I love the aged matrons of our land. As a class, they
are the most pious, the most benevolent, the most useful,
and the most harmless of the human family. Their
life, is a life of good offices. At home, they are patterns
of industry, care, economy and hospitality; abroad, they
are ministers of comfort, peace and consolation. Where
affliction is, there are they, to mitigate its pangs; where
sorrow is, there are they to assuage its pains. Nor
night, nor day, nor summer's heat, nor winter's cold, nor
angry elements, can deter them from scenes of suffering
and distress. They are the first at the fevered couch,
and the last to leave it. They hold the first and last
cup to the parched lip. They bind the aching head,
close the dying eye, and linger in the death-stricken

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habitation, to pour the last drop of consolation into the
afflicted bosoms of the bereaved. I cannot, therefore,
ridicule them myself, nor bear to hear them ridiculed in
my presence. And yet, I am often amused at their conversations;
and have amused them with a rehearsal of
their own conversations, taken down by me when they
little dreamed that I was listening to them. Perhaps my
reverence for their character, conspiring with a native
propensity to extract amusement from all that passes
under my observation, has accustomed me to pay a uniformly
strict attention to all they say in my presence.

This much in extraordinary courtesy to those who
cannot distinguish between a simple narrative of an
amusing interview, and ridicule of the parties to it. Indeed
I do not know that the conversation which I am
about to record, will be considered amusing by any of
my readers. Certainly the amusement of the readers
of my own times, is not the leading object of it, or of any
of the “Georgia Scenes;” forlorn as may be the hope,
that their main object will ever be answered.

When I seated myself to the sheet now before me, my
intention was merely to detail a conversation between
three ladies, which I heard many years since; confining
myself to only so much of it, as sprung from the ladies'
own thoughts, unawaked by the suggestions of others;
but, as the manner of its introduction will perhaps interest
some of my readers, I will give it.

I was travelling with my old friend, Ned Brace, when
we stopped at the dusk of the evening at a house on the
road side, for the night. Here we found three nice, tidy,
aged matrons, the youngest of whom could not have
been under sixty; one of them of course was the lady of
the house, whose husband, old as he was, had gone from
home upon a land exploring expedition. She received
us hospitably, had our horses well attended to, and soon

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prepared for us a comfortable supper. While these
things were doing, Ned and I engaged the other two in
conversation; in the course of which, Ned deported
himself with becoming seriousness. The kind lady of
the house occasionally joined us, and became permanently
one of the party, from the time the first dish was
placed on the table. At the usual hour, we were summoned
to supper; and as soon as we were seated, Ned,
unsolicited, and most unexpectedly to me, said grace.—
I knew full well that this was a prelude to some trick, I
could not conjecture what. His explanation (except so
much as I discovered myself) was, that he knew that
one of us would be asked to say grace, and he thought
he might as well save the good ladies the trouble of
asking. The matter was, however, more fully explained
just before the moment of our retiring to bed arrived. To
this moment the conversation went round between the
good ladies and ourselves, with mutual interest to all.—
It was much enlivened by Ned, who was capable, as the
reader has been heretofore informed, of making himself
extremely agreeable in all company; and who, upon
this occasion, was upon his very best behaviour. It was
immediately after I had looked at my watch in token of
my disposition to retire for the night, that the conversation
turned upon marriages, happy and unhappy, strange,
unequal, runaways, &c. Ned rose in the midst of it,
and asked the landlady where we should sleep. She
pointed to an open shed-room adjoining the room in
which we were sitting, and separated from it by a log
partition, between the spaces of which might be seen all
that passed in the dining room; and so close to the fire-place
of this apartment, that a loud whisper might be
easily heard from one to the other.

“The strangest match,” said Ned, resuming the conversation
with a parson's gravity, “that ever I heard

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of, was that of George Scott and David Snow; two most
excellent men, who became so much attached to each
other that they actually got married”—

“The lackaday!” exclaimed one of the ladies.

“And was it really a fact?” enquired another.

“Oh yes, ma'am,” continued Ned, “I knew them very
well, and often went to their house; and no people could
have lived happier or managed better than they did.
And they raised a lovely parcel of children—as fine a
set as I ever saw, except their youngest son, Billy: he
was a little wild, but, upon the whole, a right clever boy
himself.—Come, friend Baldwin, we're setting up too
late for travellers.” So saying, Ned moved to the shed-room
and I followed him.

The ladies were left in silent amazement; and Ned,
suspecting, doubtless, that they were listening for a laugh
from our chamber, as we entered it, continued the subject
with unabated gravity, thus: “You knew those two
men, did'nt you?”

“Where did they live?” enquired I, not a little disposed
to humor him.

“Why, they lived down there, on Cedar Creek, close
by Jacob Denman's—Oh, I'll tell you who their daughter
Nancy married—She married John Clarke—you
knew him very well.”

