The Puddleford Papers Part 35

CHAPTER XXV.

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 ideas amid 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--a.n.a.lyze 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 have been procured, a.s.sorted 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 preemption right to respectability--whose patent dates away back among historical reminiscences and dead bones--whose presence is _prima facie_ evidence 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 old _lady_ of 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 through the 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 cla.s.s do not, by any means, const.i.tute 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 the _day_--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 enterprise_ is 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 a.s.sociations, 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 the _Pottawatomie 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 a.s.sorted. 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 remove somewhere else, at some time. Here is no a.s.sociation, no tie, to bind him to the soil. The pioneer is but a pa.s.senger 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 sh.o.r.e 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 the march, 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 ma.s.s 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 a.s.sociations, 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 (_somewhere_ in 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 a _fast_ people. How can they be otherwise? Their very necessities _drive_ them. 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, is _always_ spread, and the roof _always_ offers 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 stinging remark, 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, bombsh.e.l.ls 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 or carping 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 a.s.sociations 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 lat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed away--are all living eloquence to her children, and can never be forgotten, if not 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 had _their_ mission, too, and n.o.bly 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.

CHAPTER XXVI.

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 pa.s.sed, accompanied with few out-door amus.e.m.e.nts, 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 gra.s.s 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 at the 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 thousand _Ca's!_ as if in utter contempt of both me and mine. I occasionally fired a shot 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, possession of 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.