A particular summer, back in the fifties, I spent in one of the
beautiful valley villages of the “Green Mountain State.” The
old-fashioned, unpretending country tavern was comfortable and the air
and scenery all that could be desired. The amusements, or rather
occupations, afforded to the sojourners, aside from reading the solid
literature of the period, were neither novel nor exhausting, but they
gave pleasure, were reposeful, and were innocent enough to have
satisfied the code of the most exacting moralist. The daily routine was
limited, not costly, and within easy reach.
Of course, the first rural recreation was to fish in streams where there
were no fish; to climb the highest hills as often as possible; argue
religious, political, and commercial questions with the numerous oracles
of the village, and diagnose the autumn crop question with the farmers.
These occupations were staple commodities, always in stock and on tap
ready to flow.
The good people of the town were very much astonished when they found I
had discovered an additional occupation. I had made the acquaintance of
all the town dogs, and found them a most entertaining and sociable lot
of easy-going vagabonds. The majority were much given to loafing,
barking at strangers and the passing vehicles, and not over-anxious to
earn the scant meals grudgingly doled out to them by the thrifty
housewives, who frequently addressed them in terms not of a
complimentary nature.
Those were not the days of romantic names for dogs. The New England
_répertoire_ for the canine race had been handed down, in an unbroken
line, from a remote Puritan period. If a dog was of a large size he was
sure to respond to the name of Tige, Rover, or Lion, and, if small, he
was usually adorned with the name of Skip, Fido, or Zip. In those days
there were neither kennel clubs nor dog exhibitions, and the high-flown
English names, such as attach to the canine blue-bloods of to-day, were
unknown.
Within the ranks of this lazy, good-for-nothing, good-natured tribe,
with its headquarters in my particular village, was a characteristic
specimen of a perfect nobody’s dog. He was not unpleasant to the vision,
but, on the contrary, rather attractive. He was of a light brindle
color, with a black nose, and was blessed with a pair of beautiful,
sympathetic, and expressive dark-brown eyes, that had a frank way of
looking clear into the eyes of whoever addressed him. But he was without
pedigree, industry, or hope, cared nothing for worldly possessions, was
always ready to wag a hearty response to every salutation, and was an
ever-flowing fountain of good nature and kindness, but not devoid of
character. Along with all his apparent indifference he had his strong
points, and good ones at that.
His great weakness was the woodchuck season. No sportsman was ever more
watchful for the return of the shooting period than was Rover for the
opening of the first woodchuck hole. For days before the first opening
he would range the fields very much after the manner of the truly
accomplished shopping woman of a large city in search of opportunities
on a “bargain day.” He had the keenest nose for his favorite game of any
dog in the town, and so devoted was he to his particular sport, that
frequently, while the season lasted, after a hard day’s work, he would
go to bed with an empty stomach, his chance mistress having issued an
edict to the effect that the kitchen door was to be closed at a certain
hour—Rover or no Rover. And so it came to pass that our devoted
sportsman often went to his couch in the shed a very hungry dog, not
happy for the moment, but always full of hope for the coming morning.
While his sporting season lasted he had but one occupation. As soon as
he had licked his breakfast plate clean, even to the last mite of food,
he would start off for new adventures, and, as soon as he had succeeded
in finding a new subterranean abode of his favorite game, he would give
a joyous bark, and commence a most vigorous digging, and, if the soil
happened to be of a soft nature, he would soon bury his body so as to
leave no part of his belongings in sight but the tip end of a very
quick-moving tail amid the débris of flying soil. If called from his
pursuit he would come out of his hole wagging most joyously and saying
as plainly as possible: “I wish you would turn in and help a fellow.”
He had never been known to capture a “chuck,” but he had his fun all the
same.
There is a story of a Frenchman, who, when walking in the woods, heard
the whistle of a woodcock and thereupon became possessed of an ardent
desire _pour la chasse_. He equipped himself by borrowing a gun from one
friend, a dog from another, a game-bag from a third, and the making of a
complete shooting outfit from several others. Early in the morning,
after the delusive whistle, he was up and off to the woods. Filled with
eager expectation he tramped hills and swamps the whole day through
without seeing a bird or getting a shot, and returned to the hotel much
the worse for the wear and tear of the search, but, Frenchman like, was
vivacious and cheerful. An English friend asked to see the inside of his
game-bag. “Ah,” answered the would-be huntsman, “I did not get ze
leetle—ze _bécasse_, I did hear his whistle, _mais j’ai eu ma chasse_
all ze same, and I am very happie.” And so it was with Rover. He saw
where his would-be victim was located, enjoyed the pleasure of hope, and
had a day’s digging.
The other dogs of the village were not ambitious, save at meal-time,
when they were vigorously punctual, but very unpunctual when there was
anything useful to do, such as going after the cows at milking-time,
driving enterprising pigs out of the garden, chasing the hens from the
front entrance of the house, and the like. As a rule they were content
to pass the sunny hours of the day beneath protecting shades, resting
their lazy carcasses upon the softest patch of greensward to be found,
and they were usually experts in the art of finding such spots. It was
not so, however, with Rover. He was an active dog, without a lazy bone
in his body, always on the alert for an occupation, no matter if
sometimes useful. Take them, however, for all in all, this worthless
pack of four-footed worthies were not a bad sort of a lot. All save one
were good-natured and sociable. That exception was a maltese-colored
abridgment of a mastiff, short-haired and old. He was the property of
one of the village doctors, who was a pestiferous Whig, with the
reputation of being the “tongueyist man in the county, if not in the
State.” He carried chips upon both shoulders, was the proprietor of a
loud voice—plenty of it—and was always ready for a war between tongues.
