Up-country letters

Front matter

UP-COUNTKY LETTERS:

EDITED BY

PROF. B , National Observatory.

Contents

FACE.

I. Israel : and the Man in the Obseevatokt.. 13

II. Proposals, 19

II

If you accept my proposition, sir, I shall count upon your being a man of nerve ; for I revolve tlirougli a variety of moods. I am tins, to-day ; that, to-morrow ; and the other thing next week ; that is to say, strong, or weak, or indifterently stupid, as the weather and my physical condition permit. Have you the courage to face such an announcement ; for, if not, we had best come to a quick conclusion. But one thing, as it seems to me, you may count upon with some certainty : that we do get the virtue of the sunshine and the rain, and the blue sky (leaving the stars out), better than do you in town, and upon them we can always report.

And a man who is so busy with the sky, must have some interest in knowing how it looks elsewhere in the world, what storms are coming up, and what chances we have of a fair to-morrow. Now that you have come home from wandering about tlie world, and we are both housed, for some little time at least, it will not be like sending letters off, as heretofore, to the South Seas, or wherever your ship might be dashing the spray. Your last letters from Malta and Algiers are already obsolete. It is pleasant to know that what I send you will not need to get stale from mere travel ; and I shall expect from you, sir, the freshest and brightest of all the starry news.

We have a few friends here and there, in this world and the old, who are in the habit of sending us an occasional " Good morning." Once in six months or so, we look about to see if any are missing, sending out the usual inquiry, and if we get an " All's well," we make but little pause, and plunge on in the great stream of life. By and by, as we so look about us, one and another are gone. There comes no reply; but a few lines from a friend of our friend will tell us that he has finished his correspondence here : his hand is palsied : it is dust.

I propose. Professor, that we shall exchange a few words oftener than this six months' questioning ; and if your leisure will not permit you to reply to me always, I will, at least, have the satisfaction of saying my say. I shall

Pkoposals. 21

prose sometimes ; oftener, perhaps, I sliall preach ; but this I beg you to consider as a mere habit of talking to myself ; for, doubtless, ^\e have an aft'air of some importance on hand — that is to say — in getting ready for the next stage of life : the next and last administration of affairs.

"We purpose, for the present, a life of quiet and repose ; we can get the sunshine here as well as in New- York or London, and better too. It is enough. Any thing more than this, and bread and meat, is — nonsense.

I do not say that our sister Tidy will be wholly content with this plain fare. She may be looking for a dash of " nonsense."

Youth should be crowned with hope, unless it has already foimd a hapjiy resting-place in its own indwelling joy ; and it may be that to our sister the mornings and evenings may even now roll by all as on golden wheels. I have a suspicion that this is so, in all its fulness and beauty, but almost tremble to utter a word as to what may be iu her future. Our friend Frank may know, but, as yet, I doubt if he has A\'hispered the thought even to his own soul.

But of further travel we have no need. It is pronounced on all sides that the pause we have now made

22 Up-Countrt Letters.

is a liappy one ; at the longest, it will be to me, at least, but short. Let us use these last days in calmness, to get ready for the great journey.

We can send our thought to England or the North Pole, and that is as good as to go there, and saves trouble and wear and tear. Nature has decked herself pleasantly, to keep people at home and by their own fire-sides. They are nearer heaven there than elsewhere — is it not so, my old friend ? — and more likely to reach heaven at last. Home, home ; where is it, in London or Paris ? Who cares to see you there ? Who comes down to meet you at breakfast? Who says "good night" to you, or gives you " the kiss for good morning T

Good-bye, Professor, before I change from this tearful mood to one of wrath, at the memory of that smutty and smoky London ; and let us thank the sweet heaven, my old friend, that instead of a fog-blanket, we have the " blue sky over all." Yours, Z. P.

III

It is niorniug again, and we have the doors and windows all wide open for another summer day. How are you, my star-gazer ? How is it with you ? "Were you up all night in that round attic ? Ah, what do you know of the sweet morning ?

My friend Capt. , of Bugle Place, says the

luxury of life is to read Bishop Berkley in the morning and play chess in the evening. I shall instead, write to tlie Professor.

Pray, what had Bishop Berkley to do with such real things as this pure air and light, such palpabilities, such royal, such happy matters of fact ? Besides, all the world knows that when he, the Bishop, " said there was no matter, and proved it, it was no kind of matter what he said." Of course not. But I am willing, this morning, to ignore all the world that is not wanted for our especial purposes. I am in the mood for this to-day.

