Uncommonly Common Schools.—Annual School District Meeting.—Accounts for Contingent Expenses.—Turtle and Old Gulick's Boy.—"That are Glass."—The Colonel starts the Wheels again.—Bulliphant's Tactics.—Have we hired "Deacon Fluett's Darter," or not?—Isabel Strickett.—Bunker Hill and Turkey.—Sah-Jane Beagles.—The Question settled.
Uncommonly Common Schools.—Annual School District Meeting.—Accounts for Contingent Expenses.—Turtle and Old Gulick's Boy.—"That are Glass."—The Colonel starts the Wheels again.—Bulliphant's Tactics.—Have we hired "Deacon Fluett's Darter," or not?—Isabel Strickett.—Bunker Hill and Turkey.—Sah-Jane Beagles.—The Question settled.
Common schools are said to be the engine of popular liberty. I think we had some of the mostun-commonly common schools, at Puddleford, that could be found anywhere under the wings of the American eagle. Our system was, of course, the same as that of all other townships in the state, but its administration was not in all respects what it should be. Our schools were managed by Puddlefordians, and they were responsible only for the talent which had been given them. Every citizen knows that our government is a piece of mechanism, made up of wheels within wheels, and while these wheels are in one sense totally independent, and stand still or turn as they are moved or let alone, yet they may indirectly affect the whole. In other words, our government is like a cluster of Chinese balls, curiously wrought within, and detached from each other, and yet it is, after all, but one ball. There is something beautiful in the construction and operation of this piece of machinery. A school district is one machine, a township another, a countyanother, and a state another—all independent organizations, yet every community must work its own organization. They are not operated afar off by some great central power, over the heads of the people; but they are workedbythe people themselves, for themselves.
However clumsily the work may be performed at first, practice makes perfect, and men become the masters, as well as the administrators of their own laws.
We had an annual school district meeting in the village of Puddleford—and there were many others in the country at the same time—for the township was cut up into several districts, and I never attended one that did not end in a "row," to use a western classical expression. The business of these meetings was all prescribed by statute, and it amounted to settling and allowing the accounts of the board for the last school year, voting contingent fund for the next, determining whether a school should be taught by a male or a female teacher, and for how many months, and the election of new officers.
The last meeting I attended, Longbow was in the chair by virtue of his office as president of the school district board. Being organized, the clerk of the board presented his account for contingent expenses, and Longbow wished to know "if the meetin' would pass 'em."
Turtle "wanted to hear 'em read."
Longbow said "the only account they had was in their head."
Turtle said "that warn't 'cordin' to the staterts."
Longbow said "he'd risk that—his word was as good as anybody's writin', or any statert."
Turtle said "he'd hear what they was, but 'twarn'tright, and for his part, he didn't b'lieve the board know'd what they'd been about for the last six months."
Longbow raised his green shade from his blind eye, rose on his feet, looked down very ferociously upon Turtle, stamped his foot, and informed Ike "that this was an org'nized meetin', and he mustn't reflect on-ter the officers of thede-strict; 'twas criminal!"
The account was then repeated by Longbow, item by item, and among the rest was two shillings for setting glass.
When glass was mentioned, Turtle sprang to his feet again. "Thar, old man," he exclaimed, rapping his knuckles on the desk, "thar's where I'se got you—thar's a breach er trust, a squand'rin' of funds, that ain't a-going to go down in this ere meetin'. Old Gulick's boy broke that are glass just out of sheer dev'ltry, and you s'pose this ere schoolde-strict is a-goin' to pay for't? What do you s'pose these ere staterts was passed for? What do you s'pose you was 'lected for? To pay for old Gulick's boy?—Well, I rather caklate not, by the light of this ere moon—not in this ere age of Puddleford."
Squire Longbow took a large chew of plug-tobacco, which I thought he nipped off very short, and remained standing, with his eyes fixed on Turtle.
Sile Bates rose, and said "he wanted to know the particulars 'bout that are glass."
Longbow said "the board 'spended money in their 'scretion, and 'twarn't fur Turtle or Bates, or anybody else, to 'raign 'em up 'fore this 'ere meetin'."
Here was a long pause. The "Colonel" finally arose, put his hand deliberately into his pocket, drew out a quarter, and flung it at the Squire, and "hop'd the meetin'would go on, as it was the first public gathering that he ever knew blocked by twenty-five cents."
This settled the difficulty, and the report for contingent expenses was adopted.
Bulliphant then said he had a motion. He "moved that we hire Deacon Fluett's darter to keep our school."
The Squire said "the meetin' couldn't hire, but it could say male or female teacher."
Bulliphant "moved we hire a female, and we recommend Deacon Fluett's darter."
Bates said "he jest as 'lieve have one of Fluett's two-year olds."
The "Colonel" said "she couldn't spell Baker."
Swipes thought "she was scarcely fit togoto school."
Turtle said "the meetin' hadn't got nothin' to do with it, nohow, and the whole motion was agin law."
Bulliphant, who had become a little out of humor, then "moved that we don't hire Deacon Fluett's darter."
Bates declared "the motion out of order."
The Squire said "he guess'd the motion was proper. The staterts said the meetin' shouldn't hire anybody, but the de-strict board should; and this ere motion was jest 'cordin' to statert."
But the meeting voted down Bulliphant's motion, and Bulliphant then declared that the vote was "tan-ter-mount to a resolve to hire the woman."
