As it appeared, Lady Widgery had been relating to them some of the trials and sorrows of Ellery Davenport’s domestic life. And then there followed a buzz of some kind of story which Lady Widgery seemed relating with great minuteness. At last I heard Miss Deborah exclaim earnestly: “If I had a daughter, catch me letting her be intimate with Ellery Davenport! I tell you that man has n’t read French for nothing.”
“I do assure you, his conduct has been marked with perfect decorum,” said lady Widgery.
“So are your French novels,” said Miss Deborah; “they are always talking about decorum; they are full of decorum and piety! why, the kingdom of heaven is nothing to them! but somehow they all end in adultery.”
“Debby,” said the old lady, “I can’t bear to hear you talk so. I think your cousin’s heart is in the right place, after all; and he ‘s a good, kind boy as ever was.”
“But mother, he ‘s a liar! that ‘s just what he is.”
“Debby, Debby! how can you talk so?”
“Well, mother, people have different names for different things. I hear a great deal about Ellery Davenport’s tact and knowledge of the world, and all that; but he does a great deal of what I call lying, – so there! Now there are some folks who lie blunderingly, and unskilfully, but I ‘ll say for Ellery Davenport that he can lie as innocently and sweetly and prettily as a French woman, and I can’t say any more. And if a woman does n’t want to believe him, she just must n’t listen to him, that ‘s all. I always believe him when he is around, but when he ‘s away and I think him over, I know just what he is, and see just what an old fool he has made of me.”
These words dropped into my childish mind as if you should accidentally drop a ring into a deep well. I did not think of them much at the time, but there came a day in my life when the ring was fished up out of the well, good as new.
CHAPTER XXVI.
WHAT “OUR FOLKS” SAID AT OLDTOWN.
WE children returned to Oldtown, crowned with victory, as it were. Then, as now, even in the simple and severe Puritanical village, there was much incense burnt upon the altar of gentility, – a deity somewhat corresponding to the unknown god whose altar Paul found at Athens, and probably more universally worshipped in all the circles of this lower world than any other idol on record.
Now we had been taken notice of, put forward, and patronized, in undeniably genteel society. We had been to Boston and come back in a coach; and what well-regulated mind does not see that that was something to inspire respect?
Aunt Lois was evidently dying to ask us all manner of questions, but was restrained by a sort of decent pride. To exhibit any undue eagerness would be to concede that she was ignorant of good society, and that the ways and doings of upper classes were not perfectly familiar to her. That, my dear reader, is what no good democratic American woman can for a moment concede. Aunt Lois therefore, for once in her life, looked complacently on Sam Lawson, who continued to occupy his usual roost in the chimney-corner, and who, embarrassed with no similar delicate scruples, put us through our catechism with the usual Yankee thoroughness.
“Well, chillen, I suppose them Kitterys has everythin’ in real grander, don’t they? I ‘ve heerd tell that they hes Turkey carpets on th’ floors. You know Josh Kittery, he was in the Injy trade. Turkey carpets is that kind, you know, that lies all up thick like a mat. They had that kind, did n’t they?”
We eagerly assured him that they did.
“Want to know, now,” said Sam, who always moralized as he went along. “Wal, wal, some folks does seem to receive their good thin’s in this life, don’t they? S’pose the tea-things all on ’em was solid silver, wa’ n’t they? Yeh did n’t ask them, did yeh?”
“O no,” said I; “you know we were told we must n’t ask questions.”
“Jes so; very right, – little boys should n’t ask questions. But I ‘ve heerd a good ‘eal about the Kittery silver. Jake Marshall, he knew a fellah that had talked with one of their servants, that helped bury it in the cellar in war-times, and he said theh was porringers an’ spoons an’ tankards, say nothing of tablespoons, an’ silver forks, an’ sich. That ‘ere would ha’ been a haul for Congress, if they could ha’ got hold on’t in war-time, would n’t it? S’pose yeh was sot up all so grand, and hed servants to wait on yeh, behind yer chairs, did n’t yeh?”
