CHAPTER X.
Sam Oakum had not forgotten the promise he had given old Mr. Cutter in the hour of his deep trouble; nor had he forgotten the kindness which prompted the old man to fly to the rescue of his parent. Every cent was precious in Sam's eyes, as sacred to repay that offering of mercy; he would no sooner have squandered it than he would have stolen; week after week, on every return from a trip, he would slip up to his little chest, and deposit there the earnings of the day. The additions were small, for he was obliged, occasionally, to expend some part of what he earned for little comforts that his mother needed; his father being rarely able to procure money for his labor. Small, however, as were the additions, the store increased. He had already carried to Mr. Cutter five dollars, and received his hearty blessing, and such a squeeze of his hand as Sam did not forget for the rest of the day.
Jim had squared up with him the moment he had received the last payment; and as Sam looked at the heap of money which Jim said was his share of their enterprise, he was too happy to say any thing. He looked up at Jim, whose calm clear eye turned from the money to Sam, and then back again to the money, as much as to say—
'It's your's, Sam, honestly come by;—it's all right, why don't you take it?'
Ned, who was standing by also, and watching Sam, understood better than Jim what the matter was.
'Why don't you hurra, Sam, and let it out, and not keep choking up so? I know how you feel;—shall I go it for you? Hurra, hurra, hurra!'
'Ned, what does ail you? what is the use of making such a noise?'
'Oh, nothing; only you see I want to help Sam out with some of his feelings; he is too full to hold.'
Sam had to smile, and that started a tear or two, and then he tried to say something about gratitude to the boys; but Jim stopped him short.
'Now, Sam, you must not feel so; you have earned that heap of money just as much as we have ours, and we ought to thank you; for how should we ever have got along without you and your boat.'
'Oh,' said Sam, as he began to gather up his money, and looking archly at Jim, 'you would have thought out some other way, I know.'
Jim had to smile a little; and Ned, throwing his arms on Sam's shoulders, and leaning over him, as he picked up the pieces of money.
'Sam Oakum, I am as glad to see you put that money in your pocket as I should be to put it into my own; and so is Jim, I know.'
Sam believed every word that Ned had spoken, and after making a plan to meet together that evening, he went on his way. His pockets were heavy, but his heart was light; and as he passed the rock which had ever been memorable to him since the hour when he sat there in his despondency, and the boys came to him with this plan of enterprise, he could not but say to himself,
'What a grand thing it has been that Jim Montjoy had those thoughts.'
Mr. and Mrs. Oakum were just about to sit down at their humble board as Sam entered.
'Here, father; see what the boat has done.'
'What is it, Sam?' said his mother, looking earnestly at him, her hands raised, and her countenance expressing great anxiety. Sam made no reply, but commenced unlading his pockets, and piling the money in little heaps on the table.
'It is father's; it has all come of the boat. If father had not built that boat, we never could have got all this; and now he can pay Billy Bloodgood the fifteen dollars, and then we shall not owe a single cent to any one; there is the whole of it—twenty-five dollars—don't it look nice, mother?'
Mrs. Oakum let her hands drop as soon as she understood the matter; but it was only to take up her apron—they had work to do with that. While the father, overcome with the sight of such abundance, and the noble spirit of his boy, could only say, in a very trembling voice,
'God bless you, Sam.'
That was a happy meal, though plain and coarse. A spring of living joy was bubbling in each heart, and sparkling forth in pure and blessed thoughts towards God and man.
Sam would gladly have had his father carry the money which was to repay Mr. Bloodgood, and never been known as the procurer of it. But to this the kind parent would not consent. He felt, and truly too, that it would be a mark upon his son's early life, not soon obliterated: and he was willing to have himself forgotten, if the dear boy might but be strengthened in the path of honor and virtue.
The next morning Sam was up with the early dawn, and busy with his daily routine, that he might be ready to go on his pleasing errand. Breakfast over, he dressed himself in his best blue suit, and with the money in his pocket and his parent's blessing, started off, his heart as full of happiness as it could well be. Thoughts of the dark scene which he had passed through, when kind friends, like angels of mercy, came to his aid, he could not repress, nor did he wish to; the darker then, the brighter now. How his heart beat with pleasure as he walked briskly on, and drew near to the humble abode of Billy Bloodgood—rough, to be sure, was the exterior, and the peculiar habits of its owner too visible in the strange confusion around the premises; but Sam thought only of his kind heart and ready hand in an hour of need.
Things had not yet been put to rights at neighbor Bloodgood's, and as Sam entered the house, there was not only a confused state of pots and kettles, and relics of the early meal, but the good woman herself was all wrong somehow; she was in quite an undress, and moved about amid the domestic articles surrounding her, with that quick, jerky air, which generally denotes an unsettled state of the inner man or woman.
Sam wondered why things did not break, they rang against each other so sharply. If he was somewhat surprised at this, he was much more so at sight of a stranger, seated near the door, but a little behind it, which circumstances prevented him from noticing before. He was a stranger, not only to Sam, but he must have been to all those parts, for he was like nothing seen in that region for many miles' circuit; his air and contour was that of a gentleman. Sam had already seen enough of the world to know that. He was quite a youth, probably not over nineteen years of age; his countenance manly, and rather stern at the first glance; but Sam thought, from a particular twist of the corner of his mouth, that he was more amused than vexed with the state of things around him. His form was slender, and his complexion pale, like one who had never yet been exposed to the wear and tear of life; his light brown hair was thrown carelessly back from his forehead, and displayed to great advantage that index of the mind.
He arose almost immediately upon Sam's entering, and with his hat in hand, bowed to the mistress of the house, who cast but a sideling glance at him, and then stooped down to rattle some of the dishes, without, apparently, any other motive than to let him see that she was too busy to attend to him.
'You think then, madam, there would be no use in my waiting to see your husband?'
'No; I don't think there's no earthly use in seeing him. I tell'd you, again and again, we ain't got no young ones to send—and that's the long and short on it.'
'Good morning, madam.'
The young man spoke kindly and courteously, and then left the house, walking with an erect carriage towards the highway.
'Good morning, Aunt Sally.'
Mrs. Bloodgood, then, lifting herself up, and putting a hand on each hip, looked with a very stern and fixed gaze through the open door, until the stranger had fairly got out of hearing; and then, without answering Sam's salutation, began to rattle away in her usual style, when by any cause somewhat excited.
'Him set up for a schoolmaster, with his fine clothes on, and his bran new hat, and his bowin' and scrapin', and his madam, and all that kind of palaver; he ain't nothin' but a chicken himself. No, no: I've seen enough on 'em in my day; there ain't no good comes on 'em; they put more mischief in the heads of the young 'uns than they've got naturally, and that's enough we all know.'
'What's the matter, Aunt Sally?'
'I tell you what, Sam Oakum, I don't want none of them Yankees round me. I don't see why the critters can't stay in their own country, and do some honest thing there for a livin', and not come trampussing away down here with their larnin', that don't do no airthly good, but make the young 'uns lazy, and wanting to be gentlemen like themselves; and what old Molly Brown sent the critter here for, I don't see.'
'Does he want to set up a school, aunt Sally?' said Sam, looking at her with a very anxious countenance.
'He did want to; but I guess he's got enough on it; and I'm so glad he's took himself off 'fore Bloodgood come in, for he's just fool enough to be clean took with him; and he's got his head set about havin' a schoolmaster, and I don't want none of the varmints round.' But looking at Sam very closely, and coming up to him, and feeling his coat and his trousers, and then holding him off at arm's length.