Here was a parliamentary entanglement that occupied an hour; but the "Colonel" settled it at last, by reminding the president "that it wastwonegatives that made one affirmative—not one;" and the Squire said "so he believed he had seen it laid down inter the books."
But I cannot attempt to report the proceedings of thismiscellaneous body. The business occupied some four or five hours, and was finally brought to a close. A new school board was elected, and your humble servant was one of the number; positively the first office that was ever visited upon him.
The great question with two of the members of our board, in hiring a teacher, was the price. Qualification was secondary. The first application was made by a long-armed, red-necked, fiery-headed youth of about nineteen years, who had managed to run himself up into the world about six feet two inches, and who had not worn off his flesh by hard study, and who carried about him digestive organs as strong as the bowels of a thrashing-machine. He "wanted a school, 'cause he had nothing else to do in the winter months."
He was accordingly introduced to our School Inspectors; the only one of whom I knew was Bates. The other two were rather more frightened at the presentation than the applicant himself.
Bates proposed first to try the gentleman in geography and history. "Where's Bunker Hill?" inquired Bates, authoritatively.
"Wal, 'bout that," said Strickett—our applicant called his name Izabel Strickett—"'bout that, why, it's where the battle was fit, warn't it?"
"Jes so," replied Bates; "and where was that?"
"Down at the east'ard."
"Who did the fightin' there?"
"Gin'rul Washington fit all the revolution."
"Where's Spain?"
"Where?" repeated Strickett—"Spain? where is it?"
"Yes! where?"
JIM BUZZARD AND THE AGER. "Them 'ere doctors don't get any of their stuff down my throat. If I can't stand it as long as the ager, then I'll give in."—Page 186.JIM BUZZARD AND THE AGER."Them 'ere doctors don't get any of their stuff down my throat. If I can't stand it as long as the ager, then I'll give in."—Page 186.
"Wal, now," exclaimed Strickett, looking steadily on the floor, "I'll be darn'd if that ere hain't just slipped my mind."
"Where's Turkey?"
"O, yes," said Strickett, "Turkey—the place theycallTurkey—if you'd ask'd me in the street, I'd told you right off, but I've got so fruster'd I don't know nothin';" and thinking a moment, he exclaimed, "it's where the Turks live. I thought I know'd."
"How many States are there in the Union?"
"'Tween twenty-live and thirty—throwin' out Canady."
Bates then attempted an examination in reading and spelling. "Spell hos!" said Bates.
"H—o—s."
"Thunder!" roared Bates. Batesdidknow how to spell horse. He had seen notices of stray horses, and a horse was the most conspicuous object in Puddleford, excepting, of course, Squire Longbow. "H—o—s! that's a hos-of-a-way to spell hos!" and Bates looked at Strickett very severely, feeling a pride of his own knowledge.
Strickett said "he us'd the book when he teach'd school—he didn't teach out of his head—and he didn't believe the 'spectors themselves could spell Ompompanoosuck right off, without getting stuck."
Izabel's examination was something after this sort, through the several English branches; yet a majority of the Board of School Inspectors decided to give him a certificate, if we said so, as he was to teach our school, and we were more interested than they in his qualifications; and whether the Inspectors knew what his qualificationsreally were, "this deponent saith not." Strickett "sloped."
The next application was by letter. The epistle declared that the applicant "brok'd his arm inter a saw-mill, and he couldn't do much out-door work till it heal'd up agin, and if we'd hire him to carry on our school, he tho't he would make it go well 'nough,"—but the School Board decided that all-powerful as sympathy might be, it could scarcely drive a district school under such orthography, syntax, and prosody.
Next appeared Mrs. Beagle, in behalf of her "Sah-Jane." "She know'd Sah-Jane, and she know'd Sah-Jane was jist the thing for the Puddleford school; and if we only know'd Sah-Jane as well as she know'd Sah-Jane, we'd have her, cost what it might." She said "Sah-Jane was a most s'prisin' gal—she hung right to her books, dayandnight—and she know'd she had a sleight at teachin'. Mr. Giblett's folks told Mr. Brown's folks, so she heer'd, that if they everdidget Sah-Jane into that ere school, she'd make a buzzin' that would tell some."
Sah-Jane's case was, however, indefinitely postponed. Some objections, among other things, on the score of age, were suggested. This roused the wrath of Mrs. Beagle, and she "guessed her Sah-Jane was old enough to teach a Puddleford school—if she tho't she warn't, she'd bile her up in-ter soap-grease, and sell her for a shillin' a quart!—and as for thede-strict board, they'd better go to a school-marm themselves, and larn somethin', or be 'lected over agin, she didn't care which;" and Mrs. Beagle left at a very quick step, her face much flushed and full of cayenne and vengeance.
There were a great many more applications, and at last the board hired—I say theboard—Ididn't. But the other members overruled me, and price, not qualification, settled the question at last.
This was the way the machinery was worked in our school district, during the very early days of Puddleford. As the stream never rises above the fountain-head, education was quite feeble. But we do better now—there is less friction on our gudgeons, and if Puddleford should turn out a President one of these days, it would be nothing more than what our glorious institutions have before "ground out" under more discouraging circumstances.
Venison Styles again.—Sermon on Nature.—Funeral Songs of the Birds.—Their Flight and Return.—His Theory of Government.—Sakoset.—The Indians.
Venison Styles again.—Sermon on Nature.—Funeral Songs of the Birds.—Their Flight and Return.—His Theory of Government.—Sakoset.—The Indians.
