Satanstoe; Or, the Littlepage Manuscripts. A Tale of the ColonyCooper, James Fenimore
General
Satanstoe; Or, the Littlepage Manuscripts. A Tale of the Colony
Cooper, James Fenimore
Antirent War, N.Y., 1839-1846 -- Fiction
[Footnote 17: Forty years ago, a gentleman in New York purchased a
considerable body of wild land, on the faith of the map. When he came
to examine his new property, it was found to be particularly wanting in
water-courses. The surveyor was sought, and rebuked for his deception, the
map having numerous streams, &c. “Why did you lay down all these streams
here, where none are to be found?” demanded the irritated purchaser,
pointing to the document. “Why?--Why who the d---l ever saw a map without
rivers?” was the answer. EDITOR.]
[Footnote 18: In nothing was the difference of character between the people
of New England, and those of the middle colonies, more apparent than in the
nature of the dwellings. In New York, for instance, men worth thousands
dwelt in humble, low, (usually one story) dwellings of stone, having
window-shutters, frequently within as well as without, and the other
appliances of comfort; whereas the farmer farther east, was seldom
satisfied, though his means were limited, unless he lived in a house as
good as his neighbour's; and the strife dotted the whole of their colonies
with wooden buildings, of great pretension for the age, that rarely
had even exterior shutters, and which frequently stood for generations
unfinished. The difference was not of Dutch origin, for it was just as
apparent in New Jersey or Pennsylvania as in New York, and I think it
may be attributed to a very obvious consequence of a general equality of
condition, a state of society in which no one is content to wear even the
semblance of poverty, but those who cannot by any means prevent it; but,
in which all strive to get as high as possible, in appearances at
least.--EDITOR.]
CHAPTER XI.
Bid physicians talk our veins to temper,
And with an argument new-set a pulse,
Then think, my lord, of reasoning unto love.
YOUNG.
As the road from the ferry into the town ran along the bank of the river,
we reached the point where the Rev. Mr. Worden had landed precisely at
the same instant with his pursuers, who had been obliged to make a little
circuit, in order to get off the ice. I do not know which party regarded
the other in the greatest astonishment,--the hunted, or the hunters. The
sleigh had in it two fine-looking young fellows, that spoke English with a
slight Dutch accent, and three young women, whose bright coal-black eyes
betokened surprise a little mitigated by a desire to laugh. Seeing that we
were all strangers, I suppose, and that we claimed the runaway as belonging
to our party, one of the young men raised his cap very respectfully, and
opened the discourse by asking in a very civil tone--
“What ails the reverent gentleman, to make him run so fast?”
“Run!” exclaimed Mr. Worden, whose lungs had been playing like a
blacksmith's bellows--“Run! and who would not run to save himself from
being drowned?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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