He “argered” for the sake of argument, but his ancient “Spot,” with a
thickened throat and wheezy voice, could only keep up a running _pro
forma_ barking accompaniment while his master “downed” his opponent. The
old dog had unconsciously contracted his master’s habit of controversy,
and felt that he must help him out. It is due to the memory of that
ancient canine to record that he attended strictly to his own affairs,
and would brook no interference from frivolous idle dogs with no
particular occupation, nor would he associate with them when off duty.
When not with his master, he kept inside his own fence, and barked and
made disagreeable faces at all would-be intruders.
As bearing upon the story that will develop, I may add that besides the
dogs there are, in Vermont, other four-footed friends and servants of
man worthy of consideration. The Vermont “Morgan horse” is one of the
acknowledged native “institutions,” and no lover of that animal has ever
made the intimate acquaintance of one of his strain without being
fascinated with his delicate, refined beauty, affectionate disposition,
intelligence, endurance, and willingness to serve.
I was brought up with them, and used to romp and race with the colts,
ride the mothers without saddle, bridle, or halter, and purloin sugar
and salt to feed them when the “old folks were not looking.” Among my
happiest hours were those of my childhood and boyhood spent in close
association with the great groups of animals that lived upon the hills
of the old farm at the “crotch in the roads.” Calves, among the most
beautiful of all the young animals, with their great soft eyes and
innocent faces, were a source of infinite joy to me, and even the silly
and unintellectual sheep always appealed to my affections and sense of
protection. These I regarded as wards to love and protect, but the dogs
and Morgan horses were my petted friends and companions. From their
habitual display of good faith, perfect integrity and affection I
learned all the lessons applicable to every-day life that have been of
value to me. From man I could have learned the arts of deceit and
cunning, selfishness and want of feeling, and the practise of vanity,
but never a single quality which came to me from the habitual
association with the honest four-footed friends of my youth.
The people of my native State, among their other fine characteristics,
have always been noted for their kindness to animals, which fact alone
stands for a very elevated plane of civilization. Ever since nearly a
century ago, when the Morgan horse first came to them, he has been an
object of their affection, and it is undoubtedly, to a great extent,
owing to that creditable fact that he has always been the same charming
animal that he is to-day.
That the equine hero of this sketch was not of that noble breed will not
detract from his special virtues or impair my passing tribute to the
Vermont horse and his master. The one selected for my riding excursions
was the only saddle-horse of repute in the county; he belonged to a
livery stable, and was of the “calico” red and white sort, tall, long of
body, sound of legs and feet, with large, liquid, expressive eyes, small
ears, and a beautiful open nostril. His pedigree was unknown, and no one
in the village could say where he came from. He had been turned out lame
from a “travelling show” the year before, and had been bought for a
song. Such only was his brief known history. To his physical beauties
were added the higher qualities of head and heart in abundance. He was
the sort of a beautiful creature that could not have done a mean act.
Nature never furnished him tools for that kind of work.
He was effusively affectionate, and his intelligence was of a high order
for a horse. We took a great fancy to each other, and both of us to
Rover, who once in a while could be coaxed from his pursuit of “chucks”
to take a run with us over the country roads.
Thus we became chosen friends, and I selected them as companions for a
recreative excursion which I had planned, and which we shall now
retrace.
An early breakfast for man, dog and horse, and off. The general plan was
to ride early and late, and rest during the hot hours of the middle
portion of the day. A village with a decent “tavern” for the night was
the objective point for each evening, and the usual daily distance, made
at an easy canter, was about twenty miles. Between each stretch of three
or four miles there was a halt for a dismount, a rest for the animals,
and a leg exercise for the rider. Rover was always glad for a loll
beneath the shady trees, but “Charlie,” my calico friend, improved his
opportunities for a nibble of the tender grass and sprouts within his
reach. During the first two or three days I had to retrace my steps to
remount, but I soon succeeded in making my companions understand the
nature and object of a call, and, before the tour was half over, they
would not permit me to walk out of their sight. Rover was on the watch,
and, as soon as he saw me disappearing in the distance, would give the
alarm, and then both would start off on a smart run to overtake me.
Upon one occasion, after climbing a sharp hill, I had left them at the
beginning of a long level piece of road, and had walked on. After going
about half a mile, I met a large drove of cattle. When I had succeeded
in passing through and beyond it, my attention was attracted by a
confused noise in the rear. Upon looking back I discovered a great cloud
of dust, and amidst it a confusion of moving horns and tails, while soon
there appeared, racing through the excited mass of bovines at the top of
his speed, Charlie, accompanied by his faithful attendant barking at the
top of his voice. The cattle were excited and frightened up to the point
of jumping and running they knew not where. Some went over fences,
others through them, while the main body kept to the road, and, for a
considerable distance, carried everything before them. I realized at
once that my zealous companions had got me into trouble.
For the information of readers not acquainted with the average
“droveyer” of forty and fifty years ago, it is necessary to record that
he was not the sort of an individual calculated to adorn refined
society, and the language used by those in charge of this particular
“drove” was more characteristic for its strength than for its elegance
or politeness. I tried to appease their wrath, apologized for the
unseemly conduct of dog and horse, alleged sudden fright, marshalled a
fine array of other excuses, and finally succeeded in neutralizing the
flow of their ire—just a little. But the chief spokesman was not
satisfied with excuses and soft words; he was a materialist, and wanted
to know, then and there, who was to put up the fence and pay for the
damage done by the trampling down of growing crops. Under the
circumstances the query did not seem to be an unreasonable one, and I
suggested that the better course to pursue would be for the authors of
the mischief to make terms with the owner of the crops, state facts, and
await his decision.