Venison Styles, rough and rugged as he was, had acquired much knowledge in a wild way, and could, in that way, stagger a philosopher. No man had a nicer insight into nature. Birds and brooks, hills and valleys, trees and flowers, were all his study. He had no faith in science, except just so far as it came within his own experience. "Book larnin'," he said, "was all very well; but lookin' natur' in the face, and listening to what she said, was a deal better." I remember one of his sermons, which he delivered to me one bright October afternoon, when the woods were all russet and gold, the squirrels chattering in the trees, the nuts dropping, the partridges whirring and drumming, and the soft autumnal light was faintly struggling along the aisles of the forest. "You see," said Venison, "how all natur' is talkin', and if you will only listen, can tell enymost what she says. There," he continued, "just hear that robin pecking away on that ere coke bush. Hear him pipe away so melancholy-like—'All goin'! all goin'!' he says. How low and fine that yaller-bird sings—a kinder fun'ral song. The jay is sad-like, and acts just asthough he felt winter comin'. That crow, sailin' through the air, croaks awful gloomy-like and holler—and all these ere crickets and insects jine in so sad and downcast. 'Tain't their spring song. They are down onter another key now. They begin to feel frost inter their bones. They know what's comin'."
"Know!" said I; "what do birds know about winter, till it comes." I wanted to draw the old philosopher out.
"Know! know!" continued Venison. "Birds think and talk—yes, they do—theyknow. I've heerd 'em talk to one another, from tree-top to tree-top, across these woods many a time—lay plans many a day. What makes 'em flockin' around us to-day, and soarin' around in companies, if they don't understand each other? They go round and round for a week or two, visit this wood and that, jabber, and fret, and fume, pick up a straggler here, 'nother there, and when they get a good ready, and are flock'd, off they go, travellin' south. Hain't they got col'nels, captins, and laws?—they are jest as much of a body as our school de-strict is, and every bird knows what he is about, what he is going to do, and how, too."
"Why don't all the blackbirds go into one flock, Venison?" said I.
"There 'tis! there 'tis!" replied Venison; "if 'twas all chance, they would. But it jest ain't chance. Natur' has 'lowed them to fix it. There," he continued, "goes a flock now—they've got a captin among 'em, leading 'em on—he knows every one under him—and they are jest around visitin' their friends before goin' off—that's all."
"Do you think they will come back again, Venison?" I inquired.
"Back again! back again!" he exclaimed, looking up to me with surprise. "Why, man, this is their home—they were born 'here. This is their ground, hereabouts. They know every tree, and mash, and river for miles 'round. You'll hear 'em chatterin' and gabblin' by next April 'gain."
"Doubtful," I replied.
"Well, now," said Venison, "I've tried that. Down to where I live, the blackbirds and robins are thick as spatter. They make it all ring round me. I caught a dozen or more of each in a net one fall, cut off one toe all round, and let 'em go. Jim Spikes bet they wouldn't come back; I bet they would. I wanted to try it, you see. When spring came on again there the fellers were, sure enough, or most on 'em, on hand, ready for summer's business again. Jim gin in—he did."
"I should think they would stray away, Venison," said I.
"Don't you believe in a God!" broke out Venison, in an animated tone. "When He made 'em, He put a compass inter their heads that can't get out of fix, and they run jest as straight by it as my dog does by his nose—and a dog's nose ishiscompass, you know."
This was a quaint, but a very pointed way, of illustrating a law of nature. Venison was a quaint man, and drove at a conclusion frequently cross lots, by some startling figure of speech.
"And I've got an idee," continued Venison, "an idee—I don't put it down as fact—that birds know one another, jest as we do—remember each other from y'arto y'ar—how they sang together last y'ar and every y'ar in the shadows and sunshine of this old wood, and nested and raised their young 'uns together—and they kinder bid good by to one 'nother when they go off in the fall, and say How are you? when spring comes on—and may be they have their likes and dislikes, and old grudges to bring up agin—for there is a world of human natur' in 'em—a world on't—it is only an idee—can't say—but I believe it—but,"—and the old hunter turned round with a sad look,—"they won't roam round here much longer; the big trees are tumblin'; the old seventy-sixers are enymost gone; morn'er twenty y'ars ago they were mighty noisy up in that ar oak (he pointed to an enormous oak stump), but the varmints heeved it down, and made it inter lumber—the old tree that liv'd and rock'd in the storms five hundred years, I reckon; the bees and birds all knew it, and jest hung around it 'cause they lov'd it. I have had many a good shot from it. I heerd it crash when it came down—felt it, I did—feel it yet—the varmints."
"But," said I, with an effort to turn the current of the old man's thoughts, "you really believe that birds have their captains and colonels, and all that, do you?"
"Yes, sir! and mor'n that; kings and queens, for aught I know. It's a king that leads the ducks in their flight, ain't it? Hain't you heer'd him blow his horn, away in the sky, as he led 'em on up the rivers and takes? Don't the bees have their queen?"
Venison launched forth in his peculiar style on the theory of government, despotic and republican—maintained that God "hadn't any republics" in his kingdom—"all on 'em kings and queens—nobody was 'lectedthere—all on 'em were made from the beginning to rule and reign over their subjects." He maintained that as God was almighty, so he put almighty power in the rulers of the kingdoms under him. Therefore—such was his argument—"man orter be governed by man"—not by the voice of the people, but by a sovereign higher than himself. His arguments and language were home-made, but his ideas were brought out with great point and force.
