CHAPTER XII.

UNCLE LAWRENCE

A wit’s a feather, and a chief a rod, An honest man’s the noblest work of God. —Pove.

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. —Gray.

The rank is but the guinea stamp, A man’s a man for a’ that. —Burns.

The room into which Mr. Herman ushered his guests apparently occupied about half of the lower floor, and was employed indiscriminately for a kitchen, sitting-room and parlor. A huge fire-place, with a high-backed settle inside, occupied a considerable portion of one side of the apartment, the rest of the space being filled up with a cupboard to the right and a staircase to the left. There was no carpet on the floor, but the boards were scrubbed to a snowy whiteness; and a pine dough-trough which stood under one of the windows, was also as white as rubbing could make it. The whole aspect of the place indicated, in fact, the most scrupulous neatness. The good wife herself was a pattern of tidiness. Although it was not yet noon, and her day’s work, therefore, was but half over, she advanced to receive her visitors in a clean apron and cap, which, in the single minute left her for preparation, she had managed to snatch from their repose in one of her lavender-scented drawers. A cheerful, motherly face was that of Mrs. Herman, such a one as made a visitor feel at home immediately.

Her husband was of medium height and strongly built, but looked smaller than he really was, in consequence of a slight stoop which he had contracted. In sitting, however, this partial deformity added to the habitual thoughtfulness of his aspect. The head, covered with thin, patriarchal gray hair, in which a few threads of a darker color still remained, was large and squarely shaped, with a jaw indicative of a great decision of character, and expanding above into a square, solid brow, in which the reflective faculties were largely developed. It was not without meaning, so Major Gordon thought, that Kate had called him a natural-born philosopher. His face in repose looked severe to sternness, especially as age had begun to wrinkle it; but when he spoke, his blue eye brightened, and a pleasant cheerfulness, which yet rarely amounted to a smile, diffused itself over his countenance. His manner, in acknowledging his introduction to the Major, partook something of shyness. But before the interview was over, his guest decided that, though a man of reserved habits, he was nevertheless quick to observe and reflect, and that a warm heart beat within his bosom, full of genial benevolence to his race, and glowing with sweet domestic affections.

“I declare,” said his good dame, dusting a split-bottomed chair, which Major Gordon thought already clean to a miracle, and looking apologetically towards Kate, while she tendered it to the handsome officer, “if I had known anybody had been coming, I’d a had things more in sorts.”

“There, mother,” said the husband, quizzically, “Miss Katie knows you well enough not to need an apology. It’s true,” he continued, with dry humor, glancing about the scrupulously neat apartment, “if we had a shovel here, we might pitch some of the dirt out; but since that can’t be done, our friends will make the best of things, I hope, and not be too severe on us.”

“Father will talk,” said the dame, apologetically, a little disconcerted; “he’s no better, Miss Katie, than when yon left, you see.”

“No, I really come into my own house sometimes,” rejoined Mr. Herman, his eye twinkling with laughter, though still good-humoredly, “without taking off my shoes. I’d like to see the boys do it, however,” he added, with a pleasant laugh.

“Mrs. Herman makes me always ashamed of our housekeeping at Sweetwater,” said Kate, with tact.

“Don’t say that now,” replied the gratified housekeeper, whose whole face glowed with delight at the compliment, than which Kate knew no other could possibly have been more agreeable.

The conversation now became more general. After awhile, Kate said, addressing Mr. Herman by the familiar name she had been accustomed to use when a child—

“How are the deer now, Uncle Lawrence? I think I remember something of having heard, when in England, that a very severe winter had destroyed large numbers. Mr. Herman,” she continued, turning to the Major, “is the best hunter we have in all West Jersey.”

“They are getting pretty plenty again,” answered her host. “That is, for one who knows where to look for ‘em. But for others, they’re as scarce as ever. I took several loads of venison to town last winter, and got good prices—the war don’t seem to make much difference,” he added, slyly, “to the nabobs.”

“You farm this place also?” said Major Gordon, interrogatively.

“Yes! we farm a little. Enough for our own use, raising a bit of rye, a few potatoes, and some corn. The boys do most of it, though, to give them justice. We don’t want much, we simple folk,” he continued, “so that we easily manage to live on what I bring from the woods and what the boys raise. Mother there keeps us pretty well supplied with linsey-wolsey. Whenever I go to town with venison, I bring back a few nice things for her in return; and I shouldn’t wonder now, if we could look into some dark corner of her closet, if we wouldn’t find even some tea, whigs as we all are. How is it, mother? Is the tea there? And did I buy it for you, or did it come from this saucy tory, Katie.

