Chapter 4

On the straight-back'd oaken settle, congregate the older children. Work have they, or books, and sometimes the weekly newspaper, Grey, on coarse, crumpled paper, and borrowed from house to house, Small-sized, yet precious, and read through from beginning to end, Bright, young heads circling close, peering together over its columns. Now and then, furtive glances reconnoitre the ingle-side, Where before a bed of coals, rows of red apples are roasting, Spitting out their life-juices spitefully, in unwilling martyrdom. Finished, and drawn back, the happy group wait a brief interval, Thinking some neighbor might chance to come in and bid them good even, Heightening their simple refection, for whose sake would be joyously added The mug of sparkling cider passed temperately from lip to lip, Sufficient and accepted offering of ancient, true-hearted hospitality. Thus in colonial times dwelt they together as brethren, Taking part in each others' concerns with an undissembled sympathy.

But when the tall old clock told out boldly three times three, Thrice the number of the graces, thrice the number of the fates, The full number of the Muses, the hour dedicated to Morpheus, At that curfew departed the guest, and all work being suspended, Laid aside was the grandmother's knitting-bag, for in its cradle Rock'd now and then by her foot, already slumbered the baby. Then, ere the fading brands were covered with protecting ashes, Rose the prayer of the Sire, amid his treasured and trusted ones, Rose his thanks for past blessings, his petitions for the future, His committal of all care to Him who careth for his creatures, Overlooking nothing that His bountiful Hand hath created.

Orderly were the households of the farmer, not given to idle merriment, Honoring the presence of parents, as of tutelary spirits. To be obedient and useful were the first lessons of the young children, Well learned and bringing happiness, that ruled on sure foundations, Respect for authority, being the initial of God's holy fear. Modern times might denounce such a system as tyrannical, Asking the blandishments of indulgence, and a broader liberty; Leaving in perplexing doubt, the mind of the infant stranger Whether to rule or to be ruled he came hither on his untried journey, Rearing him in headstrong ignorance, revolting at discipline, Heady, high-minded, and prone to speak evil of dignities.

Welcome was Winter, to the agriculturist of olden times, Then, while fruitful Earth, with whom he was in league, held her sabbath, Knowledge entered into his soul. At the lengthened evening, Read he in an audible voice to his listening family Grave books of History, or elaborate Theology, Taxing thought and memory, but not setting fancy on tiptoe Teaching reverence for wise men, and for God, the Giver of Wisdom. Not then had the era arrived, when of making books there is no end. Painfully the laboring press, brought forth like the kingly whale One cub at a time, guiding it carefully over the billows, Watching with pride and pleasure, its own wonderful offspring. A large, fair volume, was in those days, as molten gold, Touched only with clean hands, and by testators willed to their heirs.

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Winter also, brought the school for the boys,--released from farm-labor. Early was the substantial breakfast, in those short, frosty mornings, That equipped in season, might be the caravan for its enterprise, Punctuality in those simple times being enrolled among the virtues. There they go! a rosy group, bearing in small baskets their dinner; Plunging thro' all snow-drifts, the boys,--on all ices sliding the girls, Yet leaving not the straight path, lest tardy should be their arrival. Lone on the bleak hill-side, stood the unpainted village school-house, Winds taking aim at it like a target, smoke belching from its chimney, Bare to the fiery suns of summer, like the treeless Nantucket. Desks were ranged under the windows where on high benches without backs Sate the little ones, their feet vainly reaching toward the distant floor, Commanded everlastingly to keep still and to be still, As if immobility were the climax of all excellence; Hard lesson for quick nerves, and eyes searching for something new. Nature endowed them with curiosity, but man wiser than she Calling himself a teacher, would fain stiffen them into statues. No bright visions of the school-palaces of future days With seats of ease, and carpets, and pianos, and pictured walls, And green lawns, pleasantly shaded, stretching wide for play, And knowledge fondling her pets, and unveiling her royal road, Gleam'd before them as Eden, kindling smiles on their thoughtful faces.