The season happened to be between planting and harvest, and “the
men-folks,” we were told, “are up on yender hill mending fence, and
won’t be down till dinner.” The head “droveyer,” impatient to keep with
his “drove,” would not wait, and informed me, in a rather emphatic sort
of way, that I would have to wait and “settle up.” There was no appeal
in sight from his decision. So he went and I waited.
The hot part of the day had arrived, and it was within about two hours
“till dinner.” After “hitchin’” the horse in the barn, away from the
flies, I suggested the loan of an axe. This excited surprise, and the
question came from the head of the interior of that particular domestic
establishment: “What are _you_ going to do with an axe?” I answered:
“I’m going to mend the fence where those cattle broke through.” This
feather came very near breaking the back of the housewife, and her sense
of the ridiculous was excited up to the point of explosion, but she was
too well bred to give the laugh direct, full in the face, and contented
herself by making an acute mental survey of my physical points. She
measured with her eye the hands and girth of chest, and made a close
calculation as to the amount of biceps assigned to each arm, and after
some reflection, said: “You’ll find an old axe in the woodshed; you can
take it and try and patch up the places, and, when you hear the horn,
you can come in and eat with the rest of the folks.” I started off,
filled with the pride born of knowledge, and confident of a coming
success, but the even flow of my happiness was soon disturbed by a sound
from the upper register of a very loud, shrill voice, saying, “Don’t
split your feet open with that are axe.” This was like a small streak of
ice water down the spinal column, but I was on my mettle and not to be
discouraged. The vacant spaces in the broken fence were encountered and
yielded to superior force, and a fairish amount of success was
accomplished about the time the welcome tones of the sonorous horn
announced the hour for feeding.
I was introduced to the “men-folks” as the stranger whose dog and horse
had “scart the cattle inter the oats.” At first it was easy to see that
I was not regarded with favor, but, as the dinner proceeded, and as
anecdotes succeeded each other about men, things and far-off countries I
had seen, the Green Mountain ice began to melt, and, by the time the
“Injun puddin’” was emptied out of its bag, cordial relations were
established. The two bright-faced boys had become communicative, and the
older members of the family had forgotten for the time the damage to the
oats.
The dinner ended, I requested a board of survey and an estimate. The
first relevant observation in relation to the case before the court came
from the grandfather: “Well, I declare, I couldn’t done it better
myself. I didn’t know you city folk could work so. Where did you l’arn
to mend fences?” This first witness for the defence produced a marked
effect upon the jury. The next point of observation was the field of
damaged oats. The eldest son, a Sunday-school-sort of boy, exclaimed:
“By pepper, they are pretty well trampled down, ain’t they? No cradle
can git under ’em; guess’ll have ter go at ’em with the sickle, but we
can save the heft of ’em by bending our backs a little.”
During the investigation not a word was uttered about compensation, and,
after leaving the field, the conversation ran into generalities; but
before we reached the house the grandfather’s curiosity got the better
of his timidity, and he asked: “Where did you l’arn to mend fences?”
When I told him that my name was ——, that I was a grandson of ——, was
born at the “Old H. Place at the crotch of the roads in the town of
P——,” learned to mend fences there, etc., etc., he had great difficulty
in suppressing the dimensions of the proud satisfaction my information
had produced. In his mind I was a degenerate Vermonter, living in the
great City of New York, but had not forgotten the lessons learned at the
old farm. I knew how to mend a fence, and that, for him, was my
certificate of character.
From the moment of my disclosures, I was admitted to the inner family
circle, and there was no more farm-work for the rest of the day, while
the afternoon hours were devoted to reminiscences of the olden times:
“Ah,” said the old grandfather, “when I first laid eyes on ye, I thought
I’d seen somebody like ye afore, and I remember it was your grandfather
on yer father’s side. He was a soldier of the Revolutionary War in one
of the Rhode Island ridgiments, and my father belonged to one from
Massachusetts; both served till the end of the war, and then emigrated
to Vermont, together. My father settled on this farm, where I was born
in 1790; your grandfather took up some land in P——, and till the end of
his days was the best schoolmaster and surveyor anywhere round these
parts. He was a master-hand at poetry, and used to write sarcastical
varses agin the lop-sided cusses he hated. There’s allus some mean
critters in these country towns, who take advantage of poor folks that
ain’t very smart and cheat ’em outer their property. They used to feel
mighty mean, I tell ye, when they read your grandfather’s varses about
’em. I heerd old Si Simmons, up to town meeting only last year, telling
about a mean old critter down in P—— by the name of Podges and how your
grandfather writ a varse for his gravestun, and I remember it was about
like this:
“‘Here lies the body of Podges Seth,
The biggest knave that e’er drew breath;
He lived like a hog and died like a brute,
And has gone to the d——l beyond dispute.’”
I was able to respond in kind, for I happened to remember about another
local poet, who hated a surviving son of this rural vampire, who quite
worthily perpetuated the detestable qualities of his defunct parent,
and, when he died, as he did not many years after his father, the other
local poet, not to be outdone by my grandfather, composed the following
verse as a fitting epitaph:
“Here lies the body of Podges Ed,
We all rejoice to know he’s dead;
Too bad for Heaven, too mean for Hell,
And where he’s gone no one can tell.”
