University of Virginia Library

A WINTER IN THE COUNTRY.

Did you ever live in the country? I don't
mean a residence of some six or seven weeks,
just to escape the burning, boiling, stifling atmosphere
of the crowded city, when the thermometer
stands at 93° in the shade, and clouds
of dust render promenading through Washington
Street almost as dangerous as would be a
march through the desert, to explore the ruins
of Palmyra. But there is the Mall. Oh! the
Mall is unfashionable;—and what lady, having
a proper sense of her own dignity and delicacy,
but would prefer suffocating at home, to the
horror of a refreshing walk in an unfashionable
place? They must resort to the country.
But never should those ladies imagine their
experience of pastoral life, makes them competent
to decide on rural pleasures and rural
characters; or gives them the right to bestow

those convenient epithets, dull, ignorant, plodding,
on our country farmers, or uneducated,
unfashionable, dowdyish, on their wives and
daughters.

Summer and autumn are the seasons, during
which our city people visit the country. In
summer all who feel a sensibility for the beautiful,
are charmed. The green woods, the flowery
fields, the soft lulling waters and calm bright
skies, are successively admired and eulogized.
The sweet scenery is extolled, be-rhymed,
sketched—left and forgotten. Autumn scenery
makes a far deeper impression on the feelings.
There is something in the decay of nature
that awakens thought, even in the most
trifling mind. The person who can regard the
changes in the forest foliage,—that can watch
the slow circles of the dead leaf, as it falls from
the bough of some lofty tree, till it mingles with
the thousands already covering the ground beneath,
and not moralize is—not a person that
I would advise to retire to the country, in
search of happiness. He or she had better stay
in the city and be amused. Those who cannot
think, have, in my opinion, a necessity (which
goes very far towards creating a right) for
amusement.

But the season when the scenery of the country
makes the most delightful impression on the
traveller's senses, or awakens his mind to reflection,
is not the time to form a correct estimate
of the social pleasures and mental advantages,
which the inhabitants in our interior
towns enjoy. Labor, unceasing labor is, during

summer and autumn, the lot of the farmer,
and usually of all his family. The city lady or
gentleman, who visits in the country, regards
this industry as oppressive, almost slavish.
And truly it is sometimes so;—but still there
is a satisfaction to those industrious people, in
seeing how much their hands have accomplished;
and there is a positive pleasure in the rest
that night allows, and above all, which the Sabbath
brings, that persons ever occupied in
amusements or busy about trifles, cannot comprehend,
any better than a blind man could the
effect of colors on the eye. I may be told,
that such happiness only refers to animal sensations,
that mind has no part in the bliss which
mere respite from the plough allows the farmer,
any more than to the repose it brings the cattle
that assisted his labors. If mind had no influence
to prompt his industry, this might be
true; but our American yeomanry are lords of
the soil they till,—they `call no man master on
earth,'—they are in fact, the acknowledged
sovereigns of this vast country,—they are, in
our republic, entitled to respect, from their
station; and those who affect to look down upon
the farmer and his family, to despise and ridicule
the country people, exhibit a spirit which,
if it be refined and delicate, is neither enlightened,
liberal or patriotic. The truth is, such
fastidious persons know little, if anything, about
the country; not much more than did Owen
Ashley, when he first entered as a partner in
the store of Mr. Silsby, merchant in the village
of—, situated about thirty miles west
of the Green Mountains. Owen Ashley was
Boston born and educated; and was in truth, as
fine a gentleman as could be found in the city.
He was also endowed with very good abilities,
and had he not indulged an over-weaning
conceit of the privilege he enjoyed, in being a
native of the metropolis of New England, he
would have been a very sensible young man.

His father had been reputed very rich, and
his failure in 1813, was wholly ascribed to the
pressure of the times. A time of calamity it
undoubtedly was, to many of our citizens, but
none seemed more conspicuously marked by
misfortune, than the elder Mr. Ashley. His
real losses were not so great as was reported.
He had for many years lived beyond his income,
and it therefore required but a slight
shock of his mercantile credit to embarrass
him; and when the downward course was once
begun, he had no means of retarding the catastrophe.
But I am not intending to sketch
the old gentleman; only as his failure was the
cause of inducing his son Owen, to emigrate
to that `unknown bourne' to most of the native
Bostonians, the land of the Green Mountains,
it was necessary to mention it. Such an unprecedented
adventure required a reasonable
motive for its justification, or I might be accused
of giving the creations of fancy, rather
than sketches of real characters.

