 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
DEACON WHITFIELD'S FOLKS.
I should very imperfectly fulfil the duty I have undertaken
of sketching the various society of Clovernook, if I omitted altogether
some notices of ecclesiastical affairs, which constitute
so interesting and important a portion of all history. So I
shall here devote a chapter to the dignitaries of our church, which,
like establishments in greater scenes, has had its share of vicissitudes.
It was the time of the full moon of the harvest—winrows of
sweet-smelling hay ridged the meadows, and the golden waves
of the wheat fields rose and fell as the winds ran in and out.
The flocks, shorn of their heavy fleeces, and scarcely yet accustomed
to their new state, bleated along the hill sides, while the
heifers buried their sleek flanks in great beds of clover, and the
oxen, to me ever patient and beautiful, bowed their necks to the
yoke, for the ingathering of the dry hay and the bound sheaves;
And, where the hedgerow cuts the pathway, stood,
Leaning his horns into the neighboring field,
And lowing to his fellows.”
there was no great deal of joy in the family of Deacon
Whitfield. The possessor of an ample fortune, he neither enjoyed
it himself, nor suffered his family to do so. This way of
managing affairs was perfectly consonant to the feelings of Mrs.
Whitfield; and, sick or well, day after day she wrought on, like
a suffering martyr, without any thought of shifting the burden
children were sometimes sadly rebellious. There was never
rest nor respite from labor; if they grew tired of one thing,
they were told to do another, and that would be rest enough.
Sundays, there was no work, it is true, but there was no play.
The Pilgrim's Progress, Baxter's Saint's Everlasting Rest, and
one or two other volumes, comprised the Deacon's library, and
were supposed to be sufficiently interesting for all times and
seasons. The same coats, hats, and dresses, were expected to
serve, and did serve, for two or three years. Now, most persons
feel uncomfortable when they are conscious of looking so
peculiar in any way as to make them the pointed objects of observation.
But the Deacon was singularly free from this weakness;
and when sometimes Mrs. Whitfield ventured to suggest,
in a gentle way, that his outer man required to be renewed, he
invariably replied, that his father never had so fine a suit as was
his, and that what was good enough for his father, was good
enough for himself: and so the good woman was silent, if not
convinced.
The same articles of furniture, few and simple, with which
they originally commenced housekeeping, served still, and were,
in fact, as the Deacon said, though the oldest son was now
twenty, good as new. Only one innovation had been made, in
the purchase of a fashionable sofa, which, in the midst of its
slender and old-fashioned associates, looked sadly out of place
—a sort of “jewel in an Ethiop's ear.” It was a great surprise—a
shock, as it were—to the family, when the Deacon announced
his intention of buying it. The dairy had become
overstocked, it was becoming late in the season, and the cows,
the Deacon said, would eat their own heads off before spring,
and he should just turn two of them into a sofa “for your
mother here”—conveying the startling intelligence rather to the
children than to the wife.
“What, father! did you say a sofa?” said Sally Whitfield,
letting her knitting drop in her lap.
“Yes, I said so; a sofa for your mother here,” he replied.
“Mother don't want any sofa,” said Mrs. Whitfield, turning
away and wiping the tears from her eyes; for such considerate
“What could have put that into your head, Samuel?”
“I guess father has tapped the wrong cider barrel,” said Jerry
Whitfield to his sister, in a low tone; but his mother caught it,
low as it was, and turning upon him her serious, rebuking countenance,
she said, simply, “Jeremiah Whitfield!” There was
no need that she should say more.
All men have generous moods sometimes, and Deacon Whitfield
had his, though they occurred but once in twenty years or
so. And a few days after this little conversation, he mounted
his market wagon, dressed in his Sunday's best, and proceeded
staidly and soberly to town, while Jerry followed behind, driving
two cows.
But at the opening of our story, it was, as I have said, harvest-time
at the Deacon's, and there was a sort of general dissatisfaction
and ill-humor, in consequence of additional labor,
and no additional help.
The whole family, that is, the Deacon and his wife, and their
son and daughter, Jerry and Sally, were seated on the porch in
the moonlight, cutting apples to dry—for, as the father and son
returned from the harvest-field in the evening, they brought regularly,
each, a basket of apples, which were duly prepared for
drying the next day—so that all the time was turned to good
account.
They worked in silence, and as at a task, which in fact it was,
voluntarily assumed on the part of the old people, and quietly
submitted to on that of the young. A low but belligerent
growl of the great brindled watch-dog that lay at the front gate
night and day, caused in the little group a general sensation,
which became especially lively when it was followed by the
click of the latch at the gate, and the sound of a briskly approaching
footstep.
