Spring at the West.—"Sugar Days."—Performances of the Cattle.—April.—Advent of the Blue-Jays and the Crows.—The Bluebirds, Phebes, and Robins.—April and its Inspiring Days.—The Frogs and their Concerts.—Gophers, Squirrels, Ants; Swallows, Brown-Threshers, and Blackbirds.—The Swallows, the Martins, and the Advent of May.
Spring at the West.—"Sugar Days."—Performances of the Cattle.—April.—Advent of the Blue-Jays and the Crows.—The Bluebirds, Phebes, and Robins.—April and its Inspiring Days.—The Frogs and their Concerts.—Gophers, Squirrels, Ants; Swallows, Brown-Threshers, and Blackbirds.—The Swallows, the Martins, and the Advent of May.
Spring opens in the western wilds with great pomp and beauty. After our winter had passed, accompanied with few out-door amusements, how inspiring were her first footsteps! February slowly gave way to March, the sun each day rolled higher and higher, and the heavens grew bluer and bluer. Then came the still, clear, cold nights, when the stars flashed like diamonds, and the still, warm days, that flooded the lakes and streams. Here and there a bird would appear—one of the more hardy sort—a kind of courier, that had been sent out by his fellows, lonely, like the dove from the ark, to spy out the land, and report its condition. These couriers, who I supposed were birds that were with us the preceding year, rummaged around the woods, like a family who had just returned to a long deserted mansion. They flew from tree to tree, eyed the knot-holes, examined everything, shivered a few nights on a snowy limb, and then hurried back to make their report. The outside birds who were thus represented, and who were so anxious to"come on," were like a press at the theatre, before the hour had arrived to hoist the curtain.
These March days were "sugar days." Puddleford was, of course, in confusion; men, women, and children turned out with kettles and pans, into the "bush;" and one would have supposed, from the clouds of smoke that rolled over the tops of the trees, that a tribe of gypsies had camped there. The girls, dressed in linsey-woolsey, were boisterous; the boys, uproarious; and a whole army of dogs, full of the spirit of the occasion, stormed around, barking at every deer track, and tore all the rotten logs in pieces. Then came a long, warm, still rain—and the frogs shouted to each other their melancholy music—and the grass and the roots that were soaking in the marshes sent out their sweetness—the bud began to swell on the willow—the geese gathered in a procession, with some pompous gander at its head, and marched to the river—and the barn-yard fowls climbed up into trees, on top of the sheds and stacks, and cackled, and crowed, and clucked, and chatted together, like so many guests at a party.
The cattle congregated, and wandered away off to an open plain, and went through certain exercises, the significance of which was known only to themselves. One old cow of mine, whose reputation was good, and whose frosty bones had scarcely moved during the winter, and who was present at this celebration, suddenly wheeled out of the ranks, rolled her tail over her back, put herself on a circuitous canter, cutting as many capers as a French dancing-master, and brought up, at last, with a bellowing blast that was quite terrific.
At a distance stood another of the herd, frothing atthe mouth, lashing herself with her tail, and throwing clouds of sand on high with her fore feet. Away, in another quarter, were a couple of very thoughtful looking animals, fencing with their horns. Every little while some good or evil spirit would take possession of them, and the whole company would fling their tails aloft, and with a great noise go off in a stampede that made the ground tremble.
As April approached, or rather the reflected light from her distant wheels, the voice of the birds changed into a mellower tone. The blue-jay, whose harsh scream had so long grated on my ear, grew softer, and he blew once in a while one of his spring pipes (for he is a great imitator, and has many), which, after all, sounded rather husky and winter-like. His heart grew warmer, too. He would sit on a dry tree close to the eaves of my house, and peer through the windows, to see what was going on inside, jump down, and bow himself up on the door-steps, to remind us, in the best way he could, of the sunshine outside.
Soon the crows began to sweep solemnly through the air with their caw! caw! They sailed round and round, now lighting on some tree, now on the ground, then away they went into the heavens again. They seemed to be taking a very thorough examination of the premises, making out the lines of occupation, and acquiring a new possession of the same, for the use of themselves and those they represented. Sometimes a body of them, lazily winging their way over my house, and looking down from their height upon my diminutive form, would shower upon my head ten thousandCa's!as if in utter contempt of both me and mine. I occasionally fired ashot at them, and the only answer I got was a quick "Ca-Ca!"—as much as to say, "Try it again! Try it again? Who cares?"
Then came the bluebird. I threw up my window amid the latter days of March, one sunshiny morning, and there she sat on a maple, blowing her flute. Banks of snow were scattered here and there, but the ground smelled moist and spring-like. Where did that little piece of melody come from? Where was she the day before? Her song was a little poem about south-west winds, and violets, and running brooks—perhaps she was a preacher, sent out by the daisies to herald their coming—perhaps her song was only a prayer—for she went round from place to place, on this tree and that, in her little cathedral, as priests do in theirs, and erected her altar, and made her offering. She had a great deal to say, and a great many persons and things to deliver her message to; for in a little while she went, rising and falling as though she were riding billows of air, to the roof of my neighbor's house, where she sang the same song again; and after thus spending an hour or two about the neighborhood, she crossed the river, and dashed into the woods.