" Let us alone, let us alone, For in a little while our lips are dumb."

Ah, Professor, is it a sin in me to have made you this flourish, so as the more gently to announce to you, that this, at Pundison House, is our predominant mood ; that our feeling to the great world is that of an everlasting good-bye, — that we say with the lotos-eaters, now that we have floated aside into this quiet up-country home, — let us alone — let us alone, we have had somewhat to do with each other and with sufficiently happy results ; now let us part in peace ; we will stop here, if you please, while you go on. Some day we may meet again, but let us make no promises. People upon the outer borders — outsiders all, addio, addio.

Surgit amari aliquid, say you ? Oh no. Professor, a thousand times " no." But let us have one thing at a time.

In this new phase, and with the added lines of the last ten years, I wonder, sir, if you would know me ? It would be strange if we should some day meet as strangers, and more strange if we should converse together and unwittingly get talking of old days and

PuNDisoN House. 26

by-gones, and mutual Mends, and still not know each other.

I have told you that this place of our retreat is quiet and out of the great world. It has not the quiet, however, of that charming land of the lotos-eaters. We do not hear the solemn beat of the sea ; there is no stream in the distance that seems to fall and pause along the cliffs, like a downward smoke : no gaps in the hills opening into inland vales, nor is it " always afternoon " with us. Good morning is my favorite salutation, whatever be the time of day. I do not like to acknowledge that the night is coming, much less that it has come. I like to make believe, at least, that it is still morning.

To my wife all things are just in the flush of sunrise and she carries the brilUance and freshness of morning wherever her glad countenance is seen.

I must tell you, my old friend, privately, that my timbers are giving way. I am getting into the afternoon of my days. I fancy I can almost look over into that land where my sun must set. But my wife insists upon it that we have a long summer day before us.

If it is only sunrise to my wife, to her sister Tidy, who sits half the time dreaming under the maples, it is not yet more than day-breuk; it is that calm hour, when every thing is looking for, and expecting the day, which is flashing brilliantly just over the mountains, but is not yet arrived. But will it arrive ? Doubtless, Just over the mountains — so near; the morning, the day so near ! and will it be under this firmament, or in another and higher one " eternal in the heavens ?" Ah, my child, all our mornings are with God.

You"'will remember my father; but it must be many years since you have seen him. Although past his threescore and ten, will you wonder if I say to you, that I sometimes think it is more " morning" with him than with any of us. Certainly he is stronger and heartier than I am ; and with more than twice my years, I do believe there is more youth at his heart than there is at mine.

When you get your furlough, my old friend, you must take us on your way home. You shall come in then some Sunday night and hear us all singing our old-fashioned tunes. It will carry you back to old Connecticut. Tunes which my father Avill tell you he heard at Milford, or Danbury, or New Haven, more than forty years ago ; and, perhaps he will add who it was preached on the occasion — Dr. Bellamy, or Backus, or may be, the famous Dr. Dwight.

We are a little aside from thoroughfares, but accessible, and within hearing of the outer Avorld, i. e., the buzz

PuNDisoN House. 21

of it, as in the rail trains that come up within a mile of us, and go off sputtering and screaming among the hills, carrying a blue smoke all along that sky.

Also, we see in the distance, spires going up here and there ; and in the south and east, of a Sunday morning, there are not less than a half dozen bells whose sweet tones come up and pass on, or float and mingle about us. Just in the rear of the house, and from our upper rooms, we look down upon rapids that go galloping away on either hand, and always by listening, we hear the low sound of a not distant cataract.

Good night. Professor; I began this letter in the morning, but now " the dark is over all," and the week draws to its close. It is Saturday night.

Addio, Z. P.

IV

Blessed be this day for ever and always — in all places of tlie habitation of whatsoever hath tongue with which to rejoice and a heart to be glad with.

But there is a difference in Sundays. A Sunday in old Connecticut, in those sheltered towns among the mountains is different, oh how widely, from the Sunday in this broad-featured state of New- York. But even here it is a holy day.

Early in the morning every one has put on the distinguishing look of Sunday ; a look which has great variations. In my father's face it is severe and inflexible. Having shaved on Saturday, he appears by no means later this morning than his usual hour, and always in a ruffle shirt, white cravat, and a shirt-collar so high and firm, that to look on either side he is obliged to turn himself carefully around to that quarter. As my father seldom removes his hat, he changes his old one on Sundays when he feels quite well, for one that is comparatively fresh and new, but worn however with entire ease.

