Chapter IV: How the Overlook Papers Came to Be Written (4)

As he sat before his table covered with his papers, witnesses of his gains, there was a sound of approaching feet. Then men entered and bore along with them a mummy,--the dead form in its manifold wrappings, as the mourners had left it in the days when Abraham dwelt in the land of promise.

They placed the form on which it was borne in the centre of the room, and then with grave deliberation proceeded to unroll its many integuments.

In a short time they had spread out all the folds of the cloth, and there lay the form which it was difficult to imagine had once been a living man--a being of thoughts, emotions, hope, with ties to life, such as are ours at the present day.

Our hero looked upon the extended covering of the dead. One of those men, of a far distant clime and age, who had belonged to the silent procession that thus presented the mortal remains to the eye, drew from the folds of his dress a stone of exquisite beauty.

He held it before the cloth, and rays of an unearthly light fell upon it, emitted from that precious gem. In a moment, that which had been so dark, became a piece of exquisite tapestry. On it were a series of representations, an endless variety of hieroglyphics.

As the rich merchant gazed on these, he read a history of a life, that strangely condemned his own.

And then the Egyptian Priest came forth from the midst of his associates.

He held in his hand an immense concave mirror in a frame of gold. Taking his position between the window and the dead form, he first gazed upon the sky. A cloud had obscured the sun.

As soon as it had been swept away, and the noon-day beams streamed forth, he held up the mirror, and concentrating the rays of light, threw all the blinding radiance on the dead form.

In a little while it began, under the power of that wonderful glory, to assume the appearance of a living man. Breath came. It moved. It rose. The one thus revived from the power of death gazed on the cloth, and traced out for himself a plan of a beneficent life. He was to live to do good. Tears were to be dried, the hungry to be fed, the heart was to have its perpetual glow of good will, to speak words of blessing, and of peace, of hope to all.

As our rich man gazed on all this scene,--mysterious hands seemed to be unwinding countless wrappings from the soul within, dead to the Creator, dead to the love of man.

A light was poured upon him. A new life was given him. He was preparing to unlock his treasures, to share his possessions with the poor. The home of sorrow became a place of attraction. He was to seek all means of lessening the sin and misery of the human family.

Thus far had his discipline proceeded. The dreams had given activity to the mind. They had bent the spirit of the man in glad submission to a yoke of obedience; and in this submission to all that was pure, he found how the great service was perfect freedom. Holy truths, which had never been great realities, but certainties that were among his deepest convictions, many of them like seeds still capable of life, but floating on the sea in masses of ice, perhaps to be dropped on some island forming in the deep, and there to germinate, now began to be living truth, and to struggle with the soul that it might live. He bowed before the august presence,--now that the great veil that had concealed the kingly visitants was torn away. Now they were not like the magnetic power, affecting dubiously, and without a steady control, the needle of the seaman as he drew near to the coast. They had become the all-pervading power in the needle itself, affecting each particle, and turning all in attraction towards the one star, that is before every bark freighted with the precious trusts, which he now felt to be so grand a responsibility. Are not these sealed with a seal that no enemy can cause to be forged or broken?

A slight change in his dream, and the temptations began to reappear, crowding as the gay tares wind among the eddying wheat heads, and are tossed by the wind and arrest the eye. There was a sense of slight fear and doubt.

Then was he borne onward, and placed on the green sward beneath great overhanging rocks. Their awful majesty was tempered by the endless vines, laden with fruits and flowers that crept along their sides, and waved, as crowns upon their summits.

A lake spread its waters before him. As he looked far off upon its unruffled surface, he saw clouds, now dark, now radiant, floating rapidly in the sky. The wind that impelled them came in great gushes of its power, as their changing shapes, and rapid motion gave full evidence. And when the winds thus swept on, they gave not the slightest ripple to the great blue expanse of the waters. Yet they were no dead sea, but pure and living, from streams on innumerable fertile hill-sides, whose threads of fountain-issues glittered in the sun.

And the great shadows that fell from these floating masses in the air, did not reach to the surface of the lake. They wasted themselves between the clouds and the atmosphere of tranquil light, that rested on the placid, sky-like depths of the blue expanse.

Even at his very feet, these waters seemed in depth ocean-like. His eye was never weary as he gazed into their abyss, and the sight never appeared to have looked down into them, and to have found the limit of its power to penetrate their immeasurable profundity.

Great peace again took possession of his mind! Then he felt the mysterious hand upon him, and he was lifted up from the borders of this lake, for other scenes. He could not but feel regret. He was however convinced, that any new prospect opened before him, would be one that he might earnestly desire to look upon.

The motion of the wings of the angel, as he transported him through the air, was as silent as the calm of the great lake.

