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When Frankford entered the breakfast room next
morning, the first object that presented itself was Sidney,
sitting on a low seat at the farthest part of the
room, and surrounded by the junior members of the
family, all talking in the loud and animated tones of
eager exultation.

“What do you find so very delightful, Romilly?”
said the Englishman to Sidney, who was laughing
heartily.

“I am showing brother Sidney my cyphering book,”
said Harvey, his bright eyes sparkling with conscious
importance, “and I told him I could repeat every word
in my geography.”

“And here is my writing book,” cried Mary, the
rose waxing deeper on her round cheek, “and I had
this premium for being at the head of my class the
last day.”

“I have read this here story book twenty times,”
said little Lydia, lisping so as almost to need an interpreter,
“and ma' gave me this pretty picture to reward
me.”

Mr. Frankford advanced and examined the specimens
of these infant competitors for literary honors; then turning
to Harvey,

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“You understand geography, you say?”

“Yes, O yes, every question in it,” exclaimed the
child.

Mr. Frankford opened the map of the world;—“I am
an Englishman,” said he, “now show me my country.”

Harvey immediately pointed to Great Britain.

“And where am I now?”

“Here, sir, right here in New Hampshire,” replied the
boy, laying his finger on the little mark distinguishing
that state.

“Am I far from my country?” inquired Frankford.

“O yes, sir three thousand miles; I should not like
to be so far off,” replied Harvey; and a shade of concern
passed over his smiling countenance.

“And what rout must I take when I wish to return
home?” continued the Englishman.

“O, you must sail across the Atlantic, and through
the Brittish Channel, and up the Thames, and so to London,
if your home is in London?” And he looked up
inquiringly in the face of his questioner.

Mr. Frankford smiled.

“I do live there, my little fellow; and when you grow
a man, if you should ever sail across the Atlantic, and
through the British Channel, and up the Thames, and so
to London, come to my house and I will welcome you.”

Then taking from his pocket a handful of money, he
presented a crown to each of the children, telling them
to purchase a Christmas box with it, when the time came,
as he should not be there to make them presents.

Squire Romilly and his wife were spectators of this
scene; the latter, who had just placed her toast and coffee
on the table, seemed to forget they were cooling. They
looked at each other, then at their children;—a tear of
delight dimmed the eye of the mother—a smile lighted
up the benevolent features of the father. It was a happy
and proud moment in their lives; such as only is enjoyed
when we see our fond exertions crowned with success,
and feel that virtue approves the means we have taken
to secure it.

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When they were seated at the table, Mr. Frankford
inquired if it were really true that the whole population
of New England was educated.

“If by being educated,” replied the Squire, “you mean
a knowledge of reading, writing, arithmetic, grammar
and geography, or what we term a common school education,
the whole population is educated. Every child
in the New England States has the privilege of attending
our free schools; a noble institution, and unparalleled in
the annals of the world.”

“Yes,” replied the Englishman, “I have heard something
about your free schools. If I remember rightly,
you usually have one in every township.”

The parents smiled, and the children, who were attentively
listening to this conversation, were heard to titter.

“Your information,” said the Squire, “is hardly correct.
The number of free schools in a town depends on
the number of inhabitants. The towns are divided into
districts, each containing usually from twenty to sixty
children under age, or minors, as you would express it.
Every district is required, by law, to furnish a school-house;
and whenever a district becomes too populous to
allow the children to be accommodated in one building,
or by the superintendence of one teacher, it is subdivided,
on an application of the freemen of that district to the
authorities of the town, and after a vote in the affirmative
is taken on the question. We now have seven school
districts in Northwood, and in a few years shall probably
have more.”

“And do you maintain schools constantly in every
part of your town?” inquired the Englishman.

“No, not constantly in any part. Our public money,
which is raised by a tax on our polls and ratable estates,
is proportioned among the several districts; in some
towns, according to the number of scholars; in others,
of property, each district usually receiving sufficient to
support a school six months in a year. Thus every child—
the poor equally with the rich—from the ages of four
to twenty-one, have the privilege of attending school six

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months in each year. They do not all avail themselves
of the extent of this privilege; but none dare neglect it
entirely, as the person who could not at least read and
write, would almost be thought infamous. Nothing, except
gross vices, renders one so completely contemptible,
among us, as ignorance. And it is to this general diffusion
of knowledge, and the influence it possesses in moulding
the character and directing the passions, that we owe
most of the moral and political blessings we enjoy. Universal
education, sir, is the broad foundation on which
we are rearing the imperishable structure of our liberties
and national glory.”

