Ike Turtle in his Office.—The Author consults him on Point of Law.—Taxes of Non-Residents.—Law in Puddleford.—Mr. Bridget's Case.—Legal Discussion.—The Case settled.
Ike Turtle in his Office.—The Author consults him on Point of Law.—Taxes of Non-Residents.—Law in Puddleford.—Mr. Bridget's Case.—Legal Discussion.—The Case settled.
We very often get an idea of a community by fathoming its leading men. We stick our stakes at that point, and reason, by comparison, downward; not that prominent individuals make the community, any more than the community makes them; but both act and react upon each other, until a standard is formed—and that standard is just high enough for the occasion—the necessities of the present. Water never rises above its level.
You have, respected reader, already seen much—perhaps too much—of Ike Turtle. You must recollect, however, as I have before declared, that he was an embodiment of the spirit of his time. He was the presiding genius of Puddleford, and had been as much moulded by it as he had moulded Puddleford.
Turtle, as we have seen, was a host in law—that is, he was a host in Puddleford law. He was just as useful and mighty in his sphere as Webster ever was in his. It must in candor be admitted that there was a difference in spheres; but that in no way affects the principle—and principle is what we are contending for.
I have thus far exhibited to you Turtle under excitement, as an advocate in the case of Filkinsvs.Beadle, defending his country against what he called an "abolition lecter," struggling in the cause of education; but we cannot always probe a great man to the bottom, and disinter the latent jewels of mind, unless we know and observe him unruffled by passion, and unswayed by feeling. The line and lead must be cast into still waters to sound the depths of the ocean.
I had occasion to consult Turtle on a point of law. The question was, whether a certain woman who claimed dower in my land could probably show a state of facts that would legally entitle her to recover.
Mr. Turtle's office was in one of the upper rooms of a tumble-down tailor's shop in the village. Outside his sign swung to and fro: "I. Turtle, 'Torney in all Courts." Inside, it was garnished with three chairs without backs, a pine table, whittled into pieces by the loungers, a number of loose papers lying in an old flour-barrel, an ink-bottle with a yellow string around its nose, a copy of the statutes, a stub of a pen, volume two of Blackstone, and no law-book beside, all of which were enveloped in dirt and cobwebs. Mr. Turtle himself, when I entered, sat in one chair, his two feet stretched wide apart, each in another, like the two extremities of a letter A; and Ike himself was very philosophically smoking a pipe, and blowing the whiffs out of the window.
"Is this Mr. Turtle's office?" inquired I.
"I shouldrayther think it was," answered Ike, drawing out his pipe, and pointing to a chair.
"I have a little business," said I.
"Most peopledohave," said he. "I'm chuck full on't myself."
"Suppose," said I, "a man dies, and leaves a widow, and that widow should claim—"
"Hold on, right there!" exclaimed Ike, laying down his pipe. "Hold on, oldfellow; this s'posin' don't do in this 'ere office. I never gives opinions on fancy cases. Time's little too precious. I want the raal facts on the matter, jest as they happened; and, besides, Mr. ——, fust thing I know I shall give an opinion right butt agin one of my clients—(I have reg'lar clients, you see, that I've got ter stand up for, if it busts me),—and this wheelin' round and taking a back track spiles one's reputation, and tears his conscience, awful to behold!"
"Well," I continued, "as I was goin' to say—"
"No, sir-ee! youain'tgoin' to say.Whodied?who'sthe widow? Them are the startin' pints in a new country."
"But," continued I, "that will not affect the principle."
"Won't it, though?" answered Ike. "What are principles to folks in a new country? What are residents to non-residents? Why, you take a resident widow, a little good-lookin', and she can hold all the land she claims agin a non-resident. Juries have feelin's, and are human like other people."
"O, I see!" said I.
"Jest so," said he.
"Well, then," I continued, "the widow is a resident of Puddleford, and so am I; and the widow claims a life interest in one third of my land."
Ike pondered, and rubbed his head, and looked for along time steadily at the toes of his boots. At last a thought struck him.
"Has she any children?" inquired he.
"She has."
"Young?"
"Twelve and fourteen."
"Bad age for you," said Ike; "worse than two positive witnesses swearin' straight inter yer favor."
"But what have children to do with a principle of law?" I exclaimed, somewhat animated.
"You'regreen," exclaimed Ike; "you'll sprout if you get catched in a shower. What has law got ter do with a widder and two children out here? Don't you know the widder and the two children will be put right straight to the jury, and that they'll swamp you and your case, and all the la' you can bring agin 'em?"
"Very likely," said I; "but is Puddleford law all made for widows, babies, and residents?" inquired I.
"You see," continued Ike; "you hain't lived long here. A new country is a kind of self-sustainin' machine. We've all got-ter go in for ourselves. When folks take the brunt of settlin' wild land, somebody's got-ter and ought-ter suffer. Non-residents have ter pay all taxes. They have to pay onto the value, and onto our takin' care of their lands. We can't afford to scare off the animals and bring their property into market for nothin'. Why, old Sykes, who lives away down to the east'ard, pays half the taxes of Puddleford, and don't own more than four sections of land. The 'sessors kind-er look at the spirit of the law when they lay taxes, and the spirit of our tax-law stretches 'cordin' to circumstances. India-rubber ain't nothin' to it. Jest so inla' matters. The la' is favorable to Puddlefordians; our courts lean that way—it's kind-er second nater to 'em—a kind-er law of self-preservation—primary law of natur', you know—a duty; and therefore I was particular to know who thepersonwas who claimed your land."
"Mine's a case," said I, after Ike concluded his digression, "of Puddleford against Puddleford."