Having breakfasted by candle-hght, the day begins early with him. By eight o'clock he is seated in his big chair before his comfortable fire, reading the New- York , — but Scott's Commentaries is usually

seen on the sofa — the old folio loose sheets which have never been bound — and Dwight's sermons, with perhaps the life of Newton.

I have said that his look is severe, but it is only so in the presence of others. It is as much as to say, " Do you know, sir, that this is the Sabbath ! Let me hear no idle talk, but reflect, sir, that you are in the presence of the King of Kings."

But when the house is all still and deserted, and he is left alone with his Bible and his far-travelling thoughts — the dogs perhaps stretched at his feet, and no sound any where but the picking of a mouse in the cupboard, or the creak of a door, in some distant and silent chamber — then it is, in his unconscious moments, there is to be seen upon his ilvce, a sunny look of peace and calmness, and lordly hope, which takes at least twenty yeai-s from his life. Disturb him not then, for he is looking over into that land where he must shortly go. He is communing with the happy dead. From his earliest years, his companions have been going away one by one, till now he has passed his threescore and ten, and is left alone, while they — have been silently gathered into the Kingdom of Christ. All the years, as they roll by, pause upon that shore : — all the kind wishes — all the prayers, all the aspirations of a long life, they have gone on to that blessed land. Ah, sir, it is not sleej) which keeps him so still and calm, but a true vision of the life to come.

In what a noiseless way is every thing done this calm morning. The women go about whispering and the loudest break upon the stillness is Bob brushing shoes on the south piazza.

It is on this day, that my wife has her happiest look. Always of a Sunday, she is a Uttle picture of peace and joy and thanksgiving. She delights in the day — in all its duties and services, as a bird does in song ; it is her life, her garden enclosed. All the week is pei-fumed, as it were, with her Sunday. Prayer and praise are the proper elements of this day, but these are so common to her at all times, that Sunday seems to be for her especial benefit — that so she might enjoy herself this day after her own heart ; it is thus to her 'a day of gladness. You will understand how it is, when I tell you that if, having a friend with us to dinner on Sunday, as, say Frank

Biyars, or the celebrated , who so abuses my

Claude, I say, you will perceive that if on such an occasion, I produce a small bottle of champagne, my wife makes never the slightest objection. She has some little ways on Sunday which are peculiar to the day. As for instance : I am brushed that morning with a searching exactness, and however carefully I may have arranged ray hair, it must always receive one more touch from her gentle hand. She is herself complete and perfect for tlie day at about ten o'clock and ten minutes : She then appears in a dress, about which I never remember any thing except its entire fitness for the day, and for my wife. She has the rare gift of so wearing things as to make much of httle. A collar, for instance, which upon some women would be unsightly and noticeable as such, is to her all neatness and propriety. To enter church one moment after the service begins, is a small horror, which she always avoids if possible. We start therefore, betimes, and if I am well enough she delights to take my arm, and so walk as true and loving husband and wife up to the very door of the church. There she relinquishes the arm : she leaves me there, — she entere another presence.

Our walk across the Sliag-Bark and up into the village, (for we are wholly aside from the world,) uses up our fifteen or twenty minutes, especially if my wife has to stop once or twice to balance my hat straight on my head, it having a habit of canting pi^'-htly even on Sunday. If we are quite late, she often leaves me on the bridge and walks on faster than my slow gait will carry me, but it is only to return after a little and take my arm again. This does not hasten matters at all, but it eases her impatience, if it is not improper to ajiply such a word to her on this quiet day. With one or two little episodes of this character, we at last reach the church door together, and not seldom with a brilliance of complexion on her part, which looks on her pure face, almost like sin. When I wish to please her particularly, I put on, not without great eflfort, my black gloves. I seldom wear gloves. They are sticky things unless the weather is cold, and then give me mittens. Notwithstanding all my efforts at economy, my wife has prevailed upon me to get a new overcoat, and now instead of my old gray, which was inexpressibly dear to me for having warmed me for three winters and in various lands, and for having cost me only six dollars in the beginning, — now I appear in a thing which is well enough, I suppose, but dismally bran-new. With this coat and my black gloves, they tell me I am renewing my youth. I only feel that I have parted from a true fi-iend.

But now, sir, listen to that sweet chant, " Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, oh, my soul, and all that is within me, praise his Holy name." And the " Gloria Patri" — how like a solemn amen does it seem always to these songs of praise.

