forgetting him. And the little golden-haired one who sat at his
left--his pet, his idol--who lisped the thanksgiving after him, shall I
forget her, and the games of forfeit afterwards at evening that brought
her curls near to me?
These fifty years she has been gone from sight, and is dust. What an
awful tide of Thanksgivings has drifted by since she bowed her golden
locks, and clasped her hand, and murmured, "Our Father, we thank thee
for this, and for all thy bounties!"
Who else? Well, troops of cousins--good, bad, and indifferent. No man is
accountable for his cousins, I think; or if he is, the law should be
changed. If a man can't speak honestly of cousinhood, to the third or
fourth degree, what _can_ he speak honestly of? Didn't I see little Floy
(who wore pea-green silk) make a saucy grimace when I made a false cut
at that rolypoly turkey drumstick and landed it on the tablecloth?
There was that scamp Tom, too, who loosened his waistcoat before he went
into dinner. I saw him do it. Didn't he make faces at me, till he caught
a warning from Aunt Polly's uplifted finger?
[Illustration: A Thanksgiving Reunion.]
How should I forget that good, kindly Aunt Polly--very severe in her
turban, and with her meeting-house face upon her, but full of a great
wealth of bonbons and dried fruits on Saturday afternoons, in I know not
what capacious pockets; ample, too, in her jokes and in her laugh;
making that day a great maelstrom of mirth around her?
H---- sells hides now, and is as rich as Croesus, whatever that may
mean; but does he remember his venturesome foray for a little bit of
crisp roast pig that lay temptingly on the edge of the dish that day?
There was Sarah, too,--turned of seventeen, education complete, looking
down on us all--terribly learned (I know for a fact that she kept Mrs.
Hemans in her pocket); terribly self-asserting, too. If she had not
married happily, and not had a little brood about her in after years
(which she did), I think she would have made one of the most terrible
Sorosians of our time. At least that is the way I think of it now,
looking back across the basted turkey (which she ate without gravy) and
across the range of eager Thanksgiving faces.
There was Uncle Ned--no forgetting him--who had a way of patting a boy
on the head so that the patting reached clear through to the boy's
heart, and made him sure of a blessing hovering over. That was the
patting I liked. _That's_ the sort of uncle to come to a Thanksgiving
dinner--the sort that eat double filberts with you, and pay up next day
by noon with a pocketknife or a riding whip. Hurrah for Uncle Ned!
And Aunt Eliza--is there any keeping her out of mind? I never liked the
name much; but the face and the kindliness which was always ready to
cover, as well as she might, what wrong we did, and to make clear what
good we did, make me enrol her now--where she belongs evermore--among
the saints. So quiet, so gentle, so winning, making conquest of all of
us, because she never sought it; full of dignity, yet never asserting
it; queening it over all by downright kindliness of heart. What a wife
she would have made! Heigho! how we loved her, and made our boyish love
of her--a Thanksgiving!
Were there oranges? I think there were, with green spots on the
peel--lately arrived from Florida. Tom boasted that he ate four. I dare
say he told the truth--he looked peaked, and was a great deal the worse
for the dinner next day, I remember.
Was there punch, or any strong liquors? No; so far as my recollection
now goes, there was none.
Champagne?
I have a faint remembrance of a loud pop or two which set some cousinly
curls over opposite me into a nervous shake. Yet I would not like to
speak positively. Good bottled cider or pop beer may possibly account
for all the special phenomena I call to mind.
Was there coffee, and were there olives? Not to the best of my
recollection; or, if present, I lose them in the glamour of mince pies
and Marlborough puddings.
How we ever sidled away from that board when that feast was done I have
no clear conception. I am firm in the belief that thanksgiving was said
at the end, as at the beginning. I have a faint recollection of a gray
head passing out at the door, and of a fleece of golden curls beside
him, against which I jostle--not unkindly.
Dark?
Yes; I think the sun had gone down about the time when the mince pies
had faded.
