion in his heart.
The sun shone brightly on this their first Sabbath morning together in their new home. The notes of birds, the rushing streams, the shooting grass was the voice of Spring. The cattle and flocks in the fold cast wistful glances to the pastures on the hillsides; every thing that had power of motion seemed to have come out to welcome the voice, and to be filled with tranquil happiness. It was surprising to see how perfectly all these persons united in their religious service as they met together in the library to thank God for their blessings. All idea of sect was lost or forgotten in the common feeling of thankfulness. Sheltered by the same roof, fed at the same table, and happy and contented in the same scene, they were led to acknowledge in their hearts that they had a common Father and one faith in Him. All those circumstances of going to different places, having different forms and different names, the rivalry of preachers, and the temporal success of their various churches, were absent, and in the fervor of their gratitude all causes of separation were forgotten, and every thing disuniting was merged in a common sense of dependence, as they confessed their sins and prayed for guidance and light from the one Source of all benefits.
Philip conducted the meeting, and the mother's heart was satisfied with seeing her son even in that humble pulpit. Forgetting himself, and making no special effort to be eloquent and fine, he extemporized a better sermon than he could have written, from the text, 'But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith.' Music, a kind of devotion itself, was not wanting to complete the beauty of their simple worship; and when the sun went down on that Sabbath evening, each felt that he had never truly worshipped before; so cold, tame, and meaningless did the almost compelled services of the churches seem to them, when compared with this spontaneous, social outpouring of the heart.
As the sun was declining, John Stewart and Clara had separated from the others in their walk, and stood beside the lake. They were discussing the sermon of Philip: 'And then how beautifully he portrayed the effects of true religion on the life,' said Clara, in reply to some remark of his. 'He has so much feeling that he makes others feel. He does not say such remarkable things, but all he does utter you are sure comes from the bottom of his heart.'
'And do people always produce such effects when they speak from their hearts?' asked John.
'I believe so,' answered Clara; and then there was a long silence, and they sat down on a fallen trunk by the side of the lake, looking at the budding trees reflected in the clear water.
Religion and love are close companions. When the heart is touched by devotion, when we have made our peace with Heaven, and formed resolutions to lead purer and better lives, all the finer parts of our nature are roused into action, and we are prepared to love, to assist, and sympathize with our fellow creatures. A bad man cannot love; he may feel passion, but not love.
John Stewart, with a rough exterior, had a sensitive heart. He had long in secret worshipped the fair Clara, but the sense of his own deficiencies had hitherto kept him silent. His connection with Rufus Gilbert had drawn him often to her mother's house, where he was considered an odd sort of young man; for as we have before remarked, he would sit for hours watching the movements of the younger sister, who regarded him almost like a brother.
'You know, Clara,' at length began John, 'that we are all under a solemn agreement with Mr. Gilbert to have no secret plan, to make no bargain of any kind, and to conceal no grief, while members of the family, but to be perfectly open and trusting in all our dealings with each other.'
'Yes, John; and have you broken the agreement?'
'No, but I am like to, unless you help me out of a difficulty.'
'Oh, any thing, John; you know I would do any thing in my power for you.'
'But if it is not in your power now, will you try to help me?'
'Certainly.'
'Then you must try to love me; you must be my wife, Clara.'
'And the wedding shall take place when you have earned a thousand dollars by your own labor,' said a voice behind them, which they knew to be Rufus Gilbert's.
'And,' added another voice, 'I am an ordained minister, and can legally marry you.'
Turning, they became aware that their friends had come up as they were talking together, and unintentionally heard their conversation.
Clara said nothing, but gave her hand to John, then ran to embrace her mother and sister, while her lover half bewildered with delight and happiness so unexpected, was shaking hands with his brothers and friends.
'We heard what you said about the 'solemn agreement,' to divulge all secrets; we have saved you the trouble,' said Rufus. 'This honesty alone makes you worthy of any woman, and I congratulate myself as well as you upon this plighting.'
The parties returned to the house and spent the evening in singing sacred music together; and if, as some one has observed, happiness is the true atmosphere of devotion and of virtue, John and Clara both were better on that evening than ever before.
'O thatthe newspapers had called me slave, coward, fool, or what it pleased their sweet voices to nameme, and I had attained not death but life!'
Carlyle's 'Past And Present.'
Itmust not be supposed that the Meadow-Farmers gained their position without other struggle than the labor of arranging and cultivating their domain. Fortunately for them they had enemies, or rather opponents, who talked against them and wrote againstthem, and by these means compelled them to look carefully to their own principles. These attacks taught them their own strength, and gave steadiness and manliness to their efforts. The strong ship never sails so steadily as when she stems an opposing current.
