A NEW HOME. — CHAPTER I.
Here are seen
No traces of man's pomp and pride; no silks
Rustle, nor jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter * * * * *
Oh, there is not lost
One of earth's charms; upon her bosom yet
After the flight of untold centuries
The freshness of her far beginning lies.
Bryant.
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Our friends in the “settlements” have expressed so
much interest in such of our letters to them, as happened
to convey any account of the peculiar features
of western life, and have asked so many questions,
touching particulars which we had not thought, worthy
of mention, that I have been for some time past contemplating
the possibility of something like a detailed
account of our experiences. And I have determined
to give them to the world, in a form not very different
from that in which they were originally recorded for
our private delectation; nothing doubting, that a veracious
history of actual occurrences, an unvarnished
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transcript of real characters, and an impartial record
of every-day forms of speech (taken down in many
cases from the lips of the speaker) will be pronounced
“graphic,” by at least a fair proportion of the journalists
of the day.
'Tis true there are but meagre materials for anything
which might be called a story. I have never seen a
cougar—nor been bitten by a rattlesnake. The reader
who has patience to go with me to the close of my desultory
sketches, must expect nothing beyond a meandering
recital of common-place occurrences—mere
gossip about every-day people, little enhanced in value
by any fancy or ingenuity of the writer; in short, a
very ordinary pen-drawing; which, deriving no interest
from colouring, can be valuable only for its truth.
A home on the outskirts of civilization—habits of
society which allow the maid and her mistress to do
the honours in complete equality, and to make the social
tea visit in loving conjunction—such a distribution
of the duties of life as compels all, without distinction,
to rise with the sun or before him—to breakfast with
the chickens—then,
“Count the slow clock and dine exact at noon”—
to be ready for tea at four, and for bed at eight—may
certainly be expected to furnish some curious particulars
for the consideration of those whose daily course
almost reverses this primitive arrangement—who “call
night day and day night,” and who are apt occasionally
to forget, when speaking of a particular class, that
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“those creatures” are partakers with themselves of a
common nature.
I can only wish, like other modest chroniclers, my respected
prototypes, that so fertile a theme had fallen into
worthier hands. If Miss Mitford, who has given us
such charming glimpses of Aberleigh, Hilton Cross and
the Loddon, had by some happy chance been translated
to Michigan, what would she not have made of such
materials as Tinkerville, Montacute, and the Turnip?
When my husband purchased two hundred acres of
wild land on the banks of this to-be-celebrated stream,
and drew with a piece of chalk on the bar-room table at
Danforth's the plan of a village, I little thought I was
destined to make myself famous by handing down to
posterity a faithful record of the advancing fortunes of
that favoured spot.
“The madness of the people” in those days of golden
dreams took more commonly the form of city-building;
but there were a few who contented themselves with
planning villages, on the banks of streams which certainly
never could be expected to bear navies, but
which might yet be turned to account in the more
homely way of grinding or sawing—operations which
must necessarily be performed somewhere for the well-being
of those very cities. It is of one of these humble
attempts that it is my lot to speak, and I make my confession
at the outset, warning any fashionable reader
who may have taken up my book, that I intend to be
“decidedly low.”
Whether the purchaser of our village would have
been moderate under all possible circumstances, I am
not prepared to say, since, never having enjoyed a
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situation under government, his resources have not been
unlimited;—and for this reason any remark which may
be hazarded in the course of these my lucubrations
touching the more magnificent plans of wealthier aspirants,
must be received with some grains of allowance.
“Il est plus aisé d'être sage pour les autres, que
de l'être pour soi-même.”
When I made my first visit to these remote and lonely
regions, the scattered woods through which we rode
for many miles were gay in their first gosling-green
suit of half-opened leaves, and the forest odours which
exhaled with the dews of morning and evening, were
beyond measure delicious to one “long in populous
cities pent.” I desired much to be a little sentimental
at the time, and feel tempted to indulge to some small
extent even here—but I forbear; and shall adhere
closely to matters more in keeping with my subject.
I think, to be precise, the time was the last, the
very last of April, and I recollect well that even at that
early season, by availing myself with sedulous application,
of those times when I was fain to quit the vehicle
through fear of the perilous mud-holes, or still more
perilous half-bridged marshes, I picked upwards of
twenty varieties of wild-flowers—some of them of rare
and delicate beauty;—and sure I am, that if I had succeeded
in inspiring my companion with one spark of
my own floral enthusiasm, one hundred miles of travel
would have occupied a week's time.
The wild flowers of Michigan deserve a poet of their
own. Shelley, who sang so quaintly of “the pied
wind-flowers and the tulip tall,” would have found many
a fanciful comparison and deep-drawn meaning for the
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thousand gems of the road-side. Charles Lamb could
have written charming volumes about the humblest
among them. Bulwer would find means to associate
the common three-leaved white lily so closely with the
Past, the Present, and the Future—the Wind, the stars,
and the tripod of Delphos, that all future botanists, and
eke all future philosophers, might fail to unravel the
“linked sweetness.” We must have a poet of our own.
Since I have casually alluded to a Michigan mud-hole,
I may as well enter into a detailed memoir on the subject,
for the benefit of future travellers, who, flying
over the soil on rail-roads, may look slightingly back
upon the achievements of their predecessors. In the
“settlements,” a mud-hole is considered as apt to occasion
an unpleasant jolt—a breaking of the thread of one's
reverie—or in extreme cases, a temporary stand-still
or even an overturn of the rash or the unwary. Here,
on approaching one of these characteristic features of
the “West”—(How much does that expression mean
to include? I never have been able to discover its
limits,—the driver stops—alights—walks up to the dark
gulf—and around it if he can get round it. He then
seeks a long pole and sounds it, measures it across to
ascertain how its width compares with the length of his
wagon—tries whether its sides are perpendicular, as is
usually the case if the road is much used. If he find it
not more than three feet deep, he remounts cheerily,
encourages his team, and in they go, with a plunge
and a shock rather apt to damp the courage of the inexperienced.
If the hole be narrow the hinder wheels
will be quite lifted off the ground by the depression of
their precedents, and so remain until by unwearied
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chirruping and some judicious touches of “the string”
the horses are induced to struggle as for their lives;
and if the fates are propitious they generally emerge
on the opposite side, dragging the vehicle, or at least
the fore wheels after them. When I first “penetrated
the interior” (to use an indigenous phrase) all I knew
of the wilds was from Hoffman's tour or Captain Hall's
“graphic” delineations: I had some floating idea of
“driving a barouche-and-four anywhere through the
oak-openings”—and seeing “the murdered Banquos of
the forest” haunting the scenes of their departed
strength and beauty. But I confess, these pictures,
touched by the glowing pencil of fancy, gave me but incorrect
notions of a real journey through Michigan.
Our vehicle was not perhaps very judiciously chosen;—
at least we have since thought so. It was a light
high-hung carriage—of the description commonly
known as a buggy or shandrydan—names of which I
would be glad to learn the etymology. I seriously advise
any of my friends who are about flitting to Wisconsin
or Oregon, to prefer a heavy lumber-waggon, even
for the use of the ladies of the family; very little aid or
consolation being derived from making a “genteel” appearance
in such cases.
At the first encounter of such a mud-hole as I have
attempted to describe, we stopped in utter despair. My
companion indeed would fain have persuaded me that
the many wheel tracks which passed through the formidable
gulf were proof positive that it might be forded.
I insisted with all a woman's obstinancy that I could
not and would not make the attempt, and alighted accordingly,
and tried to find a path on one side or the
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other. But in vain, even putting out of the question my
paper-soled shoes—sensible things for the woods. The
ditch on each side was filled with water and quite too
wide to jump over; and we were actually contemplating
a return, when a man in an immense bear-skin cap
and a suit of deer's hide, sprang from behind a stump
just within the edge of the forest. He “poled” himself
over the ditch in a moment, and stood beside us, rifle in
hand, as wild and rough a specimen of humanity as one
would wish to encounter in a strange and lonely road,
just at the shadowy dusk of the evening. I did not scream,
though I own I was prodigiously frightened. But our
stranger said immediately, in a gentle tone and with a
French accent, “Me watch deer—you want to cross?”
On receiving an answer in the affirmative, he ran in
search of a rail which he threw over the terrific mud-hole—
aided me to walk across by the help of his pole—
showed my husband where to plunge—waited till he
had gone safely through and “slow circles dimpled o'er
the quaking mud”—then took himself off by the way
he came, declining any compensation with a most polite
“rien, rien!” This instance of true and genuine
and generous politeness I record for the benefit of all
bearskin caps, leathern jerkins and cowhide boots, which
ladies from the eastward world may hereafter encounter
in Michigan.
Our journey was marked by no incident more alarming
than the one I have related, though one night passed
in a wretched inn, deep in the “timbered land”—as
all woods are called in Michigan—was not without its
terrors, owing to the horrible drunkenness of the master
of the house, whose wife and children were in constant
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fear of their lives, from his insane fury. I can never
forget the countenance of that desolate woman, sitting
trembling and with white, compressed lips in the midst
of her children. The father raving all night, and
coming through our sleeping apartment with the earliest
ray of morning, in search of more of the poison already
boiling in his veins. The poor wife could not
forbear telling me her story—her change of lot—from
a well-stored and comfortable home in Connecticut to
this wretched den in the wilderness—herself and children
worn almost to shadows with the ague, and her
husband such as I have described him. I may mention
here that not very long after I heard of this man in
prison in Detroit, for stabbing a neighbour in a drunken
brawl, and ere the year was out he died of delirium
tremens, leaving his family destitute. So much for
turning our fields of golden grain into “fire water”—
a branch of business in which Michigan is fast improving.
Our ride being a deliberate one, I felt, after the third
day, a little wearied, and began to complain of the sameness
of the oak-openings and to wish we were fairly at
our journey's end. We were crossing a broad expanse
of what seemed at a little distance a smooth shaven
lawn of the most brilliant green, but which proved on
trial little better than a quaking bog—embracing within
its ridgy circumference all possible varieties of
“Muirs, and mosses, slaps and styles”—
I had just indulged in something like a yawn, and wished
that I could see our hotel. At the word, my
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companion's face assumed rather a comical expression, and
I was preparing to inquire somewhat testily what there
was so laughable—I was getting tired and cross, reader—
when down came our good horse to the very chin
in a bog-hole, green as Erin on the top, but giving way
on a touch, and seeming deep enough to have engulphed
us entirely if its width had been proportionate. Down
came the horse—and this was not all—down came the
driver; and I could not do less than follow, though at
a little distance—our good steed kicking and floundering—
covering us with hieroglyphics, which would be
readily decyphered by any Wolverine we should meet,
though perchance strange to the eyes of our friends at
home. This mishap was soon amended. Tufts of
long marsh grass served to assoilize our habiliments
a little, and a clear stream which rippled through the
marsh aided in removing the eclipse from our faces.
We journeyed on cheerily, watching the splendid
changes in the west, but keeping a bright look-out for
bog-holes.
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CHAPTER II.
Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds
By this rude place we live in.
Shakspeare.—Cymbeline.
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The sun had just set when we stopped at the tavern,
and I then read the cause of my companion's quizzical
look. My Hotel was a log-house of diminutive size,
with corresponding appurtenances; and from the moment
we entered its door I was in a fidget to know
where we could possibly sleep. I was then new in
Michigan. Our good hostess rose at once with a nod
of welcome.
“Well! is this Miss Clavers?” (my husband had
been there before,) “well! I want to know! why
do tell if you've been upsot in the mash? why, I
want to know!—and didn't ye hurt ye none? Come,
gals! fly round, and let's git some supper.”
“But you'll not be able to lodge us, Mrs. Danforth,”
said I, glancing at three young men and some boys,
who appeared to have come in from their work, and
who were lounging on one side of the immense open
chimney.
“Why, bless your heart! yes I shall; don't you fret
yourself: I'll give you as good a bed as any-body need
want.”
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I cast an exploring look, and now discovered a door
opposite the fire.
“Jist step in here,” said Mrs. Danforth, opening
this door, “jist come in, and take off your things, and
lop down, if you're a mind to, while we're a getting
supper.”
I followed her into the room, if room it might be
called, a strip partitioned off, just six feet wide, so that
a bed was accurately fitted in at each end, and a
square space remained vacant between the two.
“We've been getting this room made lately, and I
tell you it's real nice, so private, like!” said our
hostess, with a complacent air. “Here,” she continued,
“in this bed the gals sleeps, and that's my bed
and the old man's; and then here's a trundle-bed for
Sally and Jane,” and suiting the action to the word,
she drew out the trundle-bed as far as our standing-place
would allow, to show me how convenient it was.
Here was my grand problem still unsolved! If “me
and the old man,” and the girls, and Sally and Jane,
slept in this strip, there certainly could be no room for
more, and I thought with dismay of the low-browed
roof, which had seemed to me to rest on the tops of
the window-frames. And, to make a long story short,
though manifold were the runnings up and down, and
close the whisperings before all was ready, I was at
length ushered up a steep and narrow stick-ladder, into
the sleeping apartment. Here, surrounded by beds of
all sizes spread on the floor, was a bedstead, placed under
the peak of the roof, in order to gain space for its
height, and round this state-bed, for such it evidently was,
although not supplied with pillows at each end, all the
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men and boys I had seen below stairs, were to repose.
Sundry old quilts were fastened by forks to the rafters
in such a way as to serve as a partial screen, and with
this I was obliged to be content. Excessive fatigue is
not fastidious. I called to mind some canal-boat experiences,
and resigned myself to the “honey-heavy dew
of slumber.”
I awoke with a sense of suffocation—started up—all
was dark as the Hall of Eblis. I called—no answer
came; I shrieked! and up ran one of the “gals.”
“What on airth's the matter?”
“Where am I? What ails me?” said I, beginning
to feel a little awkward when I heard the damsel's
voice.
“Why, I guess you was scairt, wa'n't ye?”
“Why am I in the dark? Is it morning?”
“Morning? why, the boys has been gone away this
hour, and, you see, there ain't no winder up here, but
I'll take down this here quilt, and then I guess you'll
be able to see some.”
She did so, and I began to discern
“A faint shadow of uncertain light,”
which, after my eyes had become somewhat accustomed
to it, served very well to dress by.
Upon descending the ladder, I found our breakfast
prepared on a very neat-looking table, and Mrs. Danforth
with her clean apron on, ready to do the honours.
Seeing me looking round with inquiring eye, she
said, “Oh! you'm lookin' for a wash-dish, a'n't ye!”
and forth with put some water into a little iron skillet,
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and carried it out to a bench which stood under the
eaves, where I performed my very limited ablutions
al fresco, not at all pleased with this part of country
habits.
I bethought me of a story I had heard before we
crossed the line, of a gentleman travelling in Michigan,
who instead of a “wash-dish” was directed to the
spring, and when he requested a towel received for answer:
“Why, I should think you had a hankercher!”
After breakfast, I expressed a wish to accompany
Mr. Clavers to the village tract; but he thought a
very bad marsh would make the ride unpleasant.
“Lord bless ye!” said Mr. Danforth, “that mash
has got a real handsome bridge over it since you was
here last.”
So we set out in the buggy and rode several miles
through an alternation of open glades with fine walnut
trees scattered over them, and “bosky dells” fragrant
as “Araby the blest” at that delicious hour, when
the dews filled the air with the scent of the bursting
leaves.
By and bye, we came to the “beautiful bridge,” a
newly-laid causeway of large round logs, with a slough
of despond to be crossed in order to reach it. I would
not consent to turn back, however, and in we went, the
buggy standing it most commendably. When we
reached the first log our poor Rozinante stopped in
utter despair, and some persuasion was necessary to
induce him to rear high enough to place his fore feet
upon the bridge, and when he accomplished this feat,
and after a rest essayed to make the buggy rear too,
it was neck or nothing. Yet up we went, and then
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came the severe part of the achievement, a “beautiful
bridge” half a mile long!
Half a rod was enough for me, I cried for quarter,
and was permitted to pick my way over its slippery
eminences, to the utter annihilation of a pair of Lane's
shoes.
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CHAPTER III.
The greatness of an estate, in bulk and territory doth fall
under measure; and the greatness of finances and revenue doth
fall under computation. * * * By all means it is to be procured,
that the trunk of Nebuchadnezzar's tree of monarchy be great
enough to bear the branches and the boughs.—
Bacon.
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The morning passed in viewing and reviewing the
village site and the “Mill privilege,” under the condescending
guidance of a regular land speculator, into
whose clutches—but I anticipate.
The public square, the water lots, the value per foot
of this undulating surface, clothed as it then was with
burr-oaks, and haunted by the red deer; these were
almost too much for my gravity. I gave my views,
however, as to the location of the grand esplanade, and
particularly requested that the fine oaks which now
graced it might be spared when the clearing process
commenced.
“Oh, certainly, mem!” said our Dousterswivel, “a
place that's designed for a public promenade must not
be divested of shade trees!” Yet I believe these very
trees were the first “Banquos” at Montacute. The
water lots, which were too valuable to sell save by the
foot, are still in the market, and will probably remain
there for the present.
This factotum, this Mr. Mazard, was an odd-looking
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creature, with “diverse ocular foci,” and a form gaunt
enough to personify Grahamism. His words sometimes
flowed in measured softness, and sometimes tumbled
over each other, in his anxiety to convince, to
persuade, to inspire. His air of earnest conviction, of
sincere anxiety for your interest, and, above all, of entire
forgetfulness of his own, was irresistible. People
who did not know him always believed every word he
said; at least so I have since been informed.
This gentleman had kindly undertaken to lay out
our village, to build a mill, a tavern, a store, a blacksmith's
shop; houses for cooper, miller, &c. &c., to
purchase the large tracts which would be required for
the mill-pond, a part of which land was already improved;
and all this, although sure to cost Mr. Clavers
an immense sum, he, from his experience of the country,
his large dealings with saw-mills, &c., would be
able to accomplish at a very moderate cost. The mill,
for instance, was to be a story and a half high, and to
cost perhaps twenty-five hundred dollars at the utmost.
The tavern, a cheap building of moderate size, built on
the most popular plan, and connected with a store, just
large enough for the infant needs of the village, reserving
our strength for a splendid one, (I quote Mr.
Mazard) to be built out of the profits in about three
years. All these points being thus satisfactorily arranged,
Mr. Mazard received carte blanche for the purchase
of the lands which were to be flowed, which he
had ascertained might be had for a mere trifle.
The principal care now was to find a name—a title
at once simple and dignified—striking and euphonious—
recherché and yet unpretending. Mr. Mazard was
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for naming it after the proprietor. It was a proper
opportunity, he thought, of immortalizing one's-self.
But he failed in convincing the proprietor, who relished
not this form of fame, and who referred the matter
entirely to me. Here was a responsibility! I begged
for time, but the matter must be decided at once. The
village plot was to be drawn instanter—lithographed
and circulated through the United States, and, to cap
the climax, printed in gold, splendidly framed, and
hung up in Detroit, in the place “where merchants
most do congregate.”
I tried for an aboriginal designation, as most characteristic
and unworn. I recollected a young lady
speaking with enthusiastic admiration of our Indian
names, and quoting Ypsilanti as a specimen. But I
was not fortunate in my choice; for to each of the few
which I could recollect, Mr. Mazard found some insuperable
objection. One was too long, another signified
Slippery Eel, another Big Bubble; and these would
be so inappropriate! I began to be very tried. I tried
romantic names; but these again did not suit any of
us. At length I decided by lot, writing ten of the most
sounding names I could muster from my novel reading
stores, on slips of paper, which were mingled in a shako,
and out came—Montacute. How many matters of
greater importance are thus decided.
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CHAPTER IV.
As I am recording the sacred events of History I'll not bate
one nail's breadth of the honest truth.
W. Irving.—Knickerbocker.
Hope, thou bold taster of delight,
Who, while thou should'st but taste, devours't it quite.
Cowley.
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Much was yet to be done this morning, and I was
too much fatigued to wander about the hills any longer;
so I sought shelter in a log-house at no great distance,
to await the conclusion of the survey. I was received
with a civil nod by the tall mistress of the mansion,
and with a curiously grave and somewhat sweeping
curtsey by her auburn-tressed daughter, whose hair was
in curl papers, and her hands covered with dough. The
room was occupied at one end by two large beds not
partitioned off “private like,” but curtained in with
cotton sheets pinned to the unhewn rafters. Between
them stood a chest, and over the chest hung the Sunday
wardrobe of the family; the go-to-meeting hats
and bonnets, frocks and pantaloons of a goodly number
of all sizes.
The great open hearth was at the opposite end of
the house, flanked on one side by an open cupboard,
and on the other by a stick ladder.
Large broadside sheets, caravan show bills were
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pasted on the logs in different places, garnished with
mammoth elephants, and hippopotamuses, over which
“predominated” Mr. Van Amburgh, with his head in
the lion's mouth. A strip of dingy listing was nailed
in such a way as to afford support for a few iron spoons,
a small comb, and sundry other articles grouped with
the like good taste; but I must return to my fair
hostesses.
They seemed to be on the point of concluding their
morning duties. The hearth was newly swept, a tin
reflector was before the fire, apparently full of bread,
or something equally important. The young lady was
placing some cups and plates in a pyramidal pile on
the cupboard shelf, when the mother, after taking my
bonnet with grave courtesy, said something, of which
I could only distinguish the words “slick up.”
She soon after disappeared behind one of the white
screens I have mentioned, and in an incredibly short time
emerged in a different dress. Then taking down the comb
I have hinted at, as exalted to a juxtaposition with the
spoons, she seated herself opposite to me, unbound her
very abundant brown tresses, and proceeded to comb
them with great deliberateness; occasionally speering
a question at me, or bidding Miss Irene (pronounced
Irenee) “mind the bread.” When she had finished,
Miss Irene took the comb and went through the same
exercise, and both scattered the loose hairs on the floor
with a coolness that made me shudder when I thought
of my dinner, which had become, by means of the
morning's ramble, a subject of peculiar interest. A
little iron “wash-dish,” such as I had seen in the morning,
was now produced; the young lady vanished—
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reappeared in a scarlet circassian dress, and more combs
in her hair than would dress a belle for the court of St.
James; and forthwith both mother and daughter proceeded
to set the table for dinner.
The hot bread was cut into huge slices, several bowls
of milk were disposed about the board, a pint bowl of
yellow pickles, another of apple sauce, and a third containing
mashed potatoes took their appropriate stations,
and a dish of cold fried pork was brought out from some
recess, heated and re-dished, when Miss Irene proceeded
to blow the horn.
The sound seemed almost as magical in its effects as
the whistle of Roderick Dhu; for, solitary as the whole
neighbourhood had appeared to me in the morning, not
many moments elapsed before in came men and boys
enough to fill the table completely. I had made sundry
resolutions not to touch a mouthful; but I confess I
felt somewhat mortified when I found there was no
opportunity to refuse.
After the “wash dish” had been used in turn, and
various handkerchiefs had performed, not for that occasion
only, the part of towels, the lords of creation
seated themselves at the table, and fairly demolished in
grave silence every eatable thing on it. Then, as each
one finished, he arose and walked off, till no one remained
of all this goodly company but the red-faced
heavy-eyed master of the house. This personage used
his privilege by asking me five hundred questions, as
to my birth, parentage, and education; my opinion of
Michigan, my husband's plans and prospects, business
and resources; and then said, “he guessed he must
be off.”
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Meanwhile his lady and daughter had been clearing
the table, and were now preparing to wash the dishes
in an iron pot of very equivocal-looking soapsuds, which
stood in a corner of the chimney place, rinsing each
piece in a pan of clean water, and then setting it to
“dreen” on a chair. I watched the process with no
increasing admiration of Michigan economics—thought
wofully of dinner, and found that Mrs. Danforth's
breakfast table, which had appeared in the morning
frugal and homely enough, was filling my mind's eye
as the very acme of comfort. Every thing is relative.
But now, prospects began to brighten; the tea-kettle
was put on; the table was laid again with the tea
equipage and a goodly pile of still warm bread, redolent
of milk yeast—the unfailing bowls of apple-sauce
and pickles, a plate of small cakes, and a saucer of
something green cut up in vinegar. I found we had
only been waiting for a more lady-like meal, and having
learned wisdom by former disappointment, I looked
forward with no small satisfaction to something like
refreshment.
The tea was made and the first cup poured, when in
came my husband and Mr. Mazard. What was my
dismay when I heard that I must mount and away on
the instant! The buggy at the door—the sun setting,
and the log causeway and the black slough yet to be
encountered. I could not obtain a moment's respite,
and I will not pretend to describe my vexation, when I
saw on looking back our projector already seated at my
predestined cup of tea, and busily engaged with my
slice of bread and butter!
I walked over the logs in no very pleasant mood and
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when we reached the slough it looked blacker than ever.
I could not possibly screw up my fainting courage to
pass it in the carriage, and after some difficulty, a
slender pole was found, by means of which I managed
to get across, thinking all the while of the bridge by
which good Mussulmans skate into Paradise, and wishing
for no houri but good Mrs. Danforth.
We reached the inn after a ride which would have
been delicious under other circumstances. The softest
and stillest of spring atmospheres, the crimson rays
yet prevailing, and giving an opal changefulness of hue
to the half-opened leaves;—
“The grass beneath them dimly green”—
could scarcely pass quite unfelt by one whose delight
is in their beauty: but, alas! who can be sentimental
and hungry?
I alighted with gloomy forebodings. The house was
dark—could it be that the family had already stowed
themselves away in their crowded nests? The fire was
buried in ashes, the tea-kettle was cold—I sat down in
the corner and cried. * * * * *
I was awakened from a sort of doleful trance by the
voice of our cheery hostess.
“Why, do tell if you've had no supper! Well, I
want to know! I went off to meetin' over to Joe Bunner's
and never left nothing ready.”
But in a space of time which did not seem long even
to me, my cup of tea was on the table, and the plate
of snow-white rolls had no reason to complain of our
neglect or indifference.
-- 029 --
CHAPTER V.
Such soon-speeding geer
As will dispense itself through all the veins.
Shakspeare.
By her help I also now
Make this churlish place allow
Some things that may sweeten gladness
In the very heart of sadness.
Withers.
[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]
The next day I was to spend in the society of my
hostess; and I felt in no haste to quit my eyrie,
although it was terribly close, but waited a call from
one of the little maidens before I attempted my twilight
toilet. When I descended the ladder, nobody was visible
but the womankind.
After breakfast Mrs. Danforth mentioned that she
was going about a mile into the woods to visit a neighbour
whose son had been bitten by a Massisanga (I
spell the word by ear) and was not expected to live.
I inquired of course—“Why, law! it's a rattle-snake;
the Indians call them Massisangas and so folks
calls 'em so too.”
“Are they often seen here?”
“Why, no, not very; as far from the mash as this.
I han't seen but two this spring, and them was here in
the garden, and I killed 'em both.”
“You killed them!”
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“Why, law, yes!—Betsey come in one night after
tea and told me on 'em, and we went out, and she held
the candle while I killed them. But I tell you we had
a real chase after them!”
My desire for a long walk through the woods, was
somewhat cooled by this conversation; nevertheless
upon the good dame's reiterated assurance that there
was no danger, and that she would “as lief meet forty
on 'em as not,” I consented to accompany her, and our
path through the dim forest was as enchanting as one
of poor Shelley's gemmed and leafy dreams. The
distance seemed nothing and I scarcely remembered
the rattle-snakes.
We found the poor boy in not quite so sad a case as
had been expected. A physician had arrived from—,
about fourteen miles off, and had brought with
him a quantity of spirits of Hartshorn, with which the
poisoned limb had now been constantly bathed for some
hours, while frequent small doses of the same specific
had been administered. This course had produced a
change, and the pale and weary mother had begun to
hope.
The boy had been fishing in the stream which was
to make the fortune of Montacute, and in kneeling to
search for bait, had roused the snake which bit him
just above the knee. The entire limb was frightfully
swollen and covered with large livid spots “exactly
like the snake,” as the woman stated with an air of
mysterious meaning.
When I saw the body of the snake, which the father
had found without difficulty, and killed very near the
scene of the accident, so slow are these creatures
-- 031 --
[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]
generally—I found it difficult to trace the resemblance
between its brilliant colours, and the purplish brown
blotches on the poor boy's leg. But the superstition
once received, imagination supplies all deficiencies.
A firm belief in some inscrutable connexion between
the spots on the snake and the spots on the wounded
person is universal in this region, as I have since frequently
heard.
During our walk homeward, sauntering as we did to
prolong the enjoyment, my hostess gave me a little
sketch of her own early history, and she had interested
me so strongly by her unaffected kindliness, and withal
a certain dash of espiéglerie, that I listened to the homely
recital with a good deal of pleasure.
“I was always pretty lucky” she began—and as I
looked at her benevolent countenance with its broad
expansive brow and gentle eyes, I thought such people
are apt to be “lucky” even in this world of disappointments.
“My mother did'n't live to bring me up,” she continued,
“but a man by the name of Spangler that had
no children took me and did for me as if I had been
his own; sent me to school and all. His wife was a
real mother to me. She was a weakly woman, hardly
ever able to sit up all day. I don't believe she ever
spun a hank of yarn in her life; but she was a proper
nice woman, and Spangler loved her just as well as if
she had been ever so smart.”
Mrs. Danforth seemed to dwell on this point in her
friend's character with peculiar respect,—that he should
love a wife who could not do her own work. I could
not help telling her she reminded me of a man weeping
-- 032 --
[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]
for the loss of his partner—his neighbours trying to
comfort him, by urging the usual topics; he cut them
short, looking up at the same time with an inconsolable
air—“Ah! but she was such a dreadful good
creature to work!”
Mrs. Danforth said gravely, “Well, I suppose the
poor feller had a family of children to do for;” and
after a reflective pause continued—“Well, Miss Spangler
had a little one after all, when I was quite a big
girl, and you never see folks so pleased as they! Mr.
Spangler seemed as if he could not find folks enough
to be good to, that winter. He had the prayers of the
poor, I tell ye. There was'nt a baby born anywheres
in our neighbourhood, that whole blessed winter, but
what he found out whether the mother had what would
make her comfortable, and sent whatever was wanted.
“He little thought that baby that he thought so much
on was going to cost him so dear. His wife was never
well again! She only lived through the summer and
died when the frost came, just like the flowers; and he
never held up his head afterwards. He had been a
professor for a good many years, but he did'nt seem
then to have neither faith nor hope. He would'nt
hear reason from nobody. I always thought that was
the reason the baby died. It only lived about a year.
Well, I had the baby to bring up by hand, and so I was
living there yet when Mr. Spangler took sick. He
seemed always like a broken-hearted man, but still he
took comfort with the baby, and by and bye the little
dear took the croup and died all in a minute like. It
began to be bad after tea and it was dead before sunrise.
Then I saw plain enough nothing could be done
-- 033 --
[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]
for the father. He wasted away just like an April
snow. I took as good care on him as I could, and when
it came towards the last he would'nt have any body
else give him even so much as a cup of tea. He set
his house in order if ever any man did. He settled up
his business and gave receipts to many poor folks that
owed him small debts, besides giving away a great
many things, and paying all those that had helped take
care of him. I think he knew what kind of a feller his
nephew was, that was to have all when he was gone.
“Well, all this is neither here nor there. George
Danforth and I had been keeping company then a good
while, and Mr. Spangler knew we'd been only waiting
till I could be spared, so he sent for George one day
and told him that he had long intended to give me a
small house and lot jist back of where he lived, but,
seein things stood jist as they did, he advised George
to buy a farm of his that was for sale on the edge of
the village, and he would credit him for as much as the
house and lot would have been worth, and he could pay
the rest by his labour in the course of two or three
years. Sure enough, he gave him a deed and took a
mortgage, and it was so worded, that he could not be
hurried to pay, and every body said it was the greatest
bargain that ever was. And Mr. Spangler gave me a
nice settin out besides.—But if there is n't the boys
comin in to dinner, and I bet there's nothin ready for
'em!” So saying, the good woman quickened her
pace, and for the next hour her whole attention was
absorbed by the “savoury cates,” fried pork and parsnips.
-- 034 --
CHAPTER VI.
A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,
And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring wind, much like the sound
Of swarming bees.
Spencer.—House of Sleep.
While pensive memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between;
Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Warton.
[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]
When we were quietly seated after dinner, I requested
some further insight into Mrs. Danforth's early
history, the prosy flow of which was just in keeping
with the long dreamy course of the afternoon, unbroken
as it was by any sound more awakening than the
ceaseless click of knitting-needles, or an occasional
yawn from the town lady who found the farniente
rather burdensome.
She smiled complacently and took up the broken
thread at the right place, evidently quite pleased to find
she had excited so much interest.
“When Mr. Spangler's nephew came after he was
dead and gone, he was very close in asking all about
the business, and seein' after the mortgages and such
like. Now, George had never got his deed recorded.
-- 035 --
[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]
He felt as if it was'nt worth while to lose a day's
work, as he could send it any time by one of his neighbours.
But when we found what sort of a man Mr.
Wilkins was, we tho't it was high time to set about it.
He had talked a good deal about the place and said the
old man must have been crazy to let us have it so cheap,
and once went so far as to offer my husband a hundeed
dollars for his bargain. So John Green, a good
neighbour of ours, sent us word one morning that he
was going, and would call and get the deed, as he
knew we wanted to send it up, and I got it out and laid
it ready on the stand and put the big bible on it to
keep it safe. But he did not come, something happened
that he could not go that day: and I had jist
took up the deed to put it back in the chest, when in
came Wilkins. He had an eye like a hawk; and I
was afraid he would see that it was a deed, and ask to
look at it, and then I could n't refuse to hand it to him,
you know, so I jist slipped it back under the bible before
I turned to ask him what was his will.
“`Didn't John Saunderson leave my bridle here?'
says he. So I stepped into the other room and got
it, and he took it and walked off without speaking a
word; and when I went to put away the deed, it was
gone!
“My husband came in while I sat crying fit to break
my heart; but all I could do I could not make him believe
that Wilkins had got it. He said I had put it
somewhere else without thinking, that people often felt
just as sure as I did, and found themselves mistaken
after all. But I knew better, and though I hunted high
-- 036 --
[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]
and low to please him, I knew well enough where it
was. When he found we must give it up he never
gave me a word of blame, but charged me not to say
anything about the loss, for, wherever the deed was,
Wilkins was just the man to take advantage if he knew
we had lost it.
“Well, things went on in this way for a while, and I
had many a good cryin' spell, I tell ye! and one evening
when George was away, in comes Wilkins, I was
sittin' alone at my knittin', heavy hearted enough, and
the schoolmaster was in the little room; for that was
his week to board with us.
“`Is your man at home?' says he; I said—No; but
I expected him soon, so he sat down and began the old
story about the place, and at last he says,
“`I'd like to look at that deed if you've no objection,
Mrs. Danforth.' I was so mad, I forgot what
George had told me, and spoke right out.
“I should think, says I, you'd had it long enough
to know it all by heart.
“`What does the woman mean?' says he.
“You know well enough what I mean, says I, you
know you took it from off this table, and from under
this blessed book, the very last time you was in this
house.
“If I had not known it before, I should have been
certain then, for his face was as white as the wall and
he trembled when he spoke in spite of his impudence.
But I could have bit off my own tongue when I tho't
how imprudent I had been, and what my husband
would say. He talked very angry as you may think.
“`Only say that where anybody else can hear you,'
-- 037 --
[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]
says he, `and I'll make it cost your husband all he is
worth in the world.'
“He spoke so loud that Mr. Peeler, the master, came
out of the room to see what was the matter, and Wilkins
bullied away and told Peeler what I had said, and
dared me to say it over again. The master looked as
if he knew something about it but did not speak. Just
then the door opened, and in came George Danforth led
between two men as pale as death, and dripping wet
from head to foot. You may think how I felt! Well,
they would n't give no answer about what was the
matter till they got George into bed—only one of'em
said he had been in the canal. Wilkins pretended to
be too angry to notice my husband, but kept talking
away to himself—and was jist a beginning at me again,
when one of the men said, `Squire, I guess Henry 'll
want some looking after; for Mr. Danforth has just got
him out of the water.'
“If I live to be an hundred years old I shall never
forget how Wilkins looked. There was every thing in
his face at once. He seemed as if he would pitch
head-foremost out of the door when he started to go
home—for Henry was his only child.
“When he was gone, and my husband had got warm
and recovered himself a little, he told us, that he had
seen Henry fall into the lock, and soused right in after
him, and they had come very near drowning together,
and so stayed in so long that they were about senseless
when they got into the air again. Then I told him all
that had happened—and then Peeler, he up, and told
that he saw Wilkins take a paper off the stand the time
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[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]
I opened the bed-room door, to get the bridle, for he was
at our house then.
“I was very glad to hear it to be sure; but the very
next morning came a new deed and the mortgage with
a few lines from Mr. Wilkins, saying how thankful he
was, and that he hoped George would oblige him by
accepting some compensation. George sent back the
mortgage, saying he would rather not take it, but
thanked him kindly for the deed. So then I was glad
Peeler had n't spoke, 'cause it would have set Wilkins
against him. After that we thought it was best to sell
out and come away, for such feelings, you know, a'n't
pleasant among neighbours, and we had talked some of
coming to Michigan afore.
“We had most awful hard times at first. Many's
the day I've worked from sunrise till dark in the fields
gathering brush heaps and burning stumps. But that's
all over now; and we've got four times as much land
as we ever should have owned in York-State.”
I have since had occasion to observe that this forms
a prominent and frequent theme of self-gratulation
among the settlers in Michigan. The possession of a
large number of acres is esteemed a great good, though
it makes but little difference in the owner's mode of
living. Comforts do not seem to abound in proportion
to landed increase, but often on the contrary, are really
diminished for the sake of it: and the habit of selling
out so frequently makes that home-feeling, which is so
large an ingredient in happiness elsewhere, almost a
nonentity in Michigan. The man who holds himself
ready to accept the first advantageous offer, will not be
very solicitous to provide those minor accommodations,
-- 039 --
[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]
which, though essential to domestic comfort, will not add
to the moneyed value of his farm, which he considers
merely an article of trade, and which he knows his
successor will look upon in the same light. I have
sometimes thought that our neighbours forget that “the
days of man's life are three score years and ten,” since
they spend all their lives in getting ready to begin.
-- 040 --
CHAPTER VII.
Offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart. * *
Will you buy any tape
Or lace for your cape,
My dainty duck, my dear-a?
Any silk, any thread,
Any toys for your head,
Of the newest and finest wear-a?
Shakspeare—Winter's Tale.
[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]
Our return to Detroit was accomplished without any
serious accident, although we were once overturned in
consequence of my enthusiastic admiration of a tuft of
splendid flowers in a marsh which we were crossing by
the usual bridge of poles, or corduroy as it is here
termed.
While our eyes were fixed upon it, and I was secretly
determining not to go on without it, our sober steed,
seeing a small stream at a little distance on one side,
quietly walked towards it, and our attention was withdrawn
from the contemplation of the object of my
wishes by finding ourselves spilt into the marsh, and
the buggy reposing on its side, while the innocent
cause of the mischief was fairly planted, fetlock deep,
in the tenacious black-mud: I say the innocent cause,
for who ever expected any proofs of education from a
livery-stable beast?—and such was our brown friend.
'T were vain to tell how I sat on the high bog, (the
-- 041 --
[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]
large tufted masses in a marsh are so called in Michigan,)
which had fortunately received me in falling, and
laughed till I cried to see my companion hunting for
his spectacles, and D'Orsay (whom I ought sooner to
have introduced to my reader) looking on with a face
of most evident wonder. D'Orsay, my beautiful grey-hound,
was our compagnon de voyage, and had caused
us much annoyance by his erratic propensities, so that
we were obliged to tie him in the back part of the buggy,
and then watch very closely that he did not free
himself of his bonds.
Just at this moment a pedestrian traveller, a hardfeatured,
yellow-haired son of New England, came up,
with a tin trunk in his hand, and a small pack or knap-sack
strapped on his shoulders.
“Well! I swan!” said he with a grim smile, “I
never see any thing slicker than that! Why, you
went over jist as easy! You was goin' to try if the
mash wouldn't be softer ridin', I s'pose.”
Mr. Clavers disclaimed any intention of quitting the
causeway, and pointed to my unfortunate pyramid of
pale pink blossoms as the cause of our disaster.
“What! them posies? Why, now, to my thinking,
a good big double marygold is as far before them
pink lilies as can be: but I'll see if I can't get 'em for
you if you want 'em.”
By this time, the carriage was again in travelling
trim, and D'Orsay tolerably resigned to his imprisoned
state. The flowers were procured, and most delicately
beautiful and fragrant they were.
Mr. Clavers offered guerdon-remuneration, but our
-- 042 --
[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]
oriental friend seemed shy of accepting any thing of
the sort.
“If you've a mind to trade, I've got a lot o' notions
I 'd like to sell you,” said he.
So my travelling basket was crammed with essences,
pins, brass thimbles, and balls of cotton; while Mr.
Clavers possessed himself of a valuable outfit of pocket-combs,
suspenders, and cotton handkerchiefs—an
assortment which made us very popular on that road
for some time after.
We reached the city in due time, and found our hotel
crowded to suffocation. The western fever was
then at its height, and each day brought its thousands
to Detroit. Every tavern of every calibre was as well
filled as ours, and happy he who could find a bed any
where. Fifty cents was the price of six feet by two of
the bar-room floor, and these choice lodgings were
sometimes disposed of by the first served at “thirty
per cent. advance.” The country inns were thronged
in proportion; and your horse's hay cost you nowhere
less than a dollar per diem; while, throughout the whole
territory west of Detroit, the only masticable articles
set before the thousands of hungry travellers were salt
ham and bread, for which you had the satisfaction of
paying like a prince.
-- 043 --
CHAPTER VIII.
Notre sagesse n'est pas moins à la merci de la fortune que nos
biens.
Rochefoucault.
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude,
So stilly is the solitude.
Scott.
[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]
Our breakfast-table at—House was surrounded
by as motley a crew as Mirth ever owned. The
standing ornament of the upper end was a very large
light-blue crape turban, which turban surmounted the
prolonged face of a lady, somewhere (it is not polite to
be exact in these matters) between forty and fifty, and
also partly concealed a pair of ears from which depended
ear-rings whose pendants rested not far from the
Apalachian collar-bones of the dignified wearer. This
lady, turban and ear-rings, were always in their places
before the eggs came, and remained long after the last
one had disappeared—at least, I judge so; for I, who
always take my chance (rash enough in this case) for
a breakfast, never saw her seat vacant. Indeed, as I
never met her anywhere else, I might have supposed
her a fixture, the production of some American Maelzel,
but that the rolling of her very light grey eyes was
quite different from that of the dark Persian orbs of the
chess-player; while an occasional word came to my
ear with a sharp sound, even more startling than the
“Echec” of that celebrated personage.
-- 044 --
[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]
Another very conspicuous member of our usual party
was a lady in mourning, whom I afterwards discovered
to be a great beauty. I had indeed observed that she
wore a great many curls, and that these curls were
carefully arranged and bound with a ribbon, so as to
make the most of a pair of dark eyes; that nothing
that could be called throat was ever enviously shaded,
even at breakfast; and that a pair of delicately white
hands, loaded with rings of all hues, despite the mourning
garments, were never out of sight. But I did not
learn that she was a beauty till I met her long after at a
brilliant evening party in rouge and blonde, and with
difficulty recognized my neighbour of the breakfast-table.
But if I should attempt to set down half my recollections
of that piquant and changeful scene, I should never
get on with my story: so, begging pardon, I will pass over
the young ladies, who never were hungry, and their
papas, who could never be satisfied, and their brothers,
who could not get any thing fit to eat; the crimson-faced
célibataire, who always ate exactly three eggs,
and three slices of bread and butter, and drank three
cups of tea, and then left the table, performing the
whole in perfect silence; the lady, who played good
mamma, and would ever have her two babies at the table
with her, aud feed them on sausage and strong
coffee, without a mouthful of bread; and the shoals of
speculators, fat and lean, rich and poor, young and old,
dashing and shabby, who always looked very hungry,
but could not take time to eat. I saw them only at
breakfast, for the rest of the day we usually spent elsewhere.
-- 045 --
[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]
While we were awaiting the arrival of our chattels
from the east, Mr. Clavers accepted an invitation to
accompany a party of these breakfast-table companions
last mentioned, men of substance literally and figuratively,
who were going to make a tour with a view to
the purchase of one or two cities. Ponies, knapsacks,
brandy-bottles, pocket-compasses, blankets, lucifers,
great India rubber boots, coats of the same, and caps
with immense umbrella capes to them: these things
are but a beginning of the outfit necessary for such an
expedition. It was intended to “camp out” as often
as might be desirable, to think nothing of fasting for a
day or so, and to defy the ague and all its works by the
aid of the potent exorcisor contained in the bottles
above mentioned. One of the company, an idler from—,
was almost as keen in his pursuit of game as of
money, and he carried a double-barrelled fowling-piece,
with all things thereunto appertaining, in addition to
his other equipments, giving a finishing touch to the
grotesque cortége. My only parting charge to my
quota of the expedition was to keep out of the water,
and to take care of his spectacles. I should have cautioned
him against buying a city, but that he was never
very ambitious, and already owned Montacute. He
went merely pour se désennuyer; and I remained at the
very focus of this strange excitement an unconcerned
spectator, weary enough of the unvarying theme
which appeared to fill the whole soul of the community.
The party were absent just four days; and a more
dismal sight than they presented on their return cannot
well be imagined. Tired and dirty, cross and hungry,
were they all. No word of adventures, no boasting of
-- 046 --
[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]
achievements, not even a breath of the talismanic word
“land,” more interesting to the speculator of 1835-6
than it ever was to the ship-wrecked mariner. They
seemed as if they would, Esau-like, have sold their
city lots for a good supper, though I doubt whether the
offer of a “trade” would not have aroused all their
energies, and so prevented the bargain.
After tea, however, things brightened a little: I
speak for one of the party only. The bath, the razor,
the much needed change of those “lendings” on which
so much of the comfort of life depends, produced their
usual humanizing effect; and by questions skilfully
timed and cautiously worded, I drew from my toil-worn
spouse a tolerably circumstantial account of the journey.
The first day had been entirely consumed in reaching
Shark River, or rather its junction with another considerable
stream. Twilight had already shaded the
woody path, when the surveyor, who was acquainted
with the whole region, informed them that they had yet
some miles of travel before they could hope to reach any
kind of shelter. They had been for some hours following
an Indian trail, and some of the city gentlemen
recollecting, as the day declined, that they were a little
rheumatic, began to give vent to their opinion that the
evening was going to be particularly damp. One went
so far as to hint that it would have been as well if
Mr.—(the sportsman) had not taken quite so
long to ascertain whether that white moving thing he
had seen in the woods was a deer's tail or not.
