Scenes in my Native Land/The Stockbridge Bowl
THE STOCKBRIDGE BOWL.
The Stockbridge Bowl!—Hast ever seen
How sweetly pure and bright
Its foot of stone, and rim of green,
Attract the traveller's sight?
High set among the breezy hills
Where spotless marble glows,
It takes the tribute of the rills
Distilled from mountain snows.
You've seen, perchance, the classic vase
At Adrian's villa found,
The grape-vines, that its handles chase,
And twine its rim around,
But thousands such as that which boasts
The Roman's name to keep,
Might in this Stockbridge bowl be lost
Like pebbles in the deep.
It yields no sparkling draught of fire
To mock the maddened brain,
Like that which warmed Anacreon's lyre
Amid the Tean plain;
But freely, with a right good-will,
Imparts its fountain store,
Whose heaven replenished crystal still
Can wearied toil restore.
The Indian hunter knew its power,
And oft its praises spoke,
Long ere the white-man's stranger plough
These western vallies broke;
The panting deer, that wild with pain,
From his pursuers stole,
Inhaled new life to every vein
From this same Stockbridge bowl.
And many a son of Berkshire skies,
Those men of noble birth,
Though now, perchance, their roofs may rise
In far, or foreign earth,—
Shall on this well-remembered vase
With thrilling bosom gaze,
And o'er its mirrored surface trace
The joys of earlier days.
But one, who with a spirit-glance
Hath moved her country's heart,
And bade, from dim oblivion's trance
Poor Magawiska start,
Hath won a fame, whose blossom rare
Shall fear no blighting sky,
Whose lustrous leaf grow fresh and fair,
Though Stockbridge bowl be dry.
In the northern part of Stockbridge, Berkshire County, is a beautiful expanse of water, usually called the "Great Pond," which in many countries would be dignified with the appellation of a lake. Its original Indian name of "Quit-chu-scook," is scarcely melodious enough for its singular loveliness. Miss Sedgwick, whose birth is counted among the glories of that region, says, "the English equivalent to this aboriginal word, 'The Bowl,' is short, simple, and perfectly descriptive. No bowl was ever more beautifully formed, or set, nor ever, even in old Homer's genial verse, sparkled more invitingly."
The County of Berkshire, with its wild and bold scenery, seems to have impressed its image strongly on the affections of those who have emigrated from its bosom. Not a few of that large number have acquired distinction in their distant abodes, yet still look back with that fond remembrance to their mountain-home, the first nurse of their infancy, which rejects honor both on the mother, and the children.
In the summer of 1844, the pleasing and novel suggestion was made, of re-assembling as far as possible the scattered sons of the county, to hold a season of rejoicing among the green hills of their nativity. Pittsfield, from its central position, and other advantages, was selected as the place of the proposed re-union. The invitation that was sent forth is a model of cordial and patriotic sentiment.
"In every point of view," it remarks, "we feel that such a meeting would be highly interesting. The sons of Massachusetts have reason to revere and love their native soil. She is the mother and nurse of a mighty people. In the very cradle her sons had to fight the battles, and use the wisdom of mature manhood. And while the descendants of those who landed on her rocky coast have gone abroad, and amount to nearly five millions of souls, she holds on her way, with her soil trodden by the free, and the air of her mountains still breathed by a noble race of men. Her hills, her valleys, and her limpid streams remain as they were, save that the former are greatly beautified by the hand of man, and the latter pressed into his service and made the source of increasing wealth. Her enterprise too has opened a path through her mountains of rock, and the iron horse with ease climbs up and goes down what once seemed almost impassable barriers of nature.
"But that which is the pride of Massachusetts, is her sons and daughters; they constitute her glory, whether they remain here, beautifying the old homestead, or whether they go out to expend their indomitable energies under warmer skies and on richer plains. Among these, Berkshire has furnished her full share,—offspring who would honor any parent. These we should rejoice to see gathered at the hearth of their mothers, to hold a day of congratulations and of sweet recollections. We love these sons and daughters none the less because they have gone from us, and we wish to have the home of their childhood live green in their memory. The chain which binds them to us is more than golden, and we would have its links grow stronger and brighter."
The response to this call was warm and earnest. The appointed time in August witnessed throngs of arrivals in Pittsfield. There, hospitality was the opening both of house and heart. Every possible arrangement for comfort and accommodation had been made; seats placed on a beautiful hill, and a noble banquet spread under cover of a tent for three thousand guests. Music and eloquence, song, genius, and beauty, lent their attractions to the two summer days thus spent together.
The weather, on which the comfort of a popular assemblage, where there is a large admixture of ladies, eminently depends, was generally propitious. But one morning, when an audience of nearly six thousand had gone in procession to their hill of Jubilee, and were listening with enchained attention to an accomplished speaker, a heavy rain suddenly fell. This was attended by a most singular rushing sound, the simultaneous expansion of thousands of umbrellas, under whose protection such as could be accommodated repaired to the church, where the exercises were continued.
In excursions to different points of interest, the ancient and magnificent Pittsfield Elm was not forgotten. Around its venerable head, multitudes of birds were observed to be congregating and circling in joyous wing, as if holding an imitative jubilee of their own.
The result of this gathering, in which pecuniary rain, or political ambition had no part, did not disappoint the hopes of its projectors. May it serve as a precedent for other parts of our country, and may the rekindling of that fraternal feeling, and love for the spot of nativity, which beat strongest in the best hearts, quicken the fountain of true patriotism, and charity for the whole family of mankind.
They come! they come! by ardent memory led,
From distant hearth-stones, a rejoicing train,
And hand in hand, with kindred feeling, tread
Green Berkshire's vales, and breezy hills again,
Back to the cradle of their own sweet birth,
Back to the foot-prints of their early prime,
Where in the nursery of their native earth
They caught the spirit of their mountain clime;
The free, bold spirit, that no change can bind,
The earnest purpose that no toil can tame,
The calm, inherent dignity of mind,
The love of knowledge, and of patriot fame.
They bring the statesman's and the student's dower,
The honors that to rural life belong,
Of sacred Eloquence, the soul-felt power,
The palm of Science, and the wreath of Song.
And thou, blest Mother! with unfrosted hair,
Still made by age more beautiful and strong,
Pour a glad welcome, at thy threshold fair,
And breathe thy blessing o'er the filial throng.
Enfold them warmly in thy fond embrace,
And with thy counsels of true wisdom guide,
That, like themselves, their yet uncounted race
May be thy glory, as thou art her pride!