University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
AN EVENING OF GOSSIP, IN WHICH WE LEARN SOMETHING
ABOUT THE PERSONS ALREADY MENTIONED.

After a long absence in India, Woodbury had come home
to find all his former associations broken, even the familiar
landmarks of his boyish life destroyed. His only near relative
was an older sister, married some years before his departure,
and now a stately matron, who was just beginning to enjoy a
new importance in society from the beauty of her daughters.
There was a small corner in her heart, it is true, for the exiled
brother. The floor was swept, there; the room aired, and
sufficient fire kept burning on the hearth, to take off the chill:
but it was the chamber of an occasional guest rather than of
an habitual inmate. She was glad to see him back again, especially
as his manners were thoroughly refined and his wealth
was supposed to be large (indeed, common report greatly
magnified it): she would have lamented his death, and have
worn becoming mourning for him—would even have persuaded
her husband to assist him, had he returned penniless.
In short, Woodbury could not complain of his reception,
and the absence of a more intimate relation—of a sweet,
sympathetic bond, springing from kinship of heart as well as
of blood, was all the more lightly felt because such bond had
never previously existed.

In the dreams of home which haunted him in lonely hours,
on the banks of the Hoogly or the breezy heights of Darjeeling,
Lakeside always first arose, and repeated itself most frequently
and distinctly. “Aunt Dennison,” as he was accustomed
to call her, took the place, in his affectionate memory,

of the lost mother whose features he could trace but dimly,
far back in the faint consciousness of childhood. There
seemed to be no other spot in the world to which he had a
natural right to return. The friends whom he had left, in
New York, as a young man of twenty-one, had become restless,
impetuous men of business, from whose natures every
element of calm had been shaken, while he had slowly and
comfortably matured his manhood in the immemorial repose
of Asia. The atmosphere of the city at first excited, then
wearied him. The wish to visit Lakeside was increasing in
his mind, when he was one day startled by seeing the property
advertised for sale, and instantly determined to become
the purchaser. A correspondence with Mr. Hammond ensued,
and, as there was another competitor in the field, Woodbury's
anxiety to secure the old place led him to close the
negotiations before he had found time to see it again. Now,
however, he had made arrangements to spend the greater part
of the winter there, as much on account of the certain repose
and seclusion which he craved, as from the physical necessity
of that tonic which the dry cold of the inland offered to his
languid tropical blood.

No disposal had yet been made of the stock and implements
belonging to the farm, which had not been included in the
purchase of the estate. Woodbury's object in buying the
land had no reference to any definite plan of his future life.
He had come back from India with a fortune which, though
moderate, absolved him from the necessity of labor. He simply
wished to have a home of his own—an ark of refuge to
which he could at any time return—a sheltered spot where
some portion of his life might strike root. His knowledge of
farming was next to nothing. Yet the fields could not be allowed
to relapse into wilderness, the house must have a housekeeper,
and the necessity of continuing the present occupants
in their respective functions was too apparent to be discussed.
For the present, at least, Mrs. Babb and Arbutus were indispensable
adherents of the property.

After dinner, Mr. Hammond paid them what was due from
the estate. Bute turned the money over uneasily in his hand,
grew red in the face, and avoided meeting the eye of the new
owner. Mrs. Babb straightened her long spine, took out a
buckskin purse, and, having put the money therein, began
rubbing the steel clasp with the corner of her apron. Woodbury,
then, with a few friendly words, expressed his pleasure
at having found them in charge of Lakeside, and his desire
that each should continue to serve him in the same capacity as
before.

Mrs. Babb did not betray, by the twitch of a muscle, the
relief she felt. On the contrary, she took credit to herself for
accepting her good fortune. “There's them that would like
to have me,” said she. “Mrs. Dennison never havin' said
nothin' ag'in my housekeepin', but the reverse; and I a'n't
bound to stay, for want of a good home; but somebody must
keep house for ye, and I'd hate to see things goin' to wrack,
after keerin' for 'em, a matter o' twenty year. Well—I'll
stay, I guess, and do my best, as I've always done it.”

“Et tu, Bute?” said Mr. Hammond, whose small puns
had gained him a reputation for wit, in Tiberius.

Bute understood the meaning, not the words. “I'm glad
Mr. Max. wants me,” he answered, eagerly. “I'd hate to leave
the old place, though I'm able to get my livin' most anywheres.
But it'd be like leavin' home—and jist now, with that two-year
old colt to break, and a couple o' steers that I'm goin' to
yoke in the spring—it wouldn't seem natural, like. Mr. Max.
and me was boys together here, and I guess we can hitch
teams without kickin' over the traces.”

