No More Learning

As I was in act to leave, he took my hand and said: There
are no thanks a man about to die can give that I do not offer
you, Mr. Wynne. Be assured your visit has helped me. It is
much to see the face of a friend. All men have been good to
me and kind, and none more so than his Excellency.
If to-
morrow I could see, as I go to death, one face I have known in
happier hours
it is much to ask — I may count on you, I am
sure. Ah, I see I can! And my letter you will be sure to do
your best ? »
(
“Yes,” I said, not trusting myself to speak further, and only
adding, “Good-by," as I wrung his hand. Then I went out into
the cold October starlight.
It was long after ten when I found Hamilton. I told him
briefly of my interview, and asked if it would be possible for me
to deliver in person to the general Mr. André's letter. I had in
fact that on my mind, which, if but a crude product of despair,
I yet did wish to say where alone it might help or be consid-
ered.
Hamilton shook his head. “I have so troubled his Excellency
as to this poor fellow that I fear I can do no more. Men who
do not know my chief cannot imagine the distress of heart this
c


## p. 10135 (#563) ##########################################

S. WEIR MITCHELL
10135
business has caused. I do not mean, Wynne, that he has or had
the least indecision concerning the sentence, but I can tell you
this,- the signature of approval of the court's finding is tremu-
lous and unlike his usual writing. We will talk of this again.
Will you wait at my quarters ? I will do my best for you. ”
I said I would take a pipe, and walk on the road at the foot
of the slope below the house in which Washington resided. With
this he left me.
The night was clear and beautiful; from the low hills far and
near the camp bugle-calls and the sound of horses neighing filled
the air. Uneasy and restless, I walked to and fro up and down
the road below the little farm-house. Once or twice I fancied I
saw the tall figure of the chief pass across the window-panes. A
hundred yards away was the house I had just left. There sat
a gallant gentleman awaiting death. Here, in the house above
me, was he in whose hands lay his fate. I pitied him too, and
wondered if in his place I could be sternly just. At my feet the
little brook babbled in the night, while the camp noises slowly
died away. Meantime, intent on my purpose, I tried to arrange
in my mind what I would say, or how plead a lost cause. I have
often thus prearranged the mode of saying what some serious
occasion made needful. I always get ready; but when the time
comes I am apt to say things altogether different, and to find,
too, that the wisdom of the minute is apt to be the better wis-
dom.
At last I saw Hamilton approaching me through the gloom.
“Come,” he said. “His Excellency will see you, but I fear it
will be of no use. He himself would agree to a change in the
form of death; but Generals Greene and Sullivan are strongly of
opinion that to do so in the present state of exasperation would
be unwise and impolitic. I cannot say what I should do were
I he. I am glad, Wynne, that it is not I who have to decide. I
lose my sense of the equities of life in the face of so sad a busi-
At least I would give him a gentleman's death.
erals who tried the case say that to condemn a man as a spy, and
not at last to deal with him as Hale was dealt with, would be
impolitic, and unfair to men who were as gallant as the poor
fellow in yonder farm-house. ”
« It is only too clear,” I said.
“Yes, they are right, I suppose; but it is a horrible business. ”
ness.
The gen-


## p. 10136 (#564) ##########################################

10136
S. WEIR MITCHELL
As we discussed, I went with him past the sentinels around
the old stone house and through a hall, and to left into a large
room.
« The general sleeps here,” Hamilton said in a lowered voice.
“We have but these two apartments; across the passage is his
dining-room, which he uses as his office. Wait here;” and so say-
ing, he left me. The room was large, some fifteen by eighteen
feet, and so low-ceiled that the Dutch builder had need to con-
trive a recess in the ceiling to permit of a place for the tall
Dutch clock he had brought from Holland. Around the chimney-
piece were Dutch tiles. Black Billy, the general's servant, sat
asleep in the corner, and two aides slumbered on the floor; tired
out, I fancy. I walked to and fro over the creaking boards, and
watched the Dutch clock. As it struck eleven, the figure of
Time, seated below the dial, swung a scythe and turned a tiny
hour-glass. A bell rang; an orderly came in and woke up an
aide: «Dispatch for West Point, sir, in haste. ” The young fel-
”
low groaned, stuck the paper in his belt, and went out for his
long night ride.
At last my friend returned. « The general will see you pres-
ently, Wynne; but it is a useless errand. Give me André's let- .
ter. ” With this he left me again, and I continued my impatient
walk. In a quarter of an hour he came back. Come,” said he:
“I have done my best, but I have failed as I expected to fail.
Speak your mind freely; he likes frankness. ” I went after him,
and in a moment was in the farther room and alone with the
chief.
A huge fire of logs blazed on the great kitchen hearth; and
at a table covered with maps and papers, neatly set in order, the
general sat 'writing.
He looked up, and with quiet courtesy said, “Take a seat,
Captain Wynne. I must be held excused for a little. I bowed
and sat down, while he continued to write.
His pen moved slowly, and he paused at times, and then
went on apparently with the utmost deliberation. I was favor-
ably placed to watch him without appearing to do so, his face
being strongly lighted by the candles in front of him. He was
dressed with his usual care, in a buff waistcoat and a blue-and-
buff uniform, with powdered hair drawn back to a queue and
carefully tied with black ribbon.
»
C


