University of Virginia Library

MY GRANDFATHER.

Change is the order of nature; the old makes way for the
new; over the perished growth of the last year brighten the blossoms
of this. What changes are to be counted, even in a little
noiseless life like mine! How many graves have grown green;
how many locks have grown gray; how many, lately young,
and strong in hope and courage, are faltering and fainting; how
many hands that reached eagerly for the roses are drawn back
bleeding and full of thorns; and, saddest of all, how many
hearts are broken! I remember when I had no sad memory,
when I first made room in my bosom for the consciousness of
death. How—like striking out from a wilderness of dew-wet
blossoms where the shimmer of the light is lovely as the wings
of a thousand bees, into an open plain where the clear day
strips things to their natural truth—we go from young visions
to the realities of life!

I remember the twilight, as though it were yesterday—gray,
and dim, and cold, for it was late in October, when the shadow
first came over my heart, that no subsequent sunshine has ever
swept entirely away. From the window of our cottage home
streamed a column of light, in which I sat stringing the red
berries of the brier-rose.

I had heard of death, but regarded it only with that vague
apprehension which I felt for the demons and witches that
gather poison herbs under the new moon, in fairy forests, or
strangle harmless travellers with wands of the willow, or with
vines of the wild grape or ivy. I did not much like to think
about them, and yet I felt safe from their influence.

There might be people, somewhere, that would die some
time; I didn't know, but it would not be myself, or any one I
knew. They were so well and so strong, so full of joyous
hopes, how could their feet falter, and their eyes grow dim,
and their fainting hands lay away their work, and fold themselves
together! No, no—it was not a thing to be believed.

Drifts of sunshine from that season of blissful ignorance often
come back, as lightly

the shadows that have gathered with the years! It is pleasant
to have them thus swept off—to find myself a child again—the
crown of pale pain and sorrow that presses heavily now, unfelt,
and the graves that lie lonesomely along my way, covered up
with flowers—to feel my mother's dark locks falling on my
cheek, as she teaches me the lesson or the prayer—to see my
father, now a sorrowful old man whose hair has thinned and
whitened almost to the limit of three score years and ten, fresh
and vigorous, strong for the race—and to see myself a little
child, happy with a new hat and a pink ribbon, or even with the
string of brier-buds that I called coral. Now I tie it about my
neck, and now around my forehead, and now twist it among
my hair, as I have somewhere read great ladies do their pearls.
The winds are blowing the last yellow leaves from the cherry
tree—I know not why, but it makes me sad. I draw closer to
the light of the window, and slyly peep within: all is quiet and
cheerful; the logs on the hearth are ablaze; my father is mending
a bridle-rein, which “Traveller,” the favorite riding horse,
snapt in two yesterday, when frightened at the elephant that
(covered with a great white cloth) went by to be exhibited at
the coming show,—my mother is hemming a ruffle, perhaps for
me to wear to school next quarter—my brother is reading in a
newspaper, I know not what, but I see, on one side, the picture
of a bear: let me listen—and flattening my cheek against the
pane, I catch his words distinctly, for he reads loud and very
clearly—it is an improbable story of a wild man who has recently
been discovered in the woods of some far-away island—
he seems to have been there a long time, for his nails are grown
like claws, and his hair, in rough and matted strings, hangs to his
knees; he makes a noise like something between the howl of a
beast and a human cry, and, when pursued, runs with a nimbleness
and swiftness that baffle the pursuers, though mounted on
the fleetest of steeds, urged through brake and bush to their
utmost speed. When first seen, he was sitting on the ground
and cracking nuts with his teeth; his arms are corded with
sinews that make it probable his strength is sufficient to strangle
a dozen men; and yet on seeing human beings, he runs into the
thick woods, lifting such a hideous scream, the while, as make
his discoverers clasp their hands to their ears. It is suggested
that this is not a solitary individual, become wild by isolation,
but that a race exists, many of which are perhaps larger and of
more terrible aspects; but whether they have any intelligible
language, and whether they live in caverns of rocks or in trunks
of hollow trees, remains for discovery by some future and more
daring explorers.

