University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THANKSGIVING DINNER.

As they quitted the house, the old friends of the
Romillys and boyish acquaintances of Sidney thronged
about him to shake hands and congratulate his return;
and those who had never seen him, being anxious to
watch the meeting between such friends, he was very
soon surrounded by nearly all the assembly.

A considerable portion of the attention, however, was
directed towards Mr. Frankford, who, fatigued, both
from the length of the services and the crowd, gladly
accepted the invitation of Mrs. Romilly to walk home
with her. “For there is no telling,” said she, “when
Sidney will get away, so many want to see him, and I
am afraid the turkey will be over-roasted.”

Together, therefore, they walked homeward, but Mrs.
Romilly's mind being so intent on her preparations for
supper, that she could talk of nothing else, the Englishman
found no opportunity of censuring, as he had intended,
the sentiments of the preacher, and criticising
his style and manner.

About half an hour elapsed before the return of Squire
Romilly and his sons, and in that time every thing had
been arranged for the dinner.

Although the description of a feast is a kind of literary
treat, which I never much relished, and hope my
readers do not, yet as this was a thanksgiving entertainment,
one which was never before, I believe, served up
in style to novel epicures, I may venture to mention some

of the peculiarities of the festival, without being suspected
of imitating those profound and popular writers
who make a good stomach the criterion of good taste;
and instead of allowing their characters to display their
sentiments in conversation, make them eat to display
their appetites. Such authors might very well dispense
with all but two characters in their books—a cook to
dress their dinners, and a hero to devour them.

And now for our Thanksgiving dinner. A long table,
formed by placing two of the ordinary size together, was
set forth in the parlor; which being the best room, and
ornamented with the best furniture, was seldom used,
except on important occasions. The finishing of the
parlor was in a much better manner than that of any
other apartment in the house; the wood work was painted
cream color, and the plaster walls ornamented with paper
hangings of gay tints and curious devices.

Over the mantel-piece hung two paintings, executed
by Sophia and Lucy, representing scenes from the Shepherdess
of the Alps. A connoisseur in the art would
undoubtedly have seen faults in both pieces, on which
he might have displayed his critical acumen to advantage.
He might have objected that the shepherd was
nearly black, and the shepherdess very blue—her nose,
and not her stockings—that the sheep resembled wolves,
and the rocks coffins; but such profane things never had
been said of them, for they had been examined only by
those who, having the landscape of nature always before
their eyes, require something both strange and new in an
exhibition of art. They had therefore not only escaped
all censure, but even excited rapturous praise.

The furniture of the parlor consisted of a mahogany
sideboard and table, a dozen handsome chairs, a large
mirror, the gilt frame covered with green gauze to prevent
injury from dust and flies; and on the floor was a
substantial, home-manufactured carpet, woven in a curious
manner, and blended with all the colors of the rainbow.
Seldom were the junior members of the family
allowed the high privilege of stepping on this carpet,

excepting at the annual festival; and their joy at the
approaching feast was considerably heightened by the
knowledge that it would be holden in the best room.

The table, covered with a damask cloth, vieing in
whiteness, and nearly equaling in texture, the finest
imported, though spun, woven and bleached by Mrs.
Romilly's own hand, was now intended for the whole
household, every child having a seat on this occasion;
and the more the better, it being considered an honor for
a man to sit down to his Thanksgiving dinner surrounded
by a large family. The provision is always sufficient for
a multitude, every farmer in the country being, at this
season of the year, plentifully supplied, and every one
proud of displaying his abundance and prosperity.

The roasted turkey took precedence on this occasion,
being placed at the head of the table; and well did it
become its lordly station, sending forth the rich odor of
its savory stuffing, and finely covered with the froth of
the basting. At the foot of the board, a sirloin of beef,
flanked on either side by a leg of pork and loin of mutton,
seemed placed as a bastion to defend innumerable bowls
of gravy and plates of vegetables disposed in that quarter.
A goose and pair of ducklings occupied side stations on
the table; the middle being graced, as it always is on
such occasions, by that rich burgomaster of the provisions,
called a chicken pie. This pie, which is wholly formed
of the choicest parts of fowls, enriched and seasoned with
a profusion of butter and pepper, and covered with an
excellent puff paste, is, like the celebrated pumpkin pie,
an indispensable part of a good and true Yankee Thanksgiving;
the size of the pie usually denoting the gratitude
of the party who prepares the feast. The one now displayed
could never have had many peers. Frankford
had seen nothing like it, and recollected nothing in
description bearing a comparison, excepting the famous
pie served up to the witty King Charles II., and containing,
instead of the savory chicken, the simple knight.

