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HOME



A STOEY OF KEW EXGLAXD LIFE



MISS SEDGWICK

AUTHOU OF "RKDWOOD," l * HOP! r.wBT.Tg, " ETC.



NEW EDITION.




NEW YORK

WORTHINGTON CO., 747 BROADWAY
1890



CONTENTS.



l'AOl

I. Going to Housekeeping 1

II. A Glimpse at Family (.om.knmlni . 17

III. A Family Dinmv 33

IV. The Rbvebbb or the Picture ... 52
V. A Dedication Sbbvice 59

VI. Sunday at Mb. Barclay's 65

VII. A Tbi i. Stoby T'.t

VIII. A Dabk Day 89

IX. A Home tor the Homeless .... 103

X. A Peep into mi. Hive 122

XI. Going Home to Greenbrook .... 132

XII. Cross-Purposes 147

XIII. Family Letters 101

XIV. The Conclusion 173



HOME.



CHAPTER I.

GOING TO HOUSE-KEEPING.

M . tge more

Than palace ; and Bhould lining bo

For all my use, no luxury.

Cowley.

In a picturesque district of New England
— it matters not in which of the Eastern
States, for in them all there is Buch unity of
character and similarity of condition, that
what is true of one may be probable of all, —
in one of them there is a sequestered village
called Greenbrook. The place derives its
name from a stream of water which bears
this descriptive appellation, —

"As if the bright fringe of herb9 on its brink,
Had given their stain to the wave they drink;
And they, whose meadows it murmurs through,
Have named the stream from its own fair hue."

There is one particularly beautiful spot,
where this little river, or rather brook (for t
is not wider than the Tiber at Washington",

\



2 HOME.

winds through a lovely meadow, and then
stretches round a rocky peninsula, curving in
and out, and lingering as if it had a human
heart and loved that which it enriched. On a
gentle slope, rising from the meadow and
catching the first rays of the morning sun,
stood an old-fashioned parsonage, about half a
mile from the village, and at right angles with
it, so that its road and shaded sidewalks, and
the goings-out and comings-in of his flock,
could be overlooked by the good pastor. Par-
son Draper's were not the days of agricultural
and horticultural societies, and just as he re-
ceived the place, he was content to hold and
leave it. He cut the hay from the meadow,
and pastured a few sheep in the beautiful wood
of maples, oaks, and beeches, that sheltered
him from the north-west wind, where, if they
did not find the sweetest pasture in the world,
they looked prettily, cropping their scanty food
from the rocky knolls, or grouped together in
the shaded dells.

The good man, according to his views of
them, performed his duties faithfully. He
read diligently large books of divinity, preached
two sermons (never an old one) every Sab-
bath, was punctual at weddings and funerals,
and abstracted no time from these sacerdotal
offices to improve his ragged garden, or till



GOING TO HOUSE-KEEPING. 8

his little farm. He had but two children,—
the one a worthless son, and the other a girl, a
most dutiful and gentle creature, who married
a merchant, lived prosperously in a city for
two or three years, and then returned a widow,
penniless, and with an only son, to her fathers
house. She bore her reverses meekly, and

directed all her energies to one object, — the
sine qua non of a New England mother, — a
good education for her son. The hoy,
William Barclay, found only happiness in the
change. He was released from what seemed
to him a prison, a nursery in a narrow city
street, and permitted to teed grandfather's
sheep, to harness his horse, sometimes to ride
and drive him; in short, to employ those
faculties that employed are blessings, and
unemployed, tormentors.

The parsonage, as we have said, was apart
from the village. Either because of his early
solitude, or through the leading of his mother,
who, turned back from the world, loved to
commune with God in his work-, or from an
innate love of natural beauty, William Barclay
knit his heart to this home of his childhood ;
and when his grandfather died, and the place
was sold, and he was compelled to leave it, he
felt much as might our first parents, when
from Paradise they " took their solitary way."



