Various - Autumn Leaves
V >>
Various >> Autumn Leaves
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8 Note: Images of the original pages are available through the Wright
American Fiction Project
(http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/web/w/wright2/)
of the Library Electronic Text Service of Indiana University.
AUTUMN LEAVES.
Original Pieces in Prose and Verse.
(ANNA WALES ABBOT, Ed.)
"Our wits are so diversely colored."--Shakespeare.
Cambridge:
John Bartlett.
1853.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
John Bartlett,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Cambridge:
Metcalf and Company, Printers to the University.
NOTE.
The pieces gathered into this volume were, with two exceptions,
written for the entertainment of a private circle, without any view to
publication. The editor would express her thanks to the writers, who,
at her solicitation, have allowed them to be printed. They are
published with the hope of aiding a work of charity,--the
establishment of an Agency for the benefit of the poor in
Cambridge,--to which the proceeds of the sale will be devoted.
ANNE W. ABBOT.
CONTENTS.
Christmas Revived.
In the Churchyard at Cambridge. A Legend of Lady Lee.--H.W.L.
The Little South-Wind.
Lines Written at the Close of Dr. Holmes's Lectures on English Poetry.
Aunt Molly. A Reminiscence of Old Cambridge.
The Sounds of Morning in Cambridge.
The Sounds of Evening in Cambridge.
To the Near-Sighted.
Flowers from a Student's Walks.
Miseries. No. 1.
Miseries. No. 2. A Dark Night.
Miseries. No. 3. Twine.
Miseries. No. 4. Fresh Air.
Farewell.
Innocent Surprises.
The Old Sailor.
Laughter.
To Stephen.
The Old Church.
"Something than beauty dearer."
A Tale found in the Repositories of the Abbots of the Middle Ages.
The Sea.
Fashion.
A Growl.
To Jenny Lind.
My Herbarium.
The Ostrich.
Cows.
The Home-Beacon.
The Fourth of July.
From the Papers of Reginald Ratcliffe, Esq.
AUTUMN LEAVES.
CHRISTMAS REVIVED.
It was six o'clock in the morning of last Thursday (Christmas
morning), when Nathan Stoddard, a young saddler, strode through the
vacant streets of one of our New England towns, hastening to begin his
work. The town is an old-fashioned one, and although the observance of
the ancient church festival is no longer frowned upon, as in years
past, yet it has been little regarded, especially in the church of
which Nathan is a member. As the saddler mounted the steps of his
shop, he felt the blood so rush along his limbs, and tingle in his
fingers, that he could not forbear standing without the door for a
moment, as if to enjoy the triumph of the warmth within him over the
cold morning air. The little stone church which Nathan attends stands
in the same square with his shop, and nearly opposite. It was closed,
as usual on Christmas day, and a recent snow had heaped the steps and
roof, and loaded the windows. Nathan thought that it looked uncommonly
beautiful in the softening twilight of the morning.
While Nathan stood musing, with his eyes fixed upon the church, he
became suddenly conscious that another figure had entered the square
upon the opposite side, and was walking hastily along. He turned his
eyes upon it, and was greatly surprised by its appearance. He saw a
tall old man, although a good deal stooping, with long, straight, and
very white hair falling over his shoulders, which was the more
conspicuous from the black velvet cap, as it appeared, that he wore,
and the close-fitting suit of pure black in which he was dressed, and
which seemed to Nathan almost to glisten and flash as the old man
tripped along. He had hardly begun to speculate as to who the stranger
could be, when he beheld him turn in between the posts by the path
that leads to the church, tread lightly over the snow, and up the
steps, and knock hastily and vigorously at the church-door. But half
recovered from his wonder, he was just raising his voice to utter a
remonstrance, when, to his sevenfold amazement, the door was opened to
the knock, and the old man disappeared within.
It was not without a creeping feeling of awe, mingled with his
astonishment, that Nathan gazed upon the door through which this
silent figure had vanished. But he was not easily to be daunted. He
did not care to follow the steps of the stranger into the church; but
he remembered a shed so placed against the building, near the farther
end, that he had often, when a child, at some peril indeed, climbed
upon its top, and looked into the church through a little window at
one side of the pulpit. For this he started; but he did not fail to
run across the square and leap over the church-gate at the top of his
speed, in order to gather warmth and courage for the attempt.
