TOWN AND COUNTRY.
“Doctor,” sais I, as we ascended the deck the following morning, “I
can’t tell you how I have enjoyed these incidental runs on shore I have
had during my cruise in the ‘Black Hawk.’ I am amazin’ fond of the
country, and bein’ an early riser, I manage to lose none of its charms.
I like to see the early streak in the east, and look on the glorious
sky when the sun rises. I like everything about the country, and the
people that live in it. The town is artificial, the country is natural.
Whoever sees the peep of the morning in the city but a drowsy watchman,
who waits for it to go to his bed? a nurse, that is counting the heavy
hours, and longs to put out the unsnuffed candles, and take a cup of
strong tea to keep her peepers open; or some houseless wretch, that is
woke up from his nap on a door-step, by a punch in the ribs from the
staff of a policeman, who begrudges the misfortunate critter a luxury
he is deprived of himself, and asks him what he is a doin’ of there, as
if he didn’t know he had nothin’ to do nowhere, and tells him to mizzle
off home, as if he took pleasure in reminding him he had none. Duty
petrifies these critters’ hearts harder than the grand marble porch
stone that served for a couch, or the doorstep that was used for a
pillow. Even the dogs turn in then, for they don’t think it’s necessary
to mount guard any longer. Blinds and curtains are all down, and every
livin’ critter is asleep, breathing the nasty, hot, confined,
unwholesome air of their bed-rooms, instead of inhaling the cool dewy
breeze of heaven.
“Is it any wonder that the galls are thin, and pale, and delicate, and
are so languid, they look as if they were givin’ themselves airs, when
all they want is air? or that the men complain of dyspepsy, and look
hollow and unhealthy, having neither cheeks, stomach, nor thighs, and
have to take bitters to get an appetite for their food, and pickles and
red pepper to digest it? The sun is up, and has performed the first
stage of his journey before the maid turns out, opens the front door,
and takes a look up and down street, to see who is a stirrin’. Early
risin’ must be cheerfulsome, for she is very chipper, and throws some
orange-peel at the shopman of their next neighbour, as a hint if he was
to chase her, he would catch her behind the hall-door, as he did
yesterday, after which she would show him into the supper-room, where
the liquors and cakes are still standing as they were left last night.
“Yes, she is right to hide, for it is decent, if it ain’t modest,
seein’ the way she has jumped into her clothes, and the danger there is
of jumping out of them again. How can it be otherwise, when she has to
get up so horrid early? It’s all the fault of the vile milkman, who
will come for fear his milk will get sour; and that beast, the iceman,
who won’t wait, for fear his ice will melt; and that stupid nigger who
will brush the shoes then, he has so many to clean elsewhere.
“As she stands there, a woman ascends the step, and produces a basket
from under her cloak, into which she looks carefully, examines its
contents (some lace frills, tippets, and collars of her mistress, which
she wore a few nights ago at a ball), and returns with something heavy
in it, for the arm is extended in carrying it, and the stranger
disappears. She still lingers, she is expecting some one. It is the
postman, he gives her three or four letters, one of which is for
herself. She reads it approvingly, and then carefully puts it into her
bosom, but that won’t retain it no how she can fix it, so she shifts it
to her pocket. It is manifest Posty carries a verbal answer, for she
talks very earnestly to him, and shakes hands with him at parting most
cordially.
“It must be her turn for a ball to-night I reckon, for a carriage
drives very rapidly to within three or four hundred yards of the house,
and then crawls to the door so as not to disturb the family. A very
fashionably-dressed maid is there (her mistress must be very kind to
lend her such expensive head-gear, splendid jewelry, and costly and
elegant toggery), and her beau is there with such a handsome moustache
and becoming beard, and an exquisitely-worked chain that winds six or
seven times round him, and hangs loose over his waistcoat, like a coil
of golden cord. At a given signal, from the boss of the hack, who
stands door in hand, the young lady gathers her clothes well up her
drumsticks, and would you believe, two steps or springs only, like
those of a kangaroo, take her into the house? It’s a streak of light,
and nothing more. It’s lucky she is thin, for fat tames every critter
that is foolish enough to wear it, and spoils agility.
“The beau takes it more leisurely. There are two epochs in a critter’s
life of intense happiness, first when he doffs the petticoats,
pantellets, the hermaphrodite rig of a child, and mounts the jacket and
trowsers of a boy; and the other is when that gives way to a ‘long tail
blue,’ and a beard. He is then a man.
“The beau has reached this enviable age, and as he is full of
admiration of himself, is generous enough to allow time to others to
feast their eyes on him. So he takes it leisurely, his character, like
that charming girl’s, won’t suffer if it is known they return with the
cats in the morning; on the contrary, women, as they always do, the
little fools, will think more of him. They make no allowance for one of
their own sex, but they are very indulgent, indeed they are both blind
and deaf, to the errors of the other. The fact is, if I didn’t know it
was only vindicating the honour of their sex, I vow I should think it
was all envy of the gall who was so lucky, as to be unlucky; but I know
better than that. If the owner of the house should be foolish enough to
be up so early, or entirely take leave of his senses, and ask him why
he was mousing about there, he flatters himself he is just the child to
kick him. Indeed he feels inclined to flap his wings and crow. He is
very proud. Celestina is in love with him, and tells him (but he knew
that before) he is very handsome. He is a man, he has a beard as black
as the ace of spades, is full dressed, and the world is before him. He
thrashed a watchman last night, and now he has a drop in his eye, would
fight the devil. He has succeeded in deceiving that gall, he has no
more idea of marrying her than I have. It shows his power. He would
give a dollar to crow, but suffers himself to be gently pushed out of
the hall, and the door fastened behind him, amid such endearing
expressions, that they would turn a fellow’s head, even after his hair
had grown gray. He then lights a cigar, gets up with the driver, and
looks round with an air of triumph, as much as to say—‘What would you
give to be admired and as successful as I am?’ and when he turns the
next corner, he does actilly crow.
“Yes, yes, when the cat’s away, the mice will play. Things ain’t in a
mess, and that house a hurrah’s nest, is it? Time wears on, and the
alternate gall must be a movin’ now, for the other who was at the ball
has gone to bed, and intends to have her by-daily head-ache if inquired
for. To-night it will be her turn to dance, and to-morrow to sleep, so
she cuts round considerable smart. Poor thing, the time is not far off
when you will go to bed and not sleep, but it’s only the child that
burns its fingers that dreads the fire. In the mean time, set things to
rights.
“The curtains are looped up, and the shutters folded back into the
wall, and the rooms are sprinkled with tea-leaves, which are lightly
swept up, and the dust left behind, where it ought to be, on the
carpet,—that’s all the use there is of a carpet, except you have got
corns. And then the Venetians are let down to darken the rooms, and the
windows are kept closed to keep out the flies, the dust, and the heat,
and the flowers brought in and placed in the stands. And there is a
beautiful temperature in the parlour, for it is the same air that was
there a fortnight before. It is so hot, when the young ladies come down
to breakfast, they can’t eat, so they take nothing but a plate of
buck-wheat cakes, and another of hot buttered rolls, a dozen of
oysters, a pot of preserves, a cup of honey, and a few ears of Indian
corn. They can’t abide meat, it’s too solid and heavy. It’s so horrid
warm it’s impossible they can have an appetite, and even that little
trifle makes them feel dyspeptic. They’ll starve soon; what can be the
matter? A glass of cool ginger pop, with ice, would be refreshing, and
soda water is still better, it is too early for wine, and at any rate
it’s heating, besides being unscriptural.
“Well, the men look at their watches, and say they are in a hurry, and
must be off for their counting-houses like wink, so they bolt. What a
wonder it is the English common people call the stomach a bread-basket,
for it has no meanin’ there. They should have called it a meat-tray,
for they are the boys for beef and mutton. But with us it’s the
identical thing. They clear the table in no time, it’s a grand thing,
for it saves the servants trouble. And a steak, and a dish of chops,
added to what the ladies had, is grand. The best way to make a pie is
to make it in the stomach. But flour fixins piping hot is the best, and
as their disgestion ain’t good, it is better to try a little of
everything on table to see which best agrees with them. So down goes
the Johnny cakes, Indian flappers, Lucy Neals, Hoe cakes—with toast,
fine cookies, rice batter, Indian batter, Kentucky batter, flannel
cakes, and clam fritters. Super-superior fine flour is the wholesomest
thing in the world, and you can’t have too much of it. It’s grand for
pastry, and that is as light and as flakey as snow when well made. How
can it make paste inside of you and be wholesome? If you would believe
some Yankee doctors you’d think it would make the stomach a regular
glue pot. They pretend to tell you pap made of it will kill a baby as
dead as a herring. But doctors must have some hidden thing to lay the
blame of their ignorance on. Once when they didn’t know what was the
matter of a child, they said it was water in the brain, and now when it
dies—oh, they say, the poor thing was killed by that pastry flour. But
they be hanged. How can the best of anything that is good be bad? The
only thing is to be sure a thing is best, and then go a-head with it.
“Well, when the men get to their offices, they are half roasted alive,
and have to take ices to cool them, and then for fear the cold will
heat them, they have to take brandy cock-tail to counteract it. So they
keep up a sort of artificial fever and ague all day. The ice gives the
one, and brandy the other, like shuttlecock and battledore. If they had
walked down as they had ought to have done, in the cool of the morning,
they would have avoided all this.
“How different it is now in the country, ain’t it? What a glorious
thing the sun-rise is! How beautiful the dew-spangled bushes, and the
pearly drops they shed, are! How sweet and cool is the morning air, and
how refreshing and bracing the light breeze is to the nerves that have
been relaxed in warm repose! The new-ploughed earth, the snowy-headed
clover, the wild flowers, the blooming trees, and the balsamic spruce,
all exhale their fragrance to invite you forth. While the birds offer
up their morning hymn, as if to proclaim that all things praise the
Lord. The lowing herd remind you that they have kept their appointed
time; and the freshening breezes, as they swell in the forest and
awaken the sleeping leaves, seem to whisper, ‘We too come with healing
on our wings;’ and the babbling brook, that it also has its mission to
minister to your wants. Oh, morning in the country is a glorious thing,
and it is impossible when one rises and walks forth and surveys the
scene not to exclaim, ‘God is good.’
“Oh, that early hour has health, vigour, and cheerfulness in it. How
natural it seems to me, how familiar I am with everything it indicates!
The dew tells me there will be no showers, the white frost warns me of
its approach; and if that does not arrive in time, the sun instructs me
to notice and remember, that if it rises bright and clear and soon
disappears in a cloud, I must prepare for heavy rain. The birds and the
animals all, all say, ‘We too are cared for, and we have our
foreknowledge, which we disclose by our conduct to you.” The brooks too
have meaning in their voices, and the southern sentinel proclaims
aloud, ‘Prepare.’ And the western, ‘All is well.’”
Oh, how well I know the face of nature! What pleasure I take as I
commence my journey at this hour, to witness the rising of the mist in
the autumn from the low grounds, and its pausing on the hill-tops, as
if regretting the scene it was about to leave! And how I admire the
little insect webs, that are spangled over the field at that time; and
the partridge warming itself in the first gleam of sunshine it can
discover on the road! The alder, as I descend into the glen, gives me
notice that the first frost has visited him, as it always does, before
others, to warn him that it has arrived to claim every leaf of the
forest as its own. Oh, the country is the place for peace, health,
beauty, and innocence. I love it, I was born in it. I lived the greater
part of my life there, and I look forward to die in it.
“How different from town life is that of the country! There are duties
to be performed in-door and out-door, and the inmates assemble round
their breakfast-table, refreshed by sleep and invigorated by the cool
air, partake of their simple, plain, and substantial meal, with the
relish of health, cheerfulness, and appetite. The open window admits
the fresh breeze, in happy ignorance of dust, noise, or fashionable
darkness. The verandah defies rain or noon-day sun, and employment
affords no room for complaint that the day is hot, the weather
oppressive, the nerves weak, or the digestion enfeebled. There can be
no happiness where there is an alternation of listlessness and
excitement. They are the two extremes between which it resides, and
that locality to my mind is the country. Care, disease, sorrow, and
disappointment are common to both. They are the lot of humanity; but
the children of mammon, and of God, bear them differently.
“I didn’t intend to turn preacher, Doctor, but I do positively believe,
if I hadn’t a been a clockmaker, dear old Minister would have made me
one. I don’t allot, though, I would have taken in Slickville, for I
actilly think I couldn’t help waltzing with the galls, which would have
put our folks into fits, or kept old Clay, clergymen like, to leave
sinners behind me. I can’t make out these puritan fellows, or
evangelical boys, at all. To my mind, religion is a cheerful thing,
intended to make us happy, not miserable; and that our faces, like that
of nature, should be smiling, and that like birds we should sing and
carol, and like lilies, we should be well arrayed, and not that our
countenances should make folks believe we were chosen vessels,
containing, not the milk of human kindness, but horrid sour vinegar and
acid mothery grounds. Why, the very swamp behind our house is full of a
plant called ‘a gall’s side-saddle.’1
1 This is the common name for the Sarracenia.
“Plague take them old Independents; I can’t and never could understand
them. I believe, if Bishop Laud had allowed them to sing through their
noses, pray without gowns, and build chapels without steeples, they
would have died out like Quakers, by being let alone. They wanted to
make the state believe they were of consequence. If the state had
treated them as if they were of no importance, they would have felt
that too very soon. Opposition made them obstinate. They won’t stick at
nothing to carry their own ends.
“They made a law once in Connecticut that no man should ride or drive
on a Sunday except to a conventicle. Well, an old Dutch governor of New
York, when that was called New Amsterdam and belonged to Holland, once
rode into the colony on horseback on a Sabbath day, pretty hard job it
was too, for he was a very stout man, and a poor horseman. There were
no wheel carriages in those days, and he had been used to home to
travel in canal boats, and smoke at his ease; but he had to make the
journey, and he did it, and he arrived just as the puritans were coming
out of meeting, and going home, slowly, stately, and solemnly, to their
cold dinner cooked the day before (for they didn’t think it no harm to
make servants work double tides on Saturday), their rule being to do
_anything_ of a week day, but _nothing_ on the Sabbath.
“Well, it was an awful scandal this, and a dreadful violation of the
blue laws of the young nation. Connecticut and New Amsterdam (New York)
were nothing then but colonies; but the puritans owed no obedience to
princes, and set up for themselves. The elders and ministry and learned
men met on Monday to consider of this dreadful profanity of the Dutch
governor. On the one hand it was argued, if he entered their state (for
so they called it then) he was amenable to their laws, and ought to be
cited, condemned, and put into the stocks, as an example to evil-doers.
On the other hand, they got hold of a Dutch book on the Law of Nations,
to cite agin him; but it was written in Latin, and although it
contained all about it, they couldn’t find the place, for their
minister said there was no index to it. Well, it was said, if we are
independent, so is he, and whoever heard of a king or a prince being
put in the stocks? It bothered them, so they sent their Yankee governor
to him to bully and threaten him, and see how he would take it, as we
now do, at the present day, to Spain about Cuba, and England about your
fisheries.
“Well, the governor made a long speech to him, read him a chapter in
the Bible, and then expounded it, and told him they must put him in the
stocks. All this time the Dutchman went on smoking, and blowing out
great long puffs of tobacco. At last he paused, and said:
“‘You be tamned. Stockum me—stockum teivel.’ And he laid down his pipe,
and with one hand took hold of their governor by the fore-top, and with
the other drew a line across his forehead and said, ‘Den I declare war,
and Gooten Himmel! I shall scalp you all.’
“After delivering himself of that long speech, he poured out two
glasses of Schiedam, drunk one himself, and offered the Yankee governor
the other, who objected to the word Schiedam, as it terminated in a
profane oath, with which, he said, the Dutch language was greatly
defiled; but seeing it was also called Geneva, he would swallow it.
Well, his high mightiness didn’t understand him, but he opened his eyes
like an owl and stared, and said, ‘Dat is tam coot,’ and the conference
broke up.
“Well, it was the first visit of the Dutch governor, and they hoped it
would be the last, so they passed it over. But his business was
important, and it occupied him the whole week to settle it, and he took
his leave on Saturday evening, and was to set out for home on Sunday
again. Well, this was considered as adding insult to injury. What was
to be done? Now it’s very easy and very proper for us to sit down and
condemn the Duke of Tuscany, who encourages pilgrims to go to shrines
where marble statues weep blood, and cataliptic galls let flies walk
over their eyes without winking, and yet imprisons an English lady for
giving away the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress.’ It’s very wrong, no doubt, but it
ain’t very new after all. Ignorant and bigoted people always have
persecuted, and always will to the end of the chapter. But what was to
be done with his high mightiness, the Dutch governor? Well, they
decided that it was not lawful to put him into the stocks; but that it
was lawful to deprive him of the means of sinning. So one of the elders
swapped horses with him, and when he started on the Sabbath, the
critter was so lame after he went a mile, he had to return and wait
till Monday.
“No, I don’t understand these puritan folks; and I suppose if I had
been a preacher they wouldn’t have understood me. But I must get back
to where I left off. I was a talkin’ about the difference of life in
town and in the country, and how in the world I got away, off from the
subject, to the Dutch governor and them puritans, I don’t know. When I
say I love the country, I mean it in its fullest extent, not merely old
settlements and rural districts, but the great unbroken forest. This is
a taste, I believe, a man must have in early life. I don’t think it can
be acquired in middle age, any more than playin’ marbles can, though
old Elgin tried that game and made money at it. A man must know how to
take care of himself, forage for himself, shelter himself, and cook for
himself. It’s no place for an epicure, because he can’t carry his cook,
and his spices, and sauces, and all that, with him. Still a man ought
to know a goose from a gridiron; and if he wants to enjoy the sports of
the flood and the forest, he should be able to help himself; and what
he does he ought to do well. Fingers were made afore knives and forks;
flat stones before bake-pans; crotched sticks before jacks; bark before
tin; and chips before plates; and it’s worth knowing how to use them or
form them.
“It takes two or three years to build and finish a good house. A wigwam
is knocked up in an hour; and as you have to be your own architect,
carpenter, mason, and labourer, it’s just as well to be handy as not. A
critter that can’t do that, hante the gumption of a bear who makes a
den, a fox who makes a hole, or a bird that makes a nest, let alone a
beaver, who is a dab at house building. No man can enjoy the woods that
ain’t up to these things. If he ain’t, he had better stay to his hotel,
where there is one servant to clean his shoes, another to brush his
coat, a third to make his bed, a fourth to shave him, a fifth to cook
for him, a sixth to wait on him, a seventh to wash for him, and half a
dozen more for him to scold and bless all day. That’s a place where he
can go to bed, and get no sleep—go to dinner, and have no appetite—go
to the window, and get no fresh air, but snuff up the perfume of
drains, bar-rooms, and cooking ranges—suffer from heat, because he
can’t wear his coat, or from politeness, because he can’t take it
off—or go to the beach, where the sea breeze won’t come, it’s so far up
the country, where the white sand will dazzle, and where there is no
shade, because trees won’t grow—or stand and throw stones into the
water, and then jump in arter ’em in despair, and forget the way out.
He’d better do anything than go to the woods.
“But if he can help himself like a man, oh, it’s a glorious place. The
ways of the forest are easy to learn, its nature is simple, and the
cooking plain, while the fare is abundant. Fish for the catching, deer
for the shooting, cool springs for the drinking, wood for the cutting,
appetite for eating, and sleep that waits no wooing. It comes with the
first star, and tarries till it fades into morning. For the time you
are monarch of all you survey. No claimant forbids you; no bailiff
haunts you; no thieves molest you; no fops annoy you. If the tempest
rages without, you are secure in your lowly tent. Though it humbles in
its fury the lofty pine, and uproots the stubborn oak, it passes
harmlessly over you, and you feel for once you are a free and
independent man. You realize a term which is a fiction in our
constitution. Nor pride nor envy, hatred nor malice, rivalry nor strife
is there. You are at peace with all the world, and the world is at
peace with you. You own not its authority. You can worship God after
your own fashion, and dread not the name of bigot, idolater, heretic,
or schismatic. The forest is his temple—he is ever present, and the
still small voice of your short and simple prayer seems more audible
amid the silence that reigns around you. You feel that you are in the
presence of your Creator, before whom you humble yourself, and not of
man, before whom you clothe yourself with pride. Your very solitude
seems to impress you with the belief that, though hidden from the
world, you are more distinctly visible, and more individually an object
of Divine protection, than any worthless atom like yourself ever could
be in the midst of a multitude—a mere unit of millions. Yes, you are
free to come, to go, to stay; your home is co-extensive with the wild
woods. Perhaps it is better for a solitary retreat than a permanent
home; still it forms a part of what I call the country.
“At Country Harbour we had a sample of the simple, plain, natural,
unpretending way in which neighbours meet of an evening in the rural
districts. But look at that house in the town, where we saw the family
assembled at breakfast this morning, and see what is going on there
to-night. It is the last party of the season. The family leave the city
in a week for the country. What a delightful change from the heated air
of a town-house, to the quiet retreat of an hotel at a watering-place,
where there are _only_ six hundred people collected. It is positively
the very last party, and would have been given weeks ago, but everybody
was engaged for so long a time a-head, there was no getting the
fashionable folks to come. It is a charming ball. The old ladies are
_fully_ dressed, only they are so squeezed against the walls, their
diamonds and pearls are hid. And the young ladies are so _lightly_
dressed, they look lovely. And the old gentlemen seem so happy as they
walk round the room, and smile on all the acquaintances of their early
days; and tell every one they look so well, and their daughters are so
handsome. It ain’t possible they are bored, and they try not even to
look so. And the room is so well lighted, and so well filled, perhaps a
little too much so to leave space for the dancers; but yet not more so
than is fashionable. And then the young gentlemen talk so enchantingly
about Paris, and London, and Rome, and so disparagingly of home, it is
quite refreshing to hear them. And they have been in such high society
abroad, they ought to be well bred, for they know John _Manners,_ and
all the _Manners_ family, and well informed in politics; for they know
John Russell, who never says I’ll be hanged if I do this or that, but I
will be beheaded if I do; in allusion to one of his great ancestors who
was as _innocent_ of trying to subvert the _constitution_ as he is. And
they have often seen ‘Albert, Albert, Prince of Wales, and all the
royal family,’ as they say in England for shortness. They have
travelled with their eyes open, ears open, mouths open, and pockets
open. They have heard, seen, tasted, and bought everything worth
having. They are capital judges of wine, and that reminds them there is
lots of the best in the next room; but they soon discover they can’t
have it in perfection in America. It has been nourished for the voyage,
it has been fed with brandy. It is heady, for when they return to their
fair friends, their hands are not quite steady, they are apt to spill
things over the ladies dresses (but _they_ are so good-natured, they
only laugh; for they never wear a dress but wunst). And their eyes
sparkle like jewels, and they look at their partners as if they would
eat ’em up. And I guess they tell them so, for they start sometimes,
and say:
“‘Oh, well now, that’s too bad! Why how you talk! Well, travellin’
hasn’t improved you?’
“But it must be a charming thing to be eat up, for they look delighted
at the very idea of it; and their mammas seem pleased that they are so
much to the _taste_ of these travelled gentlemen.
“Well then, dancing is voted a bore by the handsomest couple in the
room, and they sit apart, and the uninitiated think they are making
love. And they talk so confidentially, and look so amused; they seem
delighted with each other. But they are only criticising.
“‘Who is pink skirt?’
“‘Blue-nose Mary.’
“‘What in the world do they call her Blue-nose for?’
“‘It is a nickname for the Nova Scotians. Her father is one; he made
his fortune by a diving-_bell_.’
“‘Did he? Well, it’s quite right then it should go with a _belle_.’
“‘How very good! May I repeat that? You do say such clever things! And
who is that pale girl that reminds you of brown holland, bleached
white? She looks quite scriptural; she has a proud look and a high
stomach.’
“‘That’s Rachael Scott, one of my very best friends. She is as good a
girl as ever lived. My! I wish I was as rich as she is. I have only
three hundred thousand dollars, but she will have four at her father’s
death if he don’t bust and fail. But, dear me! how severe you are! I am
quite afraid of you. I wonder what you will say of me when my back is
turned!’
“‘Shall I tell you?’
“‘Yes, if it isn’t too savage.’
“The hint about the money is not lost, for he is looking for a fortune,
it saves the trouble of making one; and he whispers something in her
ear that pleases her uncommonly, for she sais,
“‘Ah now, the severest thing you can do is to flatter me that way.’
“They don’t discourse of the company anymore; they have too much to say
to each other of themselves now.
“‘My! what a smash! what in the world is that?’
“‘Nothing but a large mirror. It is lucky it is broken, for if the host
saw himself in it, he might see the face of a fool.’
“‘How uproariously those young men talk, and how loud the music is, and
how confounded hot the room is! I must go home. But I must wait a
moment till that noisy, tipsy boy is dragged down-stairs, and shoved
into a hack.’
“And this is upstart life, is it? Yes, but there are changing scenes in
life. Look at these rooms next morning. The chandelier is broken; the
centre table upset, the curtains are ruined, the carpets are covered
with ice-creams, jellies, blancmanges, and broken glass. And the
elegant album, souvenirs, and autograph books, are all in the midst of
this nasty mess.1 The couches are greasy, the _silk_ ottoman shows it
has been _sat in_ since it met with an accident which was only a
_trifle,_ and there has been the devil to pay everywhere. A doctor is
seen going into the house, and soon after a coffin is seen coming out.
An unbidden guest, a disgusting levelling democrat came to that ball,
how or when no one knew; but there he is and there he will remain for
the rest of the summer. He has victimized one poor girl already, and is
now strangling another. The yellow fever is there. Nature has sent her
avenging angel. There is no safety but in flight.
1 Whoever thinks this description over-drawn, is referred to a
remarkably clever work which lately appeared in New York, entitled “The
Potiphar Papers.” Mr Slick has evidently spared this class of society.
“Good gracious! if people will ape their superiors, why won’t they
imitate their elegance as well as their extravagance, and learn that it
is the refinement alone, of the higher orders which in all countries
distinguishes them from the rest of mankind? _The decencies of life,
when polished, become its brightest ornaments._ Gold is a means, and
not an end. It can do a great deal, still it can’t do everything; and
among others I guess it can’t make a gentleman, or else California
would be chock full of ’em. No, give me the country, and the folks that
live in it, I say.”