OUT OF THE HURLY-BURLY.
CHAPTER I.
THE FOUNDER OF NEW CASTLE--A SEARCH FOR QUIETNESS--LIFE IN THE CITY AND THE VILLAGE--WHY THE LATTER IS PREFERABLE--PECULIARITIES OF THE VILLAGE--A SLEEPY OLD TOWN--WE ERECT OUR FAMILY ALTAR.
If Peter Menuit had never been born, it is extremely probable that thisbook would not have been written. Mr. Menuit, however, had nothing to dowith the construction of the volume, and his controlling purpose perhapswas not to prepare the way for it. Peter Menuit was a Swede who in 1631came sailing up the Delaware River in a queer old craft with bulgingsides and with stem and stern high in the air. Moved by some mysteriousimpulse, he dropped his anchor near a certain verdant shore and landed.Standing there, he surveyed the lovely scene that lay before him in thewoodland and the river, and then announced to his companions hisdetermination to remain upon that spot. He began to erect a town uponthe bank that went sloping downward to the sandy beach, and his onlyclaim to the immortality that has been allotted to him is that hecreated what is now New Castle.
It would be pleasant, if it did not seem vain, to hope that New Castlewill base its aspirations to enduring fame upon the circumstance thatanother humble personage came, two hundred years and more after Menuit'sarrival, to live in it and to tell, in a homely but amiable fashion, thestory of some of its good people, and to say something of a few of theirpeculiarities, perplexities and adventures.
We were in search of quietness. The city has many charms and manyconveniences as a place of residence; and there are those who, havingaccustomed themselves to the methods of life that prevail among thedense populations of the great towns, can hardly find happiness andcomfort elsewhere. But although the gregarious instinct is strongin me, I cannot endure to be crowded. I love my fellow-man withinexpressible affection, but oftentimes he seems more lovable when Ibehold him at a distance. I yearn occasionally for human society, butI prefer to have it only when I choose, not at all times and seasonswithout intermission. In the city, however, it is impossible to securesolitude when it is desired. If I live, as I must, in one of a row ofhouses, the partition walls upon both sides are likely to be thin. Itis possible that I may have upon the one hand a professor of musicwho gives, throughout the day, maddening lessons to muscular pupilsand practices scales himself with energetic persistency during thenight. Upon the other side there may be a family which cherishes twoor three infants and sustains a dog. As a faint whisper will penetratethe almost diaphanous wall, the mildest as well as the most violent ofthe nocturnal demonstrations of the children disturb my sleep; and whenthese have ceased, the dog will probably become boisterous in the yard.
If there is not a boiler-making establishment in the street at the rearof the house, there will be a saw-mill with a steam whistle, and it istolerably certain that my neighbor over the way will either have avociferous daughter who keeps the window open while she sings, or willpermit his boy to perform upon a drum. There is incessant noise instreet and yard and dwelling. There is perpetual, audible evidence ofthe active existence of human beings. There is too much crowding and toolittle opportunity for absolute withdrawal from the confusion and fromcontact with the restless energy of human life.
It has always seemed to me that village life is the happiest and themost comfortable, and that the busy city man who would establish hishome where he can have repose without inconvenience and discomfortshould place it amid the trees and flowers and by the grassy highway ofsome pretty hamlet, where the noise of the world's greater commercenever comes, and where isolation and companionship are both possiblewithout an effort. Such a home, planted judiciously in a half acre,where children can romp and play and where one can cultivate a fewflowers and vegetables, mingling the sentimental heliotrope with thepractical cabbage, and the ornamental verbena with the useful onion, maybe made an earthly Paradise.
