[1] This tale is in the hand writing of my friend.
In one of my journeys through the western part of New Hampshire, I chanced to put up for the night at a small farm-house about five miles from the little village of W——, and meeting with a somewhat curious adventure there, I have resolved to record it. My host was a little, fat faced, bustling, bandy-legged fellow, running here and there, studious for my comforts, my humble servant, &.c. &c.; and succeeding with his wife, a long, lank, sidling, vinegar-looking creature, he made out to obtain for me the only spare room in his house. Into this I was ushered with due importance, and having taken a survey of the apartment, its nice new bed, newly dusted candle-stand, oak bottomed chairs, and a high huge wardrobe, which from its antiquated appearance I judged to have been an heir-loom in the family for three centuries at least, I tossed my saddle-bags into one corner, kicked off my heavy boots into the other, and slipping my released feet into a pair of soft squirrel-skin slippers, returned again to the kitchen. There I found my host and his wife cosily seated over a sparkling fire, and from the abrupt breaking off of their conversation and half guilty countenances, I concluded they had been talking over the character of their new comer. I was never difficult to please, especially when I had fallen in with any of the peasantry, so to speak, of dear New England, and admitted to the calm content which reigns around their fire sides—so planting myself upon a settle, perhaps a dye-tub, a thing indispensible to a New England farm-house, I entered into conversation with them.
I found my host a well bred, sensible fellow, somewhat free in the use of provincialisms, and not wanting in love to a good broad-faced joke; somewhat witty withal, and a memory in which he had stored many an odd story, some good and some bad, which stories he told (when solicited) with a tolerably good grace.
I pause here to record my observations on one of the peculiarities in the New England character—I mean its modesty. Foreigners, and residents of other parts of this widely extended territory may talk of Yankee impudence, but for the life of me, in all my wanderings, I could never find the genuine modesty of a native New Englander. They may cheat you—that is, some of them may, some of their outlawed, who with trunk and tin wagon travel into other States to prey on the unwary; but where turn you and find not some, who do and ever will disgrace the soil that nursed them? For New England I claim no entire exemption; perfection is not beneath the sun: but there is more of it here than elsewhere—and in proof of it I adduce, their superior sagacity, their nobler intelligence. Where intelligence is found, will you find least of the weaknesses of human nature.
But to return: having bid Bessy, a short, flaxen-haired, chubby-cheeked damsel, of about fourteen, the very image of her father, bring him a cup of cider; and poking our chairs close into the fire—so close that the wind which came down chimney, would now and then puff out the smoke and curl it up about mine host’s neck and shoulders, making him look for all the world like Vulcan peeping through the clouds of his own smithy—he began as follows.
‘Late last March and on one of the coldest nights in my memory, my wife and me were startled by a loud knock at the door, about nine o’ the clock; and more so by the abrupt entrance of a stranger, who had been as it seems just ceremonious enough to knock, but not sufficiently so to wait until bidden a welcome. Marching directly up to the fire he doffed his cap, and then in a bland, gentle voice, and the language of a gentleman, prayed our pardons for his boldness, and craved our hospitality.
‘Now Biddy here is not the most hospitable in her feelings, but even she was softened by the coldness of the weather, and the soft accents of the stranger. So, bidding him welcome and placing before him such entertainment as we best could, he ate his meal and then sat himself down—right where you are, sir, at this moment—as if for conversation.
‘His age, I should think, was about forty five. In person he was strikingly handsome, yet care-worn; his hair was black—his eyes likewise, and a somewhat cynical curl about his small mouth made you hesitate to address him, thinking he was perhaps a person of strong prejudices. His skin was as fair as a girl’s; a fine set of teeth were displayed when he smiled; in short, his appearance was such that I should have taken him, perhaps, for a scholar; for, though his dress was rich it was careless, and there was a sort of method in what he said though the subjects were simple, as I am told is ever found in men of education. At first, he was very taciturn.
“You find it a cold air, sir,” said I, breaking the silence.
“Yes—yes, sir.”