University of Virginia Library

Thomson.

LETTER I.
Mr. Sibthorpe to Mr. Williamson.

Is it possible, my dear Williamson, that after your
experience of the world's utter hollowness—its
laborious pleasures and its heart-wringing disappointments—you
can still be surprised at my preference
of a country life? you, who have sounded to its
core the heart of fashionable society in the old
world and the new, tested the value of its friendship,
and found it less than nothing; sifted its
pretensions of every kind, and expressed a thousand
times your disgust at their falseness—you think it
absurd in me to venture upon so desperate a plan
as retirement? You consider me as a man who has
taken his last, worst step; and who will soon deserve
to be set aside by his friends as an irreclaimable
enthusiast. Perhaps you are right as to the folly
of the thing, but that remains to be proved; and
I shall at least take care that my error, if it be one,
shall not be irrevocable.

It is true I left England in what you think a
“temporary” disgust; but the circumstances of
difficulty and vexation which suggested the removal
to America were of any thing but a momentary or
accidental character. It is true that I had been
tolerably successful, but it is also to be recollected

that in pursuance of my favorite plan I retired earlier
then was warranted by prudence. This step
once taken was irretrievable. I had made choice
of a residence in the vicinity of D—, and there,
in the society of a few intimate friends, I hoped to
pass the afternoon of life in the repose which belongs
to unambitious thoughts, and a sincere though
humble love of letters. And I still think the dream
might have been realized, but that it pleased
the Almighty to take from me the wife of my
bosom; the being to whose companionship the
whole scheme owed its charm, and without whose
society and sympathy I could no longer hope for
happiness. My Charlotte once gone, the whole aspect
of life was changed. My quiet home, before so
charming, wore an air of gloom which I could not
endure. The very sight of the infant which remained
to me, gave me almost as much pain as
pleasure. I felt as one might who should see the
last plank slip from his grasp, leaving him to struggle
unaided on the boundless ocean.

As the bitterness of grief began to soften under
the blessed influence of “Time the consoler,” I
felt a desire to mingle again with my fellow-men;
to seek in company the solace which my own fireside
now denied me. I found my friends kindly
anxious to aid my return to cheerfulness and hope,
but a new difficulty soon presented itself. My fortune,
though sufficient for the simple and unambitious
style which had fully satisfied my Charlotte's

wishes and my own, was far inferior to that of my
own family connections. These all lived in a
handsome and hospitable way, and when I began
to mingle with them in the frequent interchange of
visits, I was struck with the difference which existed
between their establishments and my own.
While Charlotte lived I had never given it a
thought, but now, I was more dependent upon
circumstances, and these things made me uncomfortable.
It was a poor grief for a philosopher, I
own; but who has not felt the obstinate force of
petty vexations? I resolved against such unworthy
emulation, and at the same time detected myself in
contriving plans by which this unlucky inferiority
might be rendered less apparent. I felt my difficulty
to be contemptible, yet it did not the less
disturb the enjoyment that I had hoped to find in
society.

Add to all this that Lord—, on whose estate I
lived, and whose propensity to every variety of ingenious
insolence is as well known to you as to
myself, thought proper to desire my conversion
to his own political views. From the moment
that he found I scorned his insidious bribes, he
became my bitter enemy; and unfortunately he
discovered, in my natural irritability of temper, now
not a little increased, all that he could wish for the
exercise of his petty malice. My life from this
time became intolerable. The consciousness that
I had thrown away the means of placing myself

on a level with my friends, and in a good degree
beyond the reach of my overbearing neighbor,
vexed me to the soul, and at this very juncture,
and while I was boiling under a new insult from
Lord—, I met with a considerable loss—a loss
which diminished my income materially. My
dear Williamson, can you blame me for coming to
America, where my small means would still enable
me to live comfortably, if not handsomely; and
where I could hope to be always secure from the
insolence of the little great?

I have not thus far been disappointed in the
expectations I had formed of this land of true
liberty and equality. If I have at times wished
for a little more deference in the manners of the
lower classes, I have found even more worth and
dignity in the higher walks of life than I had
anticipated. The difficulty of which many of our
friends have complained as counterbalancing in a
great degree the advantages of a residence in
America,—that, I mean, which arises from the want
of good servants,—I obviated by bringing with
me from England several faithful domestics, who
serve me with no diminished zeal in the new world.
And on this side the water I have found, as you
well know, a successor to my Charlotte, a successor
worthy to be such; a mother to my daughter, a
friend inestimable to myself; a countrywoman of
my own too, and one whose views of life coincide
in all particulars with mine.

You will perhaps inquire, why, with these advantages,
I could not content myself in the city?
Simply because I longed for the freedom and independence
of the woods. I cannot feel that I have
come to America—distant, young, wild, new
America—till I have seen her in her own peculiar
form; till I have learned to know her by those
features which distinguish her so decidedly from
the old world. I feel that “the mountain nymph,
sweet Liberty,” must be loveliest in her own national
and characteristic costume. A city life, or a
life made up of city habits, is the same in essentials
every where. There is the same living for
others rather than one's self; the same emulation
in despicable trifles; the same unmeaning bustle;
the same gêne; in London, in Paris, in New-york,—on
a greater or a smaller scale as the case
may be. I am tired of these. I am willing to
give up—I will not say forever, for who can
answer for himself?—but for a time at least, the
very questionable advantages of a life of hackneyed
movements and recurring fatigues, for one of
primitive simplicity, of hardy exercise, of uninterrupted
intellectual culture.

My dear Florella, who has the single-heartedness
of a child, joined with much originality and
independence of feeling, agrees with me entirely.
She is as anxious as myself for unbroken mornings,
promenades en deshabille, and long cheery evenings
ending at ten o'clock. We bring books, music,

and all the means of comfort and employment;
and with these and the cherished correspondence
of a few dear friends (yourself among the number
we count on) we can never be dull even in the
woods which you represent as so ineffably dismal.
I shall give you a token now and then that ennui
has not absolutely devoured us; and I promise to
be honest. I will give you the dark shades of the
picture as well as the sunshine. And you in return
must promise to reform your worldly opinions, and
dress your estimate of comfort after our model in
any degree you shall see fit. Honor bright!

LETTER II.
Mr. Sibthorpe to Mr. Williamson.

* * * Since my last we have taken up our
abode in the wilderness in good earnest,—not in
“sober sadness,” as you think the phrase ought to
be shaped. There is, to be sure, an insignificant
village within two or three miles of us, but our
house is the only dwelling on our little clearing—
the immense trunks of trees, seemingly as old as
the creation, walling us in on every side. There
is an indescribable charm in this sort of solitary
possession. In Alexander Selkirk's case, I grant
that the idea of being “monarch of all I survey,”
with an impassable ocean around my narrow empire,
might suggest some inconvenient ideas. The
knowledge that the breathing and sentient world
is within a few minutes' walk, forms, it must be
owned, no unpleasant difference between our lot
and his. But with this knowledge, snugly in the
background, not obtrusive, but ready for use, comparative
solitude has charms, believe me. The
constant sighing of the wind through the forest
leaves; the wild and various noises of which we
have not yet learned to distinguish one from the
other—distinct yet softly mingled—clearly audible,
yet only loud enough to make us remark

more frequently the silence which they seem scarcely
to disturb, such masses of deep shade that even
in the sunny spots the light seems tinged with
green—these things fill the mind with images of
repose, of leisure, of freedom, of tranquil happiness,
untrammelled by pride and ceremony;—of unbounded
opportunity for reflection, with the richest
materials for the cultivation of our better nature.

Nothing can be more delicious than the weather
at this season, in this Western country. Italian
skies may be set off, perhaps, by relics of ancient
power and splendor, and still more by the associations
connected with those relics; but I am certain
that even you, scornful skeptic as you are on all
points touching what you are pleased to call “rural
fury,” could not deny that the deep, transparent
blue which roofs this natural Coliseum, gives out
the outline of yonder towering elm with an accuracy—a
delicacy—which no Calabrian azure ever
surpassed. The very sun-glints that flash from the
white wings of the eagle which, even as I write,
soars majestically across the sky, are distinctly visible,
though the distance is so great as to make the
bird of heaven seem scarce larger than a dove.

But I am forgetting that all this will cost you
numberless “Fudges,” and I will quit the poetical
for the practical at once. Know then, O common-place
mortal! that the fates have not denied to
your “mad” friends a tolerably comfortable house;
or rather, (I make the acknowledgment lest you

should be tempted by my descriptions to visit us
before we make our additions, and so accuse me
of delusion or exaggeration,) I confess that the
present house is, more properly, the beginning or
nucleus of a house, than a structure deserving that
title as serving for a gentleman's residence. Yet
here, where no allowance or provision is to be made
for pride, and where there is no necessity for spending
money to buy the good graces of people who
are nobody to you, and who care as little about
you in return, the house answers our temporary
need tolerably well, having a (so called) parlor; a
kitchen; a bedchamber, of modest dimensions it
is true; a closet for our little Charlotte, and a loft
for Chadwell and the faithful Rose, who is willing
to put up with any thing but the “hodd” ways of
the people. John and Sophy, who, as you know,
have, by the aid of a neighboring justice of the
peace, lately become one, are obliged at present to
find lodging at the house of a neighbor who lives
somewhere within a mile of us, in the depths of the
wood.

On our first arrival, John proposed making an
extempore lodging-room in the barn, on which occasion
we discovered that this essential addition to
a country house had been quite forgotten in my
survey of Mr. Doolittle's flattering bargain. You
may laugh, but who can think of every thing? and
really, the weather is so fine, that one is almost
independent of roofs and walls. A bivouac beneath

such skies, would be rather attractive than
appalling.

Some difficulties have attended the transportation
of our movables, and I find too that my estimate
of the “must-haves” was rather limited. Florella,
who is, you know, of a meditative and abstract turn
of mind, would have thought a still shorter list
might comprise all that was necessary. But she, as
well as myself, will be glad of your friendly aid in
procuring for us certain articles which you will find
enumerated at the close of my letter, and which you
will be so good as to see securely packed, and forwarded
to the care of Messrs.—, Detroit. The
piano-forte has not yet arrived, and I confess myself
at a loss how to bestow it when it does come.
It had not occurred to me, that in a very small parlor,
embellished with no less than six doors and
four windows, to say nothing of a staircase and an
immense fireplace, there would be but little space
for large articles of furniture. And the sofa on
which I promised myself many a sweet siesta during
the hot months, is taking its own rest undisturbed
in its box, under a shed at some distance
from the house. But we shall soon build, and then
these little inconveniences will be obviated. Besides,
are there not sofas of turf? I find them a
more than tolerable substitute when they do not
smell of rheumatism.

In one respect I find myself disappointed. The
wheat lands, which I bought at a large additional

cost in consideration of their being broken up and
planted, wear at present an appearance very little
promising as to the approaching harvest. Wide
strips of unbroken soil intervene between the scattered
lines of the plough; and if any seed was
sown on these, the solid sward has sent up no
return. The broad field that I survey just now
from the window, bears at least as much resemblance
to a great green gridiron as the Escurial
does to a stone one. But it is something to feel
one's self a proprietor of the soil, and I anticipate
much pleasure in sending my own wheat to the
mill, be it little or much. I think however I can
now perceive why my friend Mr. Doolittle complimented
me so highly on the extent of my agricultural
knowledge, and declared his sentiments on
the subject of farming to agree precisely with my
own.