There must not be too much ground, for then it becomes a burden and acare. There are few city men who have the agricultural impulse so strongin them that they will find delight, after a day of mental labor andexcitement, in rasping a garden with a hoe in the hope of securing avegetable harvest. A very little exercise of that kind, in most cases,suffices to moderate the horticultural enthusiasm of the inexperiencedcitizen. It is pleasant enough to weed a few flowers or to toss aspadeful or two of earth about the roots of the grapevine when you feeldisposed to such mild indulgence in exercise; but when the gardenpresents tasks which must be performed no matter what the frame of mindor the condition of the body, you are apt, for the first time, to have athorough comprehension of the meaning of the curse uttered against theground when Adam went forth from Eden. It is far better and cheaper tohire a competent man to cultivate the little field; then in your leisuremoments you may set out the cabbage plants upside down and place polesfor the strawberry vines to clamber upon, knowing well that if evil isdone, it will be corrected on the morrow when the offender is far away,and when the maledictions of the agricultural expert, muttered as herelieves the vegetables from the jeopardy in which ignorance has placedthem, cannot reach your ears.
I like a house not too old, but having outward comeliness, withjudicious arrangement of the interior, and all of those convenientcontrivances of the plumber, the furnace-maker and the bell-hanger whichmake the merest mite of a modern dwelling incomparably superior incomfort to the most stupendous of marble palaces in the ancient times. Iwould have no neighbor's house within twenty yards upon either side; Iwould have noble shade trees about the place, and I would esteem it amost fortunate thing if through the foliage I could obtain constantglimpses of some shining stream upon whose bosom ships come to and fro,and on which I could sometimes find solace and exercise in rowing,fishing and sailing.
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Village life is the best. It has all the advantages of residence in thecountry without the unpleasant things which attend existence in a whollyrural home. There is not the oftentimes oppressive solitude of thecountry, nor is there the embarrassment that comes from the distance tothe station, to the shops and to the post-office. There are the cityblessings of the presence of other human beings, and of access to theplaces where wants may be supplied, without the crowds, without themixed and villainous perfumes of the streets and without the immoderatetaxes. With the conveniences of a civilized community, a village mayhave pure and healthful air, opportunity for parents and children toamuse themselves out of doors, cheap fare, moderate rent, milk whichknows not the wiles of the city dealer, and a moral atmosphere in whicha family may grow up away from the temptations and the evil associationswhich tend to corrupt the young in the great cities.
More than this, I like life in the village because it brings a man intokindlier relations with his fellows than can be obtained elsewhere. Inthe city I am jostled at every step by those who are strangers to me,who know nothing of me, and who care nothing. In the village I am knownby every one, and I know all. If I have any title to respect, it isadmitted by the entire society of the place, and perhaps I may even winsomething of affection if I am worthy of it.
In the country town, too, you may have your morals carefully lookedafter. There are prying eyes and busy tongues, and you are soconspicuous that unless you walk straightly, the little world aroundyou shall know of your slips and falls. You may quarrel with your wifefor ever in the city and few care to hear the miserable story; but inthe village the details of the conjugal contest are heralded aboutbefore the day is spent.
The interest that is felt in you is amazing. The cost of yourestablishment is as well known as if it were blazoned upon the walls.You cannot impose upon the people with a pretence of splendor if youhave not the reality; one gossiping old woman who has discovered thesham will make you an object of public scorn in an hour. The villageknows how your children are dressed and trained; how often you havemutton and the extent of your indulgence in beef. The cost of yourcarpets is a matter of common notoriety; your differences with yourservants are discussed at the sewing-circle, and the purchase of ne
wclothing for your family is a concern of public interest. The arrival ofyour wife's winter bonnet actually creates excitement in the villagesociety, and you are certain, therefore, to get the full worth of yourinvestment in that article of dress, while the owner obtains unlimitedsatisfaction; for winter bonnets are purchased for the benefit of otherpeople chiefly, not for the convenience and happiness of the wearers.
