University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

When first morning began to redden over the eastern stars,
our household was astir; and, while we partook of an early
breakfast, the light wagon, which was drawn by two smart
young bays, was brought to the door. Baskets, jugs, &c., were
imbedded among the straw—with which our carriage was
plentifully supplied—and a chair was placed behind the one
seat for my accommodation, as Mrs. Wetherbe was to be a
passenger. I have always regarded the occupancy of that
chair upon that occasion, as a virtue of self-sacrifice, which I
should not like to repeat, however beautiful in theory be the
doctrines of self-abnegation. But, dear reader, I cannot hope
that you will appreciate that little benevolence of mine, from
the probable fact that you have never ridden eight or less
miles in an open wagon, and on a chair slipping from side to
side, and jolting up and down behind two coltish trotters; and
over roads that, for a part of the time, kept “one wheel in the
gutter and one in the air.”

But it was not my intention to make myself a very prominent
character in this story, and therefore I must leave to be
imagined the ups and downs of this particular epoch of my
lite. Still one star stood large and white above the eastern
hills, but the ground of crimson began to be dashed with gold
when we set forward for the city.

Notwithstanding the “rough, uneven ways which drew out
the miles and made them wearisome,” these goings to the city
are among the most delightful recollections of my life. They
were to my young vision “fresh fields and pastures new;” and
after a passage of a few years with their experiences, the new
sensations, that freshen and widen the atmosphere of thought,
are very few, and precious exceedingly.

Distinctly fixed in my mind is every house; its color, size,
and the shrubberies and trees with which it was surrounded,
and by which the roadsides, between our homestead and that
“dim speck” we called the city, was embellished; and nothing
in the world would probably seem to me so fine now, as did
the white walls, and smooth lawns, and round-headed gateposts,
which then astonished my unpractised eyes.

Early as we were, we found Mrs. Wetherbe in waiting at
the gate; and long before reaching the place of her residence,
the fluttering of her scarlet merino shawl, which looked like
the rising of another morning, apprised us of the fact.

She had been nigh about an hour watching for us, she said,
and was just about going into the house to “take off her
things” when she saw the heads of the horses before a great
cloud of dust; and though she couldn't see the color of the wagon,
nor a sign of the critters, to tell whether they were black or
white, she knew right-a-way that it was our team, she said, for
no body druv such fine horses as Mr. —. “Here, Mrs.
Witherbe, get right in,” said my father: who was fond of
horses, and felt the compliment as much as though it had been
to himself; and it was entirely owing to it that he said Mrs.
Witherbe instead of Mrs. Wetherbe, though I am not sufficiently
a metaphysician to explain why such cause should
have produced such an effect.

Helphenstein, who was chopping wood at the door, called out,

as we were leaving, “Don't forget to ask Jenny to come to the
quilting:” and Mr. Wetherbe paused from his churning, beneath
a cherry-tree, to say, “Good-by, mother: be careful, and
not lose any money, for its a divelish hard thing to slip into a
puss, and its a divelish easy thing to slip out.”

The good lady held up her purse—which was a little linen
bag tied at one end with a tow string, and pretty well distended
at the other—to assure the frugal husband that she had not lost
it in climbing into the wagon; and having deposited it for safe
keeping where old ladies sometimes stow away thread, thimble,
beeswax, and the like, she proceeded to give us particular
accounts of all moneys, lost or found, of which she ever knew
any thing, and at last concluded by saying that she had sometimes
thought her old man a leettle more keerful than there
was any need of; but after all she didn't know as he was: just
the conclusion which any other loving and true-hearted wife
would have arrived at in reference to any idiocrasy pertaining
to her old man, no matter what might, could, would, or should
be urged on the contrary.

One little circumstance of recent occurrence operated greatly
in favor of the keerfulness of Mr. Wetherbe, in the mind of
the very excellent and prudent Mrs. Wetherbe. Helph had
lately, in a most mysterious and unaccountable manner, lost
out of his trowsers' pocket two shillings.

“It was the strangest thing that ever could have happened,”
said Mrs. Wetherbe. “He was coming home from town—
Helph was—and he said when he paid toll, he said he just had
two shillings left, he said; and he put it in the left pocket of
his trowsers, he said: he said he knew he had it then, for just
as he rode up the bank of the creek, his horse stumbled, and he
heard the money jingle, he said, just as plain as could be, he
said; and when he got home, and went up stairs, and went to

hang up his trowsers before he went to go to bed, he just
thought he would feel in his pocket, he said, and behold, the
money was not there! He said then, he said, he said he
thought he might have been mistaken, he said; and so he felt
in the other pocket, he said, and lo, and behold, it was clean
gone! And such things make a body feel as if they could not
be too keerful,” concluded Mrs. Wetherbe; “for that you
might as well look for a needle in a haystack, as for a dollar
once lost. Helph,” she added, “rode back the next morning
as far as the toll-house, and though he kept his eyes bent on
the ground, the search was useless.” And the good lady suddenly
started, and clapped her hand, not in her pocket, but
where she had deposited her own purse, exclaiming, as she did
so, “Mercy on us! I thought at first it was gone; and I
declare for it, I am just as weak as a cat now, and I shall not
get over my fright this whole and blessed day.”