My letter is already femininely long, yet I must
give you an instance of rustic simplicity which
occurred this morning—a verification indeed of
your repeated prediction. A stout youth of twenty
years or so applied for work, stating that he had
“hearn tell how the 'squire wanted a hand.” I
was glad to obtain an addition to our effective
force, and the bargain was nearly concluded when
our swain broke in with,

“I say, uncle! does your hands eat with you?”
Conceive of the question if you can, and you will
readily imagine the answer: but you can never

paint to yourself the air with which this untamed
son of the forest turned on his heel, saying with
the utmost coolness,

“If I a'n't good enough to eat with ye, I a'n't
good enough to work for ye, that's all!”

Think of such companionship for Florella, who,
though a democrat in principle on all important
points, is, in personal habits, quite as fastidious as
one could wish. To me these things would be
matters of indifference, especially where the contact
was only for a limited period. Mere accidents
in social condition are nothing in themselves; and
I have too high an idea of the dignity of labor to
despise the practical agriculturist, though I may
not relish his manners. But with ladies the case
is different, and I shall never attempt to conform,
in this particular, to the customs of the country,
When John and Sophy get their log-house finished,
they will relieve us from the disagreeable necessity
of boarding hands.

Do not fear such unreasonably long letters in future.
I expect to be much occupied with building
and other improvements, and shall hardly have
time to weary you with my favorite topics.

LETTER III.
Mrs. Sibthorpe to Mrs. Williamson.

Why have I not written you a dozen letters
before this time? I can give you no decent or
rational apology. Perhaps, because I have had
too much leisure—perhaps too many things to
say. Something of this sort it certainly must be,
for I have none of the ordinary excuses to offer
for neglect of my dear correspondent. Think
any thing but that I love you less. This is the
very place in which to cherish loving memories.
But as to writing, this wild seclusion has so many
charms for me, this delicious summer weather so
many seductions, that my days glide away imperceptibly,
leaving scarcely a trace of any thing accomplished
during their flight. I rise in the morning
determined upon the most strenuous industry.

My broken credit with half a dozen correspondents
whom I have treated as ill as yourself is to
be entirely redeemed before dinner. For this purpose
I place my desk before a window that opens
towards the west, and which is consequently shaded
during all the earlier part of the day. Here do
I seat myself with the resolute air of one who is not
to be tempted from duty. Nothing before me but

huge trees, between whose ancient mossy trunks
no ray of any but soft green light can reach the
moist sward below. The only sound is that of
the sighing wind that scarcely stirs the heavy verdure,
yet makes its presence known by a ceaseless
moan resembling almost precisely the soft rush of
summer waves upon a pebbly beach; magic music
any where, and fraught with dreams; but particularly
so where we feel, as it were, alone in the
august presence of Nature, with nothing to limit
the flights of fancy, and with an unbounded leisure
which seems to promise time for every thing. Pen
in hand, eyes unconsciously exploring the mysterious
arcades of the forest, behold your friend, her
heart full of affection, and her head of pleasant
musings, still hesitating for materials for an epistle,
which were never to seek while surrounded with
all that is supposed likely to occupy or to distract
the mind.

It may be that I have a lurking doubt of your
sympathy in the strange pleasure with which these
solitudes inspire me;—or, possibly, a cowardly
fear of the ridicule that is always attached, by those
who live in the fashionable world, to any thing
which approaches the romantic, whether in sentiment
or action. A true enthusiast, however, would
rather anticipate your speedy conversion, and, at
worst, why should I dread your kind smiles? You
could not, if you would, make me ashamed of my

happiness, and I am sure you would not if you
could.

* * * * * *

Our way of living just now is odd enough. John's
house is so nearly finished that he and Sophy live
in it and take our work-people as boarders. This
is quite convenient for us, since we could not
obtain laborers on any other terms. But I find
Sophy is sadly missed as the head of domestic
affairs, (I forget whether Mr. Sibthorpe has mentioned
in any of his numerous and lengthy epistles,
that Chadwell has left us and returned to New-york,
because she “couldn't a-bear the 'orrid beer
as they makes in Michigan”—though this her
chosen comforter was manufactured by a countryman
of her own, who is considered quite an adept
in the art.) Sophy's invention was all in all to Rose,
whose materials are so limited as to require all
Caleb Balderstone's ingenuity in order to set a table
which shall in any degree accord with her ideas of
propriety. Truth to say, I had a very unpractical
idea of what sort of things would be needed for
forest life. I forgot that our habits must be in
some degree the standard, whatever should be the
circumstances, and in planning for a simple country
life, I did not take into account the fact that we
had yet to learn to be country people. I find we
must simplify our habits exceedingly, to make out
at all with the moderate amount of household conveniences

we thought it necessary to bring with
us. But my good spouse is, as you know, tant
soit peu fidgetty about small matters, (he is looking
over my shoulder even now,) and instead of
simplifying our habits, he is bent upon complicating
our accommodations, as I think very needlessly; for
we have already a list far greater than our neighbors,
who, most philosophically, make one thing
answer for a dozen different uses. Sophy has
already caught the spirit of the country, and is
beginning to keep house with a mere handful of
the simplest utensils.

Where we can possibly find places for all the
articles Mr. Sibthorpe has ordered, remains yet
to be discovered. Even after our new buildings
are completed, I fear there will be many very excellent
and desirable things in the lamentable case
of the Primrose family picture.

We have been very civilly treated by our neighbors
of the village; and we find several among
them whom we can visit with pleasure. These
seem delighted at having an addition to their little
circle, and we are not at all disposed to exclude the
cultivation of the social feelings from the enjoyments
of country life. Here will, as I foresee, be
the grand difficulty after all. For want of congenial
society one is in such danger of becoming selfenclosed
and unsympathizing—a most unlovely,
inhuman, and wicked form of pride, and one which

we must guard against if we would not forfeit our
share of that mercy, which is our only hope, and
which embraces alike the whole human family.

I can already perceive, that for want of this
companionship one may in time become too bookish,
too citatory and pedantic, through lack of that
fusion by conversation, which refines and naturalizes
one's literary stores. One is apt to read too
much, and too miscellaneously. And as to writing,
it is so much more delightful to read other people's
reveries than to put one's own thoughts into words!
Doing nothing has so many charms, that even
writing looks like work, by contrast. The very
idea of an abundance of leisure makes us use our
leisure unprofitably. I have sketched out many
systems of regular employment; but never did
society, even in my gayest days, beguile me of my
resolutions of improvement like the enticing quiet
of the cool woods, with the certainty of long days
of delicious reading and reverie, undisturbed by
visitors and untrammelled by ceremony. I fear my
reformation must wait for rainy weather, since I
can never summon resolution to deny myself the
pleasure of rambling under such skies and such
moonlight as ours.

Dear little Charlotte feels all the delight of this
charming season. Her eyes seem always full of
gentle pleasure, and she often employs herself for
whole hours in weaving wreaths of wild flowers,

and dressing with them a great hollow tree in
which her large doll is seated, looking in its scarlet
frock like the lady in the lobster.

As for your friend my husband, it would require
the pen of De Foe himself to give a just idea of
his occupations, his plans, his expedients; his
ingenuity in contriving, his zeal in executing, the
various conveniences of our new dwelling. But
most surprising is the exemplary patience with
which he endures the many vexations attendant
upon employing workmen who are accustomed to
build according to their own very peculiar ideas,
and who require to be argued, if not persuaded,
into every deviation from the established method
of the neighborhood. For instance—it is difficult
to convince these primitive utilitarians that the
spacing of windows and doors is of any consequence;
or that to place the windows of two
stories exactly one over the other can make any
material difference in the appearance of a house. It
took a full hour to make our principal architect
acknowledge that water would run off a roof which
sloped at any less than “quarter-pitch.” In passing
through the larger sort of villages in this Western
world, you will notice comparatively few
proofs of this erratic taste; but the workmen who
content themselves in little isolated settlements are
often almost self-taught, and they frequently unite
farming with their other avocations, so that they
feel comparatively little interest in giving satisfaction

or acquiring reputation in their several trades.
Nevertheless we feel that these are the people
whom we ought to employ while we live among
them, and we must, in common justice, bear witness
to their good-humor and their obliging dispositions.
They argue, but they quarrel not, which
is something where opposition is so frequent. I
must confess that my indolence would have led me
to give up all the points that Mr. Sibthorpe has so
faithfully contested inch by inch. Indeed I often
run away to escape even the echo of one of these
interminable argumentations.

The result of all will be, I believe, a pretty cottage,
built without the violent contravention of any
of the ordinary rules, yet presenting an exterior of
rustic plainness, suited at once to its position in the
wild woods, and to the limited purse of the proprietor.
If we want pillars and arches, and corridors
and cloisters, we have them all close at hand, built
by mighty Nature, and ready to put to shame man's
puny efforts at imitation. This architecture never
tires. To me at least it is always new and delightful;
at once satisfying the eye, exciting the imagination,
and filling the soul with the most profound
sense of the presence of the divine Author.

I am sure even your cloudless gaiety would feel

and own the sense of solemn awe which these
ancient shades are so well calculated to inspire.
But I must recollect, too, that you may very possibly
weary of it as a theme, in my hands especially
—so I spare you.

Write me soon and often, and pray write yourself
out, as I have done, or I shall learn to be
ashamed of my enthusiasm and may egotism.

LETTER IV.
Mr. Sibthorpe to Mr. Williamson.

I hoped to have been before this time so
deeply engaged with studs and siding, casings and
cornice, that letter-writing would have been out of
the question. But my lumber is at the saw-mill, and
all the horses in the neighborhood are too busy to
be spared for my service. I must have, of course,
horses of my own, but it is necessary first to build
a stable, so that I am at present dependent on
hiring them when necessary. This, I begin to
perceive, will cause unpleasant delays, since each
man keeps no more horses than he needs for his
own purposes. Here is a difficulty which recurs
at every turn, in the country. There is nothing like
a division of labor or capital. Every body tills the
ground, and, consequently, each must provide a
complete equipment of whatever is necessary for
his business, or lose the seasons when business
may be done to best advantage. At this season,
in particular, this difficulty is increased, because
the most important business of the year is crowded
into the space of a few months. Those who hire
extra help at no other period, now employ as much
as they are able to pay, which increases much the

usual scarcity of laborers. It is the time of year,
too, when people in new countries are apt to be attacked
by the train of ills arising from marsh miasmata,
and this again diminishes the supply of able
hands.

I confess that this view of the obstacles to a comfortable
outset in rural life had not occurred to me,
though I recollect having been struck by an observation
of Sir Walter Scott in a letter to a friend
who was looking towards a country life; that if
one wants a bowl of milk, in the country, it is
necessary to keep a cow; while in the city you
need not buy a pennyworth more than you require.
I have cause to feel the practical good sense of this
observation twenty times a day, since we are discovering
a thousand wants which have always
heretofore been so regularly and so easily supplied,
that we did not remember that they were wants.
Florella, who has never taken much interest in
household matters, finds only amusement in these
various deficiencies and inconveniences, as well as
in poor Rose's ludicrous perplexities and solemn
disapprovals of every thing to which she has been
unaccustomed. Rose declares against the people
and their ways, which she pronounces the “oncivilizedest”
in the world, quite unaware all the time
that she herself is utterly incapable of one sentence
of pure English. I wish you could have seen her
yesterday, when a little boy came to me, without
salutation of any sort, with,

“I say! what do you guess about lending me
your axe for a spell? Do you reckon you can
spare it?”

