from A New Home–Who’ll Follow? or, Glimpses of Western Life (1839) — Chapter XLV
from A New Home–Who’ll Follow? or, Glimpses of Western Life (1839) — Chapter XLVII
from A New Home–Who’ll Follow? or, Glimpses of Western Life (1839)
by Caroline Kirkland (AKA Mary Clavers)
CHAPTER XLVII.
Why, then, a final note prolong, Or lengthen out a closing song?
The growth of our little secluded village has been so gradual, its prosperity so moderate, and its attempts so unambitious, that during the whole three years which have flown since it knew ‘the magic of a name,’ not a single event has occurred which would have been deemed worthy of record by any one but a midge-fancier like myself. Our brief annals boast not yet one page, enlivened by those attractive words, ‘prodigious undertaking!’ brilliant success!’ ‘splendid fortune!’ ‘race of enterprise!’ ‘march of improvement!’ ‘cultivation of taste!’ ‘triumph of art!’ ‘design by Vitruvius!’ ‘unequalled dome!’ ‘pinnacle of glory!’ Alas! the mere enumeration of these magnificent expressions makes our insignificance seem doubly insignificant! like the joke of our school-days—‘Soared aloft on eagles’ wings—then fell flat down, on father’s wood-pile.’ Irredeemably little are we; unless, which Heaven forefend! a rail-road stray our way. We must content ourselves with grinding the grists, trimming the bonnets, mending the ploughs, and schooling the children, of a goodly expanse of wheat-fields, with such other odd jobs as may come within the abilities of our various Jacks-of-all-trades. We cannot be metropolitan, even in our dreams; for Turnipdale has secured the County honors. We cannot hope to be literary; for all the colleges which are to be tolerated in Michigan, are already located. The State-Prison favors Jacksonsburg; the salt-works some undistinguished place at the north-east; what is left for Montacute?
Alas for Tinkerville! less happy under the cruel blight of her towering hopes, than we in our humble notelessness She rose like a rocket, only to fall like its stick; and baleful were the stars that signalized her explosion. Mournful indeed are the closed windows of her porticoed edifices. The only pleasurable thought which arises in my mind at the mention of her name, is that connected with her whilome president. Mrs. Rivers is coming to spend the summer with Mrs. Daker, while Mr. Rivers departs for Texas with two or three semblables, to attempt the carving out of a new home, where he need not ‘work.’ I shall have my gentle friend again; and her life will not lack interest, for she brings with her a drooping, delicate baby, to borrow health from the sunny skies and soft breezes of Michigan.
The Female Beneficent Society grows, by dire experience, chary of news. The only novel idea broached at our last meeting, was that of a nascent tendresse between Mrs Nippers and Mr. Phlatt, a young lawyer, whose resplendent ‘tin,’ graces, within the last month, the side-post of Squire Jenkins’s door. I have my doubts. This is one of the cases wherein much may be said on both sides. Mr. Phlatt is certai