Favor'd were the elder scholars with more congenial tasks: Loudly read they in their classes, glorying in the noise they made, Busily over the slates moved the hard pencils, with a grating sound, Diligently on coarse paper wrote they, with quill pens, bushy topp'd, Blessed in having lived, ere the metallic stylus was invented. Rang'd early around the fire, have been their frozen inkstands, Where in rotation sits each scholar briefly, by the master's leave, Roasting on one side, and on the other a petrefaction, Keen blasts through the crevices delighting to whistle and mock them. Patient were the children, not given to murmuring or complaining, Learning through privation, lessons of value for a future life, Subjection, application, and love of knowledge for itself alone. On a high chair, sate the solemn Master, watchful of all things, Absolute was his sway and in this authority he gloried, Conforming it much to the Spartan rule, and the code of Solomon, Showing no mercy to idleness, or wrong uses of the slippery tongue: Yet to diligent students kind, and of their proficiency boastful, Exhibiting their copy-books, to committee-man and visitant, Or calling out the declaimers, in some stentorian dialogue. Few were the studies then pursued, but thoroughness required in all, Surface-work not being in vogue, nor rootless blossoms regarded. Especially well-taught was the orthography of our copious language, False spelling being as a sin to be punished by the judges. In this difficult attainment the master sometimes accorded A form of friendly conflict sought with ardor as a premium, Stirring the belligerent element, ever strong in boyish natures. Forth came at close of the school-day, two of reproachless conduct, Naming first the best spellers, they proceeded to choose alternately, Till all, old and young, ranging under opposite banners, Drawn up as in battle array, each other stoutly confronted. Rapidly given out by the leaders to their marshall'd forces, Word by word, with its definition, was the allotted lesson, Vociferously answered from each side like discharges of artillery; Fatal was the slightest mistake, fatal even pause or hesitation, Doubt was for the vanquished, to deliberate was to be lost. Drooping with disgrace down sate each discomfited pupil, Bravely stood the perfect, the most unbroken line gaining the victory. Not unboastful were the conquerers, cheered with shouts on their homeward way, Crest-fallen were the defeated, yet eager for a future contest. Strong elements thus enlisted, gave new vigor to mental toil, As the swimmer puts forth more force till the rapids are overpast. Dear to the persevering, were those schools of the olden time, Respected were the teachers, who with majestic austerity, Dispensed without favoritism, a Lacedamonian justice. Learning was not then loved for luxury, like a lady for her gold, But testing her worshippers by trial, knew who sought her for herself.

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Not given to frequent feasting was the home-bred farmer of New England, Parties, and the popular lectures swelled not his code of enjoyments. One banquet, climax of his convivial delight, was the yearly thanksgiving, Substituted by puritan settlers for the Christmas of the Mother-Clime, Keeping in memory the feast of ingathering, of the Ancient Covenant People; Drear November was its appointed season, when earth's bounty being garnered, Man might rest from his labors, and praise the Lord of the Harvest. Such was its original design, but the tendencies of Saxonism, Turn'd it more to eating and drinking, than devotional remembrance. Yet blessed was the time, summoning homeward every wanderer: Back came the city apprentice, and from her service place the damsel, Back came the married daughter to the father's quiet hearth-stone, Wrapped warmly in her cloak is a babe, its eyes full of wonder,-- Hand in hand, walked the little ones, bowing low before the grandparents, Meekly craving their blessing, for so had they been piously taught. Back to the birth-spot, to the shadow of their trees ancestral, Came they like joyous streams, to their first untroubled fountain, Knowing better how to prize it, from the rocks that had barred their course. In primitive guise, journeyed homeward those dispersed ones. Rare, in these days, was the carriage, or stage-coach for the traveller; Roads, unmacadamized, making rude havoc of delicate springs. Around the door, horses gather with the antique side-saddle and pillion, Led thence to the full barn, while their riders find heartfelt welcome.

