Henry Courtland; or, What a farmer can do.

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OR,

WHAT A FARMER CAN DO.

BY

A. J. CLIJN'E.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.

1 8 7 0 .

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the jear 1870, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,

In the Clerk’s OflBce of the District Court of the United States for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

OR,

WHAT A FAEMEE OAH DO.

Chapter I

In one of those rich and beautiful counties in the State of New York, which border on the great lakes, lying east of the British possessions, li^ed not many years ago a highly respectable farmer, who had spent a lifetime in the cultivation of the soil and the improvement of his domestic and intellectual advantages. He had originally emigrated from a town of the New England States ; but had so firmly taken root in the domain where it was his lot to be afterward cast, that all his recollections, and indeed all his attachments, seemed to be identified with that one spot alone. He had, it is true, during his long residence on the homestead, in which he possessed a fee-simple interest, made himself acquainted with all the localities and all the good citizens of the neighborhood around him ; but although a man of intelligence and observation, his home to him was the world in which he chiefly delighted to dwell, and his own hearth-stone yielded him the dearest and ripest fruits of earthly happiness.

Henry Courtland was the name of the individual of whom we have been speaking. Notwithstanding his being only a plain farmer, he was by no means unmindful of improving the powers of a mind that was naturally quick, energetic, and thoughtful. He devoted a great part of the time he could spare from his ordinary duties to reading, and made much of his knowledge subservient to the practical purposes of a vocation which he preferred to all others, and which he was often heard to say would compare advantageously with any other calling in the world. It was this fond attachment to the duties of his calling that made Henry Courtland a man peculiarly distinguished among his neighbors, and remarkable for certain characteristics which appeared to be almost exclusively his own. He was a str t disciplinarian in regard to every department of the property he cultivated with so much affection and diligence. He was on all occasions as quick and decided in his movements as the most skillful general of an army. He uniformly alleged that the tactics of a farmer were not unlike those of a soldier, and that whenever these were misunderstood or neglected, the consequences in either case were equally fatal. His rules of domestic government were imperative and unbending. Everything had to be done in its time — everything had to be in its place — and according to maxims which have received the concurrent approbation of mankind, his favorite doctrine wms, that there is a time for everything, and a place for everything. Armed with sentiments and convictions like these, he was always in the endeavor to impress their truth and importance on the minds of others. He taught them to his children — he preached them to his neighbors — he proclaimed them as the orthodox creed of all useful and practical men. But he was no theorist. He was too prudent — perhaps he was too timid — to venture much on the problematical issues of mere experiment. He listened with respect to every new suggestion he found in books, or that was communicated to him in his personal intercourse with others, — but he often hesitated, gave a reason for his doubts, and preferred acting on the settled principles of his own certain knowledge, rather than on the vague supposition of that which had been only imperfectly tested.

To all these advantages, we must add that Henry Courtland was blessed with a loving wife, whose powers of judgment in relation to all the ordinary affairs of this world were scarcely inferior to his own. It did not indeed happen that she always coincided with her husband either in the familiar operations of his domestic management, or what was to her the less obvious conclusions of his deeper philosophy. Like most women who have a mind of their own, she was disposed to pay more deference to him as

OR, WHAT A FARMER CAN DO.

her lord and master, than to follow him implicitly as her pruide and teacher. She was indeed proud of her husband. She admired his tact, his energy, and his success in accomplishing much that seemed to be beyond the reach of other men. She agreed that he might occupy a niche in his own department of business, where she was almost willing to fall down and worship him. But then she reserved her own part of the household temple, where she herself exacted an undivided homage, which she felt little disposition to share with another, not even with her husband. She wished at least to be regarded as the priestess, if not the divinity, of those domestic rites which she had consecrated by her own wisdom, and which she had presided over by her own industry. Whenever these were interfered with by Mr. Courtland, or by anybody else, she felt as if they had received some little touch of profanation from the contact.

At the time our story commences, Mr. and Mrs. Courtland had advanced already beyond the middle period of life ; and their family, exclusive of the laboring men employed on the farm, and the domestics who were chiefly occupied in the department which was superintended by Mrs. Courtland herself, was small. They were the parents of but two children, Percy, who was named after an old friend of his father, and Harry, who was the youngest. These children possessed their own peculiarities of character and disposition. In many respects, they were not unlike each other, exhibiting that family resemblance in mind, as well as in external features, which may be traced in all descendants proceeding from the same parents. But, in a variety of particulars, they diverged from each other like a stream dividing itself into two equal branches, pursuing different courses, but retaining strong marks of similarity — manifesting the same general features of resemblance, but sometimes exhibiting in their progress a very remarkable individuality, if not a downright antagonism.

