many perish in the ordeal. Yet I know that people need not fall, if
they will open their eyes, and act out their country nature. Evil
affords a high and noble discipline when we meet it like men, and
overcome its onsets. When men and women from the country have finished
a course of city life, with warm hearts remaining in them, unsullied by
corruptions they have seen, they are found to possess all the more
strength of will, elevation of mind, and grace and grandeur of life,
from the school from which they graduate. Each exercise of strength we
take in resisting temptation, is the moral gymnastics that redoubles
that power against the next encounter, and adds muscle and fire to all
the capabilities of life. Each exercise of sense we take to
discriminate between true and false life, true and false pleasure, true
and false charmers, is a training of the intellect and judgment to more
delicate discernments, and more virtuous and vital joys. A man enters
the city as Hercules entered the world; the characters that go forth to
meet him are like the true and false goddesses that met that hero and
determined his choice; and that fine old fable shows that even the
exercise of mind which is impelled by the two voices, will add new
strength to one's being, cut out the blurs from his eyes, and make the
judgment more active and perception more keen."
"That is all very true," said the Squire; "and your own life is an
illustration. But if I should enter a city to live, I fear it would
cool off my sympathies, and harden my heart."
"I should not fear that of you, Matthew," said William; "although it is
the case with thousands. We need not be cooled or hardened. We see
more of the evil side of life, to be sure; but it does not harden all.
John Howard and Elizabeth Fry saw more of the evils of life than most
city people. They visited the very dens of suffering want and
imprisoned crime; but to them such sights were nobly instructive, and
they grew great-hearted and noble while reading the lessons. Their
sympathies were softened and warmed; their interest in humanity was
redoubled, and their love for our race quickened and expanded, until
they found no rest so sweet, as after long rounds of philanthropic
labor; no delight so pure as kindness; no beauty so divine as charity;
and no riches so ample and enjoyable as those laid up for benevolence,
and those received back to the generous soul in return for gifts and
deeds of good."
"You delight me, William," said the Squire; "and if you will go around
lecturing the country people, you will see them all flocking to the
town."
"The more, the better for us," said William. "They are the best
materials of which the town can replenish its numbers and forces.
Their great good sense; their healthy and generous instincts; their
large and throbbing hearts; their picturesque minds and memories need
only the discipline and finish of city life, to round them up into
robust men and women of sweet and symmetrical characters, and fair and
full-blooming souls."
On this occasion George Ludlow seemed to regard Fanny Fabens with
increased attention; and as their glances more than once met, an
artless, innocent blush would express on each face the timidity of
their natures, if not the emotions of their hearts.
The truth to tell, George had contracted for Fanny an affection which
he dared to disclose no more significantly, than by those expressions
of the eye and face, which would not be concealed; and since the
conversation in the house, he had scarcely been absent from her
thoughts. She considered his pure life and enlightened mind, and
inquired, "Where is the young man that has more nobleness than he?"
She thought of his kindness to his parents, and admired the example.
She called to mind his love of nature, and books, his efforts of
improvement, even amid tasks of diligent toil; and she honored him in
her soul; honored him the more for his own honor of his calling; and
began to return a kindling flame of that affection, which she conceived
he might indulge for her. But a few words were exchanged between them,
however, and it remains for some future chapter to relate the result of
those growing loves.
The men rose from their luncheon, when a cool and reviving hour had
been taken, and while the women were departing with William to the
house, and while Fabens remained under the maple, Merchant Fairbanks
came up, and after the usual salutations, he talked a moment with the
ladies, and then made Fabens an offer for his wheat crop, and commenced
a pleasant talk.
XX.
MERCHANT FAIRBANKS.
Merchant Fairbanks sold goods in Summerfield, and undertook large
dealings with the farmers there; buying their crops and bartering in
smaller transactions, for butter and cheese, wool and feathers, wood
and ashes, eggs and paper rags. He had tarried in town only two or
three years, and few were intimately acquainted with him, although many
supposed that they knew him well; and few men enjoyed more confidence
or love.
