On arriving at Brighton, we found the village thronged with people,
horses, and vehicles. Probably there is no place in New England where
the character of an agricultural population may be so well studied.
Almost all the farmers within a reasonable distance make it a point, I
suppose, to attend Brighton Fair pretty frequently, if not on business,
yet as amateurs. Then there are all the cattle-people and butchers who
supply the Boston market, and dealers from far and near; and every man
who has a cow or a yoke of oxen, whether to sell or buy, goes to Brighton
on Monday. There were a thousand or two of cattle in the extensive pens
belonging to the tavern-keeper, besides many that were standing about.
One could hardly stir a step without running upon the horns of one
dilemma or another, in the shape of ox, cow, bull, or ram. The yeomen
appeared to be more in their element than I have ever seen them anywhere
else, except, indeed, at labor,--more so than at musterings and such
gatherings of amusement. And yet this was a sort of festal day, as well
as a day of business. Most of the people were of a bulky make, with much
bone and muscle, and some good store of fat, as if they had lived on
flesh-diet; with mottled faces, too, hard and red, like those of persons
who adhered to the old fashion of spirit-drinking. Great, round-paunched
country squires were there too, sitting under the porch of the tavern, or
waddling about, whip in hand, discussing the points of the cattle. There
were also gentlemen-farmers, neatly, trimly, and fashionably dressed, in
handsome surtouts, and trousers strapped under their boots. Yeomen, too,
in their black or blue Sunday suits, cut by country tailors, and
awkwardly worn. Others (like myself) had on the blue stuff frocks which
they wear in the fields, the most comfortable garments that ever were
invented. Country loafers were among the throng,--men who looked
wistfully at the liquors in the bar, and waited for some friend to invite
them to drink,--poor, shabby, out-at-elbowed devils. Also, dandies from
the city, corseted and buckramed, who had come to see the humors of