They entered into a cave, so vast, that its roofs and sides were at such distance from them, that no object could be distinguished in the evening twilight. But soon he saw before him a high archway, lofty as the summit of the highest mountain, by which they were to emerge into the light. They passed it, and found that it opened into a deep valley.

A plain was here the prospect, and near to him the side of a precipitous hill. It had great sepulchral inscriptions on the surface of the rocks. There was a slight earthquake. Its power caused the sides of the hill to tremble, and revealed the bones of men buried in the sands and crevices.

He proceeded--and soon he saw grave-stones on the plain. Drawing near, he attempted to read the names inscribed upon them. Soon he discovered that they recorded those of his wife and children. Foes, as he imagined, as his eyes rested on objects around, moving to and fro, lurked in the shadows.

And now his sorrow assumed a form, different from all the former remorse of his dream. A vague idea that all was a dream came to his relief. Tears fell, bitter regret for the past continued, but he had a joyous and undefined conviction, that his family were not beyond the reach of his awakened love.

A gentle hand was then laid upon his eyelids. It pointed to the mountain near--on whose summit an eternal light rested. Such light, he thought, must have been seen on the mount of the transfiguration.

He discovered that he had the power to look into the depths of the great mountain. As his eye penetrated those great hidden ways, he found that all was revealed there, as if the earth and rocks were only air more dense than that which he breathed.

His attention was soon arrested by a rock in the centre of the mountain. It became the sole object to which he could direct the eye.

There imbedded were evil forms, on which he looked to feel new sorrow, and to torture himself with self-upbraiding.

These forms were his work. It was evident that they should have been created in exquisite beauty. The material of which they had been made,--so precious--was a witness that this could have been accomplished. The marks of the chisel were a proof that there had been capacity--skill--which could readily have been exercised in creating that which was beautiful, and which had been perverted and abused in the production of the shapes by which he was repelled. And it was also evident, that they had been fashioned in a light, which would have enabled him to judge truly of every new progress of his toil, and under a sky where true inspirations would be fostered. My work! my work! he said--but he added, there is hope for the future.

As his new-found tenderness subdued him, the power that transported him from scene to scene, bore him away.

Soon he found himself standing before another mountain, which was in the process of formation.

It was made of the clearest crystal, and the light was in all its height and breadth. Angels were there, and waiting with a placid but unutterable happiness for labors that were to occupy them.

He could not rest. He must put forth into action the aims, the aspirations to fashion forms of immortal glory. As he moved, in his great ambition from his place, he saw that his dwelling was near at hand--close beneath this great mound of crystal, and that its light was reflected upon it.

He entered the house. His gentleness was the happiness of all. He was now the unselfish and loving husband and parent. He marvelled that so many little acts of love could be done day by day. He marvelled to see how little acts of love made up such a vast sum of happiness, and what moulding influences, whose value could not be estimated, were united with his deeds.

He found that forms were ever taken by the angels and borne away. They reverently bore them--reverencing the beauty, and above all reverencing them as the work of One who had given him aid to think of their creation, and to embody them according to the pure conception. They carried them first to a fountain of waters that flowed from a smitten rock. A crown of thorns, and nails, and a spear, were sculptured there. Washed in this stream every particle was cleansed. Afterwards they held up the form in the most clear light, brighter than the light of any sun, and the beauty became far more perfect.

The angelic laborers then carried each to the mountain of crystal. There it was imbedded,--but in a radiance which was to shine forever, and forever.

And then to his great joy, he found that vast numbers of men came to a summit of an adjoining hill; caring not for the ascent by a narrow and arduous way. They looked into the mountain, and were entranced by the forms that they beheld. He had no thought that they would turn to him in admiration. All that he exulted in, was, that he loved them, and that they turned away to labor to make like forms, for the angelic hands,--for the waters of the cleansing fountain,--for the inexpressible light that purified,--for the place in the mountain, where they should shine eternally.

Just at this moment, a bird perched on the vines around the cell. It poured forth a rich melody of song close to the ear of the sleeper. It awoke him gently from the profound sleep. The first sound which he heard was that of the sweet bell of his village church. Its gushes of sound rolled along the valley, and up the side of the great hills.

He felt that the impressions of his dream were durable. So deeply was he affected, that he scarcely thought of the visions in which the truth had been represented. He descended his path another man. Another man he entered his home. The house was a changed house that day. No one more subdued in spirit than himself, knelt in the church. No one with more determined purpose, heard that day, of the One who "pleased not himself."

IX.

_WILD FLOWERS GATHERED FOR MY WIFE._

Though these sweet flowers are in their freshest bloom,
They had a beauty as I gathered them
Which thine eye sees not. For with every one
New lustre in the varied colors shone,
A purer white melted beneath the eye,
A sweeter fragrance came from dew-gemmed leaves,
Advanced in beauty as I thought of thee.

