INTRODUCTIONS.
The true cause of Mr. Temple’s Sunday headache was spleen at the
occurrence of the morning. That Dr. Sneyd should preach, and in a
market-house, and that soldiers should come some miles to hear him was,
he declared, a perfect scandal to the settlement. He could not
countenance it.
The scandal continued, without the countenance of the scrupulous
gentleman, till the autumn, when the reason of certain magnificent
doings at Temple Hall began to be apparent. Probably the only persons
who could have told what all this new building meant were forbidden to
do so, as Mrs. Sneyd could never obtain a word from her daughter in
return for all her conjectures about what the Lodge was to grow into at
last, the builders having no sooner done one task than they had to set
about another. There was infinite hurry and bustle about these last
additions. Workmen were brought from a distance to relieve those on the
spot, that no part of the long summer days might be lost. Wall rose
above wall; beam followed beam from the forest, and planks issued from
the sawpit with marvellous speed. One would have thought the President
was expected on a visit before winter; and, in fact, a rumour was
current in the village that some new capitalists were coming to look
about them, and were to be tempted to abide on some of the great man’s
lands. This seemed the more probable as a substantial house was being
built in the Lodge grounds, besides the new wing (as it appeared to be)
of the mansion itself. Every body agreed that this house must be
intended for somebody.
The truth burst forth, one day late in the autumn, that seats instead of
partitions were being put up in the new building, and that the windows
were to be unlike those of the rest of the house:—in short, that it was
to be a chapel. The servants spread abroad the fact that company was
expected in a few days; to stay, they believed, all the winter.—Ay! till
the new house should be ready, every body supposed. Meantime, Mrs.
Temple said nothing more to her family than that friends of Mr. Temple’s
were shortly coming to stay at the Lodge. She had never seen them, and
knew but little about them:—hoped they might prove an acquisition to her
father:—depended upon Arthur’s civilities, if he should have it in his
power,—and so forth.
It was seldom that Mr. Temple called on his father-in-law,—especially in
the middle of the day, when less irksome things could be found to do;
but, one bright noon, he was perceived approaching the house, driving
the barouche, in which were seated two ladies and a gentleman, besides
the heir of Temple Lodge. Dr. Sneyd stepped out of his low window into
the garden, and met them near the gate, where he was introduced to the
Rev. Ralph Hesselden, pastor of Briery Creek, and Mrs. Hesselden.
The picturesque clergyman and his showy lady testified all outward
respect to the venerable old man before them. They forgot for a moment
what they had been told of his politics being "sad, very sad; quite
deplorable,"—and remembered only that he was the father of their
hostess. It was not till a full half hour after that they became duly
shocked at a man of his powers having been given over to the delusions
of human reason, and at his profaneness in having dared to set up for a
guide to others while he was himself blinded in the darkness of error.
There was so little that told of delusion in the calm simplicity of the
doctor’s countenance, and something so unlike profaneness and
presumption in his mild and serious manners, that it was not surprising
that his guests were so long in discovering the evil that was in him.
Mrs. Sneyd was busy about a task into which she put no small share of
her energies. She had heard that nothing that could be eaten was half so
good as pomegranate preserve, well made. In concert with Arthur, she had
grown pomegranates with great success, and she was this morning engaged
in preserving them; using her utmost skill, in the hope that if it
should prove an impossible thing to make her husband care for one
preserve rather than another while he was in health, this might be an
acceptable refreshment in case of sickness; or that, at least, Temmy
would relish the luxury; and possibly Temple himself be soothed by it in
one of the fits of spleen with which he was apt to cloud the morning
meal.—The mess was stewing, and the lady sipping and stirring, when her
husband came to tell her who had arrived, and to request her to
appear;—came instead of sending, to give her the opportunity of removing
all traces of mortification before she entered the room.
"Mr. and Mrs. Who?—a pastor? what, a methodist?—chaplain at the Lodge,
and pastor of Briery Creek?—My dear, this is aimed at you."
"One can hardly say that, as I only preached because there was no one
else.—I must not stay. You will come directly, my dear."
"I do not see how I can, my dear,"—glancing from her husband to her
stewpan, under a sense of outraged affection with respect to both of
them. “To take one so by surprise! I am sure it was done on purpose,”
“Then let us carry it off with as little consternation as we can. Peggy
will take your place.”
