Henry Tracy found himself surrounded by not only a large number of
scholars, but such as listened to him with the strictest attention, and
applied themselves to their tasks with unusual diligence. It was,
however, to him a sad sight, to behold so many of them, and some almost
his own age, commencing the first principles of education. The labours
which devolved upon him were arduous, but the more he found to do, the
greater was the interest he took, and the more untiring his zeal for
their benefit. He walked amid his little community with no lordly air;
great indeed was the disparity between his attainments and those of his
pupils, but he felt it not, or felt it only to humble himself before
God, that so superior had been his advantages.
His power over them was unbounded. An influence had been gradually
stealing over their minds, which caused them to listen to his
instructions as though he was a messenger from heaven. It proceeded from
the combined power of religion, intelligence, and refinement. He had, on
opening his school, gathered them around him in solemn act of worship,
and every day, morning and evening, he publicly commended himself and
them to God, and poured out from his feeling heart such warm petitions
for them all, that many a hard and careless youth would wipe away the
starting tear, although he could not tell why that tear had come. And
then through all the day he ministered to their intellectual wants, with
so much kindness in his manner, and so efficiently too; he threw around
him such a charm by his gentle, yet manly deportment, treating them with
the same respect that he wished to be observed towards himself, that the
most obdurate were soon softened. No harsh words ever escaped him, even
when their improprieties affected him the most keenly; nothing but the
expression of sorrow or surprise, brought out in that delicate manner,
in tones low and touching, which seldom failed to start the blush on the
cheek of the delinquent, and check at once whatever was wrong. Slowly,
too, but most effectually, an influence was stealing ever the parents.
It arose from the deep respect which they saw their children felt for
their teacher: it flashed upon them as they met him in his daily walks;
his lowliness, his pleasant smile, and his soft clear voice affected
them, they knew not why; and wrapped itself around their hearts. There
was no letting down of his own good manners, no seeming condescension to
their ignorance; he conversed with them as his equals, and poured forth
the thoughts which were uppermost in his mind, in as good language as he
could command; and he ever left an impression of his mental power and
moral worth that made them think and talk of him when he was gone, and
wish that their children at least might be like him.
The error which good Mrs. Bloodgood had fallen into in regard to the
calling of the young man, was soon cleared up, but not until she was,
herself, won to him; and as she could not get rid of some troublesome
remembrances of their first interview, she took the greater pains to
trumpet abroad continually her good thoughts concerning him now.
'Of all the men that ever I sot my eyes on, he's the best; he's an angel
on airth; he's clean too good for it, don't you think so, Aunt Sally
Cutter?'
'Why I don't know, Sally,' and the old lady straightened herself up, and
pushed her spectacles further on her nose; '_men_ is _men_, and there
ain't much angel about 'em, as ever I seed; but I 'spose he's as good as
most on 'em; but they are all clean took with him, and what do you
think?'--stretching her long arm out, and raising it over her
head;--'Cutter has taken it into his head now, that, preacher or no
preacher, he means to get him to hold some kind of a meetin' or other,
and he's gone this very blessed day with the old mare to the Widow
Andrews' to see him about it.'
'Do tell, Aunt Sally, it ain't true? has Uncle Sam gone, though? Well
that's jist what Bloodgood's been talkin' on; he'll be so glad; but,
poor soul, what good will it do him?'
It was indeed true; Uncle Sam Cutter had been long impressed with a
sense of the need there was for some public religious services; he had
in his youth been accustomed to mingle with those that kept 'holy
day,'--he had gone to the house of God with the multitude, and he had
never lost the savor of those solemn seasons; the remembrance came over
him as he toiled in his shop, or sat by his door in the deep shades of
evening; he mourned in secret that he had ever pitched his tent in
Sodom. Oh! how he longed once again to hear the peal of the church-bell,
calling the worshippers to the house of God; but he was now too old to
remove to strange places, or do much towards obtaining such privileges
as he felt were needed; and yet to think of leaving his family in such a
moral waste, without some effort to remedy matters, he could not. He had
listened attentively to all that his boys told at home about the
teacher, and he thought what a pity it was that some of the older
sinners also could not have the benefit of his prayers and instructions.