'Do tell! where upon airth, Sam, did you get this? How smart you do look. This has been gi'n to you, I know, by them great folks over the water there?'
'Yes.'
'Well, ain't that clever on 'em, Sam? but you're desarvin' of it, and I'm glad on it. It does a body's heart good to see your mother's child look so smart and tidy. I didn't hardly know you when you come in, and that plaguy man put me into such a pucker, I didn't hardly know what I was about.'
Sam had become very impatient to be off; he had anticipated a great deal of joy from his errand, in the proud satisfaction of paying a just debt; but he thought not of that now. He had learned enough to know what the stranger's business was, and he could not endure the thought of his leaving the place in such a manner; so taking out his money, and handing it to Mrs. Bloodgood,
'There, Aunt Sally, is the money which Mr. Bloodgood, so kindly helped my father to, when he was in trouble; won't you please tell him that we all thank him very much, and hope we shall never forget how good he has been to us?'
'You dear, blessed child!' Aunt Sally could say no more, for she saw the tears in Sam's eyes, and her own heart was very peculiar—it was soon set on fire.
'You will tell him, won't you, Aunt Sally? and that father says, if he will only let him know any time that he can do any thing for him, or for you, day or night, he will gladly do it; and mother says so too; for you don't know how happy it made us all, when you lent this money, and how very happy we are now, to be able to give it back to you.'
Aunt Sally sat down, and taking up her apron with both hands, cried as hard as she had scolded but a few moments before. Sam laid the money on the table beside her, and wishing her good morning, made speed towards the highway. He saw the young man at a distance, walking rapidly, and bending his course away from the place, on the direct road to the barrens; his only chance to overtake him was by a cross cut over the fields, and through a little clump of wood, around which the road to the barrens passed. And while Sam is hurrying across the lots, I must introduce the young stranger a little more particularly to my reader.
Henry Tracy was indeed descended from New England parents, but was not, as good Mrs. Bloodgood supposed, a real Yankee; for his father had emigrated from the state of Maine when quite a youth, and his mother from another of the goodly sisterhood, when a child. They had settled in one of the middle States, and Henry's birthplace was one of our largest cities; great pains had been taken with his education; his mind was uncommonly well stored for one of his age, and his manners distinguished by a gentlemanly grace; but, above all this, his heart had been nurtured by the tender care of a mother, whose love for the truth, whose meek and blameless life, and whose heavenly-minded temper, gave a power to the pure and holy thoughts which she was ever breathing into the ear of her son; they stole into his heart like the dew upon the tender plant.
He was now an orphan, and cast upon the world, with the choice of depending upon the charity of friends to assist him in completing his education, or using what education he had already received as a means of support, and of further progress; he wisely chose the latter. Having a slight acquaintance with Mr. Rutherford, he had, on calling to visit the family, been directed to this region, and the "Widow Brown, to whom Mr. Rutherford advised him to apply, could think of no one more likely to take an interest in a school than Billy Bloodgood. His reception there, and the general appearance of things, had discouraged him from any further attempt, and he was hastening back to seek a spot more congenial to his own feelings, and where there might be at least some desire for instruction.
Sam had to be expeditious, and was barely able to accomplish his object by running across one entire lot, and through the clump of woods. Breathless with his haste, he was unable to communicate his wishes, or to apologize to the young man for coming upon him in so abrupt a manner, who looked with much surprise at him for an explanation.
'I hope you will excuse me, sir, for stopping you; I met you, just now, at Mr. Bloodgood's. I did not know what your business was, sir. But do come back, we want you very much.'
'Want me! What do they know about me?'
'Oh, I mean, Sir, they want a teacher.'
'Mrs. Bloodgood says that no one here wishes a teacher, that the people think they are better off without any instruction.'
'But they do not all feel so, sir; do come back with me, and I will take you to a man that will tell you all about it.'
Sam's appearance pleased Mr. Tracy, and the earnestness of his entreaty induced him to consent to return and see what new feature the place might present.
They were not long in reaching the spot to which Sam wished to conduct him, a very unlikely place in appearance to give encouragement to literature, being no other than the workshop of old Sam Cutter. The old man was in his usual seat, holding, or rather leaning upon the handle of his large hammer, and from his short breathing and flushed face, showing signs of his having just been wielding it. Running round the shop, with a tongs in one hand and a hammer in the other, was Billy Bloodgood, helping himself, with some directions and aid on Mr. Cutter's part, in repairing an old farming tool. He paid, as usual, no attention to the new-comers, except a slight nod of his head, and a pleasant smile to Sam.
As Sam entered and motioned to Mr. Tracy to come in, Mr. Cutter passed his broad hand across the top of his head, smoothing down his bald forehead, at the same time saying.
'Your sarvant, sir.'
Mr. Tracy bowed to him politely, taking off his hat with as much respect as if in the presence of one of the great ones of the earth.
Sam Oakum lost no time in communicating to Mr. Cutter the object of the visitor, and the circumstances under which he had met with him and brought him back.
'Right, Sam, right; but of all things, to think of Sally Bloodgood treating the gentleman in that sort. But that's the way with them; they're a match for the old one, any time; all but your mother, Sam, she ain't like the rest on 'em.' And then turning to the young man,
'Sorry, sir, you've had such an indifferent reception, but what can't be cured must be endured. Billy there knows that; but you see it don't matter to him whether she scolds or coaxes; he can't hear nothin' no more than the iron he's poundin' on.'
'Is that Mr. Bloodgood? Mrs. Brown advised me to call upon him; but his good wife gave me such an account of things, that, but for this young gentleman, I should have made no further effort.'
'Ay, ay, Sam knew well enough, the young rogue, who to come to; but dear me, you look like a lad that has seen fair weather and easy work; do you know what kind of a place you've come to?'
'Only what I have seen of it this morning, sir; and Mrs. Brown said that she thought a teacher was much needed.'
'Ay, that she might well say, much needed; that is, if you can teach them any better manners than they've got now: they're a hard case, my dear young man, most gone to the evil one altogether.'
Mr. Tracy smiled. 'I hope not quite so bad as that, sir.'
'Not much short on it, I tell you; but things look a little better than they have, and I ain't sure but a considerable lot on 'em might be got together; that is, the boys, I mean but—' and the old man regarded his young visitor with a very inquisitive countenance—'you don't look as if you could live on clam shells and oyster shells, and eels, and sich like; I'm afear'd you ain't used to them.'
'Oh, yes, sir, I can eat what the rest of you do.'
'Well, my young friend, you can't judge always from the looks, what kind of fare a man has; but howsomever, if you can get along with such things as I've tell'd you of, why you won't starve, for you see we've got plenty on 'em; and as to the boys, do you, Sam Oakum, up and tell the gentleman what you know about it, and not stand stretching your mouth and grinnin' at me.'
Sam soon numbered quite a company of boys, and girls too, that he knew would be very glad of a chance for schooling, and many more that would no doubt come if the gentleman 'would only make a beginning, and open a school.'
As Henry Tracy had perhaps full as much desire to do good, as to receive compensation for his labors, seeing the strong desire manifested by Sam, and hearing him tell how very anxious some of his companions were to learn something, he made up his mind to try the experiment.