"And spoil all I have been doing, I know. And my face is so scorched, I
am not fit to be seen.—I’ll tell you what, my dear," she went on,
surrendering her long spoon to Peggy, and whisking off her apron,—“if I
appear now, I will not go and hear this man preach. I cannot be expected
to do that.”
“We will see about that when Sunday comes,” the doctor turned back to
say, as he hastened back to the party who were amusing themselves with
admiring the early drawings of Mrs. Temple, which hung against the walls
of her mother’s parlour. The doctor brought in with him a literary
journal of a later date than any which had arrived at the Lodge, and no
one suspected that he had been ministering to his wife’s good manners.
Mrs. Temple was in pain for what might follow the introduction.
There was no occasion for her inward tremors, nor for Dr. Sneyd’s quick
glance at his wife over his spectacles. Mrs. Sneyd might be fully
trusted to preserve her husband’s dignity. She instantly appeared,—so
courteous and self-possessed that no one could have perceived that she
had been hurried. The scorched cheeks passed with the strangers for the
ruddy health attendant on a country life, and they benevolently rejoiced
that she seemed likely to have some time before her yet, in which to
retract her heresies, and repent of all that she had believed and acted
upon through life. It was cheering to think of the safety that might
await her, if she should happily survive the doctor, and come under
their immediate guidance.
The ladies were left to themselves while Temple was grimacing (as he did
in certain states of nervousness) and whipping the shining toe of his
right boot, and the other gentleman making the plunge into science and
literature in which the doctor always led the way when he could lay hold
of a man of education. One shade of disappointment after another passed
over his countenance when he was met with questions whether one
philosopher was not pursuing his researches into regions whence many had
returned infidels,—with conjectures whether an eminent patriot was not
living without God in the world,—and with doubts whether a venerable
philanthropist might still be confided in, since he had gone hand in
hand in a good work with a man of doubtful seriousness. At last, his
patience seemed to be put to the proof, for his daughter heard him say,
“Well, sir, as neither you nor I are infidels, nor likely to become so,
suppose we let that matter pass. Our part is with the good tidings of
great deeds doing on the other side of the world. The faith of the doers
is between themselves and their God.”
"But, sir, consider the value of a lost soul—"
“I have so much hope of many souls being saved by every measure of wise
policy and true philanthropy, that I cannot mar my satisfaction by
groundless doubts of the safety of the movers. Let us take advantage of
the permission to judge them by their fruits, and then, it seems to me,
we may make ourselves very easy respecting them. Can you satisfy me
about this new method,—it is of immense importance,—of grinding
lenses——”
Mr. Hesselden could scarcely listen further, so shocked was he with the
doctor’s levity and laxity in being eager about bringing new worlds
within human ken, while there seemed to the pious a doubt whether the
agents of divine wisdom and benignity would be cared for by him who sent
them.—Mr. Hesselden solemnly elevated his eyebrows, as he looked towards
his wife; and the glance took effect. The lady began inquiring of Mrs.
Sneyd respecting the spiritual affairs of the settlement. She hoped the
population had a serious turn.
“Why, Madam,” replied Mrs. Sneyd, “every thing has so conduced to sober
the minds of our neighbours, that there has been little room yet for
frivolity among us. The circumstances of hardship, of one kind or
another, that led us all from our old homes were very serious; and it is
a serious matter to quit country and family and friends; and the first
casting about for subsistence in a new land is enough to bring thought
into the wildest brain; and now, when we have gathered many comforts
about us, and can thank Providence with full hearts, we are not at
liberty for idleness and levity. I assure you that Dr. Sneyd has had to
enlarge more against anxiety for the morrow than against carelessness or
vain-glory.”
“I rejoice to hear it. This is good as far as it goes. But I was
inquiring about more important affairs.”
"In more important matters still, I hope you will find much that is
encouraging. We are naturally free from the vices of extreme wealth or
poverty. Among the few whose labours have proved fruitful, there is a
sobriety of manners which I think will please you; and none are so poor
as to be tempted to dishonesty, or driven into recklessness. The cry of
‘stop thief’ has never been heard in Briery Creek, and you will neither
meet a drunken man nor a damsel dressed in tawdry finery.—By the way,
Louisa," she continued, addressing her daughter, “I am sorry there is
any difficulty about Rundell’s getting more land, and Chapman’s setting
up a general store. I have some fears that as our neighbours’ earnings
increase, we may see them spent in idle luxuries, unless there is a
facility in making a profitable investment.”
