impatient to be off. Black Tom, who had been patting their necks,
withdrew his hold on the bits and away we went. It was like riding in a
railroad car, so swiftly the splendid animals cleared the ground, with
the sun glistening on their black coats and over the silver studded
harness as they dashed onward. It was indeed a glorious morning, and to
ride through the streets of New Haven at sunrise is like dashing through
the gravel walks of a garden, for there is scarcely a dwelling which is
not surrounded by a little wilderness of trees and shrubbery. The breath
of a thousand flowering thickets was abroad, the sun lay twinkling amid
their foliage, and the dewy grass with the shadows sleeping upon it
looked so cool and silent, one longed to take a volume of Wordsworth and
dream away the morning there—we dashed forward to the college grounds,
by the Tontine and into Elm street, where we drove at a foot pace to
enjoy the shade of the tall elms where they interlace, canopying the
whole street with the stirring foliage, and weaving a magnificent arch
through which the sunshine came flickering with broken and unsteady
light. How deliciously cool it was with the dew still bathing the bright
leaves and the long branches waving like green banners over us!
The colleges, too, with their extensive common formed a beautiful
picture, the noble buildings threw their deep shadows on the grass,
while here and there a group of young men—poets and statesmen of the
future—were grouped picturesquely beneath the old trees—some chatting
and laughing merrily, with neglected books lying at their feet, and
others sitting apart poring over some open volume, while the pure breath
of morning came and softly turned the leaves for them. As we drove by a
party sitting beneath a tree close by the paling, Maria stole her hand
round to mine, and with a nod toward the group and a roguish dimple in
her cheek, gave me to understand that our serenaders were of the party.
They saw us, and instantly there was a sly flourishing of white cambric
handkerchiefs and—it was not our fault, we tried to look the other
way—a superlative waste of kisses wafted toward us from hands which had
discoursed such sweet music beneath our windows the night before. When
we looked back on turning the corner—for of course we were anxious that
the young gentlemen should not be too demonstrative—they had moved to
another side of the tree and stood leaning against it in very graceful
attitudes, gazing after our phaeton from the shadows of their Leghorn
hats. The hats were lifted, the white cambric began to flutter
again—our horses sprang forward, and on we dashed over the
Hotchkisstown road. We stopped at that gem of a village, a pretty
cluster of houses nestled under the shelving cliffs of East Rock. We
clambered up the mountain, searched over its broken and picturesque
features, and gazed down on the Arcadian scenery below with a delight
which I can never forget; the town lying amid its forest of trees, the
glittering Sound, the line of Long Island stretching along the horizon,
and the green meadows and pretty village at our feet, lay within our
glance, and human eye never dwelt upon a scene more lovely.
It was late in the morning when we drove through the town again—our
horses in a foam—our cheeks glowing with exercise and our laps full of
wild blossoms.
“Oh, mamma, we have had a delightful drive,” exclaimed Maria, as she
sprang upon the door step, scattering a shower of wild lilies over the
pavement in her haste to leave the phaeton. “Take care, Sophia, take
care, or you will tread on my flowers,” and with this careless speech
she ran up the steps happy and cheerful as a summer bird. I was about to
follow her when Mrs. M. detained me long enough to say that some persons
from S——, the town which contained my own loved home, were waiting for
me in the hall.
For the first time in my life I had spent three months from my father’s
hearth-stone, and could have welcomed the dog who had once passed the
threshold of my home, been patted by my sisters, or who had looked into
the face of my mother—as an old friend. Without staying to inquire who
my visiters could be, I went eagerly forward, my hand half extended in
welcome, and with all the dear feelings of home stirring about my heart.
