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The May Flower
and
Miscellaneous Writings
By Harriet Beecher Stowe
AUTHOR OF "UNCLE TOM'S CABIN," "SUNNY MEMORIES OF FOREIGN LANDS," ETC.
BOSTON:
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,
13 WINTER STREET
1855.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON, AND COMPANY,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.
STEREOTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY.
[Illustration: Truly Yours, H B Stowe]
INTRODUCTION.
Mr. G. B. Emerson, in his late report to the legislature of
Massachusetts on the trees and shrubs of that state, thus describes
The May Flower.
"Often from beneath the edge of a snow bank are seen rising the
fragrant, pearly-white or rose-colored flowers of this earliest
harbinger of spring.
"It abounds in the edges of the woods about Plymouth, as elsewhere, and
must have been the first flower to salute the storm-beaten crew of the
Mayflower on the conclusion of their first terrible winter. Their
descendants have thence piously derived the name, although its bloom is
often passed before the coming in of May."
No flower could be more appropriately selected as an emblem token by the
descendants of the Puritans. Though so fragrant and graceful, it is
invariably the product of the hardest and most rocky soils, and seems to
draw its ethereal beauty of color and wealth of perfume rather from the
air than from the slight hold which its rootlets take of the earth. It
may often be found in fullest beauty matting a granite lodge, with
scarcely any perceptible soil for its support.
What better emblem of that faith, and hope, and piety, by which our
fathers were supported in dreary and barren enterprises, and which drew
their life and fragrance from heaven more than earth?
The May Flower was, therefore, many years since selected by the author
as the title of a series of New England sketches. That work had
comparatively a limited circulation, and is now entirely out of print.
Its articles are republished in the present volume, with other
miscellaneous writings, which have from time to time appeared in
different periodicals. They have been written in all moods, from the
gayest to the gravest--they are connected, in many cases, with the
memory of friends and scenes most dear.
There are those now scattered through the world who will remember the
social literary parties of Cincinnati, for whose genial meetings many of
these articles were prepared. With most affectionate remembrances, the
author dedicates the book to the yet surviving members of The Semicolon.
Andover, _April, 1855_.
CONTENTS.
UNCLE LOT
LOVE _versus_ LAW
THE TEA ROSE
TRIALS OF A HOUSEKEEPER
LITTLE EDWARD
AUNT MARY
FRANKNESS
THE SABBATH.--SKETCHES FROM A NOTE BOOK OF AN ELDERLY GENTLEMAN
LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS
COUSIN WILLIAM
THE MINISTRATION OF OUR DEPARTED FRIENDS.--A NEW YEAR'S REVERY
MRS. A. AND MRS. B.; OR, WHAT SHE THINKS ABOUT IT
CHRISTMAS; OR, THE GOOD FAIRY
EARTHLY CARE A HEAVENLY DISCIPLINE
CONVERSATION ON CONVERSATION
HOW DO WE KNOW?
WHICH IS THE LIBERAL MAN?
THE ELDER'S FEAST.--A TRADITION OF LAODICEA
LITTLE FRED, THE CANAL BOY
THE CANAL BOAT
FEELING
THE SEAMSTRESS
OLD FATHER MORRIS.--A SKETCH FROM NATURE
THE TWO ALTARS, OR TWO PICTURES IN ONE
A SCHOLAR'S ADVENTURES IN THE COUNTRY
"WOMAN, BEHOLD THY SON!"
THE CORAL RING
ART AND NATURE
CHILDREN
HOW TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH MAMMON
A SCENE IN JERUSALEM
THE OLD MEETING HOUSE.--SKETCH FROM THE NOTE BOOK OF AN OLD GENTLEMAN
THE NEW-YEAR'S GIFT
THE OLD OAK OF ANDOVER.--A REVERY
OUR WOOD LOT IN WINTER
POEMS:--
THE CHARMER
PILGRIM'S SONG IN THE DESERT
MARY AT THE CROSS
CHRISTIAN PEACE
ABIDE IN ME AND I IN YOU.--THE SOUL'S ANSWER
WHEN I AWAKE I AM STILL WITH THEE
CHRIST'S VOICE IN THE SOUL
THE MAY FLOWER.
UNCLE LOT.
And so I am to write a story--but of what, and where? Shall it be
radiant with the sky of Italy? or eloquent with the beau ideal of
Greece? Shall it breathe odor and languor from the orient, or chivalry
from the occident? or gayety from France? or vigor from England? No, no;
these are all too old--too romance-like--too obviously picturesque for
me. No; let me turn to my own land--my own New England; the land of
bright fires and strong hearts; the land of _deeds_, and not of words;
the land of fruits, and not of flowers; the land often spoken against,
yet always respected; "the latchet of whose shoes the nations of the
earth are not worthy to unloose."
Now, from this very heroic apostrophe, you may suppose that I have
something very heroic to tell. By no means. It is merely a little
introductory breeze of patriotism, such as occasionally brushes over
every mind, bearing on its wings the remembrance of all we ever loved or
cherished in the land of our early years; and if it should seem to be
rodomontade to any people in other parts of the earth, let them only
imagine it to be said about "Old Kentuck," old England, or any other
corner of the world in which they happened to be born, and they will
find it quite rational.
