USA > Massachusetts > Hampden County > Picturesque Hampshire : a supplement to the quarter-centennial-journal > Part 11
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the middle of the decorative design is the name "Anna Tower," in clear, large let- ters to arouse one's curiosity. Across the hallway is the south room, which matches the parlor in size and form- erly matched it in decora- tion, but a coat of whitewash has since marred its beauty. Between the windows here, there used to be the name "Stephen Tower," matching the one in the parlor. He was the owner of the place and Anna Tower was his wife.
The house is of little use now save for storage, though a party of campers took pos- session of it for two summers recently, and from the noise they made while at home it was to be presumed they thoroughly enjoyed the old place. A few years more seem destined to make it a gaunt, broken-in .ruin, a home for bats and the little animals of the fields. A dis-
mal end, perhaps, and it may be it were best we look not at it too closely, but rather turn our eyes backward, and so if these notes serve to throw a few rays of sunshine from the more cheerful past about the decaying present they have answered their purpose. C. J.
CHILDHOOD RECOLLECTIONS OF BRYANT.
"Very few people ever get so near his heart," said an old friend of William Cullen Bryant, as the poet pranced past the window, across the lawn, with a tiny, tonseled girl perched upon his shoulder. Clinging by one encircling arm around the venerable head, with the other she emphasized her shrieks of de- light while beating a vigorous tattoo with little heels on the watch-pocket below.
It was the climax of one of the many romps we had together during the two months of vacation which Bryant spent each year at the old home in his native town. Shy and unapproachable with the neighboring families, often reticent with those who knew him best, I found always a smile and kind word, even though I brought my mud pies to his study to be admired when he was hard
NOVEMBER AT THE BRYANT PLACE.
at work. Sometimes he tossed me into his waste basket and taking it to the door tilted it until I rolled out and knew that I must run away. Again he told me that I might stay if I would not talk -- a sentence which he well knew would soon deprive him of my company-and then placing me on one corner of his writing table would read to me such queer words from books in which the letters all looked dizzy. Then all would be still save the scratching of his pen as it flew over the paper till I slipped off the table and out into the sunshine, or, having been very good, was rewarded by having both hands filled with "goodies " from the glass jar in the cupboard under the book shelves and munched contentedly while he wrote. Years afterward I learned that those queer words were Greek and that this was how Bryant translated the Iliad and the Odyssey. One rainy day after long hours of work with the study door shut tight he found me waiting as he came out and what a famous romp we had out on the piazza and through the halls, till he caught me and held me fast to rest. I nestled down and began " One, two," to which he re- plied, "Buckle my shoe," and humoring my whim
"NEBUCHADNEZZAR."
ONE END OF THE BRYANT WALL.
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PICTURESQUE HAMPSHIRE.
BRYANT'S BIRTHPLACE,
answered with original rhymes as I counted, far be- yond the Mother Goose limit. Child lore would have been greatly enriched could those couplets have been preserved.
Through the long winters never a business letter was sent to the mountain home, be it ever so brief, but held a message for me and I counted the days before he would come, that in reply to the invariable question " What have you learned since I was here?" I might "'sprise" him by "saying a piece lie wrote his own self." In memory to his kindly heart let me say that he never failed to be "'sprised." It was his custom to send to the pupils of the "Bryant schoolhouse" a basket of pears each year and the teachers talked to the little ones of the poet while they enjoyed his gift. One year a visiting friend suggested that instead of sending the pears to the children they should come to the liomestead for their usual feast.
The invitation to a "pear festival" was according- ly sent and on the appointed day the whole school marched up the avenue. Attired in our very best, which added much to our feeling of constraint, and headed by the teacher, we passed through the big front door. At the right stood Mr. Bryant with his brother John. At the left stood Miss Gibson, who had planned the holiday, and to whom we were each presented.
SITE OF FIRST CHURCH AND SCHOOL-HOUSE.
