"It seemed n.o.ble and heroic for him to speak thus; but my heart smote me with foreboding, and I answered,--

"'But what if you do not succeed?'

"'I _will_ succeed;' he replied, impetuously. 'What a man _wills_ he can do.'

"Ah, how foolish and sinful it is to worship money and show, as my parents did; how much suffering it has caused me! and how equally unwise and presumptuous it was for a young man, stung by the pride of others, to make that the rule of his life, and go forth in his own strength to build up a fortune, so that he might _demand_ me of my parents as an equal, and thus gratify his own pride! I see it now, but not clearly then.

"Joseph, for a time, was prosperous. Everything he turned his hand to was remunerative; and when we met, his manner was confident and hopeful.

"'Let the old gentleman look down upon me now if he chooses,' he would say; 'he won't always do it.'

"He had been a year in business when a partnership was proposed to him by a man of education and gentlemanly appearance. Joseph spoke to me about it, and I said,--

"'You are doing well enough now. Why not be contented to go alone? I have often heard that partnerships are poor ships to sail in.'

"'Well,' said he, 'there's something in his appearance that I do not quite like, and I think I shall not take him in.'

"But as the man came with the highest testimonials as to his character, ability, and influence, with the hope of greatly enlarging his business, a copartnership was entered into. Mr. Jacques, the partner, was Joseph's senior in age--a stout, robust man, with a high forehead, light hair, always carried a cane, was jovial, and good-natured in the extreme, fond of telling a good story, but sharp in trade. I met him on one occasion, and there was something in the turn of his eye--a restless, jerking, selfish expression--that made me shrink from him. Joseph was proud of his acquisition, and, remembering my caution, asked me what I thought of him. I well remember the reply that leaped to my lips.

"'Didn't you say that he was religious?'

"'He professes to be,' said he.

"'I fear that it is only a cloak to his real character. If he is a Christian, I do not know what grace has done for him; but if I do not misread his face, he is const.i.tutionally dishonest.'

"But every thing went on smoothly, and Joseph would say to me when we met,--

"'My partner loves scandal a little too well--is apt to talk against others; but one thing I'm sure of--he's honest.'

"One morning, some months after this conversation, I chanced to meet Joseph as he was going to the office; he looked pale and careworn.

"'O,' said he, 'I have had the most singular exercise of mind. Some folks are troubled with sleeplessness; but I never was until last night. I went to bed feeling as well as usual, but could not sleep. I was not unusually tired, had taken a light supper, and saw no reason why I should be so wakeful. I turned and tossed in bed, and shut my eyes; but all in vain. I even laid my finger on my wrist, that the counting of my pulse might, by the monotony, induce slumber; when, suddenly, before my mind's eye stood my partner; it seemed as real as life; and with the appearance came little remarks of his, little acts and words, which, as they ranged themselves along like the links in a chain, revealed him to me, against my will, as a deceiver and a dishonest man.'

"He was much excited, and hurried to town. Mr. Jacques, as I afterwards learned, was there before him, and met him with his bland smile and well-turned compliments; and, strange as it may seem, scarcely an hour had pa.s.sed before he had charmed away every shadow of suspicion. Matters now went on as before for a few weeks, when Joseph had another sleepless night, and a more convincing unfolding of his partner's real character; and the next night, after the office had been closed, he spent in examining the books of the concern, and detected a number of artfully-contrived fraudulent entries in the handwriting of his partner, for, according to agreement, the latter kept the accounts. Further revelations showed that he had been gradually abstracting the stock. As soon as Mr. Jacques saw that he was being found out, his gentleness and politeness were all gone, and he raged like a beast of prey. Joseph attached his furniture at his dwelling, but found it had all been made over to his son--a young lawyer in the city; meanwhile the dishonest man had fled with his ill-gotten gains, leaving the business in a frightfully complicated state. The result was, as is often the case when a man begins to go down in his affairs, although he may be ever so deserving and innocent, there are enough to give him a push. It was so with him. In vain did Joseph, by his books, show that he was doing well up to the cruel embezzlements, and that if he was dealt leniently with, he could recover his standing, and go on as prosperously as before; his creditors, one after another, ferociously pounced upon him; he got through one trouble only to meet another, until utter failure came.

The effect on Joseph was lamentable in the extreme. He sat by his fire at home, day after day, for weeks, with his head buried in his hands, in utter despair. Had some kind friend stepped forward and started him anew, what a deed of mercy it would have been! But the men whom he accommodated with money, when prosperous, turned their backs upon him now.

