There were three events which we used to look forward to at the approach of summer with a great deal of interest. These were the Fourth of July, General Training and Camp Meeting. The denizens of a city can hardly understand the pleasure with which the inhabitants of a secluded village hail any thing out of the usual quiet routine of existence. Consequently they would be likely to stare at the very idea of any one who was old enough to drive fast trotters, attend cock-fights, shoot balls over billiard-tables, and dance the polka, attaching any importance to such ordinary if not “decidedly vulgar” matters. But with all due deference to the dandies, I must still reiterate that we thought these three things of much consequence, and entitled to the place of events in our simple village calendar. The Fourth of July was a great affair, inasmuch as it was not only great in itself, but it opened as it were the gates of the decided summer, letting in upon us those long delicious hours when the sun’s eye begins to glance through its cloud lashes at three in the morning, and shoots up its light to wink and glimmer until nine in the evening. Camp Meeting was also very important—inherently of course—and also as coming as it did in October, it shut those same summer portals, and reminded us of the occasional pretence of Jack Frost, that jackall of winter, who comes prowling amidst our gardens some time before the stern roar of the old lion is heard. But General Training occurring in August, sandwiched between the two—the summit-level, so to speak, of the season—the acme—the apex—was, on the whole, the greatest event of the three. It was coupled with nothing else, either as herald of bright days, or reminder that those days were past. It had neither the brilliance of hope nor the fragrance of memory. It was therefore self-sustained—it shone by its own light. And full of the elements of enjoyment was it. So much bustle and noise—such rattle-te-bang topsy-turvy scenes—such unloosing of the elements of fun—such odd admixtures and jumblings together of objects, all broadly picturesque and ludicrous, did the day present, that no wonder it created such a sensation in our usually quiet and well behaved village.
As the contrast last hinted at constituted one of its charms to me, I will commence by sketching the appearance of the village the evening before.
We will suppose the time to be about six o’clock, P. M. in the last week of August. The sun is about an hour and a half high, and is beginning to throw out rays of the richest and at the same time the softest splendor. A broad beam, like a golden vista, strikes Rumsey’s house on the hill right along the toes, thence, darting a blow athwart the breast of Fairchild’s domicil, it hits St. John’s store right in the abdomen, and then sinks down the slope of the street. This is on one side of the village. On the other, a second beam comes along in a sort of stealthy, zigzag manner, being broken by a row of trees, until, blazes! it pitches into the two lower eyes of Coit’s dingy edifice so violently as to make them flash again. After this feat, it laughs along the verge of the village green, making it wear an edging of gold, and then paints the black picture of the mail-coach before Hamble’s door in such grotesque proportions as to send the head of one horse poking into the middle of the street, and his tail streaming into Cady’s store. And not only this, but the beam sketches the figure of Hamble himself coming from “Saint’s store,” with a bottle of “sour wine” for his bar, in one hand, and a white pitcher brimming with the cool nectar from the “corner well” in the other.
Would you believe it? these were the only objects visible in the street. How all the inhabitants had contrived to withhold themselves from sight in this mellow sunset I cannot imagine. But such was the fact. The houses stood protruding their noses of porches at those opposite, and peering into one another’s eyes, with their dark wigs cutting against the soft amber sky—the trees were whispering soft things to one another in a gentle breeze stirring, each one moving its thousand lips so delicately that the sunlight which was kissing them seemed trembling with rapture—in short, an air of quiet solitude brooded over the whole place.
By and by the quick rattle of wheels struck upon my ear, and looking in the direction of the sound, I saw a two-horse wagon coming furiously down the street with a collection of white, red, and black plumes, with bayonets and gun-barrels glistening above, and a great blue standard fluttering over the whole. A strain of martial music simultaneously struck up from amongst the warlike array, which array to my nearer vision, resolved itself into a dozen men, “armed and equipped as the law directs,” including a fifer, who was lengthening his visage into a puckered whistle upon his little yellow tube, a drummer, who was entangling his sticks in the loudest manner on the sounding sheep-skin, and a bass-drum player, who had hung his huge instrument, like a great barrel, at the end of the wagon, and who, being a little the worse for liquor, (shown by constant lurches,) came down upon the quivering circles each side with prodigious vigor at precisely the wrong times, thereby breaking up and almost overpowering the tune by an irregular succession of boom—boom—boom-boom-booms.
