Ginger Snaps Part 12

_OLD STOCKBRIDGE IN Ma.s.sACHUSETTS._

Ma.s.sachusetts forever! _and thrift, of course_. Doors that will shut.

Blinds that will fasten. Windows that do not dislocate your wrists to open. Good bread and beef steak. Mountains with cool sloping sides, and distracting shadows. A river that has coquetted with the meadows, till one never knows where it will turn up, or disappear. Perfect roads, even for our precious "Ledger-horses." Trees whose tops pierce the clouds, with trunks as rugged and gnarled as the theology of the oldest divine in the place. "Stockbridge!" The name might have been prettier--the place _couldn't_ be. From my window I can watch the cool spray of a fountain, as the wind tosses it about, or the sun makes a rainbow out of it. Or I can look at a little toy of an Episcopal Church, half hidden in vines, and trees, and roses, through whose open windows floats faintly to my ear the sweet Sabbath chaunt, to which the little birds give cheerful response. Bars of sunlight lie across the wide gra.s.sy road, and every door is a picture, with the silver hair of age serenely biding its time; or the golden locks of childhood, shading sinless brows, spite of the "h.e.l.l" which President Edwards would insist was their inherited portion. In _this_ place, too, of all other places, where heavenly peace is written in the air, and so faint is the intimation of life's turmoil, that one might well doubt whether this were _not_ heaven. I look at the house where this good, but _I_ think mistaken, man thought and wrote these things, and wonder that he could not see _my_ G.o.d instead of _his--the Avenger_.

I walk under these cathedral trees, and like a dream comes to me the memory of a bright summer day, when a romping school-girl in Pittsfield, near by, I came to this very "Stockbridge," to a house a few rods from my present abode, where a sister's welcome awaited me.

And to-day _her_ trees, _her_ vines, _her_ flowers, give out perfume, and shade, and bloom, all the same as if she were gliding in and out beneath them, instead of sleeping, deaf, dumb, and blind, forever to all their beauty.

_You_, too, must have known those whom you "could not _make_ dead!"

Joyous, beaming creatures, with steps of air, floating _over_--not walking _on_--the earth; touching everything with brightness, like the bright-winged birds, which send forth a trill that takes your soul along with it, as they dart, like a gleam of sunshine, through the air. _You_, too, have stood over their coffin; but you only remember the sunny _living_ face. You have touched the cold hand; but you feel only, through long years of separation, the warm life clasp. And so my sister was still there, amid her flowers and trees; and when the present kindly proprietor showed me about the house and grounds, it was _she_ to whom I listened; it was _she_, not him, whom I followed, through the well-remembered paths.

And now tread softly, lest you invade the sanct.i.ty of yonder Indian burying-ground, where rest the bones of countless chiefs, whose descendants make annual pilgrimage to the spot, unmarked, save by the wild flowers and waving gra.s.s. These Indians went by the name of "The Stockbridge Indians;" and when any of their tribe settled afterward in any other place, they always insisted on naming it "Stockbridge."

Jonathan Edwards, who was driven from his church in Northampton on a point of doctrine, was the minister employed by the Government to Christianize them; and, from all accounts, a hard job he found it.

"The poor Indian" must have pa.s.sed into his "hunting-ground," for I meet him nowhere in my twilight walks through his earthly haunts; nor does the ghost of a single chief cause my hair to stand on end as I pa.s.s, by moonlight, their lonely burying-ground.

MORNING IN THE VILLAGE.--Softly, slowly, the white mist-veil is drawn back from the cool, green mountains. Now a little bird, raising its bright head from its nest, sends forth such a welcome to the fragrant new-born day, that prayer of mine seems superfluous and tame beside it. Follows another, like a well-trained voice in a choir, till at last the swelling chorus is complete, and nature's matins have fairly begun.