## p. 10137 (#565) ##########################################

S. WEIR MITCHELL
10137
-
The face, with its light blue eyes, ruddy cheeks, and rather
heavy nose above a strong jaw, was now grave, and I thought,
stern. At least a half-hour went by before he pushed back his
chair and looked up.
I am fortunate as regards this conversation, since on my re-
turn I set it down in a diary; which, however, has many gaps,
and is elsewhere incomplete.
“Captain Wynne,” he said, “I have refused to see several
gentlemen in regard to this sad business; but I learn that Mr.
André was your friend, and I have not forgotten your aunt's
timely aid at a moment when it was sorely needed. For these
reasons, and at the earnest request of Captain Hamilton and the
marquis, I am willing to listen to you. May I ask you to be
brief ? »
He spoke slowly, as if weighing his words.
I replied that I was most grateful -- that I owed it to Major
André that I had not long ago endured the fate which was now
to be his.
“Permit me, sir,” he said, to ask when this occurred. ”
I replied that it was when, at his Excellency's desire, I had
entered Philadelphia as a spy; and then I went on briefly to re-
late what had happened.
“Sir,” he returned, "you owed your danger to folly, not to
what your duty brought. You were false, for the time, to that
duty. But this does not concern us now. It may have served as
a lesson, and I am free to admit that you did your country a
great service. What now can I do for you? As to this unhappy
gentleman, his fate is out of my hands. I have read the letter
which Captain Hamilton gave me. ” As he spoke, he took it
from the table and deliberately read it again, while I watched
him. Then he laid it down and looked up. I saw that his big
patient eyes were over-full as he spoke.
"I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural request; I
have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to be thought of. Neither
shall I reply. It is not fitting that I should do so, nor is it
necessary or even proper that I assign reasons which must
already be plain to every man of sense.
Is that all ? »
I said, “Your Excellency, may I ask but a minute more ?
"I am at your disposal, sir, for so long. What is it ? »
I hesitated, and I suspect, showed plainly in my face my
doubt as to the propriety of what was most on my mind when I
>


## p. 10138 (#566) ##########################################

10138
S. WEIR MITCHELL
(
sought this interview. He instantly guessed that I was embar-
rassed, and said with the gentlest manner and a slight smile:-
"Ah, Mr. Wynne, there is nothing which can be done to save
your friend, nor indeed to alter his fate; but if you desire to say
more, do not hesitate. You have suffered much for the cause
which is dear to us both. Go on, sir. ”
Thus encouraged, I said: "If on any pretext the execution
can be delayed a week, I am ready to go with a friend” – I
counted on Jack — "to enter New York in disguise, and to bring
out General Arnold. I have been his aide, I know all his habits,
and I am confident that we shall succeed if only I can control
near New York a detachment of tried men. I have thought over
my plan, and am willing to risk my life upon it. ”
“You propose a gallant venture, sir, but it would be certain
to fail; the service would lose another brave man, and I should
seem to have been wanting in decision for no just or assignable
cause. ”
I was profoundly disappointed; and in the grief of my failure
I forgot for a moment the august presence which imposed on all
men the respect which no sovereign could have inspired.
"My God! sir,” I exclaimed, "and this traitor must live
unpunished, and a man who did but what he believed to be his
duty must suffer a death of shame! ” Then, half scared, I looked
up, feeling that I had said too much. He had risen before I
spoke, - meaning, no doubt, to bring my visit to an end; and
was standing with his back to the fire, his admirable figure giv-
ing the impression of greater height than was really his.
When, after my passionate speech, I looked up, having of
course also risen, his face wore a look that was more solemn
than any face of man I have ever yet seen in all my length of
years.
“There is a God, Mr. Wynne," he said, "who punishes the
traitor. Let us leave this man to the shame which every year
must bring. Your scheme I cannot consider. I have no wish to
conceal from you or from any gentleman what it has cost me
to do that which, as God lives, I believe to be right. You, sir,
have done your duty to your friend. And now, may I ask of
you not to prolong a too painful interview ? »
I bowed, saying, "I cannot thank your Excellency too much
for the kindness with which you have listened to a rash young
man. ”


