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 of
Bigelow. Do you not think so?
Puddleford was like a thousand other new settlements--it had its green
state to pass through; and Puddleford's pioneers were like other
pioneers--rough, honest, hardy, strong in common sense, but weak in the
books. It was not a perfect organization, packed beforehand with men fitted
to all the stations of life, like Hooker and his band. But one pioneer came
after another--and notions, creeds, and prejudices, were all tumbled in
together. Puddleford prospered, nevertheless. Every man was right upon the
question of civil and religious liberty. Each person brought this law with
him, written on his soul; and, however clumsily he might give it
expression, the law was there, and he could not rid himself of it any more
than he could throw off his nature. If Longbow administered the details of
jurisprudence awkwardly, Longbow was, after all, right in leading
principles. If Longbow at times trampled down technicalities, the
community, on the average, did not suffer. If Longbow even made a little
law 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 as
to manage the raw recruits of early Puddleford with subtle distinctions;
and, besides, Longbow, as the reader has discovered, had no knowledge of
that kind of instrument, nor was it necessary that he should have.
Longbow's legal rules necessarily ran on a sliding-scale, and he fitted
them to the case in hand, not to cases in general.
The reader sees, then, a necessity for such men as Longbow in such a
community. If it is impossible to find a man capable of preparing a
technical set of legal papers, it is important to find a man who is
incapable or unwilling to break them down. No man ever slipped through
Longbow's fingers upon a mere technicality.
Again, Longbow's judicial duties were not expensive. An expensive judicial
tribunal would have ruined Puddleford outright. Puddleford was not only
obliged to use such timber as it had for public men, but the timber must
also be cheap. Longbow was no mahogany judge, polished and wrought into
scrolls, though there were a great many lines and angles about him. He was
a plain piece of green-ash, strong, yet elastic enough to bend when justice
demanded. He was not an expensive article, and therefore the interest the
public paid upon him was small. He would sit all day, amid the war and
tumult of contending litigants, and breast the storm of insult that was
heaped upon him from the right and the left, for four shillings and
sixpence. I do not mean to say that he lacked self-respect--no man
respected himself more--but he had, somehow or somewhere, imbibed the idea
that pettifoggers were entitled to great latitude of speech, and that he
was _paid_ for listening to them. I have seen the Squire many a time
passing through one of these conflicts, when _his_ name was used very
irreverently, holding as solemn a face as that worn by a marble statue of
Solon.
Longbow's annual income amounted to about two hundred dollars a year, and
this Puddleford could "stand." But he had many duties to perform outside of
his office of magistrate to insure him this amount. As I have said
elsewhere, he was the grand Puddleford umpire, and, I am very certain,
settled more difficulties as a man than a magistrate. School and highway
districts and officers often got twisted in a snarl, and Longbow unravelled
the 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 long
as no one else knew it, and everybody had confidence? If confidence will
sustain 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 feet
on 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 who
crossed it. A. called B. a thief, and B. called A. another. A. agreed to
break 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 extrajudicial
services, and the two hundred dollars a year covered all.
If it had been possible to place Chief Justice Marshall, or even a finished
city lawyer, in the seat of Squire Longbow, how signally he must have
failed! He would have been utterly incompetent to the task, and would have
burned 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 have
governed the storm. While our finished lawyer was playing about a refined
distinction, Longbow would bury all distinctions "ten fathoms deep," and
end all controversy by repeating some old saying, and dismiss the whole
matter 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 to
dispute the truth of this proposition; because I have the documents to
prove it, when officially called upon to do so. Great men are like figures
on a thermometer--some thermometers, it is true, are much longer, and
contain a great many more figures than others. The only question any
ambitious man cares to ask is, how many figures there are on the scale
above his. The Puddleford thermometer was very short, dear reader, and
Longbow's figure was the highest. Is not this fame? Puddleford fame, say
you? Puddleford fame, indeed! It will outlast, I will wager my old hat, the
fame of nine tenths of the members of Congress, who have for the last ten
years blown themselves hoarse making speeches to their outraged and
indignant constituency. Why, Longbow's name will be remembered in
Puddleford years after his death; and how many names can you repeat of
those who strutted through the last Congress, or how many of the members
for your own district for the last thirty years? Fame, indeed! But I do not
wish 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 political
fun was used by him as a means to carry out an end. Turtle's patriotism and
Turtle's principles were beyond suspicion. Reader, there is no spot of
American soil more truly patriotic than Puddleford. There are no great
depositories--no central heart--in this country, from which American
principles flow; every _man_ is a centre, a law unto himself. Ike Turtle
was a centre; he was a kind of political wheel; ran on his own axis;
borrowed no propelling power from abroad, but kept himself whirling with
the spirit of '76, of which he had always a large supply on hand. He
reminded me of a fire-wheel, used on celebration days, he cast off so many
colored 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 in
motion to some purpose.
