Satanstoe; Or, the Littlepage Manuscripts. A Tale of the ColonyCooper, James Fenimore
General
Satanstoe; Or, the Littlepage Manuscripts. A Tale of the Colony
Cooper, James Fenimore
Antirent War, N.Y., 1839-1846 -- Fiction
My poor, confiding mother! When I look back at the past, and remember the
manner in which the Rev. Mr. Worden discharged the duties of his sacred
office during the campaign that succeeded, I cannot but smile at the manner
in which confidence manifests itself in woman. The sex has a natural
disposition to place their trusts in priests, by a very simple process of
transferring their own dispositions to the bosoms of those they believe set
apart for purely holy objects. Well, we live and learn. I dare say that
many are what they profess to be, but I have lived long enough now to know
_all_ are not. As for Mr. Worden, he had one good point about him, at
any rate. His friends and his enemies saw the worst of him. He was no
hypocrite, but his associates saw the man very much as he was. Still, I am
far from wishing to hold up this imported minister as a model of Christian
graces for my descendants to admire. No one can be more convinced than
myself how much sectarians are prone to substitute their own narrow notions
of right and wrong for the Law of God, confounding acts that are perfectly
innocent in themselves with sin; but, at the same time, I am quite aware
too, that appearances are ever to be consulted in cases of morals, and
that it is a minor virtue to be decent in matters of manners. The Rev. Mr.
Worden, whatever might have been his position as to substantial, certainly
carried the external of liberality to the verge of indiscretion.
A day or two after the conversation I have related, our party left
Satanstoe, with some _éclat_. The team belonged equally to the Follocks and
the Littlepages, one horse being the property of my father, while the
other belonged to Col. Follock. The sleigh, an old one new painted for the
occasion, was the sole property of the latter gentleman, and was consigned,
in mercantile phrase, to Dirck, in order to be disposed of as soon as we
should reach the end of our journey. On its exterior it was painted a
bright sky-blue, while its interior was of vermilion, a colour that was and
is much in vogue for this species of vehicle, inasmuch as it carries with
it the idea of warmth; so, at least, the old people say, though I will
confess I never found my toes any less cold in a sleigh thus painted, than
in one painted blue, which is usually thought a particularly cold colour to
the feet.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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