University of Virginia Library

2. JOHN SMITH'S LETTER'S.

LETTER I.

Wherein are set forth divers weighty reasons why John Smith
should not change his name.

Dear Gineral Morris—I never was more struck
up in my life than I was night afore last, about
eight o'clock in the evening, when Cousin Debby
come running into our house all of a giggle and
most out of breath; and says she, “Cousin John,
here's news for you; they've got you into the New-York
Mirror, as true as my name is Debby Smith.”
Says I, what nonsense are you arter now, Debby?
for she's always poking fun at somebody or other,
although she don't mean nothin' by it, for she's as

clever as the day is long. Says she, “I mean jest
what I say, John; they've got you in the New-York
Mirror, as large as life.” And she held up
the paper—Debby takes your paper, and has took
it, I believe, going on a dozen years, for she's very
fond of larning and has kept school in our village,
off and on, about fifteen years—and she held up the
paper, and, says she, “John, here's most a column
and a half, all about you, every word of it. And
they are making something of a fuss about you in
New-York too, and say you must change your
name.” At that my dander begun to start a little,
and, says I, Debby, are you in arnest, or what do
you mean? For I knew I hadn't killed nobody,
nor robb'd, nor stole a sheep; and, says I, I should
like to see the feller that would dare to tell me, to
my face, that I ought to change my name. My
name is what I've valley'd myself on more than
anything else in the world, and there never was a
name yet that I'd change it for, unless it was
George Washington. But come, says I, Debby,
set down and read us your long yarn—Debby is a
first rate reader, and she loves to read afore folks
as well as she loves to eat. So we made room for
her in the ring. We had a rousin' fire, bein' it was
a pretty cold night, so we could set back and make
room for all; for there was something of a ring of
us; our own family isn't small—there's myself and
wife, and eleven children, and my mother, and
aunt Jane, and my nephew William Smith that
works for me; and besides that, there was a number
of the neighbours in, setting round to drink a mug
of cider with us and eat a few of my fine winter
apples. Debby hauled a chair up to the table, and
snuffed the candle, and drawed it close to her, so
as to hold it between her and the paper; and then
the reading seemed to bother her a little, for your
paper, Gineral, is rather fine print, and she had to
hold it off nearly at arms length and hold the candle
close to it, because she said her eyes were weak.

Aunt Ruth—she's my uncle John Smith's wife,
a very sensible woman, and one of the kindest
neighbours there is in our village—she sot on
'tother side of the table with her knittin' work in
her hands, and looking over the top of her specs
across the table at cousin Debby. She see what
was the matter, and pulled off her glasses, and reached
them across the table and told Debby she better
try her specs, and she thought she would read easier.
Debby coloured as red as fire, and said she never

used spectacles; and besides, “if I did,” says she, “it
isn't likely I could use yourn; they must be a great
deal too old for me.” At that my uncle John Smith
—he's a blacksmith by trade, and lives close by
on 'tother side of the road—he was setting in one
corner, digging his teeth into the mellow side of a
great sweet apple—he rolled up his eyes at Debby,
and haw haw'd right out. Says he, “well done
Debby, you've hit it now exactly; my wife is jest
five years older than you, and them specs suited
her ten years ago.”

Debby kind of choked a little, and her face
turned redder than ever: I don't know but she
would have bit a board nail off, if she'd only
had one in her mouth. Uncle John has a teazing
kind of a way with him, and when he sees any
body nettled, he loves to help 'em along a little.
“So,” says he, “Debby, I want a new vice
in my shop; what will you take for your teeth? I
think they'd hold a pretty good grip.” Debby
couldn't stand it no longer—she threw down the
paper, and drawed her head back as if she'd had a
curb bit in her mouth. Says she, “Uncle John,
you are the biggest plague that ever I see, and if
you was worth a minding, I would be mad with

[ILLUSTRATION]

you.” I see the only way was for us to try to
make a kind of a joke of the matter all round, till
Debby got cooled down a little; for she was in too
much of a flusteration to read now; “So,” says I,
“come John, fill up the mug with cider agin and
hand it round—this was to my son John; he is my
oldest son, and will be seventeen years old if he
lives to see the fifth day of next May; a smart boy
as you will see one in a thousand, and folks say he
takes after me very much”—says I, “Come, John,
hand round the cider, beginning with the oldest,
clear down to the youngest, and give it to cousin
Debby last.” At that Debby begun to laugh, and
says she, “Cousin John, you are almost as big a
pester as uncle John himself, and one isn't worth
a minding any more than 'tother is.”

After we took a drink of cider round, and each
one took another apple, Debby got so calmed down
that we got her hold of the paper again. She
wouldn't touch the specs though, but after she got
the candle fixed right, she made out to read it very
well. And sure enough there was a whole column
all about my changing my name. I never felt so
queer before in my life. But when she read the
line at the top, “Reasons for John Smith to change

his name”—says I, “Debby, now before you begin,
how do you know that means me? There's
more John Smiths in the world besides me.”
“Why, because,” says she, “every body knows it
means you. Here you've been selectman, of
Smithville, this seven years; have been surveyor
of the roads, and on the school committee, and
town agent, and been twice representative to the
Legislater, and had a squire's commission five
years; and it's pretty likely the piece could mean
any body else but you. Suppose Gineral Washington
was alive to this day, and such a piece should
be published, saying George Washington ought to
change his name? Wouldn't every body know it
meant Gineral Washington?”

“Well,” says I, “Debby, to be honest about
it, I think it pretty likely it does mean me. But
let us hear what they have to say in New-York
about my changing my name. So, as I said
afore, she read it through. Sometimes, when
she was reading it, I couldn't hardly keep my
dander down, and sometimes I couldn't hardly
help laughing to see how ignorant the man that
writ it must be of the world. When she got
along down to the place that says the five letters

that spell Smith, stand for a Small—Mean—
Insignificant—Trashy—Humbug, my son John
started up as if he'd been shot—he looked as red
as a rooster, and says he, “Father, I wouldn't
stand that no how; I'd go right to New-York and
put it into that chap what writ that are piece.”
Says I, “John, you haven't seen enough of the
world yet to know which is the best road to mill.
You are young and inexperienced, and you must
try to keep your temper down and take things
more moderate. I shall write to Gineral Morris
and get him to see to it, and then, if the feller
that's dared to call me a humbug, don't take it back,
he must look out—that's all.” “Read on, Debby,”
says I.

By and by she come to where it said, “no
honest man would change his name for that of
Smith.” “Stop,” says I, “let us reason about
that a little. Honest men don't have occasion
to change their names. 'Tis rogues and
knaves that change their names; and when they
do, they try to pick for the likeliest and most respectable
name they can find, and therefore they
take the name of Smith. And this is one reason
that Smiths are so plenty. There isn't so many

real Smiths in the world as folks think for. There
are a great many counterfeits about. But that
don't hurt the real Smiths, nor make 'em any less
respectable. If you had a true silver dollar in your
pocket, would you valley it any the less because
your neighbour had a pewter one? If you ever
come acrost a person by the name of Smith that
don't bear a good character, you may depend upon
it, Smith isn't his real name—he has changed some
other for it. And I've been told, on the very best
authority, that all the Smiths that have been hung
for any crime, have always confessed privately under
the gallows, just before they were swung off,
that their true name wasn't Smith, but Johnson,
or Davis, or some such name.

And now, my dear Gineral Morris, this makes
me think of another thing. There was my
cousin Major Jack Downing—he's a cousin to
me on the mother's side, and as good a feller as
ever lived—upright and honest, and no slouch
at writing. Well, he went down to Portland,
in the State of Maine, seven or eight years
ago, and went to writin' letters in the Portland
Courier, and then he went off to Washington,
and staid along with Gineral Jackson some time,

and writ letters to the Portland Courier; and when
he got his name up pretty well, folks begun to
counterfeit his letters and his name too, like smoke,
all over the country. Most all the counterfeits
were so badly done, that any body could tell 'em
the moment they put 'em along side the true ones.
There was one chap in your city that carried on a
great stroke of counterfeitin' these letters, and
signing Major Jack Downing's name to 'em for a
year or two, and I don't know but more—let's see,
what was his name? Seems to me it begun with
a D—. Well, he used to put in some kind of
mettle into 'em that made 'em ring, and had a nack
of glossing of 'em over, so that he made 'em go
quite current in your city and round there. But
you put 'em along side of cousin Jack's, and you'd
see in a minute they warn't the true silver. But
he didn't care for that, as long as he could make
'em go, and make the folks round New-York think
he was the real Major Jack Downing. And that's
the way of the world, Gineral; every body wants
to go by a good and respectable name, and you
may depend upon it that is the true secret why
there are so many Smiths.”