`Is it true, Ashley, that you are intending
to leave the city?' inquired Edward Paine, as
he took the arm of the former on quitting the
theatre.

`Yes, such is my intention,' replied Owen, in
a low tone.

`When do you go?'

`To-morrow.'

`To-morrow,' ejaculated Edward in astonishment.
`Why, Ashley, you cannot be serious.
Have you forgotten the party at Mrs. Drayton's
to-morrow evening? Maria said she was
particularly anxious to see you, and she has
been arranging to have some delightful music;
those songs and airs you so much admire,
to charm you if possible, from this preposterous
plan of self-banishment.'

`My dear friend, what else can I do?' sighed
the discontented Owen. `I have no funds to
support me in the city. My father is a bankrupt
by thousands. At his age, it will not be
expected he should enter into new speculations,
and his friends are prepared to assist
him. He must, for the present, accept their
aid. But what is excusable for him, would be
a disgrace to me. I must engage in business;
but I can do nothing here. Neither is the encouragement
for honest adventurers in any of
our cities, at all more flattering. The Vermont
merchant, has made me a very generous offer,
and I must either accept it, or enlist for a
soldier, I see no other alternative.'

`I think, to shoulder the musket would be to
me the least horrible of the two,' replied Paine,
as they entered his lodgings together. `I
declare,' continued the little beau, as he arranged
his hair at the mirror, with a very self-satisfied
expression of face. `I declare it is

abominable, Ashley, that such a fine fellow as
you are, should be driven from all good society,
and sent among the bears of Vermont. If I
only thought the war was a just one, I would
urge you to enlist as a soldier.'

`I have similar feelings of disgust, when
thinking of my destination,' said Owen. `And
yet I fear it is wrong, even absurd to indulge
in them. This Mr. Silsby, is a noble-minded
fellow, and a noble looking one too. Indeed,
quite the gentleman in his manners; and it
cannot be, that he lives among savages. Have
I ever told you the reason of his kindness towards
me?'

`Not as I recollect.'

`There is an air of romance about the business,'
replied Owen, smiling, `that promises
well for me; because I never read any similar
preface, without a fortunate denouement. You
must know, that some twenty years since, this
same Mr. Silsby, who had been in trade but a
short time, came here to sell a drove of cattle,
and purchase a stock of goods. He had traded
with my father from the first, and was then
considerably in his debt. The day after he
arrived in the city with his cattle, there came
a sheriff with demands from people in Vermont,
and attached the whole drove. Mr.
Silsby applied to my father, and stated, that the
proceeding was the work of an enemy who
was seeking to ruin him and supplant him in
his business. This man, Silsby said, had been
circulating false reports against him, affecting

his credit, and by that means had frightened
those men from whom he had purchased cattle,
and who were to wait his return, and had induced
them to send on their demands after
him. He said, if his property was thus attached,
and sold at auction, it would ruin him, but
that if he had the money to satisfy those demands,
the market was good, and he should be
able to pay the loan before he left the city.
My father was a generous spirited man, and
he had moreover, a most thorough detestation
of all mean, paltry, villainous tricks; and he
advanced the money without hesitation. I
have since heard him remark, that had Silsby
shown the agitation when he came to borrow
the money, which he did when he came to pay
it, he should have thought him a weak, timid
man, and though he might not have doubted
his honesty, he should most probably have refused
to assist him. When he appeared to
solicit the favor, he was to be sure very pale;
but his air was perfectly collected and his
countenance firm. But when, after a very
successful speculation in the sale of his cattle,
he entered, and taking out his pocket-book filled
with bank notes, he asked my father to pay
himself, and added, “you sir, have saved me
from a failure, from disgrace, perhaps from a
gaol;” he burst into tears. He appeared so
overcome by his feelings, that my father in a
lively tone attempted to reassure him, by saying,
that what he had done had been no inconvenience,
that it did not deserve even a single
thank ye—“but” added he, “if you think it
has been of so much benefit to you, why I am
the person who should feel obliged, because,
through your means I have performed a good
action so very cheaply.” This reasoning, however,
did not seem to soothe the feelings of the
Vermont merchant,—he appeared distressed
with his gratitude, till at last, my father said,—
“Mr. Silsby, we will think no more of this matter
now,—I may hereafter want your assistance,
or my boy may. It is to me a sufficient reward,
that I have obliged an honest man, and gained
a good friend.” Mr. Silsby looked up at these
words and called me to him. I was then but
four years old, but I remember it as though it
were but yesterday. He called me to him,
took me on his knee, and bent his face down to
mine. I remember hearing him whisper, but
what he said I did not understand. He then
kissed my cheek—and so ended the tragicomedy.'

