University of Virginia Library

A WEDDING IN THE WOODS.

It has been said that one who would retire from the world,
should betake himself to a large city. Certain it is that in the
country, where everybody seems to feel a personal responsibility for
the doings of the neighborhood, nothing is more difficult than
to maintain an independent course as to one's own affairs. What is
known to be the expressed sentiment of all about you, exercises
more or less influence, do what you will; and you are as apt
to show your respect for the town-talk by an angry persistence, as by
a timid relinquishment of your plans. It certainly requires more
philosophy than most country people possess, to live as if the
neighbors were cabbages—no difficult attainment in the city.

There was one family near the little village of B—, who were
regarded at once with suspicion and a somewhat unwilling respect,
from the quiet and original course which they adopted; resolutely
following out their own plans, and rarely expressing an opinion as to
the doings of their neighbors. Mr. Arnold came to the West with
some property, although he was a hard-working farmer; and when he
was about to put up his log-house, instead of calling the neighbors
together, and having a grand frolic, with plenty of whiskey, at the
raising, he quietly hired the requisite number of laborers, and had his
house ready for roofing before anybody knew the timbers were hewed.

This caused many a frown, and not a little shaking of the head
among the sages of the vicinity, who saw nothing but `pride'—that
unpardonable sin of the woods—in this way of doing things.

Here we must turn a little aside to describe what most of
our readers have probably never seen—a veritable log-house—an
important affair in western life.

The log-house in which it was our fate first to look western life
in the face, was a rather unusually rough one, built when the country
was quiet new, before a road was made, or any access beyond a
bridle-path through the woods, or, more properly, the `openings.'
Its dimensions were twenty-four feet by eighteen—no great area, but
not encroached upon by the chimney, which was carried up outside,
after the fashion of what children call a jackstraw house, i. e, with
sticks laid in a square, crossing at the corners. The portion of the
wall against which leaned this very primitive-looking outlet for the
smoke, was composed of a great slab of rough stone; otherwise, all
around was wood—a boundless provision for roast pig after Charles
Lamb's fashion. The clay with which the stick chimney was lined,
fell off, day by day, so that its catching fire in spots was almost a
daily occurrence, and continual watchfulness was required, especially
in the evening, since a midnight bonfire in the woods is no very uncommon
accident. The hearth which belonged to this chimney was
quite in keeping; for it was made of rough fragments, split off the
boulders which are the only stone to be found in that part of the
country; and laid with such indifference to level, that some points
were from four to six inches higher than their neighbors. No mantelpiece
surmounted this savage fire-place; but a crotched post on
one side supported a wooden crane, which swung far enough above
the fire not to catch, unless the blaze was more aspiring than
ordinary.

On one side of the fire-place was a ladder, leading to the loft
above; on the other, a few rough shelves, on which to arrange the
household apparatus—so few, that all our previous notions of the
incapacity of a log-house had not taught us to reduce our stock low
enough. An additional closet, outside the house, proved to be one
of the first requisites for a new home; and besides this, a centre-table,
which had once done drawing-room duty, was put in requisition as
a cupboard, a tablecloth to keep out dust being the substitute for a
door.

If the arrangements to be made within this small space of twenty-four
by eighteen had been only those of kitchen and dining-room
the necessities of back-woods life would have reconciled one to the
narrowness of the quarters; but when bed-chamber and nursery
were to be crowded into the same area, the packing became almost
as difficult as the feat of putting a bushel of lime, a bushel of sand,
and eight gallons of water into one and the same bushel measure
together, which we had heard of, but never believed until we made
our log-house arrangements. However, by the aid of some heavy
curtains—a partition which seemed almost all that one could wish,
by contrast with the cotton sheets which were in general use for
that purpose through the country, at that time—we contrived to
make two bed-rooms, each about as large as a steamboat state-room.
The loft above afforded floor room for beds, but was not high enough
to allow one to stand upright, except in the very centre, under the
ridge of the roof.

The floors in this unsophisticated dwelling were of a corresponding
simplicity. Heavy oak plank, laid down without nails or fastening
of any kind, somewhat warped, and not very closely packed,
afforded a footing by no means agreeable, or even secure. To trip
in crossing the room, even at a sedate pace, was nothing uncommon;

and the children were continually complaining of the disappearance
of their playthings, which slid through the cracks to regions unexplored.