After Debby had got through reading the piece,

we all sot as much as ten minutes, and didn't
say nothin'. At last, says I, uncle John, what
do you think of it? “Think of it?” Says he
—“why, I think it's the foolishest mess of flummery
that ever I seed put into a newspaper. In
my opinion, it doesn't contain one single good
reason why you should change your name. And
there is no reason in the world why you should,
but a thousand why you should not.” “And
what are they, uncle John?” says I. “Why,”
says he, “it is a very old and respectable name;
it has been in our family a great while; it is therefore
an honour to be called by the name of John
Smith. And in the next place, it is the most
popular name in the country; so that if popularity
is worth any thing, that proves John Smith to be
the best name in the country. And in the next
place, it is a very short name; you don't waste
but little time in speaking it, nor but little paper in
writing it. And in the next place, there's no sich
thing as clipping it off or nicknaming of it; if any
body speaks your name at all, they can't make
nothin' short of John Smith of it.”

Well, aunt Ruth, and cousin Debby, and
mother, and aunt Jane, and my wife, and my

son John, all expressed the same opinion as
uncle John, only some of 'em a great deal more
arnest. Mother, she sighed, and said she thought
the man must be an a'ful wretch to want to
make her son change his name, when it was
the best name there was in the whole Bible, especially
the John, and she had picked it out when
she give it to me, out of that chapter where the
angel give it to the child of Zachariah and Elizabeth.
My wife, she almost cried, and said she
should go crazy, if she thought I should ever change
my name, and leave all her children poor orphans.
So among all the other reasons, Gineral, aginst
my changing my name, you see what a disturbance
it would make in my family. And, on the whole,
I've made up my mind decidedly; I shan't do it.
I don't know how it is in New-York, but down
east, and in Smithville, and all round here, not
only Smith, but John Smith, is considered the
best and most honourable name there is going.
It has come down to me in a straight line, clear
from Capt. John Smith that first settled in old Virginny.
And a braver man than he was never lived.
I've got his coat of arms now, that's come down
long with his name, three Turks' heads made up
in a picter, hanging up in our fore room.

I said his name come down to me in a straight
line; but it wasn't exactly a straight line, for it
crooked out of the line a little in one place, and
that was in the case of my father, whose name was
James. I'll tell you how it happened. When my
grandfather, whose name was John, carried my
father to meetin' to be christened, it happened that
the same day his cousin John Smith carried two of
his children to be christened. And when the minister
was ready, my grandfather, bein' a very perlite
man, beckoned to his cousin John to carry his children
up first. So he carried 'em up, and good old
parson John Smith, who preached in grandfather's
parish then, whispered to him as he handed up the
first child, and asked him its name. His name is
John, said my grandfather's cousin. So the parson
christened him John. The second child was
then handed up, and the parson whispered again and
asked its name. His name is John, said my grandfather's
cousin. The good old parson shook his
head, and whispered again, and told him he had
christened the other one John. My grandfather's
cousin shook his head too, and told the parson to

never mind, but christen him John; “for,” says
he “if I had a hundred children, I would call them
all John.” So finding there was no turning him,
the parson christened the second child John. Then
my grandfather went up with his child; and I've
heard my grandmother say that his face was red
as a blaze all the way goin' up to the pulpit. Well,
the minister whispered to him and asked him what
the child's name was. Grandfather choked a little,
and, says he, “I was a going to call him John, but
I think we have had Johns enough for one day;
you may christen him James.” Now, Gineral, I
don't know but I've tired you with my long yarn.
I didn't think of writin' sich a long letter when I
begun. But when I get a goin' I'm a little like
the steam car on the rail-road; I'm apt to run till
I get to the end of the track, or till the fire is out.
I've only one thing more to say, and that is, bein'
you've had my name figurin' in your paper, I believe
I shall subscribe for it. And I guess I ain't
the only Smith that will. As I am always called
'Squire Smith round in these parts, I want you to
direct it to John Smith, Esquire, Smithville, Down
East, and it will come to me straight as a hair.
And if you want to hear any thing more about our
folks, jest say so in your paper, and I'll scratch
down a line or two, once in a while, and send it to
you. So I remain your friend and constant reader,

LETTER II.

Wherein Miss Debby Smith, with a becoming juvenile spirit, giveth
a slight touch on the other side of the question.

Much respected sir—Excuse my not datin' my
letter corect, which is a great trial to me—for
if I pride myself on any thing, 'tis in being
corect; and I've had the name of it ever since I've
kept school in Smithville—but our almanack isn't
to home; it's up to uncle John Smith's, not uncle
John the blacksmith, but uncle John Smith on my
mother's side. My mother was a Smith—not that
I'd have you think my father married his relations—
the people in Smithville are more corect and think
more of the Bible than that—but there's two stocks
of Smiths here that go so far back that folks can't

tell where they begun. Though grandmother
always made it out and stood to it, that they all
come from one in the first place, and said it made
my father and mother fifth cousins. The old lady
is very curis about these things, and she has it all
marked out in the shape of a great large tree, and
keeps it hung up in the fore room, and when there
is any thing said about it, or any dispute takes
place about the Smiths bein' related, she takes it
down and goes over the whole, clear from the root
to the top branch; and always brings it out that my
father and mother was fifth cousins. Whenever
she has these reckonings, grandfather is as uneasy
as a fish out of water, for he thinks if it should go as
grandmother fixes it, 'twould make him and grandmother
fourth cousins; and he's so corect, that if he
should really think it was true, although he's now
eighty-five years old, I do believe he'd try to get
divorced. So grandfather is always against grandmother
in her reckonings, and whenever she sets
down to go over the tree, for she always hauls the
table up and sets down to it, so as to make no
mistake, then grandfather he'll put on his spectacles
and take his staff and hobble along and stand and
look over grandmother's shoulder, and foller her

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along up among the branches. But generally in
about a quarter of an hour he gets so tangled up,
and the branches run together and crossways, and
get mixed up so that he breaks off short, and says,
“Poh, mother, there's no head nor tail to it. We
all come from Adam, accordin' as 'tis in the Bible,
and that's all the relation there is about it.”

So grandfather 'll hobble back to his chair again,
and set and wink and look as uneasy as can be, all
the time till grandmother gets through. And grandmother
will always stick to it till she gets clear out
to the end of every branch, and winds up by saying,
“Well, father, it must be so; if they ain't fifth
cousins, I don't know what makes fifth cousins.”

But, dear me, where am I running to? I haven't
said a word about what I was going to when I begun.
But when I happened to mention that my
mother was a Smith, I was afraid you might take a
notion the Smithville folks wasn't quite so corect
in their idees about matrimony as they ought to be.
So I felt it my duty to stop and explain how it was.

To go back to uncle John Smith agin, on my
mother's side, he borrid our almanack day before
yesterday, and hasn't brought it home yet. He's
a clear trial about borrying. Now grandfather is

always prompt about every thing. He always
has a new almanack in the house the first day of
January, and has had every year since I can remember,
though to be sure that isn't a great
many years, but I mean he always does. But
uncle John, on my mother's side, never gets an
almanack for the first six months of the year; so he
has to come clear down to our house, about three
quarters of a mile, once or twice a week, to borry
ourn, though the shoes he wears out and the time
he spends is worth more than forty almanacks.
He's always saying every week he's going to get
one, but I never knew him to get one yet till about
haying time; and once I knew him to lose a ton of
hay that got wet in a shower, while, instead of getting
it into the barn, he come down to our house to
get the almanack, to see when the moon was to
change. But there, I'm running before my story
again.