## p. 10139 (#567) ##########################################

S. WEIR MITCHELL
10139
son
>
"You have said nothing, sir, which does not do you honor.
Make my humble compliments to Mistress Wynne. ”
I bowed, and backing a pace or two, was about to leave, when
he said,
Permit me to detain you a moment. Ask Mr. Harri-
the secretary to come to me. ”
I obeyed; and then in some wonder stood still, waiting.
"Mr. Harrison, fetch me Captain Wynne's papers. ” A moment
later he sat down, again wrote the free signature, “Geo Wash-
ington,” at the foot of a parchment, and gave it to me, saying,
“That boy Hamilton has been troubling me for a month about
this business. The commission is but now come to hand from
Congress. You will report, at your early convenience, as major,
to the colonel of the Third Pennsylvania foot; I hope it will
gratify your aunt. Ah, Captain Hamilton,” for here the favor-
ite aide entered, “I have just signed Mr. Wynne's commission. ”
Then he put a hand affectionately on the shoulder of the small,
slight figure. “You will see that the orders are all given for the
execution at noon. Not less than eighty files from each wing
must attend. See that none of my staff be present, and that this
house be kept closed to-morrow until night. I shall transact no
business that is not such as to ask instant attention. See, in any
case, that I am alone from eleven until one. Good evening, Mr.
Wynne; I hope that you will shortly honor me with your com-
pany at dinner. Pray remember it, Mr. Hamilton. ”
I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindliness of this
great and noble gentleman.
“He likes young men,” said Hamilton to me long afterward.
“An old officer would have been sent away with small com-
fort. ”
It was now late in the night; and thinking to compose myself,
I walked up and down the road, and at last past the Dutch
church, and up the hill between rows of huts and rarer tents. It
was a clear starlit night, and the noises of the great camp were
for the most part stilled. A gentle slope carried me up the hill,
back of André's prison, and at the top I came out on a space
clear of these camp homes, and stood awhile under the quiet of
the star-peopled sky. I lighted my pipe with help of flint and
steel, and walking to and fro, set myself resolutely to calm the
storm of trouble and helpless dismay in which I had been for
two weary days. At last, as I turned in my walk, I came on
two upright posts with a cross-beam above. It was the gallows.
)


## p. 10140 (#568) ##########################################

10140
S. WEIR MITCHELL
I moved away horror-stricken, and with swift steps went down
the hill and regained Jack's quarters.
Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October I shall
say very little. A too early death never took from earth a more
amiable and accomplished soldier. I asked and had leave to
stand by the door as he came out. He paused, very white in his
scarlet coat, smiled, and said, “Thank you, Wynne; God bless
you! ” and went on, recognizing with a bow the members of the
court, and so with a firm step to his ignoble death. As I had
promised, I fell in behind the sad procession to the top of the
hill. No fairer scene could a man look upon for his last of earth.
The green range of the Piermont hills rose to north. On all
sides, near and far, was the splendor of the autumn-tinted woods,
and to west the land swept downward past the headquarters to
where the cliffs rose above the Hudson. I can see it all now
the loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, mute and pitiful
I shut my eyes and prayed for this passing soul. A deathful
stillness came upon the assembled multitude. I heard Colonel
Scammel read the sentence. Then there was the rumble of the
cart, a low murmur broke forth, and the sound of moving steps
was heard.
It was over. The great assemblage of farmers and
soldiers went away strangely silent, and many in tears.
The effort I so earnestly desired to make for the capture of
Arnold was afterward made by Sergeant Champe, but failed, as
all men now know. Yet I am honestly of opinion that I should
have succeeded.
Years afterward, I was walking along the Strand in London,
when, looking up, I saw a man and woman approaching. It was
Arnold with his wife. His face was thin and wasted, a counte-
nance writ over with gloom and disappointment. His masculine
vigor was gone. Cain could have borne no plainer marks of vain
remorse. He looked straight before him. As I crossed the way,
with no desire to meet him, I saw the woman look up at him; a
strange, melancholy sweetness in the pale, worn face of our once
beautiful Margaret. Her love was all that time had left him;
poor, broken, shunned, insulted, he was fast going to his grave.
Where now he lies I know not. Did he repent with bitter tears
on that gentle breast? God only knows. I walked on through
the crowded street, and thought of the words of my great chief,
“There is a God who punishes the traitor. ”


## p. 10141 (#569) ##########################################

S.
WEIR MITCHELL
10141
[The following poems are all copyrighted by S. Weir Mitchell, and are re-
printed by permission of the Century Company, publishers. ]
LINCOLN
C"
HAINED by stern duty to the rock of State,
His spirit armed in mail of rugged mirth,
Ever above, though ever near to earth,
Yet felt his heart the cruel tongues that sate
Base appetites, and foul with slander, wait
Till the keen lightnings bring the awful hour
When wounds and suffering shall give them power.
Most was he like to Luther, gay and great,
Solemn and mirthful, strong of heart and limb.
Tender and simple too; he was so near
To all things human that he cast out fear,
And, ever simpler, like a little child,
Lived in unconscious nearness unto Him
Who always on earth's little ones hath smiled.
DREAMLAND
U"
PANCHOR! l'p anchor!
Set sail and away!
The ventures of dreamland
Are thine for a day.
Yo, heave ho!
Aloft and alow
Elf sailors are singing
Yo, heave ho!
The breeze that is blowing
So sturdily strong
Shall fill up thy sail
With the breath of a song.
A fay at the mast-head
Keeps watch o'er the sea;
Blown amber of tresses
Thy banner shall be ;
Thy freight the lost laughter
That sad souls have missed,
Thy cargo the kisses
That never were kissed.
And ho, for a fay maid
Born merry in June,


