closing his sermon, "what _can_ we conceive of God's providential love?
It is a thought beyond conception, it is a light transcending vision.
There is no object on earth or in heaven, that can well represent the
truth of its wisdom, the touch of its tenderness, or the attraction of
its power. The sun is but a taper, reflecting its glory; the sea is
but a globule, describing its breadth and depth. It runs the circle of
the universe, without interruption, and without end. It is particular
as it is impartial; it is melting and sweet, as it is mighty and
sublime; and it holds you and me, and it holds the littlest babe, and
the littlest bird and flower, in an infinite Father's heart!"
He pronounced the benediction, and the audience went their way to
rejoice in the light that seemed sent down from heaven.
He gave another message in Summerfield, and departed on another call of
his mission. His visit to the Lake Country was an era in the life of
Matthew Fabens. His views and illustrations suggested new trains of
thought and reflection; but they only confirmed his faith in Christ's
doctrine of Providence, and opened his ear to loftier and more
melodious notes of that infinite harmony, in which he believed the
universe of God was bound. Mrs. Fabens had joys that flowing tears
expressed, and Fanny was not an unsympathizing hearer.
XVIII.
THE SECOND MEETING AND ITS FRUITS.
In his second sermon, the Minister set forth one or two practical views
of Christianity, and dwelt upon them with an earnest soul, and a happy
selection of illustrations from the Scriptures. He cited incidents
from history also; and appealed to his audience with such persuasive
eloquence, he left a deep impression on their minds and hearts.
Fabens had before thought of those things, and endeavored to rule his
conduct by such a spirit. He had studied the example of Joseph with
his brethren; of Elisha with the Assyrians, of David with Saul, of
Christ with his enemies, of Schuyler with Burgoyne, and Washington with
the Tory. In numberless instances of his life, the power of such
examples had been exhibited in his private conduct, and in his
decisions as a magistrate.
Still his faith in the power of kindness as applied to the vicious and
criminal, was not so strong or perfect as he would desire. Some cases
of offence there were, in the treatment of which, for a good effect
upon others, he held doubted the success of that principle. The
teachings of God, he confessed, had a lesson to strengthen that faith.
All his own little errors had been treated with kindness from Heaven.
True, he had always been miserable as often as he had sinned; but then
the gracious rains were not withheld, nor the kind sunlight
extinguished; nor the harvests blighted, nor the bloom of woods, nor
the fragrance of flowers denied, because he had been sinful and
unthankful. God had chastened him in kindness; and he loved virtue all
the more, and increased in the ardors of devotion. He prayed for more
faith in the power of benevolent principles and deeds; and hoped at
length for a perfection, in which he could actually turn the left
cheek, when the right had been smitten. The words of the Minister
increased his confidence in moral power, and rendered more lovely than
ever he regarded them before, many of the Saviour's precepts.
The subject engrossed his thoughts and feelings, when, one evening,
going to his barn with a lantern to close the door, he found a neighbor
in his granary measuring wheat! A second glance assured him it was
Tilly Troffater, his enemy; the mysterious, meddlesome, lying little
bandy Troffater, and he was stealing wheat!
Some of the neighbors had long surmised that Tilly owed the Squire a
groundless and secret grudge, as he did many others in the town. He
always seemed to be cooking spleen and getting up grudges. He enjoyed
apparent slights, and fancied insults, as a hungry dog his dinner; they
helped him so much in hatching quarrels and perpetrating spites and
revenges. But he always seemed to fear the Squire, and drop his
cockerel crest, whenever he met his glances; and no one suspected he
would dare to step so far upon his premises, even to execute revenge,
much less, to rob or steal. He had often said he would never stand
before Squire Fabens, and be obliged to look him in the face. But
alas, here he was overtaken in a crime! And what on earth could the
creature do? He would have given the apple of his eye to be anywhere
else at that moment.
He had an enormous bag, but as yet, there was only a little in it.
Fabens approached him, called him _neighbor_ Troffater, got hold of his
hiding hand, and shook it with a frank and earnest grasp, that would
have hurt a tenderer palm, and inquired after his health and that of
his family. Troffater straightened, and swelled, and blowed; and
cocked and crossed his black and blue eyes; but answered not a word.
