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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 014 077 367 • 
 
 HolUager 
 
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 Copy 2 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 ON THE ALBANY ROAD 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE SHELDON 
 
 (CoppriabteC)) 
 
 Reprinted from the 
 
 IRcw }£nglan^ /IDaGa3ine 
 
 September, 1898 
 
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 V 7 
 
THE transformation is wonderful; 
 it seems almost a work of magic. 
 The story of Aladdin's Lamp 
 cannot be wholly a myth. The 
 sky no longer looks through a gaping 
 roof to a yawning cellar. The rain, 
 the hail and snow no longer enter as 
 if welcome guests. Warp and woof, 
 fashioned and dyed in the Orient, sup- 
 plants the rubbish on the rotting 
 floors. Stuffs, rich and rare, flow 
 from walls no longer black with 
 smoke and grime. Festoons, rivaling 
 in texture those from the loom of the 
 spider, which they displace, show ar- 
 tistic taste and delight the eye. Pic- 
 tures and works of art fill every 
 "coigne of vantage." 
 
 Gone the staggering partitions; 
 gone the low, brown, ragged ceiling. 
 The long slanting rafters are in full 
 view. The massive chimney and the 
 rotund oven stand displayed. Kitchen 
 and bedroom, pantry and parlor have 
 disappeared in one generous whole. 
 Through the narrow windows, invit- 
 ing streams of soft light from elegant 
 lamps are sent abroad into the night 
 towards every point of the compass. 
 The genii of the place preside over 
 cheerful hospitality within, where so 
 lately a sad spirit of seclusion and 
 content held sway. No con- 
 
 trast could be greater. In the yellow 
 light, thrown fitfully out from the 
 burning logs in the huge fireplace, 
 graceful forms flit to and fro, appear- 
 ing and disappearing with the fantas- 
 tic shadows upon the red wainscoted 
 wall. Sweet music is heard, soft and 
 weird, as if afar off, and stories are 
 told of witches urging their broom- 
 stick steeds across the stormy mid- 
 night sky to festive meetings in 
 uncanny nooks with still more un- 
 canny folk. 
 
 The Antiquary sits upon the 
 hearthstone and muses. The change 
 seems so unreal and bewaldering; he 
 cannot draw the line, and the past 
 will mingle with the present. He 
 watches the sparks and the curling 
 smoke as they rise towards boundless 
 space, and voices of the unseen catch 
 his responsive ear. He hears, in 
 the mouth of the cavernous oven 
 hard by, whisperings and wailings 
 from the spirits of the past, — the 
 household familiars. Driven from 
 old haunts they have crowded the 
 oven for shelter, as one of the few 
 undesecrated spots. "We claim," 
 they say, "recognition before our final 
 departure. Behold what we bring, 
 and record what you will." And the 
 Antiquary sees a shadowy procession 
 
THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 issuing forth from the mouth of the 
 oven and bearing open scrolls on 
 which are pictured events centering 
 around this old hearthstone, — plain 
 matters of fact, scenes of joy, scenes of 
 sorrowing, of triumph, of despair, de- 
 tails of everyday life and duty in the 
 far ofif past. Shadowy and dim, grow- 
 ing brighter and clearer, the vision 
 passes upward, disappearing with the 
 smoke and the sparks. Thus im- 
 pelled, the Antiquary records in 
 homely phrase the result of his mus- 
 ings in the little brown cottage by the 
 old Albany road on the evening of its 
 dedication to a new purpose and to a 
 
 to his successor in office. Rev. Jona- 
 than Ashley. 
 
 As in later days, so in the olden 
 time, leased lands fared hardly. Every 
 thing possible was taken from it, and 
 little or nothing returned. In 1759, 
 after seventy years of this kind of 
 treatment, the selectmen in a petition 
 to the General Court say, "the soil is 
 poor and barren for want of manure," 
 also that the land is of less benefit to 
 the minister than its value in money 
 would be, and they ask leave of the 
 General Court to sell it. There was, 
 however, another reason for this ac- 
 tion, and, it may be, the main one. 
 
 "the transformation is wonderful." 
 
 new lease of life by its new occupants. 
 The little brown house stands on a 
 part of the tract which in 1686 the 
 "Proprietors of Pocumtuck" "seques- 
 tered for the use of the ministry of 
 Deerfield forever." In this service the 
 lot was leased from year to year by a 
 conmiittee chosen by the town, the 
 income of it going, during his life- 
 time, to the Rev. John Williams, our 
 "Redeemed Captive," and afterwards 
 
 Deerfield was then the center of 
 business for a large region round 
 about, and craftsmen of many kinds — 
 "tradesmen" they were then called — 
 were seeking places here on which to 
 build shops where they could exercise 
 their handicrafts. Suitable locations 
 were hard to get, and the ministerial 
 lot, lying along the Albany road, was 
 wanted for that purpose. In 1760, un- 
 der the authority of an act of the colo- 
 
 In exchangi 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD FAMILIARS. 
 
 nial legislature, this tract was cut up 
 into small lots by the town and sold 
 to tradesmen. It had been laid out 
 originally between the house lot of the 
 "Worshipful John Pynchon" on the 
 south and the Middle Lane to the 
 meadows on the north. The Pynchon 
 lot was later the home of Mehuman 
 Hinsdale, the first white man born in 
 Deerfield, "twice captivated by the 
 Indian salvages," as his grave-stone 
 testifies. The Middle Lane became in 
 due time the high road from Northern 
 Hampshire to Albany and the scene 
 of military operations against Canada 
 by the way of the lakes. The lots sold 
 to tradesmen faced north on this road. 
 Many now living have seen the guide- 
 board at the head of the "Lane," on 
 which was a hand with the forefinger 
 pointing westward, directing the trav- 
 eler "To Albany." 
 
 Very soon this poor and barren 
 land bore abundant fruit. Buildings 
 sprang up, and new sounds were 
 heard all along its border. The clang 
 of the anvil and the blast from the bel- 
 lows of Armorer Bull answered to the 
 hissing of the flip iron and tap of the 
 toddy-stick of his neighbor, Landlord 
 Saxton. The ting-a-ling of Silver- 
 smith Parker more than held its own 
 with the muffled thud from the loom 
 of Elizabeth Amsden the weaver, and 
 
 the soft music of 
 the flickering 
 bowstring of Felt- 
 maker Hamilton, 
 as it rained blows 
 on the fine fur of 
 the beaver, musk- 
 rat or raccoon. 
 The mallet of 
 Hitchcock, the 
 hatter, responded 
 feebly in a dull 
 monotone to the 
 sharp speaking 
 strokes of the 
 hammer on the 
 lap-stone of Da- 
 vid Saxton, as he 
 sat at the east 
 window of the 
 kitchen in the little cottage on the old 
 colonial road. 
 