As the wagon pulled up with an emphasis at Wiggins’s, three huzzas rent the air from the occupants, a dozen shots, in which were mingled the round, deep tone of the musket, and the short, peevish crack of the ride succeeded—and the “sodgers” bounded upon the stoop, streamed into the bar-room, calling for “liquor,” and lo! the “premonitory symptoms” of General Training.
After this temporary ripple in the current, the village again settled down into its customary quiet. The sun disappeared—the golden glow crept up the western sky as if to greet the “hunter’s moon,” that looked in the sweet twilight like an orb of pearl, becoming, however, momentarily brighter, like the hope of a holy heart as the night of the grave approaches. And soon the gold was chased down by the silver, and the beautiful moonlight lay as if it was tangible sleep upon the village.
About ten o’clock I took one of my solitary walks along the single street. Nothing could be more silent and solitary. The soft yet splendid sheen streamed down upon the roof, and whilst the dwellings upon one side of the spacious thoroughfare were bathed in lovely light, those opposite were lying in the deepest blackness. The tricks of the moonlight were various. The old weather streaked Court-House looked as white and new as the smart Presbyterian “Meeting-House” just erected, whilst its belfry (so open that it seemed as if it would ring its own bell when the wind blew) cocked itself up with a pert air, like the upturned nose of a conceited man, and the red pimple of a clerk’s office between both Court and Meeting-House, looked redder than ever. Hamble’s rough stone wall was sleeked over very prettily, sending out from its summit gleams of light like silver flashes—the white chips about his wood-shed were like patches of snow—the shadow of a log, with an axe struck into it, seemed like a black pump lying prostrate—the shrubbery in the little enclosure along the side of the tavern, sparkled out into a million of eyes—the sign, with the red coach upon it, going so fast that its wheels were nothing but spokes, and the horses so fierce that they were galloping right up into the air, looked bright as a new button, whilst the broad village green seemed like an expanse of (if I may use the expression) solidified light. I turned to pursue my walk. The fluted pillars of St. John’s store looked “good enough to eat,” as a rather matter-of-fact girl once observed to me in a moonlight walk, and the “corner well,” with its long arm of a pole reared over its head, and its bucket tucked down at its front, seemed as if it had just drank and had put down its glass. I still made my way up the street. Not a single person abroad, not a light to be seen—it appeared as if the whole village had grown out, as it were, of the quiet and beautiful light that lay so broadly upon it. Tired at last of being the only watcher in the silent village, I retraced my steps, and (to speak vulgarly) “went to bed.”
I was awakened by martial music in full blast. I dressed myself and sallied out. A broad beam of the newly risen sun had settled like a yellow pool just in front of Wiggins’s tavern, and standing within it, were the three worthies who had awakened the Monticello echoes the evening before with their music from the wagon. The fifer was again spitting his breath most industriously into his “whistle,” as the boys called it, and keeping time with his foot, the drummer, who had a way of looking down upon his drum, and working his mouth to the motion of his sticks, was sending out his rattling tones by his side, and facing the two, with his shoulders drawn back, and supporting his instrument on his breast, the bass-drummer was bringing down his leathered knobs this time to the music, (he had only had two morning bitters, so Wiggins said,) but with such a terrific noise as to make even himself wince at every stroke.
There was quite a collection of men around the “musicianers;” several with brown cartridge-boxes and bayonet-sheaths, and one or two with gilt eagles in their hats, and plumes of white feathers, whilst one fellow was equipped with an old straw hat, the rim of which was shorn away at his forehead—a red flannel shirt, linsey-woolsey pantaloons, and a long, heavy rifle on his shoulder. This genius was fairly wrapped up in the music. He was evidently enchanted. Now he would listen with his mouth wide open, then he would look around the group and nod, as if to say, “isn’t that fine!” and then he would give birth to laughter, as though he couldn’t restrain himself any longer for the life of him.