We receive but what we give
And in our life alone does nature live.

COLERIDGE.

Mr. Armstrong was disposed to gratify his daughter, and to follow the advice of Holden. That very morning, soon after the departure of the Solitary, he accepted an invitation from Judge Bernard, to take a drive with him to one of his farms in the afternoon. Accordingly, the one-horse chaise, which was the usual vehicle in those days, of gentlemen who drove themselves, stopped, late in the day, at Armstrong’s door.

“Anne hopes,” said the Judge, as they were about to start, “that in retaliation for my capture of your father, Faith, you will come and take possession of her. For my own part, if I can bring him back with a little more color in his cheeks, I shall expect a kiss or two.”

“You shall have three, dear Judge, for every smile you can win from father,” exclaimed Faith.

The road which the gentlemen took, led, at first, after leaving the table-land on which their houses were situated, through the thickly-settled and business part of the town, at the head of the Severn, the whole of which it traversed, and then approaching the banks of the Wootuppocut, followed its windings in a direction towards its source. The country through which the river flowed presented an appearance of soft and varied beauty, the view of which, while the cool breeze across the stream fanned the fevered brain of Armstrong, ought, if anything could, to have soothed his jarring nerves, and breathed a portion of its own tranquillity into his heart. Is it not true what the sweet poet sings of Nature and her lover, that

“She glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And gentle sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware?”

The river, for the greater part of the drive, flowed through a valley, which it divided into two very unequal portions, skirting occasionally with its left bank the woods that ran quite down the sides of the hills to the water, and then winding away to the right, leaving considerable intervals of level land betwixt itself and the woods above mentioned, but, almost invariably, having still wider expanses of champaign, that gradually ascended from the stream, until it met the forest-covered hills that bounded the valley, on the right. In some instances, the woods extended on both sides down to the river, throwing an agreeable shade over the way-farers, and shedding abroad a cool, moist freshness, that brought with itself a woodland-scent, compounded of the fragrance of sassafras, and fern, and sweet-briar, and mosses, and unknown plants. Then, again the road would run for a considerable distance through an open space, unshaded by trees, to cross, a little further on, another belt of woods, thus making their darkened recesses doubly grateful from the contrast of alternating light and shade, while all along the stream murmured a soft expression of thanks for the lovely country it irrigated, for the blue sky, that mirrored itself in its bosom with floating clouds, for the sunshine sparkling on its ripples, and for the overhanging woods, and birds, that sung among the branches.

The disordered spirit of Armstrong was not insensible to the charm. He gazed round, and drank in the beauty by which he was surrounded. He scented the sweetness of the woods, and it seemed to impart an agreeable exhilaration. In the pauses of the conversation, hitherto carried on almost entirely by Judge Bernard, he listened to the monotonous, yet soothing flow of the water, and it sounded like an invitation to cast off trouble. As he listened the shooting pain in his head diminished, his thoughts became less sombre, and he surrendered himself to something like enjoyment. Very soon it seemed as if he were exerting himself to be agreeable to his companion, and to make up, by taking a more active part in the conversation, for former silence and neglect.

“This clear river,” he said, “this beautiful valley, with its quiet woods, are a blessing to me to-day. It is a pleasure to breathe the air. Has Italy bluer skies?”

“The encomiums of travellers on the skies of Italy are to be received by us with some qualification,” answered the Judge. “They are mostly written by Englishmen, and the comparison is between the humid climate of England and the drier one of Italy. This being borne in mind, the praises lavished on Italian skies are just. But as compared with ours, they can boast of little or no superiority in beauty. I have seen as gorgeous heavens in my own country as ever glorified the land of the Caesars.”

“And how is it with the landscape?”

“There we must yield to Europe. We have nothing to be compared with the grandeur of the Swiss mountains, or the combination of loveliness and magnificence around the lake of Geneva.”

“But Niagara!”

“Aye, Niagara! unequalled and alone. There can be but one Niagara.”