I had long known that Venison was well posted on the trees and shrubs, flowers, and even the weeds. Nothing that he had ever observed had failed him. Probably he never read a book on the subject in his life, that is, if he could read. The familiar names of all creation were understood by him, and he had his own theories about everything animate and inanimate. I started him off on this subject. I called his attention to the oak over which he shed a tear, and by degrees drew him along to the time when the axe and the plough would change the whole face of the country around us into hamlets, green pastures, and waving fields of grain. The old man looked solemn. The subject was not pleasant to him—he heaved a sigh, and said, finally, "'Tis all the same! 'tis all the same with me! I shall be under the ground then! I don't wanter live to see it."
He rallied, and went on—"They've enymost spilt it now. When I was young, I could see a deer a mile away—no underbrush to shade my rifle. The deer, too, look'd grander like, somehow, than they do now. They had a freedom in 'em. They seemed to know the woods was theirs. They kinder go sneakin' round now, as though some critter was arter 'em. This stream wasfilled with ducks, flappin' their wings, and washin' themselves; and many a time I've heer'd 'em, jest as the sun was a-settin', talkin' to themselves, and gettin' ready to go to bed. But the settlers came in, dammed the river, and down came the sawdust, and it roar'd and rattled 'em all away. The partridges used to drum and drum in the still afternoon, and whirr about—and they are gone, too. I don't believe natur' likes to be disturbed. She sorter rebels agin the plough at first. She allers sends up coke and bramble when the furrows are first made—fights it as well as she can, till they get her under, and put her inter what they call crops. The Lord made the airth well enough to begin with. He knew what we wanted. He gave us airth and sky, woods and water—birds and fish to eat—and it all rais'd itself, and enough on't, too. This thing they call civ'lation is right agin natur'. It makes poor young men and wim'in'. They hain't got no stuff in 'em—they can't do anythin'—they are peepin' round, full of pain of every sort—full of rheumatiz, agers, janders, and all sorter ails. I've gone morn'er twenty miles a day, loaded with game, and not a tired hair in me—can do it agin." And thus Venison preached, too much and too long for me to record in full.
Venison continued, and declared that "there was enough of everything just as it was." He attempted to show that there were seeds of life deep in the earth, planted there from the beginning, that came forth in due time, and replenished the earth. He never "see'd any coke till they ploughed a furrow, and built that ere rail fence"—"and down in that ere breakin' (which I saw had been neglected, and was overgrown heavily), theblackberries and ten thousand other things were comin' up." He said he "would jest like to know where all that seed had been lyin' since the world was made—how long it would have laid, he'd jest like ter know, if that ere plough hadn't stirred up the sile." And thus he attempted to illustrate his theory of vegetation.
"Not only the trees, but the Injuns were goin'. 'Tain't as 'twas with 'em when they went a-whoopin' around among the streams and woods. I've see'd mor'n nor forty canoes sailing away here on this river at on'st—and then we had raal Injuns—tall, six-foot fellers, with eyes like the eagle. But they, too, are pinin' out like. The white man, and the white man's ways, and the white man's drink, has taken all the tuck out on 'em. They know, what are left on 'em, that they ain't raal Injuns any more. They don't whoop any more. They hang about the towns a while, and get full of pizen, and then slink away silently inter the forest again. Sometimes, when huntin' season comes on, they fire up, and chase the game, but it is kinder melancholy, after all—like a flame jest spirtin' out a minute from a charr'd and half-burning log. There's old Sakoset (I've known him enymost on to forty years), was jest as much of a king, and had jest as much of a throne, as old George Third ever had. He lov'd his tribe, and they lov'd him. His word was law. These were all his grounds for a hundred miles round. I know it warn't mark'd off into counties, townships, and school de-stricts. They didn't have any place to file away papers, nor didn't write everythin' they did in books—but they had their laws jest as well, all written down inter their heads; and they knew their history—they had, what white men call their traditions—theyknew all about their fathers and grandfathers, and great-great-grandfathers—and old Sakoset was their chief. He was six feet three inches by measure, and as straight as that 'ere hickory. He was knit all over as tight as an oak. He was as hansome as a picter, and I've seen him in council, when I tho't he was the noblest lookin' mortal on this airth. And there warn't no man, no gov'ment (Venison grew excited here) that had as good a right to these 'ere grounds as Sakoset. God gave 'em to him, and the white man stole 'em away, stole 'em, sir!—stole 'em. Yes, sir! they passed a law that they should be removed 'yond the 'Sippi—gave 'em huntin' grounds, as they call 'em—drove 'em together like scar'd sheep, and forc'd 'em away from their own sile. But old Sakoset didn't like his new home, wouldn't stay, and he and a few of his tribe straggled back here agin, and now wander round these woods. But he ain't the same man any more; he's all broke down like; 'tain't the same place to him, he says. The stream winds round the hill yet, and the mountain is there, but the forest is mostly down, and the white man is everywhere. Sakoset says but little; goes round dreamin'-like; hangs about alone in the woods, a-thinkin', and sees in his mind his tribe all before him as it was when he was king over them on these grounds. I saw him a few days ago up in the Injun buryin'-ground sittin' so still, I first tho't he was a monerment somebody had put up—but 'twas Sakoset."
Venison was here attracted by the roar of a gun, and a deer rushed past, breaking his discourse, and we both followed the hunter and the hunted, to see how the chase would end—saw the deer plunge into the river, the dogs after him, and I watched them until they floated away around the bend beyond my sight.
