King's Cup and Cake

FALMOUTH, DISTRICT OF MAINE,

June 17, 1769.

HONORED GRANDSIR, — The post has at last arrived from Boston, being hindered near a month. We were pleased to receive your esteemed letter, and thankful that you and grandma’am continue in health.

Mother sends her duty to you, and bids me write the news, as she is under a course of mercury, —too weak to hold a pen.

The boys were inoculated five weeks ago come Wednesday, and it went very hard with little Davy. We can but be thankful he lived through it, for of all the folk in town that have been inoculated one in every six has died. I trust when you reflect upon this it will soften your heart toward the boy, your namechild, for I have a sad story to relate of his misbehavior, and mother says the whole truth must be told.

To begin with, he made an ado last Sunday about going to meeting. Mother was not well, and when she said she would stay at home to read Toogood on Infant Baptism, Davy pleaded hard to stay too. He looked pale, and perhaps father might have let him off if he had n’t whispered low to Ezra, —

“ I ’d be willing enough to go if I could sleep in meetin’, the way father does, but I can’t sleep a wink.”

Father heard that, and took it for sauce. He never owns to closing his eyes in meeting, and we durst not accuse him of it.

“ Davy,” said he sternly, " buckle your shoes, straighten your wig, and walk along with Ezra.”

For Davy’s wig, you remember, is ever getting awry and dropping over his forehead.

“ Ne’er a one of the other boys wears a wig. I wish I could lay mine off,” he whimpered.

But that is impossible, as his head is shaved as smooth as his face. If mother had her way, his hair would grow out, and so would Ezra’s, but Grandma’am Hillyer rules us. She says she “ cares not what the fashion is; a lad without a wig is no gentleman.”

Well, we started forward for meeting, double file, according to our ages ; first waiting for Patty, who must needs roll herself in the camomile-bed to give her clothes a fine scent. Then we stopped as usual at Grandsir Hillyer’s gate, and he and grandma’am headed the procession — eleven of us in all — toward the new meeting-house, founded on Sander’s Hill. We had worshiped in it only four times, and Davy had never been inside it yet, and hung back half scared.

“ Come up with me in the gallery,” says Sukey, for she feared mischief, and wanted him where the tithing-man could watch him. But Davy scorns the tithing-man, and is ever afraid of being pointed at by his pole. “ I ’ll not sit in your gallery,” says he. And father would not have let him, neither. He says his children are best off under his eye.

Still, I wished mother was with us, and I grieved when Madam Jones gave Davy a cooky, which she did for his helping her off her pillion, like the little gentleman he is, though but twelve years old, as you know.

We entered the meeting-house just behind the minister. He is the young Englishman, James Fosdick by name, who pleased you so well a year and more ago ; and I must admit he has shown great civility to our family. At two different times he has given Davy a pistareen for taking his jalap ; and last Saturday he helped father set out the cabbages and tobacco, to the admiration of all.

But on the Lord’s Day he smiles not till set of sun, and the children are quite afeard of his " preaching face.” They suffered much in the old meeting-house, where he could look straight down into our pew with what Ezra calls his “terrible black eyes,” albeit they are a sky-blue, as mild as ever was. But in the new meeting-house the pulpit is monstrous high, in the clouds almost, and the children encouraged one another that the parson could n’t spy over it.

We all marched up the aisle together, — all but Sukey, who sings in the gallery, — and Grandsir Hillyer’s gold-headed cane came down at every step with an aristocratical thud ; and grandma’am leaned on his arm, gazing neither right nor left, though she knows she is more looked at than any other woman in meeting, were it only for her wondrous shining mantle. It is of richest plain black satin, with these solemn words wrought in it with white silk: “ The fashion of this world passeth away,”

As she stood up straight before the whole congregation, her back was a living epistle, and I saw some strangers, awe-struck and surprised, twisting their heads about, that they might follow the text and rightly make it out. And it chimed in uncommon well with the young parson’s discourse, which was on the sin of vanity.

Ah me ! And there I sat and gazed at the fine ruffles afar off on his bosom, that he had asked me to stitch for him, because none could stitch so true as I; and I gloried in my own work, and forgot that pride goeth before a fall.

Father, tired with hard work, leaned back his head and dropped asleep, — leastways this was the appearance he presented to us, — and Davy, with mother gone and the parson hid, as lie fancied, in regions aloft, took it upon him to cut capers.