"Puddleford against itself, both residents—a woman and two children against a man?"
"That's the case," said I.
"Well!" said Ike.
"The widow claims a life interest, and yet she signed the deed with her husband."
"Didsign it?" inquired Ike again. "What is she growlin' about, then?"
"She claims she was deranged."
"And didn't know nothin', ha?"
"And she says she can prove it."
"That is, Sile Bates can for her, I s'pose."
Squire Longbow dropped in at this point of the conversation. Ike arose, walked several times swiftly across the floor, turning each time with a jerk, and finally wheeling up in front of me, said his fee for opinions was one dollar.
The fee was paid.
"Now," exclaimed Ike, pushing his fee in his vest pocket, "who's the woman?"
"Old Mrs. Bridget," said I.
"There are just half a dozen defences," exclaimed Ike; "and each one will blow the case sky-high. Nobody can't set up insanity in a new country, becausethere ain't nothin' here to make anybody insane; and if there was, our judges and juries think a leetle too much of themselves, thick as the bushes are, to 'low a Puddlefordian to prove herself a fool in open court. There is a pride that won't permit it. Yes,sir!" Here Ike slapped the table hard by way of emphasis. "Ain't that la', Squire Longbow?" continued Ike, turning round to the Squire, who was almost magnetized by intense thought.
The Squire gave two or three ahems to clear his throat, and his voice seemed a long time on its way. "That," said the Squire, "is just what the 'mortal Story said; he never would permit a man to make a fool of himself; he went agin all such kind-er things. The 'mortal Story said, if a man don't know nothin', he oughten-ter say nothin', or do nothin'. He very specially said it warn't a safe rule to let crazy folks rip up things, 'cause how do we know, or anybody know, but they are jist as crazy when they rip 'em up, and then they'll have to be ripped over agin; that's the 'thority, sir—page—let me see—but no matter 'bout pages—"
"And, secondly," continued Ike, breaking into the Squire, "it's a rule of law that everybody's stopped by their deed; and if the woman knowed enough to sign and seal it, that 'ere seal is an everlasting and eternal bar to provin' anything agin it.That'llstop a crazy woman; that's laid down in all the books since King Richard got possession of England, and the staterts are full on it, too."
The Squire said "that looked reasonable. How do we know that Andrew Jackson warn't crazy when he signed off the patents for Puddleford. That's an openquestion yet. And if it warn't for the broad seal—if it warn't for that 'ere spread eagle—some whig President (and the whigs allers did say 'Old Hickory' was crazy) would set it all aside, and throw all the land titles into hotch-potch, kick me out-er house and home, and ruin all Puddleford!"
"Certainly," said I.
"And agin," said Ike, "the womanwarn'tcrazy;Ican prove that."
"That willdo," said I. "How?"
"When was the deed executed?"
I stated.
"That's jest the time," said Ike, "that old covy, her brother-in-law, used her as a witness to recover his farm."
The Squire said that "the woman was underoaththen, and she might tell the truth, if shewasa little shattered."
"Th-u-n-der!" exclaimed Ike.
"Witnesses areswornto tell the truth," said the Squire.
The Squire was evidently getting quizzical. Mr. Turtle begged "he would not interrupt him agin. The case was one of great importance, and it required a power of thought and research to look inter it.
"And now," continued Ike, "there are three more p'ints of la' in your case. You've got the fee of this 'ere land—that is, you've got a deed, and got inter possession; that makes a fee. And as to that, the deed don't matter so much; possession out here is jest as good. I never see a sheriff who could get a man off. 'Tain't pop'lar—won't pay—it costs votes—mendon't vote for officers who push 'em; possession ismore'nnine p'ints of the la' in Puddleford; it's ninety-nine—it's 'most as good as a patent."
"But that would be a resistance of process, if the widow succeeded," said I.
"There won't be nothin' to resist," answered Ike. "You'llnever feel the process; it will always be defective—there'll be a flaw in it somewhere. Settlers on the sile must be protected."
"That," chimed in the Squire, "isla'. That was settled in the constitution. There was blood shed for that."
"But there ain't no use," continued Ike, "in goin' into particulars, and puttin' down every p'int of la'. I can scatter a thousand such cases to the four winds—have done it—can do it agin. Give me Kent and the staterts, and I'll cut my way to daylight in no time."
If there is any one who believes that such an opinion was not given for one dollar, or that hundreds have not been given in the very far West just as absurd, let them inquire further of those persons who have experienced a frontier life. Yet, Mr. Turtle lives and flourishes, gains reputation, and will die as much respected and lamented as any one.
The Wilderness around Puddleford.—The Rivers and the Forests—Suggestions of Old Times.—Footprints of the Jesuits.—Vine-covered Mounds.—Visit to the Forest.—The Early Frost.—The Forest Clock.—The Woodland Harvest.—The Last Flowers.—Nature sowing her Seed.—The Squirrel in the Hickory.—Pigeons, their Ways and their Haunts.—The Butterflies and the Bullfrog.—Nature and her Sermons.—Her Temple still open, but the High-priest gone.
The Wilderness around Puddleford.—The Rivers and the Forests—Suggestions of Old Times.—Footprints of the Jesuits.—Vine-covered Mounds.—Visit to the Forest.—The Early Frost.—The Forest Clock.—The Woodland Harvest.—The Last Flowers.—Nature sowing her Seed.—The Squirrel in the Hickory.—Pigeons, their Ways and their Haunts.—The Butterflies and the Bullfrog.—Nature and her Sermons.—Her Temple still open, but the High-priest gone.