“Oh yes,” said I, “I knew John Clarke very well.—
His wife was a most excellent woman.”

“Well, the boys were just as clever, for boys, as she
was, for a girl, except Bill; and I never heard any thing
very bad of him; unless it was his laughing in church;
that put me more out of conceit of him than any thing I
ever knew of him—Now, Baldwin, when I go to
bed, I go to bed to sleep, and not to talk; and, therefore,
from the time my head touches the pillow, there must be
no more talking. Besides, we must take an early start

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to-morrow, and I'm tired.” So saying, he hopped into
his bed; and I obeyed his injunctions.

Before I followed his example, I could not resist the
temptation of casting an eye through the cracks of the
partition to see the effect of Ned's wonderful story upon
the kind ladies. Mrs. Barney (it is time to give their
names) was setting in a thoughtful posture; her left hand
supporting her chin, and her knee supporting her left
elbow. Her countenance was that of one who suffers
from a slight tooth-ache. Mrs. Shad leaned forward,
resting her fore-arm on her knees, and looking into the
fire as if she saw groups of children playing in it. Mrs.
Reed, the landlady, who was the fattest of the three, was
thinking and laughing alternately at short intervals.
From my bed, it required but a slight change of position
to see any one of the group at pleasure.

I was no sooner composed on my pillow, than the old
ladies drew their chairs close together, and began the
following colloquy in a low undertone, which rose as it
progressed:

Mrs. Barney. Did'nt that man say them was two men
that got married to one another?

Mrs. Shad. It seemed to me so.

Mrs. Reed. Why to be sure he did.—I know he said
so; for he said what their names was.

Mrs. B. Well, in the name o' sense, what did the
man mean by saying they raised a fine pa'cel o' children?

Mrs. R. Why, bless your heart and soul, honey!
that's what I've been thinkin' about. It seems mighty
curious to me some how or other. I can't study it out,
no how.

Mrs. S. The man must be jokin', certainly.

Mrs. R. No, he was'nt jokin'; for I looked at him,
and he was just as much in yearnest as any body I ever

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seed; and besides, no Christian man would tell such a
story in that solemn way. And did'nt you hear that
other man say he knew their da'ter Nancy?

Mrs. S. But la' messy! Mis' Reed, it can't be so. It
doesn't stand to reason, don't you know it don't?

Mrs. R. Well, I would'nt think so; but it's hard for
me, some how, to dispute a Christian man's word.

Mrs. B. I've been thinking the thing all over in my
mind, and I reckon—now I don't say it is so, for I don't
know nothing at all about it—but I reckon that one o'
them men was a woman dress'd in men's clothes; for
I've often hearn o' women doin' them things, and following
their True-love to the wars, and bein' a watin'-boy
to 'em, and all sich.

Mrs. S. Well, may be it's some how in that way—
but la' me! 'twould o' been obliged to been found out;
don't you know it would? Only think how many children
she had. Now it stands to reason, that at some
time or other it must have been found out.

Mrs. R. Well, I'm an old woman any how, and I
reckon the good man won't mind what an old woman
says to him; so bless the Lord, if I live to see the morning,
I'll ask him about it.

I knew that Ned was surpassed by no man living in
extricating himself from difficulties; but how he was to
escape from this, with even tolerable credit to himself, I
could not devise.

The ladies here took leave of Ned's marvellous story,
drew themselves closely round the fire, lighted their
pipes, and proceeded as follows:

Mrs. B. Jist before me and my old man was married,
there was a gal name Nancy Mountcastle, (puff—puff,)
and she was a mighty likely gal—(puff) I know'd her
mighty well—she dressed herself up in men's clothes—
(puff, puff,) and followed Jemmy Darden from

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P'ankatank, in King and Queen—(puff) clean up to
Loudon.

Mrs. S. (puff, puff, puff, puff, puff.) And did he marry
her?

Mrs. B. (sighing deeply.) No: Jemmy did'nt marry
her—pity he had'nt, poor thing.

Mrs. R. Well, I know'd a gal on Tar river, done the
same thing—(puff, puff, puff.) She followed Moses
Rusher 'way down somewhere in the South State—(puff,
puff.)

Mrs. S. (puff, puff, puff, puff.) And what did he do?

Mrs. R. Ah—(puff, puff,) Lord bless your soul, honey,
I can't tell you what he did. Bad enough.

Mrs. B. Well, now it seems to me—I don't know
much about it—but it seems to me men don't like to
marry gals that take on that way. It looks like it puts
'em out o' concait of'em.

Mrs. S. I know'd one man that married a woman that
followed him from Car'lina to this State; but she did'nt
dress herself in men's clothes. You both know 'em.—
You know Simpson Trotty's sister and Rachæl's son,
Reuben. 'Twas him and his wife.