To this the city Nimrod had replied, that as to its
being a deer's tail, there was no possibility of question;
-- 047 --
[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]
that if the other gentlemen had been a little more patient,
they might have had venison for supper; and
this little discussion, growing more and more animated
as it proceeded, at length occupied the attention of the
whole party so completely, that they lost the trail and
found themselves at the end of what had seemed to
them an open path. There was nothing for it, but to
turn the horses' heads right about, and retrace the last
mile or more, while the faint gleam of daylight was fast
disappearing.
The good humour of the party was, to say the least,
not increased by this little contretemps, and the following
of a trail by star-light is an exercise of skill and patience
not likely to be long agreeable to gentlemen who
have been for many years accumstomed to pavements
and gas-lamps. Not a word was said of “camping out,”
so manfully planned in the morning. The loads of preparations
for a bivouac seemed entirely forgotten by
every body—at least, no one thought proper to mention
them; and after some few attempts of the younger
members to be funny, the whole caravan yielded to fate,
and plodded on in gloomy and determined silence.
The glimmer of a distant light had an electrical
effect. The unlucky sportsman was fortunately in the
van, and so had an opportunity of covering up his
offences by being the announcer of joyous tidings.
He sang out cheerily, “So shines a good deed in this
naughty world!” and pricked on his tired Canadian
into something akin to a trot, while the soberer part of
the cavalcade followed as fast as they could, or as they
dared. Ere long they reached the much desired shelter,
and found that their provident care in regard to the
-- 048 --
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various items requisite for food and lodging had not been
in vain.
The log cabin which received the weary way-farers
was like many others which have served for the first
homes of settlers in Michigan. It was logs and nothing
else, the fire made on the ground, or on a few
loose stones, and a hole in the roof for the escape of the
smoke. A family of tolerably decent appearance inhabited
this forlorn dwelling, a man and his wife and two
young children. They seemed little moved at the arrival
of so large a company, but rendered what assistance
they could in providing for the ponies and preparing
the meal from such materials as were afforded by
the well-stored hampers of the baggage pony.
After the conclusion of the meal, the blankets were
spread on the ground, and happy he who could get a
bag for a pillow. But the night's rest was well earned,
and Nature is no niggard paymaster.
-- 049 --
CHAPTER IX.
Night came; and in their lighted bower, full late
The joy of converse had endured; when, hark!
Abrupt and loud, a summons shook their gate—
Upris'n each wondering brow is knit and arch'd.
Campbell.
If thou wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee: if thou wert
the lamb, the fox would eat thee.
Shakspeare.—Timon of Athens.
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The morning sun showed the river and its adjunct
bright and beautiful, though a leetle marshy at the
sides. The dead silence, the utter loneliness, the impenetrable
shade, which covered the site of the future
city, might well call to mind the desolation which has
settled on Tadmor and Palmyra; the anticipation of future
life and splendour contrasting no less forcibly with
the actual scene than would the retrospect of departed
grandeur. The guide, who had been much employed
in these matters, showed in the course of the day six
different points, each of which, the owners were fully
satisfied, would one day echo the busy tread of thousands,
and see reflected in the now glassy wave the
towers and masts of a great commercial town. If already
this infatuation seems incredible, how shall we
make our children believe its reality?
-- 050 --
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The day was to be spent in exploring, and as it was
desirable to see as much as could be seen of the river so
important to the future fortunes of the company, it was
concluded to follow the bank as closely as the marshes
would allow, and pass the night at the house of a French
trader near the outlet of the stream.
The spirits of the party were not very high during
the ride. There was something a little cooling in the
aspect of the marshes, and, although nobody liked to
say so, the ground seemed rather wet for city building.
However, the trader's dwelling looked very comfortable
after the accommodations of the preceding night,
and a few Indian huts at no great distance gave some
relief to the extreme solitariness of the scene, which
had contributed not a little to the temporary depression
of the party.
The Frenchman was luckily at home, and with his
Indian wife treated the travellers with much civility:
the lady, however, declining conversation, or indeed notice
of any sort unless when called on to perform the
part of interpreter between the gentlemen and some
wretched looking Indians who were hanging about the
house. Several children with bright, gazelle-like eyes,
were visible at intervals, but exhibited nothing of the
staring curiosity which is seen peeping from among the
sun-bleached locks of the whiter broods of the same class
of settlers.
The Indians to whom I have alluded, had come to
procure whiskey of the trader, and after they had received
the baleful luxury which performs among their
fated race the work of fire, famine and pestilence, they
departed with rapid steps. They had scarcely quitted
-- 051 --
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the house when another was seen approaching the door
with that long easy trot which is habitual with the
savage when on a journey. He was well dressed, in
his way; his hat boasted a broad band of silver lace;
his tunic, leggins and moccasins were whole and somewhat
ornamented; his blanket glorying in a bright red
border; and on his shoulders, slung by a broad thong,
was a pack of furs of considerable value. He seemed
an old acquaintance of the family, and was received
with some animation even by the grave and dignified
mistress of the mansion. The trader examined and
counted the skins, spoke to the Indian in his own
tongue, and invited him to eat, which however he declined,
with a significant gesture towards the huts before
alluded to.
This evening's supper was made quite luxurious by
the preserved cranberries and maple syrup furnished by
the settlers; and our friends retired to rest in much
more comfortable style than on the preceding night.
The first nap was in all its sweetness, when the
whole party were aroused by a hideous yelling, which
to city ears could be no less than an Indian war-whoop.
Every one was on foot in an instant; and the confusion
which ensued in the attempt to dress in the dark
was most perplexing and would have been amusing
enough but for certain unpleasant doubts. The noise
continued to increase as it approached the house, and
terror had reached its acmé,—every one catching at
something which could be used as a weapon; when a
violent knocking at the door aroused the trader, who
slept in an inner room or closet, and who had not been
disturbed by the bustle within doors or the yelling
-- 052 --
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without. He seemed much surprised at the confusion
which reigned among his guests—assured them it was
“noting at all” but the Indians coming for more whiskey;
and then admitting one of them, and coolly
shutting the door in the face of the rest, spoke to the
desperate looking savage very sharply, evidently reprobating
in no gentle terms the uproar which had disturbed
the sleepers.
The Indian made scarce any reply, but pointed with
an impatient gesture to the keg, repeating “Whiskey!
whiskey!” till the trader re-filled it; he then departed
leaving our party once more to repose.
The next morning, much was said of the disturbance
of the night. The Frenchman seemed to look upon it
as a thing of course, and unblushingly vindicated his
own agency in the matter. He said that they would
get whiskey from some one—that an Indian could not
live without it, and that they would pay honestly for
what they got, although they would steal anything they
could lay their hands on, from the farmers who lived
within reach of their settlements. Bitter complaints
he said were often made of corn, potatoes, or cucumbers
being spirited away in the night, and the Indians
got the blame at least, but from him they took nothing.
His lady listened with no pleased aspect to this discussion
of the foibles of her countrymen, and seemed
quite willing to expedite the departure of the guests.
The way to the “Grand Junction” seemed shortened
as they went. The day was fine and the ponies in
excellent spirits. The sportsman came very near
shooting a fat buck, and this miss kept him in talk for
all day. The old gentlemen were much pleased with
-- 053 --
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certain statistical accounts furnished them by the trader,
whom they decided on the whole to be a very sensible
fellow: and when they reached once more the
chosen spot, they saw at a glance how easily the marshes
could be drained, the channel of the Shark deepened,
and the whole converted into one broad area on
which to found a second New-York.
They passed another night at the log hut which had
first received them, and leaving with the poor couple
who inhabited it, what cheered their lonely dwelling for
many a day, they returned to Detroit.
Our friends considered the offers which had been
made them so very advantageous that the bargain for
the site at the “Grand Junction” was concluded the
very next day. “Only one hundred shares at three
hundred dollars each!” the money might be quadrupled
in a month. And some of the knowing ones, who
took shares “merely to oblige,” did realize the golden
vision, while the more careful, who held on to get the
top of the market—but why should I tell secrets?
Nobody happened to mention to these eastern
buyers that the whole had been purchased for four
hundred dollars, just a week before they reached Detroit.
These things certainly cost a good deal of trouble
after all. They ought to have paid well, unquestionably.
When lots were to be sold, the whole fair dream
was splendidly emblazoned on a sheet of super-royal
size; things which only floated before the mind's eye
of the most sanguine, were portrayed with bewitching
minuteness for the delectation of the ordinary observer.
Majestic steamers plied their paddles to and fro upon
-- 054 --
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the river; ladies crowding their decks and streamers
floating on the wind. Sloops dotted the harbours,
while noble ships were seen in the offing. Mills, factories,
and light-houses—canals, rail-roads and bridges,
all took their appropriate positions. Then came the
advertisements, choicely worded and carefully vague,
never setting forth any thing which might not come
true at some time or other; yet leaving the buyer without
excuse if he chose to be taken in.
An auctioneer was now to be procured (for lots
usually went rather heavily at private sale,) and this
auctioneer must not be such a one as any Executive
can make, but a man of genius, or ready invention, of
fluent speech; one who had seen something of the
world, and above all, one who must be so thoroughly
acquainted with the property, and so entirely convinced
of its value, that he could vouch on his own
personal respectability, for the truth of every statement.
He must be able to exhibit certificates from—no matter
whom—Tom-a-Nokes perhaps—but “residing on
the spot”—and he must find men of straw to lead the
first bids. And when all this had been attended to, it
must have required some nerve to carry the matter
through; to stand by, while the poor artizan, the journeyman
mechanic, the stranger who had brought his
little all to buy government land to bring up his young
family upon, staked their poor means on strips of land
which were at that moment a foot under water. I think
many of these gentlemen earned their money.
It is not to be supposed that the preliminaries I have
enumerated, preceded every successful land-sale. Many
thousand acres were transferred from hand to hand
-- 055 --
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with a rapidity which reminded one irresistibly of the
old French game of “le petit bon homme” (anglicised
into `Robin's alive')—while all gained save him in
whose hand Robin died.
I have known a piece of property bought at five
hundred dollars, sold at once for twenty thousand; five
thousand counted down, and the remainder secured by
bond and mortgage. Whether these after payments
were ever made, is another question, and one which I
am unable to answer. I mention the transaction as
one which was performed in all truth and fairness
savouring nothing of the “tricksy spirit” on which I
have been somewhat diffuse.
I must not omit to record the friendly offer of one of
the gentlemen whose adventures I have recapitulated,
to take “two Montacute lots at five hundred dollars
each.” As this was rather beyond the price which the
owner had thought fit to affix to his ordinary lots, he
felt exceedingly obliged, and somewhat at a loss to
account for the proposition, till his friend whispered,
“and you shall have in payment a lot at New-New-York
at a thousand; and we have not sold one at that
I can assure you.”
The obliged party chanced to meet the agent for
New-New-York about a year after and inquired the
fortunes of the future emporium—the number of inhabitants,
&c.
“There's nobody there,” said he “but those we hire
to come.”
-- 056 --
CHAPTER X.
Mrs. Hardcastle. I wish we were at home again. I never
met so many accidents in so short a journey. Drenched in the
mud, overturned in the ditch, jolted to a jelly, and at last to
lose our way.
Goldsmith.—She Stoops to Conquer.
[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]
At length came the joyful news that our moveables
had arrived in port; and provision was at once made
for their transportation to the banks of the Turnip.
But many and dire were the vexatious delays, thrust
by the cruel Fates between us and the accomplishment
of our plan; and it was not till after the lapse of several
days that the most needful articles were selected
and bestowed in a large waggon which was to pioneer
the grand body. In this waggon had been reserved a
seat for myself, since I had far too great an affection
for my chairs and tables, to omit being present at their
debarcation at Montacute, in order to ensure their undisturbed
possession of the usual complement of legs.
And there were the children to be packed this time,—
little roley-poley things, whom it would have been in
vain to have marked—“this side up,” like the rest of
the baggage.
A convenient space must be contrived for my plants
among which were two or three tall geraniums and an
enormous Calla Ethiopica. Then D'Orsay must be
-- 057 --
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accommodated, of course; and, to crown all, a large
basket of live fowls; for we had been told that there
were none to be purchased in the vicinity of Montacute.
Besides these, there were all our travelling trunks;
and an enormous square box crammed with articles
which we then in our greenness considered indispensable.
We have since learned better.
After this enumeration, which yet is only partial, it
will not seem strange that the guide and director of our
omnibus was to ride
“On horseback after we.”
He acted as a sort of adjutant—galloping forward to
spy out the way, or provide accommodations for the
troop—pacing close to the wheels to modify our arrangements,
to console one of the imps who had bumped
its pate, or to give D'Orsay a gentle hint with the
riding-whip when he made demonstrations of mutiny—
and occasionally falling behind to pick up a stray
handkerchief or parasol.
The roads near Detroit were inexpressibly bad.
Many were the chances against our toppling load's preserving
its equilibrium. To our inexperience the risks
seemed nothing less than tremendous—but the driver
so often reiterated, “that a'n't nothin',” in reply to
our despairing exclamations, and, what was better, so
constantly proved his words by passing the most frightful
inequalities (Michiganicé “sidlings”) in safety,
that we soon became more confident, and ventured to
think of something else besides the ruts and mud-holes.
Our stopping-places after the first day were of the
-- 058 --
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ordinary new country class—the very coarsest accommodations
by night and by day, and all at the dearest
rate. When every body is buying land and scarce
any body cultivating it, one must not expect to find
living either good or cheap: but, I confess, I was surprised
at the dearth of comforts which we observed
every where. Neither milk, eggs, nor vegetables were
to be had, and those who could not live on hard salt
ham, stewed dried apples, and bread raised with “salt
risin',” would necessarily run some risk of starvation.
One word as to this and similar modes of making
bread, so much practised throughout this country. It
is my opinion that the sin of bewitching snow-white
flour by means of either of those abominations, “salt
risin',” “milk emptin's,” “bran 'east,” or any of their
odious compounds, ought to be classed with the turning
of grain into whiskey, and both made indictable offences.
To those who know of no other means of
producing the requisite sponginess in bread than the
wholesome hop-yeast of the brewer, I may be allowed
to explain the mode to which I have alluded with such
hearty reprobation. Here follows the recipe:
To make milk emptin's. Take quantum suf. of
good sweet milk—add a teaspoon full of salt, and
some water, and set the mixture in a warm place till
it ferments, then mix your bread with it; and if you
are lucky enough to catch it just in the right moment
before the fermentation reaches the putrescent stage,
you may make tolerably good rolls, but if you are five
minutes too late, you will have to open your doors and
windows while your bread is baking.—Verbum sap.
“Salt risin”' is made with water slightly salted and
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fermented like the other; and becomes putrid rather
sooner; and “bran 'east” is on the same plan. The
consequences of letting these mixtures stand too long
will become known to those whom it may concern,
when they shall travel through the remoter parts of
Michigan; so I shall not dwell upon them here—but I
offer my counsel to such of my friends as may be removing
westward, to bring with them some form of
portable yeast (the old-fashioned dried cakes which
mothers and aunts can furnish, are as good as any)—
and also full instructions for perpetuating the same;
and to plant hops as soon as they get a corner to plant
them in.
“And may they better reck the rede,
Than ever did th' adviser.”
The last two days of our slow journey were agreeably
diversified with sudden and heavy showers, and intervals
of overpowering sunshine. The weather had all
the changefulness of April, with the torrid heat of July.
Scarcely would we find shelter from the rain which had
drenched us completely—when the sunshine would
tempt us forth; and by the time all the outward gear
was dried, and matters in readiness for a continuation
of our progress, another threatening cloud would drive
us back, though it never really rained till we started.
We had taken a newly opened and somewhat lonely
route this time, in deference to the opinion of those who
ought to have known better, that this road from having
been less travelled would not be quite so deep as the
other. As we went farther into the wilderness the
-- 060 --
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difficulties increased. The road had been but little
“worked,” (the expression in such cases) and in some
parts was almost in a state of nature. Where it wound
round the edge of a marsh, where in future times there
will be a bridge or drain, the wheels on one side would
be on the dry ground while the others were sinking in
the long wet grass of the marsh—and in such places
it was impossible to discern inequalities which yet
might overturn us in an instant. In one case of this
sort we were obliged to dismount the “live lumber”—
as the man who helped us through phrased it, and let
the loaded waggon pass on, while we followed in an
empty one which was fortunately at hand—and it was,
in my eyes, little short of a miracle that our skillful
friend succeeded in piloting safely the top-heavy thing
which seemed thrown completely off its centre half a
dozen times.
At length we came to a dead stand. Our driver had
received special cautions as to a certain mash that “lay
between us and our home”—to “keep to the right”—
to “follow the travel” to a particular point, and then
“turn up stream:” but whether the very minuteness
and reiteration of the directions had puzzled him, as is
often the case, or whether his good genius had for once
forsaken him, I know not. We had passed the deep
centre of the miry slough, when by some unlucky hair's-breadth
swerving, in went our best horse—our sorrel—
our “Prince,”—the “off haus,” whose value had been
speered three several times since we left Detroit, with
magnificent offers of a “swop!” The noble fellow,
unlike the tame beasties that are used to such occurrences,
shewed his good blood by kicking and plunging,
-- 061 --
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which only made his case more desperate. A few
moments more would have left us with a “single team,”
when his master succeeded in cutting the traces with
his penknife. Once freed, Prince soon made his way
out of the bog-hole and pranced off, far up the green
swelling hill which lay before us—out of sight in an
instant—and there we sat in the marsh.
There is but one resource in such cases. You must
mount your remaining horse if you have one, and ride
on till you find a farmer and one, two, or three pairs of
oxen—and all this accomplished, you may generally
hope for a release in time.
The interval seemed a leetle tedious, I confess. To
sit for three mortal hours in an open waggon, under a
hot sun, in the midst of a swamp, is not pleasant.
The expanse of inky mud which spread around us, was
hopeless, as to any attempt at getting ashore. I crept
cautiously down the tongue, and tried one or two of
the tempting green tufts, which looked as if they might
afford foothold; but alas! they sank under the slightest
pressure. So I was fain to re-gain my low chair,
with its abundant cushions, and lose myself in a book.
The children thought it fine fun for a little while, but
then they began to want a drink. I never knew children
who did not, when there was no water to be
had.
There ran through the very midst of all this black pudding,
as clear a stream as ever rippled, and the waggon
stood almost in it!—but how to get at it? The basket
which had contained, when we left the city, a store of
cakes and oranges, which the children thought inexhaustible,
held now, nothing but the napkins, which
-- 062 --
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had enveloped those departed joys, and those napkins,
suspended corner-wise, and soaked long and often in
the crystal water, served for business and pleasure, till
papa came back.
“They're coming! They're coming!” was the
cry, and with the word, over went Miss Alice, who had
been reaching as far as she could, trying how large a
proportion of her napkin she could let float on the
water.
Oh, the shrieks and the exclamations! how hard
papa rode, and how hard mamma scolded! but the little
witch got no harm beyond a thorough wetting, and a
few streaks of black mud, and felt herself a heroine for
the rest of the day.
-- 063 --
CHAPTER XI.
Rous'd at his name, up rose the boozy sire,
* * * * * * * *
In vain, in vain,—the all-composing hour
Resistless falls: the Muse obeys the power.”
Pope.
[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]
The night dews were falling chill and heavy when
we crossed the last log-causeway, and saw a dim glimmering
in the distance. The children were getting
horribly cross and sleepy. The unfortunate anchoring
in the black swamp had deranged our plans by about
three hours, and when we reached our destined resting-place,
which was the log-house where I had been so
happy as to make the acquaintance of Miss Irene
Ketchum, and her dignified mamma, the family had
retired to rest, except Mr. Ketchum, who rested without
retiring.
The candle, a long twelve I should judge, was
standing on the table, and wasting rapidly under the
influence of a very long snuff, which reclined upon its
side. Upon the same table, and almost touching the
tall iron candlestick, was a great moppy head; and
this head rested in heavy slumber on the brawny arms
of the master of the house.
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“Ketchum! Ketchum!” echoed a shrill voice from
within the pinned-up sheets in one corner, and I might
have thought the woman was setting the dog at us, if I
had not recognized the dulcet-treble of the fair Irene
from the other bed—“Pa, pa, get up, can't you?”
Thus conjured, the master of the mansion tried to
overcome the still potent effects of his evening potations,
enough to understand what was the matter, but
in vain. He could only exclaim, “What the devil's
got into the women?” and down went the head
again.
Mrs. Ketchum had, by this time, exchanged the night
for the day cap, and made herself, otherwise, tolerably
presentable. She said she had supposed we were not
coming, it was so late; (it was just half-past eight,)
and then, like many other poor souls I have known,
tried hard to hide her husband's real difficulty.
“He was so tired!” she said.
How long the next hour seemed! A summer day
in some company I wot of, would not seem half as tedious.
It took all papa's ingenuity, and more than all
mamma's patience to amuse the poor children, till matters
were arranged; but at length the important matter
of supper being in some sort concluded, preparations
were made for “retiracy.”
Up the stick-ladder we all paced “slowly and sadly.”
Miss Irene preceding us with the remnant of the long
twelve, leaving all below in darkness. The aspect of
our lodging-place was rather portentous. Two bed-steads,
which looked as if they might, by no very violent
freak of nature, have grown into their present
form, a good deal of bark being yet upon them,
-- 065 --
[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]
occupied the end opposite the stairs; and between
them was a window, without either glass or shutter—
that is to say, politeness aside, a square hole in the
house. Three beds spread upon the floor, two chests,
and a spinning-wheel, with reel and swifts, completed
the plenishing of the room. Two of the beds were
already tenanted, as the vibrations of the floor might
have told us without the aid of ears, (people snore incredibly
after ploughing all day,) and the remainder
were at our service. The night air pouring in at the
aperture seemed to me likely to bring death on its dewy
wings, and when I looked up and saw the stars shining
through the crevices in the roof, I thought I might venture
to have the wider rent closed, although I had been
sensible of some ill resulting from the close quarters at
Danforth's So a quilt, that invaluable resource in
the woods, was stuck up before the window, and the
unhinged cover of one of the chests was used as a lid
for the stair-way, for fear the children might fall down.
Sheets served to partition off a “tyring room” round
my bed—an expedient frequently resorted to—and so
dangerous that it is wonderful that so few houses are
burnt down in this country. And thus passed my first
night in Montacute.
I do not remember experiencing, at any time in my
life, a sense of more complete uncomfortableness than
was my lot, on awaking the next morning. It seemed
to arise entirely from my anticipations of the awkward
and tedious inconveniences of our temporary sojourn
at this place, where every thing was so different
from our ideas of comfort, or even decency. But I
have since been convinced, that sleeping in an
-- 066 --
[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]
exhausted atmosphere, of which those who slept on the
bedsteads felt the effect more sensibly than those who
lay on the floor, had no small agency in producing this
depression of spirits, so unusual with me.
Be this as it may, my troubles, when the children
were to be washed and dressed, became real and tangible
enough; for, however philosophical grown people
may sometimes be under disagreeables consequent
upon a change of habits, children are very epicures, and
will put up with nothing that is unpleasant to them,
without at least making a noise, which I do detest
and dread; though I know mothers ought to “get
used to such things.” I have heard that cels get accustomed
to being skinned, but I doubt the fact.
That morning was the first and the last time I ever
attempted to carry through the ordinary nursery
routine, in a log-hut, without a servant, and with a
skillet for a wash-basin.
The little things did get dressed after a while, however,
and were safely escorted down the stick-ladder,
and it was really a pleasure to see them careering
round the house, rioting in their freedom, and to hear
now and then a merry laugh, awakening the echoes.
Children are the true bijouterie of the woods and wilds.
How weary would my last three years have been, without
the cares and troubles they have brought me!
Our breakfast, of undistinguishable green tea, milk-rising
bread, and salt ham, did not consume much time,
and most fortunately we here found milk for the children,
who of course made out sumptuously. It was
the first time since we left Detroit, that we had been
able to procure more than a small allowance for the tea.
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My first care was to inquire where I might be able
to procure a domestic, for I saw plainly I must not expect
any aid from Miss Irene or her younger sister,
who were just such “captive-princess” looking damsels
as Miss Martineau mentions having seen at a country
inn somewhere on her tour.
“Well, I don't know,” said Mrs. Ketchum in reply
to my questions; “there was a young lady here yesterday
that was saying she did n't know but she'd live
out a spell till she'd bought her a new dress.”
“Oh! but I wish to get a girl who will remain with
me; I should not like to change often.”
Mrs. Ketchum smiled rather scornfully at this, and
said there were not many girls about here that cared
to live out long at a time.
My spirits fell at this view of the matter. Some of
my dear theorizing friends in the civilized world had
dissuaded me most earnestly from bringing a maid
with me.
“She would always be discontented and anxious to
return; and you'll find plenty of good farmer's daughters
ready to live with you for the sake of earning a
little money.”
Good souls! how little did they know of Michigan!
I have since that day seen the interior of many a
wretched dwelling, with almost literally nothing in it
but a bed, a chest, and a table; children ragged to the
last degree, and potatoes the only fare; but never yet
saw I one where the daughter was willing to own herself
obliged to live out at service. She would “hire
out” long enough to buy some article of dress perhaps,
or “because our folks have been sick, and want a little
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money to pay the doctor,” or for some such special reason;
but never as a regular calling, or with an acknowledgment
of inferior station.
This state of things appalled me at first; but I have
learned a better philosophy since. I find no difficulty
now in getting such aid as I require, and but little in
retaining it as long as I wish, though there is always
a desire of making an occasional display of independence.
Since living with one for wages is considered
by common consent a favour, I take it as a favour;
and, this point once conceded, all goes well. Perhaps
I have been peculiarly fortunate; but certainly with
one or two exceptions, I have little or nothing to complain
of on this essential point of domestic comfort.
To be sure, I had one damsel who crammed herself
almost to suffocation with sweatmeats and other things
which she esteemed very nice; and ate up her own
pies and cake, to the exclusion of those for whom they
were intended; who would put her head in at a door,
with—“Miss Clavers, did you holler? I thought I
heered a yell.”
And another who was highly offended, because room
was not made for her at table with guests from the city,
and that her company was not requested for tea-visits.
And this latter high-born damsel sent in from the
kitchen a circumstantial account in writing, of the instances
wherein she considered herself aggrieved; well
written it was too, and expressed with much naïveté,
and abundant respect. I answered it in the way which
“turneth away wrath.” Yet it was not long before this
fiery spirit was aroused again, and I was forced to part
with my country belle. But these instances are not
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very tremendous even to the city habits I brought
with me; and I cannot say I regret having been
obliged to relinquish what was, after all, rather a silly
sort of pride. But bless me! how I get before my
story! I viewed the matter very differently when I
was at Ketchum's. My philosophy was of slow
growth.
On reflection, it was thought best not to add another
sleeper to the loft, and I concluded to wait on myself
and the children while we remained at Ketchum's,
which we hoped would be but for a day or two. I can
only say, I contrived to simplify the matter very much,
when I had no one to depend on but myself. The
children had dirty faces, and aprons which would have
effected their total exclusion from genteel society more
than half the time; and I was happy to encourage the
closest intimacy between them and the calves and
chickens, in order to gain some peace within doors.
Mrs. Ketchum certainly had her own troubles during
our sojourn under her leaky roof; for the two races
commingled not without loud and long effervescence,
threatening at times nothing short of a Kilkenny cat
battle, ending in mutual extermination.
My office, on these occasions, was an humble imitation
of the plan of the celestials in ancient times; to
snatch away the combatant in whom I was most interested,
and then to secrete him for a while, using as a
desert island one of the beds in the loft, where the unfortunate
had to dree a weary penance, and generally
came down quite tame.
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CHAPTER XII.
The ripeness or unripeness of the occasion must ever be well
weighed; and generally, it is good to commit the beginnings of
all great actions to Argus with his hundred eyes, and the ends
to Briareus with his hundred hands.—
Bacon.
Trust not yourself; but your defects to know
Make use of every friend.
Pope.
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The log-house, which was to be our temporary home,
was tenanted at this time; and we were obliged to wait
while the incumbent could build a framed one; the
materials for which had been growing in the woods not
long before; I was told it would take but a short time,
as it was already framed.
What was my surprise, on walking that way to
ascertain the progress of things, to find the materials
still scattered on the ground, and the place quite solitary.
“Did not Mr. Ketchum say Green's house was
framed?” said I to the dame du palais, on my return;
“the timbers are all lying on the ground, and nobody
at work.”
“Why, la! so they be all framed, and Green's gone
to—for the sash. They'll be ready to raise tomorrow.”
It took me some time to understand that framing
was nothing more than cutting the tenons and mortices
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ready for putting the timbers together, and that these
must be raised before there could be a frame. And
that “sash,” which I in my ignorance supposed could
be but for one window, was a generic term.
The “raising” took place the following afternoon,
and was quite an amusing scene to us cockneys, until
one man's thumb was frightfully mashed, and another
had a severe blow upon the head. A jug of whiskey
was pointed out by those who understood the matter,
as the true cause of these disasters, although the Fates
got the blame.
“Jem White always has such bad luck!” said Mr.
Ketchum, on his return from the raising, “and word
spake never more,” for that night at least; for he disappeared
behind the mysterious curtain, and soon snored
most sonorously.
The many raisings which have been accomplished
at Montacute, without that ruinous ally, strong drink,
since the days of which I speak, have been free from
accidents of any sort; Jem White having carried his
“bad luck” to a distant county, and left his wife and
children to be taken care of by the public.
Our cottage bore about the same proportion to the
articles we had expected to put into it, that the “lytell
hole” did to the fiend whom Virgilius cajoled into its
narrow compass; and the more we reflected, the more
certain we became that without the magic powers of
necromancy, one half of our moveables at least must remain
in the open air. To avoid such necessity, Mr.
Clavers was obliged to return to Detroit and provide
storage for sundry unwieldy boxes which could by no
art of ours be conjured into our cot.
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While he was absent, Green had enclosed his new
house; that is to say put on the roof and the siding, and
laid one floor, and forthwith he removed thither without
door, window or chimney, a course by no means unusual
in Michigan.
As I was by this time, truth to speak, very nearly
starved, I was anxious to go as soon as possible to a
place where I could feel a little more at home; and so
completely had my nine days at Ketchum's brought
down my ideas, that I anticipated real satisfaction in a
removal to this hut in the wilderness. I would not
wait for Mr. Clavers's return; but insisted on setting
up for myself at once.
But I should in vain attempt to convey to those who
know nothing of the woods, any idea of the difficulties
in my way. If one's courage did not increase, and one's
invention brighten under the stimulus of such occasions,
I should have given up at the outset, as I have
often done with far less cause.
It was no easy matter to get a “lady” to clean the
place, and ne'er had place more need of the tutelary
aid of the goddess of scrubbing brushes. Then this
lady must be provided with the necessary utensils, and
here arose dilemma upon dilemma. Mrs. Ketchum
rendered what aid she could, but there was little superfluous
in her house.
And then, such racing and chasing, such messages
and requisitions! Mrs. Jennings “could n't do nothin'
without a mop, and I had not thought of such a
thing and was obliged to sacrifice on the spot sundry
nice towels, a necessity which made all the house-keeping
blood in my veins tingle.
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After one day's experience of this sort, I decided to
go myself to the scene of action, so as to be at hand
for these trying occasions; and I induced Mr. Ketchum
to procure a waggon and carry to our new home
the various articles which we had piled in a hovel on
his premises.
Behold me then seated on a box, in the midst of as
anomalous a congregation of household goods as ever
met under one roof in the back-woods, engaged in the
seemingly hopeless task of calling order out of chaos,
attempting occasionally to throw out a hint for the instruction
of Mrs. Jennings, who uniformly replied by
requesting me not to fret, as she knew what she was
about.
Mr. Jennings, with the aid of his sons, undertook the
release of the pent up myriads of articles which crammed
the boxes, many of which though ranked when
they were put in as absolutely essential, seemed ridiculously
superfluous when they came out. The many observations
made by the spectators as each new wonder
made its appearance, though at first rather amusing,
became after a while quite vexatious; for the truth began
to dawn upon me that the common sense was all
on their side.
“What on airth's them gimcracks for?” said my
lady, as a nest of delicate japanned tables were set out
upon the uneven floor.
I tried to explain to her the various convenient uses
to which they were applicable; but she looked very
scornfully after all and said “I guess they'll do better
for kindlin's than any thing else, here.” And I began
to cast a disrespectful glance upon them myself, and
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forthwith ordered them up stairs, wondering in my
own mind how I could have thought a log house would
afford space for such superfluities.
All this time there was a blazing fire in the chimney
to accommodate Mrs. Jennings in her operations,
and while the doors and windows were open we were
not sensible of much discomfort from it. Supper was
prepared and eaten—beds spread on the floor, and the
children stowed away. Mrs. Jennings and our
other “helps” had departed, and I prepared to rest
from my unutterable weariness, when I began to be
sensible of the suffocating heat of the place. I tried to
think it would grow cooler in a little while, but it was
absolutely insufferable to the children as well as myself,
and I was fain to set both doors open, and in this exposed
situation passed the first night in my western
home, alone with my children and far from any neighbour.
If I could live a century, I think, that night will
never fade from my memory. Excessive fatigue
made it impossible to avoid falling asleep, yet the fear
of being devoured by wild beasts, or poisoned by rattle-snakes,
caused me to start up after every nap with sensations
of horror and alarm, which could hardly have
been increased by the actual occurrence of all I dreaded.
Many wretched hours passed in this manner. At
length sleep fairly overcame fear, and we were awakened
only by a wild storm of wind and rain which drove
in upon us and completely wetted every thing within
reach.
A doleful morning was this—no fire on the hearth—
streams of water on the floor, and three hungry
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children to get breakfast for. I tried to kindle a blaze
with matches, but alas! even the straw from the packing-boxes
was soaked with the cruel rain; and I was
distributing bread to the hungry, hopeless of anything
more, when Mr. Jennings made his appearance.
“I was thinking you'd begin to be sick o' your
bargain by this time,” said the good man, “and so I
thought I'd come and help you a spell. I reckon
you'd ha' done better to have waited till the old man
got back.”
“What old man?” asked I, in perfect astonishment.
“Why, your old man to be sure,” said he laughing.
I had yet to learn that in Michigan, as soon as a man
marries he becomes “th' old man,” though he may be
yet in his minority. Not long since I gave a young
bride the how d' ye do in passing, and the reply was,
“I'm pretty well, but my old man's sick a-bed.”
But to return, Mr. Jennings kindled a fire which I
took care should be a very moderate one; and I managed
to make a cup of tea to dip our bread in, and then
proceeded to find places for the various articles which
strewed the floor. Some auger-holes bored in the logs
received large and long pegs, and these served to support
boards which were to answer the purpose of shelves.
It was soon found that the multiplicity of articles which
were to be accommodated on these shelves would fill
them a dozen times.
“Now to my thinkin',” said my good genius, Mr.
Jennings, “that'ere soup-t'reen, as you call it, and
them little ones, and these here great glass-dishes, and
all sich, might jist as well go up chamber for all the good
they'll ever do you here.”
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This could not be gainsaid; and the good man proceeded
to exalt them to another set of extempore
shelves in the upper story; and so many articles were
included in the same category, that I began to congratulate
myself on the increase of clear space below, and
to fancy we should soon begin to look very comfortable.
My ideas of comfort were by this time narrowed
down to a well-swept room with a bed in one corner,
and cooking-apparatus in another—and this in some
fourteen days from the city! I can scarcely, myself,
credit the reality of the change.
It was not till I had occasion to mount the ladder
that I realized that all I had gained on the confusion
below was most hopelessly added to the confusion
above, and I came down with such a sad and thoughtful
brow, that my good aid-de-camp perceived my
perplexity.
“Had n't I better go and try to get one of the
neighbour's gals to come and help you for a few days?”
said he.
I was delighted with the offer, and gave him carteblanche
as to terms, which I afterwards found was a
mistake, for, where sharp bargains are the grand aim
of every body, those who express anything like indifference
on the subject, are set down at once as having
more money than they know what to do with; and as
this was far from being my case, I found reason to
regret having given room for the conclusion.
The damsel made her appearance before a great
while—a neat looking girl with “scarlet hair and belt
to match;” and she immediately set about “
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reconciling” as she called it, with a good degree of energy
and ingenuity. I was forced to confess that she knew
much better than I how to make a log-house comfortable.
She began by turning out of doors the tall cup-board,
which had puzzled me all the morning, observing very
justly, “Where there ain't no room for a thing, why,
there ain't;” and this decision cut the Gordian knot
of all my plans and failures in the disposal of the ungainly
convenience. It did yeoman's service long
afterwards as a corn-crib.
When the bedsteads were to be put up, the key was
among the missing; and after we had sent far and
wide and borrowed a key, or the substitute for one, no
screws could be found, and we were reduced to the dire
necessity of trying to keep the refractory posts in their
places by means of ropes. Then there were candles,
but no candle-sticks. This seemed at first rather inconvenient,
but when Mr. Jennings had furnished
blocks of wood with auger-holes bored in them for
sockets, we could do nothing but praise the ingenuity
of the substitute.
My rosy-haired Phillida who rejoiced in the euphonius
appellation of Angeline, made herself entirely at
home, looking into my trunks, &c., and asking the
price of various parts of my dress. She wondered
why I had not my hair cut off, and said she reckoned I
would before long, as it was all the fashion about here.
“When d' ye expect Him?” said the damsel, with
an air of sisterly sympathy, and ere I could reply becomingly,
a shout of “tiny joy” told me that Papa had
come.
I did not cry for sorrow this time.
-- 078 --
CHAPTER XIII.
Dans toutes les professions et dans tous les arts, chacum se
fait une mine et un extérieur qu' il met en la place de la chose
dont il veut avoir la merite; de sorte que tout le monde n'est
composé que de mines; et c' est inutilement que nous travaillons
à y trouver rien de ríel.
Rochefoucault.
We see the reign or tyranny of custom, what it is. The Indians
lay themselves quietly upon a stack of wood, and so sacrifice
themselves by fire. * * * * *
Since custom is the principal magistrate of man's life, let men
by all means endeavour to obtain good customs.
Bacon.
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Difficulties began to melt away like frosty rime
after this. Some were removed, but to many we became
habituated in a far shorter time than I could
have imagined possible. A carpenter constructed a
narrow flight of board-steps which really seemed magnificent
after the stick-ladder. The screws came before
the bed-steads were quite spoiled, and the arrival
of my bureau—the unpacking of the box among whose
multifarious contents appeared the coffee-mill, the
smoothing-irons, the snuffers, gave more real delight
than that of any case of splendid Parisian millinery
that ever drew together a bevy of belles at Mrs.—'s
show-rooms. I never before knew the value of a
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portable desk, or realized that a bottle of ink might be
reckoned among one's treasures.
Our preparations for residence were on a very limited
scale, for we had no idea of inhabiting the loggery more
than six weeks or two months at farthest. Our new
dwelling was to be put up immediately, and our arrangements
were to be only temporary. So easily are people
deluded!
The Montacute mill was now in progress, and had
grown (on paper,) in a short time from a story and a
half to four stories; its capabilities of all sorts being
proportionably increased. The tavern was equally fortunate,
for Mr. Mazard had undertaken its erection
entirely on his own account, as a matter of speculation,
feeling, he said, quite certain of selling it for double its
cost whenever he should wish. The plan of the public-house
was the production of his teeming brain, and exhibited
congenial intricacies; while the windows resembled
his own eyes in being placed too near together,
and looking all manner of ways. Several smaller
buildings were also in progress, and for all these workmen
at a high rate of wages were to be collected and
provided for.
I could not but marvel how so many carpenters had
happened to “locate” within a few miles of each other
in this favoured spot; but I have since learned that a
plane, a chisel, and two dollars a day make a carpenter
in Michigan.
Mill-wrights too are remarkably abundant; but I
have never been able to discover any essential difference
between them and the carpenters, except that they
receive three dollars per diem, which, no doubt, creates
a distinction in time.
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Our mill-wright was a little round-headed fellow with
a button nose, a very Adonis, in his own eyes, and most
aptly named Puffer, since never did a more consequential
dignitary condescend to follow a base mechanical
calling. His statements, when he condescended to
make any, were always given with a most magisterial
air; and no suggestion, however skilfully insinuated or
gently offered, was ever received without an air of insulted
dignity, and a reiteration of his own conviction
that it was probable he understood his business.
It is to be ascribed to this gentleman's care and accuracy
that Mr. Clavers has since had the satisfaction
of appearing as defendant in several suits at law,
brought by those of his neighbours whose property had
been doubled in value by the erection of the mill, and
who therefore thought they might as well see what
else they could get, to recover the value of sundry
acres of wet marsh made wetter by the flowing back
of the pond, while Mr. Puffer's calculations and levels
prove most satisfactorily (on paper) that the pond
had no business to flow back so far, and that therefore
malice itself could ascribe no fault to his management.
But to return. Our own dwelling was to be built at
the same time with all those I have mentioned; and
materials for the whole were to be brought by land carriage
from two to thirty miles. To my inexperienced
brain, these undertakings seemed nothing less than
gigantic. I used to dream of the pyramids of Egypt,
and the great wall of China, and often thought, during
my waking hours, of the “tower on Shinar's plain,” and
employed myself in conjectural comparisons between
the confusion which punished the projectors of that
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edifice, and the difficulties which beset the builders of
Montacute.
“No brick come yet, sir! Dibble couldn't get no
white wood lumber at I—, (thirty miles off,) so he
stopt and got what lime there was at Jones's; but they
hadn't only four bushels, and they wouldn't burn again
till week after next; and that'ere sash that came from—
is all of three inches too large for the window
frames; and them doors was made of such green stuff,
that they won't go together no how.”
“Well, you can go on with the roof surely!”
“Why, so we could; but you know, sir, oak-shingle
wouldn't answer for the mill, and there's no pine shingle
short of Detroit.”
“Can't the dwelling-house be raised to-day then?”
“Why, we calc'lated to raise to-day, sir; but that
fellow never came to dig the cellar.”
“Go on with the blacksmith's shop, then, since nothing
else can be done.”
“Yes, sir, certainly. Shall we take that best white
wood siding? for you know the oak siding never came
from Tacker's mill.”
“Send Thomson for it, then.”
“Well, Thomson's best horse is so lame that he
can't use him to-day, and the other is a-drawin' timber
for the dam.”
“Let John go with my horses.”
“John's wife's sick, and he's got your horses and
gone for the doctor.”
But if I should fill pages with these delays and disappointments,
I should still fail to give any idea of the
real vexations of an attempt to build on any but the
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smallest scale in a new country. You discover a
thousand requisites that you had never thought of, and
it is well if you do not come to the angry conclusion
that every body is in league against you and your
plans. Perhaps the very next day after you have by
extra personal exertion, an offer of extra price, or a
bonus in some other form, surmounted some prodigious
obstacle, you walk down to survey operations
with a comfortable feeling of self-gratulation, and find
yourself in complete solitude, every soul having gone
off to election or town meeting. No matter at what
distance these important affairs are transacted, so fair
an excuse for a ploy can never pass unimproved; and
the virtuous indignation which is called forth by any
attempt at dissuading one of the sovereigns from exercising
“the noblest privilege of a freeman,” to forward
your business and his own, is most amusingly provoking.
I once ventured to say, in my feminine capacity
merely, and by way of experiment, to a man whose
family I knew to be suffering for want of the ordinary
comforts:
“I should suppose it must be a great sacrifice for
you, Mr. Fenwick, to spend two days in going to election.”
The reply was given with the air of Forrest's William
Tell, and in a tone which would have rejoiced
Miss Martineau's heart—“Yes, to be sure; but ought
not a man to do his duty to his country?”
This was unanswerable, of course. I hope it consoled
poor Mrs. Fenwick, whose tattered gown would
have been handsomely renewed by those two days'
wages.
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As may be conjectured from the foregoing slight
sketch of our various thwartings and hinderances, the
neat framed house which had been pictured on my
mind's eye so minutely, and which I coveted with such
enthusiasm, was not built in a month, nor in two, nor
yet in three;—but I anticipate again.
The circumstance of living all summer, in the same
apartment with a cooking fire, I had never happened
to see alluded to in any of the elegant sketches of
western life which had fallen under my notice. It was
not until I actually became the inmate of a log dwelling
in the wilds, that I realized fully what “living all
in one room” meant. The sleeping apparatus for the
children and the sociable Angeline, were in the loft;
but my own bed, with its cunning fence of curtains;
my bureau, with its “Alps on Alps” of boxes and
books; my entire cooking array; my centre-table,
which bore, sad change! the remains of to-day's dinner,
and the preparations for to-morrow, all covered
mysteriously under a large cloth, the only refuge from
the mice: these and ten thousand other things, which
a summer's day would not suffice me to enumerate,
cumbered this one single apartment; and to crown the
whole was the inextinguishable fire, which I had entirely
forgotten when I magnanimously preferred living
in a log-house, to remaining in Detroit till a house
could be erected. I had, besides the works to which I
have alluded, dwelt with delight on Chateaubriand's
Atala, where no such vulgar inconvenience is once
hinted at; and my floating visions of a home in the
woods were full of important omissions, and always in
a Floridian clime, where fruits serve for vivers.
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The inexorable dinner hour, which is passed sub
silentio in imaginary forests, always recurs, in real
woods, with distressing iteration, once in twenty-four
hours, as I found to my cost. And the provoking people
for whom I had undertaken to provide, seemed to
me to get hungry oftener than ever before. There
was no end to the bread that the children ate from
morning till night—at least it seemed so; while a tin
reflector was my only oven, and the fire required for
baking drove us all out of doors.
Washing days, proverbial elsewhere for indescribable
horrors, were our times of jubilee. Mrs. Jennings,
who long acted as my factotum on these occasions, always
performed the entire operation, al fresco, by the
side of the creek, with
“A kettle slung
Between two poles, upon a stick transverse.”
I feel much indebted to Cowper for having given a
poetical grace to the arrangement. “The shady shadow
of an umbrageous tree” (I quote from an anonymous
author) served for a canopy, and there the bony
dame generally made a pic-nic meal, which I took care
to render as agreeable as possible, by sending as many
different articles as the basket could be persuaded to
receive, each contained in that characteristic of the
country, a pint bowl.
But, oh! the ironing days! Memory shrinks from
the review. Some of the ordinary household affairs
could be managed by the aid of a fire made on some
large stones at a little distance from the house; and
this did very well when the wind sat in the right
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[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]
quarter; which it did not always, as witness the remains of
the pretty pink gingham which fell a sacrifice to my
desire for an afternoon cup of coffee. But the ironing
and the baking were imperious; and my forest Hecate,
who seemed at times to belong to the salamander tribe,
always made as much fire as the stick-chimney, with
its crumbling clay-lining, would possibly bear. She
often succeeded in bringing to a white heat the immense
stone which served as a chimney-back, while
the deep gaps in the stone hearth, which Alice called
the Rocky Mountains, were filled with burning coals
out to the very floor. I have sometimes suspected that
the woman loved to torment me, but perhaps I wrong
her. She was used to it, I dare say, for she looked like
one exsiccated in consequence of ceaseless perspiration.
