“Arma, virumque cano qui Primus.”
VIRGIL

The season had now advanced to within a few days of that joyous period of the year, when the Governors of the several New England States are wont to call the people to a public acknowledgment of the favors of Divine Providence. At the time of which we write, their Excellencies required the citizens to be thankful “according to law,” and “all servile labor and vain recreation,” on said day, were “by law forbidden,” and not, as at present, invited them to assemble in their respective churches, to unite in an expression of gratitude to their Heavenly Benefactor. Whether the change from a command to an invitation, or permission to engage in the sports which were before forbidden, has been attended with any evil consequences, we leave to the individual judgment of our readers to determine. But whether commanded or invited, the people always welcomed the season of festivity with preaching and praying, and an indiscriminate slaughter of all the fat turkeys and chickens on which they could lay their hands.

The yellow and crimson maple leaf had faded on the trees into more sombre colors, or, falling to the ground, been whirled by the wind among heaps of other leaves, where its splendor no more attracted attention. Of the gaiety of autumn, only the red bunches of the sumach were left as a parting present to welcome winter in. The querulous note of the quail had long been heard calling to his truant mate, and reproaching her for wandering from his jealous side; the robins had either sought a milder climate or were collected in the savin-bushes, in whose evergreen branches they found shelter, and on whose berries they love to feed; and little schoolboys were prowling about, busy collecting barrels for Thanksgiving bonfires.

It was a beautiful clear morning in Thanksgiving-week, when a side gate, that admitted to the yard or inclosure in front of Mr. Armstrong’s house, opened, and a negro, with a round good-natured face, and rather foppishly dressed, stepped out upon the walk. But, before paying our respects to Mr. Felix Qui, it may not be altogether amiss to give some description of the house of Mr. Armstrong, as representing the better class of dwelling-houses in our villages, at the time.

It was a large, two-story wood building, painted white, with green blinds, and consisted of a main body nearly fifty feet square, in which, were the apartments for the family, and of an L, as it was called, from the shape it gave the building, running back, and devoted to the kitchen and sleeping chambers of the servants. The height of the stories in this L was somewhat less than in the front part of the house, indicating thereby, perhaps, the more humble relation in which it stood to the latter. Three large chimneys rose above the roof, two from the principal building and one from the kitchen. A wide hall in the centre, swept through the whole length without interference from the rear building, which might be considered as a continuation of somewhat less than one-half of the part in front. The wood-house stood on the same side as the kitchen, some twenty feet distant; and still further back, a large barn, also of wood, and painted a light lead color, with the exception of the cornice and trimmings about the doors and windows, which were white. The house itself stood some fifty feet back from the high road, and was surrounded by enormous elms, those glories of the cultivated American landscape, some measuring four and five feet in diameter, and throwing their gracefully drooping branches far and high over the roof, to which, in the heat of summer, they furnished an acceptable shade. The prospect in front, and looking between two rows of maples that lined the road, comprehended the Yaupaae, expanded into a lake, green fields and apple orchards running down to the water’s edge, and hills, clothed to the top with verdure, rolling away like gigantic waves into the distance. Behind the house was a garden and orchard of, perhaps, two acres, terminating in a small evergreen wood of hemlocks and savins, interspersed with a few noble oaks. Mr. Armstrong had laid out several winding paths through this little wood, and placed here and there a rustic seat; and the taste of his daughter had embellished it with a few flowers. Here Faith had taught the moss pink to throw its millions of starry blossoms in early spring over the moist ground, after the modest trailing arbutus, from its retreat beneath the hemlocks, had exhausted its sweet breath; here, later in the season, the wild columbine wondered at the neighborhood of the damask rose; here, in the warm days of summer, or in the delicious moonlight evenings, she loved to wander, either alone or with her father, in its cool paths.

Still more beautiful than the prospect from the front door, were the views from this charming spot. Rising to a considerable elevation above the river to which it descended with a rapid slope, it commanded not only the former view to the south, though more extended, but also one to the northwest. Beneath, at a depression of eighty feet, lay the lake-like river with its green islets dotting the surface, while, at a short distance, the Fall of the Yaupaae precipitated itself over a rocky declivity, mingling, in the genial season of the year, a noble bass with the songs of birds and the sighing of the wind, and adding to and deepening in the rougher months, the roar of the tempest. A small stream diverted from the river, turned the wheel of a moss-grown grist-mill, which was nestled under large willows at the foot of the rocks, and conveyed the idea of the presence of man, without detracting from the wild beauty of the scenery.