“Where is the difficulty, ma’am?” asked Mrs. Temple. “If Rundell wants
land, I rather think Mr. Temple has plenty for him.”
“I understand not.”
Mrs. Temple was about to argue the matter on the ground of her husband’s
thousands of uncultivated acres, but recollecting that there might be
more in the matter than was apparent to her, she stopped short, and
there was a pause.—At length, Mrs. Hesselden, turning the fullest aspect
of her enormous white chip bonnet on Mrs. Sneyd, supposed that as the
neighbourhood was so very moral, there were no public amusements in
Briery Creek.
“I am sorry to say there are none at present. Dr. Sneyd and my son
begin, next week, a humble attempt at a place of evening resort; and now
that Mr. Hesselden will be here to assist them, I hope our people will
soon be provided with a sufficiency of harmless amusement.”
"You begin next week?—A prayer meeting?" asked the lady, turning to Mrs.
Temple. Mrs. Temple believed not.
“We _have_ our meetings for intercourse on the subjects you refer to,”
replied Mrs. Sneyd; “but I understood you to be inquiring about places
of amusement. My son presented the settlement with a cricket ground
lately.”
“A cricket ground, was it?” said Mrs. Temple. “I thought it had been a
bleaching ground. I understood it was the ladies of the place who were
to be the better for his bounty.”
"That is true also. The same ground serves the washers on the Monday
morning, and the cricketers on the Saturday afternoon. You must know,
Mrs Hesselden, there is much trouble here in getting soap enough,—and
also candles,—for the purposes of all. There is some objection, I find,
to a general store being set up; so that only the richer of our
neighbours can obtain a regular supply of certain necessary articles;
and the poorer ones are just those who find it most expensive and
troublesome to make all the soap and candles they want. My son, knowing
how much consumption is saved by association, as he says, had a view to
these poorer settlers in opening the bleaching ground. They are truly
glad to get their linen washed twice as well in the field as at home,
and at half the expense of soap. They are very willing to clear the
place for the cricketers three afternoons in the week; and are already
beginning to pay off the cost incurred for the shed, with the boilers
and troughs. I really hardly know which is the prettiest sight,—the
games of the active young men, when they forget the worldly calculations
which are apt to engross new settlers too much,—or the merry maidens in
the field at noon, spreading out linen and blankets of a whiteness that
would be envied by most of the professional laundresses that I have
known."
“All these things,” observed Mrs. Hesselden, "are of inferior
consequence. I mean——"
"Very true: I mention them chiefly as signs of the times—not as the
limit to which our improvements have extended. We are anxious to provide
a reading-room for the youths, at the same time that we open our school.
My daughter has no doubt told you about the school which she is helping
to form. We find that the newspapers and journals which were always
deposited in the cricket-ground were so much relished by the players in
the intervals of their games, that Dr. Sneyd and my son have determined
to light up and warm the school-house every evening during the winter,
to be the resort of all who choose to go. Dr. Sneyd carries there the
humble beginning of a museum of natural history, which it must be the
care of our neighbours to improve. They can easily do so by exchanging
the productions of our forest and prairie for what may be obtained from
the societies Dr. Sneyd is connected with in England and France. All the
publications sent to us will find their way to the school-house; and
when the snow comes to enable a sleigh to bring us the packages of glass
we have been waiting for these eight months, the doctor will erect his
large telescope, and send an inferior one down to the village for the
use of his star-gazing neighbours."
Observing Mrs. Hesselden’s supercilious silence, Mrs. Sneyd proceeded,
smiling,
"I have had my share in the ordering of the affair, and have carried two
points, _nem. con._ The women are allowed as free ingress as their
husbands and brothers. I mentioned that candles were scarce, and you do
not need to be told that much sewing must be done in our households. By
bringing their work to the school-house, (which is within a stone’s
throw of most of the doors,) many of our hard-working mothers and
daughters will be spared the trouble and expense of making above half as
many candles as if each must have one burning during the whole of the
long evenings of winter. What is more important,—they will share the
benefit of the reading and other amusements that may be going on. My
other point is the dancing. I told Dr. Sneyd that if he carried a
telescope, and made them chill themselves with star-gazing, I must beg
leave to carry a fiddle for them to warm their feet by when they had
done. Two fiddlers have turned up already, and there are rumours of a
flute-player; and I have half promised my grandchild to lead off the
first dance, if he will persuade my son to take me for a partner."