`You think,' said Edward Paine, attempting
to smile, while something like moisture conglobed
in his eye, `you think that this good-hearted
Yankee then, made a vow to assist you
if ever his kindness was necessary?'

`I have no doubt of it. And though he has
never mentioned the circumstance of the loan,
he never forgot while my mother lived, to make
her an annual present. One year he would
bring a fat turkey so large, that we were
sometimes inclined to call it a different species
from those to be found in the market—then

would come a firkin of most excellent butter,
the balls all made up in a particular form, with
a very curious stamp on each ball, and sometimes
he would send a cheese, which I used to
believe when a child, was precisely the size of
the moon; and so indelibly has that idea fixed
itself in my mind, that I now never see the fullorbed
luminary of night, without thinking of a
Vermont cheese.'

`What does he propose to do for you?' inquired
Edward. `I should say, from what you
have related, that he was a very good sort of a
man, but whether you would like a residence
with him, is another affair. I suppose he has
a wife, and at least a dozen children of his
own?'

`No, he is so singular as still to be a single
man. He met with a disappointment of the
heart, I have heard my mother say, soon after
she became acquainted with him. The young
lady to whom he was engaged, died of a consumption.
He brought her to Boston, during
her illness, and she spent several weeks with
my mother. I remember seeing the young
lady; and I remember well how my mother
wept, when Mr. Silsby came and carried her
away; and that she told my father she wept
for the sorrow the young man would soon
endure, because, though he flattered himself
with hopes, the young lady would never live to
reach home. And she did not. Mr. Silsby
has never married, and so we have reason to
think he still remembers his first love,—and I

am so romantic, that I confess I respect him
for his constancy.'

`He probably intends to make you his heir,
if he has no family. Is he rich?' asked Edward
with an expression of interest in the inquiry,
his face had not before exhibited.

`Yes, he is rich for the country; but I am
not intending to play the part of heir expectant.
The fawning smile, the equivocal speech
of such a parasite, is to me, most contemptible.
Mr. Silsby merits my gratitude much
more, than if he had promised to give me his
fortune, because he seems anxious to encourage,
and enable me to earn a fortune for
myself. He offers to take me as a partner,
and allow me one half the profits of his business
simply for my assistance. And he seems
eager too, to save me from all mortification of
wanting a capital, by repeating how much he
needs my help as an accountant,—that he is
tired of being always harassed, &c.; and that
is what I call perfect charity. 'Tis a virtue
rarely practised. Most people seem to think
that if they aid you in an enterprise, your feelings
are of no consequence. But I esteem
that delicate kindness which spares me the
consciousness of my present dependence as the
greatest favor I can receive. Yes, Silsby is a
noble-hearted man, and I only wish he lived
among civilized beings.'

`O! 'tis abominable to think you must go
to Vermont,' said Edward Paine, buttoning
his coat up closely as though the blast from the

Green Mountain even in thought, had power
to freeze his spirit. `Why, my dear fellow,
do you not postpone your travels till next
spring?'

`Because I am impatient to know the worst.
I hate this procrastination of fate. It is to my
feelings more insupportable than actual misery.
I shall go to-morrow.'

`O! not to-morrow—Allow one more evening
to your friends—to pleasure—to life.
Consider that you will not soon have another
opportunity of listening to the “concord of
sweet sounds.” You will hear no music beyond
those rude hills, except the piping of the wintry
winds, or a serenade of wild cats.'

Owen shook his head, and attempted to
speak gaily while he replied—`Thank you,
Edward, for your solicitude. It speaks well
for your heart; but my judgment must not
yield, even to your affection. If I have any
merit, entitling me to the confidence of my
friends, it is, that when I have taken a resolution
on conviction of its fitness, I will adhere
to it. So farewell. And when you and my
young companions meet, pray remember, that
in spirit I am with you.'

`Letters, we shall expect,—letters containing
all your adventures and discoveries in that
terra incognita,' said Edward, pressing his
friend's hand as they parted, `or we shall conclude
you have positively given up the ghost,
actually died of the maladie du pays.'