Thou seest that they grew wild in wood and fields
Teachers of love and wisdom. Some I found
In deep pine shades, where the sun's straggling beams
Through bending boughs may reach them.

Holier rays
Through deeper shades can reach the broken heart,
Through deeper shades can foster heavenly growth
Of beauty for the everlasting fields;
Through more dense shades can reach the good unknown
To human fame, yet left to bless the world.

These flowers and leaves that ripen unobserved
But for our eyes, had withered with the frost,
And none had blessed God for their loveliness.
They give their little power unto the wind
To purify for men the air they breathe,--
Air wafted far by every rising breeze.
And so a myriad of the little deeds,
Done by the men that walk in Christ's blest steps,
Add health unto the living atmosphere
Where men breathe for the strength of highest life.
Deeds go out on a sea of human life,
And touch a myriad of the rolling waves,
Send the great sea a portion of unrest,
Which saves its surface from the mould of death.

These flowers are memories that I had of thee
During my wandering to the distant home,
Where sickness was, and many an anxious care,
Where there was need that Christ's work should be done.

Oh! if these paths we tread with our soiled feet,
On this world far from scenes where all is pure,
Our feet not yet in laver cleansed from soil,
In wave by angel stirred and all so bright,
Where gleams are on the waves from his own sun,
Are skirted with these fragrant beauteous forms,
What shall surround our path in Paradise?

Flowers have a language; so they choose to say.
Each speaks a word of pure significance.
Thus in the fields of nature we can print,
Where flowers shall be the type, a beauteous book--
With joyful eye can read the beauteous book.

With all my love of flowers, here is a lore
Which is to me unknown. I have to turn
Over the pages of that pictured book
To spell each letter as a little child.
But this I know, that none can e'er mean ill.
Flowers are too pure, as angels sowed their seed
On earth in pity for a burdened race.
And where their smiles have rested there came forth
These witnesses that men are not alone.

And also this is lore from nature's school--
That speak they as they may--whate'er they mean
Of faith to be unshaken through our life,
Of love that never wanes, true as the star,
They cannot speak of faith or tender love,
Which I--flower-bearer--do not speak to thee
In this my offering of far-gathered spoils.

X.

_RIVERSDALE._

It was my good fortune to dwell for some years on the banks of the Delaware, with a sturdy old yeoman, who was quite a character in his day. Manly, honest, hospitable, of a dignified bearing as of one who respected himself, and who had no false pride, it was a treasure to have known him.

His nature had been moulded, as far as earthly influences gave their impress by a life spent chiefly on a farm, in days that are called "primitive;" that being one of the words which hold in unfixed solution, some true but very vague impressions. A few years which he spent in the naval service of his country, had no doubt added some lines to the mould that shaped him as he was.

I have said that his characteristics were very prominent. Therein he differed from the mass of the country people. They are like a knoll, where you see at once all the outlines. You must look attentively, to discover more than the eye has taken in at its first glance. He was like one of our rugged hills, having bold varieties of shape, records of time and of great convulsions, of the violence of storms, of changes wrought by other and varied influences.

He had thriven in the world far beyond all his expectations. His life had been one of untiring industry, decision, and ingenious energy. At the time of his marriage, almost every penny was exhausted by the humble fee. As days rolled on, the Creator added to his store, and he purchased the farm on which his father had resided. By a manly appeal to the sense of justice, he prevented a rich neighbor from competing with him at the sale of these broad acres.

In after days he also became the possessor of the farm, called Riversdale. There he spent his last years of life. He lived there in the affluence of a rich farmer. It was strange to see him and his faithful wife so utterly unchanged by prosperity, and by the alterations in the habits of society.

At Riversdale he had a spacious dwelling. There was here a degree of elegance within and without. It had been the country residence of a rich merchant. His furniture was plain, but abundant, and all for use.

Among the curiosities of our house was the old clock, on whose face the sun and moon differed from their prototypes in the heavens, inasmuch as they had a far more distinct representation of the ruddy human countenance, and as they did not rise or set,--for their mechanism had become distracted.

And then there was the famous old gun,--taken from a Hessian at the battle of Princeton, and which had done great service in the deer hunts in the Pocano Mountains, and amid the pines of New Jersey.

Those deer-hunts were great circumstances in the course of the year. He used to narrate with great pleasure, the events that occurred at such excursions in the forests.

Once as he told me, he was alone in the woods with a guide. The darkness was coming apace. He had wounded a deer. The cry of the dogs indicated that they were close upon it. It became evident that the man wished to lead the hunters out of the way; and to disappear in the darkness, that he might appropriate the prey to himself. But all his mean plans were soon baffled. "If you," said the old yeoman, "can run faster than the buck-shot in my gun, slip away in the dark." Never guide, I venture to say, adhered more closely to his party.