What shall I say of the theology of Puddleford? I have already alluded to
it in the pages of this work. Permit me to say more. Creeds travel with
men wherever they go. Creeds often colonize the wilderness; they have
nerved more hearts, stirred and sustained more souls, scattered more
civilization, than any or all other agents. But Puddleford was not settled
by any particular idea, civil or religious; yet the Puddlefordians brought
with them a great many ideas, both civil and religious. They were, however,
incidental, not primary. The religious exercises of the country were like
its people, ardent, strong, fiery, and often tempestuous. Bigelow Van Slyck
was an embodiment of Puddleford theology. He did not argue doctrine, for
two reasons: he did not know how, and he would not if he could; but, to use
his 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. Puddleford
religion was often very noisy, and it manifested itself in many ways. We
used to have an outburst at camp-meeting, which was held once in each year
by the prevailing sect in the country. A camp-meeting! The reader has
attended a camp-meeting, I know; but _we_ had the genuine kind. Puddleford
was depopulated on such occasions; and its inhabitants, supplied with the
necessaries of life and a tent, went forth into the wilderness to give a
high tone to their piety. They wanted air, and space, and time. All this
was characteristic, and was like the people. What would _they_ have done
inside a temple of springing arches and fretted dome--of statues looking
coldly down from their niches--of pictured saints--where organ anthems
rolled and trembled?
What to the Puddlefordians were the refinements of religious exercises? The
wild 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; and
here, in this temple, day after day, the people camped; in the more
immediate presence of the Most High built their watch-fires, that sent up
long streams of smoke over the green canopy that sheltered them, and knelt
down to pray.
The theology of Puddleford was brought out in strong relief at these
meetings. They were business gatherings. The trials and crosses of every
member were freely canvassed, and consolation administered. The "inner
life" of each individual was thoroughly dissected--the spiritual condition
of the vineyard in general carefully examined; sermons preached strong
enough, both in voice and expression, to raise the dead; money was
collected for benevolent purposes, and many more duties performed, which I
cannot stop to mention.
The reader sees that these men and women were laying the foundation timbers
of many sects that must follow them--follow them with their houses of
worship, their intelligence, their refinement, and, I may say, their
theological abstractions, their shadows, and shades, and points of
distinction. Who is there that could do Bigelow's work better than he? Who
is 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 while
among the rank and file; let us examine _their_ condition. And here I may
get into trouble. Comparisons are said to be odious. I do not know who
said it, nor do I care; the motive which one has in view must determine the
truth of the remark. There was a vast deal of happiness in Puddleford. I do
not now remember one nervous woman in the place. Think of that. If
refinement brings its joys, it often covers a delicate, sensitive nature;
but there was nobody delicate or sensitive at Puddleford; nobody went into
fits because a rat crossed the floor, or a spider swung itself down in
their way. The evening air was never too damp, nor the morning sun too
oppressive. Labor made the people hardy, and an over-taxed brain hatched no
bugbears. I verily believe the nightmare was never known. There were no
persons tired of time--not that they had so much to do--but they were all
contented with time and things as they were.
You have discovered that there was no society in Puddleford; and when I say
SOCIETY, I do not mean that there was no social intercourse, but society
organized and governed by rules and regulations. Here was another blessing.
Aunt Sonora never got into hysterics because Mrs. Beagles had not called on
her for three weeks. Aunt Sonora would say, that "Mrs. Beagles might stay
to hum as long as she was a min-ter." Aunt Sonora never worked herself up
into a frustration because her gingerbread didn't rise when Squire Longbow
took 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 make
fashionable calls; she was not a fashionable lady; there was no fashion to
call on. She did not go around and throw in a little very cold respect into
her neighbor's parlor, because there were no parlors in Puddleford, and
Aunt Sonora couldn't for the life of her do a formal thing if there had
been. 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 had
not taught her hypocrisy.