“You are a very nervous person,” said my father—which
was equivalent to saying, you are a foolish woman—for he had
little patience with much-ado-about-nothing; and, venting his
irritation by a sudden use of the whip, the horses started forward,
and threw me quite out of my chair; but the straw received
me, and I gained my former position, while the hands of
Mrs. Wetherbe were yet in the air in consternation.

This feat of mine, and the laughter which accompanied it,
brought back more than the first good-humor of my father,
and he reined in the horses, saying, “They get over the ground
pretty smartly, don't they, Mrs. Wetherbe?”

“Gracious sakes,” she replied, “how they do whiz past
things; it appears like they fairly fly.” The conversation then
turned on the march of improvement; for we had come to the
turnpike, and the rattling of the wheels, and the sharp striking
of the hoofs on the stones, were reminders of the higher civilization

to which we were attaining, as well as serious impediments
to the colloquial enjoyment.

“A number of buildings have gone up since you were here,”
said my father, addressing the old lady.

“What has gone up where?” she replied, bending her ear
towards him. But failing to note that she did not reply correctly,
he continued: “That is the old place that Squire Gates
used to own; it don't look much as it used to, does it?”

“Yes, la me, what a nice place it is,” she replied. “Somewhere
near old Squire Gates's, isn't it?”

“Yes, he was an old man,” said my father, “when he owned
that place; and near sixty when he married his last wife, Polly
Weaver, that was.”

“Dear me, neighbor,” said Mrs. Wetherbe, “how we get old
and pass away! but I never heard of the old man's death.
What kind of fever did you say he died with?”

“He is dead, then, is he?” replied my father. “Well, I believe
he was a pretty good sort of man. I have nothing laid
up against him. Do you know whether he made a will?”

“Who did he leave it to?” inquired the lady, still misapprehending.
“Jeems, I believe, was his favorite, though I always
thought Danel the best of the two.”

“Well, I am glad Jeems has fared the best,” replied my
father; “he was the likeliest son the old man had.”

“Yes,” said the old lady, vaguely, for she had not heard a
word this time.

“What did you say?” asked my father, who liked to have
his remarks replied to in some sort.

The old lady looked puzzled, and said she didn't say any
thing; and after a moment my father resumed: “Well, do you
know where the old man died?” and in a tone that seemed to
indicate that she didn't know much of any thing.

“What?” asked the lady; and she continued in a tone of
irritation: “I never saw a wagon make such a terrible rattletebang
in my born days.”

“I asked you if you knew where he died?” said my father,
speaking very loud.

“Oh no, we did hear once that he had separated from his
wife, and gone back to the old place: folks said she wasn't
any better than she should be; I don't pretend to know; and
I don't know whether he died there, or where he died. In
fact, I don't go about much to hear any thing; and I didn't
know he was dead till you told me.”

“Who told you?” asked my father, looking as though she
would not repeat the assertion the second time.

“I said I didn't know it till you told me,” she answered, innocently;
“and I was just about to ask you where he died.”

“The devil!” said my father, losing not only all gallantry,
but all patience too; “I never told you no such thing, Mrs.
Wetherbe. I have not seen you to talk with you any for a
number of years till this morning, when you told me yourself
that the old man was dead; and if I had ever told such a story
I should remember it.”

“Why,” replied the old lady, “you will surely remember
when you think of it. It was just after we passed Squire
Gates's house; and the fever he died with you mentioned
too.”

“Good heavens!” said my father, “it was just there you
told me; and I had not heard till that minute of his death. I
will leave it to my daughter here,” he continued, turning to
me, who, convulsed with laughter, was shaking and jolting
from side to side, and backward and forward, and up and
down, all at the same time.

Just at this juncture, a smart little chaise, drawn by a high

headed black horse, with a short tail, approached from the
opposite direction. Within sat a white-haired old gentleman,
wearing gloves and ruffles; and beside him, a youngish and
rather gayly-dressed lady.

Both looked smiling and happy; and as they passed, the gentleman
bowed low to Mrs. Wetherbe and my father.