His education, like that of so many of the old Pennsylvania farmers, had been very limited. His sympathies were not broad; though a small degree of sentiment pervaded a vein of tenderness which wound its way through the rugged nature of his soul. Sometimes it appeared so attenuated, that few influences seemed to be willing to work for the precious ore.

I remember that we were once walking along the avenue which led to the house, and I quoted to him a line of poetry which he did heartily appreciate. The scene around had little power to prepare his mind for the impression. Two huge old cherry trees were near us. These were gradually withering away; as if to remind him, as he continually passed them, that the days of his full strength were gone, and that infirmities of old age were creeping upon him.

Had I perused all our volumes of poetry, I could not have selected a sentence, which he could relish more than the one which I repeated. It was the well-known line of Cowper, that God made the country, but man made the town.

It was really curious to observe how this arrested all his mind. It seemed as if his soul was deeply impressed with a sense of the goodness of God, in giving man this beautiful green world, on which he does not labor in vain. He appeared also to have respect for the poet who could utter such a truth. Had all the tribe of bards risen from their graves, been capable of participating in our earthly food, and come to us that day, Cowper would have been treated to Benjamin's portion.

His histories proved to me how his nature was the same in early life, and in age, as to fearlessness, and to a rough opposition to those by whom he was excited.

Once his step-mother, during the strife of the revolution, and while his father was absent from home in the service of his country, sent him with a claim to a British officer. He was to demand payment for some produce which the soldiers of the king had taken from the farm.

He found him seated at a table, at a place not far from Bustleton, and presenting himself made known the object of his visit.

"Where is your father?" said the officer.

The boy was shrewd enough to know that discretion was now the better part of valor. But mingled emotions overcame his wisdom. The British soldiers around him were the oppressors of his country.

Regardless of the wrath which he would assuredly awaken, and scattering, manifestly, all hope of success in his mission to the wind, he saucily replied, "Why, he is at the camp with General Washington; where he ought to be." Perhaps he also regarded this as a defence of his father. A grasp at a sword, an angry oath,--an assurance that he was a vile little rebel, and must quickly vanish, were the evidences that he had given his receipt in full for all that had been taken as spoils from the farm.

I have said that he was a man of the most sterling honesty. His extreme care to ascertain that all his accounts were correct, was actually a trouble to the vestry of the church, while he was treasurer of the body. He was above the least meanness in all his dealings with men. As he was rather too suspicious of others, sometimes imagining that they had some evil design, where they had none, it was the more remarkable that he had no cunning in his own heart, was open in all his aims, and free from those arts which entangle weak consciences.

He had manners which were a study. Few men are not, in some degree affected by their dress. He was the same man in self-respect and courtesy, whether you met him in his soiled working-clothes, or in his best array. Summoned suddenly from the work in the field, or from the barn, with chaff and dust upon him, his calm courtesy in receiving any guest, whatever his station in life, the utter absence of all apology for his appearance, his entire devotion to the attentions due to his visitors, elicited your decided admiration. Not in his conduct, to his guests, but in some slight expression, when we were alone, could any of us detect that he felt any peculiar pleasure, when any of our most aristocratic inhabitants had called to see him and his household, manifesting their respect. I have never seen him more devoted and kind to any visitor, than to a poor friend,--one who had lagged far behind him, in the ascent of the hill of fortune.

It could not be expected that his wild portion of the country would be exempted from those rude scenes of violence, where men take the laws into their own hands. Nor can it be surprising, that with his physical strength, boldness, and wild life at sea and on land, he should sometimes be prominent in these wars on a little scale.

I remember how I heard one of his narratives with mingled interest and sorrow, when he told of a victory fought and won.

It was a contest with a party of butchers, who had come from a distance and taken possession of the tavern, maltreating some of the country people, who had, to say the least, a better right to the injurious comforts of the inn.

He was summoned from his sleep, and became the leader of the avenging party. When they reached the scene of noisy revelry, he proved that he did not rely on physical strength alone, but summoned a "moral effect" to his aid. A pretended roll was to be called. Many names of persons not present, perhaps not in existence, were, by his order, pronounced; and their "Here," was heard clearly uttered in the night air. The effect of this act of generalship soon became apparent. Silence, indicative of dismay reigned in the place of the former noisy laughter. The rough fellows were sorely thrashed, and taught that there was a high law which the quiet dwellers in the field could put in force.

In after days my old friend would have deprecated the recurrence of such scenes. There is always a tendency to law and order, and to gentle virtues where a man has a great fondness for children--and this love for little ones he possessed in a great degree.

It would have been a good scene for a painter, when they gathered round the white-haired man and elicited his attention and his smile. The large form sinking into its most quiet repose, as if there was no need that it should be braced now as if prepared for any struggle of life, and the rough features softened to gentle sympathy, would have been worthy of lasting perpetuation on the canvass. I have no doubt that the passage of Scripture recording the benediction of the children by our Lord, touched his heart powerfully, and allured him the more to the One who bore our nature in the perfection of every excellence.

