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Frances (Appleton) Longfellow to Isaac Appleton Jewett, 5 October 1839
Manuscript letter
Stockbridge Oct 5th 1839.
Dear Jewett, I write you for the last time from this “happy Valley;” & the passing bell of a very happy year of my life is likewise tolling, so I feel somewhat sad. Tomorrow is my birth-day, & day after that we stage & rail-road it homeward. This burying in that great charnel house, the Past, a fair, blooming year – unwithered by disease – or sorrow – is a melancholy trade, & worse, the vague suspense & awe that the thought of its unknown heir excites; the dread of the “unknown Somewhat,” – whether it is to be a hideous dwarf or a bright Adonis. For tho’ years, no better than days, are regular sun & shadow dials & we count, each of us by his own inner almanack – yet – the very – unflinching, mechanical certainty of these (appointed) pulse-throbs of old Time appals me always as the ticking of a house-clock – counting like a miser his unemployed coins. But the passing-bell tones shan’t sound any longer in your ear. You shall hear of our late doings. We have had a week now of those glorious, golden, Autumnal days – which are poured into the Danaen lap of America alone. Several nightly frosts, - silvering beautifully in the early light every wood & field, - have wrought the magic – we read of in Alladdin’s garden with wonder; - every branch is hung with leaves of rubies or topaz, as if the sunsets of a year had fallen in love with the Earth & deserted the cold West to nestle in her lap, day & night. Monday last, - when you were rain-bound in your city-parlor, we, under a sky fine-grained as Sevre porcelain, had a merry row-round our oxe-bow [sic], I steering, thankful of the occasional gothic screen of boughs from the blazing sun which brought beaded drops on the hair-deserted skull of Mackintosh – he & Ashburner rowing us two damsels – till we seized the oars – impatient of the former’s lazy style of tickling the water. That P.M. we drove to Lenox - & there [p. 2] enjoyed in the evg a glorious reading of the Merchant of Venice by Mrs Butler – whose many-toned voice – turned Jew for Shylock & most tenderly Christian for high-born Portia & gentle Jessica. After which a Mr Smith challenged our credulities – with stories of the far West & the “praáries,” of mammoth size – such as rabbits running thro’ a certain kind of heather always emerged hairless & that pic-nic parties of 6000 miles were common divertions. Mr Charles’ gurgling laugh echoed every sentence till I thought the man wuld have finaléd his “long-bows” with a bowie knife. Tuesday Mr Butler drove us four in hand – (for which he has a sudden mania) to Pittsfield – whither all men, women children, pigs & cattle – were tending drawn by that mighty country magnet a yearly Cattle-show. Auctions of trinkets & trash, like the outskirts of a race-course, were blockading the streets, & over the shrill cries of their leaders resounded the roaring & bellowing of the fine cattle penned about “a wonder & a show.” We walked all through their ranks. (tho’ females seldom tread that ground.) & thought whether –those that won prizes – knew their own merit – or enjoyed the glorious unconsciousness that true greatness, à la Carlyle, must have. 20 or more yoke of noble oxen parading the rail-road-bank would have made Virgil write a new Bucolic – “slow-paced the milk-white oxen garlanded.” We dined sumptuously at Aunt Dorothy’s, - the Lenox party returning, - & in the evg. were the victims of human compressibility at the Ladies Fair, - a greasy mob surging round prettily adorned tables – with many fair ringletted damsels – behind them – “playing shopkeeper-“ & bestared by – a thousand eyes. A horn sounded, - a post office was opened - & any one could get a letter by giving their name & 25 cts. We all got offers from anonymous swains. I saw there one of the loveliest creatures my eyes ever lit upon – the Pittsfield belle Miss Mary Allen. Surch a turned head, throat, - complexion, smile & dimple! Early the next mn’g there was a ploughing match – an immense concourse of vehicles & people & sturdy young farmers straining every nerve to gain laurels. Then the tide swept church-ward to hear Mr Quincy’s address; we, meanwhile, examined the manufactures displayed: carpets, plaid shawls &c & a mammoth squash large eno’ for Cinderella’s fattest [p. 3] Aunt to ride in. In the ev’g was a