The reason, then, that I couldn't give the corect
date to my letter is, that my uncle John Smith, on
my mother's side, has got our almanack, and it's
too fur for me to go up after it to-night; and, the
truth is, I must write to-night—I'm in sich a takin'
I can't help it, for I've jest got your last Mirror,

and been reading over cousin John's letter, and it's
put me all in a flutter. It's too bad, I declare,—
sich insinuations as he's made against me in that
letter is too bad to think of. I didn't think that
cousin John, who I've always treated as a brother,
though he's a good deal older than me, would a
done so, and then to have it printed in your paper
and read by every body in New-York, and every
where else; dear me, I feel as if I should fly; what
will the New-York folks think of me? I was intending
to come to New-York next summer and see
the place, and I've been saving up something out
of my school money a year past, to pay my expenses.
I think I've lived long enough in the world
to go about a little now and see some other place
besides Smithville; not that I've lived very long in
the world neither. But I mean, now I've got to
be a grown-up young woman. Dear me, it's so
lonesome here in Smithville sometimes, for the want
of more young society. I've heard there is a good
deal of young society in New-York, and I've been
almost in fidgets for a year past to go there. But
that pesky letter of cousin John's has throwed all
the fat in the fire. If I should go there now, every
body that I should see would be thinking of the insinuations
in cousin John's letter, and I should not
feel as if I could hold my head up as I walked the
streets.

Now, dear Gineral Morris, are you a single man
or a married man? for I'm afraid I may be speaking
rather too familiar. I do hope you'll get this
letter before your next paper comes out, and have
them insinuations about me corect; for they are
not corect now, and cousin John knows it. He
must a done it jest to teaze me. It's true, I have
kept school in Smithville fifteen years—I don't
deny that—but then I begun when I was quite
young; very young indeed. You know sometimes
smart girls, that get their edication very young,
begin to keep school when they are mere children.
And when I begun to keep school I was so young,
that I felt every day as if I wanted to go out and play
with the childrenn every time they was dismissed.

It's true, too, that I've took your paper most as
long as cousin John said, for it's ten years the first
of last January, since I begun, and I've sent the
money for it every year regular. But what if I
have took your paper ten years—what does that
argu? Why, that I was a good skoller, and took
to reading very young. And if cousin John was as

fond of lurning as I be, he would a took it years
ago too, and not waited till now, and took it jest
because there was a piece put in about him.
Cousin John knows I've got more lurning than he,
and knows that's how I come to take the Mirror
so young; for when we used to go to school together,
I always kept ahead of him in all the
branches, though he was so much older than me:
yes, a great deal older than me.

And then cousin John is no writer—you see by
his letter he's no grammarian. Now, I teach grammar
in my school, and have composition besides.
And I shouldn't care a pin if you should publish this
whole letter of mine, jest to let cousin John know
that there's other folks in the world that can write
besides him.

What he said about aunt Ruth's specs, he must
a done jest to teaze me, and for nothing else in the
world. My eyes are as good as hisn any day—
that is, I can see as well; it's true I read and
study so much, they are rather weak, and sometimes
plague me about reading. Don't you think,
Gineral, your types is a little too small? not that I
speak on my own account, for my eyes ain't weak

all the time, but on account of elderly people, who
find it rather trying to read sich small print.

And as to what cousin John said uncle John, the
blacksmith, said about buying my teeth for a vice,
as though I was mad and gritting my teeth, the
idee he conveyed by that was not corect, and it's a
plaguy shame he should say it. I'll tell you jest
how 'twas. I was setting by the table, and was
nipping an apple seed between my teeth, and uncle
John, the blacksmith, he sot looking at me, and
he see my full round set of large white teeth, for I
show my teeth considerable, and though I say it
myself, I've got as good a set of teeth as there is
in the city of New-York—well, uncle John sot
looking at me, seeing me nip the apple seed, and
he's a coarse kind of man, you know; so, says he,
jest for a joke—

“Debby, I want a new vice in my shop; what
will you take for your teeth? I think they'd hold a
pretty good grip.”

As for my being mad, it was no sich thing, for I
have the name of being one of the best tempered
people in Smithville. And I trust I shall always
keep it. But if there is any thing in the world
that would sour my temper, it would be the want

of young society; and that's one thing makes me
so anxious to go to some sich place as New-York,
where I can have a plenty of young society. And
if them insinuations in cousin John's letter don't
operate too much against me, I mean to come to
New-York yet. I should like to keep a school there;
and, perhaps, you'll be so kind, bein' I've took your
paper so long, and always paid you regular and in
advance for it, perhaps you'll be so kind as to look
round a little for me, and see if there's a good
chance for me to keep school any where there. I
should like to have it in some part of the city where
there is a good deal of young society, you know.

I don't know but I ought to say a word or two
about the Smith name, that's made sich a fuss in
your paper lately. I think cousin John is very set
in his way. To be sure, the Smith name round
here, is a name that every body likes, and although
there is a great many of 'em, yet we never get
mixed up so, but that every body can tell who is
who and which is which. But, perhaps, the name
may not be liked so well in New-York; and, I
think, it is about as well always to try to do what
will suit the folks best where we live. So it isn't
so much to be wondered at, that cousin John should

be a little riled at anybody's wanting him to change
his name, and that he should make up his mind,
as he says, so “decidedly, that he shan't do it.”
But cousin John is very set in his way. Thank fortune
I ain't so set in mine. And as I said afore,
if the name isn't liked so well in New-York, and I
was living in New-York, I shouldn't be so very set
about not changing it.

Now, my dear Gineral Morris, (you see I can't
help speaking in that gentle kind of way—good
tempered folks are always apt to speak so,) now,
this is the first letter I ever writ to an editor, and
it makes me feel rather delicate, though I've no
doubt it is as good a one as cousin John's; and if
you should print this, I want to ask one favour
about it. I want you to send a copy of your paper
that has it in it, to young Mr. Ichabod Smith, the
school-master, at Smithville, upper Post-office. But
not let him know that I said any thing about it, for
that's a secret between you and me. He's a very
respectable young man indeed, and he's been at
our house a good deal; but sometimes I think he
is more like my uncle John Smith on my mother's
side, than he is like my grandfather. I want he
should see this letter, and when he finds I'm resolute

about going to New-York, I guess he'll-he'll—there
Gineral, I declare, my idea
confused, I don't know what I was going.

So I remain your sincere friend and
scriber—no, I mean your young reader,

LETTER III.

Containing, among other matters and things, a chapter on animal
magnetism.

Dear Gineral Morris—I got your very perlite
letter last night. The same post brought it
that brought your last Mirror, that had cousin
Debby's letter in it. About Cousin Debby's letter,
where she hinges so hard against me in it,
I shouldn't troubled you to take any notice on't, for
I don't think she's worth a minding, hadn't it been
for the very perlite request in your letter to me,
that I should write some more letters to you and
let you print 'em in your Mirror. But I feel it
my duty now to clear up my character to you a little
in respect of truth and verassity, because some
parts of Debby's letter seems to go almost head-foremost
right against some parts of mine. So to

set this matter to rights in short meter, Gineral, I
must say that cousin Debby, although she's in the
main a very good sort of a gal, yet when any thing
nettles her considerable, she will stretch the stockin'
a little, that's a fact. And that isn't her worst
failin'; for a few years past she's been a good deal
given to breaking up matches. So that the young
folks, when they take a notion to have any courting
goin' on, jest about as lives die as to have Debby
get hold on't, for they know she won't rest day
or night till she's turned the whole business topsy-turvy,
and poured all the fat in the fire.

But that's neither here nor there. I ain't agoin'
to talk to you about Debby, nor no sich nonsense,
but come right down to matters of more importance,
tha tyou spoke about in your letter.

I was a good deal struck up to find that you and
the New-York folks didn't know any more about
Smithville; and couldn't even tell what state it
was in. It is a very noted place, and has been a
good many years. It turned out more soldiers to
go down to Portland in the last war, than any town
of its size in the state. And didn't you never hear
how high politix run in our town when Adams and
Crawford was up for president, and I and Ichabod

Smith was run for the legislater, and how we voted
till ten o'clock at night, tie and tie, and no choice,
and then had a knock down and put the candles
out, and adjourned till next day? You must have
heard about it, and had it in the papers there tu,
for it was all the talk about here for months. Not
know any thing about Smithville! Seems to me
'tain't possible. Why, we've been represented in
the legislater ever since our state was separated
from old Massachusetts. I've been there two winters
myself; and though I say it myself, I suppose
I held as good a rank as most any of 'em there,
unless it was a few that was called leading members.
I was appointed on the committee on accounts
and on the committee on dividing towns,
and the speaker used to most always stop and speak
to me as he was going out of the house after we
was adjourned. I can't see how it is possible that
New-York shouldn't know a good deal about Smithville;
more especially as it jines Downingville, and
Downingville is known by every body in New-York
and all over the country. And moreover, Downingville
is only a child, as it were, of Smithville;
for they was both one town at first, and Smithville
was the mother town, and Downingville was set
off from Smithville in the year 1811, the year before
the last war broke out. I don't mean this new
war that's going on down here to the north-eastern
boundary, but what's always been called the last
war.

