54 



SILK MANUAL, AND 



NOTES BY THE WAY. NO. 3. 



G , N. H. June 17, 1835. 



In my ride today, I have met with many illus- 

 trations of the remarks in my last. — But there are 

 many good and honorable exceptions, and I have 

 seen in my way here many fine farms, and Avhere 

 they are well cultivated, they seem to yield to their 

 owners rich and profitable harvests. 



To the lover of nature's beauties, this region 

 affords a rich and beautiful field. I am now 

 among the hills around Lake Winnipiseogee. — 

 To the north lies the Lake, thickly studded with 

 islands, which, I am told, are as many as the days 

 of the year. — The little Belkaap laden with pas- 

 sengers on their way to the White Hills, and the 

 sturdy farmer, who wonders why people come so 

 far to see what to him, fi-om long familiarity, is so 

 uninteresting, that he scarce ever looks at them 

 except when the storm-cloud rolls lazily ovex its 

 giant head, or the deep toned thunder warns him 

 of the coming storm. To the east, west and 

 south, as far as the eye can reach, "hills peep o'er 

 hills," till you half wonder where the husband- 

 man finds a place for his crop, or his cattle a foot- 

 hold on their sloping sides. To me this opens a 

 wide field for thought and new scenes and ever- 

 changing objects force themselves so constantly 

 on the mind, that I can scarce find time for sleep. 

 — The i)eople stare when I tell tliem I rose at 

 .midnight to see the cold moonbeams sleeping on 

 the mountains, and perhaps tliink I have been 

 reading Scott or Cooper, or some of our moon- 

 loving novelists. Having never been so far into 

 the interior of my native state, to me all these 

 scenes have the charm of novelty. In addition 

 to the splendor of mountain scenery and the beau- 

 tiful lake, every one seems desirous of pleasing. 

 1 am struck with the general knowledge, evinced 

 by the children even, when we might imagine 

 from the distance of their school-houses, they had 

 scarce ever seen the inside of one. We often 

 come to a school-house which looks, as one may 

 say, as if it " happened" there — dropped into the 

 midst of a wood, with the trees growing up to the 

 very door, and no house nearer than half a mile 

 or more. Out of it, if it be " intermission," will 

 rush a score of flax headed boys and girls, the hat 

 flies off as if by steam, the knees bend as if by 

 wire work, and then ensues the scramble for the 

 handful of coppens the liberal traveller throws 

 among them. And if we call at the door we 

 may see the "school-ma'am," as the children 

 call her, whose bright eye, round, healthy cheek, 

 and cheerful look may well put to blush the pale, 

 faded cheek of our city belles. I wish I could 

 dwell on this subject — but I must stop. It is one 

 of deep and proud interest lo a New Englander 

 — they are the castles, the safeguards of our land, 

 — the watch towers of our religion — the never 



elumbering promoters of the virtues which give us 

 the name we so cheerfully acknowledge, we so 

 justly claim — "the land of s/eac/j/ habits;" long 

 may it be the worst sneer our enemies can cast 

 upon us. But to return to our subject. 



I stopped today at a handsome, neat farm- 

 house to rest my horse. On entering the " best 

 room," I saw on the table " the New England 

 Farmer" for June 5. — took it up, and looked to 

 see what new ideas you had been coining ; what 

 new " notions" thou hadst discovered — who had 

 raised the largest calf, or any or all the news, ag- 

 ricultural or horticultural, thou hadst gathered 

 since last we met in print, and for a few minutes 

 thy very self, in all thy editorial dignity, swam 

 before my eyes. — " Weil, Squii-e," said I, in a 

 half-serious tone, " I hope you are not a book farm- 

 er — they say these book farmers are always try- 

 ing experiments and getting some new notion 

 into their heads, and want to get along easier; so 

 at least they tell me at places where I stop." — 



" Well, Mr , I'll tell you why I take the 



Farmer, which is about the only one taken in the 

 town. A friend who had removed to Boston sent 

 me one some time ago which contained a new 

 mode of ploughing the land, the season, way of 

 manuring, &c. I thought for curiosity's sake I'd 

 try it, but had no faith in it, as I thought we farm- 

 ers knew better than the paper ; but as I was well 

 to do in the world,* I thought I could afford to 

 spend a little time, for pleasure, even if I reaped 

 no advantage from it. I liked the success of the 

 trial, and the next season I tried it again ; and my 

 land yielded so much more than it had formerly 

 that I thought, perhaps I might find something 

 else new in these Farmers — at any rate, I knew it 

 would be pleasant I'eading them, and it was the 

 cheapest reading I could get. So I sent for them, 

 and 1 know, apart from my pleasure in reading 

 them' as they come, I have learned enough about 



* This" well to do in the world" may sound coun- 

 tnjfied to ears polite, but this is the phrase here to de- 

 note one who makes a good living, and is somewhat 

 fore handed, to use another local phrase. Speaking of 

 phrases and expressions, our country friends use some 

 expressions which it is rather hard to comprehend — 

 e. g. I accosted a man as I was riding along, who was 

 at work in a corn field with " My friend, can you tell 

 me how far it is to the Iron Works?" " Well, I don't 

 know exactly — hut it is considerable of a piece' ^ ! — Hav- 

 ing obtained this very concise idea of the distance to the 

 Iron Works, and being afraid that he would take offence 

 if I asked him hoio large a piece it might be, I inquired, 

 '■ What kind of a road is it.'" — "Well, it's rather a 

 roughish road" — which I found by sad experience con- 

 sisted of hills half a mile long and up which my good 

 horse and myself were obliged to fare afike — each foot- 

 ing it " on his own hook." 



