University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.
THE DIGNITY OF LABOR.

Among the crowded assembly who had witnessed the
interment, perhaps there was no one who retired with
such mingled sensations of sympathy and anxiety as did
Annie Redington. She had not since the death of the
Squire, repaired to the house of sorrow to offer assistance,
for she felt unequal to endure the scene in the
presence of Sidney; but she had made various articles
of the mourning apparel for the family, and her reiterated
and eager inquiries concerning them discovered the
strong interest she felt for their situation, and her restless
eye and colorless cheek betrayed the mental anxiety
her heart was suffering.

The event which had cast a gloom over even the most
thoughtless ones in the village, was peculiarly calculated
to excite Annie's sensibility. Her mother had often described
to her, most pathetically, the scenes which followed

the death of her own father. The cold courtesies
of those gay acquaintances, who, like swallows at the
approach of winter, instinctively fly those who are threatened
with adversity; the rapacity of the ruthless creditors,
bringing forward every claim which ingenuity or
fraud could bring to bear on the insolvent estate; the
seizure and sale of the property, even those articles
which dear associations rendered almost sacred;—all
dispersed, sacrificed, and the unfeeling world looking
on with apathy or exultation.

Ah, these were arrows whose barbs could never be
withdrawn from the bleeding bosom of Mrs. Redington,
and it is not strange she had imparted to the mind of
her only child a shade of the deep anguish and sad
forebodings their remembrance awakened!

Annie never could hear of the decease of a father,
without instantly recurring to the misfortunes and privations
the death of her own had caused, and weeping
tears of pity and terror, lest the path of each fatherless
child should be thorny as her own. But concern for the
family of the Romillys was not now wholly unmingled
with solicitude for herself. She could no longer disguise
the interest Sidney had gained in her heart; and though
pride and prudence, reason and delicacy, had all been
summoned to aid her in the parting, which she strove to
consider a final one, yet hope seldom entirely deserts our
bosoms, and there had, in spite of all her struggles to
overcome them, still been a secret belief that she should
meet him again. In vain she endeavored to banish the
idea; in vain her understanding told her it was weak
and chimerical to expect that in the new and brilliant
scenes to which he would be introduced, a remembrance
of the lowly orphan, far, far distant, would dwell on his
heart and influence him to return.

She loved—and when does hope vanish from the
horizon of a true lover?

And Sidney had been detained; and she had seen him
again—seen him piously performing his duty to the
living and the dead. Never had he looked so interesting,

so noble; never had she loved him with such fervent,
confiding affection, as when she saw him stifling
his own emotions, while he sedulously strove to calm the
agitation of his mother, and watching over the little
fatherless ones with all the tender solicitude of a parent.

“They cannot part with him,” said she mentally; “he
will not leave them!”

A blush warmed her cheek, her heart throbbed, and
she pursued the subject no farther. She returned from
the funeral in that state of anxious uncertainty, when
hope and fear are so nearly balanced that the mind is
only intent to gain evidence which may confirm its hopes
or its fears, and impatiently awaited the return of her
cousin, from whom she expected to learn something
respecting the arrangements of Mrs. Romilly, and whether
Sidney was still intending to prosecute his journey.

But Silas and his wife did not return till a late hour,
and then exhausted by grief and fatigue, they scarcely
spoke; the deacon and his wife had already withdrawn,
and Annie dared not hazard a question on the subject
nearest her heart, lest she should betray her own anxiety
about an arrangement to which she wished to appear
indifferent, and she saw them retire without ascertaining
the future proceedings of Sidney.

When the family, the next morning, assembled at the
breakfast hour—always an early one, as the deacon was
fearful his workmen would lose time, and on that account
he omitted family worship during the summer, except
on Sabbath mornings—Silas was absent; Annie inquired
the cause, and received for answer that he had gone to
his mother's. “Some arrangements they have to make
respecting Sidney,” said the deacon, peevishly; “I wish
they would let him go away—I don't see what good
they expect from keeping such a gentleman to manage a
farm.”