The morning service, as you know, is pretty long,

except when divided, as it very properly is in some

churches. Unless I am feeling quite well, I am seldom

able to follow through the whole service. Not unlikely

the church itself is felt as a restraint uj^on me — not so

much the walls and the roof as the narrow slip in which

I am shut : continually, perhaps, I am changing about

and getting new postures — and none of them happy

ones — none satisfactory : if this is done it is involuntary

and without argument. It is like tossing in dreams at

night, of which, at the time, we know nothing. But, in

regard to the music, I am myself conscious of swaying

about somewhat, emphasizing it, as it were, and timing

the whole proceeding. Mrs. P. has told me that in

reading passages of great force in the Psalter, I have a

habit of shaking my head, as much as to say, " That is

very great." This may be, and I reply to her, that

perhaps, if I was to look about I should find others, also,

with as curious httle wavs and habits. 2*

We get on, at last, to the sermon ; but even here, and always attractive as are our rector's sermons, I am not seldom seized with sudden abstractions, which carry me off swiftly, but noiselessly, as a chip is lifted by small whirlwinds in summer weather ; and, in a moment, I forget utterly the little church, and the rector, and the holy day. At this time, and while drumming perhaps in a lively manner on the pew-door, I am gently restored by a light pressure on my right foot. This is my wife's doings — she being strictly educated to think that drumming on a pew-door is an improper proceeding: a point which I never argue, but sometimes think I more than make up for this, by the severe and unremitting attention which I bestow upon the rest of the sermon. ••

I have said that the morning service seems lonsf to me. It may be partly because I was born and bred in a different faith ; or rather, I mean not that, but a different manner of worship. But it is not this altogether, for the afteiTjoon prayers are perfectly enchanting, if it is proper to apply such a word to prayer. If they do not leave with me " the peace which passeth all understanding," then am I bitterly deceived. But, so far as emotion is concerned, some old-fashioned tune will be more heart-touching to me, than any prayer which ever fell from the Hj^s of mortal man ; for song says that which words cannot say, and it ascends into Heaven, which is its home and its continual abiding-place for ever.

Our clergyman is almost a perfect pattern of a country rector ; so, at least, we think, who have had varieties, and have some ground for this, our present liking. His preaching would never draw crowds, but always gathers together a little circle who know how to appreciate good things. His sermons are like little cabinet pictures, exceedingly well designed, and perfect as a poem from first to last. I do profess to have some taste for a good thing, sir ; and, I assure you, this modest man has a rare gift of preaching, which would delight you to hear. I come back to our plain church and our plain clergyman, after our little airings about the country, where we have heard, perhaps, the celebrated Mr. " Wideawake^'' or the notorious — I mean the illustrious — ]\fr. " New Jerusalem^'' — I return to our quiet ways and old-fashioned associations, precisely as after stimulants, I would seek out, with what thankfulness, the cool spring by the way-side, and the shade of the old oak tree.

Stir me up with no long pole, sir, on this subject ; but give me rest and peace. Do not these breaking bones, and throbbing temples, and the long nights of

36 Up-Countky Letters.

weariness, tell me my sin sufficiently, I ask you ? Is there any one in tlie broad land who has more need to ask for God's deliverance " in all time of our tribulation, in all time of our prosperity, in the hour of death and in the day of judgment?"

By the time we reach home, Kate, wTio goes to her church earher, and gets home by eleven o'clock, has wheeled out the little round table, and there is already the cheerfulness of dinner — a Sunday dinner — plain and unpretending — always to be partaken of with a modest temperance, to keep open eyes for the afternoon sermon. As we pass through my father's sitting-room — the front of the house beino: all barred and bolted — he asks the question, " Where's the text ?" And if some one cannot produce the text, he concludes we have been to church to very little purpose.

I seldom get out in the afternoon. As seldom does my wife stay at home. Whether it rain or shine, or hail or snow, the performance must be veiy spirited if it keeps her from the afternoon service. My father and myself take our usual naps ; but not as long, if possible, on Sundays as on other days. About two o'clock we exchange papers. I give him some church paper ; for which, by the way, it is easy to see that he lias but small regard, and receive from him the New-York —

. Its readable articles — and they are many — I

find marked by liim Avitli red chalk, for my especial notice in part, and in part for the benefit of friends a long way off, to whom the paper is always sent, after it has been thoroughly exhausted at home.

