University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

How like a troubled, feverish dream is summer to the
husbandman! How early, and yellow, and hot, comes up
the brazen sun! How are the tunes of the first birds and
all the fresh sounds of the early day overpowered by the jar
and bustle of toil! How the days fly past!—some hot and
breathless, some bright and sparkling; some full of rain,
wind, and thunder; others hemmed about on the western
and southern horizon with bald-headed clouds, that stand
and sleep all the afternoon in the sun; some so clear that
they mark black shadows on the hill-sides, by trees that look
so clumpy and green, so thick, dark, and downy, that one
might dream of jumping from a cloud into them, and being
softly caught in their cool depths; and others so sultry that
the robin drags her wings by the brook side, or sucks the
lifeless air with an open bill and a spasmodic inspiration!

To those who have passed through this season, exposed
to its toils and debilitating influences, how welcome is the
first cool breath of Autumn! How, when the crickets begin
to sing through the drowsy twilight, and the dried mullein
holds stiffly up its tall rack of seed-cups, and the fresh green
silk of the serried corn dries and darkens into matted tufts
of brown, and the foliage of the forests and the grasses of
the pasture show that the freshness of their life has departed,
the heart becomes calm and glad! And when the Frost
King descends from his crystal home while all the world is
sleeping, and breathes upon the forests, and tramples on the
flowers that they may not be contemptible in the light of
his radiant miracles; when the maples turn to gigantic

roses, and the oaks to colossal peonies, when the meadow
wears a gay bouquet upon its bosom, and the river runs the
gauntlet of an army clothed in crimson and purple, and
every sight and sound prophesies of relaxing toil and speedy
fruition, how the heart grows strong, and the beauty and
majesty of Autumn, and its golden promises and great fulfilments,
touch us with gladness and gratitude!

And when, later, the leaves drop, one by one, upon the
ground, carpeting the solitudes for the dances of the fairies;
and the nuts open their brown portals to the curious squirrel,
and great congregations of crows spend whole days in
meaningless vociferations; when the flails of the matched
threshers begin to thump wearily on the neighboring barn
floors, and the wain comes creaking home with its freight
of corn; when the first fires begin to be kindled on the
social hearth, and throw their dancing light over happy old
age in its easy chair, ruddy maidenhood in its life and levity,
and childhood that groans in the bondage of coats restored
and brogans resumed, how the heart warms to the touch of
some of the sweetest associations of life, and we thank God
for those changes which, each in its turn, compensates for
all the severities of its predecessor, and affords a balance of
characteristic joy for which it may be loved, and by which
it may be remembered!

It may be a humiliating fact (and that is doubtless the
reason why it has not found more prominent statement), but
it is none the less an established one, that in temperate latitudes,
the stronger passions of humanity become feeble, and
hardly manifest themselves during summer, except in that
spasmodic manner which is the most reliable symptom of
debility. Thus ambition seems to dissipate in perspiration,
the fires of anger subside under copious draughts of cold
water, and love itself forgets its ardor beneath a burning
sun. Even the most devoted attachments seem to be relaxed
by the season, and are only restored to their original

tone and tension by the return of the mercury to medial altitudes
and modest figures.

It was partly owing to this fact that the love which Holyoke
felt for Mary Pynchon was in a measure laid aside on
his arrival at the Bay, and that neither of the lovers found
the attachment any obstacle in the pursuit of objects of immediate
interest. They had parted with mutual faith, and
with certain objects to be compassed before they should
meet again—Holyoke to make his affairs ready for the contemplated
removal to Agawam, and Mary to prepare for the
establishment of a new home, and the assumption of new
responsibilities.

The summer passed rapidly away, and with but little impatience
on either side; but when the Autumn began to creep
on and the crickets began to sing, and the mullein stood
patiently drying its rack of seed-cups in the sun, and the
corn silk grew brown, and the frost wrought its wonders,
there was not a sight but brought sweet suggestions to the
expectant lovers, or a sound that did not tell them of a great
joy towards which they were tending.

