Chapter 2

But to return to the cottage, from which the pretty, rural trait of its standing in its unfenced green door-yard led me away to notice the same sort of rustic beauty where the church stood. We did not stop to knock at the outside door,--for Aunt Molly was very deaf, and if we had knocked our little knuckles off she would not have heard us,--but went in, and, passing along the passage, rapped at the door of the "common room," half sitting-room, half kitchen, and were admitted. Those who saw her for the first time, whether children or grown people, were generally afraid of her; for her voice, unmodulated, of course, by the ear, was naturally harsh, strong, and high-toned; and the sort of half laugh, half growl, that she uttered when pleased, might have suggested to an imaginative child the howl of a wolf. She had very large features, and sharp, penetrating black eyes, shaded by long, gray lashes, and surmounted by thick, bushy, gray eyebrows. I think that when she was scolding the school-boys, with those eyes fiercely "glowering" at them from under the shaggy gray thatch, she must have appeared to those who in their learned page had got as far as the Furies, like a living illustration of classic lore. Her cap and the make of her dress were peculiar, and suggestive of those days before, and at the time of, the Revolution, of which she loved to speak.

But we, her little favorites, were not afraid of her. To go into her garden in summer, and eat currants, larger and sweeter than any we found at home,--to look up at the enormous old damson-tree, when it was white with blossoms, and the rich honey-comb smell was diffused over the whole garden,--was a pleasant little excursion to us. She took great care and pains to save the plums from the plundering boys, because it was the only real damson there was anywhere in the neighborhood, and she found a ready sale for them, for preserves. She seemed to think that the _real damsons_ went out with the _real gentry_ of the olden time; and perhaps they did, _as_ damsons, though, for aught I know, they may figure now in our fruit catalogues as "The Duke of Argyle's New Seedling Acidulated Drop of Damascus,"--which would be something like a translation of Damson into the modern terminology.

But more pleasant still was it to go into Aunt Molly's "best room." The walls she had papered herself, with curious stripes and odd pieces, of various shapes and patterns, ornamented with a border of figures of little men and women joining hands, cut from paper of all colors; and they were adorned, besides, with several prints in shining black frames. There was no carpet on the snow-white, unpainted floor, but various mats and rugs, of all the kinds into which ingenuity has transformed woollen rags, were disposed about it. The bed was the pride and glory of the room, however; for on it was spread a silk patchwork quilt, made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegant silks, of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory families had their gowns and cardinals, and other paraphernalia, made. Aunt Molly had been a mantuamaker to the old "quality," and she could show us a piece of Madam Vassall's gown on that wonderful and brilliant piece of work, the bed-quilt. "On that hint" she would speak.

"A-haw-awr! They were _real gentle_ folks that lived in _them_ days. A-haw-awr! I declare, I could e'en-amost kneel down and kiss the very airth they trod on, as they went by my house to church. Polite, _they wor!_ Yes, they knew what true politeness was; and to my thinking true politeness is next to saving grace."

Once a year, or so, Aunt Molly would dress up in her best gown, a black silk, trimmed with real black lace, and a real lace cap, relics of the good old days of Toryism and brocade and the real gentry, and go to make an afternoon visit to one of her neighbors. After the usual salutations, the lady would ask her visitor to take off her bonnet and stay the afternoon, knowing by the "rig" that such was her intention. But she liked to be urged a little, so she would say, "O, I only came out for a little walk, it was so pleasant, and stopped in to see how little Henry did, since his sickness. You know I always call him _my boy_." (Yes, Aunt Molly, the only boy in the universe that, for you, had any good in him.) After the proper amount of urging, she would lay aside her bonnet and black satin mantle, saying, "Well, I didn't come here to get my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will stay."

Aunt Molly's _asides_ were often amusing. She was so very deaf that she could not hear her own voice, and often imagined she was whispering, when she could be heard across the room.