I think but little of these instances of rusticity,
but I must say that the example of entire want of
personal deference, which is customary here, has
already some influence upon the manners of my
own people—always excepting Rose, who is too
devoted a creature to be spoiled by any example. I
can perceive that John and Sophy, who are beginning,
since their marriage, to feel something of
a separate and selfish interest, are not quite so
respectful in manner as before, although in their
services I have nothing to complain of. This is to
be expected, I know, but it is not pleasant in proof.

Little Charlotte is the person most disturbed by
the delay in our building operations. Children are
always longing for something new, and can appreciate
none of the obstacles which often thwart our
best-laid plans. She wonders why papa cannot
build a pretty log-house, like John's, which she is
never weary of extolling. In truth I, who am
obliged almost to rest on my oars, look at John's
rapid progress with a feeling akin to envy. He
has but borrowed a few days' work of his neighbors,
which he is to repay in kind when called
upon; and with this slight aid to his own good
arm, his neat little dwelling is almost finished,
while mine, simple as it is to be, must wait the

convenience of others, whom I am ready to pay
well for their services.

It is really surprising, the advantage which a
capacity for manual labor bestows, in a state of society
like this. Money is comparatively ineffectual,
where there is no competition—where your laborers
are sure that if you discharge them you can get
no others, and that the pay must ultimately fall into
their hands; any trifle is permitted to stand in the
way of serving you. But it would not do thus to
disappoint a neighbor, whose assistance you may
require upon some occasion of great haste or importance—so
that here, as in other cases, the strong-handed
have the best of it.

It is often supremely vexatious to find that
people will exercise their judgment as to whether
your occasion for despatch is as pressing as their
own, or as that of some neighbor. Even after
making a positive engagement “to help you” (for
pay) it is no uncommon thing to find your workman
turning his back on you and his promise for a
while, having made up his mind that you can wait
better than others. Thus one has the double care
of making a bargain and inducing the other party
to keep it when made. It is no uncommon thing
to make a bargain and then hire it to be kept. I
must acknowledge there is, from some cause, a
laxity of morals on this same point of bargain-making.
While more ready than the people of
older countries to give gratuitous aid to each other

in straits and difficulties—more inclined to be
generous—our backwoods neighbors are less observant
of their engagements—justice being a far
less attractive and popular quality. They like a
little show about their virtues, like the world on a
larger scale. You know I promised you the shades
of the picture—but to return to the point—what
was it? Oh! John's house.

Charlotte is especially charmed with John's chimney.
It is so like baby-house building—slender
sticks crossing each other at right angles in such a
manner as to form a hollow square—and this
carried up entirely on the outside of the house; it
has quite a gimcrack air. What Charlotte's opinion
will be when she sees the whole finished within
and without by a thick plastering of mud, I
cannot say. Even the house whose neat rustic
appearance so charms her, has to be “chinked and
mudded,” i. e. have its interstices filled first with
slender strips of wood and then with wet clay,
bountifully bestowed, to keep out the wintry
blasts. The cottage, after all, will really be a
pretty object in our prospect; for John, with an
attempt at taste not very common except among
English settlers here, has continued his roof down
on both sides so as to form a narrow verandah,
which he intends to ornament with vines; and he
has also a small enclosure in front of the house,
where roses of all hues are to make it look as much
like home as possible. By the way, what think

you of intensifying the odor of the rose by planting
onions (!) around its root? Who knows but
this may be, after all, the true source of the power
of the Persian attar? If this were proved, what an
elegant way of making one's fortune!

I had intended that my garden should have been
at least laid out and partly planted this summer, but
I fear the lack of suitable laborers will prevent this
entirely. I have a strong desire to make an experiment
in the manufacture of sugar from the stalks of
Indian corn, which was tried in some parts of Germany,
but relinquished, being found unprofitable.
I think the sun of Germany has not the power
which we experience in this level peninsula during
the three summer months. And if the summers
are to be ordinarily as hot as this one, I am certain
the hardy sorts of the olive which are raised in the
Crimea may be advantageously cultivated in this
warm soil. You will smile, I day say, (for I have
not forgotten our old topic of castle-building,) but
when I succeed in supplying the market with
Western olive oil, you may perhaps change your
note. I must be speedy however, for I am told the
oil expressed from sun-flower seeds is likely to
prove a formidable competitor.

I lack nothing but the ring of Solomon, with its
power of summoning attendant genii. When I
get this, or a substitute for it in the shape of half
a dozen stout fellows with heads on their shoulders,

you shall not laugh at my dreams, for they will
then become realities.

Meanwhile forget not the vulgar household goods
you are to procure for us. We wait anxiously the
intelligence of their departure for the West. This
letter is absolutely a congeries of atoms; but you
insisted upon my being minute, and declared that
nothing in the experience of a “settler” could be
uninteresting to you—so blame me not. I have
jotted down every thing that occurred to me
without an attempt at form or order. All due
salutations from Florella and,

LETTER V.
Mrs. Sibthorpe to Mrs. Williamson.

I studied your last in the cool morning
hour which I often devote to a ramble over the
wooded hills which rise near our little cottage. I
seated myself on a fallen tree, in a spot where I might
have mused all day without seeing a human face,
or hearing any sound more suggestive of civilization
than the pretty tinkling of the numerous bells
which help to find our wandering cattle. What a
place in which to read a letter that seemed as if it
might have been written after a stupid party, or in
the agonies which attend a “spent ball.” (Vide T.
Hood.) Those are not your real sentiments, my
dear Kate; you do not believe life to be the scene
of ennui, suffering, or mere endurance, which you
persuaded yourself to think it just then. If I
thought you did, I should desire nothing so much
as to have your hand in mine for just such a ramble
and just such a lounge as gave me the opportunity
for reflecting on your letter; I am sure I could
make you own that life has its hours of calm and
unexciting, but high enjoyment. With your capabilities,
think whether there must not be something
amiss in a plan or habit of being that subjects

you to these seasons of depression and disgust.
Is that tone of chilling, I might say killing
ridicule, which prevails in certain circles, towards
every thing which does not approach a particular
arbitrary standard, a wholesome one for our
mental condition? I believe not; for I have never
known one who adopted it fully, who had not at
times a most uneasy consciousness that no one could
possibly be entirely secure from its stings. Then
there is a restless emulation, felt in a greater or less
degree by all who have thrown themselves on the
arena of fashionable life, which is, in my sober
view, the enemy of repose. I am not now attempting
to assign a cause for that particular fit of
the blues which gave such a dark coloring to the
beginning of your letter. I am only like the physician
who recalls to his patient's mind the atmospheric
influence that may have had an unfavorable
effect upon his symptoms. You will conclude I
must have determined to retort upon you in some
degree the scorn which you cannot help feeling for
the stupidity of a country life, by taking the first
opportunity to hint that there are some evils from
which the dweller in the wilds is exempt. On the
other hand, I admit that in solitude we are apt to
become mere theorists, or dreamers, if you will.
Ideal excellence is very cheap; theory and sentiment
may be wrought up to great accuracy and perfection;
and it is an easy error to content ourselves
with these, without seeking to ascertain whether we
are capable of the action and sacrifice which must
prove that we are in earnest. You are right, certainly,
in thinking that in society we have occasion
for more strenuous and energetic virtues; but yet,
even here, there is no day which does not offer its
opportunities for effort and self-denial, and in a very
humble and unenticing form too. But we shall
never settle this question, for the simple reason that
virtue is at home every where alike; so I will
spare you further lecture.

Do not give yourself the least uneasiness lest I
should become a mere book-woman. I have no
idea of making myself so tiresome, as I will soon
convince you when you come and shine upon our
shades, or when I crawl forth timidly into your
lamplight at some future day. There is an excellent
hint in a comic song I picked up somewhere,—“founded
on fact,” I doubt not,—

I would forswear the pen and all its concomitants
rather than subject myself to such an imputation.
But even you allow that a lady may be literary, if
she can keep the fact profoundly secret, so I suppose
I may occasionally venture upon the Black Sea if I
put on gloves. You remember Mr.—, who always
wrote in gloves, lest he should write too fair
a hand for a gentleman. We thought he could
not have been particularly solicitous on that point;
but I have my suspicions that he was more afraid

of the pollution of a chance ink-spot upon his lily-white
fingers. How he used to sit admiring them!
You say my pleasures are ideal;—my dearest dear,
are your own less so? Take away from your happiness
all that touches upon the imaginative, and
you leave a duller sound than that which you
suppose to be our fate in the woods. Imagination
heightens every pleasure, and we give way to its
illusions with more completeness in the country.
The uniformity which you represent to yourself as
so tiresome, is conducive to an equality of mental
temperament which certainly is one of the materials
of happiness. If calmness of mind preserve beauty,
you will find me any thing but faded, as you prophesy.
Take care of late hours and wasplike waists,
and artificial modes of life in all respects! If I find
your bloom decayed prematurely, I shall have a
powerful argument against you.

I do own to a feeling of envy at your description
of Madame—'s concert. The lack of fine music
is a real evil, and an irremediable one here. It
is one of the pleasures which is to be sought far
from home. But I hear a concert every morning
from my favorite seat on the other side of the hill,
where I look down upon a circular hollow, so shut
in by hills on every side, and so shaded by great
oaks, that it seems always twilight there, except at
noon. I do not speak now of the concert of innumerable
birds, which you would, I know, condemn as
commonplace. This is so universal at this season

that one almost forgets its sweetness. But in addition
to this endless variety of soaring trebles, I have
from my rustic throne a bass of such peculiar
character and force, that I doubt whether any thing
but a trombone could match it for depth, while it
would require a dozen other instruments to imitate
its other characteristics. It proceeds from the
centre of the hollow where the brilliant green and
rich luxuriance of the long grass betray the presence
of water, though it is only here and there that a
small glassy streak, throws back the sunbeams.
This cool retreat seems to be the home of all the
frogs that were banished from Ireland, and they
have at times the air of berating the cruel expatriation
in no measured terms. The prevailing tone is
the rich bass I have mentioned; another resembles
the creaking of a grindstone, and still others the
ceaseless rattling of cog wheels in a cotton manufactory;
the water vibrating all the while, I suppose
by the action of indefatigable throats. At times it
is so like a scolding match that I cannot forbear
laughing aloud, solitary as I am; and you can't
think how startling one's own laugh is, when alone
in the presence of nature.

You wish to know how domestic affairs are
going on in this land of equality. Easily enough
in one sense, you may be sure, while I am nominally
at the head. I rather think that certain cherished
observances drop away one by one, almost
unmissed; but I see nothing very essential in these

changes. Rose groans over the deficiencies in the
kitchen, as well as over the “hokkerd” ways of a
damsel who is now under her training hand; but
she is learning to require fewer conveniences, and
still manages to keep us very comfortable; and as
to the poor girl, I think she has the worst of it. If
you could overhear, as I do occasionally, the ceaseless
clatter of Rose's exaggerated English, you
would pity, I am sure, the unaccustomed ears of
the woodland lassie. The poor child has been
brought up in a log-house of the smallest size,
whose single room serves for all purposes of cooking,
eating, and sleeping, and whose cupboard contains
all that she supposes necessary for the comfort of
any body's household. It is but small matter of
surprise then that she should be disposed to take
always the article that comes to her hand first,
whatever be the occasion she requires it for, and
each and every instance of this very pardonable blunder
comes over poor Rose with all the surprise of
novelty, and calls down upon staring Polly a clatter
which makes her look as she might if she had incautiously
touched the string of a shower-bath. I
think she will fly before a great while. I am sure
I should, let the maternal nest be what it might.