4 HOME.

His mother had a pittance, and this, with
straining every nerve, and now and then a lift
from a friend, enabled her to go on with hev
favorite project. She and her son were re-
ceived in the families of her friends, and
changed their abode according to the liber-
ality or convenience of their patrons. But
William was kept at his books, and this repaid
her for every sacrifice and every exertion.
William, however, Mas not of a temper to
brook this strain on his mother, and partial
dependence on others. As soon as he was of
an age to comprehend it, he renounced the
idea of what is technically called an education,
the four years at college, threw himself on his
own exertions, and by hook and by crook, that
is, by infinite ingenuity and diligence, and by
the most severe self-denial and frugality", lie
supported himself, obtained the rudiments of
an excellent education, and learned the art of
printing. At the age of twenty-two be was
the conductor of a valuable printing-press in
the city of New York, in partnership with
Norton its proprietor, and with a reasonable
prospect of a joint property in the concern.
In the mean time, his earnings were sufficient
to enable him to maintain a family and go
ahead. Thankful ought we to be, that in our
favored land a working man need not wait till



GOING TO HOUSE-KEEPING.

he be bald or gray before he may, with pru-
dence, avail himself of the blessed institution
of marriage; — that itj like William Barclay,
he be capable, diligent, frugal, and willing to
dispense with superfluities, he may, while hope
is unblignted, resolution vigorous, and love in
it^ early freshness, assume the responsibilities
of a married man. In Europe, — ay, in what
"merry England," it is not so; the kind
order of nature and Providence is baffled, and
the working man, Ik- he M capable, diligent, and
frugal," has an alms-house in hi> perspective,
or the joyless alternative, a life of Bafe and
pining Bingler

-And is this our home? 1 * said Mrs. Barclay
to her husband, as they entered a small, newly
built, two-story house in Greenwich Strt

"Yes, dear Anne; and if it were but in
Greenbrook, and a little stream before it, and
an oak wood on one side, and a green lane to
the road on the other, we should stand a
chance at love in a cotti

••I Bee how it is William; I have yet to
(aire you of your homesickness for the old par-
re. Who knows but we may go there
some time or other? In the meantime, let us
try if we cannot be happy with love in a small
house, instead of a cottage."

•• You could make the happiness of any



6 HOME.

home to me, Anne. Shifted about as I have
been from pillar to post, I scarcely know what
home is, from experience ; but it is a word that,
to my mind, expresses every motive and aid to
virtue, and indicates almost every source of
happiness. I am sure of content; but will not
you, Anne, contrast this little dwelling with
your father's spacious house, and when you
look into the dirty street, or into our poor,
cramped, ten-feet yard, will you not pine to see
the golden harvests we left waving on the
sunny slopes of Greenbrook, or for the beauti-
ful view, from your window, of meadow and
mountain? Will you not miss the pleasant
voices of home ? — the footsteps of sisters and
brothers ? "

"Yes," re] died the wife, smiling through the
tears that gushed from nature's fount at the
picture of her lather's house: — "Yes, I shall
miss all this, — for who ever did, or ever can,
forget a happy home ? I may even shed many
tears, William ; but they will be like the rain
that falls when the sun shines, — there will be
no cloud over the heart. I am sure I shall
never repent the promise made this night three
weeks, forsaking all others to cleave to you
alone."

" I trust you will not, Anne. But I cannot
help wishing I was not obliged at once to put



GOING TO fiOUSE-KEEPDCG. <

you to such ;i test. This house seems to me
smaller than when I hired it ; this parlor is
scarcely big enough to turn id."

"Now it Btruck me aa just of the right size.
I always had a fancy for a snug parlor.
Nothing looks so forlorn as a large, desolate,
cold, halt-furnished, shabby parlor."

Mr. Barclay smiled. " You have certainly
contrived, Anne, to make the large parlorlook
lisagreeable."

•■ And I will try my best to make the small
me agreeabl

A look from her husband indicated his
belief that she could not fail. "And can you
say any thing for this little bedroom?" he
asked, opening the door into an adjoining
apartment.

After an instant's survey she replied, " It
suits me exactly. "'

' that is an ugly jut."

u It*» not pretty, hut how neatly the bureau
Hts in : and this nice little closet, what a bless-
ing! a urate too! I did not expect this. It
suits me exactly," she repeated, with hearty
emphasis. •• But perhaps you did not mean
this for our apartment."

" You must decide that. There is a room
above this precisely like it."

"Then this shall be tor mother; she minds



3 HOME.

stairs and we do not. And here she shall have
her rocking-chair and Bible, and I trust she
will have a happy home after all."

This " after all " meant years of miserable
shifting and changing, which old Mrs. Barclay
had endured with the patience of a martyr.
No wonder William Barclay felt grateful to
his wife when he perceived his mother's
happiness was her first care. He told her
so.

" Wait," she said, " till I deserve your
thanks. But now tell me where this little
j)assage leads to ? to the kitchen ! — this is
nice ! I could not bear to think of thrusting
Martha down into one of these New York
cellar kitchens; they are so dark and dismal,
after being used to our light, airy, sociable
country kitchens. Martha will be delighted."