It certainly was a damper—the sight of that lean gossiping little man,
our town miller—with the marks of his occupation whitening his hatband,
lying in the seams of his coat, and marking the wrinkles in his boots—a
personage who had ground some fifty bushels of wheat for my father,
during his lifetime, but with whom I had never known the honor of
exchanging a dozen consecutive words on that or any other subject. There
he sat, very diminutive and exceedingly perpendicular on one of the hall
chairs, with his feet drawn under him, and his large bell-crowned hat
standing on the carpet by his side. Planted against the wall, and on a
direct file with himself, sat his better half, one of the most
superlatively silly and talkative patterns of humanity that I have ever
been in contact with. In order to be a little genteel—as she called
it—Mrs. Johnson had honored the visit with her best gown, a blazing
calico with an immense pattern running over it, which, with a Leghorn
bonnet lined with pink and trimmed with blue, white silk gloves much too
small for her hands, and morocco shoes ready to burst with the wealth of
feet they contained, composed the _tout ensemble_, which few persons
could have looked upon once without feeling particularly desirous for a
second survey. The appearance of Mr. Johnson and Mrs. Johnson was vulgar
enough in all conscience without the aid of their hopeful progeny, in
the shape of two little Johnsons, with freckled faces and sun-burnt
locks, who sat by the side of their respectable mamma, in jackets of
blue cotton, striped trowsers much too short, and with their dear little
feet perched on the chair-rounds squeezing their two unfortunate wool
hats between their knees and gazing with open mouths through the
drawing-room door. It certainly was an exquisite group for the halls of
an aristocratic and fastidious man like Colonel M.; I dared not look
toward him as he stood giving some directions to Tom, but went forward
with an uncomfortable suspicion that the negro was exhibiting rather
more of his teeth than was exactly necessary in his master’s presence.
The fear of ridicule was strong in my heart, but other and more powerful
feelings were beating there. My visiters were vulgar but honest people,
and I could not treat them coldly while the sweet impulses and
affectionate associations their coming had given rise to were swarming
in my bosom. They might be rude, but had they not lately trod the places
of my childhood? Their faces were coarse and inanimate, but they were
familiar ones, and as such I welcomed them; for they brought to my heart
sweet thoughts of a happy home. I went forward and shook hands with them
all, notwithstanding a glimpse I caught of Maria as she paused on the
stairs, her roguish eyes absolutely laughing with merriment as she
witnessed the scene.
An hour went by, and the Johnsons were still sitting in Colonel M.’s
hall. I had gained all the information regarding my friends which they
could communicate. It was drawing near the dinner hour, and, in truth, I
had become exceedingly anxious for my visiters to depart. But there sat
Mrs. Johnson emitting a continued current of very small talk about her
currant bushes, her luck in making soap, and the very distressing
mortality that had existed among her chickens—she became pathetic on
this subject—six of her most promising fledglings had perished under an
old cart during a thunder-storm, and as many goslings had been dragged
lifeless from her husband’s mill-dam, where they had insisted upon
swimming before they were sufficiently fledged. The account was very
touching; peculiarly so from a solemn moral which Mrs. J. contrived to
deduct from the sad and untimely fate of her poultry—which moral,
according to the best of my memory, was, that if the chickens had obeyed
their mother and kept under the parent wing, the rain had not killed
them, and if the goslings had not put forth their swimming propensities
too early, they might, that blessed moment, have been enjoying the
coolness of the mill-dam in all the downy majesty of half-grown geese.
Mrs. Johnson stopped the hundredth part of a second to take breath and
branched off into a dissertation on the evils of disobedience in
general, and the forwardness and docility of her two boys in particular.
Then, drawing all her interesting topics to a focus, she took boys,
geese, chickens, currant bushes, &c., &c., and bore them rapidly onward
in the stream of her inveterate loquacity. One might as well have
attempted to pour back the waters rushing from her husband’s mill-dam,
when the flood-gates were up, as to check the motion of her unmanageable
tongue. The clatter of his whole flour establishment must have been a
poetical sound compared to the incessant din of meaningless words that
rolled from it. Another good hour passed away, and the volubility of
that tongue was increasing, while my politeness and patience, it must be
owned, were decreasing in an exact ratio.
Maria had dressed for dinner, and I caught a glimpse of her bright face
peeping roguishly over the banisters. Mrs. M. came into the hall, looked
gravely toward us, and walked into the garden with a step rather more
dignified than usual.
“Dear me, is that the lady you are staying with?” said Mrs. Johnson,
cutting short the thread of her discourse, “how sorry I am that I didn’t
ask her how she did, she must think we country people hav’n’t got no
bringing up.”
Without replying to Mrs. Johnson, I seized the opportunity to inquire at
what house they stayed, and innocently proposed calling on them after
dinner.
“Oh,” said the little man, with a most insinuating smile, “we calculate
to put up with you. Didn’t think we were the kind o’ people to slight
old friends—ha?”
