CHAPTER XVII.
The great Snow-storm—A quotation from Samuel—Recollections of Town—What
we then thought—A Song—Scraps in a Commonplace-book—An old epistle—
And anticipations.
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This has been a great snow-storm. Since we
have lived in the country we have had two great
snow-storms. A snow-storm in the city, with its
motley panorama, is a curious spectacle, but a snow-storm
in the country is sublime. The harmony of
a winter landscape always inspires me with a sweet
and melancholy gravity, exceeding, in its profound
tranquillity, any emotion derived from a mere transitory
flush of joy. The soul rests amid the hush
and calm. Nature itself,—restless, industrious
nature—at last reposes, in a sort of frozen rapture.
One does not wish to hear, at all hours, the pleasant
jargon of sleigh-bells, let them ring never so
melodiously: it is good, sometimes, to shut out the
noisy carnival, to enjoy the broader winter of the
country, with feelings akin to those the hardy
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navigator experiences amid the strange solitudes of the
Arctic. Look at the crags opposite, muffled breast
high in snow, and the broad river with its myriad ice-islands.
Look at the leagues of coldness, stretching
northward until the vision rests upon the crescent
line of hills glowing like sunset-clouds upon the
borders of the Tappan-Zee. Look up at the bright
sun of winter in his cerulean dome above, and
at the fair country around us, within the horizon's
blue ring, and say, if it be not a good thing to have
a snow-storm in Westchester County. Thou ancient
Dorp of Yonkers! I love thee with a love passing
the love of women.
The ambiguit of this last expression gave rise
to a novel train of ideas in the mind of Mrs. Sparrowgrass,
upon which I immediately turned to the
twenty-sixth verse of the first chapter of Samuel II.,
and read therefrom the exquisite lines I had so happily
quoted.
“It is a good thing to live in the country,” said
I; “this is something different from what we had
surmised in the little back parlor in Avenue G,
Mrs. Sparrowgrass. Do you not remember how we
used to anticipate rural felicity?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass
replied, she remembered it very well. “It is
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not precisely what we had pictured to ourselves,
is it?
“When a little farm we keep,
And have little girls and boys,
With little pigs and sheep,
To make a little noise,
Oh what happy, happy days we'll see,
With the children sitting, sitting on our knee.”
“Not precisely,” echoed Mrs. S., “but still I like
it as it is. To think of going back to the city now,
is to think of moving into a prison. Yet there was
something cheerful in the little house in town, too.
There was a gas-lamp in front of the door, that
even in stormy weather threw out its friendly ray,
and I used to think it good company to have it
always burning before the window, and shining up
through the blinds. Then your library was quite a
jewel in its way, with the brilliant jet of light
over the table—and the rows of gilt books—
and the pictures on the walls—and the brackets,
niches, and busts, and statuettes, and pieces of
armor, and bows, and spears, and stag-horns, all
looking so bright and pleasant. I do not think this
one lights up so well as that did.” “Not with two
candles and a wood fire?” said I. “No,” replied
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Mrs. S., “it is not so bright as that little town
library.” “Then,” said I, “permit me to substitute,
my dear, the word `cosy,' as suggestive of the
impression one has in entering this bookery.” “That
will do very well,” replied Mrs. S., “I am not making
comparisons, but you must remember we were
very happy in that little house in town. We had
a great many friends there.” “So we had.” “A
great many friends, and a great many pleasant days,
and pleasant evenings, especially in winter, when we
had little pop visits from our neighbors.” “Yes, Mrs.
S.,” remarked I, “but if I remember truly, there
was one winter which of all others seems to me the
brightest and the cheerfullest.” “Which one was
that?” said Mrs. S. “The last one we passed in
town,” I replied, with great impressiveness of manner,
“the winter of anticipations—when we were
laying out our plans for living in the country.”
To this Mrs. Sparrowgrass answered by smoothing
her hair with her thimble, and putting on an
expression of wonderful contentment. “I wish,”
said she, after a pause, “I could remember all we
talked about in those days, and all we had pictured
to ourselves about it. I know that when anybody
came in it was the constant topic of conversation,
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and I know when we were alone, how much you
were engaged with your plans for the new house.
And then, too, whenever you wrote a letter, there
was always something to say about leaving town,
and whenever you received a letter, there was
always a great deal of congratulation, and a great
deal of advice, and a great many inquiries as to
whether there was any fever and ague in the district.
Then, too, you had a little song which you
sang once or twice to the children, which I have
never heard you sing since, and which I have forgotten,
and which I would not have remembered
but for your speaking of our little house in town,
where we were certainly very, very happy.”
“What,” said I, “forgotten my song, Mrs. Sparrowgrass?
Forgotten my song? Then I mean to sing
it if I have any voice left.” So after a few preliminary
attempts I commenced it. But, alas! my
memory gave out with the first two lines, so I had
to take down my old commonplace book where I
found these reminiscent lines.
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OH, A COUNTRY HOME FOR ME!
Air—Jeanette and Jeannot.
Oh, a country home for me! where the clover blossoms blow;
And the robin builds his nest in the old cherry bough;
Where the roses, and the honey-buds are clinging to the wall,
Each a perfumed cup of jewels when the rain-drops fall.
