"Doctor," sais I, as we ascended the deck the following morning, "I can't tell you how I have enjoyed these incidental runs on shore I have had during my cruise in the 'Black Hawk.' I am amazin' fond of the country, and bein' an early riser, I manage to lose none of its charms. I like to see the early streak in the east, and look on the glorious sky when the sun rises. I like everything about the country, and the people that live in it. The town is artificial, the country is natural. Whoever sees the peep of the morning in the city but a drowsy watchman, who waits for it to go to his bed? a nurse, that is counting the heavy hours, and longs to put out the unsnuffed candles, and take a cup of strong tea to keep her peepers open; or some houseless wretch, that is woke up from his nap on a door-step, by a punch in the ribs from the staff of a policeman, who begrudges the misfortunate critter a luxury he is deprived of himself, and asks him what he is a doin' of there, as if he didn't know he had nothin' to do nowhere, and tells him to mizzle off home, as if he took pleasure in reminding him he had none. Duty petrifies these critters' hearts harder than the grand marble porch stone that served for a couch, or the doorstep that was used for a pillow. Even the dogs turn in then, for they don't think it's necessary to mount guard any longer. Blinds and curtains are all down, and every livin' critter is asleep, breathing the nasty, hot, confined, unwholesome air of their bed-rooms, instead of inhaling the cool dewy breeze of heaven.

"Is it any wonder that the galls are thin, and pale, and delicate, and are so languid, they look as if they were givin' themselves airs, when all they want is air? or that the men complain of dyspepsy, and look hollow and unhealthy, having neither cheeks, stomach, nor thighs, and have to take bitters to get an appetite for their food, and pickles and red pepper to digest it? The sun is up, and has performed the first stage of his journey before the maid turns out, opens the front door, and takes a look up and down street, to see who is a stirrin'. Early risin' must be cheerfulsome, for she is very chipper, and throws some orange-peel at the shopman of their next neighbour, as a hint if he was to chase her, he would catch her behind the hall-door, as he did yesterday, after which she would show him into the supper-room, where the liquors and cakes are still standing as they were left last night.

"Yes, she is right to hide, for it is decent, if it ain't modest, seein' the way she has jumped into her clothes, and the danger there is of jumping out of them again. How can it be otherwise, when she has to get up so horrid early? It's all the fault of the vile milkman, who will come for fear his milk will get sour; and that beast, the iceman, who won't wait, for fear his ice will melt; and that stupid nigger who will brush the shoes then, he has so many to clean elsewhere.

"As she stands there, a woman ascends the step, and produces a basket from under her cloak, into which she looks carefully, examines its contents (some lace frills, tippets, and collars of her mistress, which she wore a few nights ago at a ball), and returns with something heavy in it, for the arm is extended in carrying it, and the stranger disappears. She still lingers, she is expecting some one. It is the postman, he gives her three or four letters, one of which is for herself. She reads it approvingly, and then carefully puts it into her bosom, but that won't retain it no how she can fix it, so she shifts it to her pocket. It is manifest Posty carries a verbal answer, for she talks very earnestly to him, and shakes hands with him at parting most cordially.

"It must be her turn for a ball to-night I reckon, for a carriage drives very rapidly to within three or four hundred yards of the house, and then crawls to the door so as not to disturb the family. A very fashionably-dressed maid is there (her mistress must be very kind to lend her such expensive head-gear, splendid jewelry, and costly and elegant toggery), and her beau is there with such a handsome moustache and becoming beard, and an exquisitely-worked chain that winds six or seven times round him, and hangs loose over his waistcoat, like a coil of golden cord. At a given signal, from the boss of the hack, who stands door in hand, the young lady gathers her clothes well up her drumsticks, and would you believe, two steps or springs only, like those of a kangaroo, take her into the house? It's a streak of light, and nothing more. It's lucky she is thin, for fat tames every critter that is foolish enough to wear it, and spoils agility.

"The beau takes it more leisurely. There are two epochs in a critter's life of intense happiness, first when he doffs the petticoats, pantellets, the hermaphrodite rig of a child, and mounts the jacket and trowsers of a boy; and the other is when that gives way to a 'long tail blue,' and a beard. He is then a man.