“With me—old friends!” I was thunderstruck, and replied, I fear with
some lack of politeness, that Colonel M. did not keep a hotel.
“Wal, I guess I knowd that afore, but I’d jist as lives pay him my money
as any body else.”
This was too much—I cast a furtive look at the banister; Maria’s
handkerchief was at her mouth, and her face sparkled all over with
suppressed mirth. Before I could answer Mr. Johnson’s proposition,
Colonel M. came into the ball, and the modest little gentleman very
coolly informed him of the high honor intended his house.
Colonel M. glanced at my burning face—made his most solemnly polite
bow, and informed my tormentor that he should entertain any visiter of
mine with great pleasure.
I was about to disclaim all Mr. Johnson’s pretensions to hospitality,
backed by an acquaintance with myself, when he interrupted me with—
“Wal, that’s jest what I was a saying to my woman here as we came along.
Wife, says I, never put up to a tavern when you can go any where else.
I’d jest as lives pay my money to a private as to a tavern-keeper;
they’re expensive fellers and allers grumble if one brings his own horse
provender.”
The colonel stared at him a moment, then coldly saying “he was very
welcome,” passed on.
“What a polite gentleman the colonel is!” ejaculated the little miller,
rubbing his hands together as if he had been kneading a batch of his own
flour, and turning triumphantly to his wife, who looked as pleased as if
she had just heard of the resuscitation of her six lamented goslings,
chickens inclusive.
“Come now,” she said, jumping up and tying the strings of her bonnet,
“let’s go down to the salt water and eat our dinner on the grass. Run up
and get your things, Miss Sophy—now come to think on it, I s’pose it
wouldn’t be the genteel thing if we didn’t ask the colonel and his wife
and that young girl that just come in with you—but the wagon is not
large enough to hold us all without husband there can find a board to
put along the front for an extra seat.”
I heard a sound of smothered laughter from the stairs, and hastened to
relieve Mrs. Johnson from her dilemma, by declining her invitation for
myself, while I informed her that Colonel M. expected company, and I was
certain could not benefit by her politeness.
“Wal, then,” said Mr. Johnson, setting down his bell-crowned hat—“It
don’t make much difference whether we eat our dinner here or on the
sea-side. So, if Miss Sophy and the rest on ’em can’t go, s’posing we
give it up and go to the museum.”
This plan was less endurable than the other. I knew that company would
drop in after dinner, and the very thought of introducing Mr. Johnson
and Mrs. Johnson, with both the little Johnsons, to my friends was
enough to drive me into the salt water, as they called it, if those
interesting persons had given me no other alternative. And then to be
dragged to the museum with them! I accepted the sea-side dinner in a fit
of desperation, and ran up stairs to get ready, half angry with the
droll face which Maria made up for my benefit as I passed her in the
upper hall.
I put on a calash, folded a large shawl about me, and, with a parasol in
my hand, was descending the stairs when I heard Mr. J. observe to his
wife that he had felt pretty sure of managing affairs all the time, and
that he was ready to bet any thing Colonel M. wouldn’t charge for what
little trouble they should be. Mrs. Johnson pinched his arm unmercifully
when I appeared in sight, which gentle admonition broke off his
calculation of expenses and sent him in search of his equipage. He
returned with a rickety one-horse wagon—a rusty harness, tied by pieces
of rope in sundry places, which covered an old chesnut horse, whose
organs of starvation were most astonishingly developed over his whole
body. Into this crazy vehicle Mr. Johnson handed us, with a ludicrous
attempt at gallantry which made the old horse turn his head with a
rueful look to see what his master could be about. The wagon contained
but one springless seat, and where we should find accommodations for
five persons was a subject of mystery to me. I however quietly took my
portion of the seat; Mrs. Johnson, whose dimensions required rather more
than half, placed herself by my side, her husband grasped the reins and
crowded his diminutive proportions between us, while the dear little
boys stood up behind and held by the back of our seat. Mr. Johnson gave
his reins a jerk and flourished a whip—with a very short and white
hickory handle, a long lash, and a thong of twisted leather fastened on
for a snapper—with peculiar grace over the drooping head of our steed.
