The fate of Aunt Sonora was about as melancholy as that of the Squire. She was somehow drawn into the tide, and as the good old lady could not move fast, the current that passed her on each side rolled her round and round, as she stood, first one way and then the other, until she became completely peeled of her outer clothes. Cries were jerked out of her in a spasmodic way, as she could catch her breath. "Massy—massy! O, massy—me! I'm—k-i-l-l-'d!" and many more heart-rending exclamations she uttered; but it was the great caravan that was coming, and she was neither heard nor heeded. When she escaped, she looked as if she had been plucked of all her feathers; she, however, quietly slid into the house of Mrs. Longbow, which was near by, for repairs. When she found herself able to speak, she declared, "ifthatwas thewaythe caravan was a-goin' to use folks, she hop'dlite-ning would strike 'em 'fore they got out-er the settlement—they'd sp'ilt her shillin' caliker dress, and she wouldn't gin it for all the monkeys the confounded consarn had."
But the caravan moved on regardless of accidents, and the music grew stronger and stronger, as it approached nearer and nearer; and as the breeze cast aside the dust, men, and horses, and wagons were seen moving forward,solemnly preceded by an elephant, which carried a stately looking gentleman upon his tusks, according to the representation on the bill. As the procession approached the village, its extent and magnificence began to dwindle. Alas! three wagons and one sickly-looking elephant comprised the whole affair. The people were evidently very much disappointed. The bill was a very large bill, and they did not see how it was possible for the few vehicles that came into town, to hold all the live stock which had been promised.
Squire Longbow still stood in the corner of the rail fence, looking out for the lion, for he had pledged his reputation to the Puddlefordians that the lion should be all that he had promised. He didn't know whether he would come on foot or not, housed or open; but the Squire saw no lion, nor any place for one.
Bigelow was busy sharply scenting out the "Ich-nu-men, celebrated in Holy Writ," as the bill declared. He felt it to be his duty to take a kind of guardianship over the Ich-nu-men, while he might favor Puddleford with his presence, because hewasassociated with Holy Writ; but Bigelow could not find him anywhere, living or dead, kicking or stuffed. He was much disappointed, but took courage from the hope that he was shut up from vulgar gaze in one of the strong cages.
The musicians still blowed their blast, as the cavalcade wound its way through the principal streets. The bill declared that the band was the celebrated "Boston Band," led by Monsieur Huzzleguget, and, according tothat, it was composed of some twenty-four performers, drawn by six fiery steeds, attached to a Grecian chariot, driven by one elegant-looking gentleman, heavily whiskered, whomust have been some six feet high; but, alas! the band itself that led on the animals through the streets of Puddleford consisted of only four seedy-looking performers, who carried three rusty copper horns and a bass drum, which was beat by a melancholy-looking boy. The three horn-men had blown their faces as round as pumpkins, and as red, too; or something besides wind, perhaps, had blown the color into their faces, for they occasionally took something to drink, during the heat of the exercises, from a bottle which they kept under the seat of the chariot.
The chariot was a large high-boarded wagon, and painted red, and was drawn by a couple of jaded "tugs," who showed plainly enough that their days were fast drawing to a close. But the music still blowed, and the procession moved on, and the Puddlefordians were as much delighted as if the proclamation had been fully realized.
Up went the canvas, and the show prepared to open. The hurry to enter was most marvellous—such a crowd Puddleford never saw before. Even Squire Longbow could not wait until the doors were actually opened. He was bewitched to see the great African lion. The Squire, as a peace-officer, ordered the crowd to keep back, in reality for the purpose of giving him and Mrs. Longbow a better chance; but the Squire's commands were entirely disregarded; he had sunk down to the level of a mere citizen; he was stripped of all his power; it was the great caravan day, and who cared for a justice of the peace on such an occasion?
Aunt Sonora having repaired the disasters of the forenoon, had determined to see the fun out. She had puton her "'t'other frock," and looked as well as she did before she had been peeled through the morning multitude. The doors were opened at last, and the "rush" entered, and in a few moments the canvas was alive with human beings. The grand caravan now on exhibition was originally the fag-end of a large concern, which had been bought up by sharpers to swindle the people. I say, originally, because this fag-end had been divided up into three smaller fag-ends which were out in different parts of the new country scouring around for money. The Puddleford fag-end had a runt of a lion, who was very evidently on his last legs; for he had been travelled until his hair was worn entirely off, and his spirits exhausted. It was very clear that he was showing himself for about the last time. The elephant was diseased, and the tiger was about four times the size of a cat. There were three dirty-looking monkeys in a cage eating crackers and hickory nuts, and chatting and throwing shucks through the bars at the gaping crowd—an ichneumon—a black bear, the only hearty fellow in the concern—and a mussy-looking ostrich, who had lost his tail-feathers in his peregrinations through the globe. This wasthecaravan.
Aunt Sonora entered, trembling.—"Dear me! dear me! dear me!" she uttered to herself as she went in; "and so this is really the great caravan; if the animals should get loose—and there—O, there—is that the lion!" she exclaimed involuntarily to those around her, starting back, as she saw the bars of a cage in the distance,—"are them bars iron?" she exclaimed, looking frightened.
"Walk up! walk up!" exclaimed the keeper, as hesaw several persons standing back; "the lion is one of the most docile animals we have, ladies and gentlemen; he never bites, ladies and gentlemen; got him in a strong cage; walk up, ladies and gentlemen, and see theli-on, the monarch of the forest, as he is called."
