CHAPTER XXVIII.
CONCLUSION.
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 the _Mud-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 a_philosophy_ that underlies the dignity of Longbow, the humor of Turtle,the rough sincerity of Aunt Sonora, the stormy and eccentric eloquence ofBigelow. Do you not think so?
Puddleford was like a thousand other new settlements--it had its greenstate to pass through; and Puddleford's pioneers were like otherpioneers--rough, honest, hardy, strong in common sense, but weak in thebooks. It was not a perfect organization, packed beforehand with men fittedto all the stations of life, like Hooker and his band. But one pioneer cameafter another--and notions, creeds, and prejudices, were all tumbled intogether. Puddleford prospered, nevertheless. Every man was right upon thequestion of civil and religious liberty. Each person brought this law withhim, written on his soul; and, however clumsily he might give itexpression, the law was there, and he could not rid himself of it any morethan he could throw off his nature. If Longbow administered the details ofjurisprudence awkwardly, Longbow was, after all, right in leadingprinciples. If Longbow at times trampled down technicalities, thecommunity, on the average, did not suffer. If Longbow even made a littlelaw 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 asto manage the raw recruits of early Puddleford with subtle distinctions;and, besides, Longbow, as the reader has discovered, had no knowledge ofthat kind of instrument, nor was it necessary that he should have.Longbow's legal rules necessarily ran on a sliding-scale, and he fittedthem to the case in hand, not to cases in general.
The reader sees, then, a necessity for such men as Longbow in such acommunity. If it is impossible to find a man capable of preparing atechnical set of legal papers, it is important to find a man who isincapable or unwilling to break them down. No man ever slipped throughLongbow's fingers upon a mere technicality.
Again, Longbow's judicial duties were not expensive. An expensive judicialtribunal would have ruined Puddleford outright. Puddleford was not onlyobliged to use such timber as it had for public men, but the timber mustalso be cheap. Longbow was no mahogany judge, polished and wrought intoscrolls, though there were a great many lines and angles about him. He wasa plain piece of green-ash, strong, yet elastic enough to bend when justicedemanded. He was not an expensive article, and therefore the interest thepublic paid upon him was small. He would sit all day, amid the war andtumult of contending litigants, and breast the storm of insult that washeaped upon him from the right and the left, for four shillings andsixpence. I do not mean to say that he lacked self-respect--no manrespected himself more--but he had, somehow or somewhere, imbibed the ideathat pettifoggers were entitled to great latitude of speech, and that hewas _paid_ for listening to them. I have seen the Squire many a timepassing through one of these conflicts, when _his_ name was used veryirreverently, holding as solemn a face as that worn by a marble statue ofSolon.
Longbow's annual income amounted to about two hundred dollars a year, andthis Puddleford could "stand." But he had many duties to perform outside ofhis office of magistrate to insure him this amount. As I have saidelsewhere, he was the grand Puddleford umpire, and, I am very certain,settled more difficulties as a man than a magistrate. School and highwaydistricts and officers often got twisted in a snarl, and Longbow unravelledthe knot--right or wrong it matters not, he put a finish to the matter;and, _whether_ right or wrong, reader, what difference did it make so longas no one else knew it, and everybody had confidence? If confidence willsustain 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 feeton B.'s land. A. swore there was a legal, lawful highway across B.'s land;B. swore it was no such thing, and he would shoot the first man whocrossed it. A. called B. a thief, and B. called A. another. A. agreed tobreak 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 extrajudicialservices, and the two hundred dollars a year covered all.
