CHAPTER XIX.
The Old New England Home.--The Sheltered Village.--The Ancient Buildings.--Dormer Windows.--An Old Puritanical Home.--The Old Puritan Church.--The Burying-Ground.--Deacon Smith, his Habits and his Helpers.--Major Simeon Giles, his Mansion and his Ancestry.--Old Doctor Styles.--Crapo Jackson, the Sexton.--"Training Days."--Militia Dignitaries.--Major Boles.--Major General Peabody.--Preparations and Achievements.--Demolition of an Apple Cart.--"Shoulder Arms!"--Colonel Asher Peabody.--The Boys, and their World.--My Last Look at my Native Village.
Reader, there are mental pictures in the wilderness, as vivid as any innature. They are the pictures of the past. They haunt the pioneer by dayand by night. They go with him over the fields--sit down with him by thestreams--linger around his evening hearth, and rise up in his dreams.
I was born in New England. The village was very old, and had received anddischarged generations of men. Some two centuries ago, a troop ofiron-sided old pilgrims, full of theology and man's rights, an offshoot ofa larger body, with their pastor at their head, founded the place, and gaveit tone and direction.
This village is very beautiful now. It stands sheltered between twomountains that cast their morning and evening shadows over it. A longstretch of meadow land lies between, through which a river, fringed withwillows, lazily lingers and twists in elbows and half circles. Themountains sometimes look down very grim at the valley, and in places haveadvanced almost across it. There are a great many profiles detected by theimagination in their outline. Cotton Mather's face has been discovered inone huge rock--and the old fellow's head seems to withstand the storms ofnature about as successfully as it did the storms of life. The "Devil'sPulpit"--a group of splintered shafts of Gothic appearance--is near by, andsuperstitious persons used to think that during every thunder-storm hismajesty entered it, arrayed in garments of fire, and gave the Puritan asound lecture.
There are all kinds of buildings in this village. These buildings mark theage in which they were erected, and are the real monuments of theirfounders. They are as they were. They have not been marred or profaned bymodern notions. Some are very eccentric piles, hoary with age, full ofangles and sharp corners; and some are painfully plain and severe. They allhave a face, a cast of countenance, an expression--they almost talk theEnglish of a hundred and fifty years ago. The row of dormer windows on theroof are to me great eyes that frown down upon the frivolity andthoughtlessness of the present--and those eyes are full of theology andcivil rights. They look as though they were watching a Quaker, or readingthe Stamp Act. The very souls of their architects are transferred to them.I never enter one, even in these fearless times, without feeling nervousand sober, half expecting to run afoul of its original proprietor, withsome interrogatory about my business, and the wickedness of hisdescendants.
There used to stand--there is still standing--one of these queer piles upona bluff overlooking the river. It was built of stone, and is very muchmoss-grown. It fairly looks daggers at the ambitious little structures thathave sprouted up by its side. It is a heap of Puritanical thoughts--visiblethoughts--all hardened into wood and rock. There it has stood, frowning andfrowning, for a century and a half. It is full of great massive timbers andstones, and is as stout as the heart of its founder. A weather-cock isattached to one of the chimneys--a sheet-iron angel, lying on his breast,and blowing a trumpet, and the wind shifts him round and round overdifferent parts of the village. This angel has blown away thousands of men;but there he lies, his cheeks puffed, blowing yet, as fresh and healthy asever.
The internal arrangement of this building is characteristic. A dark, gloomyhall--an enormous fireplace, extending across the whole end of a room--aquaint pair of andirons, which run up very high and prim, and turn backlike a hook, with a dog's head growling on each tip. There are strangepictures on the walls, which have been preserved in memory of thepast--Moses leading the Children of Israel through the Wilderness--Samsonslaying the Lion--David cutting off the head of Goliath--stern shadows ofthe men who used to study them--not very remarkable works of art, but vividoutlines of the scenes themselves.
This house has been occupied by an illustrious line of men, distinguishedas divines, lawyers, and reformers; and it seems to glow with the firesthey kindled in it--in fact, I believe it is inhabited by them yet. Ibelieve that Parson ----, who lived under its roof for more than half acentury, and preached during that time in the church near by, occasionallymounts his low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat, round-cornered coat, shortbreeches, knee-buckles, and heavy shoes, ties on his white neckcloth, andtakes his cane, and, in a spiritual way, wanders back to his mansion, sitsdown again before the capacious fireplace, and meditates an hour or two ashe used to do in life. He is one of those who keep the house company andgive to it its sober air of determination and defiance.
