 | CHAPTER XXV. Forest life |  |
25. CHAPTER XXV.
To act consistent with himself an hour.
Pope.
We hastened onward at the expense of some
terrible thumps, and half an hour or so brought us
within hearing, at least, if not within sight, of the
village where we had agreed to pass the night.
We were made aware of our approach to the abodes
of men, by a clatter and howling, a clash of tin
pans and a beating of drums, which made together
a din sufficiently startling after the long dark drive
through the forest, where nothing was heard beyond
the screech of the owl or the occasional bark
of a fox. So loud and so angry were these warlike
sounds, that Mr. Sibthorpe concluded at once that
they must be occasioned by some great popular
commotion.
“What do you suppose it can be?” he inquired;
“d'ye know I've the greatest curiosity to see an
American mob! Do you think it can be any thing
of that sort?”
Our replies damped his hopes. We thought any
thing else more likely. And very soon we reached
the inn, where all was quiet as one could wish,
although the crowd from which the noise proceeded
at the further end of the street.
“It's only a parcel of fellers gone to serenade an
old widower that's been a marrying of a young girl,
and didn't ask the neighbors to the wedding—
that's all!” said the landlord. “If he'd come out
and treat'em, they'd go off peaceable; but he's so
spunky he won't do that, and I'll warrant ye they'll
keep up that hullabaloo all night.”
“A charivari in the woods!” exclaimed our companion;
“an old French custom transplanted into
these Western wilds! You certainly have borrowed
something from all nations. You observe the New-year
with the Dutch, and `Thanksgiving' with
the Yankees; and I have noticed that you fail not
to eat mince-pies religiously with the English at
Christmas, and cod-fish and potatoes with Paddy
on his saint's day.”
We responded by a wish that the naturalization
of holidays had been carried still further, as we have
so few of our own; and we might have been inclined
to enlarge a little upon this point, (it being
a favorite one,) but our host had no idea of awaiting
the conclusion of an untimely discussion.
“Well!” said he, somewhat testily, “if you're a
comin' in, come along! if not, it a'n't of no use for
me to be a standin' here. I've got sacks of things
to do.”
Mr. Sibthorpe laughed, as an Englishman well
might, and very good-humoredly responded to this
did not consider it a part of his business to wait
upon his customers?
“Why, if a man wants a meal's victuals for himself,
or his folks, or his dumb critters,” responded
Mr. Hotchkins, “I am willing to furnish it; but I
don't calc'late to wait upon nobody. D'ye want
your horses put up? Here, Zack! take these men's
horses and put 'em in the stable.” Then to the
guests—“You can tell him how many eats you
want 'em to have.”
And with this the innkeeper went into the
house, to consult the “women-folks,” I suppose.
Zack was kind enough to take off our luggage,
which he placed in the entry; and we seated ourselves
in a forlorn parlor, with a funereal row of
chairs, and one table, on which stood a sepulchral
lamp that looked as if it had been intended to burn
on for ages, making darkness visible, so minute
was the quantity of flame that glimmered on its
little wick.
The evening was very chilly, as is often the case
after a day of intense heat, and we felt the need of
fire to dry our dewy garments, as well as to cheer
the dark dismal parlor. The landlord, who was
forthcoming upon a call, said there was a fire in
the bar-room, and that the “men-folks” could go
there, and the woman and the children could sit in
the kitchen.
“But couldn't we have a fire here?”
“Why—the fact is—no, not very well. You
see my woman has slicked up her stove, and got
her posy-pot in't and all—and she wouldn't like
to have it nastied up jist for one night. I guess
you'd better fix it t'other fashion.”
And to the kitchen we went, and a very nice
kitchen it was, with a somewhat prim but kindly
dame at the head of affairs, who made the rosy-cheeked
damsels under her sway fly about so nimbly
that our tea was soon ready. How they managed
to do any thing was marvellous, for the kitchen
was full of newly-ironed sheets, spread on clothes-frames
and the backs of chairs, and steaming in the
hot air.
The eating-room felt like a cellar, but there was
a fire just kindled in a close stove, which, by the
time we had finished, began to make it quite
tolerably warm—a not unusual arrangement in
taverns. Whether the incipient stages of freezing
are induced with a view of benumbing the appetite
with the other powers, or whether the air is kept
cool for the convenience of the waiters, who might
find much exercise uncomfortable in a well-warmed
atmosphere, I never was able to guess.
When the children were prepared for bed, one
must have been very good-natured indeed not to
observe that the sheets were not of the number of
those which had just passed beneath the smoothing-iron.
“How is this!” I exclaimed to the maiden in
attendance; “these sheets have been used?”
“Oh, yes, ma'am,” simpered the girl. “We
ha'n't no new sheets.”
“But I must have clean sheets,” I said, in plain
English,—“sheets that have not been slept in
since they were washed.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the young lady, as if light had
suddenly broken in upon her understanding;—
“yes—I dare say!—but, you see, ma'am, we've
had sich lots of company—there was the Dimocratic
Wig convention—they slept here two nights
—and then there was this here Log-Cabin celebration—and
so all of our sheets but these is a drying
in the kitchen—not aired enough yet to put upon
the beds,—and we thought you'd like these better,
'cause they're so much healthier! you know damp
sheets is dreadful unwholesome—and there ha'n't
nobody slept in these but some very nice gentlemen!”