Then all whom culinary cares release, hasten to the House of Worship, Religion being invoked to sanction the rejoicing of the fathers. Plain was the village-church, a structure of darkened wood, Having doors on three sides, and flanked by sheds for the horses, Guiltless of blackening stove-pipe, or the smouldering fires of the furnace. Assaulted oft were its windows, by the sonorous North-Western, Making organ-pipes in the forest, for its shrill improvisations Patient of cold, sate the people, each household in its own square pew, Palisaded above the heads of the children, imprisoning their roving eyes. Patiently sate the people, while from 'neath the great sounding-board, The preacher unfolded his sermon, like the many-headed cauliflower. Grave was the good pastor, not prone to pamper animal appetites, But mainly intent to deal with that which is immortal. Prolix might he have been deemed, save by the flock he guided, Who duteously accounted him but a little lower than the angels.

As solemn music to the sound of his monotonous periods Listened attentively the young, until he slowly enunciated Fifteenthly, in the division of his elaborate discourse. Then gadded away their busy thoughts to the Thanksgiving dinner, Visioning good things to come.

At length, around the table, Duly bless'd by the Master of the feast, they cheerily assemble. Before him, as his perquisite, and prerogative to carve. In a lordly dish smokes the huge, well-browned Turkey, Chickens were there, to whose innocent lives Thanksgiving is ever a death-knell; Luscious roasters from the pen, the large ham of a red complexion, Garnish'd and intermingled with varied forms of vegetable wealth. Ample pasties were attached, and demolished with dexterity, Custards and tarts, and compounds of the golden-faced pumpkin, Prime favorite, without whose aid, scarcely could New England have been thankful. Apples, with plump, waxen cheeks, chestnuts, and the fruit of the hickory, Bisected neatly, without fragment, furnished the simple dessert, Finale to that festival where each guest might be safely merry. Hence, by happy-hearted children, was it hailed as the pole-star, Toward which Memory looked backward six months, and Hope forward for six to come, Dating reverently from its era, as the Moslem from his Hegira. Hymen also hailed it as his revenue, and crowning time; Bachelors wearied with the restraints that courtship imposes, Longed for it, as the Israelite for the jubilee of release, And many a householder, in his family-bible marked its date As the day of his espousals, and of the gladness of his heart.

* * * * *

Content was the life of agriculture, in unison with that wisest prayer "_Thy will be done._" Wisest, because who, save the Eternal Knoweth what is best for man, walking ignorantly among shadows, Himself a shadow, not like Adam our father in Paradise, Rightly naming all things, but calling evil, good, and good, evil, Blindly blaming the discipline that might bless him ever-lastingly, And embracing desires, that in their bosom hide the dagger of Ehud. Asketh he for honor? In its train are envyings and cares; "Wealth? It may drown the soul in destruction and perdition; Power? Lo! it casteth on some lone St. Helena to die: Surely, safest of all petitions, is that of our blessed Saviour,-- "_Not my will hut Thine._"

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Thus, as it was in the days before us, Rural life in New-England, with its thrift, and simplicity, Minutely have I depicted, not emulous of embellishment. More of refinement might it boast when our beautiful birth-clime, From the colonial chrysalis emerging, spread her wing among the nations. Then rose an aristocracy, founded not on wealth alone That winds may scatter like desert sands, or the floods wash away, But on the rock of solid virtue, where securely anchors the soul.

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Mid its cultured acres rose gracefully a dwelling of the better class, Large, but not lofty, its white walls softened by surrounding shades, Fresh turf at its feet like velvet, green boughs bannering its head, Bannering, and dropping music, till the last rustle of the falling leaves. There, still in her comely prime, dwelt the lady of the mansion. Moderate would her fortune be held in these days that count by millions, Yet rich was she, because having no debts, what seemed to be hers, was so; Rich, in having a surplus for the poor, which she gladly imparted; Rich too, through Agriculture, pursued less from need than habit. Habit mingled with satisfaction, and bringing health in its train. Early widowhood had touched her brow with sadness such as time bringeth, Yet in her clear eye was a fortitude, surmounting adversity. Busy were her maidens, and happy, their right conduct kindly approved, Busy also the swains thro' whose toil her fields yielded increase, Respect had she for labor; knowing both what to require, and when it was well performed, Readily rendering full wages, with smiles and words of counsel, Accounting those who served her, friends, entitled to advice and sympathy. Thus, looking well to the ways of her household, and from each expecting their duty, Wisely divided she her time, and at intervals of leisure, Books allured her cultured mind through realms of thought and knowledge.

