HARVEST SUNDAY.
October was come again, the poetry of summer had almost departed, and it
was a quiet Sunday morning in the country. The bell on the little old
church by the hillside, at Nyack, was calling the plodding Dutch
settlers to morning service. The hard, hollow sounds of the old bell
echoed harshly over the hills, and yet there was something in its
familiar sounds, and the quiet pastoral scenes it was associated with,
that always moved our feelings, and prompted us to give them a pleasant
resting place in our love.
Cattle were resting in the fields, and their yokes hung on the gate
posts that day. A soft, Indian-summer glow hung with transparent effect
over the landscape; and a gentle wind whispered lovingly over the Tappan
Zee. Autumn, too, had hung the trees in her brightest colors.
It was Harvest Sunday, a sort of festive resting-day with the Dutch
settlers, who had gathered about the little church in great numbers,
young and old, all dressed in their simple but neat attire. Others were
quietly wending their way thitherward, along the lanes and through the
fields. There they gathered about the little old church, a smiling,
happy, and contented people, and waited for the Dominie, for it was
their custom to meet him at the church door, and after exchanging
greetings, follow him like a loving flock into their seats.
The Dominie was to preach his harvest sermon, and his flock was to join
him in giving thanks to God for the bounties He had bestowed upon them.
He had, indeed, blessed them with an abundant harvest that year; and now
they had come to thank Him and be joyful. Conspicuous in the group was
the little snuffy doctor, Critchel, looking happy among the people whose
ills he had administered to for half a century. On Harvest-Sunday he
could kiss and caress the bright faced little children he had helped
bring into the world as fondly as a young mother. There, too, was the
schoolmaster, with his ruddy face and his seedy clothes, ready to do his
part in making Harvest-Sunday pass pleasantly, for indeed the crop was a
matter of importance with him. And there was Titus Bright, for the merry
little inn-keeper would have considered such a gathering incomplete
without him. Titus was not so well thought of by the Dutch settlers
since he gave up his little tavern for a big one, and had taken to
boarding fine folks from the city.
And now the appearance of Hanz and Angeline, advancing slowly up the
road, for Hanz walked with a staff, created a pleasant diversion.
Several of the young people ran to meet them, and greeted them with such
expressions of welcome as must have filled their hearts with joy.
When they had nearly reached the church, Critchel proceeded to meet them
with his hand extended. "Verily, good neighbor Hanz," said he, after
greeting the old people with a hearty shake of the hand, "the people
have had strange news to talk about for a week past." Critchel shook his
head, looked serious, and taking Hanz by the arm, drew him aside. "This
Chapman has fallen to the ground, they say."
"Mine friend Critchel," returned Hanz, leaning on his staff, and casting
a look upward. "I tolds you tar pees un shust Got; and now you shees how
dat shust Got he pees mine friend."
"Aye, verily," rejoined Critchel, "and he lets them what builds castles
and lives like lords suffer their disappointments. Poor people like us,
who work with their hands, stick to their lands, and pay their debts,
have their castles in peace and contentment."
"Tar pees shust so much wisdom in vat you shays, mine friend Critchel.
In dis world tar pees nothin' sartin. Dis Chapman, he puts his money in
his pocket, and ven he gets his money in his pocket he gets rich and
prout. Zen he goes to t' city so pig and prout as he can pe. Now he
comes pack from t' city, mit his pig vrow, and tar pees nobody as makes
one pow to his pig vrow. Above tar pees one shust Got, Critchel."
The misfortunes of the Chapman family, my reader must know, had been
furnishing Nyack something to talk about for several months. But it was
only with their return to town, which important event took place one
morning during the last week, that the quiet of Nyack was disturbed and
the gossips sent into a state of excitement. The family, indeed,
returned as quietly as a family in misfortune could be expected to do,
and put up at Bright's Inn, where, it was given out, they would live on
the wreck of their fortune until Chapman could see his way clear for a
new start in the world. But little was seen of Mrs. Chapman, of whom it
was reported that she desired to live in retirement, and did not see
visitors.