`Yes, you shall have letters,' was the reply;

and how well the promise was fulfilled, the
extracts with which I shall conclude the sketch,
will prove. The whole correspondence ought
to be given, but—that may be done hereafter,
if this sample proves acceptable to public taste.
At present, I shall only select such letters and
passages as will mark most distinctly, the effect
which country scenes and characters, had upon
the mind and feelings of my hero.

Vermont, Dec. 23.—`I am here you see
my dear Edward,—and alive and well, and in
no danger of dying from disgust, or ennui, or
even the maladie du pays. To account for
such a phenomenon, I will just tell you truly
of my tour, and describe my present residence.

I started, as you well know in company with
Mr. Silsby, in his sleigh. Well, we travelled
silently on, he immersed in his mercantile
speculations I suppose, and I deeply engaged
in planning letters, in which I intended to exert
all my fancy, to portray the savage and
wild scenes I should traverse, and the uncouth
beings I should meet, in a style of elegant
pleasantry, that would divert my friends. I
remember now nothing of those fancies, except
that I intended to introduce the witticism, that
the farther I travelled west, the more I became
convinced the wise men must have come from
the east,—and another one, in which I was to

represent the immense benefit my journey
would be to science, as the elevation of the
country where I resided, had actually permitted
me to discover five new stars, one of which, I
was convinced must be the lost Pleiad.

During these thoughts, if such reveries deserve
the name of thought, I examined coolly—
you must allow, for I was half frozen, the
country through which I was travelling. I
was never before in the interior of the country.
Never before at a greater distance than thirty
miles from Boston, except when I went by
water to visit our Atlantic cities. I expected
that the farther I receded from the sea shore,
the more rude and uncultivated the land and
the people would be. Edward, I was never
so disappointed in my life. And I would with
pleasure describe some of the beautiful villages,
beautiful even in winter, and country
seats I passed on my route hither,—but your
city prejudices would discredit me. Come
and see the country for yourself. Come in
the summer, if to see is all you are anxious
about; but Mr. Silsby says, that if you wish
to partake the social enjoyments of the country
in their perfection, winter is the season. But
come. Do not permit even the terror of
journeying over the Green Mountains to deter
you. I had pictured the passage as an exploit
similar to that of Hannibal's famous march
over the Alps,—with this trifling difference,
that the destiny of nations was involved in his
experiment of forcing his array of men and

elephants over those frozen heights, while I,
riding at my ease, wrapped in a trio of buffalo
skins, had nothing, but the vulgar business of
studying my own comfort and preserving my
own life and limbs, to attend to. Still I thought
the adventure must be of some consequence.
There must be, said I to myself, rugged
precipices and narrow defiles, and yawning
chasms, and perhaps a glacier or two. I had
never heard the latter particularly named as
being among the terrors of the Green Mountain;
the epithet Green, did not seem applicable
to a mountain of ice,—but yet I might
discover a glacier. Edward, I was never so
disappointed in my life, indeed I was really
angry, when, after reaching that stupendous
scene of `mountains piled on mountains,' a
few hours driving, up hill and down to be sure,
and through a cold, dismal looking fir region,
but on a good turnpike road, and without a single
accident of any kind, Mr. Silsby announced,
that we had crossed the Green Mountains.
Here was a finale to all my hopes of being
immortalized by escaping an avalanche. “All's
well,” thought I, what an ignoble catastrophe,
that I should pass that barrier of civilisation
and have no report to make but that “all's
well!”

I might mention some peculiarities of the
scenery, that would interest you by contrast,
at least, for it is very different in character to
that by which you are surrounded. But the
impression it has made on my mind, is favorable

to the country through which I have passed,—
very favorable in comparison with the images
of savageness, desolation, rudeness and poverty,
which I had always drawn of this part of
New England; and which I know your fancy
will still conjure up whenever Vermont is
named. So we will let the country pass, and
turn to the people.

My Mentor was not at all communicative on
our journey. He seemed, as I thought, to be
rather averse to answering my inquiries respecting
the inhabitants of the good town,
where I was to make my debut. I imputed
this reserve, to his admiration of my knowledge
and accomplishments. He has, thought I, already
discovered that the society of his villagers,
will be to my refined taste, “flat and unprofitable,”—he
is ashamed of the people to
whom he is about to introduce me;—for his
sake, for he is really a good-hearted man, I
will try and be civil to his friends; but I will
not permit those bumpkins to treat me with
familiarity. Such were my reflections when,
just as the sun was setting, on the fourth day
of our journey, Mr. Silsby aroused me from my
self-complacent mood, by saying we were within
six miles of his home.