On the next morning the bluebird came again, and brought a phebe with him, and the two sang a kind of duet for my benefit. Their harmony was perfect—for "there is no discord in nature." On the following day, at dawn, before the sun arose, I heard the robin rolling off her mellow notes. I looked out and saw a little flock running along on the ground, and picking at the fresh earth, evidently for the purpose of determining its condition. This same flock, I am sure, remained upon my premises during the summer, and had, in fact, possessionof them for many years previous. For they appeared every day or two, and grew more and more inquisitive, and examined more closely. A couple finally took possession of this tree, and a couple of that. They commenced "cleaning house." They flitted about from limb to limb, balanced themselves on the dry twigs, as if trying their strength and elasticity, ran themselves away down into the joints, and dissected the crotches, picked up and cast away the dead moss and leaves, and made as much bustle and stir as a woman on May-day.
As I was watching a couple of them one day, while they were busy at work, they seemed quite annoyed at my presence. They flirted off from the tree to a fence near by, with a mellow cry—saying, plainly enough, as they bobbed around, "What! what!" "Any-thing-wrong? Any-thing-wrong?" "Please-go-away—ha-ha-please-go-away."
Some four weeks later, these birds began to build. They went sailing through the air with the timbers of their castle in their mouths. This timber was selected with great care. Straw after straw, and sprig after sprig, was picked up and cast away before the right one was found. They remained with me during their stay north, and returned each succeeding year to the same tree, until the woods all about me were felled, when they deserted me for other quarters.
April shone out at last. Away down in the wild meadows the cowslip pushed up its green head into the sunshine, and along the warm hill-sides the wind-flowers were strewn. How they came there, I cannot tell. The day before it was all bleak, and chilly, and flowerless there. They must have been scattered by the morningrays of light. A melting bank of snow frowned down upon them, close by. Soon the shade-tree sent out its blossoms of lilac, and the dog-wood burst into a pile of snow. The hard, gray, leafless trees stood up sternly around these first daughters of spring, arrayed in their garments of pomp, and looked, as well as inanimate things can look, jealous and uneasy. All over the aisles of the forest lay enormous trunks of trees, like columns about an unfinished temple, thickly coated with a heavy green moss; and there was a smell of bark, and swelling twigs, and struggling roots—such a smell as only the early spring days give out—as though the earth and the forest were just gaping and stretching with a decayed last year's breath, before rousing up to the duties of this.
Then the rivulets began to get into tune. The one that ran tumbling through the woods seemed to be in a very great hurry, and shot around its islands of moss and promontories of tree-roots with great zeal. It had unwound from its reel of light and moisture a green ribbon, that lay along its shores miles and miles away in the wilderness; and the birds slyly bathed themselves in its waters; and now and then a small fish came rushing down with the speed of an arrow, just returning from his winter quarters to the river, probably to enter his name upon the great piscatorial roll preparatory to summer service.
In a basin, just below a little fall of this brook, two or three wood-ducks were ploughing round and round. These wood-ducks are hermits, and secrete themselves in ponds and watery thickets, where silence and shadows prevail. On one of these mornings, ruminating on its banks, sat Venison Styles, his gun resting on theground, apparently in a profound study. I looked at the old hunter a long time, and his figure was as fixed and immovable as if he were a part of the landscape, and had grown there like the trees about him. What can the old man be dreaming about? thought I. Perhaps he already hears the approaching footsteps of dancing May, her head crowned with flowers, and the music of the thousand birds that supported her train. It was already spring—summer—in his soul. He was thinking of the sports of the coming year, and the light and pomp of the seasons passed before his imagination like the gorgeous pictures of a panorama.
These April days were inspiring. Occasionally a bleak squall of rain or snow obscured the sky, and silenced the music of Nature; but the heavens looked bluer, and the birds sang more lustily, after it passed away. In the latter part of the month the ground became settled, and the frogs, towards evening, and sometimes during the moist, smoky afternoons, sent up their melancholy wailing from the wide wastes of marsh that stretched themselves through the woods and along the river banks. Some of these marshes were ten miles long, and two or three broad; and such a concert of voices as congregated there was never equalled by anything else. I had, and still have, notions of my own about these vocalists. I am sure that they sang under discipline and system—that they performed on different kinds of instruments. Some of them seemed to be blowing a flageolet; others drew their bows across their violins; some played the fife; while here and there might be heard grum twangs, like the twanging of bass-viol strings. He who listened long and closely might detect delicate vibrations of almostevery tone in art or nature. Sometimes their voices sounded like the dying echoes of ten thousand bells, all of a different key, yet the tangled melody was an entanglement of chords and discords, and it rolled away, and expired in waves of pure harmony; again, it was like a choir of human voices performing an anthem. I thought I could hear syllables, too—the articulation of words—something like a psalm. Then the words and sounds appeared to change, and, by the aid of the imagination, one would have supposed that the whole community were shouting—delivering political harangues—or that its members had got on a "bust," and were rattling off all kinds of nonsense in a drunken frolic.