About the middle of the floor was a trap-door, composed of three
loose pieces of board, which had to be taken up separately when one
would descend into the `cellar.' This so-called cellar was a hole
dug in the earth, without wall, floor, or window; and the only mode
of access to it was by the said trap-door, without steps of any kind.
The stout damsels who sometimes did us the favor to perform certain
domestic offices for our benefit, used to place a hand on each
side the trap, and let themselves down with an adventurous swing,
returning to the upper air by an exertion of the arms which would
be severe for many a man unaccustomed to muscular effort. Such
a door as this was of course literally a trap; for as it was necessarily
left open while any one was below, stepping down into it unawares
was by no means an infrequent accident. So that if there
was no Radcliffian mystery about it, there was at least the exciting
chance of a broken limb.

This same loose floor, with the open spaces beneath it, had another
interesting chance attending it. Strange little noises, like
whispers, and occasional movements during the stillness of night,
told that we were not the only settlers under the roof; and one fine
spring morning, when the sun shone warm and the caves were
trickling with the thaw of a light snow, a beautiful rattlesnake
glided out from below the house, and set off for the pond at a very
dignified pace. His plans were partially frustrated; for about a
foot or so of his tail was cut off before he had proceeded far; but
his head took the hint, and inspired the body with such unwonted
activity, that we could never ascertain whether he died of mortification
or not. Such tenants as this were not to be desired, and we

made a thorough search after the family, but they had not waited a
writ of ejectment.

Toads, too, were among our social inmates. They are fond of
hopping in, in a neighborly way, during the twilight, and will sit
staring and winking at you as if they were tipsy. If you drive them
out, they never take offence, but come again very soon, seeming as
good-natured as ever. They are very well if you do not tread on
them.

The walls of a log-house are of course very rough and uneven;
for the logs are laid up unhewn, as probably most of our city
readers have observed in pictures. The deep indentations are
partially filled with strips of wood, and then plastered with wet
clay, which falls off continually, and requires partial renewing every
autumn. This clay, in its dry state, gives off incessantly an impalpable
dust, which covers and pervades everything; so that the office
of housemaid is no sinecure. In addition to this annoyance,
the beams not being plastered, soon become worm-eaten, and the
worms are not like snails, that stay forever at home—but we will
not pursue the subject. Suffice to say, it is inconvenient to have
anybody walking about aloft while you sit at dinner.

To go on with our story. After the raising, Mrs. Arnold was ill;
and far from having her room thronged with the wise women of the
neighborhood, trying as many fumigations, draughts, and `yarb-drinks,'
as would have sufficed to kill nine well women, Mr. Arnold
stayed at home from the field, day after day, apparently for no
other purpose than to stand guard at her door, letting nobody
in besides the doctor and nurse; and comforting the anxiety of the
neighbors by assurances that Mrs. Arnold was doing very well.
This was a deep offence; and though Mrs. Arnold had recovered, so
as to ride out before anybody forgot the slight sufficiently to call to

see her, yet she expressed no surprise or sorrow, but treated her
visitors with her usual quiet kindness.

The Arnolds went on prosperously; showing a kind interest at all
proper opportunities, and making the worthier neighbors like them,
whether they would or no. The reserve which had been set down
to pride and ill-will, came to be considered only oddity; and at the
period when the wedding took place of which we began to tell,
nobody in the whole town was more popular than the Arnold
family. Perhaps the growing up of a sweet, comely daughter
in the family was an unrecognized element of harmony between the
Arnolds and those about them. A young woman who is lovely
both in person and character is irresistible everywhere. She is the
light of her father's house, the ornament of society, and the point at
which the admiration, interest and affection of those about her
naturally concentrate. She is in the social circle what the moss-rose
is in the garden—of the same general nature with the rest, but half
veiled, fresh and delicate; in her very modesty and retiringness
outshining all others—the emblem of sweet reserve and innocent
pleasure. Our friends, the Arnolds, possessed such a treasure, and
they prized her as she deserved. They required of her all womanly
duty; but they had her carefully instructed, and watched over her
with an intelligent care, which, while it did not interfere with
the exercise of her own judgment, guarded her against all the
coarseness but too rife in that region.