Shy, country children, endur- ing our best clothes, we knew nothing of such formalities, but we had read thrilling ac- counts of running the gauntlet and felt that we had endured all the torture of that barba- rous institution, and drew a long breath as we reached the cool sitting-room beyond. We at once placed ourselves around the room close to the wall and sat very straight, and looked and felt very uncom- fortable. Mr. Bryant chatted with the teacher, questioned us concerning our progress and those of us who knew verses, rose and spoke them. Presently we were taken into the great dining-room, where the table was laid and the pears set forth. At the sight we partially regained our spirits and even began to whisper a bit among ourselves ; but being very formally seat- ed with a plate and knife we looked helplessly at Miss Gib-
MOVING THE DR. BRYANT OFFICE.
son, to know what to do. Miss Gibson took a pear and placed it on a plate. We each took a pear and placed it on a plate. Crackers came next, and as Miss Gibson took a cracker and laid it by her pear, each little imitator took a cracker and laid it by a pear, Miss Gibson took the knife in one hand and the pear in the other; pear and knife were instantly grasped by each watchful child; Miss Gibson pared her pear, and we all pared our pears ; Miss Gibson ate cracker and pear, and we each ate cracker and pear. At this point tiny grapes, which had fallen from the clusters, were sent around and served to each with a spoon. Miss Gibson did not at once begin to eat grapes, so one small boy sitting at Mr. Bryant's left ventured to try what he could do without waiting for her ; grasping his knife firmly, he balanced a beautifully rounded grape upon it and started to convey it to his mouth ; the rest of us saw and fairly held our breaths. Up to this mio- ment the older people had been too deeply interested in conversation to notice how we were getting on, but that uplifted elbow, the vibrating wrist, the half-open, expectant mouth and the little grape balancing on the knife caught Mr. Bryant's eye, and he broke into such a hearty laugh, that grape and knife struck the plate with a crash. The confusion of the boy recalled him to his position as host and his kindly "Better try your fingers, my boy," was speedily taken advantage of by all. The ice once broken, the chatter began and when we had finished Mr. Bryant repeated one of his poems and sent us hap- pily on our way and not with empty hands.
But all was not fun and frolic, even in vacation time. Many long quiet talks we had which became more
OLD HEMLOCKS
THE JOHONOTT BROOK,
serious and earnest as my head crept upward toward his shoulder. Many are the sweet recollections which I cherish of the loving friend; many the precepts which come to me always in the kind, soft tones and with the earnest inflections with which he first im- pressed them. Others can tell you of the poet and the journalist, I can only tell of the playmate and friend ; Others revered him for his genius, I loved him for his quiet, kindly every-day living.
MARY E. DAWES.
EDITORIAL NOTE-William Cullen Bryant, it will be remembered, met, with a fall which caused his death, in 1878. He had on the day of the accident attended the exercises of un- veiling the statue of Mazzini in Central park, New York, giv- ing the address there- upon and returned to his office, walking with a friend, in company with the latter's little daughter, Mary, to whom he said, shortly before he reached his office, "I knew a little girl named THE BRYANT SCHOOL-HOUSE. 'Mary'
THE OLD APPLE ORCHARD.
once, who used to repeat for me 'Robert of Lincoln.'" [one of his poems] "Do you know it?" These were the last words Bry- ant ever spoke; a few moments later he slipped and fell, striking his head heavily on some stone steps and died a few days after.
For explanation of the views on this and other pages, con- cerning the Bryant place, refer- ence should be made to the arti- cle soon following, entitled, "A Ride About the County."
How a Poem was Written.
At the age of twenty-one years William Cullen Bryant was li- censed to practice law in the courts of Massachusetts. It was not the calling for which he was
52
PICTURESQUE HAMPSHIRE.
fitted ; his nature was too shy and sensitive for the life of conflict by which lawyers win fame and fortune; but law seemed to him the readiest means of earning his bread, while literature, to which he would gladly have devoted himself, offered him the scantiest support.
While he and his father and the other members of his family were discussing where he should nail up the sign of "William C. Bryant, Attorney at Law," he walked over the hills to Plainfeld, a small village four or five miles distant from Cummington, where his father re- sided. The motive for the journey was to see what induce- ments the village of- fered for the practice of his profession.
He felt very " for- lorn and desolate," for the world seemed dark and his future uncertain. The sun had set in a sea of chrysolite and opal, and he stopped to contemplate the bril- liant sky. Suddenly he saw a solitary waterfowl winging its way along the hor- izon, and watched it until it was lost in the distance.