April brought with it, too, flying showers and warm sunshine. The grass began to wake up, and scent the air with its sweetness. Along the watercourses the willows unfolded their leaves; the buds swelled in the forests; and the tree-tops were touched with a light shade of brown, and then a shade of green, which grew deeper and deeper each day. Large flocks of pigeons darkened the air, all moving from south to north,—from whence, or to where, I could not tell. A company would sometimes "hold up" for an hour or two, to "feed and rest," like a caravan at an oasis; but they soon took their wings again, and pursued their journey.
The tenants of the ground burst their tombs, and came up for duty. The gopher, and squirrel, and the ant went to work. I noticed a large community of ants who had commenced building a city. Their last year's metropolis was destroyed, and they were compelled to begin from the foundation; and such a stir and bustle was never exceeded. Hundreds of laborers were in the workup to their eyes. Here was one fellow with a grain of sand in his mouth—a rock to him, I suppose—climbing over twigs and dead grass, standing sometimes perpendicular with his load, and not unfrequently falling over backwards, yet struggling away, surmounting all obstacles, until he finally reached the place of deposit. Then there was a class of miners who shot up from their holes, dropped their speck of dirt, wheeled, and shot back again. Trains of them were continually ascending and descending. There was still another class—"blooded characters," most likely—possibly overseers—who did not do any work, but ran around from point to point, as if inspecting the rest, and giving to them directions. Once in a while a couple of workmen would run a-foul of each other, and get into a quarrel—a clinch—a fight—and the "tussle" lasted until they were parted. This colony, I will say, erected a large mound of earth in a very few weeks—gigantic to them as an Egyptian pyramid is to us—in which they lived and labored during the season.
Finally, the swallows, and brown-threshers, and blackbirds, and martins came—not all in a body, but straggling along. The blackbirds appeared first, and might be seen flying about from tree to tree, and fence to fence, near by the upturned furrows that the ploughman had left behind him. Such a saucy troop of pirates as they were! Flocks of them sat about in the oaks, showering a host of epithets upon the said ploughman; then a dozen or more darted down, staggered over the ground, picked up a worm, and dashed away into the oaks again. They scolded, and fretted, and coaxed, and threatened, and nettled about like a belle of sixteen. Some of them were dressed in a suit of glossy black, with a neckclothof shifting green; others wore red epaulets on their wings; and a flock of them, darting through the air, had the appearance of braided streams of fire, or interlaced rainbows. Towards evening they all went down among the alders and willows by the river, and had a long chat among themselves. They bowed, and twitched, and stretched down one wing, and then the other; lit upon the little twigs, and see-sawed as they sung, and did many other things. They were evidently erecting themselves into some kind of a government for the year—holding a caucus—perhaps an election—deposing an old monarch, or elevating a new; for it was easy to hear them say what they would do, and what they wouldn't—that is, easy for one who has studied the blackbird language—and sometimes an awful threat might be detected, mixed with a great many wheedling words and gracious postures.
The brown-threshers came next, and they were just as full of chatter and life as they were the year before. Birds never grow old, it seems to me, nor have I ever been able to determine when or where they die. The hunter kills but a very few, and those few of a certain kind. What becomes of the rest? They breed every spring in great numbers; but how, when, and where do they die? We do not find dead birds in the woods; at any rate, very few. Yes, the brown threshers were as young as ever. They looked very shabby and mussed when I last saw them in the fall; but now their brown clothes shone as cleanly as a Quaker-girl's shawl. They took up Nature's music-book, and rattled off all the songs, and glees, and anthems in it—very often making a medley of it, mixing the notes of the birds that werechanting around all together—and they often closed the performance with an original strain of their own, composed on the spot.
When the swallows and the martins came, I knew that spring was fully established. They appeared suddenly during the night; for when the May sun arose, they were twittering and wheeling through the air, shooting up and plunging down in a kind of delicious rapture. Their music was set on the staff of blue skies, south-west winds, and flowers. There was not a note of winter in it. The woods, and streams, and fields seemed to have been waiting for their melody, for all Nature went to work, and was soon clad in beauty, and light, and song.
A Railroad through Puddleford.—Effect on Squire Longbow.—Bright Prospects of Puddleford.—Change.—"The Styleses."—The New Justice.—Aunt Sonora's Opinions.—Ike Turtle grows too.—Venison disappears from among Men.—His Grave, and his Epitaph.
A Railroad through Puddleford.—Effect on Squire Longbow.—Bright Prospects of Puddleford.—Change.—"The Styleses."—The New Justice.—Aunt Sonora's Opinions.—Ike Turtle grows too.—Venison disappears from among Men.—His Grave, and his Epitaph.
Reader, I have written for you the history of a year's residence at Puddleford. But the place is changed now—very much changed. It is not what it used to be—its people, its habits, are very different. This change was the result of a variety of causes. The first thing that happened to it—a startling event it was—a railroad was built plump through its heart. It was a road running a great distance, and it took Puddleford in its way merely because it happened to fall in its line. I shall never forget Squire Longbow's frenzied excitement the first time the locomotive came puffing and whistling in. He actually lost his dignity for the moment. He ran and wheezed after the steam-horse like a madman, lost his green eye-shade, and committed a very serious breach in the rear part of his pantaloons. He did not venture very near the machine at first, but sheltered himself behind a tree, where he could watch its panting and spitting without danger.