In the plantation, generally, matters had gone on with a
remarkable degree of quietness. The carpenter, Jehu Burr,
with such help as he could occasionally secure, had succeeded
in building a habitable house for Holyoke, to be in readiness
for occupation when that individual should arrive. Its
simple furniture, built at the Bay, came by water carriage,
and was arranged by Mary's own hands.

The feud between Mr. Moxon and Woodcock slept,
although no cordiality existed between them. Many
thought that a great change had occurred in the latter,
and some, in genuine friendliness, endeavored to approach
him with the design of encouraging any good resolutions
that he might be entertaining, but their advances were
coolly met, and persistently repulsed. He was not living
for himself; he was not acting himself. He was engaged

in providing for his daughter, and carried under powerful
restraint as independent a spirit as ever. The daughter
still lived with Mary Pynchon, and week by week and
month by month improved in her demeanor, until fear
began to be felt by many in the neighborhood who had
young daughters, that Mary Pynchon would “spoil that
child, and make her forget who she was and where she
came from”—baleful influences which they sought benevolently
to correct at every convenient opportunity.

Peter Trimble was kept out of mischief by hard work.
He was whipped but three or four times during the summer,
for such offences as knocking off the hats of other boys on
the way home from meeting, agreeing to give boot in a
jack-knife trade, and making the payment somewhat too
energetically with a leather article of that name, and other
playful indiscretions of a similar character.

Mr. Moxon preached with singular earnestness, and devoted
himself to the discharge of his duties with an assiduity
which, receiving its primary impulse in unwonted spiritual
fears and fancies, was naturally and almost necessarily
convulsive and severe.

The approaching marriage of Mary Pynchon was the
theme of much gossip in the plantation, and particularly so
as no one out of the family knew exactly when the event
was to take place. Among the first days of November,
however, at an unusually full meeting on lecture day, the
intentions of marriage between her and Holyoke were published,
viva voce, in accordance with the colonial law.

Mary was present, and in the whisper and flutter and
stare which followed the announcement, sat in indignant
though silent rebellion, against what she regarded as a
sacrilegious notoriety, as disgusting to every healthful sensibility
as it was grateful to prurient and prying curiosity.

The fourteen days of “publishment” at last expired.
Holyoke and a number of friends from the Bay arrived, and

the evening was appointed for the performance of the marriage
ceremony. Every individual upon the plantation had
been invited to the wedding—an occasion fraught with
more of pleasant anticipation than any in the experience of
the settlement. The preparations for that wedding—the
furbishing of old dresses, the polishing of rough shoes, the
labor night and day to finish a home-spun garment—the
contriving, the dreaming, the gossiping—the impatience for
the advent of the looked-for day, and the flutter of delight
as it dawned, need no description.

A cool, frosty evening among the closing days of November,
produced the long expected hour. The stars were
shining brightly, and the fallen leaves were lying in silent
heaps upon the ground, as the neighborhood began to collect
at the house of the magistrate. The candle-wood
blazed cheerfully upon the hearth, and welcomed, in its
own way, with flashes and sputterings, and jets of smoke,
and dancing out-gushings of flame, each guest as he opened
the door. There were long quiet whisperings, and half
suppressed jests, and criticisms of dress; and when, at last,
all had collected, expectation began to verge upon impatience;
and every opening door was the signal for a
renewed silence.

There was one man present who, without companionship,
was more profoundly exercised by his emotions than any
other. This man was John Woodcock. He had for several
days been meditating a step which, to his own mind,
was charged with the deepest interest and greatest importance;
and he sat revolving it while those around him gave
themselves up to levity and the natural excitements of the
occasion. He sat at the back side of the room, and as
occasionally his daughter, neatly dressed, entered the room
on some errand from her mistress, his eye followed her in
every movement, with an interest as apparent to those
around him, as it was all absorbing to himself.