But, as touching our story, it is time to begin. Did you ever see the
little village of Newbury, in New England? I dare say you never did; for
it was just one of those out of the way places where nobody ever came
unless they came on purpose: a green little hollow, wedged like a bird's
nest between half a dozen high hills, that kept off the wind and kept
out foreigners; so that the little place was as straitly _sui generis_
as if there were not another in the world. The inhabitants were all of
that respectable old standfast family who make it a point to be born,
bred, married, die, and be buried all in the selfsame spot. There were
just so many houses, and just so many people lived in them; and nobody
ever seemed to be sick, or to die either, at least while I was there.
The natives grew old till they could not grow any older, and then they
stood still, and _lasted_ from generation to generation. There was, too,
an unchangeability about all the externals of Newbury. Here was a red
house, and there was a brown house, and across the way was a yellow
house; and there was a straggling rail fence or a tribe of mullein
stalks between. The minister lived here, and 'Squire Moses lived there,
and Deacon Hart lived under the hill, and Messrs. Nadab and Abihu Peters
lived by the cross road, and the old "widder" Smith lived by the meeting
house, and Ebenezer Camp kept a shoemaker's shop on one side, and
Patience Mosely kept a milliner's shop in front; and there was old
Comfort Scran, who kept store for the whole town, and sold axe heads,
brass thimbles, licorice ball, fancy handkerchiefs, and every thing else
you can think of. Here, too, was the general post office, where you
might see letters marvellously folded, directed wrong side upward,
stamped with a thimble, and superscribed to some of the Dollys, or
Pollys, or Peters, or Moseses aforenamed or not named.
For the rest, as to manners, morals, arts, and sciences, the people in
Newbury always went to their parties at three o'clock in the afternoon,
and came home before dark; always stopped all work the minute the sun
was down on Saturday night; always went to meeting on Sunday; had a
school house with all the ordinary inconveniences; were in neighborly
charity with each other; read their Bibles, feared their God, and were
content with such things as they had--the best philosophy, after all.
Such was the place into which Master James Benton made an irruption in
the year eighteen hundred and no matter what. Now, this James is to be
our hero, and he is just the hero for a sensation--at least, so you
would have thought, if you had been in Newbury the week after his
arrival. Master James was one of those whole-hearted, energetic Yankees,
who rise in the world as naturally as cork does in water. He possessed a
great share of that characteristic national trait so happily denominated
"cuteness," which signifies an ability to do every thing without trying,
and to know every thing without learning, and to make more use of one's
_ignorance_ than other people do of their knowledge. This quality in
James was mingled with an elasticity of animal spirits, a buoyant
cheerfulness of mind, which, though found in the New England character,
perhaps, as often as any where else, is not ordinarily regarded as one
of its distinguishing traits.
As to the personal appearance of our hero, we have not much to say of
it--not half so much as the girls in Newbury found it necessary to
remark, the first Sabbath that he shone out in the meeting house. There
was a saucy frankness of countenance, a knowing roguery of eye, a
joviality and prankishness of demeanor, that was wonderfully
captivating, especially to the ladies.
It is true that Master James had an uncommonly comfortable opinion of
himself, a full faith that there was nothing in creation that he could
not learn and could not do; and this faith was maintained with an
abounding and triumphant joyfulness, that fairly carried your sympathies
along with him, and made you feel quite as much delighted with his
qualifications and prospects as he felt himself. There are two kinds of
self-sufficiency; one is amusing, and the other is provoking. His was
the amusing kind. It seemed, in truth, to be only the buoyancy and
overflow of a vivacious mind, delighted with every thing delightful, in
himself or others. He was always ready to magnify his own praise, but
quite as ready to exalt his neighbor, if the channel of discourse ran
that way: his own perfections being more completely within his
knowledge, he rejoiced in them more constantly; but, if those of any one
else came within the same range, he was quite as much astonished and
edified as if they had been his own.
Master James, at the time of his transit to the town of Newbury, was
only eighteen years of age; so that it was difficult to say which
predominated in him most, the boy or the man. The belief that he could,
and the determination that he would, be something in the world had
caused him to abandon his home, and, with all his worldly effects tied
in a blue cotton pocket handkerchief, to proceed to seek his fortune in
Newbury. And never did stranger in Yankee village rise to promotion with
more unparalleled rapidity, or boast a greater plurality of employment.
He figured as schoolmaster all the week, and as chorister on Sundays,
and taught singing and reading in the evenings, besides studying Latin
and Greek with the minister, nobody knew when; thus fitting for college,
while he seemed to be doing every thing else in the world besides.
James understood every art and craft of popularity, and made himself
mightily at home in all the chimney corners of the region round about;
knew the geography of every body's cider barrel and apple bin, helping
himself and every one else therefrom with all bountifulness; rejoicing
in the good things of this life, devouring the old ladies' doughnuts and
pumpkin pies with most flattering appetite, and appearing equally to
relish every body and thing that came in his way.
