"Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief,
And the year smiles as it draws near its death:
Wind of the sunny south, O, still delay!"
BRYANT.
It was the close of one of those mild days at the end of October, that
we call the Indian summer, corresponding to the St. Martin summer of the
eastern continent, although the latter is wanting in some of the
essential elements of beauty that belong to ours.
The sun was setting in veiled and softened light, while a transparent
mist, like a silver gauze, was drawn over woods and hills and meadows.
The gorgeous robe of autumn gave to the landscape an air of festivity
and triumph, while the veil of mist, and the death-like silence, seemed
as if happy nature had been arrested in a moment of joy, and turned into
a mourner. The intense stillness pressed on the heart. No chirp of bird
or hum of insect broke the deep silence. From time to time a leaf,
"yellow and sere," loosened, as it were, by invisible fingers from the
stem, lingered a second on its way, and fell noiselessly to the earth.
In the deep distant wood, the sound of the ripe nuts as they fell, and,
at long intervals, the shrill cry of the squirrel, came to the ear, and
interrupted the revery of the solitary wanderer.
The scene I would describe was bounded on one side by high rocks and the
vast ocean, but sloping towards the land into soft and undulating
beauty. A noble river was on one side, and on the promontory thus
formed, were left some of the largest trees of the forest that covered
the whole country when our fathers first arrived. Although so near the
ocean, the scene had a character of tranquil sylvan beauty strangely
contrasted with the ocean when agitated by storms.
One of the largest villages of the time was on the opposite bank of the
river; but, as there was no bridge, the place I would describe was
almost as solitary as if man had never invaded it. The trees upon it
were the largest growth of elm and oak, and seemed left to shelter a
single dwelling, a house of moderate size, but which had much the
appearance of neatness and comfort.
A few rods from the house, and still nearer the headland, stood the
plain New England meeting-house of that period,--square, barn-like,
unpainted, solitary, but for the silent tenants of its grave-yard. A
grass-grown path connected the church with the dwelling-house, and the
overshadowing trees gave to the spot an air of protection and seclusion
unknown to modern New England churches.
At one of the windows of this modest dwelling, that looked towards the
setting sun, which now bathed the whole scene in yellow light, was a
young woman who might have seen seventeen summers. She was slightly but
well formed, and, had it not been for her fresh and radiant health, she
would have possessed that pensive, poetic expression that painters love.
She was not indeed beautiful, but hers was one of those countenances in
which we think we recall a thousand histories,--histories of the inward
life of the soul,--not the struggles of the passions; for the dove
seemed visibly to rest in the deep blue liquid eye, brooding on its own
secret fancies.
By the fire sat a gentleman whose countenance and gray hair showed that
he was approaching the verge of threescore years and ten, and his black
dress indicated his profession. His slippers and pipe presented a
picture of repose from the labors and cares of the day; and, although it
had been warm, a fire of logs burned in the large old-fashioned chimney.
The furniture of the room, though plain, and humble, had been kept with
so much care and neatness that it was seen at once that a feminine taste
had presided there, and had cherished as sacred the relics of another
age.
The occupants of the room were father and daughter. A portrait over the
fireplace, carefully guarded by a curtain, indicated that he was a
widower, and that his child was motherless.
They had both been silent for a long time. The young lady continued to
watch with apparent interest some object from the window, and the old
man to enjoy his pipe; but at last the night closed in, and the autumn
mist, rising from the river, veiled the brilliancy of the stars.
The daughter drew near the table, and seated herself by her father: her
countenance was pensive, and a low sigh escaped her.
Her father laid his hand tenderly on her head: "My poor child," he
said, "I fear your life is too solitary; your young heart yearns for
companions of your own age. True, we have few visitors suited to your
age."
Edith looked up with a smile on her lips, but there was a tear in her
eye, called there by her father's tender manner.
"And where," continued he, "is our young friend the student? It is long
since he came to get another book. I fear he is timid and sensitive, and
does not like that you should see his poor labor-swollen hands; but
_that_ he should be proud of,--far more proud than if they were soft,
like yours."
Edith blushed slightly. "Father," she said, "I want no companion but
you. Let me bring your slippers. Ah! I see Dinah has brought them while
I have been gazing idly at the river. It shall not happen again. What
book shall be our evening reading? Shall I take up Cicero again, or will
you laugh at the Knight of the rueful Countenance."
How soon is ingenuous nature veiled or denied by woman. Edith thus tried
to efface the impression of her sigh and blush, by assuming a gayety of
manner which was foreign to her usual demeanor, and which did not
deceive her father.
"We must go and find out our young friend," pursued her father. "He has
much talent, and will surely distinguish himself, and he must not be
suffered to languish in poverty and neglect. The first fine day, my
daughter, we will ride over and visit him."
Edith looked her gratitude, and the long autumn evening wore pleasantly
on.
It was at the time when slavery was common in New England. At the close
of the evening, Paul and Dinah, both Africans, entered, and the usual
family prayers were offered.
At the close of the prayer, the blacks kneeled down for their master's
blessing.
This singular custom, though not common to the times, was sometimes
practised; and those Puritans, who would not bend the knee to God except
in their closets, allowed their slaves to kneel for their own blessing.
They went to Edith, who kissed Dinah on both dark cheeks, and gave her
hand to Paul, and the family group separated each to his slumbers for
the night.
The head of the little group we have thus described was one of the most
distinguished of the early New England clergymen. He had been educated
in England, and was an excellent classical scholar; indeed, his passion
for the classics was his only consolation in the obscure little parish
where he was content to dwell.
He had been early left a widower, with this only child, and all the
affections of a tender heart had centred in her. The mildness of his
disposition had never permitted him to become either a bigot nor a
persecutor. He had been all his life a diligent student of the human
heart, and the result was tolerance for human inconsistencies, and
indulgence for human frailties.
At this time accomplishments were unknown except to those women who were
educated in the mother country; but such education as he could give his
daughter had been one of his first cares.
He had taught her to read his favorite classics, and had left the
mysteries of "shaping and hemming," knitting and domestic erudition, to
the faithful slave Dinah. Edith had grown up, indeed, without other
female influence, relying on her father's instructions, as far as they
went, and her own pure instincts, to guide her.
The solitude of her situation had given to her character a pensive
thoughtfulness not natural to her age or disposition. Solitude is said
to be the nurse of genius, but to ripen it, at least with woman, the
sunny atmosphere of love is necessary.
Genius is less of the head than of the heart: not that we belong to the
modern school who believe the passions are necessary to the developement
of genius;--far from it. The purest affections seem to us to have left
the most enduring monuments. Among a thousand others, at least with
woman, we see in Madam De Sevigne that maternal love developed all the
graces of a mind unconscious certainly of its powers, but destined to
become immortal.
Our heroine, for such we must try to make her, had grown up free from
all artificial forms of society, but yearning for associates of her own
age and sex. After her father, her affections had found objects only in
birds and animals, and the poor cottagers of one of the smallest
parishes in the country.
Living, as she did, in the midst of beautiful nature, and with the
grandeur of the ocean always before her, it could not fail to impart a
spiritual beauty, a religious elevation, to her mind that had nothing
to do with the technical distinctions of the day. Edith Grafton was
formed for gentleness and love, to suffer patiently, to submit
gracefully, to think more of others' than of her own happiness. She was
the light and joy of her father's hearth, and the idol of her faithful
slaves, and she possessed herself that "peace that goodness bosoms
ever."