Annie glanced at her uncle; his countenance was
naturally ungracious, but she thought he now looked
most enviously ugly; and yet his speech was music to
her ear, for she had learned that Sidney's stay had been

the subject of discussion, and long before the meal was
finished—which certainly suffered no diminution on her
account—she had settled that for his family to permit
his departure was impossible.

The Romillys were all of her opinion. Sidney hardly
knew why he was not sorry to be detained; but the
secret was, his duty and inclination exactly coincided,
and conjoined they easily overcame, though they could
not entirely silence his ambition.

It was really a “heavy declension” for a young man,
bred with the expectations, and accustomed to the ease
and elegance he had been, at once to renounce all his
towering hopes, and voluntarily lay his hand on the
plow; and, at the age of twenty-four, resign himself, for
life, to the retirement and occupation of a Yankee farmer.
These were the dark shades of the picture. But then he
would fulfil his father's injunctions, give joy to his
mother's widowed heart, gratify his brothers and sisters,
and “though last, not least,” there arose the idea of
Annie Redington—might not she be willing to relinquish
the gay world and consent to share his retirement?
He would then be satisfied his wife did not marry him
because he was rich and distinguished; and the romance
of love in a cottage was what he had always liked to
contemplate; might he not at last realize it?

But these motives, or rather these thoughts, were confined
to his own bosom. He told his mother, and sincerely
too, that he would willingly relinquish all claim
he might have to a share in his father's estate, and pursue
his intention of going abroad if she would consent.

But this proposition she could by no means approve.
She had always been averse to the plan of a foreign
destination, and would have seriously opposed it, had
not her husband insisted that, considering all circumstances,
he could devise nothing which promised so well
for their favorite son; and his deliberate opinions were
arguments she seldom attempted to controvert.

But he had, with his dying breath, expressed a different
sentiment, and she would have deemed the infringement

of his last injunctions almost a sacrilege. Still she
knew the portion to which Sidney was, by law, entitled,
was inadequate as a reward for the sacrifice he must
make in foregoing all hopes of eminence by consenting
to a residence in that secluded place; and she was meditating
on the difficulty, when Silas approached to inform
her he had been offering Sidney, if he would stay and
reside on the farm, to relinquish all his claims on the
estate, and James would do the same, provided he could
have some assistance in boarding and clothing while pursuing
the study of medicine, on which he was intending
to enter, as his sickly habits made labor, for him, impracticable.

“And I tell brother Sidney,” continued Silas, “he
can portion off the girls when they are married, and put
one of the little boys to a trade, and manage to pay all
that will ever be required of him without selling much
of the farm—one of the wood-lots, perhaps—but there is
enough on the other to last these fifty years.”

Mrs. Romilly doubtless thought fifty years was quite
sufficient to anticipate the want of wood; if she did not,
she was more provident than most of her countrymen
appear to be; as the destruction and waste of fuel in the
New England States cannot be accounted for on rational
principles, and doubtless has proceeded from the
conviction of their occupiers that the world would expire
with themselves.

However, Mrs. Romilly declared herself well pleased
with the generosity of her sons; and after a long consultation,
and many protestations on the part of Sidney
against his brothers' resigning to him their inheritance,
they answered by declaring they considered it no sacrifice
at all, if it would induce him to reside at home.

Everything was at last arranged apparently to the satisfaction
of all parties that could have any interest in
the decision—except the deacon. He protested in a
most formal and spirited manner against the whole proceeding,
as not only extremely absurb, but very detrimental
to every individual.

He said it detained Sidney in an unprofitable calling,
when his education qualified him to shine in a higher
sphere, and make money in some easier way. And he
thought the boys, under the superintendence of Silas,
might manage better without him, as he never knew a
man of learning good for anything when deprived of
his books. Thus he advised Mrs. Romilly, and harangued
Sidney, and lectured Silas; but all in vain—each
one having determined on a course to pursue, his interference
only served to confirm them more fully in the propriety
of their arrangements by the arguments which
they were thus compelled to advance in their justification.
Silas knew, and his mother suspected that the
motives of the deacon were entirely selfish. He had already
more land than he could cultivate or superintend,
but was not satisfied; and he calculated, if Sidney
could be prevailed on to depart, Silas would eventually
secure his father's estate.

