University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

I was sitting one day, towards the end of September,
with Bishop Hilsbury, when, through his modest little
sash were seen two young men riding up; who tying their
horses, after a short consultation, advanced to the door.
On this the Bishop whispering—“a wedding without
doubt,” hastened to receive his visitors, who yet administered
the usual rap to the door, and entered with the universal
salam—“Well! who keeps house?”

Evidently the parson had been supposed alone; and my
presence seemed to disperse the courage mustered by the
youngsters, and they stumbled into seats in manifest distress.
But we soon engaged them in conversation on
land, timber, corn, swine, muddy roads, dry ridges, high
waters, and all sylvan topics: and on all and each, our
friends rung the changes of all the powerfuls, big and little;
and all the chances and sprinkles, the smarts and right
smarts and right down smarts, till they were talked, not out
of countenance, but into it; nay, till they had more than a
dozen times (while the clatter lasted) seemingly collected
brass sufficient for their special affair to be introduced at
the next pause. Yet alas! with the calm, returned the
sheepishness; and there sat our rustics red as boiled lobsters,
not at any thing said, but at what was to be said, and
grinning a smileless kind of contortion at each other, equal
to asking—“Won't you begin?” Then they gnawed their
spice wood riding whips—wriggled on their seats—crossing
leg after leg, as if the legs were all equally opposed to

being undermost, till convinced nothing by way of expose
was coming this gap, off all set afresh on the circle of the
old topics thus:—

“Immense forests here, sir!”

“Yes—most powerful 'mense heap of woods. Allow
woods is most considerable cut off in them 'are settlements
you come from, Mr. Carltin? They say you've no barr
nor turkey out thare, in Filledelfy?”

“No: no bears on four legs. But still we've a smart
sprinkle of dandy out our way”—

“Huh! haw!—them's the fellers with hair on their
faces and what goes gallin all the time—powerful heap a
fun in that, Mr. Hilsbury, though.”

Here the speaker stopt short; for what he had said
about our hairy creatures was out of no disrespect for the
animals, but only to lighten his own load; but then he had
found it still too heavy, and broke down at the lift. Retreat,
however, now did not offer, and so suddenly rising and
winking to the parson, they both went together into the
yard, leaving myself and the other young man in the cabin.
When outside, the groom—for he it was, thus commenced:

“Well—hem—Mr. Hilsbury—hem!”

“Yes—Joseph—I think I understand—don't I?”

“Well—allow, maybe you do.”

“I was down in the Welden settlement, and I heard
something about our losing neighbour Ashford's Susan.”

“He! he!—yes!—well I am a sort a goin to git married—and
Susan's the very gal. Well now, Mr. Hilsbury,
Billy Welden's come along for groomsman and he's got
the invite—I'll just call him out and git it.”

Billy accordingly was now summoned, and taking off his
new fur hat, he extracted the “invite” from the lining and
handed it over to the preacher. As the Bishop allowed
me to see the document as a specimen of New Purchase
literature, I took the following exact and literal copy:

The reader will err if he thinks this the worst specimen
of our New Purchase authorship. It was, in fact, the best
our literati, near Glenville at least, could furnish, (and like
Andrew's and Stoddard's Grammar,) it was a joint production;
it was done by Joseph Redden and William Welden,
both aided by the schoolmaster of the Welden settlement.
And it was got up with great care and done in the
very best round hand. Few persons around us at this time,
could even read, much less write; and the ladies of Glenville
were regarded with wonder as soon as it was known that
they could not only read and write, but even “sifer, and cast
'counts!” We men of Glenville had from the first been
deemed “powerful smart,” and the above note had been
got up and performed expressly to show us that other folks
had learning too, and could do a thing up to Gunter.

Next day Mr. Welden appeared in the edge of the woods,
being too much in a hurry to dismount and let down the
bars, and according to etiquette in such cases, he exclaimed,
“Hullow! the house!” Upon this, Mr. Seymour proceeded
to the fence, and on his return to the house announced
that we all had the anticipated invite.

And now as it is sometimes before we go to the wedding,
we may properly in the interval introduce the bride elect
and her family. Abraham Ashford, the father, was the
patriarch of the Ashford settlement, which joined Glenville
on the north-west. After a life of some years in a cabin
of the roughest order, the family had, within the past year,
removed into a good two story log-house of the hewed order;
and hence, he himself being a very tall man and having
sons tending rapidly upward to his summit level, and
having a two story house, neighbour Ashford is to be regarded
as an eminent man. He had, too, scraped a spelling
acquaintance with easy reading, and that made him
affect the company of the Glenvillians—not so much I
fear to increase his knowledge as to display it. For instance,
once on bringing his stock of ginseng to our tannery,
where we bought the article on speculation, Mr. Ashford
on laying it on a dry hide thus began:

“Well, Johnny, my buck, what do you allow sang's (ginseng)
done with out thare in Chi-ne?”

“Oh! probably the Chinese smoke it, or chew it!”

“Well, that's your idee; but I knows better nor that
comes to, according to my idee.”

“What is your opinion?”

“Well, I'll tell you. A sailor-man was once out here in
sang time a buying up—long afore you come out—and he'd
been in all them parts about Chi-ne in a ship or the like—
and he told me all about what them fellers done with it.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes—and he told me as how they biled the sang
up, and put it in to clarify their chany tea cups and sassers.”

Neighbour Ashford was, moreover, a philosopher; but as
his views may perhaps expose him to a visit from the Inquisition,
I shall give no greater insight into his physical

creeds, than by a narration of our talk on the shape of the
earth.

“Mr. Ashford,” said Glenville, one day I was present,
“I wish you would let Carlton here understand your idea
about the shape of the earth; he's just from college and
don't think as you do.”

“Well, Johnny, my buck, I'm willing to talk with
Mr. Carlton, or any larn'd man; and I've no idee this
here world of ourn is round. Them's my sentiments, Mr.
Carlton.”

“I do not quite agree with you there, Mr. Ashford; I
have been taught that our earth is an oblate spheroid!”

“Oh! I don't know nuther consarnin high-flow'd
diksionary shapes; all my idee is the world's not ublate,
nor no sort of round, and I kin prove it straight as a rifle.”

“I only meant to say I was taught to think the world was
a sort of roundish; but I'm ready to give up if you can prove
as you say.”