But I am a poor hand to attempt to give the
minute account of these matters which you seem
to desire. You always suspect me when I give
you the sunny side, and I see very little of any
other. If you would know the particulars of the

business part of forest life, I shall appoint Mr.
Sibthorpe secretary for the home department. He
has unwearied patience for these details, and I believe
feels authorized to bestow all their tediousness
upon your good husband.

I must tell you, however, of a quilting which I
did not share with Mr. Sibthorpe, though I wished
for him many times during the afternoon. It was
held at the house of a very tidy neighbor, a Mrs.
Boardman, the neatness of whose dwelling and its
outworks I have often admired in passing. She
invited all the neighbors, and of course included my
unworthy self, although I had never had any other
acquaintance than that which may be supposed to
result from John and Sophy's having boarded with
her for some time. The walking being damp, an oxcart
was sent round for such of the guests as had
no “team” of their own, which is our case as yet.
This equipage was packed with hay, over which
was disposed, by way of musnud, a blue and white
coverlet; and by this arrangement half a dozen
goodly dames including myself found reclining
room, and were carried at a stately pace to Mrs.
Boardman's. Here we found a collection of women
busily occupied in preparing the quilt, which
you may be sure was a curiosity to me. They
had stretched the lining on a frame, and were
now laying fleecy cotton on it with much care;
and I understood from several aside remarks which
were not intended for the ear of our hostess, that

a due regard for etiquette required that this laying
of the cotton should have been performed before
the arrival of the company, in order to give
them a better chance for finishing the quilt before
tea, which is considered a point of honor.

However, with so many able hands at work,
the preparations were soon accomplished. The
“batts” were smoothly disposed, and now consenting
hands, on either side,

wherein stars and garters, squares and triangles,
figured in every possible relation to each other,
and produced, on the whole, a very pretty mathematical
piece of work, on which the eyes of Mrs.
Boardman rested with no small amount of womanly
pride.

Now needles were in requisition, and every available
space round the frame was filled by a busy
dame. Several of the company being left-handed,
or rather ambidexter, (no unusual circumstance
here,) this peculiarity was made serviceable at the
corners, where common seamstresses could only sew
in one direction, while these favored individuals
could turn their double power to double account.
This beginning of the solid labor was a serious time.
Scarcely a word was spoken beyond an occasional
request for the thread, or an exclamation at the snapping
of a needle. This last seemed of no infrequent

occurrence, as you may well suppose,
when you think of the thickness of the materials
and the necessity for making at least tolerably
short stitches. I must own that the most I could
accomplish for the first hour was the breaking of
needles, and the pricking of my fingers, in the vain
attempt to do as I was bid, and take my stitches
“clear through.”

By and by, it was announced that it was time
to roll—and all was bustle and anxiety. The
frame had to be taken apart at the corners, and two
of the sides rolled several times with much care,
and at this diminished surface we began again with
renewed spirit. Now all tongues seemed loosened.
The evidence of progress had raised every body's
spirits, and the strife seemed to be who should talk
fastest without slackening the industry of her fingers.
Some held tête à tête communications with
a crony in an under tone; others discussed matters
of general interest more openly; and some made
observations at nobody in particular, but with a
view to the amusement of all. Mrs. Vining told
the symptoms of each of her five children through
an attack of the measles; Mrs. Keteltas gave her
opinion as to the party most worthy of blame in a
late separation in the village; and Miss Polly Mittles
said she hoped the quilt would not be “scant of
stitches, like a bachelder's shirt.”

Tea-time came before the work was completed,
and some of the more generous declared they would

rather finish it before tea. These offers fell rather
coldly, however, for a real tea-drinker does not feel
very good-humored just before tea. So Mr. Boardman
drove four stout nails in the rafters over head,
corresponding in distance to the corners of the quilt,
and the frame was raised and fastened to these, so
as to be undisturbed and yet out of the way during
the important ceremony that was to succeed. Is it
not well said that “necessity is the mother of invention?”

A long table was now spread, eked out by boards
laid upon carpenters' “horses”—and this was
covered with a variety of table-cloths, all shining
clean however, and carefully disposed. The whole
table array was equally various, the contributions, I
presume, of several neighboring log-houses. The
feast spread upon it included every variety that
ever was put upon a tea-table; from cake and
preserves to pickles and raw cabbage cut up in
vinegar. Pies there were, and custards, and sliced
ham, and cheese, and three or four kinds of bread.
I could do little besides look, and try to guess out
the dishes. However, every thing was very good,
and our hostess must have felt complimented by
the attention paid to her various delicacies. The
cabbage, I think, was rather the favorite; vinegar
being one of the rarities of a settler's cabin.

I was amused to see the loads of cake and pie
that accumulated upon the plates of the guests.
When all had finished, most of the plates seemed

full. But I was told afterwards that it was not
considered civil to decline any one kind of food,
though your hostess may have provided a dozen.
You are expected at least to try each variety. But
this leads to something which I cannot think very
agreeable.

After all had left the table, our hostess began to
clear it away, that the quilt might be restored to its
place; and as a preliminary, she went all round to
the different plates, selecting such pieces of cake as
were but little bitten, and paring off the half demolished
edges with a knife, in order to replace
them in their original circular position in the dishes.
When this was accomplished, she assiduously scraped
from the edges of the plates the scraps of butter
that had escaped demolition, and wiped them back
on the remains of the pat. This was doubtless a
season of delectation to the economical soul of
Mrs. Boardman; you may imagine its effects upon
the nerves of your friend. Such is the influence
of habit! The good woman doubtless thought she
was performing praiseworthy action, and one in
no wise at variance with her usual neat habits;
and if she could have peeped into my heart, and
there have read the resolutions I was tacitly making
against breaking bread again under the same
auspices, she would have pitied or despised such a
lamentable degree of pride and extravagance. So
goes this strange world.

The quilt was replaced, and several good housewives

seated themselves at it, determined to “see it
out.” I was reluctantly compelled to excuse myself,
my inexperienced fingers being pricked to
absolute rawness. But I have since ascertained
that the quilt was finished that evening, and placed
on Mrs. Boardman's best bed immediately; where
indeed I see it every time I pass the door, as it is
not our custom to keep our handsome things in the
background. There were some long stitches in it,
I know, but they do not show as far as the road;
so the quilt is a very great treasure, and will probably
be kept as an heir-loom.

I have some thoughts of an attempt in the
“patchwork” line myself. One of the company
at Mrs. Boardman's remarked that the skirt of the
French cambric dress I wore would make a
“splendid” quilt. It is a temptation certainly.

Mr. Sibthorpe's vexations and trials with his
workmen are neither few nor small, but I shall
leave the description for his pen. We never enjoyed
better health, for which I fear we are not as
thankful as we ought to be for so great a blessing.
Kind love to all, from

LETTER VI.
Mr. Sibthorpe to Mr. Williamson.

Next to seeing yourself, my dear Williamson,
I can scarcely think of any thing that would have
afforded me more pleasure than the sight of a friend
of yours bearing credentials under your hand and
seal. And over and above this title to my esteem,
Mr. Ellis brings with him an open letter of recommendation
in that very handsome and pleasing
countenance of his, and a frank and hearty manner
which put us quite at ease with him directly, notwithstanding
a certain awkward consciousness of
the narrowness of our present accommodations,
which might have made a visit from any other
stranger rather embarrassing. His willingness to be
pleased, his relish for the amusing points of the
half-savage state, and the good-humor with which
he laughed off sundry rather vexatious contre-temps
really endeared him to us all. Half a dozen
men of his turn of mind for neighbors, with wives
of “kindred strain,” would create a paradise in
these woods, if there could be one on earth.

He chose the early morning hour to drive over
from—, in a light, open carriage, and reached
here soon after our lazy breakfast, in raptures with

the fine natural road, the soft beauty of the scenery,
and the delicious temperature of the lone and solemn
old woods through which he passed. He is
an enthusiast in scenery, and as soon as we discovered
this, we felt easy as to the homely aspect of
things within doors. While we have such grand
avenues and cloistered promenades for the entertainment
of our city guests, we may consent without
scruple to receive their visits, sure that they
can never surpass us in points of architectural
grandeur, luxurious divans, or mossy carpets.

By the way—I attempted to analyze, for curiosity's
sake, the slight feeling of embarrassment
which beset me at first sight of Mr. Ellis. It could
of course have no reference to our real standing in
his estimation; for I knew he must be well acquainted
with all that is to be known of us both as
to character and condition, and that the mere outward
aspect of a temporary residence could have
no influence upon his opinion. So that it could
not be the vulgar dread of not appearing “genteel”
to a stranger. I was obliged to refer my sensations
to a jealousy for the honor of rural life. I was unwilling
that a man of Mr. Ellis's stamp should be
led to think we had already become coarse, or
rather accustomed and reconciled to coarseness, by
a residence in this rough new country. This was,
as nearly as I could guess, the true ground of my
sudden consciousness of the rough appearance of
things about us. Before Mr. Ellis came, I thought

we were getting on very well, but the sight of an
elegant stranger brought to mind a thousand deficiencies
that we had forgotten. I was saying,
before I turned aside to give you this glimpse of
my inward thoughts, that we relied on out-door
attractions in entertaining Mr. Ellis. As to other
matters we cannot boast—as par exemple.

We were seated with your pleasant friend at an
early dinner, when word was brought that a man
without had a nest of young bears that he wished
to dispose of. We had not the least desire for such
pets, characteristic as they would be at present;
but we all wished to have a peep at them; and so,
without ceremony, every body quitted the table,
and ran to the back-yard, where the bear-merchant
waited very impatiently. There were no less than
four of those charming creatures, packed in a coarse
basket, to the sides of which they were chained; so
that when the owner set the basket on the grass,
and poked up its occupants a little, they all pulled
in different directions, or dragged each other about,
and then fell to biting and scratching in revenge
for their frequent tumbles. This was amusing
enough for a few moments, but did not detain us
long, for the dinner was only begun; and we had
a long drive in contemplation for the afternoon.

We returned to the parlor to behold the strangest
sight! We had forgotten the intrusive habits of
the chickens, and so had left the table unguarded
and the doors and windows open; and there were

at least a dozen of these creatures in full possession
of the table, helping themselves from our plates
with a nervous haste that betokened an evil conscience.
Nothing escaped their ravenous appetites.
The very débris of their brothers and cousins were
not sacred from their cannibalish propensities. A
plate of butter, upon which Rose had exhausted
her decorative powers, was pecked into the similitude
of an iceberg; and potatoes were scattered on
every side, like shot after a battle. Some of the
intruders, not having been able to make good a
footing on the table, had condescended to the floor;
carrying every one a slice of bread or a bit of meat
with him. Such a mess you can never picture to
yourself, until you have lived in the woods, and
been subject to the irruptions of the fowls.

“Where is your poultry-yard?” methinks I hear
you say. Alas! Echo might answer, “Where!” if
Echo were not tired of replying to such questions.
It is at least six weeks since I engaged the proper
materials at the saw-mill, but the poor miller's dam
was carried away by a freshet, and by over-exerting
himself in attempting to repair it, he took the
ague—so what could I do but wait?