If it had been possible to place Chief Justice Marshall, or even a finishedcity lawyer, in the seat of Squire Longbow, how signally he must havefailed! He would have been utterly incompetent to the task, and would haveburned 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 havegoverned the storm. While our finished lawyer was playing about a refineddistinction, Longbow would bury all distinctions "ten fathoms deep," andend all controversy by repeating some old saying, and dismiss the wholematter 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 todispute the truth of this proposition; because I have the documents toprove it, when officially called upon to do so. Great men are like figureson a thermometer--some thermometers, it is true, are much longer, andcontain a great many more figures than others. The only question anyambitious man cares to ask is, how many figures there are on the scaleabove his. The Puddleford thermometer was very short, dear reader, andLongbow's figure was the highest. Is not this fame? Puddleford fame, sayyou? Puddleford fame, indeed! It will outlast, I will wager my old hat, thefame of nine tenths of the members of Congress, who have for the last tenyears blown themselves hoarse making speeches to their outraged andindignant constituency. Why, Longbow's name will be remembered inPuddleford years after his death; and how many names can you repeat ofthose who strutted through the last Congress, or how many of the membersfor your own district for the last thirty years? Fame, indeed! But I do notwish 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 politicalfun was used by him as a means to carry out an end. Turtle's patriotism andTurtle's principles were beyond suspicion. Reader, there is no spot ofAmerican soil more truly patriotic than Puddleford. There are no greatdepositories--no central heart--in this country, from which Americanprinciples flow; every _man_ is a centre, a law unto himself. Ike Turtlewas a centre; he was a kind of political wheel; ran on his own axis;borrowed no propelling power from abroad, but kept himself whirling withthe spirit of '76, of which he had always a large supply on hand. Hereminded me of a fire-wheel, used on celebration days, he cast off so manycolored 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 inmotion to some purpose.
What shall I say of the theology of Puddleford? I have already alluded toit in the pages of this work. Permit me to say more. Creeds travel withmen wherever they go. Creeds often colonize the wilderness; they havenerved more hearts, stirred and sustained more souls, scattered morecivilization, than any or all other agents. But Puddleford was not settledby any particular idea, civil or religious; yet the Puddlefordians broughtwith them a great many ideas, both civil and religious. They were, however,incidental, not primary. The religious exercises of the country were likeits people, ardent, strong, fiery, and often tempe
stuous. Bigelow Van Slyckwas an embodiment of Puddleford theology. He did not argue doctrine, fortwo reasons: he did not know how, and he would not if he could; but, to usehis 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. Puddlefordreligion was often very noisy, and it manifested itself in many ways. Weused to have an outburst at camp-meeting, which was held once in each yearby the prevailing sect in the country. A camp-meeting! The reader hasattended a camp-meeting, I know; but _we_ had the genuine kind. Puddlefordwas depopulated on such occasions; and its inhabitants, supplied with thenecessaries of life and a tent, went forth into the wilderness to give ahigh tone to their piety. They wanted air, and space, and time. All thiswas characteristic, and was like the people. What would _they_ have doneinside a temple of springing arches and fretted dome--of statues lookingcoldly down from their niches--of pictured saints--where organ anthemsrolled and trembled?
What to the Puddlefordians were the refinements of religious exercises? Thewild 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; andhere, in this temple, day after day, the people camped; in the moreimmediate presence of the Most High built their watch-fires, that sent uplong streams of smoke over the green canopy that sheltered them, and kneltdown to pray.
The theology of Puddleford was brought out in strong relief at thesemeetings. They were business gatherings. The trials and crosses of everymember were freely canvassed, and consolation administered. The "innerlife" of each individual was thoroughly dissected--the spiritual conditionof the vineyard in general carefully examined; sermons preached strongenough, both in voice and expression, to raise the dead; money wascollected for benevolent purposes, and many more duties performed, which Icannot stop to mention.
The reader sees that these men and women were laying the foundation timbersof many sects that must follow them--follow them with their houses ofworship, their intelligence, their refinement, and, I may say, theirtheological abstractions, their shadows, and shades, and points ofdistinction. Who is there that could do Bigelow's work better than he? Whois 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 whileamong the rank and file; let us examine _their_ condition. And here I mayget into trouble. Comparisons are said to be odious. I do not know whosaid it, nor do I care; the motive which one has in view must determine thetruth of the remark. There was a vast deal of happiness in Puddleford. I donot now remember one nervous woman in the place. Think of that. Ifrefinement brings its joys, it often covers a delicate, sensitive nature;but there was nobody delicate or sensitive at Puddleford; nobody went intofits because a rat crossed the floor, or a spider swung itself down intheir way. The evening air was never too damp, nor the morning sun toooppressive. Labor made the people hardy, and an over-taxed brain hatched nobugbears. I verily believe the nightmare was never known. There were nopersons tired of time--not that they had so much to do--but they were allcontented 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 societyorganized and governed by rules and regulations. Here was another blessing.Aunt Sonora never got into hysterics because Mrs. Beagles had not called onher for three weeks. Aunt Sonora would say, that "Mrs. Beagles might stayto hum as long as she was a min-ter." Aunt Sonora never worked herself upinto a frustration because her gingerbread didn't rise when Squire Longbowtook 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 makefashionable calls; she was not a fashionable lady; there was no fashion tocall on. She did not go around and throw in a little very cold respect intoher neighbor's parlor, because there were no parlors in Puddleford, andAunt Sonora couldn't for the life of her do a formal thing if there hadbeen. 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 hadnot taught her hypocrisy.