“Have you a good hotel or boarding-house
in your town?” said I.

“We have a tavern,” he replied,—“but I
have engaged your board in a private family,
where I lodge myself—with Colonel Gage. He
is one of our best men—a real Yankee farmer.”

“Good heavens!” thought I,—“am I to
board in a farmer's family?”

I believe the nervousness of my mind, was
apparent in my countenance, for Mr. Silsby,
after regarding me a minute or two, said very
calmly—“If you should not be satisfied with
your lodgings, Mr. Ashley, you can easily
change. But I wish you to spend a week with
me.”

The day had been cold and gloomy, and
soon after sunset, the whole horizon was overcast,
and a thick darkness coming on, it became
necessary to drive slowly, and the miles
seemed to me as long as they say Scotch ones
are. We occasionally passed very comfortable
looking houses, the bright windows, promising
warmth and gladness within,—but I had
no interest in their joys—I felt chilled even to
the heart, I felt like a stranger—where were
my friends, my home, my own bustling city?
Could I, at that time, have had the power,
which I have often coveted, of transporting
myself by a wish, to whatever place I desired,
very certain I am, that I should have been in
Boston with the speed of Clavileno, and with a
resolution never again to venture beyond the
Green Mountains. When the sleigh stopped
at the door of Colonel Gage, I was just in that
peevish mood engendered by hunger, cold, fatigue
and discontent, which makes a man the
most unreasonable creature on earth. I determined
to hate my host and all his family,
and find fault with everything. There was a

secret pleasure in thinking I should have cause
to find fault,—and that was all I expected to
enjoy.

We were met at the door by the Colonel
himself. He gave Mr. Silsby a very brotherly
greeting, and when I was named, grasped
my hand with such warmth, such kindness, that
the pressure actually sent a glow through my
shivering frame,—Edward, it reached my soul
in spite of my prejudices, I do believe our spirits
know their friends. He never relinquished
my hand till we had entered the room, where
he introduced me to his wife, his daughter,
and five sons, of all ages from sixteen down
to six.

Well, Edward, you expect a description of
the family. Wait a month, and then I can
judge more accurately. I have been here now
but four days; perhaps I shall reverse my present
opinion. I do not care to be called an
enthusiast—or a lover. I never will be convinced
of an error by my feelings only. I
must have a reason to render for every change
in my judgment of men and things. But thus
much I will say, and it is what I should once
have thought impossible,—I am in a country
village in Vermont, living in a farmer's family,
and yet—I am very happy.'

January 23d.—

`There is truth in that couplet, my dear Edward,—more
than is always contained in wise
proverbs. It is a very difficult affair to convince
a person who has not only made up his
mind on a subject, but defended his position
with all the strength of his logic, that he has
mistaken the causes or consequences of his
system. Were it not for this tenaciousness of
the human mind to maintain and uphold what
it has received as truth, and defended as truth,
even after convinced that it is not true, there
might be reasonable grounds to hope that men
would, in time, reach that perfection which is
now considered possible, only by the visionary
philosopher, or the credulous philanthropist.
But I mean to prove, that it is practicable to
overcome the prejudices of education, or situation
rather. I will cite my own change of
opinion, as proof that we may, if we will be
open to conviction, correct our errors of sentiment.
The person who believes he has no
errors of opinion, must be a fool,—and he
who will not correct them, when discovered,
will never be wise.

When I was a tiny boy I thought, as our city
children do, that the country was a place of
woods, filled with bears and other wild animals,
and I regarded the country people as objects
of compassion, because they were obliged to
live in such a place. This, you will say, was
a childish notion, but I always retained the
idea, that the advantages of a polite education
were, in New England, confined to Boston and