Did Dick and Tom and the rest of us come sauntering in afterwards when
the rooms were empty, foraging for any little tidbits of the feast that
might be left, the tables showing only wreck under the dim light of a
solitary candle?
How we found our way with the weight of that stupendous dinner by us to
the heights of Town-hill it is hard to tell. But we did, and when our
barrel pile was fairly ablaze, we danced like young satyrs round the
flame, shouting at our very loudest when the fire caught the tar barrel
at the top, and the yellow pile of blaze threw its lurid glare over hill
and houses and town.
Afterwards I have recollection of an hour or more in a snug square
parlor, which is given over to us youngsters and our games, dimly
lighted, as was most fitting; but a fire upon the hearth flung out a red
glory on the floor and on the walls.
Was it a high old time, or did we only pretend that it was?
Didn't I know little Floy in that pea-green silk, with my hands clasped
round her waist and my eyes blinded--ever so fast? Didn't I give Dick an
awful pinch in the leg, when I lay _perdu_ under the sofa in another one
of those tremendous games? Didn't the door that led into the hall show a
little open gap from time to time--old faces peering in, looking very
kindly in the red firelight flaring on them? And didn't those we loved
best look oftenest? Don't they always?
Well, well--we were fagged at last: little Floy in a snooze before we
knew it; Dick, pretending not to be sleepy, but gaping in a prodigious
way. But the romps and the fatigue made sleep very grateful when it came
at last: yet the sleep was very broken; the turkey and the nuts had
their rights, and bred stupendous Thanksgiving dreams. What gorgeous
dreams they were, to be sure!
I seem to dream them again to-day.
Once again I see the old, revered gray head bowing in utter
thankfulness, with the hands clasped.
Once again, over the awful tide of intervening years--so full, and yet
so short--I seem to see the shimmer of _her_ golden hair--an aureole of
light blazing on the borders of boyhood: "_For this, and all thy
bounties, our Father, we thank thee._"
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 20: From "Bound Together," by Donald G. Mitchell, published by
Charles Scribner's Sons.]
A THANKSGIVING[21]
Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell--
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof--
Under the spans of which I lie
Both soft and dry,
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch as is my fate--
Both void of state--
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall
And kitchen's small.
A little buttery, and therein
A little bin.
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unfled.
Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
Make me a fire
Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is thine,
And all those other bits that be
There placed by thee.
'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,
And giv'st me for my bushel sown
Twice ten for one.
All these and better thou dost send
Me to this end,--
That I should render for my part,
A thankful heart;
Which, fired with incense, I resign
As wholly thine--
But the acceptance, that must be,
My God, by thee.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 21: By Robert Herrick, an English poet (1591-1674).]
FIRST DAYS AT WAKEFIELD[22]
_A proof that even the humblest fortune may grant happiness, which
depends not on circumstances but constitution._
The place of our retreat was in a little neighborhood consisting of
farmers, who tilled their own grounds, and were equal strangers to
opulence and poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences of life
within themselves, they seldom visited towns or cities in search of
superfluity. Remote from the polite, they still retained the primeval
simplicity of manners; and frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that
temperance was a virtue.
They wrought with cheerfulness on days of labor; but observed festivals
as intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the Christmas carol,
sent true love knots on Valentine morning, ate pancakes on Shrovetide,
showed their wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts on
Michaelmas Eve.
Being apprised of our approach, the whole neighborhood came out to meet
their minister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by a pipe
and tabor. A feast also was provided for our reception, at which we sat
cheerfully down; and what the conversation wanted in wit was made up in
laughter.
Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a slopping bill,
sheltered with a beautiful underwood behind, and a prattling river
before; on one side a meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted of
about twenty acres of excellent land, having given a hundred pounds for
my predecessor's goodwill. Nothing could exceed the neatness of my
little inclosures, the elms and hedgerows appearing with inexpressible
beauty.