There was another blessing. Puddlefordians were not continually tempted to
covet some new thing of their neighbors. A new bonnet now and then raised a
breeze; but no one was under any obligation to purchase a similar one. In
other words, the laws of society did not dictate what one should wear. Aunt
Sonora had worn her old plaid cloak for twenty years, and yet remained in
society. Mrs. Beagle's "Leghorn," which looked something like a corn-fan,
and came into the country with her, was orthodox. Turtle had a pair of
breeches old enough in all conscience, the legs cut off above the knees,
and turned, as he said, "hind side afore, to hide the holes in front,"
which pettifogged as well as when they were new. Squire Longbow wore the
same clouded-blue stockings that he did when first elected magistrate; but
Mrs. Longbow had ravelled them up several times, and "footed them over." I
dislike, reader, to go into particulars, and thus expose the wardrobe of
the Puddlefordians, but I cannot express myself clearly on so important a
point in any other way; and I promised at the commencement of this sketch
to make it philosophical.
I do not know how the reader will look on the blessings which I have just
enumerated. He may be a leader of fashion; the shade and tie of his
neckcloth may be as weighty and important a matter with him as his
reputation. He may be one of those who religiously believe that a man, at
a party, without a white vest, is no gentleman, and ought forthwith to be
kicked, in a genteel way, headlong into the street. He may think it vulgar
to laugh, and that no smile but a fashionable smile should be tolerated. He
_may_, I say--and may think me an ----. But just pause a moment. I am only
writing the history of Puddleford, my friend; and, besides, just sit down
coolly, and think of the luxury there must be in sojourning at a place
where one can wear his old clothes year in and year out, preserve public
respect, and cut and turn his breeches at that!
The household furniture of the Puddlefordians was always in fashion; in
fact, there was a remarkable uniformity in this respect in all the cabins
in the settlement. The white-wood table, wooden chairs, the dozen cups and
saucers, the cook-stove and its furniture, bed and bedding, comprised the
stock of nearly every family. Turtle often said that the people "didn't
have as much furniter as the law allow'd 'em, and the state had got-ter
make it up." It is discovered that this equality was productive of
beneficial results. It was not possible for one Puddlefordian to envy
another Puddlefordian. There was no fancy hundred-dollar rocking-chair
exhibited to throw any one into spasms; there were no pianos bewitching the
souls and purses of the community. (Reader, _I_ have no spite against
pianos.) Why, in short, there was not anything there that was not there
when the pioneers first planted themselves on the soil. I recollect that
Sile Bates owned a pinchbeck watch, and Squire Longbow was the proprietor
of a "bull's-eye," and they were both wonders. The Squire and Sile once
attempted an exchange of these articles, and the transaction was so
momentous that all Puddleford was kept in excitement for three weeks. The
bargain was as important and solemn as a treaty between two high
contracting powers. There was one point in the trade that was positively
exciting. Sile had offered five dollars to boot, payable in saw-logs (no
person paid money at Puddleford, unless by special agreement, "'fore
witness"), and here the parties "hung fire" for several days. Turtle said
the Squire "orter to strike;" Beagles said, "he'd get skin'd if he did;"
Bulliphant said, "the pinchbeck was worn out;" Aunt Sonora said, her
husband "tell'd her, that a man tell'd him, that he know'd Longbow's
bull's-eye forty years afore, and it could scase tick then;" and much more
was said; but, alas! the trade, to use Ike's language, "fizzled out," and
Puddleford settled down again into its usual tranquillity.
The philosophy of this attempted bargain is clear enough. There was nothing
in Puddleford to excite envy. What there was, was old; no new thing was
thrown in to tantalize. Longbow, it is true, once ventured upon a carpet,
but, as he was a magistrate, the enterprise was deemed very proper. Do you
not agree with me, that Puddleford had its blessings? Does not poverty
often "bring healing on its wings"? How many are there in the world that
would gladly flee from the chains of society, even to Puddleford, willing
to fling themselves in some just such by-place of the world, where they
could sit down perfectly independent, and take "their own ease in their own
inn?" How many, reader?
I must not forget the charity of the Puddlefordians. Charity and
hospitality are distinguishing characteristics of western people. However
violent feuds might rage, suffering and want were relieved, so far as
there was an ability to do it. I have seen another kind of charity, a
fashionable article, used according to the laws of etiquette, and not
according to the laws of heartfelt sympathy. I do not know that any person
was ever neglected in Puddleford because he or she did not belong to a
particular church. Mrs. A. never refused to 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, that
the person holds no intercourse.) But everybody _did_ know everybody in
Puddleford; and when one of the number was stricken down by affliction, the
remainder all "turned in," and "put their shoulders to the wheel." Why,
bless you, reader, you ought to witness an eruption of Puddleford sympathy.