The poor animal gathered up his limbs and walked down the street,
dragging us after him, with great majesty and decorum. We must have been
a magnificent exhibition to the pedestrians as we passed down State
street, Mr. Johnson shaking the reins and cheruping the poor horse
along—his wife exclaiming at every thing she saw, and those interesting
boys standing behind us very upright, with their wool hats set far back
on their heads, and they pointing and staring about as only very young
gentlemen from the country can stare and point, while I, poor victim,
sat crouching behind Mr. J., my calash drawn to its utmost extension
over my face, and my parasol directed with a reference to the side-walk
rather than to the sun. I was young, sensitive, and perhaps a little too
keenly alive to the ridiculous, and if I did not feel exactly like a
criminal going to execution, I did feel as if some old lady’s fruit
stall had been robbed and I was the suspected person.
When about three miles from town, we left our equipage, whose rattle had
given me a headache, and, after walking along the shore awhile, Mrs. J.
selected a spot of fresh grass, shaded by a clump of junipers, where she
commenced preparations for dinner. First, with the assistance of her two
boys, she dragged forth a basket that had been stowed away under the
wagon seat—then a table-cloth, white as a snow drift, was spread on the
grass—next appeared sundry bottles of cider and currant wine, with
cakes of various kinds and dimensions, but mostly spiced with caraway
seed. To these were added a cold tongue, a loaf of exquisite bread, a
piece of cheese, a cup of butter covered with a cool cabbage leaf, and,
last of all, a large chicken-pie, its edge pinched into regular scollops
by Mrs. Johnson’s two thumbs, and the centre ornamented by the striking
resemblance of a broken leaf, cut by the same ingenious artist in the
original paste.
Truly a day is like a human life, seldom all clouds or entire sunshine.
The most gloomy is not all darkness, nor the most happy all light. When
the remembrance of that sea-side dinner, under the juniper bushes, comes
over me, I must acknowledge that my day of tribulation—with all its
provoking incidents and petty vexations—had its hour of respite, if not
of enjoyment. There we sat upon the grass in a refreshing shade, with
nobody to look on as we cut the tender crust of that pie, while the
cider and the currant wine sparkled in the two glasses which we
circulated very promiscuously from lip to lip, while the cool wind came
sweeping over us from the water, and the sunshine, that else had been
too powerful, played and glittered every where about. A few yards from
our feet the foam-crested waves swept the beach with their dash of
perpetual music. The Sound, studded by a hundred snowy sails, lay
out-stretched before us. Far on our right spread an extensive plain,
with cattle grazing peacefully over it, and here and there a dwelling or
a cluster of trees flinging their shadows on the grass. On our left was
the town, with its houses rising, like palaces of snow, among the
overhanging trees; its taper steeples pencilled in regular lines against
the sky, and a picturesque extremity of the Green Mountains looming in
the distance.
It cannot be denied that I rather enjoyed that dinner under the juniper
bushes, and was not half so much shocked by the jocund conversation and
merry laughter of my companions as became the dignity of a young lady
whose “Lines to a Rose-bud” had been extensively copied through several
remote papers of the Union, and who had been twice serenaded by her own
words, set to most excruciating music, but I hope the refined reader
will excuse my fault. It happened several years ago, and I am to this
day a little inclined to be social with good-natured people, even those
who are not particularly literary or intelligent. They do not expect you
to talk books because you write them—never torment you with a
discussion of “woman’s rights,” equality of the sexes, and like popular
absurdities—or force you into a detestation of all books with
quotations, which you would rejoice to think were “unwritten music.”
The clocks were striking four when we drove into town again, much as we
had left it except the basket of fragments under our seat. When we
reached Colonel M’s. door there was a sound of voices in the
drawing-room, and I knew that company was there. I entered the hall, and
with a palpitating heart persuaded Mrs. Johnson to accompany me to my
chamber, leaving her husband to take care of himself, and devoutly
hoping that he would find his way into the garden, or stables, or any
where except the drawing-room.
I entered my chamber resolved to entertain Mrs. Johnson so pleasantly
that she would be content to remain there. I opened the window and
pointed out one of the most lovely prospects that eye ever dwelt upon,
but she was busy with the pink bows and cotton lace border of her cap,
and preferred the reflection of her own stout figure in the
looking-glass to any the open sash could afford. When her toilet was
finished, I was even preposterous enough to offer a book, but, after
satisfying herself that it contained no pictures, she laid it down and
walked toward the door. As a last resource, I flung open my wardrobe, as
if by accident, and that had its effect; she came back with the avidity
of a great child, handled every article, and was very particular to
inquire the price of each garment, and the number of yards it contained.