"How his eyeballs glare!" exclaimed Aunt Sonora, disregarding the peaceful proclamation of the keeper, as the great African lion looked up lazily, and brushed a fly from his nose with his fore-paw.
"This African lion, ladies and gentlemen," continued the keeper, "is fourteen years old; was caught in the great jungles of Ethiopia, by throwing alargerope aroundhisneck when he wasa-sleeping, ladies and gentlemen; he floundered a good deal, ladies and gentlemen, but he was caught and brought away to the shores of Ameri-ca, where he has been ever since. Nobody need be afear'd, for he never breaks out of his cage, and always minds his keeper. Walk upclo-ser and look at the animal, ladies and gentlemen." Here the keeper struck the iron bars of the cage a heavy blow with a stick which he carried, but the great African lion took no notice of it.
"Don't be skeer'd," exclaimed Mrs. Swipes, who had listened attentively to the assurances of the keeper, addressing herself to Miss Lavinia Longbow, whom she held between herself and the great African lion, as a precaution; "don't be skeer'd, he's one of the most docilestanimals in the whole caravan, the keeper says; push along. Don't be skeer'd; go right up to where he is a-lying."
"This," exclaimed Squire Longbow, in a loud tone of voice, to a host of Puddlefordians who had gathered around him for protection; "this is the great lion I tell'd youabout; he ain't so large as the one I onct saw down onter the Susquehannas. Can he roar any, Mr. Keeper?" continued the Squire, turning solemnly, and addressing himself to that august personage with his usual dignity.
"He's a perfect roarer, ladies and gentlemen!" answered the keeper; "but the lion don't roar at this time of the year—you don't understand the nater of the animal—he loses his voice during the latter part of the season. You ought to have heard him last spring, when he was in the roaring mood, ladies and gentlemen."
"Bless us!" exclaimed Aunt Sonora.
"Frightened the children half to death," said the keeper.
"The great—African lion," muttered Aunt Sonora.
"But he won'troarnow, ladies and gentlemen—walk up, walk up!"
"Com'd from the jungles, I s'pose," inquired the Squire, with much gravity.
"Caught rightina jungle," said the keeper.
"Jest as I told you!" said the Squire, turning around to his friends.
"Has he gotclaws?" inquired Aunt Sonora.
"Claws!" exclaimed the keeper, looking astonished; "the great—African lion—got claws? Bless you! why he'sallclaws and teeth; let me show them to you;" and the keeper ran his arm into the cage, in the act of pulling out one of the paws of the ferocious beast; when all Puddleford started with a rush for the door, mingled with screams that were most heart-rending.
"Never mind," said the keeper, who had become affected by the terror around him; "we won't show the lion's claws now."
Order being restored, Mrs. Bird wanted to know why the lion "hadn't got anyhar?"
"Anywhat?" inquired the keeper, peering through the crowd to find where the voice came from, and what it said.
"Anyhar, Mr. Keeper."
"Ah! O, yes—anyhair—I see—it is aladywho makes the inquiry. Why the animal hasn't got any hair? Yes, yes, very proper inquiry. We like to answer such questions, oranyquestions. These animals are great curiosities; and we travel for the instruction of the people. Why the animal hasn't got any hair? Put all the questions you can think of, ladies and gentlemen. The animalhasn'tgot any hair just now. Well, ladies and gentlemen, he has just shed his coat—the lion is the monarch of the forest—heshedshiscoat in the fall of the year, ladies and gentlemen;he'sfrom Africa, where the animals shed their coats at a different season from the animals in this country; and the lion does just as he would do if he were in Africa now, ladies and gentlemen. A very proper question that, ladies and gentlemen; the lion is a wonderful beast—the most wonderful beast, ladies and gentlemen, we have. Any more questions? He has shed his coat, you see; looks bad just now. A sight at the lion alone is worth the whole admission money. Any more questions?"
Mrs. Bird wanted to know of the keeper if he couldn't make him "snap and snarl a little."
As the lion could scarcely stand upon his legs, the request of Mrs. Bird rather took the keeper aback for a moment. But he recovered himself and proceeded. He said hecoulddo it—diddo it sometimes—but he didn'tlike to do it. "You see, ladies and gentlemen, that he is very docile now; restingveryquiet; nothing disturbs him; but if he should get once roused up, there is no knowing what he would do; I have stirred him up upon particular request, but I never do it of my own accord, ladies and gentlemen. We don't propose to do any such thing on our bills; we don't like to do such a thing; but we always mean to satisfy the public, ladies and gentlemen." Here the keeper started for a long pole with a sharp spike in the end of it, and returning with it in his hand, announced, "I will now make the great African lion foam and rage, and gnash his teeth."
A scream of terror went up from the whole multitude, filled with broken ejaculations. "Murder!" "Don't!" "Let me out!" "Stop him!" and everybody rushed in the wildest confusion a second time for the door.
The keeper laid down his pole, and calmed the crowd.
The exercises connected with the lion now closed. Turtle took advantage of the interregnum to make an inquiry of his own. He had in his possession the flaming poster that had so long hung at the Eagle, and amused and astonished the Puddlefordians, and slowly unfolding it, he caught the eye of the keeper, as he held it out at full length, and wished to know where "all the monkeys were that were put on to that 'ere bill?"
The keeper pointed to the monkeys' cage, where the three were, still chewing nuts and crackers, and chattering and bobbing from one side to the other.