Now was the time to test the power of kindness, and he gave it a trial.
He was glad, he said, that he happened to come with a light, for it was
very difficult to measure wheat in the dark; and began himself to fill
up the bag. Troffater looked more sullen and evil for a while, but he
soon began to wilt, and open his mouth with apologies. He declared, as
true as he lived, he would not have taken over half a bushel, and would
have returned again every kernel he borrowed. Fabens replied that it
would grieve him to know that any neighbor of his was in need of what
he could so easily spare; and for fear Troffater might suffer, and be
tempted again to do what must be so painful to his heart, he filled the
large bag and tied it, saying, "There neighbor Troffater, you are very
welcome to that bag-full."
He insisted, however, that Troffater should go into the house, and see
his folks, and take supper with them. The bolt of a galvanic battery
could not have convulsed the little culprit with a more terrible shock
than such a word; he looked as though he would slink through the floor,
and actually craved a blow to brace up his nerves, and knit his joints,
and rally his skulking spirit. He begged permission to be gone
immediately. But no, he could not get off with so light a punishment.
He must go in and see Mrs. Fabens and Fanny, and take supper with them.
He dared not disobey, and he trudged sneakingly in like a whipped
spaniel.
"O, it is Mr. Troffater come to see us!" said Mrs. Fabens, smiling a
kind welcome as he entered the door. "We were wondering who it could
be with Mr. Fabens in the barn-yard. How do you do, Mr. Troffater?
How is Mrs. Troffater? and how are the family? It is such a pleasant
evening, why did not Mrs. Troffater come over with you and spend the
evening? She has not made me a visit in a long, long while."
"How are Ruth and Josephine? Did I not see them crossing our pasture
towards Mr. Teezle's to-day? I hope they have not forgotten that they
owe me a visit," said Fanny, with a voice more musical than the
meadowlark's, and a smile more gentle and subduing than the moonlight
melting on the wall.
But Troffater was silent. His throat was so dry, and his tongue so
thick, he could utter nothing in return. His silence surprised them,
and they feared he had been injured, or was in a fit, until a glance
from Fabens checked their surprise and inquiries; and then they treated
him as if he had joined in conversation, and nothing unusual had
happened. A good supper was set before him, and a good family took
seats around him, and Mrs. Fabens and Fanny more than once expressed
the wish that Mrs. Troffater and the girls had come along. But
Troffater enjoyed neither conversation, nor comfort, nor supper. He
tried to eat, but he made a pig's mess of the fine and bountiful dishes
they set before him. He crossed and recrossed his earthen eyes. He
sweat, and hitched, and wheezed: he dropped his knife on the floor, and
stuck his elbow in Fanny's butter; he attempted to sever a cold
chicken's wing, and upset a plate full of biscuit and butter, apple,
honey, and pie, in his lap; he blew his tea long after it was cool, and
blew hot and cold drops into Mrs. Fabens' face; and mixed everything
together as he ate. And then he ate but little; his throat was so dry
he found it difficult to swallow.
After supper they returned to the barn, and there Fabens told him in
private what he thought of his crime. He talked very frankly. He used
neither oil nor honey with his words. He warned him against the
wickedness of crime, and against its awful punishments. He cited a few
warnings of the Scriptures against the wicked and the sinner. Yet he
spoke kindly, and admonished him as a friend and brother.
Troffater went into convulsions of agony. Streams of fire seemed
surging through all his arteries, burning up his heart, and covering
his head and face with blisters. He hung his head, and knocked his
knees together. He gasped, and hemmed, and groaned. Tears at last
came to his relief, and he wept like a child. Fabens assured him, if
he would promise upon honor, that he would, from that time, abandon
criminal desires and acts, he would always treat him kindly, and never
expose him. A pledge was given with more soul in its declarations than
had ever before been extorted from the mischief.
Troffater, however, still begged for one mitigation of his
punishment--a single one. He begged to empty the bag of wheat into the
granary, and go home without a quart. But Fabens was inexorable.