How the dew sparkles and trembles on the nodding blades of gra.s.s! How lazily the cows loiter on their shady path to the cool pastures! How fair look the white daisies and red clover, fresh from their dewy baths! How still hang the leaves on the trees, as if to enjoy the too evanescent coolness! Now some little child's sweet voice is heard, rivaling the birds. There she stands in the doorway, prettier with her uncombed locks and bare little pink feet peeping from beneath her loose, white night-dress, than any touch of art could make her. And now her father, brown and strong, with hoe and rake in hand, goes forth to his day's work, stopping as he goes to rest his toil-hardened hand lightly on that little head as he pa.s.ses it. And whether the hot noonday sun or the swift lightning-stroke shall paralyze it, that soft touch, through the slow-coming years, shall be her talisman. And now the village is fairly astir. None are left in their beds--none are idle, save the old or the sick. The smoke of the rushing cars curls out from yonder willows that fringe the river's brink, then disappears, as, with a parting screech and puff, the train rushes forth on its errand of life or--death! Now groups gather round the "store" and "post-office." Ladies who have travelled thither, _with the city on their backs_, are sauntering under the trees, so occupied with taking care of their dry-goods that they have neither eyes nor ears for the beauty and harmony around them. What right have such women to perpetuate themselves? How _dare_ they be mothers? I don't know.

NOON IN THE VILLAGE.--How white and hot lies the sun on the dusty road! The slow, patient oxen are scarce discernible through the cloud they raise with their huge feet. Their driver has pushed his coa.r.s.e straw hat aside, and is mopping his brown face zealously as he mercifully gives them breath under the shadow of that grand oak-tree.

The voices of the children and the birds are hushed this garish noon.

Each have taken refuge in their nests, to doze the laggard hours away.

The fine city ladies are in loose dresses, deciding whether brown, or green, or blue shall make us tear each other's eyes out with envy at dinner. Their husbands lie under the trees in white raiment, insulting high Heaven with pipes and segars. _Africa_ is flying around in the dining-hall, regardless of the thermometer, counting spoons, knives, and noses. Babies afflicted with last night's mosquito-bites howl at their nurses with distorted faces, while their bigger brothers and sisters screech for "a drink of _wutter_." Mammas e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e "Merciful heavens!" and keep on surveying their back-hair with the aid of two looking-gla.s.ses. Wonderful beings are women; but don't fear I shall turn state's-evidence! Not till I can turn female Robinson Crusoe, with my "man-Friday," to back me in case of onslaught from the savages.

EVENING IN THE VILLAGE.--Little Bobby stands on the piazza, dressed in his _fifth_ white robe and sash, since the amorous sun kissed the tears from nature's face, this blessed morning. Poor Bobby! His temper isn't improved by it; and as to his nurse, were it not for her "wages," she would like to frica.s.see Bobby. Poor wretch! but just wait till Bobby and his mamma are safe in bed. Wont _she_ enjoy her freedom in a pink neck-ribbon, flirting by moonlight with Tom--the head-waiter? So would _you_. I don't blame her. You and I haven't the monopoly of moonlight; although, 'tis true, they might phrase their vows more grammatically; and if they _could_ make up their minds not to kiss so loud under my window, I should sleep better of nights. As the sun declines, how lovely lie the purple shadows on the grateful coolness. Ladies are driving past, smiling, and prodigal of sweet words to the husbands of--_their friends! Their_ husbands are similarly occupied. "Fair exchange is no robbery," saith the proverb.

Smith used to like black hair, when he married his Belinda; but since he saw Jones' wife with her blonde locks tied with a blue ribbon he is a penitent man. Belinda don't care--Mrs. Jones' husband has "such a way with him!" On they dash!--it's none of my business, as Mischief remarks, when she has winked and blinked a reputation down. I don't pretend to be more charitable than my betters. Now those of us who believe that hoofs should not always be a subst.i.tute for human feet, stroll forth for our evening walk. We are not afraid of dew or dust, and we get miles away before we remember that we have to return. We sit on the fences, and dangle our boots, and watch the mountain shadows and the soft white mist creeping over the valleys, and we listen to the whip-poor-will. Or we boldly walk up the avenue, under the dense shade of the trees, to the lovely lawn in front of that big house, and admire the gardener's skill as displayed in the vivid patches of bloom nestled in the gra.s.s. Or we cross the meadow--to the tell-tale willows, behind which the river hides, and listen to its peaceful flow; and say for the thousandth time, that we _will_ own "a place" in the country; but, nevertheless, it is ten to one, that next summer will find us staring at the "place" of somebody else, and allowing him the privilege of keeping it in order for us, and settling the bills for the same. Alas! that the tools with which scribblers work can be sharpened and kept from rusting only on that grindstone--_the city_.