The contemplation gave him such a stim- ulus that he went on with new strength and courage, and when he reached the house where he was to stay for the night, he sat down and wrote the lines "To a Water-
ROARING BROOK IN THE WOODS.
fowl," the concluding verse of which expresses the hope imparted to him by the flight of the lone wanderer:
" He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright."
Mr. Bigelow's " Life of Bryant," to which we are indebted for the story of the poem's origin, also tells an anecdote illustrative of the admiration it excited in England.
Once when the late Matthew Arnold was in this country he was visiting at a house where Mr. Parke Godwin, Mr. Bryant's son-in-law, happened to spend an evening. In the course of the conversation Mr. Arnold took up a volume of Mr. Bryant's poems from the table, and, turn- ing to Mr. Godwin, said :
THE RIVULET.
"This is the American poet," and after a pause he continued : "When I first heard of him, Hartley Coleridge -- we were both lads then -came into my fath- er's house one after- noon considerably ex- cited, and exclaimed, 'Matt, do you want to hear the best short poem in the English language ?'
".Faith, Hartley, I du," was my reply. "He then read a poem ' To a Waterfowl' in his best manner, and he was a good reader. As soon as he had done he asked, 'What do you think of that?'" "I am not sure but you are right, Hartley. Is that your father's?" was my reply. "No," he rejoined, "father has written nothing like that." Some days after he might be heard muttering to himself :
"The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost. "
Yet this poem, which many persons deem the best the poet ever wrote, slept for three years in the author's portfolio, neither read, seen, nor even heard of by any other living sonl.
MANUFACTURING IN THE HILL TOWNS.
It may seem strange to those familiar with the hill towns of today that mannfac- turing once flourished in some of them. This was notably the case in Cummington, which has always been more or less of a maunfacturing as well as agricultural town.
THE TURNSTILE AND HEDGE.
The writer of the brief history of the town, as given in the Hampshire County Gazetteer says:
During the first years of settlement measures were taken to induce parties to purchase and build here. In September, 1764, the owners of the town agreed to give Charles Prescott one hundred acres of land if he would "build a saw- mill on the north end of lot No. 45." The old foundation may still be seen on the land of O. B. Bartlett, near the dwelling of Jacob Higgins. This was the first mill in town; but set back as it was on the hills, it soon gave way to the more substantial and easily accessible mills built on the river, which was then
CAUSEWAY GVER ROARING BROOK.
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PICTURESQUE HAMPSHIRE.
THE GATHERING STORM.
a much larger stream than at present. There were at one time two cotton and four or five woolen mills; but with the exception of one small woolen-mill these have all long since disappeared.
The following poems have been chosen from the works of William Cullen Bryant, with particular refer- ence to our artist's illustrations on this page.
THE HURRICANE.
Lord of the winds! I feel thee nigh, I know thy breath in the burning sky ! And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane!
And lo ! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails ; Silent and slow, and terribly strong, The mighty shadow is borne along, Like the dark eternity to come; While the world below, dismayed and dumb, Through the calm of the thick, hot atmosphere, Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.
They darken fast; and the golden blaze Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze, And he sends through the shade a funeral ray- A glare that is neither night nor day, A beam that touches, with hues of death, The clouds above and the earth beneath. To its covert glides the silent bird, While the hurricane's distant voice is heard Uplifted among the mountains round, And the forests hear and answer the sound. . He is come ! He is come ! do ye not behold His ample robes on the wind unrolled ? Giant of air! we bid thee hail !- How his gray skirts toss in the whirling gale: How his huge and writhing arms are bent To clasp the zone of the firmament, And fold at length, in their dark embrace, From mountain to mountain the visible space.
Darker-still darker! the whirlwinds bear The dust of the plains to the middle air : And hark to the crashing, long and loud, Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud ! You may trace its path by the flashes that start From the rapid wheels where'er they dart, As the fire-bolts leap to the world below, And flood the skies with a Inrid glow.