“And the Alleghany and White Mountains?”

“Fine scenery, but hills in comparison with the mountains of Switzerland.”

“And now for the works of man. You must have been struck by the contrast between the towns in our own country and in Europe.”

“Yes, certainly, the difference is great.”

“In what does it consist?”

“Principally in the newness of the one, and the oldness of the other. There, what one sees reminds him of the past; here, he beholds only presentiments of the future.”

“There is a great difference, I am told, and read too, in the style of building.”

“You may well say that. Here there is no style. Our houses are models of bad taste, and pretty much all alike. The time will undoubtedly come when we shall have a domestic architecture, but it will require some years before we get rid of narrow cornices, innumerable small windows, and exclusive white paint.”

“You should make allowances for us,” said Armstrong, deprecatingly. “Consider the poverty of a new country, and the material that poverty compels us to use.”

“I am willing to allow the excuse all the weight it deserves, but I cannot understand how poverty can be an excuse for bad taste, or why because wood is used, a house may not be made to have an attractive appearance. I think there are other reasons more efficacious than the plea of poverty, which can, indeed, no longer be made.”

“Come, come,” said Armstrong, “you do not love anything about us Puritans, and your objections, if politeness would allow you to speak them out plainly, would be found to contain a fling at Calvin’s children; but hearken, if I cannot find excuses to satisfy even you.”

“I shall listen eagerly, but must correct you in one thing. I not only love some things about the Puritans, but some Puritans themselves.”

“Surely, I know it. But now listen to my defence. The first settlement of the country was attended with a great many hardships. The country was colder than the immigrants were accustomed to; they arrived in the winter, and the first thing to be attended to was to secure shelter. Under these circumstances you will admit that attention to the principles of architecture was not to be expected. They knocked up houses as cheaply, and plainly, and rapidly as possible, content if they kept out wind and weather. Wood was preferred, because it was cheaper, and quicker worked. Thus lived the first generation. The condition of the second was somewhat improved; they had become accustomed to their houses and were tolerably satisfied. The third had never seen anything better, and not having the means of comparison, could not make it to their own disadvantage, and finally, as man is a creature of custom and habit, and reverence, they learned to regard a style of building that had sprung out of the necessities of their ancestors, as an evidence not only of good sense, but of good taste. The immigrants, arriving from time to time, might have disabused them, but these would naturally fall into the ways and sentiments of the people, and were their tastes ever so ambitious, probably had not the means to gratify them. This is the origin, and thus is to be explained the continuance of American architecture.”

“An architecture,” said the Judge, “that would have driven a Greek out of his senses. But though I will not quarrel with you about its origin, does not its perpetuation for so long a time affect the character of our countrymen for taste?”

“It will pass away,” said Armstrong, gloomily, “and with it the stern virtues that are of more importance than a trifle like this.”

“There can be no connection between an improvement in architecture, and a deterioration of morals.”

“Prosperity brings wealth, and wealth is the means to gratify the caprices of luxury and taste. Perhaps, at some future day when stone and marble shall have susperseded wood and brick; and magnificent Grecian and Gothic temples, resplendent in stained glass, taken the places of the humble, unpretentious meeting-houses, the thoughtful and judicious will sigh for those times of primitive simplicity, when an humble heart was more than an ostentatious offering, and God’s word was listened to devoutly on hard seats instead of being dozed over in cushioned pews.”

“You are becoming gloomy, Armstrong,” said the Judge. “This will never do. Progress, man, progress I tell you is the word. The world is improving every day. Banish these sick fancies.”

Armstrong shook his head. “I envy you,” he said, “your hopeful and joyous spirit, while I know you are mistaken.”

“Well, well, my friend, I wish I could give you a portion of it. But to come back to where we started from. After finding so much fault, it is time to praise. However we may ridicule the ugliness of our houses, this much must be admitted in favor of our villages and country towns, that in cleanliness and an appearance of substantial comfort, they infinitely surpass their rivals in Europe. I do not except the villages in England. Who can walk through one of our New England country towns, where majestic elms throw their shadows over spacious streets, and the white rose clambers over the front doors of the neat, white painted houses, standing back a rod or two from the street with gardens stretching behind, while Peace and Plenty bless the whole, and not be grateful for a scene so fair, for a land so fortunate!”

