A WINTER IN RETIREMENT
A WINTER IN RETIREMENT
OR
SCATTERED LEAVES
A home on Ocean’s sounding shoreWould be the home for me,Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar,’Tis the music of the Sea.
A home on Ocean’s sounding shoreWould be the home for me,Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar,’Tis the music of the Sea.
A home on Ocean’s sounding shoreWould be the home for me,Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar,’Tis the music of the Sea.
A home on Ocean’s sounding shore
Would be the home for me,
Though loudly hoarse the wild waves roar,
’Tis the music of the Sea.
There is no prospect more lovely and attractive to those who were born upon its shores, than that of the Ocean. In the heat and sunshine of a bright summer day, there is a delicious coolness and refreshment in the breezes which float over its waters never to be forgotten by the wanderer from his native home, and even the hollow murmuring of its waves, when presaging an approaching storm, and their wild roar when the tempest is abroad in its fury, is remembered with a sort of pleasure as being the lullaby for many a calm and sound night’s sleep. In sickness, when far away from the land of his birth, the exile will remember its pure and healthful atmosphere, and in his dreams, perhaps, fancy himself treading the pebbly shore, and feeling the pleasant air upon his fevered brow. Such a fond remembrance has led to the location of the scene of this tale, a remembrance which will exist as long as memory remains.
“And this is the end of all our plans and anticipations for the winter? Oh, Mary, what shall we do through this long dreary season of nearly six months? No balls, no parties, indeed, no society, shut up in my aunt’s lonely house, with nothing to amuse us but the sound of the dismal waves, dashing against the rocks, the mournful wind, whistling through that forest of apple trees, and not a man to be seen but old Philip”—and here the voice of the speaker was stopped by her tears which were, however, soon soothed by the mild and gentle voice of her sister.
“Do look on the bright side of things, dear Susan,” said she, “you forget, how, when we were little girls, we used to love thatorchard, how many merry plays we have had among those trees, and how many stories old Phillip would tell us; then, the beautiful shells we picked up upon the little beach, at the foot of the rocks,”—“But that was in the summer, Mary, when you know it is pleasant out doors, and that was when we were so young, and so easily amused, but now it is so very different, and then Aunt Wilson is so very, very pious—Oh; she will not let us read anything but sermons, or sing anything but psalm tunes.”
This was, indeed, but a gloomy prospect for a gay young girl of seventeen, and it required more stoicism than Susan Morton possessed to view it with indifference. The illness of their father, the necessity of his seeking a warmer climate through the winter, and his wish that his wife should accompany him, were the reasons which had induced him to trust his daughters, during his absence, to the care of his sister, a widow lady of much respectability, who resided near the sea-coast, and, who, since the death of her husband, had devoted her time and talents to the education of her children, two sons and a daughter; and, it was after bidding a sorrowful adieu to their parents, and finding themselves shut up in the carriage, which was to convey them to their winter home, that this conversation commenced. Susan was the youngest of the two sisters, a lively beautiful girl, very fond of society, and always the life and animation of every circle. She had formed many gay schemes of pleasure for the coming winter, the winter after she entered her seventeenth year, which had been all dispersed by the gradual but increasing illness of her father, and she had listened to the arrangement which had consigned her to the care of her aunt through that season which she had anticipated with so much delight with a dissatisfaction and gloom, which prevented her from seeing anything pleasant in their winter abode, or seizing upon any circumstances to soften her disappointment. Not so with Mary; with as lively a disposition as her sister, she still possessed the happy talent of extracting pleasure from any situation, and enjoying herself under almost any circumstances, and now endeavored, with earnest kindness, to bring to her remembrance many little events of their early youth, connected with their aunt and her family, which would aid in restoring her tranquility, and she succeeded, for before their arrival at their destined home, Susan had joined in many a merry laugh at some pleasant recollection. The evening of a dull November day closed in before they arrived at the end of their journey, the monotonous dashing of the waves against the beach sounded drearily, and the chilly air, and the gloomy appearance of the sky made them welcome the bright light, which they knew, streamed from the retired dwelling of their aunt. The carriage now turned into the lane which ledto the house, and they were greeted at the porch by the kind old Philip, whose hair seemed not a shade whiter, nor his face a whit more wrinkled than when, five years before, two lively little girls, they bade him “good-bye,” at that very door. They had hardly time to return his good humored smile, when they were surrounded by the rest of the family, and the affectionate caresses of their aunt, the joyous welcome of their cousins, and even the broad smile which displayed the white teeth of black Phoebe, made them feel that they had, indeed, as Philip said, “Got home again,” and caused Susan to forget her sad forebodings. The transition from the cold darkness of the evening without to the pleasant warmth and cheerful light of the sitting room was delightful, and, in a short time Susan found herself seated among a circle of lovely and beloved friends, all striving to make her happy, and all happy together, and, when, after an evening of the most charming sociability, she found herself alone with her sister, she acknowledged that she was never more entertained than she was this evening.