In the “Old Times” there were strong, honest, rugged characters among
the Vermont hills. The majority of them were men of plain speech and
unyielding contempt for meanness in any form. A goodly number of the
early settlers in the eastern counties were soldiers of the Revolution
who had emigrated to the new State soon after its close, and they
brought with them the simple, manly habits and ways of thinking which
are characteristic of service in the field. Many were the anecdotes told
of them that day—the day of the accident to the oats—very much to the
edification of the juniors, who were all eyes and ears, at least for
that occasion.
The old house at the “crotch of the roads,” when I was a boy, was the
Saturday and Sunday halting-place for the old soldiers of my own and
several of the neighboring towns. The larder was always well-supplied,
and the barrels of cider that lined a capacious cellar were ready to
respond to every call. Under the influence of an abundant supply of that
exhilarating beverage, the fighting over of old battles was always
vigorous and sometimes vividly realistic.
The most famous of the local veterans, of my time, was known among his
neighbors as “Uncle Daniel V——.” He was a Lexington-Bunker Hill man, who
had served till the end of the war. As I remember him, he was a most
interesting character, humorous, with a good memory, a famous drinker of
hard cider, and a notable singer of the patriotic soldier songs of the
“Seventy-six” period. I can recall, in his showing “how the Yankee boys
flaxed the Britishers,” how he would shoulder one of his canes—he was a
rheumatic and walked with two—and march up and down the broad kitchen of
the old house, going through the motions of loading, aiming and firing
at an imaginary enemy, greatly to my childish delight, for those were
the first fierce war’s alarms I had ever witnessed, and I can never
forget how my imagination was fired; nor how ardently I wished I had
been at Lexington and Bunker Hill, where “we gave it to the Red Coats.”
Uncle Daniel was far too good a patriot to say anything about the return
compliments, “How the Red Coats gave it to us,” upon one of those
historic fields. Since his day I have learned that one of his
glorification songs, which professed to give a correct account of one
particular Yankee victory, was not in strict accord with the truths of
history. I could recall for my host but a single verse of all the songs
he used to sing, and it savors so much of the camp that I had some
misgivings about repeating it before Christians, but upon being hard
pressed by the boys and seeing approving glances from other directions,
concluded to go ahead.
The verse I remember is one from a song supposed to have been sung by
British soldiers who were in the retreat after the defeat at Concord,
April 19, 1775, and runs thus:
“From behind the hedges and the ditches.
And every tree and stump.
We would see the sons of ——
And infernal Yankees jump.”
I also remember, vaguely, something of another Revolutionary camp song
which depicted the grief of the soldiers of Burgoyne’s army. The refrain
was like this:
“We have got too far from Canada,
Run, boys, run.”
When we had exhausted the Revolution, it was time for an afternoon
start. For more than an hour Rover had manifested his impatience by
numerous waggings and by pawing vigorously at the legs of my trousers
whenever I looked his way, and from the barn there came sounds of
hoof-poundings and impatient whinnerings—loud and plain calls for a
move. So, after many protests against the going, a move to go was made.
Before the advance upon the barn was fairly under way the youngster, who
had been an attentive listener, decided upon a search for information,
and, commanding a halt, informed me that “Old Jim Noyes, who lived over
in the Snow neighborhood, has two boys in Boston; the oldest was up here
in June and told us there was a steeple down in Boston as high as that
old ‘Jackson Hill’ of ours, but I didn’t b’leve a word of it. Hosea
Doten, the biggest man at figgers and surveying in this part of Vermont,
told mother last year that Old Jack was 1,200 feet above the sea and
more than five hundred above where we are standing; now, there ain’t no
such steeple in Boston nor anywhere else. What do folks want such a high
steeple for, anyway? And if meetin’ houses must have steeples, why won’t
fifty feet do as well as five hundred? Some folks say that bells are
hung up in steeples so God can hear them ring for folks to go to meetin’
Sunday mornin’. What odds would two or three hundred feet make to God?
He can hear a bell just as well in a fifty-foot steeple as in one five
hundred feet high. Meetin’ folks could save a lot of money by building
low steeples. And besides, they ain’t no use; nobody could live in ’em
five hundred feet up, and it would be too high to hang a thermometer on
unless you had a spy-glass to look at it with. I don’t b’leve in such
high steeples; they cost lots of money and ain’t of no use.”
I assured the young philosopher of my approval of his ideas about the
uselessness of high steeples, and told him that Boston was not the owner
of one five hundred feet high. This information was a source of immense
satisfaction. “I was right all the time,” he added, “and knew that Jim
Noyes was giving us lies just as fast as his tongue could work ’em out.
Do all Vermont boys that go to Boston learn to talk like him? There’s a
lot gone down there from about here. Some of ’em are up on a visit every
once in a while, and spend the most of their spare time in telling such
silly stories. I guess they think they can stuff us country folks just
like Thanksgiving turkeys. What makes ’em lie so? The boys round here,
if they talked like they do, would get licked a dozen times a week and
no decent folks would have anything to do with ’em. I suppose it’s all
right. Boys, when they git to Boston, have got to lie to keep their
places and git a living. Grandfather don’t take it to heart so much as
the rest of us. He says lying is the biggest part of the show, and the
longer we live the more on’t we’ll see.”
