“WE have an invitation to a party,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “on Friday next, and I think a party is a very pleasant thing in the country. There is more sociability, more hospitality, warmer welcomes, less dress, and less style than there is in the city.” Here Mrs. Sparrowgrass handed me an engraved card of rather formidable dimensions, which I must confess looked anything but rural. I took the missive with some misgivings, for I have a natural horror of parties. “I wonder,” said I, in the most playful kind of bitter irony, “whether we will meet out here that young lady that never sings herself, but is always so passionately fond of music?” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she thought not; she said she heard she was married.
“And that gentleman,” I continued, “who was 42 a stranger to me, that always wanted to be presented to some young lady that I didn’t know?”
Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she believed he had gone to California.
“And that lady who prized confectionary above good-breeding, and went home with her pockets well stuffed with mottoes, in defiance of the eighth commandment and the laws of propriety?
Mrs. Sparrowgrass said she knew the lady to whom I alluded, but she assured me she was yet in New York, and had not been seen about our village.
“Then,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, we will go to the party. Put my best shirt, and the white waistcoat in Monday’s wash. Never mind expense. Get me a crumb of bread, and bring me my old white gloves. I am going to be gay.”
“I think,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “that a party in town is nothing but an embarrassment.” “True,” said I. “Don’t you remember,” said she, “what a fuss I used to make about getting my hair fixed, and how put out I was that night when you forgot the japonica?” “Certainly.” “And then, when we were all dressed and ready, how we used to wait for fear of getting there too early, and after we 43 did reach the house, how we always got in a corner, and made happy wall-flowers of ourselves, and some old friends.” “Of course I do.” “Where nobody took any notice of us.” “Exactly.” “Then what difference did it make how I was dressed — whether I wore Honiton lace or cotton edging?” “I am afraid,” said I, “Mrs. Sparrowgrass, if you had made a point of wearing cotton lace, you would not have been invited.” At this palpable double entendre I felt that secret satisfaction which every man must feel when he has said a good thing. It was lost upon Mrs. Sparrowgrass. “Here,” she continued, “we expect a simple, old-fashioned entertainment.” Then I chimed in — “No gas-lights to make your eyes ache — no patent-leather to make your feet ache — no fashionable follies to make your heart ache — and no overheated, ill-ventilated rooms, boned-turkies, game, ice-cream, Charlotte Russe, pâtés, champagne, and chicken-salad, to make your head ache next morning.” “There will by oysters and ice-cream,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, dubiously. “I wish,” said I, “there was a prospect of apples and cider instead. The moment I get inside the doors, and breathe the mingled odors of oysters and geraniums, it will carry 44 me back to town, and for one evening, at least, I shall forget that we are living in the country.
“If you were me, what would you wear?” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass.
“Something very plain, my dear.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Sparrowgrass, “I have nothing very plain, suitable for a party, and to-morrow I must go to town and do a little shopping.”
“I am afraid,” said I (after the second day’s hard shopping in town) “your dress is going to be too plain, my dear. Every hour brings a fresh boy, with a fresh bundle, and a fresh bill, to my office.” Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, “that if I thought so, perhaps she had better get something expensive when she went to buy the trimmings.” I told her that I thought her dress would do without trimming. She said, “it would be ridiculous without gimp or galloon; but perhaps I would prefer velvet ribbon, 45 on account of the flounces?” I told her she had better get the velvet ribbon, and omit the gimp and galloon. Mrs. Sparrowgrass said, “very well,” and the next day another boy brought another bundle, and another bill, which convinced me that extras form an important item in rural architecture. Then we had a dressmaker for several days, and the stitching went on by sun-light and lamp-light, and on the last day Mrs. S. discovered that she had nothing for her head, and the new bonnet was taken to pieces to get at the feathers for a coiffure. Then when the night fell, there fell, too, a soaking rain; and I had forgotten the carriage, so I was obliged to go a mile in the mud to order one from the village livery stable. Then I had to walk back, as the man said, “it was out;” but he promised to send it for us right straight off. Then I had to get dressed over again. Then Mrs. Sparrowgrass could not find her best handkerchief, and I dropped five spermaceti blotches on the new silk dress looking for it. Then she found the handkerchief. Then our girl said that the new dog had run off with one of my boots. Then I had to go out in the mud in my slippers after the dog. Then I got the boot and put it on so as to make that sure. Then we waited 46 for the carriage. We were all dressed and ready, but no carriage. We exercised all the patience we could muster, on account of the carriage, and listened at the windows to see if we could hear it. Two months have elapsed, and it hasn’t come yet. Next day we heard that the party had been an elegant affair. That everybody was there, so we concluded that carriage had not been able to come for us on account of business.