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But the deepest well-spring of her joys, not yet hath been unfolded, A fountain where care and sorrow forgot both their name and nature. Two little daughters, like olive plants, grew beside that fountain, One, with dark, deepset eyes, and wealth of raven tresses, The other gleaming as a sunbeam, through her veil of golden hair, With a glance like living sapphire, making the beholder glad. Clinging to the sweet mother's hand, smiling when she smiled, If she were sad, grieving also, they were her blessed comforters, Morn and Even were they styled by admiring, fanciful visitants, So "the evening and the morning, were to her soul the first day," After the heavy midnight of her weeping and widowhood.

Side by side, in sweet liberty hither and thither roamed those little ones, Hunting violets on the bank, tasting cheese curds in the dairy, Seeking red and white strawberries, as ripening they ran in the garden beds, To fill the small basket for their mother, covering the fruit with rose-buds, Peering archly to see if she would discover what was lurking beneath. Gamboling with the lambs, shouting as the nest-builders darted by, Sharing in the innocence of one, and catching song from the other.

Nighty on the same snowy pillow, were laid their beautiful heads, The same morning beam kiss'd away their lingering slumbers, The first object that met their waking eye, was the bright, sisterly smile. One impulse moved both hearts, as kneeling by their little bed, Breathed forth from ruby lips, "Our Father, who art in Heaven!" Simple homage, meekly blending in a blessed stream of incense.

Forth went they among the wild flowers, making friendship with the dragon-fly, With the ant in her circling citadel, with the spider at her silk-loom, Talking to the babbling brook, speaking kindly to the uncouth terrapin, And frog, who to them seem'd dancing joyously in watery halls. Like the chirping of the wood-robin murmured their tuneful voices, Or rang out in merry laughter, gladdening the ear of the Mother, Who when she heard it afar off, laughed also, not knowing wherefore.

Thus, in companionship with Nature, dwelt they, growing each day more happy, Loving all things that she cherish'd, and loved by her in return. Yet not idly pass'd their childhood, in New England's creed that were heresy, Promptly, as strength permitted, followed they examples of industry, Lovingly assisting the Mother wherever her work might be. Surprising was it to see what their small hands could accomplish, Without trespassing on the joy of childhood, that precious birthright of life. Diligently wrought they in summer, at the dame's school with plodding needle, Docile at their lessons in winter, stood they before the Master: Yet learning most from Home and Mother, those schools for the heart, Befitting best that sex, whose sphere of action is in the heart. Attentive were they to the Parents' rule, and to the open book of Nature, Teachers, whose faithful pupils shall be wise towards God.

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Different were the two daughters, though to the same discipline subjected. Grave was the elder born and thoughtful, even beyond her years, Night upon her tresses, but the star of morning in her heart. Exceeding fair was the younger, and witty, and full of grace, Winning with her sunny ringlets, the notice of all beholders. Different also were their temperaments, one loving like the Violet Shaded turf, where the light falls subdued through sheltering branches, The other, as the Tulip, exulting in the lustrous noontide, And the prerogatives of beauty, to see, and to be seen. Sweet was it to behold them, when the sun grew low in summer, Riding gracefully through the green-wood, each on her ambling palfrey, One, white as milk, and the other like shining ebony, For so in fanciful love had the Mother selected for her darlings. Sweet was it to mark them, side by side, in careless beauty, Looking earnestly in each others' faces, thought playfully touching thought.

