p241-014 THE LAND-FEVER.

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The wild new country, with all its coarseness and all its
disadvantages of various kinds, has yet a fascination for the
settler, in consequence of a certain free, hearty tone, which has
long since disappeared, if indeed it ever existed, in parts of the
country where civilization has made greater progress. The
really fastidious, and those who only pretend to be such, may hold
this as poor compensation for the many things lacking of another
kind; but those to whose apprehension sympathy and sincerity
have a pre-eminent and independent charm, prefer the kindly
warmth of the untaught, to the icy chill of the half-taught; and
would rather be welcomed by the woodsman to his log-cabin, with
its rough hearth, than make one of a crowd who feed the ostentation
of a millionaire, or gaze with sated eyes upon costly feasts
which it would be a mockery to dignify with the name of hospitality.
The infrequency of inns in a newly settled country leads
naturally to the practice of keeping “open house” for strangers;
and it is rare indeed that the settler, however poor his accommodations,
hesitates to offer the best he has to the tired wayfarer.
Where payment is accepted, it is usually very inconsiderable;
and it is seldom accepted at all, unless the guest is manifestly
better off than his entertainer. But whether a compensation be
taken or refused, the heartiness of manner with which every thing
that the house affords is offered, cannot but be acceptable to the
visitor. Even the ever rampant pride, which comes up so disagreeably
at the West, where the outward appearance of the
stranger betokens any advantage of condition, slumbers when
that stranger claims hospitality. His horse is cared for with

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more solicitude than the host ever bestows on his own; the table
is covered with the best provisions the house affords, set forth in
the holiday dishes; the bed is endued with the brightest patchwork
quilt—the pride of the housewife's heart; and if there be
any fat fowls—any white honey—any good tea—about the premises,
the guest will be sure to have it, even though it may have
been reserved for “Independence” or “Thanksgiving.”

This habit was however reversed, or at least suspended, during
the speculating times. The country was then inundated with
people who came to buy land,—not to clear and plough, but as
men buy a lottery-ticket or dig for gold—in the hope of unreasonable
and unearned profits. These people were considered as
public enemies. No personal violence was offered them, as might
have been the case at the Southwest; but every obstacle, in the
shape of extravagant charges, erroneous information, and rude
refusal, was thrown in their way. Few were discouraged by
this, however; for they came in the spirit of the knights of romance
when they had to enter enchanted castles—strong in faith
of the boundless treasures which were to reward their perseverance.

To mislead an unpractised land-hunter was a matter of no
great difficulty; for few things are more intricate and puzzling,
at first, than the system which has been devised to facilitate
the identifying of particular spots. Section-corners and
quarter-stakes, eighties, and forties, and fractions, are plain
enough when one is habituated to them, and they seem plain
enough to the new man,—on paper. But when he finds himself
in the woods, with his maps and his copious memoranda, he is
completely at sea, with no guide but the compass. A friend
who afterwards became quite a proficient in the mysteries of
land-finding tells me that he twice lost himself completely in the
woods. “The first time,” he says, “my mishap was owing to
the wandering habits of a wild Indian pony which I had chosen
on account of his power of ceaseless travel. He had been accustomed
to pick up his living where he could find it, and he took
advantage of my jogging pace, just at dusk, when I did not feel
too certain of my whereabout, to quit the scarce-defined road, in
search of something tempting which he espied at a distance. My

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resource in this case was to abandon my horse, and fix my eyes
on the North Star, which I knew would bring me to a certain
State road, in due time. The other occasion was in broad day-light,
but when there was only an occasional gleam of sunshine,
so that I had no steady guide as to direction. The ground was so
thickly strown with leaves that my horse's hoofs left no permanent
track, and I found myself in a complete maze. The trees were
all alike to my bewildered eyes (I had left my compass at the last
lodging-place,); and all I knew was that I was south of the road
which I had quitted for the sake of saving some miles' distance
After many efforts at marking trees—very ineffectual without an
axe—I bethought me of a newspaper, which I tore into pieces
and affixed to bushes and low limbs as I went, and so obtained a
straight line; by which means, after some hours' rather anxious
wandering, I was finally extricated.”

To pass a night in the woods is a small affair for a hunting
party; but it is something quite different for a solitary individual,
unprovided with axe or gun, and, of course, unable to make himself
comfortable in any way. To sleep in a tree might do, if
trees were not occasionally haunted by wild cats; or a lair in the
heaped leaves of autumn, if there were not a chance of warming
into activity a nest of rattlesnakes. These are no doubt partly
useless fears, but to the stranger they are very real; and they
tend not a little to the increase of his difficulties by discomposing
his nerves when cool reflection would be his best friend.

Mistakes in “locating” land were often very serious, even
where there had been no intention to deceive—the purchaser finding
only swamp or hopeless gravel, when he had purchased fine
farming land and maple timber. Every mile square is marked
by blazed trees, and the corners especially distinguished by stakes
whose place is pointed out by trees called Witness-trees, and so
accurate and so minute is the whole system that it seems almost
incredible that so many errors should have arisen. The back-woodsman
made no mistakes, for to him a stump, or a stone, or
a prostrate tree, has individuality; and he will never confound it
with any other. One accustomed to wandering in the woods will
know even the points of the compass, in a strange place, without
sun or star to guide him. But the fact of the unwillingness of

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the actual settler to guide the speculator faithfully, became so
well known, that purchasers often preferred relying on their own
sagacity, backed by what seemed unmistakable rules, to trusting
such disaffected guides. Innumerable stories are current in the
woods of the perplexities of city gentlemen;—and the following,
if not strictly true, will serve to illustrate somewhat the state
of things in those wild times when sober prudence was forgotten,
and delusion ruled the hour. I shall call it, for want of better
title,

A REMINISCENCE OF THE LAND-FEVER.

The years 1835 and 1836 will long be remembered by the
Western settler—and perhaps by some few people at the East,
too—as the period when the madness of speculation in lands had
reached a point to which no historian of the time will ever be
able to do justice. A faithful picture of those wild days would
subject the most veracious chronicler to the charge of exaggeration;
and our great-grand-children can hope to obtain an adequate
idea of the infatuation which led away their forefathers, only by
the study of such detached facts as may be noted down by those
in whose minds the feeling recollection of the delusion is still
fresh. Perhaps when our literary existence shall have become
sufficiently confirmed to call for the collection of Ana, something
more may be gleaned from the correspondence in which were
embodied the exultings of the successful, and the lamentations of
the disappointed.

“Seeing is believing,” certainly, in most cases; but in the days
of the land-fever, we, who were in the midst of the infected district,
scarcely found it so. The whirl, the fervour, the flutter, the
rapidity of step, the sparkling of eyes, the beating of hearts, the
striking of hands, the utter abandon of the hour, were incredible,
inconceivable. The “man of one idea” was every where: no
man had two. He who had no money, begged, borrowed, or stole
it; he who had, thought he made a generous sacrifice, if he lent
it at cent per cent. The tradesman forsook his shop; the farmer
his plough; the merchant his counter; the lawyer his office;
nay, the minister his desk, to join the general chase. Even the

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schoolmaster, in his longing to be “abroad” with the rest, laid
down his birch, or in the flurry of his hopes, plied it with diminished
unction.


“Tramp! tramp! along the land they rode,
Splash! splash! along the sea!”
The man with one leg, or he that had none, could at least get on
board a steamer, and make for Chicago or Milwaukie; the strong,
the able, but above all, the “enterprising,” set out with his pocketmap
and his pocket-compass, to thread the dim woods, and see
with his own eyes. Who would waste time in planting, in building,
in hammering iron, in making shoes, when the path to wealth
lay wide and flowery before him?

A ditcher was hired by the job to do a certain piece of work in
his line. “Well, John, did you make any thing?”

“Pretty well; I cleared about two dollars a day: but I should
have made more by standing round;”[1] i. e., watching the landmarket
for bargains.

This favourite occupation of all classes was followed by its
legitimate consequences. Farmers were as fond of “standing
round” as any body; and when harvest time came, it was discovered
that many had quite forgotten that the best land requires
sowing; and grain, and of course other articles of general necessity,
rose to an unprecedented price. The hordes of travellers
flying through the country in all directions were often cited as the
cause of the distressing scarcity; but the true source must be
sought in the diversion, or rather suspension, of the industry of
the entire population. Be this as it may, of the wry faces made
at the hard fare, the travellers contributed no inconsiderable
portion; for they were generally city gentlemen, or at least gentlemen
who had lived long enough in the city to have learned to
prefer oysters to salt pork. This checked not their ardour, however;
for the golden glare before their eyes had power to neutralize
the hue of all present objects. On they pressed, with headlong
zeal: the silent and pathless forest, the deep miry marsh, the
gloom of night, and the fires of noon, beheld alike the march of

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the speculator. Such searching of trees for town lines! Such
ransacking of the woods for section corners, ranges, and base
lines! Such anxious care in identifying spots possessing particular
advantages! And then, alas! after all, such precious
blunders!

These blunders called into action another class of operators,
who became popularly known as “land-lookers.” These met
you at every turn, ready to furnish “water-power,” “pine lots,”
“choice farming tracts,” or any thing else, at a moment's notice.
Bar-rooms and street-corners swarmed with these prowling gentry.
It was impossible to mention any part of the country which they
had not personally surveyed. They would tell you, with the
gravity of astrologers, what sort of timber predominated on any
given tract, drawing sage deductions as to the capabilities of the
soil. Did you incline to city property? Lo! a splendid chart,
setting forth the advantages of some unequalled site, and your
confidential friend, the land-looker, able to tell you more than all
about it, or to accompany you to the happy spot; though that he
would not advise; “bad roads,” “nothing fit to eat,” etc.; and
all this from a purely disinterested solicitude for your welfare.

These amiable individuals were, strange to tell, no favourites
with the actual settlers. If they disliked the gentleman speculator,
they hated with a perfect hatred him who aided by his local
knowledge the immense purchases of non-residents. These
short-sighted and prejudiced persons forgot the honour and distinction
which must result from their insignificant farms being
surrounded by the possessions of the magnates of the land.
They saw only the solitude which would probably be entailed on
them for years; and it was counted actual treason in a settler to
give any facilities to the land-looker, of whatever grade. “Let
the land-shark do his own hunting,” was their frequent reply to
applications of this kind; and some thought them quite right.
Yet this state of feeling among the Hard-handed, was not without
its inconvenient results to city gentlemen, as witness the case of
our friend Mr. Willoughby, a very prim and smart bachelor,
from —

It was when the whirlwind was at its height, that a gentleman
wearing the air of a bank-director, at the very least—in other

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words, that of an uncommonly fat pigeon—drew bridle at the
bars in front of one of the roughest log houses in the county of—.
The horse and his rider were loaded with all those
unnecessary defences, and cumbrous comforts, which the fashion
of the time prescribed in such cases. Blankets, valise, saddle-bags,
and holsters nearly covered the steed; a most voluminous
enwrapment of India-rubber cloth completely enveloped the rider.
The gallant sorrel seemed indeed fit for his burden. He looked
as if he might have swam any stream in Michigan


“Barded from counter to tail,
And the rider arm'd complete in mail;”
yet he seemed a little jaded, and hung his head languidly, while
his master accosted the tall and meagre tenant of the log cabin.