When the day declined, and its business was laid aside,
it was our practice to walk to and fro before the door,
till the house had been thoroughly cooled by the night-air;
and these promenades, usually made pleasant by
long talks about home, and laughing conjectures as to
what—and—would say if they could see
our new way of life, were frequently prolonged to a late
hour. And to this most imprudent indulgence we
could not but trace the agues which soon prostrated
most of us.
We had, to be sure, been warned by our eastern
friends that we should certainly have the ague, do what
we might, but we had seen so many persons who had
been settled for years in the open country, and who
were yet in perfect health, that we had learned to
imagine ourselves secure. I am still of the opinion
that care and rational diet will enable most persons to
-- 086 --
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avoid this terrible disease; and I record this grave
medical view of things for the encouragement and instruction
of such of my city friends as may hereafter
find themselves borne westward by the irresistible current
of affairs; trusting that the sad fate of their predecessors
will deter them from walking in the open air
till ten o'clock at night without hat or shawl.
-- 087 --
CHAPTER XIV.
Down with the topmast; yare; lower, lower; bring her to
try with main-course.
Tempest.
[figure description] Page 087.[end figure description]
When Angeline left me, which she did after a few
days, I was obliged to employ Mrs. Jennings to “chore
round,” to borrow her own expression; and as Mr.
Clavers was absent much of the time, I had the full
enjoyment of her delectable society with that of her
husband and two children, who often came to meals
very sociably, and made themselves at home with small
urgency on my part. The good lady's habits required
strong green tea at least three times a day; and between
these three times she drank the remains of the tea
from the spout of the tea-pot, saying “it tasted better
so.” “If she had n't it,” she said “she had the 'sterics
so that she was n't able to do a chore.” And her habits
were equally imperious in the matter of dipping with
her own spoon or knife into every dish on the table.
She would have made out nobly on kibaubs, for even
that unwieldly morsel a boiled ham, she grasped by the
hock and cut off in mouthfuls with her knife, declining
all aid from the carver, and saying cooly that she made
out very well. It was in vain one offered her any
thing, she replied invariably with a dignified nod; “I'll
help myself, I thank ye. I never want no waitin' on.”
-- 088 --
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And this reply is the universal one on such occasions,
as I have since had vexatious occasion to observe.
Let no one read with an incredulous shake of the
head, but rather let my sketch of these peculiar habits
of my neighbours be considered as a mere beginning,
a shadow of what might be told. I might
“Amaze indeed
The very faculty of eyes and ears,”
but I forbear.
If “grandeur hear with a disdainful smile”—thinking
it would be far better to starve than to eat under
such circumstances, I can only say such was not my
hungry view of the case; and that I often found
rather amusing exercise for my ingenuity in contriving
excuses and plans to get the old lady to enjoy her meals
alone. To have offered her outright a separate table,
though the board should groan with all the delicacies
of the city, would have been to secure myself the unenviable
privilege of doing my own “chores,” at least
till I could procure a “help” from some distance beyond
the reach of my friend Mrs. Jennings' tongue.
It did not require a very long residence in Michigan,
to convince me that it is unwise to attempt to stem directly
the current of society, even in the wilderness,
but I have since learned many ways of wearing round
which give me the opportunity of living very much
after my own fashion, without offending, very seriously,
any body's prejudices.
No settlers are so uncomfortable as those who,
coming with abundant means as they suppose, to be
comfortable, set out with a determination to live as they
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have been accustomed to live. They soon find that
there are places where the “almighty dollar” is almost
powerless; or rather, that powerful as it is, it meets
with its conqueror in the jealous pride of those whose
services must be had in order to live at all.
“Luff when it blows,” is a wise and necessary caution.
Those who forget it and attempt to carry all sail set and
to keep an unvarying course, blow which way it will,
always abuse Michigan, and are abused in their turn.
Several whom we have known to set out with this capital
mistake have absolutely turned about again in
despair, revenging themselves by telling very hard stories
about us nor' westers.
Touchstone's philosophy is your only wear for this
meridian.
“Corin. And how like you this shepherd's life, Master
Touchstone?
“Touch. Truly, shepherd, in respect of itself it is a good
life; but in respect it is a shepherd's life, it is naught. In respect
that it is solitary, I like it very well; but in respect that it
is private, it is a very vile life. Now, in respect that it is in the
fields, it pleaseth me well; but in respect it is not in the court, it is
tedious. As it is a spare life, look you, it fits my humour well;
but as there is no plenty in it, it goes much against my stomach.
Hast any philosopy in thee, shepherd?
Nobody will quarrel with this view of things. You
may say any thing you like of the country or its inhabitants:
but beware how you raise a suspicion that
you despise the homely habits of those around you.
This is never forgiven.
It would be in vain to pretend that this state of society
can ever be agreeable to those who have been
-- 090 --
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accustomed to the more rational arrangements of the
older world. The social character of the meals, in
particular, is quite destroyed, by the constant presence
of strangers, whose manners, habits of thinking, and
social connexions are quite different from your own,
and often exceedingly repugnant to your taste. Granting
the correctness of the opinion which may be read
in their countenances that they are “as good as you
are,” I must insist, that a greasy cook-maid, or a redolent
stable-boy, can never be, to my thinking, an
agreeable table companion—putting pride, that most
terrific bug-bear of the woods, out of the question.
If the best man now living should honour my humble
roof with his presence—if he should happen to
have an unfortunate penchant for eating out of the
dishes, picking his teeth with his fork, or using the
fire-place for a pocket handkerchief, I would prefer he
should take his dinner solus or with those who did as
he did.
But, I repeat it; those who find these inconveniences
most annoying while all is new and strange to them,
will by the exertion of a little patience and ingenuity,
discover ways and means of getting aside of what is
most unpleasant, in the habits of their neighbours:
and the silent influence of example is daily effecting
much towards reformation in many particulars. Neatness,
propriety, and that delicate forbearance of the
least encroachment upon the rights or the enjoyments
of others, which is the essence of true elegance of
manner, have only to be seen and understood to be admired
and imitated; and I would fain persuade those
who are groaning under certain inflictions to which I
-- 091 --
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have but alluded, that the true way of overcoming all
the evils of which they complain is to set forth in their
own manners and habits, all that is kind, forbearing,
true, lovely, and of good report. They will find ere
long that their neighbours have taste enough to love
what is so charming, even though they see it exemplified
by one who sits all day in a carpeted parlor, teaches
her own children instead of sending them to the district
school, hates “the breath of garlic eaters,” and—oh
fell climax!—knows nothing at all of soap-making.
-- 092 --
CHAPTER XV.
Honester men have stretch'd a rope, or the law has been
sadly cheated. But this unhappy business of yours? Can nothing
be done? Let me see the charge.
He took the papers, and as he read them, his countenance
grew hopelessly dark and disconsolate.
Antiquary.
A strange fish! Were I in England now, and had but this
fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give me a piece
of silver.
Shakspeare.—Tempest.
Sorrow chang'd to solace, and solace mixed with sorrow.
The Passionate Pilgrim.
[figure description] Page 092.[end figure description]
Several lots had already been purchased in Montacute
and some improvement marked each succeeding
day. The mill had grown to its full stature, the dam
was nearly completed; the tavern began to exhibit
promise of its present ugliness, and all seemed prosperous
as our best dreams, when certain rumours were
set afloat touching the solvency of our disinterested
friend Mr. Mazard. After two or three days' whispering,
a tall black-browed man who “happened in” from
Gullsborough, the place which had for some time been
honoured as the residence of the Dousterswivel of Montacute,
stated boldly that Mr. Mazard had absconded;
or, in Western language “cleared.” It seemed passing
strange that he should run away from the arge
-- 093 --
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house which was going on under his auspices; the
materials all on the ground and the work in full progress.
Still more unaccountable did it appear to us that
his workmen should go on so quietly, without so much
as expressing any anxiety about their pay.
Mr. Clavers had just been telling me of these things,
when the long genius above mentioned, presented himself
at the door of the loggery. His abord was a singular
mixture of coarseness, and an attempt at being
civil; and he sat for some minutes looking round and
asking various questions before he touched the mainspring
of his visit.
At length, after some fumbling in his pocket, he
produced a dingy sheet of paper, which he handed to
Mr. Clavers.
“There; I want you to read that, and tell me what
you think of it.”
I did not look at the paper, but at my husband's
face, which was black enough. He walked away with
the tall man, “and I saw no more of them at that
time.”
Mr. Clavers did not return until late in the evening,
and it was then I learned that Mr. Mazard had
been getting large quantities of lumber and other materials
on his account, and as his agent; and that the
money which had been placed in the agent's hands,
for the purchase of certain lands to be flowed by the
mill-pond, had gone into government coffers in payment
for sundry eighty acre lots, which were intended
for his, Mr. Mazard's, private behoof and benefit.
These items present but a sample of our amiable
friends trifling mistakes. I will not fatigue the reader
-- 094 --
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by dwelling on the subject. The results of all this
were most unpleasant to us. Mr. Clavers found himself
involved to a large amount; and his only remedy
seemed to prosecute Mr. Mazard. A consultation with
his lawyer, however, convinced him, that even by this
most disagreeable mode, redress was out of the question,
since he had through inadvertence rendered himself
liable for whatever that gentleman chose to buy
or engage in his name. All that could be done, was
to get out of the affair with as little loss as possible,
and to take warning against land sharks in future.
An immediate journey to Detroit became necessary,
and I was once more left alone, and in no overflowing
spirits. I sat,
“Revolving in my altered soul
The various turns of fate below,”
when a tall damsel, of perhaps twenty-eight or thirty
came in to make a visit. She was tastefully attired
in a blue gingham dress, with broad cuffs of black
morocco, and a black cambric apron edged with orange
worsted lace. Her oily black locks were cut quite
short round the ears, and confined close to her head
by a black ribbon, from one side of which depended,
almost in her eye, two very long tassels of black silk,
intended to do duty as curls. Prunelle slippers with
high heels, and a cotton handkerchief tied under the
chin, finished the costume, which I have been thus
particular in describing, because I have observed so
many that were nearly similar.
The lady greeted me in the usual style, with a
-- 095 --
[figure description] Page 095.[end figure description]
familiar nod, and seated herself at once in a chair near the
door.
“Well, how do like Michigan?”
This question received the most polite answer which
my conscience afforded; and I asked the lady in my
turn, if she was one of my neighbours?
“Why, massy, yes!” she replied; “do n't you know
me? I tho't every body know'd me. Why, I'm the
school ma'am, Simeon Jenkins' sister, Cleory Jenkins.”
Thus introduced, I put all my civility in requisition
to entertain my guest, but she seemed quite independent,
finding amusement for herself, and asking questions
on every possible theme.
“You're doing your own work now, a' n't ye?”
This might not be denied; and I asked if she did
not know of a girl whom I might be likely to get.
“Well, I do n't know; I'm looking for a place where
I can board and do chores myself. I have a good deal
of time before school, and after I get back; and I did n't
know but I might suit ye for a while.”
I was pondering on this proffer, when the sallow
damsel arose from her seat, took a short pipe from her
bosom, (not “Pan's reedy pipe,” reader) filled it with
tobacco, which she carried in her “work-pocket,” and
reseating herself, began to smoke with the greatest
gusto, turning ever and anon to spit at the hearth.
Incredible again? alas, would it were not true! I
have since known a girl of seventeen, who was attending
a neighbour's sick infant, smoke the live-long day,
and take snuff besides; and I can vouch for it, that a
large proportion of the married women in the interior
-- 096 --
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of Michigan use tobacco in some form, usually that of
the odious pipe.
I took the earliest decent opportunity to decline the
offered help, telling the school-ma'am plainly, than an
inmate who smoked would make the house uncomfortable
to me.
“Why, law!” said she, laughing; “that's nothing
but pride now: folks is often too proud to take comfort.
For my part, I could n't do without my pipe to
please nobody.”
Mr. Simeon Jenkins, the brother of this independent
young lady now made his appearance on some trifling
errand; and his sister repeated to him what I had
said.
Mr. Jenkins took his inch of cigar from his mouth,
and asked if I really disliked tobacco-smoke, seeming
to think it scarcely possible.
“Do n't your old man smoke?” said he.
“No, indeed,” said I, with more than my usual
energy; “I should hope he never would.”
“Well,” said neighbour Jenkins, “I tell you what,
I'm boss at home; and if my old woman was to stick
up that fashion, I'd keep the house so blue she could n't
see to snuff the candle.”
His sister laughed long and loud at this sally, which
was uttered rather angrily, and with an air of most
manful bravery; and, Mr. Jenkins, picking up his end
of cigar from the floor, walked off with an air evidently
intended to be as expressive as the celebrated and
oft-quoted nod of Lord Burleigh in the Critic.
Miss Jenkins was still arguing on the subject of her
pipe, when a gentleman approached, whose dress and
-- 097 --
[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]
manner told me that he did not belong to our neighbourhood.
He was a red-faced, jolly-looking person,
evidently “well to do in the world,” and sufficiently
consequential for any meridian. He seated himself
quite unceremoniously; for who feels ceremony in a
log-house? said he understood Mr. Clavers was absent—
then hesitated; and, as Miss Jenkins afterwards
observed, “hummed and hawed,” and seemed as if he
would fain say something, but scarce knew how.
At length Miss Cleora took the hint—a most necessary
point of delicacy, where there is no withdrawing
room. She gave her parting nod, and disappeared;
and the old gentleman proceeded.
He had come to Montacute with the view of settling
his son, “a wild chap,” he said, a lawyer by profession,
and not very fond of work of any sort; but as he
himself had a good deal of land in the vicinity, he
thought his son might find employment in attending
to it, adding such professional business as might occur.
“But what I wished particularly to say, my dear
madam,” said he, “regards rather my son's wife than
himself. She is a charming girl, and accustomed to
much indulgence; and I have felt afraid that a removal
to a place so new as this might be too trying to her,
I knew you must be well able to judge of the difficulties
to be encountered here, and took the liberty of
calling on that account.”
I was so much pleased with the idea of having a
neighbour, whose habits might in some respects accord
with my own, that I fear I was scarcely impartial in
the view which I gave Mr. Rivers, of the possibilities
-- 098 --
[figure description] Page 098.[end figure description]
of Montacute. At least, I communicated only such as
rises before my own mind, while watching perhaps a
glorious sunset reflected in the glassy pond; my hyacinths
in all their glory; the evening breeze beginning
to sigh in the tree-tops; the children just coming in
after a fine frolic with D'Orsay on the grass; and
Papa and Prince returning up the lane. At such times,
I always conclude, that Montacute is, after all, a dear
little world; and I am probably quite as near the truth,
as when,
—“on some cold rainy day,
When the birds cannot show a dry feather;”
when Arthur comes in with a pound of mud on each
foot, D'Orsay at his heels, bringing in as much more;
little Bell crying to go out to play; Charlie prodigiously
fretful with his prospective tooth; and some gaunt
marauder from “up north,” or “out west,” sits talking
on “bis'ness,” and covering my andirons with tobacco
juice; I determine sagely, that a life in the woods is
worse than no life at all. One view is, I insist, as
good as the other; but I told Mr. Rivers he must make
due allowance for my desire to have his fair daughter-in-law
for a neighbour, with which he departed; and I
felt that my gloom had essentially lightened in consequence
of his visit.
-- 099 --
CHAPTER XVI.
Art thou so confident? within what space
Hop'st thou my cure?
All's well that ends well.
[figure description] Page 099.[end figure description]
Mr. Clavers at length returned; and the progress
of the village, though materially retarded by the obliquities
of Mr. Mazard's course, was still not entirely at
a stand. If our own operations were slow and doubtful,
there were others whose building and improving
went on at a rapid rate; and before the close of summer,
several small tenements were enclosed and rendered
in some sort habitable. A store and a public
house were to be ready for business in a very short time.
I had the pleasure of receiving early in the month
of September, a visit from a young city friend, a
charming lively girl, who unaffectedly enjoyed the
pleasures of the country, and whose taste for long
walks and rides was insatiable. I curtained off with
the unfailing cotton sheets a snow-white bower for her
in the loft, and spread a piece of carpeting, a relic of
former magnificence, over the loose boards that served
for a floor. The foot square window was shaded by a
pink curtain, and a bed-side chair and a candle-stand
completed a sleeping apartment which she declared
was perfectly delightful.
So smoothly flowed our days during that charming
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visit that I had begun to fear my fair guest would be
obliged to return to—without a single adventure
worth telling, when one morning as we sat sewing,
Arthur ran in with a prodigious snake-story, to which,
though we were at first disposed to pay no attention,
we were at length obliged to listen.
“A most beautiful snake,” he declared, “was coming
up to the back door.”
To the back door we ran; and there, to be sure,
was a large rattle-snake, or massasauga, lazily winding
its course towards the house, Alice standing still to admire
it, too ignorant to fear.
My young friend snatched up a long switch, whose
ordinary office was to warn the chickens from the dinner-table,
and struck at the reptile which was not three
feet from the door. It reared its head at once, made
several attempts to strike, or spring, as it is called here,
though it never really springs. Fanny continued to
strike; and at length the snake turned for flight, not
however without a battle of at least two minutes.
“Here's the axe, cousin Fanny,” said Arthur, “don't
let him run away!” and while poor I stood in silent terror,
the brave girl followed, struck once ineffectually,
and with another blow divided the snake, whose writhings
turned to the sun as many hues as the windings
of Broadway on a spring morning—and Fanny was a
heroine.
It is my opinion that next to having a cougar spring
at one, the absolute killing of a rattle-snake is peculiarly
appropriate to constitute a Michigan heroine;—
and the cream of my snake-story is, that it might be
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sworn to, chapter and verse, before the nearest justice.
What cougar story can say as much?
But the nobler part of the snake ran away with far
more celerity than it had displayed while it “could a
tail unfold,” and we exalted the coda to a high station
on the logs at the corner of the house—for fear none
of the scornful sex would credit our prowess.
That snake absolutely haunted us for a day or two;
we felt sure that there were more near the house, and
our ten days of happiness seemed cut short like those
of Seged, and by a cause not very dissimilar. But the
gloom consequent upon confining ourselves, children
and all, to the house, in delicious weather, was too
much for our prudence; and we soon began to venture
out a little, warily inspecting every nook, and harassing
the poor children with incessant cautions.
We had been watching the wheelings and flittings
of a flock of prairie hens, which had alighted in Mr.
Jenkins's corn-field, turning ever and anon a delighted
glance westward at the masses of purple and crimson
which make sunset so splendid in the region of the
great lakes. I felt the dew, and warning all my companions,
stepped into the house. I had reached the
middle of the room, when I trod full upon something
soft, which eluded my foot. I shrieked “a snake! a
snake!” and fell senseless on the floor.
When I recovered myself I was on the bed, and well
sprinkled with camphor, that never failing specific in
the woods.
“Where is it?” said I, as soon as I could utter a
word. There was a general smile. “Why, mamma,”
said Alice, who was exalted to a place on the bed,
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“dont you recollect that great toad that always sits
behind the flour-barrel in the corner?”
I did not repent my fainting though it was not a snake,
for if there is anything besides a snake that curdles the
blood in my veins it is a toad. The harmless wretch
was carried to a great distance from the house, but the
next morning, there it sat again in the corner catching
flies. I have been told by some persons here that they
“liked to have toads in the room in fly time.” Truly
may it be said, “What's one man's meat—” Shade
of Chesterfield, forgive me!—but that any body can be
willing to live with a toad! To my thinking nothing
but a today can be more odious.
The next morning I awoke with a severe head-ache,
and racking pains in every bone. Dame Jennings said
it was the “agur.” I insisted that it could be nothing
but the toad. The fair Fanny was obliged to leave us
this day, or lose her escort home—a thing not to be
risked in the wilderness. I thought I should get up to
dinner, and in that hope bade her a gay farewell, with
a charge to make the most of the snake story for the
honour of the woods.
I did not get up to dinner, for the simple reason that
I could not stand—and Mrs. Jennings consoled me by
telling me every ten minutes, “Why, you've got th'
agur! woman alive! Why, I know the fever-agur as
well as I know beans! It a'n't nothin' else!”
But no chills came. My pains and my fever became
intense, and I knew but little about it after the
first day, for there was an indistinctness about my perceptions,
which almost, although not quite, amounted
to delirium.
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A physician was sent for, and we expected, of course,
some village Galen, who knew just enough to bleed and
blister, for all mortal ills. No such thing! A man of first-rate
education, who had walked European hospitals, and
who had mother-wit in abundance, to enable him to profit
by his advantages. It is surprising how many such
people one meets in Michigan. Some, indeed, we have
been led to suppose, from some traits in their American
history, might have “left their country for their country's
good:”—others appear to have forsaken the old
world, either in consequence of some temporary disgust,
or through romantic notions of the liberty to be
enjoyed in this favoured land. I can at this moment
call to mind, several among our ten-mile neighbours,
who can boast University honours, either European or
American, and who are reading men, even now. Yet
one might pass any one of these gentlemen in the road
without distinguishing between him and the Corydon
who curries his horses, so complete is their outward
transformation.
Our medical friend, treated me very judiciously;
and by his skill, the severe attack of rheumatic-fever,
which my sunset and evening imprudences had been
kindling in my veins, subsided after a week, into a
daily ague; but Mrs. Jennings was not there to exult
in this proof of her sagacity. She had been called
away to visit a daughter, who had been taken ill at a
distance from home, and I was left without a nurse.
My neighbours showed but little sympathy on the
occasion. They had imbibed the idea that we held
ourselves above them, and chose to take it for granted,
that we did not need their aid. There were a good
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many cases of ague too, and, of course, people had their
own troubles to attend to. The result was, that we
were in a sad case enough. Oh! for one of those
feminine men, who can make good gruel, and wash
the children's faces! Mr. Clavers certainly did his
best, and who can more? But the hot side of the bowl
always would come to his fingers—and the sauce-pan
would overset, let him balance it ever so nicely. And
then—such hungry children! They wanted to eat all
the time. After a day's efforts, he began to complain
that stooping over the fire made him very dizzy. I
was quite self-absorbed, or I should have noticed such
a complaint from one who makes none without cause;
but the matter went on, until, when I asked for my
gruel, he had very nearly fallen on the coals, in the attempt
to take it from the fire. He staggered to the
bed, and was unable to sit up for many days after.
When matters reached this pitch—when we had,
literally, no one to prepare food, or look after the children—
little Bell added to the sick-list, too—our physician
proved our good genius. He procured a nurse
from a considerable distance; and it was through his
means that good Mrs. Danforth heard of our sad condition,
and sent us a maiden of all-work, who materially
amended the aspect of our domestic affairs.
Our agues were tremendous. I used to think I
should certainly die in my ten or twelve hours' fever—
and Mr. Clavers confidently asserted, several times,
that the upper half of his head was taking leave of the
lower. But the event proved that we were both mistaken;
for our physician verified his own assertion,
that an ague was as easily managed as a common cold,
-- 105 --
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by curing us both in a short time after our illness had
assumed the intermittent form. There is, however,
one important distinction to be observed between a
cold and the ague—the former does not recur after
every trifling exertion, as the latter is sure to do.
Again and again, after we seemed entirely cured, did
the insidious enemy renew his attacks. A short ride,
a walk, a drive of two or three miles, and we were
prostrated for a week or two. Even a slight alarm,
or any thing that occasioned an unpleasant surprise,
would be followed by a chill and fever.
These things are, it must be conceded, very discouraging.
One learns to feel as if the climate must be a
wretched one, and it is not till after these first clouds have
blown over, that we have resolution to look around us—
to estimate the sunny skies of Michigan, and the ruddy
countenances of its older inhabitants as they deserve.
The people are obstinately attached to some superstitious
notions respecting agues. They hold that it
is unlucky to break them. “You should let them run
on,” say they, “till they wear themselves out.” This
has probably arisen from some imprudent use of
quinine, (or “Queen Ann,”) and other powerful tonics,
which are often taken before the system is properly prepared.
There is also much prejudice against “Doctor's
physic;” while Lobelia, and other poisonous
plants, which happen to grow wild in the woods
are used with the most reckless rashness. The opinion
that each region produces the medicines which its own
diseases require, prevails extensively,—a notion which,
though perhaps theoretically correct to a certain
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[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]
extent, is a most dangerous one for the ignorant to practise
upon.
These agues are, as yet, the only diseases of the
country. Consumption is almost unknown, as a Michigan
evil. Indeed many, who have been induced to
forsake the sea-board, by reason of too sensitive lungs,
find themselves renovated after a year in the Peninsula.
Our sickly season, from August till October,
passed over without a single death within our knowledge.
To be sure, a neighbour told me, not long ago, that
her old man had a complaint of “the lights,” and that
“to try to work any, gits his lights all up in a heap.”
But as this is a disease beyond the bounds of my medical
knowledge, I can only “say the tale as 't was said
to me,” hoping, that none of my emigrating friends
may find it contagious:—any disease which is brought
on by working, being certainly much to be dreaded in
this Western country!
-- 107 --
CHAPTER XVII.
The house's form within was rude and strong,
Like an huge cave hewn out of rocky clift;
From whose rough vault the ragged breaches hung:—
* * * * * * * *
And over them Arachne high did lift
Her cunning web, and spread her subtle net,
Enwrapped in foul smoke, and clouds more black than jet.
Spencer.—Faery Queene.
It were good that men, in their innovations, would follow the
example of time itself, which, indeed, innovateth greatly, but
quietly, and by degrees scarce to be perceived.
—Bacon.
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It was on one of our superlatively doleful ague days,
when a cold drizzling rain had sent mildew into our
unfortunate bones; and I lay in bed, burning with
fever, while my stronger half sat by the fire, taking his
chill with his great-coat, hat, and boots on, that Mr.
Rivers came to introduce his young daughter-in-law.
I shall never forget the utterly disconsolate air, which,
in spite of the fair lady's politeness, would make itself
visible in the pauses of our conversation. She did
try not to cast a curious glance round the room. She
fixed her eyes on the fire-place—but there were the
clay-filled sticks, instead of a chimney-piece—the
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half-consumed wooden crane, which had, more than once,
let our dinner fall—the Rocky-Mountain hearth, and
the reflector, baking biscuits for tea—so she thought it
hardly polite to appear to dwell too long there. She
turned towards the window: there were the shelves,
with our remaining crockery, a grotesque assortment!
and, just beneath, the unnameable iron and tin affairs,
that are reckoned among the indispensables, even of
the half-civilized state. She tried the other side, but
there was the ladder, the flour-barrel, and a host of
other things—rather odd parlour furniture—and she
cast her eyes on the floor, with its gaping cracks, wide
enough to admit a massasauga from below, and its inequalities,
which might trip any but a sylph. The
poor thing looked absolutely confounded, and I exerted
all the energy my fever had left me, to try to say something
a little encouraging.
“Come to-morrow morning, Mrs. Rivers,” said I,
“and you shall see the aspect of things quite changed;
and I shall be able to tell you a great deal in favour of
this wild life.”
She smiled faintly, and tried not to look miserable,
but I saw plainly that she was sadly depressed, and
I could not feel surprised that she should be so. Mr.
Rivers spoke very kindly to her, and filled up all the
pauses in our forced talk with such cheering observations
as he could muster.
He had found lodgings, he said, in a farm-house, not
far from us, and his son's house would, ere long, be completed,
when we should be quite near neighbours.
I saw tears swelling in the poor girl's eyes, as she
took leave, and I longed to be well for her sake. In
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this newly-formed world, the earlier settler has a feeling
of hostess-ship toward the new comer. I speak
only of women—men look upon each one, newly arrived,
merely as an additional business-automaton—a
somebody more with whom to try the race of enterprize,
i. e. money-making.
The next day Mrs. Rivers came again, and this time
her husband was with her. Then I saw at a glance
why it was that life in the wilderness looked so peculiarly
gloomy to her. Her husband's face shewed but
too plainly the marks of early excess; and there was
at intervals, in spite of an evident effort to play the
agreeable, an appearance of absence, of indifference,
which spoke volumes of domestic history. He made
innumerable inquiries, touching the hunting and fishing
facilities of the country around us, expressed himself
enthusiastically fond of those sports, and said the country
was a living death without them, regretting much
that Mr. Clavers was not of the same mind.
Meanwhile I had begun to take quite an interest in
his little wife. I found that she was as fond of novels
and poetry, as her husband was of field-sports. Some
of her flights of sentiment went quite beyond my
sobered-down views. But I saw we should get on
admirably, and so we have done ever since. I did not
mistake that pleasant smile, and that soft sweet voice.
They are even now as attractive as ever. And I had
a neighbour.
Before the winter had quite set in, our little nest
was finished, or as nearly finished as anything in
Michigan; and Mr. and Mrs. Rivers took possession of
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their new dwelling, on the very same day that we
smiled our adieux to the loggery.
Our new house was merely the beginning of a house,
intended for the reception of a front-building, Yankee-fashion,
whenever the owner should be able to enlarge
his borders. But the contrast with our sometime
dwelling, made even this humble cot seem absolutely
sumptuous. The children could do nothing but admire
the conveniences it afforded. Robinson Crusoe exulted
not more warmly in his successive acquisitions than did
Alice in “a kitchen, a real kitchen! and a pantry to
put the dishes!” while Arthur found much to praise in
the wee bed-room which was allotted as his sanctum in
the “hic, hæc, hoc,” hours. Mrs. Rivers, who was
fresh from “the settlements,” often curled her pretty
lip at the deficiencies in her little mansion, but we had
learned to prize any thing which was even a shade
above the wigwam, and dreamed not of two parlours or
a piazza.
Other families removed to Montacute in the course of
the winter. Our visiting list was considerably enlarged,
and I used all my influence with Mrs. Rivers to persuade
her that her true happiness lay in making friends
of her neighbours. She was very shy, easily shocked by
those sins against Chesterfield, which one encounters
here at every turn, did not conceal her fatigue when
a neighbour happened in after breakfast to make a three
hours' call, forgot to ask those who came at one
o'clock to take off their things and stay to tea, even
though the knitting needles might peep out beneath the
shawl. For these and similar omissions I lectured her
continually but with little effect. It was with the
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greatest difficulty I could persuade her to enter any
house but ours, although I took especial care to be impartial
in my own visiting habits, determined at all sacrifice
to live down the impression that I felt above
my neighbours. In fact, however we may justify certain
exclusive habits in populous places, they are strikingly
and confessedly ridiculous in the wilderness. What
can be more absurd than a feeling of proud distinction,
where a stray spark of fire, a sudden illness, or a day's
contre-temps, may throw you entirely upon the kindness
of your humblest neighbour? If I treat Mrs. Timson
with neglect to-day can I with any face borrow her
broom to-morrow? And what would become of me, if
in revenge for my declining her invitation to tea this
afternoon, she should decline coming to do my washing
on Monday?
It was as a practical corollary to these my lectures,
that I persuaded Mrs. Rivers to accept an invitation
that we received for the wedding of a young girl, the
sister of our cooper, Mr. Whitefield. I attired myself
in white, considered here as the extreme of festal elegance,
to do honour to the occasion; and called for
Mrs. Rivers in the ox-cart at two o'clock.
I found her in her ordinary neat home-dress; and
it required some argument on my part to induce her to
exchange it for a gay chally with appropriate ornaments.
“It really seems ridiculous,” she said, “to dress for
such a place! and besides, my dear Mrs. Clavers, I am
afraid we shall be suspected of a desire to outshine.”
I assured her we were in more danger of that other
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and far more dangerous suspicion of undervaluing our
rustic neighbours.
“I s'pose they did n't think it worth while to put on
their best gowns for country-folks!”
I assumed the part of Mentor on this and many similar
occasions; considering myself by this time quite an
old resident, and of right entitled to speak for the natives.
Mrs. Rivers was a little disposed to laugh at the oxcart;
but I soon convinced her that, with its cushion
of straw overspread with a buffalo-robe, it was far preferable
to a more ambitious carriage.
“No letting down of steps, no ruining one's dress
against a muddy wheel! no gay horses tipping one
into the gutter!”
She was obliged to acknowledge the superiority of
our vehicle, and we congratulated ourselves upon reclining
à la Lalla Rookh and Lady Mary Wortley
Montague. Certainly a cart is next to a palanquin.
The pretty bride was in white cambric, worn over
pink glazed muslin. The prodigiously stiff under-dress
with its large cords (not more than three or four years
behind the fashion) gave additional slenderness to her
taper waist, bound straitly with a sky-blue zone. The
fair hair was decorated, not covered, with a cap, the
universal adjunct of full dress in the country, placed
far behind the ears, and displaying the largest puffs,
set off by sundry gilt combs. The unfailing high-heeled
prunelle shoe gave the finishing-touch, and the
whole was scented, à l'outrance, with essence of lemon.
After the ceremony, which occupied perhaps three
minutes, fully twice as long as is required by our state
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laws, tea was served, absolutely handed on a salver,
and by the master of the house, a respectable farmer.
Mountains of cake followed. I think either pile might
have measured a foot in height, and each piece would
have furnished a meal for a hungry school-boy. Other
things were equally abundant, and much pleasant talk
followed the refreshments. I returned home highly
delighted, and tried to persuade my companion to look
on the rational side of the thing, which she scarcely
seemed disposed to do, so outré did the whole appear to
her. I, who had begun to claim for myself the dignified
character of a cosmopolite, a philosophical observer
of men and things, consoled myself for this derogatory
view of Montacute gentility, by thinking, “All city
people are so cockneyish!”
-- 114 --
CHAPTER XVIII.
Lend me your ears.
Shakspeare.
Grant graciously what you cannot refuse safely.
Lacon.
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“Mother wants your sifter,” said Miss Ianthe Howard,
a young lady of six years' standing, attired in a
tattered calico, thickened with dirt; her unkempt locks
straggling from under that hideous substitute for a bonnet,
so universal in the western country, a dirty cotton
handkerchief, which is used, ad nauseam, for all sorts
of purposes.
“Mother wants your sifter, and she says she guesses
you can let her have some sugar and tea, 'cause you've
got plenty.”
This excellent reason, “'cause you've got plenty,”
is conclusive as to sharing with your neighbours. Whoever
comes into Michigan with nothing, will be sure to
better his condition; but wo to him that brings with
him any thing like an appearance of abundance, whether
of money or mere household conveniences. To
have them, and not be willing to share them in some
sort with the whole community, is an unpardonable
crime. You must lend your best horse to qui que ce
soit, to go ten miles over hill and marsh, in the darkest
night, for a doctor; or your team to travel twenty
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after a “gal;” your wheel-barrows, your shovels, your
utensils of all sorts, belong, not to yourself, but to the
public, who do not think it necessary even to ask a
loan, but take it for granted. The two saddles and
bridles of Montacute spend most of their time travelling
from house to house a-manback; and I have actually
known a stray martingale to be traced to four dwellings
two miles apart, having been lent from one to another,
without a word to the original proprietor, who
sat waiting, not very patiently, to commence a journey.
Then within doors, an inventory of your plenishing
of all sorts, would scarcely more than include the articles
which you are solicited to lend. Not only are all
kitchen utensils as much your neighbours as your own,
but bedsteads, beds, blankets, sheets, travel from house
to house, a pleasant and effectual mode of securing the
perpetuity of certain efflorescent peculiarities of the
skin, for which Michigan is becoming almost as famous
as the land “'twixt Maidenkirk and John o' Groat's.”
Sieves, smoothing irons, and churns run about as if
they had legs; one brass kettle is enough for a whole
neighbourhood; and I could point to a cradle which
has rocked half the babies in Montacute. For my own
part, I have lent my broom, my thread, my tape, my
spoons, my cat, my thimble, my scissors, my shawl, my
shoes; and have been asked for my combs and brushes:
and my husband, for his shaving apparatus and his
pantaloons.
But the cream of the joke lies in the manner of the
thing. It is so straight-forward and honest, none of
your hypocritical civility and servile gratitude! Your
true republican, when he finds that you possess any
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thing which would contribute to his convenience, walks
in with, “Are you going to use your horses to-day?”
if horses happen to be the thing he needs.
“Yes, I shall probably want them.”
“Oh, well; if you want them—I was thinking
to get 'em to go up north a piece.”
Or perhaps the desired article comes within the female
department.
“Mother wants to get some butter: that 'ere butter
you bought of Miss Barton this mornin'.”
And away goes your golden store, to be repaid perhaps
with some cheesy, greasy stuff, brought in a dirty
pail, with, “Here's your butter!”
A girl came in to borrow a “wash-dish,” “because
we've got company.” Presently she came back:
“Mother says you've forgot to send a towel.”
“The pen and ink and a sheet o' paper and a wafer,”
is no unusual request; and when the pen is returned,
you are generally informed that you sent “an awful
bad pen.”
I have been frequently reminded of one of Johnson's
humorous sketches. A man returning a broken wheel-barrow
to a Quaker, with, “Here I've broke your
rotten wheel-barrow usin' on't. I wish you'd get it
mended right off, 'cause I want to borrow it again this
afternoon.” The Quaker is made to reply, “Friend,
it shall be done:” and I wish I possessed more of his
spirit.
But I did not intend to write a chapter on involuntary
loans; I have a story to tell.
One of my best neighbours is Mr. Philo Doubleday,
a long, awkward, honest, hard-working Maine-man, or
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Mainote I suppose one might say; so good-natured,
that he might be mistaken for a simpleton; but that
must be by those that do not know him. He is quite
an old settler, came in four years ago, bringing with
him a wife who is to him as vinegar-bottle to oil-cruet,
or as mustard to the sugar which is used to soften its
biting qualities. Mrs. Doubleday has the sharpest
eyes, the sharpest nose, the sharpest tongue, the sharpest
elbows, and above all, the sharpest voice that ever
“penetrated the interior” of Michigan. She has a tall,
straight, bony figure, in contour somewhat resembling
two hard-oak planks fastened together and stood on end;
and, strange to say! she was full five-and-thirty when
her mature graces attracted the eye and won the affections
of the worthy Philo. What eclipse had come over
Mr. Doubleday's usual sagacity when he made choice of
his Polly, I am sure I never could guess; but he is certainly
the only man in the wide world who could possibly
have lived with her; and he makes her a most excellent
husband.
She is possessed with a neat devil; I have known
many such cases; her floor is scoured every night,
after all are in bed but the unlucky scrubber, Betsey,
the maid of all work; and wo to the unfortunate
“indiffidle,” as neighbour Jenkins says, who first sets
dirty boot on it in the morning. If men come in to
talk over road business, for Philo is much sought when
“the public” has any work to do, or school-business,
for that being very troublesome, and quite devoid of
profit, is often conferred upon Philo, Mrs. Doubleday
makes twenty errands into the room, expressing in her
visage all the force of Mrs. Raddle's inquiry, “Is them
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wretches going?” And when at length their backs
are turned, out comes the bottled vengeance. The
sharp eyes, tongue, elbow, and voice, are all in instant
requisition.
“Fetch the broom, Betsey! and the scrub-broom,
Betsey! and the mop, and that 'ere dish of soap, Betsey;
and why on earth did n't you bring some ashes?
You did n't expect to clean such a floor as this without
ashes, did you?”—“What time are you going to have
dinner, my dear?” says the imperturbable Philo, who
is getting ready to go out.
“Dinner! I'm sure I do n't know! there's no time
to cook dinner in this house! nothing but slave, slave,
slave, from morning till night, cleaning up after a set
of nasty, dirty,” &c. &c. “Phew!” says Mr. Double-day,
looking at his fuming helpmate with a calm smile,
“It'll all rub out when it's dry, if you'll only let it
alone.”
“Yes, yes; and it would be plenty clean enough for
you if there had been forty horses in here.”
Philo on some such occasion waited till his Polly
had stepped out of the room, and then with a bit of
chalk wrote on the broad black-walnut mantel-piece:
Bolt and bar hold gate of wood,
Gate of iron springs make good,
Bolt nor spring can bind the flame,
Woman's tongue can no man tame.
and then took his hat and walked off.
This is his favourite mode of vengeance—“poetical
justice” he calls it; and as he is never at a loss for a
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rhyme of his own or other people's, Mrs. Doubleday
stands in no small dread of these efforts of genius.
Once, when Philo's crony, James Porter, the black-smith,
had left the print of his blackened knuckles on
the outside of the oft-scrubbed door, and was the subject
of some rather severe remarks from the gentle
Polly, Philo, as he left the house with his friend, turned
and wrote over the offended spot:
Knock not here!
Or dread my dear.
P.D.
and the very next person that came was Mrs. Skinner,
the merchant's wife, all drest in her red merino, to make
a visit. Mrs. Skinner, who did not possess an unusual
share of tact, walked gravely round to the back-door,
and there was Mrs. Doubleday up to the eyes in soap-making.
Dire was the mortification, and point-blank
were the questions as to how the visiter came to go
round that way; and when the warning couplet was
produced in justification, we must draw a veil over what
followed—as the novelists say.
Sometimes these poeticals came in aid of poor Betsey;
as once, when on hearing a crash in the little
shanty-kitchen, Mrs. Doubleday called in her shrillest
tones, “Betsy! what on earth's the matter?” Poor
Betsey, knowing what was coming, answered in a deprecatory
whine, “The cow's kicked over the buck-wheat
batter!”
When the clear, hilarous voice of Philo from the
yard, where he was chopping, instantly completed the
triplet—
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“Take up the pieces and throw 'em at her!” for
once the grim features of his spouse relaxed into a
smile, and Betsey escaped her scolding.
Yet, Mrs. Doubleday is not without her excellent
qualities as a wife, a friend, and a neighbour. She
keeps her husband's house and stockings in unexceptionable
trim. Her emptin's are the envy of the neighbourhood.
Her vinegar is, as how could it fail? the
ne plus ultra of sharpness; and her pickles are greener
than the grass of the field. She will watch night after
night with the sick, perform the last sad offices for the
dead, or take to her home and heart the little ones
whose mother is removed forever from her place at the
fireside. All this she can do cheerfully, and she will
not repay herself as many good people do by recounting
every word of the querulous sick man, or the desolate
mourner with added hints of tumbled drawers,
closets all in heaps, or awful dirty kitchens.
I was sitting one morning with my neighbour Mrs.
Jenkins, who is a sister of Mr. Doubleday, when Betsey,
Mrs. Doubleday's “hired girl” came in with one of
the shingles of Philo's handiwork in her hand, which
bore in Mr. Doubleday's well-known chalk marks—
Come quick, Fanny!
And bring the granny,
For Mrs. Double-
day's in trouble.
And the next intelligence was of a fine new pair of
lungs at that hitherto silent mansion. I called very
soon after to take a peep at the “latest found;” and if
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the suppressed delight of the new papa was a treat, how
much more was the softened aspect, the womanized
tone of the proud and happy mother. I never saw a
being so completely transformed. She would almost
forget to answer me in her absorbed watching of the
breath of the little sleeper. Even when trying to be
polite, and to say what the occasion demanded, her
eyes would not be withdrawn from the tiny face. Conversation
on any subject but the ever-new theme of
“babies” was out of the question. Whatever we began
upon whirled round sooner or later to the one point.
The needle may tremble, but it turns not with the less
constancy to the pole.
As I pass for an oracle in the matter of paps and
possets, I had frequent communication with my now
happy neighbour, who had forgotten to scold her husband,
learned to let Betsey have time to eat, and omitted
the nightly scouring of the floor, lest so much
dampness might be bad for the baby. We were in deep
consultation one morning on some important point
touching the well-being of this sole object of Mrs.
Doubleday's thoughts and dreams, when the very same
little Ianthe Howard, dirty as ever, presented herself.
She sat down and stared awhile without speaking, à
l' ordinaire; and then informed us that her mother
“wanted Miss Doubleday to let her have her baby for
a little while, 'cause Benny's mouth's so sore that”—
but she had no time to finish the sentence.
“Lend my baby!!!”—and her utterance failed.
The new mother's feelings were fortunately too big for
speech, and Ianthe wisely disappeared before Mrs.
Doubleday found her tongue. Philo, who entered on
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the instant, burst into one of his electrifying laughs
with—
“Ask my Polly,
To lend her dolly!”
—and I could not help thinking that one must come
“west” in order to learn a little of every thing.
The identical glass-tube which I offered Mrs. Howard,
as a substitute for Mrs. Doubleday's baby, and
which had already, frail as it is, threaded the country
for miles in all directions, is, even as I write, in
demand; a man on horse-back comes from somewhere
near Danforth's, and asks in mysterious whispers for—
but I shall not tell what he calls it. The reader
must come to Michigan.
-- 123 --
CHAPTER XIX.
Le bonheur et le malheur des hommes ne dépend pas moins
de leur humeur que de la fortune.
Rochefoucault.
It has been a canker in
Thy heart from the beginning: but for this
We had not felt our poverty, but as
Millions of myriads feel it,—cheerfully;—
* * *
Thou might'st have earn'd thy bread as thousands earn it;
Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce,
Or other civic means, to mend thy fortunes.
Byron.—Werner.
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The winter—the much dreaded winter in the woods,
strange to tell, flew away more rapidly than any previous
winter of my life. One has so much to do in the
country. The division of labour is almost unknown.
If in absolutely savage life, each man is of necessity
“his own tailor, tent-maker, carpenter, cook, huntsman,
and fisherman;”—so in the state of society which I
am attempting to describe, each woman is, at times at
least, her own cook, chamber-maid and waiter; nurse,
seamstress and school-ma'am; not to mention various
occasional callings to any one of which she must be
able to turn her hand at a moment's notice. And every
man, whatever his circumstances or resources, must
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be qualified to play groom, teamster, or boot-black, as
the case may be; besides “tending the baby” at odd
times, and cutting wood to cook his dinner with. If
he has good sense, good nature, and a little spice of
practical philosophy, all this goes exceedingly well.
He will find neither his mind less cheerful, nor his
body less vigorous for these little sacrifices. If he is
too proud or too indolent to submit to such infringements
upon his dignity and ease, most essential deductions
from the daily comfort of his family will be the
mortifying and vexatious result of his obstinate adherence
to early habits.
We witnessed by accident so striking a lesson on this
subject, not long after our removal to Montacute, that
I must be allowed to record the impression it made
upon my mind. A business errand called Mr. Clavers
some miles from home; and having heard much of the
loveliness of the scenery in that direction, I packed the
children into the great waggon and went with him.
The drive was a charming one. The time, midsummer,
and the wilderness literally “blossoming as
the rose.” In a tour of ten miles we saw three lovely
lakes, each a lonely gem set deep in masses of emerald
green, which shut it in completely from all but its own
bright beauty. The road was a most intricate one
“thorough bush—thorough brier,” and the ascents, the
“pitches,” the “sidlings” in some places quite terrific.
At one of the latter points, where the road wound, as
so many Michigan roads do, round the edge of a broad
green marsh; I insisted upon getting out, as usual.
