[1] This tale is in the hand writing of my friend.
In one of my journeys through the western part of New Hampshire, I
chanced to put up for the night at a small farm-house about five miles
from the little village of W----, and meeting with a somewhat curious
adventure there, I have resolved to record it. My host was a little,
fat faced, bustling, bandy-legged fellow, running here and there,
studious for my comforts, my humble servant, &.c. &c.; and succeeding
with his wife, a long, lank, sidling, vinegar-looking creature, he
made out to obtain for me the only spare room in his house. Into this
I was ushered with due importance, and having taken a survey of the
apartment, its nice new bed, newly dusted candle-stand, oak bottomed
chairs, and a high huge wardrobe, which from its antiquated appearance
I judged to have been an heir-loom in the family for three centuries
at least, I tossed my saddle-bags into one corner, kicked off my heavy
boots into the other, and slipping my released feet into a pair of soft
squirrel-skin slippers, returned again to the kitchen. There I found
my host and his wife cosily seated over a sparkling fire, and from the
abrupt breaking off of their conversation and half guilty countenances,
I concluded they had been talking over the character of their new
comer. I was never difficult to please, especially when I had fallen
in with any of the peasantry, so to speak, of dear New England, and
admitted to the calm content which reigns around their fire sides--so
planting myself upon a settle, perhaps a dye-tub, a thing indispensible
to a New England farm-house, I entered into conversation with them.
I found my host a well bred, sensible fellow, somewhat free in the use
of provincialisms, and not wanting in love to a good broad-faced joke;
somewhat witty withal, and a memory in which he had stored many an odd
story, some good and some bad, which stories he told (when solicited)
with a tolerably good grace.
I pause here to record my observations on one of the peculiarities
in the New England character--I mean its modesty. Foreigners, and
residents of other parts of this widely extended territory may talk of
Yankee impudence, but for the life of me, in all my wanderings, I could
never find the genuine modesty of a native New Englander. They may
cheat you--that is, some of them may, some of their outlawed, who with
trunk and tin wagon travel into other States to prey on the unwary; but
where turn you and find not some, who do and ever will disgrace the
soil that nursed them? For New England I claim no entire exemption;
perfection is not beneath the sun: but there is more of it here than
elsewhere--and in proof of it I adduce, their superior sagacity, their
nobler intelligence. Where intelligence is found, will you find least
of the weaknesses of human nature.
But to return: having bid Bessy, a short, flaxen-haired, chubby-cheeked
damsel, of about fourteen, the very image of her father, bring him a
cup of cider; and poking our chairs close into the fire--so close that
the wind which came down chimney, would now and then puff out the smoke
and curl it up about mine host’s neck and shoulders, making him look
for all the world like Vulcan peeping through the clouds of his own
smithy--he began as follows.
‘Late last March and on one of the coldest nights in my memory, my wife
and me were startled by a loud knock at the door, about nine o’ the
clock; and more so by the abrupt entrance of a stranger, who had been
as it seems just ceremonious enough to knock, but not sufficiently so
to wait until bidden a welcome. Marching directly up to the fire he
doffed his cap, and then in a bland, gentle voice, and the language
of a gentleman, prayed our pardons for his boldness, and craved our
hospitality.
‘Now Biddy here is not the most hospitable in her feelings, but even
she was softened by the coldness of the weather, and the soft accents
of the stranger. So, bidding him welcome and placing before him such
entertainment as we best could, he ate his meal and then sat himself
down--right where you are, sir, at this moment--as if for conversation.
‘His age, I should think, was about forty five. In person he was
strikingly handsome, yet care-worn; his hair was black--his eyes
likewise, and a somewhat cynical curl about his small mouth made you
hesitate to address him, thinking he was perhaps a person of strong
prejudices. His skin was as fair as a girl’s; a fine set of teeth were
displayed when he smiled; in short, his appearance was such that I
should have taken him, perhaps, for a scholar; for, though his dress
was rich it was careless, and there was a sort of method in what he
said though the subjects were simple, as I am told is ever found in men
of education. At first, he was very taciturn.
“You find it a cold air, sir,” said I, breaking the silence.
“Yes--yes, sir.”
“You’ve ridden far?”
“Yes--yes, sir.”
“You’re come from the south, eh?”
“Yes--yes, sir.”
“You’re not from York, I guess?”
“Yes--yes, sir.”
‘Well, thinks I, you may be a scholar for aught I know, but hang me! if
I think there’s much variety in your talk.
‘I took him on another tack.
“You have, at least, sir, come where hearts are warm, and hospitality
is proffered cheerfully.”
‘He started at this; a gentle flush tinged his cheek; and he seemed
struck with an ingenuous consciousness of his want of courtesy. Turning
to me he took my hand in his, and pressing it, replied--
“An honest heart, sir, is its own reward. Small boots it then, that I
add _my_ sense of your hospitality to that of your own consciousness.
Yet such as I have, I give, and that is but small; for I am one, sir,
who cares but for a few, and one who is as little cared for by others.
Once I had a heart that--that--yes! that _felt_--in every pulsation
_felt_ the beauty that is in morals and in virtue. Nothing lived, but
it gave me happiness; nothing died, but it gave me pain--_That time is
past_.”
‘There was something so earnest, yet unstudied; so easy, yet solemn,
and ‘heart-twinging,’ to use a phrase of Biddy’s, in this, that both
she and me began to water about the eyes like two babies.
‘Returning the kind pressure of his hand, I said--
“But you are young, sir--too young to feel that life has no claims
upon--”
“Too old--too old, sir,” interrupted he with emphasis, “too old for
earth, and too wise to do any good in it. Some of the world, sir, live
faster than others. Grief can crowd twenty years into ten, and care
make the vigor of manhood, the tottering imbecility of four score.
Believe it not--believe it not; they err, sir, who measure life by
years. Events, events notch it right--these notch the chronicle of
human life.”
“And yet, sir, ’tis man’s right to be always happy.”
“Aye! and ’tis the right of the singing bird to skim the blue ether,
and pour its music in concert with the harmony of the stars--but
how many things invade that right! The bird that sings sweetly of a
morning, may be jammed into the wallet of the clown, by evening--its
music hushed, and its mottled plumes dabbled with dirt and gore. Man’s
prerogative to be happy! aye--_but ’tis his necessity to be miserable_.”
‘This, sir,’ said my host, ‘may give you some idea of his character.
The evening passed off--though not very happily; for there was that
about him which took hold of my feelings, and when I shook hands with
him for the night there was an ache in my bosom, I could’nt well get
rid of.
‘In the morning, he was up betimes--breakfasted--and rose to depart.
Before he went however, he took from his bosom a paper; and handing
it to me, bade me keep it till his return. ‘It is a short sketch of
some of the events of my life,’ rejoined he, as he mounted his horse,
‘and though it benefit you not, it will perform at least one good
office--make you remember me.’ He bowed, and rode away.
‘That paper I have now somewhere, and if you wish, sir, I will read it
to you.’ My host rose, and going to a huge cat-hole, or cupboard in the
corner of the room, he succeeded in finding it--not forgetting by the
way, to tumble out sundry articles of house-wife memory, such as balls
of yarn, woollen stockings, flannels, and night-caps, and strewing them
over the floor. Seated again by the comfortable fire, he now put on a
huge pair of brass spectacles, blew his nose thrice, and proceeded to
decipher--