some apologies for the trouble an unexpected guest might give his wife, I accepted his friendly invitation. I had been in America long enough to understand what was meant by “the old woman,” having as frequently heard the epithet applied to young wives as to those who were really aged.
We packed up our traps, and I saw the Bible carefully wrapped in the blue handkerchief, and deposited in one of my friend’s capacious pockets. He then conducted me through a little opening on the outskirt of the forest—bush he always called it, which led to his humble dwelling. It was a log house of the best description, built entirely by himself, he told me, and certainly not without considerable regard to taste, both as to situation, and as to external appearance. It stood in the midst, not of a clearance, but of a natural opening of about fifty acres in extent, which was surrounded by the most beautiful shrubs and forest trees. Kalmias and Rhododendrons, of dimensions such as are never seen in England, grew amongst the clean straight stems of the oaks, hickory, sugar-maples, and I know not what besides, whilst in many places the wild grape-vines hung in graceful festoons from the branches of the forest trees which formed their support.
On two sides of the house ran, what in England would be called a verandah, but what in New England, as well as in New York State, in which they were doubtless first introduced by the Dutch settlers, are known by no other name than the Stoup. In these pleasant wide stoups, the floors of which are generally very nicely boarded and painted, the women of the family sit to sew or knit in warm weather, the children play in them when the sun is too hot, or the weather too wet for them to go out of doors; and the men not unfrequently solace themselves with a pipe. At the back of the house, the stoup serves for larder, store-room, laundry, garden-house, and a vast many other purposes. I have seen joints of frozen meat hanging in the “back stoup” for weeks together, along with frozen fowls, dry salt-fish, and venison. At other seasons, strings of apple chips, or peach chips, are hanging to dry, or the household linen, which would be injured by the great heat of the sun in summer, or covered with snow in the winter, if exposed without shelter. In short, the stoup is the most ornamental, agreeable, and useful addition to a country house.
We went through the stoup into a good-sized comfortable looking room: no one was in it, but the “women’s litters,” as my companion called the various signs of industry that lay about, showed that it had been occupied very recently.
“I guess my wife is busy at the back,” said the master, as he stepped out again, and shouted Esther! Esther! in a voice that might have been heard half a mile off.
I took the opportunity which his absence gave me of looking round the room. The furniture was such as I had seen in numbers of New England farmhouses; the same flaringly painted time-piece; the same light bass-wood chairs, so different to the heavy oaken ones of an English farmhouse; and the same thrifty, home-made rag carpet. A gaudy tea-tray, and some common looking china graced a set of corner shelves, and the inevitable rocking-chair stood by the side of the stove. A few old-fashioned looking books, ranged on a single shelf between the windows, attracted my attention, as I have often observed, that from the character of the books we see in a house, we may form some idea of the tastes, if not of the character, of its inhabitants. The collection was small but rather curious.
“New England’s Memorial, a brief relation of the providence of God manifested to planters, 1669.” “The Day-breaking of the Gospel in New England.” “Good news from England, . . . concerning the painful labourers in that vineyard of the Lord, and who be the preachers to them, 1647.” All very edifying works no doubt,—added to these were Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress”, his “Holy War,” and some other books of which I do not recollect the names.
Two coloured engravings adorned the wall opposite the windows, both were from Scripture subjects, one representing “The raising of Jairus’ Daughter,” the other, “Our Saviour stilling the Tempest.” One glance at these works of art was sufficient, but my eye rested with much curiosity upon the object which hung between them.
Under a glass, smoothed out, and tacked at the corners with four or five very small, neatly cut wooden pegs, to a cedar shingle of about eight inches wide, and six deep, was a torn, irregularly-shaped piece of common-looking calico print and around this picture, as I must call it, for want of a more appropriate name, was a deep frame, made of some kind of pine cones, sawn in halves, and arranged in a manner that showed considerable taste as well as ingenuity. The inscription under the piece of print nowise assisted me in forming any conjecture as to what this strange looking affair could be, for it was only the word
“FAITHFUL”
printed in capital letters, and apparently by some unpractised hand.
The sound of footsteps reminded me that I had not yet been introduced to the mistress of the house, who now entered the room with her husband. She was a tall, spare, but very good-looking woman, of about forty-five years of age,—not so much, perhaps, for American women look quite as old at thirty, as English women do at forty. The mode of introduction was more practical than ceremonious. This was it:—“Here, Esther, here’s the gentleman from the old country that I’ve been telling you about,—I don’t know his name.”
“My name is George Laurence,” said I, bowing to the lady.
“And my name is Reuben Baldwin, from New Hampshire. Do you know New Hampshire, sir?”
“I have travelled through some parts of it; I have been through the Notch in the White Mountains; we have nothing like that in England,” said I, thinking to propitiate Mr. Baldwin by the generous admission, for I had again seen the strange gloomy look which I had noticed while we were fishing in the morning.
“No, sir, you’ve nothing like it in England,