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Chief speaker was Miranda, ever fearless and most fluent. "Tired am I of always seeing the same dull, old scenes. I wish the rail-fences would tumble down, and the sprawling apple-trees,-- And the brown farm-houses take unto themselves wings and fly away, Like the wild-geese in autumn, if only something might be new. There's the Miller forever standing on that one same spot of ground, Watching his spouting wheel, when there's water, and when there is none, Grumbling, I suppose, at home, to his spiritless wife and daughters. I like not that fusty old Miller, his coat covered with meal, Ever tugging at bags, and shoveling corn into the hopper." Discreetly answer'd Bertha, and the lively one responded, Lively, and quick-sighted, yet prone to be restless and unsatisfied, "Counting rain-drops as they fall, one by one, from sullen branches. Seeing silly lambkins leap, and the fan-tail'd squirrels scamper, What are such things to me? Stupid Agriculture I like not, Soap-making, and the science of cheese-tubs, what are they to me? The chief end of life with these hinds and hindesses, Is methinks, to belabor their hands, till they harden like brick-bats."

* * * * *

"Look, look, Miranda, dearest! The new moon sweetly rising Holdeth forth her silver crescent, which the loyal stars perceiving, Gather gladly to her banner, like a host around their sovereign. Let us find the constellations that our good Instructor taught us. Remember you not yesterday, when our lesson was well-render'd, How with unwonted flattery he call'd us his Hesperus and Aurora?"

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"These hum-drum teachings tire me, I'm disgusted with reciting And repeating, day by day, what I knew well enough before." Then quickening briskly her startled steed with the riding-whip, She darted onward through the forest, reaching first their own abode.

At night, when they retired, ere the waning lamp was extinguished, That good time for talking, when heart to heart discloseth What the work or the pride of day, might in secrecy have shrouded, Said Miranda, "I have seen our early play-mate, Emilia, From a boarding-school return'd, all accomplished, all delightful, So changed, so improved, her best friends might scarcely know her. Why might not I be favor'd with similar advantages? Caged here, year by year, with wings beating the prison-door; I would fain go where she went. If overruled I shall be wretched. I _must_ go, Bertha, yes! No obstacle shall withhold me."

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"Oh Miranda! Our Mother! In your company is her solace. In your young life she liveth, at your bright smile, ever smileth, Such power have you to cheer her. What could she do without you When the lengthen'd eve grows lonely, and the widow sorrow presseth?" "Oh persuade her!" she cried, with an embrace of passionate fervor, "Persuade her, Bertha! and I'll be your bond-servant forever."

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Seldom had a differing purpose ruffled long those sisterly bosoms. Wakeful lay Bertha, the silent tear for her companion, While frequent sighs swelling and heaving the snowy breast of Miranda, Betray'd that troubled visions held her spirit in their custody.

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Like twin streamlets had they been, from one quiet fountain flowing, Stealing on through fringed margins, anon playfully diverging, Yet to each other as they wander'd, sending messages through whispering reeds, Then returning and entwining joyously, with their cool chrystalline arms.

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But who that from their source marketh infant brooklets issue, Like sparkling threads of silver, wending onward through the distance Can foretell which will hold placid course among the vallies, Content with silent blessings from the fertile soil it cheereth, Or which, mid rocky channels contending and complaining, Now exulting in brief victory, then in darken'd eddies creeping, Leaps its rampart and is broken on the wheel of the cataract.

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Generous is the love and holy that springeth from gratitude; Rooting not in blind instinct, grasping not, exacting not, Remembering the harvest on which it fed, and the toil of the harvester; Fain would it render recompense according to what it hath received, Or falling short, weepeth. As the leaf of the white Lily Bendeth backward to the stalk whence its young bud drew nutrition, So turneth the Love of Gratitude, with eye undimm'd and fervent, To parent, friend, teacher, benefactor, bountiful Creator. Sympathies derived from such sources ever sacredly cherishing; Daughter of Memory, inheriting her mother's immortality, Welcome shall she find among angels, where selfish love may not enter.

CANTO SECOND.

In the gay and crowded city Where the tall and jostling roof-trees Jealous seem of one another, Jealous of the ground they stand on, Each one thrusting out its neighbor From the sunrise, or the sunset, In a boarding school of fashion Was Miranda comprehended, Goal of her supreme ambition.

--Girls were there from different regions, Distant States, and varying costumes, She was beautiful they told her, And her mirror when she sought it Gave concurrent testimony.