But all this eloquence was wasted upon my
prejudices, and the chamber-maid, with a toss of
her head, went to hasten the airing of the sheets,
while we returned to wait by the dining-room
stove.
Here we found our gentlemen in conversation
with the landlord, who was, with all his odd roughness,
a very civil sort of man, and very fond of
hearing himself talk, although he had shown so
little patience with our prolixity.
He seemed to be warmly engaged in arguing
with Mr. Sibthorpe some point connected with the
vexed question of distinctions in society.
“Respect!” he exclaimed; “why should I
show more respect to any man than he does to me?
Because he wears a finer coat? His coat don't do
me any good. Does he pay his taxes any better
than I do? Is he any kinder to his family? Does
he act more honestly by his neighbors? Will he
have a higher place in heaven than I shall? Show
me the man that's a better man than I am, and
you'll see if I don't treat him with respect! But to
fawn and cringe before a fellow-critter because he's
got more money than I have, is again my principles.
I sha'n't help to blow up nobody's pride.”
“But,” persisted Mr. Sibthorpe, waiving, however,
the main question, as one must always do in
similar cases, “are you sure that it is not your own
pride that makes the difficulty? otherwise, what
could be easier than to recognize those different
grades in society which have always been marked
since the beginning of time, and in all probability
will continue to be so as long as earth endures, in
spite of the resistance of those who are unwilling
to foster any body's pride but their own?”
“Ah! stop a little!” rejoined the landlord;
“there's where you go too far! You think these
ranks and distinctions will go on always, because
you wish they should go on. I believe they are
In my opinion this etarnal Yankee nation has set
the example to all the rest of the world, and before
many years is gone by, there won't be a man in
England that'll take off his hat to the queen unless
she makes her manners first. All men—and
women too—was born not only free but equal;
and equal they've got to be, on earth as well as in
heaven.”
“Well!” said Mr. Sibthorpe, with his usual good
humor, “I am glad to have met at last with one
consistent American. You believe in the equal
rights of all human beings. You are not for exalting
one class of men at the expense of another, or
depressing any class that another may live in pride
and luxury at their expense—”
“No indeed!” said our host, with a virtuous
severity depicted on his countenance. “Give every
man a fair chance, that's what I say; and then we
can see what stuff he's made of. Outside a'n't
nothing.”
“You are not one of those,” continued Mr. Sibthorpe,
“who would shut a man out from all the
privileges of society because God has given him a
black skin. You would look only at his worth,
his abilities, or his piety; you would be willing to
associate with him, and assist him in maintaining
his just natural rights in spite of a cruel prejudice.
You would—”
“What upon airth are you talking about?”
conclusion. “I should ra'ally be glad to know if
you mean to insult me! Are you a talking of niggers?
Do you suppose I look upon a nigger as I
do upon a white man? Do you think I am sich a
fool as not to know who the Africans is? Should
I put myself upon an equality with the seed of Cain,
that was done over black to show that they was to
be sarvants and the sarvants of sarvants? I'm no
abolitionist, thank God! and if you're one, the
sooner you get back to your own country the
better.”
“I have not been long enough in your land of
liberty,” said Mr. Sibthorpe, with a quiet smile, “to
have enrolled myself under any of your party banners;
I only wished to ascertain how far you carried
your creed of equality; and I find you draw
the line, like most of your countrymen, just where
your interest or your inclination indicates. I can
now see very plainly why you think there ought
to be no distinction of ranks in the world.” And
without waiting for the angry reply which seemed
laboring in the mind of the landlord, Mr. Sibthorpe
bade good night, and desired to be shown to his
room.
“What prejudiced critters these English is!”
said our host as he left the room.
We thought the observation true enough in the
main, but not particularly applicable to our friend of
the prairie, who had evidently seen the world with
To those who have been so happy as to meet with
an English gentleman of this character, one for
whom nature, education and travel have all done
much, I need hardly say how very delightful is
such companionship. Agreeable Englishmen are
much more like each other than agreeable Americans.
Whether their nationality of feeling is so
strong as to give always a predominating tone to
the character, whatever be its distinctive points, or
whether they derive a more obvious national resemblance
from the possession of fixed standards
of taste, education and manners, I have not had an
opportunity of judging. The fact has struck me
frequently.
Mr. Sibthorpe continued to be our companion
for the rest of our homeward journey, and we were
much pleased to learn from him that he had actually
purchased a farm about twenty miles from
our cottage, and intended proving to his own satisfaction
the delights of American forest life.
“Why do you smile?” said he.
“Did I smile?” was the reply, faute de mieux.
“Yes indeed, but you have not seen Mrs. Sibthorpe.
She is more romantic, if so you call it,
more indifferent to outward appliances, even than I.
To rove in the summer woods and read or gather
wild flowers makes a paradise for her.”
“But we have long—very long winters—”
“More charming still, if possible! fine bracing
for your favorite pursuits—no wheels thundering
on the pavement to break in upon the
dreams of fancy—no well-dressed bore coming in
to rob you of your time and patience.”
There was nothing in this view of country
pleasures to be disputed, and it was not necessary
to draw a counter picture. This was better left
for a photogenic impression. So we parted with
Mr. Sibthorpe with the willing promise of an early
visit, twenty miles being but dining distance when
the roads are good.
| CHAPTER XXV. Forest life | |