_SUNDAY IN THE VILLAGE._

I am New England born. I want a hymn and a prayer on Sunday. Not that I do not like both, on other days; but I am always homesick without them on Sunday. I want them _in church_, too. I said I wanted a hymn and a prayer. I want a sermon, too; but, alas! I am so often disappointed _there_, and I so dread being disappointed, that I generally take a seat near the door, where I can leave at the precise point when I feel happy, and the sermon begins.

This is naughty, I know, but as I have gone into the confessional, I will make a clean "_shrive_" of it. I want _what_ I want so much, and the lack of it spoils my Sunday. I want to know _how to live_; and the Rev. ---- only tells me that I've "got to die." I want to know how to manage with _to-day_; and the Rev. ---- only speculates about what may or what may not be in eternity. I want to be soothed, and helped, and propped, and comforted; and the Rev. ---- tries to scare me with an "angry G.o.d," and a "sure d.a.m.nation." I want earnestness in the pulpit; and instead, I find the Rev. ---- drawling lazily, "And the LUD GED said unto Adam." I want to know what the Rev. ---- is talking about; instead--half of the time, I am convinced--he don't even know that himself.

Perhaps these reasons may be some excuse for my dodging the "sermon"

occasionally; if not, I plead guilty, and only ask you to acquit me of intentional irreverence. It still remains that who else soever can do without their Sunday, it is not I--f.a.n.n.y.

But that's not what I meant to speak about, only that you will insist on the "prelude" in church. I _meant_ to tell you that the Sunday before I left New York, I had a genuine Sunday--one of _my_ Sundays; when, on entering the church of the Rev. Dr. Hall, I did not exchange the sweet song of birds, the vivid green of the trees, or the blue of the fair skies, for sulphureous terrors. Since I heard Dr. Payson, of Portland, when he reached out pleading hands to win wayward feet into the path of life, I have never been so entirely satisfied with the delivery of the Master's message. Dr. Hall has the same dignity; the same pleading earnestness; the same deep, rich voice; the same appreciative way of reading the hymns; the same _heart_-tone in every syllable. With him it is no performance. No person present could fail to feel that he had come there that morning as a fond parent would go forth, full of tender love, and yearning for the child who had strayed from home. There was no narrowness, no bigotry, no uncharitable denunciation; and, at the same time, no blinking of the truth--and the _whole_ truth. It was the lovely spirit of the Crucified: "Father, forgive them: they know not what they do."

_I_ had a full meal; and if you could have gone away unsatisfied, I am sorry for you. It must be that you never had a heart-wrench; that you never reached out imploring hands in the darkness, only to grasp the empty air. It must be that the earth never opened at your feet, and swallowed up your dear ones. It must be that you never--with a sincere desire to do right, by yourself, and by others--found yourself choking with distressful tears, that each day's sun should go down with so poor a record. Oh, you never could have felt thus, or you could not have gone away from the sound of Dr. Hall's voice, and said, there was nothing there for me. At least I think you would have admired, as I did, his n.o.ble frankness in telling "church-members" that he did not blame outsiders for doubting their Christianity, when they were so swift to p.r.o.nounce judgment on those who differed from them in opinion. "This is bigotry," said he; "this is fanaticism--it is not Christianity. Man's conscience was not given him for this--it was given him to scrutinize his own shortcomings." This pleased me, in contrast with the opinion held by many "Christians," that the faults of such should never be spoken of, "for the possible harm to the cause."

Now, in conclusion, I would say to Dr. Hall's church, that to allow a clergyman like him to preach in a place so badly ventilated as was that church the morning I was present, is a crime. Let them show their regard for him, while thronging there to hear him, by not killing him by inches; he is too tall a man to die in that way.

WHAT DIFFERENCE CAN IT MAKE WHAT I DO OR SAY?--Now, there is not a man or woman living, nor ever has been, to whom it "makes no difference."

If you have neither father, mother, brother, sister, child, husband, or wife, in the wide world, still there is some neighbor, some companion, whose eye, fixed upon you, is moved, perhaps unknown to themselves, for good or for evil. You slip an arm through theirs, in the crowded thoroughfare, or lay a friendly hand on their shoulder, and, in a leisure moment, saunter along together. _Where?_ It was _you_ who decided _where_. It is on you that the responsibility falls, perhaps, of that friend's _first_ downward step. Never say, it "makes no difference what I do." It makes a difference to _yourself_, even were it true that it did to no one else.