It seems strange that Downingville should be
known more than Smithville—that the child should
get ahead of the mother—though I know it seems
to be a kind of a law of nater, that children should
out-do their parents, and make more noise in the
world than their parents ever did. I'm considerable
ahead of what my father ever was; he never
had a squire's commission, nor never was a representative
to the legislater. And then here's our
state of Maine—you know she's the daughter of
old Massachusetts—well, she's getting up in the
world faster than ever her mother did, and is running
ahead of her like smoke. She's got so big
she won't take an insult from the biggest nation
in the world. If Great Britain plagues her a little
about cutting down some of her pine logs, by
the gracious! she don't stop to ask no questions,
but flies right in her face, tooth and nail, and tells
Grent Britain if she wants to fight, she's the boy
for her. Now old Massachusetts never would a

dared to done that in the world. She would a
looked over her shoulder and hollered to Uncle
Sam to come and help her, as hard as she could
scream, before she would struck a blow. But
somehow or other I believe children do have more
spunk than their parents after all. Their dander
seems to start quicker. There's my son John—
you let any body insult him or me or any of the
family, and he's into 'em in a minute. A regiment
wouldn't stop him. I should like to give you an
account of some of his tantrums if I had time, although
he isn't seventeen years old till the fifth of
next May.

I was glad to find you and the New-York folks
thought so much of my 'tother letter, and wants
me to write again; though I feel a little kind
of streaked about writin' letters for you to print
in your Mirror, along side of them are fine
pieces that you have from men of great larning.
Though I don't know that I have any need to
be ashamed of my larning, for all Debby hinges
as though it wasn't as good as hern. She
may know more than I do about needle-work
and grammar and these fine arts; but when you
come down to the solid branches, sich as ciphering,

suing folks, duing town business, and working
politix, she's no more than a baby to me; I can
wind her round my finger in every one of 'em in
two minutes.

You say you want me to tell you all about Smithville
and Smithville folks, where our ancestors
come from, and how long they've lived here, and
how we've got along and built our town up and
made sich a smart place of it, and give you my
views about matters and things in general. Now
that, according to my notion, Gineral, is pretty
considerable of a broad question, especially the
matters and things in general; for I find there is a
good many things in this world; and I guess there's
some that your New-Yorkers hain't thought of yet.
But I'm kind of puzzled to know whereabouts I
better begin. I don't know whether I better begin
at the root of the matter and trace it all out in
rotation, as grandmother does when she goes over
the Smith tree, that Debby told you about in her
letter, or whether I better begin at the top and so
work down along, as they say the freemasons do
when they build their chimblies. Sometimes I've
a good mind to begin right in amongst the matters

and things in general, which, I take it, means
animal magnetism. But I see Mr. John Neal is
writing for you on that subject, and has got along
as far as the “Notch of the White Hills” and “the
gloves.” But I don't know as there would be any
harm in having two hands at the same job, and as
there's matters and things enough in the world to
last two of us considerable time, I don't know but
I might as well, and I believe I will, write a little
about animal magnetism tu. I think I should like
to write along side of John Neal, he goes ahead so
much like a steam-engine.

ANIMAL MAGNETISM.

Smithfield Burying-ground.—The Apparition.

It was a bright moonshiny night, as you will see
one in a hundred—'twas in the latter part of September,
and the weather was jest about warm
enough to be comfortable. `Twas a Sunday night—
I had my go-to-meeting clothes on, and had been
over to see Sally Newbegin, she that's now my
dear wife, at this very blessed moment. I didn't

marry a Smith, but a Newbegin. I took a fancy to
that name, because grandmother used to say, when
one got married, they always had to begin the world
anew; and I thought if I could marry a Newbegin,
my world would be already pretty well begun. And
Sally was a fine gal, though I say it. And I had
to get up pretty early, and set up pretty late
tu, to get her, for most all the young fellers in
Smithville, and near about a score from Downingville
was after her one while. But Sally never
staid with any of 'em but me, for she always took
a liking to me ever since we went to school together.

Well, this night we sot talking in the fore room,
till the old brass clock struck twelve, and then I
told Sally that I must go. She said she didn't believe
but what the clock was too fast. So I sot
down again a minute, or I didn't think it was a bit
more than ten minutes, when the plaguy old clock
struck one. I sprung and catched my hat, and
bid Sally good night, and started for home as fast
as I could go. I had to go nearly two miles; and
about half a mile before I got home, I had to go by
the burying-ground, that was close by the road.
'Twas a very lonesome sort of a place. There

was thick woods on 'tother side of the road, and
'twas nearly half a mile to any house. When I
got along in sight of the burying-ground, I naturally
begun to think over who was buried there; and
about one that was always supposed to be murdered—for
a good many folks have always thought
there's been one murder committed in Smithville;
and then I thought how aunt Jane was once frightened
most out of her senses coming along by the
burying-ground, between daylight and dark, and
always stood to it she see an apparition. I always
used to laugh at her about it, and have made her
as mad as fire a hundred times, whenever she sot
out to tell the story; for I didn't believe nothin'
about ghosts and apparitions; and aunt Jane would
always turn around to me when she got through
the story, and say, “well there, John, I hope if you
live you'll see an apparition.”

I felt as if I'd done wrong in hurting aunt Jane's
feelings so many times, for she's a clever creatur
as ever lived; and then the thought come over me,
as I got along within about twenty rods of the
corner of the burying-ground, “what if aunt Jane's
wish should come true?” My flesh kind of crawled
a little, but I wouldn't mind it—apparitions wasn't

nothin' but old women's whims—I clinched my
hands a little tighter and walked along, and begun
to whistle a little; not very loud, but a low tune,
jest to show that I wasn't afraid. The dark
shadows of the woods begun to fall across the
road, for the moon had got down some ways behind
the trees. It seemed as if the place was
dreadful still; and I felt my flesh crawl again. I
stopped whistling—the place was so still I couldn't
whistle—when all at once I heard a most terrible
groan. My hair ris right up, and I thought my
heart would a jumped out of my mouth. It wasn't
so loud a groan as some, but a low, distressed,
awful sound, sich as I never heard before in my
life. I stopped short, for I couldn't move a step
one way nor 'tother; my feet seemed to grow to
the ground. The groan come agin, and the shudders
run over me like a streak of lightning. The
sound seemed to be a little ways ahead of me, and
as I looked along, about a half dozen rods, I see a
white thing, about as long as a coffin, laying across
the road. I couldn't feel no skeerder than I was before,
but the sweat begun to pour off of me like rain.
The groan come agin, and I was sure it come from
the white thing across the road. It looked about
as large as a man, and white enough to be a winding
sheet wrapped round it.

I begun to feel it was possible there might be
sich things as apparitions, and I felt like death to
think I had hurt aunt Jane's feelings so much about
it. It didn't move any, but laid still and groaned.
I thought at first I would speak to it, but I couldn't
muster courage enough. What could I do? My
courage never failed before. I went back a few
steps, keeping my face all the time towards the
apparition; for I couldn't help feeling convinced now
that 'twas an apparition. I could go home another
way, by going round nearly three miles, but what
good would that do? apparitions could go faster than
I could. I went back a few steps farther, without
taking my eyes off of it; it didn't follow me, but
laid still in the same place. I begun to feel my
courage come a little—I never was a coward; but
I didn't know what to do—I couldn't go forward,
and I wouldn't go back. I picked up a little round
stone, about as large as a hen's egg, and threw it
towards the apparition—not hard, but rolled it
along the ground, jest far enough to hit it easy. In
a moment it sprung up on eend and fell down

again twice; and groaned louder than ever. But I
minded, both times it fell, it didn't fall towards me,
but from me. After a minute or two, I thought I'd
try that motion again. I threw another stone.
The apparition sprung up on its feet jest as it did
before, and fell down again, with its head from me.
At this my courage begun to come a little more,
and I ventured to go along a few steps nearer, once
in a while throwing a stone. The apparition seemed
to be afraid of me, and every time I threw a stone
it would seem to jump about its length from me.
At last it got along to a place where the moonshine
come down between the trees on to it, and I got
up to within about two rods of it, and all at once
my heart was as light as a feather. It was nothing
but uncle John Smith's old hog, that had got
his forefeet both up through his yoke, and was
half choked to death, and could only spring up on
his hind feet and groan. A fiddle-stick take your
apparitions, said I, and I went whistling half the
way home, determined to hecter aunt Jane about
her apparitions harder than ever.