I recollect how pompously the Squire talked on this occasion. He said "all nater couldn't stop Puddlefordhaving ten thousand inhabitants 'fore 'nother census—she'd be one of theex-poriums (emporiums) of the West—it was nothing on airth that made Greece and Rome but these great etarnal improvements"—and as he was a kind of oracle among a large class, he infused a spirit of consequence and importance into those around him that was quite ludicrous. Ike Turtle, Sile Bates, the Beagles, and Swipes, and many others, actually mounted their Sunday clothes, and wore them every day—but whether Ike himself was in fun or earnest, no person could tell.
The building of this road was the cause of a great change certainly; yet it changed not the population itself, but substituted another in its stead. It brought in a class of persons who had money, and money is omnipotent everywhere. It brought different habits, thoughts, and feelings. The "Styles family" first purchased a large farm near the village. There was an air about them that fairly awed the Puddlefordians. They were petted, run after, imitated. One could hear nothing but "Young Mr. Styles," "Old Mr. Styles," "The elderly Mrs. Styles," "Miss Arabella Styles," "Miss Florinda Styles." Miss Florinda and Arabella wore flaring under-clothes in those days, and this fashion fairly upset the heads of the Puddleford ladies; and in less than a month I could not identify half the women of the place. Their shrunken forms, stuffed with skirts, were about the shape of little pyramids.
Purchases of farms and village property went on, year after year, until nearly every true Puddlefordian was ousted. The place has now, like the snake, cast its skin; and the old pioneers, they who hewed down the forest,and "bore the heat and burden of the day," are living around the outskirts of the village, with hardly a competence, or have emigrated to wilds still farther west.
Squire Longbow, however, still holds his own. He still lives on the old spot—is just as wise and happy as ever. Time has not affected his intellect, or impaired his self-consequence. He is no longer justice of the peace, but in his place we have a pert, dapper, little fellow, who wears a large ring on his little finger, and gives very scholastic opinions. The Squire professes to hold him in contempt, and says he "runs agin the staterts and common law mor'n half the time"—that "he don't know afiery factusfrom a common execution"—that "he never looks inter the undying Story for 'thority, but goes onsquashingpapers, right straight agin the constitution and theetarnal rights of man."
Aunt Sonora was dissatisfied, too, with the revolution in society. She told me, the last time I saw her, that Puddleford was "made up of a hull passel of flip-er-ter-gib-its, and she couldn't see what in created natur' the place was a-comin' to—she never see'd such works in all her born days," that "the men wore broadcloth, and the women silks, and flar'd and spread about like pea-cocks. Nobody does nuthin'," said she. "The dear massy! They are getting so hoity-toity! Idowonder who pays!"
Ike Turtle is about the only person who has grown with the place. There was no such thing as keepinghimunder. He is just as humorous as ever, but a little more polished. Ike says "it won't do to let his natur' out as he used to, when the bushes were thick, and Squire Longbow was gov'ner"—that "he feels himself almosta-bustin' with one of his speeches, sometimes; but the folks wouldn't understand him if he made it—and as for law, he'd gin it all up—it had got to be so nice and genteel an article, there warn't a grain of justis' in it—everything was 'peal'd up, and 'peal'd up, until both parties themselves were 'peal'd to death." Ike has turned his attention to land and saw-mills, and is getting rich.
Poor Venison Styles! Dear old hunter! Venison is dead, and his children are scattered in the wilderness. He was found, one May morning, stretched out under a large maple, his dog and gun by his side, stiff and cold. The brown-threshers and bluebirds were singing merrily above him, and the squirrels were chattering their nonsense in the distance. His dog lay with his nose near his master's face, his fore paw upon his shoulder. How he died, no one could tell. He is buried on a bluff that overlooks the river; and I have fenced his grave, and erected a stone over his remains, with this inscription—"Nature loved him, if man did not."
The Philosophy of Puddleford.—Diverse Elements in Pioneer Life.—Longbow and his Administration.—Not Expensive.—Two Hundred a Year, all told.—What would Chief Justice Marshall have done as Justice of Puddleford?—Longbow a great Man.—Fame and Politics.—Ike, a Wheel.—Puddleford Theology.—Camp-Meetings.—Who will do Bigelow's Work better than Bigelow?—Great Happiness, and few Nerves.—No "Society."—No Fashion in Clothes, or anything else.—Bull's-Eye and Pinchbeck.—The Great Trade didn't "Come Off."—Abounding Charity and Hospitality.—Pilgrim Blood.—Longbow's.—Planting theMud-Sills.—Old Associations, how Controlling!—Good by, Reader.