"Je-hos-a-phat!" exclaimed Turtle, "themar'ain't these 'ere monkeys—there ain't but three on 'em, nuther, and they ain't climbing trees, as these are—Je-hos-a-phat!—arethemyour monkeys, Mr. Keeper?"
The keeper said "he would explain. They were the same monkeys that the gentleman found on the bill; the same monkeys in different attitudes. That monkey, for instance, ladies and gentlemen," continued the keeper, pointing his stick at a gray-bearded one in the cage, who was just then intently at work pulling a sliver out of his foot, "that monkey is represented four or five times on the bill in different forms, ladies and gentlemen; jumping here, and climbing there, ladies and gentlemen; and in other places performing those wonderful and curious feats that the monkey onlycanperform. Will the gentleman show the bill for the benefit of all? (Ike held up the bill over his head.) Now, ladies and gentlemen, look at the bill, and then look at the monkey. These bills are printed for the instruction of the people; it gives them a knowledge of natural history. That monkey can do anything that we have represented on our bill; or, rather, monkeys in their native woods do all these things; but the woods we cannot carry around with us, ladies and gentlemen; and so we give it to you on our bills. (Hold the bill a little higher, if you please, sir.) There you see the monkey as he is—next thing to a man, ladies and gentlemen. Study the monkey; he's an as-ton-ishing animal; very different from the lion there; wherever we go, themon-keys are admired. Any more questions, ladies and gentlemen?"
Turtle said "he b'lieved he shouldn't ask any more questions."
Bigelow Van Slyck had not yet seen "that wonderful animal mentioned in Holy Writ, and now known as the Ichneumon." He had walked the whole caravan over and over a dozen times, but the Ichneumon was nowhere to be seen.
He inquired, at last, of the keeper, "where he kept his Ichneumon."
"Certainly," answered the keeper in the most amiable manner possible, leading the way to a little cage on the ground, where he had an animal housed about the size of a small dog.
"There," exclaimed the keeper, "is the sacred quadruped now known as the Ichneumon."
Bigelow ran his hands into his breeches-pockets and looked down very reverently upon the little fellow.
"Spoken of in Holy Writ?" repeated Bigelow.
"Often," said the keeper.
"Old Testament, probably," said Bigelow.
"Most probably," replied the keeper.
Bigelow took another long look.
"And he's alive, too," said Bigelow, drawing a long breath.
"But it costs a great deal of money," answered the keeper, "to preserve his life—mostexpensiveanimal we have—bathe him in salt water three times a day."
"Mi-rac-ulous!" said Bigelow.
"Treat him very tenderly," continued the keeper; "liable to lose him any moment; cost a great sum; but we don't mind that—it is our business—wewillsatisfy the public."
Bigelow introduced Mrs. Bird, Mrs. Swipes, and Mrs. Longbow to the Ichneumon, who did not happen to be present and hear the keeper's remarks, and repeated in low breath the information which he had just derived, with suitable and appropriate remarks of his own. For his part, he said, he was paid. He had seen the sacred animal called the Ichneumon; and he managed to weavehim into a sermon which he preached some weeks afterwards, in which he identified him as clearly as he did when inspecting the poster at the Eagle.
Jim Buzzard was present during all the exercises. He crawled in under the canvas at rather a late hour, but appeared in time to see all that was to be seen. He made very few comments upon the animals. He took a very long look at the elephant, who seemed to just strike his fancy. Jim was a picture, and so was the elephant. As he stood in rags gaping at the monster, it seemed as if he was magnetized to the ground. He examined him up and down, looked under him, and over him, and at last, after having digested all there was about him, he scratched his head and said, "O, Gosh!"
But all things must have an end, and the grand caravan, in time, came to its end. The last performance, which was intended as the climax to the whole day's proceedings, and which had been looked forward to by the Puddlefordians with the most enthusiastic feeling, was the "ostrich and monkey ride." The poster had painted this affair in shining colors, and it was finally announced by the keeper, amid a tempest of applause. It is not in my power to describe this ride. The monkey rode the ostrich, as promised, carrying a whip in his hand—and then the monkey took another round on the ostrich, carrying something else—and then again and again, each time under renewed and stronger vociferations from the multitude, until I really began to think that the monkey and ostrich were certain to transport the crowd into hysterics, and cover themselves with immortal glory.
When the afternoon shadows began to lengthen overthe green, the tent, which had so recently gone up by magic, as suddenly dissolved, and the people dissolved too. The show was over, and there were scores of people who were twenty or thirty miles from home, jaded and nearly out of money. Puddleford was in an uproar in the general preparation for a departure. The showmen were packing their monkeys, ostrich, and ichneumon, temporarily hobbling their elephant, and counting up the proceeds of the day, and making ready for a fresh swindle upon some adjacent town. The women were dealing out gingerbread to squalling children to fortify their stomachs against the journey of the night. The men were settling up their bills at the Eagle; and all was bustle and commotion.
Aunt Sonora hurried home and "took a nap;" she had passedsucha day; "was," as she said, "nearly killed in the morning, and skeer'd to death in the arternoon, that it seemed as if she should fly off the handle; her head danc'd round like a top; see if they could catch her at any more of their powwows; their lions and their monkeys might go to grass, for all her; she'd not look at 'em agin; that's what she wouldn't—there warn't nothin' so grand 'bout 'em, arter all, as folks tell'd on—she wouldn't use up herself agin for any such strolling critters—not she."