Sam was almost beside himself for joy; it was the only one thing now wanting in his cup of happiness. His deficiency in every kind of knowledge acquired from books, was felt by him daily as a sore evil. 'If he could only read and write, and calculate like Jim Montjoy,' was for ever coming into his mind, a wish unalloyed by envy or any other evil feeling towards Jim, but filling his heart with sadness. Old Sam Cutter was no less rejoiced, for his boys were but little in advance of Sam Oakum, and now that they had taken such a favourable turn in their course of conduct, the old man felt that a school would be a crowning mercy. Some little difficulty presented itself as to where the teacher should take up his abode; there were good reasons why Mr. Cutter could not offer a residence under his own roof; the house was but small, too small, he found for himself, sometimes, and he durst not venture upon an addition.
Sam Oakum would have rejoiced could his home have afforded accommodations such as he might ask a stranger to partake of, and a person of Mr. Tracy's appearance. Mrs. Montjoy's was the only place that Sam could think of where any thing like comfort could be had.
'I know—I know all that, Sam; Mrs. Montjoy is a nice woman, and the house, though small, is tidy-like, and the boys are good fellows, a credit to the place; but you see, Sam, we must 'be wise as sarpants' about this business. You know how the folks feel, full of their jealousies and nonsense; and if the teacher should go there, they would say that he felt himself above folks, that he was too good for the like of them, and all that, and you see,' looking at Mr. Tracy, 'we've got to take folks as they are, and make the best on 'em.' And then turning his eye towards Sam, 'The Widow Andrews' is the place. Bill, you know, is gone; sorry for that, but he's gone, and no help for it; the old woman is queer, but where is one on 'em that ain't, sometimes? Yet she is pretty good in the main, and she'll be proud to do her best; and if the gentleman won't be frightened at a little squall once in a while, he'll git along pretty comfortable there: now, don't you think so, Sam?'
Sam thought just as Mr. Cutter did; and as Mr. Tracy was not particular as to accommodations, provided they were cleanly, and he could have a room to himself, it was accordingly decided that he should accompany Sam there, and see what could be done. There was nothing very inviting in the appearance of things, to one who had been accustomed to a very different style of living: the house was a one-story building, placed very flat on the ground; both the roof and the sides were covered with shingles. Moss had accumulated so as to contend with the shingles for the precedence, and if the latter did the most good, the former was the most distinctly to be seen. But it was situated in the midst of a green grass plot, and the grass was short and velvety to the tread, and a few old cedar trees surrounded it, which tended to screen its imperfections, and make it pass for full as much as it deserved. A fence ran before it, much dilapidated, sufficient, however, to keep out the larger animals, where the green short grass grew up to the window.
The widow was evidently flattered by the proposal, only she feared 'the gentleman might find their living very different from what he had been used to.'
Mr. Tracy was satisfied, from the appearance of things within doors, that neatness was one trait which the widow certainly had, whatever others he might discover on further acquaintance. She showed him her best room, and which she was perfectly willing to yield up to his use. It was large enough, with an agreeable view of the surrounding country, and Henry thought, when he should get his books around him, he could make himself at home.
Mr. Cutter would have been glad to introduce the young man to Billy Bloodgood, but he dared not undertake the task, and suffered Billy to hammer away, and took no notice of the inquisitive glances which his good neighbor kept casting towards him. As soon, however, as the visitor had departed, still holding the hammer and tongs, he made up to Mr. Cutter, and putting his head close to his ear, hallooed in a voice almost sufficient to have made the sound reach his own tympanum.
'Who's that?'
'I ain't deaf; you needn't holler at that rate into a man.'
'Who did you say? I didn't hear you.'
'Dear me, what shall I do? I'm all out of breath a talkin' to that youngster.'
'Don't hear.'
Uncle Sam made a desperate effort, opened his mouth, drew in a long breath, put his hand up to form a trumpet, and applying the machinery as near as possible to Billy's head, called out,
'He's a teacher.'
'A preacher?' and Billy nodded and smiled; 'that's good going to stay here?'
'Bless my soul, what shall I do? I shan't try agin', no how.'
'Sally'll be glad to hear that; where is he from?'
Uncle Sam looked first one way and then the other, as though meditating an escape; but he hated to move, and in fact he knew there would be little use in trying it, for Billy would be after him so he finally cast an imploring eye up to his neighbor, who stooping down and looking very inquiringly into his face.
'O dear, dear! I ain't got no breath to do it.'
Billy shook his head.
'Don't hear.'
'No, nor you won't if the sound has got to come out of me; it can't be done.'
'Don't hear what you say; speak a little louder.'
'I don't know.' Old Sam made noise enough this time, and if it could have been concentrated might have gone to the place, but Billy had heard something, so he nodded his head.
'From below? what place? anywhere near by?'
'Dear, dear, he'll be the death of me!' Uncle Sam was indeed in a bad case; he had at no time any breath to spare, and to be called upon to expend it, first in working with the big hammer, and then in blowing trumpets, was a little more than his good-nature could stand. He was very red in the face, breathed short and heavy, and with his old straw hat flapping violently to catch fresh supplies of air, looked wildly about for some loophole whereby to creep out from this dilemma. Just at that moment, and as Billy was again upon the point of asking for more light on the obscurity of the last sound that reached him, the shop door was darkened by the entrance of no less a personage than Sally Bloodgood herself. She came in so rapidly, that she was nigh being foul of Uncle Sam; as it was, she only impeded the motion of the old hat. She was not at all in a visiting dress, having come, as she said, 'just as she was,' to see her neighbor, Mrs. Cutter, for a minute. 'But do, la, Uncle Sam, what ails you? your face is as red as a turkey's comb. You seem to be all blowed out. It's Bloodgood, I know it is. He's been asking you questions, I know he has. You hadn't ought to try to talk to him, Uncle Sam; it's enough to kill you.'
'I believe you,' turning his eyes up at her very expressively; 'you're right there, Sally.'
Billy Bloodgood now engrossed his wife's attention, by telling her the great news, 'that there was a preacher come, a nice-looking young man.'
Mrs. Bloodgood looked at Mr. Cutter for an explanation.
'Do tell, Uncle Sam, was he a very youngerly man, very fine and delicate like?'
Mr. Cutter nodded assent.
'La, me, I wonder if it's the same one that called to see Bloodgood, this mornin'. A preacher?—who upon airth would have thought it? he never said nothin' about preach'n'.'
Mrs. Bloodgood had her own reasons for being so surprised; and as Uncle Sam Cutter saw clearly that her thoughts were very much troubled about the matter, he came to the conclusion to let her enjoy her mistake:
'It will teach her, may be, to be a little more careful of her tongue.'
But, as Billy Bloodgood was the principal man to whom Mr. Cutter looked for aid in sustaining and encouraging the young man, the fact that he wished to teach a young school among them, must be communicated to him. Utterly hopeless of any power in himself to do the thing, he, without any ceremony, took hold of the loose covering which hung about the person of the lady, and fairly forcing her down upon a rough seat, near himself,
'Now you see, woman, I give it clean up; I shan't never try no more to drive a word into Billy's head. I can't do it—it will kill me.'
''Tis hard work, Uncle Sam, ain't it? it takes such a power of wind. But you see somebody's got to make him hear, and I 'spose it's my lot; and what a body's got to do, you know, Uncle Sam, why, they must submit to it: but it takes my breath clean away sometimes, and makes me so faint and gone, that I can't hardly hold myself together.' And the good woman, pressing her hands very hard against her sides, exhibited to Uncle Sam the desperate efforts she had to make, at times, to keep things in their place.
