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19th century American Fiction - "The Wright Fiction"

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CLOVERNOOK
OR
RECOLLECTIONS
OF
OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IN THE WEST
SECOND SERIES.
BY ALICE CAREY.
REDFIELD,
110 & 112 NASSAU-STREET, NEW YORK.
1853.
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ENTERED, according to act of Congress, in the year one Thousand Eight Hundred and Fifty-three, BY J. S. REDFIELD, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for the Southern District of New York.
A. CUNNINGHAM,
STEREOTYPER,
No. 183 William-street, New-York.
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<HEAD>CONTENTS.</HEAD>
<LIST>
<ITEM>THE PAST <REF>9</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>MRS. WETHERBY'S PARTY <REF>13</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>ZEBULON SANDS <REF>80</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>LEARNING CONTENT <REF>93</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>THE TWO VISITS <REF>109</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>UNCLE WILLIAM'S <REF>146</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>UNCLE CHRISTOPHER'S <REF>171</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>MY VISIT TO RANDOLPH <REF>197</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>WHY MOLLY ROOT GOT MARRIED <REF>230</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>CHARLOTTE RYAN <REF>245</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>THE SUICIDE <REF>281</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>THE COLLEGIAN'S MISTAKE <REF>290</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>THE DIFFERENCE, AND WHAT MADE IT <REF>317</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>ELSIE'S GHOST STORY <REF>332</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>WARD HENDERSON <REF>346</REF></ITEM>
<ITEM>CONCLUSION <REF>361</REF></ITEM>
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<HEAD>RECOLLECTIONS OF OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IN THE WEST.</HEAD>
<HEAD>THE PAST.</HEAD>
WE do not suffer our minds to dwell sufficiently on the past. Though now and then there is one who thinks it wise to talk with the hours that are gone, and ask them what report they bore to Heaven, this sort of communion is for the most part imposed as a duty and not felt to be a delight.
The sun sets, and our thoughts bathe themselves in the freshness of the morning that is to come, and fancy busies herself in shaping some great or good thing that is waiting just beyond the night; and though, time after time, we discover that Fancy is a cheat and lies away our hearts into unsubstantial realms, we trust her anew without question or hesitancy; and so the last sun sets, too often, ere we look back and seriously consider our ways.
I have met with some writer, I think Hazlitt, in his "Table Talk," with whom my estimate of the past harmonizes perfectly: "Am I mocked with a lie when I venture to think of it?" he asks, "or do I not drink in and breathe again the air of heavenly truth, when I but retrace its footsteps, and its skirts far off
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adore?" And, in continuation, he says, "It is the past that gives me most delight, and most assurance of reality." For him the great charm of the Confessions, of Rousseau, is their turning so much on this feeling—his gathering up the departed moments of his being, like drops of honey-dew, to distil a precious liquor from them—his making of alternate pleasures and pains the bead-roll that he tells over and piously worships; and he ends by inquiring, "Was all that had happened to him, all that he had thought and felt, to be accounted nothing? Was that long and faded retrospect of years, happy or miserable, a blank that was to make his eyes fail and his heart faint within him in trying to grasp all that had once vanished, because it was not a prospect into futurity?"
Yesterday has been, and is, a bright or dark layer in the time that makes up the ages; we are certain of it, with its joys or sorrows; to-morrow we may never see, or if we do, how shall it be better than the days that are gone—the times when our feet were stronger for the race, and our hearts fuller of hope—when, perchance, our "eyes looked love to eyes that spake again, and all went merry?" Why should we look forward so eagerly, where the way grows more dusty and weary all the time, and is never smooth till it strikes across the level floor of the grave, when, a little way back, we may gather handsful of fresh flowers? Whatever evils are about us, is it not very comforting to have been blessed, and to sit alone with our hearts and woo back the visions of departed joys? And who of us all has had so barren and isolate a life that it is gladdened by no times and seasons which it pleases us to think eternity cannot make dim nor quite sweep into forgetfulness?
For myself, when I move in the twilight or the hearthlight, thought, in spite of the interest that attaches to uncertainty, travels oftener to the days that have been, than to those that are to come. With the dear playmate who has been asleep so many years, I am walking again, pulling from the decayed logs mosses that make for us brighter carpets than the most ingenious looms of men may weave; I am treading on the May grass and breathing its fragrance anew; I am glad because of a bird's nest in the bush, and feel a tearful joyousness when the
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cedar pail brims up with warm milk, or the breath of the heifer, sweet as the airs that come creeping over the clover field, is close upon my cheek while I pat her sleek neck, praising her bounty. Then there are such bright plans to plan over! what though so many of them have failed? they had not failed then, but seemed very good and beautiful, and it is as easy to go down to the bases of our dreams, as to think of their tottering and falling. True, as I am putting flowers among the locks over which the dust lies now, I must needs sometimes think of the dust, but that I can cover with flowers also, and feel that there is no moaning in the sleep which is beneath them. There is another too, not a playmate, for whom, as the evening star climbs over the western tree-tops, I watch, joyfully, for hope has as yet never been chilled by disappointment. And sure enough, the red twilight has not burned itself out, nor the insects ceased to make their ado, before the music of the familiar footstep sounds along the hush of a close-listening, and
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