“Do you remember, Mr. Cochrane, when Lafayette visited Westfield in 1823?”
“Yes, sir,” he shouted, and his withered old face was suddenly transfigured by some nameless light, “indeed I do. Word was brought to us that Lafayette was in Erie, and Judge Peacock had a splendid span of greys and a nice carriage, and he sent them to the State line to bring him to Westfield. I got a six-pounder all ready, and when the runner came ahead to let us know them grays was in sight, I jest teched her off. He drove over the bridge and up on the village square, and got out of the carriage and took off his hat.” Here the old man reverently uncovered his head, straightened himself and became unconsciously dramatic. “He was a sandy haired feller, a reg’lar Frenchman, and he spoke to everybody that crowded up to shake hands with him. And I tell ye it was a sight to see them Revolutioners crowd around him. Alec Wilson, he was a Revolutioner, an Irishman, says he, ‘God bless yez, Markis, how air yez;’ and the Markis says just as pleasant and affable like, ‘Very well, my friend, but you have the advantage of me.’ ‘Why, Markis,’ says Alec, ‘I wuz one of General Washington’s body-guard, I wuz. Many a time have I seen you and the Gineral together, Lord love ye.’ ‘Is that so, Alec,’ says the Markis, ‘then I must shake hands again,’ and he did shake again with that air Irishman!”
When we came away his parting shout was to this effect:
“When ye find a man of my age with a better memory, s’posen ye let me know.”
Good by, brave old pioneer, we shall never see you again; but the picture you made as you stood there “in the pleasant autumn weather,” the breeze playing with your white hair, your little cottage, its cream tint contrasting so well with the vivid red of the woodbine which wantoned over it, for a back-ground, will not soon be forgotten.
Westfield is admirably adapted for a summer resort. Aside from its beautiful scenery, its hills, its lake with its inducements in the way of fishing, sailing and rowing, its charming drives, and equally as charming walks, it is undeniably a healthy place. Its air is pure and bracing. Every breath you draw seems to put new life into your frame. There are mineral springs near the town which might be utilized. There are many points near by suitable for excursions. Van Buren’s Harbor, a delightful picnic ground, and the best beach along shore for bathing, is within a short drive. Peacock’s Grove offers inducements for camping and clam baking. There are many other beautiful villages easy of access; the remarkable “Hog’s Back” furnishes a day’s diversion; twenty miles away is a wonderful geological attraction known as Panama Rocks, which well deserves and repays attention. In point of fact, the sleepy old place has more than its share of surrounding attractions and only needs a magic touch to waken it, and yet it would be a pity to transform this little Arcadia into a fashionable watering place. One would not care to see its primitive beauty sullied and its peace broken in upon by the world. Rather let it remain one of those places fast dying out before the march of so-called civilization, a dreamy old town.
OUR STEEL HORSE.
If we should try to trace the rise of the bicycle I imagine that the multitude of queer contrivances which would be brought together could hardly be surpassed by a collection of the flying machines of the world, or of the instruments for producing perpetual motion. Since Von Drais’ draisine of 1817 we have had a series of curious and ingenious inventions, all aiming at the same result—a steel horse which would never tire, which would eat no oats and need no groom, but which, while subject to none of the drawbacks of horseflesh, would carry its owner to his business, on pleasure trips across the country—anywhere and everywhere. Has it been found at last? Truly, it seems so. To our few standard methods of traveling, by steam, by rail, by carriage, by horse, and by foot, we must certainly add by bicycle.