The procession formed in a line, just at twilight, to take its farewell. A knot of urchins, and twenty or more Puddlefordians, were all that were left of the pride and pomp of the morning to see them safely on their way. The band struck up a lively air, the wagons moved forward, and soon had wound away out of sight; and all settled down again into the most profound tranquillity.
The Tinkhams arrive.—Great Stir.—Miss Lavinia Longbow's Head is turned.—Everybody in Love with the Tinkhams.—Wind changes.—The Tinkhams fall.—The whole Pack out on them.—They abandon the Settlement.
The Tinkhams arrive.—Great Stir.—Miss Lavinia Longbow's Head is turned.—Everybody in Love with the Tinkhams.—Wind changes.—The Tinkhams fall.—The whole Pack out on them.—They abandon the Settlement.
It is remarkable how the people of a new country run in fixed channels of thought and action. That this is true of an old one where ages have hardened down and vitrified a long train of habits, is not so wonderful. Puddleford was in the gristle, it was true, and had not as yet made any permanent development. But even in its gristle, it had its laws—temporary, of course, but laws, nevertheless, which were as unbending as iron, while they lasted.
No person was permitted to outstrip his neighbor in any of the luxuries or refinements of social life. Any attempt at such a piece of ambition was regarded as a kind of premeditated insult upon the whole town. It was never for a moment supposed that a Puddlefordian could act without some hidden motive, maliciously directed against those who were not in any way connected with his personal affairs. The pride of a new country is most marvellous. The less wealth, or the less education, or the less of the luxuries of life, which such a people may possess, the more tender they are upon those very deprivations. In one sense, again, not a particle ofpride could be found lingering in all Puddleford. This pride was the source of the most unrelenting jealousy.
Mrs. Longbow never bought a new calico without being agitated. She knew that not only the calico, but herself, too, in connection with such a bold enterprise, must necessarily pass in review before all the women of the place. And she also knew that not unfrequently it happened that very improper motives were attributed. The calico might have been purchased to cast a slur upon some one else—a way taken by her to "let people know what some folks could do, and what other people could not do,"—a kind of open triumph, maliciously intended to humble the pride, and sneer at the poverty of another, who dare not venture upon such an outlay of money—and Mrs. Longbow knew and felt that it was as much as her reputation was worth to appear for the first time in public in such a garment—for Mrs. Swipes or Mrs. Bird would be sure to declare that "she did it on purpos' jist to insulther."
Immigrants, who settled in Puddleford, felt the force of this social law very forcibly. Mr. Tinkham and family came in and took up their residence. Mr. Tinkham was a small merchant, and hailed from a small eastern village, and brought in his train a wife, one son, and two daughters—Mr. Howard Tinkham, Miss Jenet Tinkham, and Miss Mary Tinkham—old enough all for society. They were a very plain family, had been educated in a very plain way, and were very unpretending in their deportment. "OldMr. Tinkham," as he was called, was on the downhill side of life, and was fast running into the shadows of the valley; and "Old Mrs. Tinkham" was not very far behind him. They had immigrated forthe benefit of their children—made themselves miserable from a philanthropic desire to make somebody else happy—had buried all the associations, comforts, and joys of their lives, to linger out an unnatural existence in the West.
When Mr. Tinkham and his family came on, Puddleford was overflowing with enthusiasm. Indeed, their anticipated arrival was heralded by all hands long before they made their appearance, and their "means," personal history, politics, and religion were well known weeks in advance. The accession of a new family was a great event in Puddleford—and well it might be—for it was a rare event to find any one bold enough to settle down in the village—and it usually turned out to be as great an event to the individual who settled, as those whom he settled among.
There was a general uprising to receive Mr. Tinkham—it did not seem possible to do enough for Mr. Tinkham—he was from the very first completely run down, crushed, and smothered with attention—all the women offered their services in any and every way to Mr. Tinkham, and to Mrs. Tinkham, and Mr. Howard Tinkham, and Miss Jenet Tinkham, and Miss Mary Tinkham—one ran this way to do this, and another that way to do that—sometimes two or three female Puddlefordians would insist upon performing the same act for Mrs. Tinkham, which not unfrequently resulted in hard words and red faces among themselves, for their kindness was so impulsive and excessive, that it was not possible for them to restrain it, as long as the Tinkham fever lasted.
The Tinkhams thought that they had been very much underrated, or very much overrated. They were positivelydelighted with the spontaneous attention of the Puddlefordians—and yet, as has been stated, the Tinkhams were a plain people, not subject to any fashionable flights, nor haughty airs, nor had they ever demanded or received much notice before, and they could only account for the novel exhibitions of hospitality of their new acquaintances by supposing it was "their way," and that they were no exception to a general rule.
Miss Lavinia Longbow, who was decidedly one of the fashionable "upper crust" of society—for every society has its "upper crust"—and who was the daughter of Squire Longbow, which of itself was all-sufficient to fix her social position—Miss Lavinia Longbow almost went into ecstasies over Mr. Howard Tinkham the first time she saw him.
She declared that "he was the splendidest man she ever see'd—that she thought that Jim Barton was something of a feller once—but, O, pshaw! he warn't nothin'. Mr. Howard Tinkham had such a poetical eye, and such tap'rin' hands, and then he was so much slimmer-er than Jim Barton, and he walked off so peert like—and then he talked sobu-tiful—all about the Venuses, and the God-es-es, and she did not know how many more things, that she never heer'd of afore in all her born days. Jim Barton didn't know nothin' 'bout anything—he couldn't say boo afore Mr. Howard Tinkham—he wassicha man, Mr. Howard Tinkham was—he know'd everything—how many pretty stories hehadtold her—O, pshaw! talk about Jim Barton."