My brother puts down the paper and looks at the picture of
the bear. “I would not read such foolish stories,” says my
father, as he holds the bridle up to the light, to see that it is
neatly mended; my mother breaks the thread which gathers
the ruffle; she is gentle and loving, and does not like to hear
even implied reproof, but she says nothing; little Harry, who
is playing on the floor, upsets his block-house, and my father,
clapping his hands together, exclaims, “This is the house that
Jack built!” and adds, patting Harry on the head, “Where is
my little boy? this is not he, this is a little carpenter; you
must make your houses stronger, little carpenter!” But Harry
insists that he is the veritable little Harry, and no carpenter,
and hides his tearful eyes in the lap of my mother, who assures

him that he is her own little boy, and soothes his childish grief
by buttoning on his neck the ruffle she has just completed; and
off he scampers again, building a new house, the roof of which
he makes very steep, and calls it grandfather's house, at which
all laugh heartily.

While listening to the story of the wild man I am half afraid,
but now, as the joyous laughter rings out, I am ashamed of my
fears, and skipping forth, I sit down on a green ridge which cuts
the door-yard diagonally, and where, I am told, there was once
a fence. Did the rose-bushes and lilacs and flags that are in
the garden, ever grow here? I think—no, it must have been a
long while ago, if indeed the fence were ever here, for I can't
conceive the possibility of such change, and then I fall to
arranging my string of brier-buds into letters that will spell
some name, now my own, and now that of some one I love. A
dull strip of cloud, from which the hues of pink and red and
gold have but lately faded out, hangs low in the west; below
is a long reach of withering woods—the gray sprays of the
beech clinging thickly still, and the gorgeous maples shooting
up here and there like sparks of fire among the darkly magnificent
oaks and silvery columned sycamores—the gray and murmurous
twilight gives way to darker shadows and a deeper
hush.

I hear, far away, the beating of quick hoof-strokes on the
pavement; the horseman, I think to myself, is just coming
down the hill through the thick woods beyond the bridge. I
listen close, and presently a hollow rumbling sound indicates
that I was right; and now I hear the strokes more faintly—he
is climbing the hill that slopes directly away from me; but
now again I hear distinctly—he has almost reached the hollow
below me—the hollow that in summer is starry with dandelions
and now is full of brown nettles and withered weeds—he will
presently have passed—where can he be going, and what is his
errand? I will rise up and watch. The cloud passes from the
face of the moon, and the light streams full and broad on the
horseman—he tightens his rein, and looks eagerly toward the
house—surely I know him, the long red curls, streaming down
his neck, and the straw hat, are not to be mistaken—it is

Oliver Hillhouse, the miller, whom my grandfather, who lives
in the steep-roofed house, has employed three years—longer
than I can remember! He calls to me, and I laughingly bound
forward, with an exclamation of delight, and put my arms
about the slender neck of his horse, that is champing the bit
and pawing the pavement, and I say, “Why do you not
come in?”

He smiles, but there is something ominous in his smile, as
he hands me a folded paper, saying, “Give this to your
mother;” and, gathering up his reins, he rides hurriedly forward.
In a moment I am in the house, for my errand, “Here,
mother, is a paper which Oliver Hillhouse gave me for you.”
Her hand trembles as she receives it, and waiting timidly near,
I watch her as she reads; the tears come, and without speaking
a word she hands it to my father.

That night there came upon my soul the shadow of an awful
fear; sorrowful moans and plaints disturbed my dreams that
have never since been wholly forgot. How cold and spectral-like
the moonlight streamed across my pillow; how dismal the
chirping of the cricket in the hearth; and how more than dismal
the winds among the naked boughs that creaked against
my window. For the first time in my life I could not sleep,
and I longed for the light of the morning. At last it came,
whitening up the East, and the stars faded away, and there
came a flush of crimson and purple fire, which was presently
pushed aside by the golden disk of the sun. Daylight without,
but within there was thick darkness still.

I kept close about my mother, for in her presence I felt a
shelter and protection that I found no where else.

“Be a good girl till I come back,” she said, stooping and
kissing my forehead; “mother is going away to-day, your poor
grandfather is very sick.”