When Nathan Stoddard climbed upon the old shed and pressed his face
against the glass of the little church-window, he had at first only a
confused impression of many lamps and many figures in all parts of the
church. But as his vision grew more clear, he beheld a sight which
could not amaze him less than the apparition that startled Tam o'
Shanter as he glared through the darkness into the old Kirk of
Alloway. The great chandelier of the church was partly lighted, and
there were, besides, many candles and lanterns burning in different
parts of the room, and casting their light upon a large party of young
men and women, who were dressed in breeches and ruffled shirts, and
hooped petticoats and towering head-dresses, such as he had only seen
in old pictures. They were mounted upon benches and ladders, and
boards laid along the tops of the pews, and were apparently just
completing the decoration of the church, which was already dressed
with green, with little trees in the corners, and with green letters
upon the walls, and great wreaths about the pillars. The whole party
appeared full of life and cheerfulness, while the old man whom Nathan
had seen enter stood near the door, looking quietly on, with a little
girl holding his hand.
It was not until Nathan Stoddard had looked for some little time upon
this spectacle that he began to feel that he was witness of any thing
more than natural. The whole party had so home-like an air, and
appeared so engaged with their pleasant occupation, that,
notwithstanding their quaint dress, Nathan only thought how much he
should like to share their company. But the more he studied their
faces, the more he was filled, for all their appearance of youth and
their simple manners, with a strange sort of veneration. The sweet and
cheerful faces of the young women seemed to grow awfully calm and
beautiful as they brought their task to a close, and their foreheads,
with the hair brought back in the old-fashioned way, to become more
and more serene and high. There was a strange beauty, too, about the
old man's face. He appeared to Nathan as if he felt that the group
before him only waited his command to fade away in the morning light
that struggled among the candles, but he could not bear to give the
word; and so they kept playing with the festoons, and stepping about
the pews to please him. Nathan felt a cold thrill, partly from
pleasure, and partly from awe, running up his back, and a strong pain
across his forehead, seldom known to one of his temperament. Again and
again he drew his hand across his brows, until he felt that he was
near swooning, and like to fall; and he clung desperately to his hold.
When the fit was over, he dared venture no more, but hastened to the
ground.
It was no fear of ridicule or of incredulity that led Nathan Stoddard
to keep secret what he had witnessed. But it was like some deep and
holy experience that would lose its charm if it were spoken of to
another. So he went back to his shop, and sat looking upon the church,
and watching, almost with dread, the doves that lighted upon its roof,
and fluttered about, and beat their wings against its windows.
The minister of Nathan's parish was a young man by the name of Dudley;
and it so happened that he had driven out, before light, on the
morning we have spoken of, to visit a sick man at some distance. In
returning home, he had to pass along the rather unfrequented street
which runs in the rear of his church, and close to it. As he was
driving rapidly along, his ear caught what seemed the peal of an
organ. He stopped his horse to listen, and a moment convinced him that
the sound both of the instrument and of singing voices came from his
own church; and it was music of a depth and beauty such as he had
never before heard within it. Filled with astonishment, he put his
horse upon its fastest trot, and drove round into the square, to the
shop of Nathan Stoddard.
"There is music to-day in our church, Nathan!" he cried to the young
saddler. "What can it mean?" But Nathan answered not a word. He caught
the horse by the head, and fastened him to a post before the
door. Then stepping to the side of the sleigh, he said to Mr. Dudley,
"Come with me, Sir." Mr. Dudley looked upon the pale face and
trembling lips of his parishioner, and followed in silence.