A man can hardly introduce a new kind of plough upon his farm, without being called upon for his reasons; much less can a body of men start a new project of society, unquestioned and unnoticed. Although every freeman may plough and reap as he please, yet may I call him to account for the implied slander which he utters upon the usual and common plough of the country, by throwing it aside and adopting a new one. So when men promulge new doctrines of society, and establish new forms of business and domestic economy, may we not rightfully question them closely, for their attempt to unsettle the established order of things, which they virtually do by such a course? For by no means is it true, that men have the right—the moral right—to plunge recklessly against old institutions and habits, with no other reason than that such is their pleasure. Such crusades may be more safely allowed in monarchical countries, whose heavy and ponderous forms are little moved by them; but in a country where public sentiment is law and government much more than the statute-book, it is not only our right but our duty to watch narrowly every innovation, and to question, with a voice of authority, him who comes to remove the old landmarks planted by our fathers.
This curious and, as it is called, meddlesome spirit, which Americans show in the affairs of their neighbors, is in fact the instinct of self-preservation in our people. It is a better habit than an idle curiosity, however it may be denominated. It matters little who comes or goes, or what the habits and opinions, of people who live in countries where a military power is ever ready to support the established authority of the land. Not so with us. We require no passports in passing from village to village, from state to state; every man is free to move as he pleases; but there is constantly over every man a jealous scrutiny, and not so much over his personal movements, as over the most important part of him, his opinions and habits. Hence the thousand staring eyes which greet every stranger as he passes through our villages and towns. Is any one desirous of being conspicuous among his fellow men, he has only to quietly take up his abode in any of our country towns; preserve a mysterious silence respecting his business; say no more than is absolutely necessary for his wants, and in a week's time he will become the theme of every tea-table in the neighborhood; and should he incline to go to meeting on the Sabbath, he will find that he will more than equally divide attention with the preacher. As we live and move and have our being as a nation by the action of this public sentiment, is it not a necessary consequence that we are curious and meddlesome, and often annoying, toward those who come among us to see the strange anomaly, a self-governed people? And we ask such persons seriously, if, having considered the case, our prying, Yankee questioning is a proper subject of their ridicule?
For the same reason, too, all secret societies are deemed dangerous to the community, and our people will not endure them because they are foreign to the character of our government. And how are they foreign, it is asked? Each voter being a part of the government, he wants all the facts of the country before him in order to form his opinion, which he cannot have if secret societies exist. In a despotism the power being in one head, that head alone has need of the facts we refer to; the governed have no interest except to obey, no duty but to submit. To refer to an almost forgotten question, the rights of Free Masons, the opposition and abuse they received was far less against them as Masons, than as asking for protection and privilege, without being willing to yield any thing to that public sentiment which they were opposing by their very existence as a secret society.
Let us draw here one other inference from what has been said, and then to work: a free and untrammeled press is as essential to a free government as air is to life. If the art of printing had been known by the ancient republics they might still have existed. And, moreover, we may demand, as a right, to know any and all of the affairs of others which may, by possibility, act upon this public trust, of which each man is part keeper. And the advantage of this supervision is mutual, for it is well for every one to know that the whole country has an interest in what he does, in his acts, his habits, and especially in his opinions.
Rufus Gilbert courted this scrutiny, and took pains to open his views to all who visited him; but he became unpopular at first with the church in his neighborhood, because he did not come under its wing and ask its influence—an influence always to be obtained by paying for it. Both political parties called him a fool and fanatic, because he did not immediately set down his political opinions and promise his vote for or against men he had never seen or heard of before.
To the Whig committee-man who called to ask his support for that party, he propounded first the question, 'Is your candidate a temperance man?'
'Really, Sir, we have little to do with such narrow questions; I can't answer you.'
'Is he for or against slavery?' next proposed Rufus.
'That, too, is beyond my instructions.'
'What then, may I ask,' said Rufus, 'are the grounds upon which you ask my vote for your candidate?'
'Grounds, Sir!—zounds!' said the emissary, looking about for a convenient stump, 'grounds, did you say? Sir, he is a Whig; he was born a Whig; he has lived a Whig, and will die a Whig. What more can you ask? He never opposes his party; he is a man we can rely upon; we know where to find him; he is a man to stick to the party, if the party go to the d—l; and that's what I call being a patriot.'
A little ruder in speech, but quite as honest in his views, was the friend of the opposing party, who called to solicit the name ofMr. Gilbert on his paper, whose inquiries respecting the opinions of the candidate upon what he conceived to be vital questions, namely, temperance and slavery, he answered thus:
'I'll tell you what, friend, you're a stranger to me and I'm a stranger to you, but I have heard that you are a friend to the poor; now if such be the case, you hate the Whigs, you hate the rich, the aristocrats that they be; this is as natural as for hens to cackle. Now we don't meddle with temperance, because some of our men can only be brought forward by the drink; we don't touch slavery, because, you see old Hickory may own slaves himself. These are, in polite way of talking, subjects for the straddle. The fence, Sir, the fence, is our only and our tee-total safety on these p'ints.'