Puddleford was a mere spot in the wilderness. Its region abounded with patches of improved land, and patches partly improved, and fields of stumps that the pioneer had just passed over with his axe. The great sweep of land around it, however, was a wilderness—not a thicket—not a dense mass of timber, nor a swamp—but a rolling plain of upland prairie, and heavily-wooded flats along the rivers; and it extended no one knew where, and was covered with lakes and rivers that shone, and roared, and babbled, day and night, through the great solitude. The surface of the upland was as smooth and shaven as an English park. No undergrowth obstructed the eye, and the outline of a deer might be discerned two miles distant. Trees upon the distant ground-swells, amid their quivering shadows, appeared to be riding upon waves. In this gigantic park, which overreached degrees of longitude, flowers of everyform and hue budded, blossomed, faded, and died, from May until November. The prairies were so many blooming seas; and when the soft south-west stirred up their depths, they shed a gorgeous light, as if they were breathing out rainbow colors.
The rivers that watered this waste were large, and flowed from still deeper solitudes towards the great lakes. The sun, as ancient as they, rose and set upon them now as it did centuries ago. The forests upon their banks sprang up, flourished, waxed old, and died; and still the river ran, and new forests rose upon the ruins of the old, and the glory of the new stood implanted in the grave of the old. The bison, moose, and bear drank from the sources of these rivers, driven upward by the noise of civilization. But they had an interest to me beyond all this: they were the inlets to Christian missionaries more than a century ago. It was up these streams that the French Jesuit,[C]with his eye aloft, and the cross erect, paddled his solitary canoe among the aborigines. Here he built his camp-fire beneath the stars, and told his rosary in the awful presence of his God—how awful, indeed, in such a spot, at such a time! We can almost see the venerable man, and hear the dip of his oar; the water-fowl scream, scared, and dive along before him, and the Indian stands upon the bank in his presence, like a monument in wonder.
The footprints of the Jesuits are still found upon the bluffs of these rivers. Mounds, which were thrown by them into square and circular forms, now roofless and silent, and matted all over with vines, still bear witnessto their devotion. Yet how little is thought of them now! Because the Jesuits did not till the earth, and sow, and reap, and swell the commerce of the world: but didn't they sow? They sowed the seeds of everlasting life among the simple children of the forest; andtheyhave sown from age to age since, and many an Indian still offers the prayer which was taught his forefathers so long ago.
Such, reader, were the woods around Puddleford, and such the associations. I was in the habit of going down into their depths, and scraping acquaintance with the inhabitants. It was a relief to me. I sometimes even went so far as to set myself up as a sportsman. I made a special visit, just after the first frost, for the purpose of spying out the game. The morning was still and bright, and the dash of a distant rivulet, which I could step across, filled the "long drawn aisles" with its echoes. I had been down often during the summer, but every object looked strangely different now. The first frost had given Nature a shock—a kind of palsy; she looked serene, almost sad. Its inmates had gadded about during the summer in a very reckless way; they looked more sober after the first frost—more thoughtful—more anxious about something.
It was late in September, and yet "the storms of the wild Equinox, with all its wet," had not come. It was due and over-due. Amid the more hardy foliage the first frost had drawn his brush in the most delicate way possible—a mere tinge, and no more—a kind of autumnal hint. There was one limb of an oak just changing, and the balance of the tree stood up as bravely and defiant as ever; the soft maple was completely dipped—it blazed;the aspen trembled and glowed; the hickory was only touched, and still hesitated about her full suit of yellow; while the dog-wood and spice bush had entirely given up the ghost.
It was just after the first frost, so I went down to the banks of the rivulet that had so long been singing its woodland psalm. It came from away off somewhere, and strayed, and dove over precipices, and spread into miniature lakes; but, where I stood, it tumbled through a gorge with green, sloping banks. As I gazed, the sun waxed higher and warmer. Day wore its way up the gorge, and literally struck a sisterhood of frosted sumachs, and they turned blood-red; I thought I saw them shift their summer dress.
Near by, a vine circled a tree, and swung out from its top. I had noticed it many times before during the season. It was then hung with large-mouthed flowers, which opened with the morning. Was it a summer chime of bells that tolled the sunlight into the temple?—the forest clock, that opened and shut the hours? The bells were broken now; the first frost had cracked them. I saw a bird, dressed in blue, run up the vine, and hitch along in a very deliberate way, and peer into this bell and into that, as if he wondered why they did not spread; but this might have been an odd fancy of mine.
The first frost seemed to have passed through the tree-tops that rolled over the gorge in a hurry. The prominent points of the foliage were tufted with russet, but its hollows and dells were as green as ever.
The woodland harvest was nigh—the Creator's own harvest, sown and reaped without the aid of man. The pawpaw began to shed its fruit; mandrakes stood up allover the forest, like umbrellas loaded with apples of gold; the wild cucumber was bending under its own weight; the bark of the hickory and beech nut was broken, and the fruit peeped out; acorns were loosening in their cups; the grape was purple and fragrant, and ready to gush with richness; and away down below me I noticed a crabbed, sour-looking plum tree, holding on to the hill-side with all its energy, and covered with its rosy-cheeked children.
A few flowers yet lingered on the upland, breathing their last. The pink, violet, lupine, and a thousand nameless ones, had shed and buried their seeds long before; but the flaming, cardinal-fringed gentian, the yellow moccasin, and troops of lilies, still crowded the swales and watercourses, braving out the first frost. Insects were singing a melancholy dirge around me; a bee droned past in great haste, with a consequential hum; the year was passing and dying, like a vibration over the earth.