The lady, however, had resolved that Nyack should not turn up its nose
without being kept in mind of the high social position the family had
held in the city. And as a means of making the desired impression, and
also of finding relief for her injured feelings, she had brought
Napoleon Bowles into "retirement" with the family. And that faithful
domestic accommodated his pride of a Sunday by dressing in his livery
and top-boots, and walking out, to the astonishment and amusement of a
crowd of curious urchins, who were sure to gather about him.
As for Chapman, he went about the town as if nothing had happened,
renewing acquaintances, and declaring there was no honester man in the
settlement than Hanz Toodleburg; that the charges against his honesty,
and his connection with the Kidd Discovery Company, were all scandals,
got up by bad men; and that he had been deceived by them himself.
During the few days Chapman had been in Nyack, he had made himself
appear so good a friend of Hanz that the honest settlers not only began
to express sympathy for him in his misfortunes, but to enquire what they
could do to put him on his feet again. When, however, he told them it
was not their sympathy he wanted, but their money to assist him in
building a steamboat two hundred feet long, and that he had matured a
plan for a railroad, so that they might ride from Nyack to New York in
an hour, they became alarmed, put their heads together wisely, and
declared the man mad beyond cure.
Here I must leave Chapman waiting to see his way clear. He came of that
old round-head stock which, wanting its way always, ready to meddle with
everything, never contented, ready to play the sycophant to gain power,
selfish and arrogant in the use of it, is, nevertheless, found giving
shape, action, and momentum to all our great enterprises. Out of all the
trouble Chapman had caused Nyack, there had come some good that would
be turned to account in the future. Misfortune had bowed, not broken his
spirit. He was again prepared to invent a new religion, to build a
church, to keep a boarding-house, to start a bank or run a
steamboat--and all with modern improvements.
The little church bell was still ringing, and the crowd still kept
increasing in numbers and cheerfulness. "The Dominie's coming! the
Dominie's coming! The Dominie's coming!" was lisped by a score of lips,
as the attention of the people was attracted down the road. There the
old Dominie came, mounted on a clumsy-footed, big-headed, bay cob--a
little bright-eyed girl, whose face was full of sweetness and love, and
dressed in blue and white, riding behind him. His broad, kindly face,
shadowed by a wide-brimmed hat, his flowing white hair, his quaintly cut
coat, with the ample side pocket, and his long, white necktie, presented
a picture so full of truth and simplicity as to be worthy of being
preserved on canvas. He was, in truth, a figure belonging to an order of
things that was fast passing way--at least along the banks of the
Hudson.
Children clapped their hands and ran to meet him; girls greeted him with
offerings of flowers; and when he had dismounted, both old and young
gathered about him, lisping him a welcome and shaking him by the hand.
There was nobody like Dominie Payson, and the love these people bore
him, and now gave him so many expressions of, was true and heartfelt.
And when he had kissed the children, and exchanged greetings and kind
words with their parents, he proceeded into the church, followed by his
flock. His sermon was, perhaps, one of the oddest ever listened to, for
after returning thanks for the bountiful harvest, and extending on the
goodness of God, and advising his flock to stick firmly to their farms
and their religion, that being the only true way of getting to Heaven,
he turned his guns against Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, though he never once
mentioned their names. He urged his flock to keep in mind always how
much better off they were, how much more happy they were than those men
who came to town with the devil and a number of strange religions in
their heads. Such people, he added, always had the devil for a friend;
and it was the devil who assisted them to get poor people's money. And
with this money they dressed their wives in silks and satins, built big
houses, and lived like people who were very proud and never paid their
debts, nor did a day's work on the roads. It was all well enough for
these men to talk of Heaven and put on pious faces, but Heaven would
take no notice of them while they gave themselves up to the temptations
of the devil and built steamboats and founded railroads, to kill honest
people with, and ruin the country.
