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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.

The Rev. Dr. H---- was an eccentric old man, near-sighted of
course,--all eccentric people are,--who lived in a small country town
in this neighborhood. Numerous are the traditionary accounts of his
peculiarities,--of his odd manners and customs,--which I have heard;
but it is only of one little incident that I am now going to speak. A
favorite employment of this good man was the care of his garden, and
he might be seen any pleasant afternoon in summer, rigged out in a
hideous yellow calico robe, or blouse, with a dusty old black straw
hat stuck on the back of his head, hoeing and digging in that beloved
patch of ground. One day as he was thus occupied, his wife emerged
from the house, dressed in a dark brown gingham, and bearing in her
hand some "muslins," which she began to spread upon the
gooseberry-bushes to whiten. She was very busily engaged, so that she
was not aware that her husband was approaching her with a large stick,
until she felt a smart blow across her shoulders, and heard his
peculiar, sharp voice shouting in her ears, "Go 'long! old cow! Go
'long! old cow!"

FLOWERS FROM A STUDENT'S WALKS.

As the animal dies of inanition if fed on but one kind of food,
however congenial, yet lives if he has all in succession, so is it
with complex man.

Learn retrenchment from the starving oyster, who spends his last
energies in a new pearly layer suited to his shrunken form.

As animals which have no organs of special sense know not light or
sound as we do, yet shrink from a hand or candle because their whole
bodies are dimly conscious, thus we have a glimmering perception of
infinite truths and existences which we cannot grasp or fully know
because our minds have no special organs for them.

The prick in the butterfly's wing will be in the full-grown insect a
great blemish. The speck in thy child's nature, if fondly overlooked
now, will become a wide rent traversing all his virtues.

As mineral poisons kill, because by their strong affinity they
decompose the blood and form new stony substances, so the soul
possessed by too strong an affinity for gold petrifies.

Our principles are central forces, our desires tangential; it requires
both to describe the curve of life.

The slightest inclination of a standing body virtually narrows its
base; the least departure from integrity lessens our foundation. The
pyramid, broad-based, yet heaven-pointed, is the firmest figure. Most
characters are inconsistent, unsymmetrical, and have a base wanting
extent in some direction.

Be not over-curious in assigning causes or predicting consequences;
the same diagonal may be formed by various combining forces.

Through water the musical sound is not transmitted, only the harsh
material noise. In air the noise is heard very near, the musical
sounds only are transmitted. Be thankful, poets and prophets, when you
live in an element such that your uncomely features are known only to
your own village.

"Do not sing its fundamental note too loud near a delicate glass, or
it will break," whispered my friend to me, as he saw me gazing at this
lovely being.

Seek the golden mean of life. Like the temperate regions, it has but
few thorny plants.

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