Plates of pickles, preserves and butter, and all the
necessaries for increasing the seasoning of the viands to

the demand of each palate, filled the interstices on the
table, leaving hardly sufficient room for the plates of the
company, a wine glass and two tumblers for each, with
a slice of wheat bread lying on one of the inverted tumblers.
A side table was literally loaded with the preparations
for the second course, placed there to obviate
the necessity of leaving the apartment during the repast.

The Romillys had no domestic, properly speaking; their
only help was a pauper maiden, known as “old Hester.”
She was blind of one eye, utterly shiftless, and with such
a crooked temper that her relations could do nothing
with her. They were poor and shiftless too; so “old
Hester” had to be supported by the town. She was the
only pauper in Northwood, and made as much trouble
for the public, and more talk, than would a work-house
of paupers in England; because there paupers are of no
consequence. Old Hester made herself felt in every
department; and Squire Romilly had been so annoyed
with her complaints, and complaints about her, that he
told her one day she might come and live with Mrs.
Romilly a month or two, and he should then know who
was in fault. So Hester came; and partly because she
wished to prove her accusers had been wrong, but chiefly
because the Romilly family always called her “Miss
Hester,” and treated her with much respect, she had done
her very best, and so improved her ways, that Squire
Romilly informed the town officers “he would keep her
for the present without any charge on the public;” and
so Northwood had no pauper.

This had happened about five years before our
Thanksgiving dinner, and Miss Hester was still in the
family, but had gone to eat her dinner with her sister, as
every one must go to their own on Thanksgiving Day;
and so the Romillys had to wait on themselves.

There was a huge plum pudding, custards and pies
of every name and description ever known in Yankee
land; yet the pumpkin pie occupied the most distinguished
niche. There were also several kinds of rich cake, and
a variety of sweetmeats and fruits.

On the sideboard was ranged a goodly number of
decanters and bottles; the former filled with currant wine,
and the latter with excellent cider and ginger beer—a
beverage Mrs. Romilly prided herself on preparing in
perfection. There were no foreign wines or ardent
spirits, Squire Romilly being a consistent moralist; and
while he deprecated the evils an indulgence in their use
was bringing on his countrymen, and urged them to correct
the pernicious habit, he practiced what he preached.
Would that all declaimers against intemperance followed
his example.

Such, as I have attempted to describe, was the appearance
of the apartment and the dinner when Mr. Frankford,
ushered by his host, and followed by Sidney and
the whole family, entered and took their stations around
the table.

The blessing which “the saint, the father, and the
husband” now fervently besought, was not merely a form
of words, mechanically mumbled over to comply with an
established custom, or perform an irksome duty. It was
the breathings of a good and grateful heart acknowledging
the mercies received, and sincerely thanking the
Giver of every good gift for the plenteous portion he had
bestowed. And while enumerating the varied blessings
with which the year had been crowned, Squire Romilly
allowed to the return of the long absent child, and expressed
his joy in thus, once more, being permitted to
gather all his dear family around his table, his voice
quivered;—but the tear which fell slowly down his
cheek was unnoted by all save Frankford; the others
were endeavoring to repress or conceal their own emotion.

The eating of the dinner then commenced in earnest.
There was little of ceremony, and less of parade; yet the
gratified hospitality, the obliging civility and unaffected
happiness of this excellent family, left on the heart of
the foreigner a lasting impression of felicity, while the
recollection of many a splendid fete in gorgeous halls had
passed away.