He possessed a tall and imposing person; a face that all declared
"fine," and "noble;" a large and glowing chestnut eye; a serene and
inspiring presence; and hair so dark, that it reflected at times stray
tints of purple, and was lustrous and smooth as a blackbird's wing, He
was scrupulous in the arrangement of his attire, and still there was a
studied contrivance of modest dignity about it all, that attracted
attention, and set off his honors.
He was an instant and accurate judge of character; he discerned by a
glance of his quick perceptions the lights and shadows of the human
mind, and was accomplished in manners that won the esteem of the
people, and enlisted them warmly in his favor. He remembered little
things, to accomplish great ones; he would call to your recollection
some trifling fact of which you supposed all beside yourself
unconscious, that would flatter your self-esteem in spite of you, and
win for himself your approbation. He remembered the names of his
customers and acquaintances, and called them emphatically, if he had
seen them never but once before; he was particular to salute each man
with his title, and whether that title was military, religious or
judicial, if he was in any doubt of its particular elevation, he would
be sure and get it so high that, when mistaken, a captain could answer
to the appellation of major; a justice to that of judge; a meek
disciple to that of deacon, and a preacher to that of doctor.
He knew many children in town, he spoke all their names, and told of
some good-looking relative or friend of his on the Hudson, whom they
strikingly resembled. He distinctly professed private religious and
political opinions of his own, while he knew there were the best of
people in all parties and persuasions, and put every one at perfect
ease with whom he conversed, convincing them that controversy was
unprofitable, and the slight difference between them, after all, would
be more in talk than in truth. He was a popular merchant, and the
central attraction of several gay circles in the town.
With her searching discernment, Mrs. Fabens had discovered in him more
than one design which she pronounced artful; she studied his character,
and told her husband and daughter in confidence, she believed him a
cunning flatterer, and a cheat; and that he would not always sail in
smooth water in Summerfield.
But Fabens would hardly listen for a moment to her surmises. He had
dealt with Merchant Fairbanks considerably; he had always believed him
honest and manly, and he joined the multitude in much of the praise
which they bestowed upon him.
As for Fanny, though she had not given the gentleman a great many
thoughts, she regarded him favorably, and found him a most mannerly
salesman, an affable and gallant man. She thought him far better than
many who ran after him, and she was in no wise averse to consider him
her friend.
"But you may depend upon it," said Mrs. Fabens to her husband,
seriously--"depend upon it, he is not so particular and loud, in
calling you 'Squire' for nothing; and it cannot be always a mistake,
when he says 'Judge Fabens;' nor does he consult your opinion on so
many things, because the opinion has the value of a straw in his
estimation. He may never injure you, and I will not fear that he can;
but it will be well to reserve a little confidence till he is better
known, and not be too quickly carried away with him."
But Fabens was still confident that Fairbanks was honorable and worthy
of respect and trust; he was often at his store; he often relied on his
integrity for important considerations; and he was well assured that he
was a man of merit and justice, and entitled to his enviable name. And
so marked was his confidence, it had induced Fairbanks to come without
hesitation again to buy all the wheat he could sell, and ask to have
credit till January. He offered a fairer price than Fabens had hoped
to obtain that season, and he engaged it on the desired time.
Fairbanks was unusually social and winning that afternoon, when he
found them rising from the lunch in the field; and he conversed freely
and pleasantly with Mrs. Fabens and her daughter, as they departed for
the house; and then turned to Fabens and conversed a long while, saying
at last--"That is your _only daughter_, I believe, Judge?"
"Yes, and only child, now, I suppose, that we have on earth," answered
Fabens.
"You may think I am too free, comparative stranger as I am, in my
conversation with her," said Fairbanks.
"O, no; I like to see folks familiar and friendly. Familiarity is the
life of company, while stiffness and formality give it a chill which is
quite disagreeable to me," said Fabens.
"Perhaps I should not be so familiar to her; but she reminds me so much
of a dear sister of mine on the Hudson, that I feel attracted towards
her; and it seemed every moment as if my sister was going to speak to
me. She is a good sister, too, and quite intelligent, if I am her
brother; and I think I have a right to say it. And there is that same
trembling modesty, that same blushing innocence and blooming beauty, to
remind me of my sister; and had her hair been a shade or two darker,
and her teeth not so ivory white; I believe I should have forgotten I
was talking to a stranger. You will pardon my frankness, Squire, I
know you will. I am apt to talk right out just as I happen to feel."