The Philosophy of Puddleford.—Diverse Elements in Pioneer Life.—Longbow and his Administration.—Not Expensive.—Two Hundred a Year, all told.—What would Chief Justice Marshall have done as Justice of Puddleford?—Longbow a great Man.—Fame and Politics.—Ike, a Wheel.—Puddleford Theology.—Camp-Meetings.—Who will do Bigelow's Work better than Bigelow?—Great Happiness, and few Nerves.—No "Society."—No Fashion in Clothes, or anything else.—Bull's-Eye and Pinchbeck.—The Great Trade didn't "Come Off."—Abounding Charity and Hospitality.—Pilgrim Blood.—Longbow's.—Planting theMud-Sills.—Old Associations, how Controlling!—Good by, Reader.
Reader, I cannot dismiss Puddleford without adding a chapter in conclusion. The pictures I have drawn suggest to me something more. There is aphilosophythat underlies the dignity of Longbow, the humor of Turtle, the rough sincerity of Aunt Sonora, the stormy and eccentric eloquence of Bigelow. Do you not think so?
Puddleford was like a thousand other new settlements—it had its green state to pass through; and Puddleford's pioneers were like other pioneers—rough, honest, hardy, strong in common sense, but weak in the books. It was not a perfect organization, packed beforehand with men fitted to all the stations of life, like Hooker and his band. But one pioneer came after another—and notions, creeds,and prejudices, were all tumbled in together. Puddleford prospered, nevertheless. Every man was right upon the question of civil and religious liberty. Each person brought this law with him, written on his soul; and, however clumsily he might give it expression, the law was there, and he could not rid himself of it any more than he could throw off his nature. If Longbow administered the details of jurisprudence awkwardly, Longbow was, after all, right in leading principles. If Longbow at times trampled down technicalities, the community, on the average, did not suffer. If Longbow even made a little law now and then, to fill a gap, it was well made, and the gap well filled. Longbow might as well have attempted to shave an elephant with a razor as to manage the raw recruits of early Puddleford with subtle distinctions; and, besides, Longbow, as the reader has discovered, had no knowledge of that kind of instrument, nor was it necessary that he should have. Longbow's legal rules necessarily ran on a sliding-scale, and he fitted them to the case in hand, not to cases in general.
The reader sees, then, a necessity for such men as Longbow in such a community. If it is impossible to find a man capable of preparing a technical set of legal papers, it is important to find a man who is incapable or unwilling to break them down. No man ever slipped through Longbow's fingers upon a mere technicality.
Again, Longbow's judicial duties were not expensive. An expensive judicial tribunal would have ruined Puddleford outright. Puddleford was not only obliged to use such timber as it had for public men, but the timber must also be cheap. Longbow was no mahogany judge, polished and wrought into scrolls, though there were agreat many lines and angles about him. He was a plain piece of green-ash, strong, yet elastic enough to bend when justice demanded. He was not an expensive article, and therefore the interest the public paid upon him was small. He would sit all day, amid the war and tumult of contending litigants, and breast the storm of insult that was heaped upon him from the right and the left, for four shillings and sixpence. I do not mean to say that he lacked self-respect—no man respected himself more—but he had, somehow or somewhere, imbibed the idea that pettifoggers were entitled to great latitude of speech, and that he waspaidfor listening to them. I have seen the Squire many a time passing through one of these conflicts, whenhisname was used very irreverently, holding as solemn a face as that worn by a marble statue of Solon.
Longbow's annual income amounted to about two hundred dollars a year, and this Puddleford could "stand." But he had many duties to perform outside of his office of magistrate to insure him this amount. As I have said elsewhere, he was the grand Puddleford umpire, and, I am very certain, settled more difficulties as a man than a magistrate. School and highway districts and officers often got twisted in a snarl, and Longbow unravelled the knot—right or wrong it matters not, he put a finish to the matter; and,whetherright or wrong, reader, what difference did it make so long as no one else knew it, and everybody had confidence? If confidence will sustain a bank, ought not confidence to sustain Squire Longbow?
And then A.'s pigs broke into B.'s garden—A.'s line-fence stood three feet on B.'s land. A. swore there was a legal, lawful highway across B.'s land; B. swore itwas no such thing, and he would shoot the first man who crossed it. A. called B. a thief, and B. called A. another. A. agreed to break up for B., but never did, because B. refused to clear his land. A. and B. exchanged horses; A.'s horse had the heaves, and B.'s was spavined; and so on, trouble after trouble, how often and many in kind I cannot say, Squire Longbow has brought to a compromise. These were extrajudicial services, and the two hundred dollars a year covered all.
If it had been possible to place Chief Justice Marshall, or even a finished city lawyer, in the seat of Squire Longbow, how signally he must have failed! He would have been utterly incompetent to the task, and would have burned his books, and fled from the settlement under cover of night. Confusion is often the best manager of confusion. A clean, clear, analytical mind might have flashed now and then, but it could never have governed the storm. While our finished lawyer was playing about a refined distinction, Longbow would bury all distinctions "ten fathoms deep," and end all controversy by repeating some old saying, and dismiss the whole matter as summarily as the adjournment of a cause.