If an able painter, I would strive to represent our Redeemer, as I could fancy that He appeared in the scene to which I have referred. Who can attempt to satisfy even the least imaginative disciple, by any picture of the countenance of our Lord? How difficult even to unite the infinite tenderness with the determination of the perfect man, whom nothing could move from his true purpose, because holiness was the necessity of a heart without sin? One shrinks, in some degree, from a multitude of representations of Him, as if they, failing to meet the inspiration of the soul, were not reverent. Might we not more easily conceive of his blended love and dignity, if he was painted among those who could not trouble him, whom He would not have sent away, whom he took in his arms, and on whom he caused to rest a blessing, that ever waits now to descend on the children of those who diligently seek him.

Some of the quaint narratives of the old man have proved, as I have repeated them, a source of much amusement to the young.

For instance, he said that he was returning from a journey of some miles into the interior of the country. He had taken his heavy wagon, and aided a neighbor who was removing his goods to a new home.

The night had overtaken him as he returned. Just as he crossed a small stream, he heard a voice of one in great distress, calling for aid. "Oh! come here,--come here,"--were the piteous cries from an adjoining field.

Stopping his horses, and clambering a bank, he soon secured a "reconnoissance" of a field of strife.

By the dim light of the moon, he saw a scene sufficiently ludicrous, but demanding immediate activity. He had not come a moment too soon. A small man, a shoemaker, the one who cried for aid, and sadly in need of it had, it seems, been crossing a field, when an ugly-tempered bull rushed upon him, and would have gored him to death but for his presence of mind and dexterity. The poor fellow had skill enough to dodge the assault; and as the animal, missing his aim, rushed by him, he caught it by the tail. The vicious brute made every effort to reach his disagreeable parasite. In doing this he ran around in endless circles, very wearying to the little legs of the little man, and exhausting his strength.

As my old friend had come and seen, what had he to do but conquer? He hastened to the side of the living whirligig. The shoemaker was wearing out his shoe-soles more rapidly than any of his customers.

Seizing also the tail of the bull, he informed the exhausted man that he might now let go.

The animal continued the same tactics, but his foe-man was armed with his heavy whip, and this was wielded by a powerful right hand. A few blows, and the victory was won. The hero was left alone in his glory; for the rescued had vanished as soon as he could release his hold on the tail, and he did not return to see the result of the strife. Let us hope that he was grateful, although I doubt the gratitude of one who could thus run away, and leave all the battle to his deliverer. A benefactor in things small and great, who has a noble mind, though wounded by insensibility to his kindness, may receive benefit from the unthankful; for he may learn more deeply the example of the Lord, and he may free his heart the more to do good, and look for no return--learn to do good to the unthankful and the evil.

I have represented the farmer at Riversdale as openness and honesty itself in all his dealings. Men will be men. In country life, as in the city you will find a sad abundance of mean and tricky persons.

It is not a little curious to see our city friends come into the country, and take for granted that the sojourners there are all simple-minded and honest men. That is a weakness which is soon dissipated. The wisdom is purchased with the loss of gold and silver. They find that they are charged by many, probably the obtrusive ones, the most extravagant prices for all things. The more free they are with their money, the more they are required to pay. The value fixed on the substance offered for sale, is all that can possibly be extorted from any one who is imprudent enough to buy, and make no inquiries. There comes a danger of reaction. They change the theory concerning men of the field, which they have learned from poets and novelists, and are tempted to imagine that they all are like these thieves. I thank God, that I know well to the contrary.

Some men of large means imagine that if they are very free in spending their money, and allow those whom they employ, to take advantage of them, to extort unfair prices, that they will thereby cultivate good feeling, a grateful regard. This is an entire mistake. The man who cheats you never will be grateful. He comes to you, in all his relations to you, with meanness of soul. That is no soil for good will. He also fears, that at any time, you may be conscious of the fraud. He expects therefore an hour when you will be angry, and despise him. He judges of your coming enmity, by his own lasting bitterness and revengeful mind, toward any one who has overreached him. He has also some contempt for you, because you have been less cunning than himself.

Pay fair generous prices. When a man gains from you more than the fair price, let it be a gift. Do not expect anything from the man, who does in two days the labor that should be accomplished in one. Alas, as we reflect on the want of truth and gratitude towards us, we have to remember that we can apply these lessons to ourselves, as we labor in the vineyard where we have been sent to toil!

I have spoken of the hospitality of the house at Riversdale. This never could have been exercised as it was, but for the admirable arrangements of the good wife and excellent daughters. I look back, and marvel how all could be done in that house and farm, and yet time be found for the entertainment of so many guests.