“But what did you do for dinner?” Mrs. Williamson
says. This query is more easily answered.
Our drive was all planned, and it was voted impossible
to await the result of another cooking
process. The side-table having fortunately eluded
the horny noses of our invaders, from its being

covered with a napkin, we made a very delicate
repast on West India preserves with cream and biscuits.
But after the said drive had been accomplished,
and the fresh air and the exhilarating exercise
had revived the “sacred rage,” we called that
light meal lunch, and had a substantial dinner at a
fashionable hour, and probably (for I did not inquire)
at the expense of some of our ravenous foes.

And to have seen the good-humored facility with
which Mr. Ellis helped to laugh off our perplexities,
and the awkwardness which one cannot but
feel, spite of philosophy, in such cases, one might
have supposed him one who had never breathed
the air of courts, but who had been all his days
accustomed to the shifts and expedients of an emigrant's
life.

We insisted on his remaining for the night, if
only for the sake of saying that he had slept in a
box; namely, the one which once served to envelop
a parcel of chairs, and which now fills the
office of a spare bedstead. Mr. Ellis declares that
he never slept more soundly, and I can well believe
it, for he had earned a good night's rest by his exertions
in threading the farm and the country round
it, during the whole day.

* * * * * *

As we sat at breakfast in the morning, an old
man, one of our good neighbors, came in with a
long-handled dipper, and asked if we kept lightning
in the house.

“No indeed!” said Mrs. Sibthorpe, looking of
course somewhat puzzled.

“Why, do tell!” said the old man. “But
may be you don't know what it is,—if you don't,
I'll bet you a cookie you can't guess.”

We all tried. Florella's guess was gunpowder,
—Mr. Ellis's, oil,—mine, candles.

The old man laughed.

“No, no,” said he, “you haven't come within
rifle distance! Why, it's emptins! My woman
wants to set some griddles, and she took a notion
she must have risin' to put in 'em.”

“How is the good lady?” asked Mrs. Sibthorpe.

“She! you couldn't kill her with a meat-axe!
She's real savage upon vittles since this last turn
of agur. I'd sooner board an Irishman! There's
no whoa to her, when once she gits a goin' upon
pork!”

And our friend took up his lightning and departed,
without the ceremony of good morning.

* * * * * *

As I was showing Mr. Ellis the piece of land
which I intend planting with morus multicaulis,
he called my attention to a fragment of fine bituminous
coal which he had turned up with his foot.
The land hereabout is not what is usually considered
as a coal formation, but I should not be at all
surprised to discover a stray stratum. The state is
known to abound in coal. I think I shall make

some small examination either this autumn or early
next spring. At present, laborers are too precious
to be spared for any new plan. I begin to fear we
shall not be ready to plaster before the frosts set
in. We met with an accident the other day,
which, though of no great consequence in pecuniary
amount, will necessarily delay us somewhat. I had
purchased a quantity of green lumber, which was to
be kiln-dried before it was fit for use. But, by some
unaccountable accident, the whole took fire and was
consumed while the workmen were gone to dinner.
So I have either to send a great distance for seasoned
materials, or to wait the repairing of the milldam,
and then the chance of another attempt at
kiln-drying. I think I shall prefer the former mode,
although it is much more expensive; since time is
just now of more consequence than money. The
conflagration cost me about two hundred dollars.

A smaller disaster was the loss of a quantity of
lime which was on its way from a place about
fifteen miles off. The teamster was benighted,
and obliged to stop for the night at a log-tavern,
owing to the extreme darkness caused by an approaching
storm. The wagon, with its load of lime,
was placed under a shed, and my man went quietly
to sleep, lulled doubtless all the sooner by the
pleasant pattering of the shower. About midnight
all were awakened by a sudden blaze of light, and
it was found that the lime, not having been protected
from the wet by the leaky shed, had set all

on fire, and it was only by great exertion that the
house was saved. So I was obliged, not only to
put up with the loss of the lime, but to satisfy the
teamster for the damage done to his wagon, as
well as the tavern-keeper for the loss of his shed.
One learns something by these things, though at a
rather costly rate.

You have gathered doubtless from my sketches
of affairs in general, that I, who came here for
boundless leisure, am the busiest of men. It is even
so, but I find much to interest me. I read no
books, it is true, but I am continually turning some
new leaf in the book of life, and the study of human
nature. Mrs. Sibthorpe is not very well, but
she is in fine spirits; and Charlotte is as brown and
as happy as a gypsy, and with the same reason;—
health, unbounded freedom, and a life in the open
air. A little companion or two would leave her
nothing to desire; but even this deficiency she
scarcely feels; for her mother is of that cheerful
facility of temper which makes her good company
for any body.

We are all embrowned beyond belief. I am
always, you know, something of a bonze in figure;
now I am a bronze in complexion. Conceive the
attractions of a bronze bonze!

Under any color however,

LETTER VII.
Mrs. Sibthorpe to Mrs. Williamson.

A letter is certainly your due, my dear Catharine;
but yours of some fortnight since,—all kind,
and lively, and sympathizing, and conceding, as it
is,—deserves a better reply than this dripping sky
will help me to indite. Why is it that I, who ever
loved so dearly a rainy day in town, find it suggestive
of—not melancholy—for melancholy and
I are strangers—but of stupid things, in the country?
To account for the difference drives me into
the region of small philosophies. In the one case
there is the quiet that bustle has made precious,
the leisure which in visiting weather one is apt to
see slip from one's grasp unimproved; a contrast
like that which we feel on turning from the dusty
pathway into the cool shade—a protected shade,
as of a garden, where one locks the gate and looks
up with satisfaction at high walls, impassable by
foot unprivileged. In the other—the contrary
case—we have leisure in sunshine as well as leisure
in the rain; we have abundance of quiet at all
seasons, and no company at any, so that when the
rain comes it can but deprive us of our accustomed
liberty of foot. The pattering sound so famed for

its lulling powers is but too effectual when it falls
on roofs not much above our heads; and the disconsolate
looking cattle, the poor shivering fowls
huddled together under every sheltering covert, and
the continuous snore of cat and dog as they doze
on the mats—all tend towards our infectious
drowsiness, that is much more apt to hint the
dreamy sweetness of a canto or two of the Faery
Queene, than the duteous and spirited exercise of
the pen, even in such service as yours. Yet I have
broken the spell of
by the magic aid of a third reading of your letter.
And now I defy even the

I have forsaken the sofa, and put up the pretty
mignon volume of Spenser, your own gift, and now
I set out resolutely to say nothing at all, in sufficient
expansion to cover this fair sheet.

To begin with the beginning of our cottage—
affairs look more promising. We have had our
“raising,” and within a week the building has
assumed a hopeful distinctness of outline. Two
new carpenters have been procured from—, a
great way off; and two masons with their assistants;
and some lime to replace that which chose
to burn itself up a few weeks since. Oh, we are

certainly getting on finely! The raising was quite
a sight, I assure you, and the rustic feast with
which it concluded had much of interest for us. I
watched every step of the former, and felt some
desire to preside at the latter; but Mrs. Boardman,
at whose house it was held, understood the matter
much better, and gave, I am told, entire satisfaction,
which, I dare say, I could hardly have done. At
least, so whispers my indolence. The corner of
our garden, which John found time to plant, has
yielded us many valuable things for the table, and
just now, the first fruits of a fine bed of melons.
The specimen that he brought in this morning in
triumph quite perfumes the room, and from present
appearances we may expect a hundred such. I
never saw so luxurious a growth, and the fruit is of
such a variety of delicious kinds, that I fancy we
shall scarcely regret your peaches.

I have, as you may recollect, become thoroughly
American in my predilections for the tomato, and
I insisted upon abundant provision of it, much to
John's dissatisfaction. Since the weather has
become so sultry, I make this vegetable almost my
only food, and fancy it to be the most wholesome
in the world. Mr. Sibthorpe takes to himself
great credit for his fortitude in seeing me eat what
is to him an abomination, but I am firm in the
faith that I shall yet make a convert of him. I
fancy he learned to detest tomatoes while he was
in Italy. He has a truly English horror of the

indescribable messes which are found on Italian
tables. I am told by some Western people that a
free use of tomatoes is one of the best preventions
against ague.

You will have perceived before this that these
quiet and prosperous times afford but little of the
stuff that letters are made of. I write principally
to tell you that we are going on so smoothly that
there is nothing to tell. But you will have letters
at all events, and I dare not refuse. If they tire
you, you will be able to console yourself with the
proverb “Heureux le peuple dont l'histoire ennuie.”

Yet I have laughed this morning, and that heartily,
but I fear I shall scarce be able to amuse you
at second hand with what depends altogether
on certain un-writable turns of countenance and
manner. The hero of the occasion was an old
pedler who came jogging along in his hearse-shaped
cart, soon after breakfast, and before this dripping
humor beset the weather. He stopped his cart,
on seeing several men at work, and it was not long
before the laughter of the men, who usually pursue
their business in solemn silence, drew my attention.
The aspect of the pedler secured it, for he was a
personification of Momus. His face was very red,
and of a most grotesque turn, and his nut-cracker
nose and chin were like nobody but Punch. His
gray eyes twinkled through a pair of mock spectacles
made of a strip of tin twisted into the requisite

form, and placed far down his nose, so that he was
obliged to throw his head back in order to look
through them. When I went to the window, he
was enumerating the contents of his covered cart
with a bewildering rapidity, but as soon as he observed
me, he stopped short, pulled off the remains
of an old straw hat, and made a very low bow in
the style of Sir Pertinax, who thought the world
was to be won by “booing.”

“My dear beautiful lady,” said he, “could I
sell you any thing this morning? I sell things for
nothing, and I've got most every thing you ever
heard tell on. Here's fashionable calicoes,”—holding
up a piece of bright scarlet,—“splendid French
work collars and capes,”—and here he displayed
some hideous things, the flowers on which were
distinctly traceable from where I stood,—“elegant
milk-pans, and Harrison skimmers, and ne plus ultry
dippers! patent pills—cure any thing you like—
ague bitters—Shaker yarbs—essences, wintergreen,
peppermint, lobely—tapes, pins, needles,
hooks and eyes—broaches and brasslets—smelling-bottles—castor
ile—corn-plaster—mustard—
garding seeds—silver spoons—pocket-combs—
tea-pots—green tea—saleratus—tracts, song-books—thimbles—baby's
whistles—copy-books,
slates, playin' cards—puddin' sticks—butter-prints—baskets—wooden
bowls—”

“Any wooden nutmegs, daddy?” said one of
the men.

“No, but as I come past I see your father a
turnin' some out o' that piece o' lignum vitæ
you got him last week, so you can get some o'
him,” said the pedler quietly; then turning again
to the window—“Can I suit you to-day, ma'am?
I've all sorts o' notions—powder and shot, (but I
'spose you do all your shootin' at home,) but may
be your old man goes a gunnin'—I sha'n't offer
you lucifers, for ladies with sich eyes never buys
matches,—but you can't ask me for any thing I
haven't got, I guess.”

While I was considering my wants, one of the
men must try a fall with this professed wit.

“Any goose-yokes, mister?” said he.

“I'm afraid I've sold the last, sir; there is so
many wanted in this section of the country. But
I'll take your measure, and fetch you a supply next
time I come along.” This of course produced a
laugh.