There was also something in the occasion itself that
affected him deeply. Unconsciously he had become a worshipper
of Mary Pynchon, as an impersonation of feminine
beauty, grace, and goodness. The idea of loving her had
never entered his heart. His sentiment was one which left
love, with its earthly attachments and associations, its
thoughts of equality and possession, entirely unconceived.
He would have spurned all imputation of passion as unworthy
of himself and her. He would not—he could not—have
profaned her presence with any sentiment less selfish than
that which lies at the basis of worship—a reverent admiration
that carried with it an entire submission of will and
devotion of life.

It was a strange heart—that encased in those rough habiliments.
It had once loved, and might perhaps have loved
again, but for a woman who had inspired him with a sentiment
higher than, or inconsistent with love. He would
have cursed himself, as he would any of the common men
around him, for any thought of love towards her, and yet
she had wrought so powerfully upon his mind, that all other
feminine natures, to which he was not bound by a natural
tie, became insipid and valueless. The fact that he could
not love her precluded the possibility of his loving any one
else. Still, unselfish as were his feelings towards the friend
of his child, and earnestly as he wished for her happiness,
he could not contemplate her marriage with Holyoke without
a pang. It was to him (for what reason he knew not)
the dethronement of a goddess—the degeneration to
humanity of an angel. It was not jealousy that moved him;
it was no ill will towards Holyoke, and yet, what was it?

At length, during a deepening hum of conversation, the
door leading from the adjoining apartment was opened, and
the participators in the ceremony made their appearance.
First came Mr. and Mrs. Moxon, and they were followed by
Mr. and Mrs. Pynchon, succeeded by Henry Smith and his

wife. All these stood until Holyoke appeared, with Mary
leaning upon his arm, and took his position before them.

Well might that little assembly be smitten with silence by
that vision of noble manhood and radiant beauty—a silence
that was sweet and holy—a silence pervaded with all pure
and happy thoughts, and unsealing the fountains of unconscious
tears. The stillness was interrupted by the voice of
the minister, in the words, “Let us pray.” The prayer
uttered was one of genuine feeling, and in its mention of
Mary was so fervent and touching that even Woodcock
opened his heart to its influences, and joined in the aspiration.

At the close of the prayer, the marriage ceremony was
performed by Mr. Pynchon, who, as the only magistrate
present, was alone empowered to officiate upon the occasion.
Parental pride and tenderness were too much for official
dignity, and the simple words were said in a broken voice,
and with manifest emotion. When they were concluded,
the only persons who went forward to salute the bride were
Ann Smith and her father.

There seemed to be a strange restraint upon the assembly.
Women who had known Mary for years sat silently in their
places, apparently in much embarrassment. Every out-reaching
of friendly sympathy seemed to be held in painful check,
and every one appeared afraid of doing something that
somebody would deem wrong. The spell was at last broken
by a little fellow who, unknown to his parents, had brought
a present to the bride. He left his seat, and, plunging his
hand into his pocket, pulled and tugged at its contents till,
when he had arrived at Mary's side, his round face was as
red as a beet. The lad still worked manfully, and at length
conquered an intractable bag of chestnuts, which he drew
forth, and presented to the bride, amidst a hearty laugh
commenced by Holyoke and joined in by Mary, who seized
and kissed the little boy as he commenced to retreat, with
his heart full of indignation, and his pocket inverted.

This little incident broke the spell so far as the children
were concerned, and they pressed forward to make their trifling
gifts, and win the smile and kiss which they coveted as
their reward. As soon as the children had paid their
respects to the bride, the old constraint returned, and
for a few minutes held the company in its painful thrall.

John Woodcock was the first to break the silence. Rising
from his seat, and making his way out of the crowd
around him, he crossed the room to where his daughter was
standing absorbed in, and half bewildered by the scene,
and, whispering a few words in her ear, took her by the
hand, and led her before the married pair. Mary extended
her hand to him instantly and cordially, and exclaimed, “I
knew that you would come to me and congratulate me.”