The good Squire was now in his element, as every free
born American is when the independence and glory of
his country are the themes of discussion; and he might
have launched forth in encomiums, which the fastidious
pride of the Englishman would have styled a rhodomontade,
had he not luckily been interrupted by the hasty
entrance of Doctor Perkins.

“I have come,” said the Doctor, addressing himself to
Sidney, “commissioned to give you and your friend, Mr.
Frankford, an invitation to join our ball this evening. I
will not promise you the brilliancy of a London rout, or
a Charleston assembly; but you shall see many happy
faces, and some handsome ones, and receive a cordial
welcome from generous men, and amiable women.”

“What say you, Mr. Frankford,” said Sidney to the
Englishman, who was scrutinizing his card as if willing
to find some blunder—“shall we attend?”

“I shall not probably be able to join the festivity,” replied
he, “but I will go with pleasure, unless Deacon
Jones is to be there.”

“The Deacon!” exclaimed Perkins; “why, he would
sooner attend a levee of Pluto. But Miss Redington will
be there, and I feel in duty bound to give Sidney the
information, although I fear it will prevent him from attending.”

“Annie Redington!” cried Mrs. Romilly; “I don't
see how that should hinder Sidney from going. She is

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the best girl in the world—always so pleasant to every
one, and as industrious as if she had lived all her life in
the country, instead of being at the top of Boston.”

“Will George Cranfield join you?” inquired Sidney.

“No,” replied the Doctor; “he never dances. It is a
deference to his father's profession, which it becomes him
to pay, as he is also qualifying himself for the desk. Yet
he does not condemn dancing, when enjoyed with moderation,
and on suitable occasions.”

“He thinks with me,” said the Squire, “that there is
a time to dance. I have come to that conclusion after a
serious, and, as I believe, a candid examination of the
arguments on both sides of the question. My liberality
has drawn on me severe censures from some of my
brethren, but I cannot place my conscience in the keeping
of any mortal, however honest he may be in his
opinion. I must judge and act according to the light
imparted me, and, until I am convinced of the evil of a
practice, I shall not condemn it to gratify others.”

“Then we have your approbation for this evening's
amusement?” said Sidney.

“Certainly; and my best wishes that you may be
happy while enjoying it.”

It was soon settled they would attend; and then Doctor
Perkins departed, after enjoining it on Frankford and
Sidney to dine with him the ensuing day.

“Would you not like to walk out this morning,” said
the Squire to his son, “and look about the farm to see
what improvements we have made during your absence?”

“Yes, I should,” replied Sidney: “it is the proposal I
was just intending to make. But how will Mr. Frankford
be entertained in the meantime? If he go with us,
he will probably have to listen to pretty much such a
discourse as the deacon gave him last evening.”

“It will, at least,” said the Englishman, smiling, “be
free from religious cant. The good sense of your father
ensures me that; and I can tolerate anything better than
the puritanical zeal which exalts itself at the expense of
every social virtue and innocent enjoyment; which

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knows no pleasure save that of getting money, and
acknowledges no excellence except in a particular and
exclusive mode of faith.”

“You seem to forget,” replied the Squire, “that our
country is the only one in which liberty of conscience is
fully and perfectly enjoyed. And while no one denomination
can claim pre-eminence except what purer principles
or better arguments afford, is it a wonder each
should endeavor, as far as possible, to uphold its own
purity and truth? The discipline of our churches is
more strict, and the walk of our professors obliged to be
more circumspect, than with you; and this severity and
strictness doubtless has a tendency to nourish spiritual
pride. But where do you find excellence without a foil?
In judging of each other, we should never forget that
“Charity hopeth all things.” Charity is the virtue for
which there is no substitute: if we are deficient in that,
mene, mene, tekel, upharsin, will be written upon us. I
am of Pope's opinion:

They were now prepared for their walk. The morning
was beautiful for the season, though the night had been
cold, and the frost yet remained where the beams of the
sun had not penetrated.