“Well! I want a pair o' boots, any how,” said
the prostrate hero, rallying, to show that he was not
discomfited. “These here old ones o' mine lets in
gravel, but won't let it out again. If you've got any
to fit me, I'll look at 'em.” And thus saying he
stretched out a leg of curious wire-drawn appearance.
“Any to fit, old boss?”

“Fit you like a whistle, sir,” said the pedler,
fumbling among his wares, and at length drawing
forth a pair of candle moulds, much to the amusement
of the bystanders.

The rain which had begun to fall now cut short
our conference. I bought a few trifles, and the
pedler received his pay with a bow which was almost
a salaam. Mounting his blue hearse, he drove
off in triumph, not minding the rain, from which
he was completely sheltered by a screen of boughs
fitted in the sides of his wagon, and meeting over
his head,—a protection against sun and rain which
I much admired.

This is the first specimen of Autolycus that I
have seen. There are scores of pedlers travelling
the country, but they are generally grave, business-like
personages, standing much upon their dignity,
or rude and saucy, and disposed to attempt bullying
one into buying. One of the former kind told me
that he was “about retiring from this section of
the country,” and had it “in contemplation to go
to the south.”

So much for my laugh, which I could have justified
more fully if I had been industrious enough to
write out more of my recollections. But indeed,
spite of good resolutions, there is something wilting
in this gentle, uniform, soft-dropping rain. It
takes the energies out of my morale as it does the
starch out of my collars, leaving all alike limpsy—
to use a favorite term of Mrs. Boardman. I
must yield me to the drowsy influences—not
however without having fulfilled my intention of
covering this goodly sheet with “an infinite deal
of nothing.”

Mr. Sibthorpe, who pretends to be busied in
arranging a multitude of accounts and such like
rainy-day improvements, while he is in reality
catching a very consoling nap now and then, is
just now awake enough to beg his duteous remembrances
to your ladyship, with like friendly
greeting to Mr. Williamson and to Mr. Ellis, who
lives in our memories as

Charlotte's little love too, and a larger share

LETTER VIII.
Mr. Sibthorpe to Mr. Williamson.

* * * Ought a letter to be a transcript of
one's better mind, or only of one's present and
temporary humor? If the former, I must throw
away the pen, I fear, for some time to come. If
the latter, I have only to scrawl the single word
AGUE a thousand times on the face of my paper,
or write it once in letters which would cover the
whole surface. I have no other thought, I can
no longer say,

I am deposed, and this vile blue-visaged fiend
has usurped the throne. There he sits with his
yellow eyes and his quivering chin, making hideous
faces at me, and calling up dreams, which might
terrify one far stouter-hearted than I. I see my
wife, pale and ghastly, with filmy eyes, imploring
help, which I cannot give her. My daughter, stiff
—cold dead—the life pressed out of her little
heart by the chill monster. Waves of sorrow,
heavy, tangible, rise to overwhelm me; no friend
remains to cheer my dying pillow. Stretched on
the damp ground I see all around me graves yawning,
and wild shapes impatiently waiting for my

last breath. The clouds teem with lurid fires;
the very light is burning flame, while I shiver with
cold. Horror pursues me—never again, O my
friend, shall this friendly hand—just here came
the sweet voice of my little darling.

“Dear papa,” she said, laying her cool hand on
my forehead, “dear papa, why will you write
when you are so ill? you promised mamma to lie
still on the sofa, if she would go away and get
some rest; and very soon you started up and said
you must write; and ever since, I could hear your
pen, scratch—scratch—so wildly—I am frightened,
papa! shall I call mamma? she always persuades
you to be so quiet—”

It is even as you see, my dear Williamson, and
I shall send this very awful “scratch—scratch,”
that frightened poor little Charlotte, that you may
have some idea of the condition in which one
“comes out” of an ague fit. I had begun to feel
relieved, and thought my fever had subsided, as it
probably would have done, if I had remained quiet.
But the slightest intellectual effort, and particularly
the least indulgence of the imagination, recalls and
redoubles the departing horrors.

I could with difficulty be persuaded by my little
trembler; but after she had enticed me to the sofa
I soon fell asleep, and so remained for two or three
hours, when I awoke quite relieved. And this has
been the course for a fortnight past. However, I
believe I am now quite cured, and I shall endeavor

to provide against a recurrence of the evil by all
sorts of precautions.

The most intelligent people here advocate a depletory
course, and think it safe to use tonics only to
“break” the habit of the disease—not to prevent
it. I would willingly have submitted to be let
blood in the cold stage, (a practice much approved,)
but that, with my constitution, I fear the effects
of a habit of bleeding.

Poor Rose will have nothing effectual done for
the obstinate ague. She has been persuaded by
some of the neighbors that it is dangerous to be
bled, and equally so to take quinine; so she shakes
and burns every other day, and cries and bewails
her hard fate most piteously while the fit is on,
and the moment it is off, feels entirely sure she
never shall have another, and goes to her work
with delighted alacrity. But the poor thing loses
strength perceptibly, and we have now two maids
who attempt to fill her place, poorly enough. John
and his wife both have ague—fortunately on alternate
days, so that they can nurse each other.

But Mrs. Sibthorpe is the nurse of all, besides
doing much to supply the deficiencies in the
clumsy service of the new maids. These treat her
as a sister of the craft, and seem disposed to put
upon her a regular and very liberal share of the
household duties. One of them proposed to her
the other day to assist in the washing, and upon her
replying that she did not know how to wash, held

up her hands and eyes in a paroxysm of virtuous
astonishment.

“Not know how to wash! Well! I should think
it was high time you did! every woman that is a
woman had orter know how to wash.”

Florella, who was highly amused, led the damsel
on by saying that she had not lived where such
things were customary.

“Why! I s'pose somebody washed, didn't they?
I should ha' thought you'd have wanted to help!
Now, the woman I lived with afore I came here was
as pretty a woman to live with as ever I'd wish to
see. Me and her used to work together all the forenoon,
and then after dinner we'd set down and take
comfort, or go and drink tea with some of the
neighbors. That's my notion! There wa'n't no
pride about Mrs. Mucklewain.”

That lady's disinterested admirer, however, has
so much of this same troublesome quality, that I
have written to Detroit to procure some domestics
of a different cast. Florella puts up with this sort
of impertinence with immovable patience and good-humor,
and even declares that the exercise which
she is obliged to take in order to keep things tolerably
comfortable is decidedly beneficial to her health
and spirits. But it is easy to perceive that there
must be an end to this view of the case. This
accumulation of petty cares steals away one's whole
time, and it is too uncongenial not in a little while
to affect the spirits also. But we do not despair.

It can hardly be that this lack of good household
service should prove an insurmountable evil.

It is a standing marvel to me that people, who
are such worshippers of common sense and practical
utility as the Americans, should have made so
prodigious a blunder as to this matter. They will
embrace the most odious, filthy, and debasing callings
for the sake of making money; yet the mere
name of a difference in rank is sufficient to drive
them from one that is comparatively easy, and in all
civilized countries respectable, according to the real
worth of those who exercise in it; while the remuneration
is, or might be large, in comparison with
any thing which the parties could earn in any other
way. In England, though “service is no inheritance,”
according to the proverb, yet it is a very
excellent business; and its rules are as well defined,
and its claims as willingly acknowledged, as those
of any other useful art. The relation between employer
and employed is so well understood, that one
party is as little liable to encroachments as the
other, and there is perhaps no position in which
real worth of character is more certain of securing
due respect than that of a domestic in families of
the middle ranks. Whenever—if ever—this shall
be the case in America, English people of the better
classes will flock to our shores. This is all that is
needed to render the United States a very desirable
residence to those who are crowded out of the
struggling mass in the old world.

In spite of sundry agues and other hindrances
among the workmen, our cottage is nearly finished.
We shall be obliged to wait some little time for the
plastering to dry thoroughly, since I am not disposed
to adopt the theory of some of my neighbors,
who insist that the dampness of new mortar can
never hurt any body. We have begun the unpacking
of the furniture however, and find things in
good order, spite of their long sojourn in an open
shed. The piano-forte is of course untuned, sadly
—every note set up for itself, like the jangling
bells of a Spanish city, and some even divided
within themselves. Florella has fortunately been
taught to tune, as every lady should be who brings
an instrument into the wilds.

October 5.

A most uncomfortable state of confusion has
prevailed since I had proceeded thus far in this
medley. My ague had not done with me, as I
had fondly hoped; but was only waiting to take
fresh breath for a more furious onslaught. I consented
at length to be blooded in the cold stage,
and have not had a fit since—but will refrain from
further prognostics as to recurrence. Besides this,
the free and easy damsel, whose wise sayings you
find reported above, was attacked with fever, and
lay very ill for eight or ten days, during which
time, what with constant attention and night
watches, we were all quite worn out. Some of
the neighbors were ill, and others were afraid the

fever was “ketchin' ” and as I was myself ill nearly
all the time, the burden of affairs came, as usual,
upon Florella. She is quite well, however, and
made very happy by the recovery of the girl, whose
situation was at one time rendered extremely alarming.
We should have sent her home as a matter
of course, but the weather was unfavorable, her
home was a very wretched one, and her attack very
sudden—so that it was scarcely possible without
great inhumanity.

We have now the most charming weather, and
we are enjoying it to the uttermost. I fancy that
sunset in the region of these great lakes is more
miraculously splendid than elsewhere, and certainly
the sun sets nowhere on such woods as those of an
American October. You have seen them, I think;
—if not, one day's drive would repay you for a
journey to Michigan. You have a painter's eye, I
know, and a poet's heart; and fate ought to have
endowed you with unbounded leisure, so that you
might fly a thousand miles to gaze on a glorious
sunset without incurring the imputation of having
shot madly from your sphere on a fool's errand. I
cannot but believe that there are other worlds in
which we shall yet be permitted to enjoy the many
innocent delights for which time and opportunity
are denied us in this. Meanwhile we are making
use of the present, and it does my heart good to see
the light that dances in Florella's eyes, and the
deepening bloom on the cheeks of my little Charlotte,

while we thread every “alley green and bosky
dell” in these boundless glades. Roads are not
of the slightest consequence. We can go as we like
—on foot, in the carriage, or on horseback;—the
elastic sward is like a scarce moistened sponge,
and diversified every where with streaks of velvet
moss; and if one did not find here and there a fallen
tree or a huge branch broken off by the wind
and left to decay as it fell, you might easily fancy
yourself in one of our own sylvan parks, the proud
boast of English wealth. “Vert and venison” are
here in abundance; and we can dispense with enclosure,
since fences of any sort would be sadly in
the way of such insatiable rangers.

My plans and projects of all sorts are of course at
a dead stand for the present; I mean the execution
of them, for as to the projects themselves, a certain
degree of fever only warms them into more luxuriant
life. I have never woven such splendid webs
as during the fever which follows what is called a
slight ague. At such times imagination is often
exalted and memory excited to a surprising degree,
while reason still remains lord of the ascendant,
and makes grave remarks and draws sober inferences,
as the wild pageants flit by. At some such
moment I had a distinct recollection of having seen,
years ago, some mention of the manufacture of indigo
from oak saw-dust,—somewhere in France, I
think,—but further I cannot go. Will you, who
have access to references of all sorts, find out for

me what it is I am thinking of? the piles of that
humble material which now meet my eye every
where, make me feel not a little curious on the
subject.