 Should the traveler from the Hud- 
 son, coming over the Hoosac Moun- 
 tain to the Connecticut Valley, be 
 waylaid by prowling Indians, and 
 stripped of all his effects, he could be 
 refitted and refreshed within the bor- 
 ders of the old ministerial lot. Had 
 his horse been spared, it could be fed, 
 shod, furnished with a new saddle and 
 a portmanteau; or had fortune been 
 more cruel, had the horse been taken. 
 
 the traveler could be provided with a 
 new one from the choice stud of 
 Breeder Saxton. He could buy a hat, 
 shoes, cloth for a coat, and a watch for 
 his fob. He could procure a sword, 
 musket, or a pair of pistols, and, after 
 
THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 a mug of hot flip and a bountiful din- 
 ner with Landlord Saxton, the de- 
 spoiled stranger could go on his way 
 rejoicing, having obtained all these 
 things without money, although not 
 without price. In those days credit 
 was universally given and was rarely 
 abused. 
 
 Come back again to the little cot- 
 tage where, by the great window in 
 the east end of the kitchen, David 
 Saxton hammered the oak tanned 
 
 called upon by a neighbor to act as a 
 referee on some question in dispute. 
 Springing up suddenly, letting his lap- 
 stone and hammer tumble to the floor, 
 he exclaimed, while whisking of¥ his 
 leather apron with alacrity: "What 
 a cussed thing it is to be a man of 
 judgment!" Nevertheless, this son of 
 Crispin went his way to exercise this 
 judgment for the benefit of his fellows 
 with real content. 
 
 Assuming kitchen, dining room and 
 shop to be one, while the husband and 
 
 "he hammered and pegged and sewed." 
 
 soles, and with well-waxed home-spun 
 thread closed the seams of honest up- 
 per leather, with honest toil and good 
 judgment. Concerning this latter 
 quality there is a story told character- 
 istic of the man and bringing him a 
 little nearer to us. 
 
 The shoemaker was so often called 
 upon to act as referee, arbitrator, ap- 
 praiser, etc., that he must be pardoned 
 if he became a little vain of his repu- 
 tation. He thoroughly enjoyed these 
 labors and honors; a little grumbling 
 at the burden he might have thought 
 increased his importance. One dav, 
 while at work on his bench, he was 
 
 father hammered and pegged and 
 sewed, and sewed and hammered 
 and pegged, month after month 
 and year after year, his good 
 wife, Bathsheba, was always nigh. 
 Here she baked, and here she 
 brewed, washed, ironed, boiled and 
 stewed. From his low bench by 
 the east window one day in every 
 week David could see the roar- 
 ing red fire in the big brick oven in 
 front of him, and could watch the 
 fierce flames as they curled to its dome 
 and darted their forked tongues to- 
 wards him, only to be caught at its 
 very mouth by the spirits of the air 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 "THE BUZZING WHEEL SANG A LULLABY. 
 
 and sent swiftly up the flue. David 
 could watch his spouse, as with her 
 long iron peel she removed the glow- 
 ing coals when the oven had reached 
 the right pitch of heat, and with her 
 husk-broom, wetted as need be in a 
 pail of water on the hearth, swept 
 clean of ashes the oven floor. And 
 when the oven door had been put up 
 a suitable time to "draw down the 
 heat," he could see Bathsheba as she 
 deftly tossed from her light wooden 
 peel, into the farthermost depths of the 
 heated cavern, the squat loaves of rye 
 and Indian bread. This peel was as 
 white as river sand and "elbow 
 grease" could make it. In due time 
 David could snufif the rich savor of 
 the brown beauties as they were taken 
 out on the peel and piled upon the 
 table near him, a good week's supply 
 for the family. The front part of the 
 oven may have been filled in with 
 pumpkin pies, or tarts with the initials 
 of the children cut in pie crust on the 
 top, or, on state occasions, it may be 
 with a spare rib of pork, or a pigling 
 entire, a haunch of venison, a wild 
 goose, or a turkey. Nothing came 
 
 amiss to this great, warm-hearted 
 friend of the family. 
 
 But the oven had a rival in the at- 
 tentions and afifection of David. 
 Close by, at its right shoulder, was a 
 capacious fireplace, with its generous 
 back log, fore log and top log, urging 
 up the climbing flame, every day, and 
 in season all day long. As the mouth 
 of the oven was closed six days out of 
 seven, it had a poor chance against 
 the loquacious fireplace, which by a 
 side glance came full in view from the 
 shoemaker's bench. Besides, there 
 was the great iron dinner pot, which 
 the swinging crane held out daily over 
 the very heart of the merry fire, that 
 welcomed it with great glee, laughing 
 and dancing under and about it, em- 
 bracing it with its red arms, and 
 touching its very lid with its curling 
 lips of flame. The stolid iron, yield- 
 ing to its ardent friend, was forced to 
 acknowledge its subtle influence, and 
 soon David could hear the contents 
 of the big-bellied pot merrily gurgling 
 and babbling of the jolly time they 
 were all having, although in hot water 
 toQ-ether. 
 
THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 So the "pot was biled" every day in 
 the week. But the marvel and the 
 mystery of it all — the leaping flame, 
 the solid iron, the hissing steam! 
 David was no philosopher — the shoe- 
 maker should stick to his last. He 
 was no Watt, to note the tilting lid. 
 He was no chemist, to analyze efifects. 
 He had a good appetite, engendered 
 by healthy toil and a clear con- 
 science. He could do ample justice 
 to the contents of the pot, when 
 piled upon the pewter platter, as the 
 style on the sun dial lined with the 
 meridian. But he never stopped — • 
 why should he — or we either for that 
 matter — to speculate upon the daily 
 miracle wrought by the loving fire 
 spirit of the household. David saw 
 Bathsheba put into the mouth of that 
 pot cold water, and then beef, pork, 
 cabbage, carrots, parsnips, turnips, all 
 cold and indigestible; later he had 
 stopped with upraised hammer, while 
 pegging a sole, to see her swing out 
 the crane and souse into the seeth- 
 ing mass a bag of Indian pudding, re- 
 suming his labor when this was safely 
 accomplished. And daily he had seen 
 
 these crude materials come out smok- 
 ing, luscious food, fit to "set before 
 the king." Therefore the oven got 
 the worst of it in the rivalry for the 
 affections of David. 
 
 If the oven had thought about it, if 
 the fireplace had thought about it, if 
 David had thought about it, — which 
 none of them did, — they might have 
 drawn this moral: Be faithful and 
 useful not only one day in seven, but 
 every day of the week. 
 