Miss Lavinia ran on in the most extravagant terms, at all times and places, about Mr. Howard Tinkham, and she positively refused to speak to, or notice Jim Barton, for six months after Tinkham came in.
Mrs. Swipes, Bird, Longbow, Aunt Sonora, and all were bewitched with Mrs. Tinkham. Mrs. Swipes presented Mrs. Tinkham with a dried-apple pie within an hour after her arrival, at the same time informing her that "it would come right handy while they were putting things to rights—and that if there was anything else—any—thing—no matter what—that she had in her house, to come over and take it right away, and ask no questions. She wanted her to be at home inherhouse, jist as long as they liv'd in Puddleford."
Mrs. Tinkham thought Mrs. Swipes was a very accommodating woman.
Mrs. Longbow sent a ham—Mrs. Bird a loaf of "Injun," as she called it—and as Mrs. Swipes knew what Mrs. Longbow had sent, and as Mrs. Longbow ascertained what Mrs. Swipes had sent, and as Mrs. Bird discovered by inquiry "round about," what they both sent, and as the rest of the Puddleford ladies made it their business to know what they all had sent, and as they were determined not to be outdone by the upper crust, who they declared were no better than they were, and couldn't do any more than they could do, the consequence was that the Tinkhams began to think that they had reached the promised land, and that the windows of Heaven were opened, and showering down blessings broadcast upon them.
The Tinkhams were in raptures with Puddleford. Mrs. Swipes called two or three times a day to know how they got along—to know if Mary Jane Arabella could not come in and "chore around a little while they were settlin'"—that she know'd what it was "to get fix'd"—to know if "there warn'tsumthin' shecoulddo."
Mrs. Longbow was very anxious to find out "when Mrs. Tinkham could come over and spend a sociable afternoon—it seemed as if she couldn't wait."
Mrs. Bird declared that "she would have the first visit—that she'd say flat-footed."
The Tinkhams were certainly very much in love with Puddleford. They had positively never seen anything like it. The impression which they had made exceeded all their expectations. They did not see how they could ever repay the manifestations of its people.
But this paroxysm of attention in time passed away. The Tinkhams in time—and in a very short time, too—fell from their high position. Mrs. Tinkhamdidcall first upon Mrs. Longbow, and she and all the other Tinkhams were ruined from that day.
Mrs. Bird then declared "she just began to see what they were"—she blazed out with all her fires, and showered down her red-hot lava upon the Tinkhams, both great and small. She "had a lurkin' kinder suspicion all the time that they warn't much"—she said "she meant to treat 'em decently, and she had treated 'em decently—she and Mary Jane didn't do nothin' but run for 'em all the time, when they fust cum—and now this was her thanks for't—this was what she got—thiswas her pay—she'd tell the whole pile on 'em what she thought, some day—she'd give 'em a piece of her mind—she'd show 'em what Sall Bird could do—they'd find her out—they couldn't tromp onter her—jest—to—think—after all said and done—that the huzzy went straight over and call'd fust on Mrs. Longbow—on Mrs. Longbow—yes, old Squire Longbow's second wife—oldAunt Graves, and nobody else—who I've know'd fustand last these twenty years—and no good of her nuther—to think of it! to think!—onlyto think!"
This little explosion went off in the presence of Mrs. Swipes, who had been as deeply injured by this "call" as Mrs. Bird, and Mrs. Bird knew it.
Mrs. Swipes declared "that while she was the last woman on the face of the airth to injure anybody, or talk 'bout anybody, that waswellknown, she couldn't help lettin' out on the Tinkhams—she couldn't! she'd tried it, but she felt it her duty to do it—and shewoulddo it, and she'd do it now,—she thought she saw sumthin'—sumthin' a-nuther—'bout that Mrs. Tinkham, the fust day that they came inter the settlement, that warn't right—she didn't like her eye—there was a certain sort-of-er-look there—and she might as well say it right out, it looked wicked to her—wicked as Cain—she told Mr. Swipes then thatshebelieved that she was adang-rous woman—but she was detarmined to try her, for she was a person who allers tried everybody—she gin everybody a chance—she didn't cry down nobody, she didn't—she warn't a-goin' to—'twas agin her principles to do so—but when shedidfind people out—and she allers did—allers—sooner orla-ter—sum time or a-nuther—she was sure to find 'em out, then they'd got ter take a piece of her mind—and she had found the Tinkhams out, and she thought the Tinkhams warn't any great shakes—that's what she thought."
"Jest my mind exactly!" exclaimed Mrs. Bird, who had listened with great attention, with her eyes staring, and her mouth open, so she could not lose a word.
"Nor warn't any great shakes where they com'd from," added Mrs. Swipes; "that I've larned for true, and I know it."
"Nor never will be any great shakes," continued Mrs. Bird, "anywhere—never! never!"
"From the old man down," said Mrs. Swipes.
"Yes! from the old man down," repeated Mrs. Bird.