The place was quite damp; but I thought I could pick
my way over the green spots better than trust myself
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in the waggon, which went along for some rods at an
angle (I said so at least,) of forty-five. Two men were
mowing on the marsh, and seemed highly amused at
my perplexity, when after watching the receding vehicle
till it ascended a steep bank on the farther side, I
began my course. For a few steps I made out
tolerably, but then I began to sink most inconveniently.
Silly thin shoes again. Nobody should ever go one
mile from home in thin shoes in this country, but old
Broadway habits are so hard to forget.
At length, my case became desperate. One shoe
had provokingly disappeared. I had stood on one foot
as long as ever goose did, but no trace of the missing
Broqua could I find, and down went the stocking six
inches into the black mud. I cried out for help; and
the mowers, with “a lang and a loud guffaw,” came
leisurely towards me. Just then appeared Mr. Clavers
on the green slope above mentioned. It seems his
high mightiness had concluded by this time that I had
been sufficiently punished for my folly, (all husbands
are so tyrannical!) and condescended to come to my
rescue. I should have been very sulky; but then,
there were the children. However, my spouse did try
to find a road which should less frequently give rise to
those troublesome terrors of mine. So we drove on
and on, through ancient woods, which I could not help
admiring; and, at length, missing our way, we came
suddenly upon a log-house, very different from that
which was the object of our search. It was embowered
in oaks of the largest size; and one glance told us
that the hand of refined taste had been there. The
under-brush had been entirely cleared away, and the
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broad expanse before the house looked like a smooth-shaven
lawn, deep-shadowed by the fine trees I have
mentioned. Gleams of sunset fell on beds of flowers
of every hue; curtains of French muslin shaded the
narrow windows, and on a rustic seat near the door lay
a Spanish guitar, with its broad scarf of blue silk. I
could not think of exhibiting my inky stocking to the
inmates of such a cottage, though I longed for a peep;
and Mr. Clavers went alone to the house to inquire the
way, while I played tiger and held the horses.
I might have remained undiscovered, but for the
delighted exclamations of the children, who were in
raptures with the beautiful flowers, and the lake which
shone, a silver mirror, immediately beneath the bank
on which we were standing. Their merry talk echoed
through the trees, and presently out came a young lady
in a demi-suisse costume; her dark hair closely braided
and tied with ribbons, and the pockets of her rustic
apron full of mosses and wild flowers. With the air
rather of Paris than of Michigan, she insisted on my
alighting; and though in awkward plight, I suffered
myself to be persuaded. The interior of the house corresponded
in part with the impressions I had received
from my first glance at the exterior. There was a
harp in a recess, and the white-washed log-walls were
hung with a variety of cabinet pictures. A tasteful
drapery of French chintz partly concealed another recess,
closely filled with books; a fowling-piece hung
over the chimney, and before a large old-fashioned
looking-glass stood a French pier-table, on which were
piled fossil specimens, mosses, vases of flowers, books,
pictures, and music. So far all was well; and two
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young ladies seated on a small sofa near the table, with
netting and needle-work were in keeping with the
romantic side of the picture. But there was more
than all this.
The bare floor was marked in every direction with
that detestable yellow dye which mars every thing in
this country, although a great box filled with sand
stood near the hearth, melancholy and fruitless provision
against this filthy visitation. Two great dirty
dogs lay near a large rocking-chair, and this rocking-chair
sustained the tall person of the master of the
house, a man of perhaps forty years or thereabouts,
the lines of whose face were such, as he who runs may
read. Pride and passion, and reckless self-indulgence
were there, and fierce discontent and determined indolence.
An enormous pair of whiskers, which surrounded
the whole lower part of the countenance,
afforded incessant employment for the long slender
fingers, which showed no marks of labour, except very
dirty nails. This gentleman had, after all, something
of a high-bred air, if one did not look at the floor, and
could forget certain indications of excessive carelessness
discernible in his dress and person.
We had not yet seen the lady of the cottage; the
young girl who had ushered me in so politely was her
sister, now on a summer visit. Mrs. B—shortly
after entered in an undress, but with a very lady-like
grace of manner, and the step of a queen. Her face,
which bore the traces of beauty, struck me as one of
the most melancholy I had ever seen; and it was overspread
with a sort of painful flush, which did not conceal
its habitual paleness.
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We had been conversing but a few moments, when
a shriek from the children called every one out of doors
in an instant. One of Mr. B—'s sons had ventured
too near the horses, and received from our “old Tom,”
who is a little roguish, a kick on the arm. He roared
most lustily, and every body was very much frightened,
and ran in all directions seeking remedies. I called
upon a boy, who seemed to be a domestic, to get some
salt and vinegar, (for the mother was disabled by terror;)
but as he only grinned and stared at me, I ran
into the kitchen to procure it myself. I opened a
closet door, but the place seemed empty or nearly so;
I sought every where within ken, but all was equally
desolate. I opened the door of a small bed-room, but
I saw in a moment that I ought not to have gone there,
and shut it again instantly. Hopeless of finding what
I sought, I returned to the parlour, and there the little
boy was holding a vinaigrette to his mother's nose,
while the young ladies were chafing her hands. She
had swooned in excessive alarm, and the kick had, after
all, produced only a trifling bruise.
After Mrs. B—had recovered herself a little, she
entered at some length, and with a good deal of animation
on a detail of her Michigan experience; not, as
I had hoped at the beginning,
In equal scale weighing delight and dole;
But giving so depressing a view of the difficulties of the
country, that I felt almost disposed for the moment to
regret my determination of trying a woodland life. She
had found all barren. They had no neighbours, or worse
than none—could get no domestics—found every one
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disposed to deal unfairly, in all possible transactions;
and though last not least, could get nothing fit to eat.
Mr. B—'s account, though given with a careless,
off-hand air, had a strong dash of bitterness in it—a
sort of fierce defiance of earth and heaven, which is
apt to be the resource of those who have wilfully thrown
away their chances of happiness. His remarks upon
the disagreeables which we had to encounter, were carried
at least as far as those of his wife; and he asserted
that there was but one alternative in Michigan—
cheat or be cheated.
We were not invited to remain to tea; but took our
leave with many polite hopes of further acquaintance.
Mr. Clavers found the spot he had been seeking, and
then, taking another road home, we called to see Mrs.
Danforth; whom we considered even then in the light of
the very good friend which she has since so often proved
herself. I told of our accidental visit and learned from
the good lady some particulars respecting this family,
whose condition seemed so strange and contradictory,
even in the western country, where every element enters
into the composition of that anomalous mass called
society.
Mr. B—, was born to a large fortune, a lot which
certainly seems in our country to carry a curse with it
in a large proportion of instances. Feeling quite above
the laborious calling by which his father had amassed
wealth, the son's only aim had been to spend his money,
like a gentleman; and in this he had succeeded so
well that by the time he had established himself, at the
head of the ton in one of our great Eastern cities, and
been set down as an irreclaimable roué by his sober
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friends, he found that a few more losses at play would
leave him stranded. But he had been quite the idol of
the “good society” into which he had purchased admission,
and the one never-failing resource in such
cases—a rich wife, was still perhaps in his power. Before
his altered fortunes were more than whispered by
his very particular friends, he had secured the hand of
an orphan heiress, a really amiable and well-bred girl;
and it was not until she had been his wife for a year or
more, that she knew that her thousands had done no
more than prop a falling house.
Many efforts were made by the friends on both sides,
to aid Mr. B—in establishing himself in business,
but his pride and his indolence proved insuperable
difficulties; and after some years of those painful
struggles between pride and poverty, which so many of
the devotees of fashion can appreciate from their own
bitter experience, a retreat to the West was chosen as
the least of prospective evils.
Here the whole country was before him “where to
choose.” He could have bought at government price
any land in the region to which he had directed his
steps. Water-power of all capabilities was at his command,
for there was scarce a settler in the neighbourhood.
But he scorned the idea of a place for business.
What he wanted was a charming spot for a gentlemanly
residence. There, with his gun and his fishing rod he
was to live; a small income which still remained of his
wife's fortune furnishing the only dependance.
And this income, small as it was, would have been,
in prudent and industrious hands, a subsistence at least;
so small is the amount really requisite for a frugal way
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of life in these isolated situations. But unfortunately
Mr. B—'s character had by no means changed with
his place of residence. His land, which by cultivation
would have yielded abundant supplies for his table,
was suffered to lie unimproved, because he had not
money to pay labourers. Even a garden was too
much trouble; the flower-beds I had seen were made
by the hands of Mrs. B—, and her sisters; and it
was asserted that the comforts of life were often lacking
in this unfortunate household, and would have been
always deficient but for constant aid from Mrs. B—'s
friends.
Mrs. B—had done as women so often do in similar
situations, making always a great effort to keep up
a certain appearance, and allowing her neighbours to
discover that she considered them far beneath her;
she had still forgotten her delicate habits, and that they
were delicate and lady-like, no one can doubt who had
ever seen her, and laboured with all her little strength
for the comfort of her family. She had brought up
five children on little else beside Indian meal and potatoes;
and at one time the neighbours had known the
whole family live for weeks upon bread and tea without
sugar or milk;—Mr. B—sitting in the house smoking
cigars, and playing the flute, as much of a gentleman
as ever.
And these people, bringing with them such views and
feelings as make straitened means productive of absolute
wretchedness any where, abuse Michigan, and
visit upon their homely neighbours the bitter feelings
which spring from that fountain of gall, mortified yet
indomitable pride. Finding themselves growing
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poorer and poorer, they persuade themselves that all who
thrive, do so by dishonest gains, or by mean sacrifices;
and they are teaching their children, by the irresistible
power of daily example, to despise plodding industry,
and to indulge in repining and feverish longings
after unearned enjoyments.
But I am running into an absolute homily! I set out
to say only that we had been warned at the beginning
against indulging in certain habits which darken the
whole course of country life; and here I have been
betrayed into a chapter of sermonizing. I can only
beg pardon and resume my broken thread.
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CHAPTER XX.
I come, I come! ye have called me long,
I come o'er the mountains with light and song!
Away from the chamber and sullen hearth!
The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth.
Mrs. Hemans.—Voice of Spring.
And because the breath of flowers is far sweeter in the air
(where it comes and goes like the warbling of music,) therefore
nothing is more fit for that delight than to know what be the
flowers and plants that do best perfume the air.
—Bacon.
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I believe I was recurring to the rapidity with which
our first winter in the wilds slipped away. We found
that when the spring came we were not half prepared
to take advantage of it; but armed with the “American
Gardener,” and quantities of choice seeds received
in a box of treasures from home during the previous Autumn,
we set about making something like a garden. It
would seem that in our generous soil this could not be
a difficult task; but our experience has taught us quite
differently. Besides the eradication of stumps, which
is a work of time and labour any where, the “grubs”
present a most formidable hindrance to all gardening
efforts in the “oak-openings.” I dare say my reader
imagines a “grub” to be a worm, a destructive wretch
that spoils peach trees. In Michigan, it is quite another
affair. Grubs are, in western parlance, the gnarled
roots of small trees and shrubs, with which our soil is
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interlaced in some places almost to absolute solidity.
When these are disturbed by the immense “breaking
up” plough, with its three or four yoke of oxen, the
surface of the ground wears every where the appearance
of chevaux-de-frise; and to pile in heaps for
durning, such of these serried files as have been fairly
loosened by the plough, is a work of much time and labour.
And after this is done in the best way, your
potagerie will still seem to be full of grubs; and it will
take two or three years to get rid of these troublesome
proofs of the fertility of your soil. But your incipient
Eden will afford much of interest and comfort before
this work is accomplished, and I sincerely pity those
who lack a taste for this primitive source of pleasure.
On the opening of our first spring, the snow had
scarcely disappeared ere the green tops of my early
bulbs were peeping above the black soil in which they
had been buried on our first arrival; and the interest
with which I watched each day's developement of
these lovely children of the sun, might almost compare
with that which I felt in the daily increasing perfections
of my six months' old Charlie, whose rosy cheeks
alone, could, in my view at least, outblush my splendid
double hyacinths.
Whatever of a perennial kind we could procure, we
planted at once, without waiting until our garden should
be permanently arranged. All that we have since regretted
on this point is that we had not made far greater
efforts to increase our variety; since one year's time is
well worth gaining, where such valuables are in
question.
On the subject of flowers, I scarcely dare trust my
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pen with a word, so sure am I that my enthusiastic love
for them would, to most readers, seem absolutely silly
or affected. But where the earth produces spontaneously
such myriads of splendid specimens, it would
seem really ungrateful to spare the little time and pains
required for their cultivation. This is a sin which I
at least shall avoid; and I lose no opportunity of attempting
to inspire my neighbours with some small portion
of my love for every thing which can be called a
flower, whether exotic or home-bred.
The ordinary name with us for a rose is “a rosy-flower;”
our vase of flowers usually a broken-nosed
pitcher, is a “posy-pot;” and “yaller lilies” are
among the most dearly-prized of all the gifts of Flora.
A neighbour after looking approvingly at a glass of
splendid tulips, of which I was vain-glorious beyond all
justification, asked me if I got “them blossoms out of
these here woods.” Another cooly broke off a spike of
my finest hyacinths, and after putting it'to his undiscriminating
nose, threw it on the ground with a “pah!”
as contemptuous as Hamlet's. But I revenged myself
when I set him sniffing at a crown imperial—so we
are at quits now.
A lady to whom I offered a cutting of my noble balm
geranium, with leaves larger than Charlie's hand, declined
the gift, saying, “she never know'd nobody
make nothin' by raisin' sich things.” One might have
enlightened her a little as to their moneyed value, but
I held my peace and gave her some sage-seed.
Yet, oddly enough, if any thing could be odd in
Michigan—there is, within three miles of us, a gardener
and florist of no mean rank, and one whose aid can be
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obtained at any time for some small consideration of
“rascal counters;” so that a hot-bed, or even a green-house
is within our reach.
I have sometimes thought that there could scarcely
be a trade or profession which is not largely represented
among the farmers of Michigan, judging from
the somewhat extensive portion of the state with
which we have become familiar. I was regretting the
necessity of a journey to Detroit for the sake of a gold
filling; when lo! a dentist at my elbow, with his case
of instruments, his gold foil, and his skill, all very
much at my service.
Montacute, half-fledged as it is, affords facilities that
one could scarce expect. Besides the blacksmith, the
cooper, the chair maker, the collar maker, and sundry
carpenters and masons, and three stores, there is the
mantua-maker for your dresses, the milliner for your
bonnets, not mine, the “hen tailor” for your little
boy's pantaloons; the plain seamstress, plain enough
sometimes, for all the sewing you can 't possibly get
time for, and
“The spinners and the knitters in the sun,”
or in the chimney-corner, for all your needs in the winter
hosiery line. Is one of your guests dependent upon
a barber? Mr. Jenkins can shave. Does your husband
get too shaggy? Mr. Jenkins cuts hair. Does he demolish
his boot upon a grub? Mr. Jenkins is great at
a rifacciamento. Does Billy lose his cap in the pond?
Mr. Jenkins makes caps comme il y en a peu. Does
your bellows get the asthma? Mr. Jenkins is a famous
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Francis Flute. Then there is Philemon Greenly has
been apprenticed to a baker, and he can make you
crackers, baker's-bread and round-hearts, the like of
which—, but you should get his story. And I certainly
can make long digressions, if nothing else.
Here I am wandering like another Eve from my dearly
beloved garden.
A bed of asparagus—I mean a dozen of them, should
be among the very first cares of spring; for you must
recollect, as did the Cardinal De Retz at Vincennes,
that asparagus takes three years to come to the beginnings
of perfection. Ours, seeded down after the
Shaker fashion, promise to be invaluable. They grew
so nobly the first year that the haulm was almost worth
mowing, like the fondly-prized down on the chin of
sixteen. Then, what majestic palm-leaf rhubarb, and
what egg-plants! Nobody can deny that our soil amply
repays whatever trouble we may bestow upon it. Even
on the first turning up, it furnishes you with all the
humbler luxuries in the vegetable way, from the earliest
pea to the most delicate cauliflower, and the golden
pumpkin, larger than Cinderella's grandmother ever
saw in her dreams. Enrich it properly, and you need
lack nothing that will grow north of Charleston.
Melons, which attain a delicious perfection in our
rich sandy loam, are no despicable substitute for the
peaches of the older world; at least during the six or
seven summers which must elapse before the latter can
be abundant. I advise a prodigious melon-patch.
A fruit sometimes despised elsewhere, is here among
the highly-prized treasures of the summer. The
whortle-berry of Michigan, is a different affair from
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the little half-starved thing which bears the name elsewhere.
It is of a deep rich blue, something near the
size of a rifle bullet, and of a delicious sweetness.
The Indians bring in immense quantities slung in
panniers or mococks of bark on the sides of their wild-looking
ponies; a squaw, with any quantity of pappooses,
usually riding a l'Espagnole on the ridge between
them.
“Schwap? Nappanee?” is the question of the queen
of the forest; which means, “will you exchange, or
swap, for flour:” and you take the whortle-berries in
whatever vessel you choose, returning the same measured
quantity of flour.
The spirit in which the Indians buy and sell is much
the same now as in the days of the renowned Wouter
Van Twiller, when “the hand of a Dutchman weighed
a pound, and his foot two pounds.” The largest haunch
of venison goes for two fingers, viz. twenty-five cents,
and an entire deer for one hand, one dollar. Wild
strawberries of rare size and flavour, “schwap-nappanee,”
which always means equal quantities. A
pony, whatever be his age or qualities, two hands held
up twice, with the fingers extended, twenty dollars.
If you add to the price an old garment, or a blanket,
or a string of glass beads, the treasure is at once put
on and worn with such an air of “look at me.” Broadway
could hardly exceed it.
The Indians bring in cranberries too; and here
again Michigan excels. The wild plum, so little prized
elsewhere, is valued where its civilized namesake is
unattainable; and the assertion frequently made, that
“it makes excellent saase,” is undeniably true. But
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grapes! One must see the loads of grapes in order to
believe.
The practical conclusion I wish to draw from all
this wandering talk is, that it is well worth while to
make garden in Michigan. I hope my reader will not
be disposed to reply in that terse and forceful style
which is cultivated at Montacute, and which has more
than once been employed in answer to my enthusiastic
lectures on this subject. “Taters grows in the field,
and 'taters is good enough for me.”
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CHAPTER XXI.
Les hommes ne vivraient pas long-temps en société, s' ils
n' etaient pas les dupcs les uns des autres.
La Rochefoucault.
[figure description] Page 140.[end figure description]
I have not said a single word as yet of our neighbour
Tinkerville; a village whose rising fortunes have
given occasion for more discussion in the select circles
of Montacute than any thing but the plan of the new
school-house. I know this rambling gossiping style,
this going back to take up dropped stitches, is not the
orthodox way of telling one's story; and if I thought I
could do any better, I would certainly go back and
begin at the very beginning; but I feel conscious
that the truly feminine sin of talking “about it and
about it,” the unconquerable partiality for wandering
wordiness would cleave to me still; so I proceed in
despair of improvement to touch upon such points in
the history of Tinkerville as have seemed of vital and
absorbing interest to the citizens of Montacute.
Tinkerville was originally one of the many speculations
of the enterprising Mr. Mazard, and it differed
from most of his landed property, in having been purchased
at second hand. This fact was often mentioned
in his proffers of sale, as a reason why the tract
could not be afforded quite so low as was his general
practice. He omitted to state, that he bought of a
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person who, having purchased at the land-office without
viewing, was so entirely discouraged when he saw
the woody swamp in which he was to pitch his tent,
that he was glad to sell out to our speculator at a large
discount, and try elsewhere on the old and sound principle
of “look before you leap.” The tract contained,
as Mr. Mazard's advertisement fairly set forth, “almost
every variety of land;” and as he did not say
which kind predominated, nobody could complain if
imagination played tricks, as is sometimes the case in
land-purchases.
An old gentleman of some property in Massachusetts
became the fortunate owner of the emblazoned chart,
which Mr. Mazard had caused to set forth the advantages
of his choice location. There were canals and
rail-roads, with boats and cars at full speed. There
was a steam-mill, a wind-mill or two; for even a land-shark
did not dare to put a stream where there was
scarce running water for the cattle; and a state-road,
which had at least been talked of, and a court-house
and other county buildings, “all very grand;” for, as
the spot was not more than ten miles from the centre
of the county, it might some day become the county-seat.
Besides all this, there was a large and elegantly-decorated
space for the name of the happy purchaser,
if he chose thus to dignify his future capital.
Mr. Tinker was easily pursuaded that the cherished
surname of his ancestors would blend most musically
with the modern and very genteel termination in which
so many of our western villages glory; so Tinkerville
was appointed to fill the trump of fame and the blank
on the chart; and Mr. Mazard, furnished with full
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powers, took out the charter, staked out the streets,
where he could get at them, and peddled out the lots,
and laid out the money, all very much to his own satisfaction;
Mr. Tinker rejoicing that he had happened to
obtain so “enterprising” an agent.
We are not informed what were the internal sensations
of the lot-holders, when they brought their families,
and came to take possession of their various
“stands for business.” They were wise men; and
having no money to carry them back, they set about
making the best of what they could find. And it is
to be doubted whether Mr. Mazard's multifarious avocations
permitted him to visit Tinkerville after the
settlers began to come in. Many of them expressed
themselves quite satisfied that there was abundance of
water there to duck a land-shark, if they could catch
him near it; and Mr. Mazard was a wise man too.
While the little settlement was gradually increasing,
and a store had been, as we were told, added to its many
advantages and attractions, we heard that the padroon
of Tinkerville had sold out; but whether from the fear
that the income from his Michigan property would
scarce become tangible before his great grandson's
time, or whether some Bangor Mr. Mazard had offered
him a tempting bargain nearer home, remains to us
unknown. It was enough for Montacute to discover
that the new owners were “enterprising men.” This
put us all upon the alert.
The Tinkervillians, who were obliged to come to us
for grinding until their wind-mills could be erected,
talked much of a new hotel, a school-house, and a tannery;
all which, they averred, were “going up”
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immediately. They turned up their noses at our squint-eyed
“Montacute house,” expressing themselves certain of
getting the county honours, and ended by trying to
entice away our blacksmith. But our Mr. Porter, who
“had a soul above buttons,” scorned their arts, and
would none of their counsel. Mr. Simeon Jenkins
did, I fear, favourably incline to their side; but on
its being whispered to him that Montacute had determined
upon employing a singing-master next winter;
he informed the ambassadors, who were no doubt spies
in disguise, that he would never be so selfish as to prefer
his own interest to the public good. No one thought
of analyzing so patriotic a sentiment, or it might have
been doubted whether Mr. Jenkins sacrificed much in
remaining to exercise his many trades, where there
were twice as many people to profit by them as he
would find at Tinkerville.
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CHAPTER X.
Ignorance lies at the bottom of all human knowledge, and the
deeper we penetrate, the nearer we arrive unto it.
—Lacon.
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Mrs. Rivers and I had long been planning a ride
on horse-back; and when the good stars were in conjunction,
so that two horses and two saddles were to be
had at one time, we determined to wend our resolute
way as far as Tinkerville, to judge for ourselves of the
state of the enemy's preparations. We set out soon
after breakfast in high style; my Eclipse being Mr.
Jenkins's Governor, seventeen last grass; and my
fair companion's a twenty-dollar Indian pony, age undecided—
men's saddles of course, for the settlement
boasts no other as yet; and, by way of luxury, a large
long-woolled sheep-skin strapped over each.
We jogged on charmingly, now through woods cool
and moist as the grotto of Undine, and carpeted every
where with strawberry vines and thousands of flowers;
now across strips of open land where you could look
through the straight-stemmed and scattered groves for
miles on each side. A marsh or two were to be passed,
so said our most minute directions, and then we should
come to the trail through deep woods, which would
lead us in a short time to the emerging glories of our
boastful neighbour.
We found the marshes, without difficulty, and soon
afterwards the trail, and D'Orsay's joyous bark, as he
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ran far before us, told that he had made some discovery.
“Deer, perhaps,” said I. It was only an Indian, and
when I stopped and tried to inquire whether we were
in the right track, he could not be made to understand
but gave the usual assenting grunt and passed on.
When I turned to speak to my companion she was
so ashy pale that I feared she must fall from her horse.
“What is the matter, my dearest madam!” said I,
going as near her as I could coax old Governor.
“The Indian! the Indian!” was all she could utter.
I was terribly puzzled. It had never occurred to me
that the Indians would naturally be objects of terror to
a young lady who had scarcely ever seen one; and I
knew we should probably meet dozens of them in the
course of our short ride.
I said all I could, and she tried her best to seem
courageous, and, after she had rallied her spirits a little,
we proceeded, thinking the end of our journey could
not be distant, especially as we saw several log-houses
at intervals which we supposed were the outskirts of
Tinkerville.
But we were disappointed in this; for the road led
through a marsh, and then through woods again, and
such tangled woods, that I began to fear, in my secret
soul, that we had wandered far from our track, betrayed
by D'Orsay's frolics.
I was at length constrained to hint to my pale companion
my misgivings, and to propose a return to the
nearest log hut for information. Without a word she
wheeled her shaggy pony, and, in a few minutes, we
found ourselves at the bars belonging to the last log
house we had passed.
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A wretched looking woman was washing at the
door.
“Can you tell us which is the road to Tinkerville?”
“Well, I guess you can't miss it if you follow your
own tracks. It a'n't long since you came through it.
That big stump is the middle of the public square.”
-- 147 --
CHAPTER XXIII.
I boast no song in magic wonders rife,
But yet, oh nature! is there nought to prize
Familiar in thy bosom-scenes of life?
And dwells in day-light truth's salubrious skies
No form with which the soul may sympathize?
Campbell.
[figure description] Page 147.[end figure description]
We returned by a different and less lonely route, the
Tinkervillians having very civilly directed us to one on
which we should not at any point be far distant from a
dwelling. The single Indian we had encountered in
the morning had been quite sufficient to spoil Mrs.
Rivers' ride; and we hurried on at the best pace of our
sober steeds.
The country through which we were passing was so
really lovely that even my timid little friend forgot her
fears at times and exclaimed like a very enthusiast.
At least two small lakes lay near our way; and these,
of winding outline, and most dazzling brightness,
seemed, as we espied them now and then through the
arched vistas of the deep woods, multiplied to a dozen
or more. We saw grape-vines which had so embraced
large trees that the long waving pennons flared over
their very tops; while the lower branches of the sturdy
oaks were one undistinguishable mass of light green
foliage, without an inch of bark to be seen. The roadside
was piled like an exaggerated velvet with
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exquisitely beautiful ferns of almost every variety; and
some open spots gleamed scarlet with those wild strawberries
so abundant with us, and which might challenge
the world for flavour.
Birds of every variety of song and hue, were not
wanting, nor the lively squirrel, that most joyous of
nature's pensioners; and it cost us some little care to
keep D'Orsay in his post of honour as sole escort through
these lonely passes. But alack! “'t was ever thus!”
We had scarcely sauntered two miles when a scattered
drop or two foretold that we were probably to try the
melting mood. We had not noticed a cloud, but thus
warned we saw portentous gatherings of these bugbears
of life.
Now if our poneys would only have gone a little
faster! But they would not, so we were wet to the
skin—travelling jets d' eau—looking doubtless very
much like the western settler taking his stirrup-cup
in one of Mrs. Trollope's true pictures.
When we could be no further soaked we reached a
farm-house—not a Michigan farm-house, but a great,
noble, yankee “palace of pine boards,” looking like a
cantle of Massachusetts or Western New-York dropped
par hazard, in these remote wilds. To me who had
for a long while seen nothing of dwelling kind larger
than a good sized chicken-coop, the scene was quite
one of Eastern enchantment. A large barn with shed
and stables and poultry-yard and all! Fields of grain,
well fenced and stumpless, surrounded this happy
dwelling; and a most inviting door-yard, filled to profusion
with shrubs and flowers, seemed to invite our
entrance.
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“A honey-suckle! absolutely a honey-suckle on the
porch!” Mrs. Rivers was almost too forlorn to sympathize
with me: but then she had not been quite so
long from home. I have been troubled with a sort of
home calenture at times since we removed westward.
As we were about to dismount, the sun shone out
most provokingly: and I was afraid there would be
scarce the shadow of an excuse for a visit to the interesting
inmates, for such I had decided they must be,
of this delicious home-like spot; but, as we wavered, a
young man as wet as ourselves, came up the road, and,
opening the gate at once, invited us to enter and dry
our dripping garments.
We stayed not for urging, but turned our graceless
steeds into the shady lane, and dismounting, not at the
front entrance, but, a la Michigan, at the kitchen door,
we were received with much grave but cordial politeness
by the comely mistress of the mansion, who was
sharing with her pretty daughter the after-dinner cares
of the day. Our upper garments were spread to dry,
and when we were equipped, with urgent hospitality,
in others belonging to our hostesses, we were ushered
into the parlor or “keeping room.”
Here, writing at an old-fashioned secretary, sat the
master of the house, a hearty, cheerful-looking, middleaged
man; evidently a person of less refinement than
his wife, but still of a most prepossessing exterior. He
fell no whit behind in doing the honours, and we soon
found ourselves quite at ease. We recounted the adventures
of our tiny journey, and laughed at our unlucky
over-running of the game.
“Ah! Tinkerville! yes, I think it will be some time
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yet before those dreams will come to pass. I have
told Mr. Jephson there was nothing there to make a
village out of.”
“You are acquainted then with the present proprietors?”
“With one of them I have been acquainted since we
were boys; and he has been a speculator all that time,
and is now at least as poor as ever. He has been very
urgent with me to sell out here and locate in his village,
as he calls it; but we knew rather too much of him at
home for that,” and he glanced at his fair spouse with
some archness. I could scarcely believe that any man
could have been impudent enough to propose such an
exchange, but nothing is incredible in Michigan.
Mrs. Beckworth was now engaged in getting tea, in
spite of our hollow-hearted declarations that we did
not wish it. With us, be it known to new comers,
whatever be the hour of the day, a cup of tea with
trimmings, is always in season; and is considered as
the orthodox mode of welcoming any guest, from the
clergyman to “the maid that does the meanest chores.”
We were soon seated at a delicately-furnished table.
The countenance of the good lady had something of
peculiar interest for me. It was mild, intelligent, and
very pleasing. No envious silver streaked the rich
brown locks which were folded with no little elegance
above the fair brow. A slight depression of the outer
extremity of the eye-lid, and of the delicately-pencilled
arch above it, seemed to tell of sorrow and meek endurance.
I was sure that like so many western settlers,
the fair and pensive matron had a story; and
when I had once arrived at this conclusion, I
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determined to make a brave push to ascertain the truth of
my conjecture.
I began, while Mrs. Beckworth was absent from the
parlour, by telling every thing I could think of; this
being the established mode of getting knowledge in this
country. Mr. Beckworth did not bite.
“Is this young lady your daughter, Mr. Beckworth?”
“A daughter of my wife's—Mary Jane Harrington?”
“Oh! ah! a former marriage; and the fine young
man who brought us into such good quarters is a brother
of Miss Harrington's I am sure.”
“A half brother—Charles Boon.”
“Mrs. Beckworth thrice married! impossible!” was
my not very civil but quite natural exclamation.
Our host smiled quietly, a smile which enticed me
still further. He was, fortunately for my reputation
for civility, too kindly polite not to consent to gratify
my curiosity, which I told him sincerely had been
awakened by the charming countenance of his wife,
who was evidently the object of his highest admiration.
As we rode through the freshened woods with Mr.
Beckworth, who had, with ready politeness, offered
to see us safely a part of the way, he gave us the particulars
of his early history; and to establish my claim
to the character of a physiognomist, I shall here recount
what he told me; and, as I cannot recollect his
words, I must give this romance of rustic life in my
own, taking a new chapter for it.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
Sudden partings, such as press,
The life from out young hearts; and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated, who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes—
Byron.
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Henry Beckworth, the eldest son of a Massachusetts
farmer, of small means and many mouths,
was glad to accept a situation as clerk in the comprehensive
“variety store” of his cousin Ellis Irving, who
was called a great merchant in the neighbouring town
of Langton. This cousin Ellis had fallen into the dangerous
and not very usual predicament of having every
body's good word; and it was not until he had failed in
business, that any one discovered that he had a fault
in the world.
While he was yet in his hey-day, and before the
world knew that he had been so good-natured as to endorse
for his wife's harum-scarum brother, his clerk,
Henry Beckworth, had never dared to acknowledge,
even in his dreams, that he loved to very dizziness his
sweet cousin Agnes Irving. But when mortification
and apoplexy had done their work upon Mr. Irving,
and his delicate wife had ascertained that the remnant
of her days must pass in absolute poverty, dependant
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for food and raiment upon her daughter's needle, Henry
found his wits and his tongue, and made so good use of
both, that, ere long, his cousin Agnes did not deny that
she liked him very well.
Now young ladies who have been at boarding-school
and learned to paint water-melons in water colours,
and work Rebecca at the well in chenille and gold
thread, find real, thrifty, housewifely sewing, very slow
and hard work, to earn even bread and salt by; but the
dove-eyed Agnes had been the sole care and pride of
a genuine New England housewife, who could make
hard gingerbread as well as soft, and who had plumed
herself on being able to put every stitch into six fine
shirts between Sunday evening and Saturday night.
And so the fair child, though delicately bred, earned
her mother's living and her own, with cheerful and
ungrudging industry; and Henry sent all the surplus
of his clerkly gains to his father, who sometimes found
the cry of “crowdie, crowdie, a' the day,” rather difficult
to pacify.
But by-and-bye, Mrs. Irving became so feeble that
Agnes was obliged to nurse her instead of plying her
skilful needle; and then matters went far astray, so
that after a while the kind neighbours brought in almost
all that was consumed in that sad little household;
Henry Beckworth being then out of employ, and unable
for the time to find any way of aiding his cousin, save
by his personal services in the sick-room.
He grew almost mad under his distress, and the
anxious, careful love which is the nursling of poverty,
and at length seeing Mrs. Irving's health a little
amended, he gave a long, sad, farewell kiss to his
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Agnes, and left her with an assurance that she should hear
from him soon. He dared not tell her that he was
quitting her to go to sea, in order that he might have
immediate command of a trifling sum which he could
devote to her service.
He made his way to the nearest sea-port, secured a
berth before the mast in a vessel about to sail for the
East Indies; and then put into a letter all the love, and
hope, and fear, and caution, and encouragement, and
resolution, and devotedness, that one poor sheet could
carry, giving the precious document into the care of a
Langton man, who was returning “direct,” as he said,
to the spot where poor Henry had left his senses.
This said letter told Agnes, among other things, how
and when to draw on Messrs.—, for Henry's wages,
which were left subject to her order—and the lover
went to sea, with a heavy heart indeed, but with a comforting
security that he had done all that poverty would
let him, for the idol of his heart.
An East India voyage is very long, and most people
experience many a changing mood and many a wayward
moment during its course; but Henry Beckworth's
heart beat as if it would burst his blue jacket,
when he found himself on shore again, and thought of
what awaited him at Langton.
He called on Messrs.—, to ascertain whether
any thing remained of his pay, and found that every
dollar was untouched. At first this angered him a
little; “for,” as he justly argued, “if Agnes loved me
as I love her—but, never mind!” This I give as a fair
specimen of his thoughts on his homeward journey.
All his contemplations, however incoherent or wide of
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the mark, came invariably to one conclusion—that
Agnes would surely be willing to marry him, poor as he
was, rather than he should go to sea again.
It was evening, and a very dull, lead-coloured evening,
when the stage that contained our lover stopped at
the only public-house in Langton. The True Blue
Hotel, kept, as the oval sign which creaked by its side
informed the grateful public, by Job Jephson, (at this
moment J. Jephson, Esquire, of Tinkerville, in
Michigan,) the very Job Jephson to whose kindly care
Henry had committed his parting letter. The stage
passed on, and Mr. Beckworth paced the tesselated
floor of Mr. Jephson's bar-room, until the worthy proprietor
and himself were left its sole occupants.
“Why, Henry, my boy, is that you? Do tell!
Why your hat was slouched over your eyes so, that I
did not know you! Why, man! where on airth have
you sprung from!”
Henry asked after every body, and then after Agnes
Irving and her mother.
“Agnes Irving!”
“Dead!” said Henry, wildly enough.
“Dead! no, married to be sure! three months ago;
and this very day a week ago, her mother was buried.”
It is really surprising how instantaneously pride
comes to one's aid on some occasions. The flashing
thought of the loved one's death, had been anguish intolerable
and inconcealable; the certainty of what was
far worse only blanched Henry's cheek, and set his
teeth firmly together while his lips questioned on, and
the loquacious host of the True Blue proceeded.
“Poor Agnes saw hard times after you went away.
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She had to give up the house you left her in, and take a
room at Mr. Truesdell's. And then Mrs. Irving did
nothing but pine after the comforts she had lost, for
her mind was kind o' broke up by trouble. And
Agnes tried to find some other place to board, because
her mother took such an awful dislike to Mrs. Truesdell;
but there wasn't nobody willing to take them in,
because the old lady was so particular. And so, John
Harrington—you know John?—made up to her again,
though she 'd refused him two or three times before;
and said he loved her better than ever, and that he
would take her mother home and do for her as if she
was his own. Now, you see, the neighbours had got
pretty much tired of sending in things, because they
thought Aggy oughtn't to refuse such a good offer, and
so after a while John got her. After all the poor old
lady did not seem to enjoy her new home, but pined
away faster than ever, and said she knew Aggy had
sold herself for her sake, but that was only a notion
you know, for John was an excellent match for a
poor—”
“Did you give my cousin the letter I handed you?”
interrupted Henry.
“I'll just tell you all about that,” responded Mr.
Jephson, complacently drawing a chair for Henry, and
inviting him to sit, as if for a long story. “I'll just tell
you how that was. When you and I parted that time, I
thought I was all ready for a start home; but there was a
chance turned up to spekilate a little, and arter that I
went down South to trade away some notions, so that
when I got back to Langton it was quite cold weather,
and I took off my best coat and laid it away, for where's
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the use of wearing good clothes under a great coat, you
know? and there, to be sure was your letter in the
pocket of it. Well, before I found it again Agnes was
getting ready to be married; and, thinks I to myself,
like enough it's a love-letter, and might break off the
match if she go it, gals are so foolish! so I just locked
up the letter and said nothing to nobody and”—
there lay Mr. Jephson on his bar-room floor.
Henry turned from the place with some glimmering
of an intention to seek his lost love and tell her all, but
one moment's lapse cured this madness; so he only
sat down and looked at Job, who was picking himself
up and talking all the while.
“Man alive! what do you put yourself into such a
plaquy passion for? I done it all for the best; and as
to forgetting, who does not forget sometimes? Plague
take you! you've given my back such a wrench I
sha' n't be able to go to trainin' to-morrow, and tore my
pantaloons besides; and, arter all, you may likely thank
me for it as long as you live. There's as good fish in
the sea as ever was caught—but I swan! you're as
white as the wall, and no mistake,” and he caught the
poor soul as he was falling from his chair.
“Well, now, if this does n't beat cock-fighting!”
muttered he, as he laid his insensible guest at full length
on the floor and ran to the bar for some “camphire,”
which he administered in all haste, “to take on so about
a gal without a cent, but he wont come to after all,
and I shall have to bleed him:” saying which he pulled
off one sleeve of Henry's jacket and proceeded in due
form to the operation.
“He wont bleed, I vow! Hang the fellow! if he
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dies, I shall be took up for manslaughter. Why, Harry,
I say!” shaking him soundly, and dragging at his
arm with no gentle force. At last blood came slowly,
and Beckworth became once more conscious of misery,
and Mr. Jephson's tongue set out as if fresh oiled by
the relief of his fears for his own safety.
“Now, Henry, do n't make such a fool of yourself!
You always used to be a fellow of some sconce. What
can't be cured must be endured.” But as Henry's lips
resumed their colour, and he raised himself from the
floor, Mr. Jephson's habitual prudence urged him farther
and farther from the reach of the well arm. His
fears were groundless, however, for all that Henry now
wanted was to be alone, that he might weep like a
woman.
“Promise me that you will never tell any one that
I have been here this night,” said he at length; “this
is all I ask. Since Agnes is another man's wife, God
forbid I should wish my name mentioned in her presence.”
“Why, law! I'll promise that, to be sure; but you
should n't make so much out o' nothing: Aggy has
got the best house in town, and every thing comfortable;
and it a' n't no ways likely she would fret after
you.” And with this comforting assurance Henry
prepared for departure.
“I say, Beckworth!” said Mr. Jephson as his guest
left the room with his valise; “I sha' n't charge you
anything for the bleeding.”
-- 159 --
CHAPTER XXV.
Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree the Phœnix' throne; one Phœnix
At this hour reigning there. * * I'll believe both,
And what else doth want credit, come to me
And I'll be sworn 't is true.
Shakspeare.—Tempest.
[figure description] Page 159.[end figure description]
The windows of heaven were opened that night.
The rain descended in sheets instead of drops; and it
was only by an occasional flash of paly lightning that
our unfortunate was able to find the house which he
well recollected for John Harrington's. There it was
in all its fresh whiteness and greenness, and its deep
masses of foliage, and its rich screens of honeysuckle
and sweet-briar, meet residence for a happy bridegroom
and his new-found treasure. The upper half of the
parlour shutters was unclosed, and plainly by the clear
bright lamp-light could Henry see the delicate papering
of the walls, and the pretty French clock under its
glass shade on the mantel-piece. Oh! for one glance at
the table, near which he felt sure Agnes was sitting.
Wild thoughts of the old song—
We took but ae kiss, an' we tore ourselves away.
Were coursing through his brain, and he was
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deliberating upon the chance that the end window, which looked
on a piazza, might be free from the envious shutter,
when a man ran against him in the dark. The
next flash showed a great-coated figure entering the
pretty rural gate to the little shrubbery; and in another
moment the hall-door opened. Henry saw the
interior, light and cheerful; and again all was dark.
It would have been very wrong to set the house on
fire and then go and murder Job Jephson; and as
Henry could not at the moment decide upon any other
course of conduct, which would be at all in unison
with his feelings, he set out, a human loco-motive at the
top-speed, in the very teeth of the storm, on his way
towards the sea-port again. The worse one feels, the
faster one travels, hoping to outrun sorrow; so it did
not take Henry Beckworth long to reach a neighbouring
town, where he could find a stage-coach; and he
was far at sea again in the course of a very few days.
His outre-mer adventures are of no importance to
my story—how, as he stood with two or three messmates,
staring, like a true Yankee, at the Tower of
London, a press-gang seized them all, and rowed them
to a vessel which lay off the Traitor's Gate, the Americans
protesting themselves such, and the John Bulls
laughing at them;—how, when they got on board the
man o' war, they showed their protections, and the
officer of his Majesty's recruiting service said he could
do nothing in the case till the ship returned from her
cruize—and how the ship did not return from her
cruize, but after cruizing about for some three years or
more, was taken by a French first-rate and carried into
Brest. All this is but little to the purpose. But when
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Henry was thrown into a French prison, his American
certificate procured his release through the consul's
good offices, and he shipped at once for New-York,
somewhat weary of a sea life.
At New-York he learned from a townsman whom he
met there that Agnes Harrington had been two years
a window.
“Is she rich?” asked Henry. A strange question
for a true lover.
“Rich!—Lord bless ye! John Harrington was n't
worth that;” snapping his fingers most expressively.
His property was under mortgage to such an extent,
that all it would sell for would n't clear it. His widow
and child will not have a cent after old Horner forecloses,
as he is now about doing. And Mrs. Harrington's
health is very poor, though to my thinking she's
prettier than ever.”
Henry's movements were but little impeded by baggage,
and the journey to Langton was performed in a
short time. Once more was he set down at Job Jephson's;
and there was day-light enough this time to see,
besides the oval sign before hinted at, which had for
years held out hopes of “Entertainment for man and
beast,” a legend over the door in great white characters,
“Post Office,”—“good business for Job,” thought
Henry Beckworth,—a board in one window setting
forth, “Drugs and Medicines,” and a card in the other,
“Tailoring done here.”
Slight salutation contented Henry, when the man of
letters made his appearance, and he requested a horse to
carry him as far as his father's, saying he would send
for his trunk in the morning. Mr. Jephson made
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some little difficulty and delay, but Henry seemed in
fiery haste. In truth he hated the sight of Job beyond
all reason; but that complacent personage seemed to
have forgotten, very conveniently, all former passages
in that memorable bar-room.
“You do n't ask after your old friends, Harry,” said
he. “A good many things has altered here since I see
you last. You came that time a little too late.”
Henry looked dirks at the fellow, but he went on as
coldly as ever.
“Now this time, to my thinkin', you've come a
leetle too soon.”
Henry tried not to ask him what he meant; but for
his life he could not help it.
“Why, I mean, if John Harrington's widow has not
more sense than I think she has, you've come in time
to spoil a good match.”
“A match!” was all Henry could say.
“Aye, a match; for Colonel Boon came from there
yesterday, and sent for old Horner here to this blessed
house, and took up the mortgage on Harrington's property;
and every body knows he has been after Aggy
this twelvemonth, offering to marry her and clear the
property, and do well by the child. And if there's a
good man on airth, Boon is that man, and every body
knows it.”
What did Henry Beckworth now? He un-ordered
his horse, and went quietly to bed.
-- 163 --
CHAPTER XXVI.
There are thoughts that our burden can lighten,
Though toilsome and steep be the way
And dreams that like moon-light can brighten
With a lustre far clearer than day.
Love nursed amid pleasures is faithless as they,
But the love born of sorrow, like sorrow, is true.
Moore.
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Henry Beckworth came from the hand of Nature
abundantly furnished with that excellent qualification
known and revered throughout New England, under
the expressive name of “spunk”. This quality at first
prompted him, spite of the croakings of the ill-omened
Job, to present himself before the one only object of his
constant soul, to tell her all, and to ask her to share
with him the weal or wo which might yet be in store
for him. But he had now seen a good deal of this excellent
world, and the very indifferent people who
transact its affairs. He had tasted the tender mercies
of a British man of war, and the various agré,mens of a
French prison; and the practical conclusion which had
gradually possessed itself of his mind, was, that money
is, beyond all dispute, one of the necessaries of life.
No way of making money off-hand occurred to him
as he tossed and groaned through the endless hours of
that weary night. He had neither house nor land, nor
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yet a lottery ticket—nor a place under government—
and the chest which stood at his bed-side, though it
contained enough of this world's goods to keep his fair
proportions from the weather; and a sea-journal—a
love-log—which he hoped might one day, by some romantic
chance, come into the fair hands of his beloved,
and give her to guess how his sad life had passed—held
as he well knew, nothing which she could in anywise
eat, or that she would be probably willing, under any
contingency to put on.
I feel proud of my hero. He was “a man of deeds,
not words.” He loved Agnes so well, that before morning
shone on his haggard cheek, he had determined
to turn his back forever on the home of his youth, the
scene of his first love-dream; and to seek his dark fortune
far away from the place which held all that his
heart prized on earth.