I have bought me another dog. I bought him on account of his fine, long ears, and beautiful silky tail. He is a pup, and much caressed by the young ones. One day he went off to the butcher’s and came back with no more tail than a toad. The whole bunch of young Sparrowgrasses began to bawl when he reached the cottage, on account of his tail. I did not know him when I came home, and he could not recognize me — he had lost his organ of recognition. He reminded me of a dog I once heard of, that looked as if he had been where they wanted a tail merely, and had taken his, and thrown the dog away. Of course I took my stick, and went to see the butcher. Butcher said “he supposed I was something of a dog fancier, and would like to see my dog look stylish.” I said on 47 the contrary, that I had bought him on account of his handsome silky tail, and that I would give ten dollars to have it replaced. Then the idea of having it replaced seemed so ludicrous that I could not restrain a smile, and then the butcher caught the joke, and said there was no way to do it except with fresh putty. I do love a man who can enjoy a joke, so I took a fancy to that butcher. When I got home and saw the dog, I thought less of the butcher, but put a piece of black court-plaster on the dog, and it improved his appearance at once. So I forgave the butcher, and went to be at peace with all mankind.
I love to lie a-bed in these autumnal evenings, and see the early sunlight on those grim old Palisades. A vast stretch of rock, gaunt and grey, is not a cheerful view from the south window. Shut your eyes for a minute, and now look. That faint red cornice, reaching rough-cast along the rugged tops, ten miles or more, from Closter to Tillietudlum, is not unpicturesque. And although we have not the odor of spring lilacs and summer roses, breathing through the windows, yet there is something not less delightful to the senses in this clear frosty atmosphere. Below, the many-colored woods 48 that burgeon on the sides seem to retain the verdure of early spring in those cool depths of shadow. As the sunlight broadens on the crags, the illusion disappears, and we behold once more the brilliant vagaries of vegetation, the hectic hints of yesterday. I wish Kensett could see that pure blue sky and yonder melancholy sloop on the river, working her passage down, with bricks from Haverstraw, and a sail like an expanded rose leaf. It is a pleasant thing to watch the river craft in these autumnal mornings. Sometimes we see a white breasted covey coming up in the distance — from shore to shore a spread of dimity. Here and there are troops of shining ones with warm illuminated wings, and others creeping along in shadow with spectral pinions, like evil spirits. Yonder schooner is not an unfair image of humanity; beating up against adverse winds with one black and one white sail. That dogged old craft, just emerging from obscurity into sunlight, is but a type of some curmudgeon passing from poverty to affluence, and there is another, evidently on the wrong track, stretching away from the light of prosperity into the gloom of misfortune. I do not love the country less because of her teachings by these simple symbols. 49 There are many things to be learned from watching the old wood-sloops on the river.
Our neighbor has been making an improvement in his house. He has had a drain made in the kitchen, with a long earthen pipe ending in a cesspool at the end of his garden. The object of it is to carry off the superfluous water from the house. It was a great convenience, he said, “on wash days.” One objection might be urged, and that was, after every heavy rain he found a gully in his garden path, and several cart loads of gravel in his cess-pool Besides, the pipe was of an equal width, and one obstruction led to another; sometimes it was a silver spoon and a child’s frock; sometimes it was a scrubbing-brush, a piece of soap, and a handkerchief. I said that if he had made a square wooden trough, gradually widening from one end to end, it would have cleared itself, and then I thought it would be a good thing for me to have such a one myself. Then I had a cess-pool built at the bottom of the wall, under the bank, which is almost one hundred and fifty feet from the kitchen, and told my carpenter to make a trough of that length. Carpenter asked me “how big I wanted it?” I told him about eight inches in diameter at the end 50 nearest to the house, and then gradually widening all the way for the whole length. As I said this, my carpenter smiled, and said he never heard of such a thing. I told him no, that the idea was an original one of my own. He asked me how much I would like to have it widened. I thought for a moment, and said, “about half an inch to the foot.” He said very well, and the next week he came with two horses, and an edifice in his cart that looked like a truncated shot-tower. I asked him what that was? He said it was the big end of my pipe. When he laid it on the ground on its side I walked through it, and could not touch the upper side with my hand. Then I asked the carpenter what he meant by it, and he said it was made according to directions. I said not at all, that I told him to increase the diameter at the rate of half an inch to the foot, and he had made it about a foot to the foot, as near as I could judge. “Sparrowgrass,” said he, a little nettled, “jest take your pencil and put down eight inches.” “Well, that’s the diameter of the small end, I believe?” I told the carpenter he was right so far. “Now, for every foot there is an increase of half an inch in the width, that’s according to directions, too, ain’t it? Yes. 51 “Well, then, put down one hundred and fifty half inches, how much does that make, altogether, in feet? Six feet eleven inches. “Now,” said he, “jest you take my rule, and measure the big end of that ’re pipe.” “Carpenter,” said I, “I see it all; but the next time I build an aqueduct I will be a little more careful in the figures.” “Sparrowgrass,” said he, pointing to the pipe, “didn’t you tell me that that was an original idea of your own?” I answered that I believed I did make a remark of that kind. “Well,” said he, with a sort of muffled laugh, “that is the first time that I see an original idea come out at the big end.”