'But,' said Rufus, 'because I am a friend to the poor, how does it follow that I must hate the rich? I must love all men, for every man is my brother. I shall not vote at all at the coming election, for I have not had time to inform myself as to the respective merits of the men that are up.'
'That's right, Sir, I must confess,' said the young man, with an entirely different tone and manner, for he was the son of an honest man, and had had early instruction in his youth; 'that's right; I respect you, Mr. Gilbert; it's just what father said; and I must tell you, I've seen better days than getting a dollar a day for crying 'Hurrah for old Hickory!' So, re-cocking his hat and falling again into the part he was paid for playing, off he rode.
'A pretty fellow this,' said the Whigs, 'to show no colors; I'll bet a cow he will sneak in and vote for Hickory. What right has he to come into our county and play dark till the game turns? We'll fix him!'
'Did you try to buy him?' said the Jackson men to their emissary.
'No; I didn't dare do it; I'll wager drinks all round he is not to be bought.'
'This is a noble fellow,' sighed the Whig candidate himself, when he heard what Rufus had said; 'I must seek him out; a man after my own heart. Would to God I were free to act myself! Oh! this slavery of party; this slavery of the soul! How much meaner and baser is it than any bonds of the body!'
'Saddle me a horse,' said the other candidate; 'I'll ride over and promise him he shall be post-master.'
'That's promised three times already,' said some one; 'promise him the judge of probate, for that's only promised twice.'
'Ah! that will do.' But Rufus was proof against promises and bribes.
Providence smiled upon the labors of the band, in a productive harvest, the first year of their location. The land proved even better than they expected. Uninterrupted health, the result of their simple and regular habits, enabled them to enjoy life as they had never done before. And what was it gave such a spring to their labors? They each had a personal interest in the crops. If profits accrued, they were to gain by them; if losses occurred, theywere to lose by them. But better than this, they all lived in an elevated atmosphere. Subjects of deep interest employed their hours of rest and refreshment. They were living in the school of love and brotherly kindness. No rivalry excited their passions; no competition embittered their intercourse; every act of each one was felt to be the act of all; and they were as much interested in the success of each other as of themselves. It is astonishing how one earnest mind may spread its influence over masses of men, and give tone and harmony to the most discordant elements. Such was the influence of Rufus; and hardly less that of Philip. The young farmers caught the spirit of their discussions, and as they became informed in their minds, they began to take part in their animated debates. This made their hours of rest seasons of real improvement, and they became as much concerned for their intellectual harvest as for the crops on the soil. Their evenings were not spent listlessly in smoking and lolling about on benches, drinking cider and picking their teeth with straws, as many farmers spend them, but in the library, where one read aloud for the benefit of all, or in the general discussion of some topic of sufficient importance to cause them to forget their bodily fatigues. And thus are we kindly constituted by nature; study is rest from bodily labor, and bodily labor is rest from study. It has been proved by experience that one man may more easily do the intellectual and physical labor of two men, than the two can do it separately. The student without exercise becomes the invalid or the madman, and the laborer, without thought and intellectual culture, becomes a brute.
With the majority of our farmers money-getting is the prevailing motive. Are they temperate, it is out of regard to their health and pocket. If they are honest, it is often more a matter of business and credit than of virtue. Can it be denied that the farmer's standard is too low? Does he live for his soul, his mind; to make life a scene of noble progression in knowledge and virtue? Is he not generally more anxious to enlarge his farm than to expand his intellect? Does he not sneer at learning, and glory in his coarseness? Would that he might try the true life; keep up the balance of his powers; make his body the servant of his soul; and look toward knowledge and virtue as the destiny of his being!
Rufus Gilbert had arrived at that point of attainment. He really and sincerely valued money only as a means, an unusual refinement indeed; and this principle he had instilled into the hearts of all his disciples, so that they were elevated beings, and had high views of the object of life. No man who has been by circumstances 'born again' to this new being, ever can go back to the low aims and filthy pursuits of party ambition, or heap up money for money's sake. 'To him that hath shall be given;' such men are always improving, always advancing; they cannot help it. 'From him that hath not, shall be taken away even that which he hath;' such men are always retrograding, sinking, falling; they too cannot help it.
As the reader must by this time begin to feel some interest in thefinancial state of the Meadow-Farm, let us look in upon them at the end of the third year of their experiment. The writer will give the statement as it was given to him, and as nearly as may be in the same words.