You may thank or blame the ague for this ladylike
letter. Such moonlight as this would have
been irresistible, but that with moonlight comes
dew, and with dew dampness, and with dampness
certain associations no wise pleasant to one who
has been for weeks either trembling on the verge of
ague, or popping in—

LETTER IX.
Mr. Sibthorpe to Mr. Williamson.

Didn't I say something, in one of my late
letters, about an October landscape? I had not yet
seen a November one in the forest. Since the splendid
coloring of those days has been toned down by
some hard frosts, and all lights and shades blended
into heavenly harmony by the hazy atmosphere of
the delicious period here called “Indian summer,”
Florella and I have done little else but wander
about, gazing in rapture, and wishing we could
share our pleasure with somebody as silly as ourselves.
If the Indians named this season, it must
have been from a conviction that such a sky and
such an atmosphere must be granted as an encouraging
sample of the far-away Isles of Heaven,
where they expect to chase the deer forever unmolested.
If you can imagine a view in which the
magnificent coloring of Tintoretto has been softened
to the taste of Titian or Giorgione, and this
seen through a transparent veil of dim silver, you
may form some notion of our November landscape.

It may have been the effect of this Arcadian
scenery, which seems made for painters and poets,
and which ought to purify the thoughts and exalt

the imagination of every thing endowed with soul,
—it may have been this, more than the simple
reality that gave so touching a character to a funeral
service that I have just witnessed in our
neighborhood. I have seen, as you know, much of
this world's splendid pageantry, never more lavishly
bestowed than in doing honor to the senseless
dust;—I have gazed and listened while royalty
was inurned amid the thundering of cannon, and
the spirit-quelling tones of music, like the voice of
the everlasting grave warning the sons of men of
their inevitable destiny; but no splendid rites ever
possessed the solemnity which seemed to preside
over that hushed assembly of plain men and women
gathered from far and near, at the call of sympathy
alone—sympathy in the fate of a man who
had no claim to their especial regard beyond that
of having needed their assistance while he lived.

He was a man not remarkable in any way;
an easy commonplace insignificant sort of person,
whose lot had been like that of many such
characters—a series of misfortunes unaverted by
any vigorous effort of his own, and gradually
breaking down his spirit, and leaving him at last to
be provided for—first by the kindness of individuals,
and latterly by the public—so that at the
time of his death, he was neither more nor less
than a town pauper. He had been long ill, and
had left a large family utterly destitute, and now
the concourse assembled at his funeral exceeded all

customary gatherings, and the sympathy was deep
and general. It was not regret, for his condition in
life was fixed beyond hope, and he was supposed
to be quite prepared for a change of worlds. Death
had come not in the hideous skeleton form with
which he is endowed by vulgar superstition, but as
a merciful and soft-voiced angel, sent to bear the
soul from pain, and care, and humiliation, to happiness
and repose.

It was pure human sympathy—not hollow
show—not venal parade—but a touching recognition
of a common nature and interest—a spontaneous
vibration of the public heart-strings at the
thought that a man—a brother—God's image
shrined in clay,—one who had acquired respectability
by misfortune, and awakened affection by
needing kindness—was at last gathered to his
rest. I despair of giving you an idea of what
seemed to me to be the all-pervading expression of
the scene,—but I may confess that even I, though
but little given to shedding unaccountable tears,
found myself betrayed into a softness somewhat in
unison with the many sobs which attested the pity
of the crowd.

The discourse which was delivered over the
body was solemn and earnest, and I found much
that was appropriate and likely to be useful, but to
me the effect, as a whole, was marred by the attempt
to frighten people into piety, by means of
the mere bodily terrors of the last hour; an attempt

which implies a departure from the simple
truth, since it is not to be pretended that religious
people dread death less than others. It is however
a common instrument of exhortation, and every
exaggeration of fancy, and even the destructive
agency of superstition, is sometimes resorted to, to
heighten its effect; as if “the bondage through
fear of death,” were not heavy enough already;
or as if life—life temporal and life eternal—did
not furnish a thousand inducements to holiness,
where the death-bed can offer one.

This style of preaching is in use elsewhere, but
I think it is more particularly in vogue in these
newly-settled regions; perhaps because it is supposed
that rough people need more urgency, or
that they will be more easily aroused by what is
addressed to the imagination—an opinion from
which I dissent entirely. Earnestness and simplicity,—the
simplicity of immutable truth, are
the great and only requisites in addressing the uneducated;
and every attempt at mere effect is rejected
at once, by people whose distinctive trait is
plain common sense.

As we rode slowly to the distant burial-place, the
long train of humble vehicles, the delicious atmosphere,
and the soft-toned light—the aspect of the
dying woods and the peculiar nature of the occasion—combined
to excite the imagination to the
utmost; and I found my reveries leading me to the
primal time when the veiled Isis was believed to

welcome the return of her offspring to her mysterious
bosom;—when simple and passionate tragedy
was the outpouring of this same ever-welling
fountain of human sensibilities; and majestic
sculpture gave form and substance to the lofty
creations of the soul—the fruit of vague longings
after immortality. The very simplicity and humbleness
of all the outward circumstances gave a
solemn dignity to the scene; and I never felt such
an overwhelming sense of the equal value of all
souls in the sight of God, as while I watched the
lowering of that rude coffin into the earth.

I returned home in a softened mood, which I
willingly prolong by attempting this sketch of
my feelings, and I claim your indulgence for what
may seem extravagant, on the score of your reiterated
request that I would give you an impartial
transcript of the impressions made on me by the
ordinary course of things in this new world.

The feeling of literal and unmodified equality
which is evinced by such scenes as the one I have
attempted to describe, however beautiful and touching
when applied to the claims of suffering humanity,
takes, it must be confessed, a different shape
when it is brought to bear upon matters of business,
with which it has, it seems to me, no rational
connection. I love the one manifestation, but I
cannot help detesting the other. When my fellow-creatures
through pressure of misfortune require
my aid and sympathy, God forbid that I should

bring into account the difference which circumstances
may have placed between us, as an apology
for neglect or unkindness; but in transactions
which are conducted on business principles, and in
which every particular is specifically bargained
and paid for, I must acknowledge, that continual
attempts at encroachments and imposition are very
annoying, and go near to provoke one into condemning
the whole system, as subversive of good
faith and good order. If a friend promises me his
assistance on some particular occasion, and afterwards
finds himself constrained to disappoint me,
I can readily accept his apology, since the promise
was only a favor; but if I agree with a workman
for a certain stipulated price to perform a specified
amount of labor at a fixed time, I can ill bear to
see my business neglected, and to be told in extenuation
that home affairs required his attention, or
that another man's business was more pressing than
mine, or that there had been a previous engagement
which was forgotten until now. Yet all this
has not unfrequently occurred during my operations
here; while any delay on my part would
have been resented as an imposition, and probably
have brought the law upon me immediately, though
public opinion would have been decidedly adverse
to my attempting to obtain redress for these incessantly
violated engagements. A very one-sided
equality, certainly! And the same views prevail
as to domestic service; a strict and punctual
compliance with the letter of the engagement is
exacted on one side, and an unlimited discretion
exercised on the other. A person on whom you
depend for the main business of your household
will quit you in the midst of illness or during the
stay of visitors, and that without a moment's warning;
feeling quite satisfied with saying in reply to
your remonstrances, “Well! I thought I could stay
—but you see, our folks wants me to hum, and so
I've got to go!”

But I am falling into the scolding line, one in
which I do not often indulge, and which, indulged,
certainly unfits one for making the best of things
as they are. We have, just now, two very decent
maids, besides poor Rose, who, with all her feebleness,
is invaluable as a balance-wheel. John and
Sophy are pretty much self-absorbed; and have
imbibed so much of the spirit of the country, that
they seem ever on the watch lest I should remember
that they called me master for five years, at
home. The English of that class do not bear very
meekly the change in their condition when they
become independent farmers in the new world.
Their children will take equality more moderately
and more rationally, for they will enjoy some advantages
of education, which their parents never had.

Florella's love and my own to you and yours.
The new house and its arrangements suit us extremely

well, and with some society such as we
could select, would leave us little to desire as a
residence. I trust you are thinking seriously of a
flight across the lakes for a summer at least.

LETTER X.
Mrs. Sibthorpe to Mrs. Williamson.

I have grown very lazy of late,—so much so,
that even letter-writing has become quite a task.
Perhaps it is only that I so much prefer flying over
this fine, hard, smooth snow in a sleigh, that I feel a
chill of impatience at in-door employment. I make
a point of duty of Charlotte's daily lessons, but beyond
that I am but idle just now. The weather
has been so excessively cold for some days that we
have had much ado to keep comfortably warm, even
with the aid of great stoves in the hall and kitchen,
and bountiful wood fires elsewhere. These wood
fires are the very image of abundance, and they are
so enlivening that I am becoming quite fond of
them, though they require much more attention than
coal, and will, occasionally, snap terribly, even to the
further side of the room, though the rug is generally
the sufferer. An infant of one of our neighbors was
badly burned, a day or two since, by a coal which
flew into the cradle at a great distance from the
fire. I marvel daily that destructive fires are not
more frequent, when I see beds surrounded with
light cotton curtains so near the immense fires

which are kept in log-houses. How much more
rational would be worsted hangings!

It is no uncommon thing to employ a horse to
bring in the back-log, and the fire is built in due
proportion to this foundation. I cannot describe to
you my astonishment, when I was sitting by a
sick woman, at seeing her husband coolly drive his
horse into the room; and I was scarcely less surprised
when I saw the prodigious log which followed
at no great distance, fastened in a great chain.
The animal seemed to understand his business
very well, and after he had backed the log into
a convenient position on the hearth, and felt himself
free from it, he walked quietly out of the
back-door, which had been set open for his egress.

This sharp frost, though rather inconvenient at
home, makes fine sleighing. The sun shines
brightly, but seems to have no effect upon the
crackling snow. The runners whistle as they
skim over the smooth track, and the horses are as
much inspirited as we by the keen air and the
exciting rapidity of motion, so that they go like
winged creatures, their feet seeming scarcely to
touch the dazzling sheen. Of all the delightful
modes of conquering space, this is surely the most
delightful, and to me it has almost the charm of
novelty, for city sleighing, with its thousand hinderances
and dangers, is but a poor attempt at such
a bewitching flight. Dancing has been called the
poetry of motion, but I think sleighing, in the true,

free, forest style, deserves that praise still better.
You should see one of our fine, tall, elastic young
woodsmen, in his close cap and trim costume, a
gay sash streaming behind him, standing in his
sleigh, and skimming along the path, holding the
reins with a careless natural grace, and seeming
scarce conscious that his fiery steeds are at full
speed, though the air is full of the sparkling fragments
thrown up by their dashing hoofs. You
would find in the picture no inelegant representation
of the car of Apollo with Phaeton for a
charioteer at the very least, though this last is all
too poor a comparison, since our youthful aspirants
might be trusted with the day-god's own team.

Oh! sleighing for me, beyond all the exhilarating
devices that have ever yet sprung from man's
teeming brain. Railroad speed is so nullified by
the mechanical means necessary for its production,
that it is mere rambling dulness compared
with sleighing. And then the splendor of the
landscape—every branch loaded with piled silver
—every twig sheathed in crystal—and earth's
broad bosom, covered with a mantle of immaculate
purity, inlaid throughout with diamond sparks that
dazzle the eye, which is yet fascinated by their
twinkling brilliancy.