This resolution once taken, he arose and addressed
himself to his sad journey, waiting only the earliest
beam of light before he awakened Mr. Jephson. This
worthy commended much his prudent course, and recommended
a long voyage; an attempt to discover the
North-West Passage, or to ascertain the truth of Capt.
Symmes' theory; to take the nonsense out of him and
make a little money.
For five long years did Henry Beckworth box the
compass; five years of whaling voyages and all their
attendant hardships—and when at the end of that time
he retouched his native shore, richer than he had ever
been before in his life, he heard, as the reader will no
doubt anticipate, that Agnes Boon was again unmated;
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her worthy Colonel having been killed by a fall from
his horse in less than two years from his marriage.
Yet did our phœnix of lovers approach the village
which he had vowed never to see again, with many
more misgivings than he had experienced on former
occasions. Years and a rough life he was well aware
had changed him much. He thought of his Agnes,
fair and graceful as a snow-drop, and feared lest his
weather-beaten visage might find no favour in her eyes.
Yet he determined that this time nothing, not even
that screech-owl Job Jephson, should prevent him from
seeing her, face to face, and learning his fate from her
own lips.
He approached Langton by a road that passed not
near the detested house of man and horse entertainment,
and was just emerging from a thick grove which skirted
the village on that side, when he came near riding
over a man who seemed crouched on the ground as if
in search of something, and muttering to himself the
while. The face that turned hastily round was Job
Jephson's.
“Why, it a'n't! Yes, I'll be switched if it is n't
Harry Beckworth rose from the dead!” said this fated
tormentor; and he fastened himself on the bridle-rein
in such sort, that Henry could not rid himself of his
company without switching him in good earnest.
“Here was I, lookin' up some little things for my
steam doctorin' business,” said Mr. Jephson, “and
little thinkin' of any body in the world; and you
must come along jist like a sperrit. But I've a notion
you've hit it about right this time. I s'pose you know
Aggy's a rich widow by this time, do n't ye?”
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Henry vouchsafed no reply, though he found it very
difficult to maintain a dignified reserve, when so many
questions were clustering on his lips. But it was all
one to Job—question or no question, answer or no answer,
he would talk on, and on, and on.
“I'll tell ye what,” he continued, “I should n't wonder
if Aggy looked higher now, for she's a good spec for
any man. I see you've smarted up a good deal, but
don't be cock-sure—for there's others that would be
glad to take her and her two children. I've been a
thinkin' myself—”
And now Henry gave Job such a switch across the
knuckles as effectually cleared the bridle, and changed
the current of the steam-doctor's thoughts. In half an
hour he rang at Mrs. Boon's door, and was ushered at
once into her presence.
“Mr. Beckworth, ma'am,” said the little waiting-maid
as she threw open the parlour door.
Agnes, the beloved, rose from her seat—sat down
again—tried to speak, and burst into tears; while Henry
looked on her countenance—changed indeed, but
still lovely in matronly dignity—more fondly than in
the days of his lighter youthful love; and seating himself
beside her, began at the wrong end of the story, as
most people do in such cases, talking as if it were a
thing of
couse that his twice-widowed love should become
his wife.
“Marry again! oh, never!”—that was entirely out
of the question; and she wiped her eyes and asked her
cousin to stay to dinner. But Henry deferred his ultimatum
on this important point, till he should have ravelled
out the whole web of his past life before the
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dewy eyes of his still fair mistress, till he should tell
her all his love—no, that he could never fully tell, but
some of the proofs of it at least, and that first horrible
forget of Job Jephson's. And when this was told in
many words, Agnes, all sighs and tears, still said no, but
so much more faintly that Mr. Beckworth thought he
would stay to dinner. And then—but why should I
tell the rest, when the reader of my true-love story
has already seen Mrs. Beckworth like a fair though
full-blown China-rose—Mr. Beckworth with bien content
written on every line of his handsome middle-aged
face—Mary Jane Harrington a comely marriageable
lass, and George Boon a strapping youth of eighteen—
all flourishing on an oak opening in the depths of
Michigan?
Let none imagine that this tale of man's constancy
must be the mere dream of my fancy. I acknowledge
nothing but the prettinesses. To Henry Beckworth
himself I refer the incredulous, and if they do
not recognize my story in his, I cannot help it. Even
a woman can do no more than her best.
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CHAPTER XXVII.
Smelling so sweetly (all musk,) and so rushling, I warrant
you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant terms.
Shakspeare.—Merry Wives of Windsor.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Shakspeare
My brain's in a fever, my pulses beat quick
I shall die, or at least be exceedingly sick!
Oh what do you think! after all my romancing
My visions of glory, my sighing, my glancing—
Miss Biddy Fudge.
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An addition to our Montacute first circle had lately
appeared in the person of Miss Eloise Fidler, an elder
sister of Mrs. Rivers, who was to spend some months
“in this peaceful retreat,”—to borrow one of her favourite
expressions.
This young lady was not as handsome as she would
fain have been, if I may judge by the cataracts of ashcoloured
ringlets which shaded her cheeks, and the exceeding
straitness of the stays which restrained her
somewhat exuberant proportions. Her age was at a
stand; but I could never discover exactly where, for
this point proved an exception to the general communicativeness
of her disposition. I guessed it at eight-and-twenty;
but perhaps she would have judged this
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uncharitable, so I will not insist. Certain it is that it
must have taken a good while to read as many novels
and commit to memory as much poetry, as lined the
head and exalted the sensibilities of our fair visitant.
Her dress was in the height of fashion, and all her
accoutrements point de vice. A gold pencil-case of the
most delicate proportions was suspended by a kindred
chain round a neck which might be called whity-brown;
and a note-book of corresponding lady-like-ness
was peeping from the pocket of her highly-useful apron
of blue silk—ever ready to secure a passing thought or
an elegant quotation. Her album—she was just the
person to have an album—was resplendent in gold and
satin, and the verses which meandered over its emblazoned
pages were of the most unexceptionable quality,
overlaid with flowers and gems—love and despair. To
find any degree of appropriateness in these various
offerings, one must allow the fortunate possessor of
the purple volume, at least all the various perfections of
an Admirable Crichton, allayed in some small measure
by the trifling faults of coldness, fickleness, and deceit;
and to judge of Miss Fidler's friends by their hand-writing,
they must have been able to offer an edifying
variety of bumps to the fingers of the phrenologist.
But here is the very book itself at my elbow, waiting
these three months, I blush to say, for a contribution
which has yet to be pumped up from my unwilling
brains; and I have a mind to steal a few specimens
from its already loaded pages, for the benefit of the distressed,
who may, like myself, be at their wits' end for
something to put in just such a book.
The first page, rich with embossed lilies, bears the
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invocation, written in a great black spattering hand,
and wearing the air of a defiance. It runs thus:
If among the names of the stainless few
Thine own hath maintain'd a place,
Come dip thy pen in the sable dew
And with it this volume grace.
But oh! if thy soul e'er encouraged a thought
Which purity's self might blame,
Close quickly the volume, and venture not
To sully its snows with thy name.
Then we come to a wreath of flowers of gorgeous hues,
within whose circle appears in a miminee piminee hand,
evidently a young lady's—
THE WREATH OF SLEEP.
Oh let me twine this glowing wreath
Amid those rings of golden hair,
'T will soothe thee with its odorous breath
To sweet forgetfulness of care.
'T is form'd of every scented flower
That flings its fragrance o'er the night;
And gifted with a fairy power
To fill thy dreams with forms of light.
'T was braided by an angel boy
When fresh from Paradise he came
To fill our earth-born hearts with joy—
Ah! need I tell the cherub's name?
This contributor I have settled in my own mind to be a
descendant of Anna Matilda, the high-priestess of the
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Della Cruscan order. The next blazon is an interesting
view of a young lady, combing her hair. As she
seems not to have been long out of bed, the lines which
follow are rather appropriate, though I feel quite sure
they come from the expert fingers of a merchant's clerk—
from the finished elegance, and very sweeping tails
of the chirography.
MORNING,
Awake! arise! art thou slumbering still?
When the sun is above the mapled hill,
And the shadows are flitting fast away,
And the dews are diamond beneath his ray,
And every bird in our vine-roofed bower
Is waked into song by the joyous hour;
Come, banish sleep from thy gentle eyes,
Sister! sweet sister! awake! arise!
Yet I love to gaze on thy lids of pearl,
And to mark the wave of the single curl
That shades in its beauty thy brow of snow,
And the cheek that lies like a rose below;
And to list to the murmuring notes that fall
From thy lips, like music in fairy hall.
But it must not be—the sweet morning flies
Ere thou hast enjoyed it; awake! arise!
There is balm on the wings of this freshen'd air;
'T will make thine eye brighter, thy brow more fair,
And a deep, deep rose on thy cheek shall be
The meed of an early walk with me.
We will seek the shade by the green hill side,
Or follow the clear brook's whispering tide;
And brush the dew from the violet's eyes—
Sister! sweet sister! awake! arise!
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This I transcribe for the good advice which it contains.
And what have we here? It is tastefully headed
by an engraving of Hero and Ursula in the
“pleached bower,” and Beatrice running “like a lapwing”
in the background. It begins ominously.
TO—
Oh, look upon this pallid brow!
Say, canst thou there discern one trace
Of that proud soul which oft ere now
Thou'st sworn shed radiance o'er my face?
Chill'd is that soul—its darling themes,
Thy manly honour, virtue, truth
Prove now to be but fleeting dreams,
Like other lovely thoughts of youth.
Meet, if thy coward spirit dare,
This sunken eye; say, dost thou see
The rays thou saidst were sparkling there
When first its gaze was turn'd on thee?
That eye's young light is quench'd forever;
No change its radiance can repair:
Will Joy's keen touch relume it? Never!
It gleams the watch-light of Despair.
I find myself growing hoarse by sympathy, and I
shall venture only a single extract more, and this because
Miss Fidler declares it, without exception, the
sweetest thing she ever read. It is written with a
crow-quill, and has other marks of femininity. Its
vignette is a little girl and boy playing at battle-door.
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BALLAD.
The deadly strife was over, and across the field of fame,
With anguish in his haughty eye, the Moor Almanzor came;
He prick'd his fiery courser on among the scatter'd dead,
Till he came at last to what he sought, a sever'd human head.
It might have seem'd a maiden's, so pale it was, and fair;
But the lip and chin were shaded till they match'd the raven hair.
There lingered yet upon the brow a spirit bold and high,
And the stroke of death had scarcely closed the piercing eagle eye.
Almanzor grasp'd the flowing locks, and he staid not in his flight,
Till he reach'd a lonely castle's gate where stood a lady bright.
“Inez! behold thy paramour!” he loud and sternly cried,
And threw his ghastly burdeu down, close at the lady's side.
“I sought thy bower at even-tide, thou syren, false as fair!”
“And, would that I had rather died! I found yon stripling there.
“I turn'd me from the hated spot, but I swore by yon dread
Heaven,
“To know no rest until my sword the traitor's life had riven.”
The lady stood like stone until he turn'd to ride away,
And then she oped her marble lips, and wildly thus did say:
“Alas, alas! thou cruel Moor, what is it thou hast done!
“This was my brother Rodriguez, my father's only son.”
And then before his frenzied eyes, like a crush'd lily bell,
Lifeless upon the bleeding head, the gentle Inez fell.
He drew his glittering ataghan—he sheath'd it in his side—
And for his Spanish ladye-love the Moor Almanzor died.
This is not a very novel incident, but young ladies
like stories of love and murder, and Miss Fidler's tastes
were peculiarly young-lady-like. She praised Ainsworth
and James, but thought Bulwer's works “very
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immoral,” though I never could discover that she had
more than skimmed the story from any of them.
Cooper she found “pretty;” Miss Sedgwick, “pretty
well, only her characters are such common sort of
people.”
Miss Fidler wrote her own poetry, so that she had
ample employment for her time while with us in the
woods. It was unfortunate that she could not walk
out much on account of her shoes. She was obliged
to make out with diluted inspiration. The nearest approach
she usually made to the study of Nature, was to
sit on the wood-pile, under a girdled tree, and there,
with her gold pencil in hand, and her “eyne, grey as
glas,” rolled upwards, poefy by the hour. Several
people, and especially one marriageable lady of a certain
age, felt afraid Miss Fidler was “kind o' crazy.”
And, standing marvel of Montacute, no guest at
morning or night ever found the fair Eloise ungloved.
Think of it! In the very wilds to be always like a cat
in nutshells, alone useless where all are so busy! I
do not wonder our good neighbours thought the damsel
a little touched. And then her shoes! “Saint
Crispin Crispianus” never had so self-sacrificing a votary.
No shoemaker this side of New-York could
make a sole papery enough; no tannery out of France
could produce materials for this piece of exquisite feminine
foppery. Eternal imprisonment within doors,
except in the warmest and driest weather, was indeed
somewhat of a price to pay, but it was ungrudged.
The sofa and its footstool, finery and novels, would
have made a delicious world for Miss Eloise Fidler,
if—
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But, alas! “all this availeth me nothing,” has been
ever the song of poor human nature. The mention of
that unfortunate name includes the only real, personal,
pungent distress which had as yet shaded the lot of my
interesting heroine. Fidler! In the mortification adhering
to so unpoetical, so unromantic, so inelegant a
surname—a name irredeemable even by the highly
classical elegance of the Eloise, or as the fair lady herself
pronounced it, “Elovees;” in this lay all her wo;
and the grand study of her life had been to sink this
hated cognomen in one more congenial to her taste.
Perhaps this very anxiety had defeated itself; at any
rate, here she was at—I did not mean to touch on
the ungrateful guess again, but at least at mateable
years; neither married, nor particularly likely to be
married.
Mrs. Rivers was the object of absolute envy to the
pining Eloise. “Anna had been so fortunate,” she
said; “Rivers was the sweetest name! and Harley
was such an elegant fellow!”
We thought poor Anna had been any thing but fortunate.
She might better have been Fidler or Fiddle-string
all her life than to have taken the name of an
indifferent and dissipated husband. But not so thought
Miss Fidler. It was not long after the arrival of the
elegant Eloise, that the Montacute Lyceum held its
first meeting in Mr. Simeon Jenkins's shop, lighted by
three candles, supported by candelabra of scooped potatoes;
Mr. Jenkins himself sitting on the head of a
barrel, as president. At first the debates of the institute
were held with closed doors; but after the youthful
or less practised speakers had tried their powers for
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a few evenings, the Lyceum was thrown open to the
world every Tuesday evening, at six o'clock. The list
of members was not very select as to age, character,
or standing; and it soon included the entire gentility
of the town, and some who scarce claimed rank elsewhere.
The attendance of the ladies was particularly
requested; and the whole fair sex of Montacute made
a point of showing occasionally the interest they undoubtedly
felt in the gallant knights who tilted in this
field of honour.
But I must not be too diffuse—I was speaking of
Miss Fidler. One evening—I hope that beginning
prepares the reader for something highly interesting—
one evening the question to be debated was the equally
novel and striking one which regards the comparative
mental capacity of the sexes; and as it was expected
that some of the best speakers on both sides
would be drawn out by the interesting nature of the
subject, every body was anxious to attend.
Among the rest was Miss Fidler, much to the surprise
of her sister and myself, who had hitherto been so
unfashionable as to deny ourselves this gratification.
“What new whim possesses you, Eloise?” said Mrs.
Rivers; “you who never go out in the day-time.”
“Oh, just per passy le tong,” said the young lady,
who was a great French scholar; and go she would
and did.
The debate was interesting to absolute breathlessness,
both of speakers and hearers, and was gallantly
decided in favour of the fair by a youthful member who
occupied the barrel as president for the evening. He
gave it as his decided opinion, that if the natural and
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social disadvantages under which woman laboured and
must ever continue to labour, could be removed; if their
education could be entirely different, and their position
in society the reverse of what it is at present, they
would be very nearly, if not quite, equal to the nobler
sex, in all but strength of mind, in which very useful
quality it was his opinion that man would still have
the advantage, especially in those communities whose
energies were developed by the aid of debating societies.
This decision was hailed with acclamations, and as
soon as the question for the ensuing debate,” which is
the more useful animal the ox or the ass?” was announced,
Miss Eloise Fidler returned home to rave of
the elegant young man who sat on the barrel, whom
she had decided to be one of “Nature's aristocracy,”
and whom she had discovered to bear the splendid appellative
of Dacre. “Edward Dacre,” said she, “for
I heard the rude creature Jenkins call him Ed.”
The next morning witnessed another departure from
Miss Fidler's usual habits. She proposed a walk; and
observed that she had never yet bought an article at
the store, and really felt as if she ought to purchase
something. Mrs. Rivers chancing to be somewhat occupied,
Miss Fidler did me the honour of a call, as she
could not think of walking without a chaperon.
Behind the counter at Skinner's I saw for the first
time a spruce clerk, a really well-looking young man,
who made his very best bow to Miss Fidler, and served
us with much assiduity. The young lady's purchases
occupied some time, and I was obliged gently to hint
home-affairs before she could decide between two pieces
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of muslin, which she declared to be so nearly alike,
that it was almost impossible to say which was the
best.
When we were at length on our return, I was closely
questioned as to my knowledge of “that gentleman,”
and on my observing that he seemed to be a very decent
young man, Miss Fidler warmly justified him
from any such opinion, and after a glowing eulogium
on his firm countenance, his elegant manners and
his grace as a debater, concluded by informing me, as
if to cap the climax, that his name was Edward Dacre.
I had thought no more of the matter for some time,
though I knew Mr. Dacre had become a frequent visitor
at Mr. Rivers', when Mrs. Rivers came to me one morning
with a perplexed brow, and confided to me her sisterly
fears that Eloise was about to make a fool of herself,
as she had done more than once before.
“My father,” she said, “hoped in this remote corner
of creation Eloise might forget her nonsense and act
like other people; but I verily believe she is bent upon
encouraging this low fellow, whose principal charm in
her bewildered eyes is his name.
“His name?” said I, “pray explain;” for I had
not then learned all the boundless absurdity of this new
Cherubina's fancies.”
“Edward Dacre?” said my friend, “this is what
enchants my sister, who is absolutely mad on the subject
of her own homely appellation.”
“Oh, is that all?” said I, “send her to me, then;
and I engage to dismiss her cured.”
And Miss Fidler came to spend the day. We talked
of all novels without exception, and all poetry of all
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magazines, and Miss Fidler asked me if I had read
the “Young Duke.” Upon my confessing as much, she
asked my opinion of the heroine, and then if I had
ever heard so sweet a name. “May Dacre—May
Dacre,” she repeated, as if to solace her delighted
ears.
“Only think how such names are murdered in this
country,” said I, tossing carelessly before her an account
of Mr. Skinner's which bore, “Edkins Daker”
below the receipt. I never saw a change equal to that
which seemed to “come o'er the spirit of her dream.”
I went on with my citations of murdered names, telling
how Rogers was turned into Rudgers, Conway into
Coniway, and Montague into Montaig, but poor Miss
Fidler was no longer in talking mood; and, long before
the day was out, she complained of a head-ache
and returned to her sister's. Mr. Daker found her
“not at home” that evening; and when I called next
morning, the young lady was in bed, steeping her
long ringlets in tears, real tears.
To hasten to the catastrophe: it was discovered ere
long that Mr. Edkins Daker's handsome face, and
really pleasant manners, had fairly vanquished Miss
Fidler's romance, and she had responded to his professions
of attachment with a truth and sincerity,
which while it vexed her family inexpressibly, seemed
to me to atone for all her follies. Mr. Daker's prospects
were by no means despicable, since a small capital
employed in merchandize in Michigan, is very apt
to confer upon the industrious and fortunate possesser
that crowning charm, without which handsome faces,
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and even handsome names, are quite worthless in our
Western eyes.
Some little disparity of age existed between Miss
Fidler and her adorer; but this was conceded by all
to be abundantly made up by the superabounding gentility
of the lady; and when Mr. Daker returned from
New-York with his new stock of goods and his stylish
bride, I thought I had seldom seen a happier or better
mated couple. And at this present writing, I do not
believe Eloise, with all her whims, would exchange
her very nice Edkins for the proudest Dacre of the
British Peerage.
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CHAPTER XXVIII.
By sports like these are all their cares beguiled,
The sports of children satisfy the child;
Each nobler aim, repress'd by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind.
Goldsmith.—Traveller.
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There is in our vicinity one class of settlers whose
condition has always been inexplicable to me. They
seem to work hard, to dress wretchedly, and to live in
the most uncomfortable style in all respects, apparently
denying themselves and their families every thing beyond
the absolute necessaries of life. They complain
most bitterly of poverty. They perform the severe
labour which is shunned by their neighbours; they
purchase the coarsest food, and are not too proud to
ask for an old coat or a pair of cast boots, though it is
always with the peculiar air of dignity and “dont
care,” which is characteristic of the country.
Yet instead of increasing their means by these penurious
habits, they grow poorer every day. Their
dwellings are more and more out of repair. There
are more and more shingles in the windows, old hats
and red petticoats cannot be spared; and an increasing
dearth of cows, pigs, and chickens. The daughters
go to service, and the sons “chore round” for every
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body and any body; and even the mamma, the centre
of dignity, is fain to go out washing by the day.
A family of this description had fallen much under
our notice. The father and his stout sons had performed
a good deal of hard work in our service, and
the females of the family had been employed on many
occasions when “help” was scarce. Many requests
for cast articles, or those of trifling value had been
proffered during the course of our acquaintance; and
in several attacks of illness, such comforts as our house
afforded had been frequently sought, though no visit
was ever requested.
They had been living through the summer in a
shanty, built against a sloping bank, with a fire-place
dug in the hill-side, and a hole pierced through the
turf by way of chimney. In this den of some twelve
feet square, the whole family had burrowed since April;
but in October, a log-house of the ordinary size was
roofed in, and though it had neither door nor window,
nor chimney, nor hearth, they removed, and felt much
elated with the change. Something like a door was
soon after swinging on its leathern hinges, and the old
man said they were now quite comfortable, though he
should like to get a window!
The first intelligence we received from them after
this, was that Mr. Newland, the father, was dangerously
ill with inflammation of the lungs. This was
not surprising, for a quilt is but a poor substitute for a
window during a Michigan November. A window
was supplied, and such alleviations as might be collected,
were contributed by several of the neighbours.
The old man lingered on, much to my surprise, and
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after two or three weeks we heard that he was better,
and would be able to “kick round” pretty soon.
It was not long after, that we were enjoying the fine
sleighing, which is usually so short-lived in this lakey
region. The roads were not yet much beaten, and we
had small choice in our drives, not desiring the troublesome
honour of leading the way. It so happened that
we found ourselves in the neighbourhood of Mr. Newland's
clearing; and though the sun was low, we
thought we might stop a moment to ask how the old
man did.
We drove to the door, and so noiseless was our
approach, guiltless of bells, that no one seemed aware
of our coming. We tapped, and heard the usual reply,
“Walk!” which I used to think must mean “Walk
off.”
I opened the door very softly, fearing to disturb the
sick man; but I found this caution quite mal-apropos.
Mrs. Newland was evidently in high holiday trim. The
quilts had been removed from their stations round the
bed, and the old man, shrunken and miserable-looking
enough, sat on a chair in the corner. The whole
apartment bore the marks of expected hilarity. The
logs over-head were completely shrouded by broad
hemlock boughs fastened against them; and evergreens
of various kinds were disposed in all directions, while
three tall slender candles, with the usual potato supporters,
were placed on the cupboard shelf.
On the table, a cloth seemed to cover a variety of
refreshments; and in front of this cloth stood a tin
pail, nearly full of a liquid whose odour was but too
discernible; and on the whiskey, for such it seemed,
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swam a small tin cup. But I forget the more striking
part of the picture, the sons and daughters of the house.
The former flaming in green stocks and scarlet watch-guards,
while the cut of their long dangling coats showed
that whoever they might once have fitted, they
were now exceedingly out of place; the latter decked
in tawdry, dirty finery, and wearing any look but
that of the modest country maiden, who, “in choosing
her garments, counts no bravery in the world like
decency.”
The eldest girl, Amelia, who had lived with me at
one time, had been lately at a hotel in a large village
at some distance, and had returned but a short time
before, not improved either in manners or reputation.
Her tall commanding person was arrayed in far better
taste than her sisters', and by contrast with the place
and circumstances, she wore really a splendid air.
Her dress was of rich silk, made in the extreme mode,
and set off by elegant jewelry. Her black locks were
drest with scarlet berries; most elaborate pendants of
wrought gold hung almost to her shoulders; and above
her glittering basilisk eyes, was a gold chain with a
handsome clasp of cut coral. The large hands were
covered with elegant gloves, and an embroidered handkerchief
was carefully arranged in her lap.
I have attempted to give some idea of the appearance
of things in this wretched log-hut, but I cannot
pretend to paint the confusion into which our ill-timed
visit threw the family, who had always appeared before
us in such different characters. The mother asked us
to sit down, however, and Mr. Newland muttered
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something, from which I gathered, that “the girls thought
they must have a kind of a house-warmin' like.”
We made our visit very short, of course; but before
we could make our escape, an old fellow came in with
a violin, and an ox-sled approached the door, loaded
with young people of both sexes, who were all “spilt”
into the deep snow, by a “mistake on purpose” of the
driver. In the scramble which ensued, we took leave;
wondering no longer at the destitution of the Newlands,
or of the other families of the same class, whose young
people we had recognized in the mêlée.
The Newland family did not visit us as usual after
this. There was a certain consciousness in their appearance
when we met, and the old man more than
once alluded to our accidental discovery with evident
uneasiness. He was a person not devoid of shrewdness,
and he was aware that the utter discrepancy between
his complaints, and the appearances we had witnessed,
had given us but slight opinion of his veracity;
and for some time we were almost strangers to each
other.
How was I surprised some two months after at being
called out of bed by a most urgent message from
Mrs. Newland, that Amelia, her eldest daughter, was dying!
The messenger could give no account of her
condition, but that she was now in convulsions, and
her mother despairing of her life.
I lost not a moment, but the way was long, and ere
I entered the house, the shrieks of the mother and her
children, told me I had come too late. Struck with
horror I almost hesitated whether to proceed, but the
door was opened, and I went in. Two or three
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neighbours with terrified countenances stood near the bed,
and on it lay the remains of the poor girl, swollen and
discoloured, and already so changed in appearance that
I should not have recognized it elsewhere.
I asked for particulars, but the person whom I addressed,
shook her head and declined answering; and
there was altogether an air of horror and mystery
which I was entirely unable to understand. Mrs.
Newland, in her lamentations, alluded to the suddenness
of the blow, and when I saw her a little calmed, I
begged to know how long Amelia had been ill, expressing
my surprise that I had heard nothing of it.
She turned upon me as if I had stung her.
“What, you've heard their lies too, have ye!” she exclaimed
fiercely, and she cursed in no measured terms
those who meddled with what did not concern them. I
felt much shocked: and disclaiming all intention of
wounding her feelings, I offered the needful aid, and
when all was finished, returned home uninformed as to
the manner of Amelia Newland's death.
Yet I could not avoid noticing that all was not right.
Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost
Of ashy semblance, meagre, pale and bloodless—
but the whole appearance of this sad wreck was quite
different from that of any corpse I had ever viewed before.
Nothing was done, but much said or hinted on
all sides. Rumour was busy as usual; and I have
been assured by those who ought to have warrant for
their assertions, that this was but one fatal instance
our of the many cases, wherein life was perilled in the
desperate effort to elude the “slow unmoving finger”
of public scorn.
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That the class of settlers to which the Newlands belong,
a class but too numerous in Michigan, is a vicious
and degraded one, I cannot doubt: but whether
the charge to which I have but alluded, is in any degree
just, I am unable to determine. I can only repeat,
“I say the tale as 't was said to me,” and I may
add that more than one instance of a similar kind,
though with results less evidently fatal, has since come
under my knowledge.
The Newlands have since left this part of the country,
driving off with their own, as many of their neighbours'
cattle and hogs as they could persuade to accompany
them; and not forgetting one of the train of
fierce dogs which have not only shown ample sagacity
in getting their own living, but, “gin a' tales be true,”
assisted in supporting the family by their habits of
nightly prowling.
I passed by their deserted dwelling. They had carried
off the door and window, and some boys were
busy pulling the shingles from the roof to make quailtraps.
I trust we have few such neighbours left. Texas
and the Canada was have done much for us in this
way; and the wide west is rapidly drafting off those
whom we shall regret as little as the Newlands.
-- 188 --
CHAPTER XXIX.
Something that mellows and that glorifies,
Ev'n like the soft and spiritual glow
Kindling rich woods whereon th' ethereal bow
Sleeps lovingly the while.
* * * * * * *
Swift and high
The arrowy pillars of the fire-light grew.—
Mrs. Hemans.
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As I have never made any remarkable progress in
the heights and depths of meteorology, I am unable to
speak with confidence as to the concatenation of causes
which may withhold from this fertile peninsula the
treasures of the clouds, in the early spring-time, when
our land elsewhere, is saturated even to repletion with the
“milky nutriment.” In plain terms, I cannot tell any
thing about the reason why we have such dry Springs
in Michigan, I can only advert to the fact as occasioning
scenes rather striking to the new comer.
In April, instead of the “misty-moisty morning,”
which proverbially heralds the “uncertain glory” of
the day in that much belied month, the sun, day after
day, and week after week, shows his jolly red face, at
the proper hour, little by little above the horizon, casting
a scarlet glory on the leafless trees, and investing
the well-piled brush-heaps with a burning splendour
before their time. Now and then a brisk shower
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occurs, but it is short-lived, and not very abundant; and
after being here through a season or two, one begins to
wonder that the soil is so fertile. My own private
theory is, that when the peninsula was covered with
water, as it doubtless was before the Niagara met
with such a fall, the porous mass became so thoroughly
soaked, that the sun performs the office of rain, by
drawing from below to the rich surface, the supplies of
moisture which, under ordinary circumstances, are necessarily
furnished from the aerial reservoirs. Such
are my views, which I offer with the diffidence becoming
a tyro; but at the same time avowing frankly that
I shall not even consider an opposing hypothesis, until
my antagonist shall have traversed the entire state, and
counted the marshes and cat-holes from which I triumphantly
draw my conclusion.
Leaving this question, then, I will make an effort to
regain the floating end of my broken thread. These
exceedingly dry Spring-times—all sun and a very little
east-wind—leave every tree, bush, brier and blade of
grass, dry as new tinder. They are as combustible as
the heart of a Sophomore; as ready for a blaze as a
conclave of ancient ladies who have swallowed the
first cup of Hyson, and only wait one single word to
begin.
At this very suitable time, it is one of the customs
of the country for every man that has an acre of
marsh, to burn it over, in order to prepare for a new
crop of grass; and a handful of fire thus applied, wants
but a cap-full of wind, to send it miles in any or all
directions. The decayed trees, and those which may
have been some time felled, catch the swift destruction,
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and aid the roaring flame; and while the earth seems
covered with writhing serpents of living fire, ever and
anon an undulating pyramid flares wildly upward, as
if threatening the very skies, only to fall the next moment
in crashing fragments, which serve to further the
spreading ruin.
These scenes have a terrible splendour by night; but
the effect by day is particularly curious. The air is
so filled with the widely-diffused smoke, that the soft
sunshine of April is mellowed into the ruddy glow of
Autumn, and the mist which seems to hand heavy
over the distant hills and woods, completes the illusion.
One's associations are those of approaching winter, and
it seems really a solecism to be making garden under
such a sky. But this is not all.
We were all busy in the rough, pole-fenced acre,
which we had begun to call our garden;—one with a
spade, another with a hoe or rake, and the least useful,—
videlicet, I,—with a trowel and a paper of celeryseed,
when a rough neighbour of ours shouted over the
fence:—
“What be you a potterin' there for? You 'd a
plaguy sight better be a fighting fire, I tell ye! The
wind is this way, and that fire'll be on your haystacks
in less than no time, if you don't mind.”
Thus warned, we gazed at the dark smoke which
had been wavering over the north-west all day, and
saw that it had indeed made fearful advances. But
two well-travelled roads still lay between us and the
burning marshes, and these generally prove tolerably
effectual barriers when the wind is low. So our operatives
took their way toward the scene of action,
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carrying with them the gardening implements, as the
most efficient weapons in “fighting fire.”
They had to walk a long distance, but the fire was
very obliging and advanced more than two steps to
meet them. In short, the first barrier was overleapt
before they reached the second, and the air had become
so heated that they could only use the hoes and spades
in widening the road nearest our dwelling, by scraping
away the leaves and bushes; and even there they
found it necessary to retreat more rapidly than was
consistent with a thorough performance of the work.
The winds, though light, favoured the destroyer, and
the more experienced of the neighbours, who had
turned out for the general good, declared there was
nothing now but to make a “back-fire!” So homeward
all ran, and set about kindling an opposing serpent
which should “swallow up the rest;” but it
proved too late. The flames only reached our stable
and haystacks the sooner, and all that we could now
accomplish was to preserve the cottage and its immediate
appurtenances.
I scarce remember a blanker hour. I could not be
glad that the house and horses were safe, so vexed did I
feel to think that a rational attention to the advance of
that black threatening column, would have prevented
the disaster. I sat gazing out of the back window,
watching the gradual blackening of the remains of our
stores of hay—scolding the while most vehemently, at
myself and every body else, for having been so stupidly
negligent; declaring that I should not take the
slightest interest in the garden which had so engrossed
us, and wishing most heartily that the fellow who set
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the marsh on fire, could be detected and fined “not
more than one thousand dollars,” as the law directs;
when our neighbour, long Sam Jennings, the slowest
talker in Michigan, came sauntering across the yard
with his rusty fowling-piece on his shoulder, and
drawled out—
“I should think your dam was broke some; I see
the water in the creek look dreadful muddy.” And
while Sam took his leisurely way to the woods, the tired
fire-fighters raced, one and all, to the dam, where they
found the water pouring through a hole near the head-gate,
at a rate which seemed likely to carry off the
entire structure in a very short time.
But I have purposely refrained from troubling the
reader with a detail of any of the various accidents
which attended our own particular debût, in the back-woods.
I mentioned the fire because it is an annual
occurrence throughout the country, and often consumes
wheat-stacks, and even solitary dwellings;
and I was drawn in to record the first breach in the
mill-dam, as occurring on the very day of the disaster
by fire.
I shall spare my friends any account of the many
troubles and vexatious delays attendant on repairing
that necessary evil, the dam; and even a transcript
of the three astounding figures which footed the account
of expenses on the occasion. I shall only
observe, that if long Sam Jennings did not get a ducking
for not giving intelligence of the impending evil a
full half-hour before it suited his convenience to stroll
our way, it was not because he did not richly deserve
it—and so I close my chapter of accidents.
-- 193 --
CHAPTER XXX.
Qu' ay je oublié? dere is some simples in my closet, dat I vill
not for de varld I shall leave behind.
* * * * * * *
Shal. The Council shall hear it: it is a riot.
Evans. It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it; and
there is another device in my prain which, peradventure, prings
goot discretions with it. * * We will afterwards 'ork upon
the cause with as great discreetly as we can.
Shakspeare.—Merry Wives of Windsor.
[figure description] Page 193.[end figure description]
“Ah! who can tell how hard it is to” say—any
thing about an unpretending village like ours, in terms
suited to the delicate organization of “ears polite.”
How can one hope to find any thing of interest about
such common-place people? Where is the aristocratic
distinction which makes the kind visit of the great lady
at the sick-bed of suffering indigence so great a favour,
that all the inmates of the cottage behave picturesquely
out of gratitude—form themselves into tableaux, and
make speeches worth recording? Here are neither
great ladies nor humble cottagers. I cannot bring to
my aid either the exquisite boudoir of the one class,
with its captivating bijouterie—its velvet couches and
its draperies of rose-coloured satin, so becoming to the
complexions of one's young-lady characters—nor yet
the cot of the other more simple but not less elegant,
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surrounded with clustering eglantine and clematis, and
inhabited by goodness, grace, and beauty. These materials
are denied me; but yet I must try to describe
something of Michigan cottage life, taking care to avail
myself of such delicate periphrasis as may best veil the
true homeliness of my subject.
Moonlight and the ague are, however, the same
every where. At least I meet with no description in
any of the poets of my acquaintance which might not
be applied, without reservation, to Michigan moonlight;
and as for the ague, did not great Cæsar shake “when
the fit was on him?”
T'is true, this god did shake:
His coward lips did from their colour fly—
And in this important particular poor Lorenzo Titmouse
was just like the inventor of the laurel crown. We—
Mrs. Rivers and I—went to his father's, at his urgent
request, on just such a night as is usually chosen for
romantic walks by a certain class of lovers. We waited
not for escort, although the night had already fallen,
and there was a narrow strip of forest to pass in our
way; but leaving word whither we had gone, we accompanied
the poor shivering boy, each carrying what
we could. And what does the gentle reader think we
carried? A custard or a glass of jelly each, perhaps;
and a nice sponge-cake, or something equally delicate,
and likely to tempt the faint appetite of the invalid.
No such thing. We had learned better than to offer
such nick-nacks to people who “a'n't us'd to sweetnin'.”
My companion was “doubly arm'd:” a small
tin pail of cranberry sauce in one hand, a bottle of
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vinegar in the other. I carried a modicum of “hop
'east,” and a little bag of crackers; a scrap of Hyson,
and a box of quinine pills. Odd enough; but we had
been at such places before.
We had a delicious walk; though poor Lorenzo,
who had a bag of flour on his shoulders, was fain to
rest often. This was his “well day,” to be sure; but
he had had some eight or ten fits of ague, enough to
wither any body's pith and marrow, as those will say
who have tried it. That innate politeness which
young rustics, out of books as well as in them, are apt
to exhibit when they are in good humour, made Lorenzo
decline, most vehemently, our offers of assistance.
But we at length fairly took his bag from him,
and passing a stick through the string, carried it between
us; while the boy disposed of our various small
articles by the aid of his capacious pockets. And a
short half mile from the bridge brought us to his
father's.
It was an ordinary log house, but quite old and
dilapidated: the great open chimney occupying most
of one end of the single apartment, and two double-beds
with a trundle-bed, the other. In one of the
large beds lay the father and the eldest son; in the
other, the mother and two little daughters, all ill with
ague, and all sad and silent, save my friend Mrs. Titmouse,
whose untameable tongue was too much even
for the ague. Mrs. Titmouse is one of those fortunate
beings who can talk all day without saying any thing.
She is the only person whom I have met in these regions
who appears to have paid her devoirs at Castle
Blarney.
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“How d'ye do, ladies,—how d'ye do? Bless my
soul! if ever I thought to be catch'd in sitch a condition,
and by sich grand ladies too! Not a chair for
you to sit down on. I often tell Titmouse that we
live jist like the pigs; but he ha' n't no ambition. I'm
sure I'm under a thousand compliments to ye for coming
to see me. We're expecting a mother of his'n to
come and stay with us, but she ha' n't come yet—and
I in sitch a condition; can't show ye no civility.
Do sit down, ladies, if you can sit upon a chest—ladies
like you. I'm sure I'm under a thousand compliments—”
and so the poor soul ran on till she was
fairly out of breath, in spite of our efforts to out-talk
her with our assurances that we could accommodate
ourselves very well, and could stay but a few minutes.
“And now, Mrs. Titmouse,” said Mrs. Rivers, in
her sweet, pleasant voice, “tell us what we can do for
you.”
“Do for me! Oh, massy! Oh, nothing, I thank
ye. There a'n't nothing that ladies like you can do
for me. We make out very well, and—”
“What do you say so for!” growled her husband
from the other bed. “You know we ha'n't tasted a
mouthful since morning, nor had n't it, and I sent
Lorenzo myself—”
“Well, I never!” responded his help-mate; “you're
always doing just so: troubling people. You never
had no ambition, Titmouse; you know I always said
so. To be sure, we ha'n't had no tea this good while,
and tea does taste dreadful good when a body's got the
agur; and my bread is gone, and I ha'n't been able to
set no emptins; but—”
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Here we told what we had brought, and prepared at
once to make some bread; but Mrs. Titmouse seemed
quite horrified, and insisted upon getting out of bed,
though she staggered, and would have fallen if we had
not supported her to a seat.
“Now tell me where the water is, and I will get it
myself,” said Mrs. Rivers, “and do you sit still and see
how soon I will make a loaf.”
“Water!” said the poor soul; “I'm afraid we have
not water enough to make a loaf. Mr. Grimes
brought us a barrel day before yesterday, and we've
been dreadful careful of it, but the agur is so dreadful
thirsty—I'm afraid there a' n't none.”
“Have you no spring?”
“No, ma'am; but we have always got plenty of
water down by the mash till this dry summer.”
“I should think that was enough to give you the
ague. Do n't you think the marsh water unwholesome?”
“Well, I do n't know but it is; but you see he was
always a-going to dig a well; but he ha'n't no ambition,
nor never had, and I always told him so. And as
to the agur, if you've got to have it, why you can't get
clear of it.”
There was, fortunately, water enough left in the barrel
to set the bread and half-fill the tea-kettle; and we
soon made a little blaze with sticks, which served to
boil the kettle to make that luxury of the woods, a cup
of green tea.
Mrs. Titmouse did not need the tea to help her talking
powers, for she was an independent talker, whose
gush of words knew no ebb nor exhaustion.
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Alike to her was tide or time,
Moonless midnight or matin prime.
Her few remaining teeth chattered no faster when she
had the ague than at any other time. The stream
flowed on
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood.
When we had done what little we could, and were
about to depart, glad to escape her overwhelming protestations
of eternal gratitude, her husband reminded
her that the cow had not been milked since the evening
before, when “Miss Grimes” had been there.
Here was a dilemma! How we regretted our defective
education, which prevented our rendering so simple yet
so necessary a service to the sick poor.
We remembered the gentleman who did not know
whether he could read Greek, as he had never tried;
and set ourselves resolutely at work to ascertain our
powers in the milking line.
But alas! the “milky mother of the herd” had small
respect for timid and useless town ladies.
Crummie kick'd, and Crummie flounced,
And Crummie whisk'd her tail.
In vain did Mrs. Rivers hold the pail with both hands,
while I essayed the arduous task. So sure as I succeeded
in bringing ever so tiny a stream, the ill-mannered
beast would almost put out my eyes with her
tail, and oblige us both to jump up and run away; and
after a protracted struggle, the cow gained the victory,
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as might have been expected, and we were fain to
retreat into the house.
The next expedient was to support Mrs. Titmouse
on the little bench, while she tried to accomplish the
mighty work; and having been partially successful in
this, we at length took our leave, promising aid for the
morrow, and hearing the poor woman's tongue at intervals
till we were far in the wood.
“Lord bless ye! I'm sure I'm under an everlastin'
compliment to ye; I wish I know'd how I could pay
ye. Such ladies to be a waitin' on the likes of me;
I'm sure I never see nothing like it,” &c. &c.
And now we began to wonder how long it would be
before we should see our respected spouses, as poor
Lorenzo had fallen exhausted on the bed, and was in
no condition to see us even a part of the way home.
The wood was very dark, though we could see glimpses
of the mill-pond lying like liquid diamonds in the moonlight.
We had advanced near the brow of the hill which
descends toward the pond, when strange sounds met
our ears. Strange sounds for our peaceful village!
Shouts and howling—eldrich screams—Indian yells—
the braying of tin horns, and the violent clashing of
various noisy articles.
We hurried on, and soon came in sight of a crowd
of persons, who seemed coming from the village to the
pond. And now loud talking, threats—“Duck him!
duck the impudent rascal!” what could it be?
Here was a mob! a Montacute mob! and the cause?
I believe all mobs pretend to have causes. Could the
choice spirits have caught an abolitionist? which they
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thought, as I had heard, meant nothing less than a
monster.
But now I recollected having heard that a ventriloquist,
which I believe most of our citizens considered
a beast of the same nature, had sent notices of an exhibition
for the evening; and the truth flashed upon us
at once.
“In with him! in with him!” they shouted as they
approached the water, just as we began to descend the
hill. And then the clear fine voice of the dealer in
voice was distinctly audible above the hideous din—
“Gentlemen, I have warned you; I possess the
means of defending myself, you will force me to use
them.”
“Stop his mouth,” shouted a well-known bully, “he
lies; he ha'n't got nothing! in with him!” and a
violent struggle followed, some few of our sober citizens
striving to protect the stranger.
One word to Mrs. Rivers, and we set up a united
shriek, a screech like an army of sea-gulls. “Help!
help!” and we stopped on the hill-side, our white
dresses distinctly visible in the clear, dazzling moonlight.
We “stinted not nor staid” till a diversion was
fairly effected. A dozen forms seceded at once from
the crowd, and the spirit of the thing was at an end.
We waited on the spot where our artifice began,
certain of knowing every individual who should approach;
and the very first proved those we most wished
to see. And now came the very awkward business
of explaining our ruse, and Mrs. Rivers was rather
sharply reproved for her part of it. Harley Rivers
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was not the man to object to any thing like a lark,
and he had only attempted to effect the release of the
ventriloquist, after Mr. Clavers had joined him on the
way to Mr. Titmouse's. The boobies who had been
most active in the outrage, would fain have renewed
the sport; but the ventriloquist had wisely taken advantage
of our diversion in his favour, and was no
where to be found. The person at whose house he
had put up told afterwards that he had gone out with
loaded pistols in his pocket; so even a woman's shrieks,
hated of gods and men, may sometimes be of service.
Montacute is far above mobbing now. This was
the first and last exhibition of the spirit of the age.
The most mobbish of our neighbours have flitted westward,
seeking more congenial association. I trust they
may be so well satisfied that they will not think of returning;
for it is not pleasant to find a dead pig in one's
well, or a favourite dog hung up at the gate-post; to
say nothing of cows milked on the marshes, hen-roosts
rifled, or melon-patches cleared in the course of the
night.
We learned afterwards the “head and front” of the
ventriloquist's offence. He had asked twenty-five
cents a-head for the admission of the sovereign people.
-- 202 --
CHAPTER XXXI.
Bah! bah!—not a bit magic in it at all—not a bit. It is all
founded on de planetary influence, and de sympathy and force
of numbers. I will show you much finer dan dis.
Antiquary.
[figure description] Page 202.[end figure description]
The very next intelligence from our urban rival
came in the shape of a polite note to Mr. Clavers,
offering him any amount of stock in the “Merchants'
and Manufacturers' Bank of Tinkerville.” My honoured
spouse—I acknowledge it with regret—is any thing
but “an enterprising man.” But our neighbour, Mr.
Rivers, or his astute father for him, thought this chance
for turning paper into gold and silver too tempting to
be slighted, and entered at once into the business of
making money on a large scale.
I looked at first upon the whole matter with unfeigned
indifference, for money has never seemed so valueless
to me as since I have experienced how little it will
buy in the woods; but I was most unpleasantly surprised
when I heard that Harley Rivers, the husband
of my friend, was to be exalted to the office of President
of the new bank.