famous ball at the Hotel which we found highly diverting. The managers were gallant enough to call in a coach for every lady invited - & take her home! Mrs B-, & Mrs Sedgwick, Miss Flint & Bessie came up & we nearly expired with laughter at the specimens of the human Rangers among the courtly beaux. Some swayed about as if made of sand, others skipped & casacoled in the most extraordinary manner. There were many pretty girls, so superior to the men in dress & manners – my beauty was bewitching with the prize spoon she got for some needle-work worn in her sash as a buckle. Tom would have raved about her, she resembles so much the fair Hepsy in air & figure – tho’ with less grace but a lovelier face. Fanny W. & Miss Flint looked charmingly. An ambitious manager proposed a waltz – a murmur broke from young puritanical lips – Mr Butler was requested to lead the way but finding himself the sole waltzing gent – drew back & left the floor to whirling petticoats. Very few quadrilles, but many country-dances & reels were executed with great spirit, some new & very pretty – but – expiring lamps, - close atmosphere, ungloved hands &c disgusted us soon & at 12 we retired, these people, dancing for a year this night, see the dawn. The Deyvle was there with his sisters & rushed down reels as if he was demented. Mr Quincy (after our farewell to the god people in P.) drove wi[th] us to Lenox – Father entertaining him & us with liberal quotations from his or[a]tion & he giving us admirable anecdotes of Jackson & Lafayette. Took leave of Mrs Butler – who went at noon – so Lenox is desolate. We have been with Father over our place several times & he seems so charmed therewith that he talks about building most freely – we have engaged our quarters at Yale Manor for next year – leave our furniture in status quo! Emmeline grieves to leave Stockbridge as much as I do nearly – I can give you no idea how gorgeously beautiful the mountains are now - & these transparent, cloudless skies. I have never before passed a whole summer in one spot - & having watched this lovely Nature thro’ all changes – from youth to manhood, feel as if deserting the dying couch of a friend – to lose now its parting smiles - & last words. That amphitheatre at Lee is arrayed in coronation-robes & the reflecting river seems flowing over tulip gardens. Mrs Willard has been kind eno’ to send us peaches & a capital pumpkin pie – I shall either visit her or write to thank her. Did you not forget to return some book to Mr Theodore? I think he has been enquiring. Miss Austin thanks you for her letter – do not flatter yourself we have been too miserable in our spinster quiet – which I sigh to give up. Truly it seems “impiety to go-“ while God’s illuminated missal is thrown wide for all nations to read. The vieux athée, as Nordin calls him, has just been here breakfasting with us & ha, [p. 4 top] ha ing with nearly his ancient vigour – but – his face has lost its piquante characteristic expression with that veteran tooth. How sad to lose such an old friend as that, clinging alone in adversity – he must feel it a nail in his coffin. Last night we had a nice social gathering at Mrs Davidson’s – round the fire. Mr Field present. Miss Tallmadge’s engagement I should think excellent – by both pattern-people. The Deyvle takes a gun on his shoulder every day & sours the woods – for the feeling of the thing (the gun) he says – kills squirrels & robins – only; un-Christian man! one the type of [p. 4 bottom] joy & youth & tother of tender- pity – (vise Children in the Wood.) What are you writing? Thank you for Nickelby & papers. Phantasmion is poetical & most harmoniously – wound off – but – too gauzy for these days of flannell – broad-cloth to win favor I sh’d think. The grotto-canopied tree has poured every leaf on the brook - & ground – having fulfilled its task of sun-screen. “Crisp withered hang the honorable leaves-“ partout. Father talks to us of fat partridges & luscious grapes – but – we heed little –full of sorrow – to unmoor ourselves from these loved surroundings. Our bureau is bare of books – our trunks are packed – farewell to Yale Manor – creaking gate, asthmatic dog, gabbling turkies – kindly smiling hostess - & pleasant parlor crammed with fair associations
[p. 1 cross] Good, droll Mr Watts is ill in bed with the gout so we lose his parting words. Good bye – Yrs truly Fanny.
Addressed: J. A. Jewett Esq. / 58 Walker St. / N. York.