My house consisted of but one story, and was covered with thatch, which
gave it an air of great snugness; the walls on the inside were nicely
whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to adorn them with pictures of
their own designing. Though the same room served us for parlor and
kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it was kept with the
utmost neatness, the dishes, plates, and coppers being well scoured, and
all disposed in bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably
relieved, and did not want richer furniture. There were three other
apartments,--one for my wife and me, another for our two daughters, and
the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children.
The little republic to which I gave laws was regulated in the following
manner: by sunrise we all assembled in our common apartment, the fire
being previously kindled by the servant. After we had saluted each other
with proper ceremony--for I always thought fit to keep up some
mechanical forms of good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys
friendship--we all bent in gratitude to that Being who gave us another
day.
This duty being performed, my son and I went to pursue our usual
industry abroad, while my wife and daughters employed themselves in
providing breakfast, which was always ready at a certain time. I allowed
half an hour for this meal and an hour for dinner, which time was taken
up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, and in philosophical
arguments between my son and me.
As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our labors after it was
gone down, but returned home to the expecting family, where smiling
looks, a neat hearth, and pleasant fire were prepared for our reception.
Nor were we without guests: sometimes Farmer Flamborough, our talkative
neighbor, and often the blind piper would pay us a visit, and taste our
gooseberry wine, for the making of which we had lost neither the receipt
nor the reputation.
The night was concluded in the manner we began the morning, my youngest
boys being appointed to read the lessons of the day, and he that read
loudest, distinctest and best was to have a halfpenny on Sunday to put
in the poor's box.
When Sunday came it was indeed a day of finery, which all my sumptuary
edicts could not restrain. How well soever I fancied my lectures against
pride had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I still found them
secretly attached to all their former finery; they still loved laces,
ribbons, bugles, and catgut; my wife herself retained a passion for her
crimson paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it became her.
[Illustration: The First Sunday at Wakefield.]
The first Sunday in particular their behavior served to mortify me; I
had desired my girls the preceding night to be dressed early the next
day; for I always loved to be at church a good while before the rest of
the congregation. They punctually obeyed my directions; but when we were
to assemble in the morning at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters
dressed out all in their former splendor; their hair plastered up with
pomatum, their faces patched to taste, their trains bundled up in a heap
behind, and rustling at every motion.
I could not help smiling at their vanity, particularly that of my wife,
from whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, therefore, my
only resource was to order my son, with an important air, to call our
coach. The girls were amazed at the command; but I repeated it with more
solemnity than before.
"Surely, my dear, you jest," cried my wife; "we can walk it perfectly
well; we want no coach to carry us now."
"You mistake, child," returned I, "we do want a coach; for if we walk to
church in this trim, the very children in the parish will hoot after
us."
"Indeed," replied my wife, "I always imagined that my Charles was fond
of seeing his children neat and handsome about him."
"You may be as neat as you please," interrupted I, "and I shall love you
the better for it; but all this is not neatness, but frippery. These
rufflings and pinkings and patchings will only make us hated by all the
wives of all our neighbors. No, my children," continued I, more gravely,
"those gowns may be altered into something of a plainer cut; for finery
is very unbecoming in us, who want the means of decency. I do not know
whether such flouncing and shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we
consider, upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of the
indigent world may be clothed from the trimmings of the vain."
This remonstrance had the proper effect; they went with great composure,
that very instant, to change their dress; and the next day I had the
satisfaction of finding my daughters, at their own request, employed in
cutting up their trains into Sunday waistcoats for Dick and Bill, the
two little ones; and what was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed
improved by this curtailing.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 22: From "The Vicar of Wakefield," by Oliver Goldsmith, a
celebrated English author (1728-1774).]
EXPRESSION: In this selection and the two which follow we have
three other specimens of English prose fiction. You will observe
that they are very different in style, as well as in subject, from
the three specimens at the beginning of this book. Compare them
with one another. Reread the selections from Dickens, Thackeray,
and George Eliot, and compare them with these. Which do you like
best? Why?