Billy stood close by, with one hand on Uncle Sam's shoulder, looking very complacently at his wife, and nodding every once in a while, as though he understood perfectly what she was saying.
'Fine-looking young man; smart, I guess.' And then stooping over, and looking into Mr. Cutter's face, 'You didn't tell me what place he came from.'
'Where is it, Uncle Sam? jist tell me, and I'll make him hear, I'll warrant.'
'Why, Sally, I don't know where he's come from. No doubt Heaven has sent him from somewhere or another, and I don't much care, I am so glad to see any thing in a decent shape come to do a little good among us: he may have dropped right down, for all I know.'
'Do, la, Uncle Sam, how you talk; you're enough to frighten a body. But I must tell Bloodgood somethin' or another.' So, raising herself a little, putting one hand on each knee, and placing her prominent member close to her husband's ear, who was still bending down and looking earnestly at Mr. Cutter, she was about to give one of her blasts, when she was suddenly arrested by the powerful hand of the latter.
'Stop, Sally, stop!—not now: none of your hollering here, I can't stand it. Wait till you git home, and then you can tell Billy all about it.'
Billy, finding that there was a sudden interruption to all correspondence for some cause he could not well define, and being accustomed to such events, put a stop to his inquiries for the present.
How vast a change of feeling is sometimes effected by the passing away of sunlight, with the bustle of its busy hours and the silent shades of evening!
Henry Tracy had made a busy day of it; he had met with unexpected success in engaging scholars, and had procured a room in a building, once used as a court-house, in which to hold his school. Gratified with his prospects, he sat down to the clean supper table with the Widow Andrews and her daughter, with feelings much more buoyant than could have been expected in one so young, for the first time a sojourner among strangers. He delighted them by the ease and pleasantness of his manners, so that when he retired, which he did soon after supper, the Widow Andrews looked at her daughter, and lifting her hands in expression of her admiration—
'Who could ever ha' thought of it? Why, it's jist as easy talkin' to him as to Uncle Sam Cutter.'
'Oh, mother! its as easy agin'.'
The moon was in all her splendor, and her pale rays fell trembling through the foliage of the cottage. Taking a seat by the window, Henry looked out upon the beautiful night, and his heart filled with emotions to which he had hitherto been a stranger.
Home, that idea so satisfying to the soul, that spot to which our wishes fly when in sickness or sorrow, was nought to him now but the resting-place of his past joys and trials—a beautiful vision that had left an impress on his heart, which time could not obliterate; although, like a vision, it had passed away, his bosom heaved with the swelling thoughts that rolled like ocean waves heavier and mightier in upon him. He drew from his breast a golden locket and unclasping it, held the miniature it enclosed beneath the rays of the moon; his lips trembled, as the sacred name of 'mother' broke from them. 'Yes, I will ever think of thee, thy sweet love has made my home a paradise, and thy pure piety and gentle counsels have won me to the path of peace. My Saviour's image hast thou ever borne before me, until my heart has learned to love Him as my best and dearest friend. Oh, may my life be such as thy last dying prayer entreated it might be; and may I be led by the Holy Spirit in the way that leads to where thou art.'
CHAPTER XI.
It was a very bright to-morrow in Ned's imagination, as he lay down to rest; for then he was to accompany Jim and Sam, and was to see the fort, and old Peter and Major Morris, and perhaps little Susie too; and the new plan of Jim's was the object of their errand. If the day in Ned's imagination was brighter than the one which actually dawned upon them, it must have been a beauty indeed. The sky, the water, and the land opened in loveliness; the bright blue above was reflected from the glassy water, and the golden beams, that poured in full glory from the east, were thrown back by the fading forest in all variety of colors. This was to Ned a holiday indeed, and his active spirit enjoyed it to the full; faithfully had he toiled through the long summer days, nor even thought of relaxation. Now, the summer labors over, sweet was the rest, and exhilarating the prospect of new scenes and faces, which, with that morning's dawn, came playing before his view.
Major Morris was not a little pleased, as he listened to Jim's simple exposition of the plan he had in view; his generous heart rejoiced to know that what he had already done to aid and stimulate these youths, had turned to so good account.
'And you say that you have laid by one hundred dollars from your trading with me this summer, and so you begin to despise your old business? You wish to find some easier way to make a hundred dollars? Ay, ay—like all the rest of us.'
'Oh, no, sir—no, sir; we do not think of giving up our garden; we expect to work at that the same as ever.'
And then Jim explained how he intended to manage, which convinced Major Morris that the scheme was not only well laid, but included much closer attention to their work than heretofore. He looked at the boys with deep interest; the smile, which had played round his lips while speaking to them, passed away, and his keen black eye turned from one to the other, as though scrutinizing their very spirits. Sam's honest eye, as black as the one which was fixed on him, twinkled and turned aside, as the Major, after surveying the brothers, rested his gaze on him. What he saw in Sam, or what strange visions passed before him, wherein poor Sam acted a conspicuous part, may one day be revealed. A sigh at last broke the spell; he turned towards Jim.
'Your plan, my good fellow, is one which meets my approbation, and any thing I can do to assist you in it, I will do with pleasure; but you know from past dealing with me, that my efforts will be merely directed so as to enable you to help yourselves.'
'You are very kind, sir. I thought your judgment would be safe for us to follow, and that perhaps you could give me some directions as to purchases, and therefore I have taken this liberty.'
'Your plan of setting up a small store is a good one; on many accounts: but you must bear in mind that great attention will be required, both in purchasing and selling. You will be in danger of losing some of your profits by waste in retailing; you will also be in danger of losing goods and profits too, by selling to those who will never pay you; and you will run some risk in the transportation of your goods, or of your money, so far by water, although this latter risk can be guarded against. What I would say to you then is, that this business, although small at first, will require the most strict attention in all its details; and I would also say another thing, if I did not fully believe that all of you have been trained to those correct principles, without which no man can or ought to rise to honor or prosperity.
'I can assist you by introducing you to a house in the city, where you will be well dealt with; and as our boat sails to-morrow morning, you had better remain here, and I will accompany you.'
Ned was ready for a caper; he looked at Sam, and rubbed his hands together very fast. Sam shook his head, as much as to say, 'Be quiet, Ned.'
Jim blushed, looked at the boys, and then up at Major Morris.
'I thank you, sir, for your kind offer; but having no idea of being able to do any thing so soon, have left my money at home.'
'So much the better, then there will be the less risk; I will arrange for the payment of your goods in the city, the same as if you had your money with you, and when we return, you can settle with me here.'
Jim was not very clear about this matter; but confiding in Major Morris, assented to remain, thanking him again for his kind interest.
During this conversation, Peter stood back at some distance, leaning on his crutches, and chewing a tremendous quid of tobacco with great diligence, and occasionally smoothing down the end of his queue. Ned, while listening to the Major, kept an eye on Peter, scanning him from head to foot. No sooner had the Major withdrawn, than Peter hobbled towards the boys, who were standing on the steps by their boat, and making preparations to return; he threw his crutches down, and taking a seat on the stone coping close beside the boat, listened attentively to Jim, who was giving directions to Sam and Ned about some small matters at home, and about their coming for him on his return to the fort.
