of good habits of mind and body among us. Our young farmers are
chemists and botanists. We have poets, musicians, and painters among
us. We cultivate the sciences as well as the land. Our wealth is
in our heads and hearts, as well as something in our pockets. As
to myself, I have lost nothing, but on the contrary have received
a better interest on my share of the investment than I could have
received in any fair business. Thus you see what united labor can
accomplish; in three years we have converted three thousand dollars
into eight thousand. Our profits in happiness and improvement cannot
be estimated in money.'
Now although much was said and written against this new-fangled
scheme of Meadow-Farm, when the public saw how successful and
happy were the members, what peace and harmony reigned among them,
and more than all, how much money they were making, the tide began
to turn the other way. Parents gave the best evidence of what they
thought of it, by striving to get their children received into
Philip Welton's school. The few boys placed at first under his
charge had made such improvement, not only in their studies but in
their dispositions, living in an atmosphere of love and kindness,
that the school began to be very popular, and many pupils were
refused for want of room. Let us look in of a summer morning, at the
library, and see the charms the place had for the youth. It was a
large and spacious room, kept studiously clean. Books were arranged
around upon the walls; historical pictures were seen here and there.
The bust of WASHINGTON, which, though never so badly executed,
always tells us of firmness and virtue, patriotism and heroism,
stood conspicuously fronting the entrance; that of FRANKLIN, the
true man and republican, the wise man and the practical man, stood
near it. Flowers were placed here and there upon the tables. There
was no master's desk, no pedagogical throne, the sceptre a ferula.
All formality was banished from the place, and they found their
seats as suited their taste and convenience. They came and went as
in the order of a well-conducted reading-room, without restraint,
and looked like those who came to seek knowledge, rather than like
the pupils of most schools, whose anxious faces seem to say, 'When
will it be my turn to be crammed?' 'How long will it be before it
will be time to leave this prison?'
Or listen to the words of the teacher as he meets his pupils in
the morning, and cordially takes each one by the hand, and thus
removes all feeling of distance and reserve between himself and his
scholars. 'My dear children, our law is love; see, it is written
yonder,' pointing to an inscription on the wall, 'God is love;' 'let
us to-day strive to obey this law in our thoughts and actions. It
is our first duty to be good, and then, if we can, to be learned
and honorable, and graceful and happy. You have collected here to
learn history, and language, and useful sciences; but all these will
avail you nothing, unless you first learn to govern your passions,
and obey your conscience, and try to be like Christ, in preferring
to bear and suffer every thing rather than commit sin. This is the
enemy of happiness; the only evil in the world; for a good man
cannot be unhappy. Let us, before we do any thing else, ask our
Father to assist us in forming this character.'
The pupils all kneel devoutly; they all pray mentally. It is no
hurried form of prayer, run through without preparation, and which
robs the young of respect for devotional exercises. They are all
impressed by the service, and the great idea that they will be
assisted in whatever they purely undertake, gives encouragement
and hope to their hearts. The words, the manner, the confidence of
their teacher, lift the pupils into an elevated frame of mind, and
they are ashamed, or rather forget, to do wrong, so wholly are they
occupied with that which is good.
In our ambition for a high intellectual training for our youth,
is there not danger that we may forget that moral and spiritual
discipline, without which learning and education are a curse? Better
is it that the child remain untaught in human learning, and be left
to the influences and teachings of nature, than to be so engaged in
the works and inventions and plans of man, that he rarely thinks of
or regards the great purpose for which he was born, and received a
living soul.
We are so bigoted and sectarian, that religious instruction is
excluded from our common schools, for fear some sect should get the
advantage of the others. We know it is allowed to teach the great
principles of morality and religion, the existence of a God, and a
future state of rewards and punishments; but these a child gets any
where in a Christian land; he drinks them in with his mother's milk.
But what folly it is to suppose that the teacher can help giving the
bias of his own mind to the children, in teaching even the general
principles of religion! He is aware himself that he cannot, and so
he abstains from the subject altogether, or alludes to it in such
a manner that it would be better let alone. At the present time no
wonder there is no reverence in the young. The name and laws of God
are not taught as the first and most important lessons in our common
schools.
