Chapter 2

Sir, I do know you;
And dare, upon the warrant of my art,
Commend a dear thing to you.

King Lear.

At the precise time when the action of our piece commences, a fine and
fruitful season was drawing to a close. The harvests of the hay and of the
smaller corns had long been over, and the younger Heathcote with his
laborers had passed a day in depriving the luxuriant maize of its tops, in
order to secure the nutritious blades for fodder, and to admit the sun and
air to harden a grain, that is almost considered the staple production of
the region he inhabited. The veteran Mark had ridden among the workmen,
during their light toil, as well to enjoy a sight which promised abundance
to his flocks and herds, as to throw in, on occasion, some wholesome
spiritual precept, in which doctrinal subtlety was far more prominent than
the rules of practice. The hirelings of his son, for he had long since
yielded the management of the estate to Content, were, without an
exception, young men born in the country and long use and much training
had accustomed them to a blending of religious exercises with most of the
employments of life. They listened, therefore, with respect, nor did an
impious smile, or an impatient glance, escape the lightest-minded of their
number, during his exhortations, though the homilies of the old man were
neither very brief, nor particularly original. But devotion to the one
great cause of their existence, austere habits, and unrelaxed industry in
keeping alive a flame of zeal that had been kindled in the other
hemisphere, to burn longest and brightest in this, had interwoven the
practice mentioned with most of the opinions and pleasures of these
metaphysical, though simple minded people. The toil went on none the less
cheerily for the extraordinary accompaniment, and Content himself, by a
certain glimmering of superstition, which appears to be the concomitant of
excessive religious zeal, was fain to think that the sun shone more
brightly on their labors, and that the earth gave forth more of its
fruits, while these holy sentiments were flowing from the lips of a father
whom he piously loved and deeply reverenced.

But when the sun, usually at that season, in the climate of Connecticut, a
bright unshrouded orb, fell towards the tree-tops which bounded the
western horizon, the old man began to grow weary with his own well-doing.
He therefore finished his discourse with a wholesome admonition to the
youths to complete their tasks before they quitted the field; and, turning
the head of his horse, he rode slowly, and with a musing air, towards the
dwellings. It is probable that for some time the thoughts of Mark were
occupied with the intellectual matter he had just been handling with so