Mrs. R. and Mrs. B. Oh yes, I know 'em mighty well.

Mrs. S. Well, it was his wife—she followed him out
to this State.

Mrs. B. I know'd 'em all mighty well. Her da'ter
Lucy was the littlest teeny bit of a thing when it was born
I ever did see. But they tell me that when I was born—
now I don't know any thing about it myself—but the old
folks used to tell me, that when I was born, they put me
in a quart-mug, and mought o' covered me up in it.

Mrs. S. The lackaday!

Mrs. R. What ailment did Lucy die of, Mis' Barney?

Mrs. B. Why, first she took the ager and fever, and
took a 'bundance o' doctor'r means for that. And then

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she got a powerful bad cough, and it kept gittin' worse
and worse, till at last it turned into a consumption, and
she jist nat'ly wasted away, till she was nothing but skin
and bone, and she died; but, poor creater, she died
mighty happy; and I think in my heart, she made
the prettiest corpse, considerin', of any body I most
ever seed.

Mrs. R. and Mrs. S. Emph! (solemnly.)

Mrs. R. What did the doctors give her for the fever
and ager?

Mrs. B. Oh, they gin' her a 'bundance o' truck—I
don't know what all; and none of 'em holp her at all.
But at last she got over it, some how or other. If they'd
have just gin' her a sweat o' bitter yerbs, jist as the
spell was comin'on, it would have cured her right away.

Mrs. R. Well, I reckon sheep-saffron the onliest
thing in nater for the ager.

Mrs. B. I've always hearn it was wonderful in hives,
and measly ailments.

Mrs. R. Well, it's jist as good for an ager—it's a
powerful sweat. Mrs. Clarkson told me, that her cousin
Betsey's aunt Sally's Nancy was cured sound and well
by it, of a hard shakin' ager.

Mrs. S. Why you don't tell me so!

Mrs. R. Oh bess your heart, honey, it's every word
true; for she told me so with her own mouth.

Mrs. S. “A hard, hard shakin' ager!!”

Mrs. R. Oh yes, honey, it's the truth.

Mrs. S. Well, I'm told that if you'll wrap the inside
skin of an egg round your little finger, and go three days
reg'lar to a young persimmon, and tie a string round it,
and every day, tie three knots in it, and then not go agin
for three days, that the ager will leave you.

Mrs. B. I've often hearn o' that, but I don't know
about it. Some people don't believe in it.

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Mrs. S. Well, Davy Cooper's wife told me, she did'nt
believe in it; but she tried it, and it cured her sound
and well.

Mrs. R. I've hearn of many folks bein' cured in that
way. And what did they do for Lucy's cough, Mis'
Barney.

Mrs. B. Oh dear me, they gin' her a powerful chance
o' truck. I reckon, first and last, she took at least a pint
o' lodimy.

Mrs. S. and Mrs. R. The law!

Mrs. S. Why that ought to have killed her, if nothing
else. If they'd jist gin' her a little cumfry and
alecampane, stewed in honey, or sugar, or molasses, with
a little lump o' mutton suet or butter in it: it would have
cured her in two days sound and well.

Mrs. B. I've always counted cumfry and alecampane
the lead of all yerbs for colds.

Mrs. S. Horehound and sugar 's mazin good.

Mrs. B. Mighty good—mighty good.

Mrs. R. Powerful good. I take mightily to a sweat
of sage-tea, in desperate bad colds.

Mrs. S. And so do I, Mis' Reed. Indeed I have a
great leanin' to sweats of yerbs, in all ailments sich as
colds, and rheumaty pains, and pleurisies, and sich—
they're wonderful good. Old brother Smith came to
my house from Bethany meeting, in a mighty bad way,
with a cold, and cough, and his throat and nose all stopt
up; seemed like it would 'most take his breath away,
and it was dead o' winter, and I had nothin' but dried
yerbs, sich as camomile, sage, pennyryal, catmint, hore-hound,
and sich; so I put a hot rock to his feet, and
made him a large bowl o' catmint tea, and I reckon he
drank most two quarts of it through the night, and it put
him in a mighty fine sweat, and loosened all the phleem,
and opened all his head; and the next morning, says he

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to me, says he, sister Shad—you know he's a mighty
kind spoken man, and always was so 'fore he joined society;
and the old man likes a joke yet right well, the
old man does; but he's a mighty good man, and I think
he prays with greater libity, than most any one of his
age I most ever seed—Don't you think he does, Mis'
Reed?

Mrs. R. Powerful.

Mrs. B. Who did he marry?

Mrs. S. Why, he married—stop, I'll tell you directly—
Why, what does make my old head forget so?

Mrs. B. Well, it seems to me I don't remember like
I used to. Did'nt he marry a Ramsbottom?