Nathan sprang upon the shed at the side of the church, and scrambled
up to the little window. Mr. Dudley followed, and, with Nathan's help,
gained the same precarious foothold. "Look in, Sir," said Nathan, not
venturing a glance himself. Mr. Dudley looked, and had not Nathan's
arm been about his body he would have lost his hold, in sheer
amazement. The building was crowded, as he had never known it before;
and crowded with people whom his eye, versed in the dress and manners
of our forefathers, recognized as the church-goers of a century and a
half ago. The singers' gallery was filled by a choir of girls and
boys, while his own place in the pulpit was occupied by a white-haired
figure, whom he recognized as the original of a portrait which he had
purchased and hung in his parlor at home for its singular beauty. It
was said to be a portrait of a minister in the town, who lived in the
last century, and is still remembered for his virtues. The sight of
this old man's face completely stilled the agitation of the young
minister. He was leaning over the great Bible, with his hands folded
upon it, and his eyes seemingly filled with tears of pleasure and
gratitude, and bent upon the choir. Mr. Dudley listened intently, and
could catch what seemed the words of some old Christmas carol:
"Thou mak'st my cup of joy run o'er."
And he was so rapt with the sights and the sounds within, that it
needed all Nathan's endeavors to uphold him.
By this time the sound of a gathering crowd below, which he had not
heeded at first, was forced more and more upon his notice; and the
anxious voice of his oldest deacon calling, "Mr. Dudley! Mr. Dudley!"
rose high and loud; while a great thundering at the front door of the
church announced that the people below had also caught the sound of
the music, and were clamorous for admission. Mr. Dudley hastened round
to prevent their causing any disturbance to the congregation within;
but he came only in time to see the door burst open, and to be borne
in with the crowd. All gazed about in wonder. The congregation,
indeed, were gone, and the preacher, and the choir; and the room was
cold. But there was a great green cross over the pulpit, and words
along the walls, and festoons upon the galleries, and great wreaths,
like vast green serpents, coiled about the cold pillars. The church of
the Orthodox parish of ---- had been fairly dressed for Christmas by
spirit hands.
When Mr. Dudley reached his home, after the wonder had in part spent
itself, he found that an enormous Christmas pie had been left at his
door by a white-haired old man dressed in black, about six in the
morning, just after he had gone to visit his sick parishioner. The
girl who received it reported the old man as saying, in a tremulous,
but very kind voice, "Give your master the Christmas blessing of an
old Puritan minister." How the meaning of this message would have been
known to Mr. Dudley, had not the events we have told disclosed it, who
can say?
Need I add, that my friend, Mr. Dudley, from whose lips I have taken
down the above narrative, has directed the decorations to remain in
his church during the coming month, and that he avows the intention of
observing the Christmas of the following year with public services,
unless, indeed, he should be anticipated by his ancient
predecessor. It may not be impertinent to observe, that I am invited
to dine and spend the day with the Dudleys on that occasion, and I
shall not fail to make an accurate report of whatever glimpse I may
obtain into the mysterious ceremonies of a Puritan Christmas.
IN THE CHURCHYARD AT CAMBRIDGE.
A LEGEND OF LADY LEE.
In the village churchyard she lies,
Dust is in her beautiful eyes,
No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;
At her feet and at her head
Lies a slave to attend the dead,
But their dust is white as hers.
Was she, a lady of high degree,
So much in love with the vanity
And foolish pomp of this world of ours?
Or was it Christian charity,
And lowliness and humility,
The richest and rarest of all dowers?
Who shall tell us? No one speaks;
No color shoots into those cheeks,
Either of anger or of pride,
At the rude question we have asked;--
Nor will the mystery be unmasked
By those who are sleeping at her side.
Hereafter?--And do you think to look
On the terrible pages of that Book
To find her failings, faults, and errors?
Ah, you will then have other cares,
In your own short-comings and despairs,
In your own secret sins and terrors!
H.W.L.
THE LITTLE SOUTH-WIND.