The fair Lois had long been considered `on the fence' between
two lovers; and, as usual, the affair, though it might be supposed a
matter to interest only those immediately concerned, became the
especial business of everybody in the neighborhood. Whenever
poor Lois walked out she would encounter prying eyes at every
window and door, on the watch to discover whom she might meet,

and what direction might be given to her steps. If she turned down
the lane that led to old Mr. Gillett's, the world became sure that
Frank Gillett was the happy man; if, on the contrary, she kept
straight onward to the village, it was to see the handsome
storekeeper, Sam Brayton, who had long visited at Mr. Arnold's on
Sunday evenings, and was disposed to extend his sittings further into
the night than had been the custom of that sober mansion. It was
recorded of Sam that he always sat, in pretended unconsciousness
of the lateness of the hour, until Mrs. Arnold had put up her knitting
with a very audible yawn, and Mr. Arnold had brought in a
huge shovel, and a pail of water, in preparation for covering up the
fire. Miss Lois, at the same time, becoming very taciturn, and returning
only monosyllabic replies to the sallies of her admirer, he
was obliged to beat a retreat—a monument of the power of
passive resistance. Frank Gillett, on the contrary, had not patience
for this sort of blockade. He waylaid Lois sometimes as she was
returning from her Uncle Dyer's on horseback; or dashed in, on
some pretended errand, in the middle of the forenoon, when Mrs.
Arnold was deep in churning, and Lois plying the graceful great
wheel in the `chamber'—a wide space of bare boards above the
spacious lower story of Mr. Arnold's log-house. Frank also felt it
his duty to keep Lois duly apprized of all the cases of sickness or
shocking accidents in the neighborhood; as she was a nice little
nurse, and a famous `watcher'—this last no sinecure in a country
village, where the well are often worn out in nightly attendance,
in cases of so little importance that city people would not think of
requiring such service. When Lois's ministrations in this way were
in demand, Frank always came for her, and so saved her father the
necessity of going out in the evening—a thing hated by all
hard-working farmers, who usually love to sit dozing in the chimney
corner, when they do not go to bed at nightfall.

Lois was a good girl, and a pretty girl, and an only daughter; so
it is not wonderful that her hand was considered quite a speculation,
and many a wild fellow from some miles' distance had tried to
interest her; but her innocence and delicacy were proof against
such equivocal courtship. She treated the two `neebor lads' we
have mentioned, with a modest confidence, and avoided, with native
tact, giving preference to either—perhaps, because she really felt
none. They had grown up together on friendly terms, and as there
seemed no particular period at which the young men became lovers,
so the fair Lois chose to ignore the fact—though we shrewdly
suspect she was not blind to what everybody in the village saw and
talked of—the keen though subdued rivalry of Sam Brayton and
Frank Gillett.

If the two suitors had been Italians, instead of offsets from the
quiet and law-abiding stock of Puritanism, there were not wanting
occasions in the course of their pursuit of the prize, when stilettos
might have been drawn and blood spilt. But a peaceful education
led them rather to seek to gain the point by stratagem; and many
a strawberry party, many a sleighing, many a pic-nic (or barbecue,
as such things are called at the West), did the young people of the
neighborhood enjoy, for which they might have thanked Lois
Arnold, whoever may have claimed the honor: for our two
enamored swains were at their wits' end for some means of
interesting this object of their emulation, and overcoming her
formidable impartiality.

It was chance, after all, that brought matters to a focus; for Lois
was riding out with a party of young people, when her horse took
it into his head to run away, and Frank Gillett, in rescuing her from

imminent danger, brought his own life into peril, and was carried
home much injured. We will not assert that this brought Lois to
decide in his favor; for we have a notion that no love worth having
is based on merely accidental causes. But it certainly made
evident a preference, which, perhaps, existed previously; and before
Frank was quite enough recovered to take his place on the farm
again, the story was afloat that Sam Brayton had decidedly `got
the mitten.'

He did not take this very amiably; that would have been quite
out of character for a country beau. Writing poetry, or contemplating
the stars, is not among the resources of the rejected in a
primitive state of society; and the duel—that unanswerable mode
of proving one's worth—is hardly known even by name. To talk
of `thrashing'—not the lady, but the accepted swain—is much
more characteristic; but Frank Gillett was such a good fellow, and
bore his honors with so little of a swell, that even this was hardly
feasible; so Brayton bided his time.

When harvest was over, and all the grain safely housed, spring
wheat in, and corn ready for husking, Frank had time to be
married; and it was decided that Lois Arnold ought to have
`a real wedding.' This implied a regular frolic; a turning the
house out of window, and converting incredible quantities of flour
and sugar, milk and eggs, into delicacies for the delectation of a
wide sweep of country—not to mention dancing ad libitum.
What toils are undergone! what anxieties experienced! what
fingers burnt—in this grand preparation, the muse must not
attempt to tell. Some village Homer has yet to sing such feasts for
the admiration of after ages.