Every man is something of a hero-worshiper; and if in the city I findit difficult to select an idol from among the many who thrust theirgreatness upon me, I am not so embarrassed in the village. Here I willprobably find but one man who is revered as the embodiment ofthe worshipful virtues. He has larger wealth than any of hisfellow-villagers; he lives in the most sumptuous house in the place; hebelongs to the oldest family, and his claim to superiority is admittedalmost without question by his reverent townsmen. It gives me joy to addmy voice to the chorus of admiration, and to feel humble in thatpresence wherein my neighbors have humility. Sometimes, of course, Icannot help perceiving that the object of this adoration is, after all,a very pigmy of his kind. I am compelled to admit that his fortune seemslarge only because mine and Jones's are small; that his house is apalace only for the reason that it dwarfs my little cottage; that ifunassisted brains carried the day, and strutting was felonious, he wouldcertainly occupy a much less magnificent position. I know that in agreater community he would be wholly insignificant. And yet I admit hisclaim to profound respect. It pleases me to see him play his littlepart, and to observe with what calm, luxurious confidence in his ownright and title to homage he passes through life. And I know, after all,that the greater men, out in the busy hurly-burly of the world, are notso very much greater. A good deal of their claim to superiority, too, isa miserable sham; and doubtless, if we could see them as closely as wesee our village grandee, we should find that they also depend much uponpopular credulity for the stability of their reputations.
NEW CASTLE FROM THE RIVER.]
My pompous village nabob, too, is honest. I am sure of this. He helps toconduct the government of the community, but he does his duty fairly andhe is a gentleman. I could love him for that alone, and for that feel adeeper affection for life in his village. When I go to the city andperceive what creatures wield the power there, when I watch thetrickery, the iniquity, the audacious infamy, of the cliques thatcontrol the machinery of that great government, and when I look, as I dosometimes, into the faces of those who are thus leagued for plunder andpower, only to see there vulgarity, ignorance, vice and general moralfilthiness, my soul is made sick. I can turn then with pleasure to thesimple methods with which our village is governed, and honestly give myrespect to the guileless old gentleman who presides over its destinies.
We wish for quietness, and in New Castle it can be obtained, I think, ina particularly concentrated form. When Swede and Dutchman and Englishmanhad done contending for possession of the place, there was peace untilthe Revolution came, and with it ships of war and privateers, and suchhurrying of troops and supplies across from New Castle to Frenchtown,from the Delaware to the Chesapeake, as kept the old town in a stir.There was then an interval of repose until the second war with England,when these busy scenes were re-enacted. Later in the century a mightystir was made by the construction of a railroad, one of the earliest inthe country, to Chesapeake Bay; then, as the excitement died away, theold town gradually went to sleep, and for nearly forty years itslumbered so soundly that there seemed to be a chance that it wouldnever wake again. But time achieves wonderful things, and perhaps theday will come when the vicinity of the old town to the bay, the depth ofwater at its shores and the facilities offered for manufacturing andeasy transportation, may make the village a great industrial centre,with hundreds of mills and multitudes of working-people. But as we joinourselves to the community there is no promise of such an awakening. Wehave still the profound repose and the absence of change that make theplace so dear to those who have known it in their childhood. There arethe paved streets where the grass grows thickly; the ancient wharvesprotruding into the stream, deserted but by the anglers and the nakedand wicked little boys who go in to swim; the tumbling stone ice-piers,a little way out in the river; the old court-house, whose steeple is thepoint upon which moves the twelve-mile radial line whose northern enddescribes the semi-circular boundary of Delaware; the rickety town-hall,the ancient churches and the grim old houses with moss-covered roofs,the Battery, with its drooping willows and its glorious vista of riverand shore beyond, and the dense masses of foliage, shutting out the skyhere and there as one passes along the streets.
Into such a house as I have described, not far from the river, and withour neighbors at a little more than arm's length, I have come with wifeand family, with household gods and domestic paraphernalia generally, tobegin the life which will supply the material wherewith to construct theensuing pages. It may perhaps turn out that the better part of thatexistence will not be told, but perchance it may be that the eventsrelated will be those which will possess for the reader greatestinterest and amusement.