The Puddleford Papers: or, Humors of the West

I recollect one of his sermons in part, and, in fact, the most of the services accompanying it. It was a soft day in June. The birds were singing and revelling among the trees which canopied the chapel. The church was filled. The choir were all present. "Father Beals," "Aunt Graves," and "Sister Abigail" were in their accustomed seats. The farmers from the country had "turned out;" in fact, it was one of the most stirring days Puddleford had ever known. It was quite evident that the occasion was extraordinary, as "Aunt Graves" was very nervous the moment she took her seat in the choir. If any error should be committed, the exercises would be spoiled, prayers, preaching, and all; because, according to her judgment, they all depended upon good music; and that she was responsible for. So she began to hitch about, first this way, and then that; then she ran over the music-book, and then the index to it; then she hummed a tune inaudibly through her nose; then she examined the hymn-book, and then changed her seat; and then changed back again. She was, in her opinion, the wheel that kept every other wheel in motion; and what if that wheel should stop!

But the hymn was at last given out; and there was a rustling of leaves, and an a-hemming, and coughing, and spitting, and sounding of notes; and a toot on a cracked clarinet, which had been wound with tow; and a low grunt from a bass-viol, produced by a grave-looking man in the corner. Then all rose, and launched forth in one of those ancient pieces of church harmony, "Coronation;" every voice and instrument letting itself go to its utmost extent. One airy-looking person was pumping out his bass by rising and falling on his toes; another, more solemn, was urging it up by crowding his chin on his breast; another jerked it out by a twist of his head; while one quiet old man, whose face beamed with tranquillity, just stood, in perfect ecstasy, and let the melody run out of his nose. The genius on the clarinet blew as if he were blowing his last. His cheeks were bloated, his eyes were wild and extended, and his head danced this way and that, keeping time with his fingers; and he who sawed the viol tore away upon his instrument with a kind of ferocity, as if he were determined to commit some violence upon it. But the treble – what shall I say of it? "Aunt Graves" was nowhere to be seen, after the "parts" had got into full play; she put on the power of her voice, and "drowned out" everything around her at once; and then, rising higher and higher, she rushed through the notes, the choir in full chase after her, and absolutely came out safely at last, and struck upon her feet, without injuring herself or any one else.

When this performance closed, quite an air of self-satisfaction played over the faces of all, declaring clearly enough that their business was over for an hour at least. In fact, "Aunt Graves" was entirely out of breath, and remained in a languishing state for several minutes. So they busied themselves the best way they could. They gazed at every person in the house except the preacher, and did everything but worship. I noticed that it was very difficult for the female portion to "get into position." They tried a lounge and a lean, an averted face and a full one. Then their bonnet-strings troubled them, and then their shawls; and now a lock of hair got astray, and then something else. The men were as philosophical and indifferent as so many players at a show. He of the clarinet once so forgot the day as to raise his instrument to the window and take a peep through it, so that he might detect its air-holes, if any there were; and he afterwards amused himself and me, a long time, by gravely licking down its tow bandage, so that it might be in condition when called upon to perform again. In fact, the Puddleford choir was very much like choirs in all other places.

By and by, Bigelow took his stand, preparatory to his sermon. I do not intend to follow Bigelow through his discourse, because I could not do so if I attempted it; nor would it be of any importance to the reader, if I could. He said he would not take any text, but he would preach a sermon that would suit a hundred texts. He did not like to confine himself to any particular portion of the Bible; but wished to retain the privilege of following up the manifold sins of his congregation, in whomsoever or wherever they existed. He then launched himself forth, denouncing, in the first place, the sin of profanity, which is very common in all new countries, evidently having in view two or three of his hearers who were notoriously profane; and after considering the question generally, he declared "that of all sinners, the profane man is the greatest fool, because he receives nothing for his wickedness. A'n't that true, Luke Smith?" he continued, as he reached out his finger towards Luke, whose daily conversation was a string of oaths; "a'n't that true? How much have you made by it? – answer to me, and this congregation." Luke quivered as if a shock of electricity had passed through him.

Bigelow then gave a short history of his own sins in that line at an early day, before he entered the pulpit, when he was young and surrounded by temptations; but, he said, he reformed at last, and every other man might do so by the same means. "When you feel yourself swelling with a big oath – for every man feels 'em inside before they break out," exclaimed Bigelow, – "jump up and cry "Jezebel!" three times in succession, and you'll feel as calm as an infant. This," he continued, "lets off the feeling without the commission of sin, and leaves the system healthy."

He next considered the sin of Sabbath-breaking; and he poured down the melting lava upon the heads of his hearers with a strength and ingenuity that I have seldom seen equalled. "Men," he said, "would labor harder to break the Sabbath than they would for bread. They would chase a deer from morning till night on this holy day, kill him, and then throw the carcass away; but week-days they lounge about some Puddleford dram-shop, while their families were suffering. Men, too," he continued, "fish on Sundays, because the devil has informed them that fish bite better. It is the devil himself who does the biting, not the fish; it is he who is fishing for you; for Bill Larkin, and Sam Trimble, and Hugh Williams, and scores of others; he's got you now, and you will be scaled and dressed for his table unless you escape instantly;" and then, to impress his illustration, he soared away into a flight of eloquence just suited to his hearers; rough and fiery, plain and pointed, neither above nor below the capacity of those he addressed.

Bigelow then made a descent upon lying and liars. He regretted to say that this sin was very common in the church. "He had a dozen complaints before him now, undecided;" and he detailed a few of them, as specimens of "the depravity of the human heart." He "didn't want to hear any more of them, as he had something else to do, besides taking charge of the tongues of his church."

Then came an exhortation on duties; and almost every practical virtue was mentioned and impressed. Early rising, industry, economy, modesty, contentment, etc., etc., all received a notice at his hands. "Don't sleep yourselves to death!" exclaimed Bigelow; "rise early! work! for while you sleep the Enemy will sow your fields full of tares; and the only way to keep him out is to be on the spot yourself!" This was a literal application of the parable, it is true; yet it was very well done, and productive, I have no doubt, of some good.

Bigelow closed in a most tempestuous manner. He was eloquent, sarcastic, and comical, by turns. He had taken off nearly all his clothes, except his pantaloons, shirt, and suspenders; a custom among a certain class of western preachers, however strange it may appear to many readers. Streams of perspiration were running down his face and neck; his hair was in confusion; and altogether, he presented the appearance of a man who had passed through some convulsion of nature, and barely escaped with his life.

I could not help thinking that Bigelow was entitled to great credit, not only for the matter his sermon contained, but in being able to deliver a sermon at all amid the confusion which often surrounded him. There were a dozen or more infants in the crowd, some crowing, some crying, and some chattering. One elderly lady, in particular, had in charge one of these responsibilities, that seemed to set the place and the preacher at defiance. She tried every expedient to quiet the little nuisance, but it was of "no use." She set it down, laid it down, turned it around, nursed it, chirped at it; and finally, giving up in despair, she placed it on her knee, the child roaring at the top of its lungs, and commenced trotting it in the very face of the audience. This operation cut up the music of the innocent, and threw it out in short, quick jerks, very agreeable to the preacher and congregation.

An excellent old woman also sat directly in front of Bigelow, her left elbow resting on her knee, which she swayed to and fro with a sigh. Her face lay devoutly in the palm of her hand, while her right thumb and fore-finger held a pinch of snuff, which she every now and then slowly breathed up a hawk-bill nose, with a long-drawn whistle, something after the sort that broke forth from the clarinet a while before. She then blew a blast into a faded cotton handkerchief, that reverberated like the voice of "many trumpets." This was followed by fits of coughing, and sneezing, and sighing; in fact, she sounded as great a variety of notes as the choir itself.

Besides all this, a troop of dogs who had followed their masters were continually marching up and down the chapel; and when any unusual excitement occurred with Bigelow, or any one else, as there did several times, we had a barking-chorus, which threatened to suspend the whole meeting. Bigelow, however, didn't mind any or all of these things; but, like a skilful engineer, he put on the more steam, and ran down every obstacle in his way.

Reader, I have given you a description of the log-chapel at Puddleford. It is like a thousand other places of public worship in a "new country." If there is something to condemn, there is more to praise. There seems to be a providence in this, as in all other things.