The search after earthly happiness is not confined to
the young and gay. The aged and the grave, those
whose professions and callings would appear to place
them above the temptations and vanities of the world,
are often its most devoted slaves. It is not the love of
pleasure, or the taste for amusements that most trammels
the soul. Mammon was the lowest among the
fallen angels—if Milton's authority may be trusted. The
love of money is an insidious vice, for it often assumes
the name and obtains the credit of a virtue. It is called
prudence, foresight, economy, and good management.
If property be obtained the end has sanctified the means;
and the prosperous are deemed good, and the rich happy,
or at least in a very desirable situation;—for what
covering so effectually conceals faults and follies, as a
mantle of gold?

But there is no vice more opposed to the benevolence
and charity which the word of God represents as being
indispensable to the christian character, than this worldly-mindedness.

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a

needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of
heaven.”

Sidney was now, in all probability, permanently established;
and the duties and labors consequent on his
new vocation, gave him sufficient employment to occupy
all his time, and consequently ennui, that demon of the
idle, never approached to torment him. There was, to
be sure, a strange contrast between the life he now led,
and the one to which he had been accustomed while residing
with his uncle. There, he had only to breathe a
wish, and it was instantly gratified,—issue a command,
and it was promptly obeyed.

Now, he must put forth his own strength, and depend
on his own exertions. Yet, strange as it may seem to
those who connect felicity only with wealth, splendor
and distinction, he was never, in the proudest moment
of his prosperity, when he was the star of fashion and
minion of fortune, so cheerfully and equally happy as
now, while confined to labor and living in obscurity.

Happiness can never be compelled to be our companion,
nor is she oftenest won by those who most eagerly
seek her. She most frequently meets us in situations
where we never expected her visits; in employments or
under privations to which we have become reconciled
only by a sense of duty. There she meets us and infuses
that peace and sunshine of the mind, that sweet
serenity which a consciousness of innocence and rectitude
can alone confer, and which is true pleasure, because
we can enjoy it without remorse or regret.

That our hero was now in possession of this “sober
certainty of waking bliss,” some extracts from a long
communication he forwarded to his friend Frankford,
will demonstrate. After detailing the circumstances of
his father's death, and his own resolutions to obey what
he conceived his last wishes, he proceeded:

“I have thus relinquished, perhaps forever, my intention
of visiting your merry old England, and prosecuting

those schemes of aggrandizement, in which you so
generously offered me your assistance. That I have
submitted to these disappointments with perfect equanimity
I dare not assert; indeed, I confess I have often
murmured at my wayward fate, and if the stars ever
deign to listen to complaints from this dim sphere, they
have undoubtedly heard me lay some grievous sins to
their charge. Now really, Frankford, do you think
there are many modern heroes who have experienced
greater vicissitudes than myself.

As a fair parallel I will mention Napoleon, the Great.
Like him I was taken from humble life, to be the heir
of a sovereignty; make what exceptions you please to
my use of the term sovereignty, the southern slave-holder
is as absolute in his dominions, or plantation
rather, as the grand seignior, and when I had become
accustomed to command, and my mind was weakened
by indolence and enervated by dissipation, I was suddenly
thrown back to my former insignificance, and compelled
to dig for my daily bread. “O, what a falling
off was there!”

I must think no more about it; neither do I think so
lightly as I have written. There is a pleasure in fulfilling
what I believe were my father's last wishes that
makes, what otherwise would be a sacrifice, a triumph.
You may call it a weakness, but I feel as if his eye still
regarded my actions; as if his spirit still hovered over
those objects he so fondly loved.

And then my labor is not like the servile drudgery of
the body, when the mind can exercise no volition and
the heart enjoys no participation. When I return from
the field, covered with sweat and dust—by the way,
Homer's heroes were often in the same predicament,
though not exactly from the same cause—it is so gratifying
to be met with approving smiles, and see every
thing prepared that loving hearts and ready hands can
furnish to relieve my toil, and make me forget my weariness.
And then exercise gives me such an excellent

appetite; and you know we have plenty to satisfy its
cravings!

