Twilight Hours in the Adirondacks
The Daily Doings and Several Sayings of Seven Sober, Social, Scientific Students in the Great Wilderness of Northern New York, variously versified in Seven Hundred and Seventy-seven lines. By , Farmer and Chronicler. Syracuse: Wynkoops and Leonard.
MR. SWEET has not only presented his thoughts to the public with uncommon advantages of tinted paper, gilt, and luxurious binding, but has added his carte de visite, framed, and, as it were, festooned in his family coat of arms upon the second page of his book, thus anticipating the curiosity that every one will have to see him after he has become famous. This, however, is somewhat embarrassing to criticism, a shy muse, who does not confide her praise or blame to the public with the same naïveté, when the author is, as it were, looking on with a long line of baronial ancestors at his back, —not but that Mr. Sweet’s face is a kind and amiable one, in spite of its noble heraldic setting. The book is certainly handsome in every way, and the author might justly feel the pride we fancy him to have in it. Neither is the literary conceit a bad one, though it is not the newest in the world, — the poet speaking alternately for himself, the historian, the engineer, the traveller, etc., his comrades in an Adirondack camp, upon the various subjects that interest such various people, and intending to cast about all the romantic charm and picturesqueness of life in the woods. In this effort he has recourse to many of the known measures of our prosody, and has made some adventures in rhythm for himself, including a species of unlearned hexameter. Yet as Mr. Sweet has not, to our knowledge, been able to make any of his characters or metres utter a line of poetry for him, we cannot feel that he ought to be quite satisfied with the book as an æsthetic result, though perhaps he is so. In his approaches to poetry he is, as they say in the children’s game, generally cold, sometimes warm, very rarely hot, and never burning hot ; and this is all the odder because there is ever so much human nature in the book, both of the kind that is meant and of the kind that is not meant, — chiefly the latter.
The most successful effort of all is that part of the work called “ The Farmer,” in which the rustic year is described in a good, wholesome, realistic way, with a true feeling for natural beauty, and no mean effort to poetize, not merely the homely aspects of country life, but the use of the various inventions and appliances which are supposed to take sentiment out of farming. Here is a fair example of Mr. Sweet’s manner, which is so hearty and simple that it seems a pity that he should lack just the last essential grace : —
“ See yonder meadow just three quarters mown,
One fourth is drawn and added to the stock,
Another fourth lies flat, by Tedder thrown.
The other fourth is windrowed, or in cock.
Around the fence an old-time mower swings, —
The spanking bays come dancing through the gate,
The bar is dropped, the Clipper Mower rings.
And knows no wages — frets not when ’t is late.
One fourth is drawn and added to the stock,
Another fourth lies flat, by Tedder thrown.
The other fourth is windrowed, or in cock.
Around the fence an old-time mower swings, —
The spanking bays come dancing through the gate,
The bar is dropped, the Clipper Mower rings.
And knows no wages — frets not when ’t is late.
“ Now following soon the kicking Tedder comes,
And in the air the emerald bunches flings ;
The Sulky Horse-rake cleans the ground like combs,
And gathers windrows with its steely springs.
Some men are opening out the cocks to dry,
From last night’s windrows shaking off the dew,
A bumble-bee makes one young urchin fly, —
He gets the bitter with the sweet, 't is true.
And in the air the emerald bunches flings ;
The Sulky Horse-rake cleans the ground like combs,
And gathers windrows with its steely springs.
Some men are opening out the cocks to dry,
From last night’s windrows shaking off the dew,
A bumble-bee makes one young urchin fly, —
He gets the bitter with the sweet, 't is true.
“ A part is dry and can be taken in,
The wagon’s coming with the men and forks,
The loose boards rattling making a vexing din,
And noisy boys, — now every school boy works.
The heavy forkfuls rise upon the rack,
The loader treading builds it true and square,
The sides keeps equal, guided by the track,
The boys behind with hand-rakes glean with care.
The wagon’s coming with the men and forks,
The loose boards rattling making a vexing din,
And noisy boys, — now every school boy works.
The heavy forkfuls rise upon the rack,
The loader treading builds it true and square,
The sides keeps equal, guided by the track,
The boys behind with hand-rakes glean with care.
“ They reach the barn, roll in upon the floor,
The men and boys ascend the sweltering mow,
An active horse stands by the open door,
He starts the fork, and pulleys rattle now.
From horse to load the rope by rafter leads,
The great heap rises o’er the purline beam,
A click ! ’t is dropped ; another soon succeeds ;
’T is off! and almost easy as a dream.
The men and boys ascend the sweltering mow,
An active horse stands by the open door,
He starts the fork, and pulleys rattle now.
From horse to load the rope by rafter leads,
The great heap rises o’er the purline beam,
A click ! ’t is dropped ; another soon succeeds ;
’T is off! and almost easy as a dream.
“ We view again this scene a few days hence,
In harvest days, with men and boys and teams,
The stalwart cradler cutting by the fence,
The horses’ pathway very narrow seems.
The flaming Champion Reaper follows soon,
Around the field a Harvest Hymn it sings,
The ripe grain falls as in a sudden swoon,
The strong rake travels its eccentric rings.”
In harvest days, with men and boys and teams,
The stalwart cradler cutting by the fence,
The horses’ pathway very narrow seems.
The flaming Champion Reaper follows soon,
Around the field a Harvest Hymn it sings,
The ripe grain falls as in a sudden swoon,
The strong rake travels its eccentric rings.”
There is an equally sincere description of a threshing as it is performed by machinery; and we like, also, Mr. Sweet’s pictures of the different rural merry-makings, the Fourth of July, the Paring Bee, the Husking, and so forth; and as mere character, as a mind of original cut (for both the splendor and quaintness of his book betray this), in a world where most minds seem turned out ready-made from some great slop-shop, we feel that he is not to be scorned. We can fancy him a good comrade and an admirable farmer, a worthy citizen, and an esteemed friend ; but a poet — no, by the British Classics ! Though, after all, as to the British Classics there are people among them harder to read than Mr. Sweet, — if he will take this for a compliment.