The air was filled with winged seeds, sailing away off here and away off there, and going I do not know where. The wild cotton burst its pod, and furred out at a great rate; a large company of thistle balloons rolled up lazily into the sky, and went out of sight (to the stars, probably), directed by some invisible hand to the place of their destination. Birds were picking and carrying clusters of grapes and s'coke far and wide. How beautifully Nature sows her solemn wastes! The winds and the birds are her husbandmen, and the work goes on with a song.
There was a bustle in a hickory—a black squirrel was flirting about, and making an examination of the crop.He had come early into the harvest-field. He ran up and down the branches, nipped the nuts, jumped upon his haunches, thought a while, chattered to himself, and said—or I thought he said—"Little too soon"—"Little too soon"—"Come again"—"Come again." At a distance, a male partridge, with his tail curved like a fan, and his feathers erect, was blustering and strutting around with great pomp, as consequential as a Broadway fop—a rabbit, crouched in a heap, sat off timidly under an upturned root, eating a pawpaw—a lonely snipe came tetering up the rivulet—a robin lit upon a scoke-bush, picked a berry or two, whistled, took a kind of last look, and departed; a little bird, as rich as sunset, next startled me with a stream of fire, which he wove through the green foliage, as if he were tying it up with a blazing cord; a sanctimonious crow floated in circles in the air, and screamed very savagely to things below him, like a preacher in a passion; and I heard turkeys clucking and calling to each other in every direction.
Suddenly, a flock of pigeons broke the few bars of light that were struggling down, and wheeled to a dry limb, at a respectful distance; they ranged themselves in rows like platoons of soldiers, and bowed forwards and sideways, in a very polite, diplomatic way. A few words passed between them—(pigeons don't talk much)—exchanging, no doubt, opinions of me and my whereabouts. By and by, one spread his wings and fluttered to the ground, and began feeding—then another, and another, until the whole flock descended, except three sentinels, who remained posted to watch and guard. I knew them well. There was a "roost" in a tamarack swamp, some miles distant. Not long before, I hadvisited their noisy metropolis. It was at the close of day, and its evergreen canopy was half-dipped in light. I recollected what hosts came thronging in, on all sides, roaring like a tempest, and how they piled themselves upon the top of each other upon the boughs like swarming bees—and how all night the trees bent and cracked with the crowded population, who seemed continually treading upon each other's toes, and tumbling each other's beds—and how, when the day dawned, they all dissolved, and winged their way to the plains, and the troubled city was as silent as fallen Babylon.
I like the pigeon. He has a business-way, and a way of minding his own business. He is always doing something. Who ever saw a pigeon trifle or frolic, or put on airs? He is the clipper of the skies' air-line. Eight hundred miles a day, few stoppages, and no bursting of boilers. He is a practical bird—no such dreamy, twilight sort of a thing as the whippoorwill, who is forever complaining about nothing, like a miserable rhymester—whir—whir—whir. "Ah! you are going. Pay my respects to the alligators among the rice swamps of Florida," said I, "when you see them next winter."
The pigeons were started by the bay of hounds. By their voice, the hounds had probably been on the chase during most of the night—(it was a weary voice and almost painful)—and I soon discovered that they were approaching. Soon a drove of deer, led forward by a noble buck, carrying antlers like tree-branches, came crashing by, leaped the ravine, and were soon followed by their pursuers, and I watched them afar over the plain until they were lost. I knew the dogs. They belonged to Venison Styles. But where was Venison? I couldsee the old hunter, in my imagination, standing away off on some "run-way," listening to the strife around him, and watching for his victims.
Perhaps you know, and perhaps youdon'tknow, reader, that deer, at certain seasons of the year, have "run-ways"—that they have greathighways—thoroughfares that follow mountains, thread morasses, cross lakes and streams, up and down which they travel. I cannot say who first laid them out. It may be they can tell. If I ever find out, I will let you know.
I was next overhauled by a fleet of white butterflies, who came winding down the brook in a very loitering sort of a way. They anchored in front of me, near the water's edge, and amused themselves by opening and shutting their huge sails—huge for butterflies. Their wings were all bedropped with gold, and powdered with silver dust. Then another fleet, arrayed in chocolate velvet, came up the stream. They were large and showy.Theirchocolate wings were ribbed with lines of blue and green; and a few plain, yellow plebeians followed on after, train-bearers, probably, to their lordly superiors. What brush touched those rich and delicate wings? What alchemist wrought those magical colors? Who put on those gorgeous uniforms? Were they equipped for the beauty and glory of the world, or their own? For what purpose was this winged mystery sent upon the earth? Just here a large frog, who had been sitting on a stone near the water, wrapped up to his eyes in his green surtout, looking as taciturn and gloomy as the Pope, went down with a "jug-a-ro," and spoiled my reflections.
It was just after the first frost, and the wasps werehard at work, preparing, or repairing their mansions for winter. The mason-wasp, as he is called, was digging up the mud, which he carried to a hollow log, where he lived. He was "plastering up a little." The "paper-wasp" was gathering wild cotton and flax, and manufacturing it, for his palace that hung, half furnished, swinging in a tree like a top. Strange that man should have so long remained without the secret of making paper—when the wasp had made and hung it up high before his eyes, for so many thousand years!
Thus, reader, the great wilderness was alive—and away down the chain of animated being, beyond the reach of the eye or ear, there was life—busy life—all links in a great chain held and electrified by the hand of the Almighty.
What sermons there were all around me—Nature preaching through her works! What cathedral like this, with its living pillars—its dome of sun, and moon, and stars? Morn swings back its portals with light and song, and evening gently closes them again amid her deepening shadows—and the worship and work goes on like the swell of an anthem; but the great high-priest that worshipped at its altars, and burnt incense to the spirit that pervades this solitude, where is he? Where are his fires now? The temple still stands, and the anthem is still heard, but the worshippers are gone "Lo! the poor Indian."