This individual and his dwelling resembled each other in an
unusual degree. The house was, as we have said, of the roughest;
its ribs scarcely half filled in with clay; its “looped and
windowed raggedness” rendered more conspicuous by the tattered
cotton sheets which had long done duty as glass, and which now
fluttered in every breeze; its roof of oak shingles, warped into
every possible curve; and its stick chimney, so like its owner's
hat, open at the top, and jammed in at the sides; all shadowed
forth the contour and equipments of the exceedingly easy and
self-satisfied person who leaned on the fence, and snapped his long
cart-whip, while he gave such answers as suited him to the gentleman
in the India-rubbers, taking especial care not to invite him
to alight.

“Can you tell me, my friend,—” civilly began Mr. Willoughby.

“Oh! friend!” interrupted the settler; “who told you I was
your friend? Friends is scuss in these parts.”

“You have at least no reason to be otherwise,” replied the
traveller, who was blessed with a very patient temper, especially
where there was no use in getting angry.

“I don't know that,” was the reply. “What fetch'd you into
these woods?”

“If I should say `my horse,' the answer would perhaps be as
civil as the question.”

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“Jist as you like,” said the other, turning on his heel, and
walking off.

“I wished merely to ask you,” resumed Mr. Willoughby,
talking after the nonchalant son of the forest, “whether this is
Mr. Pepper's land.”

“How do you know it an't mine?”

“I'm not likely to know, at present, it seems,” said the traveller,
whose patience was getting a little frayed. And taking out
his memorandum-book, he ran over his minutes: “South half of
north-west quarter of section fourteen—Your name is Leander
Pepper, is it not?”

“Where did you get so much news? You a'n't the sheriff,
be ye?”

“Pop!” screamed a white-headed urchin from the house,
“Mam says supper's ready.”

“So ain't I,” replied the papa; “I've got all my chores to do
yet.” And he busied himself at a log pig-stye on the opposite
side of the road, half as large as the dwelling-house. Here he
was soon surrounded by a squealing multitude, with whom he
seemed to hold a regular conversation.

Mr. Willoughby looked at the westering sun, which was not
far above the dense wall of trees that shut in the small clearing;
then at the heavy clouds which advanced from the north,
threatening a stormy night; then at his watch, and then at his
note-book; and after all, at his predicament—on the whole, an
unpleasant prospect. But at this moment a female face showed
itself at the door. Our traveller's memory reverted at once to
the testimony of Ledyard and Mungo Park; and he had also
some floating and indistinct poetical recollections of woman's
being useful when a man was in difficulties, though hard to
please at other times. The result of these reminiscences, which
occupied a precious second, was, that Mr. Willoughby dismounted,
fastened his horse to the fence, and advanced with a brave
and determined air, to throw himself upon female kindness and
sympathy.

He naturally looked at the lady, as he approached the door,
but she did not return the compliment. She looked at the pigs,
and talked to the children, and Mr. Willoughby had time to

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observe that she was the very duplicate of her husband; as tall, as
bony, as ragged, and twice as cross-looking.

“Malviny Jane!” she exclaimed, in no dulcet treble, “be
done a-paddlin' in that 'ere water! If I come there, I'll—”

“You'd better look at Sophrony, I guess!” was the reply.

“Why, what's she a-doin'?”

“Well, I guess if you look, you'll see!” responded Miss Malvina,
coolly, as she passed into the house, leaving at every step
a full impression of her foot in the same black mud that covered
her sister from head to foot.

The latter was saluted with a hearty cuff, as she emerged from
the puddle; and it was just at the propitious moment when her
shrill howl aroused the echoes, that Mr. Willoughby, having
reached the threshold, was obliged to set about making the agreeable
to the mamma. And he called up for the occasion all his
politeness.

“I believe I must become an intruder on your hospitality for
the night, madam,” he began. The dame still looked at the
pigs. Mr. Willoughby tried again, in less courtly phrase.

“Will it be convenient for you to lodge me to-night, ma'am?
I have been disappointed in my search for a hunting-party, whom
I had engaged to meet, and the night threatens a storm.”

“I don't know nothin' about it; you must ask the old man,”
said the lady, now for the first time taking a survey of the new
comer; “with my will, we'll lodge nobody.”

This was not very encouraging, but it was a poor night for the
woods; so our traveller persevered, and making so bold a push
for the door that the lady was obliged to retreat a little, he entered,
and said he would await her husband's coming.

And in truth he could scarcely blame the cool reception he had
experienced, when he beheld the state of affairs within those muddy
precincts. The room was large, but it swarmed with human
beings. The huge open fire-place, with its hearth of rough stone,
occupied nearly the whole of one end of the apartment; and near
it stood a long cradle, containing a pair of twins, who cried—a
sort of hopeless cry, as if they knew it would do no good, yet
could not help it. The schoolmaster, (it was his week,) sat reading
a tattered novel, and rocking the cradle occasionally, when

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the children cried too loud. An old grey-headed Indian was curiously
crouched over a large tub, shelling corn on the edge of a
hoe; but he ceased his noisy employment when he saw the stranger,
for no Indian will ever willingly be seen at work, though
he may be sometimes compelled by the fear of starvation or the
longing for whiskey, to degrade himself by labour. Near the
only window was placed the work-bench and entire paraphernalia
of the shoemaker, who in these regions travels from house to
house, shoeing the family and mending the harness as he goes,
with various interludes of songs and jokes, ever new and acceptable.
This one, who was a little, bald, twinkling-eyed fellow,
made the smoky rafters ring with the burden of that favourite
ditty of the west:


“All kinds of game to hunt, my boys, also the buck and doe,
All down by the banks of the river O-hi-o;”
and children of all sizes, clattering in all keys, completed the
picture and the concert.

The supper-table, which maintained its place in the midst of
this living and restless mass, might remind one of the square
stone lying bedded in the bustling leaves of the acanthus; but
the associations would be any but those of Corinthian elegance.
The only object which at that moment diversified its dingy surface
was an iron hoop, into which the mistress of the feast proceeded
to turn a quantity of smoking hot potatoes, adding afterward
a bowl of salt, and another of pork fat, by courtesy denominated
gravy: plates and knives dropped in afterward, at the discretion
of the company.

Another call of “Pop! pop!” brought in the host from the pig-stye;
the heavy rain which had now began to fall, having no
doubt, expedited the performance of the chores. Mr. Willoughby,
who had established himself resolutely, took advantage of a very
cloudy assent from the proprietor, to lead his horse to a shed, and
to deposit in a corner his cumbrous outer gear; while the company
used in turn the iron skillet which served as a wash-basin,
dipping the water from a large trough outside, overflowing with
the abundant drippings of the eaves. Those who had no pockethandkerchiefs,
contented themselves with a nondescript article

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which seemed to stand for the family towel; and when this ceremony
was concluded, all seriously addressed themselves to the demolition
of the potatoes. The grown people were accommodated
with chairs and chests; the children prosecuted a series of flying
raids upon the good cheer, snatching a potato now and then as
they could find an opening under the raised arm of one of the
family, and then retreating to the chimney corner, tossing the hot
prize from hand to hand, and blowing it stoutly the while. The
old Indian had disappeared.

To our citizen, though he felt inconveniently hungry, this
primitive meal seemed a little meagre; and he ventured to ask if
he could not be accommodated with some tea.

“An't my victuals good enough for you?”

“Oh!—the potatoes are excellent, but I'm very fond of tea.”

“So be I, but I can't have every thing I want—can you?”

This produced a laugh from the shoemaker, who seemed to
think his patron very witty, while the schoolmaster, not knowing
but the stranger might happen to be one of his examiners next
year, produced only a faint giggle, and then reducing his countenance
instantly to an awful gravity, helped himself to his seventh
potato.

The rain which now poured violently, not only outside but
through many a crevice in the roof, naturally kept Mr. Willoughby
cool; and finding that dry potatoes gave him the hiccups, he
withdrew from the table, and seating himself on the shoemaker's
bench, took a survey of his quarters.

Two double-beds and the long cradle, seemed all the sleeping
apparatus; but there was a ladder which doubtless led to a lodging
above. The sides of the room were hung with abundance
of decent clothing, and the dresser was well stored with the usual
articles, among which a tea-pot and canister shone conspicuous;
so that the appearance of inhospitality could not arise from poverty,
and Mr. Willoughby concluded to set it down to the account
of rustic ignorance.

The eating ceased not until the hoop was empty, and then the
company rose and stretched themselves, and began to guess it
was about time to go to bed. Mr. Willoughby inquired what
was to be done with his horse.

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“Well! I s'pose he can stay where he is.”

“But what can he have to eat?”

“I reckon you won't get nothing for him, without you turn
him out on the mash.”

“He would get off, to a certainty!”

“Tie his legs.”

The unfortunate traveller argued in vain. Hay was “scuss,”
and potatoes were “scusser;” and in short the “mash” was the
only resource, and these natural meadows afford but poor picking
after the first of October. But to the “mash” was the good steed
despatched, ingloriously hampered, with the privilege of munching
wild grass in the rain, after his day's journey.

Then came the question of lodging for his master. The lady,
who had by this time drawn out a trundle-bed, and packed it full
of children, said there was no bed for him, unless he could sleep
“up chamber” with the boys.

Mr. Willoughby declared that he should make out very well
with a blanket by the fire.

“Well! just as you like,” said his host; “but Solomon sleeps
there, and if you like to sleep by Solomon, it is more than I
should.”

This was the name of the old Indian, and Mr. Willoughby
once more cast woful glances toward the ladder.

But now the schoolmaster, who seemed rather disposed to be
civil, declared that he could sleep very well in the long cradle,
and would relinquish his place beside the shoemaker to the guest,
who was obliged to content himself with this arrangement, which
was such as was most usual in those times.

The storm continued through the night, and many a crash in
the woods attested its power. The sound of a storm in the dense
forest is almost precisely similar to that of a heavy surge breaking
on a rocky beach; and when our traveller slept, it was only
to dream of wreck and disaster at sea, and to wake in horror and
affright. The wild rain drove in at every crevice, and wet the
poor children in the loft so thoroughly, that they crawled shivering
down the ladder, and stretched themselves on the hearth, regardless
of Solomon, who had returned after the others were in
bed.

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But morning came at last; and our friend, who had no desire
farther to test the vaunted hospitality of a western settler, was not
among the latest astir. The storm had partially subsided; and
although the clouds still lowered angrily, and his saddle had enjoyed
the benefit of a leak in the roof during the night, Mr. Willoughby
resolved to push on as far as the next clearing, at least,
hoping for something for breakfast besides potatoes and salt. It
took him a weary while to find his horse, and when he had saddled
him, and strapped on his various accoutrements, he entered the
house, and inquired what he was to pay for his entertainment—
laying somewhat of a stress on the last word.