Postmark: STOCKBRIDGE / OCT 7 / MS
Dear Jewett, I write you for the last time from this “happy Valley;” & the passing bell of a very happy year of my life is likewise tolling, so I feel somewhat sad. Tomorrow is my birth-day, & day after that we stage & rail-road it homeward. This burying in that great charnel house, the Past, a fair, blooming year – unwithered by disease – or sorrow – is a melancholy trade, & worse, the vague suspense & awe that the thought of its unknown heir excites; the dread of the “unknown Somewhat,” – whether it is to be a hideous dwarf or a bright Adonis. For tho’ years, no better than days, are regular sun & shadow dials & we count, each of us by his own inner almanack – yet – the very – unflinching, mechanical certainty of these (appointed) pulse-throbs of old Time appals me always as the ticking of a house-clock – counting like a miser his unemployed coins. But the passing-bell tones shan’t sound any longer in your ear. You shall hear of our late doings. We have had a week now of those glorious, golden, Autumnal days – which are poured into the Danaen lap of America alone. Several nightly frosts, - silvering beautifully in the early light every wood & field, - have wrought the magic – we read of in Alladdin’s garden with wonder; - every branch is hung with leaves of rubies or topaz, as if the sunsets of a year had fallen in love with the Earth & deserted the cold West to nestle in her lap, day & night. Monday last, - when you were rain-bound in your city-parlor, we, under a sky fine-grained as Sevre porcelain, had a merry row-round our oxe-bow [sic], I steering, thankful of the occasional gothic screen of boughs from the blazing sun which brought beaded drops on the hair-deserted skull of Mackintosh – he & Ashburner rowing us two damsels – till we seized the oars – impatient of the former’s lazy style of tickling the water. That P.M. we drove to Lenox - & there [p. 2] enjoyed in the evg a glorious reading of the Merchant of Venice by Mrs Butler – whose many-toned voice – turned Jew for Shylock & most tenderly Christian for high-born Portia & gentle Jessica. After which a Mr Smith challenged our credulities – with stories of the far West & the “praáries,” of mammoth size – such as rabbits running thro’ a certain kind of heather always emerged hairless & that pic-nic parties of 6000 miles were common divertions. Mr Charles’ gurgling laugh echoed every sentence till I thought the man wuld have finaléd his “long-bows” with a bowie knife. Tuesday Mr Butler drove us four in hand – (for which he has a sudden mania) to Pittsfield – whither all men, women children, pigs & cattle – were tending drawn by that mighty country magnet a yearly Cattle-show. Auctions of trinkets & trash, like the outskirts of a race-course, were blockading the streets, & over the shrill cries of their leaders resounded the roaring & bellowing of the fine cattle penned about “a wonder & a show.” We walked all through their ranks. (tho’ females seldom tread that ground.) & thought whether –those that won prizes – knew their own merit – or enjoyed the glorious unconsciousness that true greatness, à la Carlyle, must have. 20 or more yoke of noble oxen parading the rail-road-bank would have made Virgil write a new Bucolic – “slow-paced the milk-white oxen garlanded.” We dined sumptuously at Aunt Dorothy’s, - the Lenox party returning, - & in the evg. were the victims of human compressibility at the Ladies Fair, - a greasy mob surging round prettily adorned tables – with many fair ringletted damsels – behind them – “playing shopkeeper-“ & bestared by – a thousand eyes. A horn sounded, - a post office was opened - & any one could get a letter by giving their name & 25 cts. We all got offers from anonymous swains. I saw there one of the loveliest creatures my eyes ever lit upon – the Pittsfield belle Miss Mary Allen. Surch a turned head, throat, - complexion, smile & dimple! Early the next mn’g there was a ploughing match – an immense concourse of vehicles & people & sturdy young farmers straining every nerve to gain laurels. Then the tide swept church-ward to hear Mr Quincy’s address; we, meanwhile, examined the manufactures displayed: carpets, plaid shawls &c & a mammoth squash large eno’ for Cinderella’s fattest [p. 3] Aunt to ride in. In the ev’g was a famous ball at the Hotel which we found highly diverting. The managers were gallant enough to call in a coach for every lady invited - & take her home! Mrs B-, & Mrs Sedgwick, Miss Flint & Bessie came up & we nearly expired with laughter at the specimens of the human Rangers among the courtly beaux. Some swayed about as if made of sand, others skipped & casacoled in the most extraordinary manner. There were many pretty girls, so superior to the men in dress & manners – my beauty was bewitching with the prize spoon she got for some needle-work worn in her sash as a buckle. Tom would have raved about her, she resembles so much the fair Hepsy in air & figure – tho’ with less grace but a lovelier face. Fanny W. & Miss Flint looked charmingly. An ambitious manager proposed a waltz – a murmur broke from young puritanical lips – Mr Butler was requested to lead the way but finding himself the sole waltzing gent – drew back & left the floor to whirling petticoats. Very few quadrilles, but many country-dances & reels were executed with great spirit, some new & very pretty – but – expiring lamps, - close atmosphere, ungloved hands &c disgusted us soon & at 12 we retired, these people, dancing for a year this night, see the dawn. The Deyvle was there with his sisters & rushed down reels as if he was demented. Mr Quincy (after our farewell to the god people in P.) drove wi[th] us to Lenox – Father entertaining him & us with liberal quotations from his or[a]tion & he giving us admirable anecdotes of Jackson & Lafayette. Took leave of Mrs Butler – who went at noon – so Lenox is desolate. We have been with Father over our place several times & he seems so charmed therewith that he talks about building most freely – we have engaged our quarters at Yale Manor for next year – leave our furniture in status quo! Emmeline grieves to leave Stockbridge as much as I do nearly – I can give you no idea how gorgeously beautiful the mountains are now - & these transparent, cloudless skies. I have never before passed a whole summer in one spot - & having watched this lovely Nature thro’ all changes – from youth to manhood, feel as if deserting the dying couch of a friend – to lose now its parting smiles - & last words. That amphitheatre at Lee is arrayed in coronation-robes & the reflecting river seems flowing over tulip gardens. Mrs Willard has been kind eno’ to send us peaches & a capital pumpkin pie – I shall either visit her or write to thank her. Did you not forget to return some book to Mr Theodore? I think he has been enquiring. Miss Austin thanks you for her letter – do not flatter yourself we have been too miserable in our spinster quiet – which I sigh to give up. Truly it seems “impiety to go-“ while God’s illuminated missal is thrown wide for all nations to read. The vieux athée, as Nordin calls him, has just been here breakfasting with us & ha, [p. 4 top] ha ing with nearly his ancient vigour – but – his face has lost its piquante characteristic expression with that veteran tooth. How sad to lose such an old friend as that, clinging alone in adversity – he must feel it a nail in his coffin. Last night we had a nice social gathering at Mrs Davidson’s – round the fire. Mr Field present. Miss Tallmadge’s engagement I should think excellent – by both pattern-people. The Deyvle takes a gun on his shoulder every day & sours the woods – for the feeling of the thing (the gun) he says – kills squirrels & robins – only; un-Christian man! one the type of [p. 4 bottom] joy & youth & tother of tender- pity – (vise Children in the Wood.) What are you writing? Thank you for Nickelby & papers. Phantasmion is poetical & most harmoniously – wound off – but – too gauzy for these days of flannell – broad-cloth to win favor I sh’d think. The grotto-canopied tree has poured every leaf on the brook - & ground – having fulfilled its task of sun-screen. “Crisp withered hang the honorable leaves-“ partout. Father talks to us of fat partridges & luscious grapes – but – we heed little –full of sorrow – to unmoor ourselves from these loved surroundings. Our bureau is bare of books – our trunks are packed – farewell to Yale Manor – creaking gate, asthmatic dog, gabbling turkies – kindly smiling hostess - & pleasant parlor crammed with fair associations
[p. 1 cross] Good, droll Mr Watts is ill in bed with the gout so we lose his parting words. Good bye – Yrs truly Fanny.
Addressed: J. A. Jewett Esq. / 58 Walker St. / N. York.
Postmark: STOCKBRIDGE / OCT 7 / MS
Archives Number: 1011/002.001-009#016
U. S. National Park Service
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Correspondence (1011/002), (LONG-SeriesName)
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, 1839 (1011/002.001-009), (LONG-FileUnitName)
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Longfellow House - Washington's Headquarters National Historic Site, Code: LONG
Longfellow House - Washington's Headquarters National Historic Site, Middlesex County, Massachusetts
Latitude: 42.3769989013672, Longitude: -71.1264038085938
Latitude: 42.3769989013672, Longitude: -71.1264038085938
NPS Museum Number Catalog : LONG 20257
Title: Finding Aid to the Frances Elizabeth Appleton Longfellow (1817-1861) Papers, 1825-1961 (bulk dated: 1832-1861)
URL: https://www.nps.gov/long/learn/historyculture/archives.htm#FEAL
URL: https://www.nps.gov/long/learn/historyculture/archives.htm#FEAL
2016/01/30
10/05/1839
Manuscript letter in Frances Appleton Longfellow Papers, Series II. Correspondence, A. Outgoing, 1839. (1011/002.001-009#016)
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Organization: Longfellow House-Washington's Headquarters National Historic Site
Address: 105 Brattle Street, Cambridge, MA 02138
Email: LONG_archives@nps.gov
Address: 105 Brattle Street, Cambridge, MA 02138
Email: LONG_archives@nps.gov
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