"Certainly, certainly, Mr. Fairbanks. I always admired frankness.
Perhaps you say too much of our daughter; but she is a very good sort
of a girl; and we tried, as far as we were able, to give her a
common-sense view of things, and have her respectable. I am thankful
that she is not as brazen as some girls; and good health has flushed
her face with fresh and blooming looks."
"You needn't fear for _that_ girl--pardon my freedom, Squire. No young
lady of such a turned forehead, and such eyes and address, ever came
short of what good parents desired."
"Then you are a phrenologist, Mr. Fairbanks?"
"I have studied such things considerably, and am not often mistaken.
High and full in all the frontal and coronal regions--such heads are
never given to flirts or fools."
"She is just as the Lord has permitted her to be; and we are thankful
that she has filled our home with so much light and joy."
"I know she must be dutiful; and at the same time wishing to know the
whys and wherefores of things, she asks a few questions, I suspect,
that she may know something, and have an opinion of her own."
"She never did a thing, as I recollect, that caused us an hour's
regret; but, as you say, she wishes to know things for herself; and
sometimes, when we have been tired and dull, she has wearied us with
questions. She has a great mind to acquire knowledge, and have an
intelligent opinion; and we ought never to be impatient with her, or
refuse an answer."
"She may thank father and mother for that disposition, I suspect. How
much she looks like her mother! And still she has your forehead, and
eyes, _almost_--if I remember right; and I should know she was your
daughter, if I met her in France."
"Her eyes are much lighter and bluer than mine; but they may resemble
them in shape and size. As for her hair--"
"I was just a-going to ask where she got that fairy flaxen hair?"
"We cannot tell where the color came from, except from our white blood.
My hair was light when a boy."
"That then accounts for hers."
"But never so milk-white as hers."
"Hers will grow dark, you may depend; it will be dark as yours when as
old. But what if it is not? I should like it all the better as it is;
it is handsome _enough_, and it is not so common as brown or black."
"But here it is nearly dark, and I have not had the manners to invite
you to the house. Come, go in with me, and take a dish of tea."
"O Squire, I beg you to excuse me. I have some business at home that I
must attend to to-night, and I must go. But that is the way with me,
always! When I am in good company, I never know how time flits by, nor
where to break off my talk. Come over and see me, Squire! Do come and
see me. Good night." And as Fairbanks went for his horse to go home,
Fabens ordered his men to quit work, and they all returned to the house
in excellent spirits for supper and sleep.
Fabens had made it the effort of his life to resist flattery, and
preserve a decent self-respect without a vain emotion; but it never
grieved him to call him Squire; and there was much in what Fairbanks
said and suggested, which he thought evinced uncommon discernment, and
a clear and discriminating mind; and he was happy in the belief that it
came right up from his heart, warm and sincere. He determined that he
would not allow his own heart to take any flattery from what he had
heard; yet what was said of Fanny--and her father and mother
also!--could not be displeasing, coming as it did from one of an
elevated station and mind: and he concluded that it was right for him
to be encouraged by the compliments, and congratulated himself on the
happiness of such a family and such a friend.
He enjoyed a fine conversation with his cousin William that evening;
and showed him his farm, and visited with him all he could, the next
day; and the day following, William departed for the city, leaving many
warm regards behind, and carrying home a large supply of sweet country
summer in his soul.
XXI.
THE HUSKING.
In modern times the Husking Party has gone out of fashion in
Summerfield; but in ancient times, while the manners of the people
remained primitive and pure, this festival (for festival it was)
continued of great account. It was sometimes held in barns, and
sometimes in the open fields; and the attendance of good wives and
maidens, and the occurrence of music and dancing at the close, was no
unusual joy. We may call it a 'movable feast,' for every autumn it
moved the rounds of the Settlement; and now in rare October, and near
the wane of the month, it came Fabens' turn to hold it again.
It was one of those golden weeks when the pleasantest house seems a
prison, and you feel as if you must live day and night out of doors.
The breeze from the cool Cayuga never fanned the brow nor tingled the
blood with a more hilarious spirit; and the orchards were never more
fragrant, nor the silver moon more round or fair.
