But we, her little favorites, were not afraid of her. To go into her garden in summer, and eat currants, larger and sweeter than any we found at home,-to look up at the enormous old damson-tree, when it was white with blossoms, and the rich honey-comb smell was diffused over the whole garden,-was a pleasant little excursion to us. She took great care and pains to save the plums from the plundering boys, because it was the only real damson there was anywhere in the neighborhood, and she found a ready sale for them, for preserves. She seemed to think that the real damsons went out with the real gentry of the olden time; and perhaps they did, as damsons, though, for aught I know, they may figure now in our fruit catalogues as "The Duke of Argyle's New Seedling Acidulated Drop of Damascus,"-which would be something like a translation of Damson into the modern terminology.
But more pleasant still was it to go into Aunt Molly's "best room." The walls she had papered herself, with curious stripes and odd pieces, of various shapes and patterns, ornamented with a border of figures of little men and women joining hands, cut from paper of all colors; and they were adorned, besides, with several prints in shining black frames. There was no carpet on the snow-white, unpainted floor, but various mats and rugs, of all the kinds into which ingenuity has transformed woollen rags, were disposed about it. The bed was the pride and glory of the room, however; for on it was spread a silk patchwork quilt, made of pieces of the brocade and damask and elegant silks, of which the ladies belonging to the grand old Tory families had their gowns and cardinals, and other paraphernalia, made. Aunt Molly had been a mantuamaker to the old "quality," and she could show us a piece of Madam Vassall's gown on that wonderful and brilliant piece of work, the bed-quilt. "On that hint" she would speak.
"A-haw-awr! They were real gentle folks that lived in them days. A-haw-awr! I declare, I could e'en-amost kneel down and kiss the very airth they trod on, as they went by my house to church. Polite, they wor! Yes, they knew what true politeness was; and to my thinking true politeness is next to saving grace."
Once a year, or so, Aunt Molly would dress up in her best gown, a black silk, trimmed with real black lace, and a real lace cap, relics of the good old days of Toryism and brocade and the real gentry, and go to make an afternoon visit to one of her neighbors. After the usual salutations, the lady would ask her visitor to take off her bonnet and stay the afternoon, knowing by the "rig" that such was her intention. But she liked to be urged a little, so she would say, "O, I only came out for a little walk, it was so pleasant, and stopped in to see how little Henry did, since his sickness. You know I always call him my boy." (Yes, Aunt Molly, the only boy in the universe that, for you, had any good in him.) After the proper amount of urging, she would lay aside her bonnet and black satin mantle, saying, "Well, I didn't come here to get my tea, but you are so urgent, I believe I will stay."
Aunt Molly's asides were often amusing. She was so very deaf that she could not hear her own voice, and often imagined she was whispering, when she could be heard across the room.
On one occasion she saw a gentleman who was a stranger to her, in the parlor, when she went to visit one of the ladies who were kind and attentive to her. She sat a few minutes looking keenly at him, and then whispered, "Who's that?" "Mr. Jay." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Who?" "MR. JAY." "Oh-o-oh! Mr. Jay. Well, what does he do for a living?" "He's a tutor, Ma'am." "What?" "A TUTOR." "What?" "A TUTOR." "Oh-o-oh! I thought you said a suitor!"
Aunt Molly owned the little brown cottage, where her widowed mother, she said, had lived, and there she died. As soon as she was laid in her grave, it was torn down, and the precious damson-tree was felled. I was rather glad that the school-house was so ugly, that I might have a double reason for hating the usurper. If Nemesis cared for school-boys, she doubtless looks on with a grin, now, to see them scampering at their will round the precincts of the former enemy of their race, and listens with pleasure while they "make day hideous" where once the bee and the humming-bird only broke the quiet of the little garden.
Aunt Molly had a vigorous, active mind, and a strong, tenacious memory; and her love of the departed grandeur and Toryism of Court Row, as she called that part of Brattle Street from Ash Street to Mount Auburn, was pleasant and entertaining to those who listened to her tales of other times.
Peace to her memory!
THE SOUNDS OF MORNING IN CAMBRIDGE.
I sing the melodies of early morn.
Hark!-'t is the distant roar of iron wheels,
First sound of busy life, and the shrill neigh
Of vapor-steed, the vale of Brighton threading,
Region of lowing kine and perfumed breeze.
Echoes the shore of blue meandering Charles.
Straightway the chorus of glad chanticleers
Proclaims the dawn. First comes one clarion note,
Loud, clear, and long drawn out; and hark! again
Rises the jocund song, distinct, though distant;
Now faint and far, like plaintive cry for help
Piercing the ear of Sleep. Each knight o' the spur,
Watchful as brave, and emulous in noise,
With mighty pinions beats a glad reveille.
All feathered nature wakes. Man's drowsy sense
Heeds not the trilling band, but slumbrous waits
The tardy god of day. Ah! sluggard, wake!
Open thy blind, and rub thy heavy eyes!
For once behold a sunrise. Is there aught
In thy dream-world more splendid, or more fair?
With crimson glory the horizon streams,
And ghostly Dian hides her face ashamed.
Now to the ear of him who lingers long
On downy couch, "falsely luxurious,"
Comes the unwelcome din of college-bell
Fast tolling. . . . . .
"'T is but the earliest, the warning peal!"
He sleeps again. Happy if bustling chum,
Footsteps along the entry, or perchance,
In the home bower, maternal knock and halloo,
Shall break the treacherous slumber. For behold
The youth collegiate sniff the morning zephyrs,
Breezes of brisk December, frosty and keen,
With nose incarnadine, peering above
Each graceful shepherd's plaid the chin enfolding.
See how the purple hue of youth and health
Glows in each cheek; how the sharp wind brings pearls
From every eye, brightening those dimmed with study,
And waste of midnight oil, o'er classic page
Long poring. Boreas in merry mood
Plays with each unkempt lock, and vainly strives
To make a football of the Freshman's beaver,
Or the sage Sophomore's indented felt.
Behold the foremost, with deliberate stride
And slow, approach the chapel, tree-embowered,
Entering composedly its gaping portal;
Then, as the iron tongue goes on to rouse
The mocking echoes with its call, arrive
Others, with hastier step and heaving chest.
Anon, some bound along divergent paths
Which scar the grassy plain, and, with no pause
For breath, press up the rocky stair. Straightway,
A desperate few, with headlong, frantic speed,
Swifter than arrow-flight or Medford whirlwind,
Sparks flying from iron-shod heels at every footfall,
Over stone causeway and tessellated pavement,-
They come-they come-they leap-they scamper in,