ABOUT sixty miles north of New York city,--not as the crow flies, for of the course of that bird I have no knowledge or information sufficient to form a belief, but as the Mary Powell ploughs her way up the tortuous1 channel of the Hudson river,--lies the little village of Wheathedge. A more beautiful site even this most beautiful of rivers does not possess. As I sit now in my library, I raise my eyes from my writing and look east to see the morning sun just rising in the gap and pouring a long golden flood of light upon the awaking village below and about me, and gilding2 the spires3 of the not far distant city of Newtown, and making even its smoke ethereal, as though throngs4 of angels hung over the city unrecognized by its too busy inhabitants. Before me the majestic5 river broadens out into a bay where now the ice-boats play back and forth6, and day after day is repeated the merry dance of many skaters--about the only kind of dance I thoroughly7 believe in. If I stand on the porch upon which one of my library windows opens, and look to the east, I see the mountain clad with its primeval forest, crowding down to the water's edge. It looks as though one might naturally expect to come upon a camp of Indian wigwams there. Two years ago a wild-cat was shot in those same woods and stuffed by the hunters, and it still stands in the ante-room of the public school, the first, and last, and only contribution to an incipient8 museum of natural history which the sole scientific enthusiast9 of Wheathedge has founded--in imagination. Last year Harry10 stumbled on a whole nest of rattlesnakes, to his and their infinite alarm--and to ours too when afterwards he told us the story of his adventure. If I turn and look to the other side of the river, I see a broad and laughing valley,--grim in the beautiful death of winter now however,--through which the Newtown railroad, like the Star of Empire, westward11 takes its way. For the village of Wheathedge, scattered12 along the mountain side, looks down from its elevated situation on a wide expanse of country. Like Jerusalem of old,--only, if I can judge anything from the accounts of Palestinian travelers, a good deal more so,--it is beautiful for situation, and deserves to be the joy of the whole earth.
A village I have called it. It certainly is neither town nor city. There is a little centre where there is a livery stable, and a country store with the Post Office attached, and a blacksmith shop, and two churches, a Methodist and a Presbyterian, with the promise of a Baptist church in a lecture-room as yet unfinished. This is the old centre; there is another down under the hill where there is a dock, and a railroad station, and a great hotel with a big bar and generally a knot of loungers who evidently do not believe in the water-cure. And between the two there is a constant battle as to which shall be the town. For the rest, there is a road wandering in an aimless way along the hill-side, like a child at play who is going nowhere, and all along this road are scattered every variety of dwelling13, big and little, sombre and gay, humble14 and pretentious15, which the mind of man ever conceived of,--and some of which I devoutly16 trust the mind of man will never again conceive. There are solid substantial Dutch farm-houses, built of unhewn stone, that look as though they were outgrowths of the mountain, which nothing short of an earthquake could disturb; and there are fragile little boxes that look as though they would be swept away, to be seen no more forever, by the first winter's blast that comes tearing up the gap as though the bag of Eolus had just been opened at West Point and the imprisoned17 winds were off with a whoop18 for a lark19. There are houses in sombre grays with trimmings of the same; and there are houses in every variety of color, including one that is of a light pea-green, with pink trimmings and blue blinds. There are old and venerable houses, that look as though they might have come over with Peter Stuyvesant and been living at Wheathedge ever since; and there are spruce little sprigs of houses that look as though they had just come up from New York to spend a holiday, and did not rightly know what to do with themselves in the country. There are staid and respectable mansions20 that never move from the even tenor21 of their ways; and there are houses that change their fashions every season, putting on a new coat of paint every spring; and there is one that dresses itself out in summer with so many flags and streamers that one might imagine Fourth of July lived there.
All nations and all eras appear also to be gathered here. There are Swiss cottages with overhanging chambers22, and Italian villas23 with flat roofs, and Gothic structures with incipient spires that look as though they had stopped in their childhood and never got their growth, and Grecian temples with rows of wooden imitations of marble pillars of Doric architecture, and one house in which all nations and eras combine--a Grecian porch, a Gothic roof, an Italian L, and a half finished tower of the Elizabethan era, capped with a Moorish24 dome25, the whole approached through the stiffest of all stiff avenues of evergreens26, trimmed in the latest French fashion. That is Mr. Wheaton's residence, the millionaire of Wheathedge. I wish I could say he was as Catholic as his dwelling house.
I never fancied the country. Its numerous attractions were no attractions to me. I cannot harness a horse. I am afraid of a cow. I have no fondness for chickens--unless they are tender and well-cooked. Like the man in parable27, I cannot dig. I abhor28 a hoe. I am fond of flowers but not of dirt, and had rather buy them than cultivate them. Of all ambition to get the earliest crop of green peas and half ripe strawberries I am innocent. I like to walk in my neighbor's garden better than to work in my own. I do not drink milk, and I do drink coffee; and I had rather run my risk with the average of city milk than with the average of country coffee. Fresh air is very desirable; but the air on the bleak29 hills of the Hudson in March is at times a trifle too fresh. The pure snow as it lies on field, and fence, and tree, is beautiful, I confess. But when one goes out to walk, it is convenient to have the sidewalks shoveled30.
