A GLANCE AT HOME.
The little village of Willowdale is situated in one of those romantic
dells which are found here and there among the hills of Massachusetts.
A small stream, tributary to the Connecticut, flows through the
village, so small that it is barely sufficient to furnish the
necessary mill-seats for the accommodation of a community of farmers,
but affording no encouragement to manufacturers. It is to this reason,
perhaps, that we may attribute the fact that a place, which was
amongst the earliest settlements of Massachusetts, should remain to
this day so thinly inhabited. The rage for manufactures, so prevalent
in New England, has led speculators to place factories on every stream
of sufficient power to keep them in operation, and a spirit of
enterprise and locomotion has caused railroads to pass through
sections of the country hitherto unfrequented by others than tillers
of the soil. Cities have sprung up where before were only small
villages, and brisk little villages are found, where a few years ago
were only solitary farm-houses. But in spite of all such changes,
Willowdale has escaped the ravages of these merciless innovators. The
glassy river still glides on in its natural bed, and even the willows
on its banks, from which the village takes its name, are suffered to
stand, unscathed by the woodman's axe. The "iron horse" has never
disturbed the inhabitants by his shrill voice, and the rattling of
cars has not broken upon the stillness of a summer-day. The village is
not on the direct route from any of the principal cities to others,
consequently the inhabitants suffer little apprehension of having
their fine farms cut up by rail-road tracks. The village consists of
one principal street, with houses built on both sides, at sufficient
distances from the street and each other, to admit of those neat
yards, with shade-trees, flowers, and white fences, which are the
pride of New England, and scattered among the surrounding fields are
tasteful farm-houses.
There are two houses of worship in the place: the Episcopal church,
which was erected by the first settlers, before the revolution; and
the Congregationalist house, more recently built. There is but little
trade carried on in the place, and one store is sufficient to supply
the wants of the inhabitants. The Episcopal church stands on a slight
eminence, at a little distance from the main street of the village,
and a lane extending beyond it leads to the parsonage. A little
farther down this lane is my father's house, and nearly opposite the
house of Deacon Lee, the home of Clara Adams. Clara was left an orphan
at an early age. Her father was the son of an early friend of the old
rector. The latter, having no children, adopted Henry Adams, and
educated him as his own son, in the hope of preparing him for the
ministry, but with that perversity so common in human nature, the
youth determined to become an artist. The rector, not wishing to force
him unwillingly into the sacred office, consented that he should
pursue his favorite art. He placed him under the tuition of one of the
first painters in a neighboring city, hoping that his natural genius,
aided by his ambition, might enable him to excel. Henry Adams followed
his new pursuit with all the ardor of an impetuous nature, till the
bright eyes of Clara Lee won his heart, and his thoughts were directed
in a new channel, until he had persuaded her to share his lot. It
proved, indeed, a darkened lot to the young bride. Her husband was a
reckless, unsatisfied being, and though he ever loved her with all the
affection of which such natures are capable, the warm expressions of
his love, varied by fits of peevishness and ill-humor, were so unlike
the calm, unchanging devotedness of her nature that she felt a bitter
disappointment. Soon after the birth of their daughter his health
failed, and he repaired to Italy for the benefit of a more genial
climate, and in the hope of perfecting himself in his art. He lived
but a few months after his arrival there, and the sad intelligence
came like a death-blow to his bereaved wife. She lingered a year at
the parsonage, a saddened mourner, and then her wearied spirit found
its rest. The old rector would gladly have nurtured the little orphan
as his own child, but he could not resist the entreaties of Deacon
Lee, her mother's brother, and reluctantly consented to have her
removed to his house. Yet much of her time was spent at the parsonage,
and growing up as it were in an atmosphere of love, it is not strange
that gentleness was the ruling trait of her character. Deacon Lee was
one of that much-scandalized class, the Congregationalist deacons of
New England, who have so often been described with a pen dipped in
gall, if we may judge from the bitterness of the sketches. Scribblers
delight in portraying them as rum-selling hypocrites, sly topers,
lovers of gain, and fomenters of dissension, and so far has this been
carried, that no tale of Yankee cunning or petty fraud is complete
unless the hero is a deacon. It is true there are far too many such
instances in real life, where eminence in the church is their only
high standing, and the name of religion is but a cloak for selfish
vices, but it is equally true that among this class of men are the
good, the true, and kind, of the earth, whose lives are ruled by the
same pure principles which they profess. Such was Deacon Lee, and it
were well if there were more like him, to remove the stain which
others of an opposite character have brought upon the office. He was
one of those whom sorrow purifies, and had bowed in humble resignation
to heavy afflictions. Of a large family only one son had lived to
attain the years of manhood. The mother of Clara had been very dear to
him, and he felt that her orphan child would supply, in a measure, the
place of his own lost ones. His wife was his opposite, and theirs was
one of those unaccountable unions where there is apparently no bond of
sympathy. Stern and exact in the performance of every duty, she wished
to enforce the same rigid observance upon others. The loss of her
children had roused in her a zeal for religion, which, in one of a
warmer temperament, would have been fanaticism. While her husband was
a worshiper from a love of God and his holy laws, she was prompted by
fears of the wrath to come. He bowed in thankfulness, even while he
wept their loss, to the Power that had borne his little ones to a
brighter world, while her life gained new austerity from the thought
that they had been taken from her as a judgment on her worldliness and
idolatry. She loved to dwell upon the sufferings of the Pilgrim
Fathers of New England, and emulate their rigid lives, forgetting that
it was the dark persecution of the times in which they lived that left
this impress upon their characters. Her husband loved to commend the
good deeds of their neighbors, while she was equally fond of censuring
transgressors. Perhaps the result of their efforts was better than it
would have been had both possessed the disposition of either one of
them. Her firmness and energy atoned for the negligence resulting from
his easy temper, and his sunny smile and kind words softened the
asperity with which she would have ruled her household. Their son was
engaged in mercantile business in a neighboring city, and their home
would have been desolate but for the presence of little Clara. She was
the sunshine of the old man's heart, and he forgot toil and weariness
when he sat down by his own fireside, with the merry prattler upon his
knee, and her little arms were twined about his neck. She was the
image of his lost sister, and it seemed to him but a little while
since her mother had sat thus upon his knee, and lavished her caresses
upon him. In spite of the predictions of the worthy dame that she
would be spoiled, he indulged her every wish, checking only the
inclination to do wrong. Nor was the good lady herself without
affection for the little orphan, but she wished to engraft a portion
of her own sternness into her nature, and in her horror of prelacy she
did not like to have such a connecting link between her family and
that of the rector. She had never loved Clara's father, yet she could
not find it in her heart to be unkind to the little orphan, so she
contented herself with laying his faults and follies at the door of
the church to which he belonged. Clara had been my playfellow from
infancy, and at the village school we had pursued our studies
together. When my parents decided to place me at a boarding-school on
the banks of the Hudson, I plead earnestly with the deacon that Clara
might go with me. Her aunt objected strenuously to her acquiring the
superficial accomplishments of the world, but the old man for once in
his life was firm, and declared that Clara should have as good an
education as any one in the vicinity. Accordingly we were placed at
Monteparaiso Seminary, where was laid the scene of the last chapter.