We were never weary of exploring new quarters—even the narrow, squalid lanes and alleys with their dilapidated houses and ragged denizens, had a grotesque attraction for us—and often we would stand gazing at some wretched tenement, with falling timbers and stuffed windows, and speculate about the life of the people within.
And besides the wonders of treasures and pleasures—there was the daily recurring astonishment at the convenience of the place.
We could scarcely get used to the idea that when we wanted a skein of silk or a paper of needles, it was only necessary to go across the street, or around the corner to get them, instead of putting the mare to the gig and riding seven miles to the nearest store; or that when we went out to tea, we had only to walk a square or so, instead of driving from three to ten miles; or that we might stay out until bedtime, instead of ordering the horses to start for home at sunset.
And then the comfort of being able to walk out dry shod over the clean pavement, in all weathers, instead of in the winter being obliged to ride in a carriage, plunging axletree deep through lanes of mud and water, or worse still, being weather-bound by the state of the roads.
In fact, so charmed were we all with this walking with impunity at unaccustomed times and seasons, that the old carryall gathered dust in the coach house, and Jenny, the mare, accumulated fat in the stable.
But if the autumn in the city seemed so delightful to us rustics, what shall I say of the winter, when the lecture rooms and concert halls were thrown open, and when evening parties were given? There seemed to us no end of enchantments.
I should have told you that when we first went to town we had but one acquaintance there. It was with the family of our Uncle and Aunt Rackaway. They had a large family of growing sons and daughters, of which our dear Cousin Will (your own respected father, girls), was the eldest, the handsomest, the wildest, and the best beloved. Will Rackaway soon initiated us into all the innocent amusements of the season—took us to evening meetings, lectures, concerts, exhibitions of every sort, except the theatre, which our grandmother could not be persuaded to regard as an innocent amusement.
We were a social family, and soon collected around us a very agreeable neighborhood circle, some one or two of whom would drop in upon us every evening when we were at home, or else invite us out. Ally and I extended our acquaintance among young people whose parents occasionally gave dancing parties, at which we were always present, and which, therefore, our good grandmother felt bound to sometimes reciprocate. You are not to suppose that our days passed in a round of fashionable dissipation. Nonsense! nothing of the sort. We were rather a staid, domestic family—but upon the whole what a contrast this to the long, monotonous evenings in the farm house!
Well, so passed that winter, so full of future consequences—that winter in which Ally's gentle spirit first won the heart of her wild Cousin Will. All pleasures pall! Before the season was over, the streets, the shops, the shows—all the wonders and glories of the city had lost their attraction with their novelty.
When the spring came, we had grown just a little weary of city life. With April, a spring fever for sowing, and planting, and pruning, and training came upon us. But, alas! there was nowhere to sow or plant—our back yard was flagged, and our front one paved. And there was nothing to prune or train—four forlorn trees, trimmed by city authorities into the shape of upright mops, standing upon the hard pavement before our door, were the only apologies for vegetation near us, and they looked as exiled and homesick as ourselves. Mrs. Hawkins also missed her chickens and turkeys, and we all felt the loss of the cows.