The old Puritan church stands near by. Time has thrown a mantle of mossover it. When erected, it was shingled from foundation to steeple--and aquaint little pepper-box steeple it was. Square, high, solemn-looking pewsmay be yet seen inside. The pulpit is perched away up under the eaves, likea swallow's nest. It is reached by a flight of steps almost as long asJacob's ladder. It is covered with names, inscriptions written by men andwomen who were dust long ago. It looks like the place where "Old Hundred"was born, lived, and died--sombre, earnest, immovable.
A burying-ground, ancient as the church, closes in on its three sides, andpartly encircles it in its arms. There is preaching there yet. The dust ofthe living and dead congregations are one:
"Part of the host have crossed the flood, And part are crossing now."
Rough tombstones--mere ragged slugs, torn from some quarry--rounded andsmoothed a little by a pious hand--stand half buried in the earth, pointingto the silent sleeper below. And then there are marble slabs, of a moremodern date--yet very old--leaning this way and that, and nodding at eachother. Preachers and congregations lie side by side, and it is one eternalSabbath now. There are quaint pictures, and holy pictures, and horriblepictures chiselled out on these slabs. Skeleton Death, triumphantlymarching with his scythe! Skulls, angels--and occasionally a figure thatlooks like his Satanic Majesty! Epitaphs full of theology, wit, andpractical wisdom, are strewn around with an unsparing hand.
There are a few genuine specimens of the Puritan stock lingering in thisvillage--great boulders that lie around in society, like granite blocks onthe earth, dropped by Time in his flight, and overlooked or forgotten.Deacon Smith is one of them. He and his father, and his father's father,were born and lived in the house he now occupies. He has almost reachedfourscore and ten years. He wears the costume of 'seventy-six, inside andout. His habits are as uniform and regular as the swing of the pendulum. Heretires at nine, rises at four, breakfasts at six, and dines at twelve; andthis is done to a fraction--no allowance is made for circumstances--whatare circumstances in the way of one of his rules? He marches to bed at thetime, and would, if he left the President of the Republic behind him--hesits down to his table at the time, whether there is a dish on it or not.Law is law with him.
The Deacon hates royalty and the British--he never overlooked the bloodthey shed in the Revolution. He seldom speaks to an Englishman. He hatesinterlopers, innovations, modern improvements; and I recollect well how hepoured out his vials of wrath upon the first buggy wagon that he saw. Hesaid it was a "very nice thing to sleep in." He left the church for somemonths when stoves were first put up, and declared that it was "as great asacrilege as was ever committed, and enough to overthrow the piety of asaint. Religion would keep a man warm anywhere." He says he "thinks thePuritan blood is running down into slops! folks are rushing headlong toperdition! that there hasn't been a man in the village for twenty years whoought to be intrusted with himself"--and it seems to him that the world iswinding up business.
When the Deacon rises, he goes around his house, hawking, spitting,slamming doors, tumbling down wood, just to cast a slur on the lazy habitsof modern days. Sometimes he tramps u
p and down the village, two hoursbefore day, a-hemming, hawing, and sneezing, for the purpose of letting thesluggards understand he is stirring. He has been known, on more than oneoccasion, to give vent to his feelings, at this early hour, by blowing thefamily dinner-horn, and declaring, as the blast echoed away, "that noChristian man could sleep, after such a call."
The Deacon has a few helpers about him, who think as he thinks--but theyare very few. When they meet, the world takes a most inhuman raking--theyspare neither "age, sex, nor condition."
But the leading business men of the village are of a different stamp--notPuritans, but Puritanical--the same rock with the corners knocked off--ofless strength, but more polish. They reverence their fathers, keep thereligious and political altar they have raised burning, but are not soregardless of temporal comforts; in a word, they are Yankees.
Major Simeon Giles is a specimen. It is difficult to draw his portrait. Hehas a hard, dry face, which looks as though it had been turned out from aseasoned white-oak knot. He wears a grievous expression, lying somewherebetween sobriety and melancholy. His money, character, and family have madehim a great man--he is a leading personage in church and state, andexercises a wonderful influence in every department of society. The deaconis full of dry expressions, and many of his cool, sly remarks have becomeproverbs; but the hardest thing he ever said was after his pious soul hadbeen very much vexed, when he observed, "that if Providence should see fitto remove Mr. ---- from this vale of tears, he would endeavor to resignhimself to the stroke."