FOOTNOTES:[C]Father Hennepin and others.
[C]Father Hennepin and others.
[C]Father Hennepin and others.
The Old New England Home.—The Sheltered Village.—The Ancient Buildings.—Dormer Windows.—An Old Puritanical Home.—The Old Puritan Church.—The Burying-Ground.—Deacon Smith, his Habits and his Helpers.—Major Simeon Giles, his Mansion and his Ancestry.—Old Doctor Styles.—Crapo Jackson, the Sexton.—"Training Days."—Militia Dignitaries.—Major Boles.—Major General Peabody.—Preparations and Achievements.—Demolition of an Apple Cart.—"Shoulder Arms!"—Colonel Asher Peabody.—The Boys, and their World.—My Last Look at my Native Village.
The Old New England Home.—The Sheltered Village.—The Ancient Buildings.—Dormer Windows.—An Old Puritanical Home.—The Old Puritan Church.—The Burying-Ground.—Deacon Smith, his Habits and his Helpers.—Major Simeon Giles, his Mansion and his Ancestry.—Old Doctor Styles.—Crapo Jackson, the Sexton.—"Training Days."—Militia Dignitaries.—Major Boles.—Major General Peabody.—Preparations and Achievements.—Demolition of an Apple Cart.—"Shoulder Arms!"—Colonel Asher Peabody.—The Boys, and their World.—My Last Look at my Native Village.
Reader, there are mental pictures in the wilderness, as vivid as any in nature. They are the pictures of the past. They haunt the pioneer by day and by night. They go with him over the fields—sit down with him by the streams—linger around his evening hearth, and rise up in his dreams.
I was born in New England. The village was very old, and had received and discharged generations of men. Some two centuries ago, a troop of iron-sided old pilgrims, full of theology and man's rights, an offshoot of a larger body, with their pastor at their head, founded the place, and gave it tone and direction.
This village is very beautiful now. It stands sheltered between two mountains that cast their morning and evening shadows over it. A long stretch of meadow land lies between, through which a river, fringed withwillows, lazily lingers and twists in elbows and half circles. The mountains sometimes look down very grim at the valley, and in places have advanced almost across it. There are a great many profiles detected by the imagination in their outline. Cotton Mather's face has been discovered in one huge rock—and the old fellow's head seems to withstand the storms of nature about as successfully as it did the storms of life. The "Devil's Pulpit"—a group of splintered shafts of Gothic appearance—is near by, and superstitious persons used to think that during every thunder-storm his majesty entered it, arrayed in garments of fire, and gave the Puritan a sound lecture.
There are all kinds of buildings in this village. These buildings mark the age in which they were erected, and are the real monuments of their founders. They are as they were. They have not been marred or profaned by modern notions. Some are very eccentric piles, hoary with age, full of angles and sharp corners; and some are painfully plain and severe. They all have a face, a cast of countenance, an expression—they almost talk the English of a hundred and fifty years ago. The row of dormer windows on the roof are to me great eyes that frown down upon the frivolity and thoughtlessness of the present—and those eyes are full of theology and civil rights. They look as though they were watching a Quaker, or reading the Stamp Act. The very souls of their architects are transferred to them. I never enter one, even in these fearless times, without feeling nervous and sober, half expecting to run afoul of its original proprietor, with some interrogatory about my business, and the wickedness of his descendants.
There used to stand—there is still standing—one of these queer piles upon a bluff overlooking the river. It was built of stone, and is very much moss-grown. It fairly looks daggers at the ambitious little structures that have sprouted up by its side. It is a heap of Puritanical thoughts—visible thoughts—all hardened into wood and rock. There it has stood, frowning and frowning, for a century and a half. It is full of great massive timbers and stones, and is as stout as the heart of its founder. A weather-cock is attached to one of the chimneys—a sheet-iron angel, lying on his breast, and blowing a trumpet, and the wind shifts him round and round over different parts of the village. This angel has blown away thousands of men; but there he lies, his cheeks puffed, blowing yet, as fresh and healthy as ever.
The internal arrangement of this building is characteristic. A dark, gloomy hall—an enormous fireplace, extending across the whole end of a room—a quaint pair of andirons, which run up very high and prim, and turn back like a hook, with a dog's head growling on each tip. There are strange pictures on the walls, which have been preserved in memory of the past—Moses leading the Children of Israel through the Wilderness—Samson slaying the Lion—David cutting off the head of Goliath—stern shadows of the men who used to study them—not very remarkable works of art, but vivid outlines of the scenes themselves.
This house has been occupied by an illustrious line of men, distinguished as divines, lawyers, and reformers; and it seems to glow with the fires they kindled in it—in fact, I believe it is inhabited by them yet. I believe that Parson ——, who lived under its roof for more thanhalf a century, and preached during that time in the church near by, occasionally mounts his low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, round-cornered coat, short breeches, knee-buckles, and heavy shoes, ties on his white neckcloth, and takes his cane, and, in a spiritual way, wanders back to his mansion, sits down again before the capacious fireplace, and meditates an hour or two as he used to do in life. He is one of those who keep the house company and give to it its sober air of determination and defiance.
The old Puritan church stands near by. Time has thrown a mantle of moss over it. When erected, it was shingled from foundation to steeple—and a quaint little pepper-box steeple it was. Square, high, solemn-looking pews may be yet seen inside. The pulpit is perched away up under the eaves, like a swallow's nest. It is reached by a flight of steps almost as long as Jacob's ladder. It is covered with names, inscriptions written by men and women who were dust long ago. It looks like the place where "Old Hundred" was born, lived, and died—sombre, earnest, immovable.