“That wan't my arrant any way,” said Woodcock
bluntly, “and I shouldn't begin with you if it was.”

“Why, John! I am astonished!” exclaimed the bride.
“I thought you was one of the best friends I had in the
world.”

“Well, you needn't change your mind till you hear agin,
but the fact is, when two fellers swap guns, 'taint the feller
that gets the poorest gun that feels proud, or stands treat,
or gets flattered for his bargain.”

Holyoke had heard much of Woodcock and his quaint
humors, and, extending his hand to him good-naturedly,
said, “I am the man who feels proud, and am all ready to
be flattered for my bargain.”

“When a basket's full of corn, shook down, what's the
use of pilin' on more?” said Woodcock.

Holyoke laughed heartily at the sally, but Mary, inclined
to be vexed, said, “I am sorry you do not like my husband.”

“I never told anybody I didn't like him. He likes you,
and you like him, and that's two things that ought to be a
recommend to him anywhere. It would 'a been jest the
same if the king was your husband. 'Taint in my line to

say flatterin' things to anybody, but women are better'n
men, and always get the little end of the trade, when they
get married.”

“It is a comfort to know that you have been cheated on
general principles,” said Holyoke to Mary, in a merry tone.

But Mary was somehow affected with Woodcock's seriousness,
and, with no reply to Holyoke, beyond a smile, she
asked Woodcock's reasons for the statement he had made.

“I didn't come up here to talk about this, and p'raps it
aint the right time to do it, but there's no use backin' down
when you begin. I've got a consait that men and women
ain't built out of the same kind of timber. Look at my
hand—a great pile o' bones covered with brown luther,
with the hair on,—and then look at yourn. White oak
aint bass, is it? Every man's hand aint so black as mine,
and every woman's aint so white as yourn, but there's
always difference enough to show, and there's jest as much
odds in their doin's and dispositions as there is in their
hands. I know what women be. I've wintered and summered
with 'em, and, take 'em by and large, they're better'n
men. Now and then a feller gets hitched to a hedgehog,
but most of 'em get a woman that's too good for 'em.
They're gentle and kind, and runnin' over with good feelin's,
and will stick to a feller a mighty sight longer'n he'll stick
to himself. My woman's dead and gone, but if there wan't
any women in the world, and I owned it, I'd sell out for
three shillin's, and throw in stars enough to make it an
object for somebody to take it off my hands.”

During Woodcock's delivery of this little speech, several
of the company had risen from their seats, and pressing
towards the central group, formed a circle around it, so
that when he had arrived at the conclusion, so characteristic
of himself, there was a general laugh. Woodcock
looked around upon the company, but no smile came upon
his features. He had been diverted from the purpose for

which he had risen, and was annoyed by the intrusion of so
many heads into business that he by no means considered
public.

Looking around upon the expectant group, he added,
“As I was sayin', they'll stick to a man longer'n he'll stick
to himself, but they ain't apt to stick where they ain't
wanted, and are first rate at mindin' their own business.”

This direct hit was understood, and while a few turned
and went smiling to their seats, all fell back and left him to
himself and his errand.

“Some time ago,” resumed Woodcock, “I heerd the
little ones and some of the old ones tellin' what they was
goin' to give Mary Pynchon when she got married; and it
set me to thinkin' what I could give her, for I knew if anybody
ought to give her anything, it was me. But I hadn't
any money, and I couldn't send to the Bay for anything,
and I shouldn't 'a known what to get if I could. I might
have shot a buck, but I couldn't 'a brought it to the weddin',
and it didn't seem exactly ship-shape to give her anything
she could eat up and forget. So I thought I'd give her a
keepsake my wife left me when she died. It's all I've got
of any vally to me, and it's somethin' that'll grow better
every day it is kep, if you'll take care of it. I don't know
what'll 'come of me, and I want to leave it in good hands.”

The bride began to grow curious, and despite their late
repulse, the group began to collect again.