Troffater said it would choke him to eat the flour, after what had
happened. But Fabens expressed no fear or pity. Troffater said he
would give up trapping and hunting, and go right to work and earn some
wheat. Fabens advised him to do it; but said he must take home that
bag full, to keep them in bread till he could earn more. Troffater
replied that they had enough for two or three bakings, and asked if he
might not let the bag stand, and come to-morrow, and work till he had
earned it, and then take it home. But Fabens was still inexorable. If
Troffater would come to-morrow and help him three or four days, he
would pay him in wheat; but that bag-full he was welcome to, and he
must take it home that night.
"I ken not carry it," cried Tilly; "there's three bushels and a haff;
and it'll break my back, if I try to tuck it hum."
"I did not think of that. It will be too heavy for one load; but I
will tell you how you can manage it," said Fabens. "We will turn half
of it into your other bag, that lies out there by the fence, and you
can carry it half at a time, and then get it home before eleven
o'clock."
Then came another scourge like molten lead upon him. He had hoped that
Fabens would not discover the other bag; but now the worst was known;
and taking the fiery chastisement, he submitted, insisting on coming to
work, and declaring he would take no more pay for his work; while the
Squire declared if he worked he should have his pay. He carried away
the wheat, and never again was detected in crime committed after that
night. It could hardly be expected by any man that his character would
be completely changed, or his punishment entirely remitted at once.
But he was a better neighbor, and more inclined to employment; and he
abandoned his love of lying, law, and litigation.
XIX.
THE HARVEST LUNCH.
Bearing witness of prospering hopes and growing joys, nearly a
twelvemonth passed away, and Fabens commenced his wheat harvest. The
last fall seeding was more extensive than that of any former year; the
snows came on early, and in kindly coverings, protected the tender
blades through the winter. Spring rains fell in timely showers to wash
it from mould, and revive it from the withering of frost and wind. The
summer appeared early, as one of Nature's most genial and gentle, and
he looked around on harvests large and white.
He went forth to his fields, with many men, and great preparations.
The songs of the reapers were never more cheerful. The melting hours
of July were never more manfully met. The home of our farmer had
seldom less shadow with its light. Laborers found rarely a more
liberal employer than he. He was generous in the wages he gave; he
allowed more resting hours than any of his neighbors; he was less
exacting in his demands; he always reserved the finest lambs and
chickens to supply his table in that season; he had the best of spruce
beer in Summerfield, and the clearest crystal water. And while with
these mitigations, the toils of the harvesters were still hot and heavy
to be borne, there was that in their fare, in their songs, and
animation, which told of as much happiness, as may crown the tasks of
labor.
To all his sympathies for the laborers, to all his efforts to cheer
them, and temper their fatigues, and give them relief and refreshment,
Mrs. Fabens and Fanny responded with expressions, more meaning than
words. From the midst of the forenoon labors, they invited their help
to refreshments under some green shade tree in the field; and in the
long afternoon, three hours before supper, a refreshing lunch was again
set before them, which would have answered well for supper; and it
brought vigor once more to weary arms, and vigor to weary hearts; and
called forth thanks from minds that abounded in gratitude, as in labor.
Long and affectionately were they remembered by their men, as the
bringers of joy and ministers of comfort, where joy and comfort were
often craved in vain.
On one sweet afternoon, toward the last of the month, and the last of
the harvest, a cool bland breeze swept over from the north, and
rendered the time delightful. The sun still shone, and it was large
and yellow as in October, but the breath of the north stole the sting
of fire from its beams, and rallied a thrill of life and joy through
the drooping hearts of beasts and men.
It was a pleasant hour to be enjoyed out of door, and it was welcomed
as a blessing, by those who had kept in the shade; and Mrs. Fabens and
her daughter hurried their preparations to be early in the field, with
the evening meal.
"The men want to finish if they can, this week," said Mrs. Fabens, "and
they have worked hard, very hard, since morning, and we must give them
a good luncheon this time."
"We will take extra pains," responded Fanny, "and see how cheerful we
can make them. It is so cool and pleasant out now, they will enjoy it,
and we shall enjoy it better than usual, as Cousin William will be with
us; and let it be something more than bread and butter. I feel so
sorry for them, while they work so hard in the scorching sun to make us
happy! Too much care cannot be done to refresh them, and warm up their
hearts."