Now Davy is not a frolicker in meeting, grandsir, not in general, and I think the new fiddle turned his head, mayhap, a little. Deacon Lunt says it’s the “ jew’s-harp of Satan ; ” a bad name, and I misbelieve it. But a fiddle does have a squeaky, scrapy sound, nevertheless, and Davy is mettlesome; and when the music struck up, his feet and elbows began to jerk finely. After a while this loosened his wig, — for I can’t think he untied it o’ purpose, — and down it slipped over his little pug nose. Patty, you ’re aware, is a child that can’t stand anything droll; and, taking a mother’s place, I had to pinch her arm till it fetched the tears, though my heart smote me for it, too; but it was the only way to stop her giggling. Then I motioned Ezra to pull up the wig, for Davy pretended to be asleep, the rogue, with mouth drawn down to match father’s ; and he even kept time with him most disrespectfully, a-snoring. Next he was exercised with a cough like Deacon Lunt’s, and for that he munched bits of cooky, as the deacon munches hoarhound stick, rolling up his eyes the while in an extra-pious way that nigh upset us all.

I was scared for such wickedness, but the parson kept on quite regular, and I never once thought of his spying Davy. But alas and alack ! Right in the midst of his usual exhortation, “ And now, my poor dying hearers, " he stopped short, and called out loud, without warnings —

“ David Gilman ! ”

It broke on us like a clap of thunder. Davy, my poor Davy ! Ashen-white he turned, and trembled in every limb. Father, roused by the dread voice, if indeed he had been asleep, turned and glared at the boy. Grandsir, in the pew ahead, eyed him askance, and grandma’am’s Scripture-mantle quivered with reproaches.

“David Gilman.” repeated the parson, “ you may come to my house tomorrow morning at nine of the clock.”

'T was said and done, and Davy’s heart clean broke in less time than a minute. And then the parson went on with “ My poor dying hearers,” as if nothing had happened.

He is a godly man, and he once told me he loved Davy next to his own little brother that died, so I knew his rebuke was righteous, and not in anger; yet I did think he had more respect for our family than to give it out so loud.

Sure, boys are but mortal, and not to be trusted with seed-cakes in meeting, and my heart ached for the little chap, sitting up there as white and still as an image carven out of stone.

Patty shook with sobs, the other children were nigh scared out of their wits, and there we sat in painful distress, longing for the close of meeting.

It came at last, and we filed home solemnly. Davy’s head was low, and as for me, I could see naught but grandma’am’s mantle-text, and hear naught but the echo of her strange words: —

“ Betsey, the parson did it to stop folks’ tongues, so they won’t say no more, ‘ He’s courting Betsey Gilman.’ ”

“ Oh, grandma’am ! ” cried I; for it was all news to me that ever folks had said it,

“ Parson’s heart ’s in heaven,” thinks I. “ He ’ll not stoop to wed. Or if he does, ’t will never be with a humble maid like Betsey.”

And then I wept in secret at his disrespect to our family.

We all lived through the nooning, and, being reinforced by pea-porridge, attended second meeting. The children had their catechising quite regular in the evening, only Davy was deeply affected, and could get no farther than “ In Adam’s fall we sinned all.”

At bedtime I promised him I would plead with mother in his behalf; so when she came into the back room, where I was putting the clothes a-soak for the wash, I said, —

“ Mother, if it’s any way in reason, I do beg you’ll make Davy’s peace with the parson, and stop his going there tomorrow.”

“No, Betsey,” said she, looking white and leaning against the jamb. “Your father and I will not be guilty of screening our children.”

I knew it was what she would say, for all she pitied Davy.

Next morning, Straightway his chores were done, she bade him don his best clothes and start for the parson’s. He came to me in a sad toss.

“ Oh, Betsey,” said he, “ I ’ll knock on parson’s door very easy ! His mother is a little deaf, and who knows but I’ll get off yet ? ”

Then he set forth, and my heart went with him as I stood by the wash-board.

He was gone a long time, and when he came back his eyes were red. I left my tub, and put my arms about him.

“ How was it, Davy ? ” said I. “I guess you did n’t knock easy enough.”

“ Yes, I did,” said he ; " but his mother spied me from the window. She was standing there o’ purpose.”

“ Well, what did the parson say? ”

“ He did n’t say much. ' Repeat the fourth commandment, David.’ That was the way he began. And then I had to expound, and tell him what it meant by keeping the Sabbath Day holy.”

Here Davy burst forth crying.

“ Was that all ? ”

“ No; he asked what mother said about my coming to him ; and when I said ' she did n’t want to screen me,’ that suited him. Why, Bess, he thinks mother is dreadful good, and father too.”

“ And so they are, Davy ; that’s true as ever was.”

“ He said, ' Are you thankful for such parents ?’ and made me repeat the fifth commandment, with promise. Then he talked some more,” continued Davy, choking. “He did n’t want to flog me, Bess, nor he did n’t want anybody else to flog me ; but I hated to stand there, and him a-talking so long.”

“ What did he say, Davy ? ”

“ Some was about you. He said you was grand, Bess, and he wished I ’d grow up as good.”