In respect of your invitation, Gineral, for me to
come to New-York and make a visit, there's nothing

would suit me better, for I've always wanted to see
that are place, and if I can bring my business about
so as to make it convenient, I think I shall do it. I
remain your sincere friend,

LETTER IV.

The war in our disputed territory.—The drafting at Smithville.

Dear Gineral Morris—I was going to give you
a kind of a history of our folks and our town—
going away back to the beginning, and so coming
down along in course, but we have been in sich a
flustration here about the war for a week past,
that I can't think of any thing else, nor write about
any thing else, till the flurry is over. My son John
has gone down to the boundary war, along with
the rest of 'em, and we feel bad enough about it, I
can tell you. He's too young to go, I know; he's
a mere stripling of a boy yet, as I told you in my
'tother letter; he won't be seventeen years old till

the fifth day of next May, if he should live to see
it. But the poor boy may never live to see that
day now, for he's taken his life in his hands, and
gone to fight for his country like a man and a hero,
live or die. It was a tryin' time to us, Gineral; it
was a tryin' time—but I may as well tell you the
story, and then you'll know.

After we heard the British had taken our Land
Agent, and carried him off to New-Brumzick, we
begun to look out for a squall. It was about dark
when the post brought the papers that had the account
of it; so, arter supper, we all went into
grandfather's to talk the matter over; for grandfather
knows more about sich matters than any
body else in Smithville,—he was out three years
in the revolution, and was in the battle of Lexington
before he listed, and had the fore-finger of his
right hand shot off in the battle of Bunker-hill,
jest as he was pulling trigger, and aiming at a
British officer that was hurrying up the hill, and
driving his soldiers up like a fury. But grandfather
always says he didn't lose his shot by it; for when
he found that finger was gone, and wouldn't pull,
he tried the next finger, and the old gun went without
losing his aim, and the British officer fell; and

he always believed 'twas his shot brought him
down. Though grandfather is eighty-five years
old now, and is so lame that he can't walk about
much, yet his mind holds out remarkably, and he
can talk about these things as smart as ever he
could. His house stands right aside of mine, only
far enough apart for a long shed between 'em, and
he used to live in the same house with me, or
rather I lived in the same house with him, till I
had so many children, and my family got so large,
'twas rather worrisome to the old gentleman, and
we was rather scant of room, so I built another
house, and moved into it, and got cousin Debby to
live with the old folks, and take care of them.

So, as I said afore, arter supper we took the
papers and went into grandfather's, and I sot
down and read it all over to him, how a parcel of
the British come over into our disputed territory,
and went to cutting down our timber like smoke,
so as to steal it, and carry it off in the spring, when
the rivers open, away down to New-Brumzick; and
how our new governor, Mr. Fairfield, as soon as
he heard about it, sent Mr. McIntire, the land
agent, and a hundred and fifty men to put a stop
to that stealin' business, and ketch the fellers if he

could, and bring 'em off; and how Mr. McIntire
took his men, and marched away off down there
into the woods, ever so fur, into our disputed territory,
and got all ready, and was jest a going to
ketch the fellers, and bring 'em off up to Augusta,
when the thieving chaps turned about, and ketched
him, and put him on a sled, and hauled him off
away down to Frederickton, in New-Brumzick,
and put him in jail.

When I got along so fur, grandfather couldn't
hold still no longer—he struck his staff down on
the floor, jest as if it had been a training-gun, and
says he:

“John, there 'll be trouble; you may depend
upon 't there 'll be trouble. If our people will
stand that, they ain't made of sich kind of stuff as
the old revolution folks was made of, nor nothing
like it. In them days, if the British had a took one
of our men, and hauled him off to Frederickton,
and put him in jail, every man in the old Bay
State, and every boy, tu, that was big enough to
carry a gun, would a shouldered it, and marched
to New-Brumzick, and Fredericton jail would a
been stripped down in no time, and Mr. McIntire
brought home agin.”

Says I, “father, you mistake”—I most always
call the old gentleman father, since my father died,
and he's always been a sort of father to all of us,
and to every body in Smithville, from oldest to
youngest—says I, “father, you mistake; your revolution
folks couldn't a brought Mr. McIntire
home again, for he was not there in them days—
it's Mr. McIntire that's in jail now.”

“Yes, they would,” said the old gentleman,
rising out of his chair, and striking his staff down
on the floor harder than he did afore; “they'd a
gone after Mr. McIntire, or any other man living,
that had American blood in his veins, and they'd a
brought him back, if they'd had to fit their way
through forty New-Brumzicks for him. Ain't the
people waking up about it no where? ain't they
going down to give them New-Brumzicks a thrashing?”

I looked at my son John, and I see his face was
all of a blaze; and he looked as if he was jest a
going to burst out.

Says I, “John, my boy, what's the matter?”

His face grew redder, and the tears come into
his eyes, and he struck his fists together, hard
enough to crack a walnut.

“By king,” says he, “father, I wish I was old
enough to train; I want to go down there and
help to give them are British what they deserve.”

“By the memory of George Washington!” said
my grandfather, “I wish I was young enough to
train; I should like to shoulder my gun agin, and
go and teach them New-Brumzickers better manners.
But what are they duing at Augusta? Ain't
there no stir about it yet?”

Says I, “we'll read on and see.” So I looked
over the papers a little more, and found the governor
had ordered ten thousand of the militia to be
drafted to go down and keep the British out of our
disputed territory, and prevent their stealing our
pine timber.

“That looks something like it,” said my grandfather;
“that's a little like the spunk of old
seventy-six. The British 'll have to let our disputed
territory alone now, or else they 'll have to
come to the scratch for it. I wish I was twenty
years younger, I'd go down as a volunteer.”

“I wish I was only two years older,” said my
son John, “then I should stan' a chance to be
drafted; and if I wasn't drafted, I'd go whether or
no.”

At that my wife and grandmother both fetched
a heavy sigh. Grandmother said, she thought father
had been through wars enough in his day to
rest in his old age, and let sich things alone. My
wife, she wiped her eyes, for they was full of tears,
and begged John not to talk so, for he was too
young ever to think of sich things. And then she
turned to grandfather, and asked him if he really
thought there was going to be any war.

“Yes,” said grandfather, “jest as true as the
sun will rise to-morrow, there 'll be a war, and
that pretty soon, tu, unless the New-Brumzickers
back out, and give up Mr. McIntire, and let the
timber on our disputed territory alone. The orders
will be up here, to draft the militia within two
days, and I shouldn't be surprised if they should
be called out before to-morrow morning.”

At that my wife and the gals had a pretty considerable
of a crying spell.

After we'd talked the matter all over, we went
home and went to bed; but we didn't any of us
rest very well. My wife she sighed herself to
sleep arter a while; and I heard my son John,
arter he got to sleep, muttering about guns and
the British, and declaring he would go. I had jest

got into a drowse about midnight, when I heard a
heavy knock at the door. I sprung out of bed, and
went and looked out of the window, and asked
who was there.

“Sargent Johnson,” was the reply. “We've
got to stan' a draft to-night. The governor's
orders got here about an hour ago. We're sending
round to warn our company to meet up here to
Mr. Wilson's tavern, at two o'clock this morning;
it's near about one now, and the captain wants
Squire Smith to come over and help see about
making the draft. He wants to get through with
it as soon as he can, so them that's drafted may be
getting ready, for they've got to set out to Bangor
at eight o'clock this morning.”

