THE GENTLEMAN AT HOME.
Master Temple Temple was up early, and watching the weather, the next
morning, with far more eagerness than his father would have approved,
unless some of his own gentlemanlike pleasures had been in question. If
Mr. Temple had known that his son and heir cared for the convenience of
his industrious uncle Arthur, and of a parcel of labourers, the boy
would hardly have escaped a long lecture on the depravity of his tastes,
and the vulgarity of his sympathies. But Mr. Temple knew nothing that
passed prior to his own majestic descent to the breakfast-room, where
the silver coffee-pot was steaming fragrantly, and the windows were
carefully opened or scrupulously shut, so as to temper the visitations
of the outward air, while his lady sat awaiting his mood, and trembling
lest he should find nothing that he could eat among the variety of forms
of diet into which the few elements at the command of her cook had been
combined. Mrs. Temple had never been very happy while within reach of
markets and shops; but she was now often tempted to believe that almost
all her troubles would be at an end if she had but the means of
indulging her husband’s fastidious appetite. It was a real misery to be
for ever inventing, and for ever in vain, new cookeries of Indian corn,
beef, lean pork, geese and turkeys, honey and milk. Beyond these
materials, she had nothing to depend upon but chance arrivals of flour,
pickles, and groceries; and awfully passed the day when there was any
disappointment at breakfast. She would willingly have surrendered her
conservatory, her splendid ornaments, the pictures, plate, and even the
library of her house, and the many thousand acres belonging to it, to
give to her husband such an unscrupulous appetite as Arthur’s, or such a
cheerful temper as Dr. Sneyd’s. It was hard that her husband’s ill-
humour about his privations should fall upon her; for she was not the
one who did the deed, whatever it might be, which drove the gentleman
from English society. The sacrifice was quite as great to her as it
could possibly be to him; and there was inexpressible meanness in
Temple’s aggravating, by complaints of his own share, the suffering
which he had himself brought upon her. Temple seemed always to think
himself a great man, however; and always greatest when causing the
utmost sensation in those about him.
This morning, he stalked into the breakfast room in remarkable state. He
looked almost as tall as his wife when about to speak to her, and was as
valiant in his threats against the people who disturbed him by passing
before his window, as his son in planning his next encounter with
Brawn’s great turkey.
“Come away from the window, this moment, Temple. I desire you will never
stand there when the people are flocking past in this manner. Nothing
gratifies them more. They blow those infernal horns for no other purpose
than to draw our attention. Ring the bell, Temple.”
When Marius appeared, in answer to the bell, he was ordered to pull down
that blind; and if the people did not go away directly, to bid them
begone, and blow their horns somewhere out of his hearing.
"They will be gone soon enough, sir. It is a busy day with them. They
are making a frolic to bridge the Creek, because of what happened—"
A terrified glance of Mrs. Temple’s stopped the man in his reference to
what had taken place the evening before. It was hoped that the stock of
coffee might be husbanded till more could arrive, that the idea of
chocolate might be insinuated into the gentleman’s mind, and that the
shortness of the wax candles, and the deficiency of light in the hall at
night, might possibly escape observation.
“The bridge over the Creek being much wanted by every body, sir,”
continued Marius, "every body is joining the frolic to work at it; that
is, if——"
“Not I, nor any of my people. Let me hear no more about it, if you
please. I have given no orders to have a bridge built.”
Marius withdrew. The cow-horns were presently no longer heard—not that
Marius had done any thing to silence them. He knew that the blowers were
not thinking of either him or his master; but merely passing to their
place of rendezvous, calling all frolickers together by the way.
“Temple, you find you can live without your squirrels, I hope,” said the
tender father. “Now, no crying! I will not have you cry.”
“Bring me your papa’s cup, my dear,” interposed his mother; “and
persuade him to try these early strawberries. The gardener surprised us
this morning with a little plate of strawberries. Tell your papa about
the strawberries in the orchard, my dear.”
In the intervals of sobs, and with streaming eyes, Temmy told the happy
news that strawberries had spread under all the trees in the orchard,
and were so full of blossom, that the gardener thought the orchard would
soon look like a field of white clover.