“Just as we were beginning to be so comfortable,
to think you should leave us,” said I to Mrs. Rivers.
“Oh! dear no,” she replied; “Harley says it will
not be necessary for us to remove at present. The
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business can be transacted just as well here, and we
shall not go until the banking-house and our own can
be erected.”
This seemed odd to a novice like myself; but I
rejoiced that arrangements were so easily made which
would allow me to retain for a while so pleasant a
companion.
As I make not the least pretension to regularity, but
only an attempt to “body forth” an unvarnished picture
of the times, I may as well proceed in this place
to give the uninitiated reader so much of the history
of the Tinkerville Bank, as has become the property of
the public; supposing that the effects of our “General
Banking Law” may not be as familiarly known elsewhere
as they unfortunately are in this vicinity.
When our speculators in land found that the glamour
had departed, that the community had seen the ridicule
of the delusion which had so long made
“The cobwebs on a cottage wall
Seem tapestry in lordly hall;
A nutshell seem a gilded barge,
A sheeling seem a palace large,
And youth seem age and age seem youth.”
And poverty seem riches, and idleness industry, and
fraud enterprise; some of these cunning magicians set
themselves about concocting a new species of gramarye,
by means of which the millions of acres of wild
land which were left on their hands might be turned
into bonâ fide cash—paper cash at least, to meet certain
times of payment of certain moneys borrowed at
certain rates of interest during the fervour of the
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speculating mania. The “General Banking Law” of
enviable notoriety, which allowed any dozen of men
who could pledge real estate to a nominal amount, to
assume the power of making money of rags; this was
the magic cauldron, whose powers were destined to
transmute these acres of wood and meadow into splendid
metropolitan residences, with equipages of corresponding
elegance. It was only “bubble-bubble,” and burroaks
were turned into marble tables, tall tamaracks
into draperied bedsteads, lakes into looking-glasses,
and huge expanses of wet marsh into velvet couches,
and carpets from the looms of Agra and of Ind.
It is not to be denied that this necromantic power
had its limits. Many of these successful wizards seemed
after all a little out of place in their palaces of enchantment;
and one could hardly help thinking, that
some of them would have been more suitably employed
in tramping, with cow-hide boot, the slippery marshes
on which their greatness was based, than in treading
mincingly the piled carpets which were the magical
product of those marshes. But that was nobody's
business but their own. They considered themselves
as fulfilling their destiny.
Some thirty banks or more were the fungous growth
of the new political hot-bed; and many of these were
of course without a “local habitation,” though they
might boast the “name,” it may be, of some part of
the deep woods, where the wild cat had hitherto been
the most formidable foe to the unwary and defenceless.
Hence the celebrated term “Wild Cat,” justified fully
by the course of these cunning and stealthy blood-suckers;
more fatal in their treacherous spring than
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[figure description] Page 205.[end figure description]
ever was their forest prototype. A stout farmer might
hope to “whip” a wild cat or two; but once in the
grasp of a “wild cat bank,” his struggles were unavailing.
Hopeless ruin has been the consequence in
numerous instances, and every day adds new names to
the list.
But I have fallen into the sin of generalizing, instead
of journalizing, as I promised. The interesting nature
of the subject will be deemed a sufficient justification,
by such of my readers as may have enjoyed the pleasure
of making alumets of bank-notes, as so many
Michiganians have done, or might have done if they
had not been too angry.
Of the locale of the Merchants' and Manufacturers'
Bank of Tinkerville, I have already attempted to give
some faint idea; and I doubt not one might have ridden
over many of the new banks in a similar manner,
without suspecting their existence. The rubicand and
smooth-spoken father-in-law of my friend was the mainspring
of the institution in question; and his son
Harley, who “did not love work,” was placed in a
conspicuous part of the panorama as President. I
thought our Caleb Quotem neighbour, Mr. Simeon
Jenkins, would have found time to fulfil the duties of
cashier, and he can write “S. Jenkins” very legibly;
so there would have been no objection on that score:
but it was thought prudent to give the office to a
Tinkervillian—a man of straw, for aught I know to
the contrary; for all I saw or heard of him was his
name, “A. Bite,” on the bills. A fatal mistake this,
according to Mr. Jenkins. He can demonstrate, to
any body who feels an interest in the facts of the case,
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that the bank never would have “flatted out,” if he had
had a finger in the pie.
Just as our Wild Cat was ready for a spring, the
only obstacle in her path was removed, by the abolition
of the old-fashioned-and-troublesome-but-now-exploded
plan of specie payments; and our neighbours
went up like the best rocket from Vauxhall. The
Tinkerville Astor House, the County Offices, the Banking
House, were all begun simultaneously, as at the
waving of a wand of power. Montacute came at once
to a dead stand; for not a workman could be had for
love or flour. Those beautifully engraved bills were
too much for the public spirit of most of us, and we forgot
our Montacute patriotism for a time. “Real estate
pledged;” of course, the notes were better than gold
or silver, because they were lighter in the pocket.
Time's whirligig went round. Meanwhile all was
prosperous at the incipient capital of our rising county.
Mr. President Rivers talked much of removing
to the bank; and in preparation, sent to New-York
for a complete outfit of furniture, and a pretty carriage;
while Mrs. Rivers astonished the natives in our
log meeting-house, and the wood-chucks in our forest
strolls, by a Parisian bonnet of the most exquisite rose-colour,
her husband's taste. Mr. Rivers, senior, and
sundry other gentlemen, some ruddy-gilled and full-pocketed
like himself, others looking so lean and hungry,
that I wondered any body would trust them in a bank—
a place where, as I supposed in my greenness,
In bright confusion open rouleaux lie,
Made frequent and closetted sojourn at Montacute.
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Our mill whirred merrily, and toll-wheat is a currency
that never depreciates; but in other respects, we were
only moderately prosperous. Our first merchant, Mr.
Skinner, did not clear above three thousand dollars the
first year. Slow work for Michigan; and somehow,
Mr. Jenkins was far from getting rich as fast as he
expected.
One bright morning, as I stood looking down Mainstreet,
thinking I certainly saw a deer's tail at intervals
flying through the woods, two gentlemen on horseback
rode deliberately into town. They had the air of men
who were on serious business; and as they dismounted
at the door of the Montacute House, a messenger was
despatched in an instant to Mr. Rivers. Ere long, I
discovered the ruddy papa wending his dignified way
towards the Hotel, while the President, on his famous
trotter Greenhorn, emerged from the back-gate, and
cleared the ground in fine style towards Tinkerville.
A full hour elapsed before the elder Mr. Rivers was
ready to accompany the gentlemen on their ride. He
happened to be going that way, which was very convenient,
since the Bank Commissioners, for our portly
strangers were none other, did not know in what part
of the unsurveyed lands the new city lay. The day
was far spent when the party returned to take tea
with Mrs. Rivers. All seemed in high good humour.
The examination prescribed by our severe laws had
been exceedingly satisfactory. The books of the Bank
were in apple-pie order. Specie certificates, a newly-invented
kind of gold and silver, were abundant. A
long row of boxes, which contained the sinews of peace
as well as of war, had been viewed and “hefted” by
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the Commissioners. The liabilities seemed as nothing
compared with the resources; and the securities were
as substantial as earth and stone could make them.
If the height of prosperity could have been heightened,
Tinkerville would have gone on faster than ever
after this beneficent visitation. Mr. Rivers' new furniture
arrived, and passed through our humble village
in triumphal procession, pile after pile of huge boxes,
provokingly impervious to the public eye; and, last of
all, the new carriage, covered as closely from the vulgar
gaze as a celebrated belle whose charms are on the
wane. The public buildings at the county seat were
proclaimed finished, or nearly finished, a school-house
begun, a meeting-house talked of; but for the latter, it
was supposed to be too early—rather premature.
-- 209 --
CHAPTER XXXII.
And whare is your honours gaun the day wi' a' your picks
and shules? * *
—Antiquary.
On peut être plus fin qu' un autre, mais non pas plus fin que
tous les autres.
—Rochefoucault.
[figure description] Page 209.[end figure description]
All too soon came the period when I must part with
my pleasant neighbour Mrs. Rivers, the opening brilliancy
of whose lot seemed to threaten a lasting separation,
from those whose way led rather through the
“cool, sequestered vale,” so much praised, and so little
coveted.
Mr. Rivers had for some time found abundant
leisure for his favourite occupations of hunting and
fishing. The signing of bills took up but little time,
and an occasional ride to the scene of future glories,
for the purpose of superintending the various improvements,
was all that had necessarily called him
away. But now, final preparations for a removal were
absolutely in progress; and I had begun to feel really
sad at the thought of losing the gentle Anna, when the
Bank Commissioners again paced in official dignity
up Main-street, and, this time, alighted at Mr. Rivers'
door.
The President and Greenhorn had trotted to Tinkerville
that morning, and the old gentleman was not in
town; so our men of power gravely wended their way
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towards the newly-painted and pine-pillared honours
of the Merchants' and Manufacturers' Banking-house,
not without leaving behind them many a surmise as to
the probable object of this new visitation.
It was Mr. Skinner's opinion, and Mr. Skinner is a
long-headed Yankee, that the Bank had issued too
many bills; and for the sincerity of his judgment, he
referred his hearers to the fact, that he had for some
time been turning the splendid notes of the Merchants'
and Manufacturers' Bank of Tinkerville into wheat
and corn as fast as he conveniently could.
A sly old farmer, who had sold several hundred
bushels of wheat to Mr. Skinner, at one dollar twenty-five
cents a bushel, winked knowingly as the merchant
mentioned this proof of his own far-seeing astuteness;
and informed the company that he had paid out the
last dollar long ago on certain outstanding debts.
Mr. Porter knew that the Tinkerville blacksmith
had run up a most unconscionable bill for the iron
doors, &c. &c., which were necessary to secure the
immense vaults of the Bank; that would give, as he
presumed, some hint of the probable object of the Commissioners.
Mr. Simeon Jenkins, if not the greatest, certainly
the most grandiloquent man in Montacute, did 'nt want
to know any better than he did know, that the Cashier
of the Bank was a thick-skull; and he felt very much
afraid that the said Cashier had been getting his principals
into trouble. Mr. Bite's manner of writing his
name was, in Mr. Jenkins' view, proof positive of his
lack of capacity; since “nobody in the universal
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world” as Mr. Jenkins averred, “ever wrote such a
hand as that, that know'd any thing worth knowing.”
But conjectures, however positively advanced, are,
after all, not quite satisfactory; and the return of the
commissioners was most anxiously awaited even by the
very worthies who knew their business so well.
The sun set most perversely soon, and the light
would not stay long after him; and thick darkness
settled upon this mundane sphere, and no word transpired
from Tinkerville. Morning came, and with it
the men of office, but oh! with what lengthened faces!
There were whispers of “an injunction”—horrid
sound!—upon the Merchants' and Manufacturers' Bank
of Tinkerville.
To picture the dismay which drew into all sorts of
shapes the universal face of Montacute, would require
a dozen Wilkies. I shall content myself with saying
that there was no joking about the matter.
The commissioners were not very communicative,
but in spite of their dignified mystification, something
about broken glass and tenpenny nails did leak out before
their track was fairly cold.
And where was Harley Rivers? “Echo answers,
where!” His dear little wife watered her pillow with
her tears for many a night before he returned to Montacute.
It seemed, as we afterwards learned, that the commissioners
had seen some suspicious circumstances
about the management of the Bank, and returned with
a determination to examine into matters a little more
scrupulously. It had been found in other cases that
certain “specie-certificates” had been locomotive. It
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had been rumoured, since the new batch of Banks had
come into operation, that
Thirty steeds both fleet and wight
Stood saddled in the stables day and night—
ready to effect at short notice certain transfers of assets
and specie. And in the course of the Tinkerville investigation
the commissioners had ascertained by the
aid of hammer and chisel, that the boxes of the “real
stuff” which had been so loudly vaunted, contained a
heavy charge of broken glass and tenpenny nails,
covered above and below with half-dollars, principally
“bogus.” Alas! for Tinkerville, and alas, for poor
Michigan!
The distress among the poorer classes of farmers
which was the immediate consequence of this and other
Bank failures, was indescribable. Those who have seen
only a city panic, can form no idea of the extent and
severity of the sufferings on these occasions. And
how many small farmers are there in Michigan who
have not suffered from this cause?
The only adequate punishment which I should prescribe
for this class of heartless adventurers, would be
to behold at one glance all the misery they have occasioned;
to be gifted with an Asmodean power, and
forced to use it. The hardiest among them, could
scarcely, I think, endure to witness the unroofing of
the humble log-huts of Michigan, after the bursting of
one of these Dead-sea apples. Bitter indeed were the
ashes which they scattered!
How many settlers who came in from the deep
woods many miles distant where no grain had yet
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grown, after travelling perhaps two or three days and
nights, with a half-starved ox-team, and living on a few
crusts by the way, were told when they offered their
splendid-looking bank-notes, their hard-earned all, for
the flour which was to be the sole food of wife and
babes through the long winter, that these hoarded treasures
were valueless as the ragged paper which wrapped
them! Can we blame them if they cursed in their
agony, the soul-less wretches who had thus drained
their best blood for the furtherance of their own schemes
of low ambition? Can we wonder that the poor,
feeling such wrongs as these, learn to hate the rich,
and to fancy them natural enemies?
Could one of these heart-wrung beings have been
introduced, just as he was, with the trembling yet in
his heart, and the curses on his lips, into the gilded
saloon of his betrayer, methinks the dance would have
flagged, the song wavered, the wine palled, for the moment
at least.
Light is the dance and doubly sweet the lays
When for the dear delight another pays—
But the uninvited presence of the involuntary pay-master,
would have been “the hand on the wall” to
many a successful (!) banker.
After public indignation had in some measure subsided,
and indeed such occurrences as I have described
became too common to stir the surface of society very
rudely, Mr. Harley Rivers returned to Montacute, and
prepared at once for the removal of his family. I
took leave of his wife with most sincere regret, and I
felt at the time as if we should never meet again. But
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I have heard frequently from them until quite lately;
and they have been living very handsomely (Mr.
Rivers always boasted that he would live like a gentleman)
in one of the Eastern cities on the spoils of the
Tinkerville Wild-cat.
-- 215 --
CHAPTER XXXIII.
I say the pulpit, (and I name it, filled
With solemn awe, that bids me well beware
With what intent I touch that holy thing.)
Cowper.
[figure description] Page 215.[end figure description]
One of the greatest deficiencies and disadvantages
of the settler in the new world, is the lack of the ordinary
means of public religious instruction. This is
felt, not only when the Sabbath morn recurs without
its call for public worship, and children ask longingly for
that mild and pleasing form of religious and moral training,
to which they are all attached as if by an intuition
of nature; but it makes itself but too evident throughout
the entire structure and condition of society. Those
who consider Religion a gloom and a burden, have
only to reside for a while where Religion is habitually
forgotten or wilfully set aside. They will soon learn
at least to appreciate the practical value of the injunction,
“Forsake not the assembling of yourselves together.”
We have never indeed been entirely destitute for
any length of time of the semblance of public worship.
Preachers belonging to various denominations
have, from the beginning, occasionally called meetings
in the little log school-house, and many of the neighbours
always make a point of being present, although
a far greater proportion reserve the Sunday for fishing
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and gunning. And it must be confessed that there
has generally been but little that was attractive in the
attempts at public service. A bare, cold room, the
wind whistling through a thousand crevices in the
unplastered walls, and pouring down through as many
more in the shrunken roof, seats formed by laying
rough boards on rougher blocks, and the whole covered
thick with the week's dirt of the district school; these
are scarcely the appliances which draw the indolent,
the careless, the indifferent, the self-indulgent, to the
house of worship. And the preacher, “the messenger
of Heaven,” “the legate of the skies,”—Alas! I dare
not trust my pen to draw the portraits of some of these
well-meaning, but most incompetent persons. I can
only say that a large part of them seem to me grievously
to have mistaken their vocation.
“All are not such.” We have occasionally a
preacher whose language and manner, though plain, are
far from being either coarse or vulgar, and whose sermons,
though generally quite curious in their way,
have nothing that is either ridiculous or disgusting. If
we suffer ourselves to be driven from the humble
meeting-house by one preacher with the dress and air
of a horse-jockey, who will rant and scream till he is
obliged to have incessant recourse to his handkerchief
to dry the tears which are the natural result of the
excitement into which he has lashed himself, we may
perhaps lose a good plain practical discourse from
another, who with only tolerable worldly advantages,
has yet studied his Bible with profit, and offers with
gentle persuasivenesss its message of mercy. Yet to
sit from two to three hours trying to listen to the
-- 217 --
[figure description] Page 217.[end figure description]
blubberer, is a trial of one's nerves and patience which is
almost too much to ask; greater I confess, than I am
often willing to endure, well convinced as I am, that
the best good of all, requires the support of some form
of public worship.
I have often been a little amused not only at the
very characteristic style of the illustrations which are
freely made use of, by all who are in the habit of preaching
in the new settlements, but at the extreme politeness
with which certain rather too common classes of
sins, are touched upon by these pioneers among us.
They belong to various denominations, and they are
well aware that a still greater number of differing sects
are represented in their audience; and each is naturally
desirous to secure as many adherents as possible
to his own view of religious truth. It becomes therefore
particularly necessary to avoid giving personal
offence. Does the speaker wish to show the evils and
penalties of Sabbath-breaking, of profanity, of falsehood,
of slander, of dishonest dealings, or any other
offence which he knows is practised by some at least
among his auditors, he generally begins with observing
that he is quite a stranger, very little acquainted in
the neighbourhood, entirely ignorant whether what he
is going to say may or may not be especially applicable
to any of his hearers, and that he only judges from
the general condition of human nature, that such cautions
or exhortations may be necessary, &c., exhibitting
a constant struggle between his sense of duty and
his fear of making enemies.
The illustrative style to which I have alluded, is
certainly much better calculated to excite the
-- 218 --
[figure description] Page 218.[end figure description]
attention, and keep alive the interest of an unlettered audience,
than the most powerful argument could possibly
be, but it is sometimes carried so far that the younger
part of the congregation find it hard to maintain the
gravity befitting the time. It is not long since I heard
a good man preach from the text “Behold how great a
matter a little fire kindleth.” He began by saying
that it could not be necessary to show the literal truth
of this observation of the Apostle; “For you yourselves
know, my friends, especially at this time of year, when
most of you have had to fight fire more or less, how
easy it is to kindle what is so difficult to put out. You
know that what fire a man can carry in his hand, applied
to the dry grass on the marshes, will grow so, that
in ten minutes a hundred men could not put it out, and,
if you do n't take care, it will burn up your haystacks and
your barns too, aye, and your houses, if the wind happens
to be pretty strong. And if you get a cannon
loaded up with powder, it wont take but a leetle grain
of fire to produce a great explosion, and maybe kill
somebody. And I dare say that some of you have
seen the way they get along in making rail-roads in
the winter, when the ground's froze so hard that they
can't dig a bit; they blast off great bodies of the hard
ground, just as they blast rocks. And it do n't take
any more than a spark to set it a-going. Even so, a
woman's tongue, can set a whole neighbourhood together
by the ears, and do more mischief in a minute,
than she can undo in a month.” At this all the young
folks looked at each other and smiled, and as the
preacher went on in a similar strain, the smile was
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frequently repeated; and such scenes are not very uncommon.
It was some little time before we could learn the
rules of etiquette which are observed among these
itinerant or voluntary preachers. We supposed that
if a meeting was given out for Sunday morning at the
school-house by a Baptist, any other room might be
obtained and occupied at the same hour by a Presbyterian
or Methodist, leaving it to the people to chose
which they would hear. But this is considered a
most ungenerous usurpation, and such things are indignantly
frowned upon by all the meeting-goers in the
community. If a minister of any denomination has appointed
a meeting, no other must preach at the same
hour in the neighbourhood; and this singular notion
gives rise to much of the petty squabbling and ill-will
which torments Montacute as well as other small places.
This is one of the many cases wherein it is easier
to waive one's rights than to quarrel for them. I hope,
as our numbers increase rapidly, the evil will soon
cure itself, since one room will not long be elastic
enough to contain all the church-goers.
Of the state of religion, a light work like this affords
no fitting opportunity to speak; but I may say that the
really devoted Christian can find no fairer or ampler
field. None but the truly devoted will endure the difficulties
and discouragements of the way. “Pride,
sloth, and silken ease,” find no favour in the eyes of
the fierce, reckless, hard-handed Wolverine. He needs
A preacher such as Paul,
Were he on earth, would hear, approve and own.
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Ministers who cannot or will not conform themselves
to the manners of the country, do more harm than
good. Pride is, as I have elsewhere observed, the bugbear
of the western country; and the appearance of
it, or a suspicion of it, in a clergyman, not only destroys
his personal influence, but depreciates his office.
It takes one a long while to become accustomed to
the unceremonious manner in which the meetings of
all sorts are conducted. Many people go in and out
whenever they feel disposed; and the young men, who
soon tire, give unequivocal symptoms of their weariness,
and generally walk off with a nonchalant air, at
any time during the exercises. Women usually carry
their babies, and sometimes two or three who can
scarcely walk; and the restlessness of these youthful
members, together with an occasional display of their
musical talents, sometimes interrupts in no small measure
the progress of the speaker. The stove is always
in the centre of the room, with benches arranged in a
hollow square around it; and the area thus formed is
the scene of infantile operations. I have seen a dozen
people kept on a stretch during a whole long sermon,
by a little, tottering, rosy-cheeked urchin, who chose
to approach within a few inches of the stove every
minute or two, and to fall at every third step, at the
imminent danger of lodging against the hot iron. And
tae mamma sat looking on with an air of entire complacency,
picking up the chubby rogue occasionally,
and varying the scene by the performance of the maternal
office.
I fancy it would somewhat disconcert a city clergyman,
on ascending his sumptuous pulpit, to find it
-- 221 --
[figure description] Page 221.[end figure description]
already occupied by a deaf old man, with his tin ear-trumpet
ready to catch every word. This I have seen
again and again; and however embarrassing to the
preacher, an objection or remonstrance on the subject
would be very ill-received. And after all, I must confess,
I have heard sermons preached in such circumstances,
which would have reflected no disgrace on
certain gorgeous draperies of velvet and gold.
The meliorating influence of the Sunday school is
felt here as everywhere else, and perhaps here more
evidently than in places where society is farther advanced.
When books are provided, the children flock
to obtain them, with a zest proportioned to the scarcity
of those sweeteners of solitude. Our little Montacute
library has been well-thumbed already, by old and
young; and there is nothing I long for so much as a
public library of works better suited to “children of a
larger growth.” But “le bon temps viendra.”
-- 222 --
CHAPTER XXXIV.
There is a cunning which we in England call “the turning
of the cat in the pan;” which is, when that which a man says to
another, he lays it as if another had said it to him.
—Bacon.
[figure description] Page 222.[end figure description]
My near neighbour, Mrs. Nippers, whose garden
joins ours, and whose “keepin' room,” I regret to say
it, looks into my kitchen, was most cruelly mortified
that she was not elected President of the Montacute
Female Beneficent Society. It would have been an
office so congenial to her character, condition, and habits!
'T was cruel to give it to Mrs. Skinner, “merely,”
as Mrs. Nippers declares, “because the society
wanted to get remnants from the store!”
Mrs. Campaspe Nippers is a widow lady of some
thirty-five, or thereabouts, who lives with her niece
alone in a small house, in the midst of a small garden,
in the heart of the village. I have never noticed any
thing peculiar in the construction of the house. There
are not, that I can discover, any contrivances resembling
ears; or those ingenious funnels of sail-cloth
which are employed on board-ship to coax fresh air
down between-decks. Nor are there large mirrors,
nor a telescope, within doors, nor yet a camera obscura.
I have never detected any telegraphic signals from
without. Yet no man sneezes at opening his front
door in the morning; no woman sweeps her steps
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[figure description] Page 223.[end figure description]
after breakfast; no child goes late to school; no damsel
slips into the store; no bottle out of it; no family has
fried onions for dinner; no hen lays an egg in the afternoon;
no horse slips his bridle; no cow is missing at
milking-time; and no young couple after tea; but Mrs.
Nippers, and herniece, Miss Artemisia Clinch, know
all about it, and tell it to everybody who will listen to
them.
A sad rumour was raised last winter, by some spiteful
gossip, against a poor woman who had taken lodgers
to gain bread for her family; and when Mrs. Nippers
found it rather difficult to gain credence for her
view of the story, she nailed the matter, as she supposed,
by whispering with mysterious meaning, while her
large light eyes dilated with energy and enjoyment—
“I have myself seen a light there after eleven o'clock
at night!”
In vain did the poor woman's poor husband, a man
who worked hard, but would make a beast of himself
at times, protest that malice itself might let his wife
escape; and dare any man to come forward and say
aught against her. Mrs. Nippers only smiled, and
stretched her eye-lids so far apart, that the sky-blue
whites of her light-grey eyes were visible both above
and below the scarce distinguishable iris, and then
looked at Miss Artemisia Clinch with such triumphant
certainty; observing, that a drunkard's word was not
worth much. It is impossible ever to convince her, in
any body's favour.
But this is mere wandering. Association led me
from my intent, which was only to speak of Mrs. Nippers
as connected with the Montacute Female
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[figure description] Page 224.[end figure description]
Beneficent Society. This Association is the prime dissipation
of our village, the magic circle within which lies
all our cherished exclusiveness, the strong hold of caste,
the test of gentility, the temple of emulation, the hive
of industry, the mart of fashion, and I must add, though
reluctantly, the fountain of village scandal, the hot-bed
from which springs every root of bitterness among the
petticoated denizens of Montacute. I trust the importance
of the Society will be enhanced in the reader's
estimation, by the variety of figures I have been compelled
to use in describing it. Perhaps it would have
been enough to have said it is a Ladies' Sewing Society,
and so saved all this wordiness; but I like to amplify.
When the idea was first started, by I know not what
fortunate individual,—Mrs. Nippers does, I dare say,—
this same widow-lady espoused the thing warmly, donned
her India-rubbers, and went all over through the
sticky mud, breakfasted with me, dined with Mrs. Rivers,
took tea with Mrs. Skinner, and spent the intervals
and the evening with half-a-dozen other people,
not only to recommend the plan, but to give her opinion
of how the affair ought to be conducted, to what
benevolent uses applied, and under what laws and by-laws;
and though last, far from least, who ought to be
its officers. Five Directresses did she select, two Secretaries,
and a Treasurer, Managers and Auditors,—
like the military play of my three brothers, who always
had “fore-captain,” “hind-captain,” and “middle-captain,”
but no privates. But in all this Mrs. Campaspe
never once hinted the name of a Lady President.
She said, to be sure, that she should be very glad to be
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of any sort of service to the Society; and that from her
position she should be more at leisure to devote time to
its business, than almost any other person; and that
both herself and her niece had been concerned in a
sewing-society in a certain village at “the East,”
whose doings were often quoted by both ladies, and concluded
by inquiring who her hearer thought would be
the most suitable president.
In spite of all this industrious canvassing, when the
meeting for forming the society took place at Mrs.
Skinner's, Mrs. Campaspe Nippers' name was perversely
omitted in the animated ballot for dignities. No one
said a word, but every one had a sort of undefined
dread of so active a member, and, by tacit consent,
every office which she had herself contrived, was filled,
without calling upon her. Her eyes grew preternaturally
pale, and her lips wan as whit-leather, when the
result was known; but she did not trust herself to
speak. She placed her name on the list of members
with as much composure as could be looked for, under
such trying circumstances, and soon after departed
with Miss Artemisia Clinch, giving a parting glance
which seemed to say, with Sir Peter Teazle, “I leave
my character behind me.”
A pawkie smile dawned on two or three of the sober
visages of our village dames, as the all-knowing widow
and her submissive niece closed the door, but no one
ventured a remark on the killing frost which had fallen
upon Mrs. Nippers' anticipated “budding honours,”
and after agreeing upon a meeting at our house, the ladies
dispersed.
The next morning, as I drew my window curtain, to
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see whether the sun had aired the world enough to
make it safe for me to get up to breakfast,—I do
not often dispute the pas with Aurora,—I saw Mrs.
Nippers emerge from the little front door of her tiny
mansion, unattended by her niece for a marvel, and
pace majestically down Main-street. I watched her
in something of her own prying spirit, to see whither
she could be going so early; but she disappeared in the
woods, and I turned to my combs and brushes, and
thought no more of the matter.
But the next day, and the next, and the day after,
almost as early each morning, out trotted my busy
neighbour; and although she disappeared in different
directions—sometimes P. S. and sometimes O. P.—she
never returned till late in the afternoon. My curiosity
began to be troublesome.
At length came the much-desired Tuesday, whose
destined event was the first meeting of the society. I
had made preparations for such plain and simple cheer
as is usual at such feminine gatherings, and began to
think of arranging my dress with the decorum required
by the occasion, when about one hour before the appointed
time, came Mrs. Nippers and Miss Clinch, and
ere they were unshawled and unhooded, Mrs. Flyter
and her three children—the eldest four years, and the
youngest six months. Then Mrs. Muggles and her
crimson baby, four weeks old. Close on her heels,
Mrs. Briggs and her little boy of about three years'
standing, in a long-tailed coat, with vest and decencies
of scarlet circassian. And there I stood in my gingham
wrapper, and kitchen apron; much to my
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discomfiture, and the undisguised surprise of the Female Beneficent
Society.
“I always calculate to be ready to begin at the time
appointed,” remarked the gristle-lipped widow.
“So do I,” responded Mrs. Flyter, and Mrs. Muggles,
both of whom sat the whole afternoon with baby
on knee, and did not sew a stitch.
“What! is n't there any work ready?” continued
Mrs. Nippers, with an astonished aspect; “well, I did
suppose that such smart officers as we have, would have
prepared all beforehand. We always used to, at the
East.”
Mrs. Skinner, who is really quite a pattern-woman
in all that makes woman indispensable, viz. cookery
and sewing, took up the matter quite warmly, just as I
slipped away in disgrace to make the requisite reform
in my costume.
When I returned, the work was distributed, and the
company broken up into little knots or coteries; every
head bowed, and every tongue in full play. I took my
seat at as great a distance from the sharp widow as
might be, though it is vain to think of eluding a person
of her ubiquity, and reconnoitred the company who were
“done off” (indigenous,) “in first-rate style,” for this
important occasion. There were nineteen women
with thirteen babies—or at least “young'uns” (indigenous,)
who were not above gingerbread. Of these
thirteen, nine held large chunks of gingerbread, or
dough-nuts, in trust, for the benefit of the gowns of the
society; the remaining four were supplied with bunches
of maple sugar, tied in bits of rag, and pinned to their
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shoulders, or held dripping in the fingers of their
mammas.
Mrs. Flyter was “slicked up” for the occasion, in
the snuff-coloured silk she was married in, curiously
enlarged in the back and not as voluminous in the
floating part as is the wasteful custom of the present
day. Her three immense children, white-haired and
blubber-lipped like their amiable parent, were in pink
ginghams and blue glass beads. Mrs. Nippers wore
her unfailing brown merino, and black apron; Miss
Clinch her inevitable scarlet calico; Mrs. Skinner her
red merino with baby of the same; Mrs. Daker shone
out in her very choicest city finery,—where else could
she show it, poor thing;) and a dozen other Mistresses
shone in their “'tother gowns,” and their tamboured
collars. Mrs. Doubleday's pretty black-eyed Dolly was
neatly stowed in a small willow-basket, where it lay
looking about with eyes full of sweet wonder, behaving
itself with marvellous quietness and discretion, as did
most of the other little torments, to do them justice.
Much consultation, deep and solemn, was held as to
the most profitable kinds of work to be undertaken by
the society. Many were in favour of making up linen,
cotton linen of course, but Mrs. Nippers assured the
company that shirts never used to sell well at the East,
and she was therefore perfectly certain that they would
not do here. Pincushions and such like feminilities
were then proposed; but at these Mrs. Nippers held up
both hands, and showed a double share of blue-white
around her eyes. Nobody about here needed pincushions,
and besides where should we get the materials?
Aprons, capes, caps, collars, were all proposed
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with the same ill success. At length Mrs. Doubleday,
with an air of great deference, inquired what Mrs.
Nippers would recommend.
The good lady hesitated a little at this. It was more
her forte to object to other people's plans, than to suggest
better; but after a moment's consideration she
said she should think fancy-boxes, watch-cases, and
alum-baskets would be very pretty.
A dead silence fell on the assembly, but of course it
did not last long. Mrs. Skinner went on quietly cutting
out shirts, and in a very short time furnished each
member with a good supply of work, stating that any
lady might take work home to finish if she liked.
Mrs. Nippers took her work and edged herself into
a coterie of which Mrs. Flyter had seemed till then the
magnet. Very soon I heard, “I declare it's a shame!”
“I don't know what'll be done about it;” “She told
me so with her own mouth;” “Oh but I was there
myself!” etc. etc., in many different voices; the interstices
well filled with undistinguishable whispers
“not loud but deep.”
It was not long before the active widow transferred
her seat to another corner;—Miss Clinch plying her
tongue, not her needle, in a third. The whispers and
the exclamations seemed to be gaining ground. The
few silent members were inquiring for more work.
“Mrs. Nippers has the sleeve! Mrs. Nippers, have
you finished that sleeve?”
Mrs. Nippers coloured, said “No,” and sewed four
stitches. At length “the storm grew loud apace.”
“It will break up the society—”
“What is that?” asked Mrs. Doubleday, in her sharp
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treble. “What is it, Mrs. Nippers? You know all
about it.”
Mrs. Nippers replied that she only knew what she
had heard, etc. etc., but, after a little urging, consented
to inform the company in general, that there was great
dissatisfaction in the neighbourhood; that those who
lived in log-houses at a little distance from the village,
had not been invited to join the society; and also that
many people thought twenty-five cents quite too high,
for a yearly subscription.
Many looked aghast at this. Public opinion is nowhere
so strongly felt as in this country, among new
settlers. And as many of the present company still
lived in log-houses, a tender string was touched.
At length, an old lady who had sat quietly in a corner
all the afternoon, looked up from behind the great
woollen sock she was knitting—
“Well now! that's queer!” said she, addressing Mrs.
Nippers with an air of simplicity simplified. “Miss
Turner told me you went round her neighbourhood
last Friday, and told how that Miss Clavers and Miss
Skinner despised every body that lived in log-houses;
and you know you told Miss Briggs that you thought
twenty-five cents was too much; did n't she, Miss
Briggs?” Mrs. Briggs nodded.
The widow blushed to the very centre of her pale
eyes, but, “e'en though vanquished,” she lost not her
assurance. “Why, I'm sure I only said that we only
paid twelve-and-a-half cents at the East; and as to log-houses,
I do n't know, I can't just recollect, but I did n't
say more than others did.”
But human nature could not bear up against the
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mortification; and it had, after all, the scarce credible
effect of making Mrs. Nippers sew in silence for
some time, and carry her colours at half-mast for the
remainder of the afternoon.
At tea each lady took one or more of her babies into
her lap and much grabbing ensued. Those who wore
calicoes seemed in good spirits and appetite, for green
tea at least, but those who had unwarily sported silks
and other unwashables, looked acid and uncomfortable.
Cake flew about at a great rate, and the milk and water
which ought to have gone quietly down sundry
juvenile throats, was spirted without mercy into various
wry faces. But we got through. The astringent
refreshment produced its usual crisping effect upon the
vivacity of the company. Talk ran high upon almost
all Montacutian themes.
“Do you have any butter now?” “When are you
going to raise your barn?” “Is your man a going to kill,
this week?” “I ha'n't seen a bit of meat these six
weeks.” “Was you to meetin' last Sabbath?” “Has
Miss White got any wool to sell?” “Do tell if you've
been to Detroit!” “Are you out o' candles?” “Well
I should think Sarah Teals wanted a new gown!” “I
hope we shall have milk in a week or two,” and so on;
for, be it known, that in a state of society like ours, the
bare necessaries of life are subjects of sufficient interest
for a good deal of conversation. More than one
truly respectable woman of our neighbourhood has told
me, that it is not very many years since a moderate
allowance of Indian meal and potatoes, was literally all
that fell to their share of this rich world for weeks
together.
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“Is your daughter Isabella well?” asked Mrs. Nippers
of me solemnly, pointing to little Bell who sat
munching her bread and butter, half asleep, at the
fragmentious table.
“Yes, I believe so, look at her cheeks.”
“Ah yes! it was her cheeks I was looking at. They
are so very rosy. I have a little niece who is the very
image of her. I never see Isabella without thinking
of Jerushy; and Jerushy is most dreadfully scrofulous!”
Satisfied at having made me uncomfortable, Mrs.
Nippers turned to Mrs. Doubleday, who was trotting
her pretty babe with her usual proud fondness.
“Do n't you think your baby breathes rather strangely?”
said the tormentor.
“Breathes! how!” said the poor thing, off her guard
in an instant.
“Why rather croupish, I think, if I am any judge.
I have never had any children of my own to be sure,
but I was with Mrs. Green's baby when it died, and—
“Come, we'll be off!” said Mr. Doubleday, who
had come for his spouse. “Do n't mind the envious
vixen”—aside to his Polly.
Just then, somebody on the opposite side of the room
happened to say, speaking of some cloth affair, “Mrs.
Nippers says it ought to be sponged.”
“Well, sponge it then, by all means,” said Mr.
Doubleday, “nobody else knows half as much about
sponging;” and with wife and baby in tow, off walked
the laughing Philo, leaving the widow absolutely transfixed.
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“What could Mr. Doubleday mean by that?” was at
length her indignant exclamation.
Nobody spoke.
“I am sure,” continued the crest-fallen Mrs. Campaspe,
with an attempt at a scornful giggle, “I am sure
if any body understood him, I would be glad to know
what he did mean.”
“Well now, I can tell you;” said the same simple
old lady in the corner, who had let out the secret of
Mrs. Nippers' morning walks. “Some folks calls that
sponging, when you go about getting your dinner here
and your tea there, and sich like; as you know you
and Meesy there does. That was what he meant I
guess.” And the old lady quietly put up her knitting,
and prepared to go home.
There have been times when I have thought that
almost any degree of courtly duplicity would be preferable
to the brusquerie of some of my neighbours:
but on this occasion I gave all due credit to a simple
and downright way of stating the plain truth. The
scrofulous hint probably brightened my mental and
moral vision somewhat.
Mrs. Nippers' claret cloak and green bonnet, and
Miss Clinch's ditto ditto, were in earnest requisition,
and I do not think either of them spent a day out that
week.
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CHAPTER XXXV.
We will rear new homes under trees which glow
As if gems were the fruitage of every bough;
O'er our white walls we will train the vine
And sit in its shadow at day's decline.
Mrs. Hemans.
Alas! they had been friends in youth
But whispering tongues will poison truth.
* * * * *
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,—
A dreary sea now flows between.
Coleridge.—Christabel.
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Many English families reside in our vicinity, some
of them well calculated to make their way any where;
close, penurious, grasping and indefatigable; denying
themselves all but the necessaries of life, in order to add
to their lands, and make the most of their crops; and
somewhat apt in bargaining to overreach even the wary
pumpkin-eaters, their neighbours: others to whom all
these things seem so foreign and so unsuitable, that
one cannot but wonder that the vagaries of fortune
should have sent them into so uncongenial an atmosphere.
The class last mentioned, generally live retired,
and show little inclination to mingle with their rustic
neighbours; and of course, they become at once the
objects of suspicion and dislike. The principle of
“let-a-be for let-a-be” holds not with us. Whoever
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exhibits any desire for privacy is set down as “praoud,”
or something worse; no matter how inoffensive, or
even how benevolent he may be; and of all places in
the world in which to live on the shady side of public
opinion, an American back-woods settlement is the
very worst, as many of these unfortunately mistaken
emigrants have been made to feel.
The better classes of English settlers seem to have
left their own country with high-wrought notions of
the unbounded freedom to be enjoyed in this; and it
is with feelings of angry surprise that they learn after
a short residence here, that this very universal freedom
abridges their own liberty to do as they please in their
individual capacity; that the absolute democracy
which prevails in country places, imposes as heavy restraints
upon one's free-will in some particulars, as do
the over-bearing pride and haughty distinctions of the
old world in others; and after one has changed one's
whole plan of life, and crossed the wide ocean to find
a Utopia, the waking to reality is attended with feelings
of no slight bitterness. In some instances within
my knowledge these feelings of disappointment have
been so severe as to neutralize all that was good in
American life, and to produce a degree of sour discontent
which increased every real evil and went far
towards alienating the few who were kindly inclined
toward the stranger.
I ever regarded our very intelligent neighbours the
Brents, as belonging to the class who have emigrated
by mistake, they seemed so well-bred, so well-off, so
amiable and so unhappy. They lived a few miles from
us, and we saw them but seldom, far less frequently
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than I could have wished, for there were few whose
society was so agreeable. Mr. Brent was a handsome,
noble-looking man of thirty or perhaps a little
more, well-read, and passionately found of literary pursuits;
no more fit to be a Michigan farmer than to
figure as President of the Texan republic; and his
wife a gentle and timid woman, very dependent and very
lovely, was as ill fitted to bear the household part of a
farmer's lot. But all this seemed well-arranged, for the
farm was managed “on shares” by a stout husbandman
and his family, tolerably honest and trustworthy
people as times go; and Mr. Brent and his pale and delicate
Catherine disposed of their hours as they thought
proper; not however without many secret and some
very audible surmises and wonderings on the part of
their immediate neighbours, which were duly reported,
devoutly believed, and invariably added to, in the
course of their diffusion in Montacute.
I might repeat what I heard at a Montacute teaparty;
I might give Mrs. Flyter's views of the probable
duration of Mr. Brent's means of living on the occasion
of having learned from Mrs. Holbrook that
Mrs. Brent did not see to the butter-making, and had
never milked a cow in her life. I might repeat Mrs.
Allerton's estimate of the cost of Mrs. Brent's dress at
meeting on a certain Sunday. But I shall only tell
what Mrs. Nippers said, for I consider her as unimpeachable
authority in such matters. Her decided and
solemn assertion was that Mrs. Brent was jealous.
“Jealous of whom?”
“Why of Mr. Brent to be sure!”
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“But it is to be supposed that there is somebody else
concerned.”
“Ah yes! but I do n't know. Mrs. Barton did n't
know.”
“Oh, it was Mrs. Barton who told you then.”
Mrs. Nippers had declined giving her authority, and
Mrs. Barton was the wife of Mr. Brent's farmer. So she
coloured a little, and said that she did not wish it repeated,
as Mrs. Barton had mentioned it to her in confidence.
But since it had come out by mere chance, she did n't
know but she might just as well tell that Mrs. Barton
was sure that Mrs. Brent was jealous of somebody in
England, or somebody that was dead, she did n't know
which. She hoped that none of the ladies would mention
it.
There were some fourteen or so in company, and
they had not yet had tea. After tea the poor Brents
were completely “used up,” to borrow a phrase much
in vogue with us, and the next day I was not much
surprised at being asked by a lady who made me a three
hours' morning call beginning at nine o'clock, if I had
heard that Mr. and Mrs. Brent were going to “part.”
I declared my ignorance of any thing so terrible,
and tried to trace back the news, but it must have
passed through several able hands before it came to me.
We rode over to see the Brents that afternoon, found
them as usual, save that Mrs. Brent seemed wasting,
but she always declared herself quite well; and her
husband, whose manner towards her is that of great
tenderness, yet not exactly that of husbands in general,
a little constrained, was reading aloud to her as she lay
on the sofa. They seemed pleased to see us, and
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promised an afternoon next week, to meet “a few friends,'—
that is the term, I believe,—but not Mrs. Nippers.
Among those whom I invited to partake our strawberries
and cream on the occasion, were Mr. Cathcart
and his beautiful wife, English neighbours from a little
vine-clad cottage on the hill west of our village; much
older residents than the Brents, who had not yet been
a year in our vicinity. Mrs. Cathcart is one of the
most beautiful women I have ever seen, and certainly
a very charming one in all respects, at least to me, who
do not dislike a good share of spirit and energy in a
lady. Her spouse, though far different, has his good
points, and can make himself agreeable enough when he
is in the humour; which sometimes occurs, though not
often. He is at least twenty years older than his lady,
and as ugly as she is handsome, and horribly jealous, I
say it myself, of every thing and every body which or
whom Mrs. Cathcart may chance to look at or speak
to, or take an interest in, gentle or simple, animate or inanimate.
It is really pitiable sometimes to see the poor
man grin in the effort to suppress the overboiling of his
wrath, for he is a very polite person, and generally says
the most disagreeable things with a smile.
These neighbours of ours are persons of taste—
taste in pictures, in music, in books, in flowers; and
thus far they are well mated enough. But there are certain
glances and tones which betray to the most careless
observer that there are points of difference, behind the
scenes at least; and little birds have whispered that
after Mrs. Cathcart had spent the morning in transplanting
flowers, training her honeysuckles and eglantines,
and trimming the turf seats which are tastefully
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disposed round their pretty cottage, Mr. Cathcart has
been seen to come out and destroy all she had been doing;
ploughing up the neat flower-beds with his knife,
tearing down the vines, and covering the turf sofas with
gravel. And the same little birds have added, that
when Mr. Cathcart, sated with mischief, turned to go
into the house again, he found the front-door fastened,
and then the back-door fastened; and after striding
about for some time till his bald head was well nigh
fried, he was fain to crawl in at the little latticed window,
and then—but further these deponents say not.
Well! our little strawberry party was to consist of
these English neighbours and some others, and I made
due provision of the fragrant rubies, and all the et-ceteras
of a rural tea-visit. Roses of all hues blushed in
my vases — a-hem! they were not pitchers, for the
handles were broken off, — and forests of asparagus
filled the fire-place. Alice and Arthur figured in their
Sundays, little Bell had a new calico apron, and Charlie
a shining clean face; so we were all ready.
First of all came the Cathcarts, and their one only
and odd son of three years old; a child who looked as
old as his father, and walked and talked most ludicrously
like him. It did seem really a pity that the
uncommonly fine eyes of his beautiful mamma had not
descended to him; those large-pupilled grey eyes, with
their long black lashes! and her richest of complexions,
brighter in bloom and contrast than the sunniest side of
a ripe peach; and her thousand graces of face and
person. But there he was, a frightful little dwarf, just
what his father would seem, looked at through a reversed
telescope, or in a convex mirror. And Mr.
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Cathcart was all smiles and politeness, and brought a
whole pocket full of literary novelties lately received
from “home.” And Mrs. Cathcart, always charming,
looked lovelier than usual, in a pale-coloured silk and
very delicate ornaments.
She was sitting at the piano, playing some brilliant
waltzes for the children, and Mr. Cathcart looking over
some New-York papers which lay on the table, when
Mrs. Brent, wan and feeble as usual, glided into the
room. I introduced her to my guests, with whom she
was evidently unacquainted, and in the next moment
Mr. Brent entered.
