Ben was delighted. He knew by experience the power of strong contrasts,—for the whole life of a seaman is made up of them,—and that nothing could have made the island seem so much like home to Sally, as there finding safety when in danger, and warmth when shivering with cold.
They now went over the house together; and Sally made Ben completely happy by telling him she would have been thankful for a house not half so good. We see in this well-matched and hardy pair the representatives of those who laid broad and deep the foundations of our free institutions, and whose strength was in their homes.
They flung themselves with alacrity upon these hardships, which were to procure for them a heritage of their own,—the product of their own energies,—confident in their own resources, and the protection of that Being whom they had been educated to believe helps those who help themselves.
They were now on an island, in the stormy Atlantic, six miles from the nearest land, which, with the exception of a little strip of grass along the beach, was an unbroken forest.
Here they had commenced married life, in the face of a long, hard winter.
It may seem to many of our readers idle to talk about happiness in relation to people in such circumstances. They, perhaps judging from their own feelings, wonder how they could pass their time.
In the first place, they had health and strength, were not troubled with dyspepsia, and hence did not look at life through green spectacles. They took pride in overcoming obstacles, and feeling that they were equal to the emergency. They had plenty to do from the time they rose in the morning till they went to bed at night; not a moment to brood over and dread difficulties; and a June day was too short for all they found to do in it. Finally, they loved each other, had an object to look forward to, had never known any of those things which are considered by many as necessary to happiness, and thus neither pined after nor missed them.
Sally had plenty of bed-clothes, which she had made herself; also beautiful table-cloths and towels of linen, figured, that she had spun, woven, and bleached; and tow towels, coarse sheets, and table-cloths for every day. One little looking-glass, about six inches by eight in size, graced the wall, with a comb-case, made of pasteboard, hanging below it. They had one really beautiful piece of furniture, which her father had brought from England—a mahogany secretary, with book-cases and drawers, and inlaid with different kinds of wood, contrasting strangely with the rough logs against which it rested. They had chairs with round posts, and bottoms made of ash-splints; mugs, bowls, a tea-pot, and pitchers of earthen ware; and pewter plates, from the largest platter to the smallest dishes and porringers; also an iron skillet. Ben had a shoe-maker’s bench, awls and lasts, and quite a good set of carpenter’s tools.
Sally now put all the earthen and new pewter ware upon the dressers, which made quite a show.
“I declare, Ben, I’ve forgotten my candle-moulds, and we’ve got no light. Here’s a lamp, but not a drop of oil or wick in it.”