I told him I would come right over; and so I lit a
candle and dressed myself as quick as I could, and
come out into the kitchen to put on my boots, and
who should I find there but my son John, all dressed,
and his cap on, ready for a start. He had
heard what had been said, and it put the fidgets
right into him.

Says he, “father, I want to go over and see
'em draft.” I told him he better be abed and
asleep, by half. But he said he couldn't sleep;

and I found the boy was so arnest to go, that I
finally told him he might.

We hadn't more than got dressed, before we
heard the drum beat, over to Mr. Wilson's tavern;
so we started off and went over. When we got
there, they had a fire in the large hall, and the
company was most all there. The captain had got
a bowl and some black beans and white beans all
ready, and he wanted me to draw for them, so
they might all feel satisfied there was no partiality.
There was one sargent to be drafted, and we drew
him first; and it fell to Sargent Johnson. He
stood it like a man; I didn't see as he trembled or
turned pale a bit. He looked a little redder, if
any thing, and kind of bit his lip as he took his gun
and marched into the middle of the floor, and turned
round and looked at the company, and says he;

“I'm ready to go and fight for our country to
the last drop of my blood, but what we'll make the
British back out of our disputed territory, and stop
their thieving.”

The company gave three cheers for Sargent
Johnson, and then we went to drafting the privates.
There was sixty in the company, and ten was to
be drafted. So they took fifty white beans and ten

black ones, and put 'em into the bowl, and held it up,
so nobody couldn't look into it, and I was to draw
'em out as the orderly sargent called out the names.
So when we got ready to begin, the sargent sung
out—

“William Jones—”

I put my hand into the bowl and drawed, and
sung out—

“White bean.”

“Peter Livermore,” cried the sargent.

Peter Livermore started, as if he'd had a shock
from an electrical machine; his legs shook a little,
and he looked in the face as if he felt rather bad.
I put my hand in and drawed, and sung out—

“White bean.”

Peter looked better in a minute. He's a great
tall six-foot chap, and looks as if he could almost
whip a regiment of common fellers himself; and,
although he's something of a brag, it's generally
thought, when you come right up to the pinch of
the game, he's a little cowardly. Peter stretched
his head back, and straddled his legs a little wider,
and looked round on the company, and says he—

“I swow, I thought I should a been drafted,
and I almost wish I had. It would a been fun

alive to a gone down there, and had a brush long
with them are New-Brumzickers. My old fowling-piece
would a made day-light shine through fifty of
'em in half an hour's fighting. I swow I'm disappinted—I
was in hopes I should been drafted.”

The company knew Peter too well to mind
much what he said; they only laughed a little,
and the sargent went on, and called out—

“John Smith, the third.”

I drawed to it, and says I,

“White bean.”

The sargent called out again,

“John Smith, the seventh.”

That was the oldest son of uncle John Smith,
the blacksmith; a smart boy, about twenty-three
years old. Somehow, as soon as I heard his name,
I kind of felt as if he was going to be drafted; and
I put in my hand and drawed, and sure enough, I
sung out—

“Black bean.”

John shouldered his gun in a minute, and marched
out into the middle of the floor, and took his
stand beside Sargent Johnson. He looked so resolute,
and marched so quick, that the company

at once give three cheers for John Smith, the
seventh.

“John Sanborn,” cried the sargent.

“White bean,” said I.

“Ichabod Downing,” said the sargent.

I drawed, and answered the same as before,

“White bean.”

`Jeremiah Cole,” called out the sargent.

“Black bean,” said I; “black bean for Jerry.”

After waiting a minute, the captain called out,
“where's Jerry Cole? Isn't Jerry here?”

“Yes, setting down behind here on a bench,”
answered a half a dozen at once.

“Come, Jerry, come forward,” said the captain,
“let us see your spunk.”

By-and-by, Jerry come creeping out from behind
the company, and tried to get across the floor;
but his face was as white as a cloth, and he shook
and trembled so he couldn't scarcely walk. He
let his gun fall on the floor, and sot down in a
chair that stood by the side of the room, and boohoo'd
out a crying like a baby. “Well done,”
said the captain, “there's spunk for you.”
“What's the matter, Jerry? can't you go?”

“Boo-hoo,” said Jerry, “I ain't well at all—I'm

very sick, captain; I don't think I could go any
way in the world.”

“Well, well,” said the captain, “leave your gun,
and you may run home as fast as you can go and
see your mother, and we'll get somebody else to go
in your room.”

At that Jerry darted out of the door, and pulled
foot for home, like a streak of lightning.

“Where's Peter Livermore,” said the captain;
“he may take Jerry's place, bein' he was disappinted
at not bein' drafted.” And he called
Peter, and told him to take Jerry's gun, and stand
up in the floor with the drafts. Peter coloured as
red as you ever see, and begun to sweat. At last,
says he,

“Captain, I don't see how I can go any way in
the world, my family's out of wood and meal, and
a good many other things, and I couldn't leave
home.”

“Oh,” says the captain, “we'll take care of
your family while you are gone, Peter. Come,
take the gun; don't stop to parley.”

“But, captain,” said Peter, the sweat beginning
to roll off of his face, “if I'd been drafted,
captain, I'd a gone with the greatest pleasure in

the world, and shouldn't wanted no better fun.
But somehow or other, it seems to me like presumption,
to go to throwing myself into danger,
when it wasn't my lot to go. I shouldn't like to
go, captain, without I was drafted.”

“Well, well,” said the captain, “you needn't
go; we want no cowards to go. But who is there
here, among the spectators, or among the men
whose names have been called, that isn't afraid to
take Jerry's gun and fill Jerry's place. If there's
any one here that's willing to go, let him come
forward.”

At that my son John sprung like a young tiger,
and seized Jerry's gun, and jumped into the middle
of the floor and stood up by the side of Sargent
Johnson, and shouldered his gun with so
much eagerness, and looked so fierce and determined,
although nothing but a striplin' of a boy,
that the whole company burst out in three tremendous
cheers for John Smith, the tenth—that's
what he's numbered; we go accordin' to numbers
in the village. The captain asked me if I was
willing he should go. I never was so tried in my
life. For my own part, bein' the boy was so brave
and wanted to go so much, I should a said yes.

But then I knew it would almost kill his mother.
So, what to do I didn't know. But I found the
boy had got his mind so fixed upon going, that if
he didn't go it would about kill him. So, on the
whole, I told the captain yes, he might put his name
down.

Then we went on with the drafting again and
got all through without any more trouble, and got
ready to go home about three o'clock. The captain
told them that was drafted, that they must all
be ready to march at eight o'clock in the morning,
and they must be in front of the tavern at that hour,
and start together for Bangor. My son John and
I then went home, and made up a fire and routed
the folks all out, and told 'em John was listed, and
got to start at eight o'clock, to fight for our disputed
territory. Sich an outcry as there was for
about half an hour, I guess you never heard.
My wife couldn't a cried harder if John had been
shot dead there before her feet, though she didn't
make much noise about it; for she always cries to
herself. The older gals, they cried considerable
louder; and some of the younger children, that
didn't hardly understand what the trouble was

about, sot in and screamed as loud as they could
bawl.

At last, says I, “there's no use in this noise
and fuss; the boy's got to go, and he's got to be
off at eight o'clock tu, and the sooner we set ourselves
to work to get him ready, the better. That
seemed to wake 'em up a little. My wife went to
work and picked up his clothes, and she and the
gals sot down and mended his shirts and stockins,
and fried up a parcel of dough-nuts for him to put
in his knapsack, and got him all fixed up and
breakfast ready about six o'clock. We hadn't
waked up old grandfather in the night, bein' he's
so old; but in the morning we let him know about
it, and he wanted my son John to come in and see
him before he went; so we went into the old gentleman's
room.

“Now John, my boy,” said the old gentleman,
“I feel proud to hear sich a good report of you.
You'd a made a good soldier in the days of the revolution.
'Twas such boys as you that drove the
British from Lexington, and mowed 'em down on
Bunker-hill. You'll feel a little queer at first
when you see the enemy coming up to you with
their guns pinted right at you; and, brave as you

are, you'll feel a little streaked. But you musn't
mind it; as soon as they've fired once, you won't
feel any more of it, and won't keer no more about
'em than you would about a flock of sheep. But
don't be in a hurry to fire—mind that—don't be in
a hurry to fire—they told us at Bunker-hill not to
fire till the enemy got up so near we could see the
whites of their eyes. And 'twas a good rule; for
by that means we let 'em get up so near, that
when we did fire, we mowed 'em down like a field
of clover, I can tell you. Be a good boy, John,
and don't quit our disputed territory as long as
there is any dispute about it.”