“Let me go too,” I said, clinging close to her hand. We
were soon ready; little Harry pouted his lips and reached out
his hands, and my father gave him his pocket-knife to play
with; and the wind blowing the yellow curls over his eyes and
forehead, he stood on the porch looking eagerly while my
mother turned to see him again and again. We had before us

a walk of perhaps two miles—northwardly along the turnpike
nearly a mile, next, striking into a grass-grown road that
crossed it, in an easternly direction nearly another mile, and
then turning northwardly again, a narrow lane bordered on
each side by old and decaying cherry-trees, led us to the house,
ancient fashioned, with high steep gables, narrow windows, and
low, heavy chimneys of stone. In the rear was an old mill,
with a plank sloping from the door-sill to the ground, by way
of step, and a square open window in the gable, through which,
with ropes and pulleys, the grain was drawn up.

This mill was an especial object of terror to me, and it was
only when my aunt Carry led me by the hand, and the cheerful
smile of Oliver Hillhouse lighted up the dusky interior, that I
could be persuaded to enter it. In truth it was a lonesome
sort of place, with dark lofts and curious binns, and ladders
leading from place to place; and there were cats creeping
stealthily along the beams in wait for mice or swallows, if, as
sometimes happened, the clay nest should be loosened from the
rafter, and the whole tumble ruinously down. I used to wonder
that aunt Carry was not afraid in the old place, with its eternal
rumble, and its great dusty wheel moving slowly round and
round, beneath the steady tread of the two sober horses that
never gained a hair's breadth for their pains; but on the contrary,
she seemed to like the mill, and never failed to show me
through all its intricacies, on my visits. I have unravelled the
mystery now, or rather, from the recollections I still retain,
have apprehended what must have been clear to older eyes at
the time.

A forest of oak and walnut stretched along this extremity of
the farm, and on either side of the improvements (as the house
and barn and mill were called) shot out two dark forks, completely
cutting off the view, save toward the unfrequented road
to the south, which was traversed mostly by persons coming to
the mill, for my grandfather made the flour for all the neighborhood
round about, besides making corn-meal for Johnnycakes,
and “chops” for the cows.

He was an old man now, with a tall, athletic frame, slightly
bent, thin locks white as the snow, and deep blue eyes full of

fire and intelligence, and after long years of uninterrupted
health and useful labor, he was suddenly stricken down, with no
prospect of recovery.

“I hope he is better,” said my mother, hearing the rumbling
of the mill-wheel. She might have known my grandfather
would permit no interruption of the usual business on account
of his illness—the neighbors, he said, could not do without
bread because he was sick, nor need they all be idle, waiting
for him to die. When the time drew near, he would call them
to take his farewell and his blessing, but till then let them sew
and spin, and do all things just as usual, so they would please
him best. He was a stern man—even his kindness was uncompromising
and unbending, and I remember of his making
toward me no manifestation of fondness, such as grandchildren
usually receive, save once, when he gave me a bright red apple,
without speaking a word till my timid thanks brought out his
“Save your thanks for something better.” The apple gave me
no pleasure, and I even slipt into the mill to escape from his
cold forbidding presence.

Nevertheless, he was a good man, strictly honest, and upright
in all his dealings, and respected, almost reverenced, by everybody.
I remember once, when young Winters, the tenant of
Deacon Granger's farm, who paid a great deal too much for his
ground, as I have heard my father say, came to mill with some
withered wheat, my grandfather filled up the sacks out of his
own flour, while Tommy was in the house at dinner. That was
a good deed, but Tommy Winters never suspected how his
wheat happened to turn out so well.

As we drew near the house, it seemed to me more lonesome
and desolate than it ever looked before. I wished I had staid
at home with little Harry. So eagerly I noted every thing,
that I remember to this day, that near a trough of water, in the
lane, stood a little surly looking cow, of a red color, and with
a white line running along her back. I had gone with aunt
Carry often when she went to milk her, but to-day she seemed
not to have been milked. Near her was a black and white
heifer, with sharp short horns, and a square board tied over her
eyes; two horses, one of them gray, and the other sorrel, with

a short tail, were reaching their long necks into the garden, and
browsing from the currant bushes. As we approached they
trotted forward a little, and one of them, half playfully, half
angrily, bit the other on the shoulder, after which they returned
quietly to their cropping of the bushes, heedless of the voice
that from across the field was calling to them.