On one occasion she saw a gentleman who was a stranger to her, in the parlor, when she went to visit one of the ladies who were kind and attentive to her. She sat a few minutes looking keenly at him, and then whispered, "Who's that?" "Mr. Jay." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Oh-o-oh! Mr. Jay. Well, what does he do for a living?" "He's a tutor, Ma'am." "What?" "A TUTOR." "What?" "A TUTOR." "Oh-o-oh! I thought you said a suitor!"

Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage, where her widowed mother, she said, had lived, and there she died. As soon as she was laid in her grave, it was torn down, and the precious damson-tree was felled. I was rather glad that the school-house was so ugly, that I might have a double reason for hating the usurper. If Nemesis cared for school-boys, she doubtless looks on with a grin, now, to see them scampering at their will round the precincts of the former enemy of their race, and listens with pleasure while they "make _day_ hideous" where once the bee and the humming-bird only broke the quiet of the little garden.

Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind, and a strong, tenacious memory; and her love of the departed grandeur and Toryism of Court Row, as she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash Street to Mount Auburn, was pleasant and entertaining to those who listened to her tales of other times.

Peace to her memory!

THE SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE.

I sing the melodies of early morn. Hark!--'t is the distant roar of iron wheels, First sound of busy life, and the shrill neigh Of vapor-steed, the vale of Brighton threading, Region of lowing kine and perfumed breeze. Echoes the shore of blue meandering Charles. Straightway the chorus of glad chanticleers Proclaims the dawn. First comes one clarion note, Loud, clear, and long drawn out; and hark! again Rises the jocund song, distinct, though distant; Now faint and far, like plaintive cry for help Piercing the ear of Sleep. Each knight o' the spur, Watchful as brave, and emulous in noise, With mighty pinions beats a glad _reveille_. All feathered nature wakes. Man's drowsy sense Heeds not the trilling band, but slumbrous waits The tardy god of day. Ah! sluggard, wake! Open thy blind, and rub thy heavy eyes! For once behold a sunrise. Is there aught In thy dream-world more splendid, or more fair? With crimson glory the horizon streams, And ghostly Dian hides her face ashamed. Now to the ear of him who lingers long On downy couch, "falsely luxurious," Comes the unwelcome din of college-bell Fast tolling. . . . . . "'T is but the earliest, the warning peal!" He sleeps again. Happy if bustling chum, Footsteps along the entry, or perchance, In the home bower, maternal knock and halloo, Shall break the treacherous slumber. For behold The youth collegiate sniff the morning zephyrs, Breezes of brisk December, frosty and keen, With nose incarnadine, peering above Each graceful shepherd's plaid the chin enfolding. See how the purple hue of youth and health Glows in each cheek; how the sharp wind brings pearls From every eye, brightening those dimmed with study, And waste of midnight oil, o'er classic page Long poring. Boreas in merry mood Plays with each unkempt lock, and vainly strives To make a football of the Freshman's beaver, Or the sage Sophomore's indented felt. Behold the foremost, with deliberate stride And slow, approach the chapel, tree-embowered, Entering composedly its gaping portal; Then, as the iron tongue goes on to rouse The mocking echoes with its call, arrive Others, with hastier step and heaving chest. Anon, some bound along divergent paths Which scar the grassy plain, and, with no pause For breath, press up the rocky stair. Straightway, A desperate few, with headlong, frantic speed, Swifter than arrow-flight or Medford whirlwind, Sparks flying from iron-shod heels at every footfall, Over stone causeway and tessellated pavement,-- They come--they come--they leap--they scamper in, Ere, grating on its hinges, slams the door Inexorable. . . . . . Pauses the sluggard, at Wood and Hall's just crossing, The chime melodious dying on his ear. Embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold Upon his feet, shuffling, with heel exposed, And 'neath his upper garment just appears A many-colored robe; about his throat No comfortable scarf, but crumpled _gills_ Shrink from the scanning eye of passenger The omnibus o'erhauling. List! 't was the last, Last stroke! it dies away, like murmuring wave. Bootless he came,--and bootless wends he back, Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow. Bright eyes might gaze on him, compassionate, But that yon rosy maiden, early afoot, Is o'er her shoulder watching, with wild fear, A horned host that rushes by amain, Bellowing bassoon-like music. Angry shouts Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse, Shrill scream of imitative boy, and crack Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet Are hurrying on:--but now, with instinct sure, Madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road That leads to Brighton and to death. They charge Up Brattle Street. Screaming the maiden flies, Nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil, upborne On sportive breeze, and sailing far away. And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered, With tiny footprints fret the dusty square, And huddling strive to elude relentless fate. And hark! with snuffling grunt, and now and then A squeak, a squad of long-nosed gentry run The gutters to explore, with comic jerk Of the investigating snout, and wink At passer-by, and saucy, lounging gait, And independent, lash-defying course. And now the baker, with his steaming load, Hums like the humble-bee from door to door, And thoughts of breakfast rise; and harmonies Domestic, song of kettle, and hissing urn, Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet, Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork, Bring to a close the Melodies of Morn.

THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE.

The Melodies of Morning late I sang. Recall we now those Melodies of Even Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o'erpast; Full of the theme, O Phoebus, hear me sing. What time thy golden car draws near its goal,-- Mount Auburn's pillared summit,--chorus loud Of mud-born songsters fills the dewy air. Hark! in yon shallow pool, what melody Is poured from swelling throats, liquid and bubbling, As if the plaintive notes thrilled struggling through The stagnant waters and the waving reeds. Monotonous the melancholy strain, Save when the bull-frog, from some slimy depth Profound, sends up his deep "Poo-toob!" "Poo-toob!" Like a staccato note of double bass Marking the cadence. The unwearied crickets Fill up the harmony; and the whippoorwill His mournful solo sings among the willows. The tree-toad's pleasant trilling croak proclaims A coming rain; a welcome evil, sure, When streets are one long ash-heap, and the flowers Fainting or crisp in sun-baked borders stand. Mount Auburn's gate is closed. The latest 'bus Down Brattle Street goes rumbling. Laborers Hie home, by twos and threes; homeliest phizzes, Voices high-pitched, and tongues with telltale burr-r-r-r, The short-stemmed pipe, diffusing odors vile, Garments of comic and misfitting make, And steps which tend to Curran's door, (a man Ignoble, yet quite worthy of the name Of Fill-pot Curran,) all proclaim the race Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly, When their step-mother country casts them off. Here with a creaking barrow, piled with tools Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by A man of different stamp. His well-trained limbs Move with a certain grace and readiness, Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying. Rapid his tread, yet firm; his scheming brain Teems with broad plans, and hopes of future wealth, And time and life move all too slow for him. Will he industrious gains and home renounce To grow more quickly rich in lands unblest? Hear'st thou that gleeful shout? Who opes the gate, The neatly painted gate, and runs before With noisy joy? Now from the trellised door Toddles another bright-haired boy. And now Captive they lead the father; strong their grasp; He cannot break away. Dreamily quiet The dewy twilight of a summer eve. Tired mortals lounge at casement or at door, While deepening shadows gather round. No lamp Save in yon shop, whose sable minister His evening customers attends. Anon, With squeaking bucket on his arm, emerges The errand-boy, slow marching to the tune Of "Uncle Ned" or "Norma," whistled shrill. Hark! heard you not against the window-pane The dash of horny skull in mad career, And a loud buzz of terror? He'll be in, This horrid beetle; yes,--and in my hair! Close all the blinds; 't is dismal, but 't is safe. Listen! Methought I heard delicious music, Faint and afar. Pray, is the Boat-Club out? Do the Pierian minstrels meet to-night? Or chime the bells of Boston, or the Port? Nearer now, nearer--Ah! bloodthirsty villain, Is 't you? Too late I closed the blind! Alas! List! there's another trump!--There, _two_ of 'em!-- Two? A quintette at least. Mosquito chorus! A--ah! my cheek! And oh! again, my eyelid! I gave myself a stunning cuff on the ear And all in vain. Flap we our handkerchief; Flap, flap! (A smash.) Quick, quick, bring in a lamp! I've switched a flower-vase from the shelf. Ah me! Splash on my head, and then upon my feet, The water poured;--I'm drowned! my slipper's full! My dickey--ah! 't is cruel! Flowers are nonsense! I'd have them amaranths all, or made of paper. Here, wring my neckcloth, and rub down my hair! Now Mr. Brackett, punctual man, is ringing The curfew bell; 't is nine o'clock already. 