By this time we see 'em begin togather in the
road up by the tavern, and I told John it was time
to be off; so he took his gun, and his knapsack,
which was pretty well stuffed, for each of the children
had put in a dough-nut or an apple, or a piece
of cake, after their mother had crammed in as
much as she thought he could carry, and then he
marched away like a soldier up to the tavern.
When they started, they had to come down again
by our house and go up over a rise of land 'tother
way about half a mile, before they got out of sight.
So we all stood out in a row along by the side of

the road to see 'em as they went by. Grandfather
got out as fur as the door-step and stood leaning
on his staff, and grandmother stood behind him
with her specs on, looking over his shoulder; and
the rest of us, with the children and cousin Debby
and all, went clear out to the side of the road.
Pretty soon they come along by, Sargent Johnson
at the head, and the rest marching two and two.
When they got along against us, little Ned run up
and tucked another great apple into John's pocket,
and my wife called out to him, “Now do pray be
careful, Johnny, and not get shot.”

Then grandfather raised his trembling voice,
and says he,

“Now, John, my boy, remember and don't be in
a hurry to fire.”

And the children called out all together, “good-by,
John, good—by John,” each repeating it over
three or four times. John looked round and nodded
once, when his mother called out to him, but
the rest of the time he held his head up straight
and marched like a soldier. We stood and watched
'em till they got clear to the top of the hill and
was jest a going out of sight, when all to once
John stepped out one side, where we could see

[ILLUSTRATION]

him, and let his old gun blaze away into the air,
and in a minute more they were out of sight.

“Ah,” said old grandfather, “that sounds like
Bunker-hill; that boy'll do the business for them
New-Brumzickers, if they don't let our disputed
territory alone.”

We feel dreadful lonesome, Gineral, since John
went away. It seems as if our family is most all
gone, now he's gone. If you should hear any
thing about his fighting down there to our disputed
territory, I wish you would put it in your paper,
for we shall feel dreadful anxious till we hear
from him. So I remain your friend and subscriber,

LETTER V.

Wherein young John Smith, the tenth, describeth the march of the
Smithville detachment, down to our Disputed Territory
also, relateth the occurrence of a remarkable mistake, that came
near putting to flight two belligerent forces.

Dear Gineral—I've jest got a letter from our
son John, and as I s'pose you hain't heard
from him yet, since he went down to fight
disputed territory, I thought I would set do
write a line or two, and send you John's letter, all
but a few lines he writ to his marm and the children,
which don't seem to have much to do about
the war.

I 'spose you might get the news from our disputed
territory by the way of Smithville, as
quick as any way, for the post from Houlton, on

the upper road, comes right by here. I got John's
letter last night, jest before bed-time. I went in
and read it over to old grandfather; and the old
gentleman was so rejoiced about it, he couldn't
hardly sleep a wink all night. But I musn't write
any more myself; if I do, I shan't have room to
give you all of John's letter; and I want to give it
to you in his own words; for, accordin' to my notion,
although he's but a striplin' of a boy yet, and
won't be seventeen years old till the fifth day of
next May, yet, accordin' to my notion, he writes
remarkable well. He went to school to cousin
Debby in his younger days, and since that, I've
teached him the solid branches myself. But John
writes as follers:

Dear Gineral, my son's letter is so long, I
haven't got time to add another word.

LETTER VI.

Wherein young John Smith describeth the desperate seige of the
logging camp, and the memorable capture of the loggers.

Dear Gineral—I've jest got another letter from
my son John, down in our disputed territory, and
as I know you feel anxious to hear how they get
along down there, I hasten to send you a copy of
it. It is as follers:

Dear Gineral, so much for my son John's second
grist. Don't you think he grinds it out pretty
well for a boy that isn't seventeen years old yet?

LETTER VII.

Wherein young John Smith describeth the bravery of the Smithville
detachment in “toeing the mark,” and also their unparalleled
success in capturing the British Lion.

Dear Gineral.—I've got another letter from my
son John down to the boundary war; and as I
'spose you like to have 'em pretty well by your
putting of 'em in your papers, I make haste to
send you a copy of this by the first post. It is as
follers.

Dear Gineral—Peter Smith, Esquire, Henry
W. Smith, Ensign John Smith, John Smith the

fourth, Ichabod Smith the second, Sam Smith the
third, John Smith the ninth, and old Mr. Zebedee
Smith, and all his children, all wants you to send
'em your paper, beginning with the one that had
my first letter in it. Your friend and subscriber,

LETTER VIII.

Which containeth an account of the close of the war—the great
rejoicings at Smithville, on the return of Sargent Johnson's company,
and the getting up a public dinner in honour of the Smithville
detachment.

Dear Gineral Morris—You can't think what
rejoicings there is in Smithville. The war in our
disputed territory is all over; and Sargent Johnson
and his company and my son John has got back,
and nobody killed, and only one wounded, and
that's poor Billy Wiggins, that had his leg broke
by the moose that my son John told about in his
last letter. The company is all as hearty as bucks,
and look as well as they did when they went away,
only they've got their clothes wore out pretty bad.

They got along here yesterday noon. We was

setting to the table and jest a finishing our dinner,
and my wife was jest a saying, “Oh, dear, I wish
I knew what was become of poor Johnny; we
hain't heard from him for nigh about a fortnight,
and I am afraid something has happened to him;”
and she hadn't more than got the words out of her
mouth when all to once we heard a terrible cracking
and a roaring, like a platoon firing at a muster.
We all jumped up and run to the door, and
looked out one way and 'tother, and as soon as we
looked away up to the top of the hill, we see Sargent
Johnson's company jest beginning to march
down; and the smoke of their guns was rolling
away over their heads, where they had jest fired a
salute to let the folks in the village know they was
coming. As soon as we got out to the door my
son John see us, and he sprung out a little one
side of the company and jumped up on to a great
rock, and took off his hat and swung it round and
hoorah'd like a house a fire. At that my three
boys next to John, they turned to, and they hoorah'd
as loud as they could bawl; and then they
sot out and run up the hill like young colts, and
when they met the company they run up to John
and tried to shake hands, but John never turned
his head to the right nor to the left, but marched
straight ahead like a soldier. Sargent Johnson
had give 'em their orders before, not to stop for
nobody nor nothin', but march straight forward
with heads up, right through the village, clear to
the tavern, and there he would dismiss 'em.

When they got along down against our house,
my wife was all of a didder, she wanted to get hold
of John so. She sot out to run right to him, and
called out to him, “John, oh, John, ain't you going
to stop?”

But Sargent Johnson shook his head at her, and
called out to his company, “heads up, keep time!”
and they marched right by us straight as loons.
Old grandfather by this time had hobbled out to
the door, and stood leaning over his staff, and
when he see them march by so straight without
stopping or looking one way or 'tother, says he—

“Ah, that looks military. How that company
has improved in discipline since they've been gone!
Why, they march as well as British regulars, and
seems to me John holds his head up and steps the
best of any of 'em.”

We stood and watched 'em till they got clear up
to the tavern, and then they wasn't so fur off but

what we could hear Sargent Johnson give off the
word of command.

“Halt; front face. Make ready; take aim;
fire.” When they'd let go their broadside, Sargent
Johnson made a speech to 'em, and thanked
'em for their bravery and good conduct while they'd
been gone, and told 'em if ever their country was
in danger again, he hoped they'd always be ready
to go at a moment's warning and fight to the last
drop of their blood, if it was necessary, to keep off
thieves and trespassers, and all sich like. And
says he—

“Now, my brave feller soldiers, I bid you farewell,
and take leave of you, as Gineral Washington
took leave of his feller soldiers when he got
through the revolutionary war. I've read it in his
life, and I feel as if I wanted to cry every time I
read it. Now I'll stand here, and I want you all
to come round one arter another and shake hands
with me, and that'll wind the business up.”