“It's a queer thing for a present, perhaps (and Woodcock's
lip began to quiver and his eye to moisten), but I hope it 'll
do you some sarvice. 'Taint anything 't you can wear in
your hair, or throw over your shoulders. It's—it's—”

“It's what?” inquired Mary, with an encouraging smile.

Woodcock took hold of the hand of his child, and placing
it in that of the questioner, burst out with, “God knows
that's the handle to it,” and retreated to the window,
where he spent several minutes looking out into the night,

and endeavoring to repress the spasms of a choking throat.
Neither Mary Holyoke nor her husband could disguise
their emotions as they saw before them the living testimonial
of Woodcock's gratitude and trust. Mary stooped and
kissed the gift-child, who clung to her as if, contrary to her
father's statement, she was an article of wearing apparel.

The interview of Woodcock with the bride had been
somewhat extended, and during its continuance an observant
eye would have seen that Mr. Moxon was growing
momently more nervous, until he seemed to have arrived
at absolute distress. The moment that the newly married
pair were disengaged, he advanced to them with his wife,
and, complaining of indisposition, expressed his regret that
he should be obliged to retire, and bid them a good evening.
Holyoke was very emphatic in his expressions of
sorrow at the necessity of this step on the part of the
minister, but Mary was simply polite, for her quick heart
had divined a secret connected with his presence which
deeply concerned her own heart, and made it impossible for
her to regret his withdrawal.

The company all rose as the minister retired, and not one
sat down as the door was closed. In an incredibly brief
space of time the whole appearance of the assembly was
changed. Silence broke into confused chattering, and the
bride, instead of standing alone in awkward embarrassment,
was surrounded by a band of loving hearts, which gave
themselves up to the natural impulses and emotions of the
occasion. But a few minutes had passed after the departure
of the minister before Mary's hand had been pressed
by every guest—even the most awkward and bashful finding
some kind word for utterance to an ear they had rarely
if ever addressed.

The hum of unrestrained conversation was at length
broken in upon by Mr. Pynchon, who informed the company
that the newly united pair were to be installed in their

housekeeping that very night, and that they would be
happy to be accompanied to their new home by their
friends. Accordingly, all made themselves ready for the
walk, and a happier party, as they laughed and sang along
the leaf-strewn street, never found themselves together.

Arriving at the new house, they found it lighted, a cheerful
fire blazing upon the hearth, and a bountiful and substantial
repast in waiting upon the table, to which full
justice was immediately done by strong and healthful
appetites. The frolic that followed among the younger
members of the company received no check from the older
and graver portion, and when, at last, the hour for separation
arrived, all retired, feeling that they had been refreshed,
refined, and made better. Mr. Pynchon was the last who
left the door, and closed the parting scene by a kiss, as
vigorous as it was rare, and a special injunction to “see
that the fire was raked up safe.”

To one who has drunk deeply of life's experience, a newly
married pair is always an object of strong and tender interest.
Love is beautiful in itself. Its hearty and unquestioning
devotion, its perfect trust, and its soft and gentle
sympathies, are very beautiful; and no less beautiful are
the happy souls in which these graces of the passion are
realized. But the interest one feels in those commencing
life together, in marriage, is based on no abstractions like
these. It has its birth in our own experience. Childhood
is very beautiful in itself, but we love it mostly because of
its association with the simple years of happiness that form
the romance of our own past life. We may smile at the
frivolous pleasures of childhood, and despise its objects,
and, even while we heave a sigh in view of the deep disappointments
which await it, in the great discipline of life,
drop hot tears that its freshness may never again be ours.
Thus it is with love's childhood, and all its associations.
We know that years of trial and patient suffering endured

in companionship, and mutual participation in such imperfect
joys as the world affords, will produce a love so sweetly
sympathetic, so perfect and profound, that the bliss of the
honeymoon shall mimic it only as a shallow pool mimics the
ocean; and yet, as we kiss the bride, and grasp the hand
of her possessor, we involuntarily do homage to the bliss of
ignorance, and sigh for days that we value only as memories.