The settlers in a forest are a rough, hardy, and generally an honest race of men. It is their business to hew down the wilderness, and prepare the way for a different class who will surely follow them. They cannot cultivate their minds to any extent, or refine their characters. They must be reached through the pulpit by such means as will reach them. Of what importance is a nice theological distinction with them? Of what force a labored pulpit disquisition? They have great vices and strong virtues. Their vices must be smitten and scattered with a sledge-hammer; they are not to be played with in a flourish of rhetoric. Just such a human tornado as Bigelow is the man for the place; he may commit some mischief, but he will leave behind him a purer moral atmosphere and a serener sky.

Society, in such a place as Puddleford, is cultivated very much like its soil. Both lie in a state of rude nature, and both must be improved. The great "breaking-plough," with its dozen yoke of cattle, in the first place, goes tearing and groaning through the roots and grubs that lie twisted under it, just as Bigelow tore and groaned through the stupidity and wickedness of his hearers. Then comes the green grass, and wheat, and flowers, as years draw on; producing, at last, "some sixty, and some a hundred-fold."

There is something impressive in the Sabbath in the wilderness. A quiet breathes over the landscape that is almost overwhelming. In a city, the church-steeples talk to one another their lofty music; but there are no bells in the wilderness to mark the hours of worship. The only bell which is heard is rung by Memory, as the hour of prayer draws nigh; some village-bell, far away, that vibrated over the hills of our nativity, the tones of which we have carried away in our soul, and which are awakened by the solemnity of the day.

There is a philosophy in all this, if we will but see it; there is more; there is a lesson, possibly a reproof. If we are disposed to smile at the rusticity of a Puddleford church, may we not with equal reason become serious over the overgrown refinement of many another? May not something be learned in the very contrast which is thus afforded? Do not the extravagant hyperbole, coarse allusions, irreverent anecdote, and strong but unpolished shafts of sarcasm, that such as Bigelow so unsparingly scatter over the sanctuary, give a rich background and strong relief to the finished rhetoric of many a pulpit essay, that has been written to play with the fancy and tranquillize the nerves of a refined and fashionable audience? Are not the extremes equally ridiculous? the one not having reached, the other having passed the zenith.

CHAPTER V

Indian Summer. – Venison Styles again. – Jim Buzzard. – Fishing Excursion. – Muskrat City. – Indian Burying-ground. – The Pickerel and the Rest of the Fishes. – The Prairie. – Wild Geese. – The Old Mound. – Venison's Regrets at the degenerating Times. – His Luck, and Mine. – Reminiscences of the Beavers. – Camping out. – Safe Return.

Indian summer had not yet taken her bow from the woods or her breath from the sky. Old Autumn still lay asleep; Time stood by, with his hour-glass erect, slowly counting the palpitations of his heart.

Venison Styles appointed a day for a fishing excursion, and was desirous of my company; so, on one of those bright mornings, we might have been seen loading our gear into the boat, preparatory to a night's lodging in the woods. We were accompanied by "Jim Buzzard," a genuine Puddlefordian, whom we took along to do up the little pieces of drudgery that always attend such an expedition.

Puddleford was a wonderful place for fish-eaters, and the only real harvest the villagers had was the fish-harvest. One half of Puddleford lived on fish, and everybody fished. But our "Jim Buzzard" was a character in fish, and I could never excuse myself if I should pass him over unnoticed.

Where "Jim" was born – who was his father or mother – and whether he actually ever had any, are questions that no mortal man was ever yet able to answer. He appeared one spring morning in Puddleford with the swallows. The first thing seen of him, he was sitting, about sunrise, on an old dry goods' box, at the corner of a street, whistling a variety of lively airs. The crown was dangling from the top of his hat, he was shirtless and unshaved, and his shoes gaped horribly at the public.

"Jim" was a genuine loafer, and loafers, you know, reader, pervade every place, and are always the same. There is a certain class of animals that are said to follow civilization, as sharks follow in the wake of a ship, and generally for the same reason, to pick up what they can find. Rats and loafers belong to this class, and there is no human ingenuity shrewd enough to keep them off: their appearance seems to be a simple fulfilment of a law of nature.