DOUBTING CASTLE[23]
I. THE PILGRIMS LOSE THEIR WAY
Now I beheld in my dream that Christian and Hopeful had not journeyed
far until they came where the river and the way parted, at which they
were not a little sorry; yet they durst not go out of the way. Now the
way from the river was rough, and their feet tender by reason of their
travel; so the souls of the pilgrims were much discouraged because of
the way. Wherefore, still as they went on, they wished for a better way.
Now, a little before them, there was in the left hand of the road a
meadow, and a stile to go over into it; and that meadow is called
By-path Meadow. Then said Christian to his fellow, "If this meadow lieth
along by our wayside, let us go over into it." Then he went to the stile
to see, and behold a path lay along by the way on the other side of the
fence.
"'Tis according to my wish," said Christian; "here is the easiest going;
come, good Hopeful, and let us go over."
"But how if this path should lead us out of the way?"
"_That_ is not likely," said the other. "Look, doth it not go along by
the wayside?"
So Hopeful, being persuaded by his fellow, went after him over the
stile. When they were gone over, and were got into the path, they found
it very easy for their feet; and withal they, looking before them,
espied a man walking as they did, and his name was Vain-Confidence: so
they called after him, and asked him whither that way led.
He said, "To the Celestial Gate."
"Look," said Christian, "did not I tell you so?--by this you may see we
are right."
So they followed, and he went before them. But, behold, the night came
on, and it grew very dark; so that they who were behind lost sight of
them that went before. He, therefore, that went before--Vain-Confidence
by name--not seeing the way before him, fell into a deep pit, and was
dashed in pieces with his fall.
Now Christian and his fellow heard him fall; so they called to know the
matter. But there was none to answer, only they heard a groan.
Then said Hopeful, "Where are we now?"
Then was his fellow silent, as mistrusting that he had led him out of
the way; and now it began to rain and thunder and lightning in a most
dreadful manner, and the water rose amain, by reason of which the way of
going back was very dangerous.
Yet they adventured to go back; but it was so dark and the flood so
high, that in their going back they had like to have been drowned nine
or ten times. Neither could they, with all the skill they had, get back
again to the stile that night. Wherefore, at last lighting under a
little shelter, they sat down there until daybreak. But, being weary,
they fell asleep.
[Illustration: In the Giant's Dungeon.]
II. IN THE GIANT'S DUNGEON
Now there was, not far from the place where they lay, a castle, called
Doubting Castle, the owner whereof was Giant Despair; and it was in his
grounds they now were sleeping. Wherefore he, getting up in the morning
early, and walking up and down in his fields, caught Christian and
Hopeful asleep in his grounds. Then with a grim and surly voice, he bid
them awake, and asked them whence they were, and what they did in his
grounds.
They told him they were pilgrims, and that they had lost their way.
Then said the giant, "You have this night trespassed on me, by trampling
in and lying on my grounds, and therefore you must go along with me."
So they were forced to go, because he was stronger than they. They also
had but little to say, for they knew themselves in a fault. The giant,
therefore, drove them before him, and put them into his castle, in a
very dark dungeon.
Here, then, they lay from Wednesday morning till Saturday night, without
one bit of bread, or drop of drink, or light, or any to ask how they
did: they were, therefore, here in evil case, and were far from friends
and acquaintance.
Now Giant Despair had a wife, and her name was Diffidence. So, when he
was gone to bed, he told his wife that he had taken a couple of
prisoners, and had cast them into his dungeon for trespassing on his
grounds. Then he asked her also what he had best do to them. So she
asked him what they were, whence they came, and whither they were bound;
and he told her. Then she counseled him, that when he arose in the
morning he should beat them without mercy.
So when he arose, he getteth him a grievous crabtree cudgel, and goes
into the dungeon to them, and there first falls to rating of them as if
they were dogs, although they never gave him an unpleasant word. Then he
fell upon them, and beat them fearfully, in such sort that they were not
able to help themselves, or to turn them upon the floor. This done he
withdraws, and leaves them there to condole their misery, and to mourn
under their distress. So all that day they spent their time in nothing
but sighs and bitter lamentations.