When Walter Scott was asked how he educated his sons, he said, 'he
taught them to ride and to speak the truth;' showing the high value
he placed upon moral and physical training, and not even noticing
their intellectual pursuits. For he undoubtedly meant to convey the
idea that so good principles are established in the hearts of the
young, and their physical health properly cared for, there is but
little fear that they will be deficient in those elevated studies
whose tendency is so kindred with virtue, and whose essence is
the great immutable truths of creation. Seek first the kingdom of
heaven, and every thing shall be added unto you; even knowledge and
power.
* * * * *
CHAPTER NINTH.
THE STORE.
''This is the latest fashion, ma'am,' said the young clerk,
with obsequious politeness, to a raw country girl, as he
spread out before her some damaged calicoes.'
'STORIES FOR THE PEOPLE.'
THERE was no subject which Rufus had more at heart, than to
connect with the farm a place of trade for his company and such
of the neighboring farmers as chose to benefit by it. Brought up
in a country store himself, he felt a thorough disgust for the
extortions, tricks, and lures of the class calling themselves
country merchants. He knew well that the largest profits are almost
invariably put upon the most useless articles; that every inducement
is held out to the vain and weak to buy; the temptation of credit,
the fanciful adjustment of flimsy fabrics to catch the eye and
bewilder the fancy of ignorant servant maids; that what an article
will fetch is the price of it, and not what it is really worth.
If any one doubts these statements, let him inquire, and he will
find that flour pays hardly any profit at all; that sugars, teas,
and most of the heavy articles, are sold in the country store at
barely enough to pay the cost of transportation, clerk-hire, and
store-rent. How then does the merchant amass his gains? By the sale
of wines and liquors, which he manufactures himself from alcohol;
by selling at exorbitant profits things which cost him scarcely any
thing; by obtaining mortgages on the farms for his store accounts,
and ultimately getting the land into his possession for half its
value.
To obviate these evils, and to secure a fair price for the products
of the farm, and to be able to buy at a reasonable profit; to secure
the young and giddy against temptation; he drew up a plan which he
submitted to a number of the farmers in his neighborhood, who began
to show themselves favorably disposed toward him. The main features
of the plan were these: A capital of ten thousand dollars was
divided into shares of one hundred dollars, and these shares were
to be taken up by individuals; no person being allowed to hold more
than four shares. Each share was to have one vote in the affairs of
the concern.
When all the shares should be taken up, the company were to hire a
person who, under a board of directors, was to manage the store. He
was to buy and sell goods at such prices as the board should allow;
exchange goods for produce, and carry on the general business of
a country store as usual, only that the interest so many had in
the store should secure them against exorbitant prices and unjust
profits. Every holder of a share became so far the merchant; and
if he paid a profit upon the goods which he bought, a part of the
profit belonged to him. So in selling produce at the store; if he
demanded an unjust price, he was robbing himself as well as others;
and thus honest prices and profits were made his interest as well as
duty.
The plan met with instant approval, and was put into immediate
operation. Meadow-Farm began to assume the appearance of a village.
Saving a tavern-stand, it had all the appurtenances of one.
Work-shops were erected, mills set a-going, and neat cottages peeped
from among luxuriant shrubbery in this amphitheatre of hills. The
sounds of industry were heard where a few years before all was the
unbroken silence of nature; and songs of joy and thanksgiving gushed
from many hearts whose youth had been laden with sighs and tears.
Successful beyond his hopes, Rufus looked over the whole, and his
conscience told him, 'This is my work; under the blessing of heaven
my design is answered; truly may we cast our bread upon the waters,
and find it after many days.' He felt at the moment that he had paid
back to society all that his father had taken from it, and his heart
was at peace.
But what were his own domestic relations, it may be asked, in this
kind of common life? Did not his heart pine for a home of his own?