His host, nothing daunted, replied that he guessed he would let
him off for a dollar.

Mr. Willoughby took out his purse, and as he placed a silver
dollar in the leathern palm outspread to receive it, happening to
look toward the hearth, and perceiving the preparations for a very
substantial breakfast, the long pent-up vexation burst forth.

“I really must say, Mr. Pepper—” he began: his tone was
certainly that of an angry man, but it only made his host laugh.

“If this is your boasted western hospitality, I can tell you—”

“You'd better tell me what the dickens you are peppering me
up this fashion for! My name isn't Pepper, no more than yours
is! May be that is your name; you seem pretty warm.”

“Your name not Pepper! Pray what is it, then?”

“Ah! there's the thing now! You land-hunters ought to know
sich things without asking.”

“Land-hunter! I'm no land-hunter!”

“Well! you're a land-shark, then—swallowin' up poor men's
farms. The less I see of such cattle, the better I'm pleased.”

“Confound you!” said Mr. Willoughby, who waxed warm, “I
tell you I've nothing to do with land. I wouldn't take your whole
state for a gift.”

“What did you tell my woman you was a land-hunter for,
then?”

And now the whole matter became clear in a moment; and it
was found that Mr. Willoughby's equipment, with the mention of
a “hunting party,” had completely misled both host and hostess.

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And to do them justice, never were regret and vexation more
heartily expressed.

“You needn't judge our new-country folks by me,” said Mr.
Handy, for such proved to be his name; “any man in these parts
would as soon bite off his own nose, as to snub a civil traveller
that wanted a supper and a night's lodging. But somehow or other,
your lots o' fixin', and your askin' after that 'ere Pepper—one of
the worst land-sharks we've ever had here—made me mad; and
I know I treated you worse than an Indian.”

“Humph!” said Solomon.

“But,” continued the host, “you shall see whether my old woman
can't set a good breakfast, when she's a mind to. Come,
you shan't stir a step till you've had breakfast; and just take
back this plaguey dollar. I wonder it didn't burn my fingers
when I took it!”

Mrs. Handy set forth her very best, and a famous breakfast it
was, considering the times. And before it was finished, the hunting
party made their appearance, having had some difficulty in
finding their companion, who had made no very uncommon mistake
as to section corners and town-lines.

“I'll tell ye what,” said Mr. Handy, confidentially, as the cavalcade
with its baggage-ponies, loaded with tents, gun-cases, and
hampers of provisions, was getting into order for a march to the
prairies, “I'll tell ye what; if you've occasion to stop any where
in the Bush, you'd better tell 'em at the first goin' off that you
a'n't land-hunters.”

But Mr. Willoughby had already had “a caution.”

eaf241.n1

[1] Verbatim.

p241-028 BALL AT THRAM'S HUDDLE.

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The winter being a time of comparative leisure for the farmer
and his family, is generally the chosen period for regular, premeditated
amusements, such as dancing, seeing “shows,” and going
to school;—this last being considered only fit to fill up spare
time of such young people as are old enough to do any thing
“useful.” A ball on Christmas or New-Year night, or in commemoration
of Jackson's victory, or Washington's birth, is always
in order; as those ears happen all to occur in the depth of winter.
And the raree-shows which traverse the remoter parts of the
country, almost invariably offer their attractions about the same
period, their owners knowing very well that the farmer never feels
so generous or so jovial as when his crops are all safely housed,
and his wheat in the ground for next year's harvest.

These exhibitions are a rich treat, sometimes; not only to those
who gaze upon them in good faith, but to the cooler spectator, employed
rather in watching the company than the performers. I
remember one, the matériel of which was a Lecture on Astronomy,
with Orrery and Tellurium, (grand-sounding amusements for the
woods!) a model of Perkins' steam gun, and a Magic Lantern.
The master of ceremonies (feeling very little ceremony himself,)
went about quite coolly, with his hat on and a segar in his mouth,
marshalling the company, and ordering the boys to make themselves
as small as they could, in order that he might the more easily
get round to take up a contribution before the “exercises” began.
The fee, being left to the generosity of the spectators, was not
very burthensome in collecting; and the orator declared before
he began the lecture, that he had not received enough to pay for
the candles—of which, by the bye, there were only four, for an
audience of nearly an hundred people. This moved a good woman
on one of the back seats so deeply, that she asked him to

[figure description] Page 016.[end figure description]

wait a minute, and then passed a sixpence, along a line of ready
hands, to the rostrum, where the pathetic speaker, after first examining
it on both sides by the nearest candle, put it in his pocket,
and then, with a more contented air, ordered the music to begin.
The violin accordingly struck up a lively tune, to which all
the male part of the audience kept time with their feet; and the
lecture, thus gilded over like a bitter pill, began. But such a
lecture! It was read off by rote, the reader evidently knowing
no more of his subject than of Hebrew, and having merely garbled
from some dull treatise, an incomprehensible jumble of facts
and theories that would have puzzled Sir John Herschel in the
disentangling. The effect of such “amusement” on such an audience
may easily be imagined. Some yawned, some nodded, and
some went fairly and audibly to sleep. In vain the four candles
were snuffed—in vain the lecturer told his audience that he was
“just going to bite off”—they evidently began to wish their sixpences
back in their pockets, when the lecturer finished and the
violin was heard once more. This crisped the spirits of the company
admirably, and the most curious blundering expositions of
the Orrery and Tellurium found tolerably willing ears. The
showman had wisely put the worst first; and now having done
with the stars, he came to the steam gun, which took very well;
the alcohol burning properly blue, and the reports being managed
with the gentleness of any sucking dove.

But the cream of the night was the Magic Lantern, which had
at least the merit of being suited to the apprehension of the auditory;
its grotesque figures and frightful goblins possessing, too,
the additional advantage of being set off by the operator's wit.
The extinguishment of the lights set all the babies crying at once;
but the violin, or some panacea discovered by the mammas, quieted
them after a while; and we saw “the ghost that scared London
for twenty years” roll his eyes horribly, and were told by
the operator that that was the way the young men cast sheep's
eyes when they went a-speaking. This idea created a laugh of
course, which seemed a happy relief to some of the spectators,
who had begun to feel very squeamish at the sight of a ghost. The
night-mare, and several other engaging physiognomies, were still
to come, and after all was over, in spite of desperate jokes, some

[figure description] Page 017.[end figure description]

of the ladies declared audibly as they went out, that they did not
expect to sleep a wink all night. Yet they were doubtless sure
not to miss the next exhibition of the same kind.

The only exception to the choice of winter for regular amusements,
is the ball on Independence night, or rather day, for we
take time by the forelock. In the sketch which follows, I have
endeavoured to give an idea of one of these; but it must be understood
that the description applies to a newly settled part of the
country, far from the vicinity of any large town.

It was on the sultriest of all melting afternoons, when the flies
were taking an unanimous siesta, and the bees, baked beyond
honey or humming, swung idly on the honeysuckles, that I observed,
with half-shut eye, something like activity among the
human butterflies of our most peaceful of villages. If I could
have persuaded myself to turn my head, I might doubtless have
ascertained to what favoured point were directed the steps (hasty,
considering all things,) of the Miss Liggits, Miss Pinn, and my
pretty friend, Fanny Russell; but the hour was unpropitious to
research, and slumber beguiled the book from my fingers, before
the thought “Where can they be going!” had fairly passed
through my mind. Fancy had but just transported me to the
focus of a circle of glass-blowers, the furnace directly in front,
and the glowing fluid all round me, when I was recalled to almost
equally overcoming realities, by a light tap at the door. I
must have given the usual invitation mechanically, for before I
was fairly awake, the pink face of one of my own hand-maidens
shone before my drowsy eyes.

“If you don't want me for nothin', I'd like to go down to the
store to get some notions for the ball.”

“The ball! what! a red-hot ball!” I replied, for the drowsy
influence was settling over me again, and I was already on the
deck of a frigate, in the midst of a sharply-contested action.

“Massy no, marm! this here Independence ball up to Thram's
Huddle,” said Jane, with a giggle.

I was now wide awake with astonishment. “A dance, Jane,
in such weather as this!”

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

“Why law! yes; nothin' makes a body so cool as dancin' and
drinkin' hot tea.”

This was beyond argument. Jane departed, and I amused
myself with the flittings of gingham sun-bonnets and white aprons
up and down the street, in the scorching sun.

It was waxing toward the tea-hour, when that prettiest of Fannies,
Fanny Russell, her natural ringlets of shadowy gold, which
a duchess might envy, looking all the richer under the melting
influence of the time, came tripping into the little porch.

“If you would be so kind as to lend me that large feather fan;
I would take such good care of it! It's for the ball.”

Sweet Fanny! one must be churlish indeed, to deny thee a
far greater boon!

Next came that imp, Ring Jones; but he goes slyly round to
the kitchen-door, with an air of great importance. Presently,
enter Jane.

“Ring Jones has brought a kind of a bill, marm, for our Mark;
and Mark ain't to hum, and Ring says he can't go without an
answer.”

“But I cannot answer Mark's billets, you know, Jane.”

“No, marm; but—this 'ere is something about the team, I
guess.”

And in the mean time Jane had, sans ceremonie, broken the
wafer, and was spelling out the contents of Mark's note.

“I can't justly make it out; but I know it's something about
the team; and they want an answer right off.”

Thus urged, I took the note, which was after this fashion:

“The agreeable Cumpany of Mr. Mark Loring and Lady is
requested to G. Nobleses Tavern to Thram's huddle Independence
the 4th July.”

And here followed the names of some eight or ten managers.

“But, Jane, here's nothing about the team, after all.”

“Jist look o' t'other side, marm; you see they didn't want to
put it right in the ticket, like.”

Upon this hint, I discerned, in the extreme corner of the paper,
a flourish which might be interpreted “over.” Over I went accordingly,
and there came the gist of the matter.

“Mark we want to hav you be ready with your Team at one

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

o'clock percisely to escort the ladies if you can't let us know and
don't forgit to Put in as many Seats as you can and All your
Buffaloes.”[2]

I ventured to promise that the team, and the seats, and the buffaloes,
should be at Mark's disposal at “one percisely,” and
Ring Jones departed, highly exalted in his own opinion, by the
success of his importunity.

It was to be supposed that we had now contributed our quota
of aid on this patriotic occasion; but it seemed that more was
expected. The evening was far advanced, when the newly-installed
proprietor of the half-finished “hotel” at Thram's Huddle,
alighted at our door; and, wiping his dripping brow, made known
the astounding fact that he had scoured the country for dried apples,
without success, and informed us that he had come, as a
dernier resort, to beg the loan of some; “for,” as he sensibly
observed, “a ball without no pies, was a thing that was never
heerd on, no wheres.”

When this matter was settled, he mustered courage to ask, in
addition, for the great favour of a gallon of vinegar, for which he
declared himself ready to pay any price; “that is, any thing
that was reasonable.”

