New England Farm-house

Nothing can be quieter or more refreshing, after a winter'svisiting at Boston or New York, than such an abode in a countryvillage as I made trial of last May. The weeks slipped away onlytoo fast. Dr. and Mrs. F., their little boy, six years old, andmyself, were fortunate enough to prevail with a farmer's widow atStockbridge, Massachusetts, to take us into her house. The housewas conspicuous from almost every part of the sweet valley intowhich it looked; the valley of the Housatonic. It was at the topof a steep hill; a sort of air palace. From our parlour windowswe could see all that went on in the village; and I often foundit difficult to take off my attention from this kind of spying.It was tempting to trace the horseman's progress along the road,which wound among the meadows, and over the bridge. It wastempting to watch the neighbours going in and out, and thechildren playing in the courts, or under the tall elms; all thepeople looking as small and busy as ants upon a hillock. Onweek-days there was the ox-team in the field; and on Sundays thegathering at the church-door. The larger of the two churchesstood in the middle of a green, with stalls behind it for thehorses and vehicles which brought the church-goers from adistance. It was a pretty sight to see them converging from everypoint in the valley, so that the scene was all alive; and thendisappear for the space of an hour and a half, as if anearthquake had swallowed up all life; and then pour out from thechurch door, and, after grouping on the green for a few minutes,betake themselves homewards. Monument Mountain reared itselfopposite to us, with its thick woods, and here and there a greycrag protruding. Other mountains closed in the valley, one ofwhich treated us for some nights with the spectacle of aspreading fire in its woods. From the bases of these hills, up toour very door-step, there was one bright carpet of green. Everything,houses, trees, churches, were planted down into this green, sothat there was no interruption but the one road, and the bluemazy Housatonic. The softness of the scene, early in a Maymorning, or when the sun was withdrawing, could not be surpassedby anything seen under a Greek or Italian sky. Sometimes I couldscarcely believe it real: it looked air-painted, cloud-moulded.

It was as a favour that the widow Jones* took us in. She doesnot let lodgings. She opened her house to us, and made us a partof her family. Two of her daughters were at home, and a marriedson lived at hand. We had a parlour, with three windows,commanding different views of the valley: two good-sizedchambers, conveniently furnished, and a large closet between; ourboard with the family, and every convenience that could beprovided: and all for two dollars per week each, and half pricefor the child. She was advised to ask more, but she refused, asshe did not wish to be "grasping." It was a merryafternoon when we followed the wagon up the hill to our newabode, and unpacked, and settled ourselves for our long-expectedmonth of May. Never was unpacking a pleasanter task.

The blossomy cherry-tree beside my chamber window was thefirst object I saw in the morning when I threw up the sash; andbeneath it was a broad fallow, over which the blue jay flitted.By this window there was an easy chair and a light table, a mostluxurious arrangement for reading. We breakfasted at half-pastseven on excellent bread, potatoes, hung beef, eggs, and strongtea. We admitted no visitors during the forenoon, as our theorywas that we were very busy people. Writing and reading did occupymuch of our time, but it was surprising how much was left for theexercise of our tongues. Then there were visits to be made to thepost-office, and the crockery store, and the cobbler; and Charleyfound occasion to burst in, a dozen times a-day, with a bunch ofviolets, or news of the horse or cow, or of the ride he had had,or of the oxen in the field.

We all dined together at two. One of the daughters absentedherself at breakfast, that she might arrange our rooms; but bothwere present at dinner, dressed, and ready for their afternoon'soccupation of working and reading. One was fond of flowers, andhad learned a great deal about them. She was skilful in dryingthem, aud could direct us to the places in the woods and meadowswhere they grew. Some members of the family, more literary thanthe rest, were gone westward; but there was a taste for booksamong them all. I often saw a volume on the table of the widow'sparlour, with her spectacles in it. She told me, one day, of hersatisfaction in her children, that they were given to goodpursuits, and all received church members. All young people inthese villages are more or less instructed. Schooling isconsidered a necessary of life. I happened to be looking over anold almanack one day, when I found, among the directions relatingto the preparations for winter on a farm, the following:"Secure your cellars from frost. Fasten loose clap-boardsand shingles. Secure a good school-master." It seemeddoubtful, at the first glance, whether some new farming utensilhad not been thus whimsically named; as the brass plate whichhooks upon the fender, or upper bar of the grate, is called"the footman;" but the context clearly showed that aman with learning in his head was the article required to beprovided before the winter. The only respect, as far as I know,in which we made our kind hostess uneasy, was in our neglect ofCharley's book-studies. Charley's little head was full ofknowledge of other kinds; but the widow's children had all knownmore of the produce of the press at his age than he; and she hada few anxious thoughts about him.

In the afternoon we rambled abroad, if the weather was fine;if rainy, we lighted our wood fire, and pursued our employmentsof the morning, not uncheered by a parting gleam from the west; abar of bright yellow sky above the hill tops, or a gush of goldenlight burnishing the dewy valley at the last. Our walks werealong the hill road to the lake, on the way to Lenox, or throughthe farmyard and wood to a tumbling brook in a small ravine. Wetried all manner of experiments with moss, stones, and twigs,among its sunny and shadowy reaches, and tiny falls. We hunted upmarsh flowers, wood anemones, and violets, and unfolded thedelicate ferns, still closely buttoned up, and waiting for thefull power of the summer sun. It was some trouble to me, inAmerica, that I could not get opportunity to walk so much as Ithink necessary to health. It is not the custom there: partlyowing to the climate, the extreme heat of summer, and cold ofwinter; and partly to the absence of convenient and pretty walksin and about the cities; a want which, I trust, will be suppliedin time. In Stockbridge much pedestrian exercise may be and isaccomplished; and I took the opportunity of indulging in it, muchto the surprise of some persons, who were not aware how Englishladies can walk. One very warm afternoon, we were going on avisit to Lenox, five miles off. My friends went in a wagon; Ipreferred walking. The widow's son watched me along the road, andthen remarked, "You will see no more of her till you get toLenox. I would not walk off at that rate, if they gave me Lenoxwhen I got there."