“Who on earth can be coming, this time of night?” exclaimed
the Deacon, in some alarm, for it was eight o'clock.
“I am afraid somebody is sick, or dead,” said Mrs. Whitfield;
but she was kept in suspense only a moment, when the
genial salutation of “Good evening, neighbors,” dispelled all
fears.
The visitor was Deacon White, a short, good natured, blue-eyed
man, who wore a fashionable coat and hat every day, and
didn't cut apples of nights. Jerry immediately vacated his
chair, in behalf of the guest, and seating himself on a great
speckled pumpkin, with an arch look at Sally, continued his
work in silence; for the children, as they were always called,
never presumed to talk in the presence of superiors—that is,
older people. The two neighbors talked about everything:
crops in general, the wheat harvest in particular, and the probable
prices of oats and potatoes; then of the various changes
which had taken place in the neighborhood within their remembrance,
who had come from the east, and who had gone west,
and who had been married, and who had died, until Sally began
to think she never should find out what Deacon White had
come for. At last, however, he revealed his errand, making it
a sort of parenthesis in the body of his conversation, as though
it were a mere trifle, and he was used to such things every day,
whereas it had doubtless troubled his mind from the beginning,
and he expected its announcement to create some sensation,
which, to his evident disappointment and mortification, it failed
to do; or, if it did, Deacon Whitfield suffered not the slightest
emotion to betray itself—a degree of impassibility being one
of the strong points of his character on which he particularly
prided himself.
“Do you think our folks will go, Jerry?” said Sally, as she
helped her brother carry away the basket of apple-parings.
“Yes, I guess not,” said Jerry; and then added, in a bitterer
tone, “I'm glad he did not ask me—I wouldn't have gone, if he
had.”
The reader must know that the old-fashioned minister of the
Clovernook church, having become dissatisfied with the new-fangled
follies that had crept into the midst of his people, had
lately shaken the dust from his feet and departed, after preaching
a farewell sermon from the text, “Oh, ye generation of
vipers!” upon which, a young man, reputed handsome, and of
charmingly social and insinuating manners, had been invited to
take the charge, and his approaching installation was about to
be preceded by a dinner at Deacon White's, he himself extending
secretly felt little edified for several years past with the nasal
exhortations of the old pastor, which invariably closed with
“A few more risings and settings of the sun,” &c., and being
pleased with the change himself, he naturally wished all the
congregation to be so; and the dinner and merry-making at his
house, he meant as a sort of peace-offering to those who were
likely to be disaffected; nevertheless, some few, among whom
was Deacon Whitfield, were likely to prove stiff-necked.
A dinner-party at five o'clock! That was the beatenest thing
he had heard of. He took supper at four.
But though the old people manifested no disposition to encourage
with their presence such a nonsensical procedure, Sally,
naturally enough, was anxious to go. She had never seen anything
so fine as she supposed that would be; and her curiosity
as to who would be there, and what they would wear, and how
they would act, served continually to increase her desire. But
day after day went by—for the invitations were given five days
before the great event—without seeing any indications favorable
to her wishes. She feared desperately for the result, but, notwithstanding,
tried to assure herself that she was going. In her
chamber, a dozen times over, she reviewed her wardrobe, and
from a stock, somewhat scanty, selected a white muslin, which
she thought would do if she only had a new neck-ribbon; but
how to get one, that was the difficulty. She thought over a
thousand expedients, but none of them seemed feasible. At
last, as the day drew near, she resolved on a bold venture; and
just as her father was leaving the house, after supper, she said,
as though it had just occurred to her, and in a lively tone, to
veil somewhat the feeling with which she made the request,
“Oh! see here, father, I want you to give me a half a dollar.”
The Deacon stopped short, sat down on the door-sill, and deliberately
took off his shoes, from which he emptied a considerable
quantity of hay-seed; he then replaced them, tied
them tight, and, without looking at or answering Sally, who all
the while stood drawing the hem of her apron through her fingers,
took his way to the field.
Perhaps he did not hear me, thought she. I will ask again;
that he did hear her, and that a second repulse might not be so
silent. When he returned, however, her heart misgave her, and
all the evening she sat and cut apples in silence; but when the
last basket-full was finished, she ventured to hint softly of what
was most engrossing in her thoughts, by saying, “We ought to
work later to-night than usual.”
“I don't see why,” said the Deacon, after a long pause.
Sally felt that it was useless to tell why, and so said—“Oh!
just because—”
“Sally Whitfield!” said the mother, thus sufficiently expressing
reproof for her freedom of speech.
The poor child felt mortified, and baffled, and so went to bed,
and, half in tears, half vexed, at length fell asleep. But sleep
is a wonderful restorative, especially to the young, and the following
morning she felt fully determined to renew her application.