At least that is what I used to think five years ago. And if my wife had endeavored to argue me out of my convictions, she would only have strengthened them. But my wife:--
Stop a minute. I may as well say here that this book is written in confidence. It is personal. It deals with the interior history of a very respectable church and some most respectable families. It contains a great deal that is not proper to be communicated to the public. The reader will please bear this in mind. Whatever I say, particularly what I am going to say now, is confidential31. Don't mention it.
My wife is a diplomate. If ever I am president of the United States--which may Heaven forbid,--she shall be secretary of State. She never argues; but she always carries her point.
She always lets me have my own way without hinting an objection. But it always ends in her having her own. She would have made no objection to letting Mason and Slidell go--not the least in the world. But she would have somehow induced England to entreat32 us to take them back--I am sure of it. She would not have dismissed Catacazy--not she. But if she did not like Catacazy, Gortschakoff should have recalled him, and never known why he did it.
"John," said my wife, "where shall we spend the summer?"
It was six years ago this spring. We were sitting in the library in our city house, Harry was a baby; and baby was not. I laid down the Evening Post, and looked up with an incipient groan33.
"The usual way I suppose," said I. "You'll go home with the baby, and I--I shall camp out in New York."
"Home" is Jennie's home in Michigan, where she had spent two of the three summers of our married life, while I existed in single misery34 in my empty house in 38th street. Oh, the desolateness35 of those summer experiences. Oh, the unutterable loneliness of a house without the smile of the dear wife, and the laugh and prattle36 of the baby boy. I even missed his cry at night.
"It's a long, long journey," said Jennie, "and a long, long way off; and I did resolve last summer I never would put a thousand miles again between me and my true home, John. For that is not my home--you are my home."
And a soft hand stole gently up and toyed with my hair.
Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, saith the preacher. To which I add, especially husbands. No man is proof against the flatteries of love. At least I am not, and I am glad of it.
"You can't stay here, Jennie," said I.
"I am afraid not," said she. "It is Harry's second summer, and I would not dare."
"The sea shore?" said I, interrogatively.
"Not one of those great fashionable hotels, John. It would be worse for Harry than the city. And then think of the cost."
"True," said I reflectively. "I wish we could find a quiet place, not too far from the city so that I could come in and out during term time, and stay out altogether during the summer vacation."
"There must be some such, many such," said Jennie.
"But to look for them," said I, "would be, to use an entirely37 new simile38, like looking for a needle in a haystack. There must be some honest lawyers at the New York bar, and some impartial39 judges on the New York bench, but I should not like to be set to find them."
I had been beaten in an important case that afternoon and was out with my profession.
"Suppose you let me try," said Jennie--"that is to find the quiet summer retreat, not the honest lawyer."
"By all means, my dear," said I. "And I have great confidence that if you are patient and assiduous, you will find a place in time for Harry to settle down in comfortably when he gets ready to be married."
Jennie laughed a quiet little laugh at my incredulity, and sat straightway down to write half a dozen letters of inquiry40 to as many different friends in the environs of New York. I resumed the Evening Post. As to anything coming of her plans I no more dreamt of it than your grandfather, reader, dreamt of the Atlantic cable.
But though I had been married three years I did not know Jennie then as well as I know her now. I have since learned that she has a habit of accomplishing what she undertakes. But this again is strictly41 confidential.
That June saw us snugly42 ensconced at Mr. Lines'. Glen-Ridge is the euphonious43 title he has given to his pretty but unpretending place. Jennie had written among others to Sophie Wheaton, née Sophie Nichols, an old school-fellow, and Sophie had sent down an invitation to her to come and spend a week and look for herself, and she had done so; save that two days had sufficed instead of a week. Glen-Ridge had taken her fancy, Mr. Lines had met her housewifely idea of a good house-keeper, and she had selected the rooms and agreed on terms, and left nothing for me to do except to ratify44 the bargain by a letter, which I did the day after her return. And so in the early summer of 1866 the diplomate had carried her first point, and committed me to two months' probation45 in the country; and two very delightful46 months they were.
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tortuous
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| adj.弯弯曲曲的，蜿蜒的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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spires
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| n.（教堂的） 塔尖，尖顶( spire的名词复数 ) | |
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throngs
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| n.人群( throng的名词复数 )v.成群，挤满( throng的第三人称单数 ) | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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enthusiast
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| n.热心人，热衷者 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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devoutly
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| adv.虔诚地，虔敬地，衷心地 | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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whoop
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| n.大叫，呐喊，喘息声；v.叫喊，喘息 | |
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lark
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| n.云雀，百灵鸟；n.嬉戏，玩笑；vi.嬉戏 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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villas
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| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
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moorish
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| adj.沼地的，荒野的，生[住]在沼地的 | |
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dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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abhor
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| v.憎恶；痛恨 | |
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bleak
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| adj.(天气)阴冷的；凄凉的；暗淡的 | |
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shoveled
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| vt.铲，铲出（shovel的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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entreat
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| v.恳求，恳请 | |
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groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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desolateness
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| 孤独 | |
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prattle
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| n.闲谈；v.（小孩般）天真无邪地说话；发出连续而无意义的声音 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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40
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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43
euphonious
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| adj.好听的，悦耳的，和谐的 | |
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44
ratify
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| v.批准，认可，追认 | |
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45
probation
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| n.缓刑(期)，(以观后效的)察看；试用(期) | |
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46
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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