The degree and versatility of his acquirements were truly wonderful. He
knew all about arithmetic and history, and all about catching squirrels
and planting corn; made poetry and hoe handles with equal celerity;
wound yarn and took out grease spots for old ladies, and made nosegays
and knickknacks for young ones; caught trout Saturday afternoons, and
discussed doctrines on Sundays, with equal adroitness and effect. In
short, Mr. James moved on through the place
"Victorious,
Happy and glorious,"
welcomed and privileged by every body in every place; and when he had
told his last ghost story, and fairly flourished himself out of doors at
the close of a long winter's evening, you might see the hard face of the
good man of the house still phosphorescent with his departing radiance,
and hear him exclaim, in a paroxysm of admiration, that "Jemeses talk
re'ely did beat all; that he was sartainly most a miraculous cre'tur!"
It was wonderfully contrary to the buoyant activity of Master James's
mind to keep a school. He had, moreover, so much of the boy and the
rogue in his composition, that he could not be strict with the
iniquities of the curly pates under his charge; and when he saw how
determinately every little heart was boiling over with mischief and
motion, he felt in his soul more disposed to join in and help them to a
frolic than to lay justice to the line, as was meet. This would have
made a sad case, had it not been that the activity of the master's mind
communicated itself to his charge, just as the reaction of one brisk
little spring will fill a manufactory with motion; so that there was
more of an impulse towards study in the golden, good-natured day of
James Benton than in the time of all that went before or came after him.
But when "school was out," James's spirits foamed over as naturally as a
tumbler of soda water, and he could jump over benches and burst out of
doors with as much rapture as the veriest little elf in his company.
Then you might have seen him stepping homeward with a most felicitous
expression of countenance, occasionally reaching his hand through the
fence for a bunch of currants, or over it after a flower, or bursting
into some back yard to help an old lady empty her wash tub, or stopping
to pay his _devoirs_ to Aunt This or Mistress That, for James well knew
the importance of the "powers that be," and always kept the sunny side
of the old ladies.
We shall not answer for James's general flirtations, which were sundry
and manifold; for he had just the kindly heart that fell in love with
every thing in feminine shape that came in his way, and if he had not
been blessed with an equal facility in falling out again, we do not know
what ever would have become of him. But at length he came into an
abiding captivity, and it is quite time that he should; for, having
devoted thus much space to the illustration of our hero, it is fit we
should do something in behalf of our heroine; and, therefore, we must
beg the reader's attention while we draw a diagram or two that will
assist him in gaining a right idea of her.
Do you see yonder brown house, with its broad roof sloping almost to the
ground on one side, and a great, unsupported, sun bonnet of a piazza
shooting out over the front door? You must often have noticed it; you
have seen its tall well sweep, relieved against the clear evening sky,
or observed the feather beds and bolsters lounging out of its chamber
windows on a still summer morning; you recollect its gate, that swung
with a chain and a great stone; its pantry window, latticed with little
brown slabs, and looking out upon a forest of bean poles. You remember
the zephyrs that used to play among its pea brush, and shake the long
tassels of its corn patch, and how vainly any zephyr might essay to
perform similar flirtations with the considerate cabbages that were
solemnly vegetating near by. Then there was the whole neighborhood of
purple-leaved beets and feathery parsnips; there were the billows of
gooseberry bushes rolled up by the fence, interspersed with rows of
quince trees; and far off in one corner was one little patch,
penuriously devoted to ornament, which flamed with marigolds, poppies,
snappers, and four-o'clocks. Then there was a little box by itself with
one rose geranium in it, which seemed to look around the garden as much
like a stranger as a French dancing master in a Yankee meeting house.
That is the dwelling of Uncle Lot Griswold. Uncle Lot, as he was
commonly called, had a character that a painter would sketch for its
lights and contrasts rather than its symmetry. He was a chestnut burr,
abounding with briers without and with substantial goodness within. He
had the strong-grained practical sense, the calculating worldly wisdom
of his class of people in New England; he had, too, a kindly heart; but
all the strata of his character were crossed by a vein of surly
petulance, that, half way between joke and earnest, colored every thing
that he said and did.
If you asked a favor of Uncle Lot, he generally kept you arguing half an
hour, to prove that you really needed it, and to tell you that he could
not all the while be troubled with helping one body or another, all
which time you might observe him regularly making his preparations to
grant your request, and see, by an odd glimmer of his eye, that he was
preparing to let you hear the "conclusion of the whole matter," which
was, "Well, well--I guess--I'll go, on the _hull_--I 'spose I must, at
least;" so off he would go and work while the day lasted, and then wind
up with a farewell exhortation "not to be a callin' on your neighbors
when you could get along without." If any of Uncle Lot's neighbors were
in any trouble, he was always at hand to tell them that "they shouldn't
a' done so;" that "it was strange they couldn't had more sense;" and
then to close his exhortations by laboring more diligently than any to
bring them out of their difficulties, groaning in spirit, meanwhile,
that folks would make people so much trouble.
"Uncle Lot, father wants to know if you will lend him your hoe to-day,"
says a little boy, making his way across a cornfield.
"Why don't your father use his own hoe?"
"Ours is broke."
"Broke! How came it broke?"
"I broke it yesterday, trying to hit a squirrel."
"What business had you to be hittin' squirrels with a hoe? say!"
"But father wants to borrow yours."
"Why don't you have that mended? It's a great pester to have every body
usin' a body's things."
"Well, I can borrow one some where else, I suppose," says the suppliant.
After the boy has stumbled across the ploughed ground, and is fairly
over the fence, Uncle Lot calls,--
"Halloo, there, you little rascal! what are you goin' off without the
hoe for?"