So goes away, with the richness and silentness of blessing, our Up-country Sunday ; and then comes twilight — of all its houre, the most serene and holy — and the day is gone. Up into Heaven, with the thousands which have gone before, it has ascended, and there sits in glory ! Beautiful day, thou hast gone home to God : to God and the angels, and the mighty hosts gathered in that blessed land. Gone up to sit in glory for ever I Beautiful day, farewell I

V

Did you ever know a Monday, sir, that had not something dashing in it ? something outre or ultra, elate and hopeful, or urgent and distracting ?

Time was when Monday and I were excellent friends; when rising at the peep of day, I began the week with a shout. Now, I have made friends with

calmness and self-possession. I say to Mrs. P ^

my dear wife, let us take life easily; joyful as you like, but gently, temperately.

But this morning — the day being of that brilHant and flashy character common to Monday — as we were all sitting about the roimd table, the lady astonished me with a most extraordinary proposition. On a day so beautiful, that to live and breathe should have been her utmost wish (as it was mine), she desired — she and

Monday Morning. 39

Tidy — to drive down to tlie market-garden with my mare Jenny ! A mare, sir, which, though she has seen fifteen years, still insists upon rounding a corner like a whirlwind. They say she is so old and so gentle. Doubtless, she is high bred, she is gentleness itself, but — she has thrown me over her head more than forty times. I could point you now, sir, to the spots made memorable by those somersets. Beside, her nervous susceptibility (I do not call it timidity) is beyond their comprehension. By raising an umbrella before her, I can make her kneel before me and beg like a child.

Well, sir, imagine two women (say girls rather) behind such a horse, and suppose they have a corner to round, and are not thinking of her way of doing it ; or suppose a trace slips off the hook going up hill — suppose a spring breaks — thunder and Mars, sir ! suppose Jenny herself gets a little flighty ? What would they do ? what could they do ? Why, sir, they would be utterly lost ; their wits would fly to the four winds.

All this I submitted to them, but of what avail on a Monday morning? Talk to the north wind, but not to young girls bent upon a drive. Fortunately before the morning was quite ruined, Frank Bryars came in and oftered to drive them down. Frank is not strong, but he knows Jenny, and no one understands better than youi-self, Professor, that a man who knows a horse can drive him with a tow-string.

They returned in great glee, just as Kate was getting out the table for dinner, and the crowing was very spirited. They had got this and that ; had been here and there; and my wife had held the reins all the way.

" Why," said she, " didn't you see me drive up the yard ?" " Oh, yes," I said ; " and if Johnny had not been there to stop the mare, she would have walked straight into the barn, wagon, women, and all" — which was the fact.

But to return to the dinner ; not mutton, but lambchoj)s, juicy and tender as a pheasant ; and for dessert, strawberries and cream — real cream, and strawberries picked this morning.

Nothing more, you observe, to spoil the dinner, as meats of any other kind — pastries, puddings, and the like — which are bad enough at any time, but with lamb-chops and strawberries, would be an utter profanation.

I mistake — there was an extra — a salad with a cream dressing. After dinner the dogs came in foi their bones, bursting with laughter and short barks.

Tidy came out of her dream, and chatted s&

Monday Morning. 41

sharply, as thougli she had never had a dream in her life. Frank was in his best mood, and my wife, what with the fine morning and the jarring of the wagon, looked as brilliant as a sunrise in the mountains. It was the look of one who had held the reins !

Directly after dinner we went out on the west piazza : a spot well shaded with pines and maples, and climbing vines ; but not so dense as to be chilly, if the air happens to be lacking of that extreme warmth which, to invalids like Frank and myself, is so acceptable. Taking out easy chairs, we had the afternoon all before us. Birds were about in the branches, and the hum of noises going on in the meadows, and down by the river-side, was a complete music.

I had that delightful feeling of weariness which a dinner not too heavy will sometimes give to an invalid ; and as it was my usual hour of napping, I began to recede from the actual world, and coast about on uncertain shores, coming back quite often to take a fresh start, and hear a word or two of the conversation. Rover, who imitates his master, and Pompey who imitates Rover, was spread out on his haunches, with his nose between his paws, now and then snapping indolently at flies and bumble-bees that floated that way. Frank stood leaning against the phmi-tree, in a place commanding a view of tlie meadow and river below — a favorite look-out of his ; while Tidy seated herself a little way apart, under a maple, and retired immediately into one of her pleasant reveries ; waking occasionally with great earnestness to admire the plum-tree by the garden fence, which was now heavy with young fruit.