“Wild strawberries, I suppose. Tasteless trash!” was the remark upon
this intelligence.
Before a more promising subject was started, the door opened, and Dr.
Sneyd appeared. Mr. Temple hastened to rise, put away, with a prodigious
crackling and shuffling, the papers he held, quickened Temmy’s motions
in setting a chair, and pressed coffee and strawberries on “the old
gentleman,” as he was wont to call Dr. Sneyd. It was impossible that
there could be much sympathy between two men so unlike; but it
singularly happened that Dr. Sneyd had a slighter knowledge than any
body in the village of the peculiarities of his son-in-law. He was
amused at some of his foibles, vexed at others, and he sighed, at times,
when he saw changes of looks and temper creeping over his daughter, and
thought what she might have been with a more suitable companion; but
Temple stood in so much awe of the philosopher as to appear a somewhat
different person before him and in any other presence. Temmy now knew
that he was safe from misfortune for half an hour; and being unwilling
that grandpapa should see traces of tears, he slipped behind the window
blind, to make his observations on the troop which was gathering in the
distance on the way to the creek. He stood murmuring to himself,—"There
goes Big Brawn and the Brawnees! I never saw any women like those
Brawnees. I think they could pull up a tall tree by the roots, if they
tried. I wonder when they will give me some more honey to taste. There
goes Dods! He must be tired before the frolic begins; for he has been
making bricks ever since it was light. I suppose he is afraid papa will
be angry if he does not make bricks as fast as he can. Papa was so angry
with the rain for spoiling his bricks before! There goes David——" And so
on, through the entire population, out of the bounds of Temple Lodge.
“I came to ask,” said the doctor, “how many of your men you can spare to
this frolic to-day. Arthur will be glad of all the assistance that can
be had, that the work may be done completely at once.”
The reply was, that Arthur seemed an enterprising young man.
"He is: just made for his lot. But I ought not to call this Arthur’s
enterprise altogether. The Creek is no more his than it is yours or
mine. The erection is for the common good, as the disaster last
night"—(a glance from Mrs. Temple to her husband’s face, and a peep from
Temmy, from behind the blind)—“was, in fact, a common misfortune.”
Mr. Temple took snuff, and asked no questions at present.
“I have been telling my wife,” observed the doctor, “that I am
prodigiously tempted to try the strength of my arm myself, to-day.”
"I hope not, my dear sir. Your years——The advancement of science, you
know——Just imagine its being told in Paris, among your friends of the
Institute, that you had been helping to build a bridge! Temple, ring the
bell."
Marius was desired to send Ephraim to receive his master’s commands. In
a few minutes, the door slowly opened, a strange metallic sound was
heard, and a little negro boy, stunted in form and mean in countenance,
stood bowing in the presence.
"Ephraim, go into the park field, and tell Martin to send as many
labourers as he can spare to help to bridge the creek. And as you come
back——"
During this time, Dr. Sneyd had turned on his chair to observe the boy.
He now rose rapidly, and went to convince himself that his eyes did not
deceive him. It was really true that the right ankle and left wrist of
the little lad were connected by a light fetter.
“Who has the key of this chain?” asked Dr. Sneyd of his daughter, who,
blushing scarlet, looked towards her husband.
“Give it me,” said the doctor, holding out his hand.
“Excuse me, my dear sir. You do not know the boy.”
“Very true: but that does not alter the case. The key, if you please.”
After a moment’s hesitation, it was produced from the waistcoat pocket.
Dr. Sneyd set the boy free, bade him make haste to do his master’s
bidding, and quietly doubling the chain, laid it down on a distant
table.
“He never made haste in his life, sir,” protested Mr. Temple. “You do
not know the lad, sir, believe me.”
“I do not: and I am sorry to hear such an account of him. This is a
place where no one can be allowed to loiter and be idle.”
Ephraim showed that he could make haste; for he lost no time in getting
out of the room, when he had received his final orders. At the moment,
and for a few moments more, Dr. Sneyd was relating to his daughter the
contents of the letters received from England the night before. Mr.
Temple meanwhile was stirring the fire, flourishing his handkerchief,
and summoning courage to be angry with Dr. Sneyd.