Some Account of John Smith.—Nicknames.—Progress of the Age.—The Colonel's Opinion of Science.—John Smith's Dream.—Ike Turtle's Dream.—Ike takes the Boots.
Some Account of John Smith.—Nicknames.—Progress of the Age.—The Colonel's Opinion of Science.—John Smith's Dream.—Ike Turtle's Dream.—Ike takes the Boots.
Pioneers—men who grow up in the woods—are famous for luxuriant imaginations. Everything, with them, is on a sweeping scale with the natural objects amid which they dwell. The rivers, and lakes, and plains are great, and seem to run riot—so men sometimes run riot too, in thought, and word, and deed. They deal largely in the extravagant, and do extravagant things in an extravagant way.
I have seen a rusty pioneer, when giving his opinion upon some trite matter, garnish his language with imagery and figures, and clothe himself with an action, that Demosthenes would have copied, if he had met with such in his day. Gestures all graceful, eye all fire, language rough, but strong, and an enthusiasm that was magnetic—a kind of unpremeditated natural eloquence, that many a one has sought for, but never found.
John Smith was an ingenious Puddlefordian in the way of story-telling. He was almost equal to Ike Turtle. John was a great, stalwart, double-breasted fellow, who cared for nothing, not even himself; a compound made up of dare-devil ferocity, benevolence, and impudence.His feelings, whether of the higher or lower order, always ran to excess. He was an importation from Massachusetts, of fair education, and, from his recklessness of life, had drifted into Puddleford, like many other tempest-tossed vessels, stripped of spars and rigging. Smith's fancy and imagination were always at work. He had nicknamed two thirds of Puddleford, and there was something characteristic in the appellations bestowed. One small-eyed man, he called "Pink-Eye;" another, a bustling fellow, who made a very great noise on a very small capital, was known as "Bumble-bee;" another, a long-shanked, loose-jointed character, was "Giraffe;" Squire Longbow he christened "Old Night-Shade." Turtle was known as "Sky-Rocket;" Bates as "Little Coke;" the Colonel as "Puff-Ball." Indeed, not one man in twenty was recognized by his true name, so completely had Smith invested the people with titles of his own manufacture.
I recollect one of Smith's flights of imagination—one among many—for I cannot write out all his mental productions.
The Puddlefordians were met, as usual, at Bulliphant's. That was the place, we have seen, where all public opinion was created. Turtle, and Longbow, and Bates, and the whole roll, even down to Jim Buzzard, were present. The progress of the age was the subject.
Turtle thought "there was no cac'latin' what things would come to—steam and ingin-rubber were runnin' one etarnal race, and he guess'd they'd lay all opposition to the land, and bring on the millennium."
Bates said "the sciences were doin' sunthin', butthey'dnever make anybody better—human natur' wasso shockin' wicked, that it would require a heap mor'n injin-rubber torejuvify'em."
Mr. Longbow requested Bates "to repeat that 'ere last word agin."
Bates said "it was 'rejuvify'—that is, 'drag out,' 'resurrect.'"
The Squire thanked Bates for his explanation.
The Colonel said there was such a thing as too much science. He professed to have lived a scientific life—that is, without work—but all the while he found some one a little more scientific, and he had never been able to hold his own anywhere. He had been stranded fourteen times in his life, owing to a press of science brought against him; but the most destructive science in the known world was that for the collection of debts. It deprived men of their liberty, their comforts, their property, their friends; and the manner in which this was all done was barbarous. He defied any man to produce as cool-blooded a thing as an execution at law, which was a branch of legal science.
Squire Longbow said—"Afiery facius(fieri facias) was one of the most ancientest writs which he issued, and there warn't nothin' cool-blooded or ramptious about it."
Mr. Smith sat silently up to this point in the debate. "Boys," said he, at last, "the world is goin' ahead. Talkin' of science, let me tell you a dream I had last night." But, if the reader will permit me, I will give the substance of Smith's dream in my own language. It may detract from its point, but it will be more connected and intelligible.
"I dreamed, boys," said Smith, "that I was in the great Patent Office, at Washington. I looked, and itsceiling was raised to an enormous height, while through open doors and passages I saw room after room groaning with thousands of models, until it appeared as though I was in a wilderness of machinery. Very soon a pert little gentleman, with a quick black eye, and a 'pussy' body, arrayed in the queerest costume I ever saw, came bustling up to me, and asked me for my ticket. I involuntarily thrust my hand into the depths of my breeches-pocket, and pulling out a card, delivered it to him. After looking at the card, and then at me, and then at the card again, he burst out into a loud guffaw, that made the old Patent-Office ring. 'Why, sir,' said he, 'thisis no ticket. It is the business card of one John Smith, advertising a patent dog-churn, of which he here says he is the real inventor, and it bears date in the year 1840—two hundred years ago! The churn may be found in room marked "Inventions of Year 1840," but the man John Smith we haven't got. I don't much think he is around above ground, just at this time," said the little man, chuckling. 'But,' said I, 'who are you, if I am not John Smith? Were you not appointed by Polk, Secretary of the Interior, and did I not put a word in his ear favorable to you?' 'Polk, a Secretary of the Interior!' exclaimed he; 'I appointed by Polk! Why, my dear sir, I was appointed only two years ago—not two hundred!—"Chief of the Great Central Department," as the office is now called.'