How I wished that Queen Elizabeth had but left me heiress to her nine
hundred dresses. Had she been so thoughtful, it is highly probable that
Mrs. Johnson would have contented herself in my room till morning; but,
alas! my wardrobe was only extensive enough to detain her half an hour,
and when that failed she grew stubborn and insisted on going down.
I followed Mrs. J. down stairs and into the drawing-room with the
resolution of a martyr. She paused at the door, dropped three sublime
curtsies, put on one of her superlatively silly smiles, and entered,
with a little mincing step and her cap ribands all in a flutter. Had I
been called upon to select the five persons whom I should have been most
unwilling to meet in my irksome predicament, it would have been the two
beautiful girls and three highly bred students of the law-school whom I
found in a group near the centre table. Maria was with them, but looking
almost ill-tempered with annoyance. When she saw Mrs. Johnson, the
crimson that burned on her usually pale cheek spread over her face and
neck, while, spite of shame and anger, her mouth dimpled almost to a
laugh as that lady performed her curtsies at the door. Maria gave one
glance of comic distress at my face, which was burning till it pained
me, and another toward the farther extremity of the room. There was Mr.
Johnson perched on a music stool, and fingering the keys of a piana, as
he called Maria’s superb rose-wood instrument, and the feet of those
little Johnsons dangled from two of the chairs near by: there, at my
right hand, was Mrs. Johnson, radiant as a sunflower, and disposed to
make herself peculiarly fascinating and agreeable to our visiters. She
informed the law students that her husband was a great musicianer, that
he led the singing in the Methodist meeting-house at home, every other
Sunday, when the ministers came to preach, and that her two boys gave
strong indications of musical genius which had almost induced Mr.
Johnson to patronize their village singing-school. While in the midst of
this eloquence, her eye was caught by a rich scarf worn by one of our
lady visiters, so changing the subject she began to express her
admiration, and, after taking an end of the scarf in her hands and
minutely examining the pattern, she inquired the price of its fair
owner, and called her husband to say if he could not afford one like it
for her.
There was a roguish look in the lady’s eye, but she politely informed
Mrs. J. where the scarf was purchased, and, being too well bred to laugh
in our faces, the party took their leave. We breathed freely once more;
but Maria and I had scarcely exchanged glances of congratulation for
their absence, when another party was announced. To be mortified thus a
second time was beyond endurance, and while Maria stepped forward to
close the folding doors on Mr. Johnson and his musical performance, I
turned in very desperation to his better half and proposed to accompany
her in a walk about the city. Most earnestly did I entreat her to
exchange that fine bonnet and orange-colored silk shawl for a cottage
and merino of my own; but no, Mrs. J. clung to her tri-colors
tenaciously as a Frenchman, so investing myself in the rejected articles
we sallied forth.
As we were turning a corner into Chapel-street, I looked back and lo,
the two boys walking behind us, lovingly as the Siamese twins. This
reminded Mrs. Johnson that she had promised them some candy, so I was
forced into a confectioner’s shop that the young gentlemen might be
gratified. The candy was purchased and a pound of raisins called for.
While the man was weighing them, she called out,
“Stop a minute, while I see if I’ve got change enough for ’em,” and
sitting down on a keg she took out a large green worsted purse with
deliberate ostentation, and untied a quantity of silver and copper cents
into her lap. Being satisfied with this display of her wealth, she gave
the man permission to proceed. I had suffered so much that day that the
jeering smile of that candy-man went for nothing.
On leaving the candy shop I allowed my tormentor to choose her own
direction, which, as my evil stars would have it, led directly before
the Tontine, and there, upon the steps, stood the two young gentlemen
who had serenaded Maria and myself only the night before, and whom we
had seen that morning on the college grounds. They recognized me and
bowed, Mrs. Johnson instantly appropriated the compliment, paused, faced
about and returned their salutations with a curtsey for each, while she
scolded the boys for not having “manners enough to make their bows when
gentlemen noticed them.” The urchins took off their wool hats and did
make their bows. My serenaders of the Sophomore class could not
withstand this, and though their faces were turned away, I had a
delightful consciousness that they were ready to die with suppressed
laughter as I urged my companion down the street.