Fabens marshalled his corn 'stouts,' like a legion of soldiers in a
hollow square, on the green mown meadow in front of his house, a
quarter of a mile away; and sent invitations far and near for a very
large gathering. He was particular even to invite Tilly Troffater and
his family; and a great number came. They came at half-past six; and
as the last sat down to the husking, the mild and majestic moon rose
smiling over the Owasco woods, and flooded the skies, and kindled the
dews with her mellow beams. Uncle Walter and Mr. Waldron were the
first on the ground; and Wilson and Troffater did not linger long
behind. A number of women were present; and a whole bevy of jocund
boys enjoyed it. The greetings were warm and brief, and the songs and
stories commenced quite early. Colwell had been on a bee hunt, he
said, that day, in the Richmond Openings, and discovered three swarms,
and almost traced another. Uncle Walter had been husking the corn he
had topped and left on the hill. Mr. Nimblet had harrowed in a
late-sown fallow. Troffater had looked to his traps, and spent the
rest of the day fishing on the lake. Most of the women had been drying
apples and coloring flannel.
Fanny Fabens and Nancy Nimblet sang the 'Silver Moon;' and all
confessed it was never sung better. Uncle Walter told a panther story,
with thrilling additions they never had heard before; sent cutting
little tremors of terror trembling through their hearts, and made them
thank their stars that those perilous days were over. Troffater told
his "Jemmy Harvey" story, saying "Jemmy was green as a mess o' cowslops
and the priest tuck forty dollars for pardoning his sins, and left him
without a shiner to tuck himself hum agin;" then he crossed and cocked
his black and blue eyes and laughed in convulsions at the story, while
they laughed at the manner in which the story was told. Teezle told a
story about the Indians and Tories "that cut up such didoes in the
revolution down there in the Diliway." Colwell repeated the story of
Milo Dale, the money-digger.
Then Squire Fabens told a story of a man who was caught in his
neighbor's granary borrowing wheat, and who was given a bag full and
his supper in the bargain, and sent home, promising he'd never do the
like again.
"A sap-headed fool, I guess it was, that found him, and let him slip
off in that way," said Colwell.
"That may be; but he did one wise act of his life, in his treatment to
the borrower, and I dare say that man will never violate his vow,"
answered Fabens.
"I don't know about that," said Teezle. "I should be afraid on't, and
lock up my grainery olers after."
"The person did not lock his granary, and no borrower I dare say has
set foot in it since."
"_Thief_, why didn't ye say?" inquired Colwell.
"O, he did not mean to steal," answered Fabens. "His family were
hungry, and he was too bashful to ask for it, and was taking the wheat
only till after the next year's harvest. The exposure of his error
might have ruined him; and he might have been driven to a desperate
life of crime. Now I think he must be a better man than before
overtaken by temptation."
"Yes,--but--the scamp orto've been punished," rejoined Colwell. "I
don't b'lieve in lettin' such scamps off without their punishment."
By this time the company were enlisted in the discussion, and more than
one remarked that he ought to have been punished; yet no one surmised
that the culprit sat in their midst, and was tortured by their words.
Troffater knew not where to turn his little earthen eyes, for fear of
encountering accusers; and he fixed them on the moon, and whistled a
snatch or two of his addicted music; then bit his lips, and blowed, and
hitched around on his seat, and blushed like a jack-o'-lantern.
"Yes, the scamp orto've been punished, I say," repeated Colwell.
"Think he was not punished then?" asked Fabens. "I think he was a
little! If I had stood in his shoes, I am sure I should rather have
been basted, or anything else, than served as he was."
"But he got away from the law," said Colwell.
"Not the living law, let me tell you," answered Fabens. "Not away from
God's law written on his heart, and threading the bone and marrow of
his being. To get away from that law, he had first to escape the reach
of God's hand, and run away from his own body and spirit. That was not
so easy a feat, Mr. Colwell.
"For the sake of our good social law, it may have been the person's
duty to drag the poor man to light, and give him open justice; but he
probably judged in that case, that the social law was better served and
guarded in its spirit, if not in its letter, than if the offender had
been exposed and imprisoned, to be let loose again with vengeance
against the law, and against mankind.