“That is Squire Gates and his wife now!” exclaimed both
at once; and they continued: “It's strange how you happened
to tell me he was dead.”

“Both are right, and both are wrong,” said I. Whereupon
I explained their mutual misunderstanding, and the slight irritable
feelings in which both had indulged subsided, and ended
in hearty good-humor.

The slant rays of the sun began to struggle through the
black smoke that blew against our faces—for the candle and
soap factories of the suburbs began to thicken—and the bleating
of lambs and calves from the long, low slaughter-nouses
that ran up the hollows opposite the factories, made the head
sick and the heart ache as we entered city limits.

Fat, red-faced butchers, carrying long whips, and reining in
the gay horses they bestrode, met us, one after another, driving
back from the market great droves of cattle, that, tired and
half maddened, galloped hither and thither, slashing their tails
furiously, and now and then sharply striking their horns against
each other, till they were forced through narrow passages into
the hot, close pens. No sniff of fresh air, no cool draught of
water between them and their doom!

Now and then a little market-cart, filled with the empty
boxes and barrels that had lately been overflowing with onions,
turnips, and radishes, went briskly by us: the two occupants,
who sat on a board across the front of the wagon, having thus
early disposed of their cargo, and being now returning home

to their gardens. Very happy they looked, with the market
money in the pockets of their white aprons, which not unfrequently
held also a calf's head or beef's liver, a half-dozen pig's
feet, or some other like delicacy, to be served up with garlics
for dinner.

Countrymen, who had rode into market on horseback, were
already returning home. The market-basket, which had so
lately been filled with the yellow rolls of butter, and covered
with the green broad leaves of the plantain, was filled now
instead with tea and sugar, perhaps some rice and raisins, and
possibly a new calico gown for the wife and baby at home.
What a pleasant surprise when he shall get home, and the
contents of the basket be made known!

After all, the independent yeoman, with his simple rusticity
and healthful habits, is the happiest man in the world. And as
I saw them then returning home, with happy faces and full
baskets, I could not help saying:

“What is it, darter?” said Mrs. Wetherbe, bending towards
me; for her poetical apprehensions were not very quick. “I
was saying,” I replied, “that the farmers are the happiest
people in the world.”

“Yes, yes, they are the happiest,” she replied, her predilections,
of course, in favor of her own way of living. “It
stands to reason,” she continued, “that it hardens the heart
to live in cities, and makes folks selfish too. Look there,”
she continued, “what a dreadful sight!” and she pointed
to a cart filled with sheep and lambs, on top of which two
or three calves were thrown, with their feet tied together,
and thrown upwards, their heads stretched back, and their
tongues lolling out. “Really the law should punish such useless

cruelty,” she said; and I thought then, and I still think,
that Mrs. Wetherbe was right.

Men and business began to thicken; blacksmiths were
beating the iron over their glowing forges; carpenters
shoving the plane; and the trowel of the mason ringing
against the bricks. Men, women, and children hurried to
and fro; all languages were heard, and all costumes presented
themselves.

“What a perfect bedlam!” said Mrs. Wetherbe; “I wish to
mercy I was ready to go home. Here, maybe, you had better
wait a little,” she added, seizing the rein, and pointing in the
direction of a grocery and variety store, where some crockery
appeared at the window, and a strip of red flannel at the door.
“Don't you want to go down town?” said my father, reining
up.

“Yes,” she replied, “but I see some red flannel here, and I
want to get a few yards for a pettikit.”

Having assured her that she could get it anywhere else as
well, she consented to go on, fixing the place in her mind, so
that she could find it again. And we shortly found ourselves
at Mr. Randall's door.

“We will just go in the back way,” said Mrs. Wetherbe;
“I don't like to ring the bell, and wait an hour;” and accordingly
she opened a side door, and we found ourselves in the
breakfast-room, where the family were assembled.

“Why, if it isn't Aunty Wetherbe!” exclaimed a tall, pale-faced
woman, coming forward and shaking hands. “Have
you brought me something good?” she added quickly, at the
same time relieving the old lady of the basket of nice butter,
the jug of milk, the eggs, and the loaf of home-made bread,
which the good lady had brought, partly from the kindness of
her heart, partly to secure her welcome.

Thus relieved of her burdens, she went forward to the table
—for Mr. Randall did not rise—and offered her hand.

“Lord-a-mighty, woman, I didn't know you,” he said, in a
blustering way; but he evidently didn't wish to know her.
“Who the devil have you brought with you?” indicating me
with a nod of the head, and bending a pair of pale blue eyes
upon me.

This salutation was not particularly well calculated to make
me feel happy, or at home, for I was young and timid; and
removing my position from the range of his glance, I deliberately
surveyed the group before me.