Did he not long for the seclusion, the freedom of a hearth he could
call exclusively his own? Did not this constant watchfulness over
so many, distract his attention from his wife and children? By no
means. The domestic arrangements of the house were such that he
could retire and be as solitary as a hermit. No member of the band
lost his individuality any more than men do by living in cities and
villages. The association and its laws did not merge the domestic
relations or destroy the family bond. On the contrary, the father
had more time to give to his wife and the education of his children
than is usual, because both himself and wife were freed from much of
that domestic drudgery which so much occupies the time of the middle
ranks of men. Three women, by a judicious distribution of labor,
can cook and keep house for thirty persons with more ease and much
greater economy than one woman can do all the work for five persons,
the average number of households. And if the outlay in conveniences
and labor-saving machinery which a large establishment authorizes,
be taken into account, this truth becomes still more apparent.
Ruth heartily from the first coöperated with her husband, and
took her full share of all the hard work; and by her example and
readiness at the outset, procured for herself all the leisure she
desired in the end. Here the women were not the mere lookers-on
at the operations of their husbands. They had an interest in the
profits of the concern, and voted upon all questions which involved
the general conduct of affairs. Being responsible for their
opinions, in one sense, they took care to inform themselves upon
subjects which unhappily are too often considered out of the reach
and beyond the capacity of the female mind. Woman at Meadow-Farm
was not the mere cook of her husband's food, his house-keeper, his
plaything, or his drudge; the nurse and convenience of the lord,
one or the other of which offices most women fill in society. Her
time was considered equally valuable with that of the males; and
her heart and ambition were not crushed by receiving for her best
exertions the paltry pittance, about one third the wages of males,
which the highest civilization awards to her.
At the end of five years John Stewart was worth _the_ thousand
dollars, and the union with Clara Welton was consummated, amid much
rejoicing and real happiness of all parties concerned.
Philip Welton still continues to this day to be the school-master,
preacher, playmate and friend of all persons who need such offices
at the farm. The writer has made several visits to his chance
friends since the time when he first became acquainted with
them; and now, in conclusion, and by way of apology, would say
to the reader that he has been led to undertake this simple and
unadorned narration of the _origin of one of the finest villages
in the country_, because he thought it remarkable that a scheme of
association should have been carried out and accomplished, without
making any noise in the world, just prior to the time of a great
movement among some leading and philosophic minds upon the same
subject.
The village now looks much like other villages; but if you examine
into the character of the people there, you will find great union
of heart and hand in all philanthropic effort. It is a remarkable
place. Rufus Gilbert still lives, and his gentle wife is the happy
mother of a numerous offspring. May they long live to bless and
adorn the world; but not for ever; for we feel sure that for such
hearts and characters there is prepared, in that other world, a
blissful reward for their exertions in this, and free from its
trials and perplexities; where there is no more sorrow and sighing,
and all tears are wiped away for ever.
THE MAIDEN'S BURIAL.
BY MISS H. J. WOODMAN.
I.
VEIL tenderly the pale and placid brow,
Round which the floating hair
Gleams like a sunbeam, moving lightly now
In the soft summer air!
II.
Around her pillow ye have strown fresh flowers,
And her small pulseless hand
Claspeth white rose-buds, as in childhood's hours,
With her own bright-eyed band!
III.
Upon her pallid lip a smile is set,
The spirit's parting boon!
Why mourn that flow'rs with heaven's own dew-drops wet
Perish before their noon?
IV.
The soft, dark lashes rest upon her cheek,
Like shadows on the snow;
Hiding the full blue orbs whose light we seek--
But shall we find?--ah, no!
V.
There is less beauty in the glowing skies,
Less music in the vale;
The streams flow onward in a sadder guise,
The springs of pleasure fail.
VI.
Give back the precious dust, so still and fair,
Unto the waiting earth!
Hallow her couch with song and tearful prayer--
Tributes to love and worth.
VII.
A flood of radiance from the spirit-land
Dispels the gathered gloom;
Near to her God the spotless soul shall stand,
Forgetful of the tomb!
A NIGHT ON LAKE ERIE.
BY PETER VON GEIST.