"Recovering somewhat from the shock, he sought again and again for employment; but his short-sighted and relentless creditors would factorize his earnings, and thus oblige him to leave."

"Factorize!" asked Tom, interrupting her; "what is that?"

"Why," said the mother, "if a man owes another, the creditor attaches his wages, and when the man presents his bill to his employer, he finds that he cannot pay him anything. In vain he went to distant places to earn a subsistence. Shrewd lawyers were put upon his track; he was ferretted out, until, discouraged, he came to me one day, and said,--

"'Mary, the hounds are after me from morning till night. They dog my steps wherever I go, and give me no chance to retrieve my fortunes. I am going to the west; and it isn't right to hold you to your engagement any longer, for I can never, on my part, fulfil it. The odds are against me here, and, what is worse, I've lost my courage and hope; I have come to bid you good by.'

"'If you do not care for me any longer,' I said, 'say so. You've struggled hard, and have merited a better result; it isn't your fault that you have failed. G.o.d forbid that I should break my promise. If you must go west, you are not going alone. I shall go with you, and shall this very night tell my parents all about my engagement, and get their consent to our marriage.'

"He shook his head. But feeling that it had been cowardly in me not to have mentioned the subject before, whatever the result might have been, in a few words I frankly, and with a composure that surprised myself, told them the whole story. My father was a quick-tempered, imperious man, and my mother lived only for this world: the result you can easily imagine. But I felt that my duty was plain; and we were quietly married. Having a little money of my own, joining it with what your father had by him, we started towards the setting sun. But what was that?" said Mrs. Jones, stopping in her recital, as a strange sound fell upon her ear.

It was a long, fiendish yell, swelling upon the still night air over the unbroken solitudes of the prairie; it was most appalling. Tom and his mother hastened to the window; they saw a n.o.ble buck, his antlers held aloft, flying with his utmost speed, pursued by two dark-looking objects, that gained rapidly on him.

"It's the gray wolf," said Tom, "chasing a deer. How I wish I had a rifle! I could bring one of them down easy as not,"--as they dashed by, with short, quick yells, following their prey into the woods that skirted the river.

"I hope the poor creature will escape," said Mrs. Jones, with a sigh; and she resumed her narrative. "I was not long in seeing, on our journey out, that a dreadful change had been wrought in your father by his business troubles. It had given him an unconquerable disgust of society, which he has not yet outgrown, making him uneasy and restless wherever he has been; and this, Tom, is the secret of his wandering life; and this is why I never feel that I can complain at any of the changes in our hard, unsettled career as a family."

Tom, who had listened absorbed to this before unread chapter in the family history, was deeply moved, and, while the tears filled his eyes, asked, in tremulous tones,--

"Do you think father'll ever get over it, mother?"

"Tom," replied she, "your father has a true heart and a good mind, and I believe that, in some way, good will yet come out of this long-continued trial. He's taken a great liking to the missionary; and Mr. Payson seems to understand him better than most, and I am praying that the acquaintance may lead to something brighter for him; and, Tom," she added, "I have told you this that you may see a new reason for not being in haste to leave your father and mother. There is one pa.s.sage in the Bible I often think of, which directs us to both hope and quietly wait for the salvation of G.o.d. Your father's mistake, when he went into business, was, that he was in too great haste to accomplish his own will. This is apt to be the error of the young.

They are sanguine of success, and they rush into the battle of life without waiting to put on the armor of faith. What the young want in setting out, Tom, is a Guide and a Helper, who cannot err, and will not forsake them. An old man in our town used to say, 'Never try to kick open the door of Providence.' I want you, Tom, to wait patiently till Providence opens the door for you. Then you need not be afraid to go forward."

CHAPTER VII.

A SABBATH ON THE PRAIRIE.

_Extracts from the Missionary's Diary._

Yesterday I preached my first sermon in a log cabin. When I awoke in the early morning, and looked out of the little window at the head of my bed in the rough, low-roofed attic, a new world seemed to break on my sight. Instead of the narrow, noisy streets and tenanted blocks of the populous eastern city, my eyes rested on one vast green field stretching to the arching horizon, over which brooded a profound silence, intensified by the sacred hush of the Sabbath.