Aunt Sonora, who was very "set in her way," and a great stickler for the old order of things, was, nevertheless, not naturally malicious. She thought the Tinkhams, however, "were getting mighty stuck up," and that the "gals put on the dref'ellest sight of airs"—"she didn't think Puddleford could hold 'em long—people who ate sales-molasses for common, and bought fresh every day, must have a long purse or they'd bust"—she said "she was very sure that Mr. Howard Tinkham wore broadcloth; and as for the women-folks, why, they were flarin' out all the while in their silks—and laws-a-me," said the old lady, "they hain't got such a killin' sight to be proud of nuther—if they had,shedidn't know where they kept it, for her part."
The Tinkhams found themselves in hot water on every side—and simply for the reason that Mrs. Tinkham had made her first call on Mrs. Longbow. But Mrs. Tinkham could not have escaped her fate—that was not possible; if she had selected any other of her devoted friends, the result would have been precisely the same.
In four weeks from the time the Tinkhams had been received with such demonstrations of affection, it was discovered,—
That Mrs. Bird did not speak to Mrs. Tinkham;
That Mrs. Swipes did not speak to Mrs. Tinkham;
That Mrs. Beagle did not speak to Mrs. Tinkham;
That a very great many other persons who did not speak to Mrs. Bird, Swipes,orBeagle, did not speak to Mrs. Tinkham.
Mr. and Mrs. Tinkham found that they had come in conflict with public opinion in Puddleford—they were completely driven out from society.
The social war soon extended itself further. The Bird clique would not trade at Mr. Tinkham's store. Mrs. Bird declared "that she wouldn't have nothing at all to do with 'em no way—not the fust thing—she wouldn't darken any of their doors, and they shouldn't darken hers—not a Tinkham should enter her front gate—she'dlarn 'em, that's what she would." Mrs. Swipes and Mrs. Beagle agreed to the same thing—the Tinkhams shouldn't darken their doors, nuther. Mrs. Bird said she wouldn't go where the Tinkhams went. Mrs. Swipes and Mrs. Beagle thereupon agreed thattheywouldn't go where the Tinkhams went—and the lesser lights that revolved around Mrs. Bird, Swipes, and Beagle, agreed that they wouldn't "nuther."
The Tinkhams were obliged to draw their business to a close, and leave the land of their adoption. They did not understand the social law of the country. They were seen, early one morning, wending their way out of the village, solitary, yet not sad, without pomp or parade, their faces to the rising sun, retracing their steps back to the land which they had left, wiser, if not better, we trust, with a fixed determination to "let well enough alone" during the remainder of their lives, and never again give "a bird in the hand for (none) in the bush."
Puddleford experienced no more spasms from a disturbance of its social equilibrium for a long time; not until the Styles family came in many years afterwards, and overturned the whole order of things, and established upon the ruins an entirely new government.
And still New England.—Sui Generis.—Her Ruggedness the Soil of Liberty.—The Contrast.—The New England Conservative.—The New England Man of Business.—The West has no Past.—Fast, and Hospitable.—Saxon Blood and Saxon Spirit.
And still New England.—Sui Generis.—Her Ruggedness the Soil of Liberty.—The Contrast.—The New England Conservative.—The New England Man of Business.—The West has no Past.—Fast, and Hospitable.—Saxon Blood and Saxon Spirit.
Such is a picture of some of the old-school New England men, as they flourished years ago. Such are some of the portraits and images that rise up, and stand out vividly before me.
New England is unlike anything the pioneer sees, hears, or feels in a wilderness country. She is unlike his country in her creation. Her solemn mountains, lone lakes—her rushing streams, that dart like arrows from her precipices—the roar of her cataracts, amid her rugged gorges—her long and tranquil reaches of valley—the cold, solemn, and quiet pictures of Nature that she mingles and groups on her canvas, give soul and spirit to the people who are nursed upon her soil; and they, too, grow gigantic, like the objects around them—patriotism, integrity, firmness, germinate and become athletic in such fastnesses: Liberty last expires upon the mountains.
Why was civil and religious liberty planted, amid December snows, upon her inhospitable coast? Why was it committed to her rugged elements of Nature, if not to harden the men, and strengthen and preserve principles? Had the May Flower discharged its freight of ideasamid abundance, soft skies, and a teeming soil, it is not certain that the Declaration would have been signed in 1776.
How different is the great West! One great plain of prairie and woodland, reaching from zone to zone, fairly bursting with the richness of its varied soil and climate—reserved, as it were, by Providence, to receive the less hardy and vigorous generations which time might throw off upon her—tame in scenery, but filled with the resources of wealth and power.
But New England is not only unlike the West in its creation, but her people, from a thousand causes, have fixed and established habits and customs as unlike. And all these have become as stereotyped by ages, as the figures upon a panorama. The New England panorama, in all its essential features, rolls off to-day as it did years ago. Who has not been impressed with this truth? Select an old New England town—analyze it as you once knew it, and as it is now. How was it, how is it made up? It was finished then—the last blow was struck, the last foundation laid, the rubbish all cleared away; as if it only waited for the final explosion of all things—even the magnificent elms that solemnly swept its streets, grew no longer—they, too, had reached maturity, and gone to sleep. So it is now.
A western village, in its general aspect, presents the very reverse of this. Like Jonah's gourd, it is the "son of a night." It seems to have been thrown up by an army on the march—and such is the fact—the mighty army of pioneers, who are here to-day and there to-morrow, and who are only traced by such huge footsteps.