Mrs. R. No. Stay, I'll tell you who he married presently—
Oh, stay! why I'll tell you who he married!—
He married old daddy Johny Hooer's da'ter, Mournin'.

Mrs. S. Why, la! messy on me, so he did!

Mrs. B. Why, did he marry a Hooer?

Mrs. S. Why, to be sure he did.—You knew Mournin'.

Mrs. B. Oh, mighty well; but I'd forgot that brother
Smith married her: I really thought he married a
Ramsbottom.

Mrs. R. Oh no, bless your soul, honey, he married
Mournin'.

Mrs. B. Well, the law me, I'm clear beat!

Mrs. S. Oh it's so, you may be sure it is.

Mrs. B. Emp, emph, emph, emph! And brother
Smith married Mournin' Hooer! Well, I'm clear put
out! Seems to me I'm gittin' mighty forgetful some how.

Mrs. S. Oh yes, he married Mournin', and I saw her
when she joined society.

Mrs. B. Why, you don't tell me so!

Mrs. S. Oh it's the truth. She did'nt join till after
she was married, and the church took on mightily about

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his marrying one out of society. But after she joined
they all got satisfied.

Mrs. R. Why, la! me, the seven stars is 'way over
here!

Mrs. B. Well, let's light our pipes, and take a short
smoke, and go to bed. How did you come on raisin'
chickens this year, Mis' Shad?

Mrs. S. La messy, honey! I have had mighty bad
luck. I had the prettiest pa'sel you most ever seed till
the varment took to killin' 'em.

Mrs. R. and Mrs. B. The varment!!

Mrs. S. Oh dear, yes. The hawk catched a powerful
sight of them; and then the varment took to 'em, and
nat'ly took 'em fore and aft, bodily, till they left most
none at all hardly. Sucky counted 'em up t'other day,
and there war'nt but thirty-nine, she said, countin' in the
old speckle hen's chickens that jist come off of her nest.

Mrs. R. and Mrs. B. Humph-h-h-h-!

Mrs. R. Well, I've had bad luck too. Billy's hound-dogs
broke up most all my nests.

Mrs. B. Well, so they did me, Mis' Reed. I always
did despise a hound-dog upon the face of yea'th.

Mrs. R. Oh, they're the bawllinest, squallinest, thievishest
things ever was about one; but Billy will have
'em, and I think in my soul his old Troup's the beat of
all creaters I ever seed in all my born days a suckin' o'
hen's eggs—He's clean most broke me up entirely.

Mrs. S. The lackaday!

Mrs. R. And them that was hatched out, some took
to takin' the gaps, and some the pip, and one ailment or
other, till they most all died.

Mrs. S. Well I reckon there must be somethin' in
the season this year, that an't good for fowls; for Larkin
Goodman's brother Jimme's wife's aunt Penny, told me,
she lost most all her fowls with different sorts of ailments,

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the like of which she never seed before—They'd jist go
'long lookin, right well, and tilt right over backwards,
(Mrs. B. The law!) and die right away, (Mrs. R. Did
ever!) with a sort o' somethin' like the blind staggers.

Mrs. B. and Mrs. R. Messy on me!

Mrs. B. I reckon they must have cat somethin' did'nt
agree with them.

Mrs. S. No they did'nt, for she fed 'em every mornin'
with her own hand.

Mrs. B. Well, it's mighty curious!

A short pause ensued, which was broken by Mrs.
Barney, with—“And brother Smith married Mournin'
Hooer!” It came like an opiate upon my senses, and I
dropt asleep.

The next morning, when we rose from our beds, we
found the good ladies sitting round the fire just as I left
them, for they rose long before us.

Mrs. Barney was just in the act of ejaculating, “And
brother Smith married Mournin”'—when she was interrupted
by our entry into the dining room. We were
hardly seated, before Mrs. Reed began to verify her
promise. “Mr.—,” said she to Ned, “did'nt you
say last night, that them was two men that got married
to one another?”

“Yes madam,” said Ned.

“And did'nt you say they raised a fine pa'cel of children?”

“Yes madam, except Billy.—I said, you know, that
he was a little wild.”

“Well, yes; I know you said Billy was'nt as clever
as the rest of them. But we old women were talking
about it last night after you went out, and none of us
could make it out, how they could have children; and
I said, I reckoned you would'nt mind an old woman's
chat; and, therefore, that I would ask you how it could

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be? I suppose you won't mind telling an old woman
how it was.”

“Certainly not, madam. They were both widowers
before they fell in love with each other and got married.”

“The lack-a-day! I wonder none of us thought o'
that. And they had children before they got married?”

“Yes madam; they had none afterwards that I
heard of.”

We were here informed that our horses were in waiting,
and we bad the good ladies farewell.

BALDWIN.