“ Oh, Davy ! ” cried I, astonished, for I thought the parson knew me better. He has been here times enough, I’m sure ; but somehow I must have put on a wrong face to him without knowing it, or he would n’t hold to the notion of my being good.

“I told him you was the peacemakingest sister,” said Davy, “ and he laughed right out loud and shook hands. But he was awful solemn some of the time. Hoped I ’d get a new heart. Hoped I would n’t eat any more seedcakes in meeting. Seed-cakes ? I ’d rather eat a grindstone ! ”

“ And you ’ll try to be a better boy ? ” " Look here, I want to tell you something! ” burst forth Davy, sobbing on my neck. “It’s dreadful wicked to say so, Bess, but sometimes I a’most feel as if I hate Adam and Eve ! 'T was them that fetched all the trouble into the world ! ”

“ Yes, dear, that’s so ; but mayhap they never knew the mischief they were doing. And any way, they ’re dead and gone now, poor things.”

“ Yes ; but if they had n’t ate the apple, I should n’t have ate the cooky,” said the young theologian, and sighed afresh.

I had some ado not to smile ; yet his face spoke of sorrow more than anger, and he soon confided to me that he meant to be a better boy.

“ But don’t you tell Ezra. I won’t have him crowing over me ! ”

I hugged him joyfully, and promised Ezra should n’t know. And then I could not forbear praising the parson, with his kind heart for little boys.

“Yes,” said Davy, “he’s most as good as any of the ’postles. He made his mother fetch me in a treat on a silver salver. Part of it was 'lection cake; but guess what there was to drink in a silver pitcher ! ”

“ Cowslip wine ? ”

“ No, nor yet spruce beer, 'T was king’s cup, made of lemons and a deal of sugar.”

“ Lemonade,” said I, and could but laugh, for Mrs. Fosdick has English, high-sounding names for simple things.

“ ’T was king’s cup, I tell you,” repeated Davy. “ Not a grain like lemonade. ’T was the best drink ever was mixed.”

“ I hope you drank it to her health, with your best bow, Davy ? ”

“Indeed and I did! Would I forget my manners in the parson’s house ? ”

At that moment, who should appear but the young parson himself, bearing a silver pitcher in his hand, which he set down on the wash-bench, blushing like a girl.

Davy ran off, and there was I, with my clothes a-waiting in the tub ; but the parson had a pretty deal to say, and I stood and heard him through.

He had been afeard I would n’t like his speaking out in meeting to Davy ; but he said he loved the lad like a brother, and wanted to break his stubborn heart and bring him into the kingdom. And I said we would all be willing; and though we had grieved sorely, we never once had blamed God’s servant for the means he took.

Then he said more ; and mayhap what he said would not edify you and grandma’am. It was not about Davy, nor yet about the New Jerusalem. Some of it concerned the beautiful silver pitcher ; and said he, pointing to it with a downcast look. —

“ This is an heirloom, my dearest Betsey. My mother humbly prays you will accept it, and condescend to become her daughter-in-law.”

The words were low, and his lips trembled with fright. I could have cried for the joy in my heart; but I would listen to no such slack wooing.

“How now?” said I, flinging his speech back in jest. “ How could I be daughter-in-law just for your mother’s asking ? ”

“ Then let me speak for inyself ! ” he cried, springing forward. “ I will speak, and no man shall stay me. I that can face a whole congregation, I ’ll not turn coward for my love of you, Betsey ! ”

And upon that he did speak, with such burning eloquence that I could find no fitting words to answer his appeal.

Thinking to unloose my tongue, he went to the cupboard, and brought out two pewter mugs.

“ Betsey,” says he, “ may I fill them with king’s cup from our pitcher ; and will you drink a health along with me ? ”

Then, staying not for a reply, he drained off a bumper, with the toast, “ Everlasting joy to my Elizabeth ! ”

“ You take much for granted, sir,” said I, but a smile slipped out unawares ; and what the holy man said then and what he did I deem it foolish to narrate.

Afterward he led me in to mother, who seemed not a whit surprised, though I had forsook my wash-tub ; and she blessed us, and sent out for father from the meadow, and he blessed us, too. And then, after a prayer, mother cut in four quarters a slice of aunt Samantha’s wedding-cake, and we dispatched it with the last drops of king’s cup.

But this is not to the purpose of my letter. Without doubt, what will please you and grandma’am most is to hear that mother hopes this woful affair — I refer now to the rebuke in meeting — may be blessed to little Davy. He behaves ever since uncommon well, and goes about his chores soberly, as if he has a concern on his mind.

So this is all I have to say at present.

With my duty to grandma’am, I remain, honored sir, your most obedient servant and granddaughter,

ELIZABETH GILMAN.

Post Scriptum. The above was written a week ago. The Lord willing, our wedding-day is appointed for September the 5th, and you and grandma’am are respectfully entreated to be present.

Sophie May.