 | CHAPTER XIII. Forest life |  |
13. CHAPTER XIII.
Will well become such sweet complaining grievance.
Shakspere.
Most lamentably amusing was the distress of
Miss Angelica when it became necessary to concert
measures for passing a night in a crowded log-cabin.
The prospect was not a very comfortable one, but
the view taken of its horrors by these city people
was so ludicrously exaggerated that I am sure no
spectator could help laughing. The philosophy
that cannot stand one night's rough lodging should
never travel west of Lake Erie. Not that the
lodging any where in these Western wilds is likely
to be found more really uncomfortable than is often
the lot of visitors at the Springs during crowded
seasons; but fashionable sufferings are never quite
intolerable.
The sleeping arrangements were of a more perplexing
character than those which had been fortunately
devised for the tea. There were two large
beds and a trundle-bed, and these, with a scanty
supply of bedding, comprised our available means;
and besides our tea-party, two little boys had come
dripping home from school to add to our numbers.
After much consultation, many propositions, and not
of our civil entertainers, it was concluded to
put the two large beds close together in order to
enlarge their capabilities, and this extensive couch
was to hold all the “women-folks” and some of the
children. The trundle-bed by careful stowage took
the little ones; and for the old gentleman, a couch
of buffalo-robes and carriage-cushions was skilfully
prepared by none other than the forgiving Mr.
Butts, who seemed disposed to forget past rebuffs,
and to exert himself very heartily in the public
service. This disinterested individual was perfectly
content to repose Indian fashion, with his feet
to the fire, and any thing he could get for a pillow;
and the master of the house stretched himself out
after the same manner.
When all was done, Mrs. Gaston made the ordinary
cotton-sheet-partition for the benefit of those
who chose to undress; and then began to prepare
herself for the rest which I am sure she needed.
All seemed well enough for weary travellers, and
at any rate, these poor people had done their best.
I hoped that all fault-finding would soon be hushed
in sleep.
But it became evident ere long that Miss Margold
did not intend to become a person of so small consequence.
She had disturbed her father several
times by requests for articles from different parts
of the luggage, without which she declared she
could not think of going to bed. She had received
without offering the slightest service in return, and
now, when all her ingenuity seemed to be exhausted,
she suddenly discovered that it would be in
vain for her to think of sleeping in a bed where
there were so many people, and she decided on
sitting up all night.
A silence expressive of the deepest consternation
held the assembly bound for some seconds. This
was first broken by a long, low, expressive whistle
from Mr. Butts, but the remembrance of past mischance
bridled his tongue.
“Do you think you could sleep here, my dear?”
inquired Mr. Margold from his snug nest in the
corner.
The young lady almost screamed with horror.
“Never mind, my darling,” said the mamma, “I
will sit in the rocking-chair by the fire, and you
shall have plenty of room.”
“Oh no, ma! that will never do—why can't
the woman sit up? I dare say she's used to it.”
This was said in a loud whisper which reached
every body's ears—but no reply was made.
Mrs. Margold and her daughter whispered together
for some time further, and the result was
that the lady drew one of the beds apart from the
other, which movement caused Mrs. Gaston's little
girl to roll out upon the floor with a sad resounding
thump and a piteous cry.
This proved the drop too many. Outspoke at last
was, as Mr. Butts would say, “used up.”
“Neighbors,” said he, “I don't know who you are
nor where you come from, and I didn't ask, for
you were driven into my house by a storm. My
family were willing to accommodate you as far as
they could; such as we had, you were welcome to,
but we are poor, and have not much to do with.
Now, you haven't seemed to be satisfied with any
thing, and your behavior has hurt my wife's feelings,
and mine too. You think we are poor ignorant
people, and so we are; but you think we
haven't feelings like other folks, and there you are
mistaken. Now, the short and long of the matter
is, that as the storm is over and the moon is up, it's
my desire that you pick up your things and drive
on to the next tavern, where you can call for what
you like, and pay for what you get. I don't keep
a tavern, though I'm always willin' to entertain a
civil traveller as well as I can.”
Sudden and deep the thunder-cloud has rolled—
of spirit in poor Mr. Gaston was more like a thunder-clap
or a deluge from a fire engine. Like single-speech
Hamilton, he was too wise to attempt to
add any thing to the effect it had produced. He
waited in silence, but it was very resolute silence.
The Margolds were in a very pitiable perplexity.
would come upon herself, was for being very spirited
upon the occasion; her papa, who had already
begun to dream of Wall Street and Waverley Place,
did hate to be recalled to the woods; and Mrs.