It may be well enough to state here, as something which had a most beneficial effect on the minds of his children, that Mr. Courtland was a man who was strictly and unaffectedly religious. With him the feeling of religion was an affection, which had been growing stronger from his earliest years. It was not that spurious and superficial

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HENIi Y CO UR TLAND ;

bent of character which modern enthusiasm supposes may be obtained in a single day or a single hour. But it was something better, which was strong, enlightened, and effective, in proportion to the long and constant watchfulness and self-denial necessary to acquire it. It was not the religion of cant or of bigotry. Perhaps it might have been scarcely credited as orthodox by his less practical and more formal neighbors. But Mr. Courtland felt it to be the religion of the Bible — a religion which regenerates the thoughts and affections — which, with its transforming power, may be truly said to come home to the business and bosoms of men — which, while it constantly aims at a more perfect development of the moral character, acknowledges that it can possess nothing that is good and true, nothing that is joyous and happy, but from God alone.

With such a religion — plain, practical, and evangelical — and with a philosophy which received its light and spirit from this religion — it could hardly happen otherwise than that Mr. Courtland’s children were happily educated. But this education was not labored and artificial — it was not what the world calls classical. Such a course would not have suited the views, and would hardly have suited the pocket, of our plain but thrifty farmer. His great object was to render his children useful and respectable in the world. He was unable to see that this usefulness and respectability were necessarily connected with what are called the higher employments and professions of life. Indeed, he sometimes doubted whether the reverse of this was not for the most part the lot of those who aimed at distinguishing themselves above their fellow-men. He was certain at least that this class of individuals was not the most prosperous and happy. In regard to his own children, therefore, his first great desire was to confer on them a solid but not a showy education. He placed them early at an academy, where they had the opportunity of acquiring the elements of much useful knowledge, and even a smattering of what are called the learned languages, but he did not go further than this He made them to see that they must depend for a practical improvement of this knowledge on what he would be able to teach them at home. It was at his own fireside that he hoped to endow them with the fruits of all their previous studies.

OR, WHAT A FARMER CAN DO.

It was here that he endeavored to place before them the real characters of men, as far as he was acquainted with them himself. Here it was that he told them of the great purposes and business of life — of the innumerable errors which mortals are everywhere liable to fall into — of the painful struggles of selfishness and ambition — of the sorrows and misfortunes inseparable from our best efforts to make ourselves happy — of the violence sometimes inflicted on integrity of character — and of the only safe protection afforded us in applying our principles of knowledge, and especially our principles of religion, to stem the torrent of evil to which our present lives are exposed. Nor were his efforts confined alone to the more prominent events and duties by which we are surrounded. He was careful to descend into particulars. He was aware that life is made up, for the most part, of what are called little things, and that these unimportant events are much more intimately connected with our happiness than is generally supposed. “The whole of our existence,” he would say, “maybe compared to a stately building, composed of minute fragments of stone, wood, and other materials. Neither of these fragments, in itself, would seem to be of much importance, and yet the displacement or derangement of any one of them would be sufficient to destroy the security and symmetry of the whole edifice.”

CHAPTER IL

Under a discipline, such as we have attempted to describe in the foregoing chapter, it could hardly have happened otherwise than that many solid and lasting impressions were made on the minds of Mr. Courtland’s children. But neither of them had yet arrived at an age when he could see the full force and measure of this discipline. Their father was made sensible of this from the opposition which some of his favorite maxims and wishes daily met with. Percy could hardly be persuaded that

HEi^R Y CO UR TL A .YD ;

the world was precisely what his father represented it to be. He thought it was more liberal, more confiding, and less selfish. He believ^ed that men were engaged in the pursuit of many objects of real happiness — that the pleasures to be acquired abroad were much more refined than those which he enjoyed at home — and that it was only necessary he should make the experiment in order to come at once into the full fruition of his hopes and expectations. Although he listened respectfully, and ev^en reverently, to the precepts of his father, yet he endeavored to persuade himself that much allowance must be made for opinions derived from early prejudice ; and that even his father’s more obvious maxims of wisdom were better suited to his own age than to the age of vigorous youth and opening manhood.

Harry busied, himself less with his father’s opinions of the world abroad, than he did with the rigid rules which he had adopted for governing his little farm at home. It seemed to him that many of these rules were superfluous and unnecessary, and even annoying. Why should he be constantly subjected to a discipline almost as severe as that of a camp, when the whole object to be gained was merely the insignificant product of a few acres of ground, the preservation of an unimportant tree, or the prolonged existence of some trifling animal ? Besides, his father seemed to him to be embarked in an unending repetition of precepts, which only gravitated the more heavily on Harry’s apprehension, as he found it impassible to erase their already accumulated force from his memory. His parent might possibly be right, but he did not think there should be a never-ceasing stretch of the same eternal vibration, or an endless recurrence of the same monotonous echo.

An important crisis had at this time arrived in the history of the Courtland family. The two children found themselves at an age to which their father had been looking forward with the deepest anxiety. Hitherto they had shared with him the labors of the farm, or had been busily engaged in prosecuting their studies either at home or at school. But a new experiment was now to be made, or at least a new and serious object of inquiry was to be propounded to their minds. This was no less than the im-

OR, WHAT A FARMER CAN DO.

portant consideration of making a choice of a profession. Their father had always intended to give them the privilege of this choice, and he had so arranged the business of his farm, and the internal regulations of his family, as to afford them both an opportunity of making it at the same time.

The period fixed by Mr. Courtland for entering on the discussion of this important subject was the birthday of his eldest son Percy, who had entered on his twentieth year. It had been an invariable rule in the Courtland family to pay some attention to the birthday anniversary of each individual child and parent. On the occasion in question, an invitation had been extended to several of the neighbors to join in celebrating this recurring event. Henry Courtland was never more happy than when he saw or could render others happy around him ; and the good cheer and good humor which pervaded his house whenever these periods of social hilarity arrived, were greatly owing to his own personal attention and example.

It is unnecessary that we should give a minute detail of the fitting preparations made by Mrs. Courtland on the present occasion. For many days before this important period arrived she was up late and early, superintending the renovation of her faded furniture, drawing forth from their hidden recesses a variety of conserves and fruits which had been stowed away almost for this single purpose, and arranging her somewhat costly array of tureens, platters, and dishes, necessary to give a becoming interest to the approaching festival. She was so indefatigable in these labors that Maggy, the housemaid, said the bustle attending them was fully equal to that of a regular wedding, which she of course had registered in her own mind as the great event of every considerate person’s, and especially of every considerate girl’s, existence.

The dawn which ushered in Percy Courtland’s twentieth birthday was not distinguished by any extraordinary display of either show or greeting. No music was heard below the window, and no guns were fired at a distance. The lake, which could be seen from the porch of his father’s antiquated mansion, lay still and unruffled — the woods around were invaded by no noise but the sweet singing of birds — and the fields and meadows had been visited during the preceding night by no other influence than that of the refreshing dew which so bright!}^ reposed on the grass and flowers. But it was a beautiful morning in the early part of June. The rosy tints came up from the distant horizon in a sky of pure light, without the shadow of a cloud to obstruct their rising splendor In a few minutes the young blush of the opening day was changed into the calm serenity of a summer morning, and the sun shone out with a beauty and brilliancy but rarely surpassed in softer and more genial climates.

We have said that no extraordinary incident heralded the celebration of Percy Courtland’s birthday. And yet it may be necessary to record an event, which if not remarkable, seemed at least to give a deeper interest to the occurrences by which it was distinguished. Percy had retired at his usual hour of rest the evening before, without experiencing any impressions calculated to disturb his repose during the night. It was not long before he closed his eyes and fell into a profound sleep. But it happened that he wakened up an hour or two before his wonted time of rising in the morning. This was an event which could occasion no surprise in Percy, since nothing is more common than to anticipate our usual hour of waking whenever we have marked out the succeeding day for some duty or allotment which does not fall within our ordinary experience. Having no particular engagement at that time which required his immediate attention, and finding that he could sleep no longer, he rose and walked forth into the open air. As we have already hinted, it was a beautiful morning, and Percy possessing a mind that responded most feelingly to impressions received from the works of nature, no one could have enjoyed its loveliness and splendor more than he did. He tripped along with an elastic and buoyant step, until pausing on the summit of a rising hillock, he fell into a deep and somewhat serious reverie. The objects around me,” he said to himself, “ are truly interesting and beautiful. I do not feel as if I was a poet, and yet I entertain a most loyal affection for the hills and streams, the woods and fields, which everywhere meet my delighted eye. These I have been accustomed to from my infancy, but I cannot say that I ever grew tired of gazing on their simple beauty and grandeur.