I am deeply grieved to look back to those bachelor days, and find that I had a senseless conviction, that a house pretty much took care of itself. It was a delusion which must often have caused me to be troublesome, when I had not any idea that I was in the way. I now honor the statemanship which adorns domestic affairs, and hope I no longer am found at any time, a wheel out of place in the machinery of any house. Never too late to mend. A good proverb, friends. But as we apply its hopefulness, let us take care to remember that when the present time shall have become the past, and we have done wrong in things small and great, it is too late to mend the sin and error. We cannot mend the evil of the past.

I see the good old mother of the household now. Always neat in her dress,--erect in form,--kind,--thoughtful, self-possessed. You could not know her long, and not perceive that she was a pre-eminent representative of the wife and parent. Her love for others had its true source, the love of God. Thence it flowed gently a stream of tenderness for her family, and then spread freely far and wide to all others. Her religion was of a very grand character. She knew, in all the trials of life, what it was to have her Creator for her Rock,--to have His rod and His staff. Real to her indeed, the divine love which brought our Redeemer to our form from Heaven, and caused Him to expiate our sins on the cross.

Once we were speaking hopelessly, of some reprobate. The opinion was advanced, or implied, that he was never to be reformed. I never forgot the sorrow she manifested, and her heart-felt but gentle reproof, while she corrected us in the abiding spirit of the hope in Christ for any one who yet lives. While the lamp holds out to burn, she asked, could not he return?

She was one of the most unpretending Christians, and therefore her deep piety could not be concealed. When she was unconscious of the revelation, she taught us in a living subject of the Lord, the power that can be given for holiness in this scene, where all gold can be well tried in the fire.

She was ever busy. In hours of ease she had her knitting-needle. How pleasant it was to see her at her work, in the warm days of summer, as she sat in her high-backed chair on the piazza which overlooked the River. With the steamboats, then beginning their course, she was never satisfied. "The boats with sails," she said, "glided away so natural like: but with the steamboats it was all forced work." No doubt she often regarded these different vessels, as emblematic of those who moved under gentle and approved agencies, and those who were out of harmony with nature around us,--the working of the hands that are infinite in power,--those who cared only for hire, and needed, in order to their activity, some of those goads which happily abound for the idle.

The aged woman came to us what she was, to remind us what endless influences are ever ready to mould us to increasing piety, and love for others. To the sick and sorrowing out of her household she had been an angel of charity. Her life had been a golden cord. He had strung it for her with jewels from the mine. Is that mine exhausted? The glories we know lie near at hand for all that will gather them.

Well can I realize after the lapse of years, the sorrow of the aged wife when it was manifest that my old friend must soon close his eyes on the world for ever. There he lay, his strong form promising hope, which the decision of the physician denied. Could he be dying, who was bound to the scene around him by so many ties? As he had gained these fields by such a life of labor, and held them so firmly in his grasp, as every tree seemed so surely his, as you felt the impress of his firm and undisputed will in all the arrangements of his broad farm, you might ask can all these bonds which bind him here be sundered? But God sunders all, as he will, in a moment.

And now he was on the verge of the world to come. In infancy his life had hung by the most attenuated thread. Was it better for him that he was to die an old man, one who had passed through life's trials, had received such endless mercies, had so many calls to so many duties? Or would it have been better for him that he had died in infancy, passing to the ineffable joy, but to less glory and honor than those who have borne the cross, endured in true manly toil, the burden and heat of the day in the vineyard of the Master?

It was in a quiet house, quiet as one so soon to be forsaken of its owner, that we assembled to receive with him the precious emblems of the great sacrifice made for us, in infinite love. If he received consolation, it was indeed given also to the aged wife. Her quiet sorrow, without a tear, was reverent, and full of submission. Its evenness,--not rising or falling with every hope or fear,--was a seal of its great depth. You read in her fixed countenance that she had the past with all its memories, and the future with all its solitude clearly before her. She was henceforth to be as the shattered vase, just waiting some small trial of its strength, to fall to pieces. But the lamp within was to burn on, and fed with ever increasing supplies of aliment for its flame, to glow with increasing radiance. Such lights in the temple of God never go out.

My aged friends! your ashes lie where you hoped that your mortal remains would find their resting-place. Years have passed, and yet I recall you to remembrance more affectionately, than when I stood by your opened grave. One cause of this, is, I presume, that the more I become acquainted with men, the more I learn to value those who have risen in their integrity, above the low level of ordinary character.

Changed is your dwelling. A vast and costly pile occupies the place where once it stood. But could you, the former inhabitants, of that which has undergone such alteration, reappear among us, we should recognize what is eternal in its nature. What is of earth, alters and passes away. But love, and truth, and faith, all the nobleness given by the Redeemer,--these endure. These are extended and glorified in the world to come.

XI.