“We get along, too, as well as the rest, so far as I can see,” continued Mr. Herman; “At least I often think so when I’m in Philadelphy. We haven’t as much money, to be sure; but then we’ve no vessels at sea, like Mr. Morris and others there I know, and can sleep soundly, in spite of storms and British frigates. Then we’ve fresher air than they can have, let them build as big houses as they will. I never cross the ferry but I don’t for awhile think the air’s pisened, for what with the vegetables rotting in the market, and the sewers that empty on the river front, the whole place smells dreadfully, leastways to a man from the woods. Before the war broke out, some of my acquaintances there, rich men, you know, used to come down here to hunt awhile, once a year. It was a sight to see ‘em eat,” he continued, with a low, chuckling laugh. “I’ve known ‘em, after a tramp in the woods all day, when there’s been no luck, sit down to a piece of cold pork, that they wouldn’t look on at home, and eat it as if it had been the best saddle that was ever sarved up. Then, to see ‘em drink our water! When they’ve had a hot run in the woods, they’d kneel right down by the side of the road, and lap up like a dog the water running from a cedar-swamp; and they’ve told me they never drank Madeery, not Port, that was half as good.”

“Yours is the true philosophy,” said Major Gordon, “and the world would be all the better if there were more who followed it. I confess,” he continued, turning to Kate, “that there is an independence and content about it, which strongly tempts a soldier.”

“Yet yours is a grand profession,” said Uncle Lawrence, “at least in times like these. The trade of a soldier is the meanest alive; think of the Hessians coming over to murder at so much a day; but when a man takes up arms for his country, and to drive out an invader, he’s doing a brave deed.” And the old man’s eye gleamed. “I was out in the Trenton campaign myself, for that was a time when even age couldn’t excuse staying at home, unless to them as were tired of liberty. I’ve one son now in the army, and another will ‘list as soon as he’s big enough, if it’s the Lord’s will,” and he looked up reverently, “that the war should last that long.”

In similar conversation nearly an hour passed, by which time the rain ceased, and the sun shone out again brightly: and Kate now rose to go. As she stood at the door, while the horses were being brought around, the birds sang merrily in the orchard, and the rain-drops sparkled in the grass.

“That’s a music I never get tired of,” said Uncle Lawrence. “It beats the best playing I ever heerd on the spinet, even Katie’s here,” and his face relaxed as he looked at her. “Then those spangles in the grass are handsomer than any diamonds. I’ve heerd that, after one of them grand parties in town, where the music plays and jewels sparkle, that people go home worn out and often ill-humored; but I thank God that I never listen to the birds, or see the rain-drops shine in this way, without feeling glad.”

When Major Gordon, having placed Kate in the saddle, offered his hand to the old man, preparatory to mounting, Uncle Lawrence said—

“If you stay in our parts long, Major, and would like to hunt, I’ll go out with you a’most any time. I think we may be certain of a fine doe, or even a buck, if you’d rather.”

Thanking his host heartily for the offer, which was evidently a sincere one, Major Gordon bowed to the good dame, and cantered after Kate.

“What a grand specimen of an honest, simple-hearted old Nestor that is,” he said, addressing his companion, as soon as they were out of hearing.

“I knew you would like him,” answered Kate, highly pleased. “And he has taken a fancy to you, or he wouldn’t have asked you to hunt with him. Father always said, in any difficulty, ‘I wonder what Uncle Lawrence thinks,’ for though he has read few books, except his Bible, he has ten times the wisdom of many a lettered man. I don’t know what the neighborhood would do without Uncle Lawrence. He is the general peace-maker; yet no man can be firmer, when a great principle is at stake.”

“He has the air of one who could become a martyr, if need were, even to dying at the stake.”

“And he would,” said Kate, her fine eyes glistening with enthusiasm, for in this her own character sympathized with that of the old man. “He told you he was out in the Trenton campaign, but he was too modest to add that he walked to head-quarters in little more than twenty-four hours. There are few men over sixty years of age, who could or would have done that.”

The conversation continued till they parted at Sweetwater, for Major Gordon had to return to the Forks to dinner, and could not accept Mrs. Warren’s invitation to alight.