“Well, I'm powerful glad to see, Mr. Carlton, you aint
proud for all your high larnin—and so I'll jist tell you how
I kim to find it out.[1] You see, sir, I was one day a
ploughing with them two brown mares, to put in corn, and
as we ploughed along, I gets into a solelo'que on this diffikilt
pint, and so sez I to myself, sez I, what's the use in
filloserfers a sayin our world's round. Don't my ole-womin's
dry apples git off the plank and then role rite down,
smack down the pitch of the ruf? 'Cos why? Why 'cos
it aint flat. And so I argefied the pint agin this way; sez
I, kin a feller go spang up the round of a big punkun?
And then I stops the mares; and sez, wouldn't this here
plough and them 'are hoss-beasts role down like the dry
apples if this here world was round like a big punkun—

and aint it more powerful harder to go up and stick on a
big round thing nor a little one? And then I jist minded—
and I slapped agin my head so, (action to word,) and I hollows
out aloud, so that the mares started to go—but I cries
“woh! won't you?”—and they stops agin—and I kept on
a hollowin—“I've got it!—I've got it!”—and slaps rite off
to make tracks home—and when I gets in, sez I to the ole
womun, “Molly,” sez I, “hand us the ole book—I've got
it!” “Got what, Abrum?”—sez she. “Why hand us the
ole book, I tell you,” sez I. (During the progress of his
lecture,[2] Mr. Ashford had taken up our family bible; and
now with his finger resting on the third verse of Genesis,
he did, on a sudden for me, what he had previously done
for his wife.) And so she hands me the ole book, and I
lays it out afore her jist so, (opening and spreading the
book before me,) “thare sir, thare, read that thare varse—
its proved from the Bible, sir—thare read that are!” viz:—
“And the earth was without FORM! sir.”

Here we held down our head as close to the page as possible,
as if absorbed in thought and inspecting the words
most closely, till with an unsteady voice we could reply:—

“I confess, Mr. Ashford, I never did see the passage in
that light before; and it only proves that plain men, if left
to themselves, will often discover what learned folks never
can: but what shape is the earth do you say?”

“Do I say!—why does'nt the ole book itself say the
earth aint no shape at all?—its got no form—its nuthin but
a grate stretched along place like a powerful big prararee
without any ind—yes, sir, and as flat as a pancake.”

“True, Mr. Ashford, and the Bible says also the earth
is VOID!—empty, sir, and hollow as a nut shell!”

For a moment Mr. Ashford was staggered at so unexpected

an addition to his theory; he seemed alarmed at the
utter emptiness of a shapeless earth! Yet at the very
next log-rolling, he proclaimed both Glenville and Carlton
to be converts to his “idee,” adding in the latter gentleman's
praise, “he wan't nere so stuck up a feller as folks
said.” And so, reader, we are Amorphorites; with more
belief, however, in the emptiness of the world, than in its
want of shapes.

As to the sun, Mr. Ashford had a very peculiar and original
theory; “I am,” said he, “sentimentally of opinion
that the sun, after all, is nothing but a great shine!” Like
many other forest patriarchs, our neighbour often did his
own preaching; being in advance of this age, when we all
do our own doctoring, write our own poetry, tales, essays,
and every man is his own lawyer; and of course in theology,
like people in an enlightened era, he had his own notions.
Hence, in one discourse about the good Samaritan,
he took occasion to illuminate us as to its “Speretil meaning;”
and among other things said, “some folks think that
the two pennies left the Jerickoo man, was nuthin but
cash pennies—but my friends, there's a speretil and bettersome
idee:—one penny is the law, and tother's the gospel.”

The Ashford's were, however, remarkable for nice house-keeping,
and for cleanliness of person. They all were, too,
thrifty and ingenious. Unable in the early times of their
settlement to obtain hemp or flax, they gathered a peculiar
species of nettle, (called there nettleweed,) which they
succeeded in dressing like flax, and in weaving it into cloth.
By some accident, they had been then destitute of food for
several days, and during that time they had lived on squirrels
and elm-bark. But the rose of our wilderness was Susan
Ashford, the intended bride. Ignorant, indeed, she was
of all things out of the woods; but she was of good natural
capacity, merry disposition, lofty notions, and withal a

very pretty and modest maiden. From the first, she took
a strong liking for the Glenville people; and was evidently
glad to find friends able and willing to teach her many important
matters of which she frankly and voluntarily would
confess her ignorance. And as far as her mother would
permit, Susan by degrees conformed their own domestic
economy and fixtures to ours, defending us whenever her
mother would object and intimate that the “Glenville
folks were, maybe, a leetle prouder nor they should be.”

Susan had, of course, many offers; yet as she told
Emily Glenville, her confidante—“she'd no idee of marrying
any rough body without no more manners than a
barr; and for her part she'd have somebody that know'd
how to dress up on Sundays in store cloth and yaller buttins,
a sort a gentleman like.”

Now Susan did not really think that dress made the man;
she did only think, and properly think, that no decent young
fellow would on proper occasions boorishly neglect his
dress, and especially when he came a courting.

One answering externally became a suitor. He was
morally, however, unworthy Susan; and her escape was
owing to his personal dirtiness—with which a curious accident
made her acquainted. She caught sight of his naked
feet, as he in a moment of forgetfulness took off his
shoes and stockings in her presence; upon which she declared
next day to Emily Glenville, “that she never would
have sich a dirty feller, if he did wear store cloth and yaller
buttins.” This fellow, a pretty well educated Scotchman,
had courted some by letters, which the Ashfords not
fully comprehending had now and then brought to Emily
to be deciphered, especially the letter in which the suitor
said, “he had a predilection for his mistress!” On this
occasion, Susan remarked, “there was sich a powerful
heap of diksenery words, she could'nt quite see the drift on

'em. Happily the above accident saved our protegé
from a disastrous union with an atheist and a distiller.

But now Joseph Redden was accepted; a very honest,
industrious, and upright young man; and who not only
dressed up to Susan's rule, but more than that, he kept,
about twenty-five miles distant, a small store himself, and
sold store cloth and yellow buttons to others. And thus Susan,
and all her old friends, and we her new ones, were
well satisfied. Having no occasion to mention our young
folks after the wedding, we think the reader will be glad
to know, that when we re-emigrated from the west, Mr. and
Mrs. Redden were living in comfortable circumstances,
respected and beloved.

In due time the wedding-day came. Mr. Hilsbury, however,
had not yet got home from a distant missionary tour,
and we of Glenville were forced to set out without the
bishop; in hopes indeed, he would be yet in time at Mr.
Ashford's. Between our settlement and his, the distance
was little more than two miles; and for want of conveyances
enough for all, it was concluded in a general assembly
of our colony the day before, that the ladies and helps
of the borough, should ride to the wedding, and the gentlemen
walk. And so we took up the line of procession
thus:—

1. Uncles John and Tommy in the van. Their business
was to keep the true course through the woods, clear away
brush and let down fences.