The little south-wind had been shut up for many days, while his cousin
from the northeast had been abroad, and the clouds had been heavy and
dark; but now all was bright and clear, and the little south-wind was
to have a holiday. O, how happy he would be! He sallied forth to amuse
himself;--and hear what he did. He came whistling down the chimney,
until the nervous old lady was ready to fly with vexation: then away
he flew, laughing in triumph,--the naughty south-wind! He played with
the maiden's work: away the pieces flew, some here, some there, and
away ran the maiden after. What cared _she_ for the wind? She tossed
back her curls and laughed merrily, and the wind laughed merrily
too,--the silly south-wind! Onward he stole, and lifting the
curtain,--curious south-wind!--what did he see? On the sofa lay a
young man: a heavy book was in his hand. The little south-wind rustled
through the leaves, but the young man stirred not; he was asleep; hot
and weary, he slept. The wind fanned his brow awhile, lifted his dark
locks, and, leaving a kiss behind, stole out at the casement,--the
gentle south-wind! Then he met a little child: away he whirled the
little boy's hat, away ran the child, but his little feet were tired,
and he wept,--poor child! The wind looked back, and felt sad, then
hung the hat on a bush, and went on. He had played too hard,--the
thoughtless south-wind! A sick child lay tossing to and fro: its hands
and face were hot and dry. The mother raised the window. The wind
heard her as he was creeping by, and stepping in, he cooled the
burning face: then, playing among the flowers until their fragrance
filled the room, away he flew,--the kind south-wind! He went out into
the highway, and played with the dust; but that was not so pleasant,
and onward he sped to the meadow. The dust could not follow on the
green grass, and the little south-wind soon outstripped it, and onward
and onward he sped, over mountain and valley, dancing among the
flowers, and frolicking round, until the trees lifted up their arms
and bent their heads and shook their sides with glee,--the happy
south-wind! At last he came to a quiet dell, where a little brook lay,
just stirring among his white pebbles. The wind said, "Kind brook,
will you play with me?" And the brook answered with a sparkling smile,
and a gentle murmur. Then the wind rose up, and, sporting among the
dark pines, whistled and sung through the lofty branches, while the
pretty brook danced along, and warbled songs to the music of its merry
companion,--the merry south-wind! But the sun had gone down and the
stars were peeping forth, and the day was done. The happy south-wind
was still, and the moon looked down on the world below, and watched
among the trees and hills, but all was still: the little south-wind
slumbered, and the moon and the stars kept guard,--poor, tired
south-wind! Old lady and maiden, young man and child, the dust and the
flowers, were forgotten, and he slept,--dear little south-wind!
LINES
WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF DR. HOLMES'S LECTURES ON ENGLISH POETRY.
[Footnote: The Poets are metaphorically introduced as follows.
ROGERS, _The Beech_; CAMPBELL, _The Fir_; BYRON, _The Oak_; MOORE,
_The Elm_; SCOTT, _The Chestnut_; SOUTHEY, _The Holly_; COLERIDGE,
_The Magnolia_; KEATS, _The Orange_; WORDSWORTH, _The Pine_; TENNYSON,
_The Palm_; FELICIA HEMANS, _The Locust_; ELIZABETH BARRETT
BROWNING, _The Laurel_.]
Farewell! farewell! The hours we've stolen
From scenes of worldly strife and stir,
To live with poets, and with thee,
Their brother and interpreter,
Have brought us wealth;--as thou hast reaped,
We have not followed thee in vain,
But gathered, in one precious sheaf,
The pearly flower and golden grain.
For twelve bright hours, with thee we walked
Within a magic garden's bound,
Where trees, whose birth owned various climes,
Beneath one sky were strangely found.
First in the group, an ancient BEECH
His shapely arms abroad did fling,
Wearing old Autumn's russet crown
Among the lively tints of Spring.
Those pale brown leaves the winds of March
Made vocal 'mid the silent trees,
And spread their faint perfume abroad,
Like sad, yet pleasant memories.
Near it, the vigorous, noble FIR
Arose, with firm yet graceful mien;
Welcome for shelter or for shade,
A pyramid of living green.
And from the tender, vernal spray
The sunny air such fragrance drew,
As breathes from fields of strawberries wild,
All bathed in morning's freshest dew.
The OAK his branches richly green
Broad to the winds did wildly fling;--
The first in beauty and in power,
All bowed before the forest-king.
But ere its brilliant leaves were sere,
Or scattered by the Autumn wind,
Fierce lightnings struck its glories down,
And left a blasted trunk behind.
A youthful ELM its drooping boughs
In graceful beauty bent to earth,
As if to touch, with reverent love,
The kindly soil that gave it birth;--
And round it, in such close embrace,
Sweet honeysuckles did entwine,
We knew not if the south wind caught
Its odorous breath from tree or vine.
The CHESTNUT tall, with shining leaves
And yellow tassels covered o'er,
The sunny Summer's golden pride,
And pledge of Autumn's ruddy store,--
Though grander forms might near it rise,
And sweeter blossoms scent the air,--
Was still a favorite 'mongst the trees
That flourished in that garden fair.
