Two Thousand Miles on an Automobile Part 21

On March 4, 1888, Bronson Alcott died, and two days later Louisa Alcott followed her father. They lie near together on the ridge a little beyond Hawthorne. Initials only mark the graves of her sisters, but it has been found necessary to place a small stone bearing the name "Louisa" on the grave of the author of "Little Women." She had made every arrangement for her death, and by her own wish her funeral was in her father's rooms in Boston, and attended by only a few of her family and nearest friends.

"They read her exquisite poem to her mother, her father's n.o.ble tribute to her, and spoke of the earnestness and truth of her life. She was remembered as she would have wished to be. Her body was carried to Concord and placed in the beautiful cemetery of Sleepy Hollow, where her dearest ones were already laid to rest.

'Her boys' went beside her as 'a guard of honor,' and stood around as she was placed across the feet of father, mother, and sister, that she might 'take care of them as she had done all her life.'"

Louisa Alcott's last written words were the acknowledgment of the receipt of a flower. "It stands beside me on Marmee's (her mother) work-table, and reminds me tenderly of her favorite flowers; and among those used at her funeral was a spray of this, which lasted for two weeks afterwards, opening bud by bud in the gla.s.s on her table, where lay the dear old 'Jos. May' hymn-book, and her diary with the pen shut in as she left it when she last wrote there, three days before the end, 'The twilight is closing about me, and I am going to rest in the arms of my children.' So, you see, I love the delicate flower and enjoy it very much."

Reverently, with bowed heads, we stood on that pine-covered ridge which contained the mortal remains of so many who are great and ill.u.s.trious in the annals of American literature. A scant patch of earth hides their dust, but their fancies, their imaginings, their philosophy spanned human conduct, emotions, beliefs, and aspirations from the cradle to the grave.

The warm September day was drawing to a close; the red sun was sinking towards the west; the hilltop was aflame with a golden glow from the slanting rays of the declining sun. Slowly we wended our way through the shadowy hollow below; looking back, the mound seemed crowned with glory.

Leaving Concord by Main Street we pa.s.sed some famous homes, among them Th.o.r.eau's earlier home, where he made lead-pencils with the deftness which characterized all his handiwork; turning to the left on Th.o.r.eau Street we crossed the tracks and took the Sudbury road through all the Sudburys,--four in number; the roads were good and the country all the more interesting because not yet invaded by the penetrating trolley. It would be sacrilegious for electric cars to go whizzing by the ancient tombs and monuments that fringe the road down through Sudbury; the automobile felt out of place and instinctively slowed down to stately and measured pace.

In all truth, one should walk, not ride, through this beautiful country, where every highway has its historic a.s.sociations, every burying-ground its honored dead, every hamlet its weather-beaten monument. But if one is to ride, the automobile--incongruous as it may seem--has this advantage,--it will stand indefinitely anywhere; it may be left by the roadside for hours; no one can start it; hardly any person would maliciously harm it, providing it is far enough to one side so as not to frighten pa.s.sing horses; excursions on foot may be made to any place of interest, then, when the day draws to a close, a half-hour suffices to reach the chosen resting-place.

It was getting dark as we pa.s.sed beneath the stately trees bordering the old post-road which leads to the door of the "Wayside Inn."

Here the stages from Boston to Worcester used to stop for dinner.

Here Was.h.i.+ngton, Lafayette, Burgoyne, and other great men of Revolutionary days had been entertained, for along this highway the troops marched and countermarched. The old inn is rich in historic a.s.sociations.

The road which leads to the very door of the inn is the old post-road; the finely macadamized State road which pa.s.ses a little farther away is of recent dedication, and is located so as to leave the ancient hostelry a little retired from ordinary travel.

A weather-beaten sign with a red horse rampant swings at one corner of the main building.

"Half effaced by rain and s.h.i.+ne, The Red Horse prances on the sign."

For nearly two hundred years, from 1683 to 1860, the inn was owned and kept by one family, the Howes, and was called by many "Howe's Tavern," by others "The Red Horse Inn."

Since the publication of Longfellow's "Tales of a Wayside Inn,"

the place has been known by no other name than the one it now bears.

"As ancient is this hostelry As any in the land may be, Built in the old Colonial day, When men lived in a grander way, With ampler hospitality; A kind of old Hobgoblin Hall, Now somewhat fallen to decay, With weather-stains upon the wall, And stairways worn, and crazy doors, And creaking and uneven floors, And chimneys huge, and tiled and tall."