'We all need it bad enough,' he said to himself one day, as he sat on
his old block by the shop door; 'bad enough, bad enough. Oh dear me! to
think what a heathen set we are, goin' whip and cut to the Evil one, and
nobody to say "Whoa!" to us, no more than if we were fat sheep goin' to
the slaughter-house.' With that the old man began to fan himself very
fast with his straw hat, his lips moving all the while, as was his habit
whenever he thought hard. His train of ideas at last led to the
conclusion that something must be done; so ordering up the mare, he was
soon off for the Widow Andrews', resolved to lay before the young man
such a picture of their condition as would not fail to move him, 'if,'
said he, 'he has any bowels of mercy in him.'
The Widow Andrews was much surprised to see the old cart drive up to her
door, for her good neighbour, though a very kind man, was an indifferent
visitor. She did not wait for him to alight--a business never rapidly
performed--but ran out to the little gate, and with an air of great
wonderment looked up at the old man, as he sat dangling on the tail of
his carryall.
'What's the matter, Uncle Sam? there ain't no bad news, I'm hoping. But
do tell! what a pucker you're in; you are clean blowed, ain't you, Uncle
Sam? Do git down and come in, and let your boy tie the horse, and rest
you a bit, and take a little breath.'
The old man was somewhat put to it, for the old mare had not been
exercised of late, and she had several additional gaits to try that day,
and the road to the Widow's was none of the best.
'Is the teacher to home?'
'La me! what's to pay now, Uncle Sam? there ain't no turn up, I hope?
But it's jist what I've been a fearin'; he's too good for 'em, I knew
it, and I've told a good many on 'em so: he's jist an angel. Oh dear! if
you've come to have him druv away, Uncle Sam, it will break my heart,
and it will be the ruin of the place; and where will they ever git sich
another?' And the old lady began to wring her hands, and to run upon her
high notes at such a rate, that Uncle Sam began to be restless, and
making a desperate effort to get some wind into his speaking apparatus,
he let off at her in no very moderate terms.
'Do, woman, stop with your clatter; you'll frighten the mare, the next
thing, and she has a'most killed me a'ready; there ain't no need o' your
howling and caterwauling at that rate. Why, dear me! can't a body ax to
see the teacher, but you must set up all that noise and squalling? I
don't want to hurt a hair of his head; so jist put your hands down and
git into the house, and I'll come in to rights.'
So telling Dick to stop yanking the beast, as it only made her worse,
and to sit there and try to keep her quiet until he came out, he let
himself down, and puffing and blowing, from his sudden and extra effort,
he waddled through the little gate, and reaching the stoop, sat down on
the low broad step.
'Do please come in, Uncle Sam, and take a chair.'
'You please tell me, first, if the teacher is to home.'
'Why, you see, Uncle Sam,' coming up and almost whispering in his ear,
'he ain't jist to home, but he'll be here in a minute; he's gone to take
his evenin' walk down in the grove there. You see he goes out jist as
reg'lar as can be, every livin' day, right after tea, straight down to
the grove, and there he stays awhile, then back he comes agin; and Mary
and I have been tryin' to make out what it is he's a doin' all alone by
himself there. Mary says he's 'mantic like, as she calls it, but I don't
believe it's no sich thing. Do, la, there he comes, now; jist see how
still and quiet he walks along, that's the way he does every livin' day;
so come in, Uncle Sam.'
Mr. Cutter, however, much preferred seeing the young man, alone, and
chose to remain where he was. It was but a few minutes after the widow
had retired, that Mr. Tracy entered the gate, and seeing Mr. Cutter,
walked quickly up, gave him a cordial shake of the hand, which was as
cordially returned, and rather more so than his fingers could have
wished; and politely invited the old gentleman into his private room,
as Mr. Cutter had intimated his desire to say a few words to him.
It took the old man some little time to recover himself after the
operation of being ushered into a strange apartment, and getting himself
fixed in a convenient seat. And after he had revived enough to begin to
talk, a great many commonplace things had to be said before he could get
at the subject of his errand. To that however, he was finally led by Mr.
Tracy's remarking,
'That he began to be very much encouraged about his school, the boys
were attentive to their studies, and to all the regulations of the
school.'