'I suppose,' said Jim, looking at Peter, 'that I shall be back here by about three o'clock to-morrow afternoon.'
'Bless your soul! what kind of a kalkelation have you run foul of now? you are out of your reck'nin' by a whole day at the least. Why you see, my hearty, you won't start from here 'afore say nine o'clock to-morrow mornin'; with the wind aft, or a little quaterin', say she goes eight knots an hour, which is good sailin' for sich kind of craft, it will take you all of four hours and no balks to git to the landin'; so you see' (giving his head a bob, and a corresponding motion to his queue) 'you can't be there 'afore one o'clock, no how' (another bob); 'well then, if the wind is fair to carry you there, you don't think it is goin' to chop round jist when you're ready to come back, and blow astern all the way home, do you?'—looking at Jim again.—'No, no; the wind and weather don't care for nobody; we've got to take 'em, jist as it happens, and make the most on 'em. So you see, you may jist knock overboard all your figurin'; it won't do you no good; you've got to stay one night in the city, at any rate, for the boat never starts till the next mornin'; and if you've good luck, may be about three o'clock you'll be in, and may be not.'
Jim was rather puzzled to make out from Peter's reckoning when to tell the boys to come for him; but Peter, seeing him in doubt, gave his own directions.
'Here you, Sam, jist harkee; there won't be no need of your bein' here afore day a'ter to-morrow; then you see, you can jist hoist sail, and come along easy; no hurry; you be here by three o'clock, plenty time enough. Now you see, don't make no kalkelations about goin' home that night, 'kase—you hear me now?—sposin' the wind should take 'em right dead ahead, they can't get in no how afore six o'clock, and may be not then, and there's no tellin' when.'
Jim found it a more serious matter, this going to the city, than he had anticipated. Peter's experience soon convinced him of that; as he could give no more certain directions to Sam than he had already received, he must let him go with what he had.
The sail was hoisted; Peter had untied the rope, giving at the same time a sharp good-natured lecture to Sam, for making his boat fast in such an unsailor-like manner. Sam took it all in good part, for, in truth, he had not done the thing; it was some of Ned's handiwork. Jim stood on the stairs, giving Ned all sorts of directions and injunctions.
'Yes, yes, Jim; I'll see to it, never you fear.'
Off goes the little craft.
'Good-by, Sam; good-by, Ned. Take care of yourselves.'
'Good-by, Jim.'
'Good-by, my hearties; haul in that bow-line, and don't let it drag in that fashion; and haul your peak taut; you'll have a stiff breeze, but she'll bear it. Good luck to you.'
Gently the boat turned off, and took the swelling breeze. The boys looked back, to give a parting nod.
'Oh, Sam, who is that? ain't she a beauty though!—is that Susie? See, Sam, she is shaking her hand to you.'
Sam made no reply; he touched his hat lightly, as he had seen Peter do to the Major.
'I tell you what, Sam, I don't wonder you jumped into the water; I would have jumped, too, if I had been here.'
'I wouldn't be looking round so, Ned.'
'Mustn't I? Well, I'll look ahead then. I thought sister Eller was pretty—but—but—may be it's the dress though.'
Sam was in no talking mood; he kept his eye steadily fixed on the sail, which was swelled finely out, and making their boat skim along towards home to his heart's content; and as Ned received only monosyllables in reply to his many questions, he soon tired of putting them.
Large cities have their evils, and they are not few. Hither the idle and the vicious throng, for here are dens to hide them from the public gaze, and companions to uphold them in their evil courses, and finery enough to glut their polluted appetite; but with the evils, are many things that tend to bless society. Here the good man finds many kindred spirits, too, and like coals to burning coals, they kindle in each other a warmer glow, and spread around them, in a wide and fervent circle, a cheering, healthful influence. Here busy industry plies her daily, nightly task, and meets with large reward, and hangs out her trophies to the gaze of the vast multitude, urging them on to diligence: here wealth erects her glittering palace; and here the darkest den of poverty is found. Here emulation and sympathy have each objects of heart-thrilling interest, sufficient to awaken all the energies of the jostling throng. Deeds of charity, which make us proud of our species, are here originated and carried into execution: and here, too, deeds of horror are enacted, that make us feel how like the very fiends of hell sometimes is man.
Excitement, in all its various forms, keeps up a constant whirl; all feel the influence for good or ill, and onward all are pressing. The mind of man is tasked, until its energies, too strongly, constantly impelled, give way, and then the victim droops, and plods along, and sickens at the strife, and longs to be at rest.
When the first view of the city broke upon the gazing eye of our hero, he scarcely knew what to make of it. The tall spires running up against the distant sky; the crowded masts that, like a wintry forest, lined the shores; the mighty mass of buildings, heaps on heaps, spreading for miles on either side; the boats of various size and shape crossing and recrossing, and sweeping by them with the arrow's speed; and as they neared the land, the busy throng of people hurrying to and fro; the confused and deafening noise, the smoke and dust, the huge hulks, old ocean-travellers, that lay fast corded to the strong stout piles; the long projecting piers, around whose dark-green slippery base the turbid waters swelled, and beat, and broke—all, all were new to Jim; and in mute wonder he looked and thought, until their little vessel glided into her resting-place, between two vast walls of docks.
"Well, James, what do you think of the city?" said Major Morris, coming up to where he sat at the bow of the boat, and putting his hand kindly on his shoulder.
"I hardly know, sir; but it seems a very busy place." 'Yes, busy you may well say, every one is in a hurry here, and we must be so, too, as we are rather late to-day, and I fear my friend will have left his store.'
Jim hastened to accompany the Major, who, already on the wharf, was mingling with the crowd; it took him, however, some little time to learn how to make haste in a city, and not before he had received a few stout thumps against some other hurrying mortals, and a few harsh curses as an awkward country booby. But Jim heeded them not, for the Major walked fast, and to lose sight of him would be a dilemma indeed, amidst such a Babel. He twisted this way and that, sometimes running close to the wall, at others jumping off from the side-walk among the carts, and then quickly back again, over bales of cotton tumbling from the doors; around hogsheads of molasses, barrels of flour, puncheons of rum, bars of iron, old anchors, coils of cable, droves of little, ragged, dirty children, huddling about empty sugar hogsheads. Verily Jim had a time of it; he was not naturally one of the hurrying sort. To get around and through all these obstacles, and to keep his eye on the Major, at the same time, required more activity than he had been accustomed to use.
After travelling in this way, as Jim fancied, a long distance, he rejoiced to see the Major make a halt, and enter a large store, the passage-way of which was blocked up with piles of tea-chests, casks, bales, boxes, and men. Jim squeezed along behind the Major, who, opening a glass door, entered a small neat room, where every thing was in perfect contrast with the confusion without: a large double desk occupied a considerable portion of the apartment; it was situated between the two front windows, and covered with fine green cloth; every thing upon it lay in order; each little paper seemed to be there by design. The windows were clean, and the glasses on the shelf shone brightly, and the floor was covered with white sand, and dust and cobwebs appeared to have no license there. At the desk two young men were busily employed with immense folios, working away in silence, occasionally passing a word with each other in a very low voice, and that only in reference to the work before them. A spell seemed to be upon Jim as soon as he entered that room; he had never felt so before, not even when first introduced into the parlor of Mrs. Morris; every thing wore the appearance of so much exactness, every thing was done and said in such a calm, thoughtful way, it was so still and orderly, it seemed to Jim that matters of great moment alone occupied each mind.