“Do you know, sir,” said he, at length, "that boy is my servant? Let me
tell you, that for one gentleman to interfere with another gentleman’s
servants is——"
Dr. Sneyd was listening so calmly, with his hands resting on the head of
his cane, that Temple’s words, somehow or other, failed him.
"Such interference is——is——This boy, sir, is my servant."
“Your servant, but not your slave. Do you know, Temple, it is I who
might call you to account, rather than you me. As one of the same race
with this boy, I have a right to call you to account for making property
of that which is no property. There is no occasion, I trust, for you and
me to refer this matter to a magistrate: but, till compelled to do so, I
have a full right to strike off chains wherever I meet with them.”
"You may meet with them in the woods, or as far over the prairie as you
are likely to walk, my dear sir, for this lad is a notorious runaway: he
has escaped three times. Nothing short of such an offence could have
made me do any thing which might appear harsh. If he runs away again, I
assure you I shall be compelled to employ the restraint in question: I
give you warning that I must. So, if you should meet him, thus
restrained, you know——"
"O, yes; I shall know what to do. I shall take off the chain that he may
hie the faster.——I see your conservatory is in great beauty. I imagine
you must have adopted Arthur’s notion about warming it."
“Not Mr. Sneyd’s. O, no; it was Mrs. Temple’s idea.”
“Not originally; it was Arthur who advised me,” declared Mrs. Temple. “I
hope you will soon have some of the benefit of his devices about the
kitchen-garden, father. The gardener has orders to send you some of the
first vegetables and fruit that are ready for gathering; and I am going
to carry my mother some flowers to-day.”
“I was about to ask when you will dine with us,” said Dr. Sneyd. “I
think it had better be when some of the good things you speak of are
ready; for we have few luxuries to offer you. But when will you come?”
Mr. Temple was sorry that his time was now so occupied with
business,—his affairs at the land-office, in addition to all his own
concerns,—that he could form no engagements. Mrs. Temple would answer
for herself and her son.
Dr. Sneyd was not aware of this new occupation of Mr. Temple’s. He was
particularly glad to hear of it, and told it to his wife as a piece of
very good news, as soon as he got home. They both hoped that their
daughter would be all the happier for her husband having something to do
and to think about, beyond his own affairs.
“What is all this?” cried Mr. Temple, returning from bowing out Dr.
Sneyd with much civility. “What accident happened last night, pray?”
On being told of the upsetting of the waggon, he was not the less angry
for his internal consciousness that he caused himself to be treated like
a child, by being unable to bear cross accidents. His horse was ordered
instantly, his morning gown exchanged for his pretty riding equipments,
and his wife and son left to gaze from one window and another to learn,
if possible, what was to happen next, and to reason with one another
about their lesser troubles, after the manner of tender mothers and
confiding children. Temmy saw very clearly that it could do no good to
cry whenever squirrels were mentioned, and that it must be much
pleasanter to papa to see his boy smile, and to hear him answer
cheerfully, than——The child’s memory could supply the contrast. This
same papa was all the time in great trouble without reasoning. He
pursued his way to the Creek as if he had been in mortal terror of the
groom who followed at his heels.
“Aside the devil turned for envy,” says Milton. Such a pang has since
been the lot of many a splenetic descendant of the arch-fiend, on
witnessing happiness that he not only could not share, but could not
sympathize in. Such a pang exasperated Mr. Temple on casting his first
glance over the scene of the frolic. He despised every body there, from
Arthur, now brandishing his rule, now lending a hand to place a heavy
beam, to the youngest of Dods’s children, who thought she was helping by
sticking corn-cobs into the crevices of the logs. He despised Brawn, the
woodsman, with his round shoulders, enormous bush of hair, and hands
that looked as if they could lift up a house. He despised the daughters,
Black Brawnee and Brown Brawnee, as they were called. He was never very
easy when he fell in with these girls in the depths of the forest,
tapping their row of maple trees, and kneeling at the troughs beneath;
or on the flowery prairie, lining the wild bees to their haunt in the
hollow tree. He felt himself an object of ridicule to these daughters of
the forest, and so insignificant in respect of all the qualifications
which they valued, that none of his personal accomplishments gave him
any comfortable feeling of confidence in their presence; and the
merriment with which they now pursued as sport a toil which would have
been death to him, irritated him to a degree which they were amused to
witness. He despised the whole apparatus of festivity: the pig roasting
in the shade, and the bustle of the women preparing the various messes
of corn, and exhibiting their stores of salt beef. He pronounced the
whole vulgar,—so excessively vulgar,—that he could not endure that a son
of Dr. Sneyd’s should be assisting in the fête. The axe and mattock
sounded in a very annoying way; the buzz of voices and of laughter were
highly discreditable to the order of the place; and the work was so
rough that, in all probability, he should be obliged to witness some
wounds or bruises if he did not get away. So he hastened to conceal his
envy from himself, and to express his contempt as plainly as possible.