Mrs. Hesselden hoped that others would also be allowed to carry their
points, and then there would be prayer on meeting and parting in the
school-house. If it should be found that such an exercise was
incompatible with the dancing part of the scheme, she trusted Mrs. Sneyd
saw which must give way.
Mrs. Sneyd would advocate no practice which was incompatible with
religious duty. In the present case, she thought that the only
concession required was that each exercise should have its proper
season. None of the usual objections to dancing would hold good here,
she continued. No shivering wretches stood without, while the rich were
making merry. There was no inducement to extravagance, and no room for
imprudence, and no encouragement to idleness. There was no scope for
these vices among the working-class of Briery Creek, and dancing was to
them (what it would be in many another place, if permitted) an innocent
enjoyment, a preventive of much solitary self-indulgence, and a
sweetener of many tempers. In a society whose great danger was the
growth of a binding spirit of worldliness, social mirth was an antidote
which no moralist would condemn, and which he would not dare to despise.
Mrs. Hesselden, fearing that she could never make Mrs. Sneyd comprehend
how much more she and her husband were than mere moralists, quitted the
subject till she could explain to Mrs. Temple on the way home, that
though the presence of the Sneyds had undoubtedly been of great use in
fostering a morality which was better than nothing, yet it was evidently
high time that more should be added, and certainly a great blessing to
Briery Creek that her husband and she had arrived to breathe inspiration
into the social mass which was now lying,—if not dead,—yet under the
shadow of death.
Mrs. Sneyd found time, before returning to her pomegranates, to take a
last wondering look at the immensity of Mrs. Hesselden’s chip bonnet, as
it floated, splendid in its variegated trimming, over the shrubs in her
passage to the garden gate.
“I can never make out,” she observed to her husband, "why so many of
these very strict religious people dress so luxuriously as they do. Here
is this lady,—infinitely scandalized, I perceive, at our having
introduced dancing,—dressed after such a fashion as our maidens never
saw before. If they begin to bedizen themselves with the money which
might be spent profitably in increasing the means of subsistence, or
innocently in procuring substantial comforts which are now difficult to
be had, I shall lay the blame on Mrs. Hesselden’s bonnet. I remember
observing that I never saw so splendid a show-room for dress as the new
church we attended, in ——- street, the Sunday before we left London. It
is very odd."
"Not more strange, my dear, than that the Friends should addict
themselves much to the furnishing their houses with expensive furniture,
and their tables with more costly and various foods than other people.
Not more strange than that Martin, the Methodist, should turn strolling
player when he gave up his methodism; or that the Irish betake
themselves to rebellion when stopped in their merry-makings; or that the
English artizan takes to the gin-shop when the fiddle is prohibited in
the public-house. Not more strange, my dear, than that the steam of your
kettle should come out at the lid, if you stop up the spout, or than
that——"
“O, you put me in mind of my preserves! But how did you think Louisa
looked to-day?”
"Not very well. There was a something—I do not know what——"
"Well, I wondered whether you would observe. It may be the contrast of
Mrs. Hesselden’s dress that made me remark the thing so much. It really
vexed me to see Louisa so dressed. That collar was darned like any
stocking-heel; and how she got her bonnet ribbons dyed in this place, I
cannot think. What can be the meaning of her being so shabby? It is so
contrary to her taste,—unless she has taken up a new taste, for want of
something to do."
Dr. Sneyd shook his head. He knew that Temple left his lady no lack of
something to do. Temmy had also dropped a piece of information about wax
candles lately, which convinced the doctor that the lady at the Hall was
now compelled to economize to the last degree in her own expenditure,
whatever indulgence might still be afforded to her tyrant’s tastes.
“_He_ looks wretchedly too,” observed Mrs. Sneyd. “Not all his
spruceness could hide it, if he was as spruce as ever. But there is a
change in him too. One might almost call his ensemble slovenly to-day,
though it would be neatness itself in many another man. I believe he
half kills himself with snuff. He did nothing but open and shut his box
to-day. So much snuff must be very bad for a nervous man like him.”
“Do you know, my dear,” said the doctor, "I have been thinking lately
whether we are not all rather hard upon that poor man——Yes, yes, I know.