Major Simeon has many severe struggles within him, between the flesh andthe spirit. His avarice and piety are both strong, and the former sometimesgains a temporary advantage. All his movements are governed by method. Heremains so long at his store, so long at his house, "takes a journey" withhis family once a year, "has a place for everything, and everything in itsplace,"--a peg for his hat, a corner for his boots--and he is almost asrigid in observing and enforcing his laws as Deacon Smith.
Major Simeon is supreme, of course, over his own family. He never trifleswith his children. A cold shadow falls around him, which often silencestheir voice of mirth and ringing laugh--the effect of reverence, however,more than fear.
Major Giles lives in the Old Giles Mansion. I will not pretend to say howmany Gileses have occupied it. Their portraits are hanging upon its walls,and their bodies lie in the burying-ground; a long row of them, all theway across it, and half back again--bud, blossom, and gathered fruit. Thereis the portrait of the celebrated Elnathan Giles, who died during the reignof Queen Anne. He looks very stern. He had passed through the scenes of theSalem witchcraft, and had been personally connected with theexcitement--had attended several of the trials as a witness; was bewitchedonce himself--and, according to family tradition, saw one witch hung--anout-and-out witch--who had bridled many innocent people at midnight, sailedthrough chamber windows, and hurry-scurried off with them, astride abroomstick.
Next to him hangs the face of his son, Colonel Ethelbert, as he was called,who lived just long enough to fight at Bunker Hill. He had been a militiacolonel before the Revolution, and militia colonels were something in thosedays. He made a ferocious-looking portrait, certainly. One can almost smellgunpowder in the room. He is dressed up in his military coat, standingcollar, an epaulet on his shoulder; and there are strewn around him, in thebackground, armies, artillery, drums, and banners. No wonder the Americanswere victorious. And then came the face of Major Simeon, whom I havedescribed.
The wives of these men are also done up in oil, and hang meekly andsubmissively by the side of their lords, as all wives should, or rather asall wives did, in those days--and actually died without knowing how muchthey were oppressed.
There are other things besides portraits, to remind Major Simeon of hisancestry. There is a tree still standing (strange that a tree shouldoutlive generations of men), that Elnathan planted with his own hand, onthe day Ethelbert was born--a stately elm, whose branches, in theirmagnificent curve, almost sweep the ground. This tree shadowed the coldface of both Elnathan and Ethelbert, when their coffins were closed for thelast time beneath it. There is the spring, more than half a century old,that bubbles from the hill, and goes trickling, leaping, and flashing downthe green slope, singing away to itself as sweetly as ever. The oldlilac-bush, too, has outlived thousands whose hands have plucked itsblossoms, and yet it bursts out in the spring, and looks as fresh as thechildren who play beneath it.
It has been thought that Major Simeon and his family were aristocratic.There is a stately air about them, when they enter church, that smacks ofblood. And the Major himself has often declared that, while "stock isn'teverything, it is a great consolation to know, in his case, that the nameof Giles has never been stained."
There are several other families in the village whose ancestry runs back asfar as the Gileses'; and they have about them as many heirlooms to remindthem of it.
The village is filled with other characters, quite as original as any Ihave described. They are important personages, and have lived in it a longtime; but they have no family history to fall back upon. There is MajorFollett, who still lingers on the shores of time, and sustains a vastdignity amid his declining years. His head is very white, his hat verysleek, and his silk vest is piled very full of ruffles. He carries agold-headed cane, and when he marches through the streets, it rises andfalls with great emphasis, in harmony with his right foot. Now and then hegives out an a-hem!--one of the lordly kind--that fairly awes down hisinferiors. He is a remarkable talker, too, among his equals--uses wordshaving a great many syllables. He never spits, but "expectorates"--hispains are all "paroxysms"--talks about the "foreshadowing of events"--andall his periods are as round and stately as the march of a Roman army. TheMajor has actually made his assumed dignity pave his way in life--it hasgiven him wealth and influence among those who are intrinsically hissuperiors, but who do not know how to put on the airs of consequence.
Old Doctor Styles is living yet. He has survived two or three crops ofcustomers--helped them in and out of the world--balanced theiraccounts--and his face is as ruddy, his laugh as hearty, his stories asludicrous, his nose as full of snuff, as though nothing melancholy had everhappened in his practice. Eighty odd and more, he stands as straight as astaff. Death has been so long a business with him, and he has stared it forso many years in the face, that he really does not know, or care, how nearhe is to it himself.