A portrait of Lyman Howe, the last landlord of the family, hangs in the little bar-room,

"A man of ancient pedigree, A Justice of the Peace was he, Known in all Sudbury as 'The Squire.'

Proud was he of his name and race, Of old Sir William and Sir Hugh."

And now as of yore

"In the parlor, full in view, His coat-of-arms, well framed and glazed, Upon the wall in colors blazed."

The small window-panes which the poet describes as bearing

"The jovial rhymes, that still remain, Writ near a century ago, By the great Major Molineaux, Whom Hawthorne has immortal made,"

are preserved in frames near the mantel in the parlor, one deeply scratched by diamond ring with name of Major Molineaux and the date, "June 24th, 1774," the other bears this inscription,--

"What do you think?

Here is good drink, Perhaps you may not know it; If not in haste, Do stop and taste, You merry folk will show it."

A worthy, though not so gifted, successor of the jolly major rendered the following "true accomp.," which, yellow and faded, hangs on the bar-room wall:

"Thursday, August 7, 1777"

L s. d.

Super & Loging . . . . . . . 0 1 4 8th. Brakfast, Dinar and 0 1 9 Super and half mug of tody 0 2 6 9th. Lodging, one gla.s.s rum half 0 2 6 & Dinar, one mes oats 0 1 4 Super half mug flyp 0 3 0 10th Brakf.--one dram 0 1 8 Dinner, Lodging, horse-keeping 0 2 0 one mug flyp, horse bating 0 3 0 11th. horse keeping 1 13th. gla.s.s rum & Diner 1 8 14th. Horse bating 0 0 6 Horse Jorney 28 miles 0 5 10

A true accomp.--total 1 14 6 William Bradford, Dilivered to Capt. Crosby 2 2 6

Alas! the major's inscription and the foregoing "accomp." are hollow mockeries to the thirsty traveller, for there is neither rum nor "flyp" to be had; the bar is dry as an old cork; the door of the cupboard into which the jovial Howes were wont to stick the awl with which they opened bottles still hangs, worn completely through by the countless jabs, a melancholy reminder of the convivial hours of other days. The restrictions of more abstemious times have relegated the ancient bar to dust, the idle awl to slow-consuming rust.

It is amazing how thirsty one gets in the presence of musty a.s.sociations of a convivial character. The ghost of a spree is a most alluring fellow; it is the dust on the bottle that flavors the wine; a musty bin is the soul's delight; we drink the vintage and not the wine.

Drinking is a lost art, eating a forgotten ceremony. The pendulum has swung from Trimalchio back to Trimalchio. Quality is lost in quant.i.ty. The tables groan, the cooks groan, the guests groan,-- feasting is a nightmare.

Wine is a subject, not a beverage; it is discussed, not drunk; it is sipped, tasted, and swallowed reluctantly; it lingers on the palate in fragrant and delicious memory; it comes a bouquet and departs an aroma; it is the fruition of years, the distillation of ages; a liquid jewel, it reflects the subtle colors of the rainbow, running the gamut from a dull red glow to the violet rays that border the invisible.

But, alas! the appreciation of wine is lost. Everybody serves wine, no one understands it; everybody drinks it, no one loves it.

From a fragrant essence wine has become a coa.r.s.e reality,--a convention. Chablis with the oysters, sherry with the soup, sauterne with the fish, claret with the roast, Burgundy with the game,--champagne somewhere, anywhere, everywhere; port, grand, old ruddy port--that has disappeared; no one understands it and no one knows when to serve it; while Madeira, that bloom of the vinous century plant, that rare exotic which ripens with pa.s.sing generations, is all too subtle for our untutored discrimination.

And if, perchance, a good wine, like a strange guest, finds its way to the table, we are at loss how to receive it, how to address it, how to entertain it. We offend it in the decanting and distress it in the serving. We buy our wines in the morning and serve them in the evening to drink the sediment which the more fastidious wine during long years has been slowly rejecting; we mix the bright transparent liquid with its dregs and our rough palates detect no difference. But the lover of wine, the more he has the less he drinks, until, in the refinement and exaltation of his taste, it is sufficient to look upon the dust-mantled bottle and recall the delicious aroma and flavor, the recollection of which is far too precious to risk by trying anew; he knows that if a bottle be so much as turned in its couch it must sleep again for years before it is really fit to drink; he knows how difficult it is to get the wine out of the bottle clear as ruby or yellow diamond; he knows that if so much as a speck of sediment gets into the decanter, to precisely the extent of the speck is the wine injured.