_DR. SAMUEL STANHOPE SMITH AND THE HAUNTED HOUSE._

When I was at Princeton College, Dr. Samuel Stanhope Smith was its president. A learned and able man, and an eloquent preacher, blameless in his life, his influence was great, not only over his college, but far and wide over the surrounding country.

I trust that it is one of the merits of our Republic, that truly great and good men will always have this influence and respect. Surely we have cast off those impediments to human progress which exist in other lands, where tributes due to real merit are paid to men for their accumulation of riches. Our offices in the states will almost always be bestowed on the deserving. The tricks of the politician will be generally unknown, because our people will hold them in abhorrence. In the old countries legislative bodies have felt the force of bribes. But I will boldly turn prophet here, and say, that no such practices will ever be known in such deliberative bodies in New Jersey. I can imagine the shame which the pure-minded people of this common-wealth must be ready to visit on one proven guilty of such a detestable enormity. Indeed he would incur the risk of being burnt alive at the stake.

The influence which Dr. Smith attained by the purest means, he exercised for the public good. His mind was of a philosophic cast, and he abhorred all superstition. Hence he was always eager to dispel the errors of the ignorant, and to remove the fears excited by diseased imaginations.

One day I was plodding over a page of Sophocles. No doubt it contained beauties whose discovery would repay toil. I was, however, unable to say, as I pondered it, lexicon by my side, with the Frenchman, "hang these ancients, they are always anticipating our bright thoughts," for I was not yet able to compare the idea of the Greek with the scintillations of genius which had flashed through my mind, and which were laid up for the future edification of the world, because I could not determine what the old dramatist had intended to say to us.

While I was in this state of most unpleasant perplexity, there was a knock at my door. I knew it at once to be that of our tutor. He informed me that the great doctor wished to see me and the rest of my class at his study.

We were thus invited,--that is, we had as strict a summons as any soldiers could receive from their commander,--to appear at his residence, the famous house under whose roof so many illustrious men have found shelter. Long may it stand!

It could not take much time to collect the designated young gentlemen together. Before we met, each individual brain was greatly exercised with speculations, concerning the cause of our being thus summoned to the study of our venerable head. When we were a collective body the various streams of conjecture being thrown in a torrent together, the effervescence exceeded all my powers of description.

It was a trying hour when any one of us had to come face to face with Dr. Smith.

We were not aware that any evil deed had been committed of late in the college. We all felt a bold conviction of individual innocence. Indeed, all college fellows are innocent always, until they are proved to be guilty.

One poor fellow, whose shaggy head could never be reduced to smooth order by comb or brush, more than the tossing waves are subdued to a placid mirror by the shadows of passing clouds, with a nose that always reminded you of a sun-dial, and an eye, which sometimes gave him the nickname of Planet, from its ceaseless twinkling,--had indeed some troubles of conscience concerning a duck which had been killed, cooked, and eaten in his room a few nights before, after he had taken a long rural ramble in the evening. He had some reasonable fear that he could not produce the bill of its sale for the scrutiny of the President, should it be demanded. Still, on the whole, we were calm. All felt the necessity of a general sunshine of countenances. It was our wisdom to look as if we expected some compliment from the head of the college. Indeed, one fellow, who had a manly, harmless wildness in him, whom all loved and confided in, who was a good and kind adviser of us all,--whose intense life was a good element for the formation of the noble minister which he afterwards became,--was audibly preparing a reply to the doubtfully anticipated commendation of the President. It contained the most ludicrous assertion of our great modesty, and sense of unworthiness,--in which he said, we all most cordially concurred,--while in the presence in which we stood. Curiosity was in every mind. No one had the slightest clue, which appeared to guide us satisfactorily one step in the darkness.

But we reached the door of the study. One of the most respectful knocks ever given proclaimed our presence,--or rather inquired if we could be admitted. The fine, manly voice which we so well knew, called on us to enter. We were received with that courteous dignity which characterized the doctor. All scanned the noble head, and no thunder-clouds were there. It is something to have seen Dr. Smith in the pulpit, in the class-room, or in the study. He was somewhat taller than men in general, and had a frame of fine proportions. His countenance easily kindled with intelligence. A large blue eye seemed to search your secret thoughts--and yet in all manliness of inquiry--promising cordial sympathy with all that was elevated, and a just indignation at the contemplation of any moral evil. His brow was spacious. His whole face spoke of hard study--polish of mind--of patient thought--of one who walked among men as a king. His voice was full and harmonious. His address was dignified and urbane. The stranger must trust him, and his friends confided in him, not to discover that he ever could forsake them.

Before he spoke we were at our ease. Our surprise took a new channel as he entered on the business of the hour.

"Gentlemen," said he, "I have sent for you, that I might have your co-operation in a plan, which may greatly benefit a worthy farmer, and remove superstitious fears from some ignorant minds.