"Then, William has returned from Auburn, has he? Well, he shall see
that country people can be happy and free-hearted, if they have _not_
the city refinements. And we shall again find that the greatest good
and joy on earth, we take in the good we do to others. They shall have
something that will do them good."
"George Ludlow looked up to me so thankful, when I turned his bowl of
coffee," said Fanny, "and it seemed to taste so good, and revive him
so, I felt more than paid; I was myself refreshed by my trouble."
"It does them all good, not only to be refreshed with what nature
requires, but to know that we care for them. These little acts of
kindness can never be felt, except in pleasure by us, while they will
direct a stray feeling of happiness to more than one deserving heart.
It is a refreshment of the soul, to poor and rich, to know that others
care for them. What should we live for, if not to lighten each other's
labors, and make each other happy?"
"If what father believes is true, and it looks quite rational, we
praise God most, when we are most like him, and are faithful and
free-hearted to his children. And who of us desires more praise from
those we wait on, than a look of gratitude, and the assurance that we
have given a blessing? But, George _did_ look so thankful! Poor
George, how hard he has worked to be somebody in the world!"
"They all looked thankful, and what was better, they rose and went to
work again with a lighter step, as though they felt younger and
stronger. But, George has given you several such looks of late, and
sometimes when your eyes were another way. I begin to think he means
something."
"How you talk, mother!--What, looked at me several times? And when my
eyes were another way?" returned Fanny, blushing like a quince blossom.
"Well, he cannot mean anything more than thanks for our small
attentions."
"George is a fine young man," said Mrs. Fabens, "if the Cressey girls,
and Desdemona Faddle do feel above him. They will set their caps in
vain for Merchant Fairbanks, for he detests their foolish pride and
finery as much as any one, and laughs in his sleeves, I'll warrant, at
their dangling curls, and their silly lisping talk, when they try to
speak polite to him; although he likes to flirt with them, and make
them think he is ready to die for them."
"And why should _they_ feel themselves better than George?" asked
Fanny. "They don't astonish the world with good looks, or refinement
of manners or mind. Their fathers are rich I know, and they have
nothing to do but dress, and study etiquette. They can hardly stoop to
what they call common people. But I don't envy them at all. They were
always disliked at school, and were always at the foot of their class.
If I were going to feel large and boast, I would want something besides
wealth to feel large about. I am sure I would sooner envy George
Ludlow, if he is not handsome, and is poor, and works out to support
his father and mother. He knows something, and has riches of the heart
I believe. But I cannot think why he should look at me, as you say,
mother."
"I like your ideas of greatness, Fanny," replied Mrs. Fabens, "I like
your ideas of greatness, and am glad you do not join those foolish
girls in a pride that would despise such a young man. True greatness
is of the mind, and riches are of the heart. But let us hurry with our
refreshments, for it is beautiful out now, and they must be hungry, and
we will enjoy it with them."
They plied themselves briskly, and about four o'clock the white cloths
were laid under a cool maple shade-tree, and on them was spread a
sumptuous lunch of fricasseed chickens, to be taken leisurely with
flowing cups of coffee, and followed with saucers of raspberries and
cream, and large and luscious pieces of blackberry pie. The look of
thankfulness and cheer which the men all returned for such a
refreshment, more than rewarded them, and sweet was the gratification
with which they themselves and the good-hearted Fabens partook of the
rural meal.
The presence of William Fabens also, enhanced the interest of the hour,
and furnished conversation which all were glad to hear. William Fabens
was a cousin of the Squire's, whom he had not seen before that month,
since they were boys in Cloverdale. William had gone to New York city
about the time Matthew went to Summerfield; and was now an intelligent
merchant still in trade, and was out on his first visit to the Lake
Country. He appeared much like the Squire, only a little more stately
and active, and he possessed great practical wisdom and fine common
sense. He carried a rich country nature to the city, and he had
cultured it finely, and it was bearing fair and mellow fruit. He had a
double life in consequence, and country life _citified_, perfected his
capabilities and joys.