A burying-ground, ancient as the church, closes in on its three sides, and partly encircles it in its arms. There is preaching there yet. The dust of the living and dead congregations are one:
"Part of the host have crossed the flood,And part are crossing now."
"Part of the host have crossed the flood,And part are crossing now."
Rough tombstones—mere ragged slugs, torn from some quarry—rounded and smoothed a little by a pious hand—stand half buried in the earth, pointing to the silent sleeper below. And then there are marble slabs, of a more modern date—yet very old—leaning thisway and that, and nodding at each other. Preachers and congregations lie side by side, and it is one eternal Sabbath now. There are quaint pictures, and holy pictures, and horrible pictures chiselled out on these slabs. Skeleton Death, triumphantly marching with his scythe! Skulls, angels—and occasionally a figure that looks like his Satanic Majesty! Epitaphs full of theology, wit, and practical wisdom, are strewn around with an unsparing hand.
There are a few genuine specimens of the Puritan stock lingering in this village—great boulders that lie around in society, like granite blocks on the earth, dropped by Time in his flight, and overlooked or forgotten. Deacon Smith is one of them. He and his father, and his father's father, were born and lived in the house he now occupies. He has almost reached fourscore and ten years. He wears the costume of 'seventy-six, inside and out. His habits are as uniform and regular as the swing of the pendulum. He retires at nine, rises at four, breakfasts at six, and dines at twelve; and this is done to a fraction—no allowance is made for circumstances—what are circumstances in the way of one of his rules? He marches to bed at the time, and would, if he left the President of the Republic behind him—he sits down to his table at the time, whether there is a dish on it or not. Law is law with him.
The Deacon hates royalty and the British—he never overlooked the blood they shed in the Revolution. He seldom speaks to an Englishman. He hates interlopers, innovations, modern improvements; and I recollect well how he poured out his vials of wrath upon the first buggy wagon that he saw. He said it was a "very nice thing to sleep in." He left the church for some months whenstoves were first put up, and declared that it was "as great a sacrilege as was ever committed, and enough to overthrow the piety of a saint. Religion would keep a man warm anywhere." He says he "thinks the Puritan blood is running down into slops! folks are rushing headlong to perdition! that there hasn't been a man in the village for twenty years who ought to be intrusted with himself"—and it seems to him that the world is winding up business.
When the Deacon rises, he goes around his house, hawking, spitting, slamming doors, tumbling down wood, just to cast a slur on the lazy habits of modern days. Sometimes he tramps up and down the village, two hours before day, a-hemming, hawing, and sneezing, for the purpose of letting the sluggards understand he is stirring. He has been known, on more than one occasion, to give vent to his feelings, at this early hour, by blowing the family dinner-horn, and declaring, as the blast echoed away, "that no Christian man could sleep, after such a call."
The Deacon has a few helpers about him, who think as he thinks—but they are very few. When they meet, the world takes a most inhuman raking—they spare neither "age, sex, nor condition."
But the leading business men of the village are of a different stamp—not Puritans, but Puritanical—the same rock with the corners knocked off—of less strength, but more polish. They reverence their fathers, keep the religious and political altar they have raised burning, but are not so regardless of temporal comforts; in a word, they are Yankees.
Major Simeon Giles is a specimen. It is difficult todraw his portrait. He has a hard, dry face, which looks as though it had been turned out from a seasoned white-oak knot. He wears a grievous expression, lying somewhere between sobriety and melancholy. His money, character, and family have made him a great man—he is a leading personage in church and state, and exercises a wonderful influence in every department of society. The deacon is full of dry expressions, and many of his cool, sly remarks have become proverbs; but the hardest thing he ever said was after his pious soul had been very much vexed, when he observed, "that if Providence should see fit to remove Mr. —— from this vale of tears, he would endeavor to resign himself to the stroke."
Major Simeon has many severe struggles within him, between the flesh and the spirit. His avarice and piety are both strong, and the former sometimes gains a temporary advantage. All his movements are governed by method. He remains so long at his store, so long at his house, "takes a journey" with his family once a year, "has a place for everything, and everything in its place,"—a peg for his hat, a corner for his boots—and he is almost as rigid in observing and enforcing his laws as Deacon Smith.
Major Simeon is supreme, of course, over his own family. He never trifles with his children. A cold shadow falls around him, which often silences their voice of mirth and ringing laugh—the effect of reverence, however, more than fear.
Major Giles lives in the Old Giles Mansion. I will not pretend to say how many Gileses have occupied it. Their portraits are hanging upon its walls, and their bodies lie in the burying-ground; a long row of them, all theway across it, and half back again—bud, blossom, and gathered fruit. There is the portrait of the celebrated Elnathan Giles, who died during the reign of Queen Anne. He looks very stern. He had passed through the scenes of the Salem witchcraft, and had been personally connected with the excitement—had attended several of the trials as a witness; was bewitched once himself—and, according to family tradition, saw one witch hung—an out-and-out witch—who had bridled many innocent people at midnight, sailed through chamber windows, and hurry-scurried off with them, astride a broomstick.
Next to him hangs the face of his son, Colonel Ethelbert, as he was called, who lived just long enough to fight at Bunker Hill. He had been a militia colonel before the Revolution, and militia colonels were something in those days. He made a ferocious-looking portrait, certainly. One can almost smell gunpowder in the room. He is dressed up in his military coat, standing collar, an epaulet on his shoulder; and there are strewn around him, in the background, armies, artillery, drums, and banners. No wonder the Americans were victorious. And then came the face of Major Simeon, whom I have described.
