Our Village Home

A SKETCH OF CLAYSVILLE, WASHINGTON CO., PENN.,

BY GEORGE W. F. BIRCH, D.D., LL.D.

I wish that I could strike from Goldsmith's harp notes such as the imperishable numbers which enshrine "Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain."

I covet that acquaintance with the springs and actions of human life, that profound sympathy with human conditions, that real kinship with human nature which George Crabbe brought to light when he described the "Borough" as its church, its sects, its electors, its lawyers, its physicians, its tradesmen, its clubs, its social meetings, its players, its inns, its almshouse, its hospital, its poor, its Peter Grimes, its prisons and its schools; compose what William Howitt called "the strangest, cleverest, and most absorbing book" he had ever read.

I long for that power of imagination, that creative faculty-that love of nature-that insight of human character which made Scott the poet and Scott the novelist call forth from the mountains, lakes, cities, homes, and traditions of his native Scotland, incarnations of heroism, humor, and uniqueness which are historic.

I would like to have the prerogative whereby William Wordsworth revealed that the ordinary walks of

life preach the grand truth that, as an American critic puts it, "The beautiful is not confined to the rare, the new, the distant-to scenery and modes of life open only to the few; but that it is poured forth profusely to the common earth and sky, gleams from the loneliest flower and lights up the humblest sphere; that the sweetest affections lodge in lowliest hearts; that there are sacredness, dignity, and loveliness which few eyes rest on; that even in the absence of all intellectual culture, the domestic relations can quietly nourish that disinterestedness which is the element of all greatness and without which intellectual power is a splendid deformity."

I feel in my present task the need of that grace, melody, and variety by which Henry Wadsworth Longfellow has responded to every emotion which thrills the heart of humanity.

My subject deserves the smoothness, the elegance, the thoughtfulness with which the genius of William Cullen Bryant crystallized his observation of the everyday life of American homes and communities.

As I recall the dainty pictures of home, childhood, boyhood, which are the charm of Ik Marvel's "Reveries of a Bachelor," I crave, as I trace some recollections of Claysville, Washington County, Pennsylvania, Our Village Home, the right to exclaim, "I, too, am a painter!"

For in Our Village Home, Goldsmith, methinks, would have found his village preacher, his village schoolmaster, and his village inn. Crabbe could have sung of alley, lane, and street in describing our "Borough." Scott would have discovered the ma

terial to mould the Antiquary or Jennie Deans or Dumbiedikes. Wordsworth would have been acquainted with a Benjamin the Wagoner, evolved the story of Peter Bell, caught the "Song of the Spinning Wheel," and experienced many a phase of the “Excursion." Longfellow would have known a veritable Village Blacksmith, heard the "Old Clock on the Stairs," and contemplated" My Lost Youth." Bryant could have evoked his "Thanatopsis," described the "Old Man's Funeral," and walked through the groves to the music of the " Forest Hymn." Ik Marvel could have made us look through our tears at the home of our childhood.

Hence if we cannot make the story of Our Village Home flash with the light of these stars of the literary firmament, I may at least venture with the flicker of my little lamp to interest and amuse, if not to instruct and impress.

Moreover, the aim of this chapter is not without Scripture warrant. Indeed its appropriate text is found in the farewell song which Moses "spake in the ears" of his countrymen: " Remember the days of old, consider the years of many generations; ask thy father and he will show thee; thy elders and they will tell thee." (Deuteronomy xxxii. 7.) The philosophy of this direction appears in the thought that "Human progress is entirely dependent on the memory. By this power the mind retains or recalls knowledge once acquired, and thus garners the materials of thought, comparison, and deduction. Memory is at once the recorder of the intellect and the storehouse of the affections. Without this faculty of mind man would be a

perpetual novice-his past a blank, his future imbecility-indeed he would not be man.”

So I recall the invocation which opens a poem by Willis Gaylord Clark:

"Come, Memory, with thy power to paint and sing

The vanished glory of life's little spring!

Back o'er the soul the light of childhood pour,
And bring its blossoms, though they bloom no more.
To fancy's eye unfold each braided wreath,

Once twined on sunny brows, undimmed by death.
Bring back the tale and lay of yore so dear
Which fell in sweetness on the thirsty ear.
When hope was singing like the lark at morn,
And all the flowers of earth were newly born,
Thanks for thy bidden aid-at thy command,
As by the magic of the enchanter's wand,
A thousand scenes returned to life arise
Softer than moonbeams in the eastern skies;
Upspring a thousand roses fresh with dew
And round my path their radiant tints renew.
Their breath seems floating where the winds prevail,
And birds and brooks give music to the gale.
Mid skies where fancy moves the frolic wing
Life's train of morning stars arise and sing."

OUR VILLAGE SITE

Beautiful for situation was Our Village Home. The original survey of the locality designated it as "Superfine Bottom." Its horizon was narrowed by the high hills which inclosed the indented valley, along which the houses lined its single street. Those hills were magnificent parks of the noblest trees of the forest. They were crowned with the towering poplar, the

cathedral elm, the giant oak, the tall ash, the royal black walnut, the stately wild cherry, the straight hickory, the symmetrical maple, the expanding sycamore. To the north, to the south, to the east, to the west, wherever we looked, we saw a grove fit for the temple of a God. How beautiful those hills when spring dotted them with the white of the dogwood; when summer enrobed them in its luxuriant green; when autumn touched them with its tints of scarlet and gold; when winter gave them the whiteness of its snow and the sparkle of its ice!

These forests of Our Village Home swarmed with animal life in the days of the Indian, and within the lifetime of the writer often rewarded the patience and skill of the hunter. An occasional wildcat or lone wolf recalled the days and dangers of the pioneers. Among my first recollections of the county paper are the announcements of "The Circular Hunt," which summoned every man, weapon, and dog from far and near to the capture of the crafty fox. That old coon," adopted in the "Forties" as the watchword of a political party, was the frequent occasion of the most exciting sport, as before the flare of torch and the bay of dog he made a brave fight for life. That strange mixture of craft and dulness known as the opossum was an enemy of the hen-roost and lover of the egg-basket, to which no lady of the farm gave any quarter. The nomenclature of our folklore had no word more familiar than " possuming," drawn from the well-known instinct of the animal, when caught, to feign death which became life when relieved of the presence of the captor.