The day was well along, and the sun showed a decided intention of soon
disappearing behind the top of “Old Jack,” before I insisted on
departing. Then the calico horse was watered, saddled and bridled, and
brought out for inspection and admiration. His appearance elicited
expressions of unbounded admiration, his great, soft, brown, and
beautifully expressive eyes, his amiability and active intelligence
coming in for no end of complimentary remarks. The boys were especially
enthusiastic and proposed a “swap for a four-year-old raised on the
place.”
The oats question was again brought up for adjudication, and, after
considerable argument, the party owning the injured crop determined to
leave the amount of damage an open question until the individual
responsible for it could “come around agin.”
The moment had arrived for the reluctant good-by, the grasp of hands,
the mount and the start, amid great excitement and noise on the part of
the animals; and then commenced a most exhilarating run of more than
fifteen miles over a softish dirt road, through a series of lovely
valleys, to the little village of D——, where we called a halt for the
night, which was destined to be prolonged into the orthodox Sunday rest
of the place and period.
By this time the organization of three had crystallized into exact form,
and without effort had settled into an habitual daily routine, and the
incidents of to-day were quite certain to be repeated to-morrow. There
was always plenty of time, evenings and middle parts of days, for
talking with the “folks”—oracles about the village taverns—who, like the
old-time bar-room Major and Judge of the Slave States, were always on
hand and on tap for a copious outpouring of village gossip and political
information. In justice to the Major and Judge of the old days of the
South, it must be written that they were usually waiting for another
sort of a tap-flow to be turned on, from a tap not of their own.
It is doubtful if the happy trio ever appreciated the greatness of this
three weeks’ manifestation of themselves, through which they were
unambitious but undoubted involuntary heroes among the country folk.
John Gilpin could not have been more fortunate in the way of attracting
attention from all beholders; and “the more they gazed the more the
wonder grew,” and the puzzle of forty years ago, in the villages through
which we passed, of “What is it, anyway?” remains as profound a mystery
as ever.
In some places I was regarded as a very considerable personage on a
secret mission of great import; at other times the saddle-valise was
accused of containing a supply of a newly discovered life-saving pill;
but, generally, we were mistaken by the wise know-it-alls of the village
as the advance agents of a coming circus; if not, why the calico horse?
which to the rural mind, from the most remote period, has been
associated with the gorgeous, gilded bandwagon, spangles, and sawdust.
The fortunate suspicion of circus affiliations brought to us a measure
of attention far beyond our merits; both animals were treated with the
greatest respect, as possible performers of high standing, and upon
several occasions I was asked to “make ’em show off.”
The summer Saturday afternoon and evening in Vermont is always the same.
At the “stores” business flourishes, and profitable activity reigns
supreme until late into the evening hours. On the farm the opposite is
the rule, a general “slicking up for Sunday” and the doing of “odd
chores” around the house and barn is the order of the day, the whole
being a fitting prelude to the coming Sunday, which is always what it
ought to be, not the Lord’s any more than another day, nor anybody
else’s day, but a day of rest, pure and simple, for all the creatures of
the Creator. Ever since I can remember, Vermonters, without asking leave
of this or that authority have chosen their own way of Sunday resting.
In no state west of the Rocky Mountains do the beauties of nature make a
stronger appeal for human appreciation than in Vermont, and never are
they seen to better advantage than upon a quiet summer Sunday morning,
when the brilliant blue sky is filled with light, and all the world
seems to be at peace. The clear, limpid streams move silently on as
though controlled by the all-pervading spirit of rest; the leaves of the
trees, yielding to the universal feeling of repose, keep silence with
the rest of nature, and over all there is the fascinating power of
wondrous beauties abounding not made by the hands of man. Such days are
made for rest and reflection, when nature invites us to commune with her
works, that we may know more of them and be able to rise to a higher and
more ennobling appreciation of her beauties. The quiet, suggestive New
England summer Sunday morning’s appeal is nature’s most beneficent call
to her children to come to her and search for knowledge of things which
lead through untrodden paths, where, at every step, new pleasures unfold
to the view for our instruction and enjoyment.
Upon such occasions we yield to the influence of the silent voice and
the unseen hand, and unconsciously follow the beckonings of a wingless
fairy, Nature’s ever-present handmaid, who, without our knowledge, leads
us to a new Fairyland, where new beauties abound, and where countless
joys are within the reach of the most humble subjects of the Creator.
Such a typical Sunday as the one I have attempted to describe followed
the Saturday after our arrival at the little village of D——. The first
duties of the day were to our four-footed friends, and then came the
standard breakfast of the place and period for the superior being. Fifty
years ago this was very much more of a living Yankee institution than
now. In those days the French _menu_, much to the satisfaction of those
practitioners in the dental line, had not penetrated within the borders
of the New England rural districts. I remember distinctly the color and
taste of the native bean-coffee, the solidity of the morning pie-crusts,
the crumble after the crash of the cookey, and the greasy substantiality
of the venerated doughnut. All these we had in abundance, with the
incidental “apple sass” thrown in between courses that lovely Sunday
morning, forty-one years ago this writing.
The town of D——, happened to be the shire-town of the county in which it
was situated. At the time of my brief sojourn there, the Supreme Court
was in session and one of the judges had the head of the table at the
hotel, while I, being a supposed distinguished stranger, with “boughten
clothes” and a fair expanse of starched shirt-front, was given the seat
of honor at his right hand. I found him a regulation specimen of the
real original Yankee judge, quaint of speech, humorous, and intelligent,
and not a profound believer in the oft-alleged superior qualities of the
animal said to have been made in the image of his maker.