And they all marched round one arter another
and shook hands with Sargent Johnson, and then
he told 'em they was dismissed, and would carry
the thanks of their country with 'em the longest
day they lived. As soon as they was dismissed,

John turned and run right down towards our house
full chisel. We was all out doors waiting for him,
and sich a time as there was when he got there, I
guess you never see. Sich a flocking round him
and shaking hands, and sich a hugging among the
children, it beat all nater. My wife, she couldn't
help kissing him, for all he's sich a great boy, most
seventeen years old. When the first hug among
'em was over, we all went into the house, and old
grandfather he hobbled along and went into our
house tu, for all he's so lame he hadn't been in before
for nigh upon six months. My wife she flew
round John like a hen that's found a lost chicken.
She got hold of his arm and looked in his face, and
says she—

“Now, Johnny, hain't you been shot no where?
Seems to me you look kind of pale and thin; I'm
afraid you ain't well.”

John said he never felt better in his life, and as
for being shot, he hadn't come any wheres nigh it
but once, and that was when they took the logging
camp.

“Well, John,” said old grandfather, “did you
mind, my boy, what I told you, not to be in too
much of a hurry to fire? Did you keep your fire

back till you got up so near the enemy you could
see the whites of their eyes?”

“Why, as to that,” said John, “we kept our
fire back till we got as fur as we could go, for we
got clear to the outer line of our disputed territory
and stood on it, and hollered, but there was no
enemy there. We couldn't see the whites of their
eyes nor nothin' else of 'em. So we let drive over
into their own territory, hit or miss; and then turned
about and went back to the fort.”

“Well, that was well done,” said grandfather
“it showed your spunk, any how; and proved
that you wasn't afraid of the enemy, let him be
where he would.”

“Well, now John,” says I, “my son, I want to
ask you one question, if there's room enough for
me to get in a word edgeways. And that is, how
is it you got through this war so soon down there
to our disputed territory, and got along with it
without any more fighting? Somehow or other,
it seems to me it's cooled off dreadful quick; I
don't exactly understand it.”

“Nor I neither,” said John; “I don't exactly
understand it myself. Some say it's all owing to
Gineral Scott. They say he's been down to Augusta

and talked to Governor Fairfield till he got
him nigh about as cool as a cowcumber. And then
he writ some letters to Governor Harvey of New-brumzick,
and coaxed him to let the matter drop,
till the United States should have a chance to talk
along with old England about it a little, and see if
they couldn't settle the hash. But some say they
don't think Governor Harvey would a minded
what Gineral Scott said, if he hadn't heard about
Sargent Johnson's company being down there so
near the line, and cutting up sich shines among the
loggers. And he might have heard our guns, too,
when we fired over the line, and thought it was
best for him to keep out of the way and be quiet.
At any rate, I guess, between Gineral Scott and
our company, that war is put a stop to for one
while. They say Gineral Scott is a master feller
to talk to folks and keep 'em from fighting; but if
they will fight, they must look out, for he'll put it
into 'em jist like old Gineral Jackson.”

While we was talking Squire Bean come in,
and said the folks over to the tavern thought it was
best to get up a publick dinner for Sargent Johnson
and his company, and wanted to know if I
wouldn't jine 'em. I told him I was perfectly willing

to, for I believed the boys deserved a good
dinner as much as any set of fellers ever did. So
he went back to the tavern, and they concluded to
go right to work and get the dinner ready for today.

Says I, “John, what a pity 'tis Gineral Scott
didn't come round this way from Augusta, so as to
eat this public dinner with us.”

“They say he never does sich things as that,"
said John; “he never stops any where to eat
public dinners, and never goes round to do any
thing; but let his business be what 'twill and
where 'twill, he always goes straight to it and
does it.”

“Well,” says I, “I think that's about as good
a way as any, arter all.”

There was considerable of a bustle over to the
tavern last night and this morning, cooking and
getting the dinner ready; and we let two of our
gals go over and help 'em. John offered to go
over and help about it, but I told him, bein' the
dinner was goin' to be given in honour of him and
his company, it wouldn't look well.

“Why,” says he, “father, who cares for looks?
looks is nothin'—behaviour's all.”

I told him, as to behaviour, he stood very well
on that score, but still I thought he better not go
over till dinner was ready.

Accordingly, to-day about twelve o'clock, they
blew the horn over to the tavern, and that was the
signal that the dinner was ready, and so I and
John walked over. There was about fifty collected
there to eat the dinner, and we all marched into
the hall where the table was sot, and it was enough
to du any one's eyes good to look at it. A better
dinner a body couldn't hardly wish to see, even on
thanksgiving day. There was biled salt beef, and
pork and potatoes and cabbage, and pots of baked
pork and beans, and baked Indian puddings, and
fried pork and eggs, and pickled cowcumbers, and
punkin pies, and fried sassages, and soused tripe,
and roast spareribs, and stewed apple, and butter,
and cheese, and hot bread, and cider, and I don't
know what all.

Squire Bean was president of the table, and he
made Sargent Johnson set down at his right hand
and my son John at his left, and the rest of the
company along next to 'em, and we spectators sot
round the rest of the table.

So we all sot down and fell tu and eat as hearty

as bears. Them victuals didn't stand no more
chance afore us, than the British would afore Sargent
Johnson and his company, if they'd a met 'em.
Arter we got through eating, Squire Bean says—

“Now we must have some toasts. Now bring
on the jugs of cider and the tumblers.”

We are most all temperance folks up here in
Smithville, and don't drink much of any thing
stronger than cider. So they brought on five or
six gallon jugs full of cider, and a tumbler apiece
for about three quarters of us, and the rest of us
had mugs. Then Squire Bean says—

“Now, gentlemen, please to charge for my
toast.”

So we poured out the cider all round, and got
all ready, and then Squire Bean got up and says
he—

“Now, gentlemen, I give you the memory of one
our feller soldiers that's been wounded in the cause
of his country, and by that means prevented from
jining with us on this festival occasion. I give
you the memory of Billy Wiggins—a leetle apt to
go off too quick, but always good spunk, and as
ready to put it into the British if they don't let our

[ILLUSTRATION]

disputed territory alone and quit stealing our logs,
as I am to pour this cider down my throat.”

At that we took a drink round and then give
three cheers for Billy Wiggins. And then Squire
Bean says—

“Now, gentlemen, please to charge for Sargent
Johnson's toast.”

We poured out again and got ready, and then
Sargent Johnson got up, and says he—

“Gentlemen, I give you the memory of Sir
John Harvey. He wasn't a bit too perlite in his
letter to Gineral Scott, calling of him his dear
friend, and all that, for if it hadn't a been for
Gineral Scott, we should a given him the most
confounded licking that ever he had.”

At that we begun to give three cheers for
Governor Harvey, but Squire Bean sung out to
us to stop, and told us not to give 'em to Governor
Harvey, but to Gineral Scott. So we give three
rousin' cheers for Gineral Scott. Then Squire
Bean told us to please to charge for a toast from
John Smith the tenth. This was my son John,
setting on the left hand of the cheer. I felt a little
uneasy for fear John might not get through it
very well, for he never had done sich a job afore;

but when we got ready, John sprung up and looked
as sharp as he did that night he listed to go to
the war, and says he—

“Gentlemen, I give you our disputed territory;
a most capital place to get pine logs, to ketch
moose, and to teach the British how to toe the
mark.”

Then we give three cheers for the disputed territory;
and Squire Bean told us to please to charge
for Mr. Jonathan Downing's toast. So we poured
out and got all ready again; and Jonathan
Downing got up, and says he—

“Gentlemen, I give you the British loggers on
our disputed territory. They have to knock under,
whenever the Yankees come among 'em; there's
no mistake about it. But about one thing, we
must give in, that they can beat us a leetle. We
ain't slow at pork and beans, as we have proved
at our dinner here to-day; but we must acknowledge,
that them loggers sometimes make the beans
fly a leetle faster than we do.”

At that we hoorah'd, and give three cheers for
the loggers, beans and all.

There was a good many more toasts before we
got through, but it's got so late I hain't got time

to write 'em off before the post goes. We had a
very good time, and got through about two o'clock,
and cleared out for home. There wasn't nobody
intoxicated, for all we dreaned the cider jugs pretty
close. So I remain your old friend and subscriber,