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Our intention is not to detail the particulars of
that struggle which, in these rugged regions of
nature's empire, ever takes place between the patient
industry of man and her wild luxuriance;
nor to trace the progress of a new settlement, from
the first wound given to the primeval forest, to the
golden harvest-field; from the rude log-cabin, to
the stately double house, and all its ambitious accompaniments;
which change, in the figurative
style of the west, is yclept “throwing off the moccasins.”
Suffice it to say, that the traveller who
some ten years after the sound of the first axe was
heard in these woods chanced to visit it, would
have been charmed with the little settlement of
Colonel Dangerfield, its rural beauties, and its air
of rustic opulence. The smoke rising above the
tall trees, the barking of dogs, the crowing of
cocks, the tinkling of bells, the strokes of the
woodman's axe, the crash of the falling tree, and

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the long echoes of the hunter's gun would announce
to him that he was coming to the abodes
of civilized men. He would behold a village rising
in the midst of crystal springs, bursting from
the sides of little knolls, or from under hoary
rocks; fields of grain springing up with a luxuriance
that returned to the labourer a hundredfold,
enclosed by log fences, and bristling with girdled
trees towering to the skies. Orchards loaded with
fruits, gradens full of vegetables and flowers, would
next greet him on the spot which a few years before
was the abode of the buffalo and wild deer,
the hunting-ground of the Indian; and he might
say to himself, “What are all the temporary privations
and sufferings of a few short years in the
wilderness, ending in rural happiness like this,
compared to debts and poverty, degradation and
dependence? The enterprising emigrant who
comes hither with a few hundred dollars, or perhaps
with nothing but a strong arm and a strong
heart, soon gains independence for himself and
his children. In the crowded haunts of men his
genius has no room to exert itself; he is elbowed
aside by those who are on the march
before him, or who have already gained possession
of advantages of which he cannot partake. But
here he has elbow-room, and here it is that spirit
and enterprise find their appropriate world.”

Such, or something like them, were in reality
the reflections of a traveller who, one fine spring
afternoon, when the twilight was lending its mellow
lustre to the smiling landscape, rode into the
town of Dangerfieldville, a formidable name assuredly;
but the colonel had followed the fashion
of the west, where, if a man has a name as long
as that of Aldibirontiphoskiphornio, it goes hard

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but he will tack a ville to its tail when he lays
the foundation of a city which is to become the
great mart of the western world. The young
man bestrode a blooded horse, which is indispensable
in Kentucky to the character of a gentleman,
and which horse carried a portmanteau seemingly
well filled with “plunder,” on which was strapped
a brown camlet cloak with a purple velvet cape,—
we like to be particular in these matters, in imitation
of our betters,—and which brown camlet
cloak with a purple velvet cape was surmounted
by a blue, or perhaps it might have been a green,
silk umbrella, on which was written in black ink
the name of Dudley Rainsford, which we will venture
to suggest might peradventure have been
that of the traveller himself. He wore a gray
frock, with covered buttons, and buttoned with a
single button, the fourth from the bottom; a singlebreasted
vest of buff Marseilles, with two pockets,
probably to carry his money in; a pair of white
drilling pantaloons, with a spot of ink on the left
leg, a little below the knee; and a pair of boots,
the toes of which were as wide as a broad-horn,
and which, to the best of our knowledge and belief,
were right and left.

His horse, which seemed almost worn out with
the day's journey, was an iron-gray, about fifteen
hands high, with a star of five points in his forehead,
three black feet, and one white one, which,
if we mistake not, make four. He had two ears,
one on the right, the other on the left side of his
head; a pair of nostrils, one close by the other,
and looking for all the world like twins; a white
mane hanging on the right side of his neck; and
two eyes, which looked exactly as if he could see
out of them. Just below his right ear was a spot

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of hair rather inclining to white, which might or
might not be occasioned by some unaccountable
cause; and, from his slavering a little at the
mouth, it might be predicated of him that he had
been eating too heartily of red clover. He was
guided by a snaffle-bridle with a plated bit, neither
very new nor very old; and his saddle was
wrought of the skin of a pig. We hope the reader
will not be out of patience with this particular
inventory of goods, chattels, accoutrements, &c.
&c. &c. This traveller is destined to be the hero
of our tale; and he must be but an illiterate person
who doth not know the fashion of the times
requires that a hero should be delineated with the
same minute particularity with which we describe
a stolen horse, an absconding swindler, or a runaway
negro in an advertisement.

Mr. Rainsford was slowly passing a large mansion,
with a piazza from one end to the other, and
bearing marks of opulence as well as taste, when he
was accosted by a voice as follows, in a tone of
good-humoured banter,—

“Hullo! I say, stranger, did you ever happen
to see a snail in your travels?”

“I rather suspect I have,” replied the stranger,
stopping his tired horse; “what then?”