Mr. Barclay confessed he had made a sacri-
fice to secure a pleasant apartment for Martha,
a young girl whom his wife (in country phrase)
had " taken to bring up." " I had to decide,"
he said, "between two houses of equal rent,
— the apartments in the other were larger than
these, but the kitchen was under ground, and
would have seemed dismal to Martha, and I
knew you would wish to begin house-keeping
with as much happiness as possible beneath
your roof."



GOING TO HOUSE-KEEPING. 9

"At your old tricks, William, doing kind
acts and giving the credit to another. How-
ever, I have generosity enough to approve
this sacrifice of a little for us, to a great deal
for Martha. Mother says there would not be
half so much complaining of help, if the mas-
ter and mistress had a religious sense of their
duties to them, and took proper pains to pro-
mote their happiness. Home should he the
sweetest of all words even to the humblest
member of a family."'

This sentiment was echoed from William
Barclay's heart and tongue, and then the
young }*ur proceeded to examine together
their furniture, which had been purchased by
the husband according to a few general direc-
tions from the wife, the funds being furnished
by her father. We shall not give an inven-
tory, but merely note that there were no
superfluities, — no gewgaws of any description ;
no mantel-glass, ornamental-lamp, vase of
Paris flowers, tawdry pictures: such are some-
times seen where there is a lamentable de-
ficiency of substantial comforts. But there
was, what in these dressed-up houses is sacri-
ficed to show, — ample stores of household
linen, fine mattresses, as nice an apparatus for
ablutions as a disciple of Combe could wish,
jugs, basins, and tubs large enough, if not to



10 HOME.

silence, to drown a travelling Englishman ; and
finally one luxury, which long habit and well
cultivated taste had rendered essential to hap-
piness, — a book-case filled with well-selected
and well-bound volumes. They paused before
it, while Mrs. Barclay ran over the titles of
some of the books : " ' History of England,'
' Universal History,' ' Marshall's Washington,
'American Revolution,' 'Shakespeare,' 'Mil-
ton,' ' Pope,' ' Addison,' ' Goldsmith,' ' Fenelon,'
'Taylor,' 'Law,' 'Johnson's Dictionary,' 'Cal-
met's Dictionary,' ' Lempriere,' ' Biographical
Dictionary.' O what a capital Atlas! How
in the world, William, did you contrive to
afford so many books? When father made an
estimate of the cost of our furniture, he al-
lowed twenty-five dollars for books. That,
he said, would buy a Bible, the histories of
England and America, a cookery book, and
dictionary, — quite enough, he said, for a nest

fiflror " *

" Your lather is frugal, Anne, and so must
we be ; but we have a right to select the de-
partment in which we prefer sparing, and that
is not books. Since I have earned more than
I was obliged to spend, I have made a yearly

•The father-in-law's allowance exceeded that which Byron
allows to the intellectual wants of women, by the two histories
and the dictionary.



GOING TO HOUSE-KEEPING. 1\

investment in books, as the stock which
would yield the best income. I h.ul thus
cumulated those heavy volumes on the lower
shelves: and as ladies sometimes think heavy
books heavy reading, I tilled up the case with
such as 1 hoped would suit your taste, and
profit us both. All these were bought with
your nloney."
••All these! how was that possible?"
" I will tell you. In purchasing your furni-
ture, my dear wife, whenever two articles were
offered of equal intrinsic value, the one orna-
mental and the other jdain, I bought the plain
one, and passed over the saving made to the
book fund. For instance, I was offered a re-
markably pretty Geneva clock, which cost fifty
dollars in Paris, for thirty dollars. A clock I
thought essential to the punctual arrangement
of house affairs; and to convince myself of the
propriety of buying this particular clock, this
bargain, I reasoned as people do when they
would persuade themselves to that which in
their secret souls they know is not quite right-
' I have bought nothing ornamental ; surely we
have a right to one indulgence of this sort :
I may never meet with such a bargain, again ;
it will just suit Anne's taste.' This last
thought turned the scale, and I was on the
point of concluding the purchase when the



12 HOME.

master of the shop said, ' If you really want
the clock for a timepiece merely, here is an
article of excellent mechanism, which costs
only five dollars.' I shut my eyes against the
pretty Geneva clock, bought the five-dollar ar-
ticle, hung it up in the kitchen, and with the
money saved I purchased that row of books.
Instead of twenty-five dollars' worth of glass
and gilding, we have some of the best produc-
tions of the best minds. Instead of a poor
gratification of our vanity, or at best of our
eyes, we have a productive capital, from which
we may derive exhaustless pleasure, which
hundreds may share, and which those who
come after us may enjoy. Oh, who can estimate
the value of a book ! "

" Books are your Penates, William."