Our conversation started and continued for some time in the usual way;
the weather and condition of crops being used as an excuse for the
opening sentences, but, before the breakfast was over, a shrewd series
of inoffensive direct questions, deftly put, brought to the surface the
fact that I had travelled in strange and far-away countries.
Punctually at the usual hour and minute, the Sunday bells commenced
their weekly call to the faithful, and the Judge interrupted the easy
flow of his entertaining conversation to ask how I usually spent Sunday.
I told him I had no particular way of doing that day, but usually
permitted original sin to take its course. That idea seemed to strike
him favorably and brought out a proposition that we should take to the
woods and see which could tell the biggest story, he at the same time
remarking: “You have travelled so much that by this time you ought to be
an interesting liar. On such a beautiful day as this there is no excuse
for bothering the parson. Sometimes on a cold chilly day he is a real
comfort; he warms us up with the heat of the brimstone to come.”
That Sunday made its mark. It was a red-letter day never to be
forgotten. My new acquaintance proved to be a philosopher and thinker of
no ordinary dimensions. He was saturated with the teachings of Socrates,
Cicero, Marcus Aurelius, and Gibbon, and I suspected he had taken a sly
glance or two at Lucretius and Voltaire. He had ready for use, at
command, the essence of the entire teachings of his favorite authors,
and could quote whole pages from their works.
While we were stretched out upon a bed of dead leaves, looking up
through the living ones to the open sky above, my faithful companions,
feeling the quieting influence of the day, were near us, tranquilly
enjoying the shade, and acting as though taking in a conversation which
they seemed to understand. As with men we often meet, this silence was
passing them off for being wiser than they were. My canine companion was
close to my side with my hand gently resting upon his head, while my
calico equine friend was enjoying the grateful shade of a broad
spreading maple, and busying himself with switching away at speculative
flies in search of opportunities for luxurious dinners.
The satisfactory contentment of the two animals attracted the attention
of my judicial companion, and he asked me to explain the secret of our
close companionship. He was surprised when I told him there was no
secret about it, that I treated my four-footed friends as I would human
beings; looked after their general welfare, saw that they were
sufficiently fed with the proper food, talked to them in kindly tones of
voice, gave them tid-bits now and then that I knew they were fond of,
patted them approvingly, never scolded or used a whip, and, finally,
spent a great deal of my time in their company. I further explained that
intellectually I regarded them as being on a plane with children—to be
looked after, to be kindly treated, and to have their mental faculties
developed to the full extent of the separate capacity of each, and, that
by pursuing such a course, we could obtain the best service and an
amount of affection and companionship that would amply recompense us for
all of our trouble.
“Well,” he exclaimed, “this is all news to me! There is logic and good
sound sense in your whole scheme, and it’s strange I never thought of it
before. You have studied the subject of intellectual development in
animals and gotten something out of it I had never dreamed of. Ever
since I have been able to think my head has been filled with common law,
Court decisions, and the Statute in such case made and provided, and I
have had but little time, and, possibly, less disposition, to indulge in
sentiment. I suppose you know the people of your native state well
enough to appreciate their strong and weak points. The Vermonter, as a
rule, does not waste any time upon sentimentality; he is too busy
digging out a living from these old hills and from between the rocks for
those dependent upon him to waste much time cultivating the sentimental
side. He is quite apt to take the utilitarian view of most earthly
matters. His horse he regards as a useful animal, to be well fed and
comfortably housed in order to prolong his usefulness as much as
possible; and his dog he looks upon as a useless companion—not worthy of
respect, comfortable lodging, or good food, unless he earns all three by
bringing up the cows at night and chasing all marauders from grain and
planted fields during the day. Your side of the animal question is a new
one, and I am going to commence operations upon my faithful
burden-carrier as soon as we reach the stable. I’d be mightily pleased
to have him walk along with me and put his velvety nose against my face
as I have seen your calico friend do with you. All men, all real men,
properly put together, are fond of being loved, and are willing to take
it in wholesale doses, and a little dog and horse—when the women are not
around—thrown in to fill between the chinks, helps to make a perfect
whole. We men are a careless, selfish lot, who leave mothers, sisters,
wives, daughters, and dogs and horses to do the most of the loving, and
accept it as a matter of right, without making the returns which are
their due. They trudge along in silence, giving us their affection, and
work on, chiefly for us, when they ought to kick. In giving me this
Sunday lesson you have opened up a new lead in my make-up, and I intend
to explore it until I develop a new deposit of humanity, and I’ll
commence by stealing a lump of sugar for ‘Old Whitey’ the next time I
leave the tavern table, and, instead of having it charged in the bill,
I’ll open a new account, and credit my first theft to the cause of
animal development.”
The next morning I parted from my judicial acquaintance, he volunteering
the promise to write and let me know the result of his new experiment
among the inhabitants of the barnyard. During the night he had “analyzed
the whole business,” and arrived at the conclusion that there were other
dumb creatures besides dogs and horses worthy of cultivating. The much
neglected and despised pig, he proposed, with apparent humorous
sincerity, to take in hand, and make a special effort to reform his
manners and cultivate his mental faculties. He argued that human society
was responsible for “downing the pig.” It is a question of “mad dog!”
over again, he declared. “Some one in the far-off past had said the hog
was a filthy beast, and without stopping to inquire, everybody else had
joined in the cry. My mission is to do away with this unreasonable
prejudice, and to elevate to his proper social and intellectual position
among the animals of the earth my much abused and unappreciated porcine
friend.” These were his jovial parting words, and, with them ringing in
my ears, the trio made the morning start for the last day of the
outward-bound part of the excursion.