'Our original purchase cost five thousand dollars, and consisted of five hundred acres of land, mostly in a wild state. The expense of the house, furniture, and stock, was about two thousand dollars more, for we began with the smallest amount practicable. We numbered at the outset fourteen souls, among whom were seven able-bodied young men, ready to endure hardships and work their way wherever I should lead them. Four of the remaining were women and three were children. The first year was spent in clearing enough land to secure us against want in the way of corn, and potatoes, and wheat; and contrary to my own fears, at the end of it we were able to pay the interest on our borrowed capital, beside having greatly improved our farm. The second year was still more fortunate. We had admitted five new hands, four of whom were able-bodied men and good farmers; so that we were strong in force. The other was a good tailoress whose services we began to need. Mechanics of all sorts flocked in upon us, many of whom we could not receive. At the close of the third year, now, our affairs stand thus:
'Our farm with the buildings we have erected, is estimated at, and taxed for, eight thousand dollars. We have paid the two thousand dollars borrowed capital, and do not owe a farthing. We have three hundred sheep, and fifty head of cattle and horses. We have a good library; are all well clothed and fed. Some are richer than others, in proportion to the time they have been with us. We now number twenty-five persons, including my own two children, one an infant. John Stewart considers he has earned six hundred dollars toward the thousand which is the condition of his possessing before he can claim the hand of Clara Welton. Not that I think it necessary a young man should possess a fortune before he marries. I think with Cobbett upon this point, that the sooner a young man marries the better for him, if he has good and industrious habits; but we thought it necessary to test the case with John, as he had the reputation of being an odd fellow, and we thought while he was earning the specified amount, we could do it to our satisfaction.
'But, Sir, the best wealth we have, in my opinion, is the amount of good habits of mind and body among us. Our young farmers are chemists and botanists. We have poets, musicians, and painters among us. We cultivate the sciences as well as the land. Our wealth is in our heads and hearts, as well as something in our pockets. As to myself, I have lost nothing, but on the contrary have received a better interest on my share of the investment than I could have received in any fair business. Thus you see what united labor can accomplish; in three years we have converted three thousand dollars into eight thousand. Our profits in happiness and improvement cannot be estimated in money.'
Now although much was said and written against this new-fangled scheme of Meadow-Farm, when the public saw how successful andhappy were the members, what peace and harmony reigned among them, and more than all, how much money they were making, the tide began to turn the other way. Parents gave the best evidence of what they thought of it, by striving to get their children received into Philip Welton's school. The few boys placed at first under his charge had made such improvement, not only in their studies but in their dispositions, living in an atmosphere of love and kindness, that the school began to be very popular, and many pupils were refused for want of room. Let us look in of a summer morning, at the library, and see the charms the place had for the youth. It was a large and spacious room, kept studiously clean. Books were arranged around upon the walls; historical pictures were seen here and there. The bust ofWashington, which, though never so badly executed, always tells us of firmness and virtue, patriotism and heroism, stood conspicuously fronting the entrance; that ofFranklin, the true man and republican, the wise man and the practical man, stood near it. Flowers were placed here and there upon the tables. There was no master's desk, no pedagogical throne, the sceptre a ferula. All formality was banished from the place, and they found their seats as suited their taste and convenience. They came and went as in the order of a well-conducted reading-room, without restraint, and looked like those who came to seek knowledge, rather than like the pupils of most schools, whose anxious faces seem to say, 'When will it be my turn to be crammed?' 'How long will it be before it will be time to leave this prison?'
Or listen to the words of the teacher as he meets his pupils in the morning, and cordially takes each one by the hand, and thus removes all feeling of distance and reserve between himself and his scholars. 'My dear children, our law is love; see, it is written yonder,' pointing to an inscription on the wall, 'God is love;' 'let us to-day strive to obey this law in our thoughts and actions. It is our first duty to be good, and then, if we can, to be learned and honorable, and graceful and happy. You have collected here to learn history, and language, and useful sciences; but all these will avail you nothing, unless you first learn to govern your passions, and obey your conscience, and try to be like Christ, in preferring to bear and suffer every thing rather than commit sin. This is the enemy of happiness; the only evil in the world; for a good man cannot be unhappy. Let us, before we do any thing else, ask our Father to assist us in forming this character.'
The pupils all kneel devoutly; they all pray mentally. It is no hurried form of prayer, run through without preparation, and which robs the young of respect for devotional exercises. They are all impressed by the service, and the great idea that they will be assisted in whatever they purely undertake, gives encouragement and hope to their hearts. The words, the manner, the confidence of their teacher, lift the pupils into an elevated frame of mind, and they are ashamed, or rather forget, to do wrong, so wholly are they occupied with that which is good.