Kitabı oku: «The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 01, November, 1857», sayfa 13
AKIN BY MARRIAGE
CHAPTER I
The railway traveller, journeying between Springfield and Hartford along the banks of the fair Connecticut, sees from the car window, far away to the eastward, across the broad level of intervening plains, a chain of purple hills, whose undulating crest-line meets the bending sky and forms the distant horizon. Just beyond the loftiest hummock of this range a fertile valley lies concealed; and near its centre, upon the smooth summit of a gently swelling ridge, which, extending north and south for miles, divides the valley lengthwise, stands Belfield, the shire town of the rural county of Hillsdale. Its fourscore white dwellings, scattered unevenly along the shady margins of a straight and ample street, are mostly large, substantial granges, each with its little suburb of dependencies making a hamlet by itself. But where the broad avenue, at midway, spreads still wider, forming a spacious square, are thickly clustered the public buildings of the town and county,—together with the meeting-houses, the taverns, the bank, the shops, and a few handsome dwellings, whose large dimensions and ornate style show them to be the abodes of people of wealth and consideration.
The greensward in the middle of this square contains two or three elms of immemorial age, besides many thrifty trees of a later planting. The wooden barrier by which it is enclosed was once adorned with a coat of white paint, now nearly worn off. The topmost rails and post-heads of this fence have been so notched and gnawed by the jackknives of whittling idlers and the teeth of cribbing horses, that their original size and shape are matters concerning which the present generation are informed only by tradition.
This square was long ago named "The Green"; a pleasant title, by which, in course of time, the village itself came to be known and called. Instead of going "to town," the farmers of the remote school districts talk of going "to the Green," to meeting and to market; and in all that region the guideboards point the way "To BELFIELD GREEN." This spot was the site of the old blockhouse and stockaded fort, within whose rude but safe defences the early colonists of Belfield, with their wives, children, and cattle, used to huddle at night, through all the time of King Philip's War. Here, with much labor, the settlers dug a deep well, fed by never-failing springs, to provide a sure supply of water, in case of siege, for all the garrison. And now, as if it were a monument raised to commemorate those dismal times, there stands, at a point where all the crossing footpaths meet, a huge town-pump, near ten feet high, carved and painted, with a great ball upon its top, and an iron ladle chained to its nose. In the torrid summer-days, from early morning till late at night, the old pump-handle has but little rest; for, though in a season of drought the neighboring wells are apt to run low, the ancient pump, like a steadfast friend, never fails at such a time of need.
Near at hand, in the centre of a foot-worn circle, a stout wooden post stands by itself, which, in spite of its homely aspect, may well be termed a Pillar of the State. It is one of the institutions of the Commonwealth, established by an act of the General Assembly. Here, with torn corners fluttering in the wind, hang weather-stained probate notices, mildewed town-meeting warnings, and tattered placards of sheriff's sales; for no estate can be settled, no land set off or chattel sold on execution, no legal meeting of the voters or freemen holden, without previous notice on the sign-post. It used to be known by another name, and marks the spot, where, whilom, petty thieves, shiftless vagrants, and other small offenders against the majesty of the law, were wont to suffer a shameful penalty for their vile misdeeds.
On the western side of the square, on the summit of the grassy slope, stands the Presbyterian meeting-house, flanked on one side by the academy, and on the other by the court-house. There are, besides, two other places of worship in the village; but neither is built upon the square; and when, at Belfield, the meeting-house is mentioned, the speaker is understood to indicate by that title the edifice which stands between the academy and the court-house, and not the plain, square structure, with neither steeple nor bell, in which the Baptists assemble for worship, nor the little white Methodist chapel in the lane, with green blinds to its windows, and a little toy of a turret, scarcely bigger than a martin-box, upon its shingled roof.