2. Mrs. Glenville and Aunt Kitty riding twice on Kate,
the celebrated grey mare—queen of horses (genus.)

3. The Rev. Mistress Hilsbury on a borrowed nag; the
lady with an infant in her arms, and a little girl for nurse
behind.

4. Mrs. Carlton, Miss Emily and Aunt Nancy on our
spotted mare, called Freckled Ginney.

5. Last of the cavalry, Old Dick, with all the help of
the colony—i. e. three gals riding thrice.

6. Glenville and Carlton closed the rear. Our business
was to put up fences, see the ladies get along in safety, and,
above all, to keep Dick from lagging. For like grave personages
familiar with Chesterfield, Dick was rarely in a
hurry; on the contrary he usually stepped with a very solemn
swing, as conscious men's eyes were upon him and of
his weight in society. And yet after a very long sermon
he would sometimes hasten home with an irreverent impatience;
and always on rounding a certain sink hole, whence
could be caught a glimpse of the stable, our hero, and without
consulting the friends who were kindly backing him,
would suddenly pitch into a gait compounded of every pace
and shuffle ever learned in his youth or since taken up extemporaneously.

Once Dick had been loaned to the Bishop's wife; and
on our return from church—all persuasives from the lady's
heel and Mr. Carlton's toe—all stripes from beech rods and
leather whip—all cherrups and get-ups and even old-rascal's-you—all
snapping of bridle reins to bring to his recollection
Conestogo whip-crackings—all, all were in vain!—
Dick only grinned or gave a double flourish with his tail,
crawling along and dragging leg after leg, till they seemed
always in motion and yet always stock-still! But unexpectedly
to us he reached the favourite sink hole; when,
giving a sudden sneeze and slapping my beast in the face
with his tail, away he darted into the nondescript gait
named—but very much as if the caco-demons dislodged from
the swine had somehow got possession of his carcase.
The dry leaves of autumn were then plenty, and the fellow
got them into such a lively, excited and noisy state, that
we riders, only ten feet apart, could hear nothing said by
one another: hence, after useless efforts to be heard in answer
to the lady's voice coming to me in a high screech-key,

I kept only at last rising in my stirrups, opening the
mouth very wide and supporting the jaw with one hand, so
that with a distorted face I seemed in the agony and effort
of loud and earnest delivery—but yet uttered not a word.
And in this interesting attitude we sustained an instructive
conversation, till the lady guessing at the pantomime, we
both added a chorus of cachination to the rattling harmony
of shuffling horse-heels, and came in a tempestuous whirlwind
of careering leaves to the last—bars; where Dick
stopped and the hurricane subsided.

“Nonsense! Mr. Carlton—”

Granted, my dear Mr. Graves: but are we back-woods'
people to have no fun? And if we are to have any, how
shall we have it unless we create it? You have concerts,
and balls, and popular lectures till they become unpopular
—and jest books—Lady's Book—Gentleman's Book—
Boy's Book—and organs in churches, and candy shops and
oysters and what not? And we are to mope to death in
the woods—hey? Believe me, we learn out there to make
our own sports and contrive to extract something pleasant
from the empty roar of autumnal leaves shuffled and kicked
into harmless tempest by old Dick's horse-heels. And further,
dear Mr. Strutell, all this requires more ingenuity, and
even a calmer conscience, than every body has: an ill-natured,
an ignorant, a conceited, a wicked person will be
very miserable in the solitudes of a New Purchase.

“But you started for the wedding.”

We did; but we had two miles and more to go—and
here is the place—and we shall resume the narrative.

The wedding party were all assembled and expecting
our arrival. And now Mr. Ashford came to meet us, expressing
his regret at the failure of Mr. Hilsbury to be
present; but as several other preachers were present, he
suggested that it would now be best to proceed with the

ceremony. In this we coincided, and so preparation was
made for it, the Rev. Diptin Menniwater being selected in
place of Bishop Hilsbury.

And soon then we were all paraded in the large room,
in which the company was compactly rowed along upon
benches, as noiseless and solemn as in “meetin:” and hence
we men of Glenville went squeezing around, and among, and
into, shaking hands with all that could be got at, and nodding
and smiling and winking at such as could not be felt and
handled, till places were found if not to sit in, yet to stand
in, and where we waited in laudable patience for the descent
of the bridal party to destroy the oppressive and dead calm
that succeeded. The solemn stillness was indeed, now
and then broken by some lagger who administered the
usual slap to the door and uttered the visiting formula already
named—but that was only an interruption like pitching
a pebble into a smooth deep lake. At very long last
Mrs. Ashford going to foot of the steps—a compound of
ladder and stairs—called to those in the upper room:—

“Well! if any body up thare's got a sort of notion to get
married to-day, I allow thare's no time to lose, no how.”

This was answered with a species of giggle-sniggering by
parties in both stories; and in the midst commenced above
a shuffle movement, as if something might be expected below
pretty quick. And soon was placed in descending
order, first, a pair of shiney new calf-skin boots with thin
soles; then, secondly, only a step higher, a pair of bran
new morocco slippers, with ancles in white stockings; and
then, thirdly, at suitable intervals, second pairs of shiney
dittos and moroccos and ancles. These omens were instantly
succeeded by coat tails hooked on men's arms, and
white frocks held aloof from soiled stairs—(all which matters
were plain enough to us behind the stair way, it having no
flooring or back for the convenience of sweeping and scrubbing)—till
the principal actors had all descended bodily,

and stood among us propriâ personâ—i. e. as large as life.
Whether from ignorance or etiquette, the groom and his
attendant, instead of being leaned upon, rested their own
arms on those of the two ladies, the bride and her maid—
as if each man had hooked a woman and was determined
to hold her fast for a wife after the trouble of catching.

The Rev. Mr. Menniwater, a piteous looking personage,
humble as a drowned rat, was now seen to emerge from
behind one of the back benches, whither he had slunk away,
to nurse his courage for the grand duty; but unable to come
near the parties at the foot of the stair-ladder, he remained
where he was and began to cry out his part as if engaged
in out-door preaching, only with unusual rapidity, lest his
speech should be forgotten before it could all be delivered
—thus:—

“Well—are you goin for to take—Sir—that womin—Sir
—a holdin by the hand—Sir—for a lawful—covenint wife,
Sir?”

To this question direct the groom and groomsman both
returned nods; although the real man added an audible—
“Yes I am,” giving, too, a visible pinch to Susan's arm;
equivalent to an exhortation and admonition that it was next
her turn.