The wives of these men are also done up in oil, and hang meekly and submissively by the side of their lords, as all wives should, or rather as all wives did, in those days—and actually died without knowing how much they were oppressed.
There are other things besides portraits, to remind Major Simeon of his ancestry. There is a tree still standing (strange that a tree should outlive generations of men), that Elnathan planted with his own hand, on the day Ethelbert was born—a stately elm, whose branches,in their magnificent curve, almost sweep the ground. This tree shadowed the cold face of both Elnathan and Ethelbert, when their coffins were closed for the last time beneath it. There is the spring, more than half a century old, that bubbles from the hill, and goes trickling, leaping, and flashing down the green slope, singing away to itself as sweetly as ever. The old lilac-bush, too, has outlived thousands whose hands have plucked its blossoms, and yet it bursts out in the spring, and looks as fresh as the children who play beneath it.
It has been thought that Major Simeon and his family were aristocratic. There is a stately air about them, when they enter church, that smacks of blood. And the Major himself has often declared that, while "stock isn't everything, it is a great consolation to know, in his case, that the name of Giles has never been stained."
There are several other families in the village whose ancestry runs back as far as the Gileses'; and they have about them as many heirlooms to remind them of it.
The village is filled with other characters, quite as original as any I have described. They are important personages, and have lived in it a long time; but they have no family history to fall back upon. There is Major Follett, who still lingers on the shores of time, and sustains a vast dignity amid his declining years. His head is very white, his hat very sleek, and his silk vest is piled very full of ruffles. He carries a gold-headed cane, and when he marches through the streets, it rises and falls with great emphasis, in harmony with his right foot. Now and then he gives out an a-hem!—one of the lordly kind—that fairly awes down his inferiors. He is a remarkable talker, too, among his equals—uses wordshaving a great many syllables. He never spits, but "expectorates"—his pains are all "paroxysms"—talks about the "foreshadowing of events"—and all his periods are as round and stately as the march of a Roman army. The Major has actually made his assumed dignity pave his way in life—it has given him wealth and influence among those who are intrinsically his superiors, but who do not know how to put on the airs of consequence.
Old Doctor Styles is living yet. He has survived two or three crops of customers—helped them in and out of the world—balanced their accounts—and his face is as ruddy, his laugh as hearty, his stories as ludicrous, his nose as full of snuff, as though nothing melancholy had ever happened in his practice. Eighty odd and more, he stands as straight as a staff. Death has been so long a business with him, and he has stared it for so many years in the face, that he really does not know, or care, how near he is to it himself.
Crapo Jackson, the sexton, is one of the characters. He has announced the end of Doctor Styles's labor a great many hundred times through the belfry, and helped cover up what remained. Crapo is black, but he has a fine heart. He is a perfect master of his work. He puts on an air of melancholy and circumspection at a funeral, that becomes the occasion. He sings, from door to door, a hymn on Christmas mornings, with cap in hand extended for his "quarter"—peddles gingerbread on training days—and aids the female portion of the community on festival occasions, and does a great many more things, "too numerous to mention."
Speaking of "training days"—dear me!—there used to be a military spirit in this village, in times past.I can recollect the names of scores of generals, majors, colonels, captains, and even corporals—yes, corporals—every man couldn't be a corporal in those times. Why, bless your soul, reader! there was General Peabody, and General Jones, and Major Goodwin, and Major Boles, and any quantity of colonels. And then "training day"—nobody worked—the village was upside down—"'Seventy-six" was in command, and martial law declared.
Major Boles I recollect, when in the active discharge of his duty. He always grew serious as the great militia muster drew on. He went away off by himself, into the chamber, where he could be alone with the spirits of his forefathers, and burnished up his sword, shook out the dust from his regimentals—warned his children to stand out of the way—and looked ferociously at his wife. He knew he wasMajorBoles, and he knew every other respectable man knew it.
But Major-General Peabody was the greatest generalIever saw. When a boy, I looked upon him as a very blood-thirsty man, and nothing would have induced me to go near him. He was a little fellow in stature, had a hard round paunch that looked like an iron pot, and short, thick, dropsical legs. (Major Boles, who was a little envious, said they were stuffed, which produced a coldness between them.) His face was freckled, and his hair gray. He wore two massive epaulets, an old Revolutionary cap, shaped like the moon in its first quarter, from which a white and red feather curved over his left ear. He had a sword—and such a sword! Nobody dared touch it; for it was the General's sword!
"Training day" usually opened with a boom from thefield-piece, at sunrise, that shook the hills. About ten in the morning the soldiers began to pour in from all quarters. Drums and fifes, and muskets and rifles, filed along in confusion,—ambitious companies in uniform—common militia, who were out according to law. Uncle Joe Billings, who had played the bass-drum for more than twenty years (poor old man, he is dead now!) was seen gravely marching along all by himself, his drum slung about his neck, his head erect, his step firm, pushing on to head-quarters at the measured beat of his own music, now and then cutting a flourish with his right hand, for the amusement of the children who were capering around him. Knots of soldiers gathered about the tavern, and made a circle for the music to practise, preparatory to the great come-off. Then came the good old continental tunes that were full of fight, played by old fifers and drummers that had been through the wars; men who made a solemn and earnest thing of martial music—who reverenced it as the sacred voice of liberty, not to be trifled with, who thought of Bunker Hill until the tears started from their eyes. Those old airs, that used to echo among the mountains of New England—where are they?