After arranging for an inventory and appraisal of the live
stock, farming implements, and the greater part of the furniture,
which Woodbury decided to retain, Mr. Hammond took
his departure. Mrs. Babb prepared her tea at the usual early
hour. After some little hesitation, she took her seat at the
table, but evaded participation in the meal. Mr. Woodbury
sat much longer than she was accustomed to see, in the people

of Ptolemy: he sipped his tea slowly, and actually accepted a
fourth cup. Mrs. Babb's gratification reached its height when
he began to praise her preserved quinces, but on his unthinkingly
declaring them to be “better than ginger,” her grimness
returned.

“Better than ginger! I should think so!” was her mental
exclamation.

Throwing himself into the old leather arm-chair before the
library fire, Woodbury enjoyed the perfect stillness of the November
evening. The wind had fallen, and the light of a half-moon
lay upon the landscape. The vague illumination, the
shadowy outlines of the distant hills, and that sense of isolation
from the world which now returned upon him, gratefully
brought back the half-obliterated moods of his Indian life. He
almost expected to hear the soft whish of the punka above his
head, and to find, suddenly, the “hookah-burdar” at his
elbow. A cheerful hickory-fed flame replaced the one, and a
ripe Havana cigar the other; but his repose was not destined
to be left undisturbed. “The world” is not so easy to
escape. Even there, in Ptolemy, it existed, and two of its
special agents (self-created) already knocked at the door of
Lakeside.

The housekeeper ushered Mr. Hamilton Bue and the Hon.
Zeno Harder into the library. The latter, as Member of the
Legislature, considered that this call was due, as, in some sort,
an official welcome to his district. Besides, his next aim was
the State Senate, and the favor of a new resident, whose
wealth would give him influence, could not be secured too
soon. Mr. Bue, as the host of the previous evening, enjoyed
an advantage over the agent of the “Etna,” which he was not
slow to use. His politeness was composed of equal parts of
curiosity and the “Saratoga Mutual.”

“We thought, Sir,” said the Hon. Zeno, entering, “that
your first evening here might be a little lonesome, and you'd
be glad to have company for an hour or so.”

The Member was a coarse, obese man, with heavy chaps,

thick, flat lips, small eyes, bald crown, and a voice which had
been made harsh and aggressive in its tone by much vigorous
oratory in the open air. The lines of his figure were rounded,
it is true, but it was the lumpy roundness of a potato rather
than the swelling, opulent curves of well-padded muscle.
Mr. Hamilton Bue, in contrast to him, seemed to be made of
angles. His face and hands had that lean dryness which suggests
a body similarly constructed, and makes us thankful for
the invention of clothing. He was a prim, precise business
man, as the long thin nose and narrow lips indicated, with a
trace of weakness in the retreating chin. Neither of these
gentlemen possessed a particle of that grapy bloom of ripe
manhood, which tells of generous blood in either cell of the
double heart. In one the juice was dried up; in the other it
had become thick and slightly rancid.

They were not the visitors whom Woodbury would have
chosen, but the ostensible purpose of their call demanded
acknowledgment. He therefore gave them a cordial welcome,
and drew additional chairs in front of the fire. The Hon.
Zeno, taking a cigar, elevated his feet upon the lower moulding
of the wooden mantel-piece, spat in the fire, and remarked:

“You find Ptolemy changed, I dare say. Let me see—
when were you here last? In '32? I must have been studying
law in Tiberius at that time. Oh, it's scarcely the same
place. So many went West after the smash in '37, and new
people have come in—new people and new idees, I may
say.”

“We have certainly shared in the general progression of
the country, even during my residence here,” said Mr. Hamilton
Bue, carefully assuming his official style. “Ten years
ago, there were but thirty-seven names on the books of the
Saratoga Mutual. Now we count a hundred and thirteen.
But there is a reason for it: the Company pays its loss punctually—most
punctually.”

Unconscious of this dexterous advertising, Woodbury

answered the Hon. Zeno: “Since I am to be, for a while, a
member of your community, I am interested in learning something
more about it. What are the new ideas you mentioned,
Mr. Harder?”

“Well, Sir,—I can't exactly say that Hunkerism is a new
thing in politics. I'm a Barnburner, you must know, and
since the split it seems like new parties, though we hold on to
the old principles. Then there's the Temperance Reform—
swep' every thing before it, at first, but slacking off just now.
The Abolitionists, it's hardly worth while to count—there's so
few of them—but they make a mighty noise. Go for Non-Resistance,
Women's Rights, and all other Isms. So, you see,
compared to the old times, when 'twas only Whig and Democrat,
the deestrict is pretty well stirred up.”