In serving wines, we of the Western world may learn something from the tea ceremonies of the j.a.panese,--ceremonies so elaborate that to our impatient notions they are infinitely tedious, and yet they get from the tea all the exquisite delight it contains, and at the same time invest its serving with a halo of form, tradition, and a.s.sociation. Surely, if wine is to be taken at all, it is as precious as a cup of tea; and if taken ceremoniously, it will be taken moderately.

What is the use of serving good wine? No one recognizes it, appreciates it, or cares for it. It is served by the butler and removed by the footman without introduction, greeting, or comment.

The Hon. Sam Jones, from Podunk, is announced in stentorian tones as he makes his advent, but the gem of the dinner, the treat of the evening, the flower of the feast, an Haut Brion of '75, or an Yquem of '64, or a Johannisberger of '61, comes in like a tramp without a word. Possibly some one of the guests, whose palate has not been blunted by coa.r.s.e living or seared by strong drink, may feel that he is drinking something out of the ordinary, and he may linger over his gla.s.s, loath to sip the last drop; but all the others gulp their wine, or leave it--with the indifference of ignorance.

Good wine is loquacious; it is a great traveller and smacks of many lands; it is a bon vivant and has dined with the select of the earth; it recalls a thousand anecdotes; it reeks with reminiscences; it harbors a kiss and reflects a glance, but it is a silent companion to those who know it not, and it is quarrelsome with those who abuse it.

It seemed a pity that somewhere about the inn, deep in some long disused cellar, there were not a few--just a few--bottles of old wine, a half-dozen port of 1815, one or two squat bottles of Madeira brought over by men who knew Was.h.i.+ngton, an Yquem of '48, a Margaux of '58, a Johannisberger Cabinet--not forgetting the "Auslese"--of '61, with a few bottles of Romani Conti and Clos de Vougeot of '69 or '70,--not to exceed two or three dozen all told; not a plebeian among them, each the chosen of its race, and all so well understood that the very serving would carry one back to colonial days, when to offer a guest a gla.s.s of Madeira was a subtle tribute to his capacity and appreciation.

It is a far cry from an imaginary banquet with Lucullus to the New England Sat.u.r.day night supper of pork and beans which was spread before us that evening. The dish is a survival of the rigid Puritanism which was the affliction and at the same time the making of New England; it is a fast, an aggravated fast, a scourge to indulgence, a reproach to gluttony; it comes Sat.u.r.day night, and is followed Sunday morning by the dry, spongy, antiseptic, absorbent fish-ball as a castigation of nature and as a preparation for the austere observance of the Sabbath; it is the harsh, but no doubt deserved, punishment of the stomach for its worldliness during the week; inured to suffering, the native accepts the dose as a matter of course; to the stranger it seems unduly severe. To be sent to bed supperless is one of the terrors of childhood; to be sent to bed on pork and beans with the certainty of fishb.a.l.l.s in the morning is a refinement of torture that could have been devised only by Puritan ingenuity.

At the very crisis of the trouble in China, when the whole world was anxiously awaiting news from Pekin, the papers said that Boston was perturbed by the reported discovery in Africa of a new and edible bean.

To New England the bean is an obsession; it is rapidly becoming a superst.i.tion. To the stranger it is an infliction; but, bad as the bean is to the uninitiated, it is a luscious morsel compared with the flavorless cod-fish ball which lodges in the throat and stays there--a second Adam's apple--for lack of something to wash it down.

If pork and beans is the device of the Puritans, the cod-fish ball is the invention of the devil. It is as if Satan looked on enviously while his foes prepared their powder of beans, and then, retiring to his bottomless pit, went them one better by casting his ball of cod-fish.

"But from the parlor of the inn A pleasant murmur smote the ear, Like water rus.h.i.+ng through a weir; Oft interrupted by the din Of laughter and of loud applause

"The firelight, shedding over all The splendor of its ruddy glow, Filled the whole parlor large and low."

The room remains, but of all that jolly company which gathered in Longfellow's days and const.i.tuted the imaginary weavers of tales and romances, but one is alive to-day,--the "Young Sicilian."

"A young Sicilian, too, was there; In sight of Etna born and bred, Some breath of its volcanic air Was glowing in his heart and brain, And, being rebellious to his liege, After Palermo's fatal siege, Across the western seas he fled, In good king Bomba's happy reign.

His face was like a summer night, All flooded with a dusky light; His hands were small; his teeth shone white As sea-sh.e.l.ls, when he smiled or spoke."