"I venture to assert that the treatment cured the error, and the
borrower will not violate the law again; while he might have run riot
in open crime, had he been openly dealt with. The majesty of the law
then was vindicated, and the injury done the system was repaired.
"And all that while he was amenable to God's living law traced all over
and around his heart; and supposing he runs abroad and treads the green
earth, and tastes the free air, and sees the bright sky; he is a
prisoner still if he lives, and has not risen in goodness beyond sight
of his sin; his body is his prison, his veins bind him down and his
nerves bar him in. He senses his punishment keenly; it cuts to the
quick, and he grieves, and trembles and gasps, whenever his fault comes
to mind. Let him run at large; that law of God will follow him,
watching with eyes from which no night can hide him; scourging with
whips from which no shield defends."
"Squire Fabens is a very forgiving man," said Mrs. Teezle. "He's
_very_ forgiving, and I think he's right."
"I claim no merit for that," said Fabens. "It is easy and right to
forgive others. God himself forgives very freely. But the man has one
enemy who may never forgive him in this world, and may not forgive him
at Judgment till long after God has forgiven him. Though this will
depend somewhat on his indolence or diligence in cultivating goodness
and truth. That enemy is himself, and self-forgiveness is the most
difficult, as it is the last to obtain."
"That may be all so, but I'd a given him _some_, I swanny, if I had a
ketched him in my grainery," said Colwell.
"I never see it in Fabens's light afore," interrupted Teezle.
"Nor I," "nor I," added others; and the discussion ended.
Then a song was called for, and Colwell sang the 'Tea Song;' and Fanny
Fabens sang the 'Whippoorwill,' and the very air attended, to hear the
happy girl, and the insects were hushed to silence, and the moon leaned
and listened, and the woods and the lake bandied back and to the
chorus, and repeated, and prolonged her full and silvery sounds.
Then they talked old times over, and rehearsed a few personal
histories, while the yellow corn glistened in rising hills before them.
Mr. Waldron related scenes he witnessed at Bennington and Saratoga, and
told of the Captain's commission and forty dollars in silver, he
received for taking six Hessians at the battle of Trenton. Troffater
wanted to tell what his father did in the Revolution, but he had not
courage to speak; and perhaps if he had, some one would have hinted the
current tradition, that his father was a cowboy, and stole cattle from
the Americans, and drove and sold them to the British, and then stole
them from the British and drove them back again. The conversation soon
turned on the settlement, and the history of the oldest inhabitants.
"I tell ye what, they were rather tough times after all," said Uncle
Walter. "I remember when I cut the first tree on my farm, and stuck
the first stake for my shanty. I had come a good ways from home, and
it was going on night, and the wolves howled in hearing, and I begun to
feel dubious. Uncle Waldron heard me chopping, and come, and took me
home to his little hemlock hut. Remember it, Uncle Mose? I slep on
the softest corner of your black muck-floor, and you said I snored like
an alligator."
"The Stringers kept bachelors-hall, they say, over on the Owasco Flats,
and baked nine crusts to one jonny cake," added Colwell.
"O, my stars!" cried Nancy Nimblet, "that must have been long before we
came here; and, pray tell, Mr. Colwell, how they managed their dough."
"Why, they wet their pounded corn in water (there was no mill in these
parts then), tossed up a hunker of a loaf, laid it down on a flat stone
by the fire, and baked a crust, then peeled it off and eat it, while
another was bakin', and so on to the ninth crust of the same smokin'
cake."
"And it was thought a scrumtious kind of a thing to visit the gals in
our buff-leather breeches in them days," said Colwell.
"O, the _buff_ breeches came long after that," said Fabens. "We had
grown quite civilized and fashionable when we wore the yellow buffs.
Besides, in those times there were not many girls in the country to
visit. But if the times were tough, they gave us a great deal of
comfort. I came here with my axe on my shoulder; I cut the first tree
on my farm, too, and paid for my farm, chopping for others. I made my
first bedstead. There was an auger in the settlement--it was yours,
Uncle Walter, and I borrowed that and framed me a bedstead of maple
saplings, and laced in elm-bark in lieu of a cord, and it gave me many
pleasant sleeps.