The quaint style and old-fashioned aspect of Belfield meeting-house attest its venerable age. For more than a hundred years its slender spire has glowed in the ruddy beams of early dawn, and cast at sunset its lengthening shadow across the village green. A century ago, the mellow tones of its Sabbath bell, echoing through the valley, summoned the pious congregation to their austere devotions. Before the worn threshold of the great double-leaved door, in the broadside of the building, lies a platform, which was once a solid shelf of red sandstone, but now is cracked in twain, and hollowed by the footsteps of six generations. In the very spot where it now lies it has lain ever since the first framed meeting-house was built in Belfield, in the reign of good King William III. There, gathered in a little knot, on Sundays and public days, the forefathers of the settlement used to talk over the current news; how the first Port Royal expedition had failed; or how New England militiamen, without aid from home, had captured the great fortress of Louisburg, after a brief and glorious siege. There, still later, the sons of these men rejoiced at the news of Wolfe's victory, and sorrowfully related the sad intelligence of Braddock's shameful defeat. There stood their grandsons, a flushed, excited throng of hardy yeomen, clinching their fists unconsciously, and breathing hard and fast, as they listened to the tidings of the fight at Concord Bridge. Here, during the war that followed, when troops were mustered before marching off to camp, the roll used to be called upon this very stone. No town of its size in all New England contributed a larger number to the ranks of the Continental army than did Belfield. One hot summer, all the unwonted toils and unbefitting cares of haying and harvest fell upon the little boys and women and a few old gray-haired men, whose aged limbs had long before earned the right to rest. In all Belfield there was not a male able to bear arms who was not gone to camp. Some war-worn veterans lived to return; and many a Sunday noon, in later years, sitting here, upon the broad doorstone of the meeting-house, they used to tell over the stories of their battles and campaigns, until the sound from the belfry overhead, and the sight of the minister approaching from the parsonage, with stately pace and solemn aspect, would check the flowing current of their talk, and recall their thoughts to subjects more in keeping with the holy Sabbath-day. But some of the friends and comrades of these brave men never came home; their bones lie mouldering beneath the turf at White Plains, at Saratoga, at Brandywine, and at Princeton. Some perished with cold and hunger at Valley Forge; some died of fever in the horrible Old Sugar-house; some rotted alive in the Jersey prison-hulk; some lie buried under the gloomy walls of Dartmoor; and some there were whose fate was never known.
It was the custom, formerly, to hold all meetings for the transaction of public business in the sanctuary. None, not even the most piously fastidious parson or deacon, ever thought of being shocked at what in these degenerate times would seem like a gross desecration of the house of God. There were fewer Pharisees in Belfield a hundred years ago than now. To the Puritans, and to all their descendants, until of late, their places of worship were not churches, but meeting-houses merely; and by the stout-hearted men who used to dwell in New England it would have been deemed a heresy near akin to idolatry itself, or at least savoring strongly of the damnable errors of the Romish Church, to hold that wood and stones, carved and fashioned by the hand of man, could be hallowed by an empty rite of consecration.
On these week-day occasions, therefore, no part of the house was kept sacred from the world. Even the pulpit itself would have been given up to secular uses, but that, being so lofty, it was found to be an inconvenient position for the moderator's chair. So this important functionary was accustomed, from time immemorial, to take his place in the deacons' seat, below, with the warning of the meeting, the statute-book, and the ballot-boxes arranged before him on the communion-table, which in course of time became so banged and battered, by dint of lusty gavel-strokes, that there was scarcely a place big enough to put one's finger upon which was not bruised and dented. For, in the days of the fierce conflict between the Federalists and Democrats, the meetings were often noisy and disorderly; and once, even, at the memorable election of 1818, two hot-headed partisans from sharp words fell to blows, and others joining in the fray, the skirmish became at length a general engagement. The recurrence of a scene like this, upon the same stage, is never to be expected. The meeting-house has been set apart for religious uses exclusively, since its interior was thoroughly altered and remodelled, the tall pulpit replaced by one of modern style, the sounding-board removed, the aisles carpeted, and the square, old-fashioned pews changed for cushioned slips.
In the rear, a little way off, is a row of ugly sheds, yawning towards the street, where, on Sundays, the farmers who come from a distance tie their beasts, each in his separate stall. In hot days, in the summer time, when all the doors and windows of the meeting-house are set wide open, the hollow sound of horses' stamping mingles with the preacher's drowsy tones, and sometimes the congregation is startled from repose by the shrill squeal of some unlucky brute, complaining of the torture inflicted by the sharp teeth of its ill-natured mate or vicious neighbor; or, perhaps, the flutter of fans is suspended at the obstreperous neigh by which some anxious dam recalls the silly foal that has strayed from her side; or the dissonant creaking of a cramped wheel makes doleful interludes between the verses of the hymn. Here naughty boys, escaped from the confinement of the sanctuary, are wont to lounge in the wagons during prayer and sermon time, munching green pears and apples, devouring huge bunches of fennel, dill, and caraway, comparing and swapping jackknives, or striving, by means of cautious hems and whispers, and other sly signals, to attract the notice of their more decent fellows sitting near the open gallery-windows.
When the black doors of the little dingy building not far from the south end of the horse-sheds are seen standing open, it is a pretty sure sign that somebody lies dead in the parish. In this gloomy place the sexton keeps his dismal apparatus,—the hearse, with its curtains of rusty sable, the bier, the spades and shovels for digging graves; and in a corner lies a coil of soiled ropes, whose rasping sound, as they slipped through the coffin-handles, while the bearers lowered the corpse into the earth, has grated harshly on many a shuddering mourner's ear. The leaves of the hearse-house door are fastened together by a hasp and pin, so that any one may enter at will. But there is no need of bolts and bars. The boys, at play, in the evening, at "I spy" or "hide and seek," never go there for concealment, although their smothered whoops may be heard issuing from every other dark corner in the neighborhood.