“Why, then, I reckon you must have met him;
for you never could have overtook him at that
rate, any how.”

The stranger again pricked his horse into a
walk, when the man of the long piazza called
out,—

“Hullo! stranger, you're barking up the wrong
tree; what business have you to pass this house?”

“What's that to you?” replied Mr. Rainsford,
rather in a huff at being so unceremoniously

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interrogated, and presuming this was some importunate
innkeeper who wanted his custom.

“I'll tell you directly, stranger; but, first and
foremost, let me ask if you ant rather fresh in
these parts; for I can see with half an eye you
don't understand trap.”

“Trap! I won't be trapped by you, I promise
you.”

“You won't, eh?—we'll see that directly, I
reckon. Colonel,” said he, calling to some one
within, “colonel, I believe here's an unaccountable
sort of character, for he seems afraid to
stop at a gentleman's house when invited in a civil
way. Come out, and put the grace of our Lord
upon him, for you know you're a justice of peace.”

This address was followed by the appearance
of a gentleman rather beyond the middle age,
whom we shall not describe, because we hope the
reader will recognise him at the first glance as his
old acquaintance, Colonel Dangerfield. He accosted
the traveller politely, and apologized for the
detention of his friend Bushfield.

“I believe you don't know the custom of this
village,—I may say of the whole country. No
traveller passes this or any other house without
stopping, unless he can give a good and sufficient
reason for such a gross piece of neglect.”

“I wish to find an inn, sir; can you direct me
to one?”

“Whew!” cried Bushfield; “an inn!—why,
every house is an inn here, except that the landlord
don't charge any thing to his customers. I
say, stranger, where did you come from, that you
expect to find taverns here in Old Kentuck?”

“You will alight, and spend the night here, sir,
if you please,” said Colonel Dangerfield; “I shall

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be proud to receive you, and you will find no
public-house within a hundred miles of this in the
direction you are going.”

“My good sir, I cannot think of imposing on
your hospitality. I was recommended here as to
a place where I could purchase a good tract of
land at a reasonable price; for I design to settle
in this country if I can be suited, and was looking
out for an inn when this gentleman accosted me.”

“Another new settler!” grumbled Bushfield;
“the country will soon be as full of people as a
prairie is of wolves; there'll be no such thing as
turning round in it without hitting some feller's
elbow. I must cut dirt soon for some place where
there's more room.”

The colonel repeated his invitation with such a
frank cordiality, that the stranger at length, on
being satisfied that there was no place of public
entertainment in the village, accepted it, and,
alighting from his horse, was ushered into a large
room plainly yet comfortably furnished, and occupied
by several persons of both sexes.

“A stranger,” said Colonel Dangerfield.

“My name is Rainsford.”

“O, never mind, sir; the name of stranger is
enough for us.”

“Why, where was this genius raised?” said
Bushfield to himself; “a wild turkey would know
better. Whenever a man goes to tell me his
name when he enters my house, I calculate he
thinks I suspect him of being a horse-stealer.”

The company rose when the stranger was introduced,
and the colonel presented him to his
wife, who was still a comely and genteel matron,
for the feeling of good breeding is independent of
the mere forms of fashion; to his son Leonard,

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now a tall, straight, noble-looking youth; and to
his daughter Virginia, now grown to the full size
of graceful womanhood; not forgetting also Mr.
Ulysses Littlejohn, who on the entrance of Rainsford
had risen from three chairs, on one of which
he sat, on another reclined his arm, and on the
third supported his left leg, after the fashion of
Old Virginia, the mother of presidents, and the
parent of a mighty state.

“And so,” said Colonel Dangerfield, after a few
preliminary compliments, “you are looking for a
settlement somewhere in this part of the country?”

“I came with an intention of residing in it, certainly;
but I fear I am not qualified for a farmer.”

“Can you cut down a tree as big round as all
out doors in less time than you can look at it?”
asked Bushfield.

“I fear not,” said the other, smiling; “I never
attempted to handle an axe but once that I recollect,
and then I almost cut off my toe.”

“Ah! you won't do here, unless maybe you
can trail a deer, and shoot a bear in a cane-brake
so thick that a mustard-seed shot couldn't find the
way through it without grazing the bark.”

“I can do neither of these things; but perhaps
I can learn.”

“Learn! you are too old for that, stranger. A
man must begin with the eggshell on him, as the
partridges learn to run, and get up before daylight
many a year in and year out, before he can
get to be worth much—I mean in the way of living
in these parts.”

“I have not been accustomed to such enterprises,
nor can I perform such feats,” said the
young traveller.

“Then what in the name of old Daniel Boone

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brought you here, stranger?” said Bushfield,
bluntly.

“I scarcely know myself,” said the stranger;
and Virginia, who happened to be looking at him
at the moment, saw a cloud pass over his face, and
detected a long-drawn sigh.

Tea was now brought in as a treat to the
stranger, and the conversation took another turn.

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