I am not going to defend, only to excuse him a little. I am as unhappy
as you can be about all that Louisa has to go through with him, and
about his spoiling that poor boy for life,—doing all that can be done to
make him a dolt. But I am sure the man suffers—suffers dreadfully."
“Suffers! How?”
"Nay, you need but look in his face to see whether he is a happy man or
not; but what his ailments are, I do not pretend to say. His nerves
torture him, I am certain——"
Mrs. Sneyd insinuated speculations about indulgence in brandy, opium,
spices, &c., and about remorse, fear, and the whole demon band of the
passions. Dr. Sneyd’s conjecture was that Temple’s affairs were in an
unsatisfactory condition, and that this trouble, acting on the mind of a
coward, probably drove him to the use of sufficient stimulus to irritate
instead of relieving him. Great allowance, he insisted, should be made
for a man in so pitiable a state, even by the parents of his wife. This
was so effectually admitted by the good lady, that she not only sent a
double portion of pomegranate preserve to the Lodge, but restrained her
anger when she heard that Rundell could not obtain liberty to invest as
he pleased the capital he had saved, owing to Temple’s evil influence at
the land-office; and that Arthur’s interests were wantonly injured by
his interference. Arthur had taken great pains to secure a supply of
fresh meat and fresh butter for the approaching winter; and besides the
hope of profit from his fine sheep and cows, he had the assurance of the
gratitude of his neighbours, who had grown heartily weary of salt pork
and salt butter the winter before. But Mr. Temple now set up a grand
salting establishment; and made it generally understood that only those
who were prudent enough to furnish themselves with his cheap salt
provision, rather than Mr. Sneyd’s dear mutton, should have his custom
in the market, and his countenance at the land-office. Arthur’s first-
slain sheep had to be eaten up by his father’s household and his own;
and it was a piece of great forbearance in Mrs. Sneyd, when she heard
that Arthur meant to kill no more mutton, to say only, “The poor little
man punishes nobody so much as himself. I do not see how he can relish
his own fresh mutton very much, while he prevents other people having
any.”
“He cannot altogether prevent that, mother,” said Arthur. "He may
prevent mutton bearing any price in the market, and cut off my gains;
but we may still slay a sheep now and then, for ourselves; and find
neighbours who will quietly make such an exchange of presents as will
take off what we cannot consume. But I wish I could see an end of this
dictation,—this tyranny."
“It does seem rather strange to have come to a land of freedom to be in
the power of such a despot. I wonder the people do not shake him off,
and send him to play the tyrant farther in the wilds.”
“They are only waiting till his substance is all consumed, I fancy. He
has such a hold over the investments of some, and finds so much
employment for the labour of others, that they will submit to everything
for a time. But his hour will come, if he does not beware.”
“It may be all very well for those who have investments to take time to
extricate their capital from his grasp,” said Mrs. Sneyd; “but as for
the builders and gardeners he employs, I think they would be wiser if
they carried their labour where they might depend on a more lasting
demand for it. Anybody may see that if he spends more every year in
undoing what he did the year before, his substance must soon come to an
end, and his labourers become his creditors. If I were they, I would
rather go and build barns that are paid for by the preservation of the
corn that is in them, and till fields that will maintain the labour of
tillage, and set more to work next year, than turn round a fine house
from south to west, and from west to south, and change shrubberies into
lawns, and lawns into flower-gardens, knowing that such waste must come
to an end.”
“But some do not believe that it is waste, mother. They see the money
that pays them still in existence, still going the round of the market;
and they talk (as some people in England do about royal palaces, and
spendthrift noblemen’s establishments) of the blessing of a liberal
expenditure, and the patriotism of employing so much labour.”
"Which would be all very well if the labourers lived upon the sight of
the money they are paid with. But, as long as that money is changed many
times over for bread and clothing, which all disappears in the process,
it is difficult to make out that anything is gained but the
pleasure,—which may be justifiable or not, according to the
circumstances of the employers. In the end, the money remains as it was
before, and instead of so much food and clothing, there is a royal
palace. If you do not like your palace, and pull it down and rebuild it,
the money exists as before, and for a double quantity of food and
clothing, you still have a palace."
“The wrong notion you speak of arises partly,” said Dr. Sneyd, “from a
confusion between one sort of unproductive expenditure and another.