"While we were talking, Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, and Fulton, walked in and took seats. I knew Uncle Ben the moment I cast my eyes upon him. He was dressed in good old '76 style;—shoe-buckles, short breeches, queue, and all; and that same jolly, round face,and double chin, that tranquil countenance just touched, without being destroyed, by comedy—were all there. Adams and Jefferson I had before seen, and they were a little more modern in dress, but they both looked care-worn. Fulton sat apart, and eyed the other three as though he had seen them somewhere, but yet could not call them by name.
"The rather unexpected arrival of these gentlemen broke up the comments of my bustling interrogator, and one of those pauses occurred which frequently do upon the appearance of strangers. Uncle Ben asked Jefferson if he would 'not like to move up to the fire and warm his feet?' 'Fire!' said I, 'fire. Why, Uncle Ben, there is no fireplace now-a-days. Stoves and hot-air furnaces are all the go. This building is warmed by a great furnace, and two miles of pipe that conducts the heat to every room in it.' 'Not by a long way,' said my bustling friend—'not by a long way, Mr. John Smith. This trumpery is all piled away among the inventions of the years that were. These things belong to the age of your dog-churn. Why, gentlemen,' continued he, 'have you never heard of the Great Southern Hot-Air Company, chartered in 1960, whose business it is to furnish warm air from the South to persons at the North; price to families three dollars a year; all done by a gigantic underground tunnel, and branches, worked at the other end by an air-pump! Have you never heard ofthis, gentlemen? Here we get the natural heat of the South, warmed by the sun; none of your stinking coal and wood gases to corrupt and destroy it. And then the principle of reciprocity is kept up; for we send back our cold air in the same way; and so we keep up an equilibrium, for theSouth are just as strenuous as ever to keep up the equilibrium of the Union. Why, gentlemen, those stoves required constant care. As often as every week it was necessary to replenish them with wood or coal. No! no!—those improvements belonged to the dark ages."
"Bless me!" exclaimed Uncle Ben. "Impossible!" repeated Fulton. "And so you don't use the old 'Franklin' stove any more?" said Uncle Ben. "Perhaps," he continued, a quiet smile playing over his face, as if he intended a comical shot, "perhaps you don't use lightning now-a-days either, and my lightning-rods, of course, belong to the dark ages too!"
"We have the lightning, and use it too, but only one rod, built by the state, near its centre, which is so colossal and powerful that it protects everything around it." And then the little fellow rattled on about theuseof lightning; how it wrote all over the world the English language, until I verily believe that Uncle Ben, Fulton, and all, set him down as the most unscrupulous liar that they had ever met with.
"I think," said Uncle Ben, "that I could convince myself of the truth of your assertions, if I could go to Boston; but as my time is very limited, I cannot."
"Send you there in five minutes by the watch!" answered the little man; "or, if that's too soon, in twenty-four hours. It requires powerful lungs to go by balloon—time five minutes—departure every half hour. The magnetic railway train will take you through in four hours, or on the old-fashioned railroad in twenty-four." "What," said Uncle Ben, "is the old stage company entirely broken up?" "Don't know what you mean by stages," said the little man, "but I will look for the wordin the big dictionary." "Go by steamboat," said Fulton. "Steamboat!" repeated the little man,—"steamboat! too everlasting slow—not over twenty-five miles an hour—well enough for freight, but passengers cannot endure them; they go laboring and splashing along at a snail's pace, and they are enough to wear out any man's patience. Yet the steamboat was the greatest stride ever made at any one time in the way of locomotion, and was very creditable to Fulton and the age in which he lived." "That is admitting something," burst out Fulton, who had sat like a statue, watching the little man's volubility. "But," said Uncle Ben, "all this talk don't get me on my way to Boston. That is my birthplace. I was there for the last time in 1763, and you know that, according to the provisions of my will, there is more than four million pounds sterling of my money which has by this time been disposed of by the state somehow." Uncle Ben was always a shrewd fellow in the way of dollars and cents, and I could see he was very anxious about that money. "Oho! oho!" said the little man; "so you are Ben Franklin, and you are the old gentleman who left that legacy. We've got a portrait of you up-stairs, more than two hundred years old, and itdoeslook like you. Glad to see you! You said something in your life-time about immersing yourself in a cask of Madeira wine with a few friends, and coming to the world in a hundred years again. These are your friends, I suppose?" "These gentlemen," replied Uncle Ben, "are John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, signers of the Declaration of Independence." "The other gentleman," continued I, "is Robert Fulton, whom you have spoken of." "Well, I declare!" ejaculated the little man, "thisisa meeting! But aboutthat legacy, Uncle Ben, of yours; two million sterling of it has gone to build the Gutta Percha Magnetic Telegraph line, connecting Boston with London and Paris, two of the largest cities in the Eastern Republic of Europe." "Gutta Percha!—Magnetic telegraph!—Republicof Europe!"—repeated all of them. "All built under water, and sustained by buoys," continued the little man, "and it works to a charm—plan up-stairs in room 204—and can be seen in a moment; and, as I told you before, it writes the English language as fast as my deputy." "Republic of Europe!" exclaimed Jefferson, again. "Yes, sir," said the little man, "for more than a century. No more thrones; no more rulers by divine right; no more governments sustained by powder and ball; no lords nor nobles; man isman, not merely one of aclassof men, butindividuallyman, with rights as perfect and powers as great as any other man. The principles, Jefferson, of your Declaration, which you did not create, but only asserted, have prostrated every arbitrary government on the globe. Even the Jews, since their return to Jerusalem, have organized a republican form of government, and have just elected Mr. Noah President." "Well," thinks I to myself, "that can't beMordecia M.Noah, anyhow, for politics must have used up his constitution before this." But the little man chattered away, and declared that Europe was divided into two republics, the Eastern and Western; that Constantinople was the capital of the Western; that Africa and Asia were also republican; until the three signers of the Declaration, perfectly wrought up to a frenzy of joy, rose up from their seats, took off their hats, and swinging them round, gave "Three cheers for '76, and theold Army of the Revolution!"—and I verily believe Uncle Ben forgot all about that money, and about going to Boston, for he did not allude to it any more in my presence.