“The autumn has been an extraordinary mild one,”
said the Squire: “we commonly calculate on a fall of
snow about Thanksgiving, and intend, if possible, to have
our crops gathered in, and everything snug and secured
by that time. I hurried the boys very much, fearing we
should have a storm; but it don't come yet.”

“Your winters commence early,” said the Englishman.

“And continue late,” replied the Squire. “We have
a cold climate and rough soil to contend with; but the
certainty of enjoying the fruits of their industry will
animate men to encounter and overcome almost every
obstacle. We labor hard, sir but we labor for ourselves;

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and Sidney will, I presume, acknowledge there is some
difference between voluntary and forced exertion.”

“Yes, indeed,” replied Sidney. “I recollect perfectly
well, when I first went to the South and saw the slaves
at labor, I used to think my father would never allow his
workmen to be so idle; and many times have I wanted
to show them how to work; but their implements were
so uncouth, I could not blame them entirely.”

As they passed the farm yard, they saw Harvey busily
employed in driving forth the cows, that they might
obtain a scanty supply of food from the adjoining field.

To some inquiries of Frankford's, the Squire observed
he did not keep a great number of cattle.

“My usual number,” said he, “is about twenty head
of horned cattle, two horses and a flock of sheep. Some
of my neighbors winter a much larger stock; but I do
not intend any shall have a better one. I always take
care to winter no more than I can feed well, and by that
means my oxen are able to do much more work, and my
cows give double the quantity of milk they would do if
poorly fed. But I will not tire you,” he continued, turning
to Frankford with a smile, “by relating all my history
at one time. I am more fortunate than Deacon
Jones. As you stay longer with me, I shall be able to
communicate it by degrees, and thus save you from being
entirely overcome.”

As he concluded, Harvey, mounted on a high-spirited
colt, galloped past them, and rode a little distance to open
a gate for his flock. “That boy rides like a Cossack,”
said Frankford. “I should think it dangerous, however,
to allow him such a pastime.”

“His mother is of your opinion,” said the Squire;
“but I tell her if we run no risk, we can expect no reward.
Courage and skill are not to be taught by lectures,
Mr. Frankford; they must be acquired by practice, and
improved by braving danger; and the younger we begin
our lessons the better. An axe, a horse and a gun, were
among the first indulgences my boys coveted; and I

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always gratified them when reason did not absolutely
forbid. My wife says I have often violated prudence.”

In such conversation they beguiled their walk, till
they had proceeded about half a mile, and reached a
brook, as we call it; but which in Europe would have
been dignified with the name of a river.

This brook, issuing from the pond Sidney had so much
admired, and taking an easterly course, watered the fields
on the south of the village, and formed a strip of meadow
land which only wanted better cultivation to be very
productive.

The land on the opposite side of the stream had never
(to use the phrase of the country) been cleared; and
black alders, and evergreens, intermingled with berry-bearing
bushes, hung over the water, and extended back
some distance till they were met by taller trees. These
soon thickening to a forest, stretched away to the base
of a mountain, whose broken ridges and unequal eminences,
now softened with a covering of shrubbery, and
now rearing their bold and rocky foreheads to the clouds,
bounded the horizon of the village, and seemed to forbid
access from that quarter.

Along this brook, which the heavy rains usually preceding
winter in North America had swelled to a rapid
stream, Squire Romilly now proceeded. There was nothing
apparent to excite or gratify curiosity, and Frankford
more than once wondered why such a route had
been chosen. But the Squire had a motive. He wished
to discover whether Sidney would recollect a place in
the stream, where he had once narrowly, and, as it were,
providentially, escaped drowning. Nothing had been
mentioned of the circumstance, and when they came opposite
the spot, which, ever since the accident, had gone
by the name of the “deep holes,” Squire Romilly paused
and entered into conversation with the Englishman, to
allow Sidney full time for the examination of the scene.

The incidents which befall us in childhood and youth,
are well and long remembered; and it is then the habits
and principles, which through life influence our actions

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and determine our characters, are almost always imbibed.

In childhood the seed is sown; its growth may be
stinted by circumstances; its maturity retarded by situation;
its fruit materially altered by culture; yet it will
still partake, in a degree, the qualities and flavor of its
original stock.