I could not refrain from inquiring what indispensable purpose
the vinegar was to serve.

“Why, for the lettuce, you see!—and if it's pretty sharp, it'll
make 'em all the spryer.”

Mr. Noble departed, in a happy frame of mind, and we heard
no more of the ball that night.

The next day, the eldest Miss Liggitt “jist called in,” as she
happened to be passing, to ask if I was “a-goin' to want that
'ere flowery white bunnet-curting” of mine.

Some time ago I might not have comprehended that this description
applied to a blonde-gauze veil, which had seen its best
days, and was now scarce presentable. It did not require any
great stretch of feminine generosity to lend this; but when it
came to “a pair of white lace gloves,” I pleaded poverty, and
got off.

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

Our Jane, who is really quite a pretty girl, though her hair be
of the sandiest, and her face and neck, at this time of the year,
one continuous freckle, had set her heart upon a certain blue
satin ribbon, which she did not like exactly to borrow, but which
she had none the less made up her mind to have, for the grand
occasion. So she began, like an able tactician, by showing me
one of faded scarlet, on which she requested my opinion.

“Don't you think this'll look about right?”

“That horrid thing! No, Jane, pray don't be seen in that!”

“Well! what kind o' colour do you think would look good
with this belt?” holding up a cincture, blue as the cloudless vault
above us.

“Blue, or white; certainly not scarlet.”

“Ah! but I ha'n't got neither one nor t'other;” and she looked
very pensive.

I was hard-hearted, but Jane was not without resource.

“If you'd a-mind to let me have that 'ere long blue one o'
your'n: you don't never wear it, and I'd be willin' to pay you for't.

Who could hold out? The azure streamer became Jane's, in
fee simple.

Spruce and warm looked our good Mark, in his tight blue
coat, with its wealth of brass buttons, his stock five fathoms—
I mean inches—deep, and his exceeding square-toed boots,
bought new for this very solemnity. And a proud and pleased
heart beat in his honest bosom, I doubt not, as he drove to the
place of rendezvous, buffaloes and all, with cerulean Jane at his
side, a full half hour before the appointed time. They need not
have cautioned Mark to be “percise.” For my part, I longed for
“the receipt of fern-seed to walk invisible,” or some of those other
talismans which used in the good old times to help people into
places where they had no business to be; and in this instance, the
Fates seemed inclined to be propitious, in a degree at least.

The revellers had scarcely passed on the western road in long
and most rapid procession—the dust they raised had certainly not
subsided—when a black cloud, which had risen stealthily while
all were absorbed in the outfit, began to unfold its ominous shroud.
The fringes of this portentous curtain scarcely passed the
zenith, when a low, distant muttering, and a few scattering but

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

immense drops, gave token of what was coming; and long ere
the gay cortége could have reached the Huddle, which is fully six
miles distant, a heavy shower, with thunder and lightning accompaniments,
must have made wet drapery of every damsel's
anxiously elaborate ball-dress. Beaver and broad-cloth might
survive such a deluge, but alas for white dresses, long ringlets,
and blonde-gauze “bunnet-curtings!”

The shower was too violent to last, and when it had subsided,
and all was


“Fresh as if Day again were born,
Again upon the lap of Morn,”
I fortunately recollected an excellent reason for a long drive,
(“man is his own Fate,”) which would bring us into the very
sound of the violins of the Huddle. A young woman who had
filled the very important place of “help” in our family, was
lying very ill at her father's; and the low circumstances of her
parents made it desirable that she should be frequently remembered
by her friends during her tedious illness. So in a light
open wagon, with a smart pony, borrowed for the nonce, selon les
regles, we had a charming drive, and moreover, the much-coveted
pleasure of seeing the heads of the assembled company at Mr.
Noble's; some bobbing up and down, some stretched far out of
the window, getting breath for the next exercise, and some, with
bodies to them, promenading the hall below. I tried hard to
distinguish the “belle chêvelure” of my favourite Fanny Russell,
or the straight back and nascent whiskers of our own Mark; but
we passed too rapidly to see all that was to be seen, and in a few
moments found ourselves at the bars which led to the forlorn
dwelling of poor Mary Anne Simms.

The only apartment that Mr. Simms' log-hut could boast,
was arranged with a degree of neatness which made a visitor
forget its lack of almost all the other requisites for comfort; and
one corner was ingeniously turned into a nice little room for the
sick girl, by the aid of a few rough boards eked out by snowwhite
curtains. I raised the light screen, and what bright vision
should meet my eyes, but the identical Fanny, for whom I had
looked in vain among the bobbing heads at the Huddle. She was

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

whispering kindly to Mary Anne, whose pale cheek had acquired
something like a flush, and her eyes a decided moisture, from the
sense of Fanny's cheering kindness.

Fanny explained very modestly: “I was so near Mary Anne,
and I didn't know when I should get time to come again—”

“Didn't you get wet, coming over?”

“Not so very: we—we had an umbrella.”

I remembered having lent one to Mark.

“But you are losing the ball, Fanny; you'll not get your
share of the dancing.” And at this moment I heard a new step
in the outer part of the room, and a very familiar voice just outside
the curtain:

“Come, Miss Russell, isn't it about time to be a-goin'? There's
another shower a-comin' up.”

Fanny started, blushed, and took leave. Common humanity
obliged us to give time for a retreat, before we followed; for we
well knew that our very precise Mr. Loring would not have been
brought face to face with us, just then, for the world. When we
did emerge, the sky was threatening enough, and as there was
evidently no room for us where we were, we had no resource but
to make a rapid transit to Mr. Noble's. We gained the noisy
shelter just in time. Such a shower!—and it proved much more
pertinacious than its predecessor; so that I had the pleasure of
sitting in “Miss Nobleses” kitchen for an hour or more. We
were most politely urged to join the festivities which were now
shaking the frail tenement almost to dislocation; but even if we
had been ball-goers, we should have been strikingly de trop, where
the company was composed exclusively of young folks. So we
chose the kitchen.

The empress of this torrid region, a tall and somewhat doleful
looking dame, was in all the agonies of preparation; and she
certainly was put to her utmost stretch of invention, to obtain
access to the fire-place, where some of the destined delicacies of
the evening were still in process of qualification, so dense was the
crowd of damp damsels, who were endeavouring in various ways
to repair the cruel ravages of the shower. One “jist wanted to
dry her shoes;” another was dodging after a hot iron, “jist to rub
off her hankercher;” while others were taking turns in pinching

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

with the great kitchen tongs the long locks which streamed,
Ophelia-like, around their anxious faces. Poor “Miss Nobles”
edged, and glided, and stopped, among her humid guests, with a
patience worthy of all praise; supplying this one with a pin, that
with a needle-and-thread, and the other with one of her own sidecombs;
though the last mentioned act of courtesy forced her to
tuck behind her ear one of the black tresses which usually lay
coiled upon her temple. In short, the whole affair was a sort of
prelibation of the Tournament, saving that my Queen of Beauty
and Love was more fortunate than the Lady Seymour, in that
her coiffure is decidedly improved by wet weather, which is more
than could probably be said of her ladyship's.

At length, but after a weary while, all was done that could be
done toward a general beautification; and those whose array
was utterly beyond remedy, scampered up stairs with the rest,
wisely resolving not to lose the fun, merely because they were
not fit to be seen.

The dancing now became “fast and furious,” and the spirit of
the hour so completely aroused that thirst for knowledge which is
slanderously charged upon my sex as a foible, that I hesitated not
to slip up stairs, and take advantage of one of the various knot-holes
in the oak boards which formed one side of the room, in order
that a glimpse of something like the realities of the thing might
aid an imagination which could never boast of being “all compact.”
It was but a glimpse, to be sure, for three candles can
do but little toward illuminating a long room, with dark brown
and very rough walls; but there was a tortuous country-dance,
one side quivering and fluttering in all the colours of the rainbow,
the other presenting more nearly the similitude of a funeral;
for our beaux, in addition to the solemn countenances which they
think proper to adopt on all occasions of festivity, have imbibed
the opinion that nothing but broad-cloth is sufficiently dignified
wear for a dance, be the season what it may. And there
were the four Miss Liggets, Miss Mehitable in white, Miss
Polly Ann in green, Miss Lucindy in pink, and Miss Olive all
over black-and-blue, saving the remains of the blonde-gauze
veil, which streamed after her like a meteor, as she galoped
“down the middle.” My own Jane was playing off her most

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

recherchées graces at the expense of the deputy sheriff, who
seemed for once caught, instead of catching; and to my great
surprise, Fanny Russell, evidently in the pouts, under cover of
my fan, was enacting the part of wall-flower, while Mark leaned
far out of the window, at the risk of taking an abrupt leave of
the company.

Peeping is tiresome. I was not sorry when the dance came to
an end, as even country-dances must; and when I had waited to
see the ladies arranged in a strip at one end of the room, and the
gentlemen in ditto at the other, and old Knapp the fiddler testing
the absorbent powers of a large red cotton handkerchief upon a
brow as thickly beaded as the fair neck of any one of the
nymphs around him, (and some of them had necklaces which
would have satisfied a belle among our neighbours, the Pottowatomies,)
I ran down stairs again, to prepare for our moonlight
flitting.

Mrs. Noble now renewed her entreaties that we would at least
stay for supper; and in the pride of her heart, and the energy
of her hospitality, she opened her oven-door, and holding a candle
that I might not fail to discern all its temptations, pointed out to
me two pigs, a large wild turkey, a mammoth rice-pudding, and
an endless array of pies of all sizes; and these she declared
were “not a beginning” of what was intended for the “refreshment”
of the company. A cup-board was next displayed, where,
among custards, cakes, and “saase,” or preserves, of different
kinds, figured great dishes of lettuce, “all ready, only jist to
pour the vinegar and molasses over it,” bowls of large pickled
cucumbers, and huge pyramids of dough-nuts. But we continued
inexorable, and were just taking our leave, when Fanny Russell,
her pretty eyes overflowing and her whole aspect evincing the
greatest vexation and discomposure, came running down stairs,
and begged we would let her go home with us.

“What can be the matter, Fanny!”

“Oh, nothing! nothing at all! But—I want to go home.”

It is never of much use advising young girls, when they have
made up their minds to be foolish; yet I did just call my little
favourite aside, and give her a friendly caution not to expose herself
to the charge of being rude or touchy. But this brought

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

only another shower of tears, and a promise that she would tell
me all about it; so we took her in and drove off.

I could not but reflect, as we went saunteringly home, enjoying
the splendour of the moonlight, and the delicious balminess
of that “stilly hour,” how much all balls are alike. Here had
been all the solicitude and sacrifice in the preparation of costume;
all the effort and expense in providing the refreshments; for
the champagne and ices, the oysters and the perigord pies, are no
more to the pampered citizens, than are the humbler cates we have
attempted to enumerate, to the plain and poor back-woodsman;
then here was the belle of the evening, in as pretty a paroxysm
of insulted dignity, as could have been displayed on the most
classically-chalked floor; and, to crown all, judging from past experience
in these regions, some of the “gentlemen” at least
would, like their more refined prototypes, vindicate their claims
to the title, by going home vociferously drunk. We certainly are
growing very elegant.