Once lately we had a mingling of something
!else with the usual pleasurable excitement of a
sleigh-ride. We were going twenty miles or so to
dine with our friends the C—s, and for variety's

sake tried a newly-opened road through the woods.
The sunlight was splendid, the way had been well-enough
tracked, and we found the sleighing excellent,
and the shifting shadows of the overhanging
trees a very charming feature of the new route.

We had made perhaps half the distance, when
we met a prodigious “saw-log,”—that is, the huge
trunk of a tree, drawn by oxen, on its way to the
mill. This great body enjoys royal privileges on
the highway, for it could not turn out without a
certainty of turning over;—so, the track being but
single, ours was the task of finding a way through
the deep snow at the side of the road. To effect
this, our man and the other were obliged to plunge
in and make a path for the horses by buffeting and
trampling the snow as well as they could, a matter
of no small difficulty, as it was nearly breast-high
in some hollow places. Then the horses were led
forward through this devious track, plunging and
snorting, and showing no little reluctance to such
cold swimming; and at last landing us safely on
the road again, at the expense of a dip which nearly
overturned the sleigh. We were scarcely calmed
down after this excitement, when we met another
log, and had all the plunging, and tacking, and dipping,
over again, but still regained our track in
safety. I was beginning to confess that I was not
at all sorry that we had passed the saw-logs, when
another came in sight, and I begged to be allowed
to alight and make the passage afoot.

To this there were a thousand objections;—I
should get very cold—perhaps freeze my feet, and
certainly encounter a great deal of unnecessary
fatigue. I saw that Mr. Sibthorpe was very much
annoyed by my alarm, and our driver confidently
asserted that we were perfectly safe; so I thought
of my reputation, and crouching down in the very
bottom of the sleigh, submitted to my fate with
the best face I could command. Another log
passed, and yet another, and at length I ventured
to ask one of the men how many were behind, as
they seemed all of one party.

“Why! I guess there an't more than a dozen
or so,” said he. I would fain have turned back;
but in that case, we must either have repassed all
that had gone on, or have travelled at their snail's
pace; so I said nothing, but cried a little behind
my veil. By and by, we absolutely saw the last
one, and this being once ascertained, I took my
proper seat, and set about behaving like a lady
once more, though my nerves were more in a flutter
than is becoming in a backwoodswoman. I
tried to laugh off the whole affair, and declared
that it would be pleasant to look back upon, as a
novelty in our woodland experience.

But what saith the sensible proverb, about not
exulting till you get out of the wood? I forget,
but I commend its practical bearing none the less.
We had scarcely a mile yet to go when we encountered
an apparition yet more appalling than a

saw-log—an immense herd of unruly cattle driven
by two or three men on horseback. No sooner
did I become sensible of the approach of this tremendous
looking cortége, the drivers cracking their
whips and shouting wildly to preserve command
of their riotous charge, than my newly-built fabric
of fortitude crumbled into very dust, and I shrieked
and cried like a naughty baby. We had none the
less to go through the whole drove, and as they
went stumbling and plunging by, their feet were
often on a level with the top of our sleigh, as they
trod on the crusts of the high banks at the side of
the road; and although Mr. Sibthorpe and our
Phaeton stood up and kept them from absolutely
trampling on us, yet their too close neighborhood
and their fierce threatening aspect finished the disgrace
of your poor friend. I remember nothing
more until I found myself stretched on the floor in
Mrs. C.'s parlor, with half the household engaged in
recalling my scattered wits. Tell it not, after all
my boasting; but make all the charitable allowance
you can. * * *

We returned by the common road, you may be
sure. My high aspirings were completely humbled,
yet I did not the less enjoy the exquisite
moonlight by which we came home; but in spite
of past terrors, sang and laughed, and could, but for
very shame, have screamed like a child, in ecstasy
at the heavenly splendor of the scene.

Do not imagine I set Charlotte such a bad example

as that of these riotous spirits that I describe
to you. She, dear child! was enjoying the ride in
her own way; lying fast asleep in her father's lap
all the way home.

Write oftener. I thirst for letters. If you had
ever spent a winter in the country, with frozen
lakes lying between you and the busy world, you
would need no urging, I am sure.

LETTER XI.
Mrs. Sibthorpe to Mrs. Williamson.

Once more, with pen in hand, dearest Catharine;
and oh, how glad and how thankful to find
myself so well and so happy! I could have written
you a week ago, but Mr. Sibthorpe, who is indeed
a sad fidget, as I tell him every day, locked
up pen, ink, and paper, most despotically, leaving
me to grumble like Baron Trenck or any other
important prisoner. To-day the interdict is taken
off, and I must spur up my lagging thoughts, or I
shall not have said forth half my say before I shall
be reduced to my dormouse condition again.

I dare not begin with any other subject than the
boy, lest the writing materials should be locked up
for another month; but I shall leave all particulars
to your imagination, or to Mr. Sibthorpe's indefatigable
pen. I see in the new comer only a very
hungry citizen, who bids fair to be robust enough
not to discredit his birthplace, and who already
claims the rule of the house—rather prematurely,
as I think. He is well cared for, by a stout dame,
who has had abundant experience; and I interfere
very little with her management, being rather occupied
in stealing lessons against the time when I may
very likely be obliged to take the sole care of him.

The spring has opened charmingly. The early
bulbs are all fully blown, and a beautiful perennial,
here called the Ohio bluebell, a far larger plant
than the one we know by that name;—and the
flowering currant, a climbing shrub, already strung
with golden, clove-scented wreaths, looking at a
little distance like miniature laburnum. Some of
our neighbors have fruit-trees in blossom, and currants
already formed, in distinct clusters. We must
wait a year or two for ours. The wheat has already
taken the hue of the richest emerald—the
most beautiful green indeed that it is possible to
conceive; and the grass is beginning to emulate it,
in spots where that has been improved by cultivation.
Wild grass does not spring so early, except
in moist situations. The cows have been picking
a little on the marshes, for a week or two past, but
the pastures near us are still rather brown.

The trees do not yet begin to wear the least
tinge of green, which rather disappoints me, as I
had always supposed they kept pace with the grass.
The fallows are silvered over with strawberry blossoms,
rich promise for June. The asparagus beds
of an old settler in the neighborhood have been in
cutting order for ten days or more.

So much for the country chronicle for April,
which I dare say will find you in deep deliberation
upon spring ribbons or the last light mantilla. My
preparations for enjoying spring have been a pair
of very stout shoes, water proof; and a great bonnet

braided of oat-straw by a good lady of my
neighbors. These, with a pair of indescribable
gloves, will furnish me forth for public appearance
for some time to come.

I wish you could have been here this morning,
when I had a visit from an old woman who is my
adviser in perilous emergencies, such as the contumacious
refusal of a turkey hen to sit still on
her eggs, or the obstinacy of a caldron of soap, refusing
to “come,” and so justifying the opinion of
some ingenious philologist that the term soap is a
contraction of “so hap,” betokening the uncertainty
attending the manufacture. This good dame dabbles
in half the circle of sciences, and when I ask
for information on any particular point, I always
get a vast deal of gratuitous information. This
morning the matter in hand was Charlotte's wrist,
which she scraped badly in falling out of her swing
a day or two ago. The place looked so angry this
morning that I sent for old Mrs. Lettsom in her
surgical capacity.

“Land o' Goshen!” said the good woman, holding
up both her hands, when Charlotte, with doleful
eyes, unwrapped her arm, “why, that does look
perfectly awful! I never see sich a one but once
since I was born, and that was Miss Taylor's, and
she came nigh hevin' to hev' her hand took off!”

Charlotte looked at me, perfectly aghast, and
began to cry sadly.

“Law me!” said Mrs. Lettsom, “don't you be

scar't! I can cure ye! I've cured worse things than
that. I cured Miss Taylor's, quick as wink! Jist
smash up everlastin'; and lay on a good mess of it,
and it'll get the information out on't like witch-craft!”

This sounds like a stupendous operation, but a
little inquiry brought to light the true nature of
Mrs. Lettsom's “everlastin',” which is only a soft
cooling herb much cultivated in these regions.

This being disposed of, I had the usual discursive
lecture.

“That everlastin',” said the good woman, “is a
prime thing to wrap up the axe in, after you've
cut yourself a choppin'. As long as that keeps
moist, the wound'll keep cool and easy. The bees
knows the good of it, for when they've been a
fightin', you'll always see 'em a huntin' for everlastin',
if there is any, and they go and get it for to
heal 'em up. But bees is dreadful knowin' critters!
They understand what you say jist as well
as any body. If there's any body dies in the house,
they'll all go away if you don't take no notice on
'em; but if you go and talk to 'em, and tell 'em
that sich a one is dead, (calling him by name,) and
hang a black cloth over the hive, and tell the bees
if they'll stay you'll do well by 'em, why, they'll
stay, and go to work peaceable. And if there's
dissension in a house, the hives ought to be set a
great way off, down in the garden, so that the bees
can't hear what is said. There was the Johnsons

down in Austerlitz; there was a division in their
family, and the bees began to grow dreadful uneasy,
and hardly made any honey; but by-'n-by, one
day, Johnson gin' his wife a whippin', and the bees
all flew away. And, any how, bees won't never
thrive well unless you talk with 'em; you must
take your knittin' work and go and sit by 'em, and
tell 'em things, and talk about the neighbors and
sich, or they'll get lonesome and discouraged, and
your honey'll be all bee-bread. Now, honey is
one o' the best things you can have in your family,
for it's good sweetnin' for any thing—cake or
coffee, or any thing. You take a table-spoonful
of coffee to five quarts of water, and sweeten it well
with honey, and bile it about an hour, and it'll be
as good coffee as any body need to wish to drink.
To be sure it gives some folks the corry-mobbley,
but I know how to cure that, jist as easy! Take
and stew angle-worms, and spread a plaster on 'em,
and lay it on your stomick, and drink red-pepper
tea bilin' hot, and see how quick the pain'll leave
ye!”

But here comes my master with a brow of ominous
anxiety; so I must break off my gossip for today,
though I feel I shall forget before to-morrow
sundry recipes with which I meant to have enriched
your collection.

April 24.

* * * What do I hear, my dear Catharine?
are you really serious in your idea of going abroad?

Oh, how that will break in upon my pleasant
dreams! To say nothing of my hope of visiting
the city before a great while, the very landscape
looks distasteful to me when I think that you are
not to gaze upon it with me for these three years
at least! I know I ought not to complain, but I
must lament my sad disappointment. This world's
course is so full of uncertainty, that a three years'
separation is a serious matter, since it makes reunion
hardly a thing to be depended upon. You
think it will benefit your children, and so it may,
doubtless, in many respects; but if they are to live
in America, would it not be better to bring them
up here? I think I have not observed among
those Americans who were sent abroad for their
early education, very favorable results. But these
are selfish views perhaps. I am not a good judge
when the question under discussion involves a separation
from you. * * * * Do you know, I
never sing our dear old song, “Love not,” without
such tender recollections that I have learned to
reserve it for the lonely hour when I can indulge
my reminiscences without witness? You remember
it, dearest Kate, do you not? or has the stream of
new music swept it away? “Love not! love not!
the thing you love may change!” We never
thought of the timid caution—and why should
we? Sing it for my sake, and keep it sacred, as I
do, till we meet again. Oh! must it be so
long? * * * *