They who have pa.s.sed many milestones on the journey of life, with their faces toward the Celestial City, do not stop to ask those who pa.s.s them on the road, of their creeds or nationalities. They see only the brother, or sister, to whom the helping hand and sympathizing word in time may be life or death for this world and the next. This is the true Christ-spirit.

_SICK IN THE VILLAGE._

I have been sick; safe under the coverlet for seven or eight days at least. I mention what may be to you but a very ordinary experience, because I am really quite humiliated: first, that such an unusual thing should have occurred to me; and secondly, that it should have been the undeserved penalty of great amiability on my part. It happened lately that, on a certain public occasion, a seat was politely a.s.signed me near the orator of the hour, and, unfortunately, also near an open window, through which came directly upon my throat a blast of chill air. I felt it clutch me, but I said to myself, I wont make a disturbance leaving. Hence the necessity of a doctor, and a total cessation of speech, and a big bunch, the size of an egg, on a throat which were better without it. The next time I am polite, you may tell me of it! I am out now, to be sure, under the trees again, but I can't walk with any spring or unction. I can't eat with any appet.i.te. I can't ride without being sensible of every inequality in the road. I hate a bed so that I can scarce bring my mind to get into one at night, and yet I am, as the expression goes, "_dead tired_" all the time. I tell you all this, particularly now, however, because I have received a stack of letters, during this period, which I must take a little time to answer, and which correspondents might otherwise suppose were never received, or had been slighted. But, oh! how beautiful look the green fields to me, now, and how welcome the fresh air! Still, don't come to Stockbridge _to be sick_. It is heaven for well people, and kind friends who dwell here are heavenly in kind deeds, at such and all other times.

This is what ails Stockbridge. It is occupied, mainly, by rich people, who come here only for their summer sojourn. Most of the houses here are quite closed in winter; therefore, you see that they are all consumers: _producers_ are the exceptions. If you have fruit or squashes in your own garden, thank the sun and the Lord for the same.

If you don't own a garden, and don't want to tire out the generosity of your friends; in short, if you are a sick pilgrim at a hotel, then more's the pity. _Then_ you'll lie on your pillow and dream of big peaches, and luscious pears, and plums, in your native hunting-ground, the New York markets. You'll think of the stores in Broadway, where huge bunches of grapes, in purple bloom, lie cl.u.s.tering. Maybe at the butcher's, near your very door in New York, is the "sweet-bread,"

which, if cooked at the right moment, and in the right way, might tempt your flagging appet.i.te. Heaven's blessings on the good Samaritans who brought _me_ nice t.i.t-bits; but one don't want to be a pauper too long, lest the patience of benevolence might give out.

While I lay sick, I must say a peach-tree seemed more desirable than the grandest elm; and a pear-tree preferable to ever so magnificent a maple or chestnut. Grape-vines, also, I thought finer than woodbine, ivy, or clematis; in short--were my state of invalidism to continue, I am confident I should become a confirmed utilitarian.

If this bit of experience of mine is any comfort to the forced sojourner in the hot city, let him hug it to heart. I have had sunsets here like the glory of "the New Jerusalem." I've wandered under these trees and been driven over these lovely roads, till my eyes were moist with happiness I could not voice. I have heard such kindly tones, and seen such loving faces, and been so hospitably entreated here, that it would take more physic than was involved in those bed-ridden days of pain and unrest to give me a grudge against lovely, mountain-girdled Stockbridge.

_MEN AND THEIR CLOTHES._

The female fashions of to-day are absurd enough; but if anything more absurd than a man's "stove-pipe hat" was ever invented, I would like to see it. Mark its victims, when they remove it from their heads--which they seldom do, the G.o.ds know why, unless they are getting into bed; see the red rim across their foreheads, produced by its unwieldy weight, and unnecessary inches up in the air; see them occasionally in the street, giving it a c.o.c.k backwards, when n.o.body but apple-women are looking, to observe how quickly a gentleman, by that action, may be made into a rowdy; then see them apply their handkerchiefs to their foreheads, to cool off the heat and the pain, and then with a stoicism worthy of one of Fox's martyrs, replace it, and bear the long agony till they get home. Then what garment that ever woman wore, is more ridiculous than a man's shirt, whether b.u.t.toning before or b.u.t.toning behind, or disfigured with puerile "studs;" whether the stiff collar stands up like a picket on guard, or lays over, with a necktie to tie it suffocatingly over the jugular vein.