"Mr. Hollman, who has a farm about two miles from the college, cannot persuade any of the laboring families to reside in a lonely stone house on his property. It is a dwelling that should be a comfortable, happy home. The situation is rather picturesque; standing, as it does, near the shade of a thick wood, and on the bank of a small stream which empties into our classical run. The people say that the house is haunted. Family after family has forsaken it in dread. I have not had patience to listen to the various narratives told concerning it. One man who is quite intelligent, and evidently honest, declares that he will take his oath that he has heard terrible noises at midnight, and has smelt strange fumes.

"Now this short story must be put an end to. Such superstition must not exist under the shadow of an institution celebrated for its learning. I should regard it as a blot on our fair reputation.

"I have been engaged in devising a plan for the refutation of this folly. It is this. I propose that you, gentlemen of the senior class, shall spend a night in the house. This will soon be known over the neighborhood. There has been much expenditure of words, over the silly narratives of people alarmed at less than their own shadows. All who have talked of the ghost, will talk of your act as having cast shame on those who pretend to see supernatural sights. You will soon have the pleasure of finding that the deserted house has become the home of some worthy family. You will do much to put an end to the belief in ghosts--for the history of your act will be narrated far and wide. Mr. Hollman will be a debtor to you for securing him from loss, and from great inconvenience. You have no fear of ghosts. In all probability you will hear no sounds to disturb you, or call for investigation. If you hear any peculiar noise, you will be assured that it is caused by some designing person,--who avails himself of the credulity of the ignorant to gain his corrupt or foolish purpose. I leave this matter in your hands. I am confident that the trust that I repose in you will be attended with the result that I desire."

We, one and all, became the personification of delight. The president was informed that it was a most agreeable adventure which he thus proposed. One fellow, who was awfully alarmed, and who had late at night told stories of ghosts who appeared in Virginia, until some of his companions were afraid to separate, was the loudest in expressing his readiness to go with the rest. He became pale with fright, when one of his class-mates suggested that it would have more effect if one stayed all night in the house alone, and that he should be selected for that solitude.

It was agreed that we should say nothing about our plan in the college. Hence, on our return from the doctor's study, our mysterious conduct, and sundry vague hints caused some eyes to be opened so wide, that one might question how they would ever close again. In vain every attempt to discover what had happened in the study of the great divine and philosopher.

Late in the afternoon a deputation from our class waited on Mr. Hollman. I had the honor to be appointed on this committee. The estimable man, a well-educated farmer, and having that simple address which enables a benevolent heart to declare itself through its courtesy, expressed great pleasure on hearing of our proposition, and uttered his thanks to us, and to the venerable doctor.

He corroborated the remark of our president, that if we put an end to the ghost story connected with the house where we were to spend the night, we should also, simultaneously, succeed in preventing the growth of superstition elsewhere. "All true--very true," he said; "I always notice that the doctor's remarks on all subjects run on alike, each of value like the other, like links in a gold chain. There is danger that this fear of ghosts will spread. I have some symptoms of it already in my household. The woman who attends to the milk, begins to look round her, and hurry home from the milk-house in the dusk of the evening with a very rapid pace, and to the neglect of some of her duties. And I think that Pompey has a decided seriousness at times,--as of a man destined to see something terrible. Perhaps this will occur on his first lonely drive at night by the grave-yard at our village beyond us. Tell me what I can do to make you comfortable to-night. I will see that the house is warmed at once, and provided with lights."

We walked with him over to the haunted dwelling. On our way he gave us some good practical advice, as we conversed on various subjects. It came from a practical spring of knowledge which he had acquired by reflection on all that he saw of men, and on the affairs that transpired. Indeed Saner, a lazy fellow, who smelt the instruction so amply spread for us at the literary table of Nassau Hall, but who never tasted or digested one crumb or other fragment, said to us, as we returned home afterwards--and that with a malicious sense of triumph over Latin, Greek, Philosophy, mental and moral,--Algebra, and like kindred venerable foes,--"You see a man can get sense of more real value out of the world than out of books."

"Saner," said I, "my dear fellow, is this worthy man possessed of the widely-extended sense of Dr. Smith? And do you think that any one to whom Providence has given the opportunity of collegiate education, and who will turn out an ignorant blockhead, will ever learn anything from observation? Besides our class,--or at least the deputation to the house of the ghost,--have their minds enlightened by our instruction. Now, I want to know whether this has not prepared us to glean instruction from the sensible remarks of Mr. Hollman? Do you think that the ignorant men who work for him, learn of him in a year what we do, or some of us do, in a day?"

But this is a digression.--To return to our survey of the dwelling. Unfortunately there was nothing very romantic in the structure. The frowning shadows of larch, and other forest trees; the massive walls were not there to call forth associations with some of the descriptions of castles which were the scenes of ghosts and of banditti--such as were common in the novels of the day.