NIGHT upon the waters! The blue waves of Old Erie are black, and
loud, and angry; and the good ship sits uneasily, as though they
were trying by incessant, convulsive throbs to shake the encumbrance
from their bosom. The Heavens above are as though a pall were
settling down upon us; and the horizon on all sides is marked by a
zone of lurid light, like the distant fires of a conflagration. The
light-house, far behind us, glimmers like the rising evening star,
and its ray flashes along the dim and swelling surface, revealing
the wide and heaving waste that intervenes. The strained masts
quiver, and the vessel bends like an overmatched, but unyielding
gladiator, before the blast. It is a night to make the timid
tremble, and the bold to shout out a wild 'Halloo!' to the winds as
they sweep past.
Onward the barque drives; and I sit myself down on the bowsprit,
over the water, and look down on the boiling surges beneath.
Eternally, in quick succession, the white-capped waves come foaming
in, and hurl themselves against the reeling bow. High are they flung
back, in broken fragments, and madly, like grape-shot, is the spray
dashed far out on either side. Now the ship rears up her head, as if
affrighted and seeking to escape from the encounter, and in a moment
she plunges desperately down into the foaming mass, which leaps up
to receive her.
'On high the winds lift up their voices,' and howl, and shriek,
and moan, and rage; and on high I lift up _my_ voice too, but it
sounds like the soft notes of a lute amid the smoke and thunder
of artillery. Oh! ye spirits that ride on the wings of the wind!
and ye spirits of the deep, that roll, and twist, and writhe, like
serpents, on the water! who taught you to combat so furiously? The
blue sky, that is wont to smile down on your repose, or on your
peaceful sports, is veiled by the smoke of your battle; and under
a dark canopy, as is most befitting strife, whether of spirits or
of men, you wage fierce war. The petty distinctions of society; the
vanity, the acquirements, the skill of man, are in your presence
awed and abashed. But have their ambition and the evil passions
which fill and degrade his heart taken possession of you also? I
will not believe it; for Nature never conceived nor uttered an
unholy thought. Or perhaps your rage is kindled against this fabric
of human construction, which invades your ancient domain? Ah! well;
howl and fight on; the cunning handiwork of him who calls himself
your master defies your rebellious ravings!
What a stirring thing it is, to throw out a hearty defiance to the
thunder and tempest! When a man flings his gauntlet into the face
of the storm, all the strength there is in him is strained up; he
feels himself rigid, and braced to meet the impending shock. If I
were disposed, I might pause here to show, that in the everyday
moulding of mind and character, a kindred principle is perceivable;
that it is gigantic opposition that makes the gigantic man; that
every man who has done great things in the world _has_ met such
opposition; and that he was a great man, because his mind was taught
to despise them, and to go forth, trusting in its own strength to
meet them. I do not wonder that Ajax, when he defied the lightning,
felt himself a god.
Undismayed, the stout ship struggles on, driving through the rolling
sea, as if determined to force her way into, and loose herself in,
the unmeasured and unexplored tract of darkness that lies before
us. At length the night and the elements are beginning to assume
something like their accustomed tranquillity; and now the wind,
wearied with the contest, forgets its anger, and sweeps by only in
short, irregular growls; while the sea continues to heave up its
long, black, unbroken waves; as though the passion which penetrates
and rages in a deep bosom, does not its work so quickly and lightly.
The heavy clouds that seemed to embrace the lake gradually lift,
and are borne swiftly and in fragments away toward the north. One
by one, and for a moment at a time, the stars come out, and the
rising crescent moon sends down her first trembling rays; trembling,
indeed, but like the timid smile of the loved one, when it shines
on the troubled sea of doubt and despair in our hearts, how
brightening! The darkness is illumined by that gentle light, and we
go on our way with new hopes and new courage.
The light which is thrown on the scene is like that of dawn, dim
but steady, and sufficient to reveal, as far as it can be revealed,
its magnificence. On the left, and at but a little distance, rise
perpendicular bluffs, an hundred feet in height, and nearly as many
miles in length, against which the swell is breaking, with hollow
thunder, and spray dashed far up its jagged rocks. On the other
side, far as the eye can reach, the waves come rolling in, grim and
gray, seeming to proceed from where the edge of the horizon rests
on the bosom of the waters. Occasionally, one which lifts its crest
above the others, may be seen far off bursting into foam; in a
single place, at first, and then the white streak winding along its
summit mile after mile, till the eye is tired with following it.