Then mark that abomination--a swallow-tailed coat. Heavens! how ugly the handsomest man may look in it! and woe for the plain men, when they intensify their plainness with it!

Then see the knock-kneed and the crooked-legged advertising their deformity in tight pantaloons; and short, fat, barrel men wearing little boys' cloth caps on their heads! Ah, for every female goose that Fashion makes, I will find you a male mate, even to the wearing of tight corsets!

But, my friends, on one point there's a difference. "When a fashionable lady engages a female servant, she stipulates that she shall wear a cap on her head, and calico on her back, to mark the difference between herself and that servant--without which, I suppose, it would not often be recognizable." When her _husband_ gives a dinner, the male waiters are dressed exactly like himself--in festal white neckties, white gloves, and hideous swallow-tailed coats.

How is this? It must be that the male creature is very secure of his position, socially, mentally, morally, and physically, to permit such presumption--nay, to demand it. Can any philosopher explain to me this mystery? I was "struck 'midships" with the idea at a festal gathering not long since; and turning to my male guide, philosopher, and friend, asked what it meant. His irritating answer to this most proper and natural question was, "f.a.n.n.y, don't be silly."

I reiterate my remark that men's dress is to the full as absurd in its way as women's, and I am only reconciled to the idea that a man was intended for a human being when I see an athlete of a gymnast, of glorious chest and calves, and splendid muscular arms, skimming the air as gracefully as a bird, and as poetically; then I know how civilization has ruined him! I know, that man if he jumped, and ran, and wrestled, and walked, instead of sitting stupidly in a chair in the house, or creeping into an omnibus when out of it, and smoking and going to sleep in the intervals, would not be obliged to creep into these ugly tailor's padded fashions to hide his deficiencies, but could wear what he chose, knowing that the beautiful outlines of his form would glorify any decent vestment.

I walked several blocks out of my way behind a man, the other day, who positively "stepped off." What a chest he had! what a splendid poise of the head! what a free, jubilant swing of the arm! I hope he will come to New York again some day, for I'm sure he was a stranger to it, for he neither stopped anywhere to take a drink, buy a cigar, nor did he hail an omnibus!

Magnificent giant! I wonder what was his name, and had he a mother. If not--well, it was a pity he shouldn't have.

I wonder what _are_ "good manners"? The question occurred to me the other evening in a place of public amus.e.m.e.nt. I was one of a dozen or so of ladies, wedged in a row of the usual narrow seats. At every pause in the performance, three _gentlemen_ stepped over the laps of the ladies in that seat, carrying off in their exit, or knocking upon the floor, opera-gla.s.ses, fans, scarfs, handkerchiefs, and, almost, the ladies themselves; returning each time wiping their lips, and introducing with them a strong odious smell of tobacco. I respectfully submit to any _real_ gentleman who reads this article, if that is "good manners."

Of course, I know it would be better if all seats at such places could be so arranged that _gentlemen_ need not clean their boots on ladies'

laps in order to pa.s.s out. But also it would be well if gentlemen took all the sustenance in the way of wine which they needed before starting from home; and if they _could_ also bring their G.o.dlike minds, to defer smoking till they could annoy only the one lady, whom they have a legal right to annoy, it would add to the general comfort, as well as their _public_ reputation for gallantry and politeness. Men generally object to going out evenings, "because they are so tired."

Why, then, they never embrace the opportunity to sit still when they get there, is an inconsistency which we must place unsolved, on the shelf already so well labelled with them. I might suggest also, that if they will persist in cleaning their boots on our laps, in order to get out these narrow sets of seats, and if they will carry off in their exit our gloves and fans and opera-gla.s.ses, and if they will keep on repeating this little pastime all the evening, to say nothing of occasionally crushing our feet out of all shape, I would venture to suggest that they should mitigate the suffering by saying, occasionally, "I beg pardon," or, "Pray excuse me," or by some such little deference acknowledge the infinite bore of their presence.