Mr. Thomas was a large dealer; hundreds of thousands passed through his hands every year, and his extensive business was managed by him with perfect ease, because he had grown into it; unlike too many of modern times, who, aiming to catch the golden shower, involve themselves in a complication of difficulties, purchase without judgment, and sell at random, only anxious that their books shall show, at the end of the year, a large balance in their favor, whether realized or not.
He had begun in a small way, and gradually increased his business with his means; never suffering himself to be allured by a tempting speculation, nor to engage in any undertaking beyond what he could well manage, he neither worried himself nor his friends. It was a busy place, though, that store of his; from early dawn until late at night, there was one continued round of active duty; but extensive as his sales were, he despised not the most insignificant of his customers, bestowing equal attention to him who wished to spend his hundred dollars, as to those who yearly drew from his vast storehouse their tens of thousands. An upright, manly course he had ever pursued; he was an honest dealer as well as a wealthy merchant.
Major Morris knew well the man into whose hands he committed our young merchant; and it required but a few words in private to interest Mr. Thomas in his welfare, almost as much as he had himself been. The story of the youth immediately took with him, and Jim's modest and intelligent look added force to what the Major had related concerning him; and then, when Major Morris left the office to attend to business of his own elsewhere, he made Jim take a seat beside him, and with the familiarity of a friend, drew from his own lips a rehearsal of all he had done, and what he wished to do; inquiring into all the particulars respecting the place where he lived. Jim had but a plain and simple story to tell; but before he had finished, the heart of the merchant was so engaged in his plan, that he thought of him not as a customer, out of whom he might honestly make a small gain, but as one whom it would give him great pleasure to direct and aid. What a priceless jewel is integrity of heart! and happy is the youth who, trained to virtue, goes forth into the busy paths of life to act his part. A mild but steady light illuminates his track; his very countenance is radiant, and his plain, simple speech, which tells the meaning of his heart, wins every honest ear, and wakes a chord respondent in each noble soul; he needs no varnished tale, no flattering words, no cringing bows; a better passport to the confidence of all he carries with him, in his own honest purpose.
With much patience Mr. Thomas made out a list of such articles as he thought would be the most saleable, and gave immediate directions to have them carefully put up. He then opened to Master Jim such a method of managing business, that he felt almost in a hurry—a thing Jim was not often guilty of,—to start off and get to work. Jim was not given to vanity; he had never felt that he had any thing to be proud of, but when he saw the cart loaded with the different articles intended for him, neatly marked with his name and place of residence, and when he received his bill made out in the most particular manner, and receipted by the clerk with a most significant flourish beneath the signer's name, and when Mr. Thomas cordially shook his hand, wishing him all success, and that he might have the pleasure of seeing him soon again, he was highly gratified, and would not just then have exchanged his place and prospects for any one he could think of.
Sam and Ned, although somewhat confused by Peter's directions, had reached the fort a short time before the arrival of Master Jim with his little cargo. It was a happy meeting between the brothers, for they had never before been separated for a single night. How Ned stared, when he saw the boxes, and bags, and barrels with Jim's name upon them! How he would have shouted, if he dared, but Sam was close by him.
'Keep still, Ned; you know it won't do here.'
'But only to think, Sam, what a grand thing it is—only think, to have a store, and people buying things, and all that; and you in a great vessel bringing goods to us—hurra, Sam!'
'Do, for goodness' sake, Ned, stop; what will they think?'
Sam was in great perplexity; he felt that their character was in danger; but Ned promised that he would keep in, at any rate until they were out of hearing. Jim was fortunately out of the way, having gone with Major Morris into the fort, to settle their business matters. Old Peter, however, was a witness of the scene, and Sam had great respect for Peter, and feared that he would be horrified at Ned's disregard of the rules of propriety; but the old man shut up one eye, and screwing his countenance into a grimace almost frightful, sat and shook his sides, and worked away at his queue, making no noise whatever. Spasm after spasm came over him and passed away; and whenever he looked at Ned, off he would go again, shaking and wriggling and pulling at his queue, but making no noise. At length, beckoning to Sam to come near, he whispered,
'He's full on it, I tell you;' and then another screwing of his face and a hearty shake—'he's a real boy, every inch on him. I only wish the Major had a heered him—how it come out, ha?' and then shake, shake, went the old man's sides. Sam, however, was greatly rejoiced that the Major was not there, and kept Ned very busy in stowing away the goods in their own boat, and did not feel quite at ease, until they had left the fort a good distance behind them.
There was business enough on hand now for all our boys. The little end building was entered upon in earnest, and soon converted into quite a respectable-looking store, except as to size; in that respect it had not much to boast of. Sam labored with as much interest as either of them; and as they were all too busy to converse much while the store was in preparation, it was not until the evening of the second day after their return, that they could get a chance for talking. As the weather was too cold now to meet under their favorite tree, it was concluded, for the future, to make the store their rendezvous.
'I tell you what, Sam, who would ever have thought of this six months ago? It is a regular store—ain't it? There are the shelves and the counter, and the barrels, and the canisters, and the scales, just as Grizzle has them, and a great deal nicer. But that little desk which Jim has fitted up so snug in the corner there behind the counter—that must be some city style. I never saw such a thing round here—did you?'
'No; but it looks well—don't it? and that green cloth on it. Jim means to have everything snug here—don't he?'
Ned did not reply, for Jim entered just then, and looking round with a smile, took his seat opposite to them.
'Now, Jim, tell us all about your trip, and what you saw, and how you managed, and where you bought the things, and all about it.'
'Oh, Ned; I cannot tell you half that I witnessed in that great city. You must go there yourself one of these days; it is a great place, and every one is busy, and all seem to be in a hurry to get along, as though they had something to do that must be done at once. It was as much as I could do to get through the streets; but the gentleman to whom Major Morris introduced me, treated me very kindly, and told me how we must manage: said he, "You will find that the people in your place have got very little money (which you know, boys, is true), and if they can only buy for money, you will be able to sell very little. Now you must do this: you must offer to take from them any thing they have for sale—butter, eggs, yarn, wood—no matter what, in payment for whatever they want to buy of you."'
'We should be in a fine fix then, Jim; what should we do with all the stuff—they would only take a small part at the fort, you know.'
'Just wait, Ned, and you shall hear. "All these things," said he, "are wanted in the city, and are as good here as money. As soon as you get a supply of this kind of produce, load up your vessel and bring it to me; I will either take it of you or dispose of it. You can get more for it here than it is worth with you, and so you can make a profit both ways."'
'Oh, Sam, did you ever hear the like?'
'But just wait awhile, Ned. He said also, "that as soon as the people here found that they could purchase goods of us cheaper than they had been accustomed to, and get a larger price for their produce than they had ever received, which you will be able to do by trading here, you will not only get all the business of the place, but they will be stimulated to raise a great deal more, and so every year you will find your trade increasing;" and he said, "before two years, you will require a large sloop to do your carrying business."'
'Just hear that, Sam—hurra!'
'Now, Ned, keep quiet; it is not accomplished yet; and things may not work just as Mr. Thomas thinks they will.'
'Oh, but I say, Jim, it will work—I know it will—hurra! Only to think of it—a large sloop in two years—hurra! Why don't you hurra, Sam? You will be captain of her—you know you will.'
'I could hurra, Ned, if it would do any good, for I feel as glad as you do; but it is not always best to make a noise about it.'
