 | IV. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
4. IV.
On the day appointed I prepared for my visit to Mrs. Lytle,
with no very accurately defined expectations of pleasure or pain.
Memories of my late discomfiture kept down any of that pleasing
excitement so common at the prospect of a country visit,
which I might otherwise have felt awaking at the prospect of
enlarging my acquaintance in this part of our neighborhood. In
this work-day world new sensations are exceedingly precious,
and this more especially as the fast-coming shadows of years
give all the groundwork of life a sombre tinge. The circle that
rises from our first plunge in the sea of life is bright and bounding;
but as it widens, the sparkle becomes dull and the motion
heavy and sluggish, till at last it breaks on the shore of eternity.
We learn too soon the sorrowful wisdom that—
The future can but be the past;”
mildew take its place. One after another of our dear ones go
from us, either into new spheres of love and labor, or into that
darkness “where the eye cannot follow them,” and with our feet
stumbling among graves, the golden summer sunshine seems
for the just and the unjust. And pain knits itself with
pain, and complaint joins itself to complaint, till a thankless, if
not reproachful, undertone runs through the world. Mourning
for the lost or the unattainable, our hearts are insensible of the
blessings we have; listening to the low earth for some comfort
yet, we turn a deaf ear to the music from above. The cloud rises
and we forget the eternal splendor of the stars. We have need
of all thy mercy, Oh our Father, for daily and hourly forgetfulness
of thy goodness, for the world is full of beauty, and life,
though never so much vexed with adverse fortune; and this
being is a great thing—great, not only in its final results, and
as it grows to its perfect glory, or dwarfs in the fires of ultimate
wrath, but in its present capacities and powers—only
below Omnipotence. Shall we look abroad on the fashioning
of the Creator—we, the perfectest work of his hands, and
unsay the benediction, “It is very good.” They are wrong
who estimate this wonderful and beautiful existence either as a
mere chance and vapor that the winds may scatter and the
grave undo, or as a hard trial and temptation that it were good
to have past; even taking the saddest view of its narrowness
and darkness and burdens—even, if you will, limiting its
duration to the borders of the tomb, “this sensible, warm
being,” is a good thing. If we do not find it so, the fault is in
ourselves, for in our own perverse hearts is our greatest enemy.
We will not recognize the angels that sit at our hearthstones
while their wings are folding themselves about our bosoms,
but when they are lessening in the azure overhead we exclaim,
How beautiful! and reach forth our longing arms in vain.
We tread on the flowers at our feet; and sigh for the
gardens of paradise. We put from us the heart that is
throbbing with love, and go through the world tracking for
receding steps. Life is good, and I am glad to live, despite
the pain and the temptation and the sorrow; these must be
about it, and there is need that we oppose to them all that
within us which is loftiest and best. The basis of every great
fabric rests in the dark; so, even though the light of love he
gone out, and the star of hope shorn of its first warm splendors,
to work. There are plants hardy enough for the brown
baked earth by the cabin door, and birds to sing on the low
eaves as well as in the beautiful groves that environ palaces.
But all this is a digression.
I selected my toilet with more scrupulous care than on the
occasion of my visit to Mrs. Knight. I knew even my new
bonnet and best silk gown would not be deemed unpardonable
offences against propriety in the estimation of Mrs. Lytle, who
always, despite her disadvantages, looked tidy and smart.
Her daughters, too, Kitty and Ady, whom I had often
remarked at the village church, were in appearance no whit
behind the squire's or the deacon's daughters, except in years;
they were but just coming out, having lately made their debut
at an apple-cutting, where their pretty pink gingham dresses,
white aprons, and quietly agreeable manners, had been themes
of common admiration. True, some people, among whom was
Mrs. Knight, thought “such flirts of girls” were better kept in
tow frocks, and in the kitchen, or at the spinning-wheel; but
the general verdict, and especially that of the young men, was
in their favor. The house in which the Knights now lived, was
substantially built of brick, but with intelligent regard neither
for convenience nor taste; no trees grew about it, and standing
right up in the sun, with its surrounding pigstyes, henroosts,
stables, &c., in full view, it looked comfortless, though sufficiently
thrifty.
The windows of the chamber facing the sun were open as I
passed, and within the young women were pacing to and fro
rapidly, for their wheels sung invariably to the tune of “sixteen
cuts” per day. Hung over the window sills, in the sunshine,
were several small divisions of “rolls,” blue and gray, and in
the side yard, her cap border flying, and smoke blowing in her
face, appeared the mother, raking chips beneath a soap-kettle.