'Yes, sir, I believe the boys is in a fair way now to learn decency and
manners, and may be something else; but I've been a thinkin', sir,
whether you couldn't do a little something or other for the rest on us
here, who are too big and too old to go to school.'
Mr. Tracy was at a loss to imagine in what way his assistance could be
required, but he ventured to reply,
'That any thing in his power, whereby he could be of service, consistent
with his present duties, he would gladly do.'
'Glad to hear you say so, for seeing you've got the larnin', there ain't
nothin' else in the way; and sure am I, if you knew half the need there
was to have somethin' done, if it is ever so little, just by way of
decency, if nothing more, you would be more willing than you say you
are. You see, my young friend, the Evil one has got a hard grip on us,
and nothin' but preachin' and prayin' will ever make him let go; and
even that won't do some of us much good if we don't have it soon. You
see I am an old man, it ain't long that I shall be hobbling about here.
I can't put off the evil day, as you who are just beginnin'; there are a
good many things that tell me that I am 'most to the bottom of the hill,
so you must not wonder if I feel a little anxious to have things more in
a righter shape than they are with me at present. And there are a good
many in all, just about as far on the road as I am; and for folks to be
livin' on the edge of the grave, and never hear a word about any thing
good; oh, my dear sir! if there is any pity in you, you'll begin right
off, and try to do somethin' for us.'
Henry Tracy was deeply affected by this address, for the old man spoke
as if in earnest, and the tears that rolled freely told how much he
felt.
'I cannot, perhaps, fully understand what you would have me to do, my
dear sir. You know that I am not at all qualified to preach, and whom to
direct you to I know not.'
'You can do all the preachin' that is needed, I ain't all afeared for
that. All you have got to do is to give out in the school, that next
Sabbath afternoon there will be a meetin' in the school-room, and all
can come that's a mind to. There ain't no need of nothin' further, and
God'll bless you for it.'
Mr. Tracy would have made very decided resistance, had he consulted his
judgment alone; but his own feelings were too much in unison with the
old man's; the want of public religious privileges he had begun to feel
most deeply, on his own account, and for the multitude around him. He
could not resist this appeal; with a humble yet resolute heart he
replied,
'Well, Mr. Cutter, I will do as you say; and may God assist me, and
grant His Spirit with us.'
'May the Lord bless your dear young heart!'
The old man could say no more, but with his heart overflowing with joy,
he arose, pressed the hand of Mr. Tracy, and in silence hobbled out of
the room and through the gate, and took his usual seat, waiting for his
son to untie the beast and drive him home.
The tidings that their young teacher was to hold a meeting on the
Sabbath day soon spread throughout the place; and when he proceeded to
give public notice to his school, it was only a confirmation to the boys
that the report was true.
It was a calm, lovely autumn day; and as Henry Tracy walked on his way
by the path which he had chosen for his daily route to the school-house,
his feelings were lulled into delicious repose; the rustling of the
leaves, the stillness that reigned in field and wood, the waning tints
of nature, the modest tones of the school-bell, calling all within its
reach to the place of meeting; the little groups which could be seen in
different roads, bending their steps thither; it seemed more like the
Sabbath day than any he had spent here yet.
He had done what he could to prepare himself, and he had a strong
consciousness of being in the path of duty; and he felt a composure in
view of the undertaking which he could not have anticipated. A few
persons were collected round the door; they immediately followed him as
he entered: to his surprise a large congregation was waiting his
appearance.
As he took his seat on a little platform that had been prepared for the
occasion, and cast his eye over the assembly, like a flash of light his
usually pale features were crimsoned with a deep blush, and then away it
flew, and a deadly paleness that alarmed every beholder came in its
place. A sympathy was excited in every bosom; his youth, his modesty,
his grace of manner, his unostentatious effort to do them good, like a
talisman spread its charm over all alike, and prepared them to receive
whatever he should say, with the deepest attention. Henry was obliged to
arouse himself, in order to overcome the oppressive weight that was
becoming heavier every moment; he therefore proceeded at once to the
business before him. He gave out a hymn, which he read with much
propriety, and then inquired if there was any one present who could lead
in singing; but as no one seemed ready to undertake, he commenced a
familiar tune. An electric shock could not have surprised them more,
than the melodious notes which rolled forth upon their delighted ears.