Fanny's explanation was deferred, at her own request, until
the following morning; and long before she made her promised
visit, Jane, who came home at day-light, and only allowed herself
a change of dress before she entered soberly upon her domestic
duties, had disclosed to me the mighty mystery. It had been the
opinion of every body, Jane herself included, (a little green-eyed,
I fancy,) that Fanny and Mark had gone off to Squire Porter's
and got married, under cover of the visit to poor Mary Anne.
This idea once started, the beaux and belles, not better bred than
some I have seen elsewhere, had not suffered the joke to drop, but
pushed their raillery so far, that Fanny had fairly given up and
run away, while Mark, however well pleased in his secret soul,
had thought it necessary to be very angry, and to throw out sundry
hints of “thrashing” some of the stouter part of the company.
The peace had not actually been broken, however; and
when I saw and talked with Fanny, the main difficulty seemed to
relate to the future course of conduct to be observed toward
Mark, who, as Fanny declared, with another sprinkling of tears,
had “never thought of saying such a word to her in his life!”

Women are excellent manœuverers generally, but we were
outdone here. All our dignified plans for acting “as if nothing

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

had happened,” were routed by a counter scheme of Mark himself,
who, before the week was out, not only said “such a word,”
but actually persuaded Fanny to think that the best of all ways
to disprove what had been said, was to go to Squire Porter's, and
make it true, which was accordingly accomplished, within the
fortnight.

“And what for no?” Mark Loring, with a very good-looking
face, and a person “as straight as a gun-barrel” (to borrow a
favourite comparison of his own,) has the wherewithál to make
a simple and industrious country maiden very comfortable. He
has long been earning, by the labour of his hands, far better pay
than is afforded to our district schoolmaster; and with the well-saved
surplus has purchased a small farm, which he and his
pretty wife are improving with all their might. No more balls
for my bright-haired neighbour, or her sober spouse! And if I
should tell my honest sentiments, I should say “so much the better!”
for in the hastening of the happy marriage of Mark and
Fanny, may be summed up all the good which I have yet observed
to result from the ball at Thram's Huddle, or any other in
our vicinity.

eaf241.n2

[2] It may be necessary to inform the civilized reader, that the use of buffalo
robes in July, is to serve the purpose of cushions, and not of wrappers.

p241-040 A FOREST FÊTE.

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

A less common and natural accompaniment of our national
holiday is a party of pleasure, or some device to pass the day in
quiet amusement, instead of the noisy demonstrations which seem
to serve as a safety-valve for the exuberance of animal spirits
so habitually repressed throughout the United States during the remainder
of the year. Gunpowder in unpractised hands is the
cause of so much evil, and its natural friend and ally, whiskey,
so inimical to peace and good order, that it is an object of no
small solicitude to the soberer classes in the new country to devise
some mode of celebrating “Independence” that shall not end in
bloodshed and mortal quarrels. A Sunday school celebration—
one on a large scale, that should bring children and parents, from
far and near, to hear addresses, sing songs, and enjoy a rustic feast
under a long bower of fresh branches, was tried one year; but
the opposition of the powder party was so bitter that very little
was gained in the way of peace, although perhaps some broken
bones and blistered faces were saved. Even on that occasion,
however, I recollect that a son of one of our neighbours, attempting
to blow off some scattered grains of coarse powder from near
the touch-hole of the one-pounder that was fired all day by the
opposition, suddenly found the whole of it—the powder, not the
gun—firmly imbedded in his face, just beneath the skin; and although
his mother picked out many grains with her needle, and
others made their own way out by suppuration, he will still carry to
his grave such a curiously tattooed physiognomy as will serve to
remind him of the glorious Fourth, let his lot be cast where it may.

Another device for the more refined enjoyment of the day was a
pic-nic party, such as is here sketched under the title of a Forest
Fête. This sketch is not to be received as history any more than

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

many others of a similar tone. Real occurrences are introduced,
but fancy and general recollections furnished the warp into which
such scraps of truth are woven—characteristic correctness being
the only aim.

If there be any feeling in the American bosom which may be
considered a substitute for that “loyalty” of which the renowned
Captain Hall so pathetically notices the lamentable lack, it is the
enthusiasm which is annually rekindled, even in the most utilitarian
and dollar-worshipping souls among us, by the return of “Independence
day.” The first sign of the dawning of this virtue is
discoverable in the penchant of our younglings for Chinese crackers,
and indeed gunpowder in any form, always evinced during
the last days of June and the opening ones of July; a season in
which he whose pockets will hold money, must be either more or
less than boy. And as “the child is father of the man,” the
passion for showing joy and gratitude through the medium of
gunpowder seems to increase and strengthen with every recurrence
of our national festival, till as much “villanous saltpetre”
is expended on a single celebration as would have sufficed our
revolutionary forefathers to win a pitched battle. The gentler
sex, partaking, by sympathy at least, in the excitement of the
time, yet exhibit their patriotism by less noisy demonstrations: by
immeasurable pink ribbons; by quadruple consumption of sugar
candy; by patient endurance of unmerciful spouting; by unwearied
running after the “trainers,” and shrill and pretty shrieking
at the popping; and sometimes, in primitive and unsophisticated
regions, by getting up parties of pleasure, with the aid of such
beaux as they can inveigle from amusements better suited to the
dignity of the sex, such as drinking, scrub-racing; firing salutes
from hollow logs, or blacksmiths' anvils; playing “fox-and-geese”
for sixpences; or shooting at a turkey tied to a post, at a
shilling the chance.

One particular Independence day not many years sinsyne is
memorable in our village annals. It was probably owing to the
fact that gunpowder was not very abundant, that some of the élite
of the settlement proposed a select pic-nic, to be held on the shore
of a beautiful, lonely sheet of water, which having nothing else
to do, reflects the flitting clouds at no great distance from our

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

clearing. A famous time it was, and a still more famous one it
would have been, but for an idea which sprang up among certain
of our rural exclusives, that it was ungenteel to appear pleased
with what delighted others. I say “sprang up,” because I feel
assured that our fashionables had never even read of the airs of
their thorough-bred prototypes; and from a retrospect of the
whole affair, I am convinced that the human mind has a natural
tendency toward exclusiveism. This effort at superior refinement,
with some slight mistakes and disappointments, clouded
somewhat the enjoyment of the occasion; but on the whole, the
affair went off at least as well as such preconcerted pleasures do
elsewhere. Mr. Towson and Mr. Turner, to be sure — But
let us begin at the beginning.

Nothing could have been more auspicious than our outset.
All the good stars seemed in conjunction for once, and their
kindly influence lent unwonted lustre to the eyes of the ladies
and the boots of the gentlemen. Every body felt confident that
every thing had been thought of; nobody could recollect any
body that was any body, who had not been included in the “very
select” circle of invitation. Plenty of “teams” had been engaged—
for who thinks of ploughing or haying on Independence
day?—all the whips were provided with red snappers, and cockades
and streamers of every hue decorated the tossing heads of
our gallant steeds. Indeed, to do them justice, the horses seemed
as much excited as any body. Provant in any quantity, from
roast-pig, (the peacock of all our feasts,) to custards, lemonade,
and green tea, had been duly packed and cared for. Music had
not been forgotten, for one of the party played the violin à merville,
to the extent of two country dances and half a quadrille,
while another beau was allowed to be a “splendid whistler,” and
a third, who had cut his ankle with a scythe, and could not
dance, had borrowed the little triangle from the hotel, which we
all agreed to look upon as a tambourine when it should mark the
time for the dancers, and a gong when employed in its more accustomed
office of calling the hungry to supper. So we were
unexceptionably provided for at all points.

The day was such as we often have during the warm months—
the most delicious that can be imagined. From the first

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

pearly streak of dawn, to the last fainting crimson of a Claude
sunset, no cloud was any where but where it should have been,
to enhance the intensity of a blue that was truly “Heaven's
own”—inimitable, unapproachable by any effort of human art.
A light crisping breeze ruffled the surface of the lake, whose
shaded borders furnished many a swelling sofa of verdant turf for
the loungers, as well as a wide and smooth area for the exertions
of the nimble-footed. Here we alighted; here were our shining
steeds tethered among the oak bushes to browse, to their very
great satisfaction; our flags were planted, and, to omit nothing
appropriate to the occasion, our salute was fired, with the aid of
what a young lady who went into becoming hysterics declared to
be a six-pounder, but which proved on inquiry to be only a horse-pistol;
our belle refusing to be convinced, however, on the ground
that she had heard a six-pounder go off at Detroit, and certainly
ought to know. “Quelle imagination!”—as a French gentleman
of our acquaintance used to exclaim admiringly, when his
children perpetrated the most elaborate and immeasurable fibs—
“quelle imagination!”

When this was over, Mr. Towson, a very tall and slender
young gentleman, who is considered (and I believe not without
reason,) a promising youth, proposed reading the Declaration of
Independence, and had drawn out his pocket-handkerchief for the
purpose, observing very appositely that if it had not been for that
declaration we should never have been keeping Independence on
the shores of Onion Lake, when he was voted down; every body
talking at once, to make it clear that a sail on the said lake ought
to precede the reading. Mr. Towson assented with the best grace
he could muster, to a decision that reduced him, for the present
at least, to a place in the ranks, and offering his arm to Miss
Weatherwax, an imaginative young lady, a belle from a rival
village, he attempted with a very gallant air to lead the way to
the larger of the two boats provided for our accommodation.
Now it so happened that this said large boat, having a red handkerchief
displayed aloft, had been by common consent styled
“the Commodore;” and these advantages being considered, it
may readily be inferred that each and every individual who
meant to “tempt the waves” had secretly resolved to secure a

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

seat in it. But as the unlucky beau urged his fair companion
forward, another, who had been deeply engaged with two of our
own belles in the discussion of a paper of sweeties, observing a
movement toward the beach, was on the alert in an instant, and
with a lady on each arm, made first way to the Commodore; all
scattering sugar-plums as they went, to serve as a clue to those
who might choose to follow in their wake. Not among these was
the spirited Mr. Towson. He declared that the other boat would
be far pleasanter, and Miss Weatherwax being quite of his opinion,
he led her to the best (i. e. the driest) seat in it, and procured
a large green branch, which he held over her by way of parasol,
or rather awning. The company in general now followed, taking
seats, since the ton was thus divided, in either boat, as choice
or convenience dictated. All seemed very well, though this was
in fact the beginning of an unfortunate split, which from that moment
divided our company into parties; the largest, viz., that
which took possession of “the Commodore,” claiming of course
to be the orthodox, or regular line, while the other was considered
only an upstart, or opposition concern. The latter, as usual,
monopolized the wit. They amused themselves by calling the
exclusives “squatters,” “prëemptioners,” &c., and reiterated
so frequently their self-congratulations upon having obtained seats
in the smaller craft, that it might be shrewdly guessed they wished
themselves any where else.