 So by the great east window, where 
 the morning sun shone full upon him, 
 David hammered and pegged and 
 stitched, and pegged and stitched and 
 hammered, to secure the understand- 
 ing of his customers and bread for his 
 wife and children; while Goodwife 
 Bathsheba baked and brewed and 
 ironed and carded and spun, the hum 
 of the wheel in harmony with the 
 sound of the hammer. From flax 
 taken in barter for the products of Da- 
 vid's labor, she spun and twisted the 
 honest thread with which his seams- 
 were closed; and while her foot 
 pressed the treadle, and her busy fin- 
 efers eaueed and sfuided the slender 
 
 GOD S ACRE. 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 thread her buzzing wheel sang a lul- 
 laby, and David with his stirruped 
 foot gave an occasional jog to the 
 cradle. For amid all the sights and 
 sounds of this life of mutual industry 
 and helpfulness, children came to be 
 cared for and loved, and, alas, to be 
 mourned for. Was David seen with 
 arms extended as he had drawn home 
 the last stitch of a seam, gazing ab- 
 stractedly at the empty cradle by the 
 
 1 
 
 THEY REST TOGETHER. 
 
 oven door, we may be sure his 
 thoughts were away among the little 
 mounds, more or less grassed over, in 
 the graveyard hard by. Four times 
 during eight years had that cradle 
 been robbed. Four times the dread 
 messenger had led a procession out 
 of the square room beyond the 
 kitchen, over the threshold of the 
 low-browed front door, to the God's 
 Acre at the west end of the ministerial 
 lot. 
 
 Should we wonder if the stricken 
 Bathsheba put salt for sugar in her 
 pies, or seasoned her bread with scald- 
 ing brine, when we know that across 
 the level field, in full view of the small 
 shuttered window of her pantry, slept 
 that city of the dead, where four of 
 her five darlings had been laid, one by 
 one and side by side? For she must 
 work as well as weep. By straining 
 her eyes, as the bright sunlight 
 streamed across the little mounds, the 
 mother fancied that she could distin- 
 
 guish between the fresh scar on the 
 bosom of mother earth and those 
 partly healed by the kindly ministra- 
 tions of time, and she sadly compared 
 them to the scars in her own bosom; 
 only on these time had worked more 
 slowly and across these only shadows 
 fell. 
 
 It may have been to remove his 
 wife from a prospect so saddening 
 that David before the birth of another 
 babe, or before the brown 
 had changed to green on 
 the newest mound, left the 
 little cottage and sought 
 with Bathsheba at New 
 Salem that comfort denied 
 their parental longings 
 here. In their new home 
 the fates were kinder, and 
 children were born and 
 lived to cheer their de- 
 clining years. 
 
 On the west side of our 
 Old Burying Ground, 
 where the gentle breezes 
 come up from the mur- 
 muring Pocumtvick, where 
 the aspen reaches out 
 its kindly hands in benediction over 
 the spot, and its restless leaves whis- 
 per, perchance, tales of bygone years, 
 the four little mounds lie, side by side, 
 as of old ; but now there are two larger 
 and longer ones; and on the moss- 
 grown stones standing at the head of 
 these are recorded the last events in 
 the lives of David and Bathsheba 
 Saxton. 
 
 From David Saxton the brown 
 house passed to David Hoyt, Senior. 
 If Hoyt then took up his abode here, 
 it was doubtless to pursue his calling 
 of "maker of wiggs and foretops." In 
 this polite generation, the owners of 
 bald heads are told that this defect is 
 a mark of wisdom and honor; conse- 
 quently they are apt to be rather 
 proud than otherwise of their sterile 
 pates. Not so in the time of which we 
 speak. Whether it was incense to the 
 goddess Hygeia, or a tribute to the 
 goddess of fashion, the bald head was 
 carefullv covered ; the first ravages by 
 
THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 a foretop or by the side hair combed 
 up and braided on the top; total dev- 
 astation by a full wig. Women rarely 
 needed anything more than a foretop. 
 Engaged in a business like this, him- 
 self well on in years, we can easily im- 
 agine the class of customers and their 
 friends that gathered about the 
 hearthstone of the wig-maker, sip- 
 ping their flip or cider and telling- 
 stories, as men of their age are fond 
 of doing. The host doubtless often 
 told how his father, when a boy, was 
 captured at the sacking of the town in 
 1704; how, being carried to Canada, 
 he lived with his Indian master at 
 Lorette; how William, son of Gov- 
 ernor Dudley, then on a mission to 
 Vaudreuil, governor of Canada, saw 
 him on the streets at Quebec one day, 
 and how^ the envoy jingled twenty sil- 
 ver dollars in the face of his Indian 
 owner and offered to exchange them 
 for the boy; how the savage could not 
 withstand the temptation, and the cap- 
 tive boy was made free; how the In- 
 dian, soon repenting of his bargain, 
 came back with the dumb dollars for 
 the live boy who could hunt and fish. 
 
 Too late, for Dudley, foreseeing this, 
 had hurried Jonathan on board an 
 English vessel, and the Indian went 
 away lamenting. David had doubt- 
 less often seen this Indian, for in times 
 of peace he used to come to Deerfield 
 to see the lost boy, of whom he was 
 very fond. Jonathan, says tradition, 
 showed great affection for the savage 
 and declared his sojourn in Canada to 
 be the happiest part of his life. Of 
 course, David talked freely on this 
 topic; but there is reason to think he 
 was fond of silence. He believed si- 
 lence to be kingly, if not golden, and 
 so he had married as a second wife 
 Silence King. A less sentimental 
 reason — she, too, being a "maker 
 of foretops" — may have had its 
 bearing on the case. Why not? 
 Love and thrift are good everyday 
 yoke mates; — blossom and fruit. 
 Thriftless love is too unsubstantial for 
 use. 
 
 David's stories Avould doubtless be 
 matched by others. Deacon Jeremiah 
 Nims, son of that John who was taken 
 and carried to Canada from near 
 Frary's Bridge in 1703, could tell of 
 
 "IT NESTLED SO SNUGLY UNDER THE GREAT ELM TREE." 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 his father's adventures while in Cana- 
 dian captivity and his terrible experi- 
 ences when, with three other young 
 men, he escaped and made his way 
 home through the wilderness, where 
 he arrived in a demented state and 
 nearly famished. John Williams, Na- 
 than Catlin, John Sheldon could each 
 relate tales of Indian warfare and cap- 
 tivity, heard from their grandfathers; 
 while his next door neighbor, Justin 
 Hitchcock, could talk of a later war, 
 and thrill his hear- 
 ers with his own 
 experiences while 
 responding to the 
 Lexington alarm. 
 He could tell how 
 the inspiring notes 
 of his fife renewed 
 the tired muscle i 
 
 of the Deerfield j 
 
 Minute Men under 1 
 
 Captain Locke on •'.> 
 
 their march to /' 
 
 meet the enraged 
 British 1 i o n i n v 
 
 Boston. The lifer 
 could also relate 
 as an eye witness r 
 
 the particulars 
 and the result of ' 
 
 the disastrous 
 campaign of Bur- 
 goyne, and could 
 tell with a relish 
 how the company 
 of Captain Joseph 
 S t e b b i n s and 
 others swooped 
 down upon the personal baggage 
 train of the harassed general, and 
 could perhaps show, like some of 
 his fellows, trophies harvested on that 
 occasion. Captain Joseph himself, 
 whose house stood in sight across lots, 
 could repeat the well known pranks 
 of the mobs he led in visiting the 
 tories and enforcing their signatures 
 to patriotic resolutions. Others could 
 tell stories of witches, or of ghosts, as 
 the current talk of the evening might 
 run. Meanwhile, the light from the 
 blazing hickory logs was casting 
 
 DOORSTONE TALES. 
 
 shadows of the group around the 
 hearthstone upon the green baize cur- 
 tains of the turn-up bed and the red 
 wainscoted walls, where they ap- 
 peared huge and weird, like the ghosts 
 of restless giants; — pictures cjuite in 
 keeping with the tales that were told. 
 
 About a century ago, Epaphras 
 Hoyt, son of David and Silence, be- 
 came the owner and occupant of the 
 cottage, which then retained its origi- 
 nal external form, to which recent 
 changes have re- 
 stored it. Al- 
 though a young 
 man, Hoyt 
 brought with him 
 a valued experi- 
 ence, and the at- 
 mosphere as well 
 as the form of the 
 house was gradu- 
 ally changed. 
 Hoyt was a man 
 of genius, whom 
 science had 
 marked for its 
 own, and he gath- 
 ered here all kin- 
 dred elements in 
 the town. His 
 Experience, or 
 "Spiddy," as she 
 was called, bore 
 fruit from time to 
 time, and wider ac- 
 c o m modations 
 were required; so 
 "Aunt Spiddy's 
 bedroom" and 
 back kitchen were added in the rear, 
 and "Aunt Spiddy's stoop" in front. 
 
 The favorite studies of General 
 Hoyt were the art of war, natural 
 philosophy, astronomy and colonial 
 history. He was in the meridian of 
 life when the great wars of Europe 
 which followed'the "Reign of Terror" 
 convulsed that continent. As a mih- 
 tary man, he watched the course of 
 Napoleon with the deepest interest. 
 He followed him step by step, over 
 the Alps into Italy, over the sea into 
 Egypt, over the Pyrenees into Spain, 
 
10 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 where his cannon disturbed the 
 "burial of Sir John Moore;" across the 
 Rhine to the fields of Ulna and Aus- 
 terlitz and Jena and Eylau and Wag- 
 ram, as he raged to and fro like a 
 demon of destruction, ignoring or 
 tearing into tatters, all the established 
 rules which had hitherto been the 
 guide for the movements of European 
 arms on the march or in manoeuvres 
 on the field of battle. Here was a rare 
 chance to study the art of war on a 
 grand scale from a new master. Hoyt, 
 like an enthusiastic patriot, gave him- 
 self up to it with ardor and success. 
 Can we not see him with the poker 
 drawing plans in the ashes on this 
 great hearth, plans of recent battles to 
 illustrate his theme, showing his 
 friends how Napoleon had beaten the 
 Italians, the Austrians or the Rus- 
 sians, by this or that movement, at 
 this or that critical moment? The 
 point once demonstrated. Aunt 
 Spiddy with a few whisks of her 
 birchen broom sent the ofifending 
 ashes under the fore stick, sweeping 
 aside these plans no more efifectually 
 than some new burst of genius in the 
 Corsican did those of the crowned 
 heads of Europe. 
 
 One result of these studies was a 
 treatise on "The Military Art," issued 
 in 1798, for the use of the United 
 States army. This work attracted the 
 attention of the first President, and it 
 was doubtless by the light of our east 
 window that General Hoyt read the 
 letter from Washington offering him 
 a command in the United States 
 army, which was then being organ- 
 ized for a conflict with France. Hoyt's 
 work passed through several editions, 
 and was followed by more elaborate 
 works, largely prepared under this 
 roof. All were illustrated by plates, 
 showing the formation and evolutions 
 of companies, regiments and armies, 
 on parade and in active service on the 
 field. Imagine sketches of these plans 
 pinned up on the red wainscoting of 
 the kitchen, and note the trouble tliev 
 gave Aunt Spiddy, when the frolic- 
 some wind from the open window sent 
 
 them scurrying over her nicely sanded 
 floor, with the possibility that some 
 might be caught in the draft and 
 whisked with the flame and smoke up 
 the wide-throated chimney. Hoyt's 
 reason for declining the commission 
 from Washington we do not know. 
 We do know that it was not a lack of 
 patriotism or waning love of the mili- 
 tary art. Probably he felt the call for 
 home duties more urgent. He was 
 Inspector-General of the state troops. 
 Trouble was brewing with Great Brit- 
 ain as well as with France, and many 
 feared that the great Corsican himself 
 would turn his arms across the waters 
 to our shores. The hand of General 
 Hoyt may be seen in the action of the 
 Board of Trustees of Deerfield Acad- 
 emy, when in 1806 a new professor- 
 ship was established. It was for teach- 
 ing the "Theoretical and Practical Art 
 of War viz: — tactics according to Stu- 
 ben and Dundas . . . Practical Ge- 
 ometry on the Ground; Elements of 
 Fortifications, and the Construction 
 of small works in the Field; Elements 
 of Gunnery; Topography; Military 
 History; Partisan War, or War of 
 Posts; . . . These subjects will be un- 
 der the direction of Major Hoyt, 
 Brigade Inspector. ... It is be- 
 lieved that the Present Critical Situa- 
 tion of our Country will induce young 
 men to qualify themselves for an hon- 
 orable defence against every hostile 
 attack on their native land and lay a 
 foundation for military Glory." 
 
 But our genius sacrificed not alone 
 upon the shrine of Mars. Gradually, 
 as the years went on, the little cottage 
 on the Albany road became the un- 
 doubted center of mental activity for 
 Northern Hampshire. Around its 
 hearthstone the young men gathered 
 and listened to discussions of the most 
 abstruse problems, not only of war, 
 but of philosophy and pure science. 
 Here space was measured with a line, 
 the trackless star was traced to its hid- 
 ing place by day, the sun after his go- 
 ing down at night, and a path was 
 predicted for the erratic comet. Some 
 of the results of these hearthstone 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 II 
 
 studies are with us in published works 
 on astronomy, miUtary science and 
 colonial history by Hoyt, and on 
 mathematics, biblical criticism, civil 
 law and general literature by Rodol- 
 phus Dickinson, one of his young 
 friends. 
 
 Another boy of whom the world 
 has heard received here his inspiration 
 and here enjoyed his first laurels. Half 
 a dozen rods from the great east win- 
 dow, Epaphras and Experience could 
 see Mercy, sister of the General and 
 wife of Justin Hitchcock, as she 
 leaned from her pantry window for a 
 morning chat, or busied herself about 
 her back yard chores, her chickens 
 and her geese. Among her two- 
 legged cares was a bright, dark-eyed 
 boy, the torment of her life, who early 
 came under the influence of his 
 "Uncle Ep." As a mere lad he would 
 eagerly listen to the talk round his 
 uncle's hearthstone, and as he grew in 
 years his love for the truths of science 
 kept pace with his hatred of the great 
 usurper Napoleon; for all along he 
 had drunk in the current talk which 
 represented this master of the art of 
 war as a blood-thirsty tyrant, a cruel 
 monster, whose pastime was the mur- 
 der of women and children. Pictuic 
 the scene at the cottage on the even- 
 ing of Monday, March 4, 1805, as the 
 General read the latest news, that 
 three months before, at Notre Dame, 
 Bonaparte had been crowned emperor 
 of France. Did hatred for the French 
 nation prevent even pity for its fate? 
 Did righteous indignation or dread 
 despair for suffering humanity come 
 uppermost in the minds of the assem- 
 bled group? One year lacking a day, 
 other news came, and to the hearers 
 the tables seemed turned. With what 
 joy thev heard the General read from 
 the Greenfield Gazette a highly colored 
 account of the success of Alexander 
 and the allied army over the French 
 in a battle of December 2. 1805, 
 and the comments — that "sanguine 
 hopes are now entertained in Europe 
 that Bonaparte has at length arrived 
 at the termination of his career." 
 
 ~3**' 
 
 "now silently resting in memorial 
 
 HALL." 
 
 This was the first report by the way 
 of England of the battle of Austerlitz, 
 a battle in which Napoleon gained 
 one of his greatest victories over the 
 combined armies of Russia and Aus- 
 tria. The fulfilment of these "san- 
 guine hopes" was not yet. More coun- 
 tries were to be overrun, and more 
 thrones to be overturned; thousands 
 of widows and orphans were yet to 
 taste the horrors of war. At length, 
 however, Bonaparte's hour struck. 
 June 3, 1814, a hand-bill was received 
 at Deerfield, which was published in 
 the Franklin Herald of June 7, con- 
 taining the joyful news that the allied 
 armies had entered Paris and that the 
 emperor was a fugitive. We of this 
 day can hardly imagine the excite- 
 ment and the thanksgiving which fol- 
 lowed this announcement; and of all 
 the coterie of the little brown house, 
 not one was more strongly impressed 
 than the "bright, dark-eyed boy." Ed- 
 ward Hitchcock. He at once began 
 his tragedy, "The Downfall of Bona- 
 
12 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 parte. In its pages can be seen rc- 
 Hected the sentiment of the time 
 wlHcli ranked Napoleon as the most 
 heartless and cruel despot the sun 
 ever shone upon, and Alexander, the 
 czar of Russia, as the friend of human- 
 ity and the prince of peace. It gives 
 us queer notions of our democracy to 
 see the emperor stigmatized in 'this 
 production as "a mud sprung reptile," 
 "a filthy toad," a "base born Cors'i- 
 can." This tragedy, which covered 
 the leading events of the rise and fall 
 of Napoleon, was put upon the 
 boards and acted by the leading lights 
 of Deeriield in the old meetinghouse, 
 part of the pews being floored over 
 for a stage. This was the event of that 
 generation, and the assumed names 
 of the actors clung to manv of them 
 through life. In mv bov'hood the 
 names of Blucher and Nev, Lescourt 
 
 author and his fellows, as they spouted 
 the lurid lines before the critic in re- 
 hearsal for the stage; and the copyist 
 was doubtless often vexed by changes 
 in the text in order to insert some iievv 
 technical military phrase or let in a 
 little more blood and thunder. How 
 wide a circulation this historic effu- 
 sion had is not known; but Horace 
 Greeley relates that when an appren- 
 tice at Poultney, Vermont, the tragedy 
 was acted there, and he personated 
 one of the characters. In after vears 
 President Hitchcock made efforts to 
 suppress this callow effort of his 
 genius, and copies are scarce in con- 
 sequence. Under the lead of his 
 uncle, young Hitchcock: became an 
 ardent student of astronomy and, 
 making a practical application of his 
 acquirements, constructed the astro- 
 nomical tables for a series of almanacs 
 
 OLD-TIME CHEER 
 
 and Platoff were as familiar as house- 
 hold words. 
 
 This tragedy was evidentlv com- 
 posed under the eye of General Hoyt 
 tor his ear-marks can be seen on al- 
 most every page. The low ceiling of 
 Aunt Spiddy's kitchen must have 
 looked down a hundred times on the 
 
 which he published at Deerfield. 
 bome of his problems were questioned 
 by the astronomers of Europe; but 
 with General Hovt at his back he 
 maintained his ground, and after a 
 sharp contest his positions were at 
 length admitted as proven by the 
 Continental Magnates. Doubtless 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 13 
 
 the big fireplace echoed the rejoicing 
 which followed this victory of a self- 
 made Deerfield boy over the savants 
 of Europe. And well it might, — for 
 had it not for years been throwing 
 light from its pine knots on these 
 knotty questions? 
 
 General Hoyt was a graduate of the 
 Deerfield district school. Edward 
 Hitchcock had in addition a few win- 
 ter terms at the Deerfield Academy, 
 and this was his Alma Mater. Al- 
 though professor, and later president 
 of a college, and the recipient of colle- 
 giate honors from far and wide, he 
 never saw as a pupil the inside of any 
 college walls, and he may well be 
 called a graduate of the little brown 
 cottage on the old Albany road. Per- 
 haps "the honor must be shared with 
 the great elm tree under which it 
 nestled so snugly, with its moss cov- 
 ered roof. It is related that the Gen- 
 eral and his nephew were in the habit 
 of fleeing, to escape the disturbance 
 from the children and the swash of 
 Aunt Spiddy's mop on the floor, to a 
 seat among 'the branches of this even 
 then giant tree, to study their most 
 profound problems ; and here Edward 
 spent many a studious hour, refusing 
 to join in the pastimes of his compan- 
 ions Certain it is that the seat m the 
 old tree was a favorite place of resort, 
 not only for the General and the future 
 president, but also for their growing 
 sons and daughters. _ . 
 
 Hoyt had such an appreciation ot 
 and admiration for the Duke of Wel- 
 lington, that, in 1811, he named his 
 only son after him, Arthur Welleslev, 
 thus anticipating the fame the Iron 
 Duke gained later at Salamanca and 
 Waterloo. European wars did not, 
 however, wholly engross the attention 
 of Hoyt. He is best known to-day by 
 his "Antiquarian Researches' con- 
 cerning the Indian wars of New Eng- 
 land, a work of great value to students 
 of New England history. 
 
 The rise and progress of the events 
 which led to the War of Impressment 
 with England must have been 
 watched with the deepest interest and 
 
 discussed in all their bearings under 
 the roof-tree of the Inspector Gen- 
 eral's cottage. Here would the patri- 
 otic citizens gather; here would be 
 first heard the declaration of the war, 
 and here first came the stirring news 
 of our gallant naval victories so unex- 
 pected "by either of the belligerents; 
 and here, we may be sure, were sung 
 the spirited songs they inspired. The 
 General was not gifted in song, but 
 what he lacked in tone and harmony 
 he made up in energy, and doubtless 
 the rafters shook as he emphasized the 
 sentiment of Chancellor Kilty's varia- 
 tion of "Britannia Rule the Wave." 
 
 "For see, Columbia's sons arise. 
 
 Firm independent, bold and free; 
 They too shall seize the glorious prize, 
 
 And share the empire of the sea; 
 Hence then, let freemen rule the waves, 
 
 And those who yield them still be 
 slaves;" 
 
 or as he joined in Ray's stirring lyric: 
 
 "Too long has proud Britannia reigned 
 
 The tyrant of the sea, . 
 
 With .guiltless blood her banners stain d, 
 Ten thousand by impressment chain d, 
 Whom God created free; 
 
 or in the rollicking tribute to Commo- 
 dore Perry: 
 
 "Hail to the chief, now in glory advancing, 
 Who conquered the Britons on tries 
 
 broad wave; , 
 
 Who play'd Yankee Doodle to set them 
 
 a-dancing. 
 Then tripp'd up their heels for a watery 
 
 grave." 
 
 We have seen that the General did 
 not live then, as in later years, m 
 scholastic seclusion. Neitherwashean 
 exclusive devotee to science and mili- 
 tarv art. He was an active man of 
 affairs, with a wide-spread political in- 
 fluence, and was, in fact, one of the 
 river gods. He was post-master 
 and registrar of deeds for Northern 
 Hampshire; and hundreds of pages 
 written bv his daughter, Fanny, by 
 the light 'fr®m the east window are 
 now daily consulted by the pub ic. 
 The little brown cottage was also tne 
 
14 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 center of the executive power of the 
 new county of FrankHn, for the Gen- 
 eral was high sheriff. We may trust 
 that when he went in state to open 
 the courts. Aunt Spiddy saw to it 
 that his blue, brass-buttoned coat was 
 scrupulously clean, that his cockade 
 and crimson silk sash were properly 
 arranged, and the hangings of his 
 dress sword were spotless as the sun. 
 
 Time changes all things. The phil- 
 osopher and friend, the student and 
 the guide, the man of science and the 
 man of power departed; and of his 
 kith and kin the only representative 
 left to-day on the old Albany road is 
 a young woman who revels in the 
 quick wit and the flight of imagina- 
 tion which she inherited from an un- 
 expended balance in the large brain 
 of her great grandfather, Epaphras 
 Hoyt. 
 
 No greater contrast can be con- 
 ceived than that between some of the 
 early occupants and those who now 
 for a year and a day make their abode 
 in the little brown house, — Rufus 
 Rice and his fitting mate, Esther. 
 Rufus was a first class representative 
 of the typical Yankee, keen, shrewd 
 and honest in business, droll and 
 witty in words, wise, careful and far- 
 sighted in action. He was the 
 founder of the fourpence-ha'pennv 
 packet express between Deerfield and 
 Greenfield, which still flourishes un- 
 der the whip of his grandson, another 
 Rufus. "Express Rice" had small 
 opportunity for book learning in 
 youth; but his judgment was sound, 
 and he came to be much relied upon 
 in business by the manless maiden, 
 the distressed widow, and the skilless 
 professor. One of the latter class, 
 after vain struggle to repair a water 
 conduit, called in Mr. Rice. The 
 following brief conversation illus- 
 trates the prominent traits in both the 
 interlocutors: 
 
 "I find," say||the Professor, "after 
 thoughtful coi^ideration and re- 
 peated, carefully conducted experi- 
 ments with this preparation, that all 
 my attempts are fruitless, and that 
 
 the water still continues to exude 
 copiously," 
 
 "O, yaas, yaas, fix it so 't '11 alius 
 leak like sixty." 
 
 "I am compelled to acquiesce in 
 your decisions; but, Mr. Rice, may I 
 inquire what methods you would 
 recommend to — "' 
 
 "O, I'll git it fixt as right 's a hoe- 
 handle. Don't you give yourself no 
 more trouble about it." 
 
 In sorrowfully condoling with Mr. 
 Rice on the great loss he had sustained 
 in the death of his son, the Professor 
 remarked with his voice full of tears, 
 "I understand, sir, that your son 
 possessed a considerable amount of 
 mechanical ingenuity, that in fact he 
 had proved his constructive talent 
 in practical achievements under ad- 
 verse circumstances, and with great 
 lack of needful appliances." 
 
 "O, yaas! yis, you give Seth a jack- 
 knife and gimlet and he'd make eny 
 most anything." 
 
 The sphere of Mr. Rice was nar- 
 row; he filled it well. He left no 
 stain on his character or shadow on 
 the little cottage. Neither the hearth- 
 stone, the oven, nor the window had 
 reason to complain in the companion- 
 ship of these honest everyday folk. 
 
 It is said that coming events cast 
 their shadow before. With the next 
 occupants of the little brown house, 
 we will suppose in our musings the 
 case is reversed. One of the fleeting 
 scroll bears a name well known in bor- 
 der warfare, that of Sergeant John 
 Hawks, the hero of Fort Massachusetts, 
 the compeer of Stark and Putnam, of 
 Burke and Rogers and other noted 
 partisans of the French and Indian 
 wars. He died as colonel at his home 
 in Deerfield Street, next door to that 
 of David Hoyt, elder brother of 
 Epaphras. Colonel Hawks in his 
 nlf1 a^e snent much time at the "Old 
 Indian House," then a tavern, with 
 the father of Epaphras as landlord. 
 We may be sure that young Epaphras 
 improved every opportunity of hear- 
 ing the bar-room stories of this 
 scarred veteran of two wars, that he 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 15 
 
 was often at his brother's house, and 
 that he haunted the home of the hero 
 Hstening eagerly to his door-stone 
 tales. Nor can we doubt that here was 
 born the spirit of research which 
 seized upon the wide awake boy, and 
 that in this primary school he began 
 the study of the "Art of War." In 
 his "Antiquarian Researches" General 
 Hoyt does full justice to the heroism 
 of his aged mentor, and many a vivid 
 scene of Indian warfare therein pic- 
 tured was doubtless in language heard 
 from one who could say, "All of this 
 I saw and part of which I was;" and 
 the old warrior could have asked no 
 better medium for a history of his 
 deeds. These stories which our three 
 steadfast friends had heard rehearsed 
 a hundred times in the earlier days, 
 the oven, the window and the fire- 
 place now heard repeated to a new 
 circle of Hsteners, gathered in the old 
 kitchen; for John Hawks, the new- 
 comer, had all these tales by heart, 
 and took due pride in recounting the 
 deeds of his grandsire. But the times 
 had changed; blessed peace flooded 
 the land, and the stories fell on 
 comparatively listless ears. Epaphras 
 and his coterie had no successors here. 
 The hearthstone was no longer pre- 
 sided over by Mars, Clio or Urania. 
 With the passing of the shadow, the 
 heroic days of the little brown house 
 vanished for aye. 
 
 But the shifting scene had not left 
 the hearthstone desolate. On the 
 ruins of the temple of Mars, the 
 genius of music now established an 
 altar. The first offering upon this 
 was the babe, Charles, the first born 
 of John and Emily, his wife, who in 
 due time became a devotee of Apollo. 
 He was a teacher of sacred music, a 
 long time leader of the village choir, 
 and, perhaps, through a strain in- 
 herited from the hero of Fort Massa- 
 chusetts, he was also a lover of mar- 
 tial music, organizing and leading 
 the village military band. 
 
 Charles Hitchcock, son of Deacon 
 Justin and brother of President Ed- 
 ward, born on the adjacent lot, was 
 
 the next occupant of the little brown 
 house, with the additions of his "Aunt 
 Spiddy's porch" and "Aunt Spiddy's 
 bed room." Charles was a man of 
 versatile tastes, with strong salient 
 points in his make-up. His regular 
 occupation was farming, but in com- 
 mon with his "Uncle Ep" he had a 
 taste for local history. He was over- 
 flowing with stories and anecdotes re- 
 lating to former generations of his 
 townspeople which he had accumu- 
 lated, the greater part of which are 
 now, alas! lost forever. The Anti- 
 quary must not be held accountable 
 for the loss of this inside view of the 
 society of old Deerfield, for at the date 
 of Deacon Hitchcock's death he had 
 not been invested with the robes of 
 the "Oldest Inhabitant." He had, 
 however, heard enough from the lips 
 of the Deacon to become aware that 
 here was a rich storehouse of local 
 lore; he had called the attention of 
 Professor James K. Hosmer to the 
 fact, and had arranged for an inter- 
 view in the little brown house, when 
 Mr. Hosmer was to take down Dea- 
 con Hitchcock's stories in writing. 
 This movement proved too late; on 
 the very day appointed. Deacon 
 Hitchcock was called to a bed of sick- 
 ness from which he never rose. This 
 circumstance is told as a much needed 
 warning to many who might profit 
 by it. There are Hitchcocks and 
 Hosmers of various grades in every 
 communitv. 
 
 Taking 'the warning to myself, I 
 proceed to make a record, that of 
 all the salient points in the character 
 of the new owner of the little brown 
 house, Deacon Hitchcock's love for 
 music was the most notable. That 
 was unmistakable. To this the oven, 
 the window and the fireplace will 
 cheerfully and unanimously testify. 
 For it was still before the days of _ the 
 iron stove and tin oven that the sing- 
 ino- master entertained at all hours of 
 the dav and untimely hours of the 
 night his friend the minister, a musi- 
 cal composer and writer of hymns. 
 Here it was that new theories were 
 
i6 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 discussed, new combinations of notes 
 tried, and especially new adaptations 
 of language to tunes. The melodies 
 of the sweet singer of Israel were re- 
 leased from the harsh bondage of 
 Sternhold and Hopkins, and made to 
 clothe the more harmonious measures 
 of the minister, while the more lurid 
 verses of the uncompromising Watts 
 were rehashed or banished without 
 compunction to meet the more gen- 
 erous interpretation of the Scriptures 
 under a milder form of theology. 
 The theology being settled, this did 
 not trouble the twain, but to adapt the 
 piety and beauty of Watts to the new 
 conditions and new claims of musical 
 science was a task requiring all the 
 knowledge and all the skill of these 
 earnest enthusiasts; and it was here 
 that the Deerfield Collection of Sacred 
 Music gradually took on substance 
 and form. As the melody of music 
 was in their hearts and voices, so the 
 science of music was upon their lips; 
 they talked earnestly and musefully 
 by the light of the east window, the 
 tallow candle or the pine knot, of oc- 
 tave and compass, of pitch and ac- 
 cent, of chords and triads and cadence, 
 of points and counterpoints, of can- 
 ons finite and canons infinite, of scale 
 chromatic and diatonic, of sequence 
 and modulation and transformation, 
 even unto the weariness and confusion 
 of the unlearned. Doubtless the big- 
 bellied bass viol, made by Deacon Jus- 
 tin, and the pitch pipe he used, both 
 now silently resting in Memorial Hall, 
 could testify, if summoned, of all these 
 things more fittingly and more music- 
 ally than the unmusical muser of this 
 hour. 
 
 It is natural to assume that Deacon 
 Hitchcock inherited from the amateur 
 builder of the bass viol his love of 
 harmony; but this could not fail to 
 be fostered by the example and in- 
 fluence of William Bull, the composer 
 and publisher of a musical treatise, 
 who lived next door to the house in 
 which Charles was born and brought 
 up. However this may be, when 
 Charles in early manhood became in- 
 
 timately associated with Samuel Wil- 
 lard, the unshackled minister of free 
 thought and free expression, a great 
 opportunity was given him for culti- 
 vating and refining his strong native 
 talent. The new friendship was har- 
 monious and mutually helpful. The 
 saintly Dr. Willard did not, indeed, 
 dwell beneath this roof, but his hal- 
 lowed voice seems on this occasion to 
 echo from wall and ceiling, conjured 
 up, it may be, by the subdued melody 
 evoked by the skillful touch of his 
 musically inspired granddaughter. 
 
 Meanwhile the warm-hearted oven 
 and the cheerful fireplace, ignoring 
 all ancient rivalry, clung together as 
 fast friends under the same mantel- 
 tree, while the great east window 
 smiled serenely on both. Well and 
 faithfully each of the three served 
 in its own way those who under- 
 stood their secrets and their power. 
 Charles, the singer, had readily made 
 friends with the musical fireplace, but 
 he understood not the mysteries lying 
 in the depths of the oven; they were 
 unfathomable to him. When he had 
 pondered for a time what he should 
 do, he hied away to the hills beyond 
 the valley to the home of the setting 
 sun, even to the house of Isaac, sur- 
 named Baker. Now Isaac had a 
 comely daughter who had aforetime 
 looked with favor upon the itinerant 
 singing master, and after a short re- 
 sponsive wooing the twain became 
 one. There were literally "no cards" 
 for the wedding party. The venerable 
 secretary of the Pocumtuck Valley 
 Memorial Association, then a boy of 
 ten, gave out the invitations verbally 
 from door to door. 
 
 It was on a birthday of Washing- 
 ton three score and ten years agone, 
 that the friends of Charles and Lois 
 held high festival within these walls, 
 and so was celebrated the advent of 
 the bride and the new mistress, who 
 then began a new life here with our 
 three friends, and with the pantry of 
 Bathsheba and Silence and Experi- 
 ence. These were all glad of her com- 
 ing, especially the oven, which well 
 
ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 U 
 
 knew that, although no longer a 
 Baker by name, she would continue to 
 practice the art; and from its mouth 
 came abundant proffers of good cheer, 
 and thenceforth it gave Lois loyal and 
 warm-hearted service. The pantry 
 vied with the oven in the welcome. Al- 
 though its shelves were weighted with 
 pounds of pound cake, piles and piles 
 of pies, dishes of doughnuts, jars of 
 jams and jellies, baskets of bread and 
 biscuits, cakes of cheese, plates of 
 cookies and gingerbread — these long 
 shelves, ranged one above another, 
 their edges newly decked with scalloped 
 paper, laughed cheerily as they dis- 
 played their tempting treasures to the 
 optics and olfactories. Hadavoteof ap- 
 proval been then and there taken, it is 
 doubtful whether the ayes or the noes 
 would have carried it. All these culi- 
 nary preparations had been made by 
 volunteer friends of the groom under 
 the lead of Aunt Hannah Hoyt, sister 
 of our friend, the General. Being the 
 head of the commissariat, she wore on 
 this occasion, as the insignia of her 
 office, the big gilded epaulettes of the 
 bridegroom. Tallow candles made 
 luminous spots here and there in the 
 darkness. The electricity of that day 
 shone on the faces and was manifest in 
 the spirits and light movements of the 
 guests. 
 
 In the glowing hickory coals under 
 the forestick lurked the loggerhead at 
 a red heat. Cool mugs of home- 
 brewed beer, flanked with eggs and 
 sugar, stood hard by, ready to meet 
 the fire fiend in a friendly contest. The 
 result of all the hissing and foaming 
 and spluttering which followed was 
 like that of many heated, wordy com- 
 bats: each side claimed the victory. 
 In fact, however, the red iron always 
 turned black and retreated under the 
 forestick for reenforcements, while 
 the mug of flip went briskly about, 
 cheered by, and cheering in turn, the 
 company. On this occasion it was 
 flanked by a big tumbler of Santa 
 Cruz toddy, which was passed to old 
 and young. 
 
 Singing and playing games, like the 
 
 "Needle's eye" or the "Barberry 
 bush," may have been indulged in; 
 but one amusement of wedding par- 
 ties of the day, "Chasing the bride 
 round the chimney," certainly was 
 not. The oven objected to the game 
 and would not budge; it stood sturdily 
 the whole evening, blocking the only 
 path. It still objects, and still holds 
 its position. 
 
 Dancing, which at divers times and 
 places, has been up and down the 
 gamut of public opinion, from the 
 lowest bass, where it was considered 
 the most subtle device of Satan for the 
 ingathering of souls, to the highest 
 pitch of piety, where it ministered to 
 the exaltation of saints, — dancing at 
 this time in Deerfield was ranging 
 among the joyous notes and was at 
 high tide of popular favor; it was an 
 especial accessory to wedding festiv- 
 ity, — and certainly the centennial of 
 Washington's birthday and the wed- 
 ding day of Charles and Lois was cele- 
 brated with the customary decorous 
 hilarity. It is safe to assume that 
 Harry, the brother of Charles, was 
 master of ceremonies in this feature of 
 the entertainment, for he was an ar- 
 dent disciple of Terpsichore. We hear 
 of one noteworthy occasion when 
 Harry sacrificed his desire for this di- 
 version on the altar of friendship or, 
 perhaps, of friendship and indignation 
 combined. It was the day when the 
 mutual friend of the brothers, the mu- 
 sical minister, had been refused ordi- 
 nation by an adverse Council. Harry, 
 in behalf of the young people, wrote a 
 feeling letter notifying the rejected 
 candidate that in consequence of their 
 sympathy for him at the action of the 
 Council the Ordination Ball arranged 
 for the evening would be given up. 
 
 The music furnished to regulate the 
 tripping footsteps on such occasions 
 was usually the sympathetic fiddle, — 
 the young- chaps chipping in to hire 
 a fiddler. If none was available, some 
 of the musical ones would set and 
 keep the time by singing, or hum- 
 ming, or calling, or some combination 
 of these methods. The muser recalls 
 
i8 
 
 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE 
 
 one occasion when as the merest sHp 
 of a boy he went with his sister to "a 
 neighbor party" and witnessed what 
 would be called in the slang of to-day a 
 "kitchen shin-dig." The hostess, Mis- 
 tress Sabrina, inspired and directed the 
 old-fashioned contra dances in her long 
 kitchen. Fragments of the sights and 
 sounds still remain with me, im- 
 pressed, it may be, by a knowledge of 
 the parties, and by seeing the personal 
 application. The director was perched 
 upon the loom at one end of the room, 
 whence her voice rang out with a free 
 and easy swing somewhat like this, 
 with all necessary adaptations: 
 
 do not particularize, it cannot be as- 
 serted. For the same reason it must 
 be left to the imagination to picture 
 how Captain Hannah beckoned Lois 
 from the bright firelight of the 
 kitchen into Aunt Spiddy's dim httle 
 bed room for mysterious conference 
 with certain wise matrons, her new 
 aunts, and how Experience gave her 
 timely words of advice and warning 
 from her ample store of hard earned 
 knowledge, or how Marcy and Betsey 
 and Persis showered upon her max- 
 ims of wisdom for her guidance in her 
 new sphere, and how the words of her 
 mentors fell upon the ears of the 
 
 "Now cross over my son Stoddard, 
 tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle 
 dum — down outside now my son 
 Amos, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum 
 diddle dum, come to your ma now 
 'Lisa Ann Parker, you're not big 
 enough, you're not big enough, right 
 and left now Jane Alcesta, tum tum 
 diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum, 
 down in the middle Stoddard Wil- 
 liams, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum 
 diddle dum." 
 
 This lady was about the age of 
 Charles, and was doubtless at the 
 wedding, and perhaps her peculiar tal- 
 ent may have been called into requisi- 
 tion; but as this is a tale of verities and 
 the scrolls of the household familiars 
 
 happy and trustful bride with the 
 same abiding effect as water show- 
 ered upon the back of the proverbial 
 duck. 
 
 The year hand on the clock of time 
 crept on. For two-score years Charles 
 the singer and Lois the baker abode 
 together under the roof tree of the 
 little brown cottage, growing browner 
 year by year, and then were gathered 
 to their fathers. Of the two children 
 who first saw the light within these 
 walls, Justin took unto himself a help- 
 meet and dwelt in a new house hard 
 by, but Harriet remained alone in the 
 old home. Three decades passed. 
 Time was left unmolested to work his 
 will upon the failing habitation and its 
 
ex THE ALBANY ROAD. 
 
 forlorn, clouded inmate. Little by lit- 
 tle the roof gaped here and there as if 
 to invite the rain, the hail and the 
 snow. The floor of the square room 
 and the pantry of Bathsheba found 
 sad companionship in the dark yawn- 
 ing cellar. Ruin and decay rioted in 
 Aunt Spiddy's bed room. The linger- 
 ing partitions, black with grime and 
 smoke and festooned with dust-laden 
 cobwebs, faltered and staggered. 
 Still, Harriet with bent form and tot- 
 
 tering steps clung steadfastly to the 
 old-time home, all for love of it and 
 for the associations which filled every 
 nook and cranny. All else failing, she 
 crept close to our three old friends for 
 sympathy and cheer, and the staunch 
 fireplace, the tried oven and the great 
 east window proved as true to Harriet 
 as Harriet was true to this taleful relic 
 of by-gone days — the little brown 
 house on the old colonial road to Al- 
 bany. 
 
 > 
 
/ 
 
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