There was another blessing. Puddlefordians were not continually tempted tocovet some new thing of their neighbors. A new bonnet now and then raised abreeze; but no one was under any obligation to purchase a similar one. Inother words, the laws of society did not dictate what one should wear. AuntSonora had worn her old plaid cloak for twenty years, and yet remained insociety. Mrs. Beagle's "Leghorn," which looked something like a corn-fan,and came into the country with her, was orthodox. Turtle had a pair ofbreeches 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 thesame clouded-blue stockings that he did when first elected magistrate; butMrs. Longbow had ravelled them up several times, and "footed them over." Idislike, reader, to go into particulars, and thus expose the wardrobe ofthe Puddlefordians, but I cannot express myself clearly on so important apoint in any other way; and I promised at the commencement of this sketchto make it philosophical.
I do not know how the reader will look on the blessings which I have justenumerated. He may be a leader of fashion; the shade and tie of hisneckcloth may be as weighty and important a matter with him as hisreputation. He may be one of those who religiously believe that a man, ata party, without a white vest, is no gentleman, and ought forthwith to bekicked, in a genteel way, headlong into the street. He may think it vulgarto 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 onlywriting the history of Puddleford, my friend; and, besides, just sit downcoolly, and think of the luxury there must be in sojourning at a placewhere one can wear his old clothes year in and year out, preserve publicrespect, and cut and turn his breeches at that!
The household furniture of the Puddlefordians was always in fashion; infact, there was a remarkable uniformity in this respect in all the cabinsin the settlement. The white-wood table, wooden chairs, the dozen cups andsaucers, the cook-stove and its furniture, bed and bedding, comprised thestock of nearly every family. Turtle often said that the people "didn'thave as much furniter as the law allow'd 'em, and the state had got-termake it up." It is discovered that this equality was productive ofbeneficial results. It was not possible for one Puddlefordian to envyanother Puddlefordian. There was no fancy hundred-dollar rocking-chairexhibited to throw any one into spasms; there were no pianos bewitching thesouls and purses of the community. (Reader, _I_ have no spite againstpianos.) Why, in short, there was not anything there that was not therewhen the pioneers first planted themselves on the soil. I recollect thatSile Bates owned a pinchbeck watch, and Squire Longbow was the proprietorof a "bull's-eye," and they were both wonders. The Squire and Sile onceattempted an exchange of these articles, and the transaction was somomentous that all Puddleford was kept in excitement for three weeks. Thebargain was as important and solemn as a treaty between two highcontracting powers. There was one point in the trade that was positivelyexciting. Sile had offered five dollars to boot, payable in saw-logs (noperson paid money at Puddleford, unless by special agreement, "'forewitness"), and here the parties "hung fire" for several days. Turtle saidthe Squire "orter to strike;" Beagles said, "he'd get skin'd if he did;"Bulliphant said, "the pinchbeck was worn out;" Aunt Sonora said, herhusband "tell'd her, that a man tell'd him, that he know'd Longbow'sbull's-eye forty years afore, and it could scase tick then;" and much morewas said; but, alas! the trade, to use Ike's language, "fizzled out," andPuddleford settled down again into its usual tranquillity.
The philosophy of this attempted bargain is clear enough. There was nothingin Puddleford to excite envy. What there was, was old; no new thing wasthrown 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 younot agree with me, that Puddleford had its blessings? Does not povertyoften "bring healing on its wings"? How many are there in the world thatwould gladly flee from the chains of society, even to Puddleford, willingto fling themselves in some just such by-place of the world, where theycould sit down perfectly independent, and take "their own ease in their owninn?" How many, reader?
