A New England Tale. Catharine Maria Sedgwick
and having ejected the eldest boy from a chair by a very unceremonious slap, offered it to Mrs. Lloyd and resumed her seat; quietly finishing her meal. Her husband, a ruddy, good-natured, hardy looking mountaineer, had had the misfortune, by some accident in his childhood, to lose the use of both his legs, which were now ingeniously folded into the same chair on which he sat. He turned to the coachman, who, having secured his horses, had just entered, and smiling at his consternation, said, "Why, friend, you look scare't, pretty pokerish weather, to be sure, but then we don't mind it up here;" then turning to the child next him, who, in gazing at the strangers, had dropped half the food she was conveying to her mouth, he said—"Desdemony, don't scatter the 'tatoes so."—"But last week," he continued, resuming his address to the coachman, "there was the most tedious spell of weather I have seen sen the week before last thanksgiving, when my wife and I went down into the lower part of Becket, to hear Deacon Hollister's funeral sarmont—Don't you remember, Tempy, that musical fellow that was there?—'I don't see,' says he, 'the use of the minister preaching up so much about hell-fire,' says he, 'it is a very good doctrine,' says he, 'to preach down on Connecticut River, but,' says he, 'I should not think it would frighten any body in such a cold place as Becket.'"
A bright flash, that seemed to fire the heavens, succeeded by a tremendous clap of thunder, which made the hovel tremble, terrified all the groupe, excepting the fearless speaker—
"A pretty smart flash to be sure; but, as I was saying, it is nothing to that storm we had last week.—Velorus, pull that hat out of the window, so the gentleman can see.—There, sir," said he, "just look at that big maple tree, that was blown down, if it had come one yard nearer my house, it would have crushed it to atoms. Ah, this is a nice place as you will find any where," he continued, (for he saw Mr. Lloyd was listening attentively to him,) "to bring up boys; it makes them hardy and spirited, to live here with the wind roaring about them, and the thunder rattling right over their heads: why they don't mind it any more than my woman's spinning-wheel, which, to be sure, makes a dumb noise sometimes."
Our travellers were not a little amused with the humour of this man, who had a natural philosophy that a stoic might have envied. "Friend," said Mr. Lloyd, "you have a singular fancy about names; what may be the name of that chubby little girl who is playing with my wife's fan?"
"Yes, sir, I am a little notional about names; that girl, sir, I call Octavy, and that lazy little dog that stands by her, is Rodolfus."
"And this baby," said Mr. Lloyd, kindly giving the astonished little fellow his watch-chain to play with, "this must be Vespasian or Agricola."
"No, sir, no; I met with a disappointment about that boy's name—what you may call a slip between the cup and the lip—when he was born, the women asked me what I meant to call him? I told them, I did not mean to be in any hurry; for you must know, sir, the way I get my names, I buy a book of one of those pedlers that are going over the mountain with tin-ware and brooms, and books and pamphlets, and one notion and another; that is, I don't buy out and out, but we make a swap; they take some of my wooden dishes, and let me have the vally in books; for you must know I am a great reader, and mean all my children shall have larning too, though it is pretty tough scratching for it. Well, Sir, as I was saying about this boy, I found a name just to hit my fancy, for I can pretty generally suit myself; the name was Sophronius; but just about that time, as the deuce would have it, my wife's father died, and the gin'ral had been a very gin'rous man to us, and so to compliment the old gentleman, I concluded to call him Solomon Wheeler."
Mr. Lloyd smiled, and throwing a dollar into the baby's lap, said, "There is something, my little fellow, to make up for your loss." The sight and the gift of a silver dollar produced a considerable sensation among the mountaineers. The children gathered round the baby to examine the splendid favour. The mother said, "The child was not old enough to make its manners to the gentleman, but he was as much beholden to him as if he could." The father only seemed insensible, and contented himself with remarking, with his usual happy nonchalance, that he "guessed it was easier getting money down country, than it was up on the hills."
"Very true, my friend," replied Mr. Lloyd, "and I should like to know how you support your family here. You do not appear to have any farm."
"No Sir," replied the man, laughing, "it would puzzle me, with my legs, to take care of a farm; but then I always say, that as long as a man has his wits, he has something to work with. This is a pretty cold sappy soil up here, but we make out to raise all our sauce, and enough besides to fat a couple of pigs on; then, Sir, as you see, my woman and I keep a stock of cake and beer, and tansy bitters—a nice trade for a cold stomach; there is considerable travel on the road, and people get considerable dry by the time they get up here, and we find it a good business; and then I turn wooden bowls and dishes, and go out peddling once or twice a year; and there is not an old wife, or a young one either for the matter of that, but I can coax them to buy a dish or two; I take my pay in provisions or clothing; all the cash I get, is by the beer and cake: and now, Sir, though I say it, that may be should not say it, there is not a more independent man in the town of Becket than I am, though there is them that's more forehanded; but I pay my minister's tax, and my school tax, as reg'lar as any of them."
Mr. Lloyd admired the ingenuity and contentment of this man, his enjoyment of the privilege, the "glorious privilege," of every New-England man, of "being independent." But his pleasure was somewhat abated by an appearance of a want of neatness and order, which would have contributed so much to the comfort of the family, and which, being a Quaker, he deemed essential to it. He looked at the little stream of water we have mentioned, and which the rain had already swollen so much that it seemed to threaten an inundation of the house; and observing, that neither the complexion of the floor nor of the children seemed to have been benefited by its proximity, he remarked to the man, that he "should think a person of his ingenuity would have contrived some mode of turning the stream."
"Why, yes, Sir," said the man, "I suppose I might, for I have got a book that treats upon hydrostatics and them things; but I'm calculating to build in the fall, and so I think we may as well musquash along till then."
"To build! Do explain to me how that is to be done?"
"Why, Sir," said he, taking a box from the shelf behind him, which had a hole in the centre of the top, through which the money was passed in, but afforded no facility for withdrawing it, "my woman and I agreed to save all the cash we could get for two years, and I should not be afraid to venture, there is thirty dollars there, Sir. The neighbours in these parts are very kind to a poor man; one will draw the timber, and another will saw the boards, and they will all come to raising, and bring their own spirits into the bargain. Oh, Sir, it must be a poor shack that can't make a turn to get a house over his head."
Mr. Lloyd took ten dollars from his pocket-book, and slipping it into the gap, said, "There is a small sum, my friend, and I wish it may be so expended as to give to thy new dwelling such conveniences as will enable thy wife to keep it neat. It will help on the trade too; for depend upon it, there is nothing makes a house look so inviting to a traveller as a cleanly air."
Our mountaineer's indifference was vanquished by so valuable a donation. "You are the most gin'rous man, Sir," said he, "that ever journeyed this way; and if I don't remember your advice, you may say there is no such thing as gratitude upon earth."
By this time the rain had subsided, the clouds were rolling over, the merry notes of the birds sallying from their shelters, welcomed the returning rays of the sun, and the deep unclouded azure in the west promised a delightful afternoon.
The travellers took a kind leave of the grateful cottagers, and as they drove away—"Tempy," said the husband, "if the days of miracles weren't quite entirely gone by, I should think we had 'entertained angels unawares.'"
"I think you might better say," replied the good woman, "that the angels have entertained us; any how, that sick lady will be an angel before long; she looks as good, and as beautiful, as one now."
It was on the evening of this day, that Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd arrived at the inn in the village of ———, which, as we have before stated, was the scene where her excellent and innocent life closed. She expressed a