Now, alas, how is all changed! Heu! quantum mutatus ab illo Hectore! The grist-mill has disappeared! A row of willows which skirted the road that winding by the margin of the cove, led to it, has been cut down; and huge brick and stone factories of paper and cotton goods, gloomy and stern-like evil genii, brood over the scene, and all through the day and into the night, with grinding cylinders, and buzzing spindles and rattling looms, strive to drown, with harsh discords, the music of the waterfall. One of the little islands has been joined to the main land with gravel carted into the river, and a bleach-house or some other abomination erected upon it. The place is disenchanted. The sad Genius of Romance who once loved to stretch his limbs upon the mossy rocks, and catch inspiration from watching the foam and listening to the roar, has departed with a shriek, never to return.

Felix, when he found himself outside of the gate, gazed up and down the street, as if uncertain in which direction to proceed. After a momentary hesitation, and drawing a pair of gloves over his hands, he seemed to have made up his mind, and at a lounging pace, directed his course up, that is towards the north. He had not gone far when he saw coming towards him a person of his own color, who until then had been hid by a turn in the road. No one else was in sight, the spot being the piece of table-land mentioned in a previous chapter, about a half mile from the thickly settled part of the town, which was at the bottom of the hill near the confluence of the rivers. Here were no shops or public buildings, but only private residences from thirty to fifty rods apart, and inhabited by a few families a little wealthier, perhaps, for the most part, than the others.

It was a man, still hale and hearty, though what his age was it might be difficult to say. He might have been sixty or even seventy. The African race does not betray the secret of age as readily as the white. Probably the man did not know himself, nor is it of importance. He moved with a jerk, and upon a nearer approach it appeared that the lower part of one of his legs was made of wood. He must have been, however, long accustomed to it, for as he moved rather sedately along, it seemed to occasion him but little inconvenience. When sufficiently near, Felix, touching his cap with great politeness, bade him good morning, by the title of General. But who our new acquaintance is, we may as well tell here as anywhere else.

The old negro, then approaching, was one of those, the number of whom, although small compared with that of the white troops engaged in the war of the Revolution, was still considerable enough not to be entirely overlooked. His name was Primus Ransome, and at an early period he had enlisted into the army, and served until disabled by the loss of a leg, when he found himself in rags, with an excellent character for bravery and general good conduct, minus the member left at Yorktown, and a candidate for any such bounty as the exhausted means of the country and the liberality of Congress might grant. He contrived somehow to return to the town of Hillsdale, where, in a checkered life, he had happened to pass two or three of his happiest years, and there prepared to enjoy that liberty he had helped to achieve. His good character, cheerful temper, and the services he had performed made him a general favorite. Yet, notwithstanding, he found it at first hard to get along. His military habits had incapacitated him for long continued industry, and an invitation to a social glass or an opportunity to tell one of his campaigning stories, was at any time temptation sufficient to wile him away from labor. There was no gentleman’s kitchen where Primus was not treated with kindness, and where he did not receive all he asked but he had some pride, and was unwilling to abuse the offered hospitality. Thus, working a little at digging in gardens and cutting wood and such other odd jobs as he could obtain, and making calls at the kitchens, and telling long stories about Monmouth, and Trenton, and the siege of Yorktown, what with the money he got, and the presents made him at Thanksgiving and Christmas, and other odd times, Primus roughed it along, after a fashion, until Congress found itself in a condition to give him a pension. It came late to be sure, and was small, but then so were his wants. It was regularly paid and certain, and joined to the advantages he already possessed, constituted an ample fortune. Before he got his pension, poor Primus would sometimes cast a rueful glance at his wooden leg, and think to himself he had paid a pretty dear price for independence; and at such times, it must be confessed, his patriotism ran to a low ebb. He knew no Latin, and therefore could not say, “sic vos non vobis,” &c., yet he thought it. But after he obtained his little annuity, the love of country of the Horatii or Curiatii was frigid to his. He was never weary of boasting of its freedom, of its greatness, and of General Washington. It was observed that as he grew older his stories became longer and more incredible, and his patriotism hotter. His own personal exploits too, occupied a wider space in his narratives. To believe him, the number of British and Hessians conquered by his single arm would have composed a regiment; and, indeed, it was difficult to conceive how the struggle could have been brought to a successful issue without his assistance.

“Good morning, General,” said Felix, politely touching his cap.

“Good warning, Missa Qui I hope I see you well dis pleasant marning. How Miss Rosa?” inquired Primus, at the same time making a military salute with the back of his hand.

“Miss Rosa is well, thank you, sir. As for this genlman, he is always well,” said Felix, laying his hand on his breast.