Mr. Bue, uncertain as to the views of his host upon some of
the subjects mentioned, and keeping a sharp eye to his own
interests, here remarked in a mild, placable tone: “I don't
know that it does any harm. People must have their own
opinions, and there's no law to hinder it. In fact, frequent
discussion is a means of intellectual improvement.”

“But what's the use of discussing what's contrary to Scriptur'
and Reason?” cried the Hon. Zeno, in his out-door voice.
“Our party is for Free Soil, and you can't go further under
the Constitution,—so, what's the use in talking? Non-Resistance
might be Christian enough, if all men was saints;
but we've got to take things as we find 'em. When you're
hit, hit back, if you want to do any good in these times. As
for Women's Rights, it's the biggest humbug of all. A
pretty mess we should be in, if it could be carried out! Think
of my wife taking the stump against Mrs. Blackford, and me
and him doing the washing and cooking!”

“Who was the Abolitionist—for such I took him to be—
with whom you were talking, last evening, at Mr. Bue's?”
Woodbury asked.

“Wattles—a tailor in Ptolemy—one of the worst fanatics
among 'em!” the irate Zeno replied. “Believes in all the

Isms, and thinks himself a great Reformer. It's disgusting to
hear a man talk about Women's Rights, as he does. I don't
mind it so much in Hannah Thurston; but the fact is, she's
more of a man than the most of 'em.”

“Hannah Thurston! Is not that the lady who sang—a
pale, earnest-looking girl, in a gray dress?”

“I did'nt notice her dress,” the Member answered. “She
sings, though—not much voice, but what she has tells amazingly.
Between ourselves, I'll admit that she's a first-rate
speaker—that is, for a woman. I was tempted to have a
round with her, at the last meeting they held; but then, you
know, a woman always has you at a disadvantage. You
daren't give it back to them as sharp as you get it.”

“Do you really mean that she makes public harangues?”
exclaimed Woodbury, who, in his long absence from home,
had lost sight of many new developments in American
society.

“Yes, and not bad ones, either, when you consider the subject.
Her mother used to preach in Quaker Meetings, so it
doesn't seem quite so strange as it might. Besides, she isn't
married, and one can make some allowance. But when Sarah
Merryfield gets up and talks of the tyranny of man, it's a
little too much for me. I'd like to know, now, exactly what
her meek lout of a husband thinks about it.”

“Is Mrs. Waldo, also, an advocate of the new doctrine?”

“She? No indeed. She has her rights already: that is,
all that a woman properly knows how to use. Though I don't
like the Cimmerian doctrine—Mr. Waldo is pastor of the
Cimmerians—yet I think she's a much better Christian than
the Merryfields, who still hang on to our Church.”

“What are the Cimmerians?” inquired Woodbury. “Are
they so called from the darkness of their doctrines?”

The Hon. Zeno did not understand the classical allusion.
“They're followers of the Rev. Beza Cimmer,” he said. “He
was first a Seceder, I believe, but differed with them on the
doctrine of Grace. Besides, they think that Baptism, to be

saving, must be in exact imitation of that of the Saviour.
The preacher wears a hair garment, like John the Baptist,
when he performs the ceremony, and the converts long, white
robes. They pick out some creek for their Jordan, and do
not allow outsiders to be present. They don't grow in numbers,
and have but a very small congregation in Ptolemy. In
fact, Mr. Waldo is considered rather shaky by some of the
older members, who were converted by Cimmer himself. He
don't hold very close communion.”

A part of this explanation was incomprehensible to Woodbury,
who was not yet familiar with the catch-words which
fall so glibly from the mouths of country theologians. He
detected the Member's disposition to harangue instead of
converse—a tendency which could only be prevented by a
frequent and dexterous change of subject. “Your church,”
he said:—“I take it for granted you refer to that of Mr.
Styles,—seems to be in a flourishing condition.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Hamilton Bue, “we have prospered
under his ministry. Some have backslidden, it is true, but we
have had encouraging seasons of revival. Our ladies are now
very earnest in the work of assisting the Jutnapore Mission.
Mrs. Boerum is from Syracuse, and a particular friend of Miss
Eliza Clancy. I think Miss Eliza herself would have gone
if she had been called in time. You know it requires a
double call.”

“A double call! Excuse me if I do not quite understand
you,” said the host.

“Why, of course, they must first be called to the work;
and then, as they can't go alone among the heathen, they
must afterwards depend on a personal call from some unmarried
missionary. Now Miss Clancy is rather too old
for that.”

Woodbury could not repress a smile at this naïve statement,
although it was made with entire gravity. “I have seen something
of your missions in India,” he at last remarked, “and
believe that they are capable of accomplishing much good.