Margold had no opinion of her own on this or any
other occasion. Mr. Gaston, seeing no demonstrations
of retreat, went to Butts, who was or pretended
to be asleep, and, shaking him by the shoulder,
told him he was wanted to get up his horses.
“Get up the poor critters at this time o' night!”
said he, rubbing his eyes; “why! what upon the
livin' earth's the matter! has the young woman got
the high strikes?”
“Your folks is a-goin' to try and mend their
lodgin', that's all,” replied the host, whose temper
was a good deal moved. “They a'n't satisfied
with the best we could do for 'em, and it's my
desire that they should try the tavern at Jericho.
It is but two miles, and you'll soon drive it.”
“I'll be tipp'd if I drive it to-night though,
uncle,” replied the imperturbable Mr. Butts; “I
don't budge a foot. I sha'n't do no sich nonsense.
As for their trying the tavern at Jericho, the tavern's
a deuced sight more likely to try them, as you
know very well. Any how, this child don't stir.”
“But if we are turned out of doors,” said Mr.
Margold, who aroused himself most unwillingly to
the consciousness of a new cause of disturbance,
“you are bound to—”
“I a'n't bound to drive nobody in the middle of
the night,” said Mr. Butts, “so you don't try to suck
me in there. But as to turning you out o' doors,
this here chap a'n't the feller to turn any man out
o' doors if he'll be civil. He's a little wrathy because
your folks wa'n't contented with such as he
had. I see he was a gettin' riled some, and I
thought he'd bile over. You see that's the way
with us Western folks. If folks is saasy we walk
right into 'em, like a thousand o' brick. He'll cool
down agin if you jist pat him a little. He's got
some grit, but he a'n't ugly. You only make
your women-folks keep quiet—get a curb-bridle
upon their tongues, and we'll do well enough.”
Poor Mr. Margold! here was a task! But sleep,
though it makes us terribly cross when its own
claims are interfered with, is a marvellous tranquillizer
on all other subjects; and as Mr. and Mrs. Margold
and Miss Angelica were all very, very weary—
the latter of teasing her parents, the former of being
teased—a truce was at length concluded by the
intervention of Mr. Butts, who acted the part of
peace-maker, and gave sage advice to both parties.
The conduct of these city people, who were
evidently of a very numerous class—that which
possesses more money than intellect or cultivation—
is not, after all, very surprising; for it is still fresh
in our recollection that an English traveller of
intelligence—one notorious for ultra-liberal principles
mistress of a log-house somewhere on the Western
prairies was not disposed to entertain a party of
strangers, who found it convenient to enter her
dwelling uninvited. It seems that this person,
whoever she may have been, was insensible of the
honor done her house by an Avatar of so much
dignity. She thought, perhaps, that travellers who
had abundant means might have arranged their distances
so as to make public-houses their stoppingplaces.
And if her dwelling had, by a chance
which might not unnaturally occur in the wilds of
the West, been the mansion of wealth and consequence,
it may be doubted whether our “liberal”
guests would have claimed hospitality at its gates.
It was because the tenant of the log-cottage was
supposed to be poor, that she was censured for her
unwillingness to turn her humble lodge into a
tavern.
Hospitality claimed as such is, I believe, invariably
rendered among us, with a freedom worthy of
Arcadia itself. It is only when there is evidently a
supposition on the part of the guest that a poor
man's house and family are necessarily at the service
of any body, for the sake of a few shillings,
that our cherished independence is called into action.
It is under such circumstances that those who are
disposed to lord it in log-cabins discover that people
who are not afraid to be poor can afford to be
civility by civility, or find themselves unwelcome
in spite of money.
After much experience I can assert that I have
never known or heard of an instance where those
who have found it convenient to throw themselves
on the kindness of a settler of any degree, have not
been received with a frank welcome, which has
appeared to me peculiarly admirable, because extended,
in many cases, under circumstances of the
greatest inconvenience. Nor have I ever known
compensation demanded, whatever may have been
the trouble given; and where it has been accepted
at all, it has been only sufficient to repay actual
cost, and that usually upon urgency.
Less than this I could not say in fairness to the
justly praised hospitality of the West; and I believe
every reader will scarcely think our friend
Gaston's apparent departure from the practice of
the land needed this apology. It suggested itself
unbidden, under the recollection of many a kindness
received from strangers in the course of our numerous
peregrinations.
| CHAPTER XIII. Forest life | |