its vicinity. A few weeks' residence here
has convinced me, and therefore I acknowledge
it, that a young lady may possess a refined
taste, and cultivated mind and manners, may
be accomplished in your sense of that fashionable
word, without even having been beyond
the atmosphere of Vermont; and that country
farmers may be men of intelligence and literature,
may be well-bred and agreeable, in short,
gentlemen in manners and conversation. You
recollect saying that I should hear no music
in this region, save the piping of the winds, or
the shrieks of wild cats. Why, Edward,—I
listen to the notes of a piano-forte every day;
and the sweet girl who plays it with a taste and
skill I scarce ever heard exceeded, never was
out of Vermont in her life! You may stare,
you must not disbelieve. When I first saw
the instrument, the evening of my arrival, I
thought Mr. Silsby must have purchased it at
some auction in Boston, and removed it to
the country to astonish the natives. I have
since been told, and am convinced, that there
are but very few villages in this state or in
New Hampshire, but what have at least one
family, often several, whose daughters are instructed
to play the piano-forte. I do not mention
this as redounding vastly to their praise,
because I think the accomplishment, delightful
as it is, is often too dearly purchased; but I
wish you to know, that the city belles do not
monopolize all the advantages of such accomplishments.
And I wish also to correct your
ideas respecting the wealth and intelligence,
the manners and refinement of this portion of
our Union.

In the dwelling of Colonel Gage, large,
thoroughly finished, and furnished, even filled
full from garret to cellar, I see nothing that
would shock your taste save the large fire-places,
and an old-fashioned, armed chair in the
sitting room. The latter, Colonel Gage would
tell you he prized, because it was his father's
before him, and the former he would say, were
necessary for the climate. But I confess they
alarmed me a little, especially the first time I
saw the kitchen fire. I was passing the door,
when hearing a roaring like that of flame, I
stepped in—and such a blaze I never saw on
any hearth before. I hastily demanded of the
housemaid, if there was an engine at hand.
She understood me to say Indian—and replied,
that there had never been an Indian in town
since she could remember. After I made her
comprehend my meaning, the matter was no
better, for neither had she even seen an engine.
In the theory of extinguishing fires, therefore,
I found I was vastly superior to the Vermonters,
but in the skill of kindling (or building as
they term it, and truly, the pile of maple wood
looks like a building,) one I was quite as inferior—so
on the whole I had nothing to boast.
But now I have become accustomed to these
bright, blazing hearths, I do admire them.
There is a generous hospitality in their light,
and they inspire a cheerfulness of feeling, which

is, as I think, the chief reason why the country
people are never troubled with ennui or dispepsia.
`Sin and sea-coal' you know, are
proverbially united; and according to the poet,
Melancholy dwells only
Which never happens, I assure you, in a Yankee
farmer's house, except when the inmates
are asleep.

I am convinced that winter is the season
to visit the country, if you wish to become
acquainted with the true character of the inhabitants.
They are then freed in a great measure,
from that hurry and care which, often in
the seasons of flowers, clouds their faces with
anxiety, and amid the profusion of the harvest,
which they must toil and sweat to gather, makes
them look sad and weary. These labors are
closed when the winter commences,—their
garners are filled—it is a season of leisure, especially
the winter evenings, and then is the
time for their balls, parties, sleigh-rides and
social visits. Never did I see more unaffected
hospitality displayed, more real pleasure enjoyed
than at these merry parties. They have
earned the right to be happy, and right well do
they improve it. But though I enjoy exceedingly
these frank, social visits, yet I own it
pleases me best to pass my evenings at home,
in our domestic circle. Edward, I see the
contemptuous curl on your lip while you ask,
what charm there can possibly be in the humdrum

circle of a farmer's family that so enchants
me? You must not think of Colonel Gage as
a farmer and nothing else. It is the boast of
our free institutions, that talents, and worth,
and energy, may claim their reward, let the
station of their possessor be what it may.
Colonel Gage was an officer in the revolutionary
war, and he has held civil offices of all
grades from that of town clerk to senator in the
State Legislature. But all these honors have
never tempted him to relinquish the plough.
A man he is, representing the New England
character of industry, enterprise, intelligence
and perseverance in its best light, because his
course has always been marked by that high-minded
integrity, which will command respect.
(How I wish all our Yankees deserved such a
report.) Then he is so generous, so truly hospitable—and
so uniformly pious—Edward. I
would take his chance of gaining heaven before
that of any person I know. But our domestic
circle. Allow me to describe one evening.
I have passed many such, and instead of finding
them grow dull by repetition, “like a third
representation” of a barren play, I look forward
to each succeeding evening, with that expectation
of entertainment we cherish, when a
favorite actor is announced, from whose versatile
powers we always expect new delight.
But perhaps I ought first to mention our daily
fare, which, by the way, is daily feasting. Such
breakfasts and suppers! The profusion of
good things then set forth, would absolutely
astound you, and be called quite vulgar in
your city, where all the dainties are displayed
at dinner. But I have the authority of Dr.
Johnson for liking a good breakfast; and for
their suppers—why, on my own authority, I
pronounce them in good taste. It is the `land
of cakes' here—that's certain. To describe
all the different kinds I have eaten, would
require half a volume at least.