All brightly clad in glossy green,
And scarlet berries gay to see,
We welcome next a constant friend,
The brilliant, cheerful HOLLY-TREE.
But twilight falls upon the scene;
Rich odors fill the evening air;
And, lighting up the dusky shades,
Gleam the MAGNOLIA'S blossoms fair.
The fire-fly, with its fairy lamp,
Flashes within its soft green bower;
The humming sphinx flits in and out,
To sip the nectar of its flower.
Now the charmed air, more richly fraught,
To steep our senses in delight,
Comes o'er us, as the ORANGE-TREE
In beauty beams upon our sight;
And, glancing through its emerald leaves,
White buds and golden fruits are seen;
Fit flowers to deck the bride's pale brow,
Fit fruit to offer to a queen.
But let me rest beneath the PINE,
And listen to the low, sad tone
Its music breathes, that o'er my soul
Comes like the ocean's solemn moan.
Erect it stands in graceful strength;
Its spire points upward to the sky;
And nestled in its sheltering arms
The birds of heaven securely lie.
And though no gaily painted bells,
Nor odor-bearing urns, are there,
When the west wind sighs through its boughs,
Let me inhale the balmy air!
The stately PALM in conscious pride
Lifts its tall column to the sky,
While round it fragrant air-plants cling,
Deep-stained with every gorgeous dye.
Linger with me a moment, where
The LOCUST trembles in the breeze,
In soft, transparent verdure drest,
Contrasting with the darker trees.
The humming-bird flies in among
Its boughs, with pure white clusters hung,
And honey-bees come murmuring, where
Its perfume on the air is flung.
A noble LAUREL meets our gaze,
Ere yet we leave these alleys green.
'Mongst many stately, fair, and sweet,
The DAPHNE ODORA stands a queen.
May 2, 1853.
AUNT MOLLY.
A REMINISCENCE OF OLD CAMBRIDGE.
In looking back upon my early days, one of the images that rises most
vividly to my mind's eye is that of Miss Molly ----, or Aunt Molly, as
she was called by some of her little favorites, that is to say, about
a dozen girls, and (not complimentary to the _un_fair sex, to be sure)
one boy. There was one, who, even to Miss Molly, was not a torment and
a plague; and I must confess he was a pleasant specimen of the
genus. At the time of which I speak, the great awkward barn of a
school-house on the Common, near the Appian Way, had not reared its
imposing front. In its place, in the centre of a grass-plot that was
one of the very first to look green in spring, and kept its verdure
through the heats of July, stood the brown, one-storied cottage which
she owned, and in which the aged woman lived, alone. Her garden and
clothes-yard behind the house were fenced in; but in front, the
visitor to the cottage, unimpeded by gate or fence, turned up the
pretty green slope directly from the street to the lowly door.
As I have started for a walk into the old times, and am not bound by
any rule to stick to the point, I will here digress to say that the
Episcopal Church (_the Church_, as it was simply called, when all the
rest were "meeting-houses"), that tells the traveller what a pure and
true taste was once present in Cambridge, and, by the contrast it
presents to the architectural blunders that abound in the place, tells
also what a want of it there is now,--this beautiful church stood most
appropriately and tastefully surrounded by the green turf, unbroken by
stiff gravel walks or coach sweep, and undivided from the public walk
by a fence. Behind the church, and forming a part of its own grounds,
(where now exist the elegances of School Court,) was an unappropriated
field; and that spot was considered, by a certain little group of
children, of six or seven years old, the most solitary, gloomy,
mysterious place in their little world. When the colors of sunset had
died out in the west, and the stillness and shadow of twilight were
coming on, they used to "snatch a fearful joy" in seeing one of their
number (whose mother had kindly omitted the first lesson usually
taught to little girls, to be afraid of every thing) perform the feat
of going slowly around the church, alone, stopping behind it to count
a hundred. Her wonderful courage in actually protecting the whole
group from what they called a "flock of cows," and in staking and
patting the "mad dogs" that they were for ever meeting, was nothing to
this _going round the church!_
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.
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 |
7 |
8