“All work and no play,” was still the order of her life.
In the hollow beyond this scene of rude bustle and hard
strife, I opened a gate, and, following a narrow and deeply worn
path, beside a clear deep brook, I soon found myself in view
of the tenant house—a cabin of two rooms, originally, but
little nook, at the head of the hollow traversed by the stream,
which had its source beneath the grassy mound, joined to the
hill on one side, and extending a little way over the stone wall
and door of slabs, on the other. A rude, irregular fence ran
round the base of the ascent, enclosing a small plot of ground,
with the cabin, and milk-house—the last still and cool, beneath
the mound of turf, and the first covered with vines and hedged
about with trees. How cosy and even pretty it looked, with
the boughs full of red apples close against the wall, and clusters
of black grapes depending from the eaves! The great flaunting
flowers of the trumpet-vine were gone, and the leaves on the
rose-withes beneath the window looked rusty and dull, for the
time of bright blossoms was long past, but the plenteous fruits
atoned for the lost flowers, and the waxen snow-berries, and
the scarlet buds of the jasmine, shining through the fading
leaves, helped to make the aspect of everything beautiful, even
in a forbidding season.
The fence about the yard was rude enough, but currant
bushes grew thick along its side, and over the golden ridge
they made, in crimson curves and tangles glistened the smooth
vines of the raspberry. There was no gate, and, standing on
the stile, by which there was admittance to the yard, I paused
a moment, in admiration of the pleasant sight before me.
The grass was level and pretty, save where it was broken up
for flower-beds—of pinks and hollihocks and poppies—and over
a stump that defined all present arts of removal, trailed the “old
man's beard,” so that what would else have been a deformity
added to the beauty of the scene.
The door of the parlor—as I judged it to be from the pots
of flowers in the windows, and the white curtains—was standing
open, and I could see the bright plaided carpet on the floor and
the snowy coverlid of the bed—for everybody who has been
in western country houses, knows that the parlor is also the
spare bedroom, in such places. It looked snug and homelike,
and I could not help comparing it with the naked and rude
style of things so lately under my observation. Turning in the
direction of my thoughts I saw the little girls, Sally and Jane,
me, they struck up a ditty, which was doubtless meant for my
benefit, and the day being still, and the wind blowing toward
me, I caught the whole distinctly: “Solomon Grundy, born on
Monday, christened on Tuesday, married on Wednesday, sick
on Thursday, worse on Friday, died on Saturday, buried on
Sunday—and that was the end of Solomon Grundy!”
My attention thus diverted, I did not hear the light steps of
the young women who had come forth to meet me, till their
voices spoke cordial welcomes, which seemed to come from
their merry hearts, while the smiles that glowed in their faces
made the atmosphere genial as spring.
The outward index had not been too favorable a voucher,
and that cabin parlor with its flowers and books, scrupulous
cleanliness, and tasteful arrangement, contrasted well with the
showy vulgarity of many more pretending houses, where the
furnishing speaks wealth, and nothing but wealth. The walls
and ceiling were white-washed, green boughs filled the deep
wide fire-place, the open cupboard, with its shining britannia and
pink-specked china, and the table with its basket of apples,
pears, and grapes—how nice it all was, and how suggestive of
comfort! But after all, the chief charm of the place was its
living occupants. The mother was not yet home, having the
previous night gone to market with her landlord—for it must
be remembered that Mrs. Lytle was poor, and did not even
own the cabin which was indebted for all its attractiveness to
her pains. Butter and eggs, and fruits and berries, beside
various things manufactured in the house, the provident woman
carried weekly to town, for which business Mr. Knight kindly
gave her room in his market-wagon; and while she generally
returned with her basket as full as she carried it away, he
returned with his empty. But notwithstanding these expenditures
Mrs. Lytle owed nothing, and though her purse was not
so heavy as her neighbor's, neither was her heart. Her children
had been kept at school for the most part, and she had even
managed to send them two quarters to the new academy, and
to dress them in a style, if less expensive, as neat and pretty
as anybody in the neighborhood. I can see them now as I saw
and white apron, with bare neck and arms, and Kitty in a pink
dress and black apron, till she tied over it a checked one to
assist about the preparation of supper.