A bright and pleasant morning sun after a night of uninterrupted and tranquil repose, rendered sweet by the fatigue of the preceding day, restored all the gay cheerfulness of Susan, and she received the kind greetings of her friends, and their affectionate inquiries, with all her wonted good humor. A livelier party never surrounded a breakfast table, from the mother to the youngest of Mrs. Wilson’s children, the light-hearted Charles, a sprightly, intelligent boy of thirteen. Her eldest, a son, a member of the University, had returned to his home to spend the winter vacation. Herbert Wilson was a noble specimen of the youth of New England, active and enterprising, uniting to a fine constitution, habits of industry and order, and already ranking high among the talented sons of his native State. Elizabeth, the daughter, was the counterpart, in disposition, of her cousin Mary; she was the friend and companion of her mother, and the loving counsellor of her brothers. The clouds of the preceding evening had dispersed; it was one of those delightful days which sometimes occur in November; a walk was proposed to the seashore, and with light and happy hearts, the young party, after crossing the brow of the hill, which separated them from the ocean, beheld its vast expanse stretched before them in boundless majesty. The sands, covered with shells, sparkled in the sunbeams; far off, in the distance, were seen the white sails of ships, some leaving their native shores, and some returning to them, and, in the southwest, rose the dome of the State House and many spires of Boston, from whence, on a clear morning, might be heard the cheerful sound of bells. On the smooth beach that united the shore with thebeautiful peninsula of Nahant, were seen sportsmen with their guns, in pursuit of the wild fowl, which were wheeling in hurried circles above their heads, and, here and there, a fishing boat, lying upon the surface of the water, while its owner was engaged in his customary employment of fishing. “How delightful,” said Susan, “I could not have believed it would have been so pleasant here in November. I think I shall be quite contented here, after all.” “But reflect, my cousin,” said Herbert, “this is one of our days of sunshine, what will you say in the days of storm and tempest, when the waves dash against these rugged rocks, and the rain pours in torrents or snow darkens the atmosphere?” “Oh,” said the listening Charles, “you would not be discontented then, for, you know, the days are short, and soon pass away, and the evenings are so pleasant. Oh, cousin Susan! you don’t know anything about those winter evenings.” “Do tell me about them, Charlie, do tell me,” said the lively Susan. “Well, then, Herbert reads”—“Stop, stop, my little man,” said Herbert, “do not let Susan waste all her pleasure in anticipation, but, I hope, dear cousin of mine, to convince you that our happiness is not dependent upon the weather, or upon local situation, and, that, years hence, perhaps, on some bright day, in the most delightful season of the year, or, when surrounded, it may be with everything to make your life happy, you will look back to this winter in retirement as one of the bright spots in your existence.” “I am half inclined to believe you, dear Herbert, but we will walk faster, for I think Mary and Elizabeth have found a prize.” Charles now bounded over the sands, and, upon joining his sister and cousin, found them engaged in examining a shell fish of singular construction. “Why, it is nothing but a horseshoe,” said he. “Uncle Bill says they call them so because they look like one, and, look, Herbert, there is Uncle Bill himself, with a basket of clams. Hurrah! Uncle Bill, what will you do with your clams?” He then ran to join a man who was coming from the edge of the water, where he had been employed in procuring the contents of his basket. He was slightly built, of a florid complexion, and a mild sensible countenance, but a certain wandering and restless expression indicated an unsettled mind. As Herbert greeted him kindly his