'T is early bedtime, yet methinks 't were joy On mattress cool to stretch supine. At midnight, Were it winter, I were less fatigued, less sleepy. Sleep! I invoke thee, "comfortable bird, That broodest o'er the troubled waves of life, And hushest them to peace." All hail the man Who first invented bed! O, wondrous soft This pillow to my weary head! right soon My dizzy thoughts shall o'er the brink of sleep Fall into chaos and be lost. I dream. Now comes mine enemy, not silently, But with insulting and defiant warning; Come, banquet, if thou wilt; I offer thee My cheek, my arm. Tease me not, hovering high With that continuous hum; I fain would rest. Come, do thy worst at once. Bite, scoundrel, bite! Thou insect vulture, seize thy helpless prey! No ceremony! (I'd have none with thee, Could I but find thee.) Fainter now and farther The tiny war-whoop; now I hear it not. A cowardly assassin he; he waits, Full well aware that I am on the alert, With murderous intent. Perchance he's gone, Hawk-eye and nose of hound not serving him To find me in the dark. With a long sigh, I beat my pillow, close my useless eyes, And soon again my thoughts whirl giddily, Verging towards dreams. Starting, I shake my bed;-- Loud thumps my heart,--rises on end my hair! A murder-screech, and yells of frantic fury, Under my very window,--a duet Of fiendish hatred, battle to the death,-- 'T is enough to enrage a man! Missile I seize, Not caring what, and with a savage "Scat!" That scrapes my throat, let drive. I would it were A millstone! Swiftly through the garden beds And o'er the fence on either side they fly; I to my couch return, but not to sleep. Weary I toss, and think 't is almost dawn, So still the streets; but now the latest train, Whistling melodiously, comes in; the tramp Of feet, and hum of voices, echo far In the still night air. Now with joy I feel My eyelids droop once more. To sleep and dream Is bliss unspeakable;--I'm going off;-- What was I thinking last?--slowly I rise On downy pinions; dreaming, I fly, I soar;-- Through the clouds my way I'm winging, Angels to their harps are singing, Strains of unearthly sweetness lull me, And thrilling harmonies----"Yelp! Bow-wow-wow!" "Get out!"--"The dog has got me by the leg!" "Stave him off! Will you? See, he's rent my pants, My newest plaid!--Kick him!"--"Yow, yow!"--"This house I'll never serenade again!--A dog Should know musicians from suspicious chaps, And gentlemen from rowdies, even at night!" "Beat him again!" "No, no! Perhaps 't is HERS! A _lady's pet!_ Methinks the curtain moves! She's looking out! Let's sing once more! Just once!" "Not I.--I'll sing no more to-night!" and steps Limping unequally, and grumbling voice, Pass round the corner, and are heard no more.

TO THE NEAR-SIGHTED.

Purblind and short-sighted friends! You will listen to me,--_you_ will sympathize with me; for you know by painful experience what I mean when I say that we near-sighted people do not receive from our hawk-eyed neighbors that sympathy and consideration to which we are justly entitled. If we were blind, we should be abundantly pitied, but as we are only half-blind, such comments as these are all the consolation we get. "Oh! _near-sighted_, is she? Yes, it is very fashionable now-a-days for young ladies to carry eye-glasses, and call themselves near-sighted!" Or, "Pooh! It's all affectation. She can see as well as any body, if she chooses. She thinks it is pretty to half shut her eyes, and cut her acquaintances." I meet my friend A----, some morning, who returns my salutation with cold politeness, and says, "How cleverly you managed to cut me at the concert last night!" "At the concert! I did not see you." "O no! You could see well enough to bow to pretty Miss B----, and her handsome cousin; but as for seeing your old schoolmate, two seats behind her,--of course you are too near-sighted!" In vain I protest that I could not see her,--that three yards is a great distance to my eyes. She leaves me with an incredulous smile, and that most provoking phrase, "O yes! I _suppose_ so!" and distrusts me ever afterwards. Alas! we see just enough to seal our own condemnation.