He raised himself in his stirrups, and called out his men by name. They
came forth unwillingly, having but just arrived to join the frolic, and
suspecting that their capricious master meant to send them home again. A
glance of mutual condolence between two of them was observed by Mr.
Temple, and did no good to their cause. They were ordered to return
instantly to their work in the park-field, and to appear no more near
the Creek this day.
“We will do some of their work in the park-field to-morrow, Mr. Temple,”
said Arthur, “if you will let us have the benefit of their labour now.”
Under a sense of infinite obligation, Mr. Temple explained that he
permitted none but his own people,—no vagabond woodsmen,—no workmen who
came hither because they were driven out of the civilized world,—to
touch his land. And, after the losses of the preceding evening, he could
not think of giving his men a holiday,—losses of which Arthur had not
even had the grace to apprize him. Arthur was surprized. He could not
have supposed that such a piece of news could have been long in
travelling through the village of Briery Creek, considering that
Temple’s man had been one of the waggoners, Temple’s son a witness of
the whole, and the entire population of the place on the spot before the
adventure was finished. Why was it more Arthur’s duty than any one’s
else to carry him the disagreeable news?
"Your not having done it, Mr. Sneyd, is of a piece with your conduct
about the cattle-marks, sir,—of a piece with the whole of your conduct
since you entered upon your speculations in my neighbourhood. My men
shall know the story of the cattle-marks, sir, and then we shall see
which of them will stir a finger to help you with your bridge."
“What about the cattle-marks?” asked Arthur, with a perplexed look. “If
you told me, I am afraid I have forgotten.”
“You could have given me the earliest intelligence, I fancy, sir. If I
mistake not, you have entered, at the land-office, your design of
marking your sheep and pigs with three slanting slits in the right ear.”
This was true.
"And your determination was not made known,—it was not, in fact,
taken,—till the fifteenth of last month."
“I dare say not. I planned it just before my second visit to the land-
office, which was about the middle of last month.”
“Very well, sir; the fifteenth was your day. Now, I have evidence to
prove that on the thirteenth I informed my son, who, I understand,
informed Dr. Sneyd, that it was my intention to mark my cattle with
three slanting slits in the right ear.”
“Well! what then?”
"Why, just that circumstances have so fallen out as to defeat your
design, sir, which I will not stop to characterize. I have a connexion
with the land-office, sir, which you were perhaps not aware of; and my
sheep and pigs will run no risk of being confounded with yours. It is
very well to ask—‘What then?’ I should like to know whether my sheep and
pigs do not far out-number yours: and how was any one to distinguish the
one from the other, straying in the woods and prairies, if all were
marked with three slanting slits in the right ear?"
Arthur would not stoop to reply to the insinuations of his brother-in-
law. He did, for a moment, condescend to lose his temper, and would
probably have frightened the intruder off the ground by an exhibition of
passion, if the Brawnees and their father, and a few others who had
nothing to hope or fear from Temple, had not relieved him by a timely
burst of laughter. Dods dared not laugh, for he was brickmaker to
Temple; and much building remained to be done about the lodge. Others,
among whom the gentleman’s money was distributed in profusion, appeared
not to observe what was going on. Arthur only observed, before
recommencing his labours,—
“I am surprised to hear all this, Mr. Temple. I thought your cattle had
been much too proud to stray about the woods like the beasts of poor,
common settlers like us. I am sure when I grow rich enough to have
stables, and styes, and pens, such as you can command, my horses will
never be heard tinkling their bells in the forest in the evening, and
nobody will run over a pig of mine in the prairie.”