But the evening—You must know Mr. Silsby
always dispenses with my presence in the store
after eight o'clock. He stays till nine. When
I enter the sitting room the family are arranged
in the following order. Colonel Gage in his
armed chair, occupies the right hand corner beyond
the fire-place, his dignified countenance
looking peculiarly benign and holy, as the
brightening or falling blaze alternately reveals
or shades his gray hairs, and his calm, thoughtful
features. Nestling in his bosom, or playing
at his knees, may be seen his youngest
boy, the loved Benjamin of his old age, and
close beside him sits his wife with her knitting
work. She is many years younger than her
husband, and still a beautiful woman; but her
greatest charm is, that constancy, that devotedness
of affection, that charity, with which
she seems to be always waiting to promote her
husband's comfort, the improvement of her
children, and the happiness of all around her.
In the centre of the room, stands an old-fashioned,
round table, covered with books, newspapers,
a board exhibiting the royal game of

“fox and geese,” and all the feminine apparatus
of needle-work. On the side of the table,
(if side can be predicated of a round form,)
next his mother, is the place of Master Robert
Gage, the “eldest hope,” a scholar, fitting for
college, already ambitious of being a great
man. Near to him usually stand or sit his two
brothers, frolicksome fellows, whose glee over
their game or their books, frequently awakens
their mother's reproofs. The rogues, however,
pay little attention to her soft-spoken remonstrances;
but if they meet their father's eye
“frowning disprovingly,” or hear the slight tap
of his foot on the floor, they are hushed as
sleep. Opposite master Robert, sits the only
daughter of my host, the sweet Catharine—
positively, Edward, the loveliest girl I ever
beheld. There she sits, looking so meek and
innocent as she bends her head closer to her
work, whenever I too earnestly regard her,—
but sometimes—usually when I enter the room,
she looks up in my face with such a smile! O!
when I can flatter myself—as I try to do, that
it welcomes me to the family circle, you cannot
know how happy I feel. I am prevented from
taking a seat beside her, because that is always
occupied by her brother John, the youngest
child but one. He loves Catharine so well
that I cannot help loving the little urchin on
her account, or otherwise, I fear I should really
hate him. For there he will sit a full hour
after I am at home, and he will engross all the
attention Catharine can spare from her work.
He it is, that helps her wind her thread, and
he holds her work-basket, and picks up her
scissors, or handkerchief—and often, claims a
kiss for his reward. I have really wanted to
strike that boy! There are always two vacant
chairs, left for Mr. Silsby and your humble
servant, and as I have my first choice, I
take the one nearest to Catharine, but that
is of little consequence while John remains.
Colonel Gage converses with the ease of one
accustomed to society, and he has moreover, all
the fund of anecdote, which a revolutionary
soldier and a pioneer in our new settlements,
might be expected to possess. I have learned
more from him of the early history of my
country, more of the peculiar spirit of the early
settlers, of their character, their labors and
resources, than I ever learned before in my
whole life. At nine o'clock, or a little before,
Mr. Silsby makes his appearance, and then the
four younger boys are dismissed to bed. I
always rejoice when John goes, but the manner
in which their father takes leave of them
for the night, has a solemnity that awes, and
prevents me from taking any advantage of my
proximity to address Catharine. The boys in
leaving the room, pass directly by their father.
They pause before him, while he, in a
tone of tender and touching pathos, dispenses a
few sentences of reproof, advice, or commendation,
to each individual. I never witnessed
such a scene. I should think it would have a
powerful effect on their tender hearts; for
when, as he receives their bow or kiss, he
adds, “God bless you my children!” I often
find it difficult to breathe freely. After a short
pause, however, we begin to converse, and all
join in the discourse more cheerfully, if possible,
than before. News, politics, literature
and anecdote, with an occasional tune on the
piano-forte; the Colonel is quite an enthusiast
in his love of music; and the hour of ten comes
ere we are aware. I should remark, that we
always have apples and cider, and frequently
nuts of some kind, during the evening, and
furthermore, I confess, that during the last
hour, as the fire is gradually suffered to decay,
we as gradually draw nearer to the hearth,
and our circle contracting, I am at last usually
quite near Catharine. I say usually, because
whenever Catharine leaves her chair to play
a tune, she seldom returns to it—she contrives
to steal round to her father's side, and seats
herself on a low chair close by his knee; a
seat claimed by the little boy when he is there.
I wish from my soul he would take that small
chair with him when he goes to bed.