People hear of its being a fine thing to employ a crowd of labourers in
making a new line of road, or building a bridge, and they immediately
suppose it must be a patriotic thing to employ a crowd of labourers in
building any thing.”
“I think they might perceive that, though corn does not grow on a high
road, nor bridges yield manufactures, the value of corn lands may be
doubled by opening a way to a new market, and that an unused water power
may begin to yield wealth from the moment that there is a bridge over
which buyers may come for it. It is a misfortune to Briery Creek that
Temple is more of a selfish palace-fancier than a patriotic bridge and
road maker.”
The first Sunday of the opening of the chapel, Temple appeared in a
character which he had only once before attempted to support. On the
occasion of using the market-house for service, he had approached the
door, cast a glance within upon the company of soldiers, and the village
population at their worship, while their aged friend was leading their
devotions, and hastily departed, thankful that he was too pious to join
in such a service as this. He took the part of a religious man that day,
and now was the time for him to resume the character. Under the idea
that the market-house might be opened as usual for Dr. Sneyd, making his
own appear like an opposition place of worship, he spared no pains to
secure a majority in point of audience. He had managed to ride past the
military post, and be gracious with the soldiers. His domestics puffed
the chapel and chaplain at market, the day before, and the leading
villagers received intimations of good sittings being appropriated to
them. These pains might have been spared. All who desired might know
that Dr. Sneyd, his wife, son, and servants intended to be present, as a
matter of course.
When they entered, Temple looked nearly as much surprised as if they had
at the moment arrived from England. He made a prodigious bustle about
having them accommodated in a seat next his own, and condescendingly
sent them books, and inquired into the sufficiency of hassocks. During
the greater part of the service he stood up, as if he could not listen
with sufficient attention while sitting, like other people. Yet he
cleared his throat if any body moved, and sent his pert glance into
every corner to command a reverential demeanour, while his chaplain was
enforcing, as the prime glory and charm of a place of worship, that
there, and there alone, all are equal and all are free. Little Ephraim
cowered behind the coachman while the preacher insisted that here the
humblest slave might stand erect on the ground of his humanity; and the
butler stepped on tiptoe half way down the aisle to huff Jenkins the
ditcher for coming so high up, at the very moment that something was
quoted about a gold ring and purple raiment in the synagogue.
It was true the preacher and his message had not so good a chance of
being attended to as they might have on future Sundays. The bustle
produced by the anticipation of the occasion did not subside on the
arrival of the occasion. The fine large chip bonnets had been procured,
and the trimming and sending them home had been achieved by the Saturday
night. But it remained to wear them for the first time: not only to
support the consciousness of a new piece of finery, but to compare the
fine bonnets with the shabby head-gear of other people, with each other,
and, finally, with Mrs. Hesselden’s. Then, while Mrs. Dods was thus
contemplating the effect of her own peculiar species of architecture,
her husband could not but look round him, and remember that every
individual brick of this pile had been fashioned by himself and his
lads. The builder scanned the measurements of the windows and the
ceiling. Two or three boys and girls shuffled their feet on the matting
which their mother had woven. A trader from the north gradually made up
his mind to approach the ladies after service, for the purpose of
recommending fur pouches for the feet during the severe season that was
approaching. The Brawnees, unincumbered by any thing beyond their
working-day apparel, were among the best listeners. Temmy was so alarmed
at the prospect of having to give his father, for the first time, an
account of the sermon, that he could not have taken in a word of it,
even if he had not been miserable at seeing the tears coursing one
another down his mother’s cheeks during the whole time of the service.
Her left hand hung by her side, but he did not dare to touch it. He
looked at Mrs. Hesselden to try to find out whether she thought his
mother was ill; or whether the sermon was affecting; or whether this was
the consequence of something that had been said at breakfast against
grandpapa. Grandpapa seemed to be listening very serenely to the sermon,
and that was a better comfort than Mrs. Hesselden’s countenance,—so
grave, that Temmy feared to provoke a cross word if he looked at her
again.