You ought to see Aunt Sonora, with her apron loaded with boneset, sage, and
a pail filled with gruel, hurrying along "for dear life," to relieve the
distressed--Mrs. Swipes, with a little mustard, or a bit of "jel"; Mrs.
Beagles, Aunt Graves, and Sister Abigail, with something else. Is not this
something?
I must, however, draw my "Conclusion" to a close. Permit me to do it
gradually, as I have a word or two more to say, and I may never have
another opportunity. The reader has, by this time, become quite intimate
with the leading characters of Puddleford, and says, perhaps, "A queer
compound." But do you know, reader, that Longbow, and Turtle, and I do not
know how many more, trace their blood directly back to the Pilgrims? It is
"as true as fate." And how they have become so metamorphosed is the
question. Puddleford stock was, much of it, Puritan stock. Those old
stalwart heroes, whose hearts were a living coal; whose wills, granite;
whose home, heaven; who "walked by faith, not by sight;" before whose eyes
moved "the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night;" who heard voices
all around them, such as haunted John on the Isle of Patmos, are the
progenitors of Longbow and Turtle. What a country is this of ours, to have
worked such results!
But I learned, upon inquiry, that Longbow's blood had experienced a very
serious pilgrimage since its departure from its New England head. It had
been mixed with Irish, and Scotch, and English, and German. In reality, the
Squire was a kind of "compound" of all nations, as most Americans are. If
it were possible to introduce Captain Standish, the military hero of 1620,
or Bradford, or Winslow, to Squire Longbow, they would look as wildly at
him as the boys did at poor Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep on the
mountain. I am sure they would not be able to detect any resemblance to the
Mayflower. They would find the Squire a little the worse for wear--ignorant
in spiritual matters--discover that his psalm-book was lost, and he as
blind as a beetle in the New-England catechism. But, after all, if they
probed him deep, they would strike much, very much, of the old stuff,
living and burning yet.
The Squire's Pilgrim blood, too, had filled nearly all occupations in life.
It had been a sailor--the master of a vessel--a merchant--fought in the
Revolution--a preacher once, and once a lawyer. These facts I procured from
the Squire for my special use, and they may be relied upon. And now that
same blood was doing service at Puddleford as a magistrate. Whether blood
changes occupation, or occupation blood, is a physiological question that I
do not intend to debate. But that one can be surprised at any exhibition of
American character, after looking into the crosses and counter-crosses of
blood, is marvellous.
Here is a sample of Puddleford blood, and such is the blood of many western
pioneers. How much the world is indebted to the pioneer! He lays the
foundation, let build who may. I regret the necessity of perpetrating a
ridiculous figure, but I cannot help it: he plants deep the _mud-sills_ of
empire, amid toil, and sweat, and groans, poverty and disease. The
superstructure is always reared by other hands. The columns and capitals
are the product of wealth and taste. How few of them reap the harvest,
their cabins, now standing deserted and silent, and strewn thousands of
miles over the West and North-west, abundantly testify.
The pioneer severs all connection between himself and the past when he
enters upon his work. I have already remarked that Puddleford had no past.
He breaks all local ties, and snaps in twain the golden threads that link
him to his home. The caravan that winds away from the old hearth-stone,
where the first kiss was imprinted, the first prayer offered, where the
winter cricket sang as the tempest roared without, and devotes itself to a
wilderness, leaves behind what can never be found again. The barefooted
striplings who gambol with it--the immortal seed to be sown, and to
sow--from whose loins giants in thought, word, and action will spring--"may
forget," and themselves become new centres of new associations--but men and
women never.
What constitutes a man?--a nation? Inhabitants only? The songs of a people
stir them up to revolution--and what are they but the glowing language of
the 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? A
living, breathing host! What to the pioneer is the memory of that church
steeple that flung its long shadow over his boyhood, around whose vane the
swallows whirled, and the evening sun lingered?--that bell that swung high
therein?--the torrent that roared through his early years, and wove its
music into his very being?--the lone cliff, where the cloud slept and the
eagle rested? These all are a part of the man himself; and when he is torn
from them, his very nature receives a shock, and he has lost, he hardly
knows how or where, a portion of his very existence.
Reader, you and I must part. How I ever happened to write the history of
Puddleford is more than I can say. I have more than once been frightened at
my impudence. In all probability you will never hear of me again in
print--and, before we separate, reach me your hand--(if it is a lady's, it
is all the better)--"Good by to you, my friend;" and if you should stray
into Puddleford, I will set apart an hour, and give you an introduction to
Squire Longbow--an honor to which, I am very sure, you cannot be insensible
or indifferent.