I expect you will smile at what I am now
going to confess—you will wish you were here
to quiz me. So do not I. Though conscious
I am acting rightly, I have hardly sufficient
courage yet to stand the test of ridicule; but as
one conquest over my own weakness, I confess
that I attend the family devotions from choice;
that I kneel at prayers; that Colonel Gage is
a Methodist, and that Catharine says “amen!”

in a tone so soft, sweet and angelic, that it
causes me to feel my own unworthiness more
poignantly than would the severest reproofs.
I never before comprehended what the distress
of Macbeth was, when he could not say
“amen.” Yes, Edward—when I can kneel
beside that innocent girl, and catch her soft
whispered “amen,”—as her saint-like father
pauses in the aspirations he has been pouring
forth, perhaps for my salvation—I fancy she
always responds the sweetest then, though in
the lowest tone,—my heart throbs and swells
till—I believe—tears have relieved me from
the agitation of my feelings. But this agitation
is not care, or pain, or discontent. No—I
lay my head on my pillow in peace, everything
around me is peaceful,—my reflections are
all tinged with the Eden-like love and happiness
that pervade this good family. “O, evenings
worthy of the Gods!” you may exclaim,
while revelling in your round of amusements;
my apostrophe to evening would be—

March 30.—`You say I am in love, and that
it is the deluding passion which imparts the
“Eden-like tinge,” I rave about. True, Edward,
I confess you are right—I am in love;
but it is a patriotic, not a personal passion that
engrosses me. I am in love with my country.

I was always proud of being a Bostonian—
Boston was the cradle of liberty, the literary
emporium, the seat of arts, eloquence and
fashion. Europeans were pleased with Boston,
and allowed that we there possessed the
advantages of good society. But still they
ridicule America and Americans, and I—fool
that I was—have acknowledged while conversing
with them, that the interior of our country
was yet rude—rude in its appearance, and
rude in the character of its inhabitants. Vermont,
especially, I considered, and reported
as the Thule of our population, where civilisation
ought not to be expected. Edward, I am
ashamed of my ignorance, and I declare to you,
that those dwellers in your proud city, who
have seen little beyond it, are hardly better
qualified to judge of the benefits of our free
institutions and the peculiar character of our
country people, than are those who have always
lived beneath a royal government. All large
cities must of necessity be similar in one
striking feature—the disparity in the condition
of the citizens. Riches, in the city, give the
possessor a distinction, as surely as the priviledge
of wearing a star and garter, and poverty
is there degraded, and submits to a servile dependency,
perhaps even to beggary; though
begging in our cities is usually practised by
few but foreign mendicants, yet still it looks
exceedingly preposterous to see such misery
among a people boasting so much of their
liberty, and equality, and prosperity, and happiness.
But the country, the country has none
of this. Here is no ignorance, or want, or
poverty, such as you have seen exhibited.
Plenty of work there is to be sure, and the
people work hard, but then it is fashionable to
work, they do not feel degraded, and they are
not degraded by it. They labor for themselves;
there is no landlord or tenant; no hired dwellings;
no rent to press like an incubus, and destroy
the sleep of the weary. They reside in
their own houses, on their own farms; they
have enough, and to spare; they are lords of
the soil and the laws; yet living in simplicity,
and submitting quietly to all the necessary
civil restrictions; but well acquainted with
their own rights, and watching the conduct of
their rulers with a strict and scrutinizing eye—
providing liberally for public education, and
eager to give their children its advantages—
and you will find well-educated, even highly
cultivated and refined people; those who would
do credit to your “good society;” in every little
town or village scattered through this—as you
think, wild and rude State. “Give me neither
poverty nor riches,” said the wise man; and I
now see the wisdom of his wish. The country
is the strength of our Republic. Luxury may
enervate our cities, but through our wide
spread country, the healthful tide of liberty
will still flow uncorrupted. There is no other
land where the people are so free, so virtuous,
so intelligent, so happy. I no longer connect
the idea of American greatness, with the greatness
of our cities. Should a foreigner ask me
to show him the great blessings of our boasted
freedom, I would send him on a six months'
tour among the independent yeomanry of our
land,—the peasantry, as he would call them
Edward, I am a patriot; I love my country,
and—why should I deny to you?—I love
Catharine.'