“Yes,” we assured him, “we did.”
“Wal, wal; yeh must n’t be carried away by these ‘ere glories: they ‘s transitory, arter all: ye must jest come right daown to plain livin’. How many servants d’ yeh say they kep’?”
“Why, there were two men and two women, besides Lady Widgery’s maid and Mrs. Margery.”
“And all used to come in to prayers every night,” said Harry.
“Hes prayers reg’lar, does they?” said Sam. “Well, now, that ‘ere beats all! Did n’t know as these gran’ families wus so pious as that comes to. Who prayed?”
“Old Madam Kittery,” said I. “She used to read prayers out of a large book.”
“O yis; these ‘ere gran’ Tory families is ‘Piscopal, pretty much all on ‘em. But now readin’ prayers out of a book, that ‘ere don’ strike me as just the right kind o’ thing. For my part, I like prayers that come right out of the heart better. But then, lordy massy, folks hes theh different ways; an’ I ain’t so set as Polly is. Why, I b’lieve, if that ‘ere woman had her way, theh would n’t nobody be ‘lowed to do nothin’, except just to suit her. Yeh did n’t notice, did yeh, what the Kittery coat of arms was?”
Yes, we had noticed it; and Harry gave a full description of an embroidered set of armorial bearings which had been one of the ornaments of the parlor.
“So you say,” said Sam, “‘t was a lion upon his hind legs, – that ‘ere is what they call ‘the lion rampant,’ – and then there was a key and a scroll. Wal! coats of arms is curus, and I don’t wonder folks kind o’ hangs onter um; but then, the Kitterys bein’ Tories, they nat’ally has more interest in sech thin’s. Do you know where Mis’ Kittery keeps her silver nights?”
“No, really,” said I; “we were sent to bed early, and did n’t see.”
Now this inquiry, from anybody less innocent than Sam Lawson, might have been thought a dangerous exhibition of burglarious proclivities; but from him it was received only as an indication of that everlasting thirst for general information which was his leading characteristic.
When the rigor of his cross-examination had somewhat abated, he stooped over the fire to meditate further inquiries. I seized the opportunity to propound to my grandmother a query which had been the result of my singular experiences for a day or two past. So, after an interval in which all had sat silently looking into the great coals of fire, I suddenly broke out with the inquiry, “Grandmother, what is The True Church?”
I remember the expression on my grandfather’s calm, benign face as I uttered this query. It was an expression of shrewd amusement, such as befits the face of an elder when a younger has propounded a well-worn problem; but my grandmother had her answer at the tip of her tongue, and replied, “It is the whole number of the elect, my son.”
I had in my head a confused remembrance of Ellery Davenport’s tirade on election, and of the elect who did or did not have clean shirts; so I pursued my inquiry by asking, “Who are the elect?”
“All good people,” replied my grandfather. “In every nation he that feareth God and worketh righteousness is accepted of Him.”
“Well, how came you to ask that question?” said my grandmother, turning on me.
“Why,” said I, “because Miss Deborah Kittery said that the war destroyed the true Church in this country.”
“O, pshaw!” said my grandmother; “that ‘s some of her Episcopal nonsense. I really should like to ask her, now, if she thinks there ain’t any one going to heaven but Episcopalians.”
“O no, she does n’t think so,” said I, rather eagerly. “She said a great many good people would be saved out of the Church, but they would
be saved by uncovenanted mercies.”
“Uncovenanted fiddlesticks!” said my grandmother, her very cap-border bristling with contempt and defiance. “Now, Lois, you just see what comes of sending children into Tory Episcopal families, – coming home and talking nonsense like that!”
“Mercy, mother! what odds does it make?” said Aunt Lois. “The children have got to learn to hear all sorts of things said, – may as well hear them at one time as another. Besides, it all goes into one ear and out at the other.”