"My friends," said the Dominie, resting for a moment, and then charging
his guns for another fire at Chapman, "you have seen a man ready to sell
his soul for money enough to build a steamboat. Now he wants to build a
railroad to get you out of the world quicker." The Dominie shook his
head, wiped his brow, and again paused for a few seconds. "Let them
dress their wives in satins and silks, let them ruin their country with
their steamboats and railroads, let them build their big houses, go to
the city, get proud, waste all their money in folly and vice, and return
among honest people with a sheriff at their heels, because they don't
pay nobody--but don't you go and do it. My friends--there will be an
account to settle with these people who swell themselves up so big, when
roasting-day comes. You that have wives--look to them. Keep their hearts
pure and simple. Don't let them spend your money in silks and satins. If
you do, the sheriff locks up your door and puts the key in his pocket."
Thus the Dominie concluded, reminding his hearers that, as it was
Harvest-Sunday, they must not forget to be liberal with their sixpences
when the box came round.
His hearers were greatly delighted, and declared they had not heard him
preach so good a sermon for many a day. And when he came down from the
pulpit they congratulated him, and sundry extra pecks of wheat were
promised as a reward for the light he had favored them with.
The day wore away pleasantly, and when evening came, when the gleams of
the setting sun tipped the surrounding hills with golden light, and
dusky shadows were creeping up the valley, the reader, if he had looked
in at Hanz Toodleburg's little house, might have seen one of those
quaint but pleasant pictures which are a fit ending of such a day.
There, grouped around his table, sat the Dominie, Doctor Critchel,
Bright the inn-keeper, and the schoolmaster, for Hanz had invited them
to sup with him, and Angeline had prepared the best she had to set
before them. There, too, was Tite's empty chair. There it stood, silent
and touching, all the pleasant memories it once contained made sad now
by the mystery that enshrouded his long absence. There was his plate,
and his knife and fork, all so bright and clean, set as regularly as if
he were home, and guarded so tenderly. The eloquence of that vacant
chair, appealing so directly to the finer sensibilities of every one
present, left a deep and sad impression. Supper was nearly over before
any of the guests had courage to refer to it. The Dominie at length
raised his spectacles and addressing Angeline, said: "Heaven gives to
every house its idol. We have been blessed to-day, and made happy. It
will yet please Heaven to bring back the idol of this house, and fill
that empty chair. I am sure we shall all be glad when the boy gets
home."
"When he does, there will be such a time at my house," interposed the
inn-keeper, nodding his head approvingly. "There's the parlor for him to
do his courting in. And one of the prettiest little sweethearts is
waiting to give him such a welcome. God bless her--she isn't a bit like
the rest of them Chapmans--she isn't."
"My school don't keep the day he comes home," rejoined the schoolmaster,
helping himself to another piece of pumpkin pie.
The mention of Tite's name filled old Hanz's eyes with tears. He buried
his face in his hands, and remained silent for several minutes, overcome
by his feelings. As soon as he had recovered control of them, he wiped
the tears from his eyes, and replied in broken sentences: "I vas sho
happy ven mine Tite, mine poor poy Tite vas home. Peers as if now, mine
poor poy he never comes home no more, he never prings shoy into mine
house no more."
"Always look on the best side of things, neighbor Hanz," replied the
Dominie.
"Yah, put I gets sho old now."
"It would not astonish me," continued the Dominie, playfully, "if the
young gentleman surprised us all to-night. Stranger things have
happened." These remarks excited a feeling of anxiety.
"I was on the other side of the river last night," continued the
Dominie, "and the people there had a report from the city that the
vessel he sailed in had been heard from." Angeline quietly left the
table, for the wells of her heart were overflowing.
"Tar shall come news as t' wessel mine Tite shails in comed pack, eh?"
enquired Hanz, fixing his eyes steadily on the Dominie.
"Not that she has arrived," returned the Dominie, "but that there is
news of her--"
"Tar pees news," muttered Hanz, his eyes glistening with anxiety. "An
nopody tells me t' news before, eh? Tar pees shum news of t'at wessel,
eh? Tar don't pee no news of mine poor Tite, eh?" The old man extended
his trembling hand and grasped the Dominie's arm nervously, his face
became as pale as marble, and his whole system shook with excitement.
"Tar shall come news as t' wessel mine Tite shails in comes pack," he
ejaculated, "an tar pees no news of mine poor poy, eh?" And he threw up
his arms, rested his head on the Dominie's shoulder and wept like a
child. "No, mine Tite he ton't comes home no more," he sobbed.