In the evenings, we made a descent upon the village, or thevillage came up to us. In the latter case, our hostess was alwaysready with a simple and graceful welcome, and her best endeavoursto provide seats for our many friends. If we staid below tillafter nine, the family had gone to rest on our return. We hadonly to lift the latch, light our candles, and make our way tothe milk-pans, if we were thirsty. For twenty-five years, thewidow has lived on the top of her hill, with only a latch to herdoor. She sleeps undefended, for she has no enemies; and in hervillage there are no thieves.

One night, when we were visiting some friends in the valley,it was brought home to us what it is to live in a place wherethere are no hackney coaches, or other travelling shelter. Whenwe should have been going home, it was a tremendous spring-storm;wind, thunder and lightning, and rain in floods. We waited long;but it seemed to have no intention of abating. When at length wedid set out, we were a remarkable looking troop; a gentlemanlyyoung lawyer in a pea jacket; the other gentlemen in the roughestcoats that could be found; the ladies leaving bonnets and capsbehind, with handkerchiefs over their heads, India-rubbers ontheir feet, their dresses tucked up, and cloaks swathed roundthem. Our party were speeded up the hill by the fear that Charleywould be wakened and alarmed by the storm; but it was abreathless sort of novelty to be working our way through onecontinued pond to the foot of the hill, and then up the slipperyascent, unbonneted, with the strangling gust in our faces, and nopossibility of our finding our way in the pitchy darkness but bythe flashes of blue lightning. Well clad as we were, we felt, Ibelieve, something like being paupers, or gentry of the highway,or some such houseless personages exposed to the pelting of thepitiless storm. Charley was found to be sound asleep, and weourselves no worse off than being steeped over the ankles.

The time came too soon when I must leave the beloved village,when I must see no longer the morning baking and the eveningmilking; and the soap cauldron boiling in the open air behind thehouse, with Charley mounted on a log, peeping into it ; and thereading and working, and tying up of flowers in the afternoon.The time was come when the motherly and sisterly kiss were readyfor me, and my country life in New England was at an end. It iswell for us that our best pleasures have an immortality like ourown; that the unseen life is a glorification of the seen. But forthis, no one with a human heart would travel abroad, and attachhimself to scenes and persons which he cannot but love, but whichhe must leave.

It was not always that the villagers of New England couldplace themselves on hill tops, and leave their doors unfastened.There is a striking contrast between their present security andthe fears of their forefathers, in the days when the nurslingwent to church, because it was unsafe at home, in the absence ofits father. Father, mother, and children, all went on one horseto meet the total population within the walls of the church; theone parent armed, the other prying about for traces of thefearful red man. Those were the days when the English regicideshad fled to the colonies, and were there secreted. Those were thedays when anything that was to be made known to all was announcedin church, because everybody was sure to be there; and a fast-daywas ordained if anything very remarkable was to be done, orconveyed. Sometimes formal announcements were made; sometimesintimations were so interwoven with the texture of the discourse,as that unfriendly ears, if such should be present, should notapprehend the meaning. When any emissary of Charles the Secondwas prowling in search of a concealed regicide, the pastorpreached from some such text as, "Hide the outcasts. Bewraynot him that wandereth;"** and the flock understood thatthey were to be on their guard against spies. Charles the Secondcould never get hold of one of his enemies who had taken refugein these colonies.

On looking abroad over the valley of the Connecticut, from thetop of Mount Holyoke, I saw the village of Hadley, seated in themeadows, and extending across a promontory, formed by the windingof the river. This promontory afforded a secure grazing groundfor the cattle by day, which were driven by night into the areaof the village, where the church stood. Goffe, the regicide, wasconcealed for many years in the parsonage at Hadley; all thepeople in the village, except two or three, being, in thisinstance, unaware of an outcast being among them. One Sunday, theIndians attacked the village while the people were all in~church. The women and children were left in the church, whiletheir husbands, fathers, and brothers went out to do battle withthe cruel foe. It went hard with the whites; the Indians werefast bearing them down, when an unknown figure appeared in theirranks, with flowing robes, streaming white hair, and a glitteringsword. The cry was raised that the angel Gabriel had been sent inanswer to the prayers of the women in the church. Every spiritvas cheered, every arm was nerved, and the Indians were beatenoff, with great slaughter. Upon this, Gabriel vanished; buttradition long preserved the memory of his miraculous appearance.The very few who recognized in him Goffe, with his undressedhair, and in his morning gown, kept the secret faithfully. Howblessed a change has come over rural life in Massachusetts sincethose days! Never may its peace and security be invaded by thosesocial abuses which are more hateful than foreign spies; morecruel and treacherous than the injured and exasperated red man ofthe wilderness!

ENDNOTES:

* I know not why I should suppress a name that I honour.

** Isiaiah xvi. 3.

From Harriet Martineau, Society in America, VolumeI, Part II, - Economy, (Section III) - "New EnglandFarm-house." London: Saunders and Otley, 1837, pp. 260-270.

Forward to Society in America, Part II,- Economy, (Section IV) - "West Country Life."

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