## p. 10142 (#570) ##########################################

10142
S. WEIR MITCHELL
Of dainty red roses
Beneath a red moon.
The star-pearls that midnight
Casts down on the sea,
Dark gold of the sunset,
Her fortune shall be.
And ever she whispers,
More tenderly sweet,
“Love am I, love only,
Love perfect, complete.
The world is my lordship,
The heart is my slave;
I mock at the ages,
I laugh at the grave.
Wilt sail with me ever
A dream-haunted sea,
Whose whispering waters
Shall murmur to thee
The love-haunted lyrics
Dead poets have made
Ere life had a fetter,
Ere love was afraid ? »
Then up with the anchor!
Set sail and away!
The ventures of loveland
Are thine for a day.
SONG
From Francis Drake)
I
WOULD I were an English rose,
In England for to be:
The sweetest maid that Devon knows
Should pick and carry me.
To pluck my leaves be tender quick,
A fortune fair to prove,
And count in love's arithmetic
Thy pretty sum of love.
Oh, Devon's lanes be green o'ergrown,
And blithe her maidens be;
But there be some that walk alone,
And look across the sea.


## p. 10143 (#571) ##########################################

10143
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
(1787-1855)
He best description of Miss Mitford is given by Mrs. Browning
in a letter to Mr. Horne, where she speaks of her as “our
friend of Three Mile Cross, who wears her heart upon her
sleeve' and shakes out its perfume at every moment. ” And indeed,
like the sun, Miss Mitford shone upon the just and the unjust: her
flowers, her dogs, her servants, neighbors and friends, her devoted
mother, and her handsome, graceless father, all shared alike her
sunny sweet-heartedness.
Mary Russell Mitford was born at Alres-
ford, in the town of Wither, England, De-
cember 16th, 1787, and began her career as
a writer in 1810, publishing then her first
volume, Miscellaneous Poems. In read-
ing the account of her life given in her
own letters, edited by Mr. L'Estrange, it is
impossible not to be touched by the reve-
lation of her pathetically cheerful struggle
to support her parents, as well as provoked
by her unfailing devotion to her good-for-
nothing father. Indeed, so deeply does her
love for him impress the reader, that at MARY R. MITFORD
last it comes near to protecting him from
criticism. Squandering first his own fortune, Dr. Mitford married
Miss Russell, a devoted woman, ten years his senior, whose friends
he proceeded to offend, and whose fortune he promptly dissipated.
At the first touch of pecuniary embarrassment he moved from Alres-
ford to Lynn Regis, where for one year they lived in the greatest
luxury. In Recollections of a Literary Life' Miss Mitford says:
“In that old historical town [Lynn Regis] I spent the eventful year
when the careless happiness of childhood vanished, and the troubles
of the world first dawned upon my heart.
Nobody told
me, but I felt,
I knew, I can't tell how, but I did know
that everything was to be parted with, and everybody paid. ” Then
follows a description of chests being carried away in the night by
faithful servants, and of a dreary journey for herself and her mother,
and of the first touch of dreadful poverty. Settled in lodgings in
London, this incredible father took his little daughter to buy a lottery

•
.


## p. 10144 (#572) ##########################################

10144
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
»
ticket; she selected one whose added numbers made her age — ten
years — and would have none other. This ticket was bought, and
drew for Dr. Mitford twenty thousand pounds. Once more with a
fortune, he bought a place near Reading, — Bertram House, — and sent
his daughter, of whom he was excessively proud, to school in Lon-
don. It was while at Bertram House that Miss Mitford published her
first volume, following it in 1811 by Christine,' and other smaller
things. In 1820 they move from Bertram House into a tiny cot-
tage at Three Mile Cross, and from this time on it is one long
struggle for money. From this place are written Miss Mitford's most
charming letters, in which we read of her difficulties about her trage-
dies, and how, because of these difficulties, she took up another line
of work as less harassing, and began to write short sketches of the
life about her: sketches which Campbell refused as too light,- which
the world put next to Lamb's Essays, - and which, collected, made
(Our Village.
Between 1823 and 1828 three of her plays, Julien,' Foscari,' and
(Rienzi,' were put upon the stage by Macready and Kemble; “Our
Village' had an enormous success, and Miss Mitford was toasted
and made much of by all the world of London. But as her father
"played a very fine hand at whist,” she could never be very long
away from Three Mile Cross and her writing-table; and she goes
back quite cheerfully to a daily task of from seven to twelve hours
writing. Her work is most voluminous: including plays, poems, 'Dra-
matic Scenes,' (Stories of American Life,' — of which she could not
have known very much, — 'Stories for Children,' and in 1835 another
collection of sketches, called Belford Regis. ' Besides all this, she
contributed to newspapers, magazines, Amulets' and 'Forget-me-nots. '
and edited from 1838 to 1841 Finden's Tableaux; finishing her work
in 1852–4 with Recollections of a Literary Life,' and Atherton and
Other Tales. Driven by want and harassed by debt, she could not
produce much that would live; but the careful reader of Miss Mit-
ford's letters will never criticize Miss Mitford's failures. At Three
Mile Cross, after much ill health, her mother died, and later her
« beloved father); and here she lived until in 1850 the little house
began to fall to pieces; and she moved to Swallowfield, not very far
away, there to finish her life.
Miss Mitford tells us that she delighted in that sort of detail
which permits so intimate a familiarity with the subject of which it
treats,” — and she gives it to us in her work. She describes a cow-
slip ball so accurately that one smells the cowslips and helps her
to tie it; she makes us intimately acquainted with the spreading
hawthorn”; the shower pelts us in wetting her, and we change our
clothes too- or we long to do so— in order to sit down with her near
the fire. She loses her walking-stick, and we go back with her over
((