Henry Tracey was gifted--for a gift surely it was, as no power of
accomplishment could ever have imparted it--with one of those rich
voices which might have entranced the multitude on a public stage, but
its melodious tone had only rung beneath a parent's roof, and its
sweetest, most touching notes, had only been drawn forth in praise.
Quickened by the music, soon every voice that could follow joined fully
in; but above them all, louder and sweeter as the hymn went on, floated
those rich strains which Henry poured forth, as from a heart burning
with intense devotion. Enraptured, solemnized, softened, the whole
assembly, both speaker and hearer, were happily prepared for the
remaining services.
The prayer which followed was short and well ordered. He addressed the
Being before whom angels veil their faces, with that humility of
expression, with that pouring out of the heart in natural tones for a
sinner's necessities, which plainly showed he was making a petition for
wants which God alone could supply, and not framing forms of sentences
to interest or please man.
The passage of Scripture which he had selected was the story of the
Prodigal Son, a portion of that blessed volume peculiarly precious to
himself; and one with which he had become most familiar, and into the
touching scenes it delineated, he had entered with his whole heart.
In a very simple manner, he first explained the meaning of a parable,
and the reason why our Saviour chose this method of instruction. Being
well versed in ancient manners and customs, and the scenery of the
eastern world, he delineated and filled up what was necessary to convey
to the minds of uninformed persons, a perfect idea of the whole story.
Every eye was riveted upon him, and his energies were strengthened, as
he went along, by the deep interest which he saw was awakened among his
hearers.
When he had gone through with the story, and brought the prodigal back
to his father's arms, he then proceeded to show how clearly it
illustrated the sinner's erring path away from God, the fascinations
which drew him on, and the misery to which they lead. Here and there a
tear would be seen to start, and occasionally a head would droop: it was
evident that there were many before him whose real character he had
touched. At length he reached the turning point, the resolve of the
sinner in his extremity, that he will arise and return to his God. The
heart of the speaker filled with deep emotion; his voice trembled, his
language became more glowing, his words flowed rapidly; he forgot
himself, and free from all embarrassment, poured out the full feelings
of his soul. His excited audience sat wrapped in solemnity, and yielded
up their hearts to the enchanting theme: like fire in the stubble, the
flame flew from heart to heart; tears flowed freely, and when he ceased,
there was stillness like the house of mourning, interrupted only by the
stifled sob.
He sat down a few moments, and then informed them that the meeting was
over. Some arose, but stopped and looked wistfully towards the desk, as
though they might yet hear something more; others sat still and wept.
Henry prepared to depart; he walked slowly through the benches, preceded
by a few persons who were leaving the house.
As he approached the door, his hand was seized in a powerful grasp. He
looked round, and recognized at once his warm-hearted friend, old Mr.
Cutter. He sat on the end of one of the benches, and by his side was
Billy Bloodgood. Billy looked at him and nodded and smiled, while he
wiped away the tears that overflowed his twinkling eyes. Billy had not
heard a word, but he had a very tender heart; he was rejoiced to be
where God was worshipped, and when he saw all around him affected, he
yielded to the impulse, and wept too. Uncle Sam _had_ heard, and every
word had gone deep into his heart. It was no sympathy of feeling with
those around him, that caused the big tears to flow so freely; he
thought of none but himself and his God: his sinful lost estate had
been set before him: he knew it was his own, he felt it to be true. He
listened to the voice of the speaker, telling him of the love of God,
and inviting him to trust in it; he believed, and yielding to the call
of mercy, had cast himself into the arms of his Saviour, and found
peace. No wonder that he seized with such convulsive grasp the hand of
the dear youth. Henry fixed his eyes upon the old man; he saw his
emotion, he saw his lips quivering in a vain effort to speak. His own
heart ached, and tears came to his relief. Mr. Cutter made a desperate
effort, shaking the hand which he still held,
'God bless you! God bless you!'
Henry hurried away to his home.
Long was this day and this meeting remembered in the place. It was the
commencement of a great moral change; the darkness which had so long
brooded over it was rolled back, and the light that streams from
Heaven's mercy came to bless their spirits. A train of rich and lasting
benefits followed quick, and spread a charm over this long neglected and
desolate spot, which, from a dreary wilderness, converted it into a
garden of the Lord.