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Out of town. Gray, Barry, (1826–1886).
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A FOGGY DAY ON THE BRONX. S. R. GIFFORD.

OUT OF TOWN A RURAL EPISODE

BY

BARRY GRAY

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS

NEW YORK PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON 459 BROOME STREET

1866
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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by HURD AND HOUGHTON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.

PREFATORY AND DEDICATORY.

"DO you know, Mr. Gray," asked my estimable wife early one morning, as she raised the sash and threw open the blinds of the chamber-window, in our house in Merryfield Place, "that the spring is here? Observe how balmy is the air, and see how the buds are swelling on the trees, and the grass sending forth its green blades in the courtyard. Listen to the song of that bluebird, perched upon the swaying branch of the elm, and hearken, too, to the buzzing of the early flies, enjoying the warm sunshine on the window panes. Yes, the spring is here, my dear, and we are on the verge, as the poet hath it, of the 'delicate-footed May'; and this reminds me—oh! sad anticlimax—that you have not yet obtained a house for the coming year, and that, before ten days go by, unless you do, we shall be homeless, having neither a shelter for, nor a place wherein to lay, our heads."

"I am fully aware of it, my dear," I replied; "and I have for the last month, as you are aware, travelled over the greater part of the city searching for a proper residence, without finding one. I have half-decided to look no further"—

"That would be just like you, Mr. Gray," interrupted my wife; "you would be willing to sit down quietly, with folded hands, and let the future take care of itself."

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"You are very much mistaken, my dear," I said, "if you think so. What I was going to say was, that I was half-decided to look no further for a house in the city; but to get one out of town. And, if it will please you, I will do so."

My wife having expressed a decided approbation of this plan, I continued: "Your quotation, my dear, from the poet is so suggestive of the country that I wish we were there at this moment. The phrase, 'delicate-footed May,' is especially good to employ if one lives in the country, or even if he be a lounger among the city parks, and is given to frequenting that Park of parks, the Central. But if he be condemned, as most of our people are, to the purlieus of brick and mortar, and only sees the parks as he rides by in the over-crowded car, or the not less crowded omnibus, it is not so appropriate. For May, in most cases, then means 'moving time,' when the year's Lares and Penates are torn up by the roots, and the household gods are borne from place to place, and, in the midst of much dirt, confusion, and anxiety, planted afresh in some new locality to be again transferred when the next 'delicate-footed May' comes round. The approaching May promises to be unusually fraught with annoyance. Houses to be let are remarkably rare, even at greatly advanced prices, and many a family will find itself, on the first of May, without a sheltering roof."

"That is so," said my wife, "and it would not surprise me if we should be among the number."

"Persons," I continued, not heeding Mrs. Gray's interruption, "who heretofore thought they could not live out of town, will find it not only cheaper, but healthier and pleasanter, to have a house in the country; and, before the year goes round, will have come to understand and appreciate what our poet means when he says, 'The Spring is here, the delicate-footed May.'"

"Well, if you intend to get a place in the country," said my wife, "I think you had better be about it, and not wait until the first of May arrives."

"I have already been seeking a place," I replied; "and among the pleasant spots which I visited, a few days since, within an hour's ride of business, was the village of Fordham,—a quiet, unpretentious little place, nestled on and among the hills, with sundry picturesque houses, and an air of thrift pervading its people that was delightful to witness. It is poetic ground, too; for here Poe once lived, and Drake wrote charmingly of the little river, the Bronx, which flows through its precincts. Even now it is not without its literary representative, in the person of the author of the tragedy of 'Sybil,' John Savage, who dwells in a most hospitable cottage, near St. John's College. And this reminds me that there is also much classical knowledge contained in Fordham,—as those who meet and converse with the grave and dignified priests who inhabit the college will assuredly attest. It was pleasant to see those scholastic-looking men, clad in their long black cassocks, thoughtfully pacing, in the afternoon sunshine of that mild spring-day, the neatly-kept walks of the college-ground; and to hear, wafted upon the balmy air, the musical sound of the chapel bell ringing the 'Angelus.'

"In company with my friend," I continued, "I visited the little Dutch cottage where, in the spring of 1846, Poe carried his young wife, Virginia, to die, and where he passed the three remaining years of his life. It is a low-roofed dwelling, scarcely over one story in height,—for the page: vi-vii[View Page vi-vii] three narrow windows over the lowly porch are only a pane of glass in width,—and has suffered no change, save such as Time has wrought, since Poe made it his home. The clumps of rare dahlias and beds of mignonette which once grew in its garden, are no longer there; but the cherry-trees, grown older by nineteen years, still throw their sheltering arms above and around it; and the descendants of the birds that used to sing to him from its leafy coverts, doubtless yet build nests in its branches. A favorite resort of the poet, which we visited, was a ledge of rocky ground a little east of the cottage, partly covered with pines and cedars, commanding a fine view of the surrounding country. 'Here,' says Mrs. Whitman, 'through long summer days, and through solitary, star-lit nights, he loved to sit, dreaming his gorgeous waking dreams, or pondering the deep problems of "The Universe"—that grand "prose-poem" to which he devoted the last and maturest energies of his wonderful intellect.'

"Filled with painful thoughts, my friend and myself turned from this humble cottage, where Edgar Poe dwelt with sorrow and remorse during the later years of his life, and, passing to the banks of the Bronx, sought, amidst its picturesque scenery, to find themes for less bitter fancies. The water rippled over its rocky bed, and along its high and sloping shores, with a musical cadence that brought peace to our minds, and seemed to say that the spring was here, even the 'delicate-footed May.'"

"But, what about a house, Mr. Gray?" my wife asked. "Did you find one that would suit our purpose?"

"Well," I replied, "I am not quite certain; though, so far as I am concerned, it is all that I would desire; but you, my dear, may think differently. I fear that you will deem it too small, and will be wanting me to put on all kinds of additions, including wings, sub-cellars and attic-stories."

"Any house will be better than none, my dear," my wife said; "and if you are satisfied with it, I think you had better purchase it, and then we can add to or take away from it, as we may desire."

"And I'll tell you what I'll do," I said, "to help pay for it. My publishers want another book of mine, and so I'll write an account of our life in the country, from spring until mid-winter, and they shall publish it under the title of 'OUT OF TOWN;' and I will dedicate it, my dear, to you, and the dedication shall run in this wise:—

'TO
MY WIFE,
WHO, THROUGH SPRING-TIME AND HARVEST, SUMMER AND WINTER, FOR
MANY YEARS; IN JOY AND SORROW, SICKNESS AND HEALTH,
HAS BEEN TO ME A SOLACE AND SUPPORT, MORE
THAN WORDS OF MINE CAN TELL, OR
DEEDS CAN VERIFY,
THIS VOLUME,
DESCRIPTIVE OF A RURAL EPISODE IN OUR JOURNEY THROUGH LIFE,
IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.'"

FORDHAM, N. Y., July 25th, 1866.
page: viii-ix (Table of Contents) [View Page viii-ix (Table of Contents) ]

CONTENTS.

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