Longbow was not only a good man, a cheap man, but he was a great man. Greatness is relative, not absolute. I hope my friends do not intend to dispute the truth of this proposition; because I have the documents to prove it, when officially called upon to do so. Great men are like figures on a thermometer—some thermometers, it is true, are much longer, and contain a great many more figures than others. The only question any ambitious man cares to ask is, how many figures there are on the scale above his. The Puddleford thermometer was veryshort, dear reader, and Longbow's figure was the highest. Is not this fame? Puddleford fame, say you? Puddleford fame, indeed! It will outlast, I will wager my old hat, the fame of nine tenths of the members of Congress, who have for the last ten years blown themselves hoarse making speeches to their outraged and indignant constituency. Why, Longbow's name will be remembered in Puddleford years after his death; and how many names can you repeat of those who strutted through the last Congress, or how many of the members for your own district for the last thirty years? Fame, indeed! But I do not wish to quarrel about so fleeting a thing as fame, and I will, therefore, dismiss that subject.
The politics of Puddleford were a little ridiculous; but Turtle's political fun was used by him as a means to carry out an end. Turtle's patriotism and Turtle's principles were beyond suspicion. Reader, there is no spot of American soil more truly patriotic than Puddleford. There are no great depositories—no central heart—in this country, from which American principles flow; everymanis a centre, a law unto himself. Ike Turtle was a centre; he was a kind of political wheel; ran on his own axis; borrowed no propelling power from abroad, but kept himself whirling with the spirit of '76, of which he had always a large supply on hand. He reminded me of a fire-wheel, used on celebration days, he cast off so many colored lights: now he whizzed; then he banged; now he shot forth stars; then spears of flame; but he was still a wheel, and always set himself in motion to some purpose.
What shall I say of the theology of Puddleford? I have already alluded to it in the pages of this work.Permit me to say more. Creeds travel with men wherever they go. Creeds often colonize the wilderness; they have nerved more hearts, stirred and sustained more souls, scattered more civilization, than any or all other agents. But Puddleford was not settled by any particular idea, civil or religious; yet the Puddlefordians brought with them a great many ideas, both civil and religious. They were, however, incidental, not primary. The religious exercises of the country were like its people, ardent, strong, fiery, and often tempestuous. Bigelow Van Slyck was an embodiment of Puddleford theology. He did not argue doctrine, for two reasons: he did not know how, and he would not if he could; but, to use his own language, "he took sin by the horns, and held it by main force."
A quiet religion with a Puddlefordian was synonymous with no religion. Religion with him was something to be seen, to touch, to handle. Puddleford religion was often very noisy, and it manifested itself in many ways. We used to have an outburst at camp-meeting, which was held once in each year by the prevailing sect in the country. A camp-meeting! The reader has attended a camp-meeting, I know; butwehad the genuine kind. Puddleford was depopulated on such occasions; and its inhabitants, supplied with the necessaries of life and a tent, went forth into the wilderness to give a high tone to their piety. They wanted air, and space, and time. All this was characteristic, and was like the people. What wouldtheyhave done inside a temple of springing arches and fretted dome—of statues looking coldly down from their niches—of pictured saints—where organ anthems rolled and trembled?
What to the Puddlefordians were the refinements of religious exercises? The wild wood was their "temple not made with hands," columned, and curtained, and festooned, and lit up by the sun at day, and the stars at night; and here, in this temple, day after day, the people camped; in the more immediate presence of the Most High built their watch-fires, that sent up long streams of smoke over the green canopy that sheltered them, and knelt down to pray.
The theology of Puddleford was brought out in strong relief at these meetings. They were business gatherings. The trials and crosses of every member were freely canvassed, and consolation administered. The "inner life" of each individual was thoroughly dissected—the spiritual condition of the vineyard in general carefully examined; sermons preached strong enough, both in voice and expression, to raise the dead; money was collected for benevolent purposes, and many more duties performed, which I cannot stop to mention.
The reader sees that these men and women were laying the foundation timbers of many sects that must follow them—follow them with their houses of worship, their intelligence, their refinement, and, I may say, their theological abstractions, their shadows, and shades, and points of distinction. Who is there that could do Bigelow's work better than he? Who is there that will ever toil and sweat more hours in his Master's vineyard? And to whom will the posterity of Puddleford be more indebted?
But, to drop the leading characters of Puddleford, let us go down a while among the rank and file; let us examinetheircondition. And here I may get into trouble.Comparisons are said to be odious. I do not know who said it, nor do I care; the motive which one has in view must determine the truth of the remark. There was a vast deal of happiness in Puddleford. I do not now remember one nervous woman in the place. Think of that. If refinement brings its joys, it often covers a delicate, sensitive nature; but there was nobody delicate or sensitive at Puddleford; nobody went into fits because a rat crossed the floor, or a spider swung itself down in their way. The evening air was never too damp, nor the morning sun too oppressive. Labor made the people hardy, and an over-taxed brain hatched no bugbears. I verily believe the nightmare was never known. There were no persons tired of time—not that they had so much to do—but they were all contented with time and things as they were.