Crapo Jackson, the sexton, is one of the characters. He has announced theend of Doctor Styles's labor a great many hundred times through the belfry,and helped cover up what remained. Crapo is black, but he has a fine heart.He is a perfect master of his work. He puts on an air of melancholy andcircumspection at a funeral, that becomes the occasion. He sings, from doorto door, a hymn on Christmas mornings, with cap in hand extended for his"quarter"--peddles gingerbread on training days--and aids the femaleportion of the community on festival occasions, and does a great many morethings, "too numerous to mention."
Speaking of "training days"--dear me!--there used to be a military spiritin this village, in times past. I can recollect the names of scores ofgenerals, majors, colonels, captains, and even corporals--yes,corporals--every man couldn't be a corporal in those times. Why, bless yoursoul, reader! there was General Peabody, and General Jones, and MajorGoodwin, and Major Boles, and any quantity of colonels. And then "trainingday"--nobody worked--the village was upside down--"'Seventy-six" was incommand, and martial law declared.
Major Boles I recollect, when in the active discharge of his duty. Healways grew serious as the great militia muster drew on. He went away offby himself, into the chamber, where he could be alone with the spirits ofhis forefathers, and burnished up his sword, shook out the dust from hisregimentals--warned his children to stand out of the way--and lookedferociously at his wife. He knew he was _Major_ Boles, and he knew everyother respectable man knew it.
But Major-General Peabody was the greatest general _I_ ever saw. When aboy, I looked upon him as a very bl
ood-thirsty man, and nothing would haveinduced me to go near him. He was a little fellow in stature, had a hardround paunch that looked like an iron pot, and short, thick, dropsicallegs. (Major Boles, who was a little envious, said they were stuffed, whichproduced a coldness between them.) His face was freckled, and his hairgray. He wore two massive epaulets, an old Revolutionary cap, shaped likethe moon in its first quarter, from which a white and red feather curvedover his left ear. He had a sword--and such a sword! Nobody dared touch it;for it was the General's sword!
"Training day" usually opened with a boom from the field-piece, atsunrise, that shook the hills. About ten in the morning the soldiers beganto pour in from all quarters. Drums and fifes, and muskets and rifles,filed along in confusion,--ambitious companies in uniform--common militia,who were out according to law. Uncle Joe Billings, who had played thebass-drum for more than twenty years (poor old man, he is dead now!) wasseen gravely marching along all by himself, his drum slung about his neck,his head erect, his step firm, pushing on to head-quarters at the measuredbeat of his own music, now and then cutting a flourish with his right hand,for the amusement of the children who were capering around him. Knots ofsoldiers gathered about the tavern, and made a circle for the music topractise, preparatory to the great come-off. Then came the good oldcontinental tunes that were full of fight, played by old fifers anddrummers that had been through the wars; men who made a solemn and earnestthing of martial music--who reverenced it as the sacred voice of liberty,not to be trifled with, who thought of Bunker Hill until the tears startedfrom their eyes. Those old airs, that used to echo among the mountains ofNew England--where are they?
But the captains, and colonels, and generals did not mix with the commonsoldiers on training day--no! nor speak to them. Rank meant something. Theyfelt as though they were out in a war. They kept themselves covered fromthe public gaze away off in a secluded corner of the tavern, and werewaited upon with great respect by those of inferior grade. Sometimes aguard was stationed at the door to prevent a crowd upon their dignity.Occasionally, one of them would bustle out among the rank and file on somemomentous duty, fairly blazing with gold and silver, lace and feathers;but there was never an instance of one of these characters recognizing evenhis own brother while in military costume. Major Boles has often said that"no officer can be expected to see small things when in the activedischarge of his duty."
At about eleven o'clock the solemn roll of the drums was heard, and loudvoices of command followed; and swords flashed, and feathers danced, in theorganization of the companies; and then came the training--real training--amile down street; a mile back again; a perfect roar of music; and flagsflying--horses prancing. What was rain, or dust, or mud with such an army!They marched straight through it; it was nothing to war. The sweat poureddown, but the army moved on for hours and hours in its terrible march.
The great sight of the day, however, was the Major-General and his staff--Imean, of course, Major-General Peabody. They were not seen until aboutthree o'clock in the afternoon; it being customary for them to withdrawfrom public observation the day prior to the muster. When the army wasdrawn up in the field, preparatory to inspection, there was usually a pauseof an hour--a pause that was deeply impressive. We never knew exactly wherethe General and his staff were concealed. Some persons said they werehoused in one place, some in another; but, upon the discharge of a cannon,they burst upon us, glittering like the sun, and came cantering down theroad with perfect fury, in a cloud of dust, followed by a score of boys whowere on a sharp run to "keep up."
