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.
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 234 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 ambiguity 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 235 not precisely what we had pictured to ourselves, is it?
“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 236 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, 237 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.
238“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;
“True,” said I, interrupting further criticism, 239 “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 the catch the shredded silver —
“How beautiful that would have been, viewed 240 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,”
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 these agricultural articles, and as for the potato, I will venture to say 241 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 242 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,
“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?”