Pencil Sketches; or, Outlines of Character and Manners

by Eliza Leslie

To be brief, the colonel dismissed the case by paying the artist rather more than he asked—telling him, also, that he should be glad to see him at his house whenever he chose to come, and that his visits should not cost him a cent.

There never, perhaps, was a less profitable tavern than the General Wayne. The people of the neighbourhood were amazingly sober, and Mrs. Brigham allowed no tipplers to lounge about the bar-room or porch. The charges were so moderate as scarcely to cover the actual cost of the good things which were so profusely lavished on the table, and the family could not relinquish the habit of treating their guests as visiters and friends. Colonel Brigham always found some reason why such and such articles were not worth considering at all, and why such and such people could not afford to pay as well as he could afford to give them food and shelter. On soldiers, of course, he bestowed gratuitous entertainment, and was never more delighted than when he saw them coming. Pedlers and tinmen always took it—and emigrants on their way to the back settlements were invariably told to keep their money to help pay for their land.

But though tavern-keeping did not realize the anticipations of Mrs. Brigham in operating as a check on the hospitality of her husband, still, as she said, it kept him about the house, and prevented him from heating and fatiguing himself in the fields, and from interfering with Oliver in the management of the farm—Oliver always doing best when left to himself. It must be understood that this youth, though virtually a dependant on the bounty of the Brighams, evinced as free and determined a spirit as if he had been literally "monarch of all he surveyed." He was active, industrious, frank to a fault, brave and generous; and would have fought at any moment in defence of any member of the family; or, indeed, for any member of any other family, if he conceived them to have been injured.

Between Oliver and Fanny Brigham there was as yet no demonstration of any particular attachment. They had been brought up so much like brother and sister that they seemed not to know when to begin to fall in love. Fanny coquetted with the smart young men in the neighbourhood, and Oliver flirted with the pretty girls; not seeming to perceive that Fanny was the prettiest of all. The old people, however, had it very much at heart for a match to take place between the young people, as the best preventive to Oliver "going west" (a thing he sometimes talked of, in common with the generality of young farmers), and therefore they watched closely, and were always fancying that they detected symptoms of real bona fide love. If the young people quarrelled, it was better so than that they should feel nothing for each other but mutual indifference. If they appeared indifferent, it was supposed that Fanny was modestly veiling her genuine feelings, and that Oliver was disguising his to try the strength of hers. If they talked and laughed together, they were animated by each other's society. If they were silent, they had the matter under serious consideration. If Fanny received with complaisance the civilities of a rural beau, and if Oliver devoted his attention to a rural belle, it was only to excite each other's jealousy. On one thing, however, the old people were agreed—which was, that it was best not to hurry matters. In this they judged from their own experience; for Mrs. Brigham had lost her first lover (a man that had come to see her every Wednesday and Saturday for five years and a half) because her father prematurely asked him what his intentions were. And Colonel Brigham had been refused no less than nine times, in consequence of "popping the question" at his first interview—a way he had when he was young.

So equal, however, was their love for the two children (as they still continued to call them), so anxious were they to keep Oliver always with them, and so impossible did it seem to them to think of any other young man as a son-in-law, that they would have sacrificed much to bring about so desirable a conclusion. But we have been loitering too long on the brink of our story, and it is time we were fairly afloat.

One clear, mild autumnal evening, Colonel Brigham (who for himself never liked benches) was occupying a few chairs in his front porch, and reading several newspapers; looking occasionally towards a cider-press under a large tree, round which lay a mountain of apples that a horse and a black boy were engaged in grinding. The colonel was habited in striped homespun trousers, a dark brown waistcoat with silver buttons, and no coat—but he took great pride in always wearing a clean shirt of fine country-made linen. As relics of his former military capacity, he persisted in a three-cocked hat and a black stock. He had joined the army in the meridian of life, and he was now a large, stout, handsome old man, with a clear blue eye, and silver gray hair curling on each side of a broad high forehead. Suddenly a stage that passed the house twice a week, stopped before the door. The only passengers in it were an old gentleman who occupied the back seat, and four young ones that sat on the two others, all with their faces towards him.

"Can we be accommodated at this inn for a few days?" said the elder stranger, looking out at the side. Colonel Brigham replied in the affirmative, adding that just then there were no guests in the house. "So much the better," said the old gentleman; "I like the appearance of this part of the country, and may as well be here for a little while as any where else." And making a sign to the young ones, they all four scrambled out of the stage with such eagerness as nearly to fall over each other—and every one took a part in assisting him down the steps, two holding him by the hands, and two by the elbows. But as soon as his feet touched the ground, he shook them all off as if scattering them to the four winds. He was a small slender old man, but of a florid complexion, and showed no indication of infirm health, but the excessive care that he took of himself—being enveloped in a great coat, over it a fur tippet round his neck, and his hat was tied down with a silk handkerchief.

"Sir, you are welcome to the General Wayne," said Colonel Brigham, "though I cannot say much for the sign. That was not the way brave Anthony looked at Stony Point. May I ask the favour of your name?"

The stranger looked at first as if unaccustomed to this question, and unwilling to answer it. However, after a pause, he deigned to designate himself as Mr. Culpepper, and slightly mentioned the four young men as his nephews, the Mr. Lambleys. There was a family likeness throughout the brothers. They were all tall and slender—all had the same fawn-coloured hair, the same cheeks of a dull pink, the same smiling mouths habitually turned up at the corners, and faces that looked as if all expression had been subdued out of them, except that their greenish-gray eyes had the earnest intent look, that is generally found in those of dumb people.

Mr. Culpepper was conducted into a parlour, where (though the evening was far from cold) he expressed his satisfaction at finding a fire. He deposited on the broad mantel-piece a small red morocco box which he had carried under his arm, and while his nephews (who had all been to see the baggage deposited) were engaged in disrobing him of his extra habiliments, he addressed himself to Colonel Brigham, whom he seemed to regard with particular complaisance.