What roar is that ?- 'tis the rain that breaks In torrents away from the airy lakes, Heavily poured on the shuddering ground, And shedding a nameless horror round. Ah! well-known woods, and mountains and skies, With the very clouds !- ye are lost to my eyes. I seek ye vainly, and see in your place The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space, A whirling ocean that fills the wall Of the crystal heaven, and buries all. And I, ent off from the world, remain Alone with the terrible hurricane.
INSCRIPTION FOR THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD.
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs No school of long experience, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood And view the haunts of nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men, And made thee loathe thy life. The primal cnrse' Fell, it is true, upon the nnsinning earth,
A SHADY ROADWAY.
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof Of green and stirring branches is allve And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while below The squirrel, with raised paws and form ereet, Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment ; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged phinderer That sucks Its sweets. The mossy rocks themselves And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude Or bridge the sunken brook, and there dark roots, With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquility. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
A Picturesque Poem and Address.
DELIVERED BY EDWIN R. BROWN, OF ELMWOOD, ILL, AT THE FARMERS' PICNIC IN WORTHING- TON, AUG. 21, 1890.
Republished by Request.
" Ladies and gentlemen :- Out in Illinois I have been in the habit of bragging a little about my na- tive hills and the people who dwell here. Sometimes
THE ENTRANCE TO A WOOD.
I have doubted whether the facts would fully bear me out. But it is all safe. I only wish my neighbors conld stand for a moment on this platform, and look into this multitude of intelligent faces. Their first exclamation would be, 'Where are the hoodlums ?' Illinois is a rich and noble state. One who knows, if anybody does says, 'When the Almighty made Illinois he picked his mud.' But I am prouder today than ever of the old Bay State. It is good to be here. To one who was born and reared on these hills, and has lived a genera- tion or two on western prairies, it is glorious to let the sweet mountain wind fan his frosted brow once more. It is good for the gray-haired boys and girls to return
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PICTURESQUE HAMPSHIRE.
farmer knows nothing of, and that you, I fear, fail to appre- ciate. The western pioneer farmer (I do not speak of those who take along a 'pile ' with which to 'make their pile,') lives in an unshaded pine box and, as Col. Ingersoll says, has nine children and one skillet. Most of the children sleep under the hot roof, and come out in the morning all gone but 'rine! I do not for- get your six months of snow, the freshets of spring, the frosts of September, the short and precarious summer, or the woodchnek, the coon, the crow, the beetle and the worm that seem to form an allied army, ex- pressly to worry the poor farmer. But it is good discipline and on the other hand, the seenery is worth a liber-
CASCADE OF A BROOK BY THE WAYSIDE, ON THE ROAD TO WIND- SOR JAMS.
to the old stamping ground, and seek out, under the solemn disguise of wrinkled skin and whitened hair, the friend of other days. Even the names of the locali- ties in your society are music to my ear, for this whole region is thickly festooned with pleasant, sad, or comical associations. The old names, 'Worthington Cor- ners,' 'Chesterfield Hollow,' 'Spruce Corner,' ' Ashfield Plain,' 'Tin Pot,' ' Light- ning-bug,' 'The Bush,' 'Edge of Hawley,' ete., how they bring up the days when all this region hummed with little factories, and each township, no matter how small, was a miniature republie, and had its own representative in the great and general court that sat under the gilded codfish in Boston state-house.
"I know something of what farm work is, or rather what it was, in this rugged region. It was to be up at four o'clock, milking, or grinding scythes or axes, hustling through breakfast, and out in the field by six o'clock. It is pleasant to know that farmers are more sensible now, that hours are shorter and the work easier.
"Nothing surprises me on this visit so much as the excellence of your crops. You make twice as much butter as formerly, and it costs the farmer's wife and daughters only half as much labor. Yon cut more grass, and of a better quality.
Your eornfields, to be sure, look like sample cards, but the crop is splendid. As for potatoes, we supplied yon last year, you must sup- ply us this year.
