The Puddleford Papers Part 37

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 believe that 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. He _may_, 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, _I_ have 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 all Puddleford 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 a.s.sist 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 everybody _did_ know 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 ap.r.o.n 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 blood changes 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 the _mud-sills_ of 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 a.s.sociations--but men and women never.

What const.i.tutes a man?--a nation? Inhabitants only? The songs of a people stir them up to revolution--and what are they but the glowing language of the a.s.sociations 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.