"I didn't know as you meant to lend it."
"I didn't say I wouldn't, did I? Here, come and take it.--stay, I'll
bring it; and do tell your father not to be a lettin' you hunt squirrels
with his hoes next time."
Uncle Lot's household consisted of Aunt Sally, his wife, and an only son
and daughter; the former, at the time our story begins, was at a
neighboring literary institution. Aunt Sally was precisely as clever, as
easy to be entreated, and kindly in externals, as her helpmate was the
reverse. She was one of those respectable, pleasant old ladies whom you
might often have met on the way to church on a Sunday, equipped with a
great fan and a psalm book, and carrying some dried orange peel or a
stalk of fennel, to give to the children if they were sleepy in meeting.
She was as cheerful and domestic as the tea kettle that sung by her
kitchen fire, and slipped along among Uncle Lot's angles and
peculiarities as if there never was any thing the matter in the world;
and the same mantle of sunshine seemed to have fallen on Miss Grace, her
only daughter.
Pretty in her person and pleasant in her ways, endowed with native
self-possession and address, lively and chatty, having a mind and a will
of her own, yet good-humored withal, Miss Grace was a universal
favorite. It would have puzzled a city lady to understand how Grace, who
never was out of Newbury in her life, knew the way to speak, and act,
and behave, on all occasions, exactly as if she had been taught how. She
was just one of those wild flowers which you may sometimes see waving
its little head in the woods, and looking so civilized and garden-like,
that you wonder if it really did come up and grow there by nature. She
was an adept in all household concerns, and there was something
amazingly pretty in her energetic way of bustling about, and "putting
things to rights." Like most Yankee damsels, she had a longing after the
tree of knowledge, and, having exhausted the literary fountains of a
district school, she fell to reading whatsoever came in her way. True,
she had but little to read; but what she perused she had her own
thoughts upon, so that a person of information, in talking with her,
would feel a constant wondering pleasure to find that she had so much
more to say of this, that, and the other thing than he expected.
Uncle Lot, like every one else, felt the magical brightness of his
daughter, and was delighted with her praises, as might be discerned by
his often finding occasion to remark that "he didn't see why the boys
need to be all the time a' comin' to see Grace, for she was nothing so
extror'nary, after all." About all matters and things at home she
generally had her own way, while Uncle Lot would scold and give up with
a regular good grace that was quite creditable.
"Father," says Grace, "I want to have a party next week."
"You sha'n't go to havin' your parties, Grace. I always have to eat bits
and ends a fortnight after you have one, and I won't have it so." And so
Uncle Lot walked out, and Aunt Sally and Miss Grace proceeded to make
the cake and pies for the party.
When Uncle Lot came home, he saw a long array of pies and rows of cakes
on the kitchen table.
"Grace--Grace--Grace, I say! What is all this here flummery for?"
"Why, it is _to eat_, father," said Grace, with a good-natured look of
consciousness.
Uncle Lot tried his best to look sour; but his visage began to wax
comical as he looked at his merry daughter; so he said nothing, but
quietly sat down to his dinner.
"Father," said Grace, after dinner, "we shall want two more candlesticks
next week."
"Why, can't you have your party with what you've got?"
"No, father, we want two more."
"I can't afford it, Grace--there's no sort of use on't--and you sha'n't
have any."
"O, father, now do," said Grace.
"I won't, neither," said Uncle Lot, as he sallied out of the house, and
took the road to Comfort Scran's store.
In half an hour he returned again; and fumbling in his pocket, and
drawing forth a candlestick, levelled it at Grace.
"There's your candlestick."
"But, father, I said I wanted _two_."
"Why, can't you make one do?"
"No, I can't; I must have two."
"Well, then, there's t'other; and here's a fol-de-rol for you to tie
round your neck." So saying, he bolted for the door, and took himself
off with all speed. It was much after this fashion that matters commonly
went on in the brown house.
But having tarried long on the way, we must proceed with the main story.
James thought Miss Grace was a glorious girl; and as to what Miss Grace
thought of Master James, perhaps it would not have been developed had
she not been called to stand on the defensive for him with Uncle Lot.
For, from the time that the whole village of Newbury began to be wholly
given unto the praise of Master James, Uncle Lot set his face as a flint
against him--from the laudable fear of following the multitude. He
therefore made conscience of stoutly gainsaying every thing that was
said in his behalf, which, as James was in high favor with Aunt Sally,
he had frequent opportunities to do.
So when Miss Grace perceived that Uncle Lot did not like our hero as
much as he ought to do, she, of course, was bound to like him well
enough to make up for it. Certain it is that they were remarkably happy
in finding opportunities of being acquainted; that James waited on her,
as a matter of course, from singing school; that he volunteered making a
new box for her geranium on an improved plan; and above all, that he was
remarkably particular in his attentions to Aunt Sally--a stroke of
policy which showed that James had a natural genius for this sort of
matters. Even when emerging from the meeting house in full glory, with
flute and psalm book under his arm, he would stop to ask her how she
did; and if it was cold weather, he would carry her foot stove all the
way home from meeting, discoursing upon the sermon, and other serious
matters, as Aunt Sally observed, "in the pleasantest, prettiest way that
ever ye see." This flute was one of the crying sins of James in the eyes
of Uncle Lot. James was particularly fond of it, because he had learned
to play on it by intuition; and on the decease of the old pitchpipe,
which was slain by a fall from the gallery, he took the liberty to
introduce the flute in its place. For this, and other sins, and for the
good reasons above named, Uncle Lot's countenance was not towards James,
neither could he be moved to him-ward by any manner of means.