It was not known, till the ladies of the village ranged themselves round
the work-table in the school-house, one chilly evening, soon afterwards,
how great had been the bustle of preparation before the fine chip
bonnets made their appearance in the chapel. All hearts, even those of
rival milliners, were laid open by the sight of the roaring wood fire,
the superior candles, the hearty welcome, and the smiling company that
awaited them as they dropped in at the place of entertainment,—the women
with their sewing apparatus, and their husbands and brothers ready for
whatever occupation might have been devised for their leisure evening
hours. While these latter crowded round the little library, to see of
what it consisted, the sewers placed their benches round the deal table,
snuffed their candles, and opened their bundles of work. Mrs. Dods made
no mystery of her task. She was cutting up a large chip bonnet to make
two small hats for her youngest boy and girl, owning that, not having
calculated on any one else attempting to gratify the rage for imitating
Mrs. Hesselden, she had injured her speculation by overstocking the
market. The lawyer’s lady had been reckoned upon as a certain customer;
but it turned out,—however true that the lawyer’s lady must have a chip
bonnet,—that the builder’s wife had just then entered upon a rivalship
with the brickmaker’s wife, and had stuck up at her window bonnets a
trifle cheaper than those of Mrs. Dods. It only remained for Mrs. Dods
to show how pretty her little folks looked in hats of the fashionable
material, in hopes that the demand might spread to children.
“If it does, Mrs. Dods, Martha Jenkins will have the same reason to
complain of you that you have to complain of being interfered with. It
is unknown the trouble that Jenkins has had, following the river till he
came to the beavers, and then hunting them, and preparing their skins at
home, and all that, while Martha spared no pains to make beaver hats for
all the boys and girls in the place. It will be rather hard if you cut
her out.”
“And you can do it only by lowering your price ruinously,” observed Mrs.
Sneyd. “I should think any mother in Briery Creek would rather keep her
child’s ears from freezing by putting on her a warm beaver, than dress
her out prettily in a light chip, at this season. Nothing but a great
difference in price can give yours the preference, I should think, Mrs.
Dods.”
“Then such a difference there must be,” Mrs. Dods replied. “I had rather
sell my article cheap than not sell it at all. Another time I shall take
care how I run myself out at elbows in providing for a new fashion among
the ladies.”
Mrs. Sneyd thought that those were engaged in the safest traffic who
dealt in articles in the commonest use,—who looked for custom chiefly
from the lower, i.e. the larger classes of the people. From their
numbers, those classes are always the greatest consumers; and, from the
regularity of their productive industry, they are also the most regular
consumers. It seemed probable that the demand for Martha Jenkins’s
beavers would prove superior in the long run to that for Mrs. Dods’s
varied supply, though poor Martha might suffer for a while from the glut
of chips which occasioned loss to all sellers of bonnets, at present,
and gain to all sellers of whatever was given in exchange for bonnets.
Fat for candles was scarcely to be had since Temple had discouraged the
sale of fresh meat. Mrs. Dods was deplorably in want of candles. She
made a bargain with a neighbour for some in return for the hat now under
her hands. How few she was to receive, it vexed her to think; but there
was no help for it till somebody should supply the deficiency of
candles, or till new heads should crave covering.
It now appeared that the ladies were not the only persons who had
brought their work. When it came to be decided who should be the reader,
it was unanimously agreed that some one who had no employment for his
hands should undertake the office. Dods had leathern mittens to make for
the less hardy of the woodsmen. Others occupied themselves in platting
straw, making mops, cutting pegs to be employed in roofing, and cobbling
shoes. Arthur drew sketches for Temmy to copy. Such was always the
pretence for Arthur’s drawings; but a neighbour who cast a peep over his
shoulder, from time to time, could not help thinking that the sketch was
of the present party, with Dr. Sneyd in the seat of honour by the fire-
side, Mrs. Sneyd knitting in the shadow, that the full benefit of the
candles might be yielded to those whose occupation required it; Isaac,
who had received the honour of the first appointment as reader, holding
his book rather primly, and pitching his voice in a key which seemed to
cause a tendency to giggle among some of the least wise of his auditors;
and, lastly, the employed listeners, as they sat in various postures,
and in many lights, as the blaze from the logs now flickered low, and
now leaped up to lighten all the room. Each of these was suspected to be
destined to find a place in Arthur’s sketch.
It was a pity Temmy was not here to take a drawing lesson, his uncle
thought. These evening meetings afforded just the opportunity that was
wanted; for Arthur could seldom find time to sit down and make his
little nephew as good an artist as he believed he might become. It was
not till quite late, when the party would have begun dancing if some one
had not given a broad hint about the doctor’s telescope, that Temmy
appeared. Nobody heard his steed approach the door, and every body
wondered to see him. It was thought that Mr. Temple would have allowed
no one belonging to him to mix with those whom he was pleased to call
the common people of the place. Unguarded, the boy would indeed have
been exposed to no such risk of contamination; but Mr. Hesselden had
promised to be there, and it was believed that, under his wing, the boy
would take no harm, while Mr. Temple’s object, of preserving a connexion
with whatever passed in his neighbourhood, might be fulfilled.