Sam had not forgotten the alarm he had received from Ned's shouting a few day's back.
'Well, I don't see what you and Jim are made of: where's the use of any thing good, if a body can't let it out a little?'
Jim soon got Ned back to real business, by asking him to read over the bill of goods, and call off the articles, while he and Sam examined them, and placed them away in readiness for use.
We must now leave our boys, for a time, to try their new experiment, in order that we may bring forward the other parts of our story.
CHAPTER XII.
Henry Tracy found himself surrounded by not only a large number of scholars, but such as listened to him with the strictest attention, and applied themselves to their tasks with unusual diligence. It was, however, to him a sad sight, to behold so many of them, and some almost his own age, commencing the first principles of education. The labours which devolved upon him were arduous, but the more he found to do, the greater was the interest he took, and the more untiring his zeal for their benefit. He walked amid his little community with no lordly air; great indeed was the disparity between his attainments and those of his pupils, but he felt it not, or felt it only to humble himself before God, that so superior had been his advantages.
His power over them was unbounded. An influence had been gradually stealing over their minds, which caused them to listen to his instructions as though he was a messenger from heaven. It proceeded from the combined power of religion, intelligence, and refinement. He had, on opening his school, gathered them around him in solemn act of worship, and every day, morning and evening, he publicly commended himself and them to God, and poured out from his feeling heart such warm petitions for them all, that many a hard and careless youth would wipe away the starting tear, although he could not tell why that tear had come. And then through all the day he ministered to their intellectual wants, with so much kindness in his manner, and so efficiently too; he threw around him such a charm by his gentle, yet manly deportment, treating them with the same respect that he wished to be observed towards himself, that the most obdurate were soon softened. No harsh words ever escaped him, even when their improprieties affected him the most keenly; nothing but the expression of sorrow or surprise, brought out in that delicate manner, in tones low and touching, which seldom failed to start the blush on the cheek of the delinquent, and check at once whatever was wrong. Slowly, too, but most effectually, an influence was stealing ever the parents. It arose from the deep respect which they saw their children felt for their teacher: it flashed upon them as they met him in his daily walks; his lowliness, his pleasant smile, and his soft clear voice affected them, they knew not why; and wrapped itself around their hearts. There was no letting down of his own good manners, no seeming condescension to their ignorance; he conversed with them as his equals, and poured forth the thoughts which were uppermost in his mind, in as good language as he could command; and he ever left an impression of his mental power and moral worth that made them think and talk of him when he was gone, and wish that their children at least might be like him.
The error which good Mrs. Bloodgood had fallen into in regard to the calling of the young man, was soon cleared up, but not until she was, herself, won to him; and as she could not get rid of some troublesome remembrances of their first interview, she took the greater pains to trumpet abroad continually her good thoughts concerning him now.
'Of all the men that ever I sot my eyes on, he's the best; he's an angel on airth; he's clean too good for it, don't you think so, Aunt Sally Cutter?'
'Why I don't know, Sally,' and the old lady straightened herself up, and pushed her spectacles further on her nose; 'men is men, and there ain't much angel about 'em, as ever I seed; but I 'spose he's as good as most on 'em; but they are all clean took with him, and what do you think?'—stretching her long arm out, and raising it over her head;—'Cutter has taken it into his head now, that, preacher or no preacher, he means to get him to hold some kind of a meetin' or other, and he's gone this very blessed day with the old mare to the Widow Andrews' to see him about it.'
'Do tell, Aunt Sally, it ain't true? has Uncle Sam gone, though? Well that's jist what Bloodgood's been talkin' on; he'll be so glad; but, poor soul, what good will it do him?'
It was indeed true; Uncle Sam Cutter had been long impressed with a sense of the need there was for some public religious services; he had in his youth been accustomed to mingle with those that kept 'holy day,'—he had gone to the house of God with the multitude, and he had never lost the savor of those solemn seasons; the remembrance came over him as he toiled in his shop, or sat by his door in the deep shades of evening; he mourned in secret that he had ever pitched his tent in Sodom. Oh! how he longed once again to hear the peal of the church-bell, calling the worshippers to the house of God; but he was now too old to remove to strange places, or do much towards obtaining such privileges as he felt were needed; and yet to think of leaving his family in such a moral waste, without some effort to remedy matters, he could not. He had listened attentively to all that his boys told at home about the teacher, and he thought what a pity it was that some of the older sinners also could not have the benefit of his prayers and instructions. 'We all need it bad enough,' he said to himself one day, as he sat on his old block by the shop door; 'bad enough, bad enough. Oh dear me! to think what a heathen set we are, goin' whip and cut to the Evil one, and nobody to say "Whoa!" to us, no more than if we were fat sheep goin' to the slaughter-house.' With that the old man began to fan himself very fast with his straw hat, his lips moving all the while, as was his habit whenever he thought hard. His train of ideas at last led to the conclusion that something must be done; so ordering up the mare, he was soon off for the Widow Andrews', resolved to lay before the young man such a picture of their condition as would not fail to move him, 'if,' said he, 'he has any bowels of mercy in him.'
The Widow Andrews was much surprised to see the old cart drive up to her door, for her good neighbour, though a very kind man, was an indifferent visitor. She did not wait for him to alight—a business never rapidly performed—but ran out to the little gate, and with an air of great wonderment looked up at the old man, as he sat dangling on the tail of his carryall.
'What's the matter, Uncle Sam? there ain't no bad news, I'm hoping. But do tell! what a pucker you're in; you are clean blowed, ain't you, Uncle Sam? Do git down and come in, and let your boy tie the horse, and rest you a bit, and take a little breath.'
The old man was somewhat put to it, for the old mare had not been exercised of late, and she had several additional gaits to try that day, and the road to the Widow's was none of the best.
'Is the teacher to home?'
'La me! what's to pay now, Uncle Sam? there ain't no turn up, I hope? But it's jist what I've been a fearin'; he's too good for 'em, I knew it, and I've told a good many on 'em so: he's jist an angel. Oh dear! if you've come to have him druv away, Uncle Sam, it will break my heart, and it will be the ruin of the place; and where will they ever git sich another?' And the old lady began to wring her hands, and to run upon her high notes at such a rate, that Uncle Sam began to be restless, and making a desperate effort to get some wind into his speaking apparatus, he let off at her in no very moderate terms.
'Do, woman, stop with your clatter; you'll frighten the mare, the next thing, and she has a'most killed me a'ready; there ain't no need o' your howling and caterwauling at that rate. Why, dear me! can't a body ax to see the teacher, but you must set up all that noise and squalling? I don't want to hurt a hair of his head; so jist put your hands down and git into the house, and I'll come in to rights.'
So telling Dick to stop yanking the beast, as it only made her worse, and to sit there and try to keep her quiet until he came out, he let himself down, and puffing and blowing, from his sudden and extra effort, he waddled through the little gate, and reaching the stoop, sat down on the low broad step.
'Do please come in, Uncle Sam, and take a chair.'
'You please tell me, first, if the teacher is to home.'
'Why, you see, Uncle Sam,' coming up and almost whispering in his ear, 'he ain't jist to home, but he'll be here in a minute; he's gone to take his evenin' walk down in the grove there. You see he goes out jist as reg'lar as can be, every livin' day, right after tea, straight down to the grove, and there he stays awhile, then back he comes agin; and Mary and I have been tryin' to make out what it is he's a doin' all alone by himself there. Mary says he's 'mantic like, as she calls it, but I don't believe it's no sich thing. Do, la, there he comes, now; jist see how still and quiet he walks along, that's the way he does every livin' day; so come in, Uncle Sam.'