eyes lighted with animation, and his respectful salute to the young ladies had an air of good breeding, unusual in a person in his apparent condition of life. To the repeated question of Charles as to what he would do with his clams, he said he would carry some to Phoebe, that she might make him a chowder. “That is the very thing, Uncle Bill; hurrah for clam chowder, and I’ll go forward and tell her,” said Charles, and he ran on, followed more slowly by Uncle Bill. “There is something singular in the appearance ofthat man,” said Mary. “There is something singular in his history,” said Herbert. “Sometime, on one of those stormy days of which I have forewarned Susan, I will tell you the outlines of it.” “Oh, no outlines,” said Susan, “tell me all the particulars, all the little shades of the story. I do not like rough sketches, I have not imagination enough to fill them up.” “I will tell you all I myself know of his life,” said Herbert, “and it is an illustration of the caprice and coquetry of which some of your sex are accused.” “A love story; that will be grand,” said Susan, “only it is a pity that the hero is an old clam merchant.”
A cheerful walk returned them to their home, where each resorted to their usual avocations, Herbert to pursue his studies and instruct Charles, Elizabeth to attend to and learn the necessary duties of a housewife, and during their morning walk she had contrived to inspire Mary with a desire to emulate her in becoming a complete cook and housekeeper, and thus give her kind mother an agreeable surprise on her return. Susan, also, was forming many plans for her winter pursuits, among which, one was commencing the study of Latin, under the instruction of Herbert, and another of working, in worsted, a cover for a family Bible, with the names of her parents wrought upon it, in imitation of the one which laid upon her aunt’s table, and which she thought would please her father and mother. Thus the day passed, and when the family surrounded the tea table, health and cheerfulness glowed in every countenance, and Susan forgot every cause of discontent. After the tea things were removed. “Now,” said Charles, “now for the story, Herbert.” “What,” said Susan, “about Uncle Bill?” “No, no, not now,” said Charles, “a story about Rome, in the time of the early Christians. I am studying the history of Rome in Latin, and Herbert promised he would read a story about it.” “In that case, Charles,” said Mrs. Wilson, “you will be able to detect any deviations from the truth of history.” “But, may I speak, mother, when I think I find anything that is not true?” “There will be times, my dear, when Herbert will pause awhile, and then you can make your remarks.” “There is a peculiar charm,” said Herbert, “in retracing the records of antiquity, for we lose sight, in the distance, of all roughness and inequalities, and our imagination only rests upon the smooth and distant perspective. I remember journeying with my father, many years ago, through the northern part of this State, and when I remarked to him that the hills which we saw around us looked as if they were highly cultivated, their surface appearing so even and delightful, here and there dotted with clumps of trees, he repeated the words of the poet, ‘’Tis distance lends enchantment to the view.’ ‘If, my son, you were there, upon thosevery spots that appear so pleasant, you would be disappointed by their rugged and uneven appearance, perhaps deformed with unsightly stumps, or with patches of rock.’” “So it is with the romance of history,” said Elizabeth, “but, if we are too critical in our remarks, we should lose much pleasure.” “True,” said Herbert, “and therefore, not to spoil the appetite of Charles for our little tale, we will not proceed with our illustrations.” Herbert produced his manuscript, the little circle arranged themselves at their different employments, and silence ensued, while in a clear voice he commenced reading a tale of which the scene was laid in the days of Nero, the tyrant of Rome, and the malignant persecutor of the Christians.