My host offered his own cabin for the forenoon service. His son--a st.u.r.dy young man of eighteen, inured to pioneer life--had ridden far and wide to give notice of the meeting, and he was confident of a good attendance. I antic.i.p.ated the labors of the day with some misgivings, for I had become slavishly accustomed to the use of written sermons; but here, before a log-cabin audience, to speak from ma.n.u.script was not to be thought of. For once, at least, I must trust to the grace of Christ, and speak as the Spirit gave utterance. My study was a corner of the loft, my library a pocket Bible.

"Where do all these people come from?" I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed in pleased surprise, as, for a full hour before the time appointed, men, women, and children, afoot, in wagons and ox-teams, continued to arrive. And through the cracks in the loosely-laid, unnailed floor, I could see members of the family engaged in contriving sitting accommodations for the growing congregation. Unplaned oaken boards, placed across trunks, boxes, and huge blocks, soon filled the room, every seat being occupied, while groups of men stood about the door outside, or sat upon the embankment. I would have a "full house" certainly. And what effort had been made by these frontier folk to attend I could easily imagine. Some had walked many miles for the purpose; most had come quite a distance. And the earnest, thoughtful faces that met my gaze, as I descended the ladder, and read the opening hymn,--how reverently their heads were bowed for prayer, and with what hushed interest they listened to the discourse,--I can not soon forget. One woman, who sat surrounded by her family, wept from the announcement of the text till the close of the sermon--wept for joy that, once more, after long deprivation of sanctuary privileges, she could hear the word of G.o.d.

It was a scene for a painter--that log cabin crowded with representatives of every state in the Union, in every variety of garb, and of all ages, from the gray-haired backwoodsman to the babe in its mother's arms. No costly organ was here, with its gentle, quiet breathings, or grand and ma.s.sive harmonies; no trained choir; no consecrated temple, with its Sabbath bell, and spire pointing heavenward; no carpeted aisles and "dim religious light," and sculptured, cushioned pulpit. But I could not doubt the presence of the Spirit. And when, at the close, "Praise G.o.d, from whom all blessings flow," was sung to Old Hundred,--sung as if with one voice and soul, the clear, sweet tones of childhood blending with the deeper sounds of manhood and womanhood,--the rough, rude building seemed as the gate of heaven.

My appointment for the afternoon was at a small settlement eleven miles away.

A charming drive through the "oak openings" and over the rolling prairie brought us to the cabin which was to serve as meeting-house.

It was a long, low, one-roomed building, the logs of which it was constructed still rejoicing in their primitive covering of bark, the openings between them being closed with clay thrown in by hand. Mr.

G., the owner,--a short, gray-haired, brisk little man with a wooden leg, gave me a cordial welcome, and, to show how willing he was to have the meeting in his cabin, pointed to his shoemaker's bench, and various articles of furniture, including a bedstead, trundle-bed, and bedding, which had been removed from the room, and piled in admirable disorder outside.

"You have been to a great deal of trouble," I remarked.

"None too much," he cheerily replied. "I am an old soldier, you see, and that's why I have to hobble about on this," pointing to the ancient artificial limb. "I was in the war of 1812, belonged to the cavalry, and at the battle of--"

"Husband," gently interposed his wife,--an intellectual-looking woman, with a face expressive of goodness,--"the minister will not care to hear of war to-day;" adding, with a blush, "You must excuse us, sir; but it is so long since we have seen one of your profession, or attended religious services, that the days seem too much alike; there is little here to remind us that the Sabbath should be kept holy. O, it is so dreadful--so like heathenism--to live without the ordinances of the gospel! No Sunday school for our children and youth, no servant of G.o.d to counsel the dying, comfort the bereaved, and point the heavy-laden to Christ!"

"Such a state of things must, indeed, be a great trial to those who love the Saviour," I observed.

"Yes; and what adds to the trial," she continued, "is, that members of churches, after they have been here awhile, fall into great laxity in respect to the Lord's day. Those who were exemplary east, are here seen starting upon or returning from a business journey on Sunday. O, we need some one to gather these straying sheep, and unite them by the public means of grace: many of them, I doubt not, are secretly longing for this. For more than a year I have been praying that G.o.d would send a servant of his this way."

"And sometimes, I dare say, you have felt almost discouraged," I suggested.

"Yes," she replied, weeping; "but last week something came to strengthen my faith, and later, intelligence that you were to visit us. Months ago I wrote east for a donation of good reading to scatter among the settlers, but received no response till, last Tuesday, a package of books, tracts, and religious papers arrived. In one of the papers was an article ent.i.tled 'The Pulpit and the Beech Tree.'"