Mr. Hesselden was not there; and if it was desirable that Temple’s
representative should make a dignified appearance on this new occasion,
never was a representative more unfortunately chosen. The little fellow
crept to his grandmamma’s side, shivering and half crying. The good lady
observed that it was indeed very cold, chafed his hands, requested
Rundell to throw another log or two on the fire, and comforted the boy
with assurances that he was come in time to dance with her. Every body
was ready with protestations that it was indeed remarkably cold. It was
thought the beauty of the woods was nearly over for this season. In a
few days more it was probable that the myriads of stems in the forest
would be wholly bare, and little green but the mosses left for the eye
to rest upon under the woven canopy of boughs. Few evergreens grew near,
so that the forest was as remarkably gloomy in winter as it was bright
in the season of leaves.
When the window was opened, that the star-gazers might reconnoitre the
heavens, it was found that the air was thick with snow;—snow was falling
in a cloud.
“Do but see!” cried Arthur. “No star-gazing to-night, nor dancing
either, I fancy, if we mean to get home before it is knee-deep. Temmy,
did it snow when you came?”
“O, yes,” answered the boy, his teeth chattering at the recollection.
“Why did not you tell us, my dear?” asked Mrs. Sneyd.
The doctor was inwardly glad that there was so good a reason for Mr.
Hesselden’s absence.
“No wonder we did not hear the horse trot up to the door,” observed some
one. “Come, ladies, put up your work, unless you mean to stay here till
the next thaw.”
A child or two was present who was delighted to think of the way to the
school-house being impassable till the next thaw.
“Stay a bit,” cried Rundell, coming in from the door, and pulling it
after him. "I am not going without my brand, and a fine blazing one
too,—with such noises abroad."
“What noises?”
“Wolves. A strong pack of them, to judge by the cry.”
All who possessed sheep were now troubled with dire apprehensions: and
their fears were not allayed when Temmy let fall that wolves were
howling, as the groom thought, on every side, during his ride from the
Lodge. The boy had never been so alarmed in his life; and he laid a firm
grasp on uncle Arthur’s coat-collar when there was talk of going home
again.
“You must let me go, Temmy. I must look after my lambs without more loss
of time. If you had not been the strangest boy in the world, you would
have given us notice to do so, long ago. I cannot conceive what makes
you so silent about little things that happen.”
Mrs. Sneyd could very well account for that which puzzled Arthur. She
understood little minds, and had watched, only too anxiously, the
process by which continual checking had rendered her grand-child afraid
to tell that there was snow, or that wolves were abroad.
“Come, lads,” cried Arthur. “Who cares for his sheep? Fetch your arms,
and meet me at the poplar by the Kiln, and we will sally out to the
pens, and have a wolf-hunt.”
There was much glee at the prospect of this frolic; the more that such
an one had not been expected to occur yet awhile. So early a
commencement of winter had not happened within the experience of any
inhabitant of Briery Creek. The swine in the woods had not yet exhausted
their feast of autumn berries; and fallen apples and peaches enough
remained to feed them for a month. The usual signal of the advance of
the season,—these animals digging for hickory nuts among the rotting
leaves,—had not been observed. In short, the snow had taken every body
by surprise, unless it was the wolves.
Dr. Sneyd lighted and guided home his wife and Temmy, in almost as high
spirits as the youngest of the wolf-hunters. The season of sleighing was
come, and his precious package of glass might soon be attainable. Dire
as were the disasters which befel the party on their way,—the wetting,
the loss of the track, the stumbles, the dread of wild beasts, and
Temmy’s disappearance for ten seconds in a treacherous hollow,—the
doctor did not find himself able to regret the state of the weather. He
fixed his thoughts on the interests of science, and was consoled for
every mischance.
If he had foreseen all that would result from this night’s adventure, he
would not have watched with so much pleasure for the lights along the
verge of the forest, when the snow had ceased; nor have been amused at
the tribute of wolves’ heads which he found the next morning deposited
in his porch.
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