## p. 10145 (#573) ##########################################

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
10145
»
the whole expedition to find it; it is a personal loss, and we are
much relieved when the children bring it home again. Frost comes;
and we are out under the solemn white avenue, looking at the “land-
scape of snow,” at the frozen weeds, and becoming friendly with the
little bird tamed by the cold, —“perched in the middle of the hedge,
nestling as it were among the cold bare boughs, seeking, poor pretty
thing, for the warmth it will not find. ” Then the description of the
thaw, not much more than a paragraph, - a dismal thaw, the dreari-
ness of which she fights against quite palpably, stopping so abruptly
that one is sure that she found it too forlorn to dwell upon safely.
But through all the sunny charm of her work, she is conscious of
the shadow of the hopeless struggle she is making; one knows that
she did not dare to tread too heavily on the thin ice of her happi-
ness, and one steps lightly along with her, and makes a conscious
effort to forget the father and his endless folly. When at last she is
alone in the world, and has to move from Three Mile Cross, she
says: “It was a great grief to go. I had associations with those old
walls which endeared them to me more than I can tell. There I
had toiled and striven, and tasted of as bitter anxiety, of fear and
of hope, as often falls to the lot of women. There in the fullness
of age I had lost those whose love had made my home sweet and
precious. ” And one longs to step back fifty years and maul that
delinquent father; not so much, perhaps, because he was selfish, as
because she loved him so. But in the next paragraph her invincible
cheerfulness again comes to the front, and we begin to like Swallow-
field almost as much as Three Mile Cross. A brave soul was Miss
Mitford; and a strange contrast to her beloved young friend” Eliza-
beth Barrett, who in the depth of ease and luxury nursed the one
grief of her life, as if it were the only specimen of sorrow in the
world. A brave and sturdy soul; and her reward is immortality for
the flower that sprang from her heroic self-abnegation-immortality
for her humble home, Our Village. '
THE NEIGHBORHOOD
From Our Village)
O"
F All situations for a constant residence, that which appears
to me most delightful is a little village far in the country;
a small neighborhood, not of fine mansions finely peopled,
but of cottages and cottage-like houses, "messuages or tene-
ments,” as a friend of mine calls such ignoble and nondescript
XVII-635


## p. 10146 (#574) ##########################################

10146
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
dwellings, with inhabitants whose faces are as familiar to us as
the flowers in our garden; a little world of our own, close-packed
and insulated like ants in an ant-hill, or bees in a hive, or sheep
in a fold, or nuns in a convent, or sailors in a ship; where we
know every one, are known to every one, interested in every one,
and authorized to hope that every one feels an interest in us.
How pleasant it is to slide into these true-hearted feelings from
the kindly and unconscious influence of habit, and to learn to
know and to love the people about us, with all their peculiarities,
just as we learn to know and to love the nooks and turns of the
shady lanes and sunny commons that we pass every day. Even
in books I like confined locality, and so do the critics when they
talk of the unities. Nothing is so tiresome as to be whirled
half over Europe at the chariot-wheels of a hero, to go to sleep
at Vienna and awaken at Madrid; it produces a real fatigue, a
weariness of spirit. On the other hand, nothing is so delightful
as to sit down in a country village in one of Miss Austen's deli-
cious novels, quite sure before we leave it to become intimate
with every spot and every person it contains; or to ramble with
Mr. White over his own parish of Selborne, and form a friendship
with the fields and coppices, as well as with the birds, mice,
squirrels, who inhabit them; or to sail with Robinson Crusoe to
his island, and live there with him and his goats and his man
Friday; — how much we dread any new-comers, any fresh import-
ation of savage or sailor! we never sympathize for a moment in
our hero's want of company, and are quite grieved when he gets
away; - or to be shipwrecked with Ferdinand on that other love.
lier island, - the island of Prospero, and Miranda, and Caliban,
and Ariel, and nobody else, none of Dryden's exotic inventions,-
that is best of all. And a small neighborhood is as good in sober
waking reality as in poetry or prose; a village neighborhood, such
as this Berkshire hamlet in which I write, - a long, straggling,
winding street at the bottom of a fine eminence, with a road
through it, always abounding in carts, horsemen, and carriages,
and lately enlivened by a stage-coach from B- to S—, which
passed through about ten days ago, and will I suppose return
some time or other. There are coaches of all varieties nowa.
days; perhaps this may be intended for a monthly diligence, or a
fortnightly fly. Will you walk with me through our village,
courteous reader? The journey is not long. We will begin at
the lower end, and proceed up-hill.
.