It needed but one glance to convince me that, to
Mrs. Cathcart at least, there was no occasion to introduce
the latest comer. She half rose from her seat,
painful blushes overspread her beautiful countenance,
and instantly subsiding left it deathly pale, while Mr.
Brent seemed equally discomposed, and Mr. Cathcart
gazed in undisguised and most angry astonishment.
I went through with the ceremony of presentation as
well as I could, awkwardly enough, and an embarrassed
pause succeeded, when in walked Mrs. Nippers and
Miss Clinch.
“Well, good folks,” said the widow, fanning herself
with a wide expanse of turkeys' feathers, which generally
hung on her arm in warm weather; “this is
what you may call toiling for pleasure. Mrs. Cathcart,
how do you manage to get out in such melting
weather? Well! I declare you do all look as if you
was overcome by the weather or something else!” and
she laughed very pleasantly at her own wit.
“Warm or cool, I believe we had better return home,
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Mrs. Cathcart,” said her amiable spouse with one of
his ineffable grins. She obeyed mechanically, and
began putting her own straw bonnet on little Algernon.
“I declare,” said the agreeable Mrs. Campaspe, “I
thought—I was in hopes you were going to stay, and
we could have had such a nice sociable time;” for
Mrs. Nippers was very fond of inviting company—to
other people's houses.
“No, Madam!” said Mr. Cathcart, “we must go
instantly. Fanny, what are you doing? Can't you
tie the child's hat?”
“One word, Sir!” said Mr. Brent, whose fine countenance
had undergone a thousand changes in the few
moments which have taken so many lines in telling;
and he stepped into the garden path, with a bow
which Mr. Cathcart returned very stiffly. He followed,
however, and, in less than one minute, returned,
wished us a very good day with more than the usual
proportion of smiles—rather grinnish ones, 'tis true;
but very polite; and almost lifting his trembling wife
into the vehicle, which still stood at the gate, drove off
at a furious rate.
And how looked the pale and gentle Catherine during
this brief scene? As one who feels the death-stroke;
like a frail blighted lily.
And beside her stood in silence
One with a brow as pale,
And white lips rigidly compress'd
Lest the strong heart should fail.
“Your ride has been too much for you, Mrs. Brent,”
said I; “you must rest awhile;” and I drew her into
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a small room adjoining the parlour, to avoid the industrious
eyes of Mrs. Nippers.
She spoke not, but her eyes thanked me, and I left
her, to receive other guests. Mrs. Nippers made a
very faint move to depart when she began to perceive
that company had been invited.
“Remain to tea, Mrs. Nippers,” I said,—could one
say less,—and she simpered, and said she was hardly
decent, but—and added in a stage-whisper, “If you
could lend me a smart cap and cape, I do n't know but
I would.” So she was ushered in due form to my
room, with unbounded choice in a very narrow circle
of caps and capes, and a pair of thin shoes, and then
clean stockings, were successively added as decided
improvements to her array. And when she made her
appearance in the state-apartments, she looked, as she
said herself, “pretty scrumptious;” but took an early
opportunity to whisper, “I did n't know where you
kept your pocket-handkerchiefs.” So Alice was despatched
for one, and the lady was complete.
Mr. Brent, with Bella in his arms, paced the garden
walk, pretending to amuse the child, but evidently agitated
and unhappy.
“Did you ever see any thing so odd?” whispered
Mrs. Nippers, darting a glance toward the garden.
But, fortunately, the person honoured by her notice
was all unconscious; and happening to observe his
wife as he passed the low window in the little west-room,
he stopped a few moments in low and earnest
conversation with her. It was not long before Mrs.
Brent appeared, and, apologizing with much grace,
said, that feeling a little better, she would prefer
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returning home. I took leave of her with regretful presentiments.
In less than a week, Mrs. Nippers had more than
she could attend to. The Brents had left the country,
and Mrs. Cathcart was alarmingly ill. The unfortunate
strawberry-party so unexpectedly marred by this
rencontre, was the theme of every
convnetion within five
miles, to speak moderately; and by the time the story
reached home again, its own mother could not have
recognized it.
A letter from Mr. Brent to say farewell and a little
more, gave us in few words the outlines of a sad story;
and while all Montacute is ringing with one of which
not the smallest particular is lacking, I am not at
liberty to disclose more of the “owre true tale,” than
the reader will already have conjectured—“a priory
'tachment.”
The way Mrs. Nippers rolls up her eyes when the
English are mentioned is certainly “a caution.”
-- 244 --
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Away with these! true wisdom's world will be
Within its own creation, or in thine,
Maternal Nature! * * *
Are not the mountains, waves and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion?
Childe Harold.—Canto III.
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When we first took our delighted abode in the
“framed house,” a palace of some twenty by thirty
feet, flanked by a shanty kitchen, and thatched with
oak shingles,—a sober neighbour, who having passed
most of his life in the country, is extremely philosophical
on the follies of civilization, took my husband
to task on the appearance of the ghost of a departed parlour
carpet, which he said was “introducing luxury.”
Whether from this bad example, I cannot tell, but it is
certain that our neighbours are many of them beginning
to perceive that carpets “save trouble.” Women
are the most reasonable beings in the world; at least,
I am sure nobody ever catches a woman without an
unanswerable reason for anything she wishes to do.
Mrs. Micah Balwhidder only wanted a silver tea-pot,
because, as all the world knows, tea tastes better out of
silver; and Mrs. Primrose loved her crimson paduasoy,
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merely because her husband had happened to say it
became her.
Of the mingled mass of our country population, a
goodly and handsome proportion—goodly as to numbers,
and handsome as to cheeks and lips, and thews and
sinews, consists of young married people just beginning
the world; simple in their habits, moderate in their
aspirations, and hoarding a little of old-fashioned
romance, unconsciously enough, in the secret nooks of
their rustic hearts. These find no fault with their
bare loggeries. With a shelter and a handful of furniture
they have enough. If there is the wherewithal
to spread a warm supper for “th' old man” when he
comes in from work, the young wife forgets the long,
solitary, wordless day, and asks no greater happiness
than preparing it by the help of such materials and
such untensils as would be looked at with utter contempt
in a comfortable kitchen; and then the youthful pair sit
down and enjoy it together, with a zest that the
“orgies parfaites” of the epicure can never awaken.
What lack they that this world can bestow? They
have youth, and health, and love and hope, occupation
and amusement, and when you have added “meat,
clothes, and fire,” what more has England's fair young
queen? These people are contented, of course.
There is another class of settlers neither so numerous
nor so happy; people, who have left small farms in
the eastward states, and come to Michigan with the
hope of acquiring property at a more rapid rate. They
have sold off, perhaps at considerable pecuniary disadvantage
the home of their early married life; sacrificed
the convenient furniture which had become
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necessary to daily comfort, and only awake when it is too
late, to the fact that it kills old vines to tear them from
their clinging-places. These people are much to be
pitied, the women especially.
The ladies first
'Gin murmur—as becomes the softer sex.
Woman's little world is overclouded for lack of the old
familiar means and appliances. The husband goes to
his work with the same axe or hoe which fitted his
hand in his old woods and fields, he tills the same soil,
or perhaps a far richer and more hopeful one—he
gazes on the same book of nature which he has read
from his infancy, and sees only a fresher and more
glowing page; and he returns to his home with the
sun, strong in heart and full of self-gratulation on the
favourable change in his lot. But he finds the home-bird
drooping and disconsolate. She has been looking
in vain for the reflection of any of the cherished features
of her own dear fire-side. She has found a
thousand deficiencies which her rougher mate can
scarce be taught to feel as evils. What cares he if
the time-honoured cupboard is meagerly represented by
a few oak-boards lying on pegs and called shelves?
His tea-equipage shines as it was wont—the biscuits
can hardly stay on the brightly glistening plates. Will
he find fault with the clay-built oven, or even the tin
“reflector?” His bread never was better baked.
What does he want with the great old cushioned rocking-chair?
When he is tired he goes to bed, for he is
never tired till bed-time. Women are the grumblers
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in Michigan, and they have some apology. Many of
them have made sacrifices for which they were not at
all prepared, and which detract largely from their
every day stores of comfort. The conviction of good
accruing on a large scale does not prevent the wearing
sense of minor deprivations.
Another large class of emigrants is composed of people
of broken fortunes, or who have been unsuccesful
in past undertakings. These like or dislike the country
on various grounds, as their peculiar condition may
vary. Those who are fortunate or industrious look at
their new home with a kindly eye. Those who learn
by experience that idlers are no better off in Michigan
than elsewhere, can find no terms too virulent in which
to express their angry disappointment. The profligate
and unprincipled lead stormy and uncomfortable lives
any where; and Michigan, now at least, begins to
regard such characters among her adopted children,
with a stern and unfriendly eye, so that the few who
may have come among us, hoping for the unwatched
and unbridled license which we read of in regions
nearer to the setting sun, find themselves marked and
shunned as in the older world.
As women feel sensibly the deficiencies of the “salvage”
state, so they are the first to attempt the refining
process, the introduction of those important nothings
on which so much depends. Small additions to the
more delicate or showy part of the household gear are
accomplished by the aid of some little extra personal
exertion. “Spinning-money” buys a looking-glass
perhaps, or “butter-money” a cherry table.
Eglantines and wood-vine, or wild-cucumber, are
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sought and transplanted to shade the windows. Narrow
beds round the house are bright with Balsams and
Sweet Williams, Four o'clocks, Poppies and Marigolds;
and if “th' old man” is good natured, a little
gate takes the place of the great awkward bars before
the door. By and bye a few apple-trees are set out;
sweet briars grace the door yard, and lilacs and currant-bushes;
all by female effort—at least I have never
yet happened to see it otherwise where these improvements
have been made at all. They are not all accomplished
by her own hand indeed, but hers is the
moving spirit, and if she do her “spiriting gently,” and
has anything but a Caliban for a minister, she can
scarcely fail to throw over the real homeliness of her
lot something of the magic of that Ideal which has
been truly sung—
Nymph of our soul, and brightener of our being;
She makes the common waters musical—
Binds the rude night-winds in a silver thrall,
Bids Hybla's thyme and Tempe's violet dwell
Round the green marge of her moon-haunted cell.
* * * * * *
This shadowy power, or power of shadows is the “archvanquisher
of time and care” every where; but most
of all needed in the waveless calm of a strictly woodland
life, and there most enjoyed. The lovers of “unwritten
poetry” may find it in the daily talk of our
rustic neighbours—in their superstitions—in the remedies
which they propose for every ill of humanity, the
ideal makes the charm of their life as it does that of all
the world's, peer and poet, wood-cutter and serving-maid.
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After allowing due weight to the many disadvantages
and trials of a new-country life, it would scarce be
fair to pass without notice the compensating power of
a feeling, inherent as I believe, in our universal nature,
which rejoices in that freedom from the restraints of
pride and ceremony which is found only in a new country.
To borrow from a brilliant writer of our own, “I
think we have an instinct, dulled by civilization, which
is like the caged eaglet's, or the antelope's that is reared
in the Arab's tent; an instinct of nature that scorns
boundary and chain; that yearns to the free desert;
that would have the earth like the sky, unappropriated
and open; that rejoices in immeasurable liberty of foot
and dwelling-place, and springs passionately back to its
freedom, even after years of subduing method and spirit-breaking
confinement!”
This “instinct,” so beautifully noticed by Willis, is
what I would point to as the compensating power of
the wilderness. Those who are “to the manor born”
feel this most sensibly, and pity with all their simple
hearts the walled-up denizens of the city. And the
transplanted ones—those who have been used to no
forests but “forests of chimneys,” though “the parted
bosom clings to wonted home,” soon learn to think nature
no step-mother, and to discover many redeeming
points even in the half-wild state at first so uncongenial.
That this love of unbounded and unceremonious
liberty is a natural and universal feeling, needs no
argument to show; I am only applying it on a small
scale to the novel condition in which I find myself in
the woods of Michigan. I ascribe much of the placid
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contentment, which seems the heritage of rural life,
to the constant familiarity with woods and waters—
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the song of even;
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom yields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven—
To the harmony which the Creator has instituted
between the animate and inanimate works of His
hands.
Authorities crowd upon me, and I must be allowed
to close my chapter with a favourite paragraph from
Hazlitt.
“The heart reposes in greater security on the immensity of
nature's works, expatiates freely there, and finds elbow-room
and breathing-space. We are always at home with Nature.
There is neither hypocrisy, caprice, nor mental reservation in
her favours. Our intercourse with her is not liable to accident
or change, suspicion or disappointment: she smiles on us still
the same. * * In our love of Nature, there is all the force of
individual attachment, combined with the most airy abstraction.
It is this circumstance which gives that refinement, expansion
and wild interest to feelings of this sort. * * Thus Nature is
a sort of universal home, and every object it presents to us an
old acquaintance, with unaltered looks; for there is that constant
and mutual harmony among all her works—one undivided
spirit pervading them throughout—that to him who has well
acquainted himself with them, they speak always the same
well-known language, striking on the heart amidst unquiet
thoughts and the tumult of the world, like the music of one's
native tongue, heard in some far-off country.”
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CHAPTER XXXVII.
Per mezz' i boschi inospiti e selvaggi
Onde vanno a gran rischio uomini, ed arme
Vo secur' io; che non può spaventarme
Altri, che 'l Sol.—
E vo cantando—
Raro un silenzio, un solitario orrore
D' ombrosa selva mai tanto mi piacque.
Petrarca, Son. CXLII.
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A bridle-path through the deep woods which lie
south-west of our village, had long been a favourite
walk on those few days of our Boreal summer, when
shade had seemed an essential element of comfort.
The forest itself is so entirely cumbered with shrubs
and tangled vines, that to effect even a narrow path
through it, had been a work of no little time and
labour; and as no money was likely to flow in upon
us from that direction, I had no fears of a road, but
considered the whole as a magnificent pleasaunce for
the special delight of those who can discern glory and
splendour in grass and wild-flowers.
We lacked not carpets, for there was the velvet
sward, embroidered with blossoms, whose gemmy tints
can never be equalled in Brussels or in Persia; nor
canopy, for an emerald dome was over us, full of
trembling light, and festooned and tasselled with the
starry eglantine, the pride of our Western woods; nor
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pillars, nor arches; for, oh! beloved forests of my
country, where can your far-sounding aisles be matched
for grandeur, your “alleys green” for beauty? We
had music too, fairy music, “gushes of wild song,”
soft, sighing murmurs, such as flow from
The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell,
And recalling, like those other murmurs, the summer
swell of the distant ocean; and withal, the sound of a
bubbling stream, which was ever and anon sweetly
distinct amid the delicate harmony.
Many a dreamy hour have I wandered in this delicious
solitude, not “book-bosomed;” for, at such times,
my rule is peu lire, penser beaucoup; nor yet moralizing,
like the melancholy Jaques, on the folly and inconstancy
of the world; but just “daundering,” to
borrow an expression from Mr. Galt; perhaps Fanny
Kemble would have said “dawdling;” so I leave the
choice with my reader, and make an effort to get on
with my story, which seems as much inclined to loiter
in my favourite wood as I am myself.
I had never ventured far from Montacute in my
strolls with the children, or with my female friends.
To say nothing of my sad pausse, I hate it in English;
but “'tis not half so shocking in French:” not to
mention that at all, there are other “lions in the way;”
Massasaugas for instance, and Indians, and blue racers,
six or eight feet long, and as thick as a man's arm;
“harmless,” say the initiated, but j' en doute, and my
prime and practical favourite among mottoes and
maxims, is “'ware snakes!” Then toads; but if I
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once mount a toad, I shall not get back this great
while.
It so happened that one morning when the atmosphere
was particularly transparent, and the shower-laid
earth in delicious order for a ride, I had an invitation
from my husband for a stroll—a “splorification”
on horseback; and right joyously did I endue myself
with the gear proper to such wood-craft, losing not a
moment, for once, that I might be ready for my “beautiful
Orelio,” old Jupiter, when he should come round.
We mounted, and sought at once the dim wood of
which I have been speaking.
We followed the bridle-path for miles, finding
scarcely a trace of human life. We scared many a
grey rabbit, and many a bevy of quails, and started at
least one noble buck; I said two, but may be the same
one was all around us, for so it seemed. I took the
opportunity of trying old Jupiter's nerves and the
woodland echoes, by practising poor Malibran's “Tourment
d'Amour,” at the expense of the deepest recess
of my lungs, while my companion pretended to be
afraid he could not manage Prince, and finally let him
go off at half speed. Old Jupiter, he is deaf, I believe,
jogged on as before, and I still amused myself by arousing
the Dryads, and wondering whether they ever
heard a Swiss refrain before, when I encountered a
sportsman, belted, pouched, gunned, and dogged, quite
comme il faut, and withal, wearing very much such a
face as Adonis must have looked at when he arrayed
himself at the fountain.
What an adventure for a sober village matron! I
almost think I must have blushed. At least I am sure
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I must have done so had the affair happened only ten
years earlier.
I thought seriously of apologizing to the stranger
for singing in the woods, of which he seemed like
the tutelar deity; but fortunately Mr. Clavers at this
moment returned, and soon engaged him in conversation;
and it was not long before he offered to show us
a charming variety in the landscape, if we would ride
on for a quarter of a mile.
We had been traversing a level tract, which we had
supposed lay rather low than high. In a few minutes,
we found ourselves on the very verge of a miniature
precipice; a bluff which overhung what must certainly
have been originally a lake, though it is now a
long oval-shaped valley of several miles in extent, beautifully
diversified with wood and prairie, and having a
lazy, quiet stream winding through it, like—like—
“like a snake in a bottle of spirits;” or like a long
strip of apple-paring, when you have thrown it over
your head to try what letter it will make on the carpet;
or like the course of a certain great politician
whom we all know. My third attempt hits it exactly,
neither of the others was crooked enough.
The path turned short to the right, and began, not far
from where we stood, to descend, as if to reach at some
distance, and by a wide sweep, the green plain below
us. This path looked quite rocky and broken, so much
so, that I longed to try it, but my companion thought
it time to return home.
“Let me first have the pleasure of shewing you my
cottage,” said our handsome guide, whose air had a
curious mixture of good-breeding with that sort of
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rustic freedom and abruptness, which is the natural growth
of the wilderness. As he spoke he pointed out a path
in the wood, which we could not help following, and
which brought us in a few minutes to a beautiful opening,
looking on the basin below the bluff on one side,
and on the deep woods on the other. And there was
a long, low, irregularly-shaped house, built of rich
brown tamarack logs, nearly new, and looking so rural
and lovely that I longed to alight. Every thing about
the house was just as handsome and picturesque-looking,
as the owner; and still more attractive was the
fair creature who was playing with a little girl under
the tall oaks near the cottage. She came forward to
welcome us with a grace which was evidently imported
from some civilized region; and as she drew near, I
recognized at once an old school-friend; the very Cora
Mansfield who used to be my daughter at Mrs.—'s;
at least the dozenth old acquaintance I have met accidentally
since we came to the new world.
Mutual introductions of our honoured spouses were
now duly performed, and we of Montacute did not refuse
to alight and make such short tarry with our ten-mile
neighbours, as the lateness of the hour permitted.
We found the house quite capacious and well-divided,
and furnished as neatly though far less ostentatiously
than a cottage ornée in the vicinity of some great metropolis.
There was a great chintz-covered sofa—a
very jewel for your siesta—and some well-placed
lounges; and in an embayed window draperied with
wild vines, a reading-chair of the most luxurious proportions,
with its foot-cushion and its prolonged
rockers. Neat, compact presses, filled with books, new
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as well as old, and a cabinet piano-forte, made up nearly
all the plenishin', but there was enough. The whole
was just like a young lady's dream, and Cora and her
Thalaba of a husband looked just fit to enjoy it.
The contrast was amusing enough when I recalled
where I had last seen Cora. It was at a fancy ball at
Mrs. L—'s, when she was a little, dimpled, pink-and-silver
maid of honour to Mary of Scots, or some
such great personage, flitting about like a humming-bird
over a honey-suckle, and flirting most atrociously
with the half-fledged little beaux who hung on her
footsteps. She looked far lovelier in her woodland
simplicity, to my simplified eyes at least. She had not,
to be sure, a “sweet white dress,” with straw-coloured
kid-gloves, and a dog tied to a pink ribbon, like “the
fair Curranjel,” but she wore a rational, home-like,
calico—“horrors!” I hear my lady readers exclaim—
aye, a calico, neatly fitted to her beautiful figure; and
her darkly-bright eyes beamed not less archly beneath
her waving locks than they had done—years
before. You did not think I was going to tell, did
you?
Two hundred and forty questions, at a moderate
guess, and about half as many answers, passed between
us, while Mr. Hastings—did n't I say his name was
Hastings?—was shewing Mr. Clavers his place. Cora
and I had no leisure for statistics or economics on this
our first rencontre. She rocked the basket cradle
with her foot, and told me all about her two little
daughters; and I had a good deal to say of the same
sort; and at length, when superior authority said we
could not stay one moment longer, we cantered off,
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with promises of reunion, which have since been amply
redeemed on both sides. And now shall I tell, all in
due form, what I have gathered from Cora's many talks,
touching a wild prank of hers? She said I might, and
I will, with the reader's good leave.
-- 258 --
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
Love sat on a Lotus-leaf afloat,
And saw old Time in his loaded boat;
Slowly he cross'd Life's narrow tide,
While love sat clapping his wings and cried,
Who will pass Time?
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Everard Hastings, a tall, bright-haired, elegant-looking
boy of nineteen, handsome as Antinous, and
indolent as—any body on record, left college with his
head as full of romance and as far from any thing like
plain, practical, common-sense views of life and its
wearisome cares and its imperious duties, as any young
New-Yorker of his standing; and he very soon discovered
that his charming cousin Cora Mansfield was just
the bewitching little beauty for such a hero to fall
shockingly in love with. To be freed from college
restraints and to be deeply in love, were both so delightful,
that Everard “argued sair” to persuade his father
not to be in such haste to immure him in a law-office.
He thought his health rather delicate—exertion certainly
did not agree with him. He passed his slender
fingers through the cherished love-locks which had been
much his care of late; looked in the glass and wished
he was of age and had finished his studies; and then
went and sat the evening with Cora. And though law
did not get on very fast, love made up for it by growing
wondrously.
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His diary in those days, if he had found time to keep
a diary, must have run somewhat on this wise:
“Monday morning. Rose at eight. Got to the
office about ten, or pretty soon after. Mr. J. looked a
little dry. Went with Cora at twelve to see—'s
pictures. Took us a long time. Dined at uncle Phil's—
and found all in bed but Pa when I came home.
Tuesday. Overslept. Office at ten, or perhaps a
little after. Mr. J. asked me if I was not well. Vexed
to think how I coloured as I said “not very.” Cora
and I were engaged to make a bridal call with Mrs. L.
Carriage called for me at the office. Dined at uncle
Phil's and went to the theatre with aunt Charlotte and
the girls. Cora grows prettier. Henry Tracy says
she is handsomer than the great beauty Miss—of
Boston.
Wednesday. All dined with us, and company in
the evening. Did not get to the office at all.
Thursday. Rose early. Walked with the girls on
the battery, and breakfasted at uncle Phil's. Felt quite
ill. Rising early never did agree with me. Obliged
to lie on the sofa and have my forehead bathed with
Cologne till it was too late to go to the office. Dined
at uncle Phil's, and rode with girls afterwards,” &c.
&c.
And what were uncle Phil and aunt Charlotte thinking
of all this time? Why, that Everard and Cora
were but children; and that by-and-bye, when the fitting
time should come, a marriage would be just the
very thing most agreeable to all concerned.
When spring came—delicious tempting days of
warm sun and bright skies, both families prepared for
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their usual summer flight to their rural palaces on the
North River, not far from town; and Everard pleaded
so hard for one single summer, or part of a summer,
that his father, who was too indulgent by half, gave
way and suffered him to postpone his studies; hoping
of course that Everard would gain studious habits by
sauntering in the woods with his cousins. 'T is pity
parents can so seldom stop at the juste milieu between
weak compliance and severe requisition; but then I
should have had no story to tell, so it is better as it is.
“How fond the children are of each other!” said
Mrs. Hastings to Mrs. Mansfield.
What parent ever thought that a child had arrived
at maturity?
I have heard of an octogenarian who declined staying
two days with a relative because he was afraid
“the boys” could not get along without him; one of
the “boys” a bachelor of fifty, the other a grandfather.
But to return.
Wandering one afternoon over the woody hills which
make so charming a part of those elegant places on
the Hudson, Cora and Everard, by one of those chances
which will occur, spite of all one can do, were separated
from their companions.
“Everard,” said the fair girl, stopping short and
looking around her with delight, “only see! it seems
now as if we were in a lonely wilderness without a single
trace of man but this little path. Would n't it be
charming if it were really so? if there were nobody
within, oh! ever so many miles, but just ourselves—”
she stopped and blushed.
“Ah Cora!” said Everard, passionately, “if you only
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loved me half as well as—” but he had not time
to finish, for the little hand which had lain quietly within
his arm, was snatched away, leaving the glove behind
it, and Cora, running away from her own blushes,
was at the river-side quick as lightning.
Love had not blinded Everard's eyes when he called
Cora a beauty. She was a beauty, and of the most
bewitching style too; with eyes of all sorts of colours,
just as as she happened to feel, but the fringing lashes
were always silky-black, and the eyes seemed so too,
to the unconcerned spectator. She might have passed
for one of “Spain's dark-glancing daughters,” if one
looked at her elastic form, and her tiny hands and
feet, but her skin was too exquisitely white to warrant
the supposition, and besides, she had mind enough in
her face to have furnished forth a dozen Senoras.
Imagine such a being, graceful as a sylph, and withal,
Ruby-lipp'd and tooth'd with pearl—
And you have Cora Mansfield before you, as she stood
on the beach, every charm heightened by the sudden
exertion, and the confusion into which Everard's last
speech, (of which I gave only an inkling,) had thrown
her.
There had long been a tacit understanding between
the young lovers; but after all, the first words of love
will, whatever may have been the preparation, inevitably
overset a woman's philosophy.
Cora was almost sixteen, reader, and thought herself
a woman at least, though her mother—but that's quite
another thing.
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It was sunset before Everard and Cora found their
way back to the house; but they did not stop on the
lawn as usual, to talk about the western sky. Cora's
little heart throbbed audibly, as a heroine's ought; and
as for Everard, he walked with his eyes fixed on the
earth, though he thought only of the bright being beside
him. Both looked most terribly conscious, but
nobody thought of noticing them, and Mrs. Mansfield,
whom they found in the parlour, only said, “Cora,
child, you are very imprudent to be running about after
sunset without your bonnet.”
Now Cora did hate, above all other things, to be
called “child,” and it was quite a comfort to her that
evening to reflect, “Mamma would not be always calling
me child, if she knew—!”
It was not long before Mamma knew all about it, for
there was no motive for concealment, except the extreme
youth of the parties. Everard said three years
would soon pass away, which is very true, though he
did not think so.
I forgot, when I was describing Cora, to say she was
even more deeply tinged with romance than Everard
himself. She lived entirely in an ideal world. Her mind
was her kingdom or her cottage—her ball-room or her
dungeon—as the imaginary drama shifted the unities.
Everard's reveries had in them nothing defined. There
was always a beautiful creature, just like Cora, but the
inferior parts of fancy's sketch were usually rather dim.
With his fairy mistress the case was different. The first
poem her Italian master, the Marquis—, had put into
her hands, had been the Pastor Fido; and the “Care
beate selve” of Amaryllis had been ever since the
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favourite theme of her musings. And then the sweet
little enchanting “Isola Disabitata” of Metastasio,
proved, just as young ladies like to have things
proved—that people, nay, women alone, can live in a
wilderness, and even in a desert island; and oh! what
a pretty variety of paradises she wove out of these
slight materials. She was always herself the happy
tenant of a cottage; so happy in herself that even
Everard did not always find a place in the dream.
She had her books, her needle-work, and her music; a
harp of course, or a guitar at the very least; ever-smiling
skies and ever-rippling rivulets; the distant murmur of
a water-fall, or perhaps a boat upon a deep-shaded lake;
and a fair hill-side with some picturesque sheep grazing
upon it.
“No sound of hammer or of saw was there.”
no thought of dinner, no concern about “the wash,”
no setting of barrels to catch rain-water—oh, dear!
only think of coming to Michigan to realize such
a dream as that!
-- 264 --
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Go follow the breeze that flies over the sea,
Go fasten the rainbow's dyes;
Go whistle the bird from yonder tree,
Or catch on the wave the sparkles that rise:
This to do thou shalt easier find,
Than to know the thoughts of a woman's mind.
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With a head full of such fantastic notions, it is
hardly surprising that the distant prospect of an old-fashioned
wedding—all the aunts and uncles and fifteenth
cousins duly invited—a great evening party,
and then a stiff setting-up for company—had not many
charms for our heroine, and that Everard, almost
equally romantic, and éperdument amoureux, should
have learned to think with his pretty wilful cousin in
this as in all other particulars.
He did not at all relish Cora's living so much in these
home-made worlds of hers. He sometimes questioned
her pretty closely as to particulars, and, I regret to
say, was often more jealous than he cared to own, of
certain cavaliers who played conspicuous parts in
Cora's dramas. She declared they all meant Everard,
but he thought some of them but poor likenesses.
He found her one day crying her pretty eyes red,
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over one of Barry Cornwall's Dramatic Scenes, sweet
and touching enough for any body to cry over. It ran
thus:—
“There stiff and cold the dark-eyed Guido lay,
His pale face upward to the careless day,
That smiled as it was wont.
And he was found
His young limbs mangled on the rocky ground,
And 'mid the weltering weeds and shallows cold
His dark hair floated, as the phantom told:
And like the very dream, his glassy eye
Spoke of gone mortality!—”
And he took it quite hard of her to weep over a handsome
boy, who was not a bit like him. Cora declared
he was, and they made quite a pretty quarrel of it.
It must come out at last—I have put it off as long as
I decently could, and I am sorry to be obliged to tell
it—but this silly young couple in their dreamy folly,
concluded that since all the papas and mammas were
quite willing they should marry, it could be no great
harm if they took the how and the when into their own
hands, and carved out for themselves a home in the
wilderness, far from law-offices and evening parties,
plum-cake and white satin. Accordingly, on pretence
of dining with an aunt in town, the imprudent pair
were irrevocably joined by a certain reverend gentleman,
who used to be very accommodating in that way
and the very next evening set out clandestinely for—,
some hundreds of miles west of Albany.
Cora left, all in due form, a note of apology on her
dressing-table; placed whatever money and valuables
she possessed, in security about her person,—I believe
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she did not take any particular heroine for a model in
these arrangements, but all;—and then prepared to
leave her father's house.
Unfortunately nobody was watching. There was no
possible excuse for jumping out of the window, but she
waited till all were in bed, and then unlocked a door
with much care, and let herself out. She felt a sort of
pang as she looked back at the house, but the flurry of
her spirits scarcely allowed her to be as sentimental as
the occasion demanded.
Everard, whose purse had just been replenished by
his father's bountiful half-yearly allowance, joined her
before she had reached the high-road. He was a shade
less thoughtless than his volatile companion, who had
been ever a spoiled child, and his heart felt portentously
heavy ere they had lost sight of their happy
homes.
It was a beautiful moonlight night, somewhere near
the middle of July, and a slight shower in the afternoon
had rendered the walking delightful. Cora was enchanted:
the hour, the scene, the excitement of her
romance-ridden brain, conspired to raise her spirits to
an extravagant pitch, and to make her forget all that
ought to have deterred her from the mad step she was
now taking. She only regretted that the whole journey
could not be performed on foot; and it was with
some difficulty that Everard convinced her of the impracticability
of this, her first and darling scheme. It
was to have been what my friend Mrs. — calls a
“predestinarian tower.” To be indebted to wheels
and boilers for transportation, detracted terribly from
the romance of the thing; but she was comforted by
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the thought that it was only by travelling as rapidly as
possible, that they could hope to elude the search which
she doubted not would be immediately commenced, by
the astonished friends they had left behind.
Cora confessed herself a little weary when they
reached the little Dutch tavern where they were to
find the carriage which was to bear them to a landing
on the river. By some mistake, the carriage had not
yet arrived, and the hour which elapsed before it
came, was one of feverish anxiety to both. A dreary
unfurnished room, lighted by one forlorn little candle,
was rather too much for Cora's philosophy. She began
to feel terribly sleepy, and, if the truth must be told,
wished herself safely in bed at home.
But she would not have lisped such a thing for the
world; and to Everard's repeated inquiry, “My dearest
Cora, what has become of all your charming spirits?
Do you repent already?”—almost hoping she
would say, yes,—she still replied,
“No, indeed! Do you think I have so little resolution!”
And she silenced the loud whispers of her better
feelings, aided as they were by this temporary depression
of spirits, by the consideration that it was now too
late to recede; since, although she had found it easy to
quit her father's house unnoticed, to re-enter it in
the same manner would now be impossible, and to return
in the morning was not to be thought of.
The rapid motion of the carriage, and the refreshing
air of approaching morning, revived her flagging energies;
and they had not proceeded many miles before
her fancy had drawn for her one of its brightest
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pictures, and this soon after subsided into a most fantastically
charming dream. In short, she fell asleep, and
slept till day-break. At sunrise they found themselves
at the landing, and, in the course of half an hour, on
board the steamer.
The morning was express. No lovelier sunshine
ever encouraged a naughty girl in her naughtiness. A
cold rain would have sent her back probably, wilted
and humble enough, but this enchanting morning was
but too propitious. Cora felt her little heart dilate
with pleasure as the boat shot through the foaming
waters, and the bugles a wakened the mountain echoes.
She kept her green silk veil closely drawn, until she
had ascertained that all on board were strangers to
her; and Everard, who could not adopt the same
means of masking his Apollo front, was much relieved
at making the same discovery.
A few hours brought them to Albany, and here Everard
would gladly have remained a few days; but
there was now an anxious restlessness in Cora's heart,
which sought relief in rapid motion; and she entreated
him to proceed immediately. So he disposed of his
watch—for who needs a time-piece in the woods, where
there is nothing to do but watch the shadows all day?—
and, with much reluctance, of a ring of Cora's; a
rich diamond, a splendid birth-day gift from the grandmother
who had done Cora the favour to spoil her by
every possible indulgence. The jeweller, who, fortunately
for the headlong pair, proved very honest as
times go, agreed to receive these articles only in pledge,
on being allowed what he called moderate interest for
one year, the time he engaged to retain them.
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To our wise lovers the sum now in their possession
seemed inexhaustible. All difficulties seemed at an
end, and they set out with all sails filled by this happy
raising of the wind. 'T is, after all, a humiliating
truth that
Lips, though blooming, must still be fed.
To wander over the woody hills all the morning with—
the poet or the novelist whom the reader loves best;
to watch the sailing clouds till the sultry noon is
past, then linger by the shadowy lake till its bosom
begins to purple with day's dying tints, while it fills
the soul with dreamy happiness, only makes the unsympathizing
body prodigiously hungry; and then to
go home, wondering what on earth we can have for
dinner, strikes me as a specimen of pungent bathos.
But to return.
Cora's desire to perform certain parts of the westward
journey on foot, Everard himself bearing the two
small valises which now enveloped all their earthly
havings;—“some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone;”—
this wish had yielded to that feverish haste,
that secret desire to fly from her own pursuing thoughts,
to which I have before alluded. So they travelled like
common people.
At Utica, Everard purchased a few books; for Cora
had not been able to crowd into her travelling basket
more than two mignon volumes of her darling Metastasio;
and to live in a wilderness without books, was
not to be thought of. Robinson Crusoe would have
been the most rational purchase, but I dare say he did
not buy that. Perhaps Atala, perhaps Gertrude of
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Wyoming, perhaps—but these are only conjectures.
For my own part, I should have recommended Buchan's
Domestic Medicine, the Frugal Housewife, the Whole
Duty of Man, and the Almanac for 18—. But, counselled
only by their own fantasies, these sober friends
were, I doubt, omitted, in favour of some novels and
poetry-books, idle gear at best.
With this reinforcement of “the stuff that dreams
are made of,” they proceeded; and, after some two or
three days' travel, found themselves in a small village,
in the south-western part of New-York. Here Cora
was content to rest awhile; and Everard employed
the time in sundry excursions for the purpose of reconnoitring
the face of the country; wishing to ascertain
whether it was rocky, and glenny, and streamy enough
to suit Cora, whose soul disdained any thing like a level
or a clearing.
Ere long he found a spot, so wild and mountainous
and woody, as to be considered entirely impracticable
by any common-sense settler; so that it seemed just
the very place for a forest-home for a pair who had set
out to live on other people's thoughts. Cora was so
charmed with Everard's description of it, and—whispered
be it—so tired of living at the—Hotel, that
she would not hear of going first to look and judge for
herself, but insisted on removing at once, and finding a
place to live in afterwards.
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CHAPTER XL.
Love conceives
No paradise but such as Eden was,
With two hearts beating in it.
Willis.—Bianca Visconti, Act I. Sc. I.
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On the confines of this highland solitude stood a
comfortable-looking farm-house, with only the usual
complement of sheds and barns; but, on approaching
near enough to peep within its belt of maples and elms,
a splendid sign was revealed to the delighted eye of the
weary traveller, promising “good entertainment for
man and beast. Thus invited, Everard and Cora
sought admission, and were received with a very civil
nod from the portly host, who sat smoking his pipe by
the window, “thinking of nothing at all;” at least so
said his face, while his great dog lay just outside, ready
to bark at customers.
The cognomen of this worthy transplanted Yankee,—
the landlord, not the dog,—was, as the sign assured
the world, Bildad Gridley; and the very tall, one-eyed
“ottomy” who sat knitting by the other window, was
addressed by him as “Miss Dart.” Mr. Gridley, a
widower, in the decline of life, and “Miss Dart,” a
poor widow, who, in return for a comfortable home,
assisted his daughter Arethusa to do “the chores.”
There was yet another member of the family, Mr.
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Gridley's son Ahasuerus, but he had not yet appeared.
Miss Arethusa was a strapping damsel, in a “two-blues”
calico, and a buff gingham cape, with a towering
horn comb stuck on the very pinnacle of her head,
and a string of gold beads encircling her ample neck.
The arrival of our city travellers, at this secluded
public, produced at first quite a sensation. Few passengers,
save the weary pedlar, or the spruce retailer
of books, clocks, or nutmegs, found their way to these
penetralia of Nature. Now and then, indeed, some
wandering sportsman, or some college student picturesquing
during his fall vacation, or perhaps a party
of surveyors, rested for a night at the Moon and Seven
Stars; but usually, although those much bedaubed
luminaries had given place to “an exact likeness,” as
said Mr. Gridley, “of Giner'l Lay-Fyette,” with his
name, as was most meet, in yellow letters below the
portrait, the house was as silent as if it had not borne
the ambitious title of an inn, and the farming business
went on with scarcely an occasional interruption.
But now the aspect of things was materially changed.
Everard had signified his desire to remain in so beautiful
a spot for a week or two at least, provided Mr.
Gridley could board—himself “and—and—this lady,”
he added, for he could not call Cora his wife, though
he tried.
The landlord, with a scrutinizing glance at poor
Cora, said he rather guessed he could accommodate
them for a spell; and then went to consult the other
powers. Our “happy pair,” each tormented by an
undefined sense of anxiety and conscious wrong, which
neither was willing to acknowledge to the other,
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awaited the return of honest Bildad with a tremblement
de cœur, which they in vain endeavoured to overcome.
At length his jolly visage reappeared, and they
were much relieved to hear him say in a more decided
tone than before, “Well, sir! I guess we can 'commodate
ye.”
And here, how I might moralize upon the humbling
effects of being naughty, which could make these
proud young citizens, who had felt so wondrously well-satisfied
with their own dignity and consequence only
a week before, now await, with fearful apprehension,
the fiat of a plain old farmer, who, after all, was only
to board and lodge them. The old gentleman had
such a fatherly look, that both Everard and Cora
thought of their own papas; and now began to reflect
that may be these papas might not after all see the
joke in its true light. But neither of them said such
a word, and so I shall pass the occasion in silence.
They were shown to a small white-washed room on
the second floor, possessing one window, guiltless of
the paint brush, now supported by means of that
curious notched fixture called a button, so different
from the article to which the title of right belongs. A
bed adorned with a covering on which the taste of the
weaver had expatiated, in the production of innumerable
squares and oblongs of blue and white; a very
diminutive and exceedingly rickety table stained red;
a looking-glass of some eight inches breadth, framed in a
strip of gorgeous mahogany, and showing to the charmed
gazer a visage curiously elongated cross-wise, with
two nondescript chairs, and an old hair trunk, bearing
the initials “B. G.” described in brass nails on its
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arched top, constituted the furniture of the apartment.
Cora busied herself in arranging things as well as
she could, Mr. Gridley called her “quite a handy young
woman, considering she had n't been brought up to nothing;”
and while this employment lasted, she managed
to maintain a tolerable degree of cheerfulness; but
when all was done, and she paused to look around her,
such a tide of feelings rushed upon her, that her pride
at length gave way, and sitting down on the old trunk,
she buried her face in her lap, and burst into a passion
of tears.
Everard tried to comfort her as well as he could,
but his own heart was overcharged; and after a few
ineffectual efforts, he threw himself on the floor at her
side, and wept almost as heartily as she did. As soon
as his feelings were relieved by this overflowing of
nature, he felt heartily ashamed of himself, and lifting
Cora to the window, insisted that she should look out
upon the glorious prospect which it commanded. She
struggled to regain her low seat, that she might indulge
to the uttermost this paroxysm of remorse and misgiving;
but he pursued his advantage, and held her before
the window till the fresh breeze had changed the current
of her sad thoughts, and thrown her rich curls into
a most becoming confusion; and then, reaching the
eight inch mirror, held it suddenly before her still
streaming eyes. And now, like true boy and girl,
they were both seized with incontrollable laughter, and
sat down and enjoyed it to the uttermost.
“How foolish we look,” said Cora at length. Oh,
Everard! if mamma—” but at that word her pretty
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[figure description] Page 275.[end figure description]
eyes began to fill again, and Everard declared she
should not say another word.
“Let us take a walk,” said he, one of your own long
rambling walks. You know we have yet to find a
spot lovely enough for you to live in.” And the volatile
girl was all gaiety in a moment.
They were on their return after a very long ramble,
when they came to a dell deep enough to make one
think of listening to the talkers in Captain Symmes'
world; and this Cora declared to be the very home of
her dreams. This and none other should be her
“forest sanctuary;”—Qu. What was she flying from?—
here should the cottage stand, under whose lowly roof
was to be realized, all of bliss that poet ever painted.
“Mighty shades,
Weaving their gorgeous tracery over head,
With the light melting through their high arcades,
As through a pillar'd cloister's.”
Oh? it was too delicious! and all the good thoughts
took flight again.
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CHAPTER XLI.
Gon. Here is every thing advantageous to life.
Ant. True, save means to live.
Tempest.
[figure description] Page 276.[end figure description]
That evening after tea, Everard began his negotiations
with Mr. Gridley, for the purchase of the much-admired
glen.
“Glen!” said honest Bildad, who sat as usual, pipe
in mouth, by the front window.
Everard explained.
“Why, Lord bless ye! yes, I own two hundred and
seventy-odd acres jist round there; and that 'ere gulf
is part on't. Ahasuerus began to make a clearin' there,
but it 's so plaguily lumber'd up with stuns, and so kind
o' slantin' besides, that we thought it would never pay
for ploughin'. So Hazzy has gone to work up north
here, and gets along like smoke.”
“Would you be willing to sell a small place there?”
inquired Everard, who felt inexpressibly sheepish when
he set about buying this “stunny” spot.
Mr. Gridley stared at him in unfeigned astonishment.
After a moment's pause, he answered, after the manner
of his nation, by asking,
“Why, do you know any body that wants to buy?”
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“I have some thoughts of settling here myself,”
said his guest.
Another stare, and the landlord fell to smoking with
all his might, looking withal, full of meditation.
At length—“ You settle here!” he said; “what for,
in all nature?”
“I've taken a fancy to the place,” said Everard; “and
if you choose to sell, I may perhaps be a purchaser.”
“Well!” said the landlord, laying his pipe on the
window-sill, “if this aint the queerest—But I'll tell
ye what, Mr.—I never can think o'your name; if
you really want the place, why, I'll—” but here he
stopt again. He fixed his eyes on Everard, as if he
would look through his mortal coil.
“There's one thing,” proceeded he again, “may I
jist be so sa'acy as to ask you—I do n't know as you'd
think it a very civil question; but I do n't know as
we can get on without it. Are you sure,” speaking
very deliberately—“ are you sure that you 're married
to this young gal?”
“Married!” said Everard, his fine eyes flashing
lightning, while poor Cora, completely humbled, felt
ready to sink through the floor, “Married!” he repeated,
in high indignation, which an instant's pause
served to calm. “I can assure you—I can assure
you—”
And he was flying after Cora, who had slipped out
of the room, but the good man called him back.
“No 'casion, no 'casion? you say you sartinly are,
and that's enough; but ra'ly you and your wife both
look so young, that we 've been plaguily puzzled what
to make on 't.”
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Everard, deeply mortified, reverted as speedily as
possible to his desired purchase; and after a few
observations as to the unprofitableness of the scheme,
Mr. Gridley concluded, with an air of kindness, which
soothed the feelings of his young auditor, “You know
your own business best, I dare say; and if so be you
are determined upon it, you may have it, and make
use of it as long as you like; and I 'spose you wont
think o' puttin' up much of a house upon sich a place
as that, when you are tired on 't, we 'll settle the matter
one way or 'tother.”
Everard readily agreed to this proposition, for he
knew himself the avowed heir of the rich bachelor
uncle whose name he bore, and he was little concerned
about the pecuniary part of his affairs.
And there was a house to be built on a green
hill-side in the deep woods; and this grande opus fully
absorbed our friends until it was completed. In taking
possession of it and in arranging the simple requisites
which formed its furniture, Cora found herself happier
than she had been since she left home. It must be
confessed that every day brought its inconveniences;
one can't at first snuff the candle well with the tongs.
Here were neither papa's side-boards nor mamma's
dressing tables; but there was the charm of house-keeping,
and every young wife knows what a charm
that is, for a year or two at least; and then pride
whispered, that whenever papa did find them out, he
would acknowledge how very well they had managed
to be happy in their own way.
After all, it must be confessed, that the fairy-footed
Cora nourished in some unexplored nook of her warm
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little heart, a fund of something which she dignified
by the names of resolution, firmness, perseverance, &c.,
but which ill-natured and severe people might perhaps
have been disposed to call obstinacy, or self-will. But
she was a spoiled child, and her boy-husband the most
indulgent of human beings, so we must excuse her if
she was a little naughty as well as very romantic.
The world's harshness soon cures romance, as well as
some other things that we set out with; but Cora had
as yet made no acquaintance with the world, that most
severe of all teachers.
