From the Connecticut they passed by the romantic road that leads through the plains of West Springfield, Westfield, &c. There is no part our country, abundant as it is in the charms of nature, more lavishly adorned with romantic scenery. The carriage slowly traced its way on the side of a mountain, from which the imprisoned road had with difficulty been won;—a noisy stream dashed impetuously along at their left, and as they ascended the mountain, they still heard it before them leaping from rock to rock, now almost losing itself in the deep pathway it had made, and then rushing with increased violence over its stony bed.
"This young stream," said Mr. Lloyd, "reminds one of the turbulence of headstrong childhood; I can hardly believe it to be the same we admired, so leisurely winding its peaceful way into the bosom of the Connecticut."
"Thou likest the sobriety of maturity," replied Rebecca, "but I confess that there is something delightful to my imagination in the elastic bound of this infant stream; it reminds me of the joy of untamed spirits, and undiminished strength."
The travellers' attention was withdrawn from the wild scene before them to the appearance of the heavens, by their coachman, who observed, that "never in his days had he seen clouds make so fast; it was not," he said, "five minutes since the first speck rose above the hill before them, and now there was not enough blue sky for a man to swear by:—but," added he, looking with a lengthening visage to what he thought an interminable hill before them, "the lightning will be saved the trouble of coming down to us, for if my poor beasts ever get us to the top, we may reach up and take it."
Having reached the summit of the next acclivity, they perceived by the road's side, a log hut; over the door was a slab, with a rude and mysterious painting, (which had been meant for a foaming can and a plate of gingerbread,) explained underneath by "cake and beer for sale." This did not look very inviting, but it promised a better shelter from the rain, for the invalid, than the carriage could afford. Mr. Lloyd opened the door, and lifted his wife over a rivulet, which actually ran between the sill of the house and the floor-planks that had not originally been long enough for the dimensions of the apartment.
The mistress of the mansion, a fat middle-aged woman, who sat with a baby in her arms at a round table, at which there were four other children eating from a pewter dish in the middle of the table, rose, and having ejected the eldest boy from a chair by a very unceremonious slap, offered it to Mrs. Lloyd and resumed her seat; quietly finishing her meal. Her husband, a ruddy, good-natured, hardy looking mountaineer, had had the misfortune, by some accident in his childhood, to lose the use of both his legs, which were now ingeniously folded into the same chair on which he sat. He turned to the coachman, who, having secured his horses, had just entered, and smiling at his consternation, said, "Why, friend, you look scare't, pretty pokerish weather, to be sure, but then we don't mind it up here;" then turning to the child next him, who, in gazing at the strangers, had dropped half the food she was conveying to her mouth, he said,—"Desdemony, don't scatter the 'tatoes so."—"But last week," he continued, resuming his address to the coachman, "there was the most tedious spell of weather I have seen since the week before last thanksgiving, when my wife and I went down into the lower part of Becket, to hear Deacon Hollister's funeral sarmont—Don't you remember, Tempy, that musical fellow that was there?—'I don't see,' says he, 'the use of the minister preaching up so much about hell-fire,' says he, 'it is a very good doctrine,' says he, 'to preach down on Connecticut River, but,' says he, 'I should not think it would frighten any body in such a cold place as Becket.'"
A bright flash, that seemed to fire the heavens, succeeded by a tremendous clap of thunder, which made the hovel tremble, terrified all the groupe, excepting the fearless speaker—
"A pretty smart flash to be sure; but, as I was saying, it is nothing to that storm we had last week.—Velorus, pull that hat out of the window, so the gentleman can see.—There, sir," said he, "just look at that big maple tree, that was blown down, if it had come one yard nearer my house, it would have crushed it to atoms. Ah, this is a nice place as you will find any where," he continued, (for he saw Mr. Lloyd was listening attentively to him,) "to bring up boys; it makes them hardy and spirited, to live here with the wind roaring about them, and the thunder rattling right over their heads: why they don't mind it any more than my woman's spinning-wheel, which, to be sure, makes a dumb noise sometimes."
Our travellers were not a little amused with the humour of this man, who had a natural philosophy that a stoic might have envied. "Friend," said Mr. Lloyd, "you have a singular fancy about names; what may be the name of that chubby little girl who is playing with my wife's fan?"
"Yes, sir, I am a little notional about names; that girl, sir, I call Octavy, and that lazy little dog that stands by her, is Rodolfus."
"And this baby," said Mr. Lloyd, kindly giving the astonished little fellow his watch-chain to play with, "this must be Vespasian or Agricola."
"No, sir, no; I met with a disappointment about that boy's name—what you may call a slip between the cup and the lip—when he was born, the women asked me what I meant to call him? I told them, I did not mean to be in any hurry; for you must know, sir, the way I get my names, I buy a book of one of those pedlers that are going over the mountain with tin-ware and brooms, and books and pamphlets, and one notion and another; that is, I don't buy out and out, but we make a swap; they take some of my wooden dishes, and let me have the vally in books; for you must know I am a great reader, and mean all my children shall have larning too, though it is pretty tough scratching for it. Well, Sir, as I was saying about this boy, I found a name just to hit my fancy, for I can pretty generally suit myself; the name was Sophronius; but just about that time, as the deuce would have it, my wife's father died, and the general had been a very gin'rous man to us, and so to compliment the old gentleman, I concluded to call him Solomon Wheeler."
Mr. Lloyd smiled, and throwing a dollar into the baby's lap, said, "There is something, my little fellow, to make up for your loss." The sight and the gift of a silver dollar produced a considerable sensation among the mountaineers. The children gathered round the baby to examine the splendid favour. The mother said, "The child was not old enough to make its manners to the gentleman, but he was as much beholden to him as if he could." The father only seemed insensible, and contented himself with remarking, with his usual happy nonchalance, that he "guessed it was easier getting money down country, than it was up on the hills."
"Very true, my friend," replied Mr. Lloyd, "and I should like to know how you support your family here. You do not appear to have any farm."
"No Sir," replied the man, laughing, "it would puzzle me, with my legs, to take care of a farm; but then I always say, that as long as a man has his wits, he has something to work with. This is a pretty cold sappy soil up here, but we make out to raise all our sauce, and enough besides to fat a couple of pigs on; then, Sir, as you see, my woman and I keep a stock of cake and beer, and tansy bitters—a nice trade for a cold stomach; there is considerable travel on the road, and people get considerable dry by the time they get up here, and we find it a good business; and then I turn wooden bowls and dishes, and go out peddling once or twice a year; and there is not an old wife, or a young one either for the matter of that, but I can coax them to buy a dish or two; I take my pay in provisions or clothing; all the cash I get, is by the beer and cake: and now, Sir,