A very usual mode—we may venture to say the usual mode—of
binding one's self, for better or for worse, in the western country, is

to have the knot tied by the nearest justice—a form so succinct that
one could scarcely wonder, if everybody should forget the whole
affair the next hour. The man in authority stands up, with a grave
countenance, takes hold of a chair, by which to steady himself while
he speaks, and looks straight at the young couple—which last is not
to be wondered at, for they are generally quite a spectacle, with
their white lips and cheeks of rainbow hue.

So stood Lois Arnold and Frank Gillett before Squire Millard;
Lois in a dress of soft silvery looking silk, with a white rose in her
hair and another in her hand; and Frank, with his fine athletic
person set out in a white waistcoat for the occasion, and his face
looking anything but pale. Even Lois seemed more inclined to
laugh than cry, and some young ladies whispered—`She don't
mind it a bit!'

What was the surprise of the company, when the Squire, after a
vain effort to command his countenance, said—

`I certify that Francis Gillett and Lois Arnold were lawfully
married a week ago.'

After this announcement Squire Millard made good his retreat,
not being a dancer, and having, moreover, a vague fear that he
might be torn to pieces in the frantic demonstrations of surprise
which succeeded the first pause—such a pause as ensues upon an
unusually heavy clap of thunder.

Everybody stood aghast, at first, as if some great wrong had been
committed; and after the grand surprise was over, and the amiables
of the neighborhood had joined in the dance with new zest in
consequence of the stir occasioned by the dénouement, a few
disaffected young men—Sam Brayton and his friends—still stood
aloof, and whispered in corners, casting now and then a look at the
newly-married couple that was anything but friendly. They knew

very well that the thing was a trick to avoid certain annoyances,
which are not uncommon on wedding-occasions in the country, when
anybody feels aggrieved by the circumstances of the marriage. If
the right people are not invited; or if the match is so disproportioned
in age as to excite the indignation of the sovereign people;
or if some old bluebeard takes a third helpmate—any of these
causes, or even less, is sufficient to excuse a sort of row, which is
kept up for hours under the windows, or until those concerned open
the doors and `treat.'

It was plain enough that the party, who espoused the cause of
mitten-holder, did not mean to be cheated of their charivari; but
the dancing went on, and the hilarity of the occasion continued
unbroken, until eleven o'clock, when the company dropped off, a
wagon full at a time, till at length all was quiet, and no sign of life
was left about the premises, except a light or two, burning dimly in
the house.

Then began the din. Bells, guns, drums, tin horns, whistles,
frying pans, and shovels, aided the unearthly howlings of the
performers, until the neighbors a mile off heard the disturbance, and
the owls in the woods hooted in concert. This went on for an hour
or two, but there were no signs of capitulation on the part of the
fortress. The lights burned on as quietly as ever, and not a sound
could be heard, though Sam Brayton laid his ear to the window,
and listened with all his might. Further demonstrations were now
judged advisable, and a bunch of thick rods was procured, with
which the assailants beat against the house itself, which being
partly boarded, made a prodigious reverberation. Still no door
opened. Guns were fired as near the windows as possible, pebbles
were thrown down the chimney, and a pig hung by the leg to the
latch of the door; but no remonstrance was heard. By this time,

the night had so far waned that some symptoms of dawn began to
be observable in the east, and the conspirators, weary and disappointed,
began to talk of going home to bed.

`I 've worked harder than I ever did in harvest,' said one.

`Harvest!' exclaimed another. `Thrashin' time 's nothing to it!
Let's go home!'

`Stop a minute,' said Sam Brayton, stung at the ill success of
his plans; `I 'll make 'em come out, yet!' and with the word he
threw a large stone at the upper window, with force enough to
break it, sash and all, but not to endanger those within.

Upon the accomplishment of this feat, the whole party fled, for
the `law' has great terrors for the backwoodsman, though he
inflicts it upon others with small provocation. Every one ran home,
and crept into bed as quietly as possible, lest the offence should be
fastened on him, which would have brought double punishment of
expense and mortification—so complete was the failure.

In spite of all these precautions, however, the matter was brought
home to Sam Brayton so undeniably that he was glad to repair the
damage to avoid worse consequences; and it was not till afterwards
he discovered that, anticipating annoyance, the whole Arnold family,
including bride and bridegroom, had slipped off that night quietly
with the guests, and gone up to lodge at Uncle Dyer's.