“And yet you can spare time to build bridges, Mr. Sneyd; and you can
contribute materials for a market-house and a cheese dairy. It is not to
every body that you complain of poverty.”
“To no one do I complain of poverty. I am not poor. Nobody present is
poor. There was but one short period when any of us could be justly
called so; and that was when each of us had barely enough to supply his
own actual wants.”
“That did not last long,” said Dods. “In a young settlement like ours,
two years ago, every act of labour tells. Ah! there goes my gentleman! I
thought so. He never stays to be reminded what a barbarous place he has
got into.”
“Whatever brought him here,” observed Brawn, “is more than any of us can
tell. I have seen new settlers enough in my day, my life having lain
among new clearings. Many a rough farmer, many a pale mechanic, have I
seen; the one looking gloomily into the waste before him, and the other
sinking under the toil that was too new to him. And many a trader has
passed through with his stores, and many a speculator come to gamble in
land, and go away again. But a beau like this, with a power of money to
spend, without caring to earn any, is a thing I have heard tell of far
to the east, but never thought to see. It makes one waken one’s ears to
hear what travellers tell of the reason.”
Arthur could have told the reason, as his neighbours knew; and it was
probably the hope that he might forget his discretion that made the
gossips of Briery Creek betake themselves to conjectures in his hearing
as often as he was believed to have received provocation from Temple. He
was never known, however, to deny or confirm anything that was said. It
was pretty well understood that Temple had come here because he had made
his former place of residence too hot to hold him; but whether he had
libelled or slain anybody, made himself odious as an informer, enriched
himself by unfair means, or been unfortunate in a duel, it still
remained for some accidental revelation to make known.
“How is it, Dods, that you think every act of labour tells in a young
settlement?” asked Arthur, on resuming work after a large destruction of
roast pig. “I have always understood that labour is worth more the more
it is divided; and nowhere is there less division of labour than in a
young settlement.”
“Very true. I hold that we are both right, because we are speaking of
different states of affairs. Before people have enough of anything to
change away, and while each man works for himself, each touch of his
finger, if one may say so, supplies some want of his own. No need, in
such days, to trouble your head about whether your work will sell! You
want a thing; you make it, and use it; and thereby feel how much your
work is worth. But the case is different when you have more of a thing
than you want, and would fain change it away. You cannot change it away
unless others have also something more than they want to use themselves.
Then they begin to club their labour together, and divide the work among
them, and try by what means they can get the most done; by such division
of labour they do get the most done, but it does not follow that the
workmen flourish accordingly, as they do when each works for himself.”
“Because it becomes more difficult to calculate how much of each sort of
production will be wanted. The matter becomes perplexed by the wishes of
so many being concerned. If we could understand those wishes, the more
we can get produced, the better it would be for everybody.”
“I have tried both the periods we speak of,” said Dods. "Brickmaking was
a fine business indeed in the part of England where I lived when trade
was brisk, and manufacturers building country-houses, and speculators
running up rows of cottages for weavers. But a sudden change knocked me
up when I least expected it. I went on one summer making bricks as
before;—for what should I know of the changes that were taking place on
the other side of the world, and that spread through our manufacturers,
and weavers, and builders, till they reached me? The first I knew of it
was, my not selling a brick for the whole season, and seeing house after
house deserted, till it was plain that my unbaked bricks must melt in
the winter rains, and those in the kilns crumble in the storms, before
my labour would be wanted again in that line. As for my little capital,
it melted and crumbled away with the bricks it was locked up in. Here
mine was, for a long while, the only brick house. I made not a brick too
much; so that there was no waste."
“And the same may be said of the work you do for Mr. Temple. There may
be an exact calculation how many bricks are wanted, so that you can
proportion your supply exactly to the demand.”