Mr. Cutter, however, much preferred seeing the young man, alone, and chose to remain where he was. It was but a few minutes after the widow had retired, that Mr. Tracy entered the gate, and seeing Mr. Cutter, walked quickly up, gave him a cordial shake of the hand, which was as cordially returned, and rather more so than his fingers could have wished; and politely invited the old gentleman into his private room, as Mr. Cutter had intimated his desire to say a few words to him.
It took the old man some little time to recover himself after the operation of being ushered into a strange apartment, and getting himself fixed in a convenient seat. And after he had revived enough to begin to talk, a great many commonplace things had to be said before he could get at the subject of his errand. To that however, he was finally led by Mr. Tracy's remarking,
'That he began to be very much encouraged about his school, the boys were attentive to their studies, and to all the regulations of the school.'
'Yes, sir, I believe the boys is in a fair way now to learn decency and manners, and may be something else; but I've been a thinkin', sir, whether you couldn't do a little something or other for the rest on us here, who are too big and too old to go to school.'
Mr. Tracy was at a loss to imagine in what way his assistance could be required, but he ventured to reply,
'That any thing in his power, whereby he could be of service, consistent with his present duties, he would gladly do.'
'Glad to hear you say so, for seeing you've got the larnin', there ain't nothin' else in the way; and sure am I, if you knew half the need there was to have somethin' done, if it is ever so little, just by way of decency, if nothing more, you would be more willing than you say you are. You see, my young friend, the Evil one has got a hard grip on us, and nothin' but preachin' and prayin' will ever make him let go; and even that won't do some of us much good if we don't have it soon. You see I am an old man, it ain't long that I shall be hobbling about here. I can't put off the evil day, as you who are just beginnin'; there are a good many things that tell me that I am 'most to the bottom of the hill, so you must not wonder if I feel a little anxious to have things more in a righter shape than they are with me at present. And there are a good many in all, just about as far on the road as I am; and for folks to be livin' on the edge of the grave, and never hear a word about any thing good; oh, my dear sir! if there is any pity in you, you'll begin right off, and try to do somethin' for us.'
Henry Tracy was deeply affected by this address, for the old man spoke as if in earnest, and the tears that rolled freely told how much he felt.
'I cannot, perhaps, fully understand what you would have me to do, my dear sir. You know that I am not at all qualified to preach, and whom to direct you to I know not.'
'You can do all the preachin' that is needed, I ain't all afeared for that. All you have got to do is to give out in the school, that next Sabbath afternoon there will be a meetin' in the school-room, and all can come that's a mind to. There ain't no need of nothin' further, and God'll bless you for it.'
Mr. Tracy would have made very decided resistance, had he consulted his judgment alone; but his own feelings were too much in unison with the old man's; the want of public religious privileges he had begun to feel most deeply, on his own account, and for the multitude around him. He could not resist this appeal; with a humble yet resolute heart he replied,
'Well, Mr. Cutter, I will do as you say; and may God assist me, and grant His Spirit with us.'
'May the Lord bless your dear young heart!'
The old man could say no more, but with his heart overflowing with joy, he arose, pressed the hand of Mr. Tracy, and in silence hobbled out of the room and through the gate, and took his usual seat, waiting for his son to untie the beast and drive him home.
The tidings that their young teacher was to hold a meeting on the Sabbath day soon spread throughout the place; and when he proceeded to give public notice to his school, it was only a confirmation to the boys that the report was true.
It was a calm, lovely autumn day; and as Henry Tracy walked on his way by the path which he had chosen for his daily route to the school-house, his feelings were lulled into delicious repose; the rustling of the leaves, the stillness that reigned in field and wood, the waning tints of nature, the modest tones of the school-bell, calling all within its reach to the place of meeting; the little groups which could be seen in different roads, bending their steps thither; it seemed more like the Sabbath day than any he had spent here yet.
He had done what he could to prepare himself, and he had a strong consciousness of being in the path of duty; and he felt a composure in view of the undertaking which he could not have anticipated. A few persons were collected round the door; they immediately followed him as he entered: to his surprise a large congregation was waiting his appearance.
As he took his seat on a little platform that had been prepared for the occasion, and cast his eye over the assembly, like a flash of light his usually pale features were crimsoned with a deep blush, and then away it flew, and a deadly paleness that alarmed every beholder came in its place. A sympathy was excited in every bosom; his youth, his modesty, his grace of manner, his unostentatious effort to do them good, like a talisman spread its charm over all alike, and prepared them to receive whatever he should say, with the deepest attention. Henry was obliged to arouse himself, in order to overcome the oppressive weight that was becoming heavier every moment; he therefore proceeded at once to the business before him. He gave out a hymn, which he read with much propriety, and then inquired if there was any one present who could lead in singing; but as no one seemed ready to undertake, he commenced a familiar tune. An electric shock could not have surprised them more, than the melodious notes which rolled forth upon their delighted ears. Henry Tracey was gifted—for a gift surely it was, as no power of accomplishment could ever have imparted it—with one of those rich voices which might have entranced the multitude on a public stage, but its melodious tone had only rung beneath a parent's roof, and its sweetest, most touching notes, had only been drawn forth in praise. Quickened by the music, soon every voice that could follow joined fully in; but above them all, louder and sweeter as the hymn went on, floated those rich strains which Henry poured forth, as from a heart burning with intense devotion. Enraptured, solemnized, softened, the whole assembly, both speaker and hearer, were happily prepared for the remaining services.
The prayer which followed was short and well ordered. He addressed the Being before whom angels veil their faces, with that humility of expression, with that pouring out of the heart in natural tones for a sinner's necessities, which plainly showed he was making a petition for wants which God alone could supply, and not framing forms of sentences to interest or please man.
The passage of Scripture which he had selected was the story of the Prodigal Son, a portion of that blessed volume peculiarly precious to himself; and one with which he had become most familiar, and into the touching scenes it delineated, he had entered with his whole heart.
In a very simple manner, he first explained the meaning of a parable, and the reason why our Saviour chose this method of instruction. Being well versed in ancient manners and customs, and the scenery of the eastern world, he delineated and filled up what was necessary to convey to the minds of uninformed persons, a perfect idea of the whole story. Every eye was riveted upon him, and his energies were strengthened, as he went along, by the deep interest which he saw was awakened among his hearers.
When he had gone through with the story, and brought the prodigal back to his father's arms, he then proceeded to show how clearly it illustrated the sinner's erring path away from God, the fascinations which drew him on, and the misery to which they lead. Here and there a tear would be seen to start, and occasionally a head would droop: it was evident that there were many before him whose real character he had touched. At length he reached the turning point, the resolve of the sinner in his extremity, that he will arise and return to his God. The heart of the speaker filled with deep emotion; his voice trembled, his language became more glowing, his words flowed rapidly; he forgot himself, and free from all embarrassment, poured out the full feelings of his soul. His excited audience sat wrapped in solemnity, and yielded up their hearts to the enchanting theme: like fire in the stubble, the flame flew from heart to heart; tears flowed freely, and when he ceased, there was stillness like the house of mourning, interrupted only by the stifled sob.