“Well—are you goin for to have—hem!—Ma'am!—that
thare man—Ma'am!—a holdin on your arm—for to be your
lawful covenint—man—hem!—husband, Ma'am?”

Here both ladies made a courtesy, (kurtshee,) but Susan
added the affirmative; upon which the parson repeated the
following closing form:—

“Well, I say then by authority of this here license from
the clark of our court, as how you're both now—man and
woman—that is—hem!—as how both of you are married,
young folks, and no body's no right to keep you asunder.”
Upon which, greatly terrified, our preacher instantly demanded
something to drink; not that he needed any thing

from thirst, but from embarrassment, and to cover his retreat.
And this request was, at the very word, answered
by a potation or grog, of whiskey, water and maple sugar.
Indeed, in those days out there, we have been in church,
when, at the amen to the benediction, forth came Deacon
Giles, with a wash-basin-bowl full of whiskey and some
water, sweetened as above and flavoured with nutmeg; and
of this sipped first the man of God—for form's sake:—and
after that it was all swallowed by the congregation, in
mouthfuls sufficient to elevate the mind, if dejected by the
sermon.

But the Rev. D. Menniwater's call for drink, was the
signal that the matrimonial meeting was out; and the kissing
of the bride was set going by the ladies of Glenville,
who, (for mere example's sake, however,) were followed by
the gentlemen of Glenville. And two of these gentlemen,
I think, extended their salutation to the bride'smaid, which
was so encouraging to the groomsman, and other shy chaps,
that they with one consent began to salute the brides that
were to be: so that affairs were soon as completely uproarious
and screechery as in a fashionable, highbred evening
party, with one good piano and some three dozen vocalists,
professors and amateurs of singing and talking. At last
the girls put out; followed by the beaux, and none were left
in the room but we old folks, (married people,) and the
young couple. And then came on all the old, racy and
original jokes and sayings on such occasions, with some
new ones in regard to the “man and woman,” made by
Mr. M.; whose inveterate habit of “old manning,” &c.
had forced him to substitute man and woman for husband
and wife, in concluding the ceremony. One very smart
neighbour body so persisted in calling the whole no ceremony
at all, that poor Susan was half persuaded she was
hardly married; and had we of Glenville fomented the affair,

and Mr. Hilsbury been present, Susan, I do think,
would have had the marriage ceremony over again.

It was now noon, and dinner—the grand affair—was not
to be till near 3 o'clock, P. M.—although every body, man,
woman, boy, girl, help, domestic, hired and volunteer,
hands and legs, were all ferment in hastening this catastrophe
of our drama: and truly drama it was, if action and
motion pertain to its essence. Here a boy was ferociously
cutting wood—there one toting wood: here a man and two
women getting a fire in full blast out of doors—there two
men and one girl blowing up one within: and then rushed
by a whirlwind of petticoats, with one featherless turkey,
or two featherless hens, affectionately hugged along to dutch
ovens and skillets! Some carried and fixed tables, pushing
and kicking and jamming at them till they consented to
stay fixed, and not to coggle! Some fixed rattling plates,
clattering knives, and ringing bowls on stout table covers;
which were at the same moment jerked by others, till they
“came a sorter strate!” And there was Mr. Ashford, Jun.
with his rifle, decapitating extra fowls, the company proving
much larger than had been expected! For on these
hearty and solemn occasions every body is welcome, who
comes as an umbra to a neighbour, or acts as his own
shadow and shade; and every body is stuffed with as much
as he will hold; so that all sorts of feathered creatures suffer
for the wedding dinner, and in great numbers, it being
long before a wholesome backwoodsman ever cries, “Ohe!
jam satis!” about the same as the classic reader knows
as crying out, “Well! I've a belly full!”

The whole clearing evidently enjoyed a saturnalia. Wagons
and carts and sleds rested from rolling and screeching;
gears of leather and gears of elm-bark hung crooked and
unstretched on fences and projections of cabin outhouses;
and ploughs lay peaceful, with polished shares gleaming in
sunshine. The animals manifestly enjoyed the affair; hens

of maternal character clucked mid late broods, and some
wallowed in dust; geese hissed; ducks quacked; and dogs,
in all quarters, ran, barked, and wagged their very tails for
gladness; while shaggy horses peeped in wonder over bars,
or hung tenderly about the barn and corn cribs.

Adjacent the house was a yard; and this being swept
daily with wooden brooms and tramped, had become denuded
of grass, and hard and clean as a puncheon floor.
Here[3] we now walked, ran, jumped, joked, told tales, made
brags and bets—tickled folk's ears with timothy heads—
quizzed chaps about marrying—chased girls going to the
spring for water, or to the milk house, and ever so many
funny things beside. And, what was wonderful! the girls
went every five minutes to the spring or milk house; and
came too through the front yard, when, if they had thought,
the way out of the back door was much shorter and more
direct! And then such a sprinking of water from little
calabashes and tin cups and ox horns! And such a hanging
of dish-cloths and milk-strainers on the “yaller buttins”
of the hinder man! And the laughing!—and the rifle-shooting!—in
a word, we, (author now included,) were
most decidedly, and most vulgarly happy, joyous, and chock
full of fun and frolic.

Of course all this was too much for Old Dick to stand
and look at all day: hence, contriving to ease off his bridle
and then to work over the fence, or may be under it, there,
sure enough, in the midst of our sacred enclosure, suddenly
stood his impudence, and as if we were his “feller critturs!”
He was no stranger, however, to the company, and his self-introduction
was hailed with more than three cheers; it
being well known he would contribute his share to the entertainment.
Accordingly, like a favourite dog, he was fed

with bits of bread, both corn and wheat, and with slices of
fat pork and pieces of fresh beef; which latter he would
only chew awhile, like tobacco, and then eject. He was
then smoothed and slapped and called names—then pulled
by the tail—pinched on the ears—made to grin—and then
jumped on and jumped over; till at last girls were packed
and stowed upon him, and nothing was visible of the favourite
but four horse-legs, moving under frocks, and a tail
wagging and flourishing happily among chintz and morocco—the
whole a most grotesque feminine centaur! But
when we packed the fellow with men and boys, he would
either shake or bite them off; and if these failed he would
suddenly lie down, and then the compound rollings were
uncommonly entertaining.

Three chaps now mounted Dick, and fully resolved to
make him ford the creek, here about ten yards wide and
some two feet deep. By dint of coaxing and kicking, and
pulling and pushing, by the riders and the company, Dick
was got into the water, when he splashed on voluntarily to
the middle—but farther than that, not an inch. No—there
he halted, and stood fixed as a river-horse that had grown
up on the spot! And vain all entreaties, cuffings, kickings!
vain all combined hallooings! vain all pelting with clods
and stones—all latherings with long bean poles!—he was
wholly unbudgable! At last, however, he did move; and
so did his riders, who hastily slipped off into water more
than knee deep, preferring that to a roll in the creek—Dick
having exhibited the premonitory symptom of performing
that ceremony; and then they, amid no small uproar of
laughter from the whole assembled “weddeners,” waded
to the bank. “But Dick, what did he?” Ay, sure enough
—why he speedily betook himself to the farther side, where
he wandered about and eat twigs and bushes, till he was
caught for our return. Reader, was all this instinct or
reason?

After this we told adventures. Among others, one hard
featured old worthy gave the following account about his
“ole womin's tarrifying a barr,” anglicé, terrifying a
bear.

“When we was fust settled”—said he—“down on Higginsis
bottim, thare was no mills in these parts and so we
pack'd all our bread stuffs from over thare at Wood'll about
once a month or thare-abouts, me going one day and coming
back agin next day and my ole womin a stayin in the cabin
till I gits back. The Injins was mostly gone, but straglin
ones kept comin on and off, but tho' they was harmless like,
folks was a little dubus and didn't want thare company; and
my ole womin she always shot the door at night, and a sort
a draw'd the bedstid agin it. Well, so one night I was
away for meal and she bethought as how she'd render off
her fat; and so she ons with the grate pot—that one you're
old womin neighbour Ashford borrerd last year to bile sugar
in—and she puts in her fat and begins a heatin it; when
what does she hear all at once on a sudden but a powerful
trampin round the cabin! “Maybe,” says she to herself,
“its some poor Injin wants in”—when all at once the trampin
stopt and somethin begins a scratchin up outside the
chimbly, and she spies through a crack, and if it want a
powerful barr that was arter the fat! And she know'd the
varmint wasn't going to rest till he klim down the inside of
the chimbly; and then she'd have to put out and maybe
lose all her fat! Well, my ole womin was to be sure, a
leetle skur'd—but she did'nt lose her presentiment of
mind—she only let the fellow back down as near as was
convenient—and then she jerks a handful of dry grass out
of our tick, and set fire to the whole on the fat! “And she
says, 'twas most powerful laffy to hear the barr go up chimbly
again—and how he was still heern a growlin and makin
tracts for the timbers! And that's the way she tarrifyed
the barr and a sort a scorched his brichis.”

“That makes me, grandaddy,”—said a young Hecules—
“think how near I was to bein skur'd last week, with a
wild cat over on Acorn Ridge. I was out huntin turkey,
but had no luck, and didn't see the fust one till I comes toward's
Inglissis—and thare I heerd a feller goblin. So I
crawls into the brush near a beech and begins a goblin, and
he begins a anserrin and a comin up—but jist then I hears
somethin a nuther in the beech above—but I was afeard to
move my head lest the turkey ketch sight of me—and so I
gives another gobble, and then hears him a coming up rite
smart, and I was only waitin to git sight of him—when
what should I hear but a sudden shakin rite over my head
—and so I looks out of the tail of my eye so—(turning his
eye for illustration)—and I'll be dogg'd if thare warnt a
wild cat jist goin to spring, as I'd gobled him up like a
gineine cock myself. So, you see I give up the turkey
and killed the varmint—and that's his skin, grandaddy, you
see tother day at our house.”

This reminded Uncle John of an adventure of his own
somewhat similar, and he went on thus:

“One day when hunting in Georgia I got into a pine
thicket, where I sat down on a log to rest. Happening to
look in a certain direction—for nothing of the sort was expected—I
saw a fine buck coming slowly towards the thicket,
either not seeing me or to reconnoitre. I had put off
my shoes to cool my feet, but now without thinking about
it, I rose to my feet ready to fire as soon as the deer should
be near enough: but as I stood about this way—(way exhibited,
the legs apart)—I felt something very cold glide
upon one of my bare feet, and on glancing my eye that
way, what was it but a rattlesnake crawling from under the
log across my foot! I had providentially presence of mind
to remain immovable as a rock--till the snake had actually
crawled his whole length over my foot; and when fairly

beyond I suddenly jumped away, and then killed him:—
but of course I lost my buck.”

“Brother John”—said uncle Tommy—“that makes me
think of my being lost twenty years ago—but dinner, I
reckon, is most ready—”

“Oh! no, uncle Tommy”—said Mr. Ashford—“we've
time for that 'venture of yours.”

This was enough for our Uncle Leatherstocking; for no
man so delighted in telling adventures. Indeed, few men
ever encountered more; and still fewer could orally relate
them so well. He was not an educated man, or even a
good English scholar; still he had read much and conversed
much with intelligent persons: and so he was fluent in
natural English, and could aptly coin words and pronunciations
to suit new ideas and circumstances. I shall try and
preserve his manner and spirit: but to enjoy his stories,
one should sit in his lonely cabin of a winter's night away
in the howling wilderness, and see his countenance and
action, and hear his tones.

“Prehaps”—said uncle Tommy—“you know my wife's
father had considerable land on the Blue Fox River in
Ohio; so as we two wanted a leetle more elbow room, I
says one day to Nancy, “Nancy,” says I, “I dad 'spose
we put out and live there. Game's mighty plenty there,
and there's fine water and plenty a fish, and plenty a
wood; and we kin lay in stores enough at Squattertown
to last more nor six months on a streech.” And sure
enough, as I'm a livin man, off we sets and puts up a cabin
in the centre of the track, and that give us room for the
present: for the nearest white settlement warnt nearer nor
four mile, and Squattertown, the county seat, was nigh on
to twelve mile off. The Ingins, poor critturs, kim a huntin
over our track,. albeit, there was no reglar town of theirn
nearer nor twenty miles: but they never did us harm—no,
not a hait—(little bit)—and Nancy got so used to their red

skins that she never minded them. There's bad Ingins
that will steal and maybe massurkree: but most when they
find a rale sinserity-hearted white, would a blame sight
sooner sculp themselves than him. And I do believe me
and Nancy was beliked by them: and many's the ven'sin and
turkey they fotch'd as a sort of present, and maybe a kind of
pay for breadstuffs and salt Nancy used to give them. Sartin,
indeed, a white would now and then be killed: but when
all the sarcumstansis was illusterated, it was ginerally found
the white was agressur, and was kotch'd doing something
agin their laws—and me and Nancy had a secret conscience
that the white desarved his fate:—and sometimes
I felt like takin sides with the red skins myself, and
shootin down the whiskey devils that made them drunk—
but I'll not enter on that now.

“Well, I hunted and fish'd about whole days, the livelong
blessed day, while Nancy she'd stay alone a readin Scott's
Family Bible: so that she got three times right spang
through it, from kiver to kiver—the whole three volumes,
notes, practical observations, marginal references, and all!
And, I dad, if she did'nt read clean through all our church
histories, Milnursis, and Mush-heemisis, and history of the
Baptisis and Methodisis, and never so many more books
beside, for we always toted our books wherever we went.
And when I fished I used to larn sarmins by heart out of
Chrismas Evans, and president Davy's and Mr. Walker's
and that was a kind of help in preachin.”

Uncle Tommy usually made the dead speak when he
preached, and sometimes he would echo Bishop Shrub
and Bishop Hilsbury, and other living apostles. And in
this he acted wisely, not being competent to the concoction
of his own sermons; and besides, when fully excited he
could do Christmas Evans' celebrated almanac sermon
nearly as well as Christmas himself: thence among the
“Baptisis,” as he always called them, Uncle Tommy was

greatly venerated, and was heaped up with titles like an
English Bishop, being styled: “a mighty smart and most
powerful big preacher!” Let not uncle Tommy's pulpit
preparation be despised; even “high larned sheepskins,”
it is said, do sometimes lay both the living and the dead
under heavy contribution, and that, too, when not endowed
with our buck-eye-preacher's pathos and unction. We,
indeed, of Glenville, always preferred that uncle Tommy
should represent Davies and Walker—and even Evans—
and not to give his own. But to the story;

“Well”—continued he—“one morning early in December,
I says to Nancy, “Nancy, I dad, says I, I do believe
I'll jist take old Bet—(a rifle)—as we are out of meat, and
go where I seen the turkies roosting last night: you mind
the morning, Nancy, my dear, don't you?”

“Bless you, Tommy Seymour, I'll never forget it—I was
near losing you then, Tommy.”

“Well, Nancy, I'll go on with the story.”

This was one of the interlocutories that always varied
and interrupted uncle Tommy's narratives, and nothing
could excel the intense interest that most affectionate and
devoted wife—(wife and child to him)—took in the stories,
though heard the hundreth time. But uncle Tommy went
on: —

“And so I slips out of bed—it wasn't day quite—and
slips on my clothes, and fixes my old gun by the fire and
then opens the door to set out, when I dissarned a leetle
sprinkle of snow and a likelihood for a snow storm. Howsomever,
this did'nt faze me, only I steps back for my old
camlit cloak—little thinking, as I fixed it on, how I'd need
the thing afore I'd git back agin.

“Well, I starts for where I'd seen the turkeys, and gitting
near, sneaked round a bit, but soon found the critturs had
been too quick, and like Paddy's flea, wasn't there. I
heerd them, howsomever, fly, and so on I kept creeping

slowly along till I'd got from home, mayhap, a matter of two
miles; but the snow was so thick in the air that I never
could dissarn the birds, and away they kept going flurry-wurry
about seventy yards a head—till I give up the hunt
and turn'd to go home for fear Nancy might be waiting
breakfast—”

“Yes, Tommy Seymour, I did wait breakfast for you—”

“Never mind, Nancy, my dear child, I got back at last
you know”—replied uncle Tommy, and continued—“Well,
I turn'd to go back, but I dad if I could jist exactly tell
where I was precisely, the snow had so teetolly kivered my
tracks, and it was now snowing so bodaciously fast as to
kiver as fast as I made them. But I took a sharp look at
the timber, and fixing on a course, I kept my line for near
two mile—yet, I dad, if I could strike the cabin and could
n't tell whether it was too high or too low; and so up I
went a short quarter, and down a short quarter, as near as
could be guessed circumlocating for three hours, but no cabin
was to be seen. Well, says I, I dad, if I aint about as
good as lost; and so sits down in a tree top to reconsiderate,
and take a fresh start—but soon starts up and hollows like
the ole Harry—but nothing gives no answer and all was
snow!—snow!—snow! not a smite of noise, only my
breathing and a sort of pittinpattin sound of my heart! I
found it wouldn't do to stand still as the scarces begin to
crawl in a leetle, and so off I sets at a venture; for the
cabin must be, says I, somewhere near; and sometimes I
conceited it to be ahead of me, but all at once it vanished,
and I seed it was only a case of fantis-mágery—and that I,
Tommy Seymour, was actially lost!—”

“Yes! Tommy, and I couldn't give you any help!”

“Nancy! child, I wouldn't a had you there for the universal
world.”

“Well,”—resumed he,—“there I was teetolly lost! I
couldn't stay still—yet what use to walk on? And if I fired

my gun, and Nancy heerd it, and I didn't git back, mayhap
she'd think the Injins had killed me, and then she'd
come out and git lost too!—and with that idee, thinks
I may be she's out now!—and then I gits bodaciously
sker'd and hollows agin like the very ole Harry! and
walks and runs this way and that way—the snow blinding
my eyes—but all was of no use—I was lost! lost! lost!
But it was only about Nancy here, I thought at this time;
—and I dad, if I din't ketch myself a crying like a child,—
and, wished to be lost by myself without her coming out in
such a storm!—(We here stole a look at aunt Nancy—I
could not catch her eye as she had her work-bag over her
face: but “I dad,” as uncle Tommy used to say, if we
didn't feel a leetle tender ourselves. And so, generous
reader, would you have felt, hearing the tremulous thrill of
the venerable old man's voice and seeing his eye affectionately
turned towards that dear old lady that for so many
years had shared his wanderings and sorrows.)—“Well,
I must 'a become crazy, running round and hollowing and
crying—and all of no use—when all at once it quit snowing,
and I was sperited up, hoping the sun would shine out
next, and I could take a course for Squattertown or the Injin
settlement. But it kept dark and cloudy and I begins
t ` feel weak from fatigue and hunger—(albeit I war'nt
sker'd on that pint, as I had old Bet along)—and so allowing
it was about one o'clock, I determined to strike the
Blue Fox, and keep down stream to the settlement on its
bank thirty miles down. Well, off I sets to strike the river,
and in about four mile comes to a little pond with a
couple of duck swimming about. I stopp'd in my tracks—
knock'd out damp primin—puts in fresh—and slams away
and kills one duck; and the other flies away. And I gits
the duck to land by pitching sticks in, but not wanting to
lose time, I kept on going; and so picked off the feathers
and sucked a little of it raw, till it 'most made me sick, and
I thought it would be better to keep and cook it at night—
which was now coming on black as thunder. Well, it
was time to look out for a camp; and just about dark I
come across a tree what had been twisted off by a harrikin,
and was lodged the butt ind on the stump; and the top on
the ground was puttee much of a dry brush heap. For all
the world! there never was sich a place!—Providence
seemed to have blow'd it down jist for me! I could have
camp'd there a week! And so we brushes away the snow
and makes a fire in the top! and near the stump under the
trunk, makes a comfortable bed out of chunks and brush
wood: and then I goes to the fire and sits down to cook
my duck.

“But, I dad, if I could help thinking about our cabin and
every time I think of Nancy!—I—; but I know'd there
was a divine Providence and a heavenly Father—and so I
prayed, and then eat one half of my duck, keeping the
other; as game was mighty skerse and no human beings
was in that direction till I struck the Blue Fox. And then,
making a little fire near my bed for my feet, and kivering
my powder-horn with a hankerchief to put under my head
for fear of damp and sparks, I raps up in the ole-camlit,
and laid down, and was soon fast asleep.

“Well, after a while I gits to dreaming I was lost in a
prararee, and that the grass had tuck fire, and that I was a
kind of suffocated and scorch'd;—and I dreamed I heerd the
awful roaring of flames, and seen a burning whirlwind coming
towards me, and that so sker'd me that I woke right up—
and, I dad! as I'm a livin man! if the woods all around me
wasn't as light as day! And my tree was all a living
blaze and burning splinters was tumblin on my ole camlit!
—ay! and my cotton hankerchief round my powder-horn
was jist beginning to smoke and scorch!—I dad! my
friends and bruthrin”—(Here, uncle T. insensibly glided
into his preaching tone and manner)—“but this was a most
murrakulous dream!! and show'd the nature of Providence

and his care—or I'd 'a soon been burnt to death or blow'd
up! And I didn't sleep no more—but kneeled down and
thank'd God for the deliverance; and then kept sitting
near the fire till day, and then I once more started for the
river.

“Howsomever, to make a long story short, I walked on
and on the live-long blessed day, and never heerd or seen
a living crittur; and I never came to any river—but at
night I comes to a log that had been chopp'd off and this
give me courage. And so I makes a fire, and eats now the
other half of my duck—for I was somehow sartain I'd find
a settlemint in the morning. Well, I slept the second
night along side this log, and by daybreak I jumps up and
feels something a kind of moving in my old camlit—and, I
dad! if it wasn't a snake what the fire had smoked out of
the log and what had crept into me to be warm! But I only
shook out the reptile and never killed him, thinking only of
some settlemint—(although it was the snake, brother John
told about, that made me think of my adventure)—for the
sarcumstance of the chopp'd log satisfied me, some was
near, as it was no tommyhawk cut, but was done with a
white man's axe. Well, I starts off puttee considerable
peert and brisk, considerin I was weak, and, all at once, as
I'm a livin man, if I didn't hear a bark! And so I stops
and listens—and there was another—and another—and I
was sartain it wasn't no fox or wolf but a dog—and then, I
dad! if I didn't streak off that way like greased lightnin!
—and begun and holler'd and fired!—and the dog bark'd
louder and louder, and kept on coming nearer and nearer!
and I a running and a hollerin till all at once right in
sight of me was—a human cabin!! If I live a thousand
years,—(and none of us, my bruthren will live half that
long,)—I'll never forget that moment—and if ever I thank'd
God with a rale sinserity-heart, 'twas then. But while I
was reconsiderating whose settlemint it was, for things

looked a kind of familiar, the dog what had kept on barkin,
now bust out of the bushes, a yelpin and a prancin around
me!—and why do you think?—because the poor feller had
found his lost master—and it was Nancy's little dog Ruff!
And would you believe it?—my eyes was suddenly opened
like a prophit's, and I found I was on my own trampin
ground, and the cabin was ours!—and there stood my dear
child Nancy, a lookin our way out of the cabin door! I
dad! if I didn't snatch up Ruff and kiss him!—and the poor
little crittur—(he's dead now!)—lick'd my face with his
tongue!—and in that way I run over to Nancy.”—(Here
the emotion of the old man and the agitation of his wife
made a momentary pause—it was, indeed, as solemn as
church.)—“Well, after all was explained and illusterated,
we kneel'd down and thank'd God: and then Nancy, she
told how she thought I was killed and then maybe only lost,
till she was jist goin to start for the next settlemint; and if
I'd a come ten minits later, she'd been off after help!

“So that's one of my scrapes; and it illusterates the
fiillosofee that makes a man keep going round and round
when he's lost; for albeit I must a walked more nor fifty
mile in the two days, I wasn't never over seven mile from
the cabin; and that's the pond where the duck was;—and
when I come back agin, I didn't know at fust my own cabin
—nor the chopp'd log, though I'd cut down the tree myself.
And—”

Here dinner was fortunately announced; for nothing else
then could have stopped Uncle Tommy—and we weddeners
had a lucky escape from a long sermon on Providence;
Uncle Tommy greatly delighting in improvements, and
“speretilizing” his adventures, and, indeed, all other matters,
and usually winding up his land-yarns with notes and
practical observations, in the manner of Henry and Scott.
The truth is we were half starved, and had very natural

hankerings after “beggarly elements—carnal meats and
drinks, and such like observances.”

The dinner table was set in the diagonal of the room, and
could accommodate about thirty persons; but as our company
was twice that number, we were “to eat twice.” As
usual the new married persons were seated at one end, and
the groomsman and bridesmaid at the other: and then were
seated all the married men, and after that as many as possible
of the married women; preference on such occasions
being shown to the worthier gender.[4] This inversion of
the matrimonial chord arises mainly from the fact, that out
there women reserve themselves to attend to the table; and,
therefore, when the “set up” is ordered, the gentlemen
instantly seat themselves alongside, and partly under the
table. Sheepish young chaps usually hang back, however
hungry, and say, “Oh! there's no 'casion:” after which
they give an acquiescing cough or two, or more commonly
go to the door, and give a twang with the nose and finger
instrument, (in place of fashionable phrases,) and then drop,
as if shot down, into a seat, jerking the seat under the table,
till the mouth comes to its level, and is thus fixed for convenient
feeding.

All Glenville had a seat at the first table, except John
Glenville, who, partly out of policy, but much more out of
true and gentlemanly feeling, preferred coming with the
young people to the second table. And when the company
were fixed—and fixed it was till one could barely stir a hand
or foot—Uncle Tommy “asked a blessing;” when he made
amends for a long story by a very short prayer. But even
in that prayer, which certainly lasted no longer than two
minutes, he contrived, among other things, to ask a blessing
on the young folks, praying especially, “for them as had

jist been married, according to the divine appintment in the
gardin of Edin, that they might both of them live to a good
old age, and be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth,
and see their children's children to the third and fourth
gineration, and that other young folks present might soon
settle and have families, and become an honour and a
blessin in their day and gineration.”

Many young gentlemen of “the second table” waited on
us of “the first table,” and among them John Glenville:—
and this was taken so kindly, that before we went home
declarations were heard about “taking him up for the legislature,
fall come a year”—a hint not lost on us, and of which
more hereafter. I am sorry the reader can only taste our
goodies in imagination; and yet are we cruel enough to let
him see what he lost.

And first, notice, all eatables, from “the egg to the apple,”
were on our table at once. Thus a single glance disclosed
what amount of labour was expected:—our whole work was
there, and no other jobs of eating by way of appendix. Nor
were we plagued with changing knives, whipping on and
away of plates, and brushing or removing cloths; no, no, we
kept right dead ahead with the work from the start to the
finish; the sole labour of the attendants being to keep the
plates “chuckfull” of something, and ours, to eat! eat! eat!

The dishes next. First, then, and middlemost, an enormous
pot-pie, and piping hot, graced our centre, overpowering,
with its fragrance and steam, the odours and vapours of
all other meats: and pot-pie was the wedding dish of our
Purchase, par excellence! The pie to-day was the doughy
sepulchre of at least six hens, two chanticleers, and four
pullets, if it be logical to reason upward from legs and
wings to bodies! What pot could have contained the pie
is inconceivable, unless the one used for “tarrifying the
barr.” Why, among other unknown contributions, it must
have received one half peck of onions! And yet it is
to be feared that they who came after us were potpieless;

for potpie is the favourite, and woodsmen sharp set are
awful eaters.

Around the pie were wild turkeys, (tame enough now,)
with wonderful necks stretched out in search of their heads,
and stupendous limbs and wings ready for flight, the instant
the head should be discovered, or heard from! The poor
birds, however, were so done, over and under too, that all
native juices were evaporated, and the flesh was as dry as
cork: but by way of amends quarts of gravy were judiciously
emptied on our plates from the wash-basin-bowls.
That also moistened the “stuff'nin,” composed of Indian
meal and sausages.

These two were the grand dishes: but sprinkled and
scattered about were plates of fried venison, fried turkey,
fried chicken, fried duck, fried pork, and, for any thing I
could know, even fried leather; for so complete and impartial
the frying, that distinctive tastes were obliterated,
and it could only be guessed, by the shape, size, legs, &c.,
which was what, and the contrary.

But who can tell of the “sasses?” for we had “biled petaturs!”—and
“smashed petaturs!”—and “petatursis!”
i. e. potatoes rolled into balls as big as marbles, and baked
brown. And there were “bil'd ingins!”—“fried ingins!”
—and “ingins out of this here pie!” Yes, and beets of
all known colours and unknown tastes!—all pickled in
salt and vinegar and something else! And there were
pickled cucumbers, as far as salt and water could go; and
“punkun-butter!”—and “punkun-jelle!”—and corn bread
in all its glory!

Scientifically inserted and insinuated among the first
course, was the second; every crevice and space being
wedged up: and had the plates and saucers been like puzzle-maps,
no table cloth would have been visible through the
interstices. And fortunate! the table itself was strong and
masculine; otherwise it must have been crushed under the

combined weight of elbows and dishes! This second
course was chiefly custard; and that stood in bowls and
teacups of cadaverous white, encircled by unknown flowers.
A pitcher of milk was gracefully adorned by the artist with
the pattern of an entrail, taken doubtless out of some school
book on physiology. But we had also custard-pies! and
made with both upper and under crusts! And also maple
molasses, (usually called “them 'ere molassisis,”) and preserved
apples, preserved water mellon-rinds, and preserved
red peppers and tomatoes—all termed, for brevity's sake,
(like words in Webster's dictionary,) “'sarves.”

A few under crusts, or shells, were filled with stewed
peaches and apples; an idea borrowed by Susan from Glenville:
but so much was this like conformity to the pomps
and vanities of life, that the careful mother had that very
morning rebuked her daughter, and earnestly advised her
not “to take to quality ways, but naturally bake pies
with uppermost crust's.” And yet Mrs. Ashford soon got
over her miff, and, won by the marked and uncondescending
attention paid to her daughter and her daughter's husband
by us, she was heard not long after the rebuke to say—
“Well, arter all, they're a right down clever sort of folks,
and that 'are Mr. Carltin is naterally addicted to fun.”

Among the curiosities were the pound cakes, as numerous
as apple dumplings, and about as large. These were
compounded of some things found in pound cakes every
where, and of some not found, maple sugar being, evidently
from the taste, the master ingredient; but their shape—
that was the beauty! All were baked in coffee-cups! and
after being disencupped, each was iced all over, till it looked,
for all the world, exactly like an ill-made snow ball! The
icing, or snowing, was a composition of egg, starch, and a
species of double-rectified maple sugar, as fine and white
as table salt.

In addition to all these matters tea and coffee were severally

handed, while the girls in attendance asked each
guest—“Do you take sweet'nin?” If the reply was affirmative
the same sized spoonful was put into every sized cup;
and then, to save you the trouble, the young lady stirred the
beverage with her own fair hand, and with as much energy
and good will as if she was mixing molasses and water.

Now, we do hope no reader will think we of Glenville
turned up our noses at all this. No, no, verily; but we eat
as much and as long, laughing, talking, joking all the time
too, as if native born. As for Mr. Carlton, he stuck mainly
to pot-pie, the marbled-potatoes, the custard and the maple
molasses; which last, by the way, is indeed as superior to
all far east and down east molasses and syrups as cheese is
to chalk.

The eventful day was, however, now closing, and some
had already taken French leave, while many were rigging
their horses for departure: hence we also began assembling
our party to go homeward. But at the request of
some young fellows, who offered to catch Dick and see the
“gals” home, we left our helps, to have some fun after
the graver people should be gone away. About a dozen
volunteer groomsmen and bridesmaids remained to “see it
out;” viz. to torment Susan and Joseph: but Mrs. Ashford,
a very watchful and discreet woman, told us afterwards,
she “took care to stop all goins on, and made ev'ry
livin soul and body of 'em go to bed an hour before herself
and her old man went.”

A different but no less effectual preventive was used by
another new-married couple in the Purchase, where we had
the honour of an invitation. The loft had been assigned
as the bridal chamber, the sole access to which was a light
ladder; and up this some of the “weddeners” intended to
steal and upset the bed of the sleepers—but alas! for the
fun!—the groom, in anticipation of the favour, it was found,
had drawn up the ladder!