"The beau has reached this enviable age, and as he is full of admiration of himself, is generous enough to allow time to others to feast their eyes on him. So he takes it leisurely, his character, like that charming girl's, won't suffer if it is known they return with the cats in the morning; on the contrary, women, as they always do, the little fools, will think more of him. They make no allowance for one of their own sex, but they are very indulgent, indeed they are both blind and deaf, to the errors of the other. The fact is, if I didn't know it was only vindicating the honour of their sex, I vow I should think it was all envy of the gall who was so lucky, as to be unlucky; but I know better than that. If the owner of the house should be foolish enough to be up so early, or entirely take leave of his senses, and ask him why he was mousing about there, he flatters himself he is just the child to kick him. Indeed he feels inclined to flap his wings and crow. He is very proud. Celestina is in love with him, and tells him (but he knew that before) he is very handsome. He is a man, he has a beard as black as the ace of spades, is full dressed, and the world is before him. He thrashed a watchman last night, and now he has a drop in his eye, would fight the devil. He has succeeded in deceiving that gall, he has no more idea of marrying her than I have. It shows his power. He would give a dollar to crow, but suffers himself to be gently pushed out of the hall, and the door fastened behind him, amid such endearing expressions, that they would turn a fellow's head, even after his hair had grown gray. He then lights a cigar, gets up with the driver, and looks round with an air of triumph, as much as to say--'What would you give to be admired and as successful as I am?' and when he turns the next corner, he does actilly crow.

"Yes, yes, when the cat's away, the mice will play. Things ain't in a mess, and that house a hurrah's nest, is it? Time wears on, and the alternate gall must be a movin' now, for the other who was at the ball has gone to bed, and intends to have her by-daily head-ache if inquired for. To-night it will be her turn to dance, and to-morrow to sleep, so she cuts round considerable smart. Poor thing, the time is not far off when you will go to bed and not sleep, but it's only the child that burns its fingers that dreads the fire. In the mean time, set things to rights.

"The curtains are looped up, and the shutters folded back into the wall, and the rooms are sprinkled with tea-leaves, which are lightly swept up, and the dust left behind, where it ought to be, on the carpet,--that's all the use there is of a carpet, except you have got corns. And then the Venetians are let down to darken the rooms, and the windows are kept closed to keep out the flies, the dust, and the heat, and the flowers brought in and placed in the stands. And there is a beautiful temperature in the parlour, for it is the same air that was there a fortnight before. It is so hot, when the young ladies come down to breakfast, they can't eat, so they take nothing but a plate of buck-wheat cakes, and another of hot buttered rolls, a dozen of oysters, a pot of preserves, a cup of honey, and a few ears of Indian corn. They can't abide meat, it's too solid and heavy. It's so horrid warm it's impossible they can have an appetite, and even that little trifle makes them feel dyspeptic. They'll starve soon; what can be the matter? A glass of cool ginger pop, with ice, would be refreshing, and soda water is still better, it is too early for wine, and at any rate it's heating, besides being unscriptural.

"Well, the men look at their watches, and say they are in a hurry, and must be off for their counting-houses like wink, so they bolt. What a wonder it is the English common people call the stomach a bread-basket, for it has no meanin' there. They should have called it a meat-tray, for they are the boys for beef and mutton. But with us it's the identical thing. They clear the table in no time, it's a grand thing, for it saves the servants trouble. And a steak, and a dish of chops, added to what the ladies had, is grand. The best way to make a pie is to make it in the stomach. But flour fixins piping hot is the best, and as their disgestion ain't good, it is better to try a little of everything on table to see which best agrees with them. So down goes the Johnny cakes, Indian flappers, Lucy Neals, Hoe cakes--with toast, fine cookies, rice batter, Indian batter, Kentucky batter, flannel cakes, and clam fritters. Super-superior fine flour is the wholesomest thing in the world, and you can't have too much of it. It's grand for pastry, and that is as light and as flakey as snow when well made. How can it make paste inside of you and be wholesome? If you would believe some Yankee doctors you'd think it would make the stomach a regular glue pot. They pretend to tell you pap made of it will kill a baby as dead as a herring. But doctors must have some hidden thing to lay the blame of their ignorance on. Once when they didn't know what was the matter of a child, they said it was water in the brain, and now when it dies--oh, they say, the poor thing was killed by that pastry flour. But they be hanged. How can the best of anything that is good be bad? The only thing is to be sure a thing is best, and then go a-head with it.

