In looking back upon my early days, one of the images that rises most
vividly to my mind's eye is that of Miss Molly ----, or Aunt Molly, as
she was called by some of her little favorites, that is to say, about
a dozen girls, and (not complimentary to the _un_fair sex, to be sure)
one boy. There was one, who, even to Miss Molly, was not a torment and
a plague; and I must confess he was a pleasant specimen of the
genus. At the time of which I speak, the great awkward barn of a
school-house on the Common, near the Appian Way, had not reared its
imposing front. In its place, in the centre of a grass-plot that was
one of the very first to look green in spring, and kept its verdure
through the heats of July, stood the brown, one-storied cottage which
she owned, and in which the aged woman lived, alone. Her garden and
clothes-yard behind the house were fenced in; but in front, the
visitor to the cottage, unimpeded by gate or fence, turned up the
pretty green slope directly from the street to the lowly door.
As I have started for a walk into the old times, and am not bound by
any rule to stick to the point, I will here digress to say that the
Episcopal Church (_the Church_, as it was simply called, when all the
rest were "meeting-houses"), that tells the traveller what a pure and
true taste was once present in Cambridge, and, by the contrast it
presents to the architectural blunders that abound in the place, tells
also what a want of it there is now,--this beautiful church stood most
appropriately and tastefully surrounded by the green turf, unbroken by
stiff gravel walks or coach sweep, and undivided from the public walk
by a fence. Behind the church, and forming a part of its own grounds,
(where now exist the elegances of School Court,) was an unappropriated
field; and that spot was considered, by a certain little group of
children, of six or seven years old, the most solitary, gloomy,
mysterious place in their little world. When the colors of sunset had
died out in the west, and the stillness and shadow of twilight were
coming on, they used to "snatch a fearful joy" in seeing one of their
number (whose mother had kindly omitted the first lesson usually
taught to little girls, to be afraid of every thing) perform the feat
of going slowly around the church, alone, stopping behind it to count
a hundred. Her wonderful courage in actually protecting the whole
group from what they called a "flock of cows," and in staking and
patting the "mad dogs" that they were for ever meeting, was nothing to
this _going round the church!_
But to return to the cottage, from which the pretty, rural trait of
its standing in its unfenced green door-yard led me away to notice the
same sort of rustic beauty where the church stood. We did not stop to
knock at the outside door,--for Aunt Molly was very deaf, and if we
had knocked our little knuckles off she would not have heard us,--but
went in, and, passing along the passage, rapped at the door of the
"common room," half sitting-room, half kitchen, and were
admitted. Those who saw her for the first time, whether children or
grown people, were generally afraid of her; for her voice,
unmodulated, of course, by the ear, was naturally harsh, strong, and
high-toned; and the sort of half laugh, half growl, that she uttered
when pleased, might have suggested to an imaginative child the howl of
a wolf. She had very large features, and sharp, penetrating black
eyes, shaded by long, gray lashes, and surmounted by thick, bushy,
gray eyebrows. I think that when she was scolding the school-boys,
with those eyes fiercely "glowering" at them from under the shaggy
gray thatch, she must have appeared to those who in their learned page
had got as far as the Furies, like a living illustration of classic
lore. Her cap and the make of her dress were peculiar, and suggestive
of those days before, and at the time of, the Revolution, of which she
loved to speak.
But we, her little favorites, were not afraid of her. To go into her
garden in summer, and eat currants, larger and sweeter than any we
found at home,--to look up at the enormous old damson-tree, when it
was white with blossoms, and the rich honey-comb smell was diffused
over the whole garden,--was a pleasant little excursion to us. She
took great care and pains to save the plums from the plundering boys,
because it was the only real damson there was anywhere in the
neighborhood, and she found a ready sale for them, for preserves. She
seemed to think that the _real damsons_ went out with the _real
gentry_ of the olden time; and perhaps they did, _as_ damsons, though,
for aught I know, they may figure now in our fruit catalogues as "The
Duke of Argyle's New Seedling Acidulated Drop of Damascus,"--which
would be something like a translation of Damson into the modern
terminology.
But more pleasant still was it to go into Aunt Molly's "best room."
The walls she had papered herself, with curious stripes and odd
pieces, of various shapes and patterns, ornamented with a border of
figures of little men and women joining hands, cut from paper of all
colors; and they were adorned, besides, with several prints in shining
black frames. There was no carpet on the snow-white, unpainted floor,
but various mats and rugs, of all the kinds into which ingenuity has
transformed woollen rags, were disposed about it. The bed was the
pride and glory of the room, however; for on it was spread a silk
patchwork quilt, made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegant
silks, of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory families
had their gowns and cardinals, and other paraphernalia, made. Aunt
Molly had been a mantuamaker to the old "quality," and she could show
us a piece of Madam Vassall's gown on that wonderful and brilliant
piece of work, the bed-quilt. "On that hint" she would speak.
"A-haw-awr! They were _real gentle_ folks that lived in _them_ days.
A-haw-awr! I declare, I could e'en-amost kneel down and kiss the very
airth they trod on, as they went by my house to church. Polite, _they
wor!_ Yes, they knew what true politeness was; and to my thinking true
politeness is next to saving grace."
Once a year, or so, Aunt Molly would dress up in her best gown, a
black silk, trimmed with real black lace, and a real lace cap, relics
of the good old days of Toryism and brocade and the real gentry, and
go to make an afternoon visit to one of her neighbors. After the usual
salutations, the lady would ask her visitor to take off her bonnet and
stay the afternoon, knowing by the "rig" that such was her intention.
But she liked to be urged a little, so she would say, "O, I only came
out for a little walk, it was so pleasant, and stopped in to see how
little Henry did, since his sickness. You know I always call him _my
boy_." (Yes, Aunt Molly, the only boy in the universe that, for you,
had any good in him.) After the proper amount of urging, she would lay
aside her bonnet and black satin mantle, saying, "Well, I didn't come
here to get my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will stay."
Aunt Molly's _asides_ were often amusing. She was so very deaf that
she could not hear her own voice, and often imagined she was
whispering, when she could be heard across the room.
On one occasion she saw a gentleman who was a stranger to her, in the
parlor, when she went to visit one of the ladies who were kind and
attentive to her. She sat a few minutes looking keenly at him, and
then whispered, "Who's that?" "Mr. Jay." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Who?"
"MR. JAY." "Oh-o-oh! Mr. Jay. Well, what does he do for a living?"
"He's a tutor, Ma'am." "What?" "A TUTOR." "What?" "A TUTOR."
"Oh-o-oh! I thought you said a suitor!"
Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage, where her widowed mother,
she said, had lived, and there she died. As soon as she was laid in
her grave, it was torn down, and the precious damson-tree was
felled. I was rather glad that the school-house was so ugly, that I
might have a double reason for hating the usurper. If Nemesis cared
for school-boys, she doubtless looks on with a grin, now, to see them
scampering at their will round the precincts of the former enemy of
their race, and listens with pleasure while they "make _day_ hideous"
where once the bee and the humming-bird only broke the quiet of the
little garden.
Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind, and a strong, tenacious
memory; and her love of the departed grandeur and Toryism of Court
Row, as she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash Street to
Mount Auburn, was pleasant and entertaining to those who listened to
her tales of other times.
Peace to her memory!