New England Visionaries

A PHASE of the rural life of New England, often touched upon by local writers, surely needs further elucidation. No attempt to define the cause or even the nature of a wellknown feature of this part of our country seems adequate. There are not many villages or settlements in New England where there is not at least one person afflicted — if you choose to use that word — with a sort of mild monomania, an unshaken belief in something which does not exist, either a remembering of what has never happened, or a hoping for what cannot come. One can hardly call this insanity, madness, for upon all other points the mind is clear and healthy. Some have styled these hallucinations dreams. But we wake from dreams, and I have never known a case of the kind referred to cured, or one of these illusions or delusions dispelled. I would not bring such a trite subject to these pages had I not met lately with two or three illustrations which seem to me somewhat significant.

For several years I have met at intervals in one of our northern hill villages a pleasant little countrywoman. Her neat, white cottage and gay little garden are well known to many summer boarders. She is a tiny creature, with twinkling black eyes and intelligent face, and I have always enjoyed my chats with her about her posies, her dog and cat, and her neighbors. For years I never saw in her the faintest sign of an unbalanced mind, nor did any of the country folk about seem to regard her as anything but sane and sensible. But one day when she came to bring me a bunch of “ posypeas ” — a name given to distinguish the decorative sweet peas of the borders from the homelier blossoms of the kitchen garden — she told me a story. I knew that she had lost two children under painful circumstances many years before, but had forgotten that she had a son still living. Some word of mine showed that I thought her childless, and she exclaimed, “ Why, don’t you know I ’ve got a boy livin’ way out West?” Her whole face shone as she went on speaking of that boy. In her story he was the best, the most devoted of sons, steady, industrious, prosperous, and, moreover, very religious. He was married, and had two children, little girls. These she had never seen, but they loved her dearly, and always sent her messages of affection in their father’s weekly letters. “I wish I ’d got their picture here,” she said wistfully. “ I’d ’a’ fetched ’em along if I’d thought; so pretty and cunnin’ they be in their little white frocks, with their hair all slicked and curled. John says in his last letter — Here, I ’ll read it to you.” She put her hand to the bosom of her dress as if to draw forth the cherished paper, but withdrew it, saying, “ No, I left it to home. But I can say it off every word.” And she repeated slowly, as if from memory, “ ‘ Mary Ann and ’Lizy ’ — that one’s named for me — ‘ send their love to dear grandma. They keep a-talkin’ about you, and every single night when they say their prayers they put in “ God bless grandma and take care of her.” ’ ” The old woman’s voice broke, and the tears rolled down her face as she quoted this. She gave me many homely details, till I seemed to know all about this loving son and his filial piety. It was a pathetic tale, but as she used the broadest dialect of the region, and introduced many odd idioms of her own, I often “ smiled as well as sighed.” When she spoke earnestly of her daughter-inlaw, “John’s wife, Libby Jane, the best woman that ever breathed the breath o’ life,” I was touched, and thought of Jean Ingelow’s lines, —

But when she added that Libby Jane was a real Christian though she did weigh nigh on to two hunderd pounds, I smiled inwardly.

She went away, promising to bring the pictures and letters soon.

Now for my sequel: The poor woman’s story was true only in one particular, — she had a son living. But he was a scamp. He left her years before, and had never sent her a word since he went away. She heard of him from time to time, of his ill repute as a drunken, worthless vagabond. He had married, but had abandoned his wife after a few months. These were the hard foundation facts upon which was reared the airy, beautiful castle shown me that day.

Now, nobody can make me believe that this little woman was deliberately lying. That she thoroughly believed, at the time, all she told me, I cannot doubt. You would not doubt had you seen and heard her. The neighbors whom I questioned all gave her credit for being honest and truthful, and all pronounced her sane. “ But,” as one of them said in explanation, “ she’s had a sight of trouble, and no child to be a mite of comfort, so she’s just got to believing this about her son being good and all that, and we never let on it is n’t so.” Well, I hope no sincere but mistaken stickler for truth will ever let on to the poor woman that it is n’t so. I have met her again and again since that time, but she has rarely spoken of her son. Once she met me, with a beaming face, saying, as soon as she was within hearing, “ I got a letter from John last night, and I’m goin’ to fetch it over.” She never fetched it. Now, where and how did her story, with its many little details of her son’s devotion and that of his family, come to the simple soul ? She could not have manufactured all at any one time. It must have been the growth of years, all that the poor creature had heard or seen of filial affection being woven into it, bit by bit. It seems to me it must have begun with a yearning desire which at last became to her the firm substance of the “ things hoped for.”

I was driving in northern New England a few years ago, and stopped for the night at a small inn. When I went to my room I was at once struck by the odd look of a piece of furniture there. It was a low, benchlike table or tablelike bench, not a foot-stove, nor a shelf, but a little like either or both. Its decoration was the most striking thing about it. This was in gaudy color, — a wild, flying, sprawling, bold, free creation. Was it a dragon or an archangel ? Was it meant for a winged victory or the spirit of plague, pestilence, and famine ? I cannot describe it; I never saw anything so weird as this — Thing — as it tossed its limbs or wings or tentacles about and flung them across that wooden background. I found myself saying over to myself some lines from an old hymn my father used to sing: —

When the landlady’s little daughter came into the room I asked her what the strange object was. She answered glibly, but I could not understand her. The reply seemed one long, unintelligible word. I repeated my inquiry. This embarrassed the bashful child, and rattling off the name again she fled from the room. But this time I made out the syllables of the strange utterance, “ crazy-man’s-vision.” And she spoke the strange name as if it was the wellknown designation of any ordinary bit of household furnishing, as one should say, a low-boy, or a settle, or a secretary.

As I passed through the hall on my way downstairs I glanced into two or three bedrooms, and in each I saw an exact counterpart of the article in my own room. Later I found one in the parlor and another in the dining-room. Then I questioned the landlady, an intelligent, sensible woman, and this is what she told me: —

These objects were all made by a resident of the village, a man of some means, not obliged to work for a living. For years his one occupation had been the making and decorating these strange, useless things. They were all exactly alike, having upon each the same marvelous, spreading, flying — as my informant described it, “ sprangling ” — creature. And it was his own name for these which the little girl had given me, crazy-man’s-vision. He never sold one, but gave them all to friends and neighbors. “ He don’t need money,” the good woman said, “being about the well-todoest man about here.” And she added, “ There is n’t a house in the village, I guess, that has n’t got at least one of these crazy - man’s - visions.” The man himself was said to be sensible and bright, esteemed by his neighbors, and often consulted by them in matters of business and village affairs. He had never shown the slightest sign of an unsound mind save in this one matter. But my landlady and one or two neighbors with whom I talked all spoke of his strange absorption in this occupation, and his intense admiration of the completed work. “ I’ve seen him sit and look at one of those outlandish figures,” said one old man, “ by the hour, and I’ve heard him say that folks did n’t know how splendid that picture was, but they would some day.”

These two illustrations — drawn from real life and not retouched or exaggerated in the slightest degree — seem to have much in common.

The mother-love, disappointed and objectless, seeking a resting - place so earnestly that it seems already gained ; the artistic, imaginative nature, untaught, untrained, aspiring toward expression, and finding this strange outlet and utterance, — these are not dissimilar. But I found no theory upon them. I leave that to wiser heads.