"Well, when the men get to their offices, they are half roasted alive, and have to take ices to cool them, and then for fear the cold will heat them, they have to take brandy cock-tail to counteract it. So they keep up a sort of artificial fever and ague all day. The ice gives the one, and brandy the other, like shuttlecock and battledore. If they had walked down as they had ought to have done, in the cool of the morning, they would have avoided all this.

"How different it is now in the country, ain't it? What a glorious thing the sun-rise is! How beautiful the dew-spangled bushes, and the pearly drops they shed, are! How sweet and cool is the morning air, and how refreshing and bracing the light breeze is to the nerves that have been relaxed in warm repose! The new-ploughed earth, the snowy-headed clover, the wild flowers, the blooming trees, and the balsamic spruce, all exhale their fragrance to invite you forth. While the birds offer up their morning hymn, as if to proclaim that all things praise the Lord. The lowing herd remind you that they have kept their appointed time; and the freshening breezes, as they swell in the forest and awaken the sleeping leaves, seem to whisper, 'We too come with healing on our wings;' and the babbling brook, that it also has its mission to minister to your wants. Oh, morning in the country is a glorious thing, and it is impossible when one rises and walks forth and surveys the scene not to exclaim, 'God is good.'

"Oh, that early hour has health, vigour, and cheerfulness in it. How natural it seems to me, how familiar I am with everything it indicates! The dew tells me there will be no showers, the white frost warns me of its approach; and if that does not arrive in time, the sun instructs me to notice and remember, that if it rises bright and clear and soon disappears in a cloud, I must prepare for heavy rain. The birds and the animals all, all say, 'We too are cared for, and we have our foreknowledge, which we disclose by our conduct to you." The brooks too have meaning in their voices, and the southern sentinel proclaims aloud, 'Prepare.' And the western, 'All is well.'"

Oh, how well I know the face of nature! What pleasure I take as I commence my journey at this hour, to witness the rising of the mist in the autumn from the low grounds, and its pausing on the hill-tops, as if regretting the scene it was about to leave! And how I admire the little insect webs, that are spangled over the field at that time; and the partridge warming itself in the first gleam of sunshine it can discover on the road! The alder, as I descend into the glen, gives me notice that the first frost has visited him, as it always does, before others, to warn him that it has arrived to claim every leaf of the forest as its own. Oh, the country is the place for peace, health, beauty, and innocence. I love it, I was born in it. I lived the greater part of my life there, and I look forward to die in it.

"How different from town life is that of the country! There are duties to be performed in-door and out-door, and the inmates assemble round their breakfast-table, refreshed by sleep and invigorated by the cool air, partake of their simple, plain, and substantial meal, with the relish of health, cheerfulness, and appetite. The open window admits the fresh breeze, in happy ignorance of dust, noise, or fashionable darkness. The verandah defies rain or noon-day sun, and employment affords no room for complaint that the day is hot, the weather oppressive, the nerves weak, or the digestion enfeebled. There can be no happiness where there is an alternation of listlessness and excitement. They are the two extremes between which it resides, and that locality to my mind is the country. Care, disease, sorrow, and disappointment are common to both. They are the lot of humanity; but the children of mammon, and of God, bear them differently.

"I didn't intend to turn preacher, Doctor, but I do positively believe, if I hadn't a been a clockmaker, dear old Minister would have made me one. I don't allot, though, I would have taken in Slickville, for I actilly think I couldn't help waltzing with the galls, which would have put our folks into fits, or kept old Clay, clergymen like, to leave sinners behind me. I can't make out these puritan fellows, or evangelical boys, at all. To my mind, religion is a cheerful thing, intended to make us happy, not miserable; and that our faces, like that of nature, should be smiling, and that like birds we should sing and carol, and like lilies, we should be well arrayed, and not that our countenances should make folks believe we were chosen vessels, containing, not the milk of human kindness, but horrid sour vinegar and acid mothery grounds. Why, the very swamp behind our house is full of a plant called 'a gall's side-saddle.'¹

¹ This is the common name for the Sarracenia.