The sail was long and hot, especially to the excluded; for the
Commodore having made at once for a narrow part of the lake,
shaded by overhanging trees, and enjoying the advantage of a
breeze from the south, dignity required that the other boat should
take an opposite course. It accordingly meandered about under
the broiling sun, until the reflection from the water had baked the
ladies' faces into a near resemblance to that of the rising harvest
moon; these very ladies, with the heroic self-devotion of martyrs,
declaring they never had so pleasant a sail in their lives.

Meanwhile, those of us whom advanced years or soberer taste
disposed rather to tea and talk than to songs and sailing, were
busily engaged in arranging to the best advantage the variety of
good things provided for the refreshment of the company. This
proved by no means so easy a task as the uninitiated may

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suppose. Our party, which was originally to have been a small one,
had swelled by degrees to something like forty persons, by the
usual process of adding, for various good reasons, people who
were at first voted out. No agreement having been entered into
as to the classification of the articles to be furnished by each, it
proved, on unpacking the baskets, that there had been an inconvenient
unanimity of taste in the selection. At least one dozen
good housewives had thought it like enough every body would
forget butter; so that we had enough of a fluid article so called,
to have smoothed the lake in case of a tempest. Then we had
dozens and dozens of extra knives and forks, and scarce a single
spoon; acres of pie with very few plates to eat it from; tea-kettles
and tea-pots, but no cups and saucers. The young men with
a never-to-be-sufficiently-commended gallantry, had provided
good store of lemons, which do not grow in the oak-openings; but
alas! though sugar was reasonably abundant, we searched in
vain for any thing which would answer to hold our sherbet, and
all the baskets turned out afforded but six tumblers.

These and similar matters were still under discussion, and much
ingenuity had been evinced in the suggestion of substitutes, when
one of the boating parties announced its return by the discharge
of the same piece of ordnance which had frightened Miss Weatherwax
from her propriety, on our arrival. We now hastened our
preparation for the repast, and some of the gentlemen having procured
some deliciously cool water from a spring at a little distance,
and borrowed a large tin pail and sundry other conveniences
from a lady whose log-house showed picturesquely from the
depths of the wood, the lemonade was prepared, and all things declared
ready. But the other boat, the opposition line, as it was
denominated in somewhat pettish fun, still kept its distance.
Handkerchiefs were waved; the six-pounder horse-pistol went off
with our last charge of powder; but the “spunky” craft still continued
veering about, determined neither to see nor hear our signals.
It was now proposed that we should proceed without the
seceders, but to this desperate measure the more prudent part of the
company made strenuous objection. So we waited with grumbling
politeness till it suited the left branch of our troop to rejoin us,
which gave time to warm the lemonade and cool the tea. We

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

tried to look good-humoured or indifferent; but there were some
on whose unpliant brows frowns left their trace, though smiles
shone faint below. The late arrival laughed a good deal; quite
boisterously, we thought, and boasted what a charming time they
had.

“Had you any music?” asked Mr. Towson of Mr. Turner, the
hero of the Commodore's crew, with an air of friendly interest.

“No,” said the respondent, taken by surprise.

“Ah! there now! what a pity! I wish you had been near us,
that you might have had the benefit of ours! The ladies sang
`Bonnie Doon,' and every thing; and `I see them on their winding
way;' and — it went like ile, Sir.”

“ `Winding way!' you might have seen yourselves on your
winding way, if you'd been where we was!” said the rival beau,
with an air of deep scorn. “What made you go wheeling about
in the sun so?”

“Fishing, Sir—the ladies were a-fishing, Sir!”

“Fishing! Did you catch any thing?”

“No, Sir! we did not catch any thing! We did not wish to
catch any thing! We were fishing for amusement, Sir!”

“Oh!—ah! fishing for amusement, eh!”

But here the call to the banquet came just in time to stop the
fermentation before it reached the acetous stage, and brows and
pocket-kerchiefs were smoothed as we disposed ourselves in every
variety of Roman attitude, and some that Rome in all her glory
never knew, reclining round the long-drawn array of table-cloths
upon whose undulating surface our multitudinous refreshment
was deployed. Shawls, cloaks, and buffalo-robes formed our
couches—giant oaks our pillared roof. We had tin pails and
cups to match, instead of vases of marble and goblets of burning
gold. But nobody missed these imaginary advantages. Talk
flagged not, as it is apt to do amid scenes of cumbrous splendour,
and the merry laugh of the young and happy rang far through
the greenwood, unrestrained by the fear of reproof or ridicule. Exclusiveism
and all its concomitants were forgotten during tea-time.

When the repast was finished, the sun was far on his downward
way, and the esplanade which had been selected as the ball-room
was well shaded by a clump of trees on its western border.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

Thitherward all whose dancing days were not over, turned with
hasty steps, and Mr. Kittering's violin might be heard in various
squeaks and groans, giving token of the onset. But we listened
in vain for farther demonstrations. No “Morning Star”—no
“Mony-Musk”—no “Poule,” or “Trenise” delighted the attendant
echoes. Debate, warm and rapid, if not loud and angry,
seemed to leave no chance for sweeter sounds. The morning's
feud between Towson and Turner had broken out with fresh acrimony,
when places were to be claimed for the dance. Hard
things were said, and harder ones looked, on both sides; and in
conclusion, Mr. Towson again marched magnanimously off the
field, and contented himself with the sober glory of reading the
Declaration to a select audience; while the Commodore's crew,
victorious as before, through superior coolness, got up a dance,
and had the violin and triangle all to themselves.

The moon rose full and ruddy before we were packed in our
wagons to return. The tinkling of bells through the wood, the
ceaseless note of the whip-poor-will, the moaning of the evening
wind, the chill of a heavy dew, all fraught with associations of
repose, gradually quieted the livelier members of the party, and
put the duller or the more fatigued fairly asleep. Some of the
jokers remained untameable for awhile. The young ladies kept
up a little whispering and a great deal of giggling among themselves,
and the word “Commodore” was so frequently audible,
that one might have thought they were talking of the last war.
Mr. Turner drove so closely upon the vehicle in which Mr. Towson
occupied the back seat, as to bring his horses' heads unpleasantly
near the new hat of that gentleman.

“Hallo! Turner! your horses will be biting me next!” said
Mr. Towson, rather querulously.

“Don't be afraid; they don't like such lean meat.”

“I should think by their looks they'd be glad of any thing to
eat!” said Towson.

“Oh! you mus'n't judge them by yourself,” replied Turner,
coolly; “they get plenty to eat, every day.”

Even this sharp shooting subsided after a while, and before we
alighted, unbroken silence had settled upon the entire cortêge.
But the pic-nic afforded conversation for a month, and every body
agreed in thinking we had had a charming “Independence.”

p241-048 LOVE vs. ARISTOCRACY.

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

The great ones of the earth might learn many a lesson from
the little. What has a certain dignity on a comparatively large
scale, is so simply laughable when it is seen in miniature, (and,
unlike most other things, perhaps, its real features are better distinguished
in the small), that it must be wholesome to observe
how what we love appears in those whom we do not admire.
The monkey and the magpie are imitators; and when the one
makes a thousand superfluous bows and grimaces, and the other
hoards what can be of no possible use to him, we may, even in
those, see a far off reflex of certain things prevalent among ourselves.
Next in order come little children; and the boy will
put a napkin about his neck for a cravat, and the girl supply her
ideal of a veil by pinning a pocket handkerchief to her bonnet,
while we laugh at the self-deception, and fancy that we value
only realities. But what affords us most amusement, is the awkward
attempt of the rustic, to copy the airs and graces which have
caught his fancy as he saw them exhibited in town; or, still
more naturally, those which have been displayed on purpose to
dazzle him, during the stay of some “mould of fashion” in the
country. How exquisitely funny are his efforts and their failure!
How the true hugs himself in full belief that the gulf between
himself and the pseudo is impassable! Little dreams he that his
own ill-directed longings after the distingué in air or in position
seem to some more fortunate individual as far from being accomplished
as those of the rustic to himself, while both, perhaps, owe
more to the tailor and milliner than to any more dignified source.

The country imitates the town, most sadly; and it is really
melancholy, to one who loves his kind, to see how obstinately
people will throw away real comforts and advantages in the vain

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

chase of what does not belong to solitude and freedom. The restraints
necessary to city life are there compensated by many
advantages resulting from close contact with others; while in
the country those restraints are simply odious, curtailing the real
advantages of the position, yet entirely incapable of substituting
those which belong to the city.

Real refinement is as possible in the one case as in the other.
Would it were more heartily sought in both!

In the palmy days of alchemy, when the nature and powers
of occult and intangible agents were deemed worthy the study of
princes, the art of sealing hermetically was an essential one;
since many a precious elixir would necessarily become unmanageable
and useless if allowed to wander in the common air.
This art seems now to be among the lost, in spite of the anxious
efforts of cunning projectors; and at the present time a subtle
essence, more volatile than the elixir of life—more valuable than
the philosopher's stone—an invisible and imponderable but most
real agent, long bottled up for the enjoyment of a privileged few,
has burst its bounds and become part of our daily atmosphere.
Some mighty sages still contrive to retain within their own keeping
important portions of this treasure; but there are regions of
the earth where it is open to all, and, in the opinion of the exclusive,
sadly desecrated by having become an object of pursuit to
the vulgar. Where it is still under a degree of control, the seal
of Hermes is variously represented. In Russia, the supreme
will of the Autocrat regulates the distribution of the “airy
good:” in other parts of the Continent, ancient prescription has
still the power to keep it within its due reservoirs. In France,
its uses and advantages have been publicly denied and repudiated;
yet it is said that practically every body stands open-mouthed
where it is known to be floating in the air, hoping to inhale as
much as possible without the odium of seeming to grasp at what
has been decided to be worthless. In England we are told that
the precious fluid is still kept with great solicitude in a dingy receptacle
called Almack's, watched ever by certain priestesses,
who are self-consecrated to an attendance more onerous than that

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

required for maintaining the Vestal fire, and who yet receive neither
respect nor gratitude for their pains. Indeed, the fine spirit
has become so much diffused in England that it reminds us of the
riddle of Mother Goose—

If such efforts in England amuse us, what shall we say of the
agonized pursuit every where observable in our own country?
We have denounced the fascinating gas as poisonous—we have
staked our very existence upon excluding it from the land, yet it
is the breath of our nostrils—the soul of our being—the one
thing needful—for which we are willing to expend mind, body,
and estate. We exclaim against its operations in other lands,
but it is the purchaser decrying to others the treasure he would
appropriate to himself. We take much credit to ourselves for
having renounced what all the rest of the world were pursuing,
but our practice is like that of the toper who had forsworn drink,
yet afterward perceiving the contents of a brother sinner's bottle
to be spilt, could not forbear falling on his knees to drink the liquor
from the frozen hoof-prints in the road; or that other votary
of indulgence, who, having once had the courage to pass a
tavern, afterward turned back that he might “treat resolution.”
We have satisfied our consciences by theory; we feel no compunction
in making our practice just like that of the rest of the
world.