Where the leaves and lights are blending,
And the swallows soar and sing,
And the iron chain and bucket drips
Above the silver spring:
Oh, a country home for me! etc.
When the sun is in the west, and the winds are lulled to rest,
And the babe sleeps on its mother's arm, the robin in her nest;
When the cottage taper twinkles through the lattice, and the
gloom
Of the dusky trellis roses, and the woodbine's bloom:
When the moon is on the wave,
And the shadows in the grove,
How sweet to wander side by side
With those we dearly love:
Oh, a country home for me! etc.
“I am so glad you have found it,” said Mrs.
S. “It quite reminds me of old times. But it
seems to me in a few places the lines might be
improved; for instance,
“Where the swallows soar and sing.”
“True,” said I, interrupting further criticism,
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“that line could never have been written in the
country; swallows soar not, neither do they sing,
but still we will let the lines remain, as they shadow
forth the idea of what we thought of the country,
when we lived in town. Here,” I continued, turning
over some yellow paper, and tumbling out a wilderness
of scraps that were lying perdue between the
pages, “here are a few more scraps of anticipation,
odds and ends of hope, minutes of dead-reckoning.
Look now at that list of climbing plants! It was certainly
my intention to get each and every one, and
if I had, what a gorgeous show the cottage would
have made by this time: the bower of roses, “by
Bendemeer's stream,” would have been nothing to
it. Then look here; another list! Rural ornaments
for gardens, rustic vases, hanging flower-pots, urns,
sun-dials, kiosks, arbors, terrace-work, rock-work,
and as I live a fountain! Think of it; a fountain,
with a pool of goldfish below to catch the shredded
silver—
“And in the midst, fresh whistling through the scene,
A lightsome fountain starts from out the green,
Clear and compact, till, at its height o'er-run,
It shakes its loosening silver in the sun.”
“How beautiful that would have been, viewed
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through a vista of stately trees, with a grand
arched gate at the end, and a pair of stone lions
after Canova—one on either side.” “All fancy,”
said Mrs. S. “All fancy,” I echoed, “and not all
fancy.” Here are more scraps of the same kind.
Memoranda, Downing's Rural Architecture, Landscape
Gardening—a few hints from Lord Bacon.
Mem. “have a bed of Shakspeare flowers,”
—Daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver-white,
And cuckoo buds of yellow hue.
Those I mean to have, and rosemary for remembrance!
and `pansies for thoughts,' and columbines.”
“That would be charming.” “Charming?
so it would. And now look at this practical bundle
of hints cut from newspapers—the careful gleanings
from the harvests of the Evening Post—the
articles marked, “Agricultural,” in that excellent
paper. “There Mrs. S., I have read everything in
that bundle religiously, and if I had an estate, twice
the size of this county, it would be scarcely large
enough to cultivate turnips in, according to the
various methods proposed by those agricultural
articles, and as for the potato, I will venture to say
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the Greeks and Trojans around the dead body
of Protoclus, could scarcely vie in zeal with the
champions of the Evening Post that contest the
palm around that famous root. True? It is true;
in our more modern days, such a contest here might,
perhaps, be limited to the un-warlike columns that
muster under the editorial Generalissimo, but, nevertheless,
it is likewise true that there is enough
partisan spirit displayed in those antagonistic
paragraphs, marked `potato,' to breed a rebellion
in Ireland, Mrs. Sparrowgrass, in twenty-four
hours.”
“Whew! look here, another relic of the past.
A draft of a letter to a friend h'm—h'm—
“For my part, I begin to weary of artificial life,
and sigh for the Great Mother (this is from the
city you know, to a friend in the country). I see
the waving of trees, but they are rooted in a
church-yard (St Mark's) or grow up between flagstones:
I hear the melody of birds, but they are
pewter canaries at sixpence apiece. I am tired
of water `running up and down and through
my lady's chamber,' I want to see it rise like a
naiad dripping from a well. I am weary of stone
steps, and have a sort of green sickness for rustic
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porches clambered over with vines; I sigh for
flowers other than artificial; and do much desire to
look upon the rain, not as an inconvenience, but as
a blessing to the crops,
THEREFORE
I'd kind o'like to have a cot
Fixed on some sunny slope; a spot
Five acres more or less;
With maples, cedars, chesnut trees,
And poplars whitening in the breeze.
'Twould suit my taste, I guess,
To have the porch with vines o'erclung,
With pendant bells of woodbine swung,
In every bell a bee;
And round my latticed window spread
A clump of roses, white and red.
To solace mine and me,
I kind o'think I should desire
To hear about the lawn a choir
Of wood-birds singing sweet;
And in a dell, I'd have a brook
Where I might sit and read my book.
Such should be my retreat;
Far from the city's crowds and noise
Where I could rear my girls and boys,—
I have some two or three,
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And if kind Heaven should bless my store
With five, or six, or seven more,
How happy I would be.
“There, Mrs. S., take those papers and put
them away with the old love-letters, and the rest
of the bye-gones. Some day you will take them
out again; perhaps, to read to another generation—?
Quien sabe?'
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Cozzens, Frederic S. (Frederic Swartwout), 1818-1869 [1856], The sparrowgrass papers, or, Living in the country. (Derby & Jackson, New York) [word count] [eaf529T].