Who is free from this malady? As I look around in society, I see staring glassy ellipses on every side "in the place where eyes ought to grow,"--and perhaps most of the unfortunate owls get along very comfortably with their artificial eyes. But imagine a bashful youth, awkward and near-sighted, whose friends dissuade him from wearing glasses. Is there in the universe an individual more unlucky, more blundering, more sincerely to be pitied?

See that little boy, who, having put on his father's spectacles, is enjoying for the first time a clear and distinct view of the evening sky. "Oh! is that pretty little yellow dot a star?" exclaims the delighted child. Poor innocent! a star had always been to him a dim, cloudy spot, a little nebula, which the magic glass has now resolved; and he can hardly believe that this brilliant point is not an optical illusion. But when his mother assures him that the stars always appear so to her, and he turns to look in her face, he says, "Why, mother! how beautiful you look! Please to give me some little spectacles, _all my own!_" She could not resist this entreaty,--(who could?)--and little "Squire Specs" does not mind the shouts of his companions or the high-sounding nicknames they give him, he so rejoices in what seems to him a new sense, a _second sight_.

I was summoned, the other day, to welcome a family of cousins from a distant State, whom I had not seen for a very long time. They were accompanied, I was told, by a Boston lady, a stranger to us. I entered the room with considerable _empressement_, but when my eye detected the dim outline of a circle of bonneted figures, I stopped in despair in the middle of the room, not knowing which was which, or whom I ought to speak to first, and at last made an embarrassed half-bow, half-courtesy, to the company in general. A confused murmur of greetings and introductions followed, and, throwing aside my air of stiff, ceremonious politeness, I rushed, with a smiling face, to the nearest lady, shook hands with her in the most cordial manner, and then, in passing, bowed formally to the next, who I concluded was the stranger. What then was my surprise and utter confusion when she caught me by the hand, and, drawing me towards her, kissed me emphatically several times. "How _do_ you do, dear? Have you quite forgotten me? Ah! You don't remember the times when you used to ride a cock-horse, on my knee, to Banbury Cross, to see the old lady get on her white horse!" What could I say? I was petrified. I could not smile, I could not speak. My only feeling was mortification at my most awkward mistake. Yet I ought to have become accustomed to such embarrassments, for they are of very frequent occurrence.

"Why, Julia! what is the matter? How strangely your eyes look!" My sister at this exclamation turns round, and I discover that from the other end of the room I have been gazing at the unexpressive features of her "back hair," which is twisted in a "pug," or "bob,"--which is the correct term?--and surmounted by a tortoise-shell comb.

But in the whole course of my numerous mistakes and blunders, whether ludicrous, serious, or embarrassing, I believe I have never mistaken a cow for a human being, as was done by old Dr. E----. It was many years ago, when Boston Common was still used as a pasture, and cows were daily to be met in the crooked streets of the city, that this gentleman, distinguished for the courtesy and old-school politeness of his manner, no less than for his extreme near-sightedness, was walking at a brisk pace, one winter's day, and saw, just before him, a lady, as he thought, richly dressed in furs. As he was passing her, he thought he perceived that her fur boa or tippet had escaped from her neck, and, carefully lifting the end of it with one hand, he made a low bow, raising his hat with the other, and said in his blandest tone, "Madam, you are losing your tippet!" And what thanks did the worthy Doctor receive, do you think, for this truly kind and polite deed? Why, the lady merely turned her head, gave him a wondering stare with her large eyes, and said, "Moo-o-o-o!"

As an offset to this instance of courtesy and good-breeding lavished on a cow, let me give you, as a parting _bon-bouche_, another cow anecdote, where, as you will see, there was no gentle politeness wasted.