The people of a New England village appear to havebeen procured, assorted and arranged, for their positions and occupations. Each person treads in his own circle—each is stamped with a value—branded good, bad, or indifferent. There is the conservative gentleman—the dash that connects generations—he who has taken a preëmption right to respectability—whose patent dates away back among historical reminiscences and dead bones—whose presence isprima facieevidence of all that is claimed and exercised. A man of authority is he. He carries an odor of the past around with him—an air—a something that smells of blood—a consciousness that some time, or somehow, somebody or something had given his ancestors a cross that followed and sublimated his whole race.
Such men impress a consequence upon objects around them. Their family carriages look wise and venerable—heirlooms embalmed by generations gone. They drive horses that think and know who and what they are—and who live and die under the protection of their masters. Their church-pews blaze in crimson—are piled with cushions, arrayed with stools, and tables, and books, with two pillows and a foot-stove in the corner, for the oldladyof seventy, who wheezes and takes snuff.
Perhaps, reader, you have met just such a New England character. He never moves below a line in society—a line as arbitrary with him as 36° 30'. He had a broad face, double chin, heavy nose, wide-brimmed hat, and buff vest, filled with ruffles. You have heard him deliver his opinion upon a question of public policy, or public morals—his voice slow and sepulchral—his manner heavy, almost melancholy—made impressive throughthe aid of a gold-headed cane, with which he occasionally beats out the emphatic portions of his homily. Perhaps you attempted to make a suggestion yourself—if you did, you recollect the frown, the reproof that came down upon you, from those cold, gray eyes of his, and perhaps the shock you inflicted upon the timid around you, from your impudence.
This class do not, by any means, constitute the backbone of New England. The enterprise that breaks through her mountains, upheaves her valleys, and sends the iron horse on its way—creates the roar of machinery that reverberates among her hills—grasps with, and battles for, the public questions of theday—pours a tide of life and energy into everything around—which makes itself felt through the long arms of commerce in every part of the world, and whose touch electrifies every mart—this enterpriseis born, and quickened, and sustained somewhere else. These men are the mere spectators of all this bustle. They are rather drag-weights upon it—the acknowledged conservative army of "masterly inactivity."
These conservatives are not without value, but they can only exist in a fixed state of society. They are the work of ages, and cannot be created in a breath. No such characters can be found in the western world. The roots of such a growth lie away back among the Puritans. One can smell Plymouth Rock, Cotton Mather, Bunker Hill, and indeed the whole revolutionary war, in the very production. Pedigree associations, musty ideas, which lie scattered everywhere, and yet nowhere in particular, are the foundation of this kind of aristocracy; all of which is submitted to by custom and habit.
What if an attempt should be made to build up such a society in a new country? Where would we begin? There is no past to hallow and dignify the present; and without a past to draw upon, and anchor to, an aristocracy would be all afloat. The past of Puddleford, so far as my researches go, ends in thePottawatomie Indians—a little later in Longbow, Turtle, and Bates. This is the extent of our resources; and no one has been yet found who was willing to go into that kind of business on such a capital. Money, so often the foundation of pretension, is widely diffused, in very small parcels. Historical local incidents there are none. The conquest of the country was by the axe and an indomitable spirit. There was no blood nor brimstone used. The pioneer's little family of sinewy children was the army that entered it, and took possession of the soil.
But the people of New England, I said, were assorted. The man of business, the merchant, the mechanic, was a merchant, a mechanic, in the same place, the same building, perhaps forty years ago—and his whole life is one of order and system. He lives by rule—is as fixed in his sphere as the conservative in his. His income for the future can be calculated from the past. His duties are foreseen and provided for. Domestic expenses so much; support of the gospel so much; charity so much; pleasure so much; which, deducted from income, balance, so much. Here, again, is the fruit of a fixed society. The creditor of a New England merchant knows where his customer will be next year—at his old post, or dead.
How is it in a new country? Not one resident in ten is permanently located. Every man expects to removesomewhere else, at some time. Here is no association, no tie, to bind him to the soil. The pioneer is but a passenger who has stopped over night, as it were, and he holds himself ready to push forward at the blow of the trumpet. Villages, and even whole townships, change inhabitants in short periods, and other men, with other views and habits, step in and take their places. Where does the merchant creditor find his western customer of last year? Sold out, perhaps, to Mr. A., and Mr. A. sold to Mr. B., and Mr. B. to Mr. C. Mr. C. pays all arrearages, and Mr. A. and B. are boating on the Mississippi, or "ballooning" in some fancy speculation on the north shore of the Oregon.
While the great West suffers from a want of the virtues that attend a fixed society, as it undoubtedly does, it does not find itself obliged to contend against its prejudices. There are no arbitrary lines drawn, based upon mere ideas—no venerable fictions in the way. Custom, habit, society, immemorial usage, hang no dead-weights upon the young and ambitious. All start from the same line, the prize is aloft in full view, and he who first reaches it creates his own precedence.
If there is no past to hallow and chasten the people of a new country, no permanent present to hold them to one spot, so in one sense there is no future. There is no locality that is adorned and beautified for coming years—no spot designated to become venerable to posterity—no tree nursed and protected in memory of him who planted it—no ground consecrated for the burial of the dead. Houses are built, localities adorned, trees planted, cemeteries erected, but they who fashioned all this do not abide with them—they are ever on themarch, and the stranger takes possession of the memorials they leave behind; and if posterity should attempt to collect the works of such an ancestor, it would find them scattered over the circuit of states.
We have attempted, in a plain way, to draw a comparison, very briefly, to be sure, between a fixed and an unfixed society. Both have their advantages and their disadvantages.