General Peabody and his staff always rushed headlong into the field,without looking to the right or left. I recollect that on one occasion hedemolished an apple-cart, and absolutely turned everything topsy-turvy,besides creating great consternation among the by-standers; but it did notdisturb him, and it was only upon information the next day that he knewthat anything serious had happened.
Passing the ruins of the apple-cart, and entering within the guarded lines,he halted, and took a survey of his troops. Then the music saluted him, andthe companies waved their flags. He rode a little nearer, rose in hisstirrups, jerked out his sword spitefully, and, looking ferociously, criedout, "Shoulder arms!" This cry was just as spitefully repeated by thesubordinate officers; and, after a while, the privates, one after another,lazily raised their "pieces" to their shoulders. The General was in the actof rising again, and was drawing in his breath for a command of thunder,when his horse wheeled at the report of a musket that went off in thelines, and came near upsetting him, feathers and all; but he fell into thearms of one of his aids, and--swore, as I was at the time crediblyinformed, though I could hardly believe it.
The General very soon righted himself, and, striking his horse severalviolent blows across his rump, cut a great many flourishes on the field, tothe utter astonishment of the lookers-on. He then rushed through the ordersof the day like a madman, and was manifestly utterly fearless ofconsequences.
I hope my readers are satisfied that Major-General Peabody was a greatmilitary character. I recollect, when a boy, that I heard him say, "that hewas very sure _he_ would be the last man to run in a fight,"--"that he wasafraid to trust himself in a battle, for he never could lay down his sworduntil the last enemy was massacred!"
The old man was laid under the turf one autumnal afternoon, many years ago,but his prowess is not forgotten to this day. His son, Colonel AsherPeabody, who inherited his father's spirit, erected a stately monument overhis remains, which was covered with drums, and fifes, and swords, andwaving banners, and big-mouthed guns, intermixed with texts of Scripture,the virtues of the deceased, admonitions to the living, &c. This monumentwas always as terrific to me as the General himself; and, in my boyishdays, I always contemplated it from a distance, not knowing but that itmight blow up a piece of juvenile impertinence like myself on the spot.
Yes, reader, these were training days in New England; but the militaryglory has now actually died out. The last gathering I saw I shall neverforget. It was, indeed, a sorry group, made up of a rusty captain, two orthree faded corporals, and a handful of dare-devil privates, who cared nomore for their country than so many heathen. The officers looked cowed andheart-broken, and loitered about in a very melancholy way; and it wasevident that the spirit of '76 was on its last legs. I afterwards learned,I am sorry to say, that the captain, in a fit of patriotic rage, broke hissword across his knee, and declared "that he never would turn out again aslong as his name was Jones!"
And then, reader, this village was full of boys when I was a boy. Everyvillage is, you say. Very likely; but _such_ boys! there have never beenanything like them since. They wandered with me Saturday afternoonsthrough the meadows, where the lark was flitting and singing; and werelated wonderful stories about the future. We cut red-willow canes, madewhistles, and dammed mountain rivulets. Life opened to us with a chant: itwas melody, melody everywhere. There was the mountain gorge, down which werolled stones with the voice of thunder; the "big rock," in the river, fromwhich we fished; the pond, that we thought had "no bottom;" the mountaincliff, with its "den of snakes:" _where_ are those boys now?Everywhere--nowhere! Citizens of the world, some; and some of that otherworld. They will never be all gathered but once more.
But what has all this to do with Puddleford? Much. They are so manypictures that I carry around with me, and they form a part of my existence.They color life, thought, action; they mould the man; they are continuallyinviting contrasts, and making suggestions; and I cannot omit to noticethem in my sketch of that famous village.
When I last saw my native village--it was but a little while ago--it laysleeping in its amphitheatre as beautiful and tranquil as ever among theshadows of its elms. It was summer, and the air was rich with music andflowers. The highest peaks of the mountain were draped in blue, and thevalley beneath was a waving sea of green, down which the sunshine chasedthe shade. The quail was blowing his simple pipe among the fields of grain;the drone of the locust, the clanging of the mower's scythe, and th
e shoutand the song, were heard in the fields in the still afternoon. When the sunwent down, and its last flash leaped from the vane of the church-steeple toa lofty mountain-peak three miles away, the whippoorwill began herplaintive song, and the night-hawks went wheeling through the sky. Then theevening bells broke forth, and their echoes sobered the twilight; and, astheir last vibration expired along the valley, the river stood goldenbeneath the rays of the moon.