A thirty miles ride carried us to one of the oldest villages in the
northern part of the State—not far from the Canada line. One long
street, made up of the blacksmith, shoemaker, and tinshop; a dry goods
“Emporium,” a tavern—“The Farmers’ Home”—and the usual number of
churches, with a doctor’s shop, and a few dwellings thrown in, here and
there, to fill up the intervals between the more important
structures—made, with a good supply of shade-trees, an attractive
village. Of course the buildings were all square and white, and the
blinds were all green, and they were placed as near the road as
possible, but notwithstanding these faults of form, color, and position,
constituting crimes against Nature, the whole was fairly attractive. Do
what they will to offend and deface the beauties of New England, and
especially Vermont nature, the Philistines who inhabit its picturesque
valleys cannot destroy the beautiful ever-varying outlines of its hills
or the restful repose of its summer days. They have managed to slaughter
its forests and to dry up its limpid mountain streams, but, with the
consummation of those outrages, Nature calls a halt; and the Vandals
leave off destroying because there is little left to destroy.
The “Farmer’s Home” proved to be an attractive family affair. The
father, mother, son and daughter composed the entire _ménage_, and all
were equally at home in the duties of their special departments. There
was a tour of duty for each in the kitchen; but the energetic daughter
was supreme in the “Dining-hall,” where she propelled its affairs with
mechanical exactitude. Her unwritten motto was: “On time, or cold
victuals.” She was a strict constructionist, and “cl’ared off the
things” as soon as the last piece of pie had disappeared. But, as the
English would say, she was not at all a bad sort. She was active,
inquisitive, quaint, and direct,—had opinions upon all subjects, and
expressed them freely. I have always believed I was her first serious
anthropological study. At first, she accepted me with an immense
qualification. My manifest bias in favor of animals was something new to
her which she could not comprehend. To her practical mind, the petting
of a dog and looking after his welfare was a perfect waste of time,
while paying particular attention to the wants and care of a horse was
something not to be thought of. I saw she was rapidly filling up to the
bursting point with curiosity, but was too shy to ask the direct
questions which she was anxious to put to me. As soon as occasion
offered, I felt it my duty to give her an opportunity to free her mind,
and, sitting out the rest of the “boarders” at my last “supper,”
presented an opening for the point of the wedge to enter. By way of
introduction, I mentioned my regrets at being compelled to leave the
next morning.
“All the folks around here,” she frankly said, “will be sorry to hear
it; you ain’t like anybody else we’ve ever had in this town, at least
sence I can remember. Father and Tom, and all the rest of ’em that’s
been watching of you, say you care more for critters than you do for
human folks, and I think so too; ever sence I heard you talk to that dog
of yourn I couldn’t make you out. We never had anything like that up
here before, and one of the store fellers told me yesterday he thought
you were one of them New York City chaps a little off, that had come on
this ride for your health, and yit you talk sense about anything else
except them critters of yourn, and that’s what puzzles the folks—to
think that such a smart feller as you ’pear to be, should be clear gone
off when you get to talking to the critters. And then there ain’t any
sense in it, any way; you can talk to dogs and hosses all your life and
never git an answer. They are dumb beasts, that’s all they be, and you
can’t make ’em folks if you try a thousand years. I’ll bet anything you
ain’t got a wife. If you had, you wouldn’t be talking all this nonsense
to critters all the time; if you had one worth a cent, you’d stay to
home and talk to her, and let the critters take care of themselves, same
as other folks do. Nothing like a good wife to take such wrinkles out of
a man’s head! Why don’t you get married anyway? Right here in this town
there are a lot of first-rate girls, better educated than I be, been to
the high-school, and got as good learning as any of the city women, all
dying to git married, and you can take your choice right here now. If
you had one of our nice girls you wouldn’t need to have that darn fool
of a dog round all the time for company.”
The latter part of this mind-freeing was earnest and emphatic, and I
discovered between the spoken lines the true cause of the outburst. It
was as clear as the noonday sun that she had a very poor opinion of an
individual who preferred the company of a dog to the fascinations of
fair woman, and she had made up her mind to let me know what she
thought.
I ignored the nice girl part of the argument, and startled her by asking
if she were a Christian. “’Spose I am, I try to be. I don’t know much
about it anyhow. What makes you ask such an all-fired silly question?
All the folks round here are Christians; we ain’t heathens any mor’n
city folks.”
“Then it follows as a matter of course, you being a Christian, that you
believe the Creator made Heavens and the earth and all things therein,
and you do not believe he made anything in vain. All of his creations we
see or know anything of were made for a purpose. The domestic animals
were intended for the use of human beings, and upon the list of those
the horse stands first, because he is the most intelligent of the purely
useful animals; but the dog is far ahead of him in every respect save
physical power. His intelligence is of a high order, which entitles him
to our respect, and he is the only animal that will leave his kind to
associate with man; and there are thousands of instances recorded of his
having sacrificed his life for those he loved. No other animal has ever
been known to do that. The elephant, with his admitted capacity for
acute reasoning, never defends his master unless ordered; on the
contrary, he seldom misses an opportunity to kill those who have injured
or offended him. The dog never does this; he bears no malice, and
forgets and forgives injuries inflicted by those he loves, neither does
he know distinction of condition or rank. He knows you are his master or
mistress, and whether you are prince or peasant it matters not. The
palace or the garret are the same to him, provided a kind master is to
be found in either, and he shares with his master the feast or the crust
with equal pleasure. The noble dog possesses the highest qualities. He
gives you his loyal affection without reserve, never deceives you, and
is true even unto death, and I hold we are indebted to him for giving us
all that is good in his nature, for, the better you treat him, the more
his fine qualities come to the surface. Am I not right?”