## p. 10147 (#575) ##########################################

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
10147
The tidy square red cottage on the right hand, with the long
well-stocked garden by the side of the road, belongs to a retired
publican from a neighboring town; a substantial person with a
comely wife; one who piques himself on independence and idle-
ness, talks politics, reads newspapers, hates the minister, and
cries out for reform. He introduced into our peaceful village
the rebellious innovation of illumination on the queen's acquittal.
Remonstrance and persuasion were in vain: he talked of liberty
and broken windows-So we all lighted up. Oh! how he shone
that night with candles, and laurel, and white bows, and gold
paper, and a transparency (originally designed for a pocket-
handkerchief) with a flaming portrait of her Majesty, hatted and
feathered, in red ochre. He had no rival in the village, - that
we all acknowledge; the very bonfire was less splendid; the little
boys reserved their best crackers to be expended in his honor,
and he gave them full sixpence more than any one else. He
would like an illumination once a month; for it must not be
concealed that, in spite of gardening, of newspaper reading, of
jaunting about in his little cart, and frequenting both church
and meeting, our worthy neighbor begins to feel the weariness
of idleness. He hangs over his gate, and tries to entice passen-
gers to stop and chat; he volunteers little jobs all round, smokes
cherry-trees to cure the blight, and traces and blows up all
the wasp-nests in the parish. I have seen a great many wasps
in our garden to-day, and shall enchant him with the intelli-
gence. He even assists his wife in her sweepings and dustings.
Poor man! he is a very respectable person, and would be a very
happy one if he would add a little employment to his dignity.
It would be the salt of life to him.
Next to his house, though parted from it by another long
garden with a yew arbor at the end, is the pretty little dwelling
of the shoemaker, a pale, sickly-looking, black-haired man, the
very model of sober industry. There he sits in his little shop
from early morning till late at night. An earthquake would
hardly stir him: the illumination did not. He stuck immov-
ably to his last, from the first lighting up, through the long
blaze and the slow decay, till his large solitary candle was the
only light in the place. One cannot conceive anything more
perfect than the contempt which the man of transparencies and
the man of shoes must have felt for each other on that evening.
There was at least as much vanity in the sturdy industry as in


## p. 10148 (#576) ##########################################

10148
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
on
the strenuous idleness, for our shoemaker is a man of substance:
he employs three journeymen,- two lame and one a dwarf, so
that his shop looks like an hospital; he has purchased the lease
of his commodious dwelling, - some even say that he has bought
it out and out; and he has only one pretty daughter, a light,
delicate, fair-haired girl of fourteen, the champion, protectress,
and playfellow of every brat under three years old, whom she
jumps, dances, dandles, and feeds all day long. A very attractive
,
person is that child-loving girl. I have never seen any one in
her station who possessed so thoroughly that undefinable charm,
the lady-look. See her on a Sunday in her simplicity and her
white frock, and she might pass for an earl's daughter. She likes
flowers, too, and has a profusion of white stocks under her win-
dow, as pure and delicate as herself.
The first house the opposite side of the way is the
blacksmith's: a gloomy dwelling, where the sun never seems to
shine; dark and smoky within and without, like a forge. The
blacksmith is a high officer in our little State, — nothing less
than a constable; but, alas! alas! when tumults arise, and the
constable is called for, he will commonly be found in the thick-
est of the fray. Lucky would it be for his wife and her eight
children were there no public-house in the land: an inveterate
inclination to enter those bewitching doors is Mr. Constable's
only fault.
Next to this official dwelling is a spruce brick tenement,
red, high, and narrow; boasting, one above another, three sash-
windows, the only sash-windows in the village; with a clematis
on one side and a rose on the other, tall and narrow like itself.
That slender mansion has a fine, genteel look. The little parlor
.
seems made for Hogarth's old maid and her stunted footboy; for
tea and card parties,- it would just hold one table; for the rus-
tle of faded silks, and the splendor of old china; for the delight
of four by honors, and a little snug, quiet scandal between the
deals; for affected gentility and real starvation. This should have
been its destiny; but fate has been unpropitious: it belongs to a
plump, merry, bustling dame, with four fat, rosy, noisy children,
the very essence of vulgarity and plenty.
Then comes the village shop, like other village shops, multi-
farious as a bazaar: a repository for bread, shoes, tea, cheese,
tape, ribands, and bacon; for everything, in short, except the one
particular thing which you happen to want at the moment, and