The conversation during the repast, though chiefly

employed in comparing the respective qualities of the
several dishes, and explaining the manner of their preparation,
was more interesting than a discussion of the
same subjects would have been at a nobleman's table;
because those who supported or listened to the discourse,
were more immediately concerned in the decision of the
various questions proposed, and more gratified by the
eulogiums which the quality of the provisions and the
perfection of the cookery received from the two guests.
Mrs. Romilly attended particularly to them, helping them
to the choicest bits, and replenishing their plates so often
and so bountifully that the appetite of the Englishman,
craving as it had been, was completely satiated. Yet he
could not forget how hungry he had been, and while refusing
the “pudding which Lucy had made,” and the
“custard Sophia had prepared,” he looked around on the
still loaded table, with a kind of sorrowful disappointment
that he must leave so many good things untasted.

“Our wine,” said Squire Romilly, smiling, while he
placed a decanter of his currant preparation before Mr.
Frankford, “is not the precise kind to which you have
been accustomed. For your sake, I wish it were champagne
or old Madeira.”

“Thank you,” replied Frankford, “and why not for
your own sake? You have undoubtedly sufficient discrimination
to prefer the best.”

“If what we prefer be the best,” replied the Squire,
“I shall certainly give the palm to my currant. The
fashionably discriminating taste of appetite is entirely
acquired. And the fastidiousness which rejects the
wholesome because it is common, and prizes only the
rare, dear and far-fetched, is the offspring of whim or
vanity.”

“It may be so,” returned the other, “yet I think it no
small privilege to have been taught that fashionably discriminating
taste, as you term it. It always accompanies
refinement of manners. The Greenlander may prefer
his draught of oil, or the Highlander his whisky; their
preferences are as much acquired tastes as my own, yet

I fancy you, sir, would sooner conform to mine than
theirs.”

“Their tastes are acquired by necessity,” said the
Squire; “they have no choice. Their situation or their
poverty deprives them of all opportunities of discriminating.
No such necessity governs us. But I think it
becomes the people of a great and free country, to consider
well the effect which the indulgence in foreign luxuries
may have on their own character, and the high
privileges committed to their trust. The Greek and
Roman legislators frequently enacted sumptuary laws,
restraining the extravagance of fashion and the excesses
of appetite. We depend for decency, sobriety, order, and
economy, on the good sense, cultivated reason, and enlightened
patriotism of our citizens. Excessive luxury
and rational liberty were never yet found compatible.”

All true born and bred Americans, Yankees in particular,
are fond of argument. Their reasoning faculties
are constantly excited by canvassing the merits of rival
candidates for their frequent elections, and sharpened by
the necessity they find or make of often engaging in political
controversies; add to this their liberty of conscience,
which gives every man full power to form or
defend his own religious creed by the light and strength
of his own understanding, and we shall be convinced
that the force of circumstances alone would operate to
give them dexterity and tact in supporting their own
opinions, or refuting those of an antagonist.

The circulation, too, of newspapers and other periodicals
throughout every part of the country, and their perusal
by almost every individual, diffuse a knowledge
of all passing events, and impart a tone of intelligence
to the society even of the humblest orders, which the
mass of European inhabitants do not display.

Men are fond of doing what they are conscious of performing
well, and Squire Romilly, although of a most
liberal and conciliating temper, had been too often victorious
in the war of argument not to feel he had strength
for the encounter; and he was probably more gratified

with the turn the conversation had unexpectedly taken,
than he would have been, had the Englishman, by complimenting
his currant wine, and preferring it to champagne
or old Madeira, precluded the necessity of reply.

“And do you imagine, sir,” said Frankford, laughing
heartily, while he set down the glass he had just emptied,
“that currant wine or ginger-beer are at all connected
with the preservation of your liberties?”

“If you had been in this country forty years ago,”
answered the Squire, with equal good humor, “would
you have imagined the article of tea could have had any
influence in accelerating our independence? Yet, had
your East India company kept their tea at home, or your
parliament possessed three pennyworths more of wisdom,
we might, till this day, have been a colony of Great
Britain. Small causes often produce great effects; and
the fate of nations, as well as individuals, is decided or
materially altered by such trifles as we scarcely think
worthy notice.”

“But your clergyman proved to-day, and plainly, as
he thought, I presume, that the separation of these states
from the mother country was an excellent affair for us
Englishmen. By a parity of reasoning, I can demonstrate
that the introduction of foreign luxuries, will advance
your prosperity. It will increase your trade, and
by that means augment the revenue of your government;
these surplus revenues may be expended in public improvements,
and thus your country, by becoming more
polished and respectable, will offer greater inducements
to our fugitives and exiles to make it their asylum and
home.”