They had now arrived in sight of the Judge’s farm-house, which stood at some distance from the main road, from which a lane planted on both sides with maples, led to it. As they drove along the Judge pointed out the changes he had made since he became the owner.

“When I purchased the property,” he said, “the house looked very differently. It was stuck full of little insignificant windows that affected me like staring eyes; its two or three inches of cornice stole timidly out, as if ashamed of itself, over the side, and the whole wore an awkward and sheepish air. It made me uncomfortable every time I looked at it, and I resolved upon an alteration. So I shut up half the windows, and increased the size where I could, and threw out a cornice, which, besides the merit of beauty, has the practical advantage (that is the national word, I believe) of acting as an umbrella to protect the sides against the mid-day heat of the sun in summer, and the storms in winter. Besides, I added the veranda, which runs nearly the whole length of the front.”

“I confess it is an improvement upon the ancestral style,” said Armstrong.

“I expected the acknowledgment from your natural taste, which is excellent,” said the Judge laughing, “except when corrupted by traditional prejudices. I must take care of my horse myself, I suspect,” he added, as they drove up to the door: “the men are probably all in the fields. He will stand, however, well enough under this shed.” So saying, and after Armstrong had alighted at the door, he drove the horse under a shed, near the barn, and fastened him; then joining Armstrong, the two entered the house.

“La, Judge!” said Mrs. Perkins, the farmer’s wife who received them, smoothing down her check apron, “you take us by surprise to-day. We didn’t expect you, and the men-folks is all in the lot. Didn’t you find your ride very warm?”

“Not very; and if it had been, the pleasure of seeing you, Mrs. Perkins, would more than compensate for any annoyance from the heat.”

“You are so polite, Judge,” replied Mrs. Perkins, simpering. “I declare you are equal to a Frenchman.”

With all his French education, this was a remark the Judge would have been willing to dispense with; however on the French principle of considering that as a compliment, the meaning of which is equivocal, he bowed and introduced Mr. Armstrong.

Mrs. Perkins courtesied. “She’d heard,” she said, “of Mr. Armstrong, and that he had the handsomest daughter, in the town of Hillsdale.”

“It is your turn now,” whispered the Judge. “Let me see how you will acquit yourself.”

But Armstrong was not a man for compliments.

“Faith looks as well as young ladies generally I believe,” he said.

Mrs. Perkins did not like to have her pretty speech received with so much indifference, so she answered,

“I was, perhaps, too much in a hurry when I called Squire Armstrong’s daughter, the handsomest: I forgot Anne, and she’s a right to be, sence she’s got her father’s good looks.”

“Dear Mrs Perkins, you overwhelm me!” exclaimed the Judge, bowing still lower than before. “I think higher than ever of your taste.”

“Ah! You’re poking fun at me, me now,” said Mrs. Perkins, hardly knowing how to receive the acknowledgment. “But wouldn’t you like to take something after your ride?”

Those were not the days of temperance societies, and it would have been quite secundum regulas, had the gentlemen accepted the offer as intended by their hostess. The Judge looked at Armstrong, who declined, and then turning to Mrs. Perkins said,

“The strawberry season is not over, I believe”

“Oh! I can give you strawberries and cream,” interrupted the hospitable Mrs. Perkins.

“And would you be so kind as to give them to us in the veranda? The sun does not shine in, and it will be pleasanter in the open air.”

“Sartainly. Eliza Jane!” she cried, elevating her voice and speaking through an open door to one of her little daughters, with a blooming multitude of whom Providence had blessed her,

“Eliza Jane, fetch two cheers into the piazza. That piazza, Judge, is one of the grandest things that ever was. The old man and me and the children, take ever so much comfort in it.”