The great day was come. At the latest possible moment
she said—“Father, are you not going to give me the money I
asked you for?”
“What do you want of it, child?” he asked.
A little encouraged, she replied that she wanted to get a new
neck-ribbon, to wear to Deacon White's.
“It's a pretty story,” said the father, “if you are to be
dressed up, and sent to dinner-parties at five o'clock, and your
mother and me at home at work. You don't want a new ribbon
any more than you want a new head. You had better wish you
were a better girl, than to be wishing for new ribbons.”
Her spirit was roused, and she said, “You promised me a
present long ago, for helping you winnow up the wheat.”
“And haven't you had presents every day? Who gives you
your dinners and suppers, and gets you new shoes and
dresses?”
She felt that these were not the presents promised for the
hard days' labor spoken of, but she said nothing further.
All day she went about her work with a heavy heart; but at
dinner her father said, “Well, Sally, I have brought you that
present to-day!” and a weight fell from her heart, and a vision
of the party rose bright and distinct before her, but faded painfully
nice sandstone, with which you may scour the churn and pails
this afternoon, as bright as you please.”
Feeling her bosom tremble with a storm of emotions, the
young girl left the table, and seating herself under a cherry-tree
that grew by the kitchen door, began picking the clover
blossoms which clustered thick about her feet, until she had
fifty, for she had counted them over and over again, for the
want of anything else to do. While she was thus employed,
her father, whose sey the hung in the hough over her head, came
towards her, and seeing her clouded brow and her idleness, rebuked
her severely, and concluded by saying, “Now, go out
of my sight, and don't let me see your face till you can act
better.”
A little from the main road, and out of view of the house,
was a beautiful grove of elms, and to their pleasant shade,
more from habit than motive, for she often went there, she bent
her steps.
Unconsciously she had taken with her the clover buds; and
seating herself beneath a low beech overrun with wild grapevines,
she began braiding her blossoms to a wreath. She was
not beautiful, or more so than deep, dark eyes, a wealth of
nut-brown curls, youth, and health, might make any one. The
wood was dreamy and still; the heavy shadows stretched longer
and longer over the thick, green grass, as the day went down;
the spider wove his pale, slender net-work from bough to bough,
entangling the golden sunlight; the birds quickened and deepened
their songs, at first few and drowsy, till the trees shook
with melody; and the winds blew the curls about her cheeks, and
played with the wreath in her lap, as they would. The time
and place had had a softening and soothing effect, and, after
locking her hands together, and humming over all the hymns
she knew, leaning her head against the trunk of the tree beneath
which she sat, she had fallen asleep.
Neither the winds nor the birds disturbed her; but when at
length a human voice, though very low and gentle, addressed
her, the dream was broken, and the blushes beneath her locks
village clergyman.
Gracefully, and somewhat gaily for his sacred profession, he
apologized for the intrusion, saying he was not aware that the
fair forest was presided over by a still fairer divinity; and that,
being on the way to meet for the first time the little flock over
which he had been called to preside, he had been tempted by
the exceeding beauty of the grove to turn aside, and hold communion
with the the scene and his own heart. “But do you
not live hereabout, and shall I not meet you at our festival?”
he continued.
The tears came to her eyes in spite of all efforts to keep
them back, as, pointing across the hills to the old-fashioned
mansion where she lived, she said—“I wanted to go, but”—
She made no further explanation; and, pulling her wreath of
clover to pieces, scattered it on the ground.
“The flowers of the grass perish,” said the minister, “and
our hopes, young damsel, are often like them.” Then, in a
livelier tone, as though some pleasant fancy crossed his mind,
“Do you come here often?”
“Oh, very often; but as I have never before had any company
here save winter and rough weather, surprise has kept me
from offering you my mossy seat, which I beg you will now
accept.”
She was rising, when the young man motioned her to retain
her place, saying, “I will take a part of it, though I fear I am
already waited for.”
What they talked of I do not know, and cannot guess; but
it must have been interesting, for, to the great annoyance of
Mrs. White, who liked to have things just so, the Deacon
had drawn the curtain aside twenty times, to see if the minister
were not coming; and the disaffected old ladies had whispered
to each other, that the new preacher was a little too fashionable.