"Great changes these!" continued the little man, "from your days. But you must not think, gentlemen, that we have forgotten you or your services, while we have improved in wisdom and strength. Look here, gentlemen," and he motioned us away, and, leading on, he conducted us to an observatory on the top of the building. Such a prospect I never before beheld. Away, around, on every side, stretched a mighty city, whose limits the eye could not reach. Towers, temples, spires, and masts succeeded towers, temples, spires, and masts, until they were lost in the distant haze. Canals traversed every street, and boats of merchandise were loading and unloading their freights. Steam-carriages were puffing along the roads that ran by the canal, some filled with pleasure parties, and some laden with goods. Turning my eye to an elevation, I saw fifty-six gigantic monuments, whose peaks were nearly lost in the sky, ranged in a line, all alike in form and sculpture. "These," said the little man, "were erected to the Signers of the Declaration of Independence;" and, taking out his telescope, he handed it to Uncle Ben, who read aloud among the inscriptions the names,Franklin,Jefferson,Adams. "But let us know what this city is called?" inquired Jefferson. "This, sir, is calledColumbiana; it lies on the west bank of the Mississippi, population five millions, according to the last census." "But what supports it?" "Supports it! The great East India trade. That vessel down there is direct from Canton, by ship canal across the Isthmus. All Europe is secondary to us now. Nodoubling capes, as was done inyourday. Yonder stands the Capitol; and the whole North American continent is annually represented there. The city of San Francisco alone sends forty-four members. There," continued he, pointing his finger, "that balloon rising slowly in the sky has just started for that place, and the passengers will take their dinner there to-morrow."
Jefferson asked the little man "whether the Federalists or Democrats were in power?"—and I saw that Adams waked up when he heard the question. "Don't know any such division," replied he. "The great measure of the day, upon which parties are divided, is the purchase of the South American continent at five hundred millions of dollars. I go for it; and before another year the bargain will be consummated. Wemusthave more territory—we haven't got half enough. Extent of territory gives a nation dignity and importance. The old thirteen states of your day, gentlemen, were a mere cabbage patch, and should have been consolidated into one state. Ten or twenty days' sail ran you plump into a hostile port, and then you had a demand for duty. Besides, conflicting interests always brew up difficulties; and then come treaties, and finally war, and then debt, and at last oppressive taxation. A nation should own all the territory that joins it. The ocean is the only natural boundary for a people." Thinks I, "You have been a politician in your day, and I'll just engage you to correspond with a certain New York editor, who shall be nameless; you strike off the doctrine boldly!"
Uncle Ben told the little man, after he closed, that a nation might "get so very ripe as to become a little rotten; and, if he had no objection, he would present himwith the 'Sayings of Poor Richard.'" And, suiting the action to the word, he pushed his hand into his breeches-pocket, and pulled out an old almanac, printed at Philadelphia in 1732, and, bowing, handed it to him. The little man thanked him, and promised to deposit it in the Museum, as a curious piece of antiquity.
"Getting somewhat anxious for a smoke, I drew forth a cigar and 'loco-foco,' rubbed the latter across my boot, which flashed out its light full in Uncle Ben's face. 'That is nice,' exclaimed he; 'rather an improvement on the old string, wheel, and tinder plan.' 'Simple, too, isn't it?' said I; 'and yet all the science of your day didn't detect it.' Just then I gave a puff, which made Uncle Ben sneeze; and he broke out into a tirade against tobacco that would read well. But I told him there was no use; men had smoked and chewed the weed—would smoke and chew it, economy or no economy, health or no health, filth or no filth; and that in all probability the last remnant of the great American Republic, for succeeding nations to gaze at, would be a plug of tobacco; for I sincerely believed that tobacco would outlive the government itself.
"The little man proposed returning into the Patent Office, and exhibiting to us in detail the models of art there deposited. But I cannot weary you with what I there saw. The fruits of every year, since the organization of the department, were divided into rooms, and indicated on the door by an inscription. There were thousands of improvements in every branch of science, many of which were so simple, that I thought myself a fool that I did not discover them long ago. Principles were applied, the very operation of which I now recollectedto have often seen, yet without a thought of their practical utility. I came to the conclusion that accident was the parent of more that I saw than design; 'for how,' reasoned I, 'is it possible that these pieces of machinery could otherwise have escaped the great men who have lived and died in ignorance of them?'
"By this time we were quite fatigued, and Uncle Ben complained a little of the 'stone,' which he said he was subject to. The little man gave him some 'Elixir of Life,' as he called it, being, as he said, 'an extract of the nutritious portions of meats and vegetables, purged from their grossness as found in their natural state;' and while we were sipping it, he launched forth upon its great benefit to mankind; the money saved that used to be expended in cookery and transportation—millions upon millions; the great economy in time, formerly squandered in eating, &c., &c.; and he wound up his eulogy by presenting each of us with a bottle, which I carefully put away in my pocket.