Here was the spot where Sidney, when snatched from
the water, had kneeled to thank God for sending him
rescue; and here his father had often, during the absence
of his son, retired to meditate on the goodness which had
then so singularly interposed, and strengthen his faith
that the same Providence was still watchful and able to
preserve his child though plunged in the chilling stream
of affliction, or hurried away by the more dangerous,
because insidious current of pleasure.

Squire Romilly had never made or allowed any alterations
in this spot, and he could not doubt but Sidney
must recollect it.

He did so, but the emotions and train of thought it
wakened, were too painful for communication; and turning
from his father and Frankford, he stood silent with
his eyes fixed on the stream. He thought of the feelings
he had there experienced; the wild terror, the struggle
for life, the agony when the remembrance of his mother,
and how she would weep, came over him; and then he
shrieking called on his father: he knew not that he was
near, but his father came and snatched him from the
waters!

Oh! the joy to escape from death! and his father held
him to his breast, and he felt the warm tears bedew his
cheek.

He remembered, too, how, while he was endeavoring
to thank that kind parent, his father interrupted him
and bade him thank God, for He it was who had preserved
him. Then his father kneeled and he with him,
and he remembered how he there mentally promised
never to forget the Being his father adored with such
gratitude.

[figure description] Page 123.[end figure description]

But he had forgotten Him, and there arose in his mind
confused images of many scenes in which he had participated,
that his father's prudence and piety would have
condemned; and he dreaded, so powerful is conscience
when first awakened, to meet his eye, lest its expression
should convey a reproach that the life he thus preserved
had been devoted to folly.

There is a sacredness in the emotions of early piety,
for gratitude to God is piety, which hallows its recollections
even to the heart which has been enervated by
pleasure, or hardened by an intimacy with selfishness
and vice; and Sidney, while his mind wandered backward
and dwelt on the innocent and happy days of his
childhood, was tempted to wish he had then resigned his
life; even then when his spirit would have returned to
heaven pure as when breathed by the goodness of his
Creator.

“That stream interests you much,” said Frankford.
“I should think it recalled recollections similar to the
pond that we passed in our way hither.”

Sidney raised his head—his eye met his father's;—
there was something in its expression which seemed to
say,—

“My son, is your heart yet pure? Can you still,
when in danger, look confidently to Him who must save,
or you will perish forever?”

“This spot,” said Sidney, striving to speak cheerfully,
“has not much claim to my admiration, although a deep
place in my memory. It was here when, about nine
years old, in attempting to swim I once went beyond my
depth, and should not now have related the story had
not my father unexpectedly come to my aid.”

“Yet it was not to me I told you to ascribe the favor,”
said his father, watching with anxiety his son's varying
countenance.

“Am I certain it was a favor?” returned Sidney. “I
have sometimes thought long life was not greatly to be
desired.”

“To those who improve it as they ought, it is

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undoubtedly a blessing. I have lived nearly fifty years,
and never did one pass without bringing comforts and
mercies in its train; and not one that I cannot reflect on
with satisfaction and gratitude,” said the Squire.

“Then the fault must be mine, I suppose,” returned
Sidney; “but I confess I have, even in my short career,
at times thought life was a dear purchase, and that those
only who were fools or cowards coveted it.”

“I fear, my son,” replied the affectionate father, while
the tears of parental concern filled his eyes, “I fear your
acquaintance with the world has not contributed to your
happiness.”

“Do you think, sir,” inquired the Englishman, “that
an acquaintance with the world, as it is termed, that is,
with its follies and vices, is ever productive of happiness?
Some philosophers have asserted that man can be happy
only in proportion to his removal from a civilized state,
and that of all nations now existing, the savage are the
best entitled to pretend to innocence and happiness.”

“And I wish,” replied the Squire, “that all such philosophers
were compelled to test the truth of their theories
by an actual residence of a few years with the people
they so much admire.”

The subject of conversation had changed, and neither
Sidney nor his father seemed disposed to renew it. Leaving
the brook, therefore, they walked on in silence, and,
ascending a rising ground, passed a very large thrifty-looking
orchard, when Squire Romilly interrupted the
meditations of his guests, by descanting on the goodness
and quantity of fruit it produced, assuring them that,
“take one year with another, he made forty barrels of
cider; and,” continued he, “the cider I sell, or the greater
portion,—five or six barrels of cider, with plenty of homebrewed
beer, and my wife's currant wine, are all the
liquors we use in our family, and all we find necessary
to enable us to support fatigue, or enjoy a social visit of
our friends.