The young ladies were out of patience, as their hair was out of
curl, and a general damp was thrown over the spirits of all, by
the suggestion of a prim, favorably disposed maiden, that the
clergyman had gone to preach a funeral sermon, for that old
Mr. Peters had been thrown from his horse the day previous,
never once spoke after he was carried into the house. The
silence which succeeded this untimely intelligence was broken
just five minutes before five, by a quick step on the threshold,
and then appeared the smiling face of the clergyman, who, in
answer to the numerous inquiries, said he had not been to
preach a funeral sermon, but that accidental circumstances,
which he did not explain, had a little while detained him. However,
the apology was satisfactory to all, and things went on
charmingly. The dinner did honor to Mrs. White, and the
guests did honor to the dinner. Some of the old persons thought
him a little too worldly-minded for a preacher, but the young
people all admired him; and, on the whole, the impression
he made was more favorable than he could have hoped.
Supper had been over for an hour at Deacon Whitfield's,
when Sally made her appearance, presenting, to the surprise of
her parents, no traces of sorrow or disappointment, but seeming,
on the contrary, to be in an unusually happy and cheerful
mood.
Sabbath after Sabbath went by, and though Deacon Whitfield
and his wife were regular in their attendance at church,
they never tarried to shake hands with the new preacher; not
that his talents and eloquence failed of softening their hearts,
but they felt that a proffering of civility would be a tacit acknowledgment
that they had been wrong, and they were not
yet prepared so to humble their pride.
The young preacher, however, seemed nowise offended by
their coldness, if, indeed, he noticed it, and among his earliest
pastoral visits, was one to Deacon Whitfield's, on which occasion
that gentleman greased his shoes, put on his best coat,
and entertained him in the parlor, where Mrs. Whitfield also
made her appearance shortly before tea, in clean cap and gown;
but Sally was not permitted to go into the parlor, nor even to
come to the tea-table. Though past sixteen, she was, in the
estimation of her parents, a giddy little girl.
Soon after supper, the minister took leave, saying he hoped
hereafter to see all the Deacon's family, at church.
But the next Sabbath the young lady was not in her father's
by without her being once there.
Early one September morning, the Deacon and his wife went
to town, taking with them in the market wagon two live claves,
two barrels of apples, and a sack of oats with them to feed the
horses.
Sally expected a new dress and bonnet, without which she
said she would not go to church till Doomsday. And the old
ones she had worn a good while, it is true.
After dinner, Jerry went to the village, to borrow a book of
the clergyman: it mattered not to him what, whether poetry or
science, romance or history: something within him, he felt, required
food, and so he determined to borrow a book. Soon
and cheerfully the household duties were performed, and Sally,
arrayed in her white muslin dress and blue gingham apron, sat
down to sew, while Jerry, who had very soon returned, read to
her from his book, Jerusalem and the Holy Land; not long,
however, for they were interrupted by the coming of the
minister, who had very kindly brought another book to Jerry,
which, he said, he had thought the young man would find of
greater interest than the one he previously selected. Jerry
felt as if he had an everlasting mine from which to draw; and,
retiring to the stoop, seated himself on the speckled pumpkin,
and read away the afternoon—first from one book, and then
from the other.
Autumn went by, and winter and spring, and it was again the
time of the full moon of the harvest. The young clergyman
had won the love of all his people, even that of Deacon Whitfield
and his wife, to whose house he had been a very frequent
visitor. But his fame had extended beyond his little flock, and
he was about to go to a wider field—having been called to the
charge of a wealthy society in the neighboring city.
All were sorry to part with their beloved pastor, but Sally
was more sorry than she dared to say; she felt
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat donble.”
And when the day came for the farewell visit, she knew that
her heart would betray itself, and, resolving to spare herself the
torture of a last interview, she tied on her bonnet and went
alone to the elm grove, that the cloud of her sorrow might fall
on her heavily as it would. Engrossed with her own thoughts,
and her eyes blinded with tears, she did not notice, till close on
her rural bower, that it was already occupied. The pastor had
preceded her. She would have turned aside, but it was too
late.
Sad and half-reproachful was the tone, as the young man,
offering her a part of the moss-bank on which they sat a year
before said—“It was scarcely kind thus to avoid seeing me, as
you would have done, for you knew of my visit.”
“I would have spared myself the pain of saying farewell,”
said the girl, her lip trembling, and her eyes full of tears.
“And can you not spare yourself that pain? Yes—even till
death shall part us?”
And the cheek of the listener was not angrily turned away
from the kiss that followed the interrogation.
What Sally answered I can only infer from the circumstances;
for when the Deacon shook hands that night with the
young minister, he said—“All I can give you I do freely—my
prayers.”
“I thank you very sincerely,” said the pastor, “but there is
yet another and greater blessing you could give me.”
“Well, mother,” said the Deacon, as he entered the parlor,
and, seating himself on the sofa, drew his wife close to his side,
and kissed her thin, pale cheek with all of long-ago fondness,
“I guess for the futer we'll have to do without Sally.”
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |