Our readers will participate with us in the pleasure of reading the
second letter from _New England_, by an accomplished Virginian, whose
easy and forcible style is so well employed in depicting the manners
and character of a portion of our countrymen, separated from us not
more by distance, than by those unhappy prejudices which too often
spring up between members of the same family. The acute observation of
men and things which these letters evince, will entitle them to be
seriously read and considered,--and they will not have been written in
vain, if they serve to remove the misconceptions of a single mind. We
repeat what we stated in our last number, that although they were
originally published in the Fredericksburg Arena, they have since
undergone the revision and correction of the author expressly for
publication in the Messenger.
_Northampton, Mass. July 25, 1834_.
Of _Yankee hospitality_ (curl not your lip sardonically--you, or any
other Buckskin,)--of _Yankee hospitality_ there is a great deal, _in
their way_--i.e. according to the condition and circumstances of
society. Not a tittle more can be said of Virginia hospitality. Set one
of our large farmers down upon a hundred, instead of a thousand, acres;
let him, and his sons, cultivate it themselves; feed the cattle; rub
down and feed the horses; milk the cows; cut wood and make fires; let
his wife and daughters alone tend the garden; wash, iron, cook, make
clothes, make the beds, and clean up the house; let him have but ten
acres of wood land, in a climate where snow lies three, and frosts come
for seven, months a year; surround him with a dense population--80,
instead of 19, to the square mile; bring strangers, constantly, in
flocks to his neighborhood; place a cheap and comfortable inn but a
mile or two off; give him a ready and near market for his garden
stuffs, as well as for his grain and tobacco--and ask yourself, if he
could, or would, practise our "good old Virginia hospitality?" To us,
who enjoy the credit and the pleasure of entertaining a guest, while
the drudgery devolves upon our slaves; the larger scale (wastefully
large) of our daily _rations_, too, making the presence of one or more
additional mouths absolutely unfelt;--hospitality is a cheap, easy, and
delightful virtue. But put us in place of the yankees, in the foregoing
respects, and any man of sense and candor must perceive that we could
not excel them. Personal observation and personal experience, make me
"a swift witness" to their having, in ample measure, the kindliness of
soul, which soothes and sweetens human life: a kindliness ready to
expand, when occasion bids, as well towards the stranger, as towards
the object of nearer ties. No where have I seen _equal_ evidences of
public spirit; of munificent charity; of a generous yielding up of
individual advantage to the common good. No where, more, or lovelier,
examples of domestic affection and happiness--evinced by tokens, small
it is true, but not to be counterfeited or mistaken. And no where have
I had entertainers task themselves more to please and profit me, as a
guest. Yet, as _you_ know, few can have witnessed more of Virginia
hospitality than I have. It would be unpardonable egotism, and more
_personal_ than I choose to be, even in bestowing just praise; besides
"spinning my yarn" too long--to do more than glance at the many
kindnesses, which warrant the audacious heresy, of comparing our
northern brethren with ourselves, in our most prominent virtue.
Gentlemen, some of them of advanced years, and engaged in such
pursuits, as make their time valuable both to themselves and the
public, have devoted hours to shewing me all that could amuse or
interest a stranger, in their vicinities--accompanying me on foot, and
driving me in their own vehicles, for miles, to visit scenes of present
wonder, or of historic fame: patiently answering my innumerable
questions; and explaining, with considerate minuteness, whatever
occurred as needing explanation, in the vast and varied round of moral
and physical inquiry. In surveying literary, charitable, and political
institutions--in trying to ascertain, by careful, and doubtless,
troublesome cross-questionings, the structure and practical effects of
judicial, and school, and pauper systems--in examining the machinery
(human and inanimate) of manufactories--in probing their tendencies
upon minds and morals--in 'stumbling o'er recollections,' in Boston, on
Bunker's hill, and around Lexington--I found guides, enlighteners, and
hosts, such as I can never hope to see surpassed, if equalled, for
friendliness and intelligence. A friend of ours from Virginia, who was
in the city of Boston with his family when I was, carried a letter of
introduction to one of the citizens. "This gentleman, for three days,"
said our friend, "gave himself up entirely to us; brought his carriage
to the hotel, and carried us in it over the city, and all its beautiful
environs; in short, he seemed to think that he could not do enough to
amuse and gratify us." To enjoy such treatment as this, one must, of
course, in general, come introduced, by letter or otherwise. Then--nay,
according to my experience, in some instances without any
introduction,--the tide of kindness flows as ungrudgingly as that of
Virginia hospitality, and far more beneficially to the object: at an
expense, too, not only of money, but of time--which here, more
emphatically than any where else in America, _is money_. When
travelling on foot, I had no letters to present--no introduction,
except of myself. Still, unbought civilities, and more than civilities,
usually met me. A farmer, at whose house I obtained comfortable
quarters on the first night of my walk, refused all compensation,
giving me at the same time a hearty welcome, and an invitation to stay
to breakfast. Next day, a man in a jersey wagon, overtook me, and
invited me to ride with him. I did so, for an hour, while our roads
coincided: and found him intelligent, as well as friendly. Whenever I
wanted, along the road, refreshing drinks were given me;--cider,
switchell, and water--the two first always unasked for. One _gudewife_,
at whose door I called for a glass of water, made me sit down, treated
me abundantly to cider; and, finding that my object was to see the
country and learn the ways of its people, laid herself out to impart
such items of information as seemed likely to interest me: wishing me
'great success' at parting. Many similar instances of kindness
occurred. It is true, none of the country people invited me to partake
of their meals, except my first host just mentioned--an omission,
however, for which I was prepared, because it arose naturally from the
condition of things here. One testimonial more you shall have, to New
England benevolence, from a third person. A deserter from the British
navy--moneyless, shoeless, with only yarn socks on; feet blistered--and
actually suffering from a fever and ague--told me that he had walked
all the way from Bath, in Maine, to the neighborhood of Hartford, where
I overtook him, entirely upon charity; and _had never asked for food or
shelter in vain_. A lady that day had given him a clean linen shirt.
There was no whining in this poor fellow's tale of distress: his tone
was manly, and his port erect: he seemed, like a true sailor, as frank
in accepting relief, as he would be free in giving it.
The result of all my observation is, that the New Englanders have in
their hearts as much of the _original material_ of hospitality as we
have: that, considering the sacrifices it costs them, and the
circumstances which modify its application, they _actually use_ as much
of that material as we do; and that, although their mode of using it is
less _amiable_ than ours, it is more _rational_, more
_salutary_--better for the guest, better for the host, better for
society. And most gladly would I see my countrymen and countrywomen
exchange the ruinous profusion; which, to earn, or preserve, a
vainglorious name, pampers and stupifies themselves and impoverishes
their country, for the discriminating and judicious hospitality of New
England: retaining only those freer and more captivating traits of
their own, which are warranted by our sparser settlements, our ampler
fields, and our different social organization.
Yet, while such praise is due to the general civility and kindness of
the New Englanders, it must be qualified by saying, that several times,
I have experienced discourtesy, which chafed me a good deal: but always
from persons who, in their own neighborhoods, would be considered as
vulgar. The simplest and most harmless question, propounded in my
_civilest_ manner, has occasionally been answered with a gruffness,
that would for half a minute upset my equanimity. For example--"Good
morning sir" (to a hulking, rough, carter-looking fellow, one hot
morning, when I had walked eight miles before breakfast)--"how far to
Enfield?" "Little better 'an a mile,"--was the answer; in an abrupt,
surly, unmodulated tone, uttered without even turning his head as he
passed me. Two or three of "mine hosts," at inns, were churlishly
grudging in their responses to my inquiries about the products, usages,
and statistics, of their neighborhoods. For these, however, I at once
saw a twofold excuse: they were very busy and my questions were very
numerous--besides the irritating circumstance, that answers were not
always at hand--and to be _posed_, is what flesh and blood cannot bear.
And it makes me think no worse than before, either of human nature in
general, or of Yankee character in particular, that such slights
occurred, nearly in every instance, whilst I was a somewhat shabby
looking way-farer on foot; scarcely ever, while travelling in stage, or
steamboat. Such distinctions are made, all the world over: in Virginia,
as well as elsewhere.
A Southron, not accustomed to wait much upon himself, here feels
sensibly the scantiness of the personal service he meets with. Even
I--though for years more than half a Yankee in that respect--missed,
rather awkwardly, on first coming hither, the superfluous, and often
cumbersome attentions of our southern waiters. Besides having
frequently to brush my own clothes, I am put to some special trouble in
the best hotels, to get my shoes cleaned. In many village inns,
sumptuous and comfortable in most respects, this last is a luxury
hardly to be hoped for. This scarcity of menial service arises partly
from the nice economy, with which the number of hands about a house is
graduated to the general, and smallest possible, quantity of necessary
labor; and partly, from a growing aversion to such services among the
"help" themselves, caused, or greatly heightened, by the increased
demand and higher wages for them in the numerous manufactories
throughout the country. Almost every where, I am told of their asking
higher pay, and growing more fastidious, and intractable, as household
servants. "_Servants_" indeed, they will not allow themselves to be
called. A "marry-come-up-ish" toss, if not an immediate quitting of the
house, is the probable consequence of so terming them. The above, more
creditable designation, is that which must be used--at least in their
presence. By the by, though the gifted author of "Hope Leslie" says
that the _singular_ plural, "help," alone, is proper, I find popular
usage ("_quem penes arbitrium_"--you know) sanctioning the regular
plural form "helps," whenever reference is made to more than one.
The spirit, and the habits, which oblige one to do so much for himself
within doors, produce corresponding effects without. Useful labor is no
where disdained in New England, by any class of society. Proprietors,
and their sons, though wealthy, frequently work on the farms, and in
the gardens, stables, and barns. Two or three days ago, I saw an old
gentleman (Squire ----) a justice of the peace, and for several years a
useful member of the Legislature, toiling in his hay harvest. Two of
the richest men in this village--possessing habitations among the most
elegant in this assemblage of elegant dwellings--I have seen busy with
hoe and rake, in their highly cultivated grounds. The wife of a
tavern-keeper, in Rhode Island, worth $40,000, prepared my breakfast,
and waited upon me at it, with a briskness such as I never saw
equalled. Similar instances are so frequent and familiar, as to be
unnoticed except by strangers. Many of New England's eminent men of
former days, were constant manual laborers; not only in boyhood, and in
obscurity, but after achieving distinction. Putnam, it is well known,
was ploughing when he heard of the bloody fray at Lexington; and left
both plough and team in the field, to join and lead in the strife for
liberty. Judge Swift, of Connecticut, who wrote a law book[1] of some
merit, and, I believe, a History of Connecticut, was a regular laborer
on his farm, whilst he was a successful practiser of the Law. An
amusing story is told (which I cannot now stop to repeat) of his being
severely drubbed by the famous Matthew Lyon, then his indented servant;
while they worked together in the barn. Timothy Pickering, after
serving with distinction through the revolution--being aid to General
Washington, Representative and Senator in Congress, and Secretary of
State--spent the evening of his unusually prolonged and honored life,
in the culture of a small farm of 120 or 130 acres, with a suitably
modest dwelling, near Salem, Mass.: literally, and through necessity,
(for he was always poor) earning his bread by his own daily toil. With
Dr. Johnson, I deride the hacknied pedantry of a constant recurrence to
ancient Greece and Rome--without, however, being quite ready to "knock
any man down who talks to me about the second Punic War." But, in
contemplating the stern virtues, that poverty and rural toil fostered
in those earlier worthies of New England, and that still animate the
"bold yeomanry, a nation's pride," who yet hold out against the
advancing tide of wealth, indolence, and luxury--I cannot forbear an
exulting comparison of these my countrymen, with the pure and hardy
spirits that graced the best days of republican Rome:
Regulum, et Scauros, animæque magnæ
Prodigum Paulum superante Poeno,
* * * * *
Fabriciumque,
Hunc, et incomptis Curium capillis
Utilem bello, tulit, et Camillum,
Sæva paupertas, et avitus apto
Cum lare fundus.
[Footnote 1: On Evidence, and Bills of Exchange and Promissory Notes.]
In the household economy of these thrifty and industrious people, it
were endless to specify all the things worthy of our imitation. Their
use of cold bread conduces to good in a threefold way: a less quantity
satisfies the appetite, and it is in itself more digestible than warm
bread; thus doubly promoting health: while there is a sensible saving
of flour. The more frugal scale upon which their ordinary meals are set
forth, is another point in which for the sake of economy, health, and
clearness of mind, we might do well to copy them. By burning seasoned
wood, kept ready for the saw in a snug house built on purpose, and by
the simple expedient of having the doors shut and all chinks carefully
closed, they secure warm rooms with half the fuel that would otherwise
be necessary. I cannot, however, forgive their bringing no buttermilk
to table. The _natives_ seem wholly ignorant, how pleasant and
wholesome a food it is for man; and give it to their pigs. The
hay-harvest lasts from four to six weeks; it has been going on ever
since the 1st of July. Of course, the hay cut at such different periods
must vary greatly in ripeness: and here they confirm me in a long
standing belief, which I have striven in vain to impress upon some
Virginia hay farmers--that the hay, cut before the _seeds_ are nearly
ripe, is always best. The earlier part of the mowing, (where the crop
is about equally forward) is most juicy, sweet and tender. The corn is
now in tassel, having attained nearly its full height: the height of
about five feet, on rich land! It is a sort differing from ours: small
in grain and ear, as well as in stalk; and very yellow grained. It
ripens in less time than ours; adapting itself to the shorter summers
of this latitude. It is planted very thick: three or four stalks in a
hill, and the hills but three feet apart.
With many vegetables and fruits, the season is five or six weeks later
here than in Virginia. Thus, garden peas are still, every day, on the
tables: I had cherries in Boston last week, of kinds which ripened with
us early in June; and it is but a fortnight, since strawberries, both
red and white, were given me in Connecticut--by the way, it was _at
breakfast_.
On the margin of this village, is a curious agricultural exhibition. It
is a large tract of flat land upon Connecticut river, of great
fertility and value (one hundred and fifty or two hundred dollars an
acre,) containing altogether several thousand acres. With one or two
trifling exceptions, it has no houses or dividing fences upon it,
though partitioned among perhaps two hundred proprietors. Hardly an
opulent, or _middling_ wealthy man in Northampton, but owns a lot of
five, ten, twenty, or fifty acres, in this teeming expanse. The lots
are all in crops, of one kind or other; and being mostly of regular
shapes (oblongs, or other four sided figures,) the various aspects they
present, accordingly as the crop happens to be deep green, light green,
or yellow--mown, or unmown--afford a singular and rich treat, to an eye
that can at once survey the whole. Most opportunely, Mount Holyoke (the
great lion of western Massachusetts, to scenery-hunters,) furnishes the
very stand, whence not only this lovely plain is seen, but the river,
its valley, and the adjacent country, for twenty or thirty miles
around. Nearly a thousand feet below you, and not quite a mile from the
foot of the mountain, the low ground, fantastically chequered into lots
so variously sized and colored--dwindling too, by the distance, into
miniatures of themselves--reminds you of a gay bed-quilt. A lady of our
party (we ascended the mountain this afternoon, and staid till after
sunset,) aptly compared it to a Yankee _comfort_; the elms and fruit
trees dotted over the surface, and shrunk and softened in the distance,
representing the tufts of wool which besprinkle that appropriately
named article of furniture. The whole landscape, seen from Mount
Holyoke, it would be presumptuous in me to try to describe. I have
said, twenty or thirty miles around: but in one direction, we see, in
clear weather, the East and West Rocks, near New Haven--about seventy
miles off. Fourteen villages are within view. The whole scene is
panoramic: it is as vivid and distinct as reality; but rich, soft and
mellow, as a picture. We descended; and as we recrossed the river by
twilight, the red gleams from the western sky, reflected in long lines
from the dimpling water, forced upon more than one mind that fine
passage in a late work of fiction, where the remark, that "no man can
judge of the happiness of another," is illustrated by the reflection of
moon-beams from a lake. But I am growing lack-a-daisical: and must
conclude.
I set off in the stage for Albany, at two o'clock in the morning. Good
night.
We copy the following production of Mrs. Sigourney from the "_American
Annuals of Education and Instruction_," a periodical published in
Boston. It is difficult to decide whether the prose or poetry of this
distinguished lady is entitled to preference. Her noble efforts in
behalf of her own sex deserve their gratitude and our admiration.