To all Aunt Sally's good words and kind speeches, he had only to say
that "he didn't like him; that he hated to see him a' manifesting and
glorifying there in the front gallery Sundays, and a' acting every where
as if he was master of all: he didn't like it, and he wouldn't." But our
hero was no whit cast down or discomfited by the malcontent aspect of
Uncle Lot. On the contrary, when report was made to him of divers of his
hard speeches, he only shrugged his shoulders, with a very satisfied
air, and remarked that "he knew a thing or two for all that."
"Why, James," said his companion and chief counsellor, "do you think
Grace likes you?"
"I don't know," said our hero, with a comfortable appearance of
certainty.
"But you can't get her, James, if Uncle Lot is cross about it."
"Fudge! I can make Uncle Lot like me if I have a mind to try."
"Well then, Jim, you'll have to give up that flute of yours, I tell you
now."
"Fa, sol, la--I can make him like me and my flute too."
"Why, how will you do it?"
"O, I'll work it," said our hero.
"Well, Jim, I tell you now, you don't know Uncle Lot if you say so; for
he is just the _settest_ critter in his way that ever you saw."
"I _do_ know Uncle Lot, though, better than most folks; he is no more
cross than I am; and as to his being _set_, you have nothing to do but
make him think he is in his own way when he is in yours--that is all."
"Well," said the other, "but you see I don't believe it."
"And I'll bet you a gray squirrel that I'll go there this very evening,
and get him to like me and my flute both," said James.
Accordingly the late sunshine of that afternoon shone full on the yellow
buttons of James as he proceeded to the place of conflict. It was a
bright, beautiful evening. A thunder storm had just cleared away, and
the silver clouds lay rolled up in masses around the setting sun; the
rain drops were sparkling and winking to each other over the ends of the
leaves, and all the bluebirds and robins, breaking forth into song, made
the little green valley as merry as a musical box.
James's soul was always overflowing with that kind of poetry which
consists in feeling unspeakably happy; and it is not to be wondered at,
considering where he was going, that he should feel in a double ecstasy
on the present occasion. He stepped gayly along, occasionally springing
over a fence to the right to see whether the rain had swollen the trout
brook, or to the left to notice the ripening of Mr. Somebody's
watermelons--for James always had an eye on all his neighbors' matters
as well as his own.
In this way he proceeded till he arrived at the picket fence that marked
the commencement of Uncle Lot's ground. Here he stopped to consider.
Just then four or five sheep walked up, and began also to consider a
loose picket, which was hanging just ready to drop off; and James began
to look at the sheep. "Well, mister," said he, as he observed the leader
judiciously drawing himself through the gap, "in with you--just what I
wanted;" and having waited a moment to ascertain that all the company
were likely to follow, he ran with all haste towards the house, and
swinging open the gate, pressed all breathless to the door.
"Uncle Lot, there are four or five sheep in your garden!" Uncle Lot
dropped his whetstone and scythe.
"I'll drive them out," said our hero; and with that, he ran down the
garden alley, and made a furious descent on the enemy; bestirring
himself, as Bunyan says, "lustily and with good courage," till every
sheep had skipped out much quicker than it skipped in; and then,
springing over the fence, he seized a great stone, and nailed on the
picket so effectually that no sheep could possibly encourage the hope of
getting in again. This was all the work of a minute, and he was back
again; but so exceedingly out of breath that it was necessary for him to
stop a moment and rest himself. Uncle Lot looked ungraciously satisfied.
"What under the canopy set you to scampering so?" said he; "I could a'
driv out them critturs myself."
"If you are at all particular about driving them out _yourself_, I can
let them in again," said James.
Uncle Lot looked at him with an odd sort of twinkle in the corner of his
eye.
"'Spose I must ask you to walk in," said he.
"Much obliged," said James; "but I am in a great hurry." So saying, he
started in very business-like fashion towards the gate.
"You'd better jest stop a minute."
"Can't stay a minute."
"I don't see what possesses you to be all the while in sich a hurry; a
body would think you had all creation on your shoulders."
"Just my situation, Uncle Lot," said James, swinging open the gate.
"Well, at any rate, have a drink of cider, can't ye?" said Uncle Lot,
who was now quite engaged to have his own way in the case.
James found it convenient to accept this invitation, and Uncle Lot was
twice as good-natured as if he had staid in the first of the matter.
Once fairly forced into the premises, James thought fit to forget his
long walk and excess of business, especially as about that moment Aunt
Sally and Miss Grace returned from an afternoon call. You may be sure
that the last thing these respectable ladies looked for was to find
Uncle Lot and Master James _tete-a-tete_, over a pitcher of cider; and
when, as they entered, our hero looked up with something of a
mischievous air, Miss Grace, in particular, was so puzzled that it took
her at least a quarter of an hour to untie her bonnet strings. But James
staid, and acted the agreeable to perfection. First, he must needs go
down into the garden to look at Uncle Lot's wonderful cabbages, and then
he promenaded all around the corn patch, stopping every few moments and
looking up with an appearance of great gratification, as if he had never
seen such corn in his life; and then he examined Uncle Lot's favorite
apple tree with an expression of wonderful interest.