“And use the advantage of division of labour too, sir. No fear of a glut
coming unawares, when I have the whole of our little range under my own
eye. One of my boys may dig the clay, and another barrow the bricks to
the kiln, and the eldest tend the fires, while I am moulding, and no
fear of our all being thrown out at once by an unexpected glut; and the
more disastrously, perhaps, for our having turned our mutual help to the
best account.”
“I rather think your labour is stimulated rather than relaxed by the
high wages you get here, Mr. Dods.”
"Why, yes. That seems the natural effect of high wages, whatever people
may say of the desperate hard work of such poor creatures as the Glasgow
weavers, or the Manchester spinners. I say, look to the Irish, who have
very poor wages. Do they work hard? I say, look to the labourers in
India. They have miserable wages. Do they work hard? The difference
between these and the Lancashire spinners seems to me to be, that in
India and Ireland, some sort of subsistence,—rice and potatoes, poor
enough,—is to be had for little labour, and little more can be gained by
greater labour; while the Lancashire poor can only get a bare
subsistence by excessive labour, and therefore they labour excessively.
Put a poor diet of rice within reach of the Lancashire spinner, with the
knowledge that he can get nothing better, and he will do as little work
as will procure him a bare subsistence of rice. But try all three with
high wages, in circumstances where they may add one comfort after
another to their store, and you will see whether they will relax in
their toils till they have got all that labour can obtain."
“I say, look to the reason of the case, and it will tell the same story
as the facts. If a man is lazy, and loves idleness more than the good
things which industry will bring, there is an end of the matter, as far
as he is concerned. He is an exception to common rules. But, as long as
there is no end to the comforts and luxuries which most men prefer to
idleness, there will be no end of exertion to obtain them. I believe you
and your sons work harder than you did two years ago, though you have
ten times as many comforts about you.”
"And my wife, too, I assure you. At first, we used to sit down tired
before the end of the day, and if we had bread enough for supper, and
blankets to spread on the floor of our log-house, were apt to think we
could do no more that day, But when we had wherewith to get salt beef,
we thought we could work a little harder for something pleasanter to
drink with it than the brackish water which was used by us all at first,
for want of a sweeter draught. In like manner, when we once had a brick
cottage, there was no end of our toil to get things to put into
it;—first, bedsteads, and seats, and a table; and then crockery, and
hardware, and matting for the floors; and now my wife has set her mind
upon carpets, and a looking-glass for her customers to fancy her
handiwork by. She says ladies always admire her gowns and bonnets most
when they see them on themselves. It was but this morning that my wife
vowed that a handsome looking-glass was a necessary of life to her. We
should all have laughed enough at the idea of such a speech two years
ago."
“And with the wish, your wife brings the power to obtain these
comforts.”
"The wish would be worth little without the power; which makes it a
merciful arrangement that the wish only grows with the power. If my wife
had longed for a looking-glass before she was able to set about earning
one with her mantua-making and milliner’s work, she would have been
suffering under a useless trouble. No: it is a good thing that while
people are solitary, producing only for themselves, there is no demand
for other people’s goods——"
"I should say ‘desire.’ There is no demand till the power and the will
are joined. If your wife had pined for a mirror two years ago, there
would have been no demand for it on her part. To-morrow, if she offers a
travelling trader a smart assortment of caps,—or, what is the same
thing, if she sells her caps to the women of Briery Creek, and gives the
trader the money for his mirror,—she makes a real and effective demand.
It seems to me a blessed arrangement, too, that there is always somewhat
wherewith to supply this demand, and exactly enough to supply it."
“Ay, sir; if we were but sharp-sighted enough to take care that the
quality was as exactly fitted to human wishes as the quantity. Since we
none of us produce more than we want, just for the pleasure of toiling,
it is as plain as possible that every man’s surplus constitutes a
demand. Well! every man’s surplus is also his neighbour’s supply. The
instrument of demand that every man brings is also his instrument of
supply; so that, in point of quantity, there is always a precise
provision made for human wants.”
"Yes; and if mistakes are made as to the kinds of articles that are
wished for, there is always the consolation that such mistakes will
correct one another, as long as there can never be too much of
everything. If what we have just said be true, there being too much of
one thing proves that there must be too little of another; and the
production of the one will be slackened, and that of the other
quickened, till they are made equal. If your wife makes up more caps by
half than are wanted, caps will be ruinously cheap. The Brawnees will
give much less maple sugar for their caps——"
The Brawnees never wore caps, Arthur was reminded.