My grandmother was better pleased with the account that I hastened to give her of my visit to the graves of the saints and martyrs, in my recent pilgrimage. Her broad face glowed with delight, as she told over again to our listening ears the stories of the faith and self-denial of those who had fled from an oppressive king and church, that they might plant a new region where life should be simpler, easier, and more natural. And she got out her “Cotton Mather,” and, notwithstanding Aunt Lois’s reminder that she had often read it before, read to us again, in a trembling yet audible voice, that wonderful document, in which the reasons for the first planting of New England are set forth. Some of these reasons I remember from often hearing them in my childhood. They speak thus quaintly of the old countries of Europe: –
“Thirdly. The land grows weary of her inhabitants, insomuch that man, which is the most precious of all creatures, is here more vile than the earth he treads upon, – children, neighbors, and friends, especially the poor, which, if things were right, would be the greatest earthly blessings.
“Fourthly. We are grown to that intemperance in all excess of riot, as no mean estate will suffice a man to keep sail with his equals, and he that fails in it must live in scorn and contempt hence it comes to pass that all arts and trades are carried in that deceitful manner and unrighteous course, as it is almost impossible for a good, upright man to maintain his constant charge, and live comfortably in them.
“Fifthly. The schools of learning and religion are so corrupted as (besides the insupportable charge of education) most children of the best, wittiest, and of the fairest hopes are perverted, corrupted, and utterly overthrown by the multitude of evil examples and licentious behaviours in these seminaries.
“Sixthly. The whole earth is the Lord’s garden, and he hath given it to the sons of Adam to be tilled and improved by them. Why then should we stand starving here for places of habitation, and in the mean time suffer whole countries as profitable for the use of man to lie waste without any improvement?”
Language like this, often repeated, was not lost upon us. The idea of self-sacrifice which it constantly inculcated, – the reverence for self-denial, – the conception of a life which should look, not mainly to selfish interests, but to the good of the whole human race, prevented the hardness and roughness of those early New England days from becoming mere stolid, material toil. It was toil and manual labor ennobled by a new motive.
Even in those very early times there was some dawning sense of what the great American nation was yet to be. And every man, woman, and child was constantly taught, by every fireside, to feel that he or she was part and parcel of a great new movement in human progress. The old aristocratic ideas, though still lingering in involuntary manners and customs, only served to give a sort of quaintness and grace of Old-World culture to the roughness of new-fledged democracy.
Our visit to Boston was productive of good to us such as we little dreamed of. In the course of a day or two Lady Lothrop called, and had a long private interview with the female portion of the family; after which, to my great delight, it was announced to us that Harry and I might begin to study Latin, if we pleased, and if we proved bright, good boys, means would be provided for the finishing of our education in college.
I was stunned and overwhelmed by the great intelligence, and Harry and I ran over to tell it to Tina, who jumped about and hugged and kissed us both with an impartiality which some years later she quite forgot to practise.
“I ‘m glad, because you like it,” she said; “but I should think it would be horrid to study Latin.”
I afterwards learned that I was indebted to my dear old friend Madam Kittery for the good fortune which had befallen me. She had been interested in my story, as it appears, to some purpose, and, being wealthy and without a son, had resolved to console herself by appropriating to the education of a poor boy a portion of the wealth which should have gone to her own child.
The searching out of poor boys, and assisting them to a liberal education, had ever been held to be one of the appropriate works of the minister in a New England town. The schoolmaster who taught the district school did not teach Latin; but Lady Lothrop was graciously pleased to say that, for the present, Dr. Lothrop would hear our lessons at a certain hour every afternoon; and the reader may be assured that we studied faithfully in view of an ordeal like this.