You have discovered that there was no society in Puddleford; and when I saySociety, I do not mean that there was no social intercourse, but society organized and governed by rules and regulations. Here was another blessing. Aunt Sonora never got into hysterics because Mrs. Beagles had not called on her for three weeks. Aunt Sonora would say, that "Mrs. Beagles might stay to hum as long as she was a min-ter." Aunt Sonora never worked herself up into a frustration because her gingerbread didn't rise when Squire Longbow took tea with her; but she just told the Squire, "he'd got-ter go it heavy, or go without." And then Aunt Sonora was under no obligation to make fashionable calls; she was not a fashionable lady; there was no fashion to call on. She did not go around and throw in a little very cold respect into her neighbor's parlor, because therewere no parlors in Puddleford, and Aunt Sonora couldn't for the life of her do a formal thing if there had been. If she wanted to "blow out agin' any one," to use her language, why, she blew out, and in their faces, too, because the rules of her society had not taught her hypocrisy.
There was another blessing. Puddlefordians were not continually tempted to covet some new thing of their neighbors. A new bonnet now and then raised a breeze; but no one was under any obligation to purchase a similar one. In other words, the laws of society did not dictate what one should wear. Aunt Sonora had worn her old plaid cloak for twenty years, and yet remained in society. Mrs. Beagle's "Leghorn," which looked something like a corn-fan, and came into the country with her, was orthodox. Turtle had a pair of breeches old enough in all conscience, the legs cut off above the knees, and turned, as he said, "hind side afore, to hide the holes in front," which pettifogged as well as when they were new. Squire Longbow wore the same clouded-blue stockings that he did when first elected magistrate; but Mrs. Longbow had ravelled them up several times, and "footed them over." I dislike, reader, to go into particulars, and thus expose the wardrobe of the Puddlefordians, but I cannot express myself clearly on so important a point in any other way; and I promised at the commencement of this sketch to make it philosophical.
I do not know how the reader will look on the blessings which I have just enumerated. He may be a leader of fashion; the shade and tie of his neckcloth may be as weighty and important a matter with him as his reputation. He may be one of those who religiously believethat a man, at a party, without a white vest, is no gentleman, and ought forthwith to be kicked, in a genteel way, headlong into the street. He may think it vulgar to laugh, and that no smile but a fashionable smile should be tolerated. Hemay, I say—and may think me an ——. But just pause a moment. I am only writing the history of Puddleford, my friend; and, besides, just sit down coolly, and think of the luxury there must be in sojourning at a place where one can wear his old clothes year in and year out, preserve public respect, and cut and turn his breeches at that!
The household furniture of the Puddlefordians was always in fashion; in fact, there was a remarkable uniformity in this respect in all the cabins in the settlement. The white-wood table, wooden chairs, the dozen cups and saucers, the cook-stove and its furniture, bed and bedding, comprised the stock of nearly every family. Turtle often said that the people "didn't have as much furniter as the law allow'd 'em, and the state had got-ter make it up." It is discovered that this equality was productive of beneficial results. It was not possible for one Puddlefordian to envy another Puddlefordian. There was no fancy hundred-dollar rocking-chair exhibited to throw any one into spasms; there were no pianos bewitching the souls and purses of the community. (Reader,Ihave no spite against pianos.) Why, in short, there was not anything there that was not there when the pioneers first planted themselves on the soil. I recollect that Sile Bates owned a pinchbeck watch, and Squire Longbow was the proprietor of a "bull's-eye," and they were both wonders. The Squire and Sile once attempted an exchange of these articles, and the transaction was so momentous that allPuddleford was kept in excitement for three weeks. The bargain was as important and solemn as a treaty between two high contracting powers. There was one point in the trade that was positively exciting. Sile had offered five dollars to boot, payable in saw-logs (no person paid money at Puddleford, unless by special agreement, "'fore witness"), and here the parties "hung fire" for several days. Turtle said the Squire "orter to strike;" Beagles said, "he'd get skin'd if he did;" Bulliphant said, "the pinchbeck was worn out;" Aunt Sonora said, her husband "tell'd her, that a man tell'd him, that he know'd Longbow's bull's-eye forty years afore, and it could scase tick then;" and much more was said; but, alas! the trade, to use Ike's language, "fizzled out," and Puddleford settled down again into its usual tranquillity.
The philosophy of this attempted bargain is clear enough. There was nothing in Puddleford to excite envy. What there was, was old; no new thing was thrown in to tantalize. Longbow, it is true, once ventured upon a carpet, but, as he was a magistrate, the enterprise was deemed very proper. Do you not agree with me, that Puddleford had its blessings? Does not poverty often "bring healing on its wings"? How many are there in the world that would gladly flee from the chains of society, even to Puddleford, willing to fling themselves in some just such by-place of the world, where they could sit down perfectly independent, and take "their own ease in their own inn?" How many, reader?