“But they will, in time, take my word for it, if they remain among us.
Well! your wife will refuse to sell her caps at so great a loss. She
will lay them by till the present generation of caps is worn out, and go
and tap the maple trees for herself, rather than pay others dearly for
it. In this case, the glut is of caps; and the deficiency is of maple
sugar.”
“My wife’s gains must depend on her own judgment in adapting her
millinery to the wants of her customers. If she makes half as many caps
again as are needed, she deserves to lose, and to have to go out sugar-
making for herself.”
"Yes: calculation may avail in a small society like this. In a larger
and more complicated society, the most that prudence can do is to watch
the changes of wants and wishes, as shown by variations of price. This
would avail for all practical purposes, if wants and wishes were left to
themselves. They are so at Briery Creek, and therefore every trader at
Briery Creek has fair play. But it is not so where bounties, and
prohibitions, and unequal taxation are made to interfere among buyers
and sellers: where such disturbing influences exist, the trader has not
fair play; and it would be a miracle indeed if he could adapt his supply
to the demand,—or, in other words, be satisfied in his own demand. What
is moving in the wood there, Dods? What takes all our people away from
their work when it is so nearly finished?"
“It must be some rare sight,” observed Dods. “Every one, look ye, man,
woman, and child, skipping over the new bridge while half of it is
prettily gravelled, and the other half still bare and slippery. See how
they scramble over the heap of gravel left in the middle! I suppose I
must follow where they lead, and bring you the news, sir.”
Before Dods had time to complete his first passage over the new bridge,
the news told itself. A company of soldiers, on their way to occupy a
military post near, emerged from the green depths of the forest, and
appeared to be making straight for the ford, without looking to the
right hand or to the left. Their pleasure was instantly visible when,
their attention being attracted by a shout from the throng of settlers,
they perceived a substantial bridge, finished except the gravelling,
overhanging the stream through which they had expected to be compelled
to wade. They received with hearty good-will their commander’s
directions to pay toll of their labour for their passage. Never was a
public work finished in a more joyous style. The heap of gravel was
levelled in a trice; and, by particular desire, a substantial handrail
was fixed for the benefit of careless children, or of any whose nerves
might be affected by the sight of the restless waters below. Temple was
riding along a ridge whence he could look down, and hoped to observe how
much the work was retarded by his labourers being withdrawn. When he saw
that no help of his was wanted,—that the erection was now complete, the
refuse logs being piled up out of the way, the boughs carried off for
fuel, the tools collected, and preparations made for the crowning
repast,—he put spurs to his horse, and cast hard words at his groom for
allowing him to forget that he was likely to be late home to dinner.
Arthur, meantime, was engaged with the commander, who explained that his
men and he would be glad of the advantage of attending divine service on
the Sunday, if there was any place within reach of their post where they
might do so. The only place of worship at present in Briery Creek was
Dr. Sneyd’s house, where he had conducted service since his arrival, for
the benefit of all who wished to attend. The commander was very anxious
to be permitted, with his company, to join the assemblage; Arthur had no
doubt of his father’s willingness. The question was, where they should
assemble, Dr. Sneyd’s house not being large enough for so many. One
proposed the verge of the forest; but Dr. Sneyd was not, at his age,
made to abide changes of weather like the hardy settlers about him.
Arthur’s barn was too far off for the convenience of all parties. Nobody
was disposed to ask from Mr. Temple any favour which, being graciously
granted for one Sunday, might be withdrawn before the next. Could the
market-house be made fit for the purpose? It was a rude building,
without seats, and occupied with traffic till the Saturday evening; but
the neighbours promised to vacate it in time to have it
cleared,—prepared with log seats, and some sort of pulpit,—and made a
temple meet for the worship of the heart.
Dr. Sneyd’s afternoon walk brought him to the spot in time to promise to
do his part. His blessing was ready for the work newly completed, and
for the parting cup with which the men of peace dismissed the men of
war, in a spirit of mutual good-will.
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