The narrow space between the hearse-house and the sheds forms a short lane or passage-way, through which all the funeral processions pass from the street into the burying-ground, lying behind the sheds, on the western slope of the ridge upon which the village stands. This ancient cemetery was laid out by the early settlers, when they made the first allotments of land. It is a square area of two acres in extent, inclosed by a mossy picket paling, so rickety that the neighbors' sheep sometimes leap through the gaps from the adjacent pastures, and feed among the graves upon the long grass and nettles.
The lower portion of the graveyard is set apart as a sort of potter's-field, where negroes, Indians, and stranger-paupers are buried. This region is bordered by a little jungle of poke-berry and elder-bushes, sumachs and brambles, so dense and thrifty that they overtop and hide the fence; and there is a tradition among the school-boys, that somewhere in the copse there is a black-snake hole, the abode of an enormous monster, upon whom no one, however, has ever happened to set eyes. Here, with but few exceptions, the graves are marked only by low mounds of turf, overrun with matted wild-blackberry vines, where the lightest footstep, crushing through the crumbling sod, destroys the labors of whole colonies of ants. But farther up the hillside, headstones and monuments stand so close together, that, at a distance, there seems to be scarcely room for another grave.
Near the summit lie the early settlers of the town; and in a conspicuous place upon the brow of the acclivity stands a row of tombstones several rods in length. These mark the graves of an ancient and honorable family of townsfolk. At one end, a thick slab of red sandstone, of uncouth shape and rude appearance, leans aslant, partly buried in the mellow soil. The moss and lichens, with which its roughly cut back and edges are overgrown, have been removed from its face, and the quaint inscription is distinctly legible, whereby the curious idler is informed that "Here lies, in y'e Hope of a Joyfull Resurrecion, y'e Body of Maj'r Iohn Bugbee, an Assistant of y'e Colony & A Iustice of y'e Peace. Born at Austerfield, in y'e County of Lincoln, England. Dyed Feb. y'e 9 AD. 1699 Æ. 72." Close by the side of this venerable grave is another, which the stone at its head announces to be the resting-place of "Mistress Mindwell Bugbee—Consort of Maj'r Iohn Bugbee and youngest Daut: of Sir Roger Braxley, of Braxley Hall, Lincolnshire, England." Then follow, in order of time, the headstones which mark the graves of successive generations descended from this worthy couple. Some of these are so defaced and weather-worn, that in aspect they seem even more venerable than the monuments of the founders of the race. Nearly all of those erected before the beginning of the present century bear quaint devices,—some of cherubs, all wings, and blank, staring faces; some of hour-glasses, some of masonic emblems, and upon one of two are rudely carved, ugly death's heads and crossbones. Two thirds of the way down the line stands the first marble headstone. It is taller than its neighbors, and, though spotted with weather stains, it bears a deeply graven inscription, which seems as legible as the day it was cut, full forty years ago. In the grave at the foot of this stone lies buried another Major Bugbee, the great-great-grandson of the first Major. The commission of this gentleman, signed by John Hancock, President of the Continental Congress, still hangs in a frame against the wainscot, over the mantel, in the parlor of the great gambrel-roofed house, whose front-yard fence and garden palings form, for almost half the way, the eastern side of the village square. The late master of this dwelling, Doctor Bugbee, who was the eldest son of the Continental major, lies at the end of the long platoon of dead, in the newest grave of all the range, over which a marble obelisk has been erected, in memory of the name and many virtues of the deceased, who departed this life, as the inscription attests, on the 7th day of September, 1843, in the fifty-seventh year of his age.