“I am glad you like it. But we will spare your daughter the trouble of taking out the chairs, and carry them ourselves.”

“Not for the world, Judge, for I think it’s best to make children useful.”

Accordingly Eliza Jane brought the chairs, and the mother retiring with her, soon returned with the little girl, bearing in her hands a tray containing the strawberries and cream. The Judge kissed the child, and gave her a half dollar to buy a ribbon for her bonnet.

“I do declare Judge!” cried the mother, whose gratified looks contradicted the language, “you’ll spoil Eliza Jane.”

“A child of yours cannot be spoiled, Mrs. Perkins,” said the Judge, “as long as she is under your eye. With your example before her, she is sure to grow up a good and useful woman.”

“Well, I try to do my duty by her,” said Mrs. Perkins, “and I don’t mean it shall be any fault of mine, if she ain’t.”

It was nearly sunset by the time the gentlemen had finished, when the Judge proposed to visit a piece of wood he was clearing at no great distance from the house. Armstrong acquiesced, and they started off, Mrs. Perkins saying, she should expect them to stop to tea.

Their route lay through some woods and in the direction of the Wootuppocut, on whose banks the clearing was being made. As they approached, they could hear, more and more distinctly, the measured strokes of an axe, followed soon by the crash of a falling tree. Then, as they came still nearer, a rustling could be distinguished among the leaves and the sound of the cutting off of limbs. And now they heard the bark of a dog, and a man’s voice ordering him to stop his noise.

“Keep still, Tige!” said the voice. “What’s the use of making such a racket? I can’t hear myself think. I say stop your noise! shut up!”

“It is Tom Gladding, whom Perkins hired to make the clearing, one of the best wood-choppers in the country. It is wonderful with what dexterity he wields an axe.”

As the Judge uttered these words, the two gentlemen emerged from the wood into the open space, denuded of its sylvan honors, by the labors of Gladding.

The clearing (as it is technically termed), was perhaps a couple of acres in extent, in the form of a circle, and surrounded on all sides by trees, only a narrow strip of them, however, being left on the margin of the river, glimpses of which were caught under the branches and the thin undergrowth. A brook which came out of the wood, ran, glistening in the beams of the setting sun, and singing on its way across the opening to fall into the Wootuppocut. The felled trees had been mostly cut into pieces of from two to four feet in length, and collected into piles which looked like so many altars scattered over the ground. Here it was intended they should remain to dry, during the summer, to be ready for a market in the fall.

“So it’s you, Judge and Mr. Armstrong,” exclaimed Gladding as the two came up. “I guessed as much, that somebody was coming, when I heard Tige bark. He makes a different sort of a noise when he gits on the scent of a rabbit or squirrel.”

“I dare say, Tiger knows a great deal more than we fancy,” said the Judge. “Why, Gladding you come on bravely. I had no idea you had made such destruction.”

“When I once put my hand to the work,” said Tom, laughing, “down they must come, in short metre, if they’re bigger than Goliah. Me and my axe are old friends, and we’ve got the hang of one another pretty well. All I have to do, is to say, ‘go it,’ and every tree’s a goner.”

After this little bit of vanity, Tom, as if to prove his ability to make good his boast by deeds, with a few well-directed blows, that seemed to be made without effort, lopped off an enormous limb from the tree he had just cut down.

“I’ve heard tell,” said Tom, continuing his employment of cutting off the limbs, “that the Britishers and the Mounseers don’t use no such axes as ourn. You’ve been across the Big Pond, and can tell a fellow all about it.”

“It is true, they do not. The European axe is somewhat differently shaped from your effective weapon.”

“The poor, benighted critturs!” exclaimed Tom, in a tone of commiseration. “I saw one of them Parleyvoos once, try to handle an axe, and I be darned, if he didn’t come nigh cutting off the great toe of his right foot. If he hadn’t been as weak as Taunton water that, folks say, can’t run down hill as all them outlandish furriners is, and had on, to boot, regular stout cowhiders, I do believe he’d never had the chance to have the gout in one toe, anyhow. Why, I’d as soon trust a monkey with a coal of fire, in a powder-house, as one of them chaps with an axe.”