## p. 10149 (#577) ##########################################

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
10149
will be sure not to find. The people are civil and thriving, and
frugal withal; they have let the upper part of their house to two
young women (one of them is a pretty blue-eyed girl) who teach
little children their ABC, and make caps and gowns for their
mammas, - parcel schoolmistress, parcel mantua-maker. I believe
they find adorning the body a more profitable vocation than
adorning the mind.
Divided from the shop by a narrow yard, and opposite the
shoemaker's, is a habitation of whose inmates I shall say noth-
ing. A cottage, - no, a miniature house, with many additions,
little odds and ends of places, pantries, and what not; all angles,
and of a charming in-and-outness; a little bricked court before
one half, and a little flower-yard before the other; the walls, old
and weather-stained, covered with hollyhocks, roses, honeysuckles,
and a great apricot-tree; the casements full of geraniums (ah,
there is our superb white cat peeping out from amongst them);
the closets (our landlord has the assurance to call them rooms)
full of contrivances and corner-cupboards; and the little garden
behind full of common flowers, - tulips, pinks, larkspurs, peo-
nies, stocks, and carnations, - with an arbor of privet, not unlike a
sentry-box, where one lives in a delicious green light, and looks
out on the gayest of all gay flower-beds. That house was built
on purpose to show in what an exceeding small compass comfort
may be packed. Well, I will loiter there no longer.
The next tenement is a place of importance, — the Rose inn;
a whitewashed building, retired from the road behind its fine
swinging sign, with a little bow-window room coming out on one
side, and forming, with our stable on the other, a sort of open
square, which is the constant resort of carts, wagons, and return
chaises. There are two carts there now, and mine host is serving
them with beer in his eternal red waistcoat. He is a thriving
man and a portly, as his waistcoat attests, which has been twice
let out within this twelvemonth. Our landlord has a stirring
wife, a hopeful son, and a daughter, the belle of the village; not
so pretty as the fair nymph of the shoe-shop, and far less ele-
gant, but ten times as fine; all curl-papers in the morning, like a
porcupine, all curls in the afternoon, like a poodle; with more
flounces than curl-papers, and more lovers than curls. Miss
Phæbe is fitter for town than country; and to do her justice,
she has a consciousness of that fitness, and turns her steps town-
ward as often as she can.


## p. 10150 (#578) ##########################################

10150
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
In a line with the bow-window room is a low garden-wall,
belonging to a house under repair,- the white house opposite the
collar-maker's shop, with four lime-trees before it, and a wagon-
load of bricks at the door. That house is the plaything of a
wealthy, well-meaning, whimsical person, who lives about a mile
off. He has a passion for brick and mortar; and being too wise to
meddle with his own residence, diverts himself with altering and
re-altering, improving and re-improving, doing and undoing here.
It is a perfect Penelope's web. Carpenters and bricklayers have
been at work these eighteen months, and yet I sometimes stand
and wonder whether anything has really been done. One exploit
in last June was, however, by no means equivocal. Our good
neighbor fancied that the limes shaded the rooms, and made
them dark (there was not a creature in the house but the work-
men), so he had all the leaves stripped from every tree. There
they stood, poor miserable skeletons, as bare as Christmas, under
the glowing midsummer sun. Nature revenged herself in her
own sweet and gracious manner: fresh leaves sprang out, and at
early Christmas the foliage was as brilliant as when the outrage
was committed.
Next door lives a carpenter, “famed ten miles round, and
worthy all his fame;" — few cabinet-makers surpass him, with his
"
excellent wife, and their little daughter Lizzy, the plaything and
queen of the village; a child of three years old according to the
register, but six in size and strength and intellect, in power and
in self-will. She manages everybody in the place, her school-
mistress inciuded; turns the wheeler's children out of their own
little cart, and makes them draw her; seduces cakes and lolly-
pops from the very shop window; makes the lazy carry her, the
silent talk to her, the grave romp with her; does anything she
pleases; is absolutely irresistible. Her chief attraction lies in her
exceeding power of loving, and her firm reliance on the love
and indulgence of others. How impossible it would be to dis-
appoint the dear little girl when she runs to meet you, slides her
pretty hand into yours, looks up gladly in your face, and says,
“Come! ” You must go: you cannot help it. Another part of
her charm is her singular beauty. Together with a good deal
of the character of Napoleon, she has something of his square,
sturdy, upright form, with the finest limbs in the world, a com-
plexion purely English, a round laughing face, sunburnt and rosy,
large merry blue eyes, curling brown hair, and a wonderful play


## p. 10151 (#579) ##########################################

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
10151
of countenance. She has the imperial attitudes too, and loves
to stand with her hands behind her, or folded over her bosom;
and sometimes, when she has a little touch of shyness, she
clasps them together on the top of her head, pressing down her
shining curls, and looking so exquisitely pretty!
There is still one house round the corner, ending in a pict-
uresque wheeler's-shop. The dwelling-house is more ambitious.
Look at the fine flowered window-blinds, the green door with the
brass knocker, and the somewhat prim but very civil person who
is sending off a laboring man with sirs and curtsies enough for
a prince of the blood. Those are the curate's lodgings- apart-
ments, his landlady would call them; he lives with his own fam.
ily four miles off, but once or twice a week he comes to his neat
little parlor to write sermons, to marry, or to bury, as the case
may require. Never were better or kinder people than his host
and hostess; and there is a reflection of clerical importance about
them, since their connection with the Church, which is quite edi-
fying,-a decorum, a gravity, a solemn politeness. Oh, to see the
worthy wheeler carry the gown after his lodger on a Sunday,
nicely pinned up in his wife's best handkerchief! or to hear him
rebuke a squalling child or a squabbling woman! The curate is
nothing to him. He is fit to be perpetual church warden.
We must now cross the lane into the shady rope-walk. That
pretty white cottage opposite, which stands straggling at the end
of the village in a garden full of flowers, belongs to our mason,
the shortest of men, and his handsome, tall wife: he, a dwarf
with the voice of a giant,- one starts when he begins to talk as
if he were shouting through a speaking-trumpet; she, the sister,
daughter, and granddaughter of a long line of gardeners, and no
contemptible one herself. It is very magnanimous in me not to
hate her; for she beats me in my own way,- in chrysanthemums,
and dahlias, and the like gauds. Her plants are sure to live:
mine have a sad trick of dying; perhaps because I love them
not wisely, but too well," and kill them with over-kindness.
How pleasantly the road winds up the hill, with its broad
green borders and hedge-rows so thickly timbered !
How finely
the evening sun falls on that sandy excavated bank, and touches
the farm-house on the top of the eminence!
We are now on the very brow, close to the Hill-house. On
the outer edge of the paling, hanging over the bank that skirts
the road, is an old thorn - such a thorn! The long sprays cov-
ered with snowy blossoms, so graceful, so elegant, so lightsome,
>
(