Near by this spot, with its drooping boughs shading the monument I have just described, grows a weeping-willow tree, of such great size, that its top, from half way up, can be plainly discerned from almost every corner of the village green; and it is, withal, of such perfect symmetry of form, that on a moonlight night it resembles a fountain, as its leaves, fluttering in the breezy air, and turning their silver linings to the moonbeams, seem to sparkle like spray and drops of falling water. Behind this tree is placed a rustic bench, where, on a pleasant day in June, one may sit and look forth upon as pretty a landscape as can be seen in all Hillsdale County, or, for that matter, in all the State as well. Before you lies the declivity of the hill upon which the village stands. At its foot begins a verdant plain of interval meadows, dotted here and there with graceful elms and stately hickories, each standing alone in its ring of shadow, the turf everywhere bespangled with dandelions and buttercups, and changing its hue from shade to shade of vivid green, as the wind sweeps over the thick growing verdure. Through these meadows flows a sluggish brook, in broad meandering curves, crossed at each turn by rustic farm-bridges, with clumps of trees fringing the deeper pools. The plain is skirted by a country road, bordered with majestic trees, and with farm-houses standing all along its winding course. Beyond, the land rises, and the slope is checkered, to the foot of the hills, with arable fields. The view is bounded by the craggy sides of the great hills which separate this quiet vale from the broad valley of the Connecticut. Here, all is soft and tranquil beauty. But just beyond the rugged barrier of those western hills lies a grander landscape, of wide extent, through which flows New England's greatest river, and crossed from end to end by New England's busiest thoroughfares, dusty with the tread of commerce, and bordered with growing cities and thrifty, bustling towns. Here, reclining on this rustic bench, in the shadow of the willow branches, among the tombstones of the silent dead, you may dream away the sultry afternoon, and hear no sounds but drowsy noises that dispose to rest and quiet; the whispering of the wind in the treetops, the droning pipe of grasshoppers and locusts, the distant cries of teamsters to their cattle, the shouts of children loitering home from school or gathering berries in the sunny fields, the whetting of a scythe in a far-off meadow, or the music of the blacksmith's hammer upon his ringing anvil.
Four times a year, during the brief terms of court, the usual stillness that pervades the sober village is enlivened by the presence of a scanty crowd. Then, for a week, judges, jurors, suitors, and witnesses flock together; and sometimes, in the winter season, when farm work is not pressing, the neighbors throng by scores into the court-house, to hear the wordy harangues of the lawyers in some notable cause. Likewise on town-meeting days, the stores and tavern bar-rooms about the square are filled with a concourse of the sovereign people from the more rural districts; and at the annual cattle show and fair all Hillsdale comes up to Belfield. Then, I warrant you, if it chance to be a pleasant Indian-summer day, there is indeed a crowd, and for a while the little capital contains a greater number of living souls than all the county besides. From early twilight till sunset blazes on the western hills the square and street are densely thronged. A Babel of strange noises fills the dusty air: the lowing of cows and oxen; the bellowing of frightened calves; the plaintive bleating of bewildered lambs; the fierce neighing of excited horses; the yelping of curs; the crowing of imprisoned cocks, responding to each other's defiant notes; the sing-song clamor of itinerant auctioneers, standing on their wagons and displaying their tempting wares to the little knots around them; the din and hubbub of the busy, moving, talking, jostling multitude,—shouts, laughs, cries, murmurs, all mingled together, till confusion harmonizes; and above all, the constant clanking of the iron handle of the old town-pump, which never ceases all the livelong day. At nightfall the uproar lessens, and as the evening wanes, the unaccustomed sounds diminish, though till midnight, ever and anon, the tired and sleepy citizens are startled from their dreams by whoops, hurrahs, snatches of songs, and outbursts of rude laughter ringing through the frosty air and mingling with the clattering of horses' feet and the whirring rumble of swift-revolving wheels, as some party of roystering blades, excited by deep potations, drive shouting homewards from the village inns.
Excepting on these unfrequent occasions, Belfield Green is as free from bustle as if it were a hamlet whose name was never seen upon a map. The time has been, however, when it was a busy little mart, the centre of trade for an extensive district. In yonder low-roofed store that stands upon the square, near by the great gambrel-roofed house of which mention has already been made, the second Major Bugbee increased a handsome patrimony till it grew to be a great estate; the share of which that fell to his two eldest sons, the Doctor and his younger brother, James, they in time, by gainful traffic in the same old place, made more than equal to the entire estate, of which a quarter only came to them. Thousands and tens of thousands of tons of golden butter and cheese, hundreds of thousands of bushels of rye, oats, flaxseed, buckwheat, and corn, millions of eggs and skeins of linen and woollen yarn have been bartered at Belfield Green by the country folks, in exchange for rum, molasses, tea, coffee, salt, and codfish, enough to freight the royal navy. Time was when folks came twenty miles to Belfield post-office, and when a dusty miller and his men, at the old red mill standing on the brook at the foot of the valley, took toll from half the grists in Hillsdale County. But that was long ago, when people who lived twenty miles away from Hartford went to the city scarcely twice in a dozen years,—in the good old days of turnpikes, stage-coaches, and wayside taverns, before railroads were built to carry all the trade to great, overgrown towns and cities. Now-a-days, as I have said, it is hard to find a village of its size and rank in all the land, which is more quiet, at ordinary times, than Belfield Green.