" If so, Anne, I have greatly the advantage
of the ancients. Their household gods were
dumb idols, — mine have living and immortal
souls."

Mr. Barclay was a printer and might mag-
nify his art ; but what honor is not due to that
art which makes the spirits of the departed
our familiar companions and instructors, which
realizes the doctrine of metempsychosis, and
transfuses the souls of the departed into the
living.

" Anne, you do not tell me whether you are
satisfied with my selection."



GOIN<. TO HOUSE-KEEPING. 13

" I see but one deficiency."

" Oh, a Bible ! You do not think I have
omitted that. No, that I consider as essential
to a home as the foundation-stone to an edifice.
But the family Bible is for daily use, and has
its proper station in the parlor. Neither have
I omitted the other item on your father's list;
the cookery book is on a shelf in the kitchen,
with a tew other instructive and entertaining
volumes for Martha's use. I believe that what-
ever tends to improve the minds and hearts of
domestics will, to say the wprst of it, not in-
jure their service ; and that every wise pro-
vision for their happiness multiplies the chances
of their attachment and fidelity. We are
novices, Anne, and may be wrong; but at
any rate we will try it."

Mrs. Barclay was a loving and, with ^ood
reason, a trustful wife, and ready to co-operate
with her husband in all his benevolent pur-
poses. They looked at the neat spare room,
which, according to the fashion of their
fathers they had consecrated to hospitality ;
and, after pleasing themselves with the expec-
tation, that this and that relative or friend
would occasionally occupy it, they returned to
the parlor, and naturally fell to the retrospei
of the long and checkered track by which
Providence had led them to this happy



14 HOME.

beginning of their married life. Perhaps this
review was for the hundredth time ; but it
mattered not. Such subjects never lose their
interest for the parties concerned. To others
there was nothing striking in the history of
their quiet lives; but circumstances, to the
individuals they affect, take the hue of their
feelings; and glowing hopes and deep emo-.
tions produce an effect on ordinary events
resembling the alternations of shadows and sun-
beams on a familiar landscape.

Mrs. Barclay was one of the ten children of
a rich farmer ; but there is nothing appalling
to the most modest aspirant in the riches of a
New England farmer, and the little, sweet-tem-
pered, bright Anne Hyde was very early (so
early that it seemed to him as a morning
di sarn) the tenant and joint proprietor of all
William Barclay's castles in the air. And he
seemed to her, in the memory of her childhood,
to run, like a golden thread, through all its
web. She fondly recalled the time when, one
bitter cold day, he left a skating party to drag
her home on his sled ; and that unlucky day
when she fell in climbing over the fence, tore
her frock, and spilled her strawberries, and he
refilled her basket from his, and took her home
.0 his gentle mother to mend the rent ; thus
saving her from disgrace with her own



GOING TO HOU31 KEEPING. 15

mother, whose temper, poor woman, was a little
the worse for the wear and tear often children.
And well she remembered the time when, in
choosing sides for spelling, he chose her be-
fore her pretty competitor, Fanny Smith, who
was certainly the best speller; and their stand-
ing together at poor Lucy Grey's funeral, and
crying so bitterly; and the next day their ty-
ing up a wreath of apple-blossoms and laying
it on lur grave ; and their first singing-school ;
and though at meeting he sat with the bass
and she with the treble, she never heard any

but his. All she could not remember
was the time when she did not love him.
But it mattered not when or where the starting-
point was, in the snows of winter or the
pleasant summer field, in the school or church-
yard, when the heart was merry or sad ; cer-
tain it was, their affection had grown with
their growth and the stream that was now to

l one deep, inseparable current, was as

md fresh as when it first gushed forth
from it< separate founts.
" The Barclays closed their first eveni'

by reading together in that holy book
whose truths and p'-ecepts were to inform and
govern their lives. They then knelt at the
domestic altar, while William Barclay, in a
tone of cheerful, manly devotion, dedicated his



16 HOME.

home to Him "who setteth the solitary in
families," and from that day it was hallowed
by domestic worship.