After walking a little farther, they reached an eminence
which the Squire told them commanded a view of his

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whole farm, and indeed most of the neighborhood, and
they turned to examine the prospect.

Before and below them lay the village, with its irregular
buildings, of all sizes, shapes and colors, which the
owners thereof could devise or obtain, each wishing to
give some distinguishing characteristic to his own dwelling.
Above all, rose the meeting-house, with its towering
spire and cunning fish, catching a brilliancy from the
morning beams, which every inhabitant of the briny
deep might have envied.

North and south stretched the cultivated fields of the
villagers, all now brown and seared; but from their situation,
and the degree of cultivation they exhibited, there
was no doubt but they well rewarded their owners for
the industry which had thus made the harvests wave on
the site of the wilderness.

And to the honor of this little community, most of
whom were farmers, it shall be recorded, that nearly all
the stumps—I wish I could write all—were removed. It
is the appearance of these stumps which, to the eye accustomed
to the neatness of European cultivation, particularly
the English, so much disfigures the scenery
throughout most of New England, and, indeed, of all
North America. But in this pleasant village, the stumps
had disappeared, and the stones, too, had been mostly
removed, and used in forming enclosures around the
fields. Many cattle and sheep were scattered over these
fields, picking a scanty meal from the withered herbage,
and their unsatisfied hunger keeping them continually
shifting their places, gave to the scene an appearance of
animation and interest which Frankford remarked with
admiration.

“Why, yes,” said the Squire, “those cattle stirring so,
make everything look alive. And, indeed, I think men
never appear more happy or more honorable than when
surrounded by their natural dependents, those animals
which are willingly subjected to their sway, and glad to
receive protection from them. Their brethren are not
thus easily subdued.”

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

“And yet,” said the Englishman, “there are, in your
free country, human beings, brothers I suppose you would
call them, in a condition which degrades them to a level
with yonder brutes.”

“I acknowledge it,” returned the Squire, “and I feel
it is a stain on our national character, and none could
more heartily rejoice to see the evil removed. But the
sin of introduction, Mr. Frankford, is not on the Americans.
They did not wish it; indeed they zealously opposed
it. It was forced upon them by Great Britain,
whose colonies we then were; and Englishmen should
not reproach us with the system of slavery, when the
power of England alone effected its introduction.”

The good Squire spoke with warmth, and in an elevation
of tone he seldom used. Frankford carelessly replied.

“Your statements are undoubtedly true, yet your
southern planters seem willing enough to continue the
system. I presume they find it a very useful and convenient
thing, and doubt not it would require a much
greater exertion of power to suppress slavery than it did
to introduce it.”

“And of necessity it must,” said the Squire. “We
all know that habits, when once formed, even though
they may have been adopted with reluctance or aversion,
are often thought necessary to our happiness and sometimes
to our existence. It is this principle in human nature
which should make us very sedulous to guard our
hearts and lives from the approaches of evil. I have no
doubt many of the slave-holders would rejoice to have
the southern states entirely freed from slaves, and cultivated
in the same manner we Yankees do at the north.
They cannot be blind to the evils of the system—they
certainly are not blind to its dangers; but the difficulty
is to provide a remedy. I have thought much on the
subject, especially since Sidney's residence at the south,
and I own I do not see how the masters can, at present,
do better by their slaves than treat them humanely; but
I hope and pray the time may come when they can be

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emancipated without danger to themselves or the country.”

“You may hope, but do you seriously believe such a
time will ever come in this country?”

“I do,” replied the Squire, firmly.

“When?”

“Times and seasons are known only to the Most High.”

“It is very easy to prophesy a good time coming, and
leave it for Providence to bring about,” said Frankford,
dryly. “Now the British people and parliament are in
earnest; our West India slaves will soon be freed,
whether the right time has come or not.”

“Well, try the experiment. We may learn something
from its workings, though I do not anticipate any favorable
results to the cause of freedom and humanity from
such a step,” said the Squire.

p561-133

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