OR, WHAT A FARMHR CAN DO, H

They seem to preach to me a virtue and a truth which it is in vain for me to look for anywhere else. Why should I not love them ? and why should I not continue to indulge in the enjoyments they are so well calculated to afford ? But, no I I am forcibly reminded to-day that these fields, and woods, and streams, can have no lasting pleasure for me. Yonder rising sun tells me that I am now to begin, like him, a new day. But whether it is to end as it began in joy and loveliness, or is to be overshadowed by clouds and tempests, the future alone can tell. And yet why should I fear ? The same Almighty Power that guides the sun in his course, when surrounded by shadows and darkness, can equally guide and protect me on my hazardous journey through life. I will go forward, therefore, with hope, with courage, and with confidence, believing that I am safe alike in the storm and in the sunshine.”

The language made use of by Percy Courtland on the occasion we have just narrated was simple in expression, but was fervid and eloquent in feeling. The truth is that a moment afterward he was surprised at the depth and ardor of his own emotions. Although conscious that he had some considerable pretensions to knowledge and refinement, he was half ashamed to own to himself that the sentiments he had just uttered were either wise or becoming. But this surprise and shame were increased a hundredfold when, happening to turn round, he saw standing at but a short distance from him the person of Agnes Bussell.

A very few words will suffice to give some idea of the character of the young lady whose name we have just mentioned. She was the daughter of Thomas Russell, a neighboring farmer, for whom Henry Courtland entertained a most sincere feeling of esteem and respect. Her mother had but recently died, and left this only remaining child, who was now about eighteen years of age, to become the solace and support of her father in the decline of life. Agnes had received a most excellent education. The mother whom she had lost had been a woman of uncommon powers of mind, while at the same time she was graced with all those amiable qualities of tenderness, kindness, and benevolence, without which the female character may awe but cannot interest us. She had passed through and endured with fortitude a full portion of the afflictions to which our lot is exposed in the present world. One after another her children had been taken from her by the cruel hand of death, until Agnes was the last that remained of two sons and three daughters. On her, therefore, it was natural, nay, almost inevitable, that she would bestow the strongest marks of her kindness and attention. She had her early placed at school, where, under the immediate eye and guardianship of a loving and noble-hearted friend, she was able for several years to profit by all the advantages which a good school is able to bestow. But it was chiefly from her mother’s own lips that her mind was furnished with a knowledge that was both useful and graceful. Mrs. Russell herself not only possessed a highly cultivated understanding, but was skilled in all the arts belonging to a neat and economical housekeeper. Into this refinement and these arts she took great pains to initiate her daughter. She endeavored to teach her in all simplicity, but with a sacred regard to the great principles of truth, the chief ends and purposes of her existence. She told her how vain were all the advantages of outward show and comfort — how worse than useless were ease and affluence — without the power of governing her own temper, and of beautifying the immortal spirit that dwelt within her. She impressed on her mind the solemn conviction, that it was of much more importance to form and mould this inward spirit to a sense of its everlasting beauty and dignity than merely to multiply those external advantages which go to gratify and adorn the body. But she was very careful not to denounce or prohibit a single pleasure that was really worthy of her regard and attention. She was especially earnest in recommending to her the cultivation of a taste for the sublime and beautiful in nature, and for all those productions of art which evidently borrow their effect from this source alone. It was thus that she endeavored to share with her the joys which she had woven into her own existence, and to render her independent of those grosser and more vulgar pleasures which are commonly the objects of our deepest anxiety.

It is only necessary to say, in conclusion, that Agnes Russell and Percy Courtland had lived on terms of inti-

OR, WHAT A FARMER CAN DO.

macy from their earliest childhood. Whether the latter regarded anything he possessed in the world of greater value than the friendship of Agnes was a secret best known to himself. It is certain that their acquaintance was mutually beneficial. They derived from each other much valuable knowledge, and were often found pursuing their studies together.

As we have already hinted, when Percy, at the conclusion of his morning’s soliloquy, saw Agnes Russell standing at a little distance from him, his mind was overwhelmed with surprise and confusion. A bewildered gaze was the only expression which his countenance indicated at first. This was followed by an awkward smile, which might have been succeeded by as awkward an apology, had he not been anticipated in his attempts to speak by Agnes herself.

