A NEW ENGLAND HOME.
I knew I had an uncle living in the State of New Hampshire, whom I had
not seen since I was twelve years of age--he having visited us at that
time. He was my mother's only brother, and to him I decided to go. I
once thought of going to aunt Patience, but finally gave up the idea. I
retained a very distinct recollection of my uncle. I remembered that he
and my mother had strongly resembled each other, although he was ten
years her senior. When quite young he had married a very worthy woman,
and their union was blessed by two children, a son and daughter; but
they had laid them both in the grave at an early age; therefore they
were now childless. I had never seen my aunt, but my heart turned toward
them, and my resolution was soon taken to visit them. They resided about
three miles from the village of Littleton, in New Hampshire.
The only obstacle in the way of my wishes was the long journey from
Philadelphia to New Hampshire. I felt reluctant to undertake so long a
journey alone. This obstacle was unexpectedly removed by the arrival of
a Mr. and Mrs. Egmont, from the State of Ohio; they were relatives of
Mrs. Burnside, and were journeying to the Eastern States, to visit some
friends who resided there. Mr. Burnside mentioned to them my desire to
visit my uncle in New Hampshire, and they gladly consented that I should
accompany them on their journey. As they intended remaining but a few
days in Philadelphia, I was obliged to hasten the preparations for my
departure.
I could not but observe the hand of a kind Providence in directing Mr.
and Mrs. Egmont to visit Philadelphia at this particular time.
On the evening preceding my departure I paid a farewell visit to the
graves of my parents, and I shed some very bitter tears when I reflected
that I might never again stand by this loved spot. I exacted a promise
from Mrs. Burnside that, should any of the Leightons make enquiries
concerning me, she would not inform them of my destination.
We left Philadelphia at a very early hour the next morning, and, after
a very long and somewhat tedious journey, arrived in safety at the busy
village of Littleton. Mr. Egmont conducted me to an hotel till he could
make the necessary enquiries for finding my uncle. I knew he resided
about three miles from the village, but was unable to say in what
direction. Mrs. Egmont invited me to accompany them to their friends,
who lived in the village, and rest before seeking my uncle; but, as I
had arrived so near the termination of my journey, I wished to reach the
home of my uncle without further delay. After accompanying Mrs. Egmont
to their friends, Mr. Egmont returned to the hotel, where I awaited him.
I was seated near a window, in the sitting-room, and heard him making
enquiries of one and another for Mr. Wayland my uncle. No one seemed to
know anything of the person he sought. As the landlord passed that way,
he turned to him and enquired if he knew a farmer in that vicinity by
the name of Wayland? He replied that, having resided only for a short
time in Littleton, his acquaintance did not, as yet, extend beyond the
limits of the village, and that he knew of no such person. I was
beginning to fear that my uncle had removed to some other place, as I
had not heard anything from him for a considerable time, when a
ragged-looking boy, apparently about twelve years of age, made his way
up to Mr. Egmont, and said--
"I can tell you where Mr. Wayland lives. He lives about three miles from
here, on the Waterford Road. I knows you see, for I worked for him this
fall, pickin' pertaters."
Giving the boy a piece of silver as he thanked him for his information,
Mr. Egmont came to inform me that, when I had partaken of the dinner he
had ordered for me, he would accompany me to the home of my uncle.
The lad before mentioned had given Mr. Egmont so accurate a
description of my uncle's residence that, when we came in view of the
square, old-fashioned farm-house, described by the boy, we at once knew
it to be my uncle's home. As we came in sight of the house, the
question--how will they receive me?--arose in my mind; but the
recollection which I retained of my uncle was of so pleasing a character
that I had little doubt of meeting with a cordial welcome. As we drew
near, I observed an elderly-looking man in the yard, engaged in mending
some farming implement. From the appearance of the place, it seemed that
the front entrance was but little used, the front door and blinds being
closely shut. I was at that time wholly unacquainted with the habits and
customs of country people. As we drove up to the gate, the man I had
before observed, paused in his employment, and regarded us, as I
thought, with no little surprise. Surely, thought I, this man cannot be
my uncle Wayland. At the time of his visit to my mother he was a young
and fine-looking man; but the man I now beheld was bowed as it were by
age, and his hair was nearly white. I should have remembered that since
I had seen him he had laid both of his loved children in the grave. True
it is that sorrow causes premature old age; but, upon a second look at
his countenance, I could clearly trace his resemblance to my mother. His
eyes, when he raised them to look at us, so strongly resembled hers that
my own filled with tears, which I hastily wiped away.
Alighting from the carriage, Mr. Egmont addressed my uncle, saying,--
"Have I the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Wayland?"
He replied in the affirmative, and added,--
"I know not whether or not I am addressing an old acquaintance; but your
countenance is not familiar to me."
Mr. Egmont replied,--
"I am not aware that we have ever met before; but this young lady who is
your niece, Miss Roscom, has travelled in company with myself and wife,
and I wished to leave her in your home before resigning my care of her."
My uncle seemed overjoyed at seeing me. He assisted me to alight, and
embraced me with true affection. He immediately conducted me into the
house, and introduced me to my aunt. She was a middle-aged,
kindly-looking woman; and I also received from her a cordial welcome to
their home. They invited Mr. Egmont to remain till after tea, but he
declined, saying that he had promised to return to their friends as soon
as possible. After some conversation with my uncle and aunt, they
advised me to retire to my room and seek rest, after the fatigues of my
long journey; and I gladly followed my aunt up the stairs, to a neat
bed-room, tastefully furnished. I was weary both in body and mind, and,
lying down upon my bed, I soon sank into a sound sleep. When I awoke,
daylight was rapidly fading before the shadows of evening. I hastened
down stairs, fearful that I had kept my uncle and aunt waiting for their
tea. I enquired of my aunt if such were the case? She replied saying,--
"I gave the hired men their supper at the usual hour, but your uncle and
I have waited to take our tea with you."
Can it be possible, thought I, that they take their meals with their
hired servants? I had yet to learn the different usages of life in the
city of Philadelphia and in a farm-house in the New England States. I
wisely said nothing to my aunt of what was passing in my mind. Tea being
over, we passed the remainder of the evening in social conversation. We
had much to say, mutually of family matters. I told them many
particulars connected with the death of my mother, of which I had never
informed them by letter. They also told me much concerning their
deceased children. Their son had died at the age of fifteen. As he had a
decided taste for books, my uncle intended giving him an education,
instead of training him to the life of a farmer. For a year previous to
his death he attended school in Massachusetts. Returning home to spend
his vacation, his parents thought his health was impaired, but
attributed it to hard study, for he was naturally studious. They were
hopeful that relaxation from study, with exercise in the open air, would
soon restore him to his usual health. But their hopes were not to be
realized; even then had death marked him for his prey; and consumption,
which was hereditary in his father's family, soon laid him in the grave.
Three months after the grave had closed over their beloved son, Walter,
their daughter, Caroline, fell a victim to a malignant fever, which at
that time prevailed in the neighborhood, and they saw her too laid in
the grave, at the early age of twelve years--thus leaving them childless
and sorrowing. We shed many tears while conversing of our mutual
sorrows; and it was quite a late hour for the simple habits of their
household when we separated for the night.