“We have the best axes, and the most skillful woodmen in the world,” said the Judge, not unwilling to humor the harmless conceit of the wood-chopper.

“It’s plaguy lucky we have, seeing as how we’ve got so many thousands and thousands of acres to clear up,” said Tom, with a sort of confused notion, that the skill of his countrymen was a natural faculty not possessed by “furriners.” “But, Judge,” he added, “I’m astonished at your cutting down the trees at this season of the year, and it kind o’ goes agin my conscience to sling into ’em.”

“I know what you mean. You think they ought not to be cut when the sap is rising. I suppose, the fire-wood is not so good?”

“Not half. Turn the thing as you choose, and you’ll see you’re wrong. In the first place, the wood ain’t nigh as good; then, you lose the growth the whole summer, and, lastly, you take away a fellow from business that’s more profitable.”

“How?” said the Judge. “Do I not give you full wages? Can you get higher wages elsewhere?”

“No fault to find with the pay,” answered Tom; “that’s good enough. But, that ain’t the idée. What I’m at is, that when I work, I like to see something useful come to pass. Now, every time I strike a blow, it seems to go right to my heart; for, I says to myself, this ain’t no season for cutting wood. The Judge don’t understand his own interest, and he’s only paying me for injuring him.”

Judge Bernard was too well-acquainted with the honest independence of Gladding to be offended at his uncomplimentary frankness. Nor, indeed, looking at it from Tom’s point of view, could he avoid feeling a certain respect for that right-mindedness, which regarded not merely the personal remuneration to be received, but, also, the general benefit to be produced. He laughed, therefore, as he replied

“You do not seem to set much value on my judgment, Gladding. Perhaps, I have objects you do not see.”

“It ain’t to be expected,” said Tom, “and it ain’t rational to suppose, that a man, who, when he was young, spent his time travelling over all creation, and then when he come home, took to the law, should know much about these matters; though, I guess you know as much as most folks, who ain’t been brought up to ’em. But, as you say, it’s likely you’ve got reasons of your own, as plenty as feathers in a bed, and I’ve been talking like most folks whose tongues is too long, like a darned fool.”

“You are too hard on yourself, now. But, for your consolation, we will stop to-day with this piece of work, and you shall not be pained to cut down any more trees out of season. The clearing is as large as I wish it, and we will see to the burning of the brush, when it is drier. But, where is Mr. Armstrong?”

Armstrong, at the commencement of the conversation, had strayed away by himself, and sat down by one of the altar-like piles of wood, near the margin of the brook. Here he leaned his head on his hand, and seemed lost in meditation. He was in this posture when the exclamation was made by the Judge, who, on looking round, discovered the missing man, and immediately advanced toward him. So deep was his abstraction, that it was not until his friend’s hand rested on his shoulder that he was aware of the other’s presence. He arose, and the two retraced their steps together. The sun, by this time, had sunk behind the horizon, and, as they passed, Gladding threw his axe on his shoulder and joined their company.

“I’m glad,” said the wood-chopper, as they stepped out of the clearing, and turned to look back upon what he had accomplished, “that job’s done, and I can turn my hand to something else more like summer work.”

“Do you mean to proceed no further with your chopping?” inquired Armstrong.

“Not at present. All has been done that I desired, and I ought to respect Gladding’s conscientious scruples.”

Armstrong looked inquiringly from one to the other, but asked no question.

The hospitable invitation of Mr. and Mrs. Perkins was too pressing to be resisted, and it was not until the full moon had risen, that the gentlemen departed. The soft beauty of the delicious evening, or some other cause, exercised an influence over Armstrong, that disposed him to silence and meditation, which his companion perceiving, they returned home without exchanging scarcely a dozen words.