A flock of turkeys were sunning themselves about the door,
for no one came to scare them away; some were black, and
some speckled, some with heads erect and tails spread, and
some nibbling the grass; and with a gabbling noise, and a
staid and dignified march, they made way for us. The smoke
arose from the chimney in blue, graceful curls, and drifted away
to the woods; the dead morning-glory vines had partly fallen
from the windows, but the hands that tended them were grown
careless, and they were suffered to remain blackened and void
of beauty, as they were. Under these, the white curtain was
partly put aside, and my grandmother, with the speckled
handkerchief pinned across her bosom, and her pale face, a
shade paler than usual, was looking out, and seeing us she came
forth, and in answer to my mother's look of inquiry, shook her
head, and silently led the way in. The room we entered had
some home-made carpet, about the size of a large table-cloth,
spread in the middle of the floor, the remainder of which was
scoured very white; the ceiling was to walnut wood, and the
side walls were white-washed—a table, an old-fashioned desk,
and some wooden chairs, comprised the furniture. On one of
the chairs was a leather cushion; this was set to one side, my
grandmother neither offering it to my mother, nor sitting in it
herself, while, by way of composing herself, I suppose, she took
off the black ribbon with which her cap was trimmed. This
was a more simple process than the reader may fancy, the
trimming, consisting merely of a ribbon, always black, which
she tied around her head after the cap was on, forming a bow
and two ends just above the forehead. Aunt Carry, who was
of what is termed an even disposition, received us with her
usual cheerful demeanor, and then, re-seating herself comfortably
near the fire, resumed her work, the netting of some white
fringe.

I liked aunt Carry, for that she always took especial pains to
entertain me, showing me her patchwork, taking me with her to
the cow-yard and dairy, as also to the mill, though in this last I
fear she was a little selfish; however, that made no difference
to me at the time, and I have always been sincerely grateful to
her: children know more, and want more, and feel more, than
people are apt to imagine.

On this occasion she called me to her, and tried to teach me
the mysteries of her netting, telling me I must get my father to
buy me a little bureau, and then I could net fringe and make a
nice cover for it. For a little time I thought I could, and arranged
in my mind where it should be placed, and what should
be put into it, and even went so far as to inquire how much
fringe she thought would be necessary. I never attained to
much proficiency in the netting of fringe, nor did I ever get the
little bureau, and now it is quite reasonable to suppose I never
shall.

Presently my father and mother were shown into an adjoining
room, the interior of which I felt an irrepressible desire to
see, and by stealth I obtained a glimpse of it before the door
closed behind them. There was a dull brown and yellow carpet
on the floor, and near the bed, on which was a blue and white
coverlid, stood a high-backed wooden chair, over which hung a
towel, and on the bottom of which stood a pitcher, of an unique
pattern. I know not how I saw this, but I did, and perfectly
remember it, notwithstanding my attention was in a moment
completely absorbed by the sick man's face, which was turned
towards the opening door, pale, livid, and ghastly. I trembled,
and was transfixed; the rings beneath the eyes, which had
always been deeply marked, were now almost black, and the
blue eyes within looked glassy and cold, and terrible. The expression
of agony on the lips (for his disease was one of a most
painful nature) gave place to a sort of smile, and the hand, twisted
among the gray locks, was withdrawn and extended to welcome
my parents, as the door closed. That was a fearful moment;
I was near the dark steep edges of the grave; I felt, for the
first time, that I was mortal too, and I was afraid.

Aunt Carry put away her work, and taking from a nail in

the window-frame a brown muslin sun-bonnet, which seemed
to me of half a yard in depth, she tied it on my head, and then
clapt her hands as she looked into my face, saying, “bo-peep!”
at which I half laughed and half cried, and making provision for
herself in grandmother's bonnet, which hung on the opposite
side of the window, and was similar to mine, except that it was
perhaps a little larger, she took my hand and we proceeded to
the mill. Oliver, who was very busy on our entrance, came
forward, as aunt Carry said, by way of introduction, “A little
visiter I've brought you,” and arranged a seat on a bag of meal
for us, and taking off his straw hat, pushed the red curls from his
low white forehead, and looked bewildered and anxious.