Still, you must not expect immediate returns. It is only the
lowest caste that is now reached, and the Christianizing of
India must come, eventually, from the highest.”

Rather than discuss a subject of which he was ignorant, the
Hon. Zeno started a new topic. “By the way, the next meeting
of the Sewing Union will be at Merryfield's. Shall you
attend, Mr. Woodbury?”

“Yes. They are among the few persons who have kept me
in good remembrance, though they, too, from what you have
said, must be greatly changed since I used to play with their
son Absalom. I am very sorry to hear of his death.”

“It is a pity,” replied the Member, biting off the end of a
fresh cigar. “Absalom was really a fine, promising fellow,
but they spoiled him with their Isms. They were Grahamites
for a year or two—lived on bran bread and turnips, boiled
wheat and dried apples. Absalom took up that and the
water-cure, and wanted to become a patent first-class reformer.
Now, Temperance is a good thing—though I can't quite go
the Maine Law—but water inside of you and outside of you,
summer and winter alike, isn't temperance, according to my
idee. He had a spell of pleurisy, one winter, and doctored
himself for it. His lungs were broken up, after that, and he
went off the very next fall. They set a great deal of store
by him.”

“Is it possible that such delusions are held by intelligent
persons?” exclaimed Woodbury, shocked as well as surprised.
“I hope these theories are not included in the general
progress of which Mr. Bue spoke. But I have almost forgotten
my duty as a host. The nights are getting cold, gentlemen,
and perhaps you will take a glass of wine.”

The Hon. Zeno's small eyes twinkled, and his lips twitched
liquorously. “Well—I don't care if I do,” said he.

Mr. Hamilton Bue was silent, and slightly embarrassed. He
had found it necessary to join the Temperance Society, because
the reform was a popular one. He always went with
the current as soon as it became too strong to stem conveniently.

But the temptation to indulge still lurked in his
thin blood. It was evident that the Member, for his own
sake, would not mention the circumstance, and Mr. Woodbury,
in all probability, would never think of it again.

Some of Mrs. Babb's “Madary” presently twinkled like
smoky topaz in the light of the wood-fire. Mr. Bue at first
sipped hesitatingly, like a bather dipping his toes, with a
shudder, into the waters of a cold river; but having once
reached the bottom of the glass—so quickly, indeed, that it
excited his own surprise—he made the next plunge with the
boldness of a man accustomed to it.

“You will attend church, I presume, Mr. Woodbury?”
said he. “Of course you have convictions.”

“Certainly,” Woodbury answered, without a clear idea of
what was meant by the word—“very strong ones.”

“Of course—it could not be otherwise. I shall be very
glad if you will now and then accept a seat in my pew. Mr.
Styles is a great authority on Galatians, and I am sure you
will derive spiritual refreshment from his sermons.”

Here the Hon. Zeno rose and commenced buttoning his
coat, as a signal of departure. Growing confidential from his
inner warmth, he placed one hand affectionately on Woodbury's
shoulder, somewhat to the latter's disgust, and said:
“Now you are one of us, Woodbury, you must take an active
part in our political concerns. Great principles are at stake,
Sir, and the country has need of men like you. Let me warn
you against the Hunkers—their game is nearly played out.
I'll be most happy, Sir, to explain to you the condition of
parties. You'll find me well posted up.”

Mr. Bue took occasion to make a parting hint in the interest
of the Saratoga Mutual. “If you wish to have your house insured,
Mr. Woodbury,” said he, “I shall be glad to send you
our pamphlets. The Company is so well known, fortunately,
that its name is a sufficient recommendation.”

The owner of Lakeside stood on the verandah, watching
his guests drive down the maple avenue. As the sound of

their wheels sank below the brow of the hill, the muffled
voice of Roaring Brook came softly to him, across the dark
meadows. A part of Atauga Lake threw back the light of
the descending moon. “Here,” thought he, “is the commencement
of a new existence. It is not the old, boyish life
of which I dreamed, but something very different. I foresee
that I shall have to accustom myself to many features of this
society, which are not attractive—some of them even repugnant—and
perhaps the only counterbalancing delight left to
me will be the enjoyment of this lovely scenery, the peace of
this secluded life. Will that be sufficient? Or will these
oaks and pines at last pall upon my eye, like the palms and
banyans of the East? No: one cannot be satisfied with external
resources. I must study, with a liberal human interest,
the characteristics of this little community, however strange
or repellant they may seem; and certainly, after making
friends among the fossilized Brahmins, there must be a few
among my fellow-Christians and fellow-countrymen, whom I
can heartily respect and love. Those long Indian years must
be placed in a closed Past, and I must adapt myself to habits
and associations, which have become more foreign than
familiar to me.”