 | Letters from New York |  |
LETTER XXII.
The highest gifts my soul has received, during its world-pilgrimage,
have often been bestowed by those who were
poor, both in money and intellectual cultivation. Among
these donors, I particularly remember a hard-working, uneducated
mechanic, from Indiana or Illinois. He told me that
he was one of thirty or forty New Englanders, who, twelve
years before, had gone out to settle in the western wilderness.
They were mostly neighbours; and had been drawn
to unite together in emigration from a general unity of opinion
on various subjects. For some years previous, they
had been in the habit of meeting occasionally at each
others' houses, to talk over their duties to God and man, in
all simplicity of heart. Their library was the gospel, their
priesthood the inward light. There were then no antislavery
societies; but thus taught, and reverently willing to
learn, they had no need of such agency, to discover that it
reached this secluded band only in broken echoes, and nonresistance
societies had no existence. But with the volume
of the Prince of Peace, and hearts open to his influence,
what need had they of preambles and resolutions?
Rich in spiritual culture, this little band started for the far
West. Their inward homes were blooming gardens; they
made their outward in a wilderness. They were industrious
and frugal, and all things prospered under their hands.
But soon wolves came near the fold, in the shape of reckless,
unprincipled adventurers; believers in force and cunning,
who acted according to their creed. The colony of
practical Christians spoke of their depredations in terms of
gentlest remonstrance, and repaid them with unvarying
kindness. They went farther—they openly announced,
“You may do us what evil you choose, we will return nothing
but good.” Lawyers came into the neighbourhood, and
offered their services to settle disputes. They answered,
“We have no need of you. As neighbours, we receive you
in the most friendly spirit; but for us, your occupation has
ceased to exist.” “What will you do, if rascals burn your
barns, and steal your harvests?” “We will return good for
evil. We believe this is the highest truth, and therefore the
best expediency.”
When the rascals heard this, they considered it a marvellous
good joke, and said and did many provoking things,
which to them seemed witty. Bars were taken down in
the night, and cows let into the cornfields. The Christians
repaired the damage as well as they could, put the cows in
the barn, and at twilight drove them gently home, saying,
“Neighbour, your cows have been in my field. I have fed
them well during the day, but I would not keep them all
night, lest the children should suffer for their milk.”
If this was fun, they who planned the joke found no heart
to laugh at it. By degrees, a visible change came over
horses' tails, and break the legs of poultry. Rude boys
would say to a younger brother, “Don't throw that stone,
Bill! When I killed the chicken last week, didn't they
send it to mother, because they thought chicken-broth would
be good for poor Mary? I should think you'd be ashamed
to throw stones at their chickens.” Thus was evil overcome
with good, till not one was found to do them wilful
injury.
Years passed on, and saw them thriving in worldly substance,
beyond their neighbours, yet beloved by all. From
them the lawyer and the constable obtained no fees. The
sheriff stammered and apologized, when he took their hard-earned
goods in payment for the war-tax. They mildly
replied, “ 'Tis a bad trade, friend. Examine it in the light
of conscience and see if it be not so.” But while they refused
to pay such fees and taxes, they were liberal to a proverb
in their contributions for all useful and benevolent purposes.
At the end of ten years, the public lands, which they
had chosen for their farms, were advertised for sale by auction.
According to custom, those who had settled and cultivated
the soil, were considered to have a right to bid it in
at the government price; which at that time was $1,25
per acre. But the fever of land-speculation then chanced
to run unusually high. Adventurers from all parts of the
country were flocking to the auction; and capitalists in
Baltimore, Philadelphia, New-York, and Boston, were
sending agents to buy up western lands. No one supposed
that custom, or equity, would be regarded. The first day's
sale showed that speculation ran to the verge of insanity.
Land was eagerly bought in, at seventeen, twenty-five, and
thirty dollars an acre. The Christian colony had small
hope of retaining their farms. As first settlers, they had
chosen the best land; and persevering industry had brought
greater than the acres already sold, at exorbitant prices.
In view of these facts, they had prepared their minds for
another remove into the wilderness, perhaps to be again
ejected by a similar process. But the morning their lot
was offered for sale, they observed, with grateful surprise,
that their neighbours were everywhere busy among the
crowd, begging and expostulating: “Don't bid on these
lands! These men have been working hard on them for
ten years. During all that time, they never did harm to
man or brute. They are always ready to do good for evil.
They are a blessing to any neighbourhood. It would be a
sin and a shame to bid on their lands. Let them go, at the
government price.”
The sale came on; the cultivators of the soil offered
$1,25; intending to bid higher if necessary. But among
all that crowd of selfish, reckless speculators, not one bid
over them! Without an opposing voice, the fair acres returned
to them! I do not know a more remarkable instance
of evil overcome with good. The wisest political economy
lies folded up in the maxims of Christ.
With delighted reverence, I listened to this unlettered
backwoodsman, as he explained his philosophy of universal
love. “What would you do,” said I, “if an idle, thieving
vagabond came among you, resolved to stay, but determined
not to work?” “We would give him food when
hungry, shelter him when cold, and always treat him as a
brother.” “Would not this process attract such characters?
How would you avoid being overrun with them?” “Such
characters would either reform, or not remain with us. We
should never speak an angry word, or refuse to minister to
their necessities; but we should invariably regard them
with the deepest sadness, as we would a guilty, but beloved
son. This is harder for the human soul to bear, than whips
or prisons. They could not stand it; I am sure they could
nine cases out of ten, I believe it would melt them.”
I felt rebuked for my want of faith, and consequent shallowness
of insight. That hard-handed labourer brought
greater riches to my soul than an Eastern merchant laden
with pearls. Again I repeat, money is not wealth.
| Letters from New York | |