“It's quite warm for the season,” said aunt Carry, by way
of breaking silence, I suppose. The young man said “yes,”
abstractedly, and then asked if the rumble of the mill were not
a disturbance to the sick room, to which aunt Carry answered,
“No, my father says it is his music.”

“A good old man,” said Oliver, “he will not hear it much
longer,” and then, even more sadly, “every thing will be
changed.” Aunt Carry was silent, and he added, “I have
been here a long time, and it will make me very sorry to go
away, especially when such trouble is about you all.”

“Oh, Oliver,” said aunt Carry, “you don't mean to go
away?” “I see no alternative,” he replied; “I shall have
nothing to do; if I had gone a year ago it would have been better.”
“Why?” asked aunt Carry; but I think she understood
why, and Oliver did not answer directly, but said, “Almost
the last thing your father said to me was, that you should never
marry any who had not a house and twenty acres of land; if
he has not, he will exact that promise of you, and I cannot ask
you not to make it, nor would you refuse him if I did; I might
have owned that long ago, but for my sister (she had lost her
reason) and my lame brother, whom I must educate to be a
schoolmaster, because he never can work, and my blind mother;
but God forgive me! I must not and do not complain; you
will forget me, before long, Carry, and some body who is richer
and better, will be to you all I once hoped to be, and perhaps
more.”

I did not understand the meaning of the conversation at the
time, but I felt out of place some way, and so, going to another
part of the mill, I watched the sifting of the flour through the
snowy bolter, listening to the rumbling of the wheel. When I
looked around I perceived that Oliver had taken my place on
the meal-bag, and that he had put his arm around the waist of
aunt Carry in a way I did not much like.

Great sorrow, like a storm, sweeps us aside from ordinary
feelings, and we give our hearts into kindly hands—so cold and
hollow and meaningless seem the formulæ of the world. They
had probably never spoken of love before, and now talked of it
as calmly as they would have talked of any thing else; but
they felt that hope was hopeless; at best, any union was deferred,
perhaps, for long years; the future was full of uncertainties.
At last their tones became very low, so low I could
not hear what they said; but I saw that they looked very sorrowful,
and that aunt Carry's hand lay in that of Oliver as
though he were her brother.

“Why don't the flour come through?” I said, for the sifting
had become thinner and lighter, and at length quite ceased.
Oliver smiled, faintly, as he arose, and saying, “This will
never buy the child a frock,” poured a sack of wheat into the
hopper, so that it nearly run over. Seeing no child but myself,
I supposed he meant to buy me a new frock, and at once resolved
to put it in my little bureau, if he did.

“We have bothered Mr. Hillhouse long enough,” said aunt
Carry, taking my hand, “and will go to the house, shall we
not?”

I wondered why she said “Mr. Hillhouse,” for I had never
heard her say so before; and Oliver seemed to wonder, too,
for he said reproachfully, laying particular stress on his own
name, “You don't bother Mr. Hillhouse, I am sure, but I must
not insist on your remaining if you wish to go.”

“I don't want you to insist on my staying,” said aunt Carry,
“if you don't want to, and I see you don't,” and lifting me
out to the sloping plank, that bent beneath us, we descended.

“Carry,” called a voice behind us; but she neither answered
nor looked back, but seemed to feel a sudden and expressive

fondness for me, took me up in her arms, though I was almost
too heavy for her to lift, and kissing me over and over, said I
was light as a feather, at which she laughed as though neither
sorrowful nor lacking for employment.

This little passage I could never precisely explain, aside from
the ground that “the course of true love never did run smooth.”
Half an hour after we returned to the house, Oliver presented
himself at the door, saying, “Miss Caroline, shall I trouble you
for a cup, to get a drink of water?” Carry accompanied him
to the well, where they lingered some time, and when she returned
her face was sunshiny and cheerful as usual.

The day went slowly by, dinner was prepared, and removed,
scarcely tasted; aunt Carry wrought at her fringe, and grandmother
moved softly about, preparing teas and cordials.