Jim Buzzard was a fisher, too, and nothing but a fisher. He would sit on an old log by the bank of the river, and hold a pole from morning until night. If the fish would bite, very well; if they would not, very well. Ill-luck never roused his wrath, because there was no wrath in him to arouse. He was a true philosopher, and was entirely too lazy to get into a passion. Jim knew that the fish would bite to-morrow, or next day, if they didn't to-day. He was happy, completely so; that is, as completely happy as the world will admit. He didn't envy anybody – not he. All his wants were supplied, and what did he care about the possessions of his neighbors? He never realized any future, here or hereafter. Jim never lay awake nights, thinking about where he would be, or what he should have, next week. He didn't know as there was any next week. He knew the sun rose and set, which was all the time he ever measured at once. Well, as I said, Jim made one of our company.

Our boat was finally loaded, our crew shipped, and we shot forth into the stream. The water lay as smooth as glass, and the reflected colors of the blazing trees that hung over it gave it the appearance of a carpet. The headlands put out here and there, intersected by long gores of marsh, that ran away a mile or more in the distance.

Upon one of these marshes a city had been reared by the muskrats, which presented an interesting appearance. Hundreds of huts had been erected by this busy population, intended by them as their winter quarters, composed of grass and sticks and mud, and hoisted up beyond the reach of the spring floods. Each one was a little palace, and the whole sat upon the water like a miniature Venice. Here huts were entered by diving down, the front door being always concealed to prevent intrusion. Up and down the canals of this city the inhabitants gossiped and gambolled by moonlight, like those of every other gay place. They had their routs, and cotillons, and suppers, in all human probability, and for aught I know drank themselves stupid. Perhaps they kept up an opera. I say perhaps – we know so little of the inner life of these strange creatures, that we may draw upon the imagination in regard to their amusements as much as we please. If any transcendental muskrat should ever write the history of this colony, I will forward it to the newspapers by the first mail.

Venison said, "we were going to have a wet time on't, cause the rats had built so high, and the whole mash would be covered bime-by, by the rains." He said, "muskrats know'd more nor men about times ahead, and fixed up things 'cordingly."

Our boat glided along until we came in sight of a huge bluff that had pushed itself half across the stream. A melancholy fragment of one of the tribes of Indians, who once held the sovereignty of the soil, and who had escaped a removal, or had wandered back from their banishment, were clustered upon it. They had erected a long pole, and gathered themselves, hand in hand, in a circle about it; within this circle, their medicines and apparel worn in worship, lay for consecration. The plaintive chant was heard melting along the waters, as they wheeled round and round in their solemn service. I have never looked upon a more touching exhibition. Most of these Indians were very old; they had outlived their tribe, their country, their glory – everything but their ceremonies and themselves. What a beautiful tribute was this to the past! a handful of worshippers lingering round the broken altar of their temple, and hallowing its very ruins.

Near by, and on the southern slope of the bluff, lay the remains of an extensive Indian burying-ground. No white man could tell its age. Large oaks, centuries old, that had grown since the dead were first deposited there, stood up over the graves. No monuments of stone designated the thousands of sleepers – the living themselves were the monuments of the dead. Weapons of war and peace were scattered beneath the turf, mixed with crumbling human bones.

What were this little band of red men, thought I, but so many autumn leaves? A few years more, and the solitary boat, as it turns this headland, will find no warrior kneeling on its height. The Great Spirit will brood alone over the solitude.

By and by, we turned into a bay, sheltered by an overhanging cliff, where we cast our anchor, and made ready for work. The water was transparent, and the shining pebbles glittered in the sandy depths below. Shoals of fish had gathered in this nook, beyond the strife of waters. The sun-fish, his back all bristling with rage, ploughed around with as much ferocity as a privateer; the checkered perch lazily rolled from side to side, as his breath came and went; the little silver dace darted and flashed through each other their streams of light; and away off, all alone, the pickerel, that terror of the pool, stood as still and dart-like as the vane of a steeple.