I wish you could see with what deference and affection
I am treated, when, at evening, we assemble in domestic
conclave. Then our plans are proposed, arrangements
formed, and successes congratulated. Even failures and
disappointments are not mourned by us as inevitable
evils. Neither do we waste our time in moralizing on
such occurrences for the behoof of others; but like wise
philosophers, endeavor to make them subservient to our
own. We examine the causes which contributed to the
reverse, and sometimes, like other theorists, are so fond
of establishing a favorite hypothesis, that we consider any
inconvenience tending to that result as a blessing in disguise.

There is, however, one sacred remembrance that binds
all our hearts and minds in unison, a recollection of the
excellent friend we have lost forever. We seldom mention
him, and yet I do not believe his idea has scarcely,
since his decease, been absent a moment from the minds
of even the youngest of our family. Why is it that
those recollections and ideas which most engross the soul
are seldom communicated? Undoubtedly because we
know they cannot be participated. Yet that is not our
fear; but each individual struggles to stifle or conceal
emotions whose expression would awaken that painful
sympathy we cannot endure to see exhibited. And thus
we converse with calmness and cheerfulness; sometimes,
indeed, with gaiety when together, yet, were we with
strangers, we should be silent and melancholy.

And the activity we are compelled by our situation to
exert, also operates to dispel the gloom of grief. Employment
is an excellent comforter, and fatigue the best opiate
in the world. I never slept so soundly since my childhood,
and my slumbers are most refreshing. I awaken
in the morning without any solicitude save just the business
of the farm. I have no appointments to keep, or
engagements to escape; no punctilios of honor or intrigues
of love. In short, could I fairly forget the last

dozen years of my life, I think I might now enjoy the
best felicity of which mortal men can, on earth, be partakers.
And that I am not thus happy is owing no
doubt to the prejudices I have imbibed, and those habits
which long indulgence makes it difficult, indeed almost
impossible wholly to alter. How often I wish I could,
with the philosophical serenity of Anaxagoras, at once
reconcile myself to the change from luxury to plainness.

You see I am deep in antiquity, yet deep learning,
you know, was never my fault; and you will easily pardon
this reference to the ancients when reflecting that I
am deprived of all intercourse with the moderns. Plutarch
was my father's favorite author, and I have lately
been reading it most attentively, partly to imitate my
worthy parent and partly because no better or more
interesting books are within my reach; and the examples
of heroism and lessons of self-control there recorded,
often make me blush for my own pusilanimity. But,
Frankford, I am confident those stern, stubborn old
Greeks must have been furnished with nerves of the size
and toughness of a cable, and mine, I know by actual
admeasurement, are no larger than a whip-cord. What
a degeneracy! Whether this superiority of theirs was
imparted by nature or their gymnastics, I am now endeavoring
to ascertain; pray heaven it prove the latter, and
then I think my daily exercise will soon assimilate my
firmness to their example.”

“In your letter you insinuated a suspicion that my
free spirit was yielding to the omnipotence that even
republicans dare not resist. And do you really think,
my dear Frankford, that Cupid's chains possess sufficient
tenacity to bind a veteran? Have I not once cast them
off like scorched flax? and will you not allow I found
sufficient gall in the honeyed draught of love to make
me temperate for the future?

Yet I frankly confess I never saw a woman more deserving
of admiration than Miss Redington, nor one with
whom I think life would pass so happily. But disappointment

and experience have taught me caution; not
enough to make me wise, but just sufficient to render
me fastidious; and the suspicions I formerly entertained,
that I might be accepted for my wealth, are now changed
to fears that I shall be rejected for my poverty. True,
Annie is as poor as I, and I am thankful for that. I
should not like to have it thought I was influenced by
pecuniary considerations in the choice of a wife, yet
where such a possibility exists, the inference is usually
made, the worst construction always being most obvious
to the million.

But now I have begun the theme, I will be candid,
and so I confess that although I did not stay in New
England because I was in love, yet I shall be in love because
I stay. Annie treats me just as she ought, if she
intended to make me her captive. Her kindness has increased
with my misfortunes, and since my father's decease
and the consequent arrangements, she has shown
such sympathy of countenance, and approbation of manner,
and 'tis in her face and air her soul speaketh, that I
have more than once been tempted to declare my affection,
and solicit her to share my destiny.”