"Plague take them old Independents; I can't and never could understand them. I believe, if Bishop Laud had allowed them to sing through their noses, pray without gowns, and build chapels without steeples, they would have died out like Quakers, by being let alone. They wanted to make the state believe they were of consequence. If the state had treated them as if they were of no importance, they would have felt that too very soon. Opposition made them obstinate. They won't stick at nothing to carry their own ends.

"They made a law once in Connecticut that no man should ride or drive on a Sunday except to a conventicle. Well, an old Dutch governor of New York, when that was called New Amsterdam and belonged to Holland, once rode into the colony on horseback on a Sabbath day, pretty hard job it was too, for he was a very stout man, and a poor horseman. There were no wheel carriages in those days, and he had been used to home to travel in canal boats, and smoke at his ease; but he had to make the journey, and he did it, and he arrived just as the puritans were coming out of meeting, and going home, slowly, stately, and solemnly, to their cold dinner cooked the day before (for they didn't think it no harm to make servants work double tides on Saturday), their rule being to do anything of a week day, but nothing on the Sabbath.

"Well, it was an awful scandal this, and a dreadful violation of the blue laws of the young nation. Connecticut and New Amsterdam (New York) were nothing then but colonies; but the puritans owed no obedience to princes, and set up for themselves. The elders and ministry and learned men met on Monday to consider of this dreadful profanity of the Dutch governor. On the one hand it was argued, if he entered their state (for so they called it then) he was amenable to their laws, and ought to be cited, condemned, and put into the stocks, as an example to evil-doers. On the other hand, they got hold of a Dutch book on the Law of Nations, to cite agin him; but it was written in Latin, and although it contained all about it, they couldn't find the place, for their minister said there was no index to it. Well, it was said, if we are independent, so is he, and whoever heard of a king or a prince being put in the stocks? It bothered them, so they sent their Yankee governor to him to bully and threaten him, and see how he would take it, as we now do, at the present day, to Spain about Cuba, and England about your fisheries.

"Well, the governor made a long speech to him, read him a chapter in the Bible, and then expounded it, and told him they must put him in the stocks. All this time the Dutchman went on smoking, and blowing out great long puffs of tobacco. At last he paused, and said:

"'You be tamned. Stockum me--stockum teivel.' And he laid down his pipe, and with one hand took hold of their governor by the fore-top, and with the other drew a line across his forehead and said, 'Den I declare war, and Gooten Himmel! I shall scalp you all.'

"After delivering himself of that long speech, he poured out two glasses of Schiedam, drunk one himself, and offered the Yankee governor the other, who objected to the word Schiedam, as it terminated in a profane oath, with which, he said, the Dutch language was greatly defiled; but seeing it was also called Geneva, he would swallow it. Well, his high mightiness didn't understand him, but he opened his eyes like an owl and stared, and said, 'Dat is tam coot,' and the conference broke up.

"Well, it was the first visit of the Dutch governor, and they hoped it would be the last, so they passed it over. But his business was important, and it occupied him the whole week to settle it, and he took his leave on Saturday evening, and was to set out for home on Sunday again. Well, this was considered as adding insult to injury. What was to be done? Now it's very easy and very proper for us to sit down and condemn the Duke of Tuscany, who encourages pilgrims to go to shrines where marble statues weep blood, and cataliptic galls let flies walk over their eyes without winking, and yet imprisons an English lady for giving away the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' It's very wrong, no doubt, but it ain't very new after all. Ignorant and bigoted people always have persecuted, and always will to the end of the chapter. But what was to be done with his high mightiness, the Dutch governor? Well, they decided that it was not lawful to put him into the stocks; but that it was lawful to deprive him of the means of sinning. So one of the elders swapped horses with him, and when he started on the Sabbath, the critter was so lame after he went a mile, he had to return and wait till Monday.

"No, I don't understand these puritan folks; and I suppose if I had been a preacher they wouldn't have understood me. But I must get back to where I left off. I was a talkin' about the difference of life in town and in the country, and how in the world I got away, off from the subject, to the Dutch governor and them puritans, I don't know. When I say I love the country, I mean it in its fullest extent, not merely old settlements and rural districts, but the great unbroken forest. This is a taste, I believe, a man must have in early life. I don't think it can be acquired in middle age, any more than playin' marbles can, though old Elgin tried that game and made money at it. A man must know how to take care of himself, forage for himself, shelter himself, and cook for himself. It's no place for an epicure, because he can't carry his cook, and his spices, and sauces, and all that, with him. Still a man ought to know a goose from a gridiron; and if he wants to enjoy the sports of the flood and the forest, he should be able to help himself; and what he does he ought to do well. Fingers were made afore knives and forks; flat stones before bake-pans; crotched sticks before jacks; bark before tin; and chips before plates; and it's worth knowing how to use them or form them.