This congregation reminded me of the stir we sometimes find in the ports of a city. They seemed to have much business on hand. They were continually putting out and putting in; sometimes alone and sometimes in fleets. I noticed an indolent old "sucker," who made several unsuccessful attempts to reach the current, and get under headway. Once in a while, a fish would come dashing in from above, like a ship before a gale, throwing the whole community into an uproar.

Below us, on the left bank of the river, stretched a prairie which was several miles in circumference. It was dotted, here and there, with a settler's cabin, but the greater part yet lay in the wild luxuriance of nature. It was surrounded by the forest, and long points of woodland pierced it, now glowing like a flame. Shooting back and forth, the prairie-hens sailed across it like boats upon the main. The sky above it was filled with hawks, sweeping round and round in search of prey – now they rested upon their outspread wings – then plunged through a long-drawn curve – then gracefully moved near the earth in downward circles, as some object was discovered, winnowing a while above it, to make sure of its nature and position, and rising once more, and turning with lightning quickness, away they rushed upon their quarry, and soared away with it on high.

In the depth of winter, when the lakes and rivers are bound in ice, vast bodies of geese assemble there. Acres of ground are covered, and they storm about their camp like an army of soldiers. Some commanding elevation, far out from shore, beyond the reach of the hunter's gun, is selected. When disturbed, their sentinels blow the alarm, and away they go, piping their dismal dirge, until it dies afar in the sky. By daybreak the next morning, they are on the ground again, as tranquil as though nothing had happened.

It is almost impossible to trap these wanderers. Before they establish their quarters, they study the landscape with the eye of a painter. They take a daguerrian view of objects as they are. The log-hut, with its curling smoke – the hay-stack crowned with snow – the settler's cart tipped up, its tongue pointing towards the north star – a goose understands as well as a man. They never blow up nor work destruction. But just try an artificial house of boughs, a brush fence, or an intrenchment near their lines. They see the plot at a glance, and draw out of harm's way, and pitch their snowy tents again, beyond its reach. As well chase the fabled island as a flock of wild geese.

Not far below this prairie, near the bank of the river, a venerable mound raised its solitary head. It was thinly covered with oaks, and belonged to Oblivion. It was one of the few feathers that Time had cast in his flight, to mark the past and confuse the present. It looked like a hand reached out from eternity; but whose hand? Ay, whose? Who built it? When? Why? It was filled with all kinds of strange things that had been planted there by a busy race who were unable to preserve their own history. Their works had outlived themselves; but they cannot talk to us, nor tell us what they are, nor who fashioned them. There it stands, gazing dumbly at all who look upon it, a sad lesson to individual pride or national glory.

Venison did not seem quite satisfied with the prospect of catching fish in the little bay. "'Tain't as it used to be," sighed the old hunter. "Before the woods were cut down, and them are dams built," said he, "the whole river was alive with all sorts of fish. In the spring-time the salmon-trout and sturgeon used to come up out of the lakes to feed, but they can't get up any more. They keep trying it every year yet, and thousands on 'em may be seen packed in below old Jones' dam, 'long 'bout April, waiting and waiting for it to go off. For I s'pose they think 'tain't nothing but flood-wood lodged."

"Why don't they climb it?" inquired I.

"When the water is very high up, and there arn't much of a riffle there, they will sometimes; but they can't climb like them speckled trout – they'll go right up a mountain stream, and make nothing on't – them fellers beat all nater for going anywhere."

However, as I said somewhere back in my narrative, we made ready for work. We looked around for Jim Buzzard, and found him sitting in the bow of the boat, his legs sprawled out, his head dropped on his chin, his ragged hat cocked on one side, fast asleep. There was an ease and self-abandonment about his appearance that were really beautiful. Jim could sleep anywhere – some people can't. He was never nervous. He never had any spasms about something that could never occur. He had no notes falling due – no crops in the ground – no merchandise on his hand – no property, except the little he carried on his back, and that he didn't really own; it was given to him – he was no candidate for office, and didn't even know or care who was President – all administrations were alike to him, for all had treated him well. He never flew into a passion because some persons slandered him, because he had no character to injure.

"Hallo, Jim!" I screamed, with my mouth to his ear, "the boat is sinking."