But the captains, and colonels, and generals did not mix with the common soldiers on training day—no! nor speak to them. Rank meant something. They felt as though they were out in a war. They kept themselves covered from the public gaze away off in a secluded corner of the tavern, and were waited upon with great respect by those of inferior grade. Sometimes a guard was stationed at the door to prevent a crowd upon their dignity. Occasionally, one of them would bustle out among the rank and file on some momentous duty, fairly blazingwith gold and silver, lace and feathers; but there was never an instance of one of these characters recognizing even his own brother while in military costume. Major Boles has often said that "no officer can be expected to see small things when in the active discharge of his duty."
At about eleven o'clock the solemn roll of the drums was heard, and loud voices of command followed; and swords flashed, and feathers danced, in the organization of the companies; and then came the training—real training—a mile down street; a mile back again; a perfect roar of music; and flags flying—horses prancing. What was rain, or dust, or mud with such an army! They marched straight through it; it was nothing to war. The sweat poured down, but the army moved on for hours and hours in its terrible march.
The great sight of the day, however, was the Major-General and his staff—I mean, of course, Major-General Peabody. They were not seen until about three o'clock in the afternoon; it being customary for them to withdraw from public observation the day prior to the muster. When the army was drawn up in the field, preparatory to inspection, there was usually a pause of an hour—a pause that was deeply impressive. We never knew exactly where the General and his staff were concealed. Some persons said they were housed in one place, some in another; but, upon the discharge of a cannon, they burst upon us, glittering like the sun, and came cantering down the road with perfect fury, in a cloud of dust, followed by a score of boys who were on a sharp run to "keep up."
General Peabody and his staff always rushed headlong into the field, without looking to the right or left. I recollectthat on one occasion he demolished an apple-cart, and absolutely turned everything topsy-turvy, besides creating great consternation among the by-standers; but it did not disturb him, and it was only upon information the next day that he knew that anything serious had happened.
Passing the ruins of the apple-cart, and entering within the guarded lines, he halted, and took a survey of his troops. Then the music saluted him, and the companies waved their flags. He rode a little nearer, rose in his stirrups, jerked out his sword spitefully, and, looking ferociously, cried out, "Shoulder arms!" This cry was just as spitefully repeated by the subordinate officers; and, after a while, the privates, one after another, lazily raised their "pieces" to their shoulders. The General was in the act of rising again, and was drawing in his breath for a command of thunder, when his horse wheeled at the report of a musket that went off in the lines, and came near upsetting him, feathers and all; but he fell into the arms of one of his aids, and—swore, as I was at the time credibly informed, though I could hardly believe it.
The General very soon righted himself, and, striking his horse several violent blows across his rump, cut a great many flourishes on the field, to the utter astonishment of the lookers-on. He then rushed through the orders of the day like a madman, and was manifestly utterly fearless of consequences.
I hope my readers are satisfied that Major-General Peabody was a great military character. I recollect, when a boy, that I heard him say, "that he was very surehewould be the last man to run in a fight,"—"thathe was afraid to trust himself in a battle, for he never could lay down his sword until the last enemy was massacred!"
The old man was laid under the turf one autumnal afternoon, many years ago, but his prowess is not forgotten to this day. His son, Colonel Asher Peabody, who inherited his father's spirit, erected a stately monument over his remains, which was covered with drums, and fifes, and swords, and waving banners, and big-mouthed guns, intermixed with texts of Scripture, the virtues of the deceased, admonitions to the living, &c. This monument was always as terrific to me as the General himself; and, in my boyish days, I always contemplated it from a distance, not knowing but that it might blow up a piece of juvenile impertinence like myself on the spot.
Yes, reader, these were training days in New England; but the military glory has now actually died out. The last gathering I saw I shall never forget. It was, indeed, a sorry group, made up of a rusty captain, two or three faded corporals, and a handful of dare-devil privates, who cared no more for their country than so many heathen. The officers looked cowed and heart-broken, and loitered about in a very melancholy way; and it was evident that the spirit of '76 was on its last legs. I afterwards learned, I am sorry to say, that the captain, in a fit of patriotic rage, broke his sword across his knee, and declared "that he never would turn out again as long as his name was Jones!"
And then, reader, this village was full of boys when I was a boy. Every village is, you say. Very likely; butsuchboys! there have never been anything like them since. They wandered with me Saturday afternoonsthrough the meadows, where the lark was flitting and singing; and we related wonderful stories about the future. We cut red-willow canes, made whistles, and dammed mountain rivulets. Life opened to us with a chant: it was melody, melody everywhere. There was the mountain gorge, down which we rolled stones with the voice of thunder; the "big rock," in the river, from which we fished; the pond, that we thought had "no bottom;" the mountain cliff, with its "den of snakes:"whereare those boys now? Everywhere—nowhere! Citizens of the world, some; and some of that other world. They will never be all gathered but once more.
But what has all this to do with Puddleford? Much. They are so many pictures that I carry around with me, and they form a part of my existence. They color life, thought, action; they mould the man; they are continually inviting contrasts, and making suggestions; and I cannot omit to notice them in my sketch of that famous village.
When I last saw my native village—it was but a little while ago—it lay sleeping in its amphitheatre as beautiful and tranquil as ever among the shadows of its elms. It was summer, and the air was rich with music and flowers. The highest peaks of the mountain were draped in blue, and the valley beneath was a waving sea of green, down which the sunshine chased the shade. The quail was blowing his simple pipe among the fields of grain; the drone of the locust, the clanging of the mower's scythe, and the shout and the song, were heard in the fields in the still afternoon. When the sun went down, and its last flash leaped from the vane of the church-steeple to a lofty mountain-peak three milesaway, the whippoorwill began her plaintive song, and the night-hawks went wheeling through the sky. Then the evening bells broke forth, and their echoes sobered the twilight; and, as their last vibration expired along the valley, the river stood golden beneath the rays of the moon.