There is grandeur in the unvarying sameness of these parallel
ridges, which sway the ship up and down as though it were a cork, as
well as in the deep monotone of their voice. This same voice, this
same tone, has been given forth in storm and calm, in the darkness
of night and in the light of day, for uncounted ages! When there was
no created eye or heart to see and be moved, deep has here called
unto deep, and storm has answered storm!
These cliffs have always felt the gentle wash, or the leaping weight
of the waters. This lake felt no change when its surface was first
broken by the keel of civilized man; its voice is as loud in wrath,
and as soft in calm, and its pulsations are as deep, as when it
made music to solitude, and disported itself alone! And by this is
taught the enquirer one useful lesson (and on what page of her great
book, does not Nature speak such instruction?) in human life. When
a man is great, he is elevated above the heads of his fellow men so
far, that the objects and passions which are so vast to them seem
to him, from the distance, very small. And one of the first things
that he loses sight of, is love of the approbation of the world. If
he ever manifests this love, it is a sign that he has descended;
and it is not surprising that he should sometimes; for he cannot
be expected to be so elevated, except periodically. But when he is
doing a great work, he goes forward like these waves, in his own
strength, and in the majesty of his own purposes; and the breath of
the crowd, whether sent forth to applaud or condemn, is like the
idle wind, which passes by and touches him not. The history of every
poet, or philosopher, or politician, who has himself gone before,
and hastened on the slow footsteps of his generation in the march
of improvement, would illustrate this principle. They have, each
one, forgotten the world, and toiled to discover and elaborate some
new truth, for its own sake, or for the sake of others; and when
the gem was duly set, luminous, to shed light on man's pathway,
and beautiful, to elevate and refine his mind, purify and warm his
heart, it has been cast down with a careless hand, for those who
will, to pick up.
I might exhibit this position more familiarly, by appealing to the
consciousness of every writer; the present writer, for instance; and
assuring _him_ if he ever wrote or thought any thing really good,
when he was pondering all the while what other people would think or
say concerning it? It is impossible: he paints a scene or landscape,
or analyzes passion, because he loves to do so; and of course, does
it best when he forgets for the moment that his picture or reasoning
will come under the eye of any one else. Man can make music fit for
the stars to hear, only when he makes it _to_ the stars; and then
when men hear it, they will call it the music of the spheres.
The night-lamps of the firmament are unveiled, and shine down as
calmly as they did on the garden of Eden. I wonder that they are
not tired, and do not grow dim with long watching; the more that
their watch is over such a world as this. They look down steadily
on scenes of crime, and folly, and suffering; and yet their pure
eyes are never seen obscured with grief, or to grow brighter through
anger. Perhaps, like some noble men, they see in the mass of unclean
things with which man has filled his soul the spirit of Divinity,
which was breathed into it at the first, not yet wholly corrupted
or cast out; and keep hoping on, that he will before long purify
himself, and that they shall again shine down on the garden of
Eden. We love them for this, because they love us. Like GOD, they
are present to every heart that looks up toward Heaven. Like the
countenance of a friend, too, they speak to us; rejoicing with a
dancing ray, when we rejoice; pouring down a warm, steady flood of
light, when we are full of quiet and happiness; and they have a
cheering, reviving beam for the afflicted and despairing--a beam
that speaks of constancy and hope.
But morning approaches; the wearied powers demand repose; and it is
sweet to lie down like a cradled child, and sleep with the ceaseless
wash of waters, for a lullaby, and rocked by their ceaseless roll!
A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD FABLE.
WITH A BRAN-NEW MORAL.
A LION once, by hunters pressed,
He jumped out of his skin:
A Donkey found it, passing by,
And straightway he jumped in.
He stretched his legs, he switched his tail,
He grinned in triumph vain,
And snugly hid a foot of ears
Among the shaggy mane.