"It takes two or three years to build and finish a good house. A wigwam is knocked up in an hour; and as you have to be your own architect, carpenter, mason, and labourer, it's just as well to be handy as not. A critter that can't do that, hante the gumption of a bear who makes a den, a fox who makes a hole, or a bird that makes a nest, let alone a beaver, who is a dab at house building. No man can enjoy the woods that ain't up to these things. If he ain't, he had better stay to his hotel, where there is one servant to clean his shoes, another to brush his coat, a third to make his bed, a fourth to shave him, a fifth to cook for him, a sixth to wait on him, a seventh to wash for him, and half a dozen more for him to scold and bless all day. That's a place where he can go to bed, and get no sleep--go to dinner, and have no appetite--go to the window, and get no fresh air, but snuff up the perfume of drains, bar-rooms, and cooking ranges--suffer from heat, because he can't wear his coat, or from politeness, because he can't take it off--or go to the beach, where the sea breeze won't come, it's so far up the country, where the white sand will dazzle, and where there is no shade, because trees won't grow--or stand and throw stones into the water, and then jump in arter 'em in despair, and forget the way out. He'd better do anything than go to the woods.

"But if he can help himself like a man, oh, it's a glorious place. The ways of the forest are easy to learn, its nature is simple, and the cooking plain, while the fare is abundant. Fish for the catching, deer for the shooting, cool springs for the drinking, wood for the cutting, appetite for eating, and sleep that waits no wooing. It comes with the first star, and tarries till it fades into morning. For the time you are monarch of all you survey. No claimant forbids you; no bailiff haunts you; no thieves molest you; no fops annoy you. If the tempest rages without, you are secure in your lowly tent. Though it humbles in its fury the lofty pine, and uproots the stubborn oak, it passes harmlessly over you, and you feel for once you are a free and independent man. You realize a term which is a fiction in our constitution. Nor pride nor envy, hatred nor malice, rivalry nor strife is there. You are at peace with all the world, and the world is at peace with you. You own not its authority. You can worship God after your own fashion, and dread not the name of bigot, idolater, heretic, or schismatic. The forest is his temple--he is ever present, and the still small voice of your short and simple prayer seems more audible amid the silence that reigns around you. You feel that you are in the presence of your Creator, before whom you humble yourself, and not of man, before whom you clothe yourself with pride. Your very solitude seems to impress you with the belief that, though hidden from the world, you are more distinctly visible, and more individually an object of Divine protection, than any worthless atom like yourself ever could be in the midst of a multitude--a mere unit of millions. Yes, you are free to come, to go, to stay; your home is co-extensive with the wild woods. Perhaps it is better for a solitary retreat than a permanent home; still it forms a part of what I call the country.

"At Country Harbour we had a sample of the simple, plain, natural, unpretending way in which neighbours meet of an evening in the rural districts. But look at that house in the town, where we saw the family assembled at breakfast this morning, and see what is going on there to-night. It is the last party of the season. The family leave the city in a week for the country. What a delightful change from the heated air of a town-house, to the quiet retreat of an hotel at a watering-place, where there are only six hundred people collected. It is positively the very last party, and would have been given weeks ago, but everybody was engaged for so long a time a-head, there was no getting the fashionable folks to come. It is a charming ball. The old ladies are fully dressed, only they are so squeezed against the walls, their diamonds and pearls are hid. And the young ladies are so lightly dressed, they look lovely. And the old gentlemen seem so happy as they walk round the room, and smile on all the acquaintances of their early days; and tell every one they look so well, and their daughters are so handsome. It ain't possible they are bored, and they try not even to look so. And the room is so well lighted, and so well filled, perhaps a little too much so to leave space for the dancers; but yet not more so than is fashionable. And then the young gentlemen talk so enchantingly about Paris, and London, and Rome, and so disparagingly of home, it is quite refreshing to hear them. And they have been in such high society abroad, they ought to be well bred, for they know John Manners, and all the Manners family, and well informed in politics; for they know John Russell, who never says I'll be hanged if I do this or that, but I will be beheaded if I do; in allusion to one of his great ancestors who was as innocent of trying to subvert the constitution as he is. And they have often seen 'Albert, Albert, Prince of Wales, and all the royal family,' as they say in England for shortness. They have travelled with their eyes open, ears open, mouths open, and pockets open. They have heard, seen, tasted, and bought everything worth having. They are capital judges of wine, and that reminds them there is lots of the best in the next room; but they soon discover they can't have it in perfection in America. It has been nourished for the voyage, it has been fed with brandy. It is heady, for when they return to their fair friends, their hands are not quite steady, they are apt to spill things over the ladies dresses (but they are so good-natured, they only laugh; for they never wear a dress but wunst). And their eyes sparkle like jewels, and they look at their partners as if they would eat 'em up. And I guess they tell them so, for they start sometimes, and say:

"'Oh, well now, that's too bad! Why how you talk! Well, travellin' hasn't improved you?'

"But it must be a charming thing to be eat up, for they look delighted at the very idea of it; and their mammas seem pleased that they are so much to the taste of these travelled gentlemen.

"Well then, dancing is voted a bore by the handsomest couple in the room, and they sit apart, and the uninitiated think they are making love. And they talk so confidentially, and look so amused; they seem delighted with each other. But they are only criticising.

"'Who is pink skirt?'

"'Blue-nose Mary.'

"'What in the world do they call her Blue-nose for?'

"'It is a nickname for the Nova Scotians. Her father is one; he made his fortune by a diving-bell.'

"'Did he? Well, it's quite right then it should go with a belle.'

"'How very good! May I repeat that? You do say such clever things! And who is that pale girl that reminds you of brown holland, bleached white? She looks quite scriptural; she has a proud look and a high stomach.'

"'That's Rachael Scott, one of my very best friends. She is as good a girl as ever lived. My! I wish I was as rich as she is. I have only three hundred thousand dollars, but she will have four at her father's death if he don't bust and fail. But, dear me! how severe you are! I am quite afraid of you. I wonder what you will say of me when my back is turned!'

"'Shall I tell you?'

"'Yes, if it isn't too savage.'

"The hint about the money is not lost, for he is looking for a fortune, it saves the trouble of making one; and he whispers something in her ear that pleases her uncommonly, for she sais,

"'Ah now, the severest thing you can do is to flatter me that way.'

"They don't discourse of the company anymore; they have too much to say to each other of themselves now.

"'My! what a smash! what in the world is that?'

"'Nothing but a large mirror. It is lucky it is broken, for if the host saw himself in it, he might see the face of a fool.'

"'How uproariously those young men talk, and how loud the music is, and how confounded hot the room is! I must go home. But I must wait a moment till that noisy, tipsy boy is dragged down-stairs, and shoved into a hack.'

"And this is upstart life, is it? Yes, but there are changing scenes in life. Look at these rooms next morning. The chandelier is broken; the centre table upset, the curtains are ruined, the carpets are covered with ice-creams, jellies, blancmanges, and broken glass. And the elegant album, souvenirs, and autograph books, are all in the midst of this nasty mess.¹ The couches are greasy, the silk ottoman shows it has been sat in since it met with an accident which was only a trifle, and there has been the devil to pay everywhere. A doctor is seen going into the house, and soon after a coffin is seen coming out. An unbidden guest, a disgusting levelling democrat came to that ball, how or when no one knew; but there he is and there he will remain for the rest of the summer. He has victimized one poor girl already, and is now strangling another. The yellow fever is there. Nature has sent her avenging angel. There is no safety but in flight.

¹ Whoever thinks this description over-drawn, is referred to a remarkably clever work which lately appeared in New York, entitled "The Potiphar Papers." Mr Slick has evidently spared this class of society.

"Good gracious! if people will ape their superiors, why won't they imitate their elegance as well as their extravagance, and learn that it is the refinement alone, of the higher orders which in all countries distinguishes them from the rest of mankind? The decencies of life, when polished, become its brightest ornaments. Gold is a means, and not an end. It can do a great deal, still it can't do everything; and among others I guess it can't make a gentleman, or else California would be chock full of 'em. No, give me the country, and the folks that live in it, I say."