“Fine day for walking, sir. Sorry you going de oder way, Missa Qui. Suppose you hab business.”

“I walk out for the exercise. I have not take exercise enough lately for the health.”

At this moment the eye of Primus caught sight of a white piece of paper sticking out of a corner of Felix’s pocket, and he suspected the errand on which the latter was sent, so he added:

“You celumbrate Tanksgiving in de usual style at your house dis year, I presume.”

“Some witch tell you, General. Haw, haw!”

“De olé chimbly smoke extrorninary at dis season. De chickens and de turkies know dat chimbly well.”

“Guess they do,” said Felix. “General Ransome, can you keep a secret?”

“I is close as Missa Pint pocket, dat button all round,” said the old negro.

“Then I have no objections to tell you, General, that I give out some invite this morning to ladies and genlmen to take dinner at my house, Thanksgiving Day.”

“Hab you one for me?”

“Look for yourself, sir,” said Felix, pulling out two or three billets from the left pocket of his waistcoat, and presenting them to the other. “You sociate with General Washington and all the great men, and read writing, sure.”

Primus took the billets into his hands, and ran his eye over the superscriptions, with an air of the most perfect confidence, then, shaking his head, returned them to Felix, observing:

“Dere is none here for me.”

“Perhaps there is one for you in this pocket,” continued Felix, fumbling on the other side, and producing another billet. Primus looked, but shook his head as before. “Have the extreme goodness,” said Felix, who began to be considerably mystified by the serious air of the other, and half-disposed to believe that he might have some knowledge of the mystic characters, “to tell me who this little note is intend for.”

Primus knew very well the intimate relations existing between the families of the Armstrongs and Bernards, and that the former often took their Christmas dinner with the latter, while again the Armstrongs reciprocated the civility by inviting the Bernards, who were Episcopalians, to the feast of Thanksgiving. Moreover, he had met Felix going in a direction towards the house of Mr. Bernard, which was close by. Putting these circumstances together, the old soldier thought that he might venture a guess, which, if it succeeded, would redound greatly to the credit of his learning, and, which, if it failed, could entail on him no other harm than the laugh of Felix. Assuming, therefore, a knowing look, he said:

“Dat is berry easy to read. Any man wid any larning at all, can see de billet is intend for Missa Judge Bernard.” He saw by the distended eyes of Mr. Qui that his guess had struck the mark, and fearful of being requested to decipher the other superscriptions, hastily added:

“But what for I stop here, wasting my precious time, and keeping you from doing you master’s arrant? I hab de honor to wish you good marning, Missa Qui.” So saying, Primus turned round and stumped off half a dozen steps, before the bewildered Felix recovered his faculties.

“Stop, General,” at last exclaimed Felix, as soon as he regained his speech, running after him and taking hold of his arm, “allow me, a word with you”

“I is berry busy dis marning,” cried Primus, struggling to get free; “Missa Pownal want my sarvices; de doctor is anxious to insult wid me; and de ’Piscopal minister hab someting ’portant to communicate.”

“I inspect he want you to write the Thanksgiving sermon,” said Felix, grinning. “But, General, I have really an invite for you. I forgot to write the note before I leave home, and so you must, ’scuse the want of style. I have the honor to ask you, General, to take your dinner, on that glorious day, with Miss Rosa and I.”

“Dat alter de case intirely,” said Primus, losing his dread of reading billets, and forgetting his hurry in the pleasure received from the invitation; “dat alter de case entirely. You is a genlman, and berry polite, Missa Qui, and Miss Rosa is beyond ’spression. Dere is few ob de fair sec equal Miss Rosa. Let me see,” he continued, with a thoughtful air, and looking on the ground, “whedder I not disappoint some genlman. When I come round de corner I see Missa Tracy boy going toward my house. Now, probably he bring invite for me. But you invite is de fust, Missa Qui, and it is hard to desist de attraction ob Miss Rosa and youself, and I will do myself de honor to wait on you. Sorry, howebber to disappoint Missa Tracy.” Primus had now embarked on the full tide of his garrulity, and casting out of mind his regret for not being able to accept the imaginary invitation to Mr. Tracy’s, went on:

“’Pears to me a great ’vantage, Missa Qui, dat some folks is ’Piscopalians, and some Presbyterians.”

Felix looked as if he failed to apprehend the meaning of his friend.

“’Cause,” said Primus, “dat make two grand dinner, and you and me is dere to eat ’em.”

Felix had now fairly caught the other’s meaning, and the two exploded in bursts of laughter.

