Mrs. Brigs was some ten years the junior of her partner in life, and was a lady in every sense of the word. It was evident that she had once been beautiful, but that once had been past a long time; and now, where then dangled the glossy curls, (not false curls—girls never wore false curls in those days,) she displayed two huge bows of yellow ribbon. These were necessary ornaments, however, for they were appendages to a very neat frilled cap. Mrs. Brigs had never been known to wear a stay-body frock, or a bustle—indeed, such things were not then in fashion—she never wore sleeves of the mutton-leg cut; nor were they ever so tight as to render the arms useless members, but always large enough and small enough to be comfortable. Mrs. Brigs never could endure small shoes—consequently, she never was compelled to endure the pains incident to corns. She was an inflexible knitter and darner, and though Mr. Brigs never had but one pair of socks, they never had a hole in them, because whenever the legs wore out she would leg them, and when the feet wore out she would foot them. Mrs. Brigs was so good herself—so artless and unsuspecting, that she thought every body else was good, and artless, and unsuspecting too. Mrs. Brigs was literally the very woman for Mr. Brigs, and that gentleman was the very man for Mrs. Brigs. Hence, it can only be inferred that they lived happily together—so happily, indeed, and contentedly, that they were known but to be loved. A peaceful country village was their home. A ten acre farm of fertile land, through which murmured a dear, bright stream
“That wound in many a flow’ry nook,”
was the fee simple property of Allen Brigs. A pretty little white-washed house, almost hidden by the clustering fruit-trees, was their humble tenement. A handsome little garden, tastefully laid out, occupied the space between the house and rivulet, and here Mrs. Brigs sought recreation when burthened with the ennui of knitting and darning. A cow and calf—a sow and pig—a horse, and a yard full of poultry of every species, composed the family stock. And with all these, and nothing more, they were rich—rich in the honesty of their own hearts which knew no covetousness—contentment was theirs, and that was riches. They were surrounded by kind neighbors—some affluent, but not aristocratic. An athletic son of sixteen, and a beautiful daughter of twelve, were their only offspring. Solomon Brigs was his father’s sole help, but they managed every thing to admiration. Nanny was a sweet tempered child—affectionate and dutiful. Every body loved her, and she loved every body. Notwithstanding she was a country girl, there was a native, witching, fascinating grace in her every movement. She was so active, and gay, and cheerful—so full of life and joy—and so mild and modest! She had never known sickness: health flowed through every vein, and glowed in her soft dark eyes and blooming cheeks—and her smiling face was a sure index to her pure heart. Her finely shaped head, and intelligent forehead, bore testimony to her keen susceptibilities.
Solomon was a smart boy—so said his knowing father; and though he had made no higher attainments than reading, writing, and cyphering to the single rule of three, he knew how to plough the corn, and hill the potatoes, and weed his sister’s flower-beds. He could not solve a problem in mathematics, but he could jump higher and hallo louder than any boy in the village, large or small.
Nanny was a proficient in the art of housekeeping, but not in French, painting, &c. &c. She, too, could read, write, and cypher, and Mr. Brigs considered that enough book learning for his children. It was all he knew, and there was danger in too much. But we come now to give our characters a more conspicuous place in the public mind.
It was one cold morning in December, when the snow was thick on the ground, and a luxuriant fire was blazing on every hearth in the village, and when nobody living would have thought of visiting, except Miss Lachevers, the housekeeper of John Doe, next door neighbor to the Brigses, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. As I said, it was cold—extremely cold; but Miss Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane, did not regard cold weather. Now, whether a young lady, living to the age of forty odd, becomes invulnerable to the piercing air of a December morning, or whether the young lady in question was differently constituted from other people, I shall not attempt to decide—probably the latter. Nevertheless, on this same morning, almost as soon as the sun showed his face, Miss Lachevers peeped in at the door of Allen Brigs. Mr. Brigs was drying the morning’s paper by the fire, while Mrs. Brigs busied herself “clearing away” the breakfast table. Solomon and Nanny were both reading from the same book, the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.”
“Good mornin’ to you,” said Miss Lachevers, introducing her body as well as her head—“cool mornin’ this.”
“Rather,” replied Mr. Brigs senior, laying down the paper and rubbing the palms of his hands hard enough together to erase the skin. “Come to the fire, Betty—be seated—have off your bonnet.”
The finishing clause of this address proceeded from the voluble tongue of Mrs. Brigs; and Nanny arose from her seat to hand Miss Lachevers a chair.
“Don’t trouble yourself, child—I never have time to sit. I must go back in one second. It’s trot, trot, from mornin’ till night, with me. I just stepped in,” she continued, turning her eyes on Mrs. Brigs, “to ask you all if you’ve hearn the news?”