He had found that life in the country and town, was life in very
different spheres, with different manifestations, and each a different
set of lights and shadows. Life in the country was more natural,
spontaneous and quiet; life in the town was more artistic, ambitious,
and flushed with fever heats. Life in the country was picturesque,
like the green, lovely landscapes in which it bloomed; life in the town
was statuesque, like the flocking forms that pressed upon its sight and
jostled it on its crowded way. Life in the country breathed in music;
life in the town abounded in incidents and actions.
He remembered with grateful pleasure the noble occupations and
amusements of country life. But he had profited well, and not lost, by
the change. If it was a noble theme to study material nature in the
landscape and sky, he found it still more noble to study moral nature
in man; and man as he moved in the town, and acted in the drama of life
that was daily brought before him. If it was delightful to read Milton
or Beattie in a cornfield, in a clover meadow, under a tree, or on the
haymow; it was more delightful to his mind to read the same author in a
city, where, seeing more of men, he could understand him better. And
whatever was beautiful in country life he carried with him to the town,
with its green and radiant pictures still glowing on his heart, and its
morning melodies still murmuring through his soul. And he could act
out in deeds, what once he meditated in ideas. He was constantly
called, by irresistible voices, to go out of himself, and out of his
fixed and finite conceits and opinions, and mix with other souls; and
transform his conceits to comprehensive conceptions, and enlarge his
opinions to universal views.
From this rich and varied experience, and from these elevated ideas,
William Fabens spoke, as he conversed with his cousin and the
harvesters, while taking the harvest lunch.
"I suppose by this time, William, you are pretty well weaned of the
country," said the Squire, after a changing conversation on several
themes.
"O no, not at all," said William, "not at all. My love of the country
is fresh and warm as ever. It is a singular fact, that almost all my
dreams are laid in the country, on the old farm. I am often in the
country in my mind, and receive much of my mental, as my physical
sustenance, from country stores."
"I thought you would turn your back on the country and never think of
its homely scenes again," said the Squire.
"I like the city in many respects better," said William; "so much
better, that I prefer living there nine months in the year. But give
me the country in the summer. In night dreams and day dreams, I return
to the old homestead, to renew my youth, and refresh my sympathies and
tastes. I think of the pride of the summer landscapes; and the pomp of
summer sunsets. I sit in the shade of my old favorite trees and woods;
I bathe my heart once more in the moonlight; my ears seem to tell me
again of all the melodies of morning; the babbling brook; the lowing
herd; the cowbell's simple chime; the murmur of bees and insects; the
choral concerts that ring through the woods; and I am there, young and
blooming as ever, and what Beattie's 'Minstrel' saw and heard, I seem
to see and hear once more."
"I know not how it may be in cities," said the Squire; "but I have
often noticed in our villages, that the countryman gets laughed at for
his greenness. This never disturbed me. I have felt that we were
inferior to none of their village bloods. Better be green on the
surface than rotten at the core. And I have remembered how many great
men of the world were bred in the country."
"The cities are often guilty of the same," said William, "forgetting
how many angels they entertain unawares. Did ever a mortal man look
more of the rustic clown than the country boy, Sam Johnson, when he
first went to London? And could he not make dictionaries, and write
Rasselas?"
"And who can imagine a more ludicrous object," asked the Squire, "than
shabby, and chubby, and warty little Oliver Goldsmith, when he first
waddled, staring and gaping, through Green-Arbor Court, and up
Fishstreet Hill? And has he not given us prose and poetry that will
live as long as the English tongue is known?"
"We might have laughed at Shakspeare," added William, "when, a green
country runaway, he first entered the metropolis; we might have laughed
at Dryden, coming up from the provinces in his coarse Norwich drugget
and wooden shoes--over thirty years old, and not yet aware that he
could write a line of verse. But for all that, did not Shakspeare
write Hamlet? and Dryden give laws and models for English heroic verse?"
"And some might have thanked the Dumfries gentry for putting the rustic
Burns in the kitchen with the servants to eat," added the Squire; "but
did not Burns make a song there, to shame his proud insulters; and did
he not sing--
'A man's a man for a' that.'
The temptations of the city are the most that I should fear."