This is true of the country generally; but it is nowhere so
strikingly evident as in these remote regions which the noise of
the great world reaches but at the rebound—as it were in faint
echoes; and these very echoes changed from their original, as
Paddy asserts of those of the Lake of Killarney. It would
seem that our elixir vitæ—a strange anomaly—becomes stronger
by dilution. Its power of fascination, at least, increases as it recedes
from the fountain head. The Russian noble may refuse to
let his daughter smile upon a suitor whose breast is not covered
with orders; the German dignitary may insist on sixteen quarterings;
the well-born Englishman may sigh to be admitted into a
coterie not half as respectable or as elegant as the one to which

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

he belongs—all this is consistent enough; but we must laugh
when we see the managers of a city ball admit the daughters of
wholesale merchants, while they exclude the families of merchants
who sell at retail; and still more when we come to the
“new country” and observe that Mrs. Penniman, who takes in
sewing, utterly refuses to associate with her neighbour Mrs.
Clapp, because she goes out sewing by the day; and that our
friend Mr. Diggins, being raised a step in the world by the last
election, signs all his letters of friendship, “D. Diggins, Sheriff.”

There is Persis Allen, the best and the prettiest girl to be
found within a wide belt of forest, must be quite neglected by the
leaders of the ton among us, because she goes out to spin, in order
to help her “unlucky” father. Not that spinning is in itself considered
vulgar—far from it! Flocks are but newly introduced
among us, and all that relates to them is in high vogue; but going
out! there is the rub! Persis might have lounged about at
home, with her hair uncombed and her shoes down at heel, only
“helping” some neighbour occasionally for a short time to earn
a new dress,—without losing caste. But to engage herself as a
regular drudge, to spin day after day in old Mr. Hicks' great
upper chamber all alone, and never have time or finery to go to a
ball or a training—she must be a poor, mean-spirited creature,
not fit to associate with “genteel” people.

The father of Persis is a blacksmith, and an honest and worthy
man, but he is one of those who are described in the country as
having “such bad luck!” When he first came into the wilds, he
put a sum of money that constituted his all, in a handkerchief
about his head, and then swam over a deep and rapid river,
because he was too intent on pursuing his journey to await the
return of a boat which had just left the shore. He saved
his hour, but lost the price of his land; and so was obliged to
run in debt for a beginning. During the haying of his first western
summer he was too ardent in his endeavours to retrieve his
loss to allow himself a long rest at noon, as the other mowers
did; and the consequence was an attack of fever which put him
still further back in the world. Once more at work, and no less
determined than before, he employed his leisure time in assisting
the neighbours in the heavy and dangerous business of “logging;”

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

and once more “unlucky,” he attempted to stop by his single arm
a log which threatened to roll down a slope, and the next moment
he lay helpless with a dislocated shoulder and a hand so mashed
that it was long doubtful whether it would ever regain its
powers.

All through these disasters his faithful help-meet struggled on,
enfeebled by ague, and worn with nursing and watching and
pitying her husband. Early and late—out of doors and within—
she was at work, endeavouring to preserve a remnant from the
general wreck, aided and cheered by her eldest daughter, who,
like many children so situated, became prematurely thoughtful
and laborious, and seemed never to have known the careless joyousness
of childhood. At length Mrs. Allen took a heavy cold
in searching all the evening for her cow, through grass and bushes
dripping with dew, and she was seized with a rheumatism which
made a cripple of her, just as her husband was able to go to his
forge again. So our pretty Persis seemed, as I have said, born
the “predestined child of care,” but she held the blessed place of
comforter, and that consciousness can throw somewhat of an
angelic radiance over even the face of care. She looked neither
pale nor sad, though she was seldom smiling; and from the habit
of constant effort and solicitude at home, she seemed, when away
and among young people, as if she hardly knew what to do with
herself. But in old Mr. Hicks' spinning-room she was in her
element; the great unfurnished chamber is cool and shady, and
across its ample floor Persis has paced back and forth, at her light
labour, till she has acquired an elastic grace of motion which
dancing-masters often try in vain to teach. Indeed, I faney that
few of my fair readers know the real advantages of a thorough
acquaintance with the spinning-wheel; the expanded chest, the
well developed bust, the firm, springing step which belong to this
healthiest and most graceful of all in-door employments. And
let me whisper to some of my pretty, mincing, pit-a-pat friends,
that an easy and elastic step is no trifling point in the estimation
of those who know what real elegance is, independently of stupid
fashions. Many a young lady can manage the curve of the wrist
prescribed by the French prints, and let her shoulders fall so low
that one can hardly help trembling for the consequences, yet her

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

walk, after all, needs all the charitable shadow afforded by long
dresses. But we must not indulge in impertinent digressions.

Spinning differs from other feminine labours, inasmuch as its
profits are dependent on the superior skill or industry of the spinner.
Let a poor girl sew ever so steadily, she can earn but little
addition to her miserable per diem; but in spinning there is, by ancient
custom, a measure to the day's work; and a good hand may
by extra exertion accomplish this twice in a June day. So poor
Persis worked incessantly when she could be spared from home,
encouraged by the thought that all she could accomplish over and
above her “run and a half” was so much clear gain. A gain
in home comforts, sweet Persis! but a terrible loss elsewhere.

The loss of caste was, however, less an evil to the Allens,
because their home troubles had hitherto prevented their mingling
much with the people about them, and so, they had not yet fully
adopted the public sentiment. But they learned to know all about
it in time.

There is one white and green house in the village, and that,
where paint is still so rare, is by good right the Palazzo Pitti of
our bounds. It is shown to the passing traveller as a proof of the
civilization of the country, and elicits not a few remarks from the
farmers who pass it slowly in their huge wagons. It is worth
looking at, too, for even its outer decorations are a masterpiece
of taste. The siding is plain white to be sure; but the frames
of doors and windows, the cornices, the “corner-boards” and the
piazza railing are all bright green. The sashes are in black—
rather prison-like but vastly “genteel”—and the front door is in
an elaborate mahogany style, with more “curly-wurlies” than
usual. Within doors, a taste no less gorgeous is evident, for the
wood-work is all of the brightest blue—probably in imitation of
lapis-lazuli.

In this favoured and much-envied dwelling resides a lady who
is considered by the public in general, and herself in particular,
as the very cream of our aristocracy.

Mrs. Burnet is a fair and plump dame, whose age can only be
guessed by considering a grown-up son. Not a wrinkle mars
her smooth brow; not a gray hair mingles with the smooth brown
tresses that are laid so demurely on either temple. Her

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countenance wears a fixed smile, and her words are measured by the
strictest rule of propriety; and the tones which convey them to
the ear are of so silvery a softness that one can hardly think the
most yielding of all substances could melt between those correct
lips. (This paraphrase is the result of much laborious thought.)
But in the full brown eye above them there lurks—what shall we
call it?—to say the least, a latent power which is felt through all
those silvery tones, and in spite of all that winning softness. The
initiated are exceedingly careful how they rouse this sleeping
power; for in those singular tones—to convey which to the reader
would require music-paper and some skill at annotation—things
are sometimes said which other people might say passionately or
sharply, but which Mrs. Burnet knows how to make the more
bitter by sweetness.

This lady's household consisted usually of only two members
beside herself—a serving-maid with a flat white face and a threatening
beard—for Mrs. Burnet had an instinctive dislike of youth
and beauty—and a young man toward whom nature had been more
bounteous, but whom fortune had so neglected that he was fain to
“do chores” for his board at Mrs. Burnet's, while he picked a
very scanty education out of the village school. This poor youth,
Cyprian Amory, was the nephew of the great lady, but only the
gloom of her glory fell on him; for his mother had made an
imprudent marriage, and her orphan boy was a heavy burthen to
Mrs. Burnet's pride. She could not quite make an outcast of her
sister's son, but she revenged the mortification which his poverty
occasioned her, by rendering his situation as odious as possible;
taking care always to represent him as an object of charity,
although his services were such as would have earned ungrudged
bread any where else. Cyprian was of a mild and quiet temper,
and being unfitted by delicate health for the labour of farming,
he was intent on preparing himself for that poorest of all drudgery,
the teaching of a district school. So he bore all in a silence
which his aunt ascribed to stupidity, but which a few friends that
he loved, and whose love consoled him, considered the result of a
patience and resignation almost saintly.

Besides Cyprian and the flat-faced serving-maid, Mrs. Burnet's

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

family boasted yet one member more—her only son and heir, of
whom more, presently.

Mrs. Burnet's establishment was at no great distance from the
humble dwelling of William Allen; indeed the two gardens
joined at their farther extremity. And at that corner the wide
difference between the two was not so evident, for the fruit-trees
hid the splendid white and green mansion, while the roses and
lilies which adorned Mr. Allen's garden had evidently never
heard of our aristocracy, since they bloomed with a provoking
splendour which Mrs. Burnet's did not always exhibit. That
lady's general plan was so thrifty, that her grounds were largely
devoted to corn and potatoes; and she did not remember to pay
much attention to flowers, unless she longed for their decorative
powers on some great occasion.

Such an occasion had arrived; for George Burnet had just come
home after finishing what he called his “law studies;” studies
which we rather think were comprised in six months' “sharp
practice,” as clerk to a gentleman who had quitted the shoemaker's
bench for the law, on the supposition that the art of pettifogging
would prove a stepping-stone to a bench of more dignity.
This gentleman's neophyte, Mr. George Burnet, was such a youth
as the only son of a doting mother is apt to be—wilful, conceited
and very hard to please; in short, not voted particularly agreeable
for any qualities of his own, but much reverenced as the
heir-presumptive of the white and green house, and also on
account of his aristocratic pretensions—his father having once
been elected to the legislature. He was fully sensible of his
advantages, and not a little apt to boast of his expectations; was
good-natured when he was pleased, and very kind where he took
a fancy—in short, one of those people who intend well, or at
least intend no ill, but are never to be depended on for a day.

Mr. George Burnet came home in high spirits, determined to
enjoy to the uttermost the interval between the finish of his preparation
and the opening of sharp practice on his own account. He
was extravagantly fond of dancing, and his mother had always
promised him a grand party when he should have got through his
studies, on the express condition, however, that he was to return
immediately to business, and not stay to hunt and fish and

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serenade about the neighbourhood. George found it easy to promise,
and the party was now to come off.