He gaped, and groaned, and stretched a few times, and finally opened his eyes, and adjusted his hat, and looking up at me, "Let her sink, then," he replied; "we can get-er up agin."

"Stir around! stir around, Jim!" I exclaimed; "the fish are waiting for our bait; out with your pole."

He said, "he was goin' overboard arter fresh-water clams – kase they were good with salt, and anybody could eat 'em;" and rolling up his breeches, over he went, and moving away down near a sandy beach, he commenced digging his clams with his feet, and piling them up on shore by his side.

Venison and myself dashed our lines overboard. I watched every movement of the old hunter. He went through as many ceremonies as a magician working a charm. His "minnys" (minnows), as he called them, were hooked tenderly at a particular place in the back, so that they might shoot around in the water, without dying in the effort; his hook was pointed in a certain direction, so as to catch at the first bite; he then spit upon the bait, and swinging the line a few times in circles, he threw it far out in the stream.

"That'll bring a bass, pickerel, or something," said he, as it struck the water.

Soon the pole bent, and Venison sprang upon it.

"Pull him out!" exclaimed I.

"Don't never hurry big fish," replied he; "let him play round a little; he'll grow weak byme-by, and come right along into the boat;" and accordingly, Venison "let him play;" he managed the fish with all that refinement in the art that sportsmen know so well how to appreciate and enjoy. Sometimes it raced far up the stream, then far down; and once, as the line brought it up on a downward trip, it bounded into the air, and turned two or three summersets that shook the silver drops of water from its fins. After a while, it became exhausted, and Venison slowly drew him into the boat, all breathless and panting; a famous pickerel, four feet long and "well proportioned."

My poles, all this time, remained just where I first placed them – not a nibble, as I knew. Some very wicked people, I have been informed, swear at fish when they refuse to bite – but I did not – because I have never been able to see why they were to blame, or why swearing would reform them, if they were. It was no very good reason that they should take hold of one end of my pole and line, because I happened to be at the other.

Not having much luck with big fish, I concluded to amuse the "small fry." So out went my hook ker-slump right down in the midst of a great gathering, who seemed to have met on some business of importance. It was a little curious to watch these finny fellows as they eyed my worm. They swept round it in a circle, a few times, and coming up with a halt, and forming themselves abreast, they rocked up and down from head to tail, as they surveyed the thing. By and by, a perch, a little more venturesome than the rest, floated up by degrees to the bait, his white fins slowly moving back and forth, and carefully reaching out his nose, he touched it, wheeled, and shot like a dart out of sight. In a few minutes he came round in the rear of the company, to await further experiments. Next came the sun-fish, jerking along, filled with fire and fury, with a kind of who's-afraid sort of look, and striking at my hook, actually caught the tip of the barb, and I turned the fellow topsy-turvy, showing up his yellow to advantage. He left for parts unknown. There was a small bass who had strayed into the community, whom I was anxious to coax into trouble; but he lay off on his dignity, near an old root, to see the fun. I moved my hook towards him. He shot off and turned head to, with a no-you-don't sort of air. I took my bait from the water and spit on it, but it wouldn't do. I took it out again, and went through an incantation over it, but I couldn't catch him by magic; and I have no doubt, reader, he is there yet.

Venison, every little while, dragged another and another pickerel aboard. Pretty soon we had Jim Buzzard cleaning fish, and packing away in a barrel, with a little sprinkling of salt.

I gathered in my lines, arose, and thanked the whole tribe of fish, generally and particularly, for their attendance upon me, and promised not to trouble them for a month at least.

The sun was waning low, and the shadows of the trees were pointing across the river. The clouds in the west gathered themselves into all kinds of pictures. There was a fleet of ships, all on fire, in full sail, far out at sea; the fleet dissolved, and a city rose out of its ruins, filled with temples, and domes, and turrets, and divided into streets, up and down which strange and fantastic figures were hurrying. The city vanished, and a pile of huge mountains shot up their rugged peaks, around which golden islands lay anchored, all glowing with light. Away one side, I noticed a grave, corpulent, and shadowy old gentleman, astride an elephant, smoking a pipe, and he puffed himself finally away into the heavens, and I have never seen him since – a solemn warning to persons who use tobacco.