"I appreciate the difficul- ties to he overcome ; but the western farmer has his pe- culiar trials, too; and I am glad of it, for manhood is only developed hy strug- gle. Where food is pro- duced spontaneously, and shelter is unnecessary, there men become nerve- less and insignificant. The fact is, you enjoy a thou- sand conveniences and privileges that the prairie
THE VIEW UP THE GORGE.
al salary, the winding roads are bowers of beauty, your houses are full of comfort, and your springs and streams are beyond compare. Out in the San Joaquin Valley, California, I saw a single wheat field which would reach from Worthington to Albany without a break. On that estate there was one great residence, and many barracks for mules, reapers and men. As for me, I would rather live on the ragged "Edge" of Hawley's rockiest farm, than in such a state of society as naturally must exist on that Cali- fornia estate.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to dish up briefly for you, in rhyme, my favorite fruit, the apple. I call my little poem, "Apple Dumplings,' and it shall be my good-bye to you, to this delightful rustic scene, to this panoramic sweep of hills, and to the dear mountain brooks that today whisper unutterable things to me, as they did long years ago to my boyish imagination.
DUMPLING NO. I. THE APPLE IS KING. I sing not the fruitage of old Yucatan, The citrus of Spain, or the plums of Japan; The Florida orange may grow in the south; The peach of New Jersey may melt in your mouth;
The broad-breasted quince has a heavenfy smell,
With fruit at whose tartness a blue jay would scream. The "Dub Stem," the "Long Stem" and "Wa- tercore Sweet." "Spice Apple and Pig Nose,"-O, what a rich treat To the hungry boy's teeth in the brave long ago,
A relish no well-pampered palate can know.
ROCKS AND WATER, WINDSOR JAMS.
And I love California apricots well; Bananas of Nassan and Malaga grapes, In clustering richness and ravishing shapes- They're beautiful all, but bepraise them who will,
A ruddy old monarch ont-ranks them all still; A fruit universal, coeval with man; 'Tis the blessed old apple; galasay it who can.
DUMPLING NO. II. SOME NAMED VARIETIES.
Of the spherical beaulies inspiring my verse, It makes my mouth water the names to re- hearse ;
It calls up the flavors, the scents and the joys Of seedlings beloved by the bare-fooled boys; The tree by the roadside, the sernb by the stream.
Boys claimed them and named them, and boys, with the worm
And the squirrel, were joined in an apple- And The names of the ruby-cheeked seedlings we knew grab firm ;
To shape and to flavor were fitting and true. E'en the catalogue names it is pleasant to hear,
Which glibly the peddler pours into your ear. There's the famous "Fameuse,"-she's Can adian, you know,- In a bright crimson vest wraps her bosom of SDOW ;
The " Roman Stem," every-day, plain and Andthe "Maiden's Blush," tender and juicy humdrum, (yum, yum !)
The acid old spinster, the "Bellellower Yellow."
WINDSOR JAMS, LOOKING DOWN,
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PICTURESQUE HAMPSHIRE.
THE CAMPBELL ROCK.
Looks down with contempt on that kindly old fellow, The "Rombo." and warns him to keep proper distance, While "Jonathan" laughs at her threats of resistance. Respectable "Baldwin" gets red in the face, But swears by Pomona's whole catalogued race That naught but sweet cider he smells of or touches, But leaves "Sops of Wine" to the "Oldenberg Duchess.
DUMPLING NO. III.
THE TREE AGENT.
Yes, 'tis music to list to the tree-peddler's lingo, And yet, if Beelzebub needs him, by jingo, I'll warrant his cheek, and so every man will, To make old Be-elzy a capital anvil. That tree agent cheeky, with samples entrancing, I dreamt that I saw him on nothing a dancing ; His dear little order book. nailed to his breast, This legend bore: "Peddlers must give us a rest." In Peter's strange vision there came down a sheetful Of queer-looking creatures, a nondescript streetful; But in mine there was only a peddling defaulter Let down from a tree by retributive halter.
DUMPLING NO IV.
THE ORCHARD.
The old-fashioned orchard in memory dear, Its bloom is the glory of all the round year; There lover may loiter with innocent lass And no one shall startle with "Keep off the grass!" There the oriole flashes in black and bright gold, While cat bird and blue jay with jealousy scold. And well you may know, by the clubs in its top, What tree bears the earliest, toothsomest crop, Her tent in the branches the canker worm pitches- A tent-maker skillful who never drops stitches,- Her children uncounted squirm forthi from the nest To gorge on green leafage and never to rest Till the farmer's old musket invites them to stop, Or the woodpecker gobbles them into his crop.
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