“Why, really, Percy,” she exclaimed, “this is capital! I long ago knew that you were an admirer of nature, but was never before informed that you were her secret worshiper. And then, to have you moralize in terms so pathetic and sentimental I But I must confess that was a part of the performance I did not like so well. The sentiments uttered were indeed true enough, but I admired their truth much more than their melancholy. And I am bound to say that 1 like this melancholy still less because it was uttered on your birthday.”

After" a pause of a moment or two, Percy seemed unable to do more than make the single exclamation, “I am afraid, Agnes, you will hereafter really believe me to be a sickly sentimentalist I”

“Not a sickly one, Percy,” said Agnes, “but one who takes a sincere interest in that which is lofty, good, and beautiful. You surely have no reason to be ashamed of feelings like these, and there is much less reason that they should occasion you any regret. But methought I heard you speak of turning over a new leaf, and beginning something like a new journey of life. This was a part of your confession which I- must be candid in saying I did not exactly understand. Do inform me, Percy, what meaning I am to take from it.”

“ You kno\ypto-day is my birthday,” answered Percy, “ and my father has long since resolved on affording both

Harry and myself an opportunity of changing our course of life, and entering from this time forth on some other business or profession, should we feel an inclination to do so. Of course, then, I cannot but regard this particular crisis as one of great importance to each of us. So far as concerns myself, the choice allowed me has already been made. In a few days I shall in all probability depart from under the paternal roof, and exchange the scenes and pleasures of my native home for the employments of a more busy world at a distance.’’

Agnes Russell was somewhat startled at this sudden declaration on the part of her young associate, although it might have been difficult for her to give a reason for the unexpected tremor that shot through her whole frame- But she was prompt in recovering her accustomed firm, ness and presence of mind. “ I am not sure that I understand you,” she replied a moment afterwards. “I had long ago supposed that you might possibly leave this neighborhood, and the home in which you were born ; but I did not believe that you would stray far from the objects and scenes to which you have been so long accustomed. Tell me, Percy, what you mean by talking of a busy world at a distance. Your native State I should suppose would be a region of country sufficiently large to bound all your views, and to encourage all your projects.”

“And so it may be,” said Percy, “but that after all must abide the result of future consideration and experiment.”

“ Our poor Alfred,” replied Agnes thoughtfully, “ sought his fortune in a distant land, but his mourning friends have had too much occasion to lament the consequences of his rashness.”

“Do not ascribe the conduct of your brother to rashness,” rejoined Percy, “ since you very well know that he was always esteemed for his prudence and forethought, and especially by those who had the best opportunity of judging his character.”

“ It is true, Percy,” answered Agnes, “ my brother did not appear to want sufficient thought and consideration when occasion required it. Perhaps I am wronging the memory of one who now seems more precious to me than ever. But it is certain that he wandered far from a home

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that was endeared to him by a thousand tender recollections, and was lost.’’

“ Yes,” said Percy, “ lost, as it is said, and yet nobody can tell how or where. Do you know, Agnes,” he continued, “that I have always somewhat doubted the authority on which you predicate the belief of your brother’s death ?”

“ Why, surely,” answered Agnes, “ the intelligence we received was as precise and certain as could have been expected by any person seeking for merely reasonable evidence ; and the truth of this intelligence has since most sadly been confirmed by his subsequent silence.”

“ The gentleman who furnished this intelligence,” said Percy, “could only judge of the identity of your brother from circumstances, all of which I have thought might truly exist without proving conclusively that the stranger whom he saw die in the manner he describes was in reality the person he took him to be. And as to Alfred’s silence since that intelligence was received, a thousand events might be the cause of this, and yet your brother be as certainly alive as you and I feel ourselves to be at the present moment.”

“ Oh, Percy I” exclaimed the agitated girl, “ how much would I give for the uncertain hopes which seem to flatter your own bosom. But you cannot feel on this subject as 1 do. My brother is dead, and my mind is conclusively made up to this sad reality. Let us cease from conversing on a topic which has so terribly afflicted our family. It is sufficient to know that Alfred found a watery grave on a foreign shore. This mournful event has been the cause of a double sorrow. I have reason to believe that my poor heart-broken mother followed her child to the spirit world merely because she felt how entirely desperate was the hope of ever again seeing him in this.” Here Agnes buried her face in her hands, and for a few moments continued to weep bitterly.