The preparations for this great event had for some time been
foreshadowed in the active brain of Mrs. Burnet; and George's
“freedom suit” was duly bespoken, and two violins secured,
long before the arrival of the graduate. But, as the appointed
day drew nigh, who shall tell of the hopes and fears, the consultations
and the arguments, which were expended on and over the
list of favoured guests. Enough to say that it was almost the
ditto of those familiar to the town-bred getters-up of splendid hospitality,
(!) and that the principle of the whole thing was precisely
the same, though set forth and put in practice in homelier guise.
Who will do to invite? Who may be left out? Who will look
best? Whose presence will reflect most honour on the entertainers?
Whose enmity will be least formidable among those
who ought to be excluded on account of want of caste, or want of
savoir faire? George Burnet and his lady mother found it hard
to agree in their estimate of the guests; George insisting upon
all the pretty girls, and these, for the most part, portionless belles,
being the last to be selected by Mrs. Burnet.

“Mary Stevens,” said George.

“Poh! She goes out sewing!” said Mrs. Burnet.

“I don't care for that,” said the dutiful son, “she has rosy
cheeks, and I'll have her.”

“There's Mary Drinkwater, I shall ask, of course,” observed
Mrs. Burnet.

“Squint-eyed!” said George.

“No matter for that,” was the reply, “she's got a farm of her
own. I hope you'll be very civil to her.”

“Mother,” said George Burnet, “I wouldn't marry Polly
Drinkwater if there wasn't another girl in the world!”

“I haven't asked you to marry her; though, for that matter,
it is just as easy to love a rich girl as a poor one,” said Mrs.
Burnet. “But, George, it is high time for you to have done with
nonsense, and behave like a man. Mary Drinkwater is, after
all—”

“Hush! mother,” said George, politely laying his hand on his

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mamma's mouth; “no use talking—let's go on with the party.
There's Jane Lawton is a nice girl.”

“But her mother's a fright,” said Mrs. Burnet.

“Leave her out, then,” said George.

“No, no; if you ask Jane, we must have the old folks.”

“Lump 'em, then,” said George; “and who has Phebe Penniman
got tacked to her?”

“Nobody, thank fortune!” said his mother; “her old lame
grandmother can't go out; but Phebe 'll come in a shilling
calico.”

“I don't care what she comes in,” said the youth, “if she only
brings those pretty bright eyes of hers with her; and Phebe's a
good hearty girl, too; she can dance all night. But who was
that splendid looking girl that was with her this morning? By
George! I never saw such a step!”

“That was Persis Allen,” said Mrs. Burnet; “a new family
that moved in after you went away. But I will not have her, so
that's settled! She's as proud as a peacock, for all she goes out
to spin by the day at old Hicks's. I won't have her, though I
long for some of those lilies to dress the supper-table with. I
can't get the lilies without asking her, but I'd rather go without.”

“But she's a screamer of a girl,” persisted Master George;
“I'd rather have her than all the rest.”

“But you won't have her, though,” said Mrs. Burnet; and
George, seeing her so determined, let the matter drop, a sure sign
that he was determined, too.

But all his strategy was vain. No surprise, no coaxing, no
pouting, had the least effect upon Mrs. Burnet. The Allen family
had pertinaciously omitted all that courting which, we regret
to say, follows wealth and power even to the wilds; and they had,
moreover, found occasion, more than once, to resent certain impertinences
which Mrs. Burnet was in the habit of offering to her
poorer neighbours. So the lady was inexorable; and, strong in
her smooth bitterness, she carried her point. Persis was left out.

But, on the eve of the great day, when the preparations were
in great forwardness, those dazzling lilies were again mentioned;
and George, who was never much hampered by the restraints of
good breeding, declared he would get the lilies without inviting the

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damsel, and, on this glorious thought intent, he climbed the intervening
fence, by moonlight, and made directly for the spot rendered
lovely by the choicest flowers of our poor Persis. This was the
neighbourhood of a little arbour, over the rustic framework of
which a luxuriant wild-grape had been trained, to shade a soft
bank covered with abundant mosses. The overpowering perfume
of the lilies, called forth in double measure by the dew, guided
our adventurer directly to their place, even before they became
visible in the moonlight; and he was about to rifle the bed, when
his eye was caught by as white an object in the arbour. George's
conscience whispered that it was a “sperrit;” but, after the first
moment's start, he could not resist venturing a little nearer; and
there was Persis Allen, fast asleep on her mossy couch, her fair
forehead upward toward the sky, a book still open on her lap, and
a lily fallen at her feet, fit emblem of her own purity and beauty.

Mr. George Burnet stood entranced. He had seen no such
personification of beauty and romance in the whole course of his
law-studies. He ventured nearer,—nearer still—until he could
distinguish the lightest curl waved by the evening breeze, and
even the satin smoothness of the skin beneath. But while he
still gazed, the sleeping beauty stirred—opened her eyes—uttered
a slight exclamation, as if not quite sure that what she saw was
real—and our gallant youth darted off, as much frightened as if
the opening of those eyes had threatened literal instead of only
figurative death. The young girl did not scream, although she
ought, in propriety, to have done so. She had no presentiment
that she was to be made a heroine of; and, in truth, men of all
sorts are too plenty, and too unceremonious, at the West, to excite
much alarm. So, concluding that the intruder had been only
some neighbouring marauder in search of her father's fine raspberries,
she picked up her bonnet, and walked quietly into the
house.

Meanwhile, our scared swain had reached his own maternal
mansion; and, coming empty-handed, was closely questioned,
and not a little laughed at when he recounted the failure of his
adventure.

“But, hold on a little till I tell ye!” interposed Master George:
“If she hadn't been there I'd have got 'em easy enough; but the

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sight of such a white thing, you know, right in the moonlight,
made my heart beat so that I could hardly see. But, by George!
what a girl! Mother! I must and will have that girl at my
party, and so there's an end of it.”

“How can you be so vulgar, George?” replied his mother.

“Vulgar or not,” persisted he, “if she don't come, I don't!
I'll go and spend the evening with her, instead of those dowdies.”

“George,” said Mrs. Burnet, “you always were an obstinate
boy, but I was in hopes you had more sense now.”

“So I have,” said the dutiful youth, “and that's the reason I
want my own way. Come, mother, get your bonnet and shawl,
and let's go over and invite that pretty—what's her name? and
then we'll ask her for the flowers.”

And George at length carried his point, and dragged his mother
over to William Allen's.

“Persis, dear,” said Mrs. Burnet, in her most seducing and
mellifluent tones, as soon as the requisite salutations were over,
“will you come and spend the evening to-morrow? We shall
have a number of young people—”

“And fiddles,” interposed George, in way of parenthesis.

Persis murmured something in reply, but Mrs. Burnet proceeded
without waiting for an answer.

“And, if you can't come, you will at least give me a few of
your beautiful flowers to dress my supper-table. I must have
some of those lilies. You have so many that I am sure you can
spare me some.”

“Oh yes, certainly,” Persis said; “you shall have the lilies
in welcome.”

“But you'll come,” said George, whose eyes had devoured the
beautiful face with no measured stare all this time; “you'll
come, won't you?”

“I—I don't know—I'll ask mother,” said Persis.

“Well! I'll send for the flowers in the morning,” said Mrs.
Burnet, hurrying away quite unceremoniously.

George was very reluctant to be dragged off without a promise
from Persis, but he was obliged to be content with the advantage
he had gained. He felt that the tone of his mother's invitation
had not been what it should be, but he hoped his own urgency

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had supplied all deficiencies. An invitation to the Palazzo was
not likely to be contemned by any of the village damsels. We
must confess, it occasioned no little flutter in the innocent heart
of Persis; but she was, as we have said, prematurely sober and
self-restrained, and sought good advice before she ventured to decide
on a point so important. She did not even think “What
shall I wear?” perhaps the scantiness of her wardrobe saved her
the trouble. She only said to her parents, “Had I better go?”

They were naturally disposed to think Persis might safely follow
her own inclination in the matter; and the young girl had
as naturally been inclined to what all young people love. But
the next morning, when Persis went as usual to her spinning, she
mentioned the whole affair to old Mr. Hicks and his good sister;
the visit of the evening before, the hasty tone of the mother as
contrasted with the urgency of the son; and also, for we must
own that Persis, like many a simple country damsel, had a quick
perception of the ludicrous—the odd way Mrs. Burnet had of
coupling her request for the lilies so closely with the invitation for
the evening.

“Just like her!” said Aunt Hetty, “she's the coldest-heartedest
crittur that ever spoke.”

“She is a proud, unfeeling woman,” said old Mr. Hicks, “and,
if you'll take my advice, my dear, you'll keep clear of the Burnets
altogether. George is always crazy after some pretty face
or another, and it's no credit to a young girl like you to have his
acquaintance. If he or his mother should meet you in the street,
at B—, they wouldn't know you at all. Don't go, Persis.”

At this advice from the plain-spoken old man, Persis blushed
deeply, and the vision of the grand party, which had begun to
loom large in her imagination, faded away almost entirely. She
had so much respect for farmer Hicks, who was known as the
oldest settler and universally looked up to by the neighbours, that
she resolved at once to follow his advice, and decline the tempting
invitation. Besides, in a cooler view, an instinctive self-respect
whispered that Mrs. Burnet's manner was any thing but
what it should have been, and that the only urgency had been on
the part of the young man. So she told her good old friend that
she would not go to Mrs. Burnet's.

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The lilies went, however, and formed the crowning decoration
of the feast, dividing the public eye with the splendid “pediment”
of maccaroons which had been brought with great care and solicitude
from B—. The entire gentility of the neighbouring
village was collected. There was the lawyer's lady, and the
clergyman's lady, and the storekeeper's lady, all drest as primly
as possible, and looking as solemn as the occasion required.
Then, there was Mrs. Millbank, the tailor's lady, a very “genteel”
woman, and she wore an elegant black bombazine, with
pink satin bows on the shoulders, and a flounce half a yard deep.
Mrs. Perine, the harness-maker's lady, was in plain white, but
she wore a scarf of rainbow hues, and a most superb and towering
head-dress of black feathers and pale blue roses. Miss Adriance,
the school-ma'am, was invited, because she was “genteel”
and wore spectacles, though her calling was scarcely the thing
for a select party; and she honoured the occasion by appearing
in a green merino, and a mob-cap, full trimmed with yellow ribbons.
But it would require the accuracy of a court-circular to
describe the costume of every star that twinkled in Mrs. Burnet's
parlour on that distinguished evening. We can but observe that
the eyes were brighter than the candles, and the conversation
much less blue than the cerulean mantelpiece. The very beaux
were inspired, and, instead of sneaking into corners, or getting
behind the door, they came boldly forward, talked and laughed
among themselves, and looked sideways at the girls, with most
unwonted assurance.

George, arrayed in the “freedom suit”—solemn black, of
course, as became his profession—made the agreeable to his male
guests after the most approved style—shaking hands heartily, and
asking them to “take something to drink.” But the festivities
had reached no great height, when the youthful heir, scanning
closely the tittering circle, missed the bright mistress of the lilies,
and, finding or making an opportunity to speak to his mamma,
asked if “the Allen girl” had not come.

“No, my dear,” said the honey-voiced Mrs. Burnet, “I dare
say she couldn't get her frock washed in time, or she would have
been here.”

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