“You have right to say so, General, and the observation do you great honor. And that is the reason I inspect that you are ’Peskypalian.”

“I surprise to hear you say so ob your olé friend,” said Primus, drawing himself up with an air of offended dignity. “No, sar, dat is not de reason. De reason I is ’Piscopalian is, ’cause I belong to de regulars.”

“I never hear tell the ’Peskypalians is more regulars than other folks,” said Felix.

“You is a young man (the difference in their ages might be half a dozen years), and cannot be ’spected to know ebbery ting. If you gib me your ’tention, I make it all plain as de road Gineral Washington show de British out ob de country. You see when I was in de army in de glorious war ob de Resolution, we say prayers sometime as well as you folks who stay at home, and don’t do none ob de fightin. And so when de drum beat, ebbery man must be at his post. Den come de chaplain all in his regimental, and put de book on de big drum, and kneel down, and Gineral Washington he kneel down, too, and de chaplain say some prayer dat sound like de roll ob de drum itself. O, it was so beautiful, and I always feel better arter-wards. Dere nebber was much uniform in de army, but what dere was, de regulars is entitle to it. I nebber tink de soger look just de ting widout de regimental. Now, look at de ’Piscopal minister in de pulpit, in de lily-white and de black gown. De fust is for white folks, and de oder out of respec’ for us colored pussons. Dey is his regimental. He look like a regular soger ob de Lord. But see de Presbyterian. He hab no uniform at all. He ony milishy officer.”

Felix, who, as in duty bound, was as zealous a Presbyterian (as the Congregationalists in New England were generally called) as Primus was an Episcopalian, was scandalized at such language. He half regretted having given the invitation to the dinner, and it is highly probable that, if he had heard General Ransome’s speech before, that gentleman would have so far talked himself out of his good graces (a misfortune that sometimes happens to extraordinary eloquence), as to have lost the object of his anxiety, and, like the nightingale in Cowper’s fable, have “sought his dinner somewhere else.” But Primus saw the gathering storm and hastened to avert its discharge.

“I hab great respec’,” he said, “for the milishy. Dey is excellent for skirmishing, and where ebbery man hab to fight on his own hook, but when it come to de hard fightin’ de regulars is de men to be depend on. And den,” added he, “dere is odder reasons: I like de exercise in de church better. I like dere taste, too, when dey ornaments de church wid greens at Christmas. It make de winter look kind o’ young and happy.”

Felix was easily propitiated. He might be offended with his comrade, but his anger could not last. It had passed away, before Primus had concluded his conciliatory remarks. In fact, the two cronies were too necessary to each other’s happiness to allow of a long quarrel, and for all Felix’s reverence for his master’s “meeting,” he was as placable as zealous, nor would the famous festival have been a genuine Thanksgiving without his old friend to help him to discuss its luxuries. They shook hands at parting, and Mr. Qui promised to present the complemens of the General to Miss Rosa.

As Felix pursued his way alone, having no one else to talk to, he gave himself the benefit of his conversation.

“That General,” he said, aloud, “is a wonderful man. I never respected him before of knowing how to read writin’. I don’t believe, after all, he does know how. But when he took the billets in his hand, he sort o’ give ’em a squint as if he knew all about it Who learned him? Perhaps he does and perhaps he doesn’t. I wonder, too, how he missed all the bullets he preaches about sometimes, with losing only one leg. I heard him say, fifty times, they come like an April shower. Now, if he had a hundred legs, it seems to me they ought all to be smashed. I ’spect, as I heard the doctor say once, he draws on the fact for his ’magination. But what can you ’spect, Felix, from a ’Peskypalian? They think so much of gitting up and setting down, as if there was religion in moving the legs. But let me see about the billets. Miss Faith told me to put the Bernards’ in this pocket, and the minister’s in this, and the doctor’s in this other one. Ah, all right! The doctor is a very curus person. I wonder what makes him talk so much about a man he calls Shakspeare. I heard him say he lived a great many years ago, I guess with Joshua and David, when there was so much fighting going on, and when they hadn’t no guns. Perhaps he was Goliah’s brother, who come out with shield and spear. Well, there is no sogers with spears now-a-days. It’s my opinion, give old Prime a loaded musket with a baggonet, and he’d do more work than Goliah and Shakspeare together, with their spears. But, here, I am near the Judge’s. Now, sir, mind your eye, and see that you maintain the spectability of the family”. Saying this, Felix drew himself up, adjusted his neckerchief, and strutted somewhat pompously into the yard of the Judge, whence he soon found his way into the kitchen. The invitations to the Bernards were in due form delivered, as were the others, and accepted.