Few persons, probably, have thought so
much as William Barclay of the economy of
domestic happiness. He had lived in various
families, and had seen much waste and neg-
glect of the means of virtue and happiness
which Providence supplies through the social
relations. He had made a chart for his future
conduct, by which he hoped to escape at
least some of the shoals and quicksands on
which others make shipwreck. He believed
that a household, governed in obedience to
the Christian social law, would present as per-
fect an image of heaven, as the infirmity of
human nature, and the imperfections in the
constitution of human affairs, would admit.
That he purposed well, is certain ; how far he
succeeded, will be imperfectly disclosed in
the following pages.



A GLIMPSE AT FAMILY GOVERNMENT. 17



CHAPTER II.

A GLIMPSE AT FAMILY GOVERNMENT.

Pour forth thy fervors for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resigned.

Johnson.

The skilful cultivator discerns to the germi-
nation of the bud tht' perfection, or the disease,
that a superficial observer would first perceive
in the ripening or the blighted fruit. And
the moral observer, if equally skilled, might
predict the manhood from the promise of the
youth. Few are so skilled, and we seldom
turn over ten years of life without surprise ;il
the development of qualities we had not per-
ceived. The happy accidents — they could
not be called virtues, but rather the result of
circumstances — have vanished like the dews
of morning. The good-natured, light-hearted,
generous youth, as his cares increased and his
health abated, has become petulant, gloomy,
and selfish ; the gay, agreeable girl, moping
and censorious. There were many who won-
dered, that persons who seemed nothing ex-
traordinary in their youth, should turn out
as the Barclays had ; and they wondered too,
how in the world it was that every thing went



18 Some.

right with the Barclays ; and then the puzzle
was solved in the common way, — " It was
their luck." They did not see that the Bar-
clays had begun right, that they had proposed
to themselves rational objects, and had pur-
sued them with all the power of conscience
and of an unslacking energy.

That happy if not happiest portion of mar-
ried life, when the thousand clustering joys of
parents are first felt, when toil is hope without
weariness, passed brightly away witli them.
Twelve years had thus passed ; their cares
were multiplied, and their enjoyments, a hun-
dred-fold. Mr. Barclay's accumulating re-
sponsibilities sometimes weighed heavily upon
him. He was, like most persons of great sen-
sibility, of an apprehensive temper. The little
ailments of his children were apt to disturb his
serenity, and, for the time being, it was de-
stroyed by the moral diseases that break out in
the healthiest subjects. His wife was of a hap-
pier temperament. Her equal, sunny temper
soon rectified the disturbed balance of his.
She knew that the constitution of weak and
susceptible childhood was liable to moral and
physical maladies, ami that, if well got through,
it became the more robust and resisting for
having suffered them. Her husband knew
this too, and was consoled by it, — after the
danger was past.



k GLIMPSE AT FAMILY GOVERNMENT. 19

Our friends were now in a convenient house,
adapted to their very much improved fortune

,J increased family. The family were as-
Lbled in a back parlor. M-. Barclay ™
at .me domestic employment, to focihtate
wh ich Martha had just brought in a tub of
rcalding water. Charles the eldest hoy, With

a p2ce most u^J^ ™*<f^ *r
f V am for grandmamma to wind; Ahce, the

adjoiilig room; Mary, the seco^^wasarnu*
toJX Tbaby at the window ; Willie was aay-
5 hia letters to Aunt Betsey ,-aU were
busy but the busiest was little Baddy, a
m £t child of four years, who was sitting in
the middle of the room on a ^w °ha^, and
w ho, unobserved by the rest, and herself un-
conscious of wrong, was doing de^ynnschieE

She had taken a new, unfinished, and very
precious kite belonging to her brother Wa^ce,

cut a hole in the centre, thrust mto it -the head
of her vet Maltese kitten, ami was holding it
by ^ fore raws and making it dance on her
Lap; the little animal looking as demure and
as formal as one of Queen Elizabeth's maids of
honor in her ruff. At this critical juncture
Wallace entered in search of his kite. One
„-ord of prefatory palliation for Wall**.
The kite was the finest he had ever possessed;






liU HOME.

it had been given him by a friend, and that
friend was waiting at the door, to string and
fly it for him. At once the ruin of the kite,
and the indignity to which it was subjected,
flashed on him, and perhaps little Haddy's
very satisfied air exasperated him. In a
breath he seized the kitten, and dashed it into
the tub of scalding water. His father had
come in to dinner, and paused at the open