I remember one of our favorite places for study. The brown, sparkling stream on which my grandfather’s mill was placed had just below the mill-dam a little island, which a boy could easily reach by wading through the shallow waters over a bed of many-colored pebbles. The island was overshadowed by thick bushes, which were all wreathed and matted together by a wild grape-vine; but within I had hollowed out for myself a green little arbor, and constructed a rude wigwam of poles and bark, after the manner of those I had seen among the Indians. It was one of the charms of this place, that nobody knew of it: it was utterly secluded; and being cut off from land by the broad belt of shallow water, and presenting nothing to tempt or attract anybody to its shores, it was mine, and mine alone. There I studied, and there I read; there I dreamed and saw visions.
Never did I find it in my heart to tell to any other boy the secret of this woodland shelter, this fairy-land, so near to the real outer world; but Harry, with his refinement, his quietude, his sympathetic silence, seemed to me as unobjectionable an associate as the mute spiritual companions whose presence had cheered my lonely, childish sleeping-room.
We moved my father’s Latin books into a rough little closet that we constructed in our wigwam; and there, with the water dashing behind us, and the afternoon sun shining down through the green grape-leaves, with bluebirds and bobolinks singing to us, we studied our lessons. More than that, we spent many pleasant hours in reading; and I have now a résumé, in our boyish handwriting, of the greater part of Plutarch’s Lives, which we wrote out during this summer.
As to Tina, of course she insisted upon it that we should occasionally carry her in a lady-chair over to this island, that she might inspect our operations and our housekeeping, and we read some of these sketches to her for her critical approbation; and if any of them pleased her fancy, she would immediately insist that we should come over to Miss Mehitable’s, and have a dramatic representation of them up in the garret.
Saturday afternoon, in New England, was considered, from time immemorial, as the children’s perquisite; and hard-hearted must be that parent or that teacher who would wish to take away from them its golden hours. Certainly it was not Miss Mehitable, nor my grandmother, that could be capable of any such cruelty.
Our Saturday afternoons were generally spent as Tina dictated; and, as she had a decided taste for the drama, one of our most common employments was the improvising of plays, with Miss Tina for stage manager. The pleasure we took in these exercises was inconceivable; they had for us a vividness and reality past all expression.
I remember our acting, at one time, the Book of Esther, with Tina, very much be-trinketed and dressed out in an old flowered brocade that she had rummaged from a trunk in the garret, as Queen Esther. Harry was Mordecai, and I was Ahasuerus.
The great trouble was to find a Haman; but, as the hanging of Haman was indispensable to any proper moral effect of the tragedy, Tina petted and cajoled and coaxed old Bose, the yellow dog of our establishment, to undertake the part, instructing him volubly that he must sulk and look cross when Mordecai went by, – a thing which Bose, who was one of the best-natured of dogs, f
ound difficulty in learning. Bose would always insist upon sitting on his haunches, in his free-and-easy, jolly manner, and lolling out his red tongue in a style so decidedly jocular as utterly to spoil the effect, till Tina, reduced to desperation, ensconced herself under an old quilted petticoat behind him, and brought out the proper expression at the right moment by a vigorous pull at his tail. Bose was a dog of great constitutional equanimity, but there were some things that transcended even his powers of endurance, and the snarl that he gave to Mordecai was held to be a triumphant success; but the thing was, to get him to snarl when Tina was in front of him, where she could see it; and now will it be believed that the all-conquering little mischief-maker actually kissed and flattered and bejuggled old Polly into taking this part behind the scenes?
No words can more fitly describe the abject state to which that vehemently moral old soul was reduced.
When it came to the hanging of Haman, the difficulties thickened. Polly warned us that we must by no means attempt to hang Bose by the neck, as “the crittur was heavy, and ‘t was sartin to be the death of him.” So we compromised by passing the rope under his fore paws, or, as Tina called it, “under his arms.” But Bose was rheumatic, and it took all Tina’s petting and caressing, and obliged Polly to go down and hunt out two or three slices of meat from her larder, to induce him fairly to submit to the operation; but hang him we did, and he ki-hied with a vigor that strikingly increased the moral effect. So we soon let him down again, and plentifully rewarded him with cold meat.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 272