“And that is the reason I am so late home to-day,” Mrs. Lytle
said, beginning at the close of her story. “You see I got out
of the wagon just the other side of the school-house, and walked
across to Hathaway's, to see how little Henry was, for I heard
in market that the doctor had given him up. Poor child, he
seemed so sensible, and told me to tell his mother not to cry!”
and wiping her tears, she added, “Mrs. Knight was there, and
you know her way: so they all felt worse than they would have
done. As soon as she looked at Henry, she said he would not
live till morning, and then calling his brother, she told him that
Henry would never work or play with him again; and having
told them two or three times, that all their tears would not
make the child well, she went home to tend her soap-kettle,
leaving directions in reference to being sent for in case she was
needed.”
It was certainly characteristic that at such a time she should
bring forward her hard, dark realities, and needlessly torture
breaking hearts by allusions to the awful necessities of death.
I spoke of my visit at her house, and related some particulars
which tended to restore the cheerful tone of the conversation;
in fact we laughed outright, in view of the restraint and painful
embarrassment which the young women felt in consequence of
the visit of Mr. Francisco in open daylight.
“I hope, mother,” Kitty said, laughing and blushing, “you
will not be so cross when I have a beau, for poor Hetty will
never have a chance to get married I am sure.”
“I hope she will be cross,” said the sister, “if you have such
a clodhopper as he.”
“Come, come, girls,” answered the mother, “Mr. Francisco
is a good worthy young man, and though not given to match-making,
I feel inclined to help them forward—can't we facilitate
their happiness in some way?”
The appeal was to me, and I entered at once into the conspiracy.
Mr. Francisco was to plow a field for Mrs. Lytle the coming
invitation to the girls whose opportunities were so restricted,
to assist in cutting apples at the cottage on a specified afternoon.
The extent of this service cannot be estimated by those who
have never seen or felt the cold straits of division thrown between
themselves and some dear object, by the strict discipline
of parents or guardians, forgetting that they were ever lovers
themselves. But perhaps now and then a modern Hero and
Leander will appreciate it, and even if not, my conscience does
not condemn me, for I verily believe they might never have told
their love but through my harmless stratagem.
But I am lingering too long. With small talk of one kind
and another, and a little harmless gossip, as I have confessed,
the time passed rapidly, and through the vine-shaded window
we saw the heavy mist of red gold hanging over the withering
woods, and black forks of the walnuts darkening or the blood-red
top of the oaks shining through.
The girls were very happy, and chattering like birds, as they
prepared the supper, and great credit it did to their housewifery
when prepared. The broiled chicken bore slight resemblance to
Mrs. Knight's stewed roosters, and the clear, fresh jelly as little
to the candied and crumby fragments which the good woman
called preserves. The bread could not have been whiter, nor the
butter more golden; the cake was just done to a charm, and the
table linen was as white as snow. How well and how pleasantly
I remember it all, though so long ago! the pretty pink
china sparkling in the light of the candles—the two brass candlesticks
scoured, so that they looked like freshly wrought gold,
and our pleasant conversation as we sipped the delicious tea, and
my promise to visit them often.
According to the kindly custom of country people, Ady and
Kitty went “a piece of the way home with me,” telling me some
little secret hopes and fears they had not ventured upon in the
day. It is wonderful what an influence twilight and night exert
upon us; we draw closer to those we like, and sometimes, almost
unawares, give our hearts to their keeping; while from
those we hate or fear, we are a thousand times more repelled
than in the noon. Passion, of whatever nature, strengthens in
knit destinies together, owe their expression to the friendly stars.
And many a blow has been struck that would not have been
given, if the sunlight had shown the murderer clearly where to
do his work.
As we stood beneath the deeply crimson cone of a stunted
ash that grew by the roadside, making our adieus, the stage-coach,
its plethoric sides swinging one way and the other, rumbled past,
hurrying to their various destinations a motley crowd of dust-covered
passengers, and among them I noticed a slight and fair
faced youth, looking back from the window. “The schoolmaster,”
I said, addressing myself to Kitty, who blushed to find
herself detected in returning his earnest gaze, and hastily tied
on the white hood she had previously held in her hand. “I rather
think,” I continued, laughing, “he is all your fancy painted him;
and from the attention with which he regarded us, perhaps we
have, some of us, found favor in his eyes; but I will be generous,
having, as I shall, the advantage of first acquaintance, and
you shall know him as soon as may be.” So, jesting, we parted,
as the first star, large and white, came out above the tree tops.
The doors of the farm-houses stood open, the tables were
spread, and I could see the shirt sleeves busy, as hands were
moving from dish to dish, and the patient mother trying to still
the fretful baby, while she poured the tea. About the barnyards
stood the cows chewing their food, and waiting to be
milked.
| IV. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |