RAVELLINGS FROM THE WEB OF LIFE.
BYGRANDFATHER GREENWAY.
The web of our life is of a mingled yarn. SHAKSPEARE.New York: D. & J. SADLIER & Co., 164 WILLIAM STREET. BOSTON:—128 FEDERAL STREET. MONTREAL:—CORNER OF NOTRE DAME AND ST. FRANCIS XAVIER STS.
1855.Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by CHARLES JAMES CANNON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. NEW YORK: BILLIN & BROTHER, PRINTERS, 20 NORTH WILLIAM.
Myself and My Work.
I AM an old man—as the name by which I am generally known would imply—and something of an invalid; and, as a necessary consequence, have become almost a prisoner to my own room. Age and infirmity seemed to me, at first, very great evils, and I fretted beneath their infliction. My habits had been active, and my mind constantly engrossed in the pursuits in which I was engaged, and to be deprived at once of my customary exercise, and the business which had filled my mind to the exclusion of everything like serious thought, was certainly enough to try the patience of one who had very few pretensions to the character of a philosopher. But time works wonders. The confinement which—a little more than seven years ago—was hardly to be endured, has become positively pleasant to me, and much to be preferred to the busy, bustling life I had led till then, and I am now so accustomed to my rheumatism that I should be quite lost without it, for, besides putting me into undisputed possession of the easiest chair in the house, it affords an excellent subject for conversation—when everything else is exhausted.
When I first gave up business, my great want was occupation. I had read little but the newspapers, and the small type in which they were then beginning to print them—though the younger of my grand-daughters pretended there had been no change—rendered them almost useless to me, and, when I did succeed in mastering their contents, they served rather to irritate than to soothe, for page: viii-ix[View Page viii-ix] they constantly reminded me of scenes and occupations which I, alas! was never more to know; and so I banished them from my room.
I then began a course of historical reading. Of this, however, I very soon tired. History has been called "Philosophy teaching by example." But, as my object was amusement, and not instruction, I had not patience to toil along the barren road of tiresome dissertation, and dry generalities, for the sake of the unripe fruit that was to be gathered at the end of it. What the world calls History seemed to me little better than romance, and romance too of the dullest kind, in which the heroes and heroines were simply the embodiments of the odd fancies and peculiar prejudices of its writers, tricked out in the quaint costume of a bygone age, and bearing the names of certain persons who lived and loved, and suffered and died "a long time ago;" beings doubtless very much like ourselves—neither as good nor as bad as they are made to appear.
I next tried Philosophy. But, although she had been represented as transcendantly beautiful—is not Philosophy feminine?—she had either been greatly overrated, or my sight had become far worse than I thought, for, upon the word of an honest man, I did not find her even tolerably comely. Poetry was as little to my taste as Philosophy. Or, to speak more correctly, my taste for poetry was not perhaps of the right sort; for I could not, for the life of me, tell in what the "Iliad" was superior to "Chevy Chase;" I certainly preferred "Tam o' Shanter" to the "Inferno," and, like Irving's General, I was sure to fall asleep over the "Fairy Queen."
Yet the fault, after all, was neither in the historian, the philosopher, nor the poet. That lay nearer home. I had fancied, because I had had a boyish acquaintance with Homer and Virgil, with whom, however, I had long ceased to be on speaking terms; could read and write two or three modern languages, and had always commanded a certain degree of respect upon 'Change, that I was sufficiently educated to find in books a compensation for the pleasures of active life I was forced to give up. But in this I was mistaken. Books, to be really useful to us in age, must be made the chosen companions of our youth, and I, unfortunately, knew little of them until I had travelled pretty far down the hill of life, and then they seemed determined to revenge themselves upon me for my long neglect, for they positively refused to lend me the aid I stood so much in need of.
But, besides religion:—It is Pope, I believe, who says, that "Beads and prayer books are the toys of age." Had the little cynic better known their use he would not have called them "toys." But, besides religion, as I said, I had still one resource against the weariness of idleness that threatened to devour me. I had always been, and still am fond of the society of the young. There is something so refreshing to the jaded mind in the purity of feeling gushing up from the heart, and flowing from the lips of those un-hackneyed in the ways of the world, that I have at all times found pleasure in the conversation of persons of this description; and, in return, I suppose, for the indulgence with which I regard them, they have never failed to evince a decided partiality for my company. And in this I have found my advantage. My daughter's family is altogether a most pleasant one, and her girls two of the very best in the world; yet, for all that, my evenings would be dull enough occasionally, but for the visits of Max Kopner and Frank Conway—two fine young fellows, whose fathers I knew when I was a boy, and whom I have known since they were as high as my knee—who seldom fail to drop in two or three times a week, and, by relating the gossip of the day, and discussing with Mrs. Eganton, my daughter—a woman of rare qualities, but who, from her early widowhood, has become almost as much a recluse as myself—and the girls, who go but little into society, everything connected with literature and the arts, have not only given me pleasure at the time, but supplied me with a fund of information that I could not otherwise have easily acquired.
But the visits of these lads have resulted in something better than an hour's amusement for an old invalid. They have afforded me what is of infinitely greater value—actual occupation, the only food that can satisfy the hunger of the mind. And thus it was:
One of our party—Mrs. Eganton, I believe—suggested some time ago, that instead of taxing the good nature of Max and Frank, as we were in the habit of doing, by setting one or the other to read for us an hour or so of an evening, while she and the girls sat at work, we should endeavor to supply the place of the tales to which page: x-xi[View Page x-xi] we had given more time and attention, than the talent with which they were written, or the lessons they were intended to convey, would entitle them to, by telling stories of our own, that should depend for their interest more upon the facts they contained than the inventive powers of their narrators. This suggestion met with the instant approval of every one, not excepting Anastasia, who is so little fond of the sound of her own voice, that I have never known her to volunteer an anecdote, repeat a bit of scandal, or even discuss the bad taste in dress of her most intimate friends; and thereupon Kate, the younger of my grand-daughters—as mischievous a puss as ever frolicked at an old man's fireside—proposed that lots should be drawn, to decide who was to take the lead in this new amusement, with the anticipation of which she seemed perfectly delighted. So cutting six slips of paper, of unequal lengths, all of which, except the ends that were held between a finger and thumb, she carefully concealed in her hand, she bade us draw, saying that whoever drew the shortest should tell the first story, when—as, I am inclined to suspect, was intended—the lot fell upon Max Kopner.
And since—partly as an exercise of memory, and partly for want of something better to do—I have written out, in my best hand, the stories in the order in which they were related—dividing them into chapters, or sections, pruning away occasional redundancies, and now and then adding such embellishments as I thought the nature of the narratives would admit; when, upon completing my self-imposed task, I found I had brought together materials enow to make a volume—in manuscript—of a most imposing appearance, which, with the consent, if not entire approbation, of its authors, I resolved to put into print.
But then a difficulty arose about the title we should bestow upon it, no two of us agreeing, for a long time, upon any one of the many that were proposed. Mrs. Eganton thought that "Tales and Sketches" would be very appropriate, to which Frank Conway would have added, of "American Life." Kate was for something more significant and high sounding, in which "Hearts" and "Mysteries" should hold a conspicuous place, but to both these words Max Kopner had a decided objection, for he had seen them so often and so badly used that he had become sick of them, and would recommend commend instead, "Phases of Every Day Life." I was for calling it "Thrums."
"'Thrums,'" repeated Kate. "'Thrums.' What," she asked, "does that mean?"
"You know, my dear," said I, "or rather you don't know, as you are city bred, that thrums are the ends of warp, which are left after the web is woven."
"And are cut off, I suppose, and thrown away."
"Cut off, certainly, but not thrown away—by economical people. When I was a boy—"
"That must have been a long time ago, grandpapa."
"Yes, Kate, a long time ago! But, as I was saying, when I was a boy, and lived in the country with my parents—it was before we had factories among us—everything we wore in the family was carded, spun, and woven at home, and my good thrifty mother, who never allowed anything to go to loss—you will never be like your great-grandmother, Kate—used to make her little folk, white and black, sit down by the kitchen fire in the winter evenings, and tie together the thrums she had saved through the year, out of which she knitted mittens and comforters for the poor of the neighborhood."
"Very praiseworthy it was, no doubt, of the good old lady," said the minx, with a saucy smile; "yet I cannot see the peculiar fitness of 'Thrums' as a title for our book."
"Why, you stupid little thing," said I, giving her a fillip on the cheek, "you must be blind not to see it. These stories, which to common observers—the Ingomars of the world—who want to know the use of everything, would seem as little worth as the thrums I have spoken of, yet when carefully collected, and tied together, as it were, by patient industry—"
"Would make good mittens and comforters, ha, grandpapa?"
Every one seemed amused with the ridiculous turn she had given to the argument I was about to enter upon, and, notwithstanding the strong inclination I felt to give the jade a sound box on the ear, I could not help joining in the laugh that had been raised at my expense.
Up to this time Anastasia had taken no part in the discussion; but being now appealed to, either to decide in favor of some one page: xii-13[View Page xii-13] of the titles proposed, or name a title herself, she answered, in her usual quiet way,
"They are all very good and appropriate, but, with the exception of grandpapa's, a little hackneyed, and that, though admirable for its significance, I am afraid would not be generally understood. Would not," she asked, "'Ravellings from the Web of Life'—a title which, I believe, has never been used—obviate both these objections?"
The question with which she concluded, was unanimously answered in the affirmative, and so, as "RAVELLINGS FROM THE WEB OF LIFE," shall these stories go down to generations yet unthought of.