I must not forget the charity of the Puddlefordians. Charity and hospitality are distinguishing characteristics of western people. However violent feuds might rage,suffering and want were relieved, so far as there was an ability to do it. I have seen another kind of charity, a fashionable article, used according to the laws of etiquette, and not according to the laws of heartfelt sympathy. I do not know that any person was ever neglected in Puddleford because he or she did not belong to a particular church. Mrs. A. never refused to assist Mrs. B. in sickness, because she and Mrs. B. did not visit, or because she did not know Mrs. B. (That word, don't "know," in finished society, simply means, reader, that the person holds no intercourse.) But everybodydidknow everybody in Puddleford; and when one of the number was stricken down by affliction, the remainder all "turned in," and "put their shoulders to the wheel." Why, bless you, reader, you ought to witness an eruption of Puddleford sympathy. You ought to see Aunt Sonora, with her apron loaded with boneset, sage, and a pail filled with gruel, hurrying along "for dear life," to relieve the distressed—Mrs. Swipes, with a little mustard, or a bit of "jel"; Mrs. Beagles, Aunt Graves, and Sister Abigail, with something else. Is not this something?
I must, however, draw my "Conclusion" to a close. Permit me to do it gradually, as I have a word or two more to say, and I may never have another opportunity. The reader has, by this time, become quite intimate with the leading characters of Puddleford, and says, perhaps, "A queer compound." But do you know, reader, that Longbow, and Turtle, and I do not know how many more, trace their blood directly back to the Pilgrims? It is "as true as fate." And how they have become so metamorphosed is the question. Puddleford stock was,much of it, Puritan stock. Those old stalwart heroes, whose hearts were a living coal; whose wills, granite; whose home, heaven; who "walked by faith, not by sight;" before whose eyes moved "the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night;" who heard voices all around them, such as haunted John on the Isle of Patmos, are the progenitors of Longbow and Turtle. What a country is this of ours, to have worked such results!
But I learned, upon inquiry, that Longbow's blood had experienced a very serious pilgrimage since its departure from its New England head. It had been mixed with Irish, and Scotch, and English, and German. In reality, the Squire was a kind of "compound" of all nations, as most Americans are. If it were possible to introduce Captain Standish, the military hero of 1620, or Bradford, or Winslow, to Squire Longbow, they would look as wildly at him as the boys did at poor Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep on the mountain. I am sure they would not be able to detect any resemblance to the Mayflower. They would find the Squire a little the worse for wear—ignorant in spiritual matters—discover that his psalm-book was lost, and he as blind as a beetle in the New-England catechism. But, after all, if they probed him deep, they would strike much, very much, of the old stuff, living and burning yet.
The Squire's Pilgrim blood, too, had filled nearly all occupations in life. It had been a sailor—the master of a vessel—a merchant—fought in the Revolution—a preacher once, and once a lawyer. These facts I procured from the Squire for my special use, and they may be relied upon. And now that same blood was doing service at Puddleford as a magistrate. Whether bloodchanges occupation, or occupation blood, is a physiological question that I do not intend to debate. But that one can be surprised at any exhibition of American character, after looking into the crosses and counter-crosses of blood, is marvellous.
Here is a sample of Puddleford blood, and such is the blood of many western pioneers. How much the world is indebted to the pioneer! He lays the foundation, let build who may. I regret the necessity of perpetrating a ridiculous figure, but I cannot help it: he plants deep themud-sillsof empire, amid toil, and sweat, and groans, poverty and disease. The superstructure is always reared by other hands. The columns and capitals are the product of wealth and taste. How few of them reap the harvest, their cabins, now standing deserted and silent, and strewn thousands of miles over the West and North-west, abundantly testify.
The pioneer severs all connection between himself and the past when he enters upon his work. I have already remarked that Puddleford had no past. He breaks all local ties, and snaps in twain the golden threads that link him to his home. The caravan that winds away from the old hearth-stone, where the first kiss was imprinted, the first prayer offered, where the winter cricket sang as the tempest roared without, and devotes itself to a wilderness, leaves behind what can never be found again. The barefooted striplings who gambol with it—the immortal seed to be sown, and to sow—from whose loins giants in thought, word, and action will spring—"may forget," and themselves become new centres of new associations—but men and women never.
What constitutes a man?—a nation? Inhabitantsonly? The songs of a people stir them up to revolution—and what are they but the glowing language of the associations of the soul? What is Bannockburn to a savage? A plain, over which the winds blow and the thistles gather. What to a Scotchman? A living, breathing host! What to the pioneer is the memory of that church steeple that flung its long shadow over his boyhood, around whose vane the swallows whirled, and the evening sun lingered?—that bell that swung high therein?—the torrent that roared through his early years, and wove its music into his very being?—the lone cliff, where the cloud slept and the eagle rested? These all are a part of the man himself; and when he is torn from them, his very nature receives a shock, and he has lost, he hardly knows how or where, a portion of his very existence.
Reader, you and I must part. How I ever happened to write the history of Puddleford is more than I can say. I have more than once been frightened at my impudence. In all probability you will never hear of me again in print—and, before we separate, reach me your hand—(if it is a lady's, it is all the better)—"Good by to you, my friend;" and if you should stray into Puddleford, I will set apart an hour, and give you an introduction to Squire Longbow—an honor to which, I am very sure, you cannot be insensible or indifferent.