The next night she, talking with her husband further about them, and
understanding that they were yet alive, did advise him to counsel them
to make away with themselves. So, when morning was come, he goes to them
in a surly manner as before, and perceiving them to be very sore with
the stripes that he had given them the day before, he told them that,
since they were never like to come out of that place, their only way
would be forthwith to make an end of themselves, either with knife,
halter, or poison: "for why," he said, "should you choose to live,
seeing it is attended with so much bitterness?"
But they desired him to let them go. With that he looked ugly upon them,
and, rushing to them, had doubtless made an end of them himself, but
that he fell into one of his fits, and lost for a time the use of his
hands. Wherefore he withdrew, and left them, as before, to consider what
to do.
Then did the prisoners consult between themselves, whether it was best
to take his counsel or no. But they soon resolved to reject it; for it
would be very wicked to kill themselves; and, besides, something might
soon happen to enable them to make their escape.
Well, towards evening the giant goes down to the dungeon again, to see
if his prisoners had taken his counsel; but when he came there, he found
them alive. I say, he found them alive; at which he fell into a grievous
rage, and told them that, seeing they had disobeyed his counsel, it
should be worse with them than if they had never been born.
At this they trembled greatly, and I think that Christian fell into a
swoon; but, coming a little to himself again, they renewed their
discourse about the giant's counsel, and whether yet they had best take
it or no. Now Christian again seemed for doing it, but Hopeful reminded
him of the hardships and terrors he had already gone through, and said
that they ought to bear up with patience as well as they could, and
steadily reject the giant's wicked counsel.
Now, night being come again, and the giant and his wife being in bed,
she asked him concerning the prisoners, and if they had taken his
counsel. To this he replied, "They are sturdy rogues, they choose rather
to bear all hardships than to make away themselves."
Then said she, "Take them into the castle yard to-morrow, and show them
the bones and skulls of those that thou hast already dispatched, and
make them believe, thou wilt tear them in pieces, as thou hast done
their fellows before them."
So when morning has come, the giant goes to them again, and takes them
into the castle yard, and shows them as his wife had bidden him.
"These," said he, "were pilgrims, as you are, once, and they trespassed
on my grounds, as you have done; and when I thought fit, I tore them in
pieces; and so within ten days I will do to you. Get you down to your
den again."
And with that he beat them all the way thither.
Now, when night was come, Mrs. Diffidence and her husband began to renew
their discourse of their prisoners. The old giant wondered that he could
neither by his blows nor by his counsel bring them to an end.
And with that his wife replied, "I fear," said she, "that they live in
hopes that some will come to relieve them, or that they have picklocks
about them, by the means of which they hope to escape."
"And sayest thou so, my dear?" said the giant; "I will therefore search
them in the morning."
Well, on Saturday, about midnight, they began to pray, and continued in
prayer till almost break of day.
Now a little before it was day, good Christian, as one half amazed,
brake out into a passionate speech: "What a fool am I, thus to lie in a
dungeon! I have a key in my bosom, called Promise, that will, I am
persuaded, open any lock in Doubting Castle."
Then said Hopeful, "That's good news, good brother; pluck it out of thy
bosom and try."
Then Christian pulled it out of his bosom, and began to try at the
dungeon door, whose bolt, as he turned the key, gave back, and the door
flew open with ease, and Christian and Hopeful both came out.
After that, he went to the iron gate, for that must be opened too, but
that lock went desperately hard; yet the key did open it. Then they
thrust open the gate to make their escape with speed; but that gate, as
it opened, made such a creaking, that it waked Giant Despair, who,
hastily rising to pursue his prisoners, felt his limbs to fail, for his
fits took him again, so that he could by no means go after them. Then
they went on, and came to the King's highway, again, and so were safe.
FOOTNOTE:
[Footnote 23: From "The Pilgrim's Progress," by John Bunyan, a famous
English preacher and writer (1628-1688).]