I must not forget the charity of the Puddlefordians. Charity andhospitality are distinguishing characteristics of western people. Howeverviolent feuds might rage, suffering and want were relieved, so far asthere was an ability to do it. I have seen another kind of charity, afashionable article, used according to the laws of etiquette, and notaccording to the laws of heartfelt sympathy. I do not know that any personwas ever neglected in Puddleford because he or she did not belong to aparticular 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, thatthe person holds no intercourse.) But everybody _did_ know everybody inPuddleford; and when one of the number was stricken down by affliction, theremainder 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, anda pail filled with gruel, hurrying along "for dear life," to relieve thedistressed--Mrs. Swipes, with a little mustard, or a bit of "jel"; Mrs.Beagles, Aunt Graves, and Sister Abigail, with something else. Is not thissomething?
I must, however, draw my "Conclusion" to a close. Permit me to do itgradually, as I have a word or two more to say, and I may never haveanother opportunity. The reader has, by this time, become quite intimatewith the leading characters of Puddleford, and says, perhaps, "A queercompound." But do you know, reader, that Longbow, and Turtle, and I do notknow 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 thequestion. Puddleford stock was, much of it, Puritan stock. Those oldstalwart heroes, whose hearts were a living coal; whose wills, granite;whose home, heaven; who "walked by faith, not by sight;" before whose eyesmoved "the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night;" who heard voicesall around them, such as haunted John on the Isle of Patmos, are theprogenitors of Longbow and Turtle. What a country is this of ours, to haveworked such results!
But I learned, upon inquiry, that Longbow's blood had experienced a veryserious pilgrimage since its departure from its New England head. It hadbeen mixed with Irish, and Scotch, and English, and German. In reality, theSquire was a kind of "compound" of all nations, as most Americans are. Ifit were possible to introduce Captain Standish, the military hero of 1620,or Bradford, or Winslow, to Squire Longbow, they would look as wildly athim as the boys did at poor Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep on themountain. I am sure they would not be able to detect any resemblance to theMayflower. They would find the Squire a little the worse for wear--ignorantin spiritual matters--discover that his psalm-book was lost, and he asblind as a beetle in the New-England catechism. But, after all, if theyprobed 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 theRevolution--a preacher once, and once a lawyer. These facts I procured fromthe Squire for my special use, and they may be relied upon. And now thatsame blood was doing service at Puddleford as a magistrate. Whether bloodchanges occupation, or occupation blood, is a physiological question that Ido not intend to debate. But that one can be surprised at any exhibition ofAmerican character, after looking into the crosses and counter-crosses ofblood, is marvellous.
Here is a sample of Puddleford blood, and such is the blood of many westernpioneers. How much the world is indebted to the pioneer! He lays thefoundation, let build who may. I regret the necessity of perpetrating aridiculous figure, but I cannot help it: he plants deep the _mud-sills_ ofempire, amid toil, and sweat, and groans, poverty and disease. Thesuperstructure is always reared by other hands. The columns and capitalsare the product of wealth and taste. How few of them reap the harvest,their cabins, now standing deserted and silent, and strewn thousands ofmiles over the West and North-west, abundantly testify.
The pioneer severs all connection between himself and the past when heenters 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 linkhim to his home. The caravan that winds away from the old hearth-stone,where the first kiss was imprinted, the first prayer offered, where thewinter cricket sang as the tempest roared without, and devotes itself to awilderness, leaves behind what can never be found again. The barefootedstriplings who gambol with it--the immortal seed to be sown, and tosow--from whose loins giants in thought, word, and action will spring--"mayforget," and themselves become new centres of new associations--but men andwomen never.
What constitutes a man?--a nation? Inhabitants only? The songs of a peoplestir them up to revolution--and what are they but the glowing language ofthe 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? Aliving, breathing host! What to the pioneer is the memory of that churchsteeple that flung its long shadow over his boyhood, around whose vane theswallows whirled, and the evening sun lingered?--that bell that swung hightherein?--the torrent that roared through his early years, and wove itsmusic into his very being?--the lone cliff, where the cloud slept and theeagle rested? These all are a part of the man himself; and when he is tornfrom them, his very nature receives a shock, and he has lost, he hardlyknows how or where, a portion of his very existence.
Reader, you and I must part. How I ever happened to write the history ofPuddleford is more than I can say. I have more than once been frightened atmy impudence. In all probability you will never hear of me again inprint--and, before we separate, reach me your hand--(if it is a lady's, itis all the better)--"Good by to you, my friend;" and if you should strayinto Puddleford, I will set apart an hour, and give you an introduction toSquire Longbow--an honor to which, I am very sure, you cannot be insensibleor indifferent.
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