"Adams then rose up, and said he must leave, and Jefferson, Uncle Ben, and Fulton followed. And in a moment Uncle Ben, Fulton, Adams, Jefferson, the little man, the apartments, wheels, and machinery, began to rock, and heave, and fade, and finally dissolve; and suddenly I awoke!"
"Youdidawake!" exclaimed the Colonel, drawing a breath all the way from his boots; "I should have thought you would."
Bates gave a yawn, and throwing his quid into the fire, called for a glass of whiskey and water, saying he would "try to choke down the story withthat."
Longbow sat perfectly magnetized—his arms foldedacross his breast, his chin dropped, his legs resting on his boot-heels, and pushed out in front of him, as though he was driving a hard-bitted horse, and his one eye stared vacantly at the coals in the huge fireplace. He gave an unconscious grunt when Smith concluded, but made no commentary.
Turtle said "the dream was very remarkable for such a man as Smith; but he guessed hehadit, and he was going to believe it, because it was upon the word of a Puddlefordian. But he'd had one that beat it all holler—s'prisin' dream—like them air visions that somebody unriddled for—he couldn't recollect the name of the man now—no matter, the dream's the same.
"I got up one morning," said Ike, "and went down to my breakfast-table, but there warn't one of my family present. I saw seated around it, however, a strange company of folks, and dressed as no mortals ever were before, since the flood, Ireckon. There warn't nothin' that ever I seed before on any on 'em. I took my place at the head of the board, and attempted to do the carvin'; but there warn't nobody that understood my meanin'. Pork warn't pork any more; and when I tried to pass pork, I found that it had a kind-er' fancy name, which I have now forgot.
"One great goggle-eyed fellow, who sat at my right hand, informed a lady near him 'that he'd got-ter go over to Agoria before dinner, and get his sun-dial fixed; but his wings were down at the shop being fixed, and he couldn't start this hour yet."
"'Agoria! Where's that?' asked I.
"'Don't know where Agoria is—ha, ha! On the River Amazon, a trip of a couple of thousand of miles.'And so he took out a little eye-glass, and looked at me for a long time, and, putting it back in his pocket, said 'he thought I was a North Pole-ander, or a ghost; he didn't know which.
"'Dear me! youwillbe keerful, now won't you?' said the lady. Two hundred collisions in the air last night, among the winged men; almost as many the night afore—awful!'
"The goggle-eyed man said he would.
"'Did you hear President Jones lecter last night,' said a spectacled critter, at the upper end of the table, sticking his fore-finger out to me.
"'No, sir-ee!' I hollered back to him, as I was some little frustrated by this time.
"'He showed,' said the man, 'that one Tom Jefferson prob'blydidwrite the Declaration of Independence that the ancients made.'
"'You don't say so, though, do you?' said I. 'You're a bright set of chaps the whole on you, President Jones and all.'
"There was a mighty deal said about the Persian war with America; what somebody said who came from Africa last night—what this man and that man done in Congress; but getting out of patience at last, I jumped up, and left the whole on 'em; and as I passed out of the room, told 'em 'they might all go to grass.'
"As I left the house, I saw an almanac hanging on the wall for the year 2564. The first thought, when I saw this, was, 'Where, in the name of Andrew Jackson, is Puddleford now?'
"But what was my surprise, when I got inter the street, which was all laid with slabs of granite, and linedwith palaces, to find Squire Longbow walking along with his wings folded on his back, looking as nat'ral as the old fogy himself.
"'Squire,' said I, 'here'stoyou!'
"The Squire said 'he hadn't the honor of my 'quaintance.'
"'O, you old scoundrel!' said I, 'you can't come that—'"
"That's false!" exclaimed Longbow; "I didn't have no such talk."
"It wasonlyadream—you forget," answered Ike.
"Exactly," replied the Squire, relapsing into his former mood.
"'You can't come that, old man,' I repeated; 'I could tell you in the streets of Jerusalem in the night; what are you about, old feller? You look fat and pussy.'
"The Squire said 'he was Judge of the Continental Supreme Court.'
"'So I should think,' said I; 'I just left a dozen asses at my breakfast table, and you're just the man for all the world to be their judge.'
"That's a contempt!" exclaimed the Squire, jumping from his chair.
"Nothin' but a dream, and they allers go by contraries," answered Ike.
"So they do,' said the Squire, calmly, sitting down again.
"Where's Bates, and the Colonel, and Bulliphant, and the other Puddlefordians?' inquired I.
"'Bates,' said the Squire, 'burst a blood-vessel several hundred years ago, running down a southern kidnapper, and died quick-ern a flash. He didn't leave nothingscasely for his family, 'cause he spent all his time on public affairs. The Colonel left the country with the sheriff at his heels; and he rather thought he was somewhere about the streets now, as he saw a feller t'other day 'fore the court, for debt, that looked jest like him. Bulliphant went off in spontaneous combustion—in a kind of blue fire, and the old woman fretted herself out, a couple of years arter; but,' said the Squire, 'I can't be detained. Story's waitin' for me on the bench, and we decide the title to a million of acres of land, at ten this morning.'
"Thiswoke me.Storyand thedecisionbyLongbow, knocked my dream out-er sight."
Bates pulled off his boots, and handing them to Ike, informed him that they were his, by the custom of Puddlefordians, and the meeting adjourned.