Towards sunset the sick man became easy, and expressed a
wish that the door of his chamber might be opened, that he
might watch our occupations and hear our talk. It was done
accordingly, and he was left alone. My mother smiled, saying
she hoped he might yet get well, but my father shook his head
mournfully, and answered, “He wishes to go without our
knowledge.” He made amplest provision for his family
always, and I believe had a kind nature, but he manifested no
little fondnesses, nor did he wish caresses for himself. Contrary
to the general tenor of his character, was a love of quiet
jests, that remained to the last. Once, as Carry gave him
some drink, he said, “You know my wishes about your future,
I expect you to be mindful.”

I stole to the door of his room in the hope that he would say
something to me, but he did not, and I went nearer, close to
the bed, and timidly took his hand in mine; how damp and
cold it felt! yet he spoke not, and climbing upon the chair, I
put back his thin locks, and kissed his forehead. “Child, you
trouble me,” he said, and these were the last words he ever
spoke to me.

The sun sunk lower and lower, throwing a beam of light
through the little window, quite across the carpet, and now it
reached the sick man's room, climbed over the bed and up the
wall; he turned his face away, and seemed to watch its glimmer

upon the ceiling. The atmosphere grew dense and dusky,
but without clouds, and the orange light changed to a dull lurid
red, and the dying and dead leaves dropt silently to the ground,
for there was no wind, and the fowls flew into the trees, and
the gray moths came from beneath the bushes and fluttered in
the waning light. From the hollow tree by the mill came the
bat, wheeling and flitting blindly about, and once or twice its
wings struck the window of the sick man's chamber. The last
sunlight faded off at length, and the rumbling of the mill-wheel
was still: he had fallen asleep in listening to its music.

The next day came the funeral. What a desolate time it
was! All down the lane were wagons and carriages and horses,
for every body that knew my grandfather would pay him the
last honors he could receive in the world. “We can do him
no further good,” they said, “but it seemed right that we
should come.” Close by the gate waited the little brown wagon
to bear the coffin to the grave, the wagon in which he was used
to ride while living. The heads of the horses were drooping,
and I thought they looked consciously sad.

The day was mild, and the doors and windows of the old
house stood all open, so that the people without could hear the
words of the preacher. I remember nothing he said; I remember
of hearing my mother sob, and of seeing my grandmother
with her face buried in her hands, and of seeing aunt Carry
sitting erect, her face pale but tearless, and Oliver near her,
with his hands folded across his breast save once or twice, when
he lifted them to brush away tears.

I did not cry, save from a frightened and strange feeling, but
kept wishing that we were not so near the dead, and that it
were another day. I tried to push the reality away with
thoughts of pleasant things—in vain. I remember the hymn,
and the very air in which it was sung.

Near the door blue flagstones were laid, bordered with a
row of shrubberies and trees, with lilacs, and roses, and pears,
and peach-trees, which my grandfather had planted long ago,
and here, in the open air, the coffin was placed, and the white
cloth removed, and folded over the lid. I remember how it
shook and trembled as the gust came moaning from the woods,
and died off over the next hill, and that two or three withered
leaves fell on the face of the dead, which Oliver gently removed,
and brushed aside a yellow-winged butterfly that
hovered near.

The friends hung over the unsmiling corpse till they were led
weeping and one by one away; the hand of some one rested
for a moment on the forehead, and then the white cloth was
replaced, and the lid screwed down. The coffin was placed in
the brown wagon, with a sheet folded about it, and the long
train moved slowly to the burial-ground woods, where the
words “dust to dust” were followed by the rattling of the
earth, and the sunset light fell there a moment, and the dead
leaves blew across the smoothly shapen mound.

When the will was read, Oliver found himself heir to a fortune—the
mill and the homestead and half the farm—provided
he married Carry, which he must have done, for though I do not
remember the wedding, I have had an aunt Caroline Hillhouse
almost as long as I can remember. The lunatic sister was sent
to an asylum, where she sung songs about a faithless lover till
death took her up and opened her eyes in heaven. The mother
was brought home, and she and my grandmother lived at their
ease, and sat in the corner, and told stories of ghosts, and
witches, and marriages, and deaths, for long years. Peace to
their memories! for they have both gone home; and the lame
brother is teaching school, in his leisure playing the flute, and
reading Shakspeare—all the book he reads.

Years have come and swept me away from my childhood,
from its innocence and blessed unconsciousness of the dark, but
often comes back the memory of its first sorrow!

Death is less terrible to me now.