"I never!" he broke forth, having stationed himself against the fence
opposite to it; "what kind of an apple tree is that?"
"It's a bellflower, or somethin' another," said Uncle Lot.
"Why, where _did_ you get it? I never saw such apples!" said our hero,
with his eyes still fixed on the tree.
Uncle Lot pulled up a stalk or two of weeds, and threw them over the
fence, just to show that he did not care any thing about the matter; and
then he came up and stood by James.
"Nothin' so remarkable, as I know on," said he.
Just then, Grace came to say that supper was ready. Once seated at
table, it was astonishing to see the perfect and smiling assurance with
which our hero continued his addresses to Uncle Lot. It sometimes goes a
great way towards making people like us to take it for granted that they
do already; and upon this principle James proceeded. He talked, laughed,
told stories, and joked with the most fearless assurance, occasionally
seconding his words by looking Uncle Lot in the face, with a countenance
so full of good will as would have melted any snowdrift of prejudices in
the world.
James also had one natural accomplishment, more courtier-like than all
the diplomacy in Europe, and that was the gift of feeling a _real_
interest for any body in five minutes; so that, if he began to please in
jest, he generally ended in earnest. With great simplicity of mind, he
had a natural tact for seeing into others, and watched their motions
with the same delight with which a child gazes at the wheels and springs
of a watch, to "see what it will do."
The rough exterior and latent kindness of Uncle Lot were quite a
spirit-stirring study; and when tea was over, as he and Grace happened
to be standing together in the front door, he broke forth,--
"I do really like your father, Grace!"
"Do you?" said Grace.
"Yes, I do. He has something _in him_, and I like him all the better for
having to fish it out."
"Well, I hope you will make him like you," said Grace, unconsciously;
and then she stopped, and looked a little ashamed.
James was too well bred to see this, or look as if Grace meant any more
than she said--a kind of breeding not always attendant on more
fashionable polish--so he only answered,--
"I think I shall, Grace, though I doubt whether I can get him to own
it."
"He is the kindest man that ever was," said Grace; "and he always acts
as if he was ashamed of it."
James turned a little away, and looked at the bright evening sky, which
was glowing like a calm, golden sea; and over it was the silver new
moon, with one little star to hold the candle for her. He shook some
bright drops off from a rosebush near by, and watched to see them shine
as they fell, while Grace stood very quietly waiting for him to speak
again.
"Grace," said he, at last, "I am going to college this fall."
"So you told me yesterday," said Grace.
James stooped down over Grace's geranium, and began to busy himself with
pulling off all the dead leaves, remarking in the mean while,--
"And if I do get _him_ to like me, Grace, will you like me too?"
"I like you now very well," said Grace.
"Come, Grace, you know what I mean," said James, looking steadfastly at
the top of the apple tree.
"Well, I wish, then, you would understand what _I_ mean, without my
saying any more about it," said Grace.
"O, to be sure I will!" said our hero, looking up with a very
intelligent air; and so, as Aunt Sally would say, the matter was
settled, with "no words about it."
Now shall we narrate how our hero, as he saw Uncle Lot approaching the
door, had the impudence to take out his flute, and put the parts
together, arranging and adjusting the stops with great composure?
"Uncle Lot," said he, looking up, "this is the best flute that ever I
saw."
"I hate them tooting critturs," said Uncle Lot, snappishly.
"I declare! I wonder how you can," said James, "for I do think they
exceed----"
So saying, he put the flute to his mouth, and ran up and down a long
flourish.
"There! what do you think of that?" said he, looking in Uncle Lot's face
with much delight.
Uncle Lot turned and marched into the house, but soon faced to the
right-about, and came out again, for James was fingering "Yankee
Doodle"--that appropriate national air for the descendants of the
Puritans.
Uncle Lot's patriotism began to bestir itself; and now, if it had been
any thing, as he said, but "that 'are flute"--as it was, he looked more
than once at James's fingers.
"How under the sun _could_ you learn to do that?" said he.
"O, it's easy enough," said James, proceeding with another tune; and,
having played it through, he stopped a moment to examine the joints of
his flute, and in the mean time addressed Uncle Lot: "You can't think
how grand this is for pitching tunes--I always pitch the tunes on Sunday
with it."
"Yes; but I don't think it's a right and fit instrument for the Lord's
house," said Uncle Lot.
"Why not? It is only a kind of a long pitchpipe, you see," said James;
"and, seeing the old one is broken, and this will answer, I don't see
why it is not better than nothing."
"Why, yes, it may be better than nothing," said Uncle Lot; "but, as I
always tell Grace and my wife, it ain't the right kind of instrument,
after all; it ain't solemn."
"Solemn!" said James; "that is according as you work it: see here, now."
So saying, he struck up Old Hundred, and proceeded through it with great
perseverance.
"There, now!" said he.
"Well, well, I don't know but it is," said Uncle Lot; "but, as I said at
first, I don't like the look of it in meetin'."
"But yet you really think it is better than nothing," said James, "for
you see I couldn't pitch my tunes without it."
"Maybe 'tis," said Uncle Lot; "but that isn't sayin' much."
This, however, was enough for Master James, who soon after departed,
with his flute in his pocket, and Grace's last words in his heart;
soliloquizing as he shut the gate, "There, now, I hope Aunt Sally won't
go to praising me; for, just so sure as she does, I shall have it all to
do over again."
James was right in his apprehension. Uncle Lot could be privately
converted, but not brought to open confession; and when, the next
morning, Aunt Sally remarked, in the kindness of her heart,--
"Well, I always knew you would come to like James," Uncle Lot only
responded, "Who said I did like him?"
"But I'm sure you _seemed_ to like him last night."
"Why, I couldn't turn him out o' doors, could I? I don't think nothin'
of him but what I always did."
But it was to be remarked that Uncle Lot contented himself at this time
with the mere general avowal, without running it into particulars, as
was formerly his wont. It was evident that the ice had begun to melt,
but it might have been a long time in dissolving, had not collateral
incidents assisted.
It so happened that, about this time, George Griswold, the only son
before referred to, returned to his native village, after having
completed his theological studies at a neighboring institution. It is
interesting to mark the gradual development of mind and heart, from the
time that the white-headed, bashful boy quits the country village for
college, to the period when he returns, a formed and matured man, to
notice how gradually the rust of early prejudices begins to cleave from
him--how his opinions, like his handwriting, pass from the cramped and
limited forms of a country school into that confirmed and characteristic
style which is to mark the man for life. In George this change was
remarkably striking. He was endowed by nature with uncommon acuteness of
feeling and fondness for reflection--qualities as likely as any to
render a child backward and uninteresting in early life.
When he left Newbury for college, he was a taciturn and apparently
phlegmatic boy, only evincing sensibility by blushing and looking
particularly stupefied whenever any body spoke to him. Vacation after
vacation passed, and he returned more and more an altered being; and he
who once shrunk from the eye of the deacon, and was ready to sink if he
met the minister, now moved about among the dignitaries of the place
with all the composure of a superior being.
It was only to be regretted that, while the mind improved, the physical
energies declined, and that every visit to his home found him paler,
thinner, and less prepared in body for the sacred profession to which he
had devoted himself. But now he was returned, a minister--a real
minister, with a right to stand in the pulpit and preach; and what a joy
and glory to Aunt Sally--and to Uncle Lot, if he were not ashamed to own
it!
The first Sunday after he came, it was known far and near that George
Griswold was to preach; and never was a more ready and expectant
audience.
As the time for reading the first psalm approached, you might see the
white-headed men turning their faces attentively towards the pulpit; the
anxious and expectant old women, with their little black bonnets, bent
forward to see him rise. There were the children looking, because every
body else looked; there was Uncle Lot in the front pew, his face
considerately adjusted; there was Aunt Sally, seeming as pleased as a
mother could seem; and Miss Grace, lifting her sweet face to her
brother, like a flower to the sun; there was our friend James in the
front gallery, his joyous countenance a little touched with sobriety and
expectation; in short, a more embarrassingly attentive audience never
greeted the first effort of a young minister. Under these circumstances
there was something touching in the fervent self-forgetfulness which
characterized the first exercises of the morning--something which moved
every one in the house.
The devout poetry of his prayer, rich with the Orientalism of Scripture,
and eloquent with the expression of strong yet chastened emotion,
breathed over his audience like music, hushing every one to silence, and
beguiling every one to feeling. In the sermon, there was the strong
intellectual nerve, the constant occurrence of argument and statement,
which distinguishes a New England discourse; but it was touched with
life by the intense, yet half-subdued, feeling with which he seemed to
utter it. Like the rays of the sun, it enlightened and melted at the
same moment.
The strong peculiarities of New England doctrine, involving, as they do,
all the hidden machinery of mind, all the mystery of its divine
relations and future progression, and all the tremendous uncertainties
of its eternal good or ill, seemed to have dwelt in his mind, to have
burned in his thoughts, to have wrestled with his powers, and they gave
to his manner the fervency almost of another world; while the exceeding
paleness of his countenance, and a tremulousness of voice that seemed to
spring from bodily weakness, touched the strong workings of his mind
with a pathetic interest, as if the being so early absorbed in another
world could not be long for this.
When the services were over, the congregation dispersed with the air of
people who had _felt_ rather than _heard_; and all the criticism that
followed was similar to that of old Deacon Hart--an upright, shrewd
man--who, as he lingered a moment at the church door, turned and gazed
with unwonted feeling at the young preacher.
"He's a blessed cre'tur!" said he, the tears actually making their way
to his eyes; "I hain't been so near heaven this many a day. He's a
blessed cre'tur of the Lord; that's my mind about him!"
As for our friend James, he was at first sobered, then deeply moved, and
at last wholly absorbed by the discourse; and it was only when meeting
was over that he began to think where he really was.
With all his versatile activity, James had a greater depth of mental
capacity than he was himself aware of, and he began to feel a sort of
electric affinity for the mind that had touched him in a way so new; and
when he saw the mild minister standing at the foot of the pulpit stairs,
he made directly towards him.
"I do want to hear more from you," said he, with a face full of
earnestness; "may I walk home with you?"
"It is a long and warm walk," said George, smiling.
"O, I don't care for that, if it does not trouble _you_," said James;
and leave being gained, you might have seen them slowly passing along
under the trees, James pouring forth all the floods of inquiry which the
sudden impulse of his mind had brought out, and supplying his guide with
more questions and problems for solution than he could have gone through
with in a month.
"I cannot answer all your questions now," said he, as they stopped at
Uncle Lot's gate.
"Well, then, when will you?" said James, eagerly. "Let me come home with
you to-night?"
The minister smiled assent, and James departed so full of new thoughts,
that he passed Grace without even seeing her. From that time a
friendship commenced between the two, which was a beautiful illustration
of the affinities of opposites. It was like a friendship between morning
and evening--all freshness and sunshine on one side, and all gentleness
and peace on the other.
The young minister, worn by long-continued ill health, by the fervency
of his own feelings, and the gravity of his own reasonings, found
pleasure in the healthful buoyancy of a youthful, unexhausted mind,
while James felt himself sobered and made better by the moonlight
tranquillity of his friend. It is one mark of a superior mind to
understand and be influenced by the superiority of others; and this was
the case with James. The ascendency which his new friend acquired over
him was unlimited, and did more in a month towards consolidating and
developing his character than all the four years' course of a college.
Our religious habits are likely always to retain the impression of the
first seal which stamped them, and in this case it was a peculiarly
happy one. The calmness, the settled purpose, the mild devotion of his
friend, formed a just alloy to the energetic and reckless buoyancy of
James's character, and awakened in him a set of feelings without which
the most vigorous mind must be incomplete.
The effect of the ministrations of the young pastor, in awakening
attention to the subjects of his calling in the village, was marked, and
of a kind which brought pleasure to his own heart. But, like all other
excitement, it tends to exhaustion, and it was not long before he
sensibly felt the decline of the powers of life. To the best regulated
mind there is something bitter in the relinquishment of projects for
which we have been long and laboriously preparing, and there is
something far more bitter in crossing the long-cherished expectations of
friends. All this George felt. He could not bear to look on his mother,
hanging on his words and following his steps with eyes of almost
childish delight--on his singular father, whose whole earthly ambition
was bound up in his success, and think how soon the "candle of their old
age" must be put out. When he returned from a successful effort, it was
painful to see the old man, so evidently delighted, and so anxious to
conceal his triumph, as he would seat himself in his chair, and begin
with, "George, that 'are doctrine is rather of a puzzler; but you seem
to think you've got the run on't. I should re'ly like to know what
business you have to think you know better than other folks about it;"
and, though he would cavil most courageously at all George's
explanations, yet you might perceive, through all, that he was inly
uplifted to hear how his boy could talk.
If George was engaged in argument with any one else, he would sit by,
with his head bowed down, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows
with a shamefaced satisfaction very unusual with him. Expressions of
affection from the naturally gentle are not half so touching as those
which are forced out from the hard-favored and severe; and George was
affected, even to pain, by the evident pride and regard of his father.
"He never said so much to any body before," thought he, "and what will
he do if I die?"
In such thoughts as these Grace found her brother engaged one still
autumn morning, as he stood leaning against the garden fence.
"What are you solemnizing here for, this bright day, brother George?"
said she, as she bounded down the alley.
The young man turned and looked on her happy face with a sort of
twilight smile.
"How _happy_ you are, Grace!" said he.
"To be sure I am; and you ought to be too, because you are better."
"I am happy, Grace--that is, I hope I shall be."
"You are sick, I know you are," said Grace; "you look worn out. O, I
wish your heart could _spring_ once, as mine does."
"I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never shall be," said he,
turning away, and fixing his eyes on the fading trees opposite.
"O George! dear George, don't, don't say _that_; you'll break all our
hearts," said Grace, with tears in her own eyes.
"Yes, but it is _true_, sister: I do not feel it on my own account so
much as----However," he added, "it will all be the same in heaven."
It was but a week after this that a violent cold hastened the progress
of debility into a confirmed malady. He sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with
the self-deceit of a fond and cheerful heart, thought every day that "he
_would_ be better," and Uncle Lot resisted conviction with all the
obstinate pertinacity of his character, while the sick man felt that he
had not the heart to undeceive them.
James was now at the house every day, exhausting all his energy and
invention in the case of his friend; and any one who had seen him in his
hours of recklessness and glee, could scarcely recognize him as the
being whose step was so careful, whose eye so watchful, whose voice and
touch were so gentle, as he moved around the sick bed. But the same
quickness which makes a mind buoyant in gladness, often makes it
gentlest and most sympathetic in sorrow.
It was now nearly morning in the sick room. George had been restless and
feverish all night; but towards day he fell into a slight slumber, and
James sat by his side, almost holding his breath lest he should waken
him. It was yet dusk, but the sky was brightening with a solemn glow,
and the stars were beginning to disappear; all, save the bright and
morning one, which, standing alone in the east, looked tenderly through
the casement, like the eye of our heavenly Father, watching over us when
all earthly friendships are fading.
George awoke with a placid expression of countenance, and fixing his
eyes on the brightening sky, murmured faintly,--
"The sweet, immortal morning sheds
Its blushes round the spheres."