“Well, I swan; you’ve taken the breath all out of my body; I never heard
such talk before. I don’t know what to say, and I can’t dispute you.
You’ve got the whole thing by heart and let it out just like one of them
revival exhorters that comes along here every once in a while. You’ve
said a lot about animals I never heard before or thought of; nobody
round here ever talks about ’em like you do. Why, you put the dog way up
head of folks. From what you say, he’s ten times as decent as most men,
and, if he could only talk, he would show us he could spell hard words
and do the meanest sums in the ’rithmetic. At any rate, if dogs and
horses and other sich like are as smart as you say they are, they ain’t
got no feelings like we have—ain’t got sense enough to be sensitive and
take on about pain and suffering like we do. You can’t make me b’leve
any sich stuff as that anyhow.”
This is the point usually made by those who have never seriously
considered the true nature and physical structure of animals. A cursory
examination would prove to the most careless observer, that the organs
and various parts of the human organization are duplicated in the
animals, especially in those of the domestic sort. The two points of
difference are in form of body and the four legs given to the lower
orders instead of two. The heart, lungs, bones, muscles, nerves,
blood-vessels and brain are in each about the same. In the animal, for
want of speech, the power of the brain is an unknown quantity, and the
absence of that faculty of giving expression to thought constitutes the
greatest difference between the species. Give the higher of the lower
animals the power of speech, and possibly some men would take rank as
the lower animal.
All this I explained to my audience of one, and, in addition, asserted
that a cruel punishment of a physical nature inflicted upon a human
being, if bestowed upon a dog, a horse or an ox would produce the same
amount of pain and suffering. If whipping is painless, why do all
animals who have once been whipped jump aside and try to dodge the whip
they see flourishing in the hands of those near them? The answer is,
fear of pain. There is no other explanation of their action. Schoolboys
dread the birch and ferule of the schoolmaster no more than a horse or
an ox fears and dreads the whip of a driver.
“I declare this is all news to me,” my rural friend replied, “and you
really have set me to thinking. I guess we ought to treat all sorts of
animals, including the human, better than we do. I’ve been going to
meeting sence I was old enough to go alone, and I never heard a minister
say anything about loving animals and treating them decently—kinder like
folks—do a lot of good if they did—’spose they think they ain’t paid for
that sort of business and ’ave got all they can do to save the souls of
sinners.”
This was the last attempt at pure missionary work in behalf of the lower
orders. The pleasure part of the excursion was about to end, and on the
morning of the morrow the business of returning to the starting point
was to commence in earnest. The return was made by a short series of
long days’ work, commencing early in the morning, running well into the
day, with rest in the middle, starting off again late in the afternoon,
and extending well into the evening. In three days the return was
finished, the whole excursion had lasted nearly three weeks—three joyous
weeks, never again to be duplicated.
The most pleasurable hours of the little tour came from the association
with my four-footed servants and companions. The gradual unfolding of
their intelligence and the rapid development of their affection were
never-failing sources of pleasure. Towards the last my calico horse
would leave his feed, no matter how fascinating to his taste the oats
might be, to be in my society, and the watchful dog was never away from
my side, night or day. At first he shared the stable with his companion,
but soon after, whenever he was ordered out for the night, his anxious,
silent pleadings became so tender and touching that I could not
withstand them, and I consented to his sharing my room with me. At first
he had the natural dog habit of rising at an inconveniently early hour,
but after being admonished of the irregularity of his behavior, he would
remain quiet until ordered out for his morning exercise.
Never before or since had I been blessed with more sincere and
disinterested friends—always anxious to serve and, seemingly, perfectly
happy only when in my society.
Within a week after our return came the final parting between us, and I
have never had more stings of conscience than I felt when closing the
door of the little paradise my confiding friends were never to enter
again. I parted with them in sorrow, filled with anxiety for their
future, as well I might have been, for early the ensuing autumn my
calico friend became again a “circus horse” and was heard of no more,
and the other resumed the role of “nobody’s dog” and went down to his
soulless (?) finality wishing, beyond all doubt, for another taste of
his lost paradise.
During the whole of the winter of 1862 and 1863, I was in camp with my
command at Falmouth, in front of Fredericksburg. The army was resting
after the colossal and tragic fiasco at Fredericksburg to recover a new
supply of strength and courage for the encounter with unknown blunders
to come; and, aside from doing as many drills as the mud would permit,
consuming rations and drawing pay, there was little to do. The winter
proved to be a period of weary inactivity, with no crowns of victory in
sight.
Late one stormy afternoon in the month of January, 1863, the orderly
announced a civilian stranger who desired an interview. He told the
orderly that his name was of no consequence and that his business was
personal. Upon his entering my tent, I discovered a complete embodiment
of limp weariness and sorrow, a palpable wreck of something better in
the past.
Upon being seated, he said: “I ’spose you don’t know me? Well, I don’t
blame you much, I’ve so changed since then; we’ve had a great sorrow
since your dog and horse scart that drove of cattle into the oats. Now I
b’leve you remember, but you’d never guess I’m the same man, would you?”