## p. 10152 (#580) ##########################################

10152
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD
and yet so rich! There only wants a pool under the thorn to
give a still lovelier reflection, quivering and trembling, like a tuft
of feathers, whiter and greener than the life, and more prettily
mixed with the bright blue sky. The road winding down the
hill with a slight bend, like that in the High Street at Oxford;
a wagon slowly ascending, and a horseman passing it at full trot.
Half-way down, just at the turn, the red cottage of the lieuten-
ant, covered with vines, the very image of comfort and content;
farther down, on the opposite side, the small white dwelling of
the little mason; then the limes and the rope-walk; then the vil-
lage street, peeping through the trees, whose clustering tops hide
all but the chimneys, and various roofs of the houses, and here
and there some angle of the wall; farther on, the elegant town
of B-, with its fine old church towers and spires: the whole
view shut in by a range of chalky hills; and over every part of
the picture, trees so profusely scattered, that it appears like a
woodland scene, with glades and villages intermixed. The trees
are of all kinds and all hues, chiefly the finely shaped elm, of so
bright and deep a green, the tips of whose high outer branches
drop down with such a crisp and garland-like richness, and the
oak, whose stately form is just now so splendidly adorned by the
sunny coloring of the young leaves. Turning again up the hill,
we find ourselves on that peculiar charm of English scenery, a
green common, divided by the road; the right side fringed by
hedge-rows and trees, with cottages and farm-houses irregularly
placed, and terminated by a double avenue of noble oaks; the
left, prettier still, dappled by bright pools of water, and islands
of cottages and cottage gardens, and sinking gradually down to
the cornfields and meadows, and an old farm-house with pointed
roofs and clustered chimneys, looking out from its blooming
orchard, and backed by woody hills. The common is itself the
prettiest part of the prospect; half covered with low furze, whose
golden blossoms reflect so intensely the last beams of the setting
sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two sets of cricketers:
one of young men, surrounded by spectators, some standing, some
sitting, some stretched on the grass, all taking a delighted inter-
est in the game; the other, a merry group of little boys, at a
humble distance, for whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough,
shouting, leaping, and enjoying themselves to their hearts' con-
tent. But cricketers and country boys are too important persons
in our village to be talked of merely as figures in the landscape.
They deserve an individual introduction - an essay to themselves.


## p. 10153 (#581) ##########################################

10153
MOLIÈRE
(1622–1673)
BY BRANDER MATTHEWS
M
SOLIÈRE, the greatest of modern comic dramatists, was a Paris-
ian by birth,— like those other typical Frenchmen, Villon
and Voltaire, Boileau and Regnard. He was born in 1622,
probably in the house now No. 96 Rue St. Honoré, and probably on
January 15th or a day or two earlier. His real name was Jean
Baptiste Poquelin, « Molière » being a stage name assumed when he
left his father's house. His father was a prosperous tradesman, an
upholsterer, - one of the eight of that craft holding a royal appoint-
ment (valet de chambre tapissier du roi), which required him to be in
attendance on the King three months of the year to see that his
Majesty's furniture was always in fit condition. His mother, appar-
ently a woman of both character and culture, died when Molière was
but ten; and the next year his father married again, only to lose
this second wife before Molière was fifteen.
As the son of a flourishing burgher, Molière received an excellent
education. In 1636, being then fourteen, he was sent to the Collège
de Clermont, one of the leading educational institutions of Paris, con-
ducted by the Jesuits and attended by the youth of the best families
of France. He seems to have stayed there five years, acquiring the
humanities and getting well schooled in philosophy. He may or may
not have been a pupil of Gassendi; and he may or may not have
attempted a translation of the great poem of Lucretius: many of
the legends of his life that have come down to us will not withstand
skeptical scrutiny. That he studied law is certain; and it is possible
even that he was admitted to the bar.
In the mean time he had been assured of the succession to his
father in the royal appointment; and it is more than probable that
he was in attendance on Louis XIII. , as his father's substitute, in
June 1642, when Cinq-Mars was arrested. Before the end of the next
year, however, the son of the royal upholsterer had left his paternal
home, had thrown in his lot with a group of strolling actors, and had
assumed the stage name of “Molière,” which he was to render for-
ever illustrious.