There might have been a little acrimony in the emphasis
which Mr. Frankford laid on particular words in
the last observation, but the gay laugh with which it
concluded, seemed to pledge that it was not spoken in
anger nor intended as an insult; and the Squire proceeded,
without noticing it, to descant on temperance
and industry, and on the necessity of inculcating the

practice of these virtues on the rising generation, till
Mr. Frankford archly interrupted him.

“You must then,” said he, “abolish your Thanksgivings
entirely, for who can practice temperance when
set down to such a table as this? If you were a hermit,
and our meal had been roots and water, I might have
listened, much edified, to your discourse; but now, sir,
I confess my excellent dinner has totally disqualified me
from receiving any benefit from a homily on temperance;
nor can you, while placing me in the midst of temptation,
wonder if I fall into the snare.”

“Well, well,” replied the Squire, laughing, “I may at
least recommend industry, for all this variety you have
seen before you on the table, excepting the spices and
salt, has been furnished from my own farm and procured
by our own labor and care.”

“If that be the case,” returned Frankford, looking
around on the various and complicated dishes with a
half incredulous stare, “you are privileged to enjoy
them. The fruits of his own labor every man may surely
partake. You think the indulgence in domestic luxuries
perfectly innocent?”

“No; but I think them less dangerous and less apt to
be indulged to excess. And the exertion to procure
them cherishes a spirit of patriotism, independence, and
devotion. We should love our native land were it a
sterile rock; but we love it better when to our cultivation
it yields an ample increase; and the farmer, instead
of sighing for foreign dainties, looks up to heaven, and
depends on his own labors; and when they are crowned
with a blessing, he thanks God, as tens of thousands
throughout our State are doing this day. Let us join
our voices with theirs.”

“So saying, he arose, and the whole family with him.
The thanks of the Romillys were sincere, but the Englishman,
who had never, at a dinner party, been accustomed
to quitting the table in such an abrupt manner,
and had expected—though he knew there was nothing
to drink but currant wine and ginger-beer—to sit an

hour or two after the ladies had withdrawn, was too
much surprised to listen to thanks. He stood stock still
in his place till the family were all in motion removing
the dishes, Mrs. Romilly all the time hurrying and bidding
the girls “make haste and clear away the things
and do up the chores, or we shall certainly be late at the
wedding.”

Mr. Frankford then walked to a window to conceal
the mirth he could not suppress at the unfashionable
ending of the feast.

“But,” thought he, “they have done as well as they
know how, and better than I could have expected in
this wild place.”

After the removal of the things, coffee was brought
in and served round by Oliver and Harvey. This was
an innovation—coffee not being usually taken after a
Yankee dinner. Mrs. Romilly explained the matter by
telling the foreigner, who had taken a seat beside her,
that it was done at Sidney's desire: “and really,” said
she, “I think I shall like the fashion very well, for coffee
always settles my head so nicely.”

They then began to arrange for the wedding. The
distance from Squire Romilly's to the dwelling of Deacon
Jones, was about half-a-mile, and the evening being a
beautiful one, with a good moon, they all preferred walking.
Mrs. Romilly, however, insisted that Mr. Frankford
must ride.

“You have been to meeting,” said she, “and you look
pale, and if you get too fatigued and catch cold, it may
bring on a relapse. No, no, you must ride. James, get
out the chaise, and Sophia may ride too—she is tired.”

Sophia's cheeks were crimson, while she declared she
“should walk with Sidney.”

“Well, then,” replied the good mother, “I'll ride with
Mr. Frankford myself, and carry Lydia; the poor child
wants to see the wedding as much as any of us.”

The Englishman was fain to acquiesce in this arrangement,
but the look he directed towards Sophia declared,

unequivocally, that he would willingly have exchanged
two for one.

It was dusk when they started. Silas had been gone
an hour, and Mrs. Romilly more than once regretted that
they were so late. It was not that she feared the ceremony
would commence before their arrival, but her habits
of industry made her always feel in a hurry to have
every thing performed, in which she was at all concerned,
immediately.

Such promptness is an excellent thing in a housewife,
but when it degenerates into teasing impatience, it is very
uncomfortable in a companion.