If New England is slow and methodical, she is strong. She moves in close phalanx upon any public question or duty. The very bonds of habit which pervade all, and all alike, concentrate and intensify her action. Her people act in a mass towards one point. They strike through organizations which are gigantic and reverend with age. The Church gathers the energies and means of the benevolent. Public opinion is harmonious about public ends. And this very fixedness of society enables its members to push forward with a unity and strength almost omnipotent.
In a new country, as we have seen, action is individual and ends are individual; men are unorganized. He who goes forward with axe in hand to hew his pathway to competence and respectability, is governed by few relics of the past. He breaks away, in time (too completely perhaps), from old associations, some of which were trammels, being the mere result of usage, and some of which he ought to cherish for their intrinsic excellence. He looks forward to a country and people in the future (somewherein the future; locality is nothing), and he hurries on, with fury almost, to reach the destination of his dreams.
The people of the West are called afastpeople. Howcan they be otherwise? Their very necessitiesdrivethem. They cannot fall back upon any prop; they can move onward without limit. It required, half a century ago, the labor of a generation to sweep off the forest, and plant cities and villages—but all this is accomplished in half of that time now. Pioneers grow more expanded in their views. The father of the pioneer of to-day grew into consequence as a heavy landed proprietor upon a farm of forty acres—his son can hardly satisfy his ambition with six hundred—and that is always for sale—(there is no poetry, as we have seen, about a western homestead)—and he stands ready to vacate upon six months' notice and a consideration.
This miscellaneous state of society begets a peculiar hospitality. New England has been famed for its hospitality; but the kind I mean is a very different thing. Hospitality in an old country, under the bonds of society, is too formal, too cold, and sometimes a little oppressive. It is not always hospitality; it is, sometimes, the performance of a social duty, according to the rules and regulations prescribed for its observance—painful to all parties concerned. It is artificial—as hearty, perhaps, as it can be under "bonds." The table, in the West, isalwaysspread, and the roofalwaysoffers shelter. There is an ease, an abandonment in its exercise, that is positively beautiful, and can be understood only when felt.
A fixed state of society begets feuds, and cherishes old grudges. A quarrel that originated between grandfathers is often carried down and kept brewing. Families are divided from other families for years, and sometimes for generations, about matters of no consequence. It is perhaps a point of etiquette, a stingingremark, an accidental or premeditated slight, a question of dollars and cents, a political or religious difference of opinion, that opened the breach which will not be healed. Thus, bombshells are often thrown from one to another, by fathers and children and grandchildren, and families kept in an uproar about nothing. This society not only cherishes old grudges, but it is nervous and sensitive to the least touch of the present. A morbid pride of wealth, family, position, is ever on the lookout for an attack upon its consequence—perhaps to make an onslaught upon others.
Here the West has the advantage. There is no one to keep alive old grudges. Not one man in a hundred can tell what his neighbor's father or grandfather was—where he flourished or decayed—what were his personal piques or social battles. And as for present causes of personal war, they are few—it requires something more than a sublimated idea or notion—an antiquated figment of the brain or present artificiality—to warm up the combatants. The practical realities of the West are too great and pressing to give time or disposition to dally with abstractions. Gross outrages are quickly met and redressed—they are not carried down on the docket of time for posterity to try, nor nursed in the bosom from the revengeful pleasure they afford.
Reader, these are a few of the advantages and disadvantages of the two states of eastern and western society—not western society after it becomes rooted and established, as it has in many of the states—but during its first ten, perhaps twenty years, in its green state, while the gristle is hardening into bone.
These few suggestions are written in no morbid orcarping spirit. They are written with a consciousness of the manly virtues, and solid worth, of New England, as she is, and always has been. They simply mark points of difference worked upon men by a change of soil and society—points that should be known, whether approved or condemned. What son of New England does not look back upon her with pride? What associations throng around him when her name is mentioned! Her hills, her hearts, her homes, send a thrill through the soul, and make him, for a time at least, a better man. What armies of scholars have walked forth into the battle of life from her cloisters? How many have been girded and helmeted in her halls? Where is the spot where her footsteps are not imprinted, her cheering voice heard? Shall we ever forget her? What sermons her old homesteads are continually preaching to her children, scattered as they are throughout every degree of latitude and longitude, in all positions and avocations! The cold brooks, where the trout darted—the grove where the nuts dropped—the blue sublimity of her mountain-tops, where sunlight first broke in the morn, and last died at night—the great shadows that slept in her valleys—the reverberation of her thunder—her solemn "fasts and feasts"—her day of Thanksgiving, that united again the broken fragments of the family circle—the merry voice of Christmas, that rung so cheerily through her halls—her graves, that hold all that remains of those who were giants in religion, liberty, and law, and who, "although dead, yet speak"—her arts—her monuments—her altars, where generations have knelt and passed away—are all living eloquence to her children, and can never be forgotten, ifnot always remembered. She is the Mecca to which many a weary pilgrim turns for strength and counsel in the storm and bustle of life, and her brain, and her capital, and her example are felt throughout half the globe.
Let us not, however, in our veneration for New England, forget the iron-souled and true-hearted men, who have gone forth from that ancient hive to make a way in the wilderness for incoming generations, whose march is ever upon the ear. They hadtheirmission, too, and nobly have they performed it. What but Saxon blood, and Saxon spirit, could have accomplished so much? If it was, and still is, done roughly, it was all done for time, and will stand—it is something that will bear looking back upon, and of which no son of posterity will be ashamed.