CHAPTER IV.
"Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death: Wind of the sunny south, O, still delay!"
BRYANT.
It was the close of one of those mild days at the end of October, thatwe call the Indian summer, corresponding to the St. Martin summer of theeastern continent, although the latter is wanting in some of theessential elements of beauty that belong to ours.
The sun was setting in veiled and softened light, while a transparentmist, like a silver gauze, was drawn over woods and hills and meadows.The gorgeous robe of autumn gave to the landscape an air of festivityand triumph, while the veil of mist, and the death-like silence, seemedas if happy nature had been arrested in a moment of joy, and turned intoa mourner. The intense stillness pressed on the heart. No chirp of birdor hum of insect broke the deep silence. From time to time a leaf,"yellow and sere," loosened, as it were, by invisible fingers from thestem, lingered a second on its way, and fell noiselessly to the earth.In the deep distant wood, the sound of the ripe nuts as they fell, and,at long intervals, the shrill cry of the squirrel, came to the ear, andinterrupted the revery of the solitary wanderer.
The scene I would describe was bounded on one side by high rocks and thevast ocean, but sloping towards the land into soft and undulatingbeauty. A noble river was on one side, and on the promontory thusformed, were left some of the largest trees of the forest that coveredthe whole country when our fathers first arrived. Although so near theocean, the scene had a character of tranquil sylvan beauty strangelycontrasted with the ocean when agitated by storms.
One of the largest villages of the time was on the opposite bank of theriver; but, as there was no bridge, the place I would describe wasalmost as solitary as if man had never invaded it. The trees upon itwere the largest growth of elm and oak, and seemed left to shelter asingle dwelling, a house of moderate size, but which had much theappearance of neatness and comfort.
A few rods from the house, and still nearer the headland, stood theplain New England meeting-house of that period,--square, barn-like,unpainted, solitary, but for the silent tenants of its grave-yard. Agrass-grown path connected the church with the dwelling-house, and theovershadowing trees gave to the spot an air of protection and seclusionunknown to modern New England churches.
At one of the windows of this modest dwelling, that looked towards thesetting sun, which now bathed the whole scene in yellow light, was ayoung woman who might have seen seventeen summers. She was slightly butwell formed, and, had it not been for her fresh and radiant health, shewould have possessed that pensive, poetic expression that painters love.She was not indeed beautiful, but hers was one of those countenances inwhich we think we recall a thousand histories,--histories of the inwardlife of the soul,--not the struggles of the passions; for the doveseemed visibly to rest in the deep blue liquid eye, brooding on its ownsecret fancies.
By the fire sat a gentleman whose countenance and gray hair showed thathe was approaching the verge of threescore years and ten, and his blackdress indicated his profession. His slippers and pipe presented apicture of repose from the labors and cares of the day; and, although ithad been warm, a fire of logs burned in the large old-fashioned chimney.
The furniture of the room, though plain, and humble, had been kept withso much care and neatness that it was seen at once that a feminine tastehad presided there, and had cherished as sacred the relics of anotherage.
The occupants of the room were father and daughter. A portrait over thefireplace, carefully guarded by a curtain, indicated that he was awidower, and that his child was motherless.
They had both been silent for a long time. The young lady continued towatch with apparent interest some object from the window, and the oldman to enjoy his pipe; but at last the night closed in, and the autumnmist, rising from the river, veiled the brilliancy of the stars.
The daughter drew near the table, and seated herself by her father: hercountenance was pensive, and a low sigh escaped her.
Her father laid his hand tenderly on her head: "My poor child," hesaid, "I fear your life is too solitary; your young heart yearns forcompanions of your own age. True, we have few visitors suited to yourage."
Edith looked up with a smile on her lips, but there was a tear in hereye, called there by her father's tender manner.
"And where," continued he, "is our young friend the student? It is longsince he came to get another book. I fear he is timid and sensitive, anddoes not like that you should see his poor labor-swollen hands; but_that_ he should be proud of,--far more proud than if they were soft,like yours."
Edith blushed slightly. "Father," she said, "I want no companion butyou. Let me bring your slippers. Ah! I see Dinah has brought them whileI have been gazing idly at the river. It shall not happen again. Whatbook shall be our evening reading? Shall I take up Cicero again, or willyou laugh at the Knight of the rueful Countenance."
How soon is ingenuous nature veiled or denied by woman. Edith thus triedto efface the impression of her sigh and blush, by assuming a gayety ofmanner which was foreign to her usual demeanor, and which did notdeceive her father.
"We must go and find out our young friend," pursued her father. "He hasmuch talent, and will surely distinguish himself, and he must not besuffered to languish in poverty and neglect. The first fine day, mydaughter, we will ride over and visit him."
Edith looked her gratitude, and the long autumn evening wore pleasantlyon.
It was at the time when slavery was common in New England. At the closeof the evening, Paul and Dinah, both Africans, entered, and the usualfamily prayers were offered.
At the close of the prayer, the blacks kneeled down for their master'sblessing.
This singular custom, though not common to the times, was sometimespractised; and those Puritans, who would not bend the knee to God exceptin their closets, allowed their slaves to kneel for their own blessing.
They went to Edith, who kissed Dinah on both dark cheeks, and gave herhand to Paul, and the family group separated each to his slumbers forthe night.
The head of the little group we have thus described was one of the mostdistinguished of the early New England clergymen. He had been educatedin England, and was an excellent classical scholar; indeed, his passionfor the classics was his only consolation in the obscure little parishwhere he was content to dwell.
He had been early left a widower, with this only child, and all theaffections of a tender heart had centred in her. The mildness of hisdisposition had never permitted him to become either a bigot nor apersecutor. He had been all his life a diligent student of the humanheart, and the result was tolerance for human inconsistencies, andindulgence for human frailties.
At this time accomplishments were unknown except to those women who wereeducated in the mother country; but such education as he could give hisdaughter had been one of his first cares.
He had taught her to read his favorite classics, and had left themysteries of "shaping and hemming," knitting and domestic erudition, tothe faithful slave Dinah. Edith had grown up, indeed, without otherfemale influence, relying on her father's instructions, as far as theywent, and her own pure instincts, to guide her.
The solitude of her situation had given to her character a pensivethoughtfulness not natural to her age or disposition. Solitude is saidto be the nurse of genius, but to ripen it, at least with woman, thesunny atmosphere of love is necessary.
Genius is less of the head than of the heart: not that we belong to themodern school who believe the passions are necessary to the developementof genius;--far from it. The purest affections seem to us to have leftthe most enduring monuments. Among a thousand others, at least withwoman, we see in Madam De Sevigne that maternal love developed all thegraces of a mind unconscious certainly of its powers, but destined tobecome immortal.
Our heroine, for such we must try to make her
, had grown up free fromall artificial forms of society, but yearning for associates of her ownage and sex. After her father, her affections had found objects only inbirds and animals, and the poor cottagers of one of the smallestparishes in the country.
Living, as she did, in the midst of beautiful nature, and with thegrandeur of the ocean always before her, it could not fail to impart aspiritual beauty, a religious elevation, to her mind that had nothingto do with the technical distinctions of the day. Edith Grafton wasformed for gentleness and love, to suffer patiently, to submitgracefully, to think more of others' than of her own happiness. She wasthe light and joy of her father's hearth, and the idol of her faithfulslaves, and she possessed herself that "peace that goodness bosomsever."