But no word yet of inquiries from home. No advertisements,
no rewards, “no afflicted parents.” This
was rather mortifying. At length Everard ventured to
propose writing to his uncle, and though Cora pretended
to be quite indifferent, she was right glad to have an
excuse for opening a communication with home. But
no answer came. The cold winds of autumn turned
the maple leaves yellow, then scarlet, then brown, and
no letter! The whole face of the earth presented to the
appalled eye of the city-bred beauty, but one expanse
of mud—deep, tenacious, hopeless mud. No walks
either by day or evening; books all read and re-read;
no sewing, for small change of dress suffices in the
woods; no company but squire Bildad or Mrs. Dart,
(the squire's “gal” was teaching school for the winter,
and the interesting Hazzy thought Everard “a queer
stick to set all day in the house a readin,” and did not
much affect his society.)
Deep winter, and no word from New-York.
Everard now wrote to his father, the most indulgent
of fathers; but though he often saw the name of the
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[figure description] Page 280.[end figure description]
well-known firm in a stray newspaper, no notice whatever
was taken of his missives. This was a turn of
affairs for which he was entirely unprepared. Cora
tossed her pretty head, and then cried, and said she did
not care, and cried again. But now a new interest
arose. The prospect of becoming a mother awakened
at once the most intense delight and a terror amounting
almost to agony; and Cora at length wrote to her
mother.
Spring came and with the flowers a little daughter;
and Cora found in the one-eyed, odd-looking widow
the kindest and most motherly of nurses, while Mr.
Gridley and his family kindly interested in their inexperienced
neighbours, were not lacking in aid of any
sort. So Cora made out much better than she deserved.
When she was able to venture out, the good squire
came with his waggon to fetoh her to spend the day by
way of change; and Cora most thankfully accepted
this and the other kindnesses of her rustic friends. A
short residence in the woods modifies most surprisingly
one's views on certain points.
Some travellers emigrating to far Michigan, had
been resting at Mr. Gridley's when Cora spent her day
there, and it was to this unlucky encounter that we
must ascribe the sickening of Cora's darling, who was
after some days attacked with an alarming eruption.
Mrs. Dart declared it the small-pox, and having unfortunately
less judgment than kindness, she curtained its
little bed from every breath of air, and fed it with herbteas
and other rustic stimulants, till the poor little thing
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[figure description] Page 281.[end figure description]
seemed like to stifle; and just at this juncture Everard
was taken ill, with the same symptoms.
Cora bore up wonderfully for a few days, but the baby
grew worse, and Everard no better. Medical aid was
sought, but the doctor proved quite as much of an old
woman as Mrs. Dart.
The dear baby's strength was evidently diminishing,
the spots in its little cheeks assumed a livid appearance;
Mrs. Dart's pale face grew paler, and Cora awaited
with an agony which might be read in her wild and
vacant eye, the destruction of her hopes. The recollection
of her own undutiful conduct towards her parents
was at her heart, weighing it down like a millstone.
Everard who might have assisted and comforted
her was stretched helpless, and at times slightly
delirious.
“I fear the baby is going,” said the kind widow with
trembling lips.
The wretched mother cast one look at its altered
countenance, and with a wild cry sunk senseless on the
floor. Her punishment was fulfilled.
-- 282 --
CHAPTER XLII.
On the breast
That rock'd her childhood, sinking in soft rest;—
Sweet mother—gentlest mother! can it be?
Mrs. Hemans.
Pros.
If I have too austerely punish'd you
Your compensation makes amends; for I
Have given you here a thread of mine own life—
Here afore Heaven
I ratify this my rich gift.
Tempest.
Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
Than that of painted pomp?
As you like it.
[figure description] Page 282.[end figure description]
She became conscious of resting on a soft bosom—
her hands were gently chafed, and a whispering voice
whose thrilling sounds aroused her very soul, recalled
her to a sense of her situation. She looked first at her
infant's little bed. It was empty.
“My baby! my baby!” she shrieked in agony.
Her mother, her own dear mother, laid it on her bosom
without a word, but she saw that it breathed in a
soft sleep, and tears relieved her bursting heart.
“O mother, mother, can you forgive,” was all that
she could say, and it was enough. Her father too was
there and he took her in his arms, and weeping blest
her and forgave all.
The crisis or turn of the disease, had been so severe
as to assume the aspect of approaching dissolution, and
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[figure description] Page 283.[end figure description]
from that hour the precious baby, (the wilderness is the
place to love children,) began to amend, and the young
papa with it. And then came such long talks, about
the past, the present, and the future; such minute explanations
of all feelings and plans; Everard and Cora
seemed to live a whole year extra in these few weeks
which succeeded the time of this sore trial. And
Cora was a new creature, a rational being, a mother,
a matron, full of sorrow for the past and of sage plans
for the future.
The silent disregard of the letters had been systematic.
The flying pair had been recognized by some person
on their journey westward; and the parents, indulgent
as they were, felt that some atonement was due for
this cruel disregard of their feelings, and forgetfulness
of the common obligations. When months passed on
without any evidence of repentance they felt still more
deeply hurt, as well as seriously anxious; and though
Everard's letters relieved in some measure their solicitude
for the welfare of their undutiful children, it was
not until Cora wrote to her mother, that the visit was
resolved on which proved so opportune and so delightful.
And there was more to be told. Fortune had become
weary of smiling on the long-established house of
Hastings and Mansfield, and heavy losses had much
impaired the worldly means of these worthy people.
The summer-palaces on the Hudson were about to pass
into other hands, and great changes were to be made
in many particulars. And Everard must get his own
living. This was a thing which Cora at least, had never
included in her plans.
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[figure description] Page 284.[end figure description]
After much consultation it was conceded on all
hands that it would be rather awkward returning to
Mr. J.'s office after this little excursion. A frolic is a
frolic to be sure, but people do n't always take the view
we wish them to take of our vagaries. Mr. Mansfield
proposed his Michigan lands.
And Everard and his subdued and humbled but happy
Cora, confessed that they had imbibed a taste for
the wilderness, an unfashionable liking for early rising
and deshabille; a yearning, common to those who have
lived in the free woods,
To forsake
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring.
Visionary still! says the reader. Perhaps so, but to
Michigan they came, and with a fine large fertile
tract, managed by a practical farmer and his family,
they find it possible to exist, and are, I had almost
said the happiest people of my acquaintance.
-- 285 --
CHAPTER XLIII.
On ne doit pas juger du merite d' un homme par ses grandes
qualités, mais par l' usage qu' il en sait faire.
—Rochefoucault.
Des mots longs d' une toise,
De grands mots qui tiendroient d' ici jusqu' à Pontoise.
Racine.—Les Plaideurs.
But what he chiefly valued himself on, was his knowledge of
metaphysics, in which, having once upon a time ventured too
deeply, he came well nigh being smothered in a slough of unintelligible
learning.
—W. Irving.—Knickerbocker.
[figure description] Page 285.[end figure description]
Mr. Simeon Jenkins entered at an early stage of
his career upon the arena of public life, having been
employed by his honoured mother to dispose of a basket
full of hard-boiled eggs, on election day, before he was
eight years old. He often dwells with much unction
upon this his debût; and declares that even at that
dawning period, he had cut his eye-teeth.
“There was n't a feller there,” Mr. Jenkins often says,
“that could find out which side I was on, for all they
tried hard enough. They thought I was soft, but I let
'em know I was as much baked as any on 'em. `Be you
a dimocrat?” says one. Buy some eggs and I'll tell ye,
says I; and by the time he'd bought his eggs, I could
tell well enough which side he belonged to, and I'd hand
him out a ticket according, for I had blue ones in one
end o' my basket, and white ones in the other, and when
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night come, and I got off the stump to go home,
I had eighteen shillin' and four pence in my
pocket.”
From this auspicious commencement may be dated
Mr. Jenkins' glowing desire to serve the public. Each
successive election day saw him at his post. From
eggs he advanced to pies, from pies to almanacs, whiskey,
powder and shot, foot-balls, playing-cards, and at
length, for ambition ever “did grow with what it fed
on,” he brought into the field a large turkey, which was
tied to a post and stoned to death at twenty-five cents
a throw. By this time the still youthful aspirant had
become quite the man of the world; could smoke twenty
four cigars per diem, if any body else would pay for
them; play cards, in old Hurler's shop, from noon till
day-break, and rise winner; and all this with suitable
trimmings of gin and hard words. But he never
lost sight of the main chance. He had made up his
mind to serve his country, and he was all this time convincing
his fellow-citizens of the disinterested purity
of his sentiments.
“Patriotism,” he would say, “patriotism is the
thing! any man that's too proud to serve his country
aint fit to live. Some thinks so much o' themselves,
that if they can have jist what they think they 're fit
for, they wont take nothing; but for my part, I call myself
an American citizen; and any office that's in the
gift o' the people will suit me. I'm up to any thing.
And as there aint no other man about here,—no suitable
man, I mean—that's got a horse, why I'd be willing
to be constable, if the people's a mind to, though it
would be a dead loss to me in my business, to be sure;
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but I could do any thing for my country. Hurra for
patriotism! them 's my sentiments.”
It can scarcely be doubted that Mr. Jenkins became
a very popular citizen, or that he usually played a conspicuous
part at the polls. Offices began to fall to his
share, and though they were generally such as brought
more honour than profit, office is office, and Mr. Jenkins
did not grumble. Things were going on admirably.
The spoils of office glitter in his eyes,
He climbs, he pants, he grasps them—
Or thought he was just going to grasp them, when,
presto! he found himself in the minority; the wheel
of fortune turned, and Mr. Jenkins and his party were
left undermost. Here was a delimma! His zeal in
the public service was ardent as ever, but how could he
get a chance to show it unless his party was in power?
His resolution was soon taken. He called his friends
together, mounted a stump, which had fortunately been
left standing not far from the door of his shop, and then
and there gave “reasons for my ratting” in terms
sublime enough for any meridian.
“My friends and feller-citizens,” said this self-sacrificing
patriot, “I find myself conglomerated in sich a
way, that my feelin's suffers severely. I'm sitivated in
a peculiar sitivation. O' one side, I see my dear
friends, pussonal friends—friends, that's stuck to me
like wax, through thick and thin, never shinnyin' off
and on, but up to the scratch, and no mistake. O'
t' other side I behold my country, my bleedin' country,
the land that fetch'd me into this world o' trouble.
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Now, sence things be as they be, and can't be no otherways
as I see, I feel kind o' screwed into an augerhole
to know what to do. If I hunt over the history
of the universal world from the creation of man to the
present day, I see that men has always had difficulties;
and that some has took one way to get shut of 'em,
and some another. My candid and unrefragable opinion
is, that rather than remain useless, buckled down
to the shop, and indulging in selfishness, it is my solemn
dooty to change my ticket. It is severe, my friends,
but dooty is dooty. And now, if any man calls me a
turn-coat,” continued the orator, gently spitting in his
hands, rubbing them together, and rolling his eyes
round the assembly, “all I say is, let him say it so that
I can hear him.”
The last argument was irresistible, if even the others
might have brooked discussion, for Mr. Jenkins
stands six feet two in his stockings, when he wears any,
and gesticulates with a pair of arms as long and muscular
as Rob Roy's. So, though the audience did not
cheer him, they contented themselves with dropping
off one by one, without calling in question the patriotism
of the rising statesman.
The very next election saw Mr. Jenkins justice of
the peace, and it was in this honourable capacity that
I have made most of my acquaintance with him, though
we began with threatenings of a storm. He called to
take the acknowledgement of a deed, and I, anxious
for my country's honour, for I too am something of a
patriot in my own way, took the liberty of pointing out
to his notice a trifling slip of the pen; videlicet, “
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Justas of Piece,” which manner of writing those words I
informed him had gone out of fashion.
He reddened, looked at me very sharp for a moment,
and then said he thanked me; but subjoined,
“Book-learning is a good thing enough where there
aint too much of it. For my part, I've seen a good
many that know'd books that did n't know much else.
The proper cultivation and edication of the human
intellect, has been the comprehensive study of the human
understanding from the original creation of the universal
world to the present day, and there has been a
good many ways tried besides book-learning. Not but
what that's very well in its place.”
And the justice took his leave with somewhat of a
swelling air. But we are excellent friends, notwithstanding
this hard rub; and Mr. Jenkins favours
me now and then with half an hour's conversation,
when he has had leisure to read up for the occasion in
an odd volume of the Cyclopedia, which holds an honoured
place in a corner of his shop. He ought, in fairness,
to give me previous notice, that I might study the
dictionary a little, for the hard words with which he
arms himself for these “keen encounters,” often push
me to the very limits of my English.
I ought to add, that Mr. Jenkins has long since left off
gambling, drinking, and all other vices of that class,
except smoking; in this point he professes to be incorrigible.
But as his wife, who is one of the nicest women
in the world, and manages him admirably, pretends
to like the smell of tobacco, and takes care never to
look at him when he disfigures her well-scoured floor,
I am not without hopes of his thorough reformation.
-- 290 --
CHAPTER XLIV.
Dandin.
Ta, ta, ta, ta. Voilà bien instruire une affaire!
A-t-on jamais plaidé d' une telle méthode?
Mais qu' en dit l' assemblée?
* * * * *
Ma foi! je n' y conçois plus rien.
De monde, de chaos, j' ai la tête troublé.
Hé! concluez.
Racine.—Les Plaideurs.
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It was “an honour that I dreamed not of,” to be
called before this same squire Jenkins in his dignified
capacity of “Justas.” I had not even heard a murmur
of the coming storm, when I was served with a
subpœna, and learned at the same time the astounding
fact, that at least half the Montacute Female Beneficent
Society were about to receive a shilling's worth
of law on the same occasion. A justice court!
My flesh did creep, and each particular hair
Did stand on end—
but there was no remedy.
The court was to be held at the Squire's, and as Mrs.
Jenkins was a particular friend of mine, I went early,
intending to make her a call before the awful hour
should approach, and hoping that in the interval I
might be able to learn something of the case in which
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I was expected to play the important part of witness.
But good Mrs. Jenkins, who was in her Sunday
gown and looked very solemn, considered herself bound
to maintain an official mysteriousness of deportment,
and she therefore declined entering upon the subject
which was so soon to come under the cognizance of
“the good people of this state.” All she would be persuaded
to say was, that it was a slander suit, and that
she believed “women-folks” were at the bottom of it.
But ere long the more prominent characters of the
drama began to drop in. Mrs. Flyter and her “old
man,” and two babies were among the first, and the
lady looked so prodigiously sulky, that I knew she was
concerned in the fray at least. Then entered Squire
Jenkins himself, clean shaved for once, and arrayed in
his meetin' coat. He asked his wife where the pen and
ink was, and said he should want some paper to write
down the “dispositions.”
And the next comer was the plaintiff, the Schneider
of our village, no Robin Starveling he, but a magnificent
Hector-looking fellow, tall enough to have commanded
Frederick of Prussia's crack regiment; and so
elegantly made, that one finds it hard to believe his
legs have ever been crossed on a shop-board. The
beetle-brows of this stitching hero were puckered like
the seams of his newest 'prentice, and he cast magnanimous
glances round the assembly, as who should
say—
Come one, come all! this rock shall fly
From its firm base as soon as I!
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Though the rock was but slenderly represented by Mrs.
Jenkins's bureau, against which he leaned.
The world now began to flock in. The chairs were
soon filled, and then the outer edges of the two beds.
Three young pickles occupied the summit of the
bureau, to the imminent jeopardy of the mirrored
clock which shone above it. Boards were laid to eke
out the chairs, and when the room was packed so that
not a chink remained, a sensation was created by the
appearance of Mrs. Nippers and Miss Clinch. Much
turning out and tumbling over was now to be done, although
those active ladies appeared less than usually
desirous of attracting attention.
All was at length ready, and the squire opened the
court by blowing his nose without calling upon his
pocket handkerchief.
What was my surprise when I learned that our
“most magnanimous mouse,” Mr. Shafton, the tailor,
had been set down a thief; and that Mr. Flyter had
been called on, by the majesty of law, to answer for the
calumny; not that he had ever thought of bringing
such a charge against his neighbour, for he was a silent
man, who always had his mouth too full of tobacco
to utter slander, or any thing else; but that his lady,
on a certain occasion where women had convened in
aid of one of the afflicted sisterhood, had, most “unprudently,”
as she said herself, given vent to certain
angry feelings towards Mr. Shafton, “in manner as
aforesaid.” To think of bringing a woman into
trouble for what she happened to say after tea! I began
to consider Mr. Shafton as no more than the ninth
part of a man, after all.
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Things went on very quietly for a while. The
“dispositions” occupied a good deal of time, and a vast
amount of paper; the scribe finding the pen less germane
to his fingers than the plough, and making his
lines bear no small resemblance to the furrows made
by a “breaking-up team.” But when the ladies began
to figure on the stage, the aspect of affairs was altered.
Each wished to tell “the truth, the whole truth, and
nothing but the truth;” and to ask one question, elicited
never less than one dozen answers; the said answers
covering a much larger ground than the suit itself,
and bringing forward the private affairs and opinions
of half the village. In vain did Mr. Jenkins roar
“silence!” his injunctions only made the ladies angry,
and of course gave their tongues a fresh impetus.
“Cabbage! yes, you said he took a quarter of a yard
of satinett, and that that was as bad as stealing!”
“Yes! and then Miss Flyter said he did steal cloth,
and thread and buttons too!” “Well, Miss Nippers
told me so, and she said she see a chair-cushion at
Miss Shafton's, that was made all out of great pieces
of fulled cloth!” “Who? I? oh, mercy! I do n't believe
I ever said such a word!” “Oh you did, you did!
I'm willin' to take my afferdavy of it!” “Silence!”
vociferated Squire Jenkins. “Ladies,” began Mr.
Phlatt, the plaintiff's counsel, “if you would wait a
minute”—
In vain—alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
In vain do ye assay to control
The force of female lungs,
Sighs, sobs and passions, and the war of tongues.
And Mr. Phlatt sat down in despair, looked out of the
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window, and drummed on the table with his fingers, as
if to pass away the time till he could be heard.
Squire Jenkins, who was but newly dignified, and did
not like to proceed to extremities, now adjourned the
court for one hour, a recess much needed by the exhausted
state of some of the witnesses. During this
interval, and while the wordy war was waxing stronger
and stronger, Mr. Flyter and Mr. Shafton very wisely
withdrew, and in less than five minutes returned, and
informed the company that they had “settled it.” Mr.
Flyter was to pay Mr. Shafton three dollars and fifty
cents worth of lumber for his character, with costs of
suit; and Mrs. Flyter was to unsay all she had said,
and confess that three yards of satinett for a pair of
pantaloons, would leave the tailor no more than his
regular cabbage.
So here was four hours' time of something near thirty
people spent to good purpose in chasing a Will-o'-the-wisp.
And Montacute sees equally important suits at
law every few weeks; expensive enough, if “settled”
midway as they often are, between the parties themselves;
still more so if left to pursue the regular course,
and be decided by the Justice.
The intelligence of the “settlement” was received
with various aspects by the persons concerned. The
counsel on both sides were of course disappointed, for
they had calculated largely upon the spunk of the
splendid-looking son of the shears, and had counted on
a jury-trial at least, if not an appeal. Mrs. Flyter
was evidently much relieved to find that she had come
off so easily; and sundry other ladies, who had been
trembling under the consciousness of conversational
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“sins unwhipped of justice,” shawled and India-rubbered
with more than usual alacrity, and I doubt not,
made vows, sincere, whether well-kept or not, to let
their neighbours' business alone for some time.
Mr. Jenkins was evidently disappointed at the tame
result of so much glorious preparation. He had made
up his own mind on the first statement of the case, and
had prepared his decision, with the addition of a concise
view of the universe from chaos to the present day.
But that will do for the next time, and he will not be
obliged to reserve it long. Bartholine Saddletree
himself would weary of the “never-ending, still-beginning”
law-pleas of Montacute. Bad fences, missing
dogs, unruly cattle, pigs' ears, and women's tongues,
are among the most prolific sources of litigation; to
say nothing of the satisfactory amount of business
which is created by the collection of debts, a matter of
“glorious uncertainty” in Michigan. These suits are
so frequent, that they pass as part and parcel of the regular
course of things; and you would find it impossible
to persuade a thorough-bred Wolverine, that there was
any thing unfriendly in suing his next door neighbour
for a debt of however trifling amount.
Actions for trespass and for slander are rather more
enjoyed, as being somewhat less frequent; but any
thing like a trial, will always be enough to keep half
a dozen unconcerned people idle for a day or more.
Mr. Shafton's spirited defence of his fair fame will,
I see plainly, prove a lasting benefit to the talking sex
of Montacute. It is perfectly incredible how much
was done and how little said at the last week's meeting
of the Female Beneficent Society. Mrs. Nippers to
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be sure had the ague, and did her chattering at home,
and Miss Clinch staid to take care of her, as in duty
bound. But I think that alone would not account for
the difference. We shall see next week.
-- 297 --
CHAPTER XLV.
See! sae close as they're written down to the very seal! and
a' to save postage!
—Antiquary.
Ant. We sent our school-master—
Is he come back?
Antony and Cleopatra.
[figure description] Page 297.[end figure description]
I have departed from all rule and precedent in these
wandering sketches of mine. I believe I set out, a
great many pages ago, to tell of the interesting changes,
the progressive improvements in this model of a village
of ours. My intention, as far as I had any, was to
convey to the patient reader some general idea of our
way of life in these remote and forgotten corners of
creation. But I think I have discovered that the bent
of my genius is altogether towards digression. Association
leads me like a Will-o'-the-wisp. I can no
more resist following a new train of thought, than a
coquette the encouraging of a new lover, at the expense
of all the old ones, though often equally conscious that
the old are most valuable. This attempt to write one
long coherent letter about Montacute, has at least been
useful in convincing me that History is not my forte.
I give up the attempt in despair, and lower my ambition
to the collection of scattered materials for the use
of the future compiler of Montacutian annals.
Yet it seems strange, even to my desultory self, how
I could have passed in silence the establishment of a
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weekly mail, that sweetener of our long delicious winter
evenings—that rich atonement for all that we lack of
fresh scandal and new news. Since this treasure was
ours, I have learned to pity most sincerely those who
get their letters and papers at all sorts of unexpected
and irregular times; a shower of scattering fire, feeble
and ineffectual—a dropping in at all hours, seasonable
and unseasonable, like some classes of visiters; coming
often when one's mood is any thing but congenial; and
sure to stay away when one longs for company—gay
ones intruding when we had determined to be blue and
miserable, and sad ones casting their long shadows on
our few sunny hours.
But a weekly mail! a budget that one waits and gets
ready for; a regularly-recurring delight, an unfailing
pleasure, (how few such have we!) hours, nay days, of delicious
anticipation—sure harvest of past care and toil,
an inundation of happiness! Let no one think he has
exhausted all the sources of enjoyment till he has lived
in the back-woods and learned to expect a weekly mail
with its lap-full of letters and its tumulus of papers;
a feast enjoyed by anticipation for a whole week previous,
and affording ample materials for resumées for
that which succeeds.
This pleasure has become so sacred in my eyes, that
nothing vexes me so intolerably as seeing our lanky
mail-bags dangling over the bony sides of Major Bean's
lame Canadian, and bestridden and over-shadowed by
the portly form of the one-eyed Major himself, trotting
or rather hobbling down Main-street on some intermediate
and unpremeditated day. Men of business are
so disagreeable and inconsiderate! To think of any
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body's sending fourteen interminable miles over bush
and bog to B***, up hill both ways, as every one knows,
just to learn the price of flour or salt three days sooner,
and thereby spoiling the rest of the week, leaving
an objectless blank where was before a delicious chaos
of hopes; substituting dull certainty for the exquisite
flutterings of that sort of doubt which leaves us after
all quite sure of a happy result. I have often thought
I would not open the treasures which reached me in
this unauthorized, over-the-wall sort of way. I have
declared that I would not have Saturday evening spoiled
and the next week made ten days long. But this
proper and becoming spirit has never proved quite
strong enough to bear me through so keen a trial of all
feminine qualities. One must be more or less than
woman to endure the sight of unopened letters, longer
than it takes to find the scissors. I doubt whether
Griselidis herself would not have blenched at such a
requisition, especially if she had been transplanted to
the wilderness, and left behind hosts of friends, as well
as many other very comfortable things.
Another subject of the last interest which I have as
yet wholly neglected, is the new school-house, a gigantic
step in the march of improvement. This, in truth,
I should have mentioned long ago, if I could have found
any thing to say about it. It has caused an infinity of
feuds, made mortal enemies of two brothers, and separated
at least one pair of partners. But the subject
has been exhausted, worn to shreds in my hearing;
and whenever I have thought of searching for an end
of the tangled clew, in order to open its mazes for the
benefit of all future school-committees and their
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[figure description] Page 300.[end figure description]
constituency, I have felt that every possible view of the case
had been appropriated, and therefore must be borrowed
or stolen for the occasion. I might indeed have given
a description of the building as it now smiles upon
me from the opposite side of the public square. But
the reader may imagine St. Paul's, St. Peter's, the
Parthenon, the mosque of St. Sophia, or any edifice of
that character, and then think of the Montacute school-house
as something inexpressibly different, and he will
have as good an idea of it as I could give him in half
a page. I think it resembles the Temple of the Winds
more nearly than any other ancient structure I have
read of; at least, I have often thought so in cold weather,
when I have beguiled the hours of a long sermon
by peeping through the cracks at the drifting snow;
but it is built of unplaned oak-boards, and has no under-pinning;
and the stove-pipe, sticking out of one window,
looks rather modern; so the likeness might not
strike every body.
The school-ma'am, Miss Cleora Jenkins, I have
elsewhere introduced to the reader. From April till
October, she sways “the rod of empire;” and truly
may it be said,
There through the summer-day
Green boughs are waving,
though I believe she picks the leaves off, as tending to
defeat the ends of justice. Even the noon-spell shines
no holiday for the luckless subjects of her domination,
for she carries her bread and pickles rolled up in her
pocket-handkerchief, and lunches where she rules, reading
the while “The Children of the Abbey,”—which
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took her all summer,—and making one of the large
girls comb her hair by the hour.
During the snowy, blowy, wheezy, and freezy months,
the chair has been taken—not filled—by Mr. Cyrus
Whicher,—not Switcher,—a dignitary who had
“boarded round” till there was very little of him left.
I have been told, that when he first bore the birch,—
in his own hand I mean,—he was of a portly and rather
stolid exterior; had good teeth and flowing locks;
but he was, when I knew him, a mere cuticle—a
“skellinton,” as Mr. Weller would say—shaped like
a starved greyhound in the collapsed stage, his very
eyes faded to the colour of the skim-milk which has
doubtless constituted his richest potation, since he attained
the empty honours of a district school.
When he came under my care, in the course of his
unhappy gyrations, I did my best to fatten him; and,
to do him justice, his efforts were not lacking: but one
cannot make much progress in one week, even in
cramming a turkey poult, and he went as ethereal as
he came.
One additional reason for his “lean and hungry”
looks I thought I discovered in his gnawing curiosity
of soul—I suppose it would be more polite to say, his
burning thirst for knowledge. When he first glided
into my one only parlour, I asked him to sit down, expecting
to hear his bones rattle as he did so. To my
astonishment he noticed not my civility, but, gazing on
the wall as who should say—
“Look you, how pale he glares!”
he stood as one transfixed.
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At length—“Whose profile is that?” he exclaimed,
pointing to a portrait of my dear, cheerful-looking
grand-mamma—a half-length, by Waldo.
I told all about it, as I thought, but left room for a
dozen questions at least, as to her relationship—whether
by father or mother's side—her age when the picture
was taken, &c. &c. &c.; and Mr. Whicher's concluding
remark, as he doubled up to sit down, was—
“Well! she's a dreadful sober-lookin' old critter,
aint she now!” But ere he touched the chair, he
opened again like a folded rule out of a case of instruments,
and stood erect save head and shoulders.
“Is that a pi-anner?” he asked with a sort of chuckle
of delight. “Well! I heard you had one, but I did n't
hardly believe it. And what's this thing?” twirling
the music-stool with all his might, and getting down on
his poor knees to look underneath both these curiosities.
“Jist play on it, will you?”
“Dinner is ready, Mr. Whicher: I will play afterwards.”
He balanced for one moment between inanition and
curiosity; then, “with his head over his shoulder
turn'd,” he concluded to defer pleasure to business.
He finished his meal by the time others had fairly begun;
and then, throwing himself back in his chair,
said, “I'm ready whenever you be.”
I could not do less than make all possible speed, and
Mr. Whicher sat entranced until he was late for school:
not so much listening to the tinkling magic, as prying
into the nature and construction of the instrument,
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[figure description] Page 303.[end figure description]
which he thought must have taken “a good bunch o'
cypherin'.”
That week's sojourn added a good deal to the schoolmaster's
stores of knowledge. He scraped a little of
the chrystallized green off my inkstand to find out how
it was put on; pulled up a corner of the parlour-carpet,
to see whether it was “wove like a bed-spread;”
whether it was “over-shot or under-shot;” and not
content with ascertaining by personal inspection the
construction of every article which was new to him,
he pumped dry every member of the household, as to
their past mode of life, future prospects, opinion of the
country, religious views, and thoughts on every imaginable
subject. I began to feel croupish before he left
us, from having talked myself quite out.
One of his habits struck me as rather peculiar. He
never saw a letter or a sealed paper of any kind that
he did not deliberately try every possible method, by
peeping, squeezing, and poking, to get at its contents.
I at first set this down as something which denoted a
more than usually mean and dishonest curiosity; but
after I had seen the same operation performed in my
presence without the least hesitation or apology, by a
reverend gentleman of high reputation, I concluded
that the poor schoolmaster had at least some excuse for
his ill-breeding.
Mr. Whicher had his own troubles last winter. A
scholar of very equivocal, or rather unequivocal character,
claimed admission to the school, and, of all concerned,
not one had courage or firmness to object to
her reception. She was the daughter of a fierce, quarrelsome
man, who had already injured, either by
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personal abuse, or by vexatious litigation, half the people
in the place; and though all-detested her, and dreaded
contamination for their daughters, not a voice was
raised—not a girl removed from the school. This
cowardly submission to open and public wrong seems
hardly credible; but I have observed it in many other
instances, and it has, in most cases, appeared to arise
from a distrust in the protecting power of the law,
which has certainly been hitherto most imperfectly and
irregularly administered in Michigan. People suppress
their just indignation at many abuses, from a fear
that they may “get into trouble;” i. e. be haled before
an ignorant justice of the peace, who will be quite
as likely to favour the wrong as the right, as interest or
prejudice may chance to incline him. Thus a bad
man, if he have only the requisite boldness, may trample
on the feelings, and disturb the peace of a whole
community.
When Hannah Parsons applied for admission to the
district school, Mr. Whicher made such objections as he
dared in his timidity. He thought she was too old—
her mother said she was not nineteen, though she had
a son of two years and upwards. And she did not
wish to study anything but arithmetic and writing; so
that there could be no objection as to classes. And
the wretched girl forced herself into the ranks of the
young and innocent, for what purpose or end I never
could divine.
From this hour the unfortunate Whicher was her
victim. She began by showing him the most deferential
attention, watching his looks, and asking his aid in
the most trivial matters; wanting her pen mended
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twenty times in the course of one copy, and insisting
upon the schoolmaster's showing her again and again
exactly how it should be held. She never went to
school without carrying a tribute of some sort, a custard,
or an apple,—apples are something with us,—or a
geranium leaf at least. Now these offerings are so
common among school-children, that the wretched
master, though writhing with disgust, knew not how to
refuse them, and his life wore away under the anguish
inflicted by his tormentor.
At length it was whispered that Hannah Parsons
would again bring to the eye of day a living evidence
of her shame; and the unfortunate schoolmaster saw
himself the victim of a conspiracy.
It needed but this to complete his distraction. He
fled in imbecile despair; and after the wonder had died
away, and the scandal had settled on the right head,
we heard no word of the innocent pedagogue for a long
time. But after that came news, that Cyrus Whicher,
in the wretchedness of his poverty, had joined a gang
of idlers and desperadoes, who had made a vow against
honest industry; and it is not now very long since we
learned that he had the honour of being hanged at Toronto
as a “Patriot.”
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CHAPTER XLVI.
Go with speed
To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay until the twelve celestial signs
Have brought about their annual reckoning.
If this austere, insociable life—
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your pride
—Love's Labour Lost.
They wear themselves in the cap of time there; do muster
true gait, eat, speak, and move, under the influence of the most
received star; and though the devil lead the measure, such are
to be followed.
—All's well that ends well.
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One must come quite away from the conveniences
and refined indulgences of civilized life to know any
thing about them. To be always inundated with comforts,
is but too apt to make us proud, selfish, and ungrateful.
The mind's health, as well as the body's, is
promoted by occasional privation or abstinence. Many
a sour-faced grumbler I wot of, would be marvellously
transformed by a year's residence in the woods, or even
in a Michigan village of as high pretensions as Montacute.
If it were not for casting a sort of dishonour
on a country life, turning into a magnificent “beterinhaus”
these
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“Haunts of deer,
And lanes in which the primrose ere her time
Peeps through the moss.”
I should be disposed to recommend a course of Michigan
to the Sybarites, the puny exquisites, the worldworn
and sated Epicureans of our cities. If I mistake
not, they would make surprising advances in philosophy
in the course of a few months' training. I should not
be severe either. I should not require them to come
in their strictly natural condition as featherless bipeds.
I would allow them to bring many a comfort—nay,
even some real luxuries; books, for instance, and a
reasonable supply of New-York Safety-Fund notes,
the most tempting form which “world's gear” can
possibly assume for our western, wild-cat wearied eyes.
I would grant to each Neophyte a ready-made loggery,
a garden fenced with tamarack poles, and every facility
and convenience which is now enjoyed by the better
class of our settlers, yet I think I might after all hope
to send home a reasonable proportion of my subjects
completely cured, sane for life.
I have in the course of these detached and desultory
chapters, hinted at various deficiencies and peculiarities,
which strike, with rather unpleasant force, the new resident
in the back-woods; but it would require volumes
to enumerate all the cases in which the fastidiousness,
the taste, the pride, the self-esteem of the refined child
of civilization, must be wounded by a familiar intercourse
with the persons among whom he will find himself
thrown, in the ordinary course of rural life. He
is continually reminded in how great a variety of particulars
his necessities, his materials for comfort, and
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his sources of pain, are precisely those of the humblest
of his neighbours. The humblest, did I say? He will
find that he has no humble neighbours. He will very
soon discover, that in his new sphere, no act of kindness,
no offer of aid, will be considered as any thing
short of insult, if the least suspicion of condescension
peep out. Equality, perfect and practical, is the sine
qua non; and any appearance of a desire to avoid this
rather trying fraternization, is invariably met by a
fierce and indignant resistance. The spirit in which
was conceived the motto of the French revolution,
“La fraternité ou la mort,” exists in full force among
us, though modified as to results. In cities we bestow
charity—in the country we can only exchange kind
offices, nominally at least. If you are perfectly well
aware that your nearest neighbour has not tasted meat
in a month, nor found in his pocket the semblance of a
shilling to purchase it, you must not be surprised,
when you have sent him a piece, to receive for reply,
“Oh! your pa wants to change, does he? Well,
you may put it down.” And this without the remotest
idea that the time for repayment ever will arrive, but
merely to avoid saying, “I thank you,” a phrase especially
eschewed, so far as I have had opportunity to
observe.
This same republican spirit is evinced rather amusingly,
in the reluctance to admire, or even to approve,
any thing like luxury or convenience which is not in
common use among the settlers. Your carpets are
spoken of as “one way to hide dirt;” your mahogany
tables, as “dreadful plaguy to scour;” your kitchen
conveniences, as “lumberin' up the house for nothin';”
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and so on to the end of the chapter. One lady informed
me, that if she had such a pantry full of “dishes,”
under which general term is included every variety of
china, glass and earthenware, she should set up store,
and “sell them off pretty quick,” for she would not “be
plagued with them.” Another, giving a slighting
glance at a French mirror of rather unusual dimensions,
larger by two-thirds, I verity believe, than she
had ever seen, remarked, “that would be quite a nice
glass, if the frame was done over.”
Others take up the matter reprovingly. They “do n't
think it right to spend money so;” they think too, that
“pride never did nobody no good;” and some will go
so far as to suggest modes of disposing of your superfluities.
“Any body that's got so many dresses, might afford
to give away half on 'em;” or, “I should think you'd
got so much land, you might give a poor man a lot,
and never miss it.” A store of any thing, however
simple or necessary, is, as I have elsewhere observed,
a subject of reproach, if you decline supplying whomsoever
may be deficient.
This simplification of life, this bringing down the
transactions of daily intercourse to the original principles
of society, is neither very eagerly adopted, nor
very keenly relished, by those who have been accustomed
to the politer atmospheres. They rebel most
determinedly, at first. They perceive that the operation
of the golden rule, in circumstances where it is
all give on one side, and all take on the other, must
necessarily be rather severe; and they declare manfully
against all impertinent intrusiveness. But, sooth
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to say, there are in the country so many ways of being
made uncomfortable by one's most insignificant enemy,
that it is soon discovered that warfare is even more
costly than submission.
And all this forms part of the schooling which I propose
for my spoiled child of refined civilization. And
although many of these remarks and requisitions of
our unpolished neighbours are unreasonable and absurd
enough, yet some of them commend themselves
to our better feelings in such a sort, that we find ourselves
ashamed to refuse what it seemed at first impertinent
to ask; and after the barriers of pride and prejudice
are once broken, we discover a certain satisfaction
in this homely fellowship with our kind, which goes
far towards repaying whatever sacrifices or concessions
we may have been induced to make. This has its
limits of course; and one cannot help observing that
“levelling upwards” is much more congenial to “human
natur',” than levelling downwards. The man who
thinks you ought to spare him a piece of ground for a
garden, because you have more than he thinks you
need, would be far from sharing with his poorer neighbour
the superior advantages of his lot. He would tell
him to work for them as he had done.
But then there are, in the one case, some absolute
and evident superfluities, according to the primitive
estimate of these regions; in the other, none. The
doll of Fortune, who may cast a languid eye on this
homely page, from the luxurious depths of a velvet-cushioned
library-chair, can scarce be expected to
conceive how natural it may be, for those who possess
nothing beyond the absolute requisites of existence, to
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look with a certain degree of envy on the extra comforts
which seem to cluster round the path of another;
and to feel as if a little might well be spared, where so
much would still be left. To the tenant of a log-cabin
whose family, whatever be its numbers, must burrow
in a single room, while a bed or two, a chest, a table,
and a wretched handful of cooking utensils, form the
chief materials of comfort, an ordinary house, small
and plain it may be, yet amply supplied, looks like the
very home of luxury. The woman who owns but a suit
a-piece for herself and her children, considers the possession
of an abundant though simple and inexpensive
wardrobe, as needless extravagance; and we must
scarcely blame her too severely, if she should be disposed
to condemn as penurious, any reluctance to supply
her pressing need, though she may have no shadow
of claim on us beyond that which arises from her
being a daughter of Eve. We look at the matter from
opposite points of view. Her light shows her very
plainly, as she thinks, what is our Christian duty; we
must take care that ours does not exhibit too exclusively
her envy and her impertinence.
The inequalities in the distribution of the gifts of
fortune are not greater in the country than in town, but
the country; yet circumstances render them more
offensive to the less-favoured class. The denizens of
the crowded alleys and swarming lofts of our great
cities see, it is true, the lofty mansions, the splendid
equipages of the wealthy—but they are seldom or
never brought into contact or collision with the owners
of these glittering advantages. And the extreme width
of the great gulf between, is almost a barrier, even to
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all-reaching envy. But in the ruder stages of society,
where no one has yet begun to expend any thing for
show, the difference lies chiefly in the ordinary requisites
of comfort; and this comes home at once “to
men's business and bosoms.” The keenness of their
appreciation, and the strength of their envy, bear a direct
proportion to the real value of the objects of their
desire; and when they are in habits of entire equality
and daily familiarity with those who own ten or twenty
times as much of the matériel of earthly enjoyment as
themselves, it is surely natural, however provoking,
that they should not be studious to veil their longings
after a share of the good, which has been so bounteously
showered upon their neighbours.
I am only making a sort of apology for the foibles of
my rustic friends. I cannot say that I feel much respect
for any thing which looks like a willingness to
live at others' cost, save as a matter of the last necessity.
I was adverting to a certain unreservedness of
communication on these points, as often bringing
wholesome and much-needed instruction home to those
whom prosperity and indulgence may have rendered
unsympathizing, or neglectful of the kindly feelings
which are among the best ornaments of our nature.
But I am aware that I have already been adventurous,
far beyond the bounds of prudence. To hint
that it may be better not to cultivate too far that haughty
spirit of exclusiveness which is the glory of the fashionable
world, is, I know, hazardous in the extreme. I
have not so far forgotten the rules of the sublime clique
as not to realize, that in acknowledging even a leaning
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toward the “vulgar” side, I place myself forever beyond
its pale. But I am now a denizen of the wild
woods—in my view, “no mean city” to own as one's
home; and I feel no ambition to aid in the formation
of a Montacute aristocracy, for which an ample field
is now open, and all the proper materials are at hand.
What lack we? Several of us have as many as three
cows; some few, carpets and shanty-kitchens; and
one or two, piano-fortes and silver tea-sets. I myself,
as dame de la seigneurie, have had secret thoughts of an
astral lamp! but even if I should go so far, I am resolved
not to be either vain-glorious or over-bearing,
although this kind of superiority forms the usual ground
for exclusiveness. I shall visit my neighbours just as
usual, and take care not to say a single word about dipped
candles, if I can possibly help it.
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CHAPTER XLVII.
Why, then, a final note prolong,
Or lengthen out a closing song?
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The growth of our little secluded village has been so
gradual, its prosperity so moderate, and its attempts so
unambitious, that during the whole three years which
have flown since it knew “the magic of a name,” not
a single event has occurred which would have been
deemed worthy of record by any one but a midge-fancier
like myself. Our brief annals boast not yet one
page, enlivened by those attractive words, “prodigious
undertaking!” “brilliant success!” “splendid fortune!”
“race of enterprise!” “march of improvement!”
“cultivation of taste!” “triumph of art!” “design
by Vitruvius!” “unequalled dome!” “pinnacle
of glory!” Alas! the mere enumeration of these
magnificent expressions, makes our insignificance
seem doubly insignificant! like the joke of our school-days—
“Soared aloft on eagles' wings—then fell flat
down, on father's wood-pile.” Irredeemably little are
we; unless, which Heaven forefend! a rail-road stray
our way. We must content ourselves with grinding
the grists, trimming the bonnets, mending the ploughs,
and schooling the children, of a goodly expanse of
wheat-fields, with such other odd jobs as may come
within the abilities of our various Jacks-of-all-trades.
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We cannot be metropolitan, even in our dreams; for
Turnipdale has secured the County honours. We
cannot hope to be literary; for all the colleges which
are to be tolerated in Michigan, are already located.
The State-Prison favours Jacksonburg; the Salt-works
some undistinguished place at the north-east;
what is left for Montacute?
Alas for Tinkerville! less happy under the cruel
blight of her towering hopes, than we in our humble
notelessness. She rose like a rocket, only to fall like
its stick; and baleful were the stars that signalized
her explosion. Mournful indeed are the closed windows
of her porticoed edifices. The only pleasurable
thought which arises in my mind at the mention of her
name, is that connected with her whilome president.
Mrs. Rivers is coming to spend the summer with Mrs.
Daker, while Mr. Rivers departs for Texas with two or
three semblables, to attempt the carving out of a new
home, where he need not “work.” I shall have my
gentle friend again; and her life will not lack interest,
for she brings with her a drooping, delicate baby, to
borrow health from the sunny skies and soft breezes
of Michigan.
The Female Beneficent Society grows, by dire experience,
chary of news. The only novel idea broached
at our last meeting, was that of a nascent tendresse between
Mrs. Nippers and Mr. Phlatt, a young lawyer,
whose resplendent “tin,” graces, within the last month,
the side-post of Squire Jenkins' door. I have my
doubts. This is one of the cases wherein much may
be said on both sides. Mr. Phlatt is certainly a constant
visitor at Mrs. Nippers', but the knowing widow
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does not live alone. He praises with great fervour,
Mrs. Nippers' tea and biscuits, but then who could do
less? they are so unequivocally perfect—and besides,
Mr. Phlatt has not access to many such comfortable
tea-tables—and moreover, when he praises he gazes,
but not invariably on Mrs. Nippers. I am not convinced
yet. Miss Clinch has a new French calico,
couleur de rose, and a pink lining to her Tuscan. And
she is young and rather pretty. But then, she has no
money! and Mrs. Nippers has quite a pretty little income—
the half-pay of her deceased Mr. Nippers, who
died of a fever at Sackett's Harbour—and Mrs. Nippers
has been getting a new dress, just the colour of bluepill,
Dr. Teeny says. I waver, but time will bring all
things to light.
Mr. Hastings goes to the Legislature, next winter;
and he is beginning to collect materials for a house,
which will be as nearly as may be, like his father's
summer-palace on the Hudson. But he is in another
county, so we do not feel envious. Cora will never
be less lovely, nor more elegant, nor (whispered be it!)
more happy than she is in her pretty log-house. And
the new house will be within the same belt of maples
and walnuts which now encircles the picturesque
cottage; so that the roses and honey-suckles will tell
well; like their fair mistress, graceful and exquisite
any-where.
Many new buildings are springing up in Montacute.
Mr. Doubleday has ensconced himself and his wife and
baby, in a white and green tenement, neat enough even
for that queen of housewives; and Betsy, having grown
stout, scours the new white-wood floors, à merveille.
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Loggeries are becoming scarce within our limits, and
many of our ladies wear silk dresses on Sunday. We
have two physicians, and two lawyers, or rather one
and a half. Squire Jenkins being only an adopted
son of Themis. He thought it a pity his gift in the
talking line should not be duly useful to the public, so he
acts as advocate, whenever he is not on duty as judge,
and thereby ekes out his bread and butter, as well as
adds to his reputation. And in addition to all the improvements
which I have recorded, I may mention that
we are building a new meeting-house, and are soon to
have a settled minister.
And now, why do I linger? As some rustic damsel
who has, in her simplicity, accepted the hurried “Do
call when you come to town,” of a fine city guest,
finds that she has already outstaid the fashionable
limit, yet hesitates in her awkwardness, when and
how to take leave; so I—conscious that I have said
forth my little say, yet scarce knowing in what style
best to make my parting reverence, have prolonged
this closing chapter—a “conclusion wherein nothing
is concluded.” But such simple and sauntering stories
are like Scotch reels, which have